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It was still summer, the first time Harry saw the man.
Rather, it was summer in Little Whinging the second, third, or fourth time Harry saw the man. He’d spotted him at least once before, seemingly following him before disappearing without a trace. There’d been no crack of Disapparition, which was why Harry had chalked it up to stress at first, but now he was unmistakable, which meant only one thing: someone was checking up on him.
Again.
It had been infuriating the prior year to learn that he’d been kept on watch by the Order all summer before Dementors appeared at the worst time. It was worse to have his fears confirmed that again, he was being tailed, and again, they hadn’t told him.
So he did the only rational thing: he turned on his heel and, before the man could Apparate away, he advanced, hand on his wand in his pocket. “Alright!” he exclaimed. “I’ve had it; who are you?!”
The man recoiled. “Excuse me?!” he demanded icily. “I should strike you down for your impudence! Who are you?!”
Harry froze, stunned. That… wasn’t what he had been expecting. “Er – sorry, you’re not with the Order?”
“The what?”
“The –” Harry clamped his free hand over his mouth before he said anything he couldn’t take back to this stranger. “The people… following me,” he spat out instead.
“Following you?!” the man demanded. “Are you daft, boy?! You’ve been following me!”
And then he disappeared.
Harry stared at the spot with numb shock. It was unlike any magic he had ever seen; one moment, the man was there, and in the next he was gone. No single dust mote was disturbed, no footprint left; no, it was as if he were never even there at all. With this strange thought in his head, Harry trudged home, vowing angrily to return and see if he spotted the man again.
—
He did.
Two days later, in the same spot, was the same man. Harry vaguely wondered how he could even tell; there was nothing inherently recognisable about the man, but Harry still did. Fuming, he marched up to the stranger, wand in full-view this time. He was going to get answers, Statute of Underage Magic or no.
The man turned before he could even get there – and smiled.
“We meet again.” It was unnatural, that smile. Surely normal people didn’t smile so intensely, so hungrily. Yet Harry was nearly captivated – though another small part of him wanted to run away screaming. He stepped forward. “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong note, wouldn’t you think?”
“Er – what?” Harry said rather stupidly, still stunned. “Sorry – what?”
“Are you… quite alright?” the man asked with a quiet but disapproving click of his tongue. “Ah, I see… How old are you, child? Young? Younger than twenty, perhaps?”
“Maybe,” Harry said carefully, not quite liking where this exchange was going. He didn’t get a sense of imminent danger from the man, but there was something clearly… predatory about him – in a large, hulking dragon eyeing up a tasty goat sort of way.
“I see,” the stranger said. “And it seems you do not even… nevermind. Allow me to apologise for my hasty anger upon our first meeting. I assumed you had noticed me before, as I had seen you. Of course, we both made the assumption of the other, that we were being followed. It is not an uncommon experience to be followed by a young wizard, wand at the ready, intent on malice.”
“I… Oh,” Harry said. The man’s words did make sense. And he’d been able to tell he was a wizard, which meant he was one too – but of course, Muggles didn’t vanish into thin air. But there was something else about what he said…
“Wait!” Harry exclaimed. “You don’t know who I am!”
The man looked at him curiously, tilting his head in consideration. “Should I?” he asked.
“Well, I –” Harry stopped himself short before he ruined a perfectly lovely novel experience – talking to another wizard without their famous Boy Who Lived preconceptions. “I mean, did you just get to the area? Everyone knows each other, it seems.”
The man smiled wider. “Yes, I’ve just returned from… France, after years abroad.” Harry should worry, he thought, about how easily the stranger gave that answer, how convenient it was, but he was caught up in the moment. He was used to attention on him, but not like this, not like he was, somehow, captivating in his own regard. That little worried voice in the back of his head quieted until it was barely a buzz.
“Wow, that’s brill,” Harry said, grinning as he offered a hand to the mysterious traveller. “France, I mean.” He didn’t. “I’m… Harry, by the way.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” the stranger replied, taking Harry’s hand. He didn’t introduce himself. “I’m afraid, however, that our time is cut short. I have an urgent appointment.”
“Ah, well,” Harry said awkwardly. “Be seeing you, then?”
“I imagine so,” the man confirmed, and so saying he took his leave before rounding a corner.
When Harry checked, the man was gone.
—
“I’m leaving in a few days.”
“Oh?” the man asked. “I did not expect to see you leave so soon.”
It was midsummer, and Dumbledore would be arriving to take Harry away just two days away. It was bittersweet; on the one hand, Harry would be spending the rest of the summer with the Weasleys. On the other, he’d grown fond of the short conversations he and his mystery wizard would have on such a regular, intimate basis. If he wasn’t completely off-base, the stranger felt much the same. And who could blame them? Unless one counted Mrs Figg, they were the only two magical folks in this tiny, tight-knit community of Muggles.
“Back to Hogwarts,” Harry answered. “You’ve heard of it, I’m sure. I still have two years left.”
“Mmm,” the man hummed in interest. “So it’s back to school then? The summer, however, is only half over.”
“True,” Harry conceded. “I – er – have to go stay with some friends for a while, so I won’t be back until next year. So I suppose I’ll see you then – unless you’re not…”
“You’re not worried you will never see me again, no?” the man asked. “You need not worry; I am certain we will meet again.”
“Yeah?” Harry asked, the corners of his mouth quirking into a wry smile. “And how could you possibly know that?”
“Call it intuition,” the man said, offering Harry a sly smile of his own. “Or fate.”
“Fate, huh?” Harry echoed. “I like that. I’ve had a bad run of luck with fate. It’d be nice to have something work out for me, just this once.”
“I can only imagine.”
—
And see the man again he did. It was weeks later, after a refreshing and freeing holiday spent with the Weasleys. He had nearly forgotten his encounters with the stranger in all the excitement of meeting the returning Professor Slughorn, celebrating his birthday properly, and spending his days playing Quidditch with his best friends in the idyllic countryside surrounding The Burrow. When he did meet the man again, it wasn’t in Surrey, it wasn’t in Diagon Alley, nor was it in some other magical community like Hogsmeade.
It was on the train.
