Chapter Text
Good things don’t happen to Harry Potter. Every time something remotely happy happens in his life, things get worse tenfold.
It’s always been like this. Harry as a little boy does the impossible and survives the killing curse, guess what? For the next ten years, he has to live with his aunt and uncle who hate his guts. Then he discovers he’s a wizard and life finally seems brighter but even that is dimmed by the dark shadow of Voldemort. He can’t find peace even in Hogwarts. Every year there is littered with misfortunes and accidents. Then he meets Sirius Black–his only living family (that wants him) and Harry finally relishes the possibility of having a loving home. But as always the light is quickly doused out as Harry watches his godfather die.
Then Dumbledore dies. Then Moody. Hedwig.
All these losses are still bleeding and aching like an open wound and Harry thinks he hasn't been this angry in his entire life. He can only think about going after the Horcruxes sooner, faster, the waiting he has to do here, at the burrow, is already excruciating. Harry cannot wait to kill Voldemort.
But tonight the last thing he wants to be thinking about is Voldemort.
It's the night of his 17th birthday and Harry lies awake in the burrow, while Ron snorts loudly in his bed. He should be asleep too, tonight should not matter. His soulmark should not appear until Ginny is seventeen as well. She is the younger of the two and everyone who knows Harry believes her to be his soulmate. And he would like to believe that too.
Ginny is smart, funny, brave and every other positive adjective. Harry's happiest memories are with her and yet...he is awake, impatiently waiting for midnight.
As strange as it is to admit, even in his mind, he can feel it’s not her. Harry would know it if it were her, he is sure of it, when he held her hand or kissed her. Surely he would know.
But Ginny Weasley, the loveliest girl Harry knows, is not his soulmate.
Maybe the name of someone who he doesn't know will appear on his wrist. A boy. Someone who doesn't know Harry either, someone who will not see the chosen one but someone who will see Harry, just Harry. Someone to fight the war for, someone who will wait on the other side. Someone lovely and sweet.
Harry chuckles at the silent room. Sometimes his imagination carries him too far, quite silly. Harry asks too much.
Then, after more thinking, he prays he has a soulmate at all. It would be fitting if he didn’t, knowing his rotten luck. He has never heard of anyone not having one but who knows, maybe Harry will be the exception. Obviously, he knows tonight nothing might appear on his wrist, his soulmate might be the younger one, but he has a sneaking suspicion they aren't.
There are too many thoughts in his head. The Order, his friends, the war, the Horcruxes and of course, Voldemort himself. So it’s nice to focus on something more cheerful even for a night. Love; a nice sentiment with the upcoming wedding.
Harry supposes having a soulmate is nice. Unconditional love and all. It must be nice. He knows his parents were soulmates, but he didn’t get to see their love. But they were happy, at least that’s what he's been told.
Love is such a funny thing and Harry has so much of it. He daydreams about his soulmate a lot. About how much he would love them. All the love, Harry thinks, I would give them all my love. He would give them gifts and kisses and all the nice things. And after the war, they would live happily, and have a nice family. And he would love them like no one had ever loved before.
Harry doesn’t dream about being loved. That is too much to ask, he tells himself.
Then the midnight strikes and there is a burning on his wrist. It isn’t an unpleasant feeling, it’s just there. And then the words appear and Harry sees them even in the dark. The ink blooms under his skin, black and new, and the handwriting is so neat he pities whoever is destined to carry his chicken scratches around.
And then he reads the words. And for a second he thinks–
Oh, of course
And it isn’t a bad ‘oh, of course’, it just makes sense in his head. A puzzle piece falling into place. Of course it’s him. Harry's life already revolves around him; it is only fitting. Then that second ends and reality crashes onto him, heavy and cruel.
Good things don’t happen to Harry Potter.
Tom Marvolo Riddle
Harry curses the words and then he curses himself for ever believing he had a happy ending. He thinks that murder being the only thing that can split the soul is bullshit because this moment did just that; split his soul. Broke it.
Something heavy settles in Harry’s chest, heavy and aching. And that something leaves no room for air in his lungs.
He doesn’t let thoughts spin in his head. He jumps from his bed, thinking he might burst if he stays any longer. He is filled with a sudden urge to move, to do something.
He needs to leave, to run or to… something, anything and everything.
Harry glances over at Ron’s peacefully sleeping form, the slow rise and fall of his chest that only reminds Harry that he still can’t fucking breathe.
He’s out of bed before he can let himself think too long.
He runs out of the door, nothing on his person. The cool air of the night hits him the moment he steps over the threshold, he staggers into the yard, the grass is wet and cold under his bare feet. Harry takes large gulps of air but nothing seems to help, he still feels like he’s suffocating and his chest just keeps hurting so bad.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice he’s not alone until it’s too late.
“Going somewhere?” Ron's voice comes from behind him, making the hair on Harry’s neck stand up.
Harry doesn’t turn around to look at him. He simply can’t. He feels dirty, contaminated, as though he’s carrying some deadly germ, unworthy to face an innocent, clean person whose mind and body are free of ink spelling Voldemort’s name.
“Harry?” Ron asks again and now there is a ring of worry in his voice.
