Chapter Text
As the seventh month died, two babies born with the potential to bring an end to a Dark Lord’s reign came as beacons of hope to a war-torn world. Marked by prophecy as they’d been, the Potters and Longbottoms retreated into hiding using the strongest of protective charms, a Fidelius, in an effort to protect their children from a gruesome fate.
It was for naught.
Over a year later, as the tenth month died, the rat responsible for keeping the prestigious families safe betrayed them, leading to the brutal massacre of the Potters and Longbottoms. In his escape of a bloodthirsty dog, the rat killed several Muggles, and used the chaos to fake his own death.
The massacre of the Longbottoms went as so:
Fanatics broke into their house, torturing them with constant application of the Cruciatus curse. It is said that to experience the Unforgivable for a single minute leads to permanent nerve damage, and it only takes five to devolve into insanity. Alice and Frank Longbottom were subjected to it for three hours. The pair of soulmates had vowed to stay together in sickness and in health, and they made their vow true, entering the Janus Thickey Ward as one in their madness. Their minds were broken, but they had each other.
The massacre of the Potters went as so:
The Dark Lord Voldemort himself entered the Potters’ residence in Godric’s Hollow, and effortlessly dispatched of the father. The patriarch’s body cooled, and the soul lilies around his wrists weeped. A choked sob came from the nursery.
Alone, with no one to protect her, Lily Evans stood in the way of Lord Voldemort and her son, with only a pair of already cracking soul antlers in hand to defend herself. The beautiful ivory antlers that had been painted on her forehead were shattered, and had rotted black.
The Dark Lord Voldemort hesitated to dispatch the matriarch, not in a latent bout of sympathy, but because a faithful servant, an unmatched suitor, had gathered the courage enough to ask him to do so.
Even after having been given the chance to live, even after having felt the loss of her soulmate in her very core, Lily Evans stood her ground and refused the Dark Lord three times. The nursery filled with a love-based protection, one that was entirely centered on her son.
It was as much Harry Potter’s salvation as it was his undoing.
Lily Evans fell, unremarkably, giving Lord Voldemort way to cast the Killing Curse on the infant Harry Potter. The spell required an immense amount of power, yet it had taken minimal effort for the Dark Lord to cast it three times in a row.
“Avada Kedavra,” he’d said to the startled James Potter. The bracelet made of painted lilies on his wrist had wilted upon his soulmate’s death, then turned black.
“Avada Kedavra,” he’d said to the frightened Lily Evans. The crown of antlers that she’d worn with pride had fragmented upon her soulmate’s death, then turned black.
“Avada Kedavra,” he said to the ignorant Harry Potter. The spell hit.
But Voldemort had also been ignorant, entirely unknowing of what he’d just done.
Harry Potter had borne no soulmark prior to that fateful night. Had Magic had her way, then eleven days later, he’d have been matched to a girl with fiery red hair and an equally fiery personality. A painted bat would’ve bloomed on the tip of his nose, denoting her future fascination with a certain hex.
But with the love magic strongly present in the room and the surge of energy from the Avada Kedavra, magic itself was defied for the sixth time by Lord Voldemort, albeit this time unintentionally.
Lord Voldemort had turned Harry Potter into his soulmate.
A rule of magic deep was that a soulmate could not harm their fated pair, lest they suffer the consequence. It was a rule unknown, since it had never crossed the minds of any bonded pair to hurt the one that had been marked as their equal.
The spell rebounded and hit its caster.
And after Voldemort turned into a spectre, Harry Potter was left alone in his crib, a jagged lightning bolt in the middle of his forehead. That scar, the one that had been forcibly carved into his flesh, was—despite how despicable it was to Magic herself—little Harry’s soulmark.
An old headmaster, haunted by past sins he’d never escape, found the infant boy in the middle of the wreckage. He scooped him up then left the boy with his aunt and her family, hoping they’d teach young Harry the importance of humility and compassion, and care for him as one should a nephew.
Petunia shakily took the baby in, and recognized the mark that was on her nephew’s forehead. She did not grow up in a world of magic, but every summer she grew up with someone who did, who’d showed off her antlers proudly every time she could.
Petunia Dursley knew that soulmarks had power, and more importantly, that the mark on the innocent boy’s head meant death. Estranged as she may have been from her sister, she knew that the orphan abandoned on her doorstep was the one responsible for Lily’s death.
The old headmaster had not foreseen that a grieving sister would blame her nephew, nor that the Wizarding World’s hope would grow up mistreated.
Neglect and starvation ended becoming little Harry’s closest friends.
On Harry’s 11th birthday, a complete life switch was heralded by a friendly half-giant with a green cake and magical umbrella. With the Dursleys cowering in a corner, Hagrid recounted the true story of how Harry’s parents died.
They hadn’t died in a car accident, but at the hands of a ruthless Dark Lord.
“‘Ey were jus’ the perfec’ soulmates,” he sniffed. “A shame what happen’ to ‘em.”
“Soulmate?” Harry asked. “What’s a soulmate?”
The glare Hagrid sent the Dursleys this time was downright murderous. “Yeh did no’ tell ‘im about ‘is parents, yeh did no’ tell ‘im ‘e’s a wizard, bu’ now yeh tell me ‘e don’ know ‘e ‘as someone special waitin’ fer ‘im?” He calmed himself down and smiled at Harry.
“‘Arry, a soulmate is someone who’ll cherish yeh. Magic ‘erself chose a person for yeh. So go on, show me. Wha’s yer soulmark?” He sat down and waited expectantly. It was something he’d been eager to know for years.
