A/N:

So.

Lately I've been obsessed with soulmate au's and fem harry with tom riddle, and so I've decided to start this, despite having many other planned fics.

Do I know what i'm doing? no.

but i will do it anyway because i've been itching to publish something for a good few months.

what else? expect updates maybe once every two weeks, or whenever i feel like it.and since there wasn't enough character space, the full summary is down her.

cheers.

the full summary:

"Say, have you met your soulmate yet?"

"Soulmate?"

"Yes. Of course, I haven't met mine yet, but I'd hate for them to be a mudblood, wouldn't you?"

Ianthe hummed, and wondered, Soulmate?

…

There aren't many things that Ianthe doesn't wonder about.

She wonders why her parents died without her, she wonders why Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon need to be so cruel, and she wonders why Dudley needs a racing bike for his birthday, but most of all, she wonders what the word Voldemort means and why it's written on her chest .

Then the letters arrive.

Really, it's quite amazing, the yellowed parchment with the familiar snake she sometimes found in her dreams with the boy called Tom, the friendly giant of a man called Hagrid with kind, crinkled eyes and the breathtaking displays of magic at every corner and turn.

She meets the funny boy with pale skin and shiny alabaster hair, who flushes ever so lightly in embarrassment when she doesn't look, the old man called Ollivander with unnatural all-knowing eyes much like her own and who is kind (and strange) enough to explain the concept of Soulmates when she helps him craft her wand.

She learns what Voldemort means, learns that he murdered her parents, and it breaks her heart, because for a moment she thought that she'd finally be able to find love.

But no matter, she'll carve her own way, and she'll forget him, forget the reminder of what could've been if not for heinous crimes and broken families.

(but like a monster in the night, forgotten, Ianthe doesn't realise he will always come back.)

Chapter 1 -- marked

Ianthe Lily Potter was many things.

She was skinny, for one.

Skinny as a bean some might say, with a golden brown complexion and dainty bones that looked like they could snap if you held them too tightly. She had the most garish hair, a bedraggled mop that could never be brushed, a nasty thing she got from her father, Petunia would gossip, lip curled as if she couldn't believe it, foreigners.

And yet, Ianthe would hold that close to her chest, because it was hers, hair like her father, would be added to the small list of treasures in her heart, time spent imagining what he would have looked like, had he been alive.

And her eyes, they were an unnerving vibrant green, glass-like and all knowing, looking like they belonged on the head of a porcelain doll instead of a miscreant little girl with high cheekbones, pouty lips and dainty bones. She knew that they weren't normal, instead, they were special.

Dudley's eyes were watery blue, always narrowed and vindictive, whilst 's was amber, but she had a hard stare, as if she believed the Devil would possess Ianthe at any opportunity.

Maybe she would have hated her eyes, if she had never found out where they were from. Maybe she would have been liked more if they were a nice hazel brown, or even a less demonic green. But they weren't, and so, when she saw the picture album hidden in the second bedroom, and when she eased it open whilst the Dursleys were out, and she flipped through it, saw the little red-haired girl with glassy green eyes and dimples opening her Christmas presents, saw the button nose on her face covered in ice cream, the softly flushed pink cheeks widened in a smile and the arms around the sallow-skinned boy with large clothes (like her, Ianthe) and lanky hair and crooked nose and coal eyes with his arms around the red-haired angel, and so she drank it in.

The soft look in his eyes when he looked at the girl, the cheery grin on her face, the glassy (demonic) vibrant (abnormal) eyes, the clenched hands, the arms around each other and best of all, the writing on the back: Lily and Severus, best friends forever! scribbled in a childish scrawl, transitioning between the two different penmanship's.

And she knew who the little girl was.

Lily.

Her mother, captured in this picture forevermore, hidden away like some forbidden secret, with her best friend Severus by her side.

True friends, where what they were and Ianthe decided that they would stay that way, forever happy in their little corner of joy, with arms embraced in each other strong grip, hands held by each other with soft eyes and blinding smiles.

And when the Dursleys came back from their visit to Marge, they didn't notice the missing picture nor their nieces strange expression - something between joy and longing, between sadness and love, between thankfulness and hatred. No, they only barked at her to hurry finishing dinner and get back in her blasted cupboard.

And, back with the spiders and shrouded in darkness, only allowed the small sliver of light from the shuttered metal grate, she gazed at the picture and million different emotions bubbling inside her, and she looked at Severus' face, the soft eyes and gentle hand, and she wondered, wondered with eyes wide, wondered what the emotion in his eyes was called.

And she hoped, hoped that one day someone would look at her with the same soft and tender look in their eyes like Severus, and grant her the same warm smile.

But despite these thoughts, these thoughts of unknowing love and selflessness, the mark on her collarbone burnt, burnt beyond doubt, and once again, tracing the lightning scar, she wondered what the word Voldemort etched above it meant.

…