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“Soulmates are bullshite,” Ginny slurred from where she was sprawled across Harry’s well-worn loveseat. Her fiery hair was strewn about as if a twister had blown through the room, and Harry knew he’d be plucking strands from in between the cushions for days to come.
“You’ll get no arguments from me,” Harry agreed, raising his own drink and miming a cheers to Ginny’s empty glass that she’d slammed (rude) onto his end table.
She snorted. “Thank fuck for you. Honestly,” her voice shifted from loud and angry to soft and sincere, “without you and your even more fucked up Fated I don’t know how I’d cope, Harry.”
He tried not to wince. Ginny was just drunk and sad and lonely. Harry could relate. This kind of loneliness wasn’t lessened by someone else’s understanding. Obviously. If it were, he and Ginny wouldn’t have to down nearly as many hangover remedies, and he’d have to peel the red-headed menace off his couch and shove her in the floo so she’d make it in to work on time a whole lot less.
Ginny jolted upright as she realized what she’d said. “I--fuck that’s not me saying, Merlin you know I’d never wish--shite, okay no.” Her brown eyes were filled with regret as she reached over to lay her hand atop his own, slightly shaking, hand. “Harry. I’m not glad that wanker is your soulmate, and I’d never have wished it this way if I had any control over that sort of thing. Hell, I’d have just wished for us to be Fated.”
Now it was his turn to snort.
She sent a wry grin his way as she continued the fantasy. “We could be off and married with three kids by now, making my mother as thrilled as could be while we repopulate Britain with little Potters. We’d sit down to dinner with my twat of a brother and his powerhouse of a wife once a week, and I’d heckle the hell out of the three of you as you reminisce about all the school shenanigans you didn’t include me in. I still say that was quite rude of you, you know.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Yes dear, so sorry we didn’t ask you to come battle acromantula or travel back in time to fend off swarms of dementors. How thoughtless of us!” He gasped, laying his hand over his heart in feigned sorrow.
She shoved his shoulder even as they both burst into laughter.
After they came down from the giddiness, Ginny’s whisper, soft and cracking, echoed across the rumpled room. “I’d never wish this on anyone, Harry. Not on me and definitely not on you.”
“I know, Gin.”
They both looked up at his ceiling, lost in their individual bitterness. Harry took another sip of his firewhiskey. “I remain grateful to magical liquor for burning with the same intensity no matter how much you become accustomed to it,” he said after a few more mouthfuls and even more silent minutes.
“Hear, hear.” Ginny agreed. Harry turned his head to see her eyes were closed. Her clenched fists rested upon her thighs. Despite her restful pose, her forehead was creased with worry lines. Her arms twitched, seemingly against her will, and Harry considered nudging her to bring her out of whatever nightmare she was starring in behind her eyelids.
He didn’t. Just brought his glass back to his lips, welcoming the flames once more.
Why bring her out of one nightmare and into another? His eyes tracked the thick leather cuff encircling her right wrist, not shifting in the slightest amidst her tremors.
Harry glanced down at the silver calligraphy marking his own wrist. He’d always hated how lovely the sweeping curves looked in the shining script. Deceptive in their beauty.
Tom Marvolo Riddle
In the second before his brain had first comprehended the name inked on his skin, Harry had been breathless at the sight of the silver scrawl. Finally, he’d have someone with whom he could share his life, his burdens, his triumphs.
Then he’d read Tom’s name and felt that dream shatter inside his chest, the shards scattering to every extremity and embedding themselves in his skin. Thousands of slices shredded his hope from the inside as he stared at the proof that his burdens would only ever be his soulmate’s triumphs. Harry’s triumphs would only ever be his soulmate’s burdens. Harry’s life would only begin with his soulmate’s death.
So yeah, things were pretty shit across the board, he’d say.
Now, over three years later, there was no need to cover his wrist. Everyone in Europe, hell, possibly the world knew whose name scarred his skin. Had always scarred his skin. Harry had long felt a fool for not realizing prior to his 24th birthday. He hadn’t needed a name embedded in his flesh at midnight to know around whom his life revolved.
He’d closed off his floo connection that night, locked his wards down as tight as could be and drank himself into unconsciousness for the first, but not the last, time in his life.
Harry didn’t speak to a single soul for three days.
That’s how long it took for Voldemort to mockingly proclaim Harry to be his Fated. In the middle of Diagon Alley. The day after the Hogwarts letters went out.
It had been as if none of the raids Harry had helped prevent or the muggleborn homes he'd evacuated early enough or even the legislature he'd helped draft for the Diggory-Bones Alliance had earned him a shred of compassion.