“I don’t have any marks on me,” Harry said, concerned. “The only thing I have is my scar. Could that be my soulmark?”
Worry passed over Hagrid’s face. “No, that canno’ be yer soulmark. Yer sure yeh don’ got no mark? No fancy colours on yer skin?” Harry shook his head. “We’ll have to see Dumbledore abou’ tha’,” he said solemnly. “Jus’ yeh wait, ‘e’ll fix that. ‘E’ll fix yeh up good.”
Hagrid meant well, he really did.
But all Harry heard was that even by Wizarding standards, he was a freak.
Professor Quirrell, Harry thought, is an odd fellow.
To get into Diagon Alley, they had to pass through The Leaky Cauldron, a crowded and lively pub, where Hagrid jollily greeted the intensely stuttering wizard. He introduced the two of them, and Quirrell shakily extended his hand. Since there wasn’t anything particularly negative or noticeable about the man, except for his nervousness, Harry shook it.
It wasn’t a meeting Harry was able to ruminate on for long since he was soon mobbed by several fans. Hagrid practically had to beat them off of him to get to Diagon Alley.
Diagon Alley was enormous, magic pouring off of it from head to toe. Flying suitcases trailed behind their owners autonomously and merchants sold trinkets and baubles that glowed and spun and changed shape. Dizzying colors gleamed from every angle, encouraging customers to enter the lively stores.
In all his years of living, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
The first stop was a mighty bank, surprisingly not of Wizarding make. Goblins, small and grumpy little creatures, viciously protected wealth and gold as if their lives depended on it. With a quick few words, Hagrid was able to get the noble beings to take them to a vault that held various treasures, but only removed a glowing stone. Then it was time for Harry’s trust fund.
Galleons and Sickles and Knuts sparkled from their precariously tall piles. Never had Harry laid his eyes on so many riches, and it was impossible to believe that it was all his. Harder still to believe that all of that was but a fraction of the money he’d eventually inherit.
The gold coins hung heavy in his pocket when he left.
The next stop was Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. Hagrid went off to buy ice cream, but he wasn’t alone for long. A blond chattermouth was getting fitted by floating tape measures.
“—And anyway, I’ve got plans to go wait around Gringotts—have you already gone over there?—and maybe see if I could catch sight of my soulmate. I know it’s got to be someone rich, and definitely a Pureblood, since there’s no way that someone who isn’t would have a lot in their vault. But other than that, I would just have to—”
“Why do you think your soulmate’s rich?” Harry ended up asking, wanting to satisfy his curiosity about soulmates, even if he didn’t quite like the other boy.
The chattermouth hopped off his stool, ignoring Madam Malkin’s protest and shoved his hand in Harry’s face. “You see that? That’s a Galleon. A Galleon. In the very palm of my hand.” And indeed, a golden coin, just like the ones Harry had seen in his own vault, was magically painted in the other boy’s palm. It had an interesting design, with a flaming phoenix stamped on it, and a serial number that changed every few seconds.
“Don’t tell me you’re new to this,” he moaned. “Soulmarks represent your soulmate. I’ve had it analyzed by several renowned fortune tellers, and they all agree it’s an auspicious mark. That’s why I’m so certain that I’ll meet them around Gringotts. Say, what’s your mark?”
Dread crawled into Harry. The way this boy talked about soulmarks showed that it was a common conversational topic, like sports, or the weather. Under no circumstances could he reveal that he didn’t have one.
He was saved from answering when Madam Malkin abruptly declared that she was done measuring Harry. Without another word, he bolted out of the store and rejoined Hagrid, who gave him a giant vanilla ice cream cone.
The day continued without further incident, at least until Harry got his wand.
The inside of Ollivander’s was dark, almost in contrast with the pale glowing eyes coming from the unblinking owner. “Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. She had the noblest of antlers upon her brow.”
He stepped closer. “Your father, on the other hand, had demure lilies around both wrists, poisonous in nature. They made such a pair, the two. One came after the other, into my humble shop, missing their fated reunion by mere seconds.”
Ollivander got even closer, and somberly observed Harry’s scar. “I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it.” With a bony and white finger, he touched Harry’s scar, a terrible understanding dawning upon him. “Oh, Tom, what have you done?”
An echo twisted in on itself, ashamed.
“Mr. Ollivander?” Harry tried. “I’m here for my wand?”
With that, the shop owner approached one of the many boxes and shuffled his hand around before shaking his head, heading to a deeper part of his own store, rummaging around for a while, and mournfully returning with a locked case.
A simple incantation, and that lock undid itself.
Inside was a beautiful hawthorn wand, 11 inches long, nice and supple, with a phoenix feather as its core.
“Try this one,” said Ollivander. “I must find out if it’s yours.”
No sooner had Harry grasped the wand that a firework burst out, and lights danced on the wall.
Ollivander looked as if he’d just been gutted.
“Take it and go,” he said. “Take it and go.”
On September 1st, Harry looked around for Platform 9¾, to no avail. There was Platform 9, Platform 10, and a few columns in between. All hope appeared lost until a loud and eclectic group of redheads appeared, squabbling all the while.
With the kindly mother’s help, Harry was able to get to the magical platform and see the Hogwarts Express.
There was a young redheaded girl with a fluttering Snitch on her tongue. This girl was Ginny Weasley, and should’ve been Harry’s soulmate. Maybe had they met, had they had a fated reunion, then maybe a new soulmark would’ve bloomed on Harry’s skin. A bat on his nose.
Ultimately, that was only a hypothetical. Harry boarded the Hogwarts Express without meeting Ginny Weasley, still bonded to Lord Voldemort.