There is nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, Harry can’t leave the charms surrounding the burrow, he can’t risk it. He turns around slowly to look at Ron, who’s wearing nothing but his scrubby pyjamas. Harry tries to twist his face into a neutral mask, to hide whatever terrified expression he is wearing. And he guesses it would have fooled Ron if only Harry hadn’t impulsively gripped the wrist on which his soulmark rests.
Ron’s eyes dart to his hands and back up at him.
“You got it then?” He raises an eyebrow. “I’m happy for you and all, mate, but don’t you think it’s a bloody bad time to be running away to your lover?”
Lover. Harry’s chest aches again, squeezing and pushing air out of his lungs. Only a shaken sob escapes Harry’s mouth. Suddenly Ron’s face twists, at last understanding something is wrong. And it is very, very wrong.
“Harry?” his friend whispers, sounding more terrified than Harry feels.
He only shakes his head as his eyes fill up with tears. He can’t cry, not over this. Not over him.
“What’s wrong?” Ron asks again.
Everything is wrong, Harry thinks, Voldemort has ruined everything. And now even this, his only chance at happiness.
The tears Harry was holding back finally roll down his cheeks and he sobs. Loud, ugly cries. His legs give out and he falls to his knees, half trying to dig his nails into his wrist, half trying to hold his chest together from ripping apart.
Harry can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t deal with this. Time stops for him. There’s only him and that pain.
He feels Ron’s arms around him, feels him being hoisted up, being dragged but he can’t do a thing, can’t care about anything at the moment. If he could drop dead, he would without a second thought.
The next thing he knows he’s back in the house, the lights are on and there are many concerned eyes on him. Hermione, Mrs and Mr Weasley and all of their children. There are voices, Harry can tell that much, but the only thing his ears seem to pick up is a horrible ringing, drowning out any other sound.
Suddenly there is a sharp pain on his cheek and when he looks up he sees Hermione. She slapped him, Harry realises as his eyes begin to focus again, and somehow the world goes quiet with that, the ringing stops. He still can’t breathe and the tears don’t stop but he can think and he thinks about only one thing.
How do I tell them?
Hermione puts her hands on both of Harry’s shoulders and looks him in the eyes. “What happened?”
Harry only shakes his head. He can’t, he can’t tell them.
“He got his soulmark, I think,” Ron stands the furthest from Harry, by the door, arms crossed. The fear on his face has been replaced by a sour look.
Hermione looks at Ron and then back at Harry. “Did you?”
Harry only nods. It’s a slow, uncertain movement.
“Well, that’s a good thing then, isn’t it?” Hermione's hands are warm on his shoulders and he tries to concentrate on that.
Harry shakes his head. Good thing. Good things don’t happen to Harry.
“Who is it?” Ron asks with a glint of curiosity in his eyes but his voice is harsher than Harry expects. And it makes sense why. By now, Ron must have realised what happened. Harry's soulmate isn't Ginny and he, once again, is breaking her heart. Of course Ron's angry and he can't even blame him. Nor can he tell him how sorry he is because he has a bigger problem at hand.
Harry again shakes his head. He can’t. What will they think of him? What kind of monster would have him for a soulmate?
“Harry, it's fine,” He hears Ginny’s voice. “It's fine it's not me. These things happen.”
“It isn’t you,” Harry chokes out almost angrily. How could he ever think it was her? She’s too kind, too good for him.
“Who is it then, Harry, just bloody tell us,” Ron speaks again.
Harry looks down at his wrist where his nails dig into his skin. The name is as clear as day in the soft light. Harry knows they can’t see the letters, only two people can, Harry and…
“It’s him,” He whispers. For the first time in his life he is afraid to say his name. Now that it meant something new, something terrifying. He can’t say it, not out loud, not to his friends, not to his family. It feels like a betrayal.
Harry looks up at them as if begging, for what, he doesn’t know. And it is a betrayal. Harry can see it in their eyes.
The silence that follows his words is deadlier than the killing curse. Everyone just stares at him, mouths agape, and Mrs. Weasley falls into the armchair nearest her, seemingly unable to stand. Harry can't blame her, can't blame any of them.
What must they think of him now?
How disappointed in him they must feel. Harry has never been a bigger failure than this. He's dirtied, tainted. They must want him gone and he wants to be gone, too. To hide and never face another person ever again.
Harry regrets saying anything at all. He gets to his feet, swaying slightly.
"Harry," Hermione's hand land on his shoulder again and he recoils as if burned.
"Don't touch me," he hisses and catches something akin to fear on her face. Harry takes a deep breath before adding. “I'll leave in the morning."
"You won't come to our wedding?" Fleur asks. She stands in the doorframe of the living room, her tiny frame wrapped in a bathrobe and eyes squinting as if she just woke up. Bill stands right behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist.
"You-you want me to attend," Harry blinks at her. “Still?"
"Of course!" Perhaps she just came into the room, perhaps she didn't hear him.
"Harry, this doesn't change a thing," Hermione speaks up again, and now Harry can definitely see that her face doesn't betray fear, it betrays concern.
There is silence as he just stares at his friend. Has she misunderstood him? Was he not clear enough? Surely this isn’t just something they can ignore.
“I–” Harry tries but words get stuck in his throat. He swallows hard and tries to stop his hands from shaking.