None of those deeds had stopped the Prophet from splashing the news across the headlines or printing Voldemort’s feigned sorrow at waiting all these years for his soulmate to reach his 24th birthday word for every false, syrupy word.
Common decency had never factored into their decisions before. Why would they start now in the throes of the Wizarding Cold War?
It was Harry's luck that he had played into Voldemort's hands, the outcome better than any plan the Gaunt-Lestrange Coalition could have dreamed up.
On the nights where they drank enough for bitterness to hurt less than silence, Harry would sometimes mumble that, "At least one of us was able to feel the ecstasy of discovering your soulmate was the best person possible."
Ginny hated it when he said that. "Shut the fuck up, Harry. I mean it." She was a snappish woman, but she would almost growl at him in her rage whenever Harry would voice that particular thought.
"I hope that bitch has felt nothing but fury and insidious shame every time she's had to see my name on her wrist."
Harry was too polite to tell her that she was fortunate to share in that mutual animosity. But oh, how he wanted to some nights.
Ginny was a blessing. Harry would have drowned in the misery of his situation by now without her. He'd gladly let her rage to the drab walls of his flat about how they deserved better, they deserved the world, damnit. He'd nod along about how their Fated were bastards who had no right to bear their names. He'd hold her close to his chest, stroking her hair as the tears fell, as she whispered, "Is it wrong that my arms feel so empty? I shouldn't hate myself more than I hate her because I miss something I don't even want."
She understood his pain better than anyone else could. But Gin didn't know what it was to have her soulmate weaponized.
Her soulmate wasn't proclaiming their match to the world in the Ministry Atrium. The witch wanted to bury the truth as much as, if not more than, Ginny did. No blood traitor's name would mar her pure skin.
Ginny, loud and rambunctious, always ready with the next quip, perpetually snapping her fingers or tapping to rid herself of all that excess energy, had gone still and silent the day it was announced that Bellatrix Lestrange had taken a cursed knife to her mark. Ginny's eyes had scanned the close-up photograph of Lestrange's jagged, sewn-up skin with an intensity that bordered on manic, before setting the newspaper ablaze in a burst of accidental magic.
She'd grabbed four bottles of liquor and locked herself in Harry's bedroom for 36 hours.
Harry had let her.
He would never tell her so, but Harry had envied her for it.
Oh, he's sure he'd have had some sort of meltdown if Voldemort had carved Harry's name out of his flesh in disgust. No judgement there.
But Harry would prefer the intruding memories of Voldemort's scarred skin to seeing his parents' murderer declared a pathetic figure who fell to temporary insanity after not receiving a mark for 78 years.
Soulmates may not be bullshite, but that sure was.
Ginny could keep her mark covered for the rest of her life, pretend her Fated had died young and she was covering his or her name out of respect. The Weasleys would keep it quiet. Harry wouldn't say a word.
Harry couldn't ignore the truth of his soulmate. Not when his fucking name had given Voldemort's claims legitimacy.
Harry had given Voldemort the out he'd been searching for to turn the war.
So, yeah. Harry thought he was owed some maudlin murmurings on the nights where he allowed himself to let go of the tight control he kept during the day when he had to be out in public fighting a fight that half the Wizarding world didn't realize was ongoing.
Harry had taught himself to do almost everything left-handed. He didn’t need to glimpse Tom’s name every time he brushed his teeth or took a piss. He didn’t need the reminder of his shit life every time he wrote a letter or downed another drink. Merlin, then he’d never stop, and potions could only do so much to repair liver damage.
No, Harry had somehow managed to be a functioning member of society after the news had broken, after Voldemort used Harry's name as the final piece of proof to his years-long plea of insanity.
Even after the Wizengamot had agreed to release the Death Eaters from their imprisonment, since it was obvious they had been manipulated and put under compulsions by the then-insane Dark Lord, Harry refused to be cowed.
Sure, he'd let Neville's fist become intimate with his jaw, and yes, Ginny had had to dump every drop of alcohol in Harry's flat and house as well as cuff him with a magic-restraining wristlet on his left hand so he didn't accidentally drink or magic himself to an early death. But even then, his wrist remained bare.
He wasn't proud of Tom's name, but he refused to hide those three words when everyone already knew what they were.
Sometimes, like now as Ginny’s soft snores filled the room, Harry would zone out in temporary contentment only to snap back to attention and realize he’d been tracing the letters of Tom’s name unknowingly. He refused to hate himself for it. Tom wasn’t real. Harry’s soulmate was dead, killed by Voldemort before Harry had even been a thought in his parents’ minds. No, Tom Marvolo Riddle was a name, a life that had been discarded long ago. No matter what that monster proclaimed.