“You!” Harry shouted as he spotted the man, in an otherwise empty compartment, so familiar now to him but so strangely unrecallable outside of their limited interactions. “You’re coming to Hogwarts too! That’s how you knew we would meet again! Are you… are you a new professor?”
“It would appear so,” the man answered, smiling lightly at him. “No, I am sadly not taking up a position at Hogwarts, but it does seem that we will be travelling there together. I look forward to spending more time in your presence.”
“Yeah, that’s brill!” Harry couldn’t explain it, but he, too, felt a strong desire to spend more time with this strange man, to learn more about him and even… well, friendship with someone so much his senior seemed odd, but he’d made friends with Lupin, hadn’t he? And while there was something oddly ineffable about the man, he didn’t seem to be that much older than Harry, possibly in his mid-twenties at most. Still, Harry felt a sense of confusion settle into his bones. “Wait, if you’re not a professor, then why –?”
“Harry?” He turned to his friends to see them both staring as if he’d suddenly grown a second head. Hermione reached out and touched his arm gently, as though he might be a feral animal needing to be calmed. “Harry, who are you talking to?”
Harry narrowed his eyes at her, annoyance rising up within him at the pity he saw in her warm brown eyes. “This – this man – I don’t know his name, but –”
“Harry, mate, there’s no one there,” Ron stated bluntly. “When we get to school, maybe Madam Pomfrey…”
“What are you talking about?” Harry demanded. “He’s right there. How can you not…?”
Harry trailed off as he caught sight of the man’s face, a mischievous smile spreading across his features. “Oh dear,” he said calmly. “I do seem to have caused quite a bit of confusion. I confess, I did not realise you were not alone.”
“Huh?” Harry couldn’t quite form a proper thought; something very strange was going on, and for the first time he had a bad feeling about all of this. “This is Ron and Hermione, my best mates. I don’t understand –”
“My young friend,” the man said, interrupting Harry’s confusion, “I’m afraid that I can see only you. You say that we are on the Hogwarts Express, but I… I am alone, in my study, miles away. You and I are currently hallucinating.”
Harry sat down across from the man, hard. Hallucinating? The answer to the mystery of this man which had plagued him for weeks came crashing in. Of course, this was exactly why he could not recall details of the man outside of their encounters. This was why he seemed to vanish into thin air. He wasn’t really here, and that meant –
“You’re my soulmate?” Harry asked, the words little more than a whisper on the tip of his tongue. “I have a soulmate?!”
The man’s smile grew wider. “That would certainly seem to be the case.”
Harry’s head whirled with a thousand conflicting emotions all at once. This was… wow. There were no words for it. Soulmates were a rare thing indeed, and everyone in the magical world hoped against hope that they would one day find theirs, if they indeed had that perfect match somewhere out there. Now, here, Harry felt completely blindsided by the revelation. He was thrilled. He was terrified. He was falling in love with this man without even knowing his name.
And he was maybe, just maybe, a little bit annoyed.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he demanded. “I thought… I thought you were just another wizard who happened to move to Surrey. How long have you known?”
“Since our second meeting,” the man confessed. “It was not hard to divine the reason an unknown young man began appearing to me in my current residence. I did not voice my suspicions aloud as I did not wish to alarm you – and, I will admit, I was having fun.”
“Wow, alright,” Harry huffed. “I think I’d rather have known, but I suppose that’s in the past. Am I.. Am I just going to keep hallucinating you? Are we actually talking right now, or is this all in my head?”
“You and I will likely keep meeting like this until we come together in person,” the man confirmed. Harry sat up straighter.
“We should meet, then!” he exclaimed, missing the growing looks of alarm on his friends’ faces, so enraptured as he was by his mystery soulmate. “They always have a Hogsmeade outing in the first few weeks of school; you could join us on the trip, and –”
Harry stopped short as the man held up one hand. “That would, unfortunately, not be ideal,” the man stated. “I have not needed to explain this, but I live a rather dangerous life. It would not do for me to place you in that danger as well.”
Harry’s eyes widened. “Oh, what – are you like, an Auror or something?” he asked. “And you don’t need to worry – I’ve faced plenty of danger. I think I can handle a little bit more.”
The man smirked. “Not an Auror, no,” he said. “I would explain further, but you wouldn’t remember the details. Anything too personal, you’ll simply forget.”
“That’s why you haven’t told me your name,” Harry murmured. “You knew it wouldn’t matter, that I’d just forget.”
“Actually,” the man corrected, “I have given you my name. On several occasions. I believe you told me your name as well, but I, too, have forgotten it entirely.”
“Oh,” Harry said, feeling rather out of sorts at the lapse in his own memory. It made sense, that’s how these things went. One wasn’t supposed to remember the details of their soulmate encounters; it was part of the mystery and allure. “Well, I’d still like you to tell me again, even if I forget immediately.”
“Very well.” The man smiled again, this time sharp and predatory. Harry had to stifle a gasp; no one had ever looked at him like that, like he was a tasty meal ready to be consumed. On some level he had to admit that the prospect of being devoured by this incredibly charming, handsome (he thought) man was incredibly enticing. “I dare say you’ve heard of me; my name is Lord Voldemort.”
Alarm bells rang in Harry’s head. That was – no, that was wrong, how could –? But his recall was already slipping. What had the man told him? His name? Why should that frighten Harry? He shook his head and laughed ruefully.
“Already gone,” he said. “I’m sure it’s lovely, though.”
“As is yours, I am certain.” Harry blinked as the man said this and he flickered. “Ah, but I fear our meeting is coming to an end. There is a… friend of my own who requires my attention.”
“What, so soon?” Harry yelped. “But… you just got here. I –”
“We will meet again soon,” the man assured him. “Farewell for now, young soulmate.”
And then he was gone.
Harry finally allowed himself to look up at Ron and Hermione, noting the twin expressions of alarm and worry at last. It hardly mattered to him; he had a soulmate, and he could not for the life of him even begin to bring himself to fret over this new development. Finally, finally, something in his life was going right. He may have been marked for death by a madman, he may have lost his godfather, the closest thing he’d ever had to family, and he may have been repeatedly attacked each year of his schooling thus far, but he had a soulmate.
So why did Ron and Hermione look so, well, terrified?
