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When Harry Potter was born in the safety of the hidden house the Potters had declared their refuge, the world shifted. It was James, assisted by Sirius, who delivered his son into the world. The birth was a long one, several hours filled with Lily’s screams, tears, and sweat, and when the beautiful child was finally born, the occupants of the room were overcome by utter despair.

"Give me my child", the new mother demanded, a tired but happy smile stretching across her face, oblivious to the silence that fell over the room.

The look her husband gave her was not one she would be able to forget easily, full of fear and despair. Yet, he complied, pressing the baby into Lily’s arms. It was when she first gazed upon the child, familiar eyes staring back at her, that the mother understood James’ emotions. 

The soul mark, the most prized attribute and possession of every wizard, a gift from magic herself, stretched itself over the young one’s body. Anyone would have recognized the symbol immediately, would have shied away from the meaning of it. The image of a skull took up the entire back, filling every inch with the black manifestation of his soulmate’s essence. A snake spilled out of the cavity that was the mouth, winding its way down the left leg and back up across the child’s stomach and chest. The tip of the forked tongue ended just above the boy's jaw, for all the world to see. 

Suddenly, Lily's mouth was as dry as sandpaper. 

"James?", she questioned, uncertain eyes meeting those of her husband, "Is this... his?"

The dark-haired man ran his hand over his face as he started pacing. 

"It makes sense, doesn't it? Mark him as his equal? What else could it be?", the bitter tone was not intended, though James couldn't help it.

Lily looked down at the child that lay in her arms, her child. A small hand came up and grasped a strand of her hair, pulling slightly. It barely took a minute for the woman to decide that he was innocent and that she would give her life to protect the boy from his soulmate.

"No matter", the young woman whispered determined, "Voldemort will never get him. If nobody knows, there is no danger, right?"

"Lily...", it was the first time Sirius spoke since the incredible revelation, not knowing what to say but needing to speak up nonetheless, "There are so many flaws with this plan. Do you plan on keeping him away from his soulmate forever? How are you even going to hide that thing? It's a monstrosity!" 

Anger was visible in the brilliant green eyes as she snapped at the man: "You call my child that again and I will personally castrate you!"

James was the one to defuse the situation: "Lily-flower, it's alright. We will love him, no matter what. The only possible option we have is to hide the mark until the end of the war. The outcome won't matter, either way, Harry will be safe whether it is Voldemort's death or..."

He could not bring himself to finish his own thought, nor was there need to. Ours hung in the room like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

"Harry?", Lily questioned, pain and relief evidently fighting on her face, "I thought we were going to name him Charles after your father?"

"I know you prefer the name. Who cares about pureblood traditions anyways?", James smiled in response.

The woman gazed at her son, recognizing both herself and her husband in the round face. 

"We will keep you safe, Harry James Potter, no matter what."

***

Harry grew up unloved, locked in a dark, cramped cupboard. The boy could do things, which made his aunt and uncle take away food and water from him upon discovery. Such freakishness was forbidden in Privet Drive No.4, as he learned from a young age. Before he even understood the word, he was branded with it. If there was anything his family hated more than his ability to do certain inexplicable things, it were questions, especially concerning his parents or the tattoo covering his entire body.

It was perchance that the child found out about aunt Petunia's explanation for the mark. As she picked him and Dudley up from the primary school one day, Mr. Hastings had asked about it, curious and concerned eyes fixated on the snake's tongue peeking out of the turtleneck his aunt made him wear. 

"His parents did that to him", was the woman's simple answer,  "a tragedy, really, mutilating a child with tattoos. At least he is with us now and not with them."

Harry was foolish and young enough to believe her, just as he was naive enough to think of the mark on his body as something vile. At five years old, he sought the approval of his family, longed for the hugs and kisses they gave Dudley. 

 Yet, he could not help but wonder why his parents gave him such a detailed and large symbol. Whenever he lay awake at night, stomach grumbling and body aching from Dudley's latest tantrum, tracing the coils of the snake along is body gave him a strange sense of comfort. Sometimes, looking as closely as possible, he could even swear he saw the snake move, though Petunia immediately locked him in his cupboard when he brought it up.

So, Harry learned to never mention the mark, to keep it as hidden as possible, and his mouth sealed shut. He could not help with the strange things happening around him, no matter how hard he tried.

***

When Harry was eleven, a strange man brought him to an even stranger place named Diagon Alley, brimming with life, color, and laughter. Here, people stared at his forehead in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the lightning bold hidden behind strands of dark hair. They did not care for the black ink bleeding out of  Hagrid was kind, warm and most of all different from the Dursleys. 

"Why do I have this tattoo?", it was after leaving Gringotts that Harry finally found the courage to ask the question he had been punished for on so many occasions.

"It's yer soul mark! Shows you the person yer meant to be with, o' course!", his voice boomed across the street, drawing the attention of multiple witches and wizards.

With his limited knowledge and lack of his own soul mark, Hagrid was unable to tell Harry more about the thing stretching itself across his body. Ron was the one to clear up any questions he had.

The redhead reached across the seat in order to grab a packet of licorice wands, revealing a black image on the inside of his palm. What Harry would later identify as a tiny cauldron with steam coming out of it, was neatly contained in the small space below Ron's thumb. There was no resemblance to the vast stretch of his own. The other caught him staring and smiled sheepishly.

"It's tiny, I know. Hopefully it will grow when I meet her", the child laughed uneasily.

"They can grow?", Harry wondered, imagining the image on his skin growing in size until there was no more Harry.

"Yeah, usually it happens when the connection gets stronger. When I got mine, Fred and George wouldn't stop making fun of it, saying it was the smallest in the family. What about yours?", Ron's gaze narrowed in on the visible image on his jaw.

The dark-haired boy squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, before answering: "It's a bit... big."

"Like your chest?", the other questioned, eyes wide with wonder. 

Harry merely rolled up his trousers, revealing the coils of the snake's body. His new friend's jaw dropped.

"Wow! Have you met them yet? It usually isn't bigger than a few inches before the first meeting!", excitement audible in every syllable.

"No", was the shy answer of the green-eyed boy, "I don't think I have ever met anyone with a mark before."

"Wicked!", was the last comment on the topic of soul marks for the remaining journey. 

***

Hermione Granger, the girl who soon became one of his closest friends next to Ron, had the image of a broom plastered along her collar bone, despite her hatred for Quidditch. It became an easy way to tease her, asking if she was willing to go down to the pitch to see whether or not her soulmate would be present. The brunette would merely huff, muttering that she had no time for soulmates, not if she wanted to stay on top of her studies. Neither Harry, nor Ron felt the need to remind the girl of her position as top of their year. Hermione was insecure about the concept of soulmates. Having grown up with the concept of relationships, breakups, and one-time-things, the idea of there being one person meant only for her frightened her. Eternity frightened her.