He did, however, manage to meet Ron Weasley, who was incredibly sociable.
They chatted for a while until something caught his eye. “Can I see your hand?” he asked. Startled, Ron agreed without hesitation, revealing a Galleon stamped with a flaming phoenix, and a constantly shifting serial number. “I’ve seen this before.”
Ron grew pale. “Are you sure, mate?” He pointed at it. “I have a phoenix, not just a bird. And the numbers on the coin change! Are you sure, mate?” He shook Harry back and forth.
Harry nodded as he was getting manhandled to death.
“No. No! This isn’t good,” he fretted. “Oh no, I can’t be an unmatched suitor. Oh, Fred and George would make fun of me!” Ron looked at his soulmark as if it just told him he’d never be loved and end up alone. For all Harry knew, that was very well what being an unmatched suitor meant.
“What’s an unmatched suitor?” Harry asked. Could Ron have a weird soulmark thing as well?
“Just the worst thing ever!” he moaned.
After several minutes of consoling the despondent redhead, Harry was finally able to actually get a straight answer out of him. “A person can only have one soulmate, but sometimes two wizards have the same soulmate. That person is the desired suitor, and the wizard they’re matched to is the matched suitor, but if someone’s the unmatched suitor, then that means Magic has rebuked them. Magic itself says that this person would’ve been perfect for you, but because of some defect, you’re not perfect for them.”
“So if you’re an unmatched suitor, then that means you’re a certified ass.”
“Essentially, yeah,” Ron sniffed. “You’d tell me if I was rude, right?”
“Sure,” Harry promised. Knowing what he knew now, Harry was certain that the boy he met at Madam Malkin’s was the unmatched suitor. But just to check, Harry asked what he expected of his soulmate.
“Ah,” he blushed. “Someone who's fierce, and wicked smart. That's what I think the phoenix and numbers mean.” Much better than the chattermouth.
“Okay. Okay,” Ron breathed. “Say, who did you see with my soulmark?”
But Harry didn't get the chance to respond. The door to the compartment opened with a bang, and a serious girl with a bushy mane stood imperiously. “Neville lost his toad, you haven't seen it, have you?”
When they shook their heads, she stayed. “I'm sorry, were you talking about soulmarks? I find it all fascinating.” She took a seat right next to Ron. “I have a black rook, bishop, and knight, with a golden crown attached to the knight.” Having drawn up the sleeve of her robe, the three chess pieces were now visible on her forearm. Oddly enough, the knight stood in front of the other two protectively. “I don't quite know what they mean.”
“Let me have a look then,” Ron said, prompting the girl to offer up her arm.
A copy of the chess pieces fell into his hand, and he fumbled to make sure he didn't drop any of them, or the coin that had spawned in his other hand.
Once he had the four pieces stable in his grip, he cupped his hands together and held them.
“Oh,” he said.
“Oh,” she echoed.
Harry had the nagging suspicion he was intruding on what was supposed to be a private moment.
“Uh, how do you do? Soulmate?” Ron fumbled.
“Hermione,” she answered, her cheeks now pink. “And, erm, you've got dirt on your nose.”
Flustered, she left the compartment, but not before pilfering the coin.
Ron rounded on Harry, stars sparkling in his eyes. “Mate, did that really just happen?” He gazed at the soul pieces. “These are me then,” he said, tracing the crowned knight.
A part of Harry was happy for Ron, of course he was. On the other hand, Ron had only had to deal with the possibility of being an unmatched suitor for a few minutes at most.
“She didn't get your name, did she?”
Ron’s soul visibly left his body.
Ron was soon resuscitated on the boat ride led by Hagrid, where he was able to properly introduce himself to his soulmate. Her face covered by her curls, Hermione apologized for rushing away. “We could…sit together, if you want,” she offered. The two of them were cute, side by side as they were.
“Red hair and hand-me-down robes?” a sudden voice sneered. “You must be a Weasley.” The chatterbox had returned, unfortunately.
“Flaming coin with shifting numbers on your palm?” Harry shot back. “You must be an unmatched suitor.” Now let it be known that the blond had been naturally pale, but after Harry’s words, he looked downright anemic.
“But—? How—?” he fumbled, before quickly composing himself. “What makes you so certain that I’m the unmatched suitor? For all we know, it could be the weasel.”
“Maybe because of this?” Hermione said, holding up her Galleon mark. “Do I have another soulmate?”
“Let me see,” he said, yanking her arm. She yelped, but he ignored it. “Chess pieces, yes, yes, and a crowned knight. Clearly this is meant to represent the illustrious Malfoy family because…because of something, surely.”
“Get off of her, you bugger,” Ron snarled. To protect the distressed maiden’s honor, he swung.
A quick reminder that they were on a boat. A very small boat, where abrupt movement could cause it to quickly capsize.
The first years arrived at Hogwarts soaking wet.
The only people not glaring at Ron were Harry and Hermione. And Hagrid was too busy taking care of the soaked kids to do so, but likely wouldn’t have anyway.
A stern-faced woman with a tight bun was waiting for them at the door. She observed the damp status of the newcomers with thin lips. “Why in Merlin’s name are the students wet?” At Hagrid’s sheepish expression, she sighed and shook her head. “Nevermind.”
A quick flick of her wand and they were all dry, and in fact, a little bit warm, too. The joys of magic.
The doors to the Grand Hall swung open with a resounding bang, and a solemn hush descended over the rowdy crowd.
A heated debate with a sentient hat later, Harry sat happily at the Gryffindor table. There was more food than he’d ever seen in his life. And he could eat as much as he wanted. And even get seconds!
