Chapter Text
“The soul always knows what the mind refuses to accept.”
The world of wizards and witches is filled with magic. Magic—the core of it—is so ancient, so darling, so precious, and so breathtakingly beautiful that every witch and wizard knows to bow to Lady Magic. To adore and revere the ancient power flowing through their veins. Pureblood or Muggle-born, all cherish the beauty of magic. Squibs envy the magical world. Muggles, if they knew of it, would seek to conquer it.
Magic is might.
Magic is nature.
Magic is law.
And every being touched by it understands the need to honor it.
Magic was a gift, and one that never ceased giving. That was what soulmates meant to mages. A gift—an exquisite one. One that led mages to believe it was the true reason they stood above Muggles. One that scholars debated endlessly and yearned to understand. It was a blessing, a mark of ancient magic, proof that somewhere in the world existed another soul—your other half, your counterpart, your one and only. Someone whose first words were etched into your skin.
It is said that when you meet your soulmate, when the bond is finally formed, the world itself seems to awaken. As though you have learned how to breathe for the first time, and the world finally brings colors into your gray sight. It is said that your soulmate is the perfect other half for you, the perfect pair—someone Lady Magic herself designed just for you. Someone fate cannot deny. For that soul is your other half; that soul is your perfect pair. To love and cherish, to adore and annoy, to kiss and hold. A soulmate is a love no one can deny.
That is what Harry Potter had learned when he first became a wizard. He was eleven years old. He was gobsmacked by the world he had just learned existed, and he was more than amazed to discover that the beautiful words marked on his skin—that lovely flowing cursive, those precious words—were proof that there was someone out there. Someone who would love a freak like him. Someone who would hold him and actually be willing to love him.
How amazing is that?
Harry was flabbergasted, to say the least. But he had never shown anyone his words—and in hindsight, it was honestly a really good thing that he didn’t.
Life had taught him many things, after all. One of them was to hide his soulmark.
It wasn’t that Harry was disgusted by it. In fact, Harry would tell no one—not even his other half, if he ever met them—that the words etched into his skin were the most comforting and adored part of himself.
Late at night, in the cupboard, he would trace the beautiful cursive with his fingers, following the lines of words he didn’t understand and couldn’t quite pronounce. At first, he thought it was a tattoo, or something he had simply been born with. He couldn’t understand the language at all, and as lovely as the cursive letters were, Harry wasn’t the best at reading handwriting. He could tell there were a lot of as in it—though he’d thought they were os at first.
He had tried asking his aunt about it once.
“KEEP YOUR FREAKISHNESS AWAY FROM ME.”
That had been enough to shut him up. As if to truly drive the point home, that same week he’d been locked in the cupboard and starved, not even let out to relieve himself, lest he bring his “freakness” near her son. That experience marked something in him: the need to hide his words. His sleeves usually did the job, though sometimes he caught his aunt’s eyes lingering on his wrist. Her face would redden, and another bad experience would soon follow.
Maybe that was why she forced that ugly black bracelet onto him—to hide his abnormality. Harry didn’t understand it. The words on his skin were the most beautiful handwriting he had ever seen; his own chicken scratches could never compare. Yet his aunt hated them. His uncle beat him over them. And Dudley was too stupid to even understand what the fuss was about.
Harry might have agreed with him, if he hadn’t overheard his aunt’s late-night, drunken ramblings while he was locked under the stairs. He didn’t remember much, only fragments—but one line had lodged itself firmly in his mind.
“How could a freak— that thing— no, you don’t get it— that freak has someone who would love him. Disgusting.”
He didn’t fully understand what it meant, but he clung to it anyway. The details didn’t matter. The words on his skin meant there was a chance—however small—that someone out there could love him. He didn’t understand how, and he had never seen similar markings on his relatives, but he knew better than to question it.
It gave him all the more reason to adore his mark. To love it.
Words he didn’t understand, written in beautiful cursive—like a tattoo that could never be wiped away. Too elegant. Too perfect. Too graceful against his left wrist, against his small, malnourished hands.
His lovely words.
