Chapter Text
The first night after the graveyard, Harry Potter expected nightmares. He was prepared, even going so far as to cast a silencing charm around his bed once Madam Pomfrey had finally left him alone in the hospital wing. He didn’t want her waking up and fussing over him when he screamed himself awake; he’d had enough nightmares after Quirrel, the basilisk, and the Dementors that he knew he wouldn’t be quiet. So when he opened his eyes onto a flat, grey landscape, he was more confused than afraid.
Harry, like every other Hogwarts student, had been taught about soulmate dreams in his first year. They were exciting, wonderful, and greatly anticipated by every witch and wizard. They were also supposed to happen after the younger soulmate had reached adulthood. Harry’s breathing quickened as he glanced all around himself. He wasn’t seventeen. He hadn’t graduated Hogwarts. There was no way he could possibly be considered an adult. Was this a trap? Was his mind dragging up some new fear?
A figure stood behind him, just a dark grey silhouette with blurred features, and Harry took a step back. His soulmate. He should be excited, but the last 24 hours had left him on edge. His soulmate was older than him, obviously, and also very clearly male. When had an older man ever signified anything but pain for him?
“You’re here,” his soulmate murmured.
His voice was a clear tenor, filled with such wonder. Almost reverent, but with an eager possessiveness that sent a thrill up Harry’s spine. He wasn’t sure if it was good or bad, and that disconcerted him even more.
“You know what this is, don’t you?” the man asked.
“A dream,” Harry said.
“A soulmate dream,” he corrected quickly. “Pardon my enthusiasm. I have been awaiting you for a very long time.”
There was a muffled echo as the man—Harry’s soulmate—crossed the distance between them. Harry staggered backwards, reaching for a wand that didn’t exist in this dreamscape. He cursed and clenched his fists at his side, feeling distinctly vulnerable. The man froze, frowning at him. The grey magic of the soulmate dream kept his features blurred, but Harry was relieved to know he would at least be able to tell if his soulmate was feeling particularly angry or violent. This man looked more confused than angry, though.
“You expect to need to defend yourself?” he asked.
“Force of habit,” Harry bit out.
He was breathing shallowly, remembering the last time he’d needed to defend himself, six hours ago. Even in the dreamscape, his right arm burned where Wormtail had cut him open. He shook, recognizing the feeling of panic creeping in.
“What has happened that you should develop such a habit?” the main said, concern evident in his voice. “Who has hurt you?”
Harry could barely hear him over Voldemort’s cruel laughter echoing in his ears.
“No one,” he made himself say. “Just…part of being me.”
“You’re being threatened,” the man said. “Tell me who it is. I’ll make sure they never harm you again.”
He stepped forward again, and Harry flinched violently. He couldn’t breathe suddenly. The man was Wormtail, grinning in front of him with a silver knife. He was Voldemort, pressing a finger to his burning scar. He was casting the Imperius, the Cruciatus, the Killing Curse. There was a vice grip on Harry’s shoulders and he struggled to get away, get free. Someone was shouting at him, and Harry was suddenly back in his uncle’s home, Vernon Dursley shaking him so hard his teeth rattled. Tears burned in his eyes, but he refused to make a sound, even as they spilled over onto his cheeks.
The grip on his shoulders loosened, slid around his back. The shouting was gone, and in its place was a low insistent murmur. Harry was being pressed into something soft and firm and warm—into someone. He hiccuped through his tears, unsure of what was panic and what was reality. He was still on Privet Drive, still in the graveyard, but he was also in a flat grey plain being held gently by a man a whole head taller than himself.
“Breathe, my soul,” the man murmured. “You’re safe. No one can harm you here. Come back to me.”
Harry sucked in a shaky breath, trying desperately to do as he was told. Ron told him those things too when Harry’s nightmares woke him in the boys’ dormitory. A hand was rubbing his back gently, and somehow it was helping the tension leak from his body. He breathed. In and out, shuddering after each exhale. A hand had found its way into his hair, almost petting him while he tried desperately to calm down.
“That’s good. Keep breathing. You’re safe here. You’re doing so well, my soul. Can you hear me? You’re doing wonderfully.”
