FIC: Whose Name on My Wrist ~ Harry Potter ~ Harry/Voldemort ~ Teen

[batsutousai]

Title: Whose Name on My Wrist
Fandom: Harry Potter
Author: Batsutousai
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Harry Potter/Lord Voldemort
Warnings: Soulmate AU, homophobia, emotional abuse, Voldemort's temper, violence, loneliness
Summary: Voldemort and Harry are soulmates, and it's something that changes the course of both of their lives.

A/N: What am I even doing with my life?

So, I hit a pretty low point during our most recent move, and ended up on AO3, snooping through the Tomarry/Harrymort tags (I don't discriminate which form our favourite Dark Lord takes), and got the urge to write something for the ship again. My one WiP wasn't really sparking anything, so I fell back on a new/old favourite trope.

I'm not sure how I feel about this piece. Like, it feels very 'bleh' and a little 'where the actual fuck was I going with this?', but it's also been way too long since I've had the time/energy/ideas to get any serious writing done, and I'm just generally relieved to have got something written. *throws fic up places and goes back to unpacking*

Cross-posted to Archive of Our Own, tumblr, and LiveJournal.

-0-o-0-

While it wasn't really considered polite to read the names written on others' wrists, it wasn't always easy to ignore, especially when, as was true with Tom, you didn't have a name of his own.

Before Hogwarts, it hadn't been that odd, honestly, as something like half of people were born more than a year before their soulmate, and Tom hadn't been the only child at the orphanage to reach eleven without a name on his wrist, and nor would he be the only one at Hogwarts, or even the only one in Slytherin House.

As he got older, however, people started to notice, started to comment.

"I don't have a soulmate," Tom decided at some point during his fifth year, and ignored the sympathetic looks the comment garnered.

(It was usual, but not impossible, especially when civilians – when pregnant women – were counted among the victims of war.)

Tom decided he was fine with that, that he much preferred not having to fit some unknown child into his plans for world domination.

So he graduated Hogwarts, split his soul a few times, built up an army, and went to war with the world.

When Tom – Voldemort, now, because he'd long since discarded his muggle father's name – was fifty-three and still reeling a bit from the warning that a child would be born soon that could defeat him, a name finally appeared on his wrist: Harry James Potter.

He knew exactly who was prophesied to defeat him, and he had no intention in letting some child destroy all he'd fought for, soulmate or no.

-0-

Harry, according to his aunt and uncle, had been born a freak. By the time he got his Hogwarts letter, he knew every possible slur for homosexuality and had long since learnt to keep Tom Marvolo Riddle's name on his wrist hidden.

In his second year, he found out who his soulmate was, and spent the whole of his summer mourning the loss of the happy escape from his relatives that he'd sometimes allowed himself to dream of. Because his soulmate would be far more inclined to kill him, than save him.

He couldn't say why he didn't go to the headmaster for help. Shock, probably, or the certainty that he would be spurned. (It was certainly that last that kept him from sharing with Ron or Hermione, because they might have accepted he was gay, but they'd never accept that he was gay for Voldemort.)

When he got tossed into the tournament his fourth year, though, when he lost Ron and became the pariah of the school, he quilled a letter to his godfather. Mostly because he needed an adult that was wholly on his side, but also because he knew there was only one person who could have been cruel enough to enter his name into a tournament that would almost certainly kill him, and he needed to know: 'What do you do when your soulmate wants you dead?'

Sirius' response had been a joking 'Hex them first', which was so utterly unhelpful, Harry had thrown the letter in the fireplace in the common room.

But, when Sirius firecalled him, supposedly to talk about the dragons, his expression was grim in a way Harry hadn't been certain he could be. "It's Voldemort, isn't it?" Sirius asked, after Harry promised they were alone. "Your soulmate."

And Harry had felt cold and terrified and so very certain that he was going to lose one of the few people in his life that gave a damn about him. But he nodded and somehow managed to choke out, "Yeah."

Sirius closed his eyes and let out a long, harsh breath that blew out a cloud of ashes. "Okay," he said, and opened his eyes, looked up at Harry with a sort of warmth that brought tears to Harry's eyes. "Okay," he said again, then, "that's pretty shitty. Fate is a giant bitch."