“Harry,” Hermione said as gently as possible as she took her seat next to him. “You’re sure this is real? Remember last year, when V-Voldemort was sending you visions…”
“What?” Harry nearly shouted. “No! Hermione, this isn’t like that. Those visions… it was like I was seeing through his eyes. This is just… just some bloke who happens to be my soulmate.”
“You’re sure about this, Harry?” Hermione pressed. “We could only hear your side of the conversation, but it sounded…”
“It was a little intense,” Ron finished for her. “You said something about danger? This soulmate, he’s not a Dark wizard, is he?”
“No!” Harry exclaimed. “I mean, I don’t think so. He’s never said or done anything to hurt me, not when we kept meeting in Surrey.”
“Why didn’t you say anything about this?” Hermione questioned. “From what it sounds like, you’ve been hallucinating this strange man all summer, and you didn’t think to tell us?”
“He stopped showing up when I got to The Burrow!” Harry explained. “I didn’t know I’d been hallucinating, I just thought he was some wizard who’d moved in nearby! There was so much else going on, I didn't think meeting some random man was that important!”
Hermione didn’t look convinced. “You should at least tell someone,” she insisted. “The Order should know. Dumbledore, at least!”
“No,” Harry stated flatly. “Absolutely not. Soulmates are sacred, Hermione. I just want something that’s… that’s mine. And what if it gets out? I’m already famous; I don’t need another layers of scrutiny on my life.”
Hermione sighed; she knew Harry was right. Soulmates could be a touchy subject at best, and those who found themselves so bound to another could be treated… well, like peculiarities at best, like lab Puffskeins at worst. For Harry Potter, vanquisher of Lord Voldemort and supposed Chosen One, the public knowledge of a soulmate would only serve to make his life more difficult than it already was. “Fine,” she said at last. “But be careful, Harry! You don’t really know anything about this man – please tell us if anything seems, well, wrong.”
“I will,” Harry promised. “I’m not daft. I can handle this.”
—
From then on, the hallucinatory visits only increased in frequency. Harry would be walking the corridors of Hogwarts in between classes, and quite suddenly his soulmate would be walking at his side, asking about his day. Harry would answer in quiet whispers, telling him about the change in professors, and how Slughorn was a far better teacher than Snape had ever been. He told him about the Half-Blood Prince and how he was actually growing to understand the material.
Interestingly enough, Harry’s soulmate was familiar with both Slughorn and Snape, having been taught by the former. He did not elaborate on his connection to the greasy-haired Defense professor, but spoke of him with the oddest mixture of simultaneous disdain and respect. It was fair, Harry supposed; the man clearly knew his subject, even if he was the worst teacher he’d ever had.
It became easier to talk once Harry discovered the Muffliato charm the Half-Blood Prince had inscribed in his text book. Without anyone to overhear, Harry would sit and talk with his soulmate for ages – in the library, in various little nooks scattered about the castle – hidden within the curtains of his four-poster bed, often into the wee hours of the morning.
And Hermione had been right: he hadn’t known anything about the man, but he was learning. Anything too personal – his name, his age, anything Harry could use to pinpoint his identity – was immediately obliterated from his memory. He knew, though, that his soulmate was well-travelled, and could speak over a dozen languages fluently, maybe more. He learned that the man had a penchant for collecting valuable artefacts and trinkets, and Harry immediately set to thinking what kind of fancy bauble he could purchase for his soulmate’s birthday – once he knew when that was, of course. He learned that his soulmate had graduated Hogwarts with twelve N.E.W.T.s, all outstanding, and he spent several moments just gaping at the man, astounded by his genius.
In turn, Harry shared his love of Quidditch, and how taking to the skies for the first time at age eleven had been the most alive he’d ever felt. He talked about his adventures with Ron and Hermione, omitting anything too revealing. The magic of soulmates would probably prevent the older man from remembering much of it anyway, but Harry was acutely aware that he was a highly recognisable person, so he stuck to the lighter stories – sneaking a Norwegian Ridgeback baby off to a team of dragon handlers, his disastrous date at the Yule Ball, the utterly dreadful detentions with Dolores Umbridge.
Even so, Harry had a sneaking suspicion that his soulmate, if he didn’t know, at least had theories about Harry’s identity. It wouldn’t be too surprising, really; every day at Hogwarts was particularly eventful for Harry, more so than for all of his classmates combined, and this was at least semi-public knowledge.
If he did know who Harry was, however, he did not deign to comment on it, for which Harry was thankful. It must be somewhat overwhelming for the man, he thought, to not only find out that his soulmate was an actual teenager but the one destined to take down Lord Voldemort as well. Harry knew, if the positions were reversed, he would be desperate to ensure his soulmate’s safety. Thankfully, if there was one thing that stuck in his memory from their shared hallucinations, his soulmate was incredibly powerful, and would have no problem protecting himself should Voldemort learn about him and try to use him against Harry as he had his godfather.
It didn’t entirely stop Harry worrying, as Sirius himself had been quite the powerful wizard. On the other hand, Harry’s soulmate wasn’t suffering the pain and misery of being trapped in a house that drained him of his very soul. The more Harry thought about it, the more he came to think of Grimmauld Place as some kind of architectural Dementor, scarcely better than Azkaban for the man who had almost become like a father to him. It really wasn’t Harry’s fault that he’d died; Dumbledore should have never subjected him to that place, as cruel as his insistence that Harry return each summer to a family that had kept him locked in a cupboard for most of his first ten years of life.
As the days passed, Harry found himself dreading the return of Hallowe’en, the anniversary of his parents’ deaths. Almost every year, it seemed, something terrible happened. To his utter delight, the day was spent mostly with his soulmate by his side, the two of them spending hours together instead of fleeting minutes. It was a Thursday, so he had classes, but his soulmate remained with him, walking beside him to each class and commenting on his work quietly. In the evening, they retired after the feast to Harry’s four-poster as they often did on these days when they had extended time with one another.
“It’s infuriating!” Harry grinned as he cast the Muffling Charm nonverbally, pulling the curtains closed so they could talk freely. “I wish I could tell who you were, or remember your name for more than half a moment! It’s like… I can tell that you’re gorgeous… I think. And I get this feeling sometimes that your eyes sparkle – not like Dumbledore’s, the damn twinkly bastard. More like… you’re laughing at something, but not at me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“How do you say your name again?” Harry asked, despite knowing that he’d forget it a moment later.