Harry wishes he could curl into himself, in some dark corner where none of the concerned eyes could reach him. He keeps his own eyes trained on the old rugged carpet.
“I’m sorry,” Harry finally manages to say. “I didn’t mean to wake you all.”
Suddenly, Mrs Weasley jumps to her feet. Harry feels her soft arms wrapping around him and he buries his face into her shoulder.
"Come on, everyone, back to bed. Leave poor Harry alone. He's already going through enough," she says and Harry hears people scuttering out of the room and when he glances up from Mrs Weasley's shoulder, there's only Hermione, Ron and Mr Weasley left.
"Oh my dear boy, sorry for all this, you just gave us a scare. But it’s all alright now,” Mrs Weasley says as she pulls away from the hug and Harry, for a split second, catches her eyes but unable to bear them he looks down at the carpet again.
“I’m sorry I made you worry, it just –”
Crushed me, killed something inside me that I did not know was alive. Hope; that is what has died.
“–It just surprised me,” Harry finishes and Mrs Weasley lets out a soft laugh.
“I bet it did,” she says with a kind smile.
Harry knows she’s only trying to comfort him. It isn’t comforting. And while the initial shock has worn off, Harry still feels like absolute shit.
The boy pulls his hands out of Mrs Weasley's grasp.
“I would like to go back to bed, if that’s fine,” he says and Mr and Mrs Weasley share a look.
“I’ll walk you upstairs, Harry.” Hermione suddenly grabs his arm before Mrs Weasley can oppose.
“Yes, alright, dear, if you need anything me and Arthur will be downstairs,” The older woman smiles. “Oh, and Ron, sweetheart, how about we find somewhere else for you to sleep? Let’s give Harry some peace and quiet.”
“Yeah, alright,” Ron mumbles and gives Harry a glare as he turns and leaves the room.
Harry would like to chase after him, say something to him, apologise or tell him he doesn’t need to give up his bedroom for him, but he can’t do any of that because Hermione is tugging him towards the stairs.
“Goodnight, Mr and Mrs Weasley!” Hermione chirps over her shoulder as she drags Harry.
She only loosens her grip on him when they reach the top of the stairs. She shoves Harry into Ron’s bedroom and slams the doors after them, then turns around and looks straight into Harry’s eyes.
“Is he in your head?” Hermione asks hurriedly. “Does your scar hurt?”
Harry blinks. No… it doesn’t hurt, in fact, he can’t feel the Dark Lord’s presence at all. Before tonight, he was a constant and unmissable essence in Harry’s mind, just a reach away, like an invisible cord stretching through time and space. But Harry can’t feel him now. And it is… odd.
When Harry realises that Hermione is still staring at him, waiting for an answer, he shakes his head.
“No, it’s… quit,” he says.
Hermione’s shoulders fall as she relaxes. She suddenly throws herself onto him, wrapping her arms around Harry’s neck and pulling him close. Harry’s face drowns in her curly hair but he doesn’t mind it one bit.
“It’s going to be alright,” she tells him.
“How?” Harry’s voice comes out shakily and he wishes he didn’t speak at all.
“Oh, Harry.” Hermione hugs him tighter.
“Listen–” he escapes her embrace and holds her at arm's length “–I don’t need this, I don’t need pity, alright? I just want to be alone right now, Okay? Hermione, I can’t deal with people right now, if I– if I have to face another person tonight, I might just burst.”
“Do you really think you should be alone right now? I can spend the night with you, I don’t mind–”
“No, I’m fine, Hermione, honestly.”
“You didn’t look fine downstairs.”
“I panicked, that’s all. And you were right, it isn’t a big deal, I realise that now.” Harry just wants to be alone and he doesn’t care what kind of lie he has to tell to get that.
Hermione doesn’t seem to believe him, she squints her eyes, examining Harry.
“I’m fine,” Harry repeats. “I just need time to… process the… news. Alone.”
Hermione is still eyeing him and Harry forces his best smile onto his face.
“Alright,” Hermione finally backs off. “Have it your way.”
She moves to open the door and Harry’s shoulders relax.
“Thank you,” he says.
Hermione looks over her shoulder and gives him a sad smile before she disappears out of the room.
Harry is left to stare at the closed door in the middle of the empty room. The coldness of being left alone washes over him and all of a sudden Harry doesn’t want to be alone at all.
He imagines Hermione bursting back into the room, he expects it, he waits for it but nothing happens. She doesn’t come back.
Harry continues to stare at that door for an obscene amount of time. Partly because he still hopes someone will come and partly because he doesn’t know where else to put himself. The bed looks uninviting; there is no chance in hell he will be able to sleep, leaving the bedroom isn’t even an option; he already freaked everyone enough.
He wonders now if he should not have said anything at all, but at that moment he wanted nothing more than for someone to tell him it was fine, that it wasn’t the end of the world. And they did. And none of them meant it.
Harry should have kept quiet; he should have never left the bed, never woken Ron, never woken anyone; he should have borne the pain in silence. He didn’t and now he is stuck with the consequences.
After a while, when Harry is sure no one is coming for him, he finds himself in an armchair facing the tinny window. He curls up there, knees pressed to his chest and arms tightly wrapped around his legs.