And Harry wasn't certain if the sound he made was a laugh or a sob, but Sirius was still there, wasn't calling him those terrible names he'd grown up with.

He hadn't lost Sirius.

Sirius was quiet for a moment, like he knew Harry needed a bit to gather himself, to get over the fact that Sirius was still there, and then he said, "You know who your soulmate is, is never going to change how much I love you."

Harry definitely sobbed, then, but he also nodded, even though he hadn't known, had desperately needed the reassurance. Because he'd spent so much of his life being hated for the gender of his soulmate, and Ron had turned on him because of a tournament; why wouldn't Sirius turn on him because of who his soulmate was?

But Sirius didn't. He stayed, and he let Harry calm down again, and they talked a bit about the tournament. And when they got interrupted by Ron, Harry still had a dozen questions, and he had no idea what Sirius had thought of to help him with the dragon, but he still felt so much lighter than he had done in...years.

'I think I know, now, why Voldemort's Killing Curse failed,' Sirius wrote in his last letter before the final task. 'I had to check a few books to be certain, because it's not particularly common for witches and wizards to be so desperately at odds with their soulmate, but it's happened before. And all the stories have it that soulmates can't kill each other with their own hands, not with intention. So he could probably ask a Death Eater to kill you, or one of you can accidentally knock over a pillar that falls and crushes the other to death, but the Killing Curse won't work. Which is kind of a cold comfort, I know, but it's better than nothing.'

Harry knew, from his own reading the summer after second year, that the same didn't hold true for muggle soulmates, so he assumed it had something to do with their magic. And Sirius was right, it was a cold comfort, but it was better than the certainty he'd had that Voldemort would kill him the moment they saw each other again. Assuming he didn't die during the tournament, first.

And, when Voldemort stepped out of a cauldron and turned to where Harry had been tied to a grave, smiling wide and cruel, Harry smiled right back and said, "You can't kill me."

Voldemort's expression twitched all over, like he was struggling to keep his cruel smile in place, and then he raised his wand and pointed it at Harry. "We shall see about that. Avada–"

"We're not muggles!" Harry shouted, more than a little terrified, because he didn't really want to test the soulmate protection; didn't want to know if the killing curse hurt, didn't want to see if the spell would backfire again, didn't want to know what hell Voldemort would make him suffer while he attempted to get a body again.

Voldemort had stopped the curse, though. Was glaring at Harry like he expected him to explain himself.

Harry swallowed, then shifted in his bonds, held forward his right wrist and the damning name hidden under the wrap he'd worn his whole life. "Magical soulmates can't kill each other. Tom."

"Crucio," Voldemort snarled. And it hurt, dear Merlin it hurt, like molten lava through his veins.

The curse stopped, leaving Harry slumped in his bonds, dry heaving and gasping on sobs. Surely, death would have been kinder.

Cold fingers pressed under his chin, pushing up, until he was looking up at Voldemort, meeting his cold stare. He felt the beginnings of a headache – different from the sort his scar acting up would leave him with, more like the ones he got when he spent too long trying to read by candlelight – and hated that it would happen now.

"You're not lying," Voldemort murmured, and let Harry go. "Irritating."

And then Harry's bonds fell away, and he crumpled to the ground as Voldemort dropped his wand in front of him. "The Cup will return you to Hogwarts," he said, and turned away. Like he thought Harry wasn't a threat.

"Master," Wormtail whimpered, still clutching at the stump where his hand had been.

Harry didn't wait to see if Voldemort would change his mind, he just grabbed up his wand and scrambled over to Cedric's cold body, then summoned the Cup and let it take them away.

It wouldn't be until much, much later, long after Madam Pomfrey had kicked out all the visitors and dimmed the lights, that Harry would let himself wonder at his future.

By the last day of term, he was a pariah again, as everyone in the school had somehow discovered who his soulmate was. Whether it was due to Voldemort's own machinations or the false Moody absconding with the wrap that had hidden the name on his wrist before his death, he couldn't say, and he wasn't certain he cared as he settled into a carriage all by himself; even his best friends had abandoned him.

He met the Dursleys at the station, same as ever, and followed them out to the waiting car.