Even if he didn’t learn what the words itself truly meant until he was in his 4th year, they were still his precious—
Avada Kedavra.
Despite his fame, there were certain boundaries even the wizarding world rarely crossed. Then again, that wasn’t quite right. Adults were definitely curious—but it was highly frowned upon to force someone to reveal their soulmark. Especially a child’s.
He learned, too, that mages could spell their marks. There was a charm that made it so no one could read the words—not even one’s soulmate—unless the bearer wished it. It was one of the first spells first-years learned, and Harry happily cast it on himself.
Not because he had to hide his words.
But because the very idea of showing them to anyone but himself filled him with a strange, growing jealousy.
They were his words.
They were his to touch, his to adore—his and only his.
No one could take them from him. No one could claim them.
They were etched into his skin, meant to be his from birth until his final breath.
So what if Harry Potter—the Boy-Who-Lived, the savior of the wizarding world, the child who defeated You-Know-Who—was unhealthily obsessed with his soulmark?
It was his.
And it was none of their business.
Hogwarts was Harry’s home. She was a beautiful, ancient castle, her walls welcoming, her magic so alive and loving that for Harry, Hogwarts felt like a mother’s embrace. For generations, her hallways had been meant for children to walk through—children she protected. She was home to all magical children, even if Harry wished she weren’t for some. Some, specifically, came in the form of slick-backed blondes spreading pureblood propaganda. Oh, the prat. Harry couldn’t do much about it; he had to deal with the annoyance that came in the shape of Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy had no sense of delicacy, no sense of tact. The buffoonish boy made Harry’s teeth itch. Soulmarks were a delicate topic; it was considered rude to pry into someone else’s mark. Among purebloods especially, such curiosity had often led lower-ranking families to try and discover the marked words of higher-ranking wizards, hoping to fake a “first meeting” by reciting the other’s first words. This practice resulted in countless unhappy marriages, couples despising each other, and eventually cheating on their spouses once they found their true soulmates. And if soulmates were kept apart or stayed apart willingly (oh the horror, why would someone want to willingly stay away from the partner Lady Magic herself chose for them?), the consequences were disastrous. For the soulmates' minds would descend into insanity. This was known as Halfheart Syndrome.
The name suited it perfectly. If a soulmate recognized their other half—or revealed their soulmark to their fated one—but still chose to remain apart, madness would slowly creep in. It started small: irritability, depression, and subtle obsessions. Over time, however, it could escalate into full-blown insanity. An insane wizard or witch was dangerous; who knows what they would do in that state. Even in a prison as horrible as Azkaban, if a fated pair ended up there, they were kept in cells close to each other—or often directly across from one another—so that they could maintain their sanity, so that their magic would not go crazy searching for its other half. Even in the most oppressive circumstances, mages would not disrespect the sacred bonds of soulmates.
Prisons weren’t honeymoon spots, of course. And Azkaban was not known for housing couples. The most notorious example was Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband, Rodolphus Lestrange—high-profile criminals who nonetheless had to be kept near each other for their own mental survival.
Soulmates were the one aspect even the most arrogant purebloods wouldn’t fight over with Muggle-borns, especially if it came out that a pureblood was paired with a Muggle-born. They would complain, they would demean, and they would even commit cruel acts toward their Muggle-born half, but they wouldn’t forcibly separate the pair—lest the inevitable madness take hold. Sometimes, when purebloods tried anyway, with torture or locking up their other half, the Muggle-born would run, or worse, take their own life. Either way, the result was the same: insanity.
So why was Harry thinking about all of this now? Because the pureblood peacock in serpent’s skin—this father’s boy—was a man who had never respected the delicate boundaries of soulmate bonds. From day one, from the very first moment, he had been pestering the Boy-Who-Lived to see his mark, to discover whose misfortune it was to be paired with the savior who would one day face You-Know-Who.
“Why don’t you show me, Potter? Or are you too scared?”
“Or is it that you don’t have a fated pair and are faking it, huh, Potter?”
“Cat got your tongue, Potter?” Malfoy’s sharp, mocking voice called out.