He spends the night watching the calm, silent darkness behind the window. The moon hangs high in the sky, almost full but not quite yet. The clouds swim past it, bathing in the pale light, looking like a large beast traveling somewhere far, somewhere where Harry also would like to be. Somewhere that isn’t here because anywhere would be better than here.
Despite that, Harry feels calm, upsettingly calm, now that he had time to sit with his new horrid reality. He feels... hollow, as if someone came in and decided to scoop out all of his insides, only leaving a shell. A shell that now needs to pretend to be Harry Potter but doesn't know how.
It's unexpected, this lack of any emotion. Harry waits for himself to do something, to cry or scream or break things but he can't bring himself to do any of it. He just sits and stares with a strange and weird thought in his head.
He can’t feel Voldemort.
But he should feel him. He should but he doesn't and that unsettles him more than anything else.
Funnily, the silence in the space in Harry's mind where he is used to feeling the Dark Lord’s presence makes his insides turn. Because the anger, the horror or anything else would be better than this. This... emptiness.
This silence might just be the scariest thing Harry ever felt.
The morning comes sooner rather than later and Harry greets it in the same armchair he spent the night. He watches as the sun lazily rolls over the hills and forests and climbs into the sky.
Hermione does come by then. She knocks on the door but Harry doesn’t answer. He hears her asking him to come down for breakfast but he again says nothing. Harry guesses she has left after no more sound comes.
And after what appears no more than five minutes to Harry, Hermione returns. Although Harry thinks it has not been five minutes, as the sun is entirely on the other end of the sky, close to setting over the forest nearby.
Hermione’s knocks come more desperately this time.
“Harry, you must come downstairs,” Her hurried voice comes from outside the door, followed by even louder banging. “Harry, can you hear me? The Minister of Magic is here, he wants to see you.”
Harry would like to tell Hermione to tell him to simply fuck off but he, for some reason, can’t find any strength to even open his mouth. His eyes stay fixed on the setting sun, even as they begin to hurt.
Hermione doesn’t take Harry’s silence as a no, this time. She barges into the room, Harry hears the doors slam into the wall behind him.
“Harry Po–” Hermione begins but her voice cuts off.
Harry turns to look at her and blinks in astonishment. Everything in the room is covered in a thin layer of while. Snow falls from the ceiling in a brilliant, slow dance. Harry made it snow and hadn’t ever realised.
“What’s going on?” Hermione asks, her mouth agape.
“I don’t know,” Harry whispers, even though he knows it’s his fault.
Hermione shivers and wraps her arms around herself.
“God, it’s cold in here,” She says.
“Ron is going to kill me, is he not?” Harry tries to joke but Hermione doesn’t find it humorous. She only looks at him as if he’s a kicked puppy.
Harry doesn’t like that.
“You said Scrimgeour is here,” He stands up and sways a little, his legs numb after sitting for so long.
“Oh yes!” Harry can practically see the thought about the snow leave Hermione’s head. “He insists on seeing you, all three of us actually.”
“I don’t think I should be seeing anyone right now,” Harry says. He can’t see himself but he can guess how he must look.
“I don’t know, Harry, if the minister himself wants to talk to us, it must be important–”
“Or not,” Harry crosses his arms. “Last time he came to waste my time.”
Harry remembers quite well when Scrimgeour visited him last year, asking him to ‘stand alongside the Ministry’, to be their mascot, after all the nonsense the Ministry said about him, after Umbridge. No, Harry does not want to see that man.
Despite Harry’s protests, Hermione grabs him by his wrist, drags him through the door, and takes him to the sitting room.
Well, Scrimeour looks like shit, Harry thinks when he lays his eyes on the Minister.
Scrimeour's skin seems to have taken an unnatural shade of grey, he looks shorter, older…just less of a man than Harry remembers him to be. He stands in the middle of the room, staring at Ron, who sits on the small sofa by the window and glares back at him. When Hermione and Harry enter the room, Ron jumps to his feet but he doesn’t look at Harry, only at Hermione.
“He’s here because of Dumbledore’s will. He said he wanted to speak to each of us alone but I said no,” Ron informs Hermione and again shoots a nasty look at the Minister. “He can speak to all of us or not at all.”
“That’s right,” Hermione agrees.
“Very well, I will speak to all of you,” The minister says but doesn’t look happy about the fact.
He limps over to the old armchair and sits down as Ron flops back into the sofa and crosses his arms over his chest. Hermione, still gripping Harry’s wrist, drags him next to Ron and makes the three of them squeeze in on the sofa.
Harry wishes he could just sink into that sofa and disappear. He doesn’t like being in the same room as Ron. He can feel he’s still angry with him. Only fair, Harry thinks, it’s only fair. Still, the feeling forms a tight knot in his throat. And the minister is here and Hermione is still holding him down as if he’s going to run off any moment. And the way she looks at him…
Harry wants to go back upstairs, to his cold, impenetrable loneliness where he could just…rot.
Scrimeour cleans his throat, bringing Harry back to reality.
“As I already told Ronald, I am here because of Albus Dumbledore’s will.”
This catches Harry’s attention because just now the words sink in.
“He left something to us?” Harry says quietly.