That had never happened before.
Ron had been apologizing profusely to Hermione when the twins swept in to embarrass him.
“We heard,” one said.
“That our,” the other continued.
“Ickle Ronniekins—”
“Got himself—”
“A soulmate,” they finished together.
Gossip sure travelled fast.
Ron groaned. Hermione took amusement in her soulmate's suffering. She laughed demurely, covering her buck teeth with her hand.
As he ate, Harry watched the High Table. A slight commotion was occurring. Hagrid was clumsily making his way from his seat (at the very end of the table) to the Headmaster (who was at the very center). Several ‘oops’ and ‘‘scuse me’s emanated from the half-giant as he made his way past a man wearing a turban, a glowering bat that had never heard of shampoo, a pile of shawls and scarves that twitched every so often, and a kindly plump woman before finally getting to Headmaster Dumbledore and gravely whispering (at a volume that was probably audible to the rest of the High Table) and pointing at Harry.
The Gryffindor’s face instantly went flat.
Eventually noticing that Harry was staring into Hagrid’s soul, the half-giant paled.
Uneasily, Harry went back to eating, but every time he raised his head, he saw twinkling eyes boring into him. As soon as the feast ended, Dumbledore strode over until he loomed over Harry. “If you’d accompany me, my boy, I’d be much obliged.” It wasn’t a request.
The headmaster’s office was filled to the brim with spinning and whirring gadgets, much like the ones Harry’d been fascinated by in Diagon Alley, only that these were far more complex. They all flashed and sparkled, so the room was quite illuminated, providing no shadows to hide in.
The Headmaster was all-seeing, and it would not do to step a toe out of line in front of him.
“What did you need, Headmaster Dumbledore?”
“Oh, a great many things, but we’re not here to talk about myself,” he chuckled. “You see, Hagrid approached me and told me something that you might want an answer to. You said that you do not have a soulmark, correct?”
He already knew. First day into Hogwarts, first day free from the Dursleys, and Harry had already gotten himself expelled. For something not even his fault, not that that had ever mattered.
“Yes. As in, no, I don’t have one. Em, sir.”
Dumbledore nodded gravely and rifled through the overflowing drawers. “Yes, I thought that might happen.” As he rummaged, Harry noticed the strange geometric figure on the back of the wizened Headmaster’s hand. An equilateral triangle, an incircle, and a bisecting line composed the strange soulmark. The triangle and line glowed, but the circle didn’t.
Eventually, Dumbledore pulled out a silver pendant, holding it in his left hand by its chain. He held it a distance away from his right hand, yet the pendant swung to it, as if it had a chain attached to the soulmark as well. Satisfied, Dumbledore approached Harry. “This should point to wherever you have a soulmark, if you have one. If you do not, there’s no need to worry, I simply thought that you’d appreciate the clarification.”
So not having a soulmark was okay. That was if he wasn’t lying.
The pendant dangled in front of Harry before lurching forward, hanging suspended in front of his face. More accurately, it appeared tethered to his jagged scar. “I suspected that would happen,” Dumbledore hummed.
“So my scar is my soulmark?”
“No, my dear boy. To be attached to such a horrific man”—he rubbed his own soulmark unconsciously—“is completely unthinkable. No,” he said, “instead, what I believe, is that the spell sent your way when you were but an infant is now suppressing your soulmark. Rest assured, Harry, that you do indeed have a soulmate.”
“So I won’t know who they are unless I meet them,” mused Harry.
“Very perceptive,” Dumbledore praised. “Yes, if you have your fated reunion, then your soulmark will surely pop back up.”
“But what if I don’t meet them?”
The Headmaster’s eyes turned even kinder. “You will always meet your soulmate. Magic itself decrees it so.”
Each and every class Harry went to was interesting and a way to explore a new branch of magic. From Transfiguration, which could potentially turn you into an animal, to Flying, which Harry discovered he was a natural at, every subject was interesting, with teachers that clearly had a passion for teaching.
The same could not be said for the brooding Potions professor.
He volleyed question after question Harry’s way, as if he was supposed to have become a master before even stepping into the classroom. Something that Hermione was, apparently, because she had her hand up for every one of those questions.
It wasn’t as if he could have focused, anyway, not with how entranced he was by the wilted flowers on Snape’s wrists. Lilies, if Harry was right. And that could only mean one thing.
Fed up with the questions sent his way, Harry gathered up all the Gryffindor courage he could muster and asked, “Are you an unmatched suitor to my mum?” A pin dropping would’ve been deafening in the sudden silence of the dungeon. Not even the flies dared to buzz.
Harry instantly got detention. Not that he minded.
The man in the turban turned out to be Professor Quirrell, the one Harry had briefly met in The Leaky Cauldron. Every time the professor had his back to the class, he’d feel the oddest pull to go and touch it.
Harry kept on thinking about how Dumbledore had mentioned that you needed to touch your soulmate to have a fated reunion, and thus soulmates, even unmatched ones, were drawn to touch one another, but he quickly put it out of his mind. He’d already shaken Quirrell’s hand, and the DADA teacher was too old for him anyway.
Although an echo was content where it was, it yearned to be part of the whole.
In the dead of night, Harry slinked out of bed to have a duel with Malfoy, Ron at his side.
After the events of the flying lesson, where Harry had thoroughly thrashed the annoying Slytherin and managed to give Neville his Remembrall back (even if it did seem like a silly object), the two had agreed to have a midnight duel.