She had confided to Harry once, asking if he felt similarly.

"I would jump at the chance of unconditional love", had been the boy's quiet answer, "but I am scared. Sometimes, I wonder if anyone could truly love me or if they would reject the weak little orphan. No matter how much fate, magic or any higher being might have thought of the match, I can never truly shake the worry that I am not enough."

Hermione smiled sadly: "Oh Harry. You are more than anyone could wish for. When you find your soulmate, there is nothing that will stand in your way."

The bushy-haired girl had seen glimpses of his mark, had seen the scales on his leg when he wore shorts in the holidays, as well as the snake's head peeking out from underneath certain shirts. She knew that it was large and understood the implication of an incredibly deep connection, as did Harry. Nevertheless, sometimes he could not help but wonder.

Ron could not understand their doubts. In the shadows of his brothers, the only thing he had completely to himself was the cauldron in his palm, as well as the person connected to it, whoever it would be. Perhaps he refused to allow the questioning thoughts into his head, perhaps he truly believed in it. 

None of them liked to speak about their soul marks.

***

In the aftermath of the Quidditch world cup 1994, Harry pulled Hermione and Ron into the latter's room. With trembling fingers he pulled the baggy shirt over his head, revealing the same symbol that shone above the treetops mere hours ago. His friends' sharp intake of breath made his entire body shake. Fear of rejection lay heavily in his chest, gripping his heart in a tight way. Ron had seen glimpses of his mark, though the Boy-Who-Lived knew that he would not have connected it to the image of death in the sky.

"It's a Death Eater, isn't it?", he breathed, voice quivering, tongue barely able to formulate his thoughts. His back was still turned towards his friends, unable to face them just yet.

Ron spoke in a quiet way, that was so unlike the brash and loud Gryffindor he usually was: "Has to be. Bloody hell! I would have never thought that... Mate, this is a shock."

A dry, humorless laugh escaped Harry's throat: "What do you think I feel like? My soulmate is probably a deranged murderer who would love to kill me to avenge Voldemort."

"Harry", Hermione's voice was pained as she interrupted his bitter speech. The boy was slow to turn towards his friends, hands running through his hair in dejection.

"Do you think that maybe it isn't a Death Eater? Couldn't it be Vol-", the young witch spoke what all of them thought, suspected, feared.

"Don't", Harry interrupted her, "If I believe it is a Death Eater, there still is a chance for me, for us. If my soulmate is... him, then there is no chance, no possibility."

Despite his confident words, Harry faced the possibility that Hermione was right with her suspicions. How could he ever find love, a family, a place where he belonged in the man that had killed his parents. The man, who attempted to kill him thrice. Was there ever a chance for him? Harry doubted it the more he thought about the dark Mark. Could he even be allowed to live on, knowing that his mere presence would make a murdering madman stronger? 

That night, the boy mourned the loss of the sliver of hope, which had shone bright in his chest. Some part of his mind had always seen himself with a big, happy family in the future, no matter the worries or doubts. Harry had imagined having a family, such as the Weasleys, with their laughter and closeness, a family that could not fit at one table, that supported one another. Unfortunately, this dream would never become reality. How could it, when his soulmate would reject him the minute the connection showed itself. For once in his life, Harry was certain of his inevitable, loveless death at the hands of his soulmate.

It was like this, that Hermione found him outside of the Burrow, lying in the dry grass. With a sigh she sunk down to the floor beside him, staring into the sky. 

"A soul mark does not equal love. There are multiple instances of soulmates fighting their 'destiny'. No matter who the mark on your body will lead you to, you should know that there always is a different path, a choice. Ron and I will stand by you, regardless of the circumstances, we will always be your family."

Her words spoke to his soul, to his longing for love and acceptance. She was right, he decided, there was no obligation to accept whoever the dark ink personified. May come whatever, Harry would fight for his life, perhaps even for his happiness.

***

Hermione found her soulmate, esteemed Quidditch Seeker Viktor Krum. Despite her doubts concerning the topic of soulmates, one would see the two of them together at every occasion, laughing, giggling, cuddling, kissing. What a pair they made, the smart witch and the stoic athlete. To Harry's and Ron's delight, the symbol representing the essence of Hermione turned out to be a stack of books with Hermione's initials written in her beautiful cursive below. 

After the couple's public appearance at the Yule Ball, the media exploded, as it always did when a celebrity was concerned. The daily Prophet announced that Hermione had dropped her 'young love Harry Potter' for the first chance of more fame. The article was a disgrace and shamed all involved. Phrases like 'Young witches should stay pure for their soulmates' and 'Viktor Krum and Harry Potter are fighting for more than a trophy' became a common occurrence throughout the following weeks. 

The pinnacle of the entire affair, however, presented itself a week after the end of the Christmas holidays. Harry could barely begin to understand how on earth Rita Skeeter had obtained a picture of him in shorts, displaying the snake on his left leg. All the teenager could say for certain, was that it was published next to a closeup of his jaw, the images taking up most of the front page. The news of his mark spread like wildfire, no matter how incredibly dull the information was without the rest of the symbol. Following the revelation, Slytherin's jeered at him in the corridors, making snide comments.

"Must be horrible, knowing that the soulmate of the Boy-Who-Lived is a Slytherin", Draco Malfoy taunted him one day during Potions, "Since there is such a high possibility of it being a dark wizard."

Secretly, Harry wished what the blond said was true. How much would he give for the knowledge that his soulmate was a witch or wizard his age, sorted into Slytherin on the mere basis that they were cunning? Alas, his soulmate was probably old enough to be his parent, the possibility of them being a murderer much higher than just a dark wizard. In the worst-case scenario, the likelihood of which increased by the minute, the man destined for him was the murderer of his parents. 

***

"On three?", Cedric's voice was filled with excitement, even though his eyes reflected the exhaustion of fighting for his life in the maze. 

"One", Harry breathed, a feeling overcoming him, which he could not quite identify.

A smile crossed the other's lips: "Two."

"Three!" Their hands grabbed the pompous trophy, fists closing tightly around the handles, as they were whisked away from the maze. 

Harry fell to the ground in the most ungraceful mannerism imaginable, wincing as the weight of his body landed on his left arm. The world spun around him, robbing him of the ability to take in his surroundings. Yet, he knew that something was incredibly wrong, could feel it in the way the hair on his neck rose. 

"Is this another task?", Cedric questioned, standing only a few feet away from Harry, elegant as ever. 

Once the nauseating feeling in his stomach had settled down, the teen took in his surroundings. Tombstones, old and weathered, stood in the midst of weeds. Clearly, the dead in this area did not receive many visitors. Something struck Harry as oddly familiar, as he stumbled around the graveyard. 

"We should leave", Harry whispered, all Gryffindor-courage leaving his body at once upon reading the inscription of the nearest stone, recognizing it from his nightmares.

