Full summary:

Fate and Time were tricky things, fickle in nature. Fate guarded love and all the sticky, mushy things a human soul could offer. Whereas Time, ever flowing and always twisting, embodied patience and Impossibility itself.
Fate said love could conquer all. Time said everything evidently runs out.
Fate claimed love could overcome the Impossible, Time stated they are the Impossible.

This is the not-so-glorious tale of two stubborn deities' bet and its consequences, while Life and Death are left to clean up their messes. And they are not amused. At all.

Your usual tomarry-style soulmate au, hopefully with a twist at the end.

AN: I must warn everyone that I am not a native english speaker, so if you notice any mayor linguistic errors, i'd be forever thankful if you warned me! Also, crossposted on Ao3!


Harry never before in his life thought that he could be so utterly unlucky. But staring at Hagrid's nervously smiling face, he knew that everything he built his hopes on, the base of every dream he ever had has never actually existed, and he realised he fed himself with empty lies. All because of two simple words.


He could clearly remember the day he first noticed them. The words were etched onto his neck, and, later that day, he would come to the conclusion they were written in the neatest, most beautiful kind of calligraphy he has ever seen. But as they were on his throat, and the cramped, gloomy little cupboard he resided in hadn't housed a mirror (not like he would have had any incentive to seek out his reflection, anyway) he took no notice of them.

Had he known the date, or the significance of it, perhaps he would have been excited. He would have gotten up early, lit his broken little torch he scavenged from Uncle Vernon's shed, and he would have looked over himself eagerly, searching for that sentence, that starting point of a conversation that would, without a doubt, leave the person's mouth he was fated to love the most.

But he did not, therefore he did neither of these things. He simply got up when his aunt stomped down the staircase, and obediently went to do his chores when she unlatched the door on his cupboard. He cooked breakfast, set the table, and after a moment of contemplation, went out to do the gardening before the scorching sun of July climbed higher and stronger on the horizon.

Harry, as all his six years of experience taught him, knew that it was better to get over the more strenuous garden work, since none of his relatives were overly keen on doing it themselves, and Aunt Petunia only loved her flowers if the temperature outside was below 30 C°. Still, Harry hurried outside intending to finish before his aunt started preparing lunch, as cooking was one of his more preferable chores. Despite the watchful eyes of Petunia, he always managed to steal a few bites while peeling the vegetables or stirring and minding the boiling pots.

Getting the shears and shovels out of the shed, he dug up the little gardening glow he picked up during one of his "alley-adventures" while hiding from Dudley and his gang, and started immediately weeding the flower beds at the house front. Caring for the garden, however hard and strenuous it was, was still among his favourite chores. The Dursley's mostly left him alone while he worked outside, and that was preferable to the shoves and glares he got while he was inside, and therefore under their feet. And it was rewarding. Whatever he did was never going to be good enough for his relatives and he knew that, but a well-cared for garden and blooming flowers were enough of a praise for him anyway. Seeing the results of his hard work was and always will be fulfilling.

Hours had passed, and the sun was getting higher too, but Harry was finally ready with everything. He rushed to put away his tools and hide his gloves, as he knew if his aunt found them there was no possible way he would go unpunished, and he didn't fancy begin accused of stealing. He whipped his hands on his overly large pants and tried to brush off as much dirt as he could from his clothes. As he made his way inside, Aunt Petunia already started preparing lunch, so he automatically headed to the sink to start washing the dishes, but just as he was about to open the tap, his aunt screeched, startling him.
"Boy! What do you think you are doing inside like this?! I didn't spend precious time cleaning the floors only for you to drag filth on them! Get out and wash yourself outside and don't come back until you look like a human being instead of a mutt!"

Harry, who would have done exactly that had he not gotten into trouble before for "wasting water" while cleaning his clothes from stains with the garden hose, nodded and made his way back outside. The water was chilly but he appreciated it nonetheless, since the kitchen tended to be just as hot if not worse than the summer weather, while numerous pots and pans were boiling on the stow. When he deemed himself clean enough for his aunt's standards, he headed back inside, but was jerked to a stop again when Petunia laid eyes on him.

"Boy!" she reached out and grabbed his shoulders, yanking him around. "Can't you even do the simplest things, can you?! I told you to wash yoursel- "

At his aunt's sudden silence, he chanced a peek through his fringe to see what caused her rant to come to such an abrupt halt. She was looking at him with a bewildered expression, seeming to be deeply unsettled by something. He raked through his memories, trying to come up with anything that could make her stare like that, but nothing came to mind. As far as he knew, he looked like he always did, and he paid careful attention to clean up any and all dirt he could. Unless there was something in his hair, but even then, he should have noticed that before. Seeing as his aunt was still silently staring at him and her nails were digging sharply into his shoulders, he chanced another glance up and spoke up tentatively.