Hermione had objected, but unwilling to let them face danger alone, she grumpily joined them. Their numbers had grown from a stealthy two to a conspicuous three. And then they found Neville outside, further increasing the likelihood of being caught.
Even so, nothing could deter Harry Potter, except for maybe Malfoy never actually showing up for their duel and nearly being caught by Filch. Bastard.
To hide from the sadistic caretaker, they hid in a room that harboured a massive three-headed dog. Had they known there was a massive three-headed dog inside, they wouldn’t have entered. Now knowing their mistake, they rushed out of the room and into the safety of literally anywhere but there.
The trek from the third floor to the seventh, where the Gryffindor dormitory lay, was tense and silent.
Hermione bit her lip angrily when she looked at Ron, and left for bed without saying a thing. Ron slinked to bed quietly as well, wordlessly bidding the rest to do the same.
When the sun rose, Hermione refused to speak to them. In response, Ron refused to speak to Hermione. They sat right next to each other, heads turned away, often giving an exaggerated huff.
Weedling anything out of her proved to be a chore, but Harry knew her weakness: her obsessive need to show off her intellect. “Say, ‘Mione, why do you think there was a Cerberus in that room?” Her resolve strained, evident in how she moved her lips together. “Do you think that’s why the third floor is off limits?”
Not a peep.
For two seconds.
“It was guarding something,” she said quickly. “It was on top of a trap door.”
Having been victorious in getting her to crack, Harry sent her a blinding grin, to which she only grumbled in response.
She grumbled all the way to Charms, but was forced to open her mouth again when Professor Flitwick instructed them to try the spell Wingardium Leviosa. Seeing how Ron struggled with it, Hermione softened.
“It’s Leviosa, not Leviosa,” she explained.
“You do it, then, if you’re so clever,” he sniped back.
Hermione actually managing the spell on her first try did not improve his mood in the slightest. When class ended, Ron flagged for Harry to slow down, and muttered, “She’s annoying when she gets like that.”
It wasn’t said quietly enough. Hermione bumped into Harry on her way out, tears in her eyes. That was when Harry had enough.
“Ron, I couldn’t imagine fighting with my soulmate, especially over something this stupid.”
The snark and anger in Ron faded, leaving behind only guilt. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” When she didn’t appear for their next class, they got worried. For someone as studious as she was, to skip a class was unthinkable.
Unable to focus on the class, Ron anxiously split his time between biting into his nails and fiddling with the crowned knight. “I’d go look for her,” he said, “but Hogwarts is huge. I could spend years looking.”
When the class ended, Ron suddenly paled and pulled out his soul pieces. He held up the rook to his eye level, then suddenly bolted. Harry had to struggle to keep up.
Ron ignored the Halloween Feast and rushed past, tantalizing food be damned.
He kept on running, frantically muttering all the while, only stopping when he reached the girls’ restroom. Without hesitation, he opened the door (propriety also be damned), and froze.
What he saw wasn’t a girl crying her heart out alone, but of a big, ugly thing advancing on her.
Freezing appeared to be the latest trend. There was a plethora of knowledge in that brain of Hermione’s, but stuck in that situation, she was blanking. Even if she knew a spell, her muscles were frozen, unwilling to even escape.
“Oi, get away from her!” Ron shouted.
The lumbering thing paused and slowly turned around, setting its sights on Ron.
“Harry,” Ron said fearfully, “I might’ve messed up.”
The club in the troll’s hand swung in Ron’s direction. Ron hopped back and held his wand at the ready, but didn’t know any offensive spells at the top of his head either. All that he could do was jump aside when the troll swung again.
With all of the monster’s attention on Ron, Hermione was no longer in the line of fire.
“Hermione,” Harry whispered. “Come over here.”
Mutely, she shook her head.
There was no time for indecision. Harry sprinted to her, grabbed her arm, and pulled her away. The troll, seeing that his captive was now freed, looked back to where Hermione used to be, saw nothing, then looked back.
“Oi! You’ll have to get through me if you want them,” Ron bellowed, standing protectively in front of them. He then looked back and said, “Go. Get Percy.”
Hermione nodded and left to search for the prefect, or any professor she could find.
Staring the troll head on, Ron shouted, “Wingardium Leviosa!”
If he failed, then the ugly monster would go after his soulmate. Hermione would be in danger. And that was something that could never happen.
The glittering Galleon in his palm glowed brightly. A burst of magic rushed out of Ron.
The wand had been pointed at the club, but that wasn’t the only thing that was floating. Even though it weighed an ungodly number of pounds, the troll floated in the air, confused.
That was when Hermione returned, Percy at her side, Professors McGonagall, Snape, and Quirrell right behind. They all stared at the floating behemoth in a combination of shock and awe, only snapping out of it when Hermione told them to help Ron, who was dangerously swaying.
“What happened?” McGonagall asked once the troll was subdued and on the ground. “Why didn’t you go to your dormitory?”
Ron had collapsed into Hermione’s arms and was now like a puppy recharging. Hermione was too busy fretting over him to do her favorite thing in the world and answer a teacher’s question.
“We were looking for Hermione,” Harry explained, “and we heard she was in the bathroom. We didn’t know there was a troll on the loose.”
McGonagall looked shrewdly at Harry’s face, the intertwined soulmates, and the troll, before sighing. “Very well then, I can’t fault you if you didn’t know. 50 points to Gryffindor each, for having stood up to a troll and not died.
“Miss Granger, would you be willing to escort Mister Weasley to the infirmary?”
She nodded mutely.
After that, Hermione was to stop by the infirmary every other class to help Ron with what Madam Pomfrey had diagnosed as magical exhaustion. “When soulmates protect each other,” she’d explained, “they use up all the magic they can, but are often too tired after that to cast even the simplest of spells.”