However, the Hufflepuff seemed to certain of Hogwarts' security measures to feel endangered in any way. Turning back towards Harry, he frowned: "They wouldn't have portkeyed us here without a reason. What are we meant to do, though?"

The Boy-Who-Lived did not see the pathetic excuse of a man emerge from the shadow of a crypt until it was too late. His mind could not comprehend the image before him, the youthful body lying in the grass, motionless. The constant, friendly smile Harry had witnessed during in the corridors or the great hall was extinguished, leaving only cold, wide eyes. How could this student, who had been grinning at him mere moments ago, now be... The teen could not bring himself to finish the thought, unable to accept the truth. He barely registered the ropes tying his body to the tomb of Thomas Riddle. 

It wasn't until Pettigrew cut his forearm with a jagged knife, that the panic kicked in, sharp and aggressive. Harry's limbs began to shake violently, adrenaline coursing through his entire body. The man before him was performing a ritual to resurrect the most dangerous man in the wizarding world, a cold-blooded murderer and possibly, the boy's soulmate (though he still denied the possibility). He was a dead man walking. 

The horror sat heavily in his gut as he was forced to watch a homunculus creature being dropped into the bubbling cauldron. Please let him drown. Please, please let him drown. His prayers were unanswered. 

Voldemort emerged from the fumes, naked and monstrous. His skin was beyond pale, resembling alabaster and seemed to be covered in a pattern of... Were those scales? Harry would have loved to declare the Dark Lord's eyes the worst of his features, those eyes that looked like pools of blood. Yet, the dark lines stretching across the white chest made him choke. 

The Dark Lord had a soul mark, despite the rumors of his inability to love. The captivating, black lines covering his chest made Harry's fingers itch with the need to trace them, explore the sharp edges, while simultaneously managing to disgust the teen at his own thoughts. Any doubts concerning the identity of his soulmate dissolved into thin air, when Harry realized, what exactly the mark represented. Lightning. Of course, the attribute to describe Harry would be the one given to him by this very man. The Boy-Who-Lived wanted to cry and laugh at the same time, wanted to scream and fight, but most of all, he wanted to return to the blissful ignorance, the hope he had before the realization. Pettigrew covered Voldemort's body, leaving Harry wondering, whether he should be glad or disappointed.

"My wand, Wormtail", Voldemort's voice was deep, sending shivers down Harry's spine. The man's eyes never once left the teen's, seemingly staring straight into the latter's soul. 

Harry wanted to gag upon seeing his soul mark, of which he knew every twist and turn, every detail possible, on the traitor's forearm, being used to summon the Dark Lord's followers. The man who had betrayed his parents and sent the killing curse towards Cedric. The fact, that a large part of Azkaban's high-security inmates bore the same mark as him, was something Harry hadn't thought about yet, not having been eager to dwell on the possibility of an evil soulmate. 

Somehow, Harry was strangely detached from his body as he watched the brutal punishment of the Death Eaters brave enough to show their face tonight. The panic he felt mere moments ago was... less all-consuming. He wondered, briefly, whether or not his soul recognized his soul mate's presence and reigned in his panic. When the man's eyes focused on Harry's features once more, the teen could not tell, whether the ensuing sparks and shivers outweighed the dread he felt, looking into those blood-red eyes. However, when the man's bloodless lips split into a toothy grin, terror outweighed anything his soul might want to signalize him. 

"Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived.", Lord Voldemort hissed and it took the addressed a few moments to realize the words were spoken in Parseltongue. 

The old theory that soul marks possessed a mind of their own, developing with the relationship, proved to be correct in this moment. The teenager felt something moving under his skin, crawling upwards. He was barely able to suppress the moan in the back of his throat at the exhilarating feeling flooding his senses. Perhaps the snake on his flesh had merely reacted to them it's language, perhaps it awoke at its soulmate's attention. In the end, it didn't matter to either of them. 

The expression on the Dark Lord's face was almost comical. Shock was mixed with anger and something sinister, as he watched the head of a snake crawl out of Potter's collar, it's tongue flicking across the boy's cheek, the tip finally coming to rest at the right temple.

The mere inches revealed seemed not to be enough for Lord Voldemort. With a flick of his wand, the sturdy material of Harry's shirt dissolved into nothing, leaving his skin bare and clearly visible for his soulmate and his followers. The thick, dark coils of the snake's body on his chest seemed to captivate the man's attention. With a second flick of the other's wand, the ropes binding Harry fell apart.

"Turn around, Potter", the cold, cruel command woke Harry's lost courage and with it, the defiance. 

Harry sincerely hoped his voice did not tremble, as he stood his ground: "No."

The anger flashing in Voldemort's eyes was the only warning he obtained, before a curse his him square in the chest. Excruciating pain filled every fiber of his body, causing him to fall to the ground, thrashing around wildly. The beatings Harry received from his cousin paled in comparison to the effects of the Cruciatus. It felt like an eternity, before his soulmate finally lifted the curse, allowing the teen to breathe. His muscles were trembling from the tension and his entire body was shaking like a leaf. Leaning to the side, Harry spit out the blood from his injured tongue. He had bitten it. 

"I will not repeat myself, Potter. Turn around or I will turn you." How could the boy ever believe that voice to be exhilarating?

Carefully, Harry got to his feet, legs feeling like jelly. The gleam in the Dark Lord's eyes told him, that he should turn around right now. What difference did it make anyway? He would die in this graveyard tonight. The least he could do was to minimize the pain. 

Using the tombstone he had been bound to moments ago to stabilize himself, Harry turned his back to Voldemort. Later, he would be glad that he did, as it allowed him to catch a glimpse of his wand, in the grass next to Cedric's corpse. The teen forced himself to avert his gaze from the dead eyes. Focus, Harry. If he ran in zig-zag, he might be able to reach his wand before a curse hit him. Should the Portkey go both ways, he would be able to summon it and transport both himself and Cedric back to Hogwarts.

Even for Harry's standards, this plan had too many unknown variables, relied too much on luck. Did he have another choice though? 

"Of course it would be you, Harry Potter. Fate has a strange way of bringing us together." The Dark Lord's deep laugh pulled him out of his scheming.

Now or never. Harry prayed to all deities in the world that Voldemort was distracted enough to give him a head start. The adrenaline rushing through his blood allowed the teen to run faster than he ever had in his life. Running from one's soulmate seemed to be a motivation in itself. The first curse missed Harry by a hair's width in the moment he dove for his wand. 

"Accio Cup!", he screamed, his voice overpowered by Voldemort's angry roar.

The last thing Harry saw of Voldemort, were those red, red eyes. Blood. Perhaps the lightheadedness accounted for the absurd memory of a song Dudley had played too loudly in his room when he was younger. Darling, your eyes were full of Darkness.