“Voldemort.”
“Volder – Vala – nope, sorry, it’s gone.” Harry sighed. “I really should turn in. Not that this hasn’t been a lovely evening – oh, what am I doing, apologising to an hallucination?”
“I promise you, soulmate,” the man said, his pouty lips quirking into a smile that made Harry’s heart stutter, “I am anything but an hallucination.”
“See, but that’s exactly what an hallucination would say.”
The illusion of Harry’s soulmate laughed. “I am beginning to understand why this branch of magic is so poorly understood,” he mused. “If one cannot recall the details of their soulmate, it becomes nigh impossible to verify that these visions carry any truth to them, or if they are merely a shared delusion.”
“I hope it’s not,” Harry confessed. “I truly hope you’re experiencing all of this with me, even if that’s a bit selfish of me. I’d hate to think that when we finally meet, you won’t actually know anything about me.”
Harry’s soulmate laughed quietly. “This may not mean much, coming from an hallucination, but I promise that I do. I know that you are reckless to a fault, though I can’t bring myself to chide you for it. In fact, I find it oddly charming. I know that you care deeply for your friends, and… I wish to understand this better. I myself have never had anyone in whom I can trust so deeply.”
“You can trust me.”
“And I want to,” Harry’s soulmate replied. “How I wish that we could meet, so that we may put all these mysteries about each other to rest.”
“Then why not?’ Harry asked. “I know you said that you live a dangerous life, but I’ve told you about mine. You know I can handle it, right?”
Harry’s soulmate was quiet for a long moment. “Does it scare you?” he finally asked, reaching out to ghost one hand over Harry’s. They couldn’t quite touch, but Harry felt the sensation of contact, as though a breeze had briefly touched his skin. “All this danger you’ve faced; are you not frightened?”
Harry shrugged. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “There was a moment, my first year, in the Forbidden Forest, where I thought I might die. And… my second year…”
“Yes?”
“If I tell you, you may not remember it,” Harry said. “Magic might deem it too ‘personal,’ and you’ll forget, but… I want to tell you anyway.”
“Go on, then.”
“So –” How to even start? So much had happened that year, so much that had scared him and lodged itself firmly in his nightmares for weeks and months after. But his soulmate wanted to know, so Harry carried on. “There was this… series of incidents. Muggleborns were being petrified, and no one knew how or why. In the end, my friend’s little sister was taken down to the Chamber of Secrets – do you know about it?”
Harry’s soulmate did not answer straight away. “I do,” he said quietly at last. “It has been opened before, and a similar string of attacks occurred.”
“Right! Fifty years ago or so,” Harry replied. “Anyway, I found my way into the Chamber to save her, and this… memory, or something, of… of Lord Voldemort was there – only he was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen. And there was a Basilisk, one that only he could control. I really, honestly believed I wouldn’t make it out alive, but…”
“But you did,” Harry’s soulmate said. “You are to be commended; there are not many who could survive Lord Voldemort.”
Harry sighed, laying back against his pillows. His soulmate followed, sitting up against the headboard. “Have you ever met him?” Harry asked. “I mean, he’s mostly been hiding since coming back, but, y’know, before? I mean, I don’t even know if you were old enough –”
“I have encountered him, yes.” There was an odd hint of mirth in his voice, something Harry couldn’t quite decipher. “He is a truly formidable wizard, in my estimation the most powerful in Britain, if not the world.”
“Nah, Dumbledore’s got him beat,” Harry said, yawning. “You know they battled at the Ministry? He was – I mean, I heard that Dumbledore basically had him on the run from the moment he showed up.”
The man’s face scrunched into something like dissatisfaction. “Perhaps you heard wrong,” he said, almost in a grumble.
“Either way, I guess that means you’re even older than i thought,” Harry said, waving away the notion. “You must be, what, in your thirties at least? That’s how old Snape is – I think – and he’s a – or, was – a Death Eater.”
“Your estimation is correct.” Harry’s soulmate smiled at him. Like this, on the bed, they were pressed together – or rather, as close as one can be to an hallucination that is only somewhat there. “Thirties, at least.”
“Ugh,” Harry grunted, turning away and throwing his arm over his eyes in despair. “It must be so weird, having a soulmate so much younger than you.”
“On the contrary,” the man replied. “I am… quite frankly, extraordinary. Magic matches soulmates, for those who have them, like for like. I am not surprised that it took so many years for one who could truly match me to be born.”
“But – I’m not extraordinary,” Harry argued. “People seem to think I am, or that I should be, but I’m not. I’m just – just Harry.”
“Was that your name, soulmate?” the man asked, tilting his head to regard Harry with interest. “In any case, I must disagree. You faced Lord Voldemort at age twelve and came out of it alive, even if it was a younger ‘memory’ of him. One wonders… have you faced Lord Voldemort on other occasions?”
Harry just stared. He knew. His soulmate knew, he had to. Why else would he ask unless he knew that he was –
He blinked, and his soulmate was gone. Groaning, Harry sank into his pillows with his hands over his face. “Shite!” he exclaimed to no one in particular. “Mother fucking shite!”
—
After that day, everything changed – and not for the better.
By this point, Harry’s soulmate had been showing up every few days, spending a few hours with him, and then leaving. After Hallowe’en, he didn’t show up for a week, and when he did, well… something was clearly wrong. The man seemed oddly less solid than he had before, something like how Tom Riddle had looked when he came out of the diary. He was fuzzy around the edges, more indistinct, and when Harry went to brush his hand against the older man’s, he felt nothing, not even a tingle.
He didn’t stay long, either.
It was the beginning of a pattern that left Harry feeling lost and confused. His soulmate, previously so attentive, became distant, disappearing for days at a time. Harry hadn’t even noticed how dependent upon their visits for the state of his mental health he had become, and he quickly slipped into a dark place, his free time now taken up by brooding over the death of his godfather and why his soulmate suddenly wanted nothing to do with him.
It was because he was Harry Potter, he just knew it. For some reason – the fame, the danger, the scandal, whatever – his soulmate didn’t want him. Not the Boy Who Lived, not the Chosen One. It was the Dursleys all over again, only it hurt more because this was the one person who was supposed to want him, no matter what.