This topic had been done so many times it had become routine—a routine Harry wished he didn’t have to partake in. No amount of glaring, ignoring, or hexing the prat made the self-important fool go away.
That’s what led Ron, one day, to throw himself between Harry and Malfoy, lest Harry jinx the boy to the moon and back. Righteous anger painted his face as he called out, “Lay off! Harry doesn’t have to show you his mark!”
Excellent words, Harry thought, nodding inside. "He wouldn’t show it to you before he shows me. And I’m his best mate." …That’s not the point here, mate.
Malfoy had scuffed and taunted Ron for defending Harry, even going so far as to accuse Ron of protecting him because they were soulmates. Harry wouldn’t have minded if they were—but he had seen Ron’s handwriting, and it was nothing like the beauty of his own soulmark. If anything, Harry felt a little insulted that such elegant cursive could be compared to Ron’s pitiful attempts at neat writing.
The taunt, however, had prompted Ron to scowl and step forward. “Oh yeah? If you want to see marks so badly, just look at mine—and lay off, Malfoy.”
“Ha! Who’d even care about the words of a Wesl—”
Dacro’s voice cut off abruptly as Ron rolled up his sleeve, revealing a neatly written sentence: “Think my name’s funny, do you?”
Malfoy froze, eyes widening in mute horror, and Harry half-expected them to pop out of his head. Even Ron stared at his own arm in gaping confusion as his soulmark, written in black ink slowly glowed a beautiful shade of silver, signifying that his soulmate had seen it.
Harry was amazed by the turn of events. Watching in facination as his friend's arm glowed proudly under everyone's gaze. Malfoy and his goons, however were not amazed by this turn of events. Utterly horrified, turned on their heels and ran away—without even speaking a word to his own newly discovered fated half.
Ron, meanwhile, was in complete denial. “No, mate, how can it be Malfoy—?”
“How was I supposed to know it was Malfoy—?”
“No, it can’t be Malfoy—!”
Harry had snickered quietly. It was funny that Ron hadn’t figured it out from the first day at Hogwarts; the sentence on his arm practically screamed “self-important peacock.” But he couldn’t blame his friend entirely, especially when watching Ron cycle through all five stages of grief in the span of a week.
Hermione and Harry supported their mate, Hermione admitted to a flicker of envy that Ron had found his soulmate so quickly. Her envy dissolved once she realized his fated pair was that Malfoy. The twins got a kick out of the whole ordeal, and Ginny offered her condolences.
Harry watched as by 3rd year Ron and Draco Malfoy gradually reached an unspoken truce: a tense, begrudging agreement to ignore each other while still lingering near one another. It was that silent “I hate you, but I still want you” kind of tension—something Harry had seen only though his Aunt's late night Tele dramas, but now got a full front row off on daily basis.
Harry’s breath caught in the oppressive atmosphere of Professor Moody’s class. The spider under the Imperius Curse had thrown itself at the students, making Moody laugh with crual glee as chaos erupted around him. Harry’s eyes darted from the spider to his classmates—students screaming, tripping over chairs, scrambling to both stay calm but also to get away. The creature leapt from Ron’s head to Malfoy’s face, causing both boys to shriek and cling to each other instinctively, wordlessly holding hands as they cowered side by side. Harry felt a strange pang of amusment seeing that, the absurdity of it all twisting inside him. The sight of the two rivals seeking comfort in each other, even unconsciously, was both heartwarming and hilarious.
The second Unforgivable Curse was worse. The spider’s high-pitched, frantic squeals—the sound of its terror—made Harry’s stomach churn violently. He had never wanted to know what a spider under torture sounded like, nor did he ever want to hear it again.
Then Moody gave a dark, commanding look at Hermione, beckoning her to deliver the final curse. The class watched in mute horror as the spider—just moments ago a “beauty” in Moody’s cruel estimation—flop dead under the Avada Kedavra curse. Bringing silence among the students, or was it silence only in Harry's head? Harry’s world seemed to halt. His fingers twitched instinctively toward his wrist, toward the letters hidden from sight, checking, almost hoping, that the words on his soulmark weren’t spelled out to be read. His brain refused to keep up with itself.