“A surprise?” The Minister raises an eyebrow. “Were the three of you not aware Dumbledore left you anything?”
“All of us?” Ron asks.
They continue to speak, or argue— the minister, Hermione and Ron but Harry doesn’t hear a single word anymore. Dumbledore left him something. Of course, Harry thinks, of course. He must have left Harry an answer, guidance on what to do. Because, of course, Dumbledore knew about the cruel fate Harry was to face. Of course, Dumbledore, out of all people, knew that Voldemort was going to be Harry’s soulmate.
Relief washes over him and all the worry he felt the whole day is gone because Dumbledore is going to help him, even from his grave, he will guide Harry.
“To Harry James Potter,” The mention of his name brings the world back into focus for Harry. He is basically buzzing with excitement.” I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.”
Harry blinks, he looks over at Ron and Hermione, one with a book in her hands and the other with what he assumes is Dumbledore’s deluminator. Only then does he look over at the minister, holding out the snitch between his two fingers.
“Why did Dumbledore leave you this Snitch?” Scrimgeour asks.
“No idea,” Harry says. “For the reasons you just read out, I suppose…”
“You think this is a mere symbolic keepsake, then?”
“I suppose so,” Harry whispers as dread sets back into his chest. “What else could it be?”
“I’m asking the questions,” Scrimgeour says.
He eyes the snitch the minister is holding out but makes no move to take it.
“Is that it?” Harry asks instead of being goaded on by the minister. “Is that all Dumbledore left me?”
“Well, no. Dumbledore left you a second bequest– the sword of Godric Gryffindor. But that sword was not Dumbledore’s to give away. It is an important historical—”
“Keep it,” Harry interrupts.
“Harry?” Hermione questions, her face painted in confusion.
“I’m sorry?” Scrimgeour looks as confused as her.
“Keep it. And while you’re at it, keep the snitch too. I don’t think I’ll do much…persevering in the upcoming future.”
Harry stands up and sways on his feet again. He shoves his hands into his pockets.
“Oh and maybe put some people on trying to stick that sword into Voldemort,” Harry sneers but somehow, in the middle of the thought, Voldemort dying, his chest tightens. “I bet no one’s thought of that before, much better idea than whatever the ministry has been up to lately.”
Harry storms out of the room, he has nothing else to say. He is halfway up the stairs when Hermione catches up to him.
“Harry, what are you doing?” she asks, trying to keep up with him.
“Please don’t.”
“Harry!”
He halts and turns to face Hermione, who stands a few steps below him.
“I can’t do this,” Harry says. “I can’t…kill him, you understand that?”
Hermione looks even more confused. She opens her mouth and closes it again.
“I can’t, okay? I know who he is, I know it must be done but he’s my soulmate too…I can’t kill my soulmate, Hermione. I can’t.”
“So what are we going to do then?” She asks, a bit desperate.
Harry shrugs. A very good question and he wishes he had the answer. He turns away and continues to climb the stairs. For a moment, there’s silence behind him and he thinks that Hermione gave up.
“Harry!” She’s again behind him. She grabs him by the hand and shoves something cold and round into his palm. “Snitches have—”
“Hermione, please. Leave me be.”
She doesn’t chase after him again. But Harry clutches the snitch in his hand and when he reaches the room in the attic, he kicks his trunk open and throws the snitch there without even glancing at it.
Life, miraculously, goes on around him. The next day is the day of the wedding. Harry thinks of ditching, but he has soured everyone’s moods enough already. So he finds himself greeting the guests with Fred and George disguised as their ginger cousin with the help of polyjuice potion.
It is quite nice to wear someone else’s skin, Harry thinks as he watches people pass by, not sparing him a glance. It’s almost manageable being here this way, without the weight of being Harry Potter on his shoulders.
The ceremony is beautiful, all white and gold. A proper wedding. At least Harry thinks so, he had never been to a wedding before. People dance and drink and laugh, and Harry finds himself space behind a small table in the corner.
He watches the guests with this comprehensive curiosity. They live such different lives from him. While yes, they all live under the threat of Voldemort, they are happy and carefree tonight, in the way Harry never will. There is not a moment when Harry’s thoughts don’t travel back to the Dark Lord, like waves constantly crashing into the shore, he can never get away too far.
Harry drinks, perhaps too much. He avoids looking anywhere in Ginny’s direction, or Ron’s or anyone’s who knows the truth, for that matter.
The wedding ends silently, way past midnight and Harry, in his drunken state, stumbles into the house. Where Ginny of all people stands, all beautiful with a brilliant dress and cheeks flushed red.
“Harry,” she says. The word, like an electric shock, brings him back to life. Is she waiting for him?
“Hi,” Harry says and finds his voice sounds funny. He wants to be rude and saynothing, he wants to be rude to everyone but he can’t be rude to her. It’s guilt, perhaps. “Did you have fun?”
Ginny smiles weakly, almost sadly and slides over to Harry. She doesn’t avoid him, she stares him down, her eyes as bright as ever, no pity there. And it’s refreshing. Her fingers find his hair, brushing it away from his eyes. Hair that by now are not bright orange but their usual black, the pollyjuice affect long gone.
“You look like a mess,” she says as casually as ever, her fingers sliding down his cheek. “But you always pulled it off.”
