For QLFC, Round 12
Team: Tutshill Tornados
Position: Keeper
Prompt: An arrow on your wrist points you in the direction of your soulmate, like a compass.
Notes: Slightly OOC Harry who believes in Divination; although, given the AU where soulmates are predetermined, it might have happened.
Word count: 2,047
Harry stared down at the golden arrow to get his bearings as he drifted closer into the thick of the woods.
Here, he could feel the thrumming energy of the massive root system deep underneath his feet in the groaning earth; hear the cries of the weak, sick trees, poisoned with Dark magic and war, and the thing that the compass was pointing to.
About fifty degrees from the direction of the sunset lay another Horcrux. It was close. Harry could feel the tell-tale tug that was supposed to indicate the proximity of his soulmate, but due to the machinations of his old foe, Fate herself pointed him towards a metal object cursed to contain his true enemy's soul.
After his second year, Dumbledore had had to explain everything to him. His suspicion about the diary being a Horcrux, that Harry was likely one himself, about his connection with Voldemort interfering with Harry's connection to his soulmate.
Darkly, he wondered if Voldemort's compass pointed to him. If he had the ability to track Harry down.
The thought made his blood run cold.
No, of course it doesn't. If it did, he would have found me already.
Not that it mattered about Voldemort finding Harry, as long as it didn't happen just yet.
One day, Harry must die to save the world from Voldemort. But not a moment before all the remaining Horcruxes were found and destroyed.
Although it seemed unfair, after all this, to die without ever meeting his true soulmate, it was his choice.
Telling a twelve-year-old all of this must have been difficult, but he supposed Dumbledore had done a pretty decent job of it at the time, considering the circumstances.
However, Harry had denied it when he'd been told and went straight through his third and fourth years, still refusing to believe that a part of Voldemort's soul had infected his.
It wasn't until Voldemort was resurrected before his eyes in the Little Hangleton graveyard, the golden arrow coming to life and swivelling towards the grotesque creature climbing out of the cauldron and into the darkness, that he finally admitted it when the arrow stopped right on its target with a sudden click that made his stomach fill with dread.
Unbidden, Harry's fist clenched tighter around his wand as he remembered just how furious he'd been when he realised the prophecy was correct; he'd been born to die.
Why me?
But Harry was determined to walk to his execution with his head held high, and just as he'd promised in the Headmaster's office, Voldemort was going down with me.
'Til death do we part, enemy mine.
The ugly necklace clasped between his hands after a month of searching, Harry lifted it towards his lips, and in Parseltongue, the cruel gift, whispered, "Open."
This time, Lord Voldemort — Tom Riddle — whatever name this spiteful creature preferred to style himself, appeared in the frightful guise of a young man, older than the wraith bound to the diary, but far, far younger and more human than his present incarnation, eyes dark and handsome as they were before he turned them scarlet and slit-pupiled and shimmering treacherously like a selkie in the moonlight.
Of course, Harry was ready to deliver the killing blow; but for a long moment, he paused, though not out of mercy.
It was a false equivalency, a mockery, but he would never live long enough for the golden arrow to point in its true direction, and he wanted to linger in this false sense of finality a little longer, in the tense, strange feeling of the arrow connecting with its twin, like magnets clicking into place. The familiar dim hatred sputtered to life.
The needle of the golden compass had stopped spinning, now pointing straight at Locket Riddle, who, unlike the last wraith that Harry encountered, seemed to hesitate.
"I suppose," began Locket Riddle in a familiar yet different voice as he sized up his enemy, "you're going to destroy me."
"I am."
Harry tossed the lantern he was holding to the ground, the blue fire flickering slightly at the disturbance as it hit the damp forest floor with a soft thump. Then, casually, he took a handful of chalk out of his pocket, walking in a leisurely circle around Locket Riddle until the wraith was contained.
He sneered at Harry.
"Crude," he said, testing the border with the tip of his foot and drawing back in obvious pain. But Locket Riddle's smile only grew shark-like. "So you think you can hold me, stranger?"
"Oh, I'm not a stranger."
Unperturbed, Harry continued to watch him, crossing his arms.
Locket Riddle began to show Harry silly pictures that he must have found terribly persuasive in his own twisted imagination.
"I have seen your dreams, and I have seen your fears—"
"You've seen nothing," snapped Harry. He hadn't been foolish enough to wear the locket, which Riddle was, of course, counting on.
Either way, Locket Riddle realised that he didn't have anything of use to defend himself and grew quiet.
Maybe he's hoping I'll take pity on him? Harry laughed at the thought, ignoring the strange look that Locket Riddle gave him.
Eventually, as the forest grew dark, Harry made his camp, a pot of water bubbling over charmed fire.
"How much sugar do you take with your tea?"
The wraith watched him suspiciously.
"Quite a bit."
Locket Riddle continued to watch as Harry placed a cup within the bounds of the chalk circle and, saying nothing, sat down and retrieved it, glowering at his captor all the while.
"Gloating, are you? It won't work, whoever you are." He snorted. "Trying to destroy me, I mean. The locket is indestructible; you'll kill yourself trying."