How does he know?
Did he see? Did someone tell him? Where did he learn my words—my soulmark—who told hi—wha—oh.
Oh.
Avada Kedavra.
It was the Killing Curse.
His soulmate’s first words to him… were the Killing Curse.
His soulmate wanted to kill him.
His soulmate was Voldemort.
That night, behind the closed curtains of his bed, hidden beneath layers of silencing charms and privacy spells, the horrific, heartbroken cries finally spilled from Harry’s lips. The pain—the agony, the weight of the realization—made him wish he could simply stop existing right then and there. The rawness of it was unbearable. He couldn’t imagine anything more cruel than the truth settling into his bones: his soulmate had killed his parents. His soulmate had tried to kill him—not once, but twice. His soulmate was Voldemort. His soulmate was Tom Riddle.
How had he not seen it? How had he missed the eerie familiarity between the diary’s handwriting and the words etched into his own skin? How had he been so naïve as to believe fate would ever allow him happiness? What had he done to deserve this?
The Mirror of Erised had shown him his deepest desire—to stand between his parents, alive and proud, with his soulmate’s arms wrapped around him. Back then, he hadn’t been able to make out his soulmate’s face, assuming it was simply because they hadn’t met yet. Even when Dumbledore had told him that bringing his parents back was impossible, Harry had secretly taken comfort in the thought that at least he would still have his soulmate. The one who had written those beautiful words on his skin.
And now even that had been taken from him.
His mark.
His—his—his.
That beautiful mark. His one and only. The thing that had carried him through every lonely night, every bruise, every hunger pang. The mark he kissed and traced when everything became too much. The mark he clung to as proof that surviving another day with the Dursleys was worth it.
This mark—this cursed mark—this precious mark was proof.
A condemnation from fate itself.
Proof that his soulmate would rather see him dead than ever have him.
Harry cried and cried and cried some more. His friends noticed the puffiness around his eyes, the way his appetite vanished almost overnight. They tried to ask what was wrong, to check in, to help—but Harry was far too deep in his grief to admit anything to anyone. Even Neville wasn’t faring much better than him.
It must have led everyone around them to assume that seeing the Killing Curse in Moody’s class had re-traumatized Harry. And it had—but not for the reasons they thought. It was pathetic, really. Instead of mourning his parents’ deaths, Harry found himself drowning in despair over something far worse: the knowledge that his soulmate would never love him.
The chances were near zero. No—less than zero.
Some nights, Harry retched and vomited just thinking about the way he had killed his professor in his first year. Harry had killed—burned—put his own soulmate in pain. Not once, but twice.
It made him wonder if the real reason Voldemort couldn’t kill him wasn’t his mother’s sacrifice at all, but something far crueler. Maybe soulmates simply couldn’t kill each other. Maybe killing your soul’s other half was something not even death itself would allow.
Harry sobbed. He choked. He cried until his chest ached. Some nights, he clawed at the words on his wrist, trying to rip them away—to remove the beautiful inked letters, the curse that had damned his life. The graceful cursive that once gave him a reason to live now stood as a constant reminder that he was unloved, unwanted, unnecessary. That even his own other half would never want him.
His aunt had been right.
Harry was a freak. An unwanted, unlovable freak. A disgusting monster whose own soulmate would rather kill him at birth than ever be with him.
Did Voldemort know?
Did he know Harry was his? Did he know that Harry belonged to him? Did he know—and still do it anyway?
Why had Harry never asked Tom Riddle what his soulmark said? If he had asked—if he had shown—no. No, he would never show. These were his marks. His. His. His. Meant for his eyes alone.
But if he had realized Riddle was his soulmate—if Riddle had realized Harry was his—would he have spared him? Would he have stopped hurting Ginny, gone back into the diary, stayed with Harry instead?
Would Harry not have had to stab his own—
Oh God.
He stabbed his own soulmate.
The fang. The book. Ink—so much ink—black ink, dark as his soulmark.
He killed his own soulmate. He killed Tom Marvlo Riddle.