On the grass in front of the Quidditch Pitch, a shirtless Harry Potter appeared, clutching the body of a fellow student and contestant. He barely realized that the skull on his back was covered by Dumbledore before the image could be recognized by others, though he would be immensely grateful for it upon awareness. Later that night, after a second murder attempt through a disguised Death Eater with the name Barty Crouch Jr, Harry found himself sitting across his godfather, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. It was in this privacy that he finally allowed himself to break down, crying on Sirius' shoulder until the early morning. 

"It's alright", Sirius had murmured, "you always have me. Soulmates are overrated anyways."

It was those carefree, joking words that eased the pain in Harry's chest, much like Hermione's had earlier this year. Voldemort could go to hell.

Surprisingly, Professor Dumbledore comforted the boy over a cup of tea in his office.

"I must ask you, not to share what I am about to tell you", the man demanded cheerfully, sipping on his Earl Grey. Upon Harry's confirming nod, he continued: 

"I confess, I know what it is like to share different beliefs to your soulmate. You see, in my youth, I met mine, a charismatic young man, similarly to Tom in his years at Hogwarts. My intended, much like yours, believed in the superiority of witches and wizards and the inferiority of any other being. He tainted my views of the world, using my ignorance to convince me of his goals. To my shame, I did not realize the error of his ways until it was too late, forcing me to pay the price. Whatever we had, what magic intended us to have, it ended there. We did not speak again for years and when we did it was under the worst of circumstances."

Harry saw the slight tremble in the headmaster's hand, remarked the distant, sad eyes. 

After a sip of tea, Dumbledore resumed his tale: "Gellert had become a Dark Lord, much like Voldemort, yet he was less insane, less murderous. We met one last time, on the battlefield, where I vanquished him."

The teen gasped at the revelation that Gellert Grindlewald was Dumbledore's soulmate, earning himself a smile from the latter.

"I am telling you this because I want you to know, that you are not the first one, whose soulmate was dark, nor will you be the last one. My boy, you must remember that you have a choice in these matters, despite how other wizards might look down at you for disobeying magic's decision. In addition, I want you to know that it does not have to end for you as it did for me. There is no shame in yearning for a connection between yourself and your soulmate. I, myself, could not find the strength to actively go against Gellert, despite my knowledge of his actions. A part of me always hoped that he would understand his wrongdoings. Perhaps you will succeed where I failed, making your intended a better person", Dumbeldore's voice grew soft towards the end.

"How can I even attempt, when I fear him with every fiber of my being?", Harry questioned weakly, eyes cast downwards.

The headmaster merely smiled: "Remember, my boy, that you are more capable of loving than most others. It shows in every one of your actions. Voldemort never knew love. If anyone will succeed at teaching him to feel, it will be you. Should you fail, then it is not because of your actions, but because of your soulmate. I only ask of you to be cautious around him."

***

It was two days after Harry's birthday, that he finally received news from the wizarding world. It had been painful, knowing that his soulmate wanted him dead and that his friends, who swore to stand by him, no matter what, had been ignoring him since the end of the school year. 

"Boy!", Vernon Dursley's voice boomed from downstairs, pulling harry out of the self-pity he would never admit to be wallowing in, "There's one of your kind here!"

In a matter of seconds, Harry started rushing towards the front door, skillfully ignoring the disdain in his uncle's voice. However, at the sight that presented itself, Harry's instincts screamed at him to run back upstairs and lock the door (ignoring the fact that his door could only be locked from the outside and that locked doors would not protect him). Voldemort stood in the hallway, looking as out of place as a penguin playing beach volleyball. His appearance had not changed and still sent chills down Harry's spine, yet he appeared... less terrifying in the midst of his aunt's horrible picture frames. 

The Dark Lord's wand was firmly pressed under Vernon's chin, fear clearly visible in the latter's beady eyes. "You will show some respect to those superior to you, muggle", his voice was ice cold. Watching the Cruciatus curse being cast on someone else was not much better than experiencing it himself, no matter how much uncle Vernon deserved the pain.

"Stop!", Harry cried out, frantically searching for his wand, before realizing he had left it in his room, too enthusiastic to think of bringing it. 

Surprisingly, the Dark Lord complied, releasing the curse with a look of disgust in his eyes: "The only reason you are still alive is that I am attempting to be amicable. However, should another word leave your lips, this will have been a merciful punishment."

Turning towards the Boy-Who-Lived, Voldemort stepped over the withering man on the floor. The grin on his lips seemed almost feral. 

"Voldemort", Harry began cautiously, gaze flicking around the hallway, searching for a weapon, "how did you get in here? Dumbledore assured me that the blood wards would keep you out." Fear was still coursing through his body.

"Ah, that is not quite correct. The wards keep the malevolent out. I, however, came here with more or less innocent intentions"

Was it Harry's imagination, or did those red eyes flick over his body?

"What do you want?", the boy wanted to spit the words out with venom, but he found himself unable to. Instead he sounded meek. I will not blush, no matter if he is my soulmate or not.

"Shall we go a little more comfortable for this discussion?", the Dark Lord questioned, "I shall give you my wand as a sign of proper negotiations."

The teen worried his bottom lip, eyebrows drawn together. Was this a trap or did his intended genuinely want to discuss something with him? The words Dumbledore spoke to him weeks ago came to his mind. Mustering the Dark Lord in the hallway, he made the decision with his Gryffindor brashness. 

"Give me your wand. We can go into my room", he announced. Though the boy would much rather meet in a less personal space, one which Voldemort would not be able to use against him, he knew that the Dursley's would not let him use the living room. In addition, he was disinclined towards going to a coffee shop nearby, as he did not trust the Dark Lord enough, not to pull something to harm innocents. However, the grin he received from the other quickly made him regret his decision. 

The room Harry called his own was filled with broken things, none of which were his own. The only objects hinting towards a wizard residing here were the owl in a cage on the window sill and his wand on the bedside table. The teen had stored his most precious possessions, mainly the invisibility cloak, the marauder's map, and the photo collage of his parents, stored below a loose floorboard, together with a few pieces of homework. Having his soulmate here now, taking in the remains of Dudley's old toys, as well as the few tattered clothes scattered across the floor, made Harry strangely self-conscious.

Quickly, face aflame, the teen scrambled to gather the shirts, trousers and underwear he had been too tired to place away yesterday, shoving them into the closet. Seconds later, he scolded himself for the embarrassment. So much for not blushing. Voldemort had no right to judge anything he saw in this room, as the man had practically invited himself. With a defiant glare at the pale face, which only earned him a chuckle, Harry dropped down onto his bed, leaving the rolling chair with a broken wheel to Voldemort. Once more, the boy was taken aback by how out of place the Dark Lord seemed in a muggle chair, though it definetely should not have surprised him.