“You had too much to drink,” Harry points out and despite himself, he smiles.
Ginny nods, her eyes on his lips. And the next thing he knows, she’s kissing him. Harry’s hands find her waist. She’s soft and sweet, and tastes of champagne and blueberry cake; Harry loves it. It’s a weird realisation to have now, but he loves Ginny Weasley. He doesn’t want to let go of her, he wants to stay like this forever.
Ginny pulls away, seemingly out of breath. She buries her face in Harry’s chest. Harry holds on to her as if his life depends on it.
“We could have been so good together,” she whispers.
“I know,” he whispers back.
“We still could be. When the war is over. When… when he’s dead. Just like we planned, a nice house and– and three kids and…”
Harry pulls away just enough to look her in the eyes. “No, Ginny. Soon you will have a name on your own wrist… and I want you to be happy with him. Be happy, alright? You deserve it.”
“And what about you? You deserve to be alone?”
Harry sighs as that pain squeezes his heart again. He kisses her forehead and he stays there for a moment, not able to let go. “Be happy.”
Harry steps away and suddenly feels very cold. He doesn’t look at her, just dives upstairs before she can say anything else. He locks himself in his room. Ron’s room, he corrects himself, not his. Although over the years he learned to think of it as his own as well.
Harry does sleep, but he doesn’t dream. No more awful dreams come from Voldemort, not since he got his soulmark. Nothing. And the silence is deafening. Harry wants to reach out into that emptiness, he wants to rip it to shreds. He wants to know what the Dark Lord thinks, feels. He itches for it and yet he does nothing.
In the morning, Harry sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the carpeted floor. There is no reason for him to stay here anymore, he attended the wedding as he promised he would and now…now there’s nothing stopping him from leaving. He wants to leave, too. He needs to leave, he thinks, he can not last another day here, with the pitying looks and silent assurances that all will be fine or the plain pretence nothing is wrong at all.
Harry could just slip through the doors, no one would be the wiser. But then, would they look for him? Would they worry? Most definitely and Harry doesn’t want that.
He’ll just tell them, tell them that he’s leaving and going…somewhere. And really, he isn’t against saying goodbye.
So Harry musters up his courage and swings his already packed backpack over his shoulder, his trunk shrunken and hidden in his pocket as well, and prepares to counter any argument to stay they'll throw at him.
Harry finds everyone sitting around the kitchen table, in silence, with looks of horror on their faces. Harry notices a dark burning spot in the middle of the empty table and a black owl in a cage screeching and biting the bars.
"What's going on?" Harry asks after a moment in which everyone fails to notice him.
"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley jumps to her feet, and her chair falls behind her.
"We have to tell him." Hermione is the second to jump to her feet and with her words chaos ensues. Everyone talks and shouts over each other and Harry can't understand a thing.
"Silence!" Mr. Weasley, to Harry's surprise, shouts louder than anyone else and everyone closes their mouths, seemingly as surprised as Harry.
The man looks around the table at all the faces.
"He must know," he says firmly.
"I agree, it's not for us to decide," Lupin speaks, calmer than Arthur.
"Decide? Decide?" Mrs. Weasley screeches similarly to that strange owl in the cage. “What is there to decide!?"
“Will anyone tell me what's going on?” Harry jumps in, only because he doesn’t think he can go another second without knowing.
After another long silence, Lupin speaks up.
“This won’t be easy to hear, Harry,” he says and pauses, letting Harry marinate in it.
“Nothing is easy to hear these days. Get on with it," the boy shoots back, quite agitated now.
Another pause. How bad can it be? Judging from all the sour faces around the table, it is bad. Has someone died?
“You got a letter. Which we opened," Lupin says, his eyes on the black spot on the table. “It was from You-Know-Who."
Harry's backpack slides off his shoulder and hits the ground.
"Where is it? What did it say?" He asks, almost excited, burning to know.
Harry needs to know what Voldemort is thinking. Harry is the younger of the two and that means Voldemort has lived 70 years without a soulmark. Maybe he believed he didn’t have a soulmate at all, so now, getting one out of the blue has to be a shock and that silence has to mean something. How does he feel seeing Harry’s name on his wrist? After all this time and the fact, it is Harry of all people. Someone he wants dead. Maybe this is going to change things. Maybe somewhere in his wretched soul, he will find a sliver of compassion. Harry doubts it but maybe it is enough to derail his plans.
“It burned once we read it. He wants a meeting,” Lupin says so quietly, Harry almost doesn’t catch it.
He feels all the blood in his face drain. No, surely not.
“A peaceful meeting, he wrote. He told you to bring us if you need to,” Tonks adds.
Harry is stunned into silence. There are too many thoughts in his head, too many questions but the main one: why? Why would Voldemort ever want a meeting with the Order? A peaceful one? And what makes him believe the Order would ever agree?
“It’s ridiculous we’re even considering this,” says Mrs. Weasley. “A peaceful meeting? His promise is as good as nothing. It's an obvious trap.”
“There is only one way to find out. If there is a chance to bargain, we shall take it.” As Lupin speaks, he looks at Harry and not the others as if he’s trying to convince him alone.