"Aunt Petunia…? Is something wrong? There's still dirt in my face?"

Her eyes snapped to his, and her face scrunched up in a grimace.

"No. Nothing's wrong. You... it seems you got your soul mark. Now get back to the dishes."
With that she turned back to the stove, unusually silent and tense, not paying any more attention to Harry, who was still frozen from trying to process her words.

...Soul...mark?

Oh... OH! So that's why there was such a big celebration and fuss for Dudley's birthday! Today must have been his birthday too, then, if all of sudden he had a soul mark too, but... he was never told he would get one...? Somehow he never assumed. It seemed like a thing only good, normal people get, and he knew he wasn't normal and he definitely wasn't good. He was told many times over that he was a freak, and unnatural, disgusting for perfectly fine, normal people like his relatives were. He didn't exactly understand what made him so different, but he knew he was. For example, there were... incidents, where he did something he couldn't explain, and when he asked about it from his aunt or uncle he always got hit. His uncle especially liked to grab him and shake him around when he mentioned something "freakish", yelling at him, spittle flying from his mouth as his face got redder and redder. If only he knew what that freakishness entailed, maybe he could stop it. Curb himself from it like he curbed the garden from weeds...But as it was, he had no idea what he did, therefore he had no idea what to stop. But oh, how he wished to.

Still. Maybe... maybe if he got a soulmate, then it meant that he was good for something too? That he was worthy? Of course he heard other children of his age talk about getting their soul mark, and how they couldn't wait to turn six, but he never really minded, dismissing it as something he wouldn't be part of. One of the earliest realisations he had was that things didn't apply to him like they did to other children. While other kids played with each other, he mowed the lawn. While others had toys, and bedrooms, and clothes that fit he didn't have any, slept in a cupboard and only wore Dudley's cast offs. While other kids had doting parents, and siblings, he only had his aunt and uncle, and his cousin. And as he listened to them, he never heard another kid say they levitated down things they couldn't reach, or repairing a plate they had broken, or making fire when they were cold and dark and wished for nothing else. He also heard them talking about soulmates, and as a conclusion, he immediately excluded the possibility of having one himself. None of the things they said applied to him anyway.
But now... now he couldn't help it. He had to ask.

Shaking himself out of his stupor, he carefully stepped over to the counter where Aunt Petunia was chopping up carrots for the stew they were making.

"Aunt Petunia…?" Her hands halted for a moment, then without glancing up she continued.

"Yes? What is it."

Harry automatically flinched at the sharp tone, but the new revelation and the rush of hope he didn't have the hearth to acknowledge yet fuelled his uncharacteristic bravery, so he didn't relent.

"How comes I have a soul mark?"

"How comes, how comes, everyone has one! and those who don't usually get one later. Now get back to work!"

Oh... So, so at least he is normal in one thing then, right? But then... Why in nothing else?

"And... and what's mine says?"

At that Aunt Petunia looked up sharply, her expression dark, and her gaze on him like acid.

"I don't know, it looks like utter nonsense, words in some freaky language! Figures a freak like you would get a freak for a soulmate too. "

Harry recoiled, stung by her tone and her words. But as he turns these thoughts around in his head, he feels a little lighter. Perhaps his soulmate is like him, too then. It could mean he isn't alone, and perhaps his soulmate could love him too. Or, perhaps, aunt Petunia is wrong, like how he was wrong about not getting a mark. After all, if something as important and grandiose like Fate and soulmates deemed him worthy enough to have a person chosen just for him, then perhaps, maybe, just maybe he isn't that abnormal. Isn't that freakish. And if that's true, then maybe his soulmate isn't a freak either. Perhaps, his relatives are wrong.
So the first time in his life, Harry started to doubt. Doubt what his relatives said, and let himself hope for someone who would love him unconditionally, love him just for himself.


Later that day when he was finished with all his chores, and his relatives went to sleep, he sat in his cupboard, in a ball of nervous energy. He didn't get the chance to go to the upstairs bathroom that day, and he couldn't reach the mirror in the one downstairs. And he wanted to see his soul mark so badly he knew he wouldn't get any sleep today if he didn't. And while he was sure he could sneak up on the stairs without waking up the other residents of the house as he was small for his age and knew all of the creaky steps in the stair and floorboards, his uncle latched in his cupboard tonight.
Harry sighed. It really seemed he wasn't going to see his mark today, no matter how much he wanted to. Hoping against all hope and wishing with all his might, even though he heard the latch click, he put his hands on the door pushed. His hands tingled.

And the door creaked open.