Most nights, Harry felt numb. Numb enough to trace the words on his wrist and take comfort in the thought that at least his soulmate would never know they were a pair. Other nights, the numbness gave way to rage—deep, festering hatred.
Hatred toward his friends.
He saw the growing intimacy between Ron and Malfoy in stolen glances and awkward silences. Hermione had found her soulmate too—Viktor Krum. They went to the Ball together. They were happy. Content. Normal.
Everything Harry would never have.
Voldemort would never hold his hand. He would never fuss over Harry’s robes the way Draco did for Ron, buying him matching sets while insulting him affectionately. Voldemort would never walk Harry onto the dance floor, never guide him through a waltz, never look at him the way Viktor looked at Hermione.
His soulmate would rather curse him dead than ever be seen beside him.
Most nights, Harry cried until his throat burned. He could barely speak anymore; the hoarseness in his voice felt permanent. Ron and Hermione assumed the Tournament was finally taking its toll on him.
But Harry knew the truth.
He was spiraling.
He knew it from the books he devoured, from the research he buried himself in during sleepless nights. He recognized the signs all too well.
He was starting to show symptoms of Halfheart Syndrome.
“Harry, are you okay?” Hermione asked softly.
“Hm?”
“It’s just… lately,” she said, setting her books down beside him, “you’ve been sort of out of it.”
Harry’s eyes flicked, unbidden, to the faint glow at the back of her right hand. Rose-pink, tinted glowing letters showcasing, 'Hermy-own-ninny?'
A pretty and accepted soulmark.
“Harry?” Hermione’s voice tightened.
“Huh?”
“Are you really okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “I’m fine. Just—you know how things are.”
Never wanted any of this. In more ways than one.
She nodded, understanding what she thought he meant. The Tournament. The second task was over. The stands are buzzing already about the third. Anyone would be overwhelmed. Still, her eyes lingered on him, sharp and searching. She knew there was more; she could feel he was hiding something. She was unaware of exactly what.
“You know I’m here,” she said. “If you ever want to talk. Right?”
Obviously. She always was. Harry would have to be as thick as the Daily Prophet lot to think otherwise.
Harry takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. His wrist tingled under his sleeve. He thinks of his beautifully written words. He thinks of telling them, thinks of their reaction—nope.
He’s not going to think about that.
Leaning back in his chair, he muttered, “I know the greatest witch of our time’ll be there for me.”
Hermione scowled. Harry snorted.
“But even great witches,” he went on, “need time for their Quidditch boyfriends.”
“What—no, he isn’t!” she protested. “We’re not— not yet!”
“Not yet?” Harry grinned. “Oho. Is that progress I hear? Better snag that celebrity spouse before he goes back to his country 'mione.”
She shoved his shoulder, flustered and indignant in that oh, honestly, not you too way—, and Harry laughed.
Hearing her muttering under her breath makes him feel warm. His mind feels like it’s finally lifting out of the fog he’s been stuck in for days—weeks? He doesn’t remember. He just knows the weight is a little lighter than it was yesterday, and he feels present enough to ask the question he’s been wanting to for a while now, even if he never quite knew how.
“How does it feel?”
She looks at him in confusion, her bushy hair swaying as she turns. “What?”
“The mark,” Harry clarifies, eyes honed in like a cat to a mouse. On the beautiful rose-pink letters shining proudly against her skin—seen, accepted.
“Oh.” Hermione blushes, her cheeks dusted the same soft shade as her soulmark. “I don’t know—I’m still getting used to it. It’s… nice?” She hesitates, stumbling over her words. “It feels really warm. He—staying beside him makes my heart feel… at ease?”
She frowns, trying to find the right words. Even a bookworm like her doesn’t quite know how to explain a bond. A completed, seen bond, Harry thinks, envy flaring sharp before he shoves it down.
“It’s like coming home after a really bad day,” Hermione continues slowly, tracing the glowing letters on her hand, “where everything goes wrong, but then you walk through the door, sit on your bed, wrap yourself in your blanket, and it just—feels right. Like you’re home.”