But there, leaning against the bonnet, was a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and piercing red eyes. Harry felt his eyes widen, recognising Voldemort as much by his similarity to the Tom Riddle of the diary, as by the colour of his eyes.

"Who the bloody–" Uncle Vernon started, gone purple in indignation.

"Be silent, muggle," Voldemort ordered, straightening to his full height.

All of the Dursleys turned to Harry with accusation in their eyes, as though he'd planned for the Dark Lord to hunt him down. Harry sighed, tired after the past two weeks of strain, and asked, "Why are you here?"

Voldemort's eyes narrowed and he looked Harry up and down, taking Merlin knew what from the loose fit of his summer clothing and the dark shadows he knew were under his eyes; between the outcome of the tournament and the cold shoulders of his schoolmates, Harry's unconscious had had plenty of fodder to haunt his sleep.

"Boy," Uncle Vernon hissed, reaching for Harry in a way he probably thought looked friendly – he'd grab Dudley's shoulder in a show of pride and companionship, sometimes – but Harry knew better, and he couldn't stop a flinch at the approach of his uncle's hand.

Liquid sprayed across the side of Harry's face before Uncle Vernon could touch him, and everything seemed to freeze for a second, held in stasis by the power of disbelief.

And then Aunt Petunia screamed, and Uncle Vernon howled, and Harry was shoved back, out of the way, as Dudley and Aunt Petunia tried desperately to stop the blood flowing from Uncle Vernon's wrist.

Harry's stomach churned, and he thought he might be sick. But, too, offsetting the horror was something that felt a little too much like glee. As though the sight of his uncle with one hand cut off was something he found pleasure in.

A hand slid against Harry's cheek, probably smearing the blood, and he looked up, was a little surprised to find that Voldemort was right next to him. "I will not have muggles touching what is mine," he said, quiet and firm. As though there was no question that he'd been in the right.

Something in Harry snapped, and he reached up and shoved the Dark Lord away, took pleasure in watching the man stumble back a step. "What the hell?! I'm not your damn property!"

Voldemort grabbed Harry's right wrist in a grip that almost hurt, fingers pressed tight against the poorly-cut piece of fabric that Harry had cobbled together to cover the damning name. He used the hold to pull Harry uncomfortably close. "But my name is on your wrist, is it not?" Voldemort murmured, quiet and low.

Harry shuddered, tried to convince himself he was horrified, not– Not whatever else. "That doesn't– That's not what it means," Harry tried. And then he looked away, towards his family.

Others had come to help, including a couple of police, but none of them were paying a bit of attention to Harry and Voldemort. It was as though they just weren't there.

Cold fingers caught Harry's chin, the grip firm, but not quite enough to hurt, and turned him back to look at Voldemort. "And what does it mean, then?" He smiled, that same wide, cruel smile from in the graveyard. "Love, per chance?"

The way Voldemort said 'love' made it clear he thought that was as likely as a muggle picking up a wand and casting advanced magic.

Harry swallowed, tried desperately to come up with a response, even though he'd been struggling with what joke fate had been playing when she'd made him and Voldemort soulmates for years.

And then he caught sight of his name written on Voldemort's own wrist, just barely in view with the way the man's wrist was angled, and Harry reached up and grabbed that wrist, holding it the same way as Voldemort was holding his own. "If I'm property," he heard himself say, "then so are you. You're mine. And I–"

And then his brain caught up with his mouth and he stopped talking, because what the hell was that?

"And you?" Voldemort prompted, and Harry thought he sounded a little amused. Like maybe this was all some sort of colossal joke to him.

Rage burned through Harry's uncertainty and he tightened his fingers around Voldemort's wrist, digging his nails into skin hard enough to leave marks. "I won't let you hurt anyone else. I'll stop– No. I'll punish you."

Voldemort threw his head back and laughed, loud and terrible and delighted. Like he was glad Harry was threatening him.

And then Voldemort stopped laughing, as abrupt as he'd started, and he leant in too close, when he said, "Promises, Harry," the words fanned out over Harry's lips.

And then Voldemort was gone, leaving Harry standing alone on the edge of the chaos where Uncle Vernon was being levered up into an ambulance, Aunt Petunia doing her best to chivvy Dudley towards the car, through the crowd, so they could follow.