Of course Ron and Hermione had to go and notice that something was wrong, right when Harry really just wanted to be left alone. They had already watched, he knew, with worry as Harry had grown more and more attached to his mystery man. Now that he had suddenly made a sharp downturn, they came seeking him out, trying to coax him out of their rooms to study, play exploding snap, or just sit by the fire and talk. Harry hated every minute of it.
His classes were suffering, too, he could tell. Potions was one thing, with the help from the Half-Blood Prince keeping him in good grades, but Charms and Transfiguration took a sharp downturn, his focus all over the place. Defense Against the Dark Arts soured from unpleasant to nightmarish. Snape seemed to take a twisted pleasure in Harry’s depressed mood, docking him points whenever his concentration wavered, thinking about his missing soulmate. Meanwhile, Dumbledore was showing him memories of Voldemort’s past, and Harry just – couldn’t – bring himself to care. He was supposed to be learning about the Dark Lord so that he could fight him, but all he saw was an abused teenage witch whose only perceived way out of her family was to commit violence on a Muggle and her son, a miserable little boy locked up in an orphanage when he should have been cared for.
It was dark, it was depressing, and it only added to Harry’s piss poor mood.
It didn’t help that here he was, learning all about baby Voldemort, when what he desperately wanted was to learn about his soulmate. It made him realise that as vague as he had been about his life, his soulmate had been equally non-forthcoming about his background. Or, perhaps, Harry just couldn’t recall, magic deeming that information too personal, to be kept a mystery until they met in person.
Through it all, Quidditch was the only thing that, ironically, kept him grounded. Harry could always lose himself in the air, and though he had a heavier responsibility to the team this year as Captain, it truly became the one place he could escape from his ever darkening thoughts. High above everyone else, once the game started, all he needed to do was seek out the Snitch. His team was in tip-top shape, even Ron (after a little confidence boost from some faked Liquid Luck), and he had no worries about their ability to carry the game while he lost himself in flight.
It was halfway through November that Harry finally lost it.
“What did I do wrong?!” he snapped, the moment his soulmate finally deigned to appear. “Did I say something? Is it just because of who I am?! You figured it out, and now you apparently hate me?!”
His soulmate fixed him with a blinding stare, the first time they’d properly locked eyes in weeks. “Harry,” he said. “It is Harry, yes? Harry Potter?”
Harry laughed weakly, the emotional drain tugging him back down, down into the dark. “Yeah,” he admitted. “It’s me. You got me.”
“I… cannot tell if that was a confirmation or not,” Harry’s soulmate replied. “I will, for the sake of this conversation, assume that it was. Harry. Have I not been attentive enough?”
“Attentive?!” Harry shouted. “You barely show up, and when you do, we never talk anymore! Ever since Hallowe’en you’ve been like this! Is it – is it just me? Am I just – unlovable?”
Harry’s soulmate stared at him in some kind of horror for a moment before passing a hand over his face in frustration. “Hallowe’en, you say?” he asked. “I… If my behaviour has been as abhorrent as you say, I may have an idea why. I apologise, my soul, for cutting this visit short, but I must turn my focus to other matters. I will return soon, I promise you that.”
And he was gone again.
Harry turned on his heel in the corridor, intent on skipping class altogether, returned to the Gryffindor dorms, and spent the rest of the day sobbing into his pillow.
—
“Come on, mate, you have to get out of bed.”
Ron and Hermione had apparently reached their limit with Harry, and now stood side by side over him as they tried in vain to drag him from the quagmire of grief into which he had sunk. Harry knew they were right; he hadn’t been to class in a day and a half, he hadn’t been down to breakfast, lunch, or dinner, and he was wasting away in his own little pity party. He simply couldn’t care less.
“At least talk to us about what’s going on,” Hermione pleaded. It was at once both more reasonable and unfathomable; she wasn’t asking him to move, an impossibility with his current level of emotional and physical paralysis, but talking about it? Harry would rather dissipate into a fine mist than give voice to the doubt and self-hatred that had set in.
“Look,” she continued, “I know – or I’m pretty sure – this is about your soulmate. You’ve been different ever since he showed up. Did he say something? Do something? If he hurt you…”
“He just disappeared on me!” The words spilled out of Harry’s mouth before he could stop them. “He figured out who I am and just – just vanished!”
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said softly, all the mask of reprimand erased. She was worried about him – truly and properly worried. Harry batted the unwanted emotion away; the only comfort he wanted in this moment was the strength of his soulmate’s arms – physical, solid, and here – but it now seemed that might never happen. And the worst of it was that Harry couldn’t even blame the man. Dealing with his fame had been an albatross around Harry’s neck since he was eleven; he could see why that would put someone off.
Knowing this didn’t stop the pain, of course.
The days stretched on and on, and suddenly it was the end of November. How had that happened, exactly? To Harry each day had felt like one long, unending torture, that he was stuck in some sort of awful timeloop which could never end. So when it was suddenly Deember, and the entire castle sans Harry slipped into a very festive mood. He couldn’t do it. His soulmate had still been absent and Harry was growing ever closer to flinging himself off the Astronomy tower. Tomorrow, he promised himself every day. Tomorrow he would do it. It was just enough to keep him hanging on, to procrastinate his own suicide because today wasn’t the right day. Tomorrow might be. Thankfully, that perfect tomorrow for his own demise never came.
And so he made it all the way to December 1st, when a large, regal looking owl dropped an envelope in front of him at breakfast.
The envelope itself was impressive; it was a midnight black with silver detailing. On the front, also in silver, were the words, “To my dearest soul.” Harry picked it up and carefully opened it, hands shaking.
“Whatcha got there?” Ron asked, mouth full. Harry turned away.
“It’s private,” he said, clutching the letter to his chest. “If there’s anything in it I can tell you, I will.” Ron shrugged and turned back to his breakfast. Harry let out a relieved sigh and slid the letter from its container.
My dearest soulmate, it read. Harry’s heart started a kind of wild dance in his chest, hammering against his ribs. It is with great apologies that I write this letter. I have tried everything within my power to visit you again, but it appears our connection has degraded. I fear, also, that I know why; a particular colleague of mine has always wished to be mine. When I explained to her that I had found you, she did not take it well.