“You can't honestly believe that!” Mr. Weasley raises his voice and it seems awfully not like him. “Do you think he will throw away his whole ideology if we ask very nicely?
“Yes, if Harry is the one asking,” Lupin says with such conviction that Harry almost believes him.
“That’s bloody unlikely,” Ron snorts, arms crossed and glaring at Harry. “Are we forgetting who we’re talking about?”
“Ron is quite right,” Mr. Weasley nods at his son.” The… situation might have changed Voldemort's view on Harry but that doesn’t mean he’s willing to stop the war for something he can’t even feel. We all know what he really wants from Harry.”
“What does he want?” Harry asks, now confused.
“What he always wants– more power.”
Harry frowns, looking around for answers. No one meets his eyes.
“Of course you don't know,” Hermione mumbles, looking at him like a kicked puppy again.
“Don’t know what?” He feels his heart sink with every second of silence. He looks at Hermione pleading for answers.
“There's a ritual, I think that's what everyone is thinking.” She bites her lip before continuing. “A soul-bonding ritual, one only soulmates can perform. Highly frowned upon, considering it's dark magic, not that Voldemort would care. It's horrible, it's a blood ritual and–" Hermione suddenly stops, her face going awfully red. “W-well I don't know the specifics, but it doesn't connect just people's souls, it connects their magic too. He would be able to use you, Harry. God knows what he could do with the power of two.”
Harry’s chest begins to ache again, not that it has stopped. Of course, Voldemort would want to use him.
“He wants to steal my magic?” Harry asks, and he feels like he can’t breathe again.
“That’s not necessarily the case,” Lupin jumps in again. “He knows what the ritual implies and I doubt that even someone like Voldemort is willing to perform it.”
“What does it imply?” Harry asks again.
Mrs. Weasley suddenly stands up. Harry didn’t even notice that she hadn’t said a word this whole time. She walks over to Harry and places her hands on his shoulders. “It’s nothing you should worry about, dear.”
“He must know,” Lupin raises his voice a little. Not much, but the difference is clear.
“He’s a child!” She protests.
Harry shakes Mrs. Weasley’s hands off of him. “I am not a child. I’m seventeen, aren’t I? I’m of age, I’m an adult. I am sick and tired of people not telling me anything. For fuck sake, Lord Voldemort is my soulmate and I deserve to know what he wants to do with me! You can’t expect me to face him without knowing. Either you tell me or I’ll find someone who will.”
Everyone stares at Harry. Silence swallows the room and no explanation comes. Harry doesn’t know what he expected; they never tell him anything. He looks at everyone’s faces, all full of that sickening pity. Right, this is how things are now. Finally, Lupin clears his throat, saving everyone from the awkward silence.
“You-Know-Who asks to meet Harry tomorrow at midnight in a location of his choosing." Lupin points at the owl. “We need to send our response by tomorrow. And it is Harry's choice to make."
“I’ll go,” says Harry without any thought. Several mouths open to protest, but he speaks first. “Lupin is right, if we can bargain, we should. If it can save lives, I’ll do anything.”
“Harry, you mustn’t. Not this,” Hermione says.
Harry presses his lips into a thin line.
“I’m not asking for permission.” he picks up his backpack from the floor. “Either you help me or I’m leaving this instant and doing this on my own.”
No one speaks. Harry’s angry, he knows it, he knows his words came out harsher than he meant to, yet it is the only way they listen.
“That’s what I thought,” He says and rubs at his forehead. “I’ll think of where the meeting should be later.”
Harry leaves before anyone can say another word.
He spends the evening in his room. Pacing, mostly, which in his mind is an improvement from whatever trance he was in for the past two days. The skin on his wrist is raw; he hasn’t been able to keep his nails away from it, trying and failing to claw the words off his skin. It has become an impulse to reach for it, to hurt it as if he were hurting Voldemort himself.
Harry wants him dead and yet... He wants to kill him with his own two hands, no magic and yet... He wants to rip him to pieces for taking everything he held dear in his life – his parents, his childhood, his peace and now, even the possibility of love. He hates that man, he hates him more than anything. And yet he knows if it comes to fruition, he could not raise a finger. Who in their right mind would want their soulmate dead? Who would ever attempt to kill them? Even if his soulmate is Voldemort.
A knock on the door startles Harry out of his thoughts. He stops in his tracks and looks down at his wrist. It’s bleeding, his nails deep in the flesh. He didn’t think it was possible to hurt himself this much.
“Can I come in, Harry?” It’s Lupin’s voice behind the door.
“Sure,” Harry says as he rolls down his sleeve to hide the blood and sits down on the bed.
The man walks into the room gingerly and closes the doors behind him. Harry can’t help but notice the book he’s holding.
“How are you?” Lupin asks and Harry thinks he might vomit if he hears that question again.
He doesn't answer, he just looks away at the floor. Lupin walks over to him and Harry feels the bed dip beside him.
“I see,” he says. “Sorry about earlier. We all just want what’s best for you… and for the wizarding world.”
“I get it,” Harry says, but doesn’t mean it.
“But I still believe you have the right to know. About the ritual, I mean,” Lupin holds out the book. “I thought it would be less awkward if you read about it yourself.”