Aunt Petunia's eyes met his for one moment, and Harry almost stumbled at the soul-searing rage he found aimed at himself.

He turned away, picked his trunk back up, and went in search of somewhere quieter to call the knight bus.

When Aunt Petunia and Dudley finally got home that night, before Dudley could try to punch him or Aunt Petunia could threaten to lock him in the cupboard, he said, "I can't control my soulmate."

"Dudley, no," Aunt Petunia hissed, and grabbed Dudley's arm before he could throw the punch Harry could tell he was itching to.

Harry flipped the page of the schoolbook he'd been attempting to read while he waited for them to get home. "Let's agree to just all ignore each other this summer. I think that's safest all around."

"Why not just go stay with him," Aunt Petunia spat.

Harry closed his eyes and shook his head, feeling weeks of interrupted sleep and the taste of blood on his lips weighing heavy on his shoulder. He didn't have a good answer – was fairly certain she wouldn't care anyway – so he didn't bother responding, just closed his book and brushed past them to retreat to his room.

"I'm not afraid of your pansy boyfriend," Dudley snapped before Harry could start up the stairs.

Aunt Petunia let out a sound that might have been a whimper, and Harry looked back at his cousin, feeling numb. "Dudley," he heard himself say, "for the sake of your own life, at least pretend you are." And then he continued up the stairs to his room, leaving it for his aunt to convince Dudley that he needed to behave.

-0-

Voldemort never visited the Dursleys' house, and Uncle Vernon seemed perfectly happy to follow Aunt Petunia's lead in pretending Harry didn't exist, once he got released from hospital. Harry made it easy for them by spending most of the summer in his room, waiting for owls that never came.

(Not completely accurate; Sirius wrote him a few times, but his letters were brief things, almost like he was only checking in because he felt he had to. Next to the continued silence from his friends, the distance hurt. More so when Harry's first and only question about if he might visit with Sirius for a bit, get away from his relatives, was met with a flat 'No'.)

So the summer dragged, and Harry was left way too often with his own thoughts. With the memories of desperate terror in a graveyard and furious bravery in a carpark to think over. With the heavy silence of a home where he wasn't wanted, the certainty that he'd face the same when he returned to Hogwarts for term.

When Harry was let off at King's Cross on the first of September, Voldemort was waiting for him, leaning back against the wall next to the doors into the building.

"Why are you here?" Harry asked once he'd reached the man, same as he'd done at the start of the summer.

Voldemort looked him over the same way as he'd done the last time Harry had asked that question, his mouth drawn into a tight, almost unhappy, line.

Harry eventually sighed and turned to continue into the station, because he was in danger of missing his train, else.

"I came for what's mine," Voldemort said at last.

Harry turned a tired glare on the Dark Lord. "I'm not your–"

"Property?" Voldemort interrupted, and then he pushed away from the building and stepped forward, stopping just a little bit too close. "But isn't that what your schoolmates will assume?"

Like a bucket of ice dropped over his head, the words froze him down to his bone marrow.

He already knew how his schoolmates would react if they wanted to hate him, had suffered those hard looks and silent threats because of first the Chamber, and then the tournament. But, if they thought they could use him to get to Voldemort...

"Did you spread it?" Harry choked out, because he'd wondered since he'd first found out the school knew, needed to know now how angry he should be, how much danger his own soulmate had put him in. "Were you– Did you tell your followers, your Death Eaters, to pass on to their children? Did you–?"

Cold hands cupped Harry's cheeks, and he stared up at Voldemort through wet eyes as he quietly said, "I didn't. If I wanted you dead, you would know it."

And Harry, as much as he didn't want to believe a single word out of Voldemort's mouth, had to admit that sounded far more truthful.

"I would never take Hogwarts from you, my Harry," Voldemort added, his voice quiet and almost sad.

Harry remembered the way the Tom Riddle of the diary had gone to such lengths to keep from having to go home over the summer, how attached he'd seemed to Hogwarts; the castle had been as much his home, his safe haven, as it was Harry's.

Had been Harry's.

He swallowed and closed his eyes, let fall the tears that had been building up over the long, lonely summer. And then he said, "Take me home."

Voldemort did.

.