When the silence stretched itself for what seemed like hours, the teenager finally decided to speak up, as the other seemed less inclined to explain his presence: "Why did you come here?"

Voldemort's eyes were focussed on him and for the first time, Harry perceived them as... comforting? He shuddered at the thought, though there was no denying. The mere presence of his soulmate gave him a sense of tranquility he had not felt since his return from the graveyard. 

The answer to his question was simple: "I wanted to talk to you."

Harr gnawed on his bottom lip. "About what?"

"Us."

"There is no us", Harry hissed, "you tried to kill me three times! You murdered my parents and countless others! You tortured me!"

That rendered the Dark Lord quiet, his eyes boring into the younger wizard's. 

"I did not know", he quietly admitted, though there was no regret.

"That doesn't make it better!", he knew he was getting loud, "You should not have felt the need to do anything the like in the first place! How can there ever be any relationship, if I am dreading the death of those closest to me, because of you?" If your mere presence makes me want to run as far as possible.

The composure and tranquility, with which Voldemort eyed him made the boy shiver. 

"I will no apologize for my actions, nor my desire to save our world from those filthy muggles. I want to propose negotiations." 

"Why?", Harry frowned, sensing a catch.

The feral grin crossing Voldemort's features made him squirm. "Does it matter? You will agree either way, as you know that I will not be merciful in a second war. Certain people might just be... harmed."

Harry could do nothing but stare at the other man, his soulmate, who threatened him in his own bedroom. The Dark Lord did not seem phased by Harry's shocked silence. Instead he leaned forward, eyes gleaming. 

"Consult with Dumbledore and his little puppets about your demands. I will pick you up in three days for dinner. I will give you the address later", he spoke with a silky voice, standing up, "and Harry? Do not even think about bringing one of your Aurors."

The Boy-Who-Lived stared at the disappearing wizard in disbelief. Did he have a date with Voldemort?

It took the teen a few moments to gather his bearings, before he rushed towards his desk, pulling forth a piece of parchment and his quill. The letter he wrote was curt, his handwriting messy due to his shaking hands. Blotched ink marred the letter.

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

Please contact me as soon as possible, this is an emergency concerning Voldemort.

We have three days, please hurry.

Harry

***

It took exactly two hours for a group of wizards practically knocking down Harry's bedroom door, wands drawn, eyes frantically scanning the room. Without demanding an explanation from the boy, they took him to the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, where he was faced with a group of thirty people, all of which were arguing loudly. As soon as he set his foot over the threshold of the kitchen, silence reigned. 

"Harry!", Sirius was the first to react to his presence, enveloping him in a bone-crushing hug. "I was so worried!"

Temporarily forgetting his worries, the teen managed a smile while hugging back. A look over his godfather's shoulder revealed a few of the sorcerers, though most of them were still unknown to the Boy-Who-Lived. 

Mrs. Weasley was the next one to greet him, though she masked her relief in a scolding: "We are glad that you are alright, Harry. Now, don't ever send such an ominous message again, young man, unless you want us to be worried sick. Do you realize what could have happened?"

Harry, in turn, chose not to point out that they likely would not have reacted to his message, had it been more detailed. After all, it sounded rather absurd. The Dark Lord walking into a muggle home in Surrey to negotiate with a fifteen-year-old. In fact, it sounded rather much like the beginning of a bad joke. Harry's thoughts were quickly lost in the hug Mrs. Weasley pulled him into, while she made sure he was not injured.

"Let him breathe, Molly." Albus Dumbledore. His eyes were twinkling, as per usual, though Harry wondered if there was a hint of worry hidden behind the kind smile. 

"Professor", the teen spoke, once he was released, "Voldemort-"

"Perhaps this is a conversation, for which we should take a seat. Would anyone care for tea? Or perhaps a some of theses nifty sherbert sweets I found in the muggle store around the corner?", the headmaster interrupted him, while gesturing towards a large table.

The image of Dumbledore, clad in his purple and yellow robes with star print, shopping in a corner store, had Harry attempt to suppress a laugh. If the looks the other adults shot the man were anything to go by, he was not the only one. Despite the silent amusement, they soon found themselves sucking on the sweets, tea in the other hand. None of them had managed to escape Dumbledore's forced distribution of sweets, not even snape with his glare and scowl.

After a few moments of tense silence, the headmaster turned towards Harry with a smile: "So, Harry, you sent me a rather urgently worded letter. Could you elaborate?"

The boy nervously set down his tea, before beginning his tale, gaze never once leaving the cup in front of him, as if the blue embellishments were the most exciting thing he had seen all day. After his tale, an eerie stillness overcame the occupants of the kitchen. It seemed like the calm before the storm.

"Harry, perhaps you should go upstairs? Ron and Hermione will be thrilled to see you", Mrs. Weasley attempted to kick him out of the kitchen.

Ignoring the pang he felt at the announcement of his friends' presence, Harry put on an expression of pure defiance. He would not be sent to his room like a child, not if the conversation concerned him and his soulmate. 

Before he knew it, the teen was shouting: "You want me to leave? This concerns me more than any of you! And if I could remind you, I am the one who is supposed to meet Voldemort in three days, who is supposed to negotiate. How on earth do you expect me to do that if I am not allowed to partake in the discussion?"

"You will not be the one to negotiate!", Sirius exclaimed, standing up forcefully enough to knock over his chair, "You're a minor! It's far too dangerous for you!"

A sudden tranquility overtook Harry, as he glanced around the adults, all of which seemed to agree with Sirius. 

"He will not negotiate with anyone else", the teen was surprised at how certain he sounded, "If anyone apart from me shows up, we are certain to have their head sent back to us on a silver platter."

Harry knew from the way the others shifted uncomfortably in their seats, that he had gained the right to stay. 

"Very well", the headmaster confirmed his suspicion in a cheerful voice, "let's talk demands."

To be completely honest, Harry did not understand much from the following discussion. He did not know the current laws, neither the exact goals of the Order of the Phoenix, apart from defending the world from a raging madman. Despite his ignorance, the teen did his best to follow the discussions, trying to wrap his head around the assault of information. 

Later, after they had drawn up a rough frame of their demands and most of the members had left through floo or appartion, Dumbledore pulled him aside.

"Harry, my boy", he began, "be cautious when you meet with Voldemort. He shows interest in you and the bond between the two of you. Tom Riddle was like a magpie, tending to be possessive and obsessive. I am not claiming to know his intentions towards you, but be assured that, should he demand things from you, which you are not willing to give, there is no shame in you breaking off the negotiations and walking out of there. Your safety is our main priority."

After the teen nodded, dread pooling in his stomach, Dumbledore gave him one of his ominous smiles, before pointing towards the ceiling. "I believe Mr. Weasley and Mrs. Granger will be thrilled to see you again." 