“Thanks,” Harry takes the book from the man’s hands, hoping he doesn’t notice the blood. It is not a thick book but an old one. The cover reads ’Soulmarks, Soulbonds and Other Soul Magic’.
“And, Harry?”
“Yes?” He lifts his eyes from the book.
“Just not to scare you too much, for the ritual to work both parties must be consenting. He can not take it from you by force. I think that’s what tomorrow is all about – trying to convince you.”
Harry nods.
"I thought you said that that's not what he wants."
"I think it's both, even if he himself would refuse to admit it," Lupin says and Harry snorts. “That's why you're going to meet him, against all reasons and logic."
"What do you mean?"
"What I mean, Harry, is that everyone only gets one soulmate, and soulmarks are never wrong."
"You seem awfully calm about this, I mean, Voldemort? That's worse than a death sentence."
"I know what it’s like to lose a soulmate, Harry, and trust me: a death sentence is preferable." Remus gives Harry what must be the saddest smile ever. “I’ll leave you to it then.” He nods to himself and, without another word, he leaves Harry alone.
The silence in the room is heavy but he doesn’t mind it. He opens the book, eager and begins to read.
Harry knows a fair bit about soulmates. He knows only wizards have them, muggles don’t, and he knows it is an ancient magic. When he heard about soulmates in his first year at Hogwarts, he was quite weirded out by it. In his defence, he was at the age when any kind of romance seemed disgusting, especially snogging. But when he got older, he became quite excited about the idea. A perfect person for you; a person meant to love you no matter what, sounded like a wonder to Harry.
Now the thought only hurts.
The first chapter of the book is about the origins of soulmates. A story Harry knows only vaguely. It sounds more like a fairytale to him. Apparently, very long ago, way before Hogwarts was even built, lived a very powerful witch. The light of her magic caught the eye of a young, ambitious dark wizard. He was fascinated by her power and started to court her. The witch quickly fell in love with him. She fell so deeply in love that she didn’t see that the wizard’s goals were filled with nothing but envy.
One night, the wizard, after learning of an ancient dark spell, came to her, intending to take her magic for himself. But he failed. The spell was one of the darkest and the witch’s magic was undoubtedly light and pure. The spell backfired, killing the wizard and giving his power to the witch. She never felt a heartbreak so strong and with her new magic, the mix of good and evil, she made a wish. A wish so pure that the universe listened to her. She wished that no one were to fall in love with a person who was to hurt them, that everyone was to find a soul that was surely meant for them.
Since then, every wizard carries the name of the person they ought to love on their wrist. A mark that only the person and their soulmate can see. Not once in all these years has the mark been wrong.
Harry frowns at the book. That doesn't make any sense. Everyone knows that people can still fall in love with people who aren’t their soulmates and they still can be heartbroken. Even soulmates can break each other’s hearts. Harry of all people knows this.
But it is just a spell after all. It isn’t perfect. The only thing soulmarks do is give you a name. Although Harry hasn’t heard of any soulmates that weren’t happy. Maybe soulmarks only give you the name of the soul that fits yours; it doesn't mean the two people don’t have to put in work.
Harry shakes his head and reads on.
The next few chapters are quite boring. They talk about how the marks can’t be removed and how marks appear on the wrists on the night of the younger of the two seventeenth birthday, and why only the two can see each other’s marks. All the stuff Harry already knows.
He flips another page and there, folded in half, lies a piece of paper that clearly doesn’t belong to the book. It is older and the paper is a dark yellowish colour. Harry unfolds it and quickly realises he has found his answer.
It is an illustration, a beautiful one at that. It shows two people (and Harry can't put it differently) having sex. They look like they float in water, it's quite hard to tell whose limbs are whose. Their eyes are closed and they look so much at peace, heads turned to one other, foreheads pressed together. On both of their chests, in vertical lines, are carved runes, and their necks are marked with bite marks and blood drips from both their mouths, running down their chins.
Harry feels his face heating. He knows a bit about sexual magic. No one teaches it at Hogwarts, of course, but kids talk. Harry rarely listened to them; he didn't find it interesting in the slightest, but he was aware of it.
Is that the ritual? Is that what Voldemort wants?
Surely not...
Harry has felt fear many times in his life. He’s been scared for his own life, for his friends' lives and for the faith of the whole wizarding world. But the fear he feels at this moment is different.
The connection between the Dark Lord and Harry is already unbearable. To do this, to be violated by him… to be his, in every possible way. Harry can’t bear the thought.
Harry suddenly feels very weak and very, very small. He sticks the piece of paper back into the book and throws it across the room.
Harry doesn’t sleep that night; he simply can’t. He thinks about that damned ritual. Against his will his head fills with images, images of runes on the skin and blood and red eyes. And then he imagines something else, something that feels like a disgrace and betrayal. It’s wrong, just so, so wrong but nevertheless, Harry imagines hands on his body, sharp and cold, exploring everything he has, trailing down his curves. He imagines nails and skin breaking and… lips.
Harry’s stomach promptly twists with disgust and he runs to the toilet to vomit.
He doesn’t think about that anymore. He thinks of all the people who died because of Voldemort, all the innocent lives. He lets himself be angry for them, he lets himself cry over them. He needs to because if he doesn’t he might lose himself.