"Yes, starting cursed fire in this forest would be a bad idea," Harry mused. "That's why I'm lucky to have the Sword of Gryffindor with me. It's been impregnated with a very rare type of venom — you might remember your friend, the Serpent of Slytherin?"
Locket Riddle's face twisted into a snarl at that; Harry savoured the expression as he warmed his hands over the fire, which Riddle was watching jealously.
"You're bluffing," he said, but his voice was hollow and sounded as hopeless as Harry felt. Good. Now he was the predator and Riddle the prey, keeping him around for torture just as Voldemort had with Harry nearly three years ago in the graveyard.
Let him have a taste of his own medicine. See if he likes it.
He was not bluffing; the sword he'd dived into icy water for and nearly killed himself in the attempt to retrieve was by his side and wrapped in rags.
"Hmm." He studied the remains of his tea leaves. "Never took you for an optimist, Voldemort."
"You have no right to call me—"
"All right. I'll call you Tom, then."
Now the wraith made to escape from the chalk circle; if not for this precaution, he certainly would have escaped Harry, and now he drew back, enraged and nursing his injured pride. Here, he was as harmless as a genie trapped inside a magic lamp.
"And you are?"
"Harry. Just Harry."
"And why should I be afraid of you, just Harry?"
"Funny, that," said Harry. "I'm the one who's going to kill you. Here, pass me your tea leaves. I want to see something."
Still glaring, Locket Riddle set down his cup, and Harry took it, tilting it so that the light from the fire illuminated its contents.
"That's the Grim, Tom." Harry tilted the teacup towards him. "Looks like a death is in your future. The Reaper's circling. It's all in the cards, as they say."
He glanced down at the remains of his own and grimaced. Mine, too.
"I am not going to die. Destroy me if you want, Harry. I will win."
"Oh, I know. There are eight of you. Voldemort, of course, the diary, you, the cup, the snake, the diadem, the ring, oh, and the bit of your soul that stuck to me the night it all went wrong for you. I've gotten rid of the diary and Dumbledore the ring. So by tomorrow, it'll be three down, five to go."
A harsh laugh tore itself from Locket Riddle's throat, and Harry recognised the familiar sound of fear.
"You believe in fate, do you, tea reader? You are well-informed, yes, but your tricks do not frighten me!"
"Destiny, actually." Harry nodded at the inked tip of a black arrow poking out from under the pristine white sleeve of Locket Riddle's shirt. "And so do you. See for yourself."
Glowering, Locket Riddle removed the two buttons holding the fabric together; inscribed on his wrist was the image of a simple black compass, its needle pointing directly at Harry no matter where Riddle moved his arm. And when Riddle tilted it just so, by accident, Harry caught the words inked directly below it: Here lies death.
"Why do you wish to kill me, Harry?"
Was that resignation? Harry was almost disappointed that the fun was coming to an end.
"There was a prophecy," he said. "I'm sure you know what you plan to be in the future. The chaos and violence you—"
"Why do you wish to kill me, Harry?"
And now, he recognised Parseltongue, as Riddle's eyes flashed red, revealing a hint at the monster hiding behind the man.
"You killed my parents," Harry answered quietly, refusing to acknowledge their shared gift that was a symptom of Harry's curse. "And then you tried to kill me. That's how it all started, Tom. It's deeply personal." He paused. "I think I'm going to really enjoy killing you. Don't take that lightly."
Locket Riddle flinched, but Harry was sure there was yet more fear left in him.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies... That's me, Tom. You made me what I am." And despite himself, Harry's voice shook.
"Are you going to kill me?"
There was almost a desperation to it. As if fate had taken hold of Riddle and was marching him towards his destiny, whether he liked it or not.
"So," said Harry, picking up the Sword of Gryffindor, watching Riddle's eyes widen as he twirled it casually, hefting the weight that felt insurmountable when he was twelve years old and fighting for his life tooth and nail. "Time's up. Any last words?"
"You'll never be free of me," hissed Locket Riddle, even as Harry put the blade to the locket, feeling for where the glass was weakest. "Even if you survive, it'll be you on the funeral pyre next. I know what you are."
"I know."
"You can't win."
"You're wrong about that."
"We appear to be at an impasse."
Locket Riddle sighed. There was something defeated in his posture; both he and Harry knew that he could not sweet-talk his way out of this.
And then Harry stabbed the locket, flinching as the wraith let out a terrible howl that lingered in his ears, and Harry felt the reverberations of loss in that shattered piece of soul attached to his, as the golden compass dulled on his wrist, the tense feeling of two connected arrows dissipating.
He swept the shattered remains deep into the bag Hermione had enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm the night he'd stolen away from the Burrow without telling anyone and ducked into the tent, feeling strangely alone. He almost wished Ron and Hermione were here with him, but it was a selfish thing to wish for.
It was close to three o'clock, and the forest was just beginning to come alive with light and sound.
Now, the golden arrow pointed towards the next Horcrux, and he was one step closer to Voldemort. One step closer to death.
There would be trouble in the morning; Harry was sure of it.