Harry, my most treasured, she resorted to Dark magic in order to attempt to bind herself to me in your stead.
Rest assured that this did not work. I can feel my bond to you like I can feel my own limbs. However, the time has come for us to meet in person; our bond must be solidified and reinforced. Enclosed are two invitations to the Malfoy Yule celebrations – they will also serve as Portkeys on the day of the event. I will be there, and it is my wish that you be there too. When we meet, it will complete our soulmate bond and we need never worry about interference from outsiders again.
Please, do attend the celebrations, and be sure to come in disguise. The event is, in its entirety, a masquerade. I await our meeting with bated breath, soulmate.
Signed,
Your most devout admirer
Harry’s head spun with the revelation. Someone had tried to steal his soulmate? And with Dark magic? Oh, and then there was the Malfoy Yule ball. He’d heard vaguely about their celebrations, Draco Malfoy himself strutting around before the holidays and making it known to everyone in the vicinity that his family held only the most elevated parties. Harry had just rolled his eyes at this; it sounded like a whole lot of posturing, and the actual event felt like a whole lot of stuffy, stupid Purebloods all mingling just to talk about how special and wonderful they are.
In short, to Harry, it sounded awful.
But Harry’s soulmate was going to be there, and he had never seemed like the type to obsess over magical purity and all that rot. The decision was easy – Harry would go, halfway sneaking in under a disguise with an invitation he was surely never meant to receive, and meet him at last.
The question was, who would take the other invitation?
“It’s from my soulmate,” Harry said quietly, glancing between Hermione and Ron. “He – I need your help. Something went… wrong with our connection. He wants to meet so we can fix it, and I…”
Hermione gave him a sad smile as he trailed off. “Of course we’ll help you, Harry,” she said gently. “I’m still not sure about this man, but… well, he’s your soulmate. I know you want to be with him.”
Harry stared at her. “Really?” he asked. “A few weeks back you were insisting I tell Dumbledore and the Order…”
Hermione blushed profusely. “It’s, um, sort of private,” she whispered, leaning in. “I didn’t want to tell anyone, but… I think I’ve been seeing my soulmate too. We haven’t talked, but there’s this boy, and he’s right there and then…”
“He’s not,” Harry finished for her. “Hermione, that’s incredible!”
“I don’t know if it’s true, yet,” she cautioned. “It’s just… a feeling. Like he’s already a part of my life, even if I don’t know him. Is that… what you felt?”
“That’s exactly how I felt,” Harry replied. “Once I got over the fact I was being followed by some strange man, all I wanted was to get to know him. We’re meant to be together.”
Hermione smiled.
“There’s just one problem,” Harry said carefully. “He wants to meet at… the Malfoy’s masquerade Yule ball.”
Both Hermione and Ron went pale. “I know,” Harry said. “ But that’s where he wants to meet. It could be… interesting, I suppose. Thing is, I have two invitations, so…”
“I’ll go,” Hermione said, at the same time Ron said, “Take Hermione.” Harry almost laughed, the situation was so outside their normal worries.
“Alright,” he said instead. “Are you going to be okay surrounded by a bunch of purebloods?”
“It’s better than the alternative,” Hermione replied. “Ron would probably start a fight with someone.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Ron agreed. “One look at Malfoy and I’d probably punch him.”
“Well, Hermione’s already done that,” Harry said. “We’ll just have to avoid a repeat performance.”
“Oh, we’ll basically be in disguise,” Hermione said, waving a hand. “So long as he doesn’t recognise me, I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah,” Harry said thinking about that. How would he recognise his soulmate if they were all covered up with masks? He supposed he would just know, the way they did in all the old tales – at least, that’s what he tried to believe. If only he could hold a single snapshot image of his soulmate in his mind’s eye!
Soon, he consoled himself. Just a few more weeks and he would have his answers.
—
Time seemed to stretch and pull after that, dilating into a long, unending torture that began each day with the cold light of the frail winter sun and dragged on until the last rays of light had fled the sky. Not that Harry didn’t try to keep himself busy and distracted, it just seemed that everything brought him back to the upcoming ball. Hermione insisted they practise dancing a few times a week – which, fair, Harry had not done since his fourth year. But then their Hogsmeade trip was derailed by an insistence that the two of them find new dress robes and masks for the event. Then Hermione escorted him back to the village a week later during an extended free period, adamant that they both get their hair done. It was wildly out of the ordinary, and Harry made his objections and confusion known.
“It’s for your soulmate,” Hermione hissed as they sat side by side, shampoo working itself through their hair while they waited for the aesthe-witch to return. She’d truly made an about-face on the entire concept since discovering she had one of her own – a soulmate who had said hello to her for the first time the night prior. “You’ll want to look nice for him!”
Harry snorted. “Hermione, I guarantee that whatever they do to my hair, it’s not going to last that long,” he said. “Besides, why are you getting it done?”
Hermione coloured. “Yes, well, I can fix it up for you on the day of,” she replied. “As for me… well, it’s just nice to do things for yourself once in a while. Besides, I have a feeling… Oh, you’ll think it’s silly!”
“I won’t laugh.”
“Fine,” Hermione huffed. “I just.. I think it’s possible I might run into my soulmate at the ball. See! It’s silly! I mean, what’re the chances –”
“I don’t think it’s silly at all,” Harry said. “Soul magic is mostly beyond our understanding, right? But – oh, what was it about divination – that soulmates are far more likely to be mentioned in the same prophecy or something like that? So maybe you are going to meet him there.”
Hermione smiled weakly at him. “Oh, Harry, I hope so!” she exclaimed. “It’s just so frustrating being able to see him but not remember a single thing about him! How can you stand it?!”
“Honestly, Hermione,” Harry said, “I really can’t.”
After that everything changed. Harry’s nervous anticipation of the upcoming event grew to a fever pitch, and suddenly everything seemed to move too quickly. Quite suddenly, he was waking up on the morning of the Yule Ball, practically hyperventilating as he shot up in bed, his sheets entangling him.
“Harry! Oh, Harry!” And there was Hermione, ignoring all rules and propriety to break into the boy’s dorm, her face flushed with excitement. “You’re not going to believe this – I’m going to meet my soulmate!”