The man apparated away, leaving Harry wondering, what exactly Voldemort's intentions towards him were

***

Dear Harry,

after the latest pleasure of meeting you, I am inviting you to dine with me at:

Stratton St, Mayfair, London W1J 8LT, United Kingdom

I expect you to appear at the given address alone and on time - 7 pm.

A table is booked under the name Riddle.

Hopefully we will come to an agreement.

Your Soulmate

***

Despite its height, the building was unremarked by bypassers. Similarly to Diagon Alley, Le Cuisinier Magique was warded heavily to prevent muggles from entering. Gnawing on his bottom lip, Harry observed as a couple left the high-end restaurant. Judging from their style of clothing, Harry guessed that he was severely underdressed in his baggy jeans and shirt, as they were rags in comparison to the flowing robes the couple wore. Perhaps he should have worn the green dress robe from the Yule Ball? Harry had not bothered to research where Voldemort would be meeting him, which he regretted by now. Had he asked anyone magical, they would have told him how unacceptable his dress code was.

Searching for courage to enter such a place and meeting his soulmate in these clothes, the teen glanced at his wristwatch, only to panic, when he realized that he was already five minutes too late. What a great start. Gathering all the bravery Gryffindors were known for, Harry strode towards the heavy door, which opened before he even reached it. His date negotiations with a feared Dark Lord approached faster than he was comfortable with, though there was nothing to be done. 

The second Harry entered, he had the attention of everyone in the lobby, stares and whispers accompanying him to the reception desk. These clothes truly were a mistake, no matter how uncomfortable he felt in his dress robes. The holy Metallica T-Shirt from Dudley's rebellious phase was simply inappropriate, as was the bird's nest on his head, which seemed to be especially rebellious today.

"Hello, I'm meeting someone here... he said he booked a table under the name of Riddle?", Harry could only hope that he sounded confident enough to compensate for his appearance. The look he received spoke of the opposite.

"May I ask your name?", the witch asked in a cold, suspicious voice. 

"Harry", the questioned simply replied, not planning on revealing his last name. 

A few seconds ticked by, in which the witch waited for more information, before she realized, that no more would leave the teen's mouth. 

After a pointed look, she finally spoke: "I will inform Mr. Riddle of your arrival."

The Boy-Who-Lived was certain that it was not standard procedure to doubt your client's reservations, yet he could understand the witch's actions. Shortly after her disappearance through a pompous door, the woman reemerged, striding towards him. Her address of him was much friendlier this time around. 

Harry almost didn't recognize Voldemort, who was seated in a private room. Gone were the reptilian features. In their stead, he found a man, who looked similar to the Tom Riddle, that had emerged from the diary two years ago. However, this version looked older - in his early thirties perhaps. It was jaw-dropping. The dark hair looked so soft that he only wanted to bury his hands in it, while the pink lips made him ache with the need to... 

No, he would not go there. For all he knew, the Dark Lord would kill him right then and there, the negotiations only having been a ploy (it did not matter how absurd this theory sounded). 

"Harry", Lord Voldemort greeted with a smooth voice, which made Harry shiver in, what he refused to acknowledge as desire, "I thought I asked you to be on time."

The disapproving tone made him snap in an attempt to defend himself: "Well, it's not like I did it deliberately. I was contemplating whether or not to go back home and change."

It wasn't until the words left his mouth, that the teen realized how that sounded. Yet, before he could hastily add something, which would probably only drag him deeper into this mess, Voldemort laughed. 

"Take a seat" - a pale hand gestured towards the seat across the table - "I ordered a 1989 Mouton Rothschild, though you might want to drink something different?"

The comment took the teen off guard. He had not expected Voldemort to be this... friendly? Charming? It almost convinced Harry that they were a regular pair of soulmates on their first dates. No murder, no ulterior motives, no war. Alas, it was never that simple when Harry James Potter was involved. Realizing that an answer was expected of him, Harry fought a blush.

"I don't really know anything about this kind of stuff", he muttered and then added, "You know that I'm not allowed to drink, right?"

"Who will know?", a wink from those dark, dark eyes.

The teen narrowed his in turn: "If you are planning on getting me drunk to have an upper hand in the negotiations, then I am terribly sorry to disappoint you."

"You are blunt, it's refreshing."

"What do you mean?"

The Dark Lord gave him a smile that made his heart stutter: "If negotiations are done at locations such as this one, either party will try such maneuvers, though it is an unspoken rule not to comment upon it."

As the boy was about to voice a reply, a knock interrupted them. Upon Voldemort's sharp "Enter", a waiter stepped through, bottle in hand. With a curt bow directed at both Harry and Voldemort, the man presented the label, before proceeding with opening the wine. With curious eyes, the teen watched as his soulmate took a sip of the red liquid, before nodding. Promptly his glass was filled previously to the refilling fo Voldemort's. The bottle was placed on the table and the waiter exited the room with another bow. The dynamics were certainly fascinating to Harry, who had never been to a restaurant before. 

"Do you like it?", the question followed as soon as Harry tasted the rich, slightly acidic taste. 

"Yeah. It's really good. Not to be presumptuous or anything, but isn't this a muggle wine?" Harry hoped that his deduction skills had not abandoned him, though he was quite certain of himself, as the images on the label did not move.

"Originally yes, but since Philippine Rothschild, it is in the possession of wizards", was the nonchalant answer. 

The teen stared down at the menu lying before him for the first time. Weren't they supposed to order?

As if he had read his thoughts - god, had he? - the Dark Lord offered an explanation: "You simply touch the dish you wish to order with the tip of your wand." The smile was disarming.

"Are you wearing a glamour?", the boy blurted, unable to keep the curiosity inside.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I assumed it would make you feel at ease."

There was no visible reaction in Voldemort, who was still studying his own menu. A warm feeling pooled in Harry's stomach at the thought of the man taking such measures for him. Yet, he frowned. 

"Would you mind taking it off?", the Boy-Who-Lived pleaded the Dark Lord, "It's just that... I- I would feel more comfortable if you were yourself. If that's alright?"

Surprise was clearly visible on the handsome face, before it melted away to reveal a face, that had filled the teen's nightmares for a long time. Yet, glancing into the other's red orbs felt almost like home. The fear he had expected when looking at the other, the fear he had felt at the graveyard and partially at the Dursleys, was nonexistent, replaced with an odd tranquility. 

"Are you certain, that you don't want me to use the glamour once more?", the uncertainty in his intended's voice almost made him wince. 

"Yeah", he shrugged, "Not please help me. I only recognize two things on this menu. What exactly am I looking at?"

The next smile, while certainly less charming than on Tom Riddle's face, made Harry's heart skip a beat nonetheless.

"Also", Harry continued, trying to ignore the blush that had made its permanent home in his cheeks, "why are there no prices?"

