A number of things happened. A tale unravelled (one about Fidelius charms and betrayals), a black dog disappeared off the school grounds, and Remus Lupin announced his resignation. The man wasn't leaving quite yet, but the infamous curse of one-year-DADA teachers would persist.

The skies were clear above Hogwarts. Exams were still months off, and, for once, there was no ticking time-bomb hanging over Harry's head. He could sit back, relax… and his thoughts would inevitably turn to his father. And Tom. Who was older than his father. Merlin!

Wasn't that an odd thought? But the image of a schoolboy persisted, and Harry couldn't envision Tom as an old man. The writing on his hands was as elegant as ever and the silence in his head as quiet. Tom was a Death Eater. He was like a too-dark shade. The shade of a library on an otherwise sunny day, where the light had bled out until the darkness overwhelmed, and the room had twisted into a cold, endless dungeon. That was Tom, Harry thought. Death Eater. Head Boy. He couldn't find what Tom had pursued after Hogwarts, but from what he'd heard, Tom had always been the top of the top.

Harry looked at his own scores. They were mediocre, at best. Would Tom be disappointed in him? Hermione was growing paler and paler behind her tottering pile of books, Ron was slacking off and attempting to play chess, and Harry felt a sudden, arresting guilt. Would his parents be disappointed, too? They had been talented – animagi in their fourth, fifth year? If they were all alive and around, would they be disappointed?

The guilt was heavy, and Harry was not strong.

Hermione must've been shocked when she marched into the library one day and saw Harry there, with a book pile bigger than her own. Ink had splattered a little over his pages, his hands, a splotch or two on his face, because Harry had never been a tidy writer. But if anything, he was persistent. He wanted to become an animagus. He wanted to hand his essays in to perfection. He wanted to go to Potions class and laugh when Snape could find no faults with his brewing. He wanted those people who were there-but-not to be proud of him.

Naturally, not all those dreams could come true. While his essays and homework were completed to perfection for the first few weeks, their quality tapered off after a time, and Harry was only a little better than when he first began. Then there was Snape. Snape could always find faults. Whether his potion was just a shade off, even though he'd been memorising and practising the days before, Snape would always notice.

Neither, it appeared, could Harry become an Animagus. Even if he found a spot outside the castle, under the shades of the trees, the wind sighing, reaching deep inside, his creature always slipped away. It was like trying to catch the breeze.

It was infinitely frustrating, but every time Harry looked into a mirror, he saw his mother in his eyes and his father in his features. Saw Tom on his hands. And so he went back to try, try, try again. He still hadn't mastered the patronus charm, but he went on to learn others. Hexes and curses, charms and jinxes. All the while he was still on the Quidditch team with his stunning Firebolt.

Time ticked on by. Another hourglass was running. It happened in the corridors, in the middle of mealtimes, sometimes even in class. A girl would scream in delight, or smile brightly enough to light up the ceiling of the Great Hall. Then she would leap into the arms of her soulmate and they would hug each other tightly. Or the girl would look up, surprised, and smile slowly like the emerging dawn, while her other half took her hand in his and beamed back.

Harry did not see a single other pair of two boys or two girls. Maybe they were hidden away, tucked in secret, but Harry did not know of them.

Most soulmates were in the same houses, because their shared souls reflected in their qualities. But occasionally they were scattered across the years and houses. Hufflepuff started this odd club where all students would commute, mingle, and try to find their other. It was a good time to start, apparently. When they were still young enough not to have faced the hardships of exams and life. Where they could go through a full life together, but still have thirteen, fourteen years of difference. Harry had never seen any of the Slytherins at one of the parties. He, obviously, declined to go too, using his studies as an excuse. Ron bought into it easily and didn't attend either. Harry wondered if his friend was still feeling guilty about what he'd said about Lupin, and was doing Harry a favour.

Malfoy and Hermione were twin furies. They seemed to echo and magnify off one another to become a whirlwind of studying. Not that they sat beside each other – they worked in opposite ends of the library, but still in this strange synchrony. Next year there would be a new course: soul magic. Students would collaborate with their soulmates and produce spells of extravagant strengths, as well as strengthen their bond with each other.

That was one course Harry was definitely not taking.