She was to imbue a bit of her magic during every visit to her recovering soulmate to help him recover without being overloaded, or draining Hermione. With the constant replenishing supply, Ron was back on his feet in time for Harry’s first Quidditch match.
Gryffindor versus Slytherin, a recurring battle.
It was an amazing spectacle. Players, both red and green, whizzed through the air at breakneck speeds, rushing to get to whichever ball they were after, or to avoid any Bludgers sent their way.
With a methodic scan, Harry searched for the one that actually mattered: the Snitch.
Flying around on his Nimbus 2000, the Gryffindor win against Slytherin was practically guaranteed. But there was nothing wrong with taking a moment to enjoy the breeze that tussled his already messy hair. The feeling of being completely unbound by everything, even gravity, was freeing.
Just because, Harry did a loop de loop.
The guarantee was suddenly lost when Harry's trusty broom started trying to buck him off. It jolted this way and that, abruptly stopping and speeding up dramatically. It even occasionally rotated on its own axis, forcing Harry to adopt a white-knuckled grip.
A fall from this height would undoubtedly be fatal. What made it worse was that the broom kept climbing higher and higher. The people in the stands turned into ants and then miniscule dots. The clouds were closer to him than the ground.
It was exhilarating.
And there, nearly touching the sky, Harry saw it. The snitch.
While Harry couldn’t control the broom, he could still maneuver his own body. The broom was unwittingly approaching the flighty Snitch. Based on how both the broom and Snitch had been moving, then it would likely go under…
In a smooth motion, Harry used his legs to hang himself upside down and held his hand out. Frightened, the Snitch flew up…up into Harry’s mouth. Package secured, Harry used all of his muscles to right himself.
From the corner of his eye, Harry could see Hermione pushing and shoving her way across the stands. She spelled a poor student into the air. Professor Quirrell was knocked into the ground. She set fire to Snape’s robes.
The broom suddenly decided it liked Harry again.
The whole way down, he had his mouth clamped. The winged ball tickled the insides of his cheeks. When he finally touched down onto the ground, Harry spat out the Snitch triumphantly.
He was then swarmed by ecstatic Gryffindors.
Christmas had always been a disappointing day for Harry Potter, unwanted orphan that he was. While Dudley went on to receive whatever his heart (and stomach) desired, Harry had to content himself with the scraps the Dursleys tediously forked up.
Christmas at Hogwarts, however, proved to be magical.
Hermione had, unfortunately, gone home for the holidays, but it left Harry and Ron alone to have some fun. Ron’s idea of fun, also unfortunately, was thrashing Harry in Wizarding chess.
Each time, he’d set up the board, choose black, and replace his right bishop, knight, and rook with his soulmark pieces. Whenever Ron would checkmate him, it would often be with one of those three pieces. The prevailing hypothesis was that soulmate magic was what kept Ron on his winning streak, but there was no way to properly test it.
“Why is it that you keep those? Don’t they belong to Hermione?” Harry eventually asked.
Ron looked at his soul pieces. “Typically, if the soulmarks are objects, they’re exchanged. She has my Galleon, and I have her chess pieces. It’s how I knew she was in danger. And where she was.” He thumbed the rook.
“I don’t know what I’d’ve done had I not known she was there.”
This time, Harry actually received multiple gifts for Christmas. A first.
There was a 50 pence, from the Dursleys, a gift they surely spent several months saving up for, but there was also a lovingly knitted sweater, a flute, some Chocolate Frogs, and an Invisibility Cloak.
The first gift Harry decided to use was the Invisibility Cloak.
Technically, the second, after scarfing down on one singular Chocolate Frog—thank you, Hermione—but the essence still stands.
Regardless, Harry was now skulking around Hogwarts in the dead of night. In his defense, he was on orders from Hermione herself to search in the Restricted Section for any mention of Nicholas Flamel. Or at least he had been until a book had started yelling at him. He then ditched it as quickly as he could, and entered the nearest room to avoid bumping into Filch.
A beautiful, gleaming mirror stood alone. Runes were etched on the side, and it had an odd inscription.
Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
Had Hermione been there, she’d have probably noticed it spelled a message backwards.
Harry, still clad in his Invisibility Cloak, approached the mirror. Shockingly, he was there in the reflection. Even more shocking, he wasn’t the only one.
Hugging him were three people, two older, one younger. A beautiful witch with flaming red hair, vivid green eyes, and noble antlers on her brow. A wizard, identical in almost every way to Harry, the only differences being his brown eyes and wrinkles, as well as colorful lilies on his wrists.
It didn’t take a genius to find out who they were.
Lily Evans and James Potter, hugging him, loving him. It was how it should have been.
But Harry couldn’t recognize the boy at all.
He was tall, and had a poised curl on his forehead. He wore Slytherin robes, had warm brown eyes, and was partaking in the hug. Every so often, he’d happily kiss him on the cheek. When he laughed, Harry could see the slightest glimpse of a soulmark, a Snitch, on his tongue.
His soulmate.
It was everything Harry yearned for. Tears were forming in Harry’s eyes, forming out of pure want and grief and envy. That’s what he should’ve had. Not an extended family that preferred to keep him out of sight. He needed the love Mirror Harry received freely.
A kind hand suddenly grasped his shoulder. Startled, Harry nearly yelped.
In his trance, Harry hadn’t noticed that the cloak had fallen off of him.
“Professor,” Harry greeted, very aware that he should not even be awake at this hour.