Harry stood up, his movements jerky. He arched his back in a stretch and felt his bones grind under his skin, heard the sharp pop as they snapped into place. He spared a glance at Gin, checking to make sure she had slept through the noise. He smiled to himself as he rustled up a blanket to lay over her for the night. Once she was covered, Harry picked up the empty glasses and began setting his living room to rights.
As he was storing the half-emptying bottles back in his liquor cabinet, Harry’s eyes fell on the crumpled remains of today’s Prophet. Tears stung at the edges of his eyes as he saw Voldemort’s new face smirking up at him. The Gaunt-Lestrange Coalition had gotten a new bill voted into law late last night when Harry had been making a home visit to one of the most recent Muggleborn families he had discovered.
Little eight-year-old Jeanette had set a fire in her home that had pinged Harry’s wards, and when he’d arrived on the scene it had been. . . well, never let it be said that Voldemort was the only reason Harry had begun drinking himself to an early death.
Harry could barely see through the blur of his tears as he yanked the bottle back out, pulling the cork away with his teeth, spitting it out and taking a swig.
Harry somehow made his way to his bedroom, unbuttoning his trousers and shoving them down with one hand before stumbling backwards onto his bed. He was afraid to close his eyes, afraid to leave himself clear-headed, afraid he’d never get the sight of Jeanette’s burned hands and bruised arms out of his mind, afraid that maybe he’d contributed to that bill passing. Terrified that maybe he’d wanted it to pass all along.
Sure, Harry’s proxy had been sitting for him at last night’s meeting. No one could say that Harry or houses Potter and Black shrugged their duties, but Harry knew his presence and rebuttal speeches often rallied the neutral members to side with the Diggory-Bones Alliance. Without the Boy-Who-Lived in attendance, Voldemort’s charismatic presence had worked to sway the undecided votes. It wasn’t surprising that the Young Witches and Wizard Registration Act had passed.
The law would force the ministry to search out wizarding children at the first sign of accidental magic and begin introducing them to Britain’s wizarding society. Their home situations would be evaluated and their lineage traced to see if they had any relatives or ancestors who could help introduce them to the world they were now a part of. Wizarding children found in the muggle world could be removed from their homes at the discretion of the evaluator. Families would be educated in wizarding culture and encouraged to integrate into our society or allow wizarding families to foster magical children to teach them skills prior to Hogwarts. Any evidence that a magical child had been harmed due to their magic would lead to an immediate and forceful response.
When Harry had mentioned months ago that the idea had merit as long as competent and compassionate people were overseeing the inspections, the alliance meeting had gone silent. He’d sat there, stone-faced, as he watched the side glances and shifting eyes begin. Is Potter growing sentimental towards his Fated’s ideals? Are we losing him to the Dark?
It never ended. He would never escape this trap. He could only work towards impracticalities that wouldn’t help anyone, wouldn’t win their side anything. This name on his wrist was the impetus that slammed the gilded cage door shut over Harry’s dreams of improving this world, his world.
Nothing could ever be his. His idea, his morals, his lived experience. Everything that didn’t parrot Dumbledore’s old rhetoric or the new-age presses of a still-grieving Amos Diggory was a sign that Harry was turning away from the Light.
But this war, this law, wasn’t about Light and Dark. It was about the witches and wizards who lived in between enemy lines, who were suffering under the stagnation that had plagued wizarding Britain for decades. It was about eight-year old Jeanette with bruises and hard eyes; five-year old Liam who had flinched away from Harry’s touch for weeks before gripping his hand so tightly Harry lost circulation as he finally acquired the evidence to remove him from his home; twelve-year old Blake who he’d found exhausted, filthy and shaking down one of Diagon’s side alleys just two weeks into the summer hols; and fifteen-year old Natalie who he’d watched collapse in Hogsmeade a week before her O.W.L.s because ‘Mr. Potter, I don’t have time to eat! I need every hour for revising. I can’t fail. I can’t. If I fail it’ll be their final excuse to end this mumbo-jumbo, snap my wand and send me back to normal school.’
Harry saw Natalie’s raw fingers, wringing themselves until her skin was cherry red and chapping, over and over in his dreams.
His lips were numb by the time he’d tipped back the dregs of the bottle. Harry shucked off his soiled shirt, flinging it in the direction of his hamper and hoping he’d gotten close. He snorted at the wish. I hate it when I make metaphors in my misery.
He rubbed a shaky hand over his face and ran his tongue across his teeth, tasting the remnants of the oaky whiskey. Voldemort’s face, a shade too pale and full of sharp, reptilian angles, appeared every time he closed his eyes, and tonight as he began to succumb to his exhaustion was the same.