"They only give the prices to the one's paying. Since that will be me, the staff gave you this one."

"I can't let you pay for me!", Harry spluttered.

"Why not?", the other curiously cocked his head to the side.

"I- I don't- It's- I mean-", the teen stuttered.

When he failed to produce a reasonable explanation, Voldemort simply shook his head. He proceeded to explain the variety of wizarding french dishes. The conversation was surprisingly pleasant and somehow much easier than those he had with his friends. He felt the urge to confide to Voldemort, to tell him things he normally would not have told a murderous Dark Lord. The bond between them was relaxing him, making him wish for this moment to never end. 

It was over the fourth course (seriously, who on earth served eight dishes for one meal?), a vegetable delicatessen that made Harry's mouth water despite the bursting stomach, that Harry felt compelled to ask a question occupying him for years.

"How can it be that I speak Parseltongue?", Harry asked Voldemort, "Dumbledore said that you gave me some of your abilities when you gave me the scar, but he was quite vague about it."

"You speak Parseltongue?", it took a couple of moments to realize that the man had formed the question in said language.

"Yeah. I thought you knew? Most of Hogwarts knows, so I assumed Snape would have told you."

A dark look passed Lord Voldemort's face for a fleeting moment. 

"I have a few theories, though they will need further testing to be sure", the man hissed, "We will only speak in this language from now on."

"Not going to ask me?", Harry joked, a broad smile on his face.

"You look beautiful", it was quietly said, as if Voldemort was afraid Harry would flee the moment he heard the words. There goes the blush again.

"Thanks, so do you", he wondered if he reacted correctly. 

Voldemort merely laughed: "You do not have to lie, Harry."

"I'm not", Harry was surprised to find that he was not, "I like your eyes."

It was strange how quickly Harry had grown to adore those blood-red eyes, which once sent him running in fear. The graveyard seemed like centuries ago. Staring into his soulmate's eyes, he forgot all his worries, his doubts, his fears. It was only them.

Harry James Potter and Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Harry Potter and Voldemort.

While pulling out a roll of parchment from his pocket, the teen cleared his throat: "Perhaps we should go to the purpose of this meeting?"

Harry had assumed that he would negotiate then and there with Voldemort, yet he was proven wrong. His intended took the scroll and handed him one in turn.

Upon spotting Harry's confused look, the man grinned almost wolf-like: "I assume they did not give you any basic information about negotiation? We exchange ideal goals, ranking them in priority so that the other party knows what they are working with. From there onward, being a Slytherin in very useful." A wink accompanied the statement.

"What are your goals?", the teen questioned, not sure if he was allowed to read the parchment. 

"Most importantly, the complete separation of muggles and wizards, with only a few, necessary exceptions. In addition, I wish to reinstate the old traditions, especially the celebrations of magic, such as Yule and Samhain. The third, major goal is to legalize dark magic, all kinds. That should give you a rough overview."

Harry bit his lip, not wanting to ruin the good mood with an argument about politics, that would end in shouting and insults. "If both you and the Order agree, how are you going to get the ministry to agree to anything? Wouldn't they have to take part in the negotiations?"

"You forget, that the ministry does not even believe in my existence at the present time. Nevertheless, both the order and I have highly influential people inside the ministry, in addition to our numbers. At the present time, the ministry's agreement is on the bottom of both our priority lists."

Time flew by when they were together and before Harry knew it, he found himself standing across his soulmate outside of the restaurant.

"Thanks for inviting me", Harry whispered in English, eyeing the Lord Voldemort.

His real face was too recognizable, leading him to put the glamour back on after finishing their meal. Yet, he had keyed it to Harry somehow, allowing him to see the real face. The teen was still surprised that this was possible, though nothing should be a wonder, if it was concerning Voldemort. The man was a source of knowledge and power, as the Boy-Who-Lived had found out during their dinner date. 

"It was my pleasure", came the deep voice that made the boy shudder every time he heard it.

Quickly, before he could lose the courage to do so, Harry got onto his tiptoes, his hands resting on Voldemort's shoulders. The kiss could barely be classified as such, being more a brush of their lips together than anything else. Yet, the teen's cheeks were covered in a furious blush when he retreated just as rapidly, his eyes unable to meet the older wizard's. As stillness followed his actions, he winced. To the inexperienced virgin that he was, the peck had felt nice, though it was possible that it was horrendous for his intended. 

"Sorry", he mumbled, gaze focused on his worn trainers, "I shouldn't-"

Cool fingers cut him off, as they tilted his chin up. Red eyes met his and before he knew it, the Dark Lord's lips were on his in a searing hot kiss. 

Harry had overheard some girls in his year, especially Pavarti and Lavender, gossip over how hot it was to have a dominant partner. Now, with Voldemort's hand fisting his hair, pulling his head backward for easier access, he finally understood their desires. The sensation of lips, tongue, and teeth on him was almost too much to bear, leaving him panting for air. When Lord Voldemort's mouth left his, trailing along his jaw, his neck, Harry thought he would die from the new passion. The slight sting of teeth marking his skin, of a mouth sucking at his neck, caused an unknown heat to pool into Harry's stomach and... lower.

"Voldemort", the teen gasped, unable to tell if he was speaking in Parseltongue or English. 

"Tell me what you want, Harry", his soulmate's voice was rough, filled with desire. Something hard pressed against the teen's stomach.

"Please-"

"Potter?", he knew that voice, knew the arrogant drawl. 

The Boy-Who-Lived almost fell over as he fought his way out of the Dark Lord's grasp, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, the beginning of a hickey clearly visible on the side of his neck. His half-hard erection was thankfully concealed by the baggy trousers. Embarrassed, Harry faced the blond standing in the entrance of Le Cuisinier Magique. 

"Malfoy", he tried to spit out, though it was made significantly harder by the distraction of an arm snaking around his waist. 

The blonds' gaze wandered from Harry and his attire to a well-dressed Lord Voldemort. 

"Figures you would have a sugar daddy. Just as much of a slut as your mudblood friend, aren't you?", disdain filled every syllable. The tightening of the arm around him scared Harry, though it was not for himself, but rather for his rival.

"Draco, why are you standing in the doorway?", Lucius Malfoy interrupted any possible answer from the dark-haired boy. 

"Lord Malfoy", Voldemort's cold voice greeted the blond, "perhaps you would do well in teaching your son some manners. He might just insult someone less... lenient."

From the way the blood left the older Malfoy's face in a rush, Harry figured that he recognized the charming man for who he truly was. The cold grey eyes flicked between the soulmates, in concealed wonder, before focusing on the Dark Lord. Almost gleefully, the Boy-Who-Lived observed as Lucius' fingers dug into his son's shoulder.

"I apologize sincerely. He will not do it again." Was it his imagination or was there a tremble in the patriarch's voice?