“What did you see?” Dumbledore asked calmly.
Harry looked back. “I see…my parents, I think. And my soulmate, I believe.”
“Oh?”
“He’s a Slytherin. Looks a bit older than me.”
“I see,” Dumbledore hummed. “Does he have brown eyes? Wavy hair, perhaps, and a curl in the middle?”
“Yes! Yes! Do you know who my soulmate is?”
Looking vaguely ill, he said, “Yes, I think I do know who that is, my boy.” He didn’t offer to introduce them.
After a beat, he smiled widely, and said, “Did you know, Harry, that this is no normal mirror?” The look Harry gave him was as flat as could be. “Indeed, it shows not your face, but your heart’s desire. This…is the Mirror of Erised.”
“Professor, what is it that you see?”
Dumbledore unconsciously thumbed his soulmark again. Oddly enough, the triangle no longer glowed. “What I see? I see…” he gained a wistful look, “myself, holding a pair of woolen socks.”
Something told Harry he was lying.
A half-giant, a dragon egg, three students, and a ferret met up in a hut.
This, along with a midnight trip to the Astronomy tower, led to Harry and Hermione—and Neville for some reason—serving detention in the Forbidden Forest at midnight. The only consolation was that Malfoy, as consequence for having been a snitch, was serving detention alongside them.
Shadows swayed patiently, ready to pounce. Hardly any moonlight breached the folial canopy. If someone died amongst the uncaring trees, it very well could take weeks for them to be found, if they were in any state that could be recognizable, that was. “Do you get the feeling we’re being watched?” Harry asked Hermione.
“I don’t want to think about that,” she shuddered. She warily eyed her surroundings, looking for anything that stood out.
It didn’t help that there was supposedly a unicorn murderer going rampant around the forest.
With all the twists and turns there were, it wasn’t long before Harry was split off from the group. He could send out red sparks for help, but a strange pull urged him not to. That same pull led him to a clearing that held a tragic sight.
Illuminated by the moonlight, a unicorn, pure white and elegant, laid still on the ground. Liquid silver poured out of its side, a fatal wound having been inflicted upon the noble creature. The horn, proud and pointed, had been unable to defend its owner. The forest around it weeped.
A hooded figure slithered in from the bushes. It stalked towards the ethereal corpse and drank the shimmering blood. It was a monster, that Harry knew for certain. Anyone who drank the blood of a unicorn was cursed, and yet he had the feeling that the slumped figure had already done unforgivable acts.
An echo grumbled, but conceded.
Boldly, Harry stepped forward. The figure raised its head, silver dripping from its maw. Harry inched forward again. They locked eyes, or at least, Harry looked at where the figure’s eyes would be. This was where the pull was leading to.
If Harry could just apprehend it…
A sudden rustling sound caught their attention. Without another word, the figure bolted. It left just in time to avoid being seen by a centaur. “Did you see who did this?” the centaur asked.
“No,” Harry lied.
After some heavy deliberation, the Golden Trio was certain that Snape was not only after the Philosopher’s Stone, but would attempt to obtain it. The three would not abide by that.
They told Professor McGonagall, but they were dismissed, so they were forced to take it into their own hands.
With the flute Harry had received for Christmas, he put Fluffy to sleep, the trial courtesy of Hagrid. With some quick prompting, Hermione set a plant on fire, the trial courtesy of Professor Sprout. Utilizing some convenient broomsticks, Harry nabbed a flying key, the trial courtesy of Professor Flitwick.
Traps that were surprisingly simple. They were first years, and had breezed past them.
That was until they reached the chess set, courtesy of Professor McGonagall.
Now everything depended on Ron. “Alright, let’s do this. Hermione, you be the rook, Harry you’re the bishop. And I’m…” Ron trailed off. “I’m the knight.” They took their positions, side by side.
Harry, Ron, Hermione.
An understanding came that whatever happened in the match, it would be definitive of Ron’s character as a whole. Enough to represent his soulmark. Harry could only hope that soulmate magic would get them through this.
Against Harry, Ron had always had a very aggressive playstyle. Against McGonagall’s sentient chessmen, it was no different. He traded pawns as easily as he breathed and maneuvered the white pieces into compromising forks. He leapt around the board, taking pieces left and right, and always moved Harry and Hermione to safety whenever they were in danger, as if they were just as important as the king.
Confident, Ron barked out orders every few seconds, never hesitating to take and advance.
So when he suddenly paused, it was a noticeable shift.
Hermione fiddled with her robes before pulling out his soul Galleon. “Ron, what’re you doing?”
“I’m sorry. You lot need to move forward,” he shrugged. He moved himself and yelled, “Check!” With the king surrounded by the three of them, it couldn’t move, and thanks to the indirect nature of the knight, a piece couldn’t block the threat. The only legal move was to capture the checking piece.
With their hearts in their throats, they could only watch as the white queen clobbered Ron on the head. Hermione let out a heart-wrenching sob.
Harry moved three squares to the left. Checkmate.
They made sure Ron was okay before advancing.
Harry was once again in front of the Mirror of Erised, but this time, he was not alone. That did not mean, however, that Hermione was at his side. When Snape’s trial had only let one of them advance, Hermione went back to take care of her soulmate and get some help.
Instead, Harry was with Professor Quirrell.
Professor Quirrell, Harry thought as he was bound by ropes, is an ass. And one that likes to monologue, at that.
He went on and on about how he’d nearly killed Harry, but had been impeded by Snape, Hermione, Snape again, and most effectively, Dumbledore. He then went on to reveal that he needed the stone to help resurrect his master, Voldemort. And then about how he’d been a naive child that became enlightened. It was a worrying sign of indoctrination.