This time he saw the same likeness that had graced the papers this morning. The man’s garnet eyes had held a smugness intertwined with pride in the Prophet’s photo of him, Rodolphus Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy toasting to their victory. His new hair had grown back in as stick-straight ebony rather than teenage Tom’s chocolate waves, and his nose had lost its aquiline shape, now lying flat and small. Harry hated that it somehow offset the man’s new features. His mouth was thin, lips underfull but rosy red.
Harry hated those too.
He forced his eyes open. Harry was pushing it, he knew. The first streak of light would break across the sky within the hour, and he would certainly look like hell tomorrow even if he managed to get some sleep in the next three hours. The Prophet would be clamoring for a statement, and Rita would be vicious in her questioning as she hinted that he was opposing his Fated’s goals out of a heartless vindictiveness.
He had a right to be vindictive if he wanted. He’d laugh at anyone who told him differently, but Harry didn’t lack the capability to forgive. He just knew that Voldemort’s supposed remorse wasn’t genuine.
The pair shared a mind-pathway thanks to the echo of the Horcrux that Voldemort had recalled in Harry’s sixth year when the man finally put his soul back together. While both of them had created strong enough mental protections to keep the other out of their thoughts, Voldemort had kept his side of the connection open to Harry when he’d given his impassioned plea for amnesty in front of the crowds. The mocking insincerity of his thoughts had doused the smoldering embers of Harry’s locked-away hope.
The man had wanted Harry to know that Voldemort had reveled in hurting him, hunting him. His false promises had tasted like burnt sugar on Harry’s tongue, had sunk in his stomach like stones.
Harry swallowed down the bile that tried to claw its way up his throat at the memory of that particular cruelty. His eyes felt crusty as he rubbed at them again in an effort to stay awake. Godric, this was so unsustainable, but he’d couldn’t stop trying to escape the inevitability of his dreams.
Harry was never best at anything. Not during his childhood stuffed in the cupboard. Not during his Hogwarts education when he was too busy surviving to earn full marks or finish up more than one full quidditch season. Not when he’d ascended to his Wizengamot seats, the youngest Lord in the room and the most infamous until his bloody Fated had taken up the Gaunt seat.
No, the only thing Harry had ever been best as was denying himself the things he wanted. He’d wanted family as long as he could remember, but being around Harry was dangerous, damaging. After Sirius, he couldn’t be selfish enough to let anyone close. His loneliness would be worth it every time he saw Ron’s chest rise and fall, every time he watched Hermione’s breath become visible in the chilly winter air. He’d only let Ginny hover in his orbit a decade later when she’d needed someone who understood her agony more than she’d needed protection. Harry never said he was good at denying other people.
He’d wanted stability, safety and yet he’d thrown himself into the fight against Voldemort. He’d sacrificed his body in raids and skirmishes, gave up hour after hour of sleep to draft and edit law proposals and write rebuttal speeches that would even move someone like Petunia to tears. He made house calls to muggle homes at four a.m. and he locked down his house and flat under such extensive wards that he felt his magic crackle under his skin from the pressure of upholding them.
Harry wanted a soulmate. Someone who would love him for more than his last name or the tales told of his triumph as a toddler. Someone who would hold him in bed at night as he shook apart from the weight of it all. Someone who would keep him warm beneath the covers, would press fluttering kisses into the myriad of scars that covered his body and still think beautiful.
Voldemort, this amalgamation of what Tom had turned himself into and what Voldemort thought the world wanted to see, would never give Harry any of that. His temperature probably ran cold. He’d likely laugh at the sight of Harry’s scars, dig his nails into them and ask if he remembered when Voldemort had given them to him. Taunt that he’d liked it, wanted more. No. Merlin-I, no.
Harry wanted anyway. He’d never, ever let himself have it, but when the night was at its darkest and he sunk into the deep numbness of sleep he was made to stop pretending.
He’d dream of Tom’s arms wound around him, one of his legs thrown over Harry’s hip and the cool tip of his nose pressed into Harry’s neck. Some nights, he felt silky brown hair running through his fingers and lost himself in deep hazel eyes that looked a different color in every shade of lighting in Harry’s bedroom. Other nights, the worst nights, Harry’s pillows were covered with two heads of black hair, impossible to distinguish from one another.
Regardless of which man joined him in his dreams, the ending was the same.
When Harry woke, his thighs would ache and he’d clench his eyes shut so tightly he could feel the pressure rising at his temples. Ginny thought the mornings where he stumbled to the toilet in time to throw up everything in his stomach were a result of the alcohol he’d imbibed the night before. Maybe that was a part of it, but Harry had spent his mornings vomiting out the guilt and disgust and desire months before he’d spent his nights with amber-tinted bottles trying to forget they’d existed in the first place.
Harry’s name had been Voldemort’s salvation. Tom’s name had been Harry’s ruin.