"See to it", the teen's intended replied in clear dismissal. 

Harry took it as his cue to leave more and more embarrassing situation. He had almost forgotten how dangerous Voldemort truly was, had lost himself in the man's charm. Yet, the fear in others' eyes was an almost brutal wake-up call.

"I really should get going", he announced in an attempt to sound unphased. After a short -  and hopefully inconspicuous - struggle against the arm around his waist, Harry turned into the direction of the nearest tube station. "Will you send me the address of the next meeting?", Harry added over his shoulder, though he did not await a reply. In a speed-walk, Harry made his way towards the tube.

He had kissed Lord Voldemort.

"Was it alright?", Sirius questioned the minute Harry stepped over the threshold. Concern was clearly audible.

"Yeah", the teen answered, fighting the blush that he had been unable to shake, "I mean it didn't feel like negotiations, to be honest. I gave him our goals and he gave me a list of his. That was pretty much all the politics we talked about."

"You were out for five hours just to exchange notes? That could have been done via owl!"

Eyes glued to the ground, Harry mumbled: "Well, it took me an hour to get there and back..." He trailed off.

"So what happened during the other four hours?"

"Nothing much."

"Nothing much?", his godfather interrogated suspiciously, "So are you telling me that the thing on your neck is a new makeup trend?"

The teen's hand shot towards the hickey, eyes widening in horror. 

"Relax, I'm just messing with you. He's your soulmate, it's normal!", Sirius laughed, before adding in a more serious tone, "Just don't do anything you are uncomfortable with. He might be your intended, but he's still a manipulative bastard."

A pained smile crossed the younger wizard's features. "Thanks for looking out for me, Padfoot."

"Always, kiddo. Now tell me what happened, spare no detail!"

***

In the following weeks, Harry almost fell into a routine. Once a week, he would meet the most feared wizard in Great Britain at a restaurant, in which he always felt out of place, though the food always was delicious. The soulmates got to know each other, their conversations comfortable and concerning everything apart from politics. Despite the sore topic, Harry soon found himself falling for the Dark Lord. Hard. To be honest, it did not surprise him.

The man was charming, knowledgeable, and understood Harry like no other. Things the teen had been unable to talk about with his friends or godfather, such as his time with the Dursleys, were easy to discuss during their dinners. Voldemort did not offer pity, nor did he offer some psychological advice (which Hermione would surely have given). Instead, he merely smiled and proposed to torture them until they forgot their own names. Though Harry declined, the understanding was comforting. The teen found himself yearning for the next dinner, his thoughts often occupied by the Dark Lord. Often, he would catch himself with a besotted smile on his lips. 

The time between the meetings was passed with strategies, planning and proposals. Once, Harry had asked why Voldemort refused to meet directly with the Order of the Phoenix, though his question was simply met with strange looks and a brief explanation of wizarding negotiations. The light side was as distrustful of Voldemort as ever, causing mixed feelings in Harry, who came closer and closer to the murderer of his parents.

Apart from Dumbledore and Sirius, the adults showed a certain wariness concerning the teenager, wondering whether or not he revealed confidential information of the meetings to his soulmate. It was hurtful, seeing as he regarded many of them his family. The looks he was given after returning from a diner with a scarf, despite the burning heat, made him want to shrink into himself.

Following the fourth dinner, Hogwarts started once more, without an agreement being reached between either party. Harry's life went from weird to horrible in a matter of days. Half the student body seemed to despise Harry, sending hexes and insults at him wherever he went. The other half simply treated him with indifference. Only Ron and Hermione remained with him. Harry still met with Lord Voldemort, being secretly taken out of school on certain evenings, though it got significantly more difficult with the amount of detentions he received from Umbridge. His intended had flipped, when he found the wound on Harry's arm, nearly breaking the fragile truce to murder the woman.

It was after their seventh date that they slept together for the first time. It was exhilarating and the best thing that happened to the teen in a long time. 

"I love you", he whispered, his hand tracing patterns on Voldemort's chest.

It didn't surprise him when Voldemort was unable to admit to similar sentiments. "I care for you", was the quiet reply, though Harry knew that it was more than anyone else had ever gotten.

"Do you sometimes miss your hair?", the teen wondered, when his intended's hand carded through the bird's nest on his head. 

A short laugh came from the Dark Lord.

"No, I don't. I hated the way I looked, it reminded me too much of the father who abandoned me." He hesitated before adding: "My looks were a sign of weakness to me. I used them to gather followers, worshippers, when I did not have enough political power or influence to do so otherwise. To look like this now and have a larger following than ever is intoxicating."

Harry pushed himself up, until he could look into his Soulmate's eyes. 

"Even if they fear you?"

"Especially if they fear me. They follow me because of my power, my capabilities, not because of my exterior. At this point, I could dress like you and still have their support."

"Hey!", the teen exclaimed, his hand slapping Voldemort's arm, who merely laughed. 

Harry rested his head on the Dark Lord's chest, where they stayed for a blissful eternity. 

"Do you ever think of running away? Of leaving all of this behind?", Harry suddenly questioned, following an impulse he had.

The fingers tracing along his side stopped.

"Sometimes. I gained a reputation here, one that forbids me to do certain things. Being with you is one of those things that crosses a certain line. Though they fear me, Purebloods will only tolerate certain things without retracting their support", the answer was honest, filled with an emotion the teen couldn't quite place.

Harry closed his eyes, relishing the intimacy of the moment. 

"I sometimes wish I could just be someone else", he confessed, "So many people expect me to be and act a certain way, it's horrible. Half the wizarding population hates me at this point. If it wasn't for Ron, Hermione and Sirius, I would have run away a long time ago."

"Would you do it?", Voldemort asked out of the blue.

"What?"

"Run away."

"With you?"

"Yes."

"Where would we go?"

"Wherever you want."

"I would."

Their smiles were the most honest they had ever been.

"I always wanted to go to France", Harry confessed, eyes shining in excitement, "Paris, the beach, the mountains. Wherever." 

"Paris it is." Voldemort's red eyes were mesmerizing

"When are we leaving? I need to pack my things and say goodbye, but we could go tomorrow?"

"You can't leave yet. You don't even have your O.W.Ls", the Dark Lord gently reminded him.

"I don't need to. You can teach me everything I need and more. You did want to become a teacher, didn't you?"

"You would truly give up your friends and family for me?"

"You would give up your lifelong goal, wouldn't you?"

"I would."

"Then we leave tomorrow."

And leave they did.

The world soon forgot about Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort, remembering them only in history books. Sometimes, Sirius Black, Hermione Granger (who refused to take the name Krum) and Ron Snape (who did not want to keep the name he shared with so many siblings) would get detailed letters and a bunch of pictures, before silence reigned once more. 

The Boy-Who-Lived and the Dark Lord were happy together, happier than either had been in their entire lives.