But it allowed Harry to fiddle with his bindings. Not that he could escape them, but it was nice to have some leeway to at least attempt it. Harry went broadly ignored until a hissing voice urged Quirrell to use Harry.
Since Harry did not want the Philosopher’s Stone, the magical mirror cheekily winked and gave him the Philosopher’s Stone. “I don’t have it,” Harry lied. Quirrell somehow believed that. The second voice did not.
Paralyzed, Harry could only watch as Quirrell methodically undid his turban.
Slowly, deft fingers removed the cloth, unveiling a monstrous face.
Dark magic had warped the skin into having a milky complexion. It did not have a nose proper, but snake-like slits in lieu of nostrils. Warm red eyes smiled upon him. Magic itself shuddered. “Harry Potter…” hissed Voldemort. “It’s been an age since we last saw each other.”
“No it hasn’t,” Harry immediately refuted. “We met in the forest.”
“I would not go on to say that that had been a meeting proper…” the Dark Lord chuckled. His tongue was long and forked, further contributing to the serpentine allusions.
“Well, can a baby truly meet someone?” Harry petulantly retorted.
Where before Harry had been in danger and fretting for his life, now he was almost calm. Maybe it had to do with the fact that Voldemort seemed more reasonable than Quirrell, but Harry felt comfortable enough to sass back. Thankfully, the Dark Lord seemed to take it in stride.
“I need the stone in your pocket—yes, I know it’s there—to restore my body. For almost a decade, I have wandered as a wraith, but with that alchemical marvel, I could restore myself into my former glory. You will, of course, be greatly rewarded for your help to Lord Voldemort,” the face promised grandiosely. There was a hint of something golden on the tip of his tongue.
“You’ve killed many people. You killed my parents,” Harry spat. “How could I ever help you?” He took an unsteady step backwards.
“Ah, I see why you’d be hesitant. The deaths of James Potter and especially Lily Evans are ones that I regret terribly,” Voldemort admitted. “Had they joined my side, they’d have been able to reach heights unimaginable. But you may yet right their wrongs. Give me the stone, and you’ll receive anything you desire.” There was a Snitch on Voldemort’s tongue.
Harry already knew what he desired. He’d seen it in the Mirror of Erised. “I want my parents,” he sobbed, “and a proper soulmate!” And with that striking declaration, he lunged at the face.
A Snitch flew out of Voldemort’s mouth.
An Avada Kedavara bolted out of Harry’s forehead.
Quirrell laid dead on the ground, sans the face on the back of his head.
For a while, Harry stood unmoving. Eventually, he mechanically grabbed the fluttering soul Snitch and stored it.
He then passed out, having had his fated reunion.
The smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam into view above him. “Good afternoon, Harry,” he greeted, as if this was a typical interaction. “You’ve been out for three days.”
“Then the stone—?”
“Is destroyed. But, after a long chat with an old friend, I managed to convince him that it was for the best.”
Harry took the time to actually look around. He was on an uncomfortable hospital bed in the school infirmary. The golden afternoon sun filtered in through the threadbare curtains. The air was still with the relief of having escaped danger. Sweets were piled high around him. A jelly bean jar in the corner was closed, but had only half the contents of a regular jelly bean jar.
“Ah, what happened down there was a secret, so naturally, all of Hogwarts soon knew all about your escapade.”
Harry nearly got a heart attack. “So they know?”
“Of Quirrell? Yes. That he had Voldemort on the back of his head? No.” Then they didn’t know who Harry’s soulmate was. He could still breathe easy.
However, Dumbledore hadn’t been there when Harry’d faced Voldemort. “So you knew?”
“I know a great many things, my boy, but I had not expected for you, nor Mister Weasley and Miss Granger, to intervene. And that special mirror alone would’ve been more than enough to keep the likes of Quirrell and Voldemort out.”
“No, I meant of Voldemort’s existence. You couldn’t have seen it. Before I passed out, he was gone.”
Dumbledore blinked owlishly. “Well, I suppose now we can only wonder where he went off to. But before you get any ideas, it’d be best to leave these types of things to the adults. Do you understand, my boy?” It was impossible to tell what was more frustrating, the lack of actual response to Harry’s question or the patronization. All Harry could do was take a deep breath in, and a deep breath out.
“Before I head off, would you mind explaining why you had a Snitch on you when I found you?” Harry’s blood ran cold. The soul Snitch.
“A good luck charm,” Harry lied expertly. “If you’d give it back, please.” He outstretched his arm and waited, his jackhammering heart giving a slight shake to his hand. Dumbledore gave a wan smile back and gingerly deposited the fluttering Snitch in Harry’s open palm.
It was a little while later that a pair of soulmates burst into the infirmary. Ron and Hermione had spent several sleepless nights anxiously waiting for Harry to wake up. They oh so desperately wanted to hug him, but Harry was in no state to deal with that.
He told them of what happened in the final chamber, changing some details.
In Harry’s revised version of the story, he was afraid the entire time. Voldemort had forced him to hand over the stone, and when Quirrell had tried to seize him, his hands became charred and burnt.
There was no mention of Harry being soulmates with Voldemort, the soul Snitch, or the fated reunion.
Since they had no reason to distrust him, they wholly believed the story he cooked up, even if it was extremely fanciful.
Harry got the foreboding impression that he’d come to lie about a great many things. He entered the school year with the secret of not knowing what his soulmark was. Now he left with the secret that The Boy Who Lived was inexplicably intertwined with He Who Must Not Be Named.