“What –” Harry fumbled for his glasses and shoved them on his face. “You talked to him?”
“Just now!” Hermione exclaimed, plopping down on the bed next to Harry. “Oh, I don’t remember much of it, but I do know he’s going to be at the ball!”
Harry laughed. “You know, the chances of us both ending up with some weird pure-blood snobs have never been higher.”
Hermione grimaced at the thought. “I know,” she sighed. “I’ve thought about that. But… whoever he is, he’s my soulmate. We’ll figure it out.”
Harry felt a burst of optimism rise within him as Hermione started to lay out his outfit for the evening. They would, wouldn’t they? In just a few hours, Harry would be face to face with his soulmate, and they would fix whatever had soured their connection. As Hermione had said, they would figure it out.
It seemed like no time at all before they were at the gates of Malfoy Manor.
Their abscondment from Hogwarts had been perfectly executed. Under the Invisibility Cloak and dressed to the nines, Harry and Hermione quietly slipped from the castle after dinner and made their way to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, far enough that the use of a Portkey would not trip any of the enchantments surrounding the castle which monitored magical comings and goings. Then, with a flash as they each took hold of their invitations, they were off, spinning through nothingness as the Portkeys dragged them along, sound and colour whirling around them.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. Harry looked up as he staggered over the frozen earth; travelling by Portkey never got easier, it seemed. But there they were – the gates to Malfoy Manor. He sucked in a breath as the house itself came into view.
It was huge, an ugly, squatting, ostentatious thing. Just beyond the gates, a pair of pure white peacocks roamed over the lawn, the male of the two displaying his ivory tail for all the world to admire. Next to Harry, Hermione shifted uncomfortably. He could sympathise – now that they were here, he had to wonder why they’d gone along with this plan in the first place. This was enemy territory. For all they knew, they were walking right into a trap.
And yet, he reminded himself, they were unrecognisable. Hermione had really outdone herself, using human transfiguration to subtly alter the structures of their faces. The enchantment was tied to the masks; as long as his remained in place, Harry would retain a slightly sharper jaw, more delicate cheekbones, and eyes that were a soft brown, not his usual green. It was enough that he couldn’t recognise himself in the mirror, and with the mask on top of it to hide his nose under a long snout and antlers that appeared to sprout from his very head, he looked nothing like the Chosen One. Hermione, too, could be anyone, anyone, her adjusted features concealed behind soft fur and a rounded nose. Only someone who knew the both of them intimately would recognise the forms of their Patronuses, worn proudly as a disguise.
Harry took a deep breath and walked up to the gate.
He was immediately greeted by a man dressed as what Harry could only assume was a beetle, with a layered cape split in two draped over his back like wings. He stood on the other side of the bars with his hand out, eyeing the two of them suspiciously.
“Invitations?”
Harry passed his through the wrought iron bars and Hermione did the same. The beetle-man, who was short and squat with large, protruding eyes that could be seen even behind his glittering, shell-like mask, scrutinised the papers. Harry and Hermione stood there, waiting in nervous anticipation as he analysed the invitations for any sign of fraud before finally handing them back and opening the gate.
“All in order,” he said, his voice nasally and clipped. “A merry Yule to both of you.” With a nod of acknowledgement, Harry slipped through the gates, followed by Hermione, and they quickly made their way up to the massive house in front of them, following the sounds of music, merriment, and the occasional spell-fire.
It was going to be an interesting night.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted rapidly from chilly winter wind to the warmth and gaiety of a full-swing gala. The two of them, both wildly out of their element, gravitated towards a back wall, content to observe the festivities for a time before joining in. It truly was a joyous affair, a spark of light despite the setting and the war being waged outside. Harry’s worries seemed to slip away as he made his way along the wall, quietly observing.
He came to a stop by an ornate pillar, slipping into the shadows with Hermione still by his side. As they stood there, a tray laden with drinks and hor d’oeuvres floated over to them, letting the pair peruse their choices. Harry hummed over the selection, eventually choosing a small puff pastry stuffed with cheese and a flute of what he assumed was champagne. The bubbles fizzled over his tongue and down his throat, and though the flavour was at first unfamiliar and even unpleasant, it quickly filled him with warmth. Swirling the liquid in the glass, he turned to Hermione with a smile.
“Well?” he asked, noting with mild amusement how she clutched at her glass, knuckles almost white where her fingers gripped the stem. “Shall we go find them?”
“Right!” Hermione fairly squeaked before taking a tentative sip of her own drink. “Oh! Oh my god, this is… Never mind – it’s an excellent champagne. And yes, I suppose.”
“We’ll split up, then,” Harry decided. “No use wandering around together like a pair when we’re both looking for soulmates. Meet you back here in a few hours?”
“Oh, I suppose,” Hermione said, glancing around. “You have your coin?”
Harry fingered it in his pocket – the fake Galleon Hermione had crafted for the DA the year prior. “Yeah,” he replied. “I’ll use it if something goes wrong. Be careful out there?”
“I will.” Harry nodded at Hermione’s reply, and then took off, the champagne flowing through his veins and relaxing him. He eased his way into the throng of people at the edge of the crowd, groups milling about tables and gossiping, forming a wall between the outer edges of the room and the centre, kept clear for dancers. But Harry wasn’t looking to dance – no, he was following a different urge entirely. For somewhere deep inside him, he felt a pull – a sensation not unlike being dragged along by a Portkey, but much more pleasant. He followed it, knowing instinctively what awaited him on the other end.
His soulmate. His perfect match.
The tug stuttered as he collided with a group of people, all milling around one man. They turned to stare at him, then parted, as if they knew. Harry, like Moses through the Red Sea, stepped confidently through the gap – and there he was. Larger than life, he was tall and slim, his face framed by elegant dark curls and accentuated by similarly dark eyes that glinted underneath his disguise. Even with the mask he wore, lined with ebony-dark feathers, Harry could see how devastatingly handsome he was. It was… it was too much.
Harry turned away to run. A hand caught him by the wrist.
“You,” a voice breathed. Harry gasped. “You came. I hardly expected you would, but…”
He turned. He met the man’s eye, and…
Harry’s universe exploded.