Harrys breath halted, his eyes went wide with astonishment. He couldn't believe it. He was sure the door was closed before, but... he must have done it. Perhaps it was the same kind of freakishness his uncle always raved about. Ohnonono, if they caught him he was so dead but- he couldn't pass up an opportunity like this. So Harry shook his head and chanced a peek out the door. As expected, no one was in the corridor, therefore he was safe to make a move. Creeping out and closing the door behind himself, he made his way up the stairs without a problem, leaving out the steps he knew would betray him, lifting his feet and weight slowly and carefully. At the top he paused, listening for any signs of his relatives waking, but the only sound he heard were his uncles and Dudley's heavy, open mouthed breathing.
Sneaking to the door he knew led to the bathroom, he softly turned the knob, and after it clicked open he slid in, closing it behind himself. Once inside, he stopped breathing and stood still, waiting for any sign of movement or change in breathing pattern, but when he didn't herd anything, he knew the first part of his mission was successful.

The bathroom was pitch black, but he knew his surroundings well enough to find the switch without stumbling or making a racket.
Light flooded the room, and Harry let his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. Walking up to the floor length mirror next to sink, he let his eyes roam.

He looked like he always did. Baggy, faded pyjamas hung on his scrawny frame, and his hair sat upon his head in its usual black, tangled mess. The only notable features he had, were his eyes that were sometimes so green they seemed to have their own, luminescent light, and that jagged, lighting bolt shaped scar on his forehead. Once upon a time he liked that scar, there were even some kids in kindergarten that were amazed by it until they were scared and bullied away by Dudley. According to uncle Vernon, it was a scar he got in the car crash that killed his parents, a proof for his freakishness. To Harry, it was a reminder that he once had parents too, and didn't minded it much, but always made sure to cover it with his fringe, lest his relatives get annoyed at the sight of it.

Looking at his own reflection was never something he liked to do, but now his eyes eagerly searched for something that wasn't there before and... Oh! There! His eyes zeroed on his neck, where something black and curvy poked out under the collar of his nightshirt. Stepping closer, he turned his head sideways and pulled down his pyjama top, eyes never leaving the black lines. There, etched on the skin between his neck and his right shoulder were two words:

Avada Kedavra!

It was written in elegant calligraphy, letters curving so gracefully Harry couldn't call it anything else but art. The ink, he supposed, was black as midnight with an iridescent sheen to it, and as the light caught it in different angles stars seemed to come alive in it, like it was cut from the evening sky.

And Harry was in love with it.


After that night, Harry spent as much time in the local library as he could. He hoarded up language books left and right, trying and failing to decipher the meaning of his soul mark. He refused to believe aunt Petunia's drivel. Something so beautiful had to have a meaning. It couldn't be just gibberish. Couldn't be freakish.
Another thing that interested him was the colour of his soul mark. Other kids all had colourful, light soul marks, but his was black. Perhaps the sparkling script could pass as dark, dark blue, but that still was highly unusual. Others on occasion have questioned it, and not having a satisfying answer himself, Harry had taken to cover it as much as possible, either with a tube scarf or turtle neck shirts.

The problem is, everywhere he looked, every book he read all said the same.

Your soul mark only darkens when you meet your soulmate. Nothing more, nothing less. All soul marks stay light in colour, almost as if transparent, till the very moment you meet your soulmate, and the words of the mark leave their lips. Then they darken, and stay as such until one from the bonded pair dies. Then the mark disappears completely. Sometimes this happens even before the pair met, and honestly, there's not many things that are more devastating than losing someone you haven't even had the chance to meet. But those with deceased soulmates are not deemed to a life of loneliness. People like this tend to receive another soul mark later on, either fated to someone who just arrived to this world, or to someone who was also widowed. There are even tales of people with more than one active soul mark, or couples that never developed their relationship further than platonic friendship and deep understanding.

Still, Harry didn't get it. Had his parents took him traveling when he was little? Were they perhaps in a foreign country when his soul mark activated and turned black? Then why couldn't he find the language it was written in? It must have to be some kind of greeting, otherwise it doesn't make sense. But, if that was the case then he is sure his soulmate at least would have noticed… But then again, what is his soulmate's mark? Blabbering baby talk? He hoped not. God, that would be really awkward.

Or it could have happened during the time when he was already with his relatives. They seemed to be the short of people who wouldn't tell him if they've ever heard the fated words on his neck. And he is sure he would remember if he himself had heard them. They were such interesting words, they had a nice ring to them… They sounded melodic, almost rolling of the tongue…

Either way, there wasn't really anything worthwhile he found during his excessive research, and all he achieved was that he could greet you in almost every language now. As his life looked now, not something particularly useful skill.

Despite this, he continued to harbour hope in his chest in the years to come about that one, perfect person he would love and cherish, and who would appreciate him and care for him in return, without conditions and strings attached.

At least, he did so until today.