But in anticipation of this new course, a strange man turned up one morning during breakfast. He was an old, old, man, his eyes gleaming like gems and his hair white and frail. His robes were simple and frayed, but laced with runes that shimmered and whispered of power, and he walked with a staff that clacked and clattered against the ground. Harry remembered seeing him the years before, but he had never bothered asking why the old man came. There were many things Harry hadn't asked about. Like the skeletal horses that pulled the carriages every year.

The man was almost unnoticeable to those he wasn't concerned with. Magically so. He provided a service, as it turned out. He would measure the strength of someone's bond with their soulmate, even if the two hadn't met yet. It'd help the third-years decide if their bond with their soulmate was strong enough to bother applying for the soul magic course.

Harry didn't bother until Hermione grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him down the corridor, hissing that this was a perfect opportunity! The old man knew all about soulmates, anyway. He'd be able to tell Harry the specifics about his broken bond. Harry just swallowed and let his friend tow him through the corridors, to the classroom the old man set up every year. There was a long queue outside, the place filled with chatter, but third-years got priority. They would go in, one by one, and leave with expressions of elation, or disappointment, or dismissive shrugs.

It was Harry's turn.

The classroom had not been changed much from its original state. The old man – no one knew his name, they just called him Old Man – had simply taken three chairs and faced them towards each other at the front of the room. The man was sitting on one of them. His gnarled wooden staff was leaning against a desk, and the light from outside cast the room into a comforting yellow glow. There must have been Silencing charms up, too, because Harry could not hear any of the students outside.

"Sit," the man said. Harry did, and the old man held out his hands. There were words on the old man's hands as well. Harry tried not to read them. "Put your hands in mine." His voice was like the flowing of a stream. Quiet and calm, going somewhere, but in its own time.

Harry did, and he waited. The old man closed his eyes – what colour had they been, again? – and simply sat there. Somehow, Harry didn't mind the wait. The old man's hands were leathery under his own. It was like touching the aged face of a book. When they finally withdrew, Harry caught a glimpse of gold between those leathery fingers.

There were seven golden threads laying on the man's palms, connected to Harry's own. They all looked like woven silk. Frail and dim. The man gave a quiet exhale. "There is a snapped one here," he said. Harry looked at his downwards-facing palms. Was that just him, or were they glowing? No matter, he could see another thread dangling from his palm, where it hadn't reached the man's hands. It was the starting nub of a eighth that was gone. It had been the diary. That meant– Tom must've split his soul this many times?!

"These connections are all very weak," the old man said. Hearing it confirmed was like a kick to the gut. Harry just stared at those golden lines, eyes wide. "Two of them are growing. Very slowly. One of them is only sustained by you." His free hand pointed at two of the lines, although Harry couldn't tell how they were unique. They looked just as spider-spun as the rest. "The rest are dormant. In other words, dead."

That was more than a kick to the gut. That was a knife in the chest.

The old man continued in his frank tone. "Turn your hands over."

When had Harry's hands started shaking? He turned his palms upwards and let out a gasp when he saw the brilliance of the threads. Right by his skin, they glowed so vividly they illuminated his whole palm. They were bulbs, beacons, promises of light, that shimmered out the further they got from Harry's hands. "Unhindered, your bond is this strong," the man said. He paused. "He must not want you."

Harry reeled back. The old man looked up, the golden lines disappearing, and how had Harry not realised before that those eyes were the colour of ocean and the sky, the colour of endlessness, secrets treasured? "How can you know that?" Know that Harry's soulmate was male. Know that Tom didn't want Harry.

The old man reached out and wrapped a hand around his staff. "There is only one way of stifling a bond. Let me teach it to you."

"You don't normally teach students how to." It was more a question than anything.

"There is only one soul in this world that has been split seven times," the old man replied. "You should know how to cut yourself from him." The staff twirled and a piece of parchment was conjured, ink tracing over it in a blur. "It is simple. But only I, and I alone, know the process in its entirety." Harry knew, in a flash, that the old man had done it before. "You will kill someone." Harry's heart froze. He had to do what? "Killing will destabilise your soul. Perform the ritual I am inscribing for you right now and it will transfer a portion of your soul to a container of your choice–" How exactly was this supposed to be stifling the bond? It sounded more like– "After which, you kill yourself."

"What," Harry managed.

"The soul in the container will prevent your soul from departing completely. In the moment when you are neither dead nor alive, but merely a soul, you will see the strings that bind you. You may influence them then."

"Do I have to die? Can I reverse it?"