She swallows. “It feels like home.”
Harry bites the inside of his cheek.
Home.
Will he ever feel that?
Would Voldemort feel like the cupboard under the stairs? Would he feel like Hogwarts? Would he—
No. He wouldn’t want me.
Okay, maybe Harry shouldn’t have brought up soulmarks to Hermione. It led her to think he was upset that both she and Ron had found their other halves and were leaving him behind, which he didn’t really feel that way.
…Okay, maybe he did. Maybe a lot.
But he didn’t want them to think he was some baby with separation anxiety. He already had enough depression and self-hatred to deal with daily.
He was really busy. Okay?
That didn’t stop the two of them from sitting him down anyway and telling him that they would be there for him, regardless of whatever changes came with their relationships. Even if Draco—the prat—one day proposed to Ron (“He would not do that!” Ron screeched), or Viktor asked Hermione to change schools for him (“Hogwarts is obviously the best,” she huffed. “He should change to ours.”)
The point was made clear.
They weren’t going anywhere.
They apologized over and over, saying they were sorry if they had made him feel excluded, sorry if they hadn’t noticed sooner, sorry for things Harry didn’t even know they could blame themselves for.
Really—what did Harry do to deserve friends like this?
Blinking rapidly to hide the gloss of tears forming—tears far too familiar from his nightly crying sessions—Harry pulled them both into a hug. Taking the cue, they hugged him back without hesitation.
Harry did not doubt that if he ever came clean about whose mark he carried, about who fate had chosen to be his—and him, theirs—his friends would stand by him.
He just wasn’t ready yet.
Closing his eyes, he willed the tears back. He wasn’t ready to come to terms with the idea that one day, he might have to kill his soulmate.
—or die at his hands.
Harry was really tired. Mentally and emotionally drained. Really—why did no one tell him that being fully aware of who your soulmate is, yet never going to them, would start to eat at your mind? That your magic would begin to nag at you, pulling and tugging, demanding you go find your other half and stay with them forever.
How was he even supposed to find his other half?
That man was dead, last Harry checked. Harry himself had made sure of that. His palm burning, his professor screaming—the pain he saw—
No. No, no, no. Don’t think. Don’t think about how you killed your soulmate. Not now. Don’t think about it.
Which was why, tired, emotionally drained, and completely out of it, Harry didn’t even think to question Cedric. His hand reached for the cup and grabbed it without a second thought. All Harry wanted was to get this over with, collapse into bed, and sleep. Sleep, sleep, sleep—and never think.
And hopefully never wake up.
Because his mind was eating at him. Eating up everything inside him.
His soulmate.
No one wants him.
Freak.
Unwanted.
Freak.
Ink. Ink. Lots of ink.
Burned.
I killed him.
My soulmate.
My half.
My words.
Mine.
So really, with a mind this busy, who could blame Harry for not noticing the sudden gut-punch of something wrong? Or the way the air was ripped from his lungs as he felt himself squeezed and crushed—
And when his senses came back to him—
Where in Merlin’s name am I?
—he was already tied up and dumped against a gravestone.
Honestly, Harry couldn’t even blame himself for being here, wherever here was. He didn’t understand the situation, but he understood the blazing rage that flooded his blood the moment he saw that goddamn rat, Peter Pettigrew, smirking down at him like Harry was nothing more than a pest.
Pettigrew scurried around soon after, just like the rat he was, following the orders of a bundle of robes.
Bone of the father, unknowingly given—you will renew your son.
Flesh of the servant, willingly given—you will revive your master.
Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken—you will resurrect your foe
Harry flinched as Peter sliced into his arm, blood dripping freely before being tossed into the bubbling potion of whatever ritual this was. It clearly wasn’t light magic. Whatever it was, Harry didn’t know if he wanted to stay alive long enough to see the end of it.
That was—until something began to rise from the cauldron.
White, bony, claw-like hands gripped the rim. A head emerged, more skin than man. A body long and thin, snake-like, more bone than flesh—yet disturbingly precise, perfectly formed, nothing excess, nothing wasted. A forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air.
Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away.
The man.
His soulmate.
His other half.
His—in body, mind, and soul.
Even as Peter hurried to robe him, pulling fabric between them, Harry’s gaze burned hot.
It felt like life had been breathed back into him.
Voldemort—physical, whole, alive. Snake-like. Nothing like Tom Riddle. Standing there, real and solid.
The night felt brighter. The stars sharper. Harry was breathing—really breathing. His mind cleared, like stepping out of a suffocating room. Like waking from a deep, heavy sleep. Like his body itself had finally recognized something it had been missing.
His thoughts sang. His heart raced. His eyes refused to look away.
And then Voldemort looked back at him.
Harry didn’t know what he wanted—maybe recognition. Maybe understanding. Maybe for Voldemort to feel what he felt. To know.
Those red eyes—bright, ruby-split, beautiful—
Gave him nothing.
No recognition.
No realization.
No acknowledgment.
He doesn’t recognize him.
Why doesn't he recognize him.
Did he not know?
—or was he pretending not to?
"The boy who lived—" Voldemort was talking. Harry was sure he was monologuing like the big bad villain he was. Damn, did he sound… nice.
“You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late father.”
He was yapping about the past and whatnot—oh, his voice was quite deep, it scratched an itch in the back of Harry’s head.
“A Muggle and a fool… very like your dear mother.”
Was this man talking to Harry? He couldn’t really focus. Voldemort should keep talking more—it sounded really good. It made Harry want to sleep. To close his eyes… he felt if he closed them right now, even in this uncomfortable position, he might just drift into a nice, dreamless state.
Damn. Harry was feeling things. And this grit of a man probably didn’t even realize Harry was his soulmate. I mean, look at that confident, scary face—dark lord yet not a shard of recognition for his other half. Maybe being over sixty does something to your mental psyche?
Harry felt a bubbling giggle reach the tip of his tongue before he forced it down. Laughing at the Dark Lord and his age gap while said Dark Lord was monologuing was definitely not what he should do.
“I can touch you now—”
Huh?
Pain. Unbearable pain. Incomprehensible pain. Pain like nothing before. His scar hurts. Please remove that finger—my soulmate is touching me—it hurts. Hurts. HURTS. My soulmate is hurting me. Oh god, does it hurt? MAKE IT STOP. Cackling—he’s laughing? PLEASE MAKE IT STOP. My soulmate is laughing at my pain. HURTS. HURTS. HURTS.
“Astonishing what a few drops of your blood can do, eh, Harry?”
He gasps. He breathes. Oh god, he can breathe. The pain is gone. Did Voldemort just say his name? What is happening?
Before understanding could even reach Harry’s dazed mind, he was already removed from the stone, wand in hand, forced to bow to the Dark Lord—his other half—and then…
Crucio.
Harry screamed like never before. His voice raw, his own scream feeling both far away and right beside him. It hurts so badly—this pain was nothing like he had ever felt before. Uncle Vernon’s beltings, the basilisk venom in his shoulder, that man’s touch on his scar—this pain beats them all.
It hurts. It hurts so bad. Why is his soulmate so insistent on hurting him? Oh… because he is a freak. He’s not wanted. This man will never want him. He can never show his mark. His beautiful… Avada Kedavra. Voldemort would be all too happy to use his beloved words on him. This man wants to kill him. Harry has to run. He has to get away. He has to live. He has to survive. Harry has to go. Go. GO.
Everything blurred. A duel broke out. Spells were exchanged. A portkey was grabbed, and when Harry opened his eyes, he was back before an audience full of excited screams. Professors rushing to get a look at him. Harry should have felt relieved at being back in safety. He should have felt stressed that the Dark Lord was back. He should have felt horrified at seeing the most body-horror resurrection ever.
Yet all he felt was a deep, unexplainable sense of betrayal. He felt hurt—hurt in mind, body, and all the way into his soul. He felt heartbroken.
His soulmate—the man his heart yearned for, the man he daydreamed about, the one his magic sang longingly for—
Voldemort did not recognize Harry.
And Harry would make sure he never does.