Through the lessening panic, Harry felt himself flush with pleasure at the praise. No one had ever told him that, not with that gentle, soothing tone. His breathing had slowed to something more normal, and the tears had stopped coming. He recognized at last that his soulmate was holding him and murmuring into his ear. Harry turned his head slightly so his nose was not pressed directly into the man’s robes, but he didn’t push away. He didn’t trust the man—how could he?—but he was so tired, and the embrace was so unexpectedly comforting. He didn’t think he could keep himself upright on his own.
“Are you back with me, my soul?”
Harry nodded.
“You had a panic attack.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“I didn’t realize that could happen in a soulmate dream,” the man said slowly. “Was it something I said or did?”
“No,” Harry whispered. “Today was…a bad day.”
“Are you in danger?”
“Not right now.”
The man’s arms tightened around him ever so slightly.
“Tell me who you are,” he said. “I will make sure you are never in danger again.”
Harry couldn’t help smiling wistfully.
“You can’t promise that,” he said. “You can’t protect me from everyone.”
His soulmate—and how odd was it that, now that all the adrenaline had left his system, that Harry could think of him like that so easily—pulled back just enough to look down at him. It was disconcerting without being able to see his eyes clearly. They were eye shaped and paler than his skin.
“I am the most powerful wizard in the world,” he said solemnly. “Whoever you are afraid of, I will protect you, my soul. I swear it.”
Harry stilled. The most powerful wizard in the world.
“Who are you?” he asked, stepping back and out of his soulmate’s embrace. His back felt cold where the man’s arms had been.
His soulmate smiled gently and let him go without a fuss.
“Would you like to guess?” he asked.
Harry swallowed. The most powerful wizard in the world was Dumbledore…and Voldemort. He would have recognized Dumbledore in an instant.
“You Know Who,” he said, deliberately not using his name. No one used his name but Harry and Dumbledore, that Harry knew.
“Yes, though Marvolo might be more appropriate.”
Holy shit. Voldemort is my soulmate. He expected the panic to return, but it merely skittered under his skin uncomfortably.
“I can protect you from anyone,” Voldemort said. “Let me protect you.”
“You’re…you’re a murderer,” Harry said shakily. “You don’t protect, you torture people. How could I possibly trust you?”
“We’re soulmates,” Voldemort replied. “I would never let you come to harm, especially at my own hand. I know you are young. How much do you know about what it means to be a soulmate?”
“Enough,” Harry bit out, “to know there’s no way in hell I’m giving you my name. Pardon my caution, but I have no reason to trust you won’t kill me too.”
Voldemort—a shudder ran up his spine—stepped close, bringing one hand up to cup the back of Harry’s head. Before he could jerk away, Voldemort had wrapped him in a tight hug.
“I have waited for you for my whole life,” he said. “You are the most important person in this world. My soul. My everything. Whether or not you believe me right now, I will do whatever it takes to ensure your safety.”
Even from you?
Harry swallowed. Did he dare say it? His hands were shaking where they hung at his side, and occasionally they spasmed wildly. After-effects from the Cruciatus, Pomfrey had said. That’s right. This was still the same Voldemort who had tortured him. Who had used two Unforgivable Curses on him and attempted the third.
“I don’t trust you,” Harry whispered.
“You will.”
Voldemort brushed his hand over Harry’s forehead to smooth away a lock of hair, and the panic in Harry’s blood snapped to the surface. I can touch you now.
He screamed, eyes flying open as he jerked awake. The hospital wing was dark and empty, the silencing charm still in tact. Harry stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face to fully wake himself.
Voldemort was his soulmate.
He sobbed. Your soulmate was supposed to be the person whose magic complemented you best in the whole world. They were supposed to love, protect, and support you no matter what. One of the first lessons that first years were taught, though, was that soulmates were not always to be trusted, not at first. There were rare instances where a person was abused or even killed by their soulmate. The younger soulmate was always cautioned to keep their identity secret at first, to ensure their soulmate was trustworthy.
As if Harry would ever tell Voldemort his name. Voldemort said Harry was the most important person in the world, but he wouldn’t say that if he knew Harry’s name. It would be difficult, of course, to keep Voldemort from finding out. They would share each other’s dreams every night until they bonded their magic. If Harry simply refused to interact with him, though, it might be possible to keep Voldemort from figuring it out.
He ran a hand through his hair, shaky from both the Cruciatus and the horrible revelation that he and Voldemort were tied to each other in yet another way, even beyond his damned scar. This was what he had to look forward to every night. He wondered how he would ever get any sleep, and instead lay in bed, eyes wide open, waiting for dawn.