It was like no other sensation Harry had experienced. The touch, the eye contact – it lit a flame deep within him, warming him far beyond what the champagne had. It was comfort. It was desire. It was home.
“I – I –” Harry stuttered, drawing closer to the man despite his instincts warring within him, telling him simultaneously to flee and to stay. “It’s – it’s you, then? I – I’m not –”
“Hush,” Harry’s soulmate said, pulling him closer. “Dance with me.”
“O–okay,” Harry said, letting himself be led out into the flock of dancers moving to the music. “I’m – I’m not very good. I might –”
“Follow me, darling.”
And Harry did. At last, here he was, in the arms of the one who was meant for him, who was handcrafted by the universe to be his perfect partner. And oh, goodness, how the world disappeared around him, leaving only the two of them, twisting and weaving together like two leaves caught in the current of a river. For a time, Harry was sure that the only thing that remained in existence were those eyes, dark and soulful, that burned into his.
Except…
Well, wasn’t this all very odd? If he wasn’t mistaken, those witches and wizards all gathered around Harry’s soulmate had been… well, they wore masks, of course, but Harry could still recognise some of them. Lucius Malfoy. His wife. Walden Macnair. Bellatrix Lestrange. And there was something about his soulmate as well, something terribly familiar…
Harry shoved the thought down and just danced.
In truth, he’d never had so much fun. Just being in his soulmate’s arms, the world seemed brighter, more hopeful. And as they spun and twirled across the floor again and again, Harry lost himself in the rhythm of it. He almost didn’t notice when his fake Galleon burned in his pocket.
“Oh, erm, excuse me for a minute?” Harry stuttered out. “I’ll be back, I promise!”
Harry’s soulmate chuckled. “Yes, you will,” he stated. “Run along, then. And hurry back, little soulmate.”
Harry flushed, but distentangled himself from the man and all but ran back to his corner, where he met Hermione, red-faced and wringing her hands. Though he didn’t know what had happened, he caught her in a firm hug, comforting and soothing her.
“Hey, tell me what happened,” he murmured. “Did you find him? Was he an arsehole?”
He hoped she had. He hoped her soulmate hadn’t rejected her. It was exceedingly rare, but it happened, and when it did…
“No!” Hermione squeaked. “I mean yes! Yes, I found him, and no, he was a perfect gentleman, but…”
“But?”
“Oh, Harry, it’s Malfoy!”
Harry froze up – this was almost as bad as his soulmate situation, if the nagging little voice inside him that wouldn’t shut up was correct. Still. Soulmates were something special, something holy. And Hermione had said it, right? That they could work it out, no matter the odds?
“It’s going to be fine,” Harry said, releasing her. “You’re going to be fine. So Malfoy – Draco – is your soulmate. It’s not the end of the world.”
Hermione sighed, aggrieved. “I know, it’s just… how am I supposed to convince him that Muggle-borns aren’t worthless? That we’re not just Muggles who steal magic and – and – Oh, I don’t know! The whole Death Eater thing! It’s – it’s –”
“The Death Eater thing?” Harry asked. “I thought you didn’t believe he’d taken the Dark Mark.”
“No, but his parents!” Hermione exclaimed. “And not just them – Harry, there’s tons of Death Eaters here! Honestly, we should leave immediately and… and…”
Hermione trailed off, her eye caught on something just over Harry’s shoulder. He turned. There was his soulmate, smiling with a hint of mirth, his dark eyes flashing. “Leaving?” he asked. “Surely not so soon; we’ve barely met.”
“No!” Harry said vehemently. “No. My friend is just… overwhelmed. As am I, actually, but we’re not leaving.”
“Good. Shall we return?”
“Will you be alright?” Harry asked, taking Hermione’s hand in his own. She took a deep breath, put on a brave face, and nodded. “Alright. I’ll be back, then.”
The music had kicked up to a faster pace by the time they got back to the dance floor, and Harry struggled to keep up with it. His soulmate (who Harry knew, he knew so well, but couldn’t bring himself to admit to it) had no trouble at all, leading Harry across the dance floor in a chaotic tango of sorts. That Harry couldn’t match up in dancing skills didn’t matter to him. He was in his soulmate’s arms, utterly enchanted by the entire thing.
So his soulmate was a Dark wizard.
So his soulmate had killed countless people.
What had Hermione said? They would figure it out? The very concept was laughable, but it was what they had to do, wasn’t it? It wasn’t like harry could fight his soulmate…
Lost in his thoughts, lost in the dance, Harry barely recognised the passage of time until the clock chimed. As it struck twelve, Harry’s soulmate – Tom, he reluctantly told himself – released him with a light chuckle.
“As much fun as I’ve had tonight, it seems it’s time for me to go,” he murmured, leaning in to brush his lips over Harry’s ear. “I expect I will see you again soon, Harry Potter.”
“Do you have to?” Harry hated the whiny tone in his own voice, but he couldn’t prevent it. All he wanted, more than anything he had desired before, was to stay in his soulmate’s arms. It seemed terribly unfair that he had to return to Hogwarts without him, but that was how it had to be.
“Worry not, dearest,” Voldemort said, for there was no denying it now – those dark eyes had shifted to red, the first sign of his own transfigurations wearing off. “As you can imagine, my plans have changed drastically – as yours must have as well.” He was right. There was no way Harry could live up to his destiny as the Chosen One now, though perhaps he could help end the war some other way. “Return to Hogwarts. Finish the year. I will come for you this summer. Farewell, for now.”
Harry’s heart leapt in his chest as Voldemort moved away from him, intending to disappear into the crowd. “I’ll write you!” he exclaimed, prompting another little smile from his ex-nemesis. “I’ll write every day – and we can meet in Hogsmeade, and –”
“Indeed,” Voldemort replied, cutting Harry off. “But for now, I take my leave.”
And then he was gone.
Hermione was at his side moments later. “So?” she asked breathlessly. “How was he?”
“Incredible,” Harry replied, the two of them moving away from the dance. “Simply incredible.”
There were no other words. There would be time, once they returned to Hogwarts, to decipher his own feelings, to come to terms with the fact that his soulmate was Lord Voldemort, the man who had killed his parents and so many more.
For now, though, Harry could only float on his ecstasy and the promise of the summer.