The old man lowered his head. "You do not have to remain dead. All that is required is the blood of your soulmate for you to remanifest as whole as you are now. As for the reversal: you must feel desperation and worry for your soulmate, you want them again, and if you do," the man paused. "They will come back to you."

Harry stared and stared and stared. The parchment finished and rolled up on its own, and it drifted over, gently, to Harry. "You can see souls," he said, slowly. Did that mean…

"I died a very long time ago," the old man told him, "and remained dead for centuries more before my soulmate discovered what he had to do." He set his staff back down with a clunk. "A part of me remains in Limbo, still."

In the warm room, the words were chilling. How old was the wizard? "He?"

"Magic pairs the strongest with the strongest." For the first time, Harry thought the old wizard actually looked slightly amused, although slightly snidely so. "The weaker do not have the liberty of overcoming biological barriers. But forget all that, Harry Potter. I have given all that I can give to you."

The day was absolutely intent on flabbergasting Harry, wasn't it? "I–Well, thank you…" He wanted to address the old man by his real name. 'Old Man' just wasn't respectful enough. He wanted to… well, how was he supposed to feel, knowing that he was given the choice to stop being soulmates with Tom? How many other wizards wished they didn't have to have their soulmates, but were stuck with them forever? He'd read hundreds of accounts where people's soulmates had been murderers or criminals, and mostly they'd ended in happily ever after and sometimes they both turned to crooks and sometimes one of them just couldn't handle it so they both blew the candle out, but all of the times they'd wished, at some point, that they didn't have to be soulmtes.

But here Harry was. Given a choice. But what sort of choice was this? He'd have to kill somebody. And he'd never give up Tom. It was unthinkable to abandon Tom to his loneliness, his misery...

"I am not legend. Not fate," the wizard said, still sitting in his chair. If it weren't for those too-deep eyes, he could almost be any old man alone on a balcony, rocking in a wooden seat, listening to the world turn and watching the sun set. "Merely an old man dead too many times." He smiled. "Good luck, young Harry Potter."

Harry thanked him again and pocketed the roll of parchment and as he left the room, he promised to himself that he'd never tear his soul in two.

–––

The moon rose and set, waxed and waned; sometimes Harry thought about Lupin and Sirius when he looked up.

The exams came and went. Potions was nerve-wracking, and Harry thought he added just a hair too much ginger to get an O. Some of the others, like History of Magic and Divination, he didn't care about. And others actually went decently. He emerged from DADA smiling, Transfiguration with an unsteady grin. Even in Divination, Professor Trelawney didn't force him to do anything strange. Harry just sat in the misty room and babbled whatever came to mind.

Then they were lazy days that came in the afterglow of exams. Days that were spent in the library, where Hermione worked beside him and Ron was practising Quidditch outside. For some reason, his freckled friend didn't even argue. They'd see each other over summer, Ron said instead, it'd be enough time. They'd watch the World Cup! Harry agreed, then he and Hermione hopped into a classroom where she conjured chairs and furniture for him to shatter with all sorts of jinxes and hexes, trying to learn to unravel his spells as they flew, just in case they headed to the wrong target. Or he'd study, enraptured, while Hermione and Draco wordlessly melted chairs and tables into liquid wood and, with a wave of their wands, reshaped them into statues of leaping horses.

One day he caught up to Dumbledore after breakfast, and asked for a word. More than a word, actually. A Fidelius charm.

"More people than you and I know the identity of your soulmate," Dumbledore said calmly.

"What? How?" Harry stared at the old man, his wrinkled skin, and that long scar across his face that for some reason drew Harry's eye every time.

"I am the Secret Keeper of their lives, too, Harry." He inclined his head. "I'm afraid I cannot divulge those details to you yet."

Harry let him go. For now. "Can you– can you cast it anyway, for me? And keep you and I as the Secret Keepers?"

"I can." And Harry felt a hundred times safer.

Time slid by until the Hogwarts train was disappearing on the horizon. It was the quietest time of Harry's life; like the stillness of a lake, walking through the winter, tree branches bare, birds trailing after dark sunshine.

Funny thing, Harry thought, looking over his letters. Sirius and Lupin had hidden away somewhere private (they were his godfathers, wasn't that an odd thought?).

(He mentioned, once, I heard from somewhere that men aren't normally matched with men or women with women because they can't have children unless they're really magically strong. Harry had strayed away from the implications of that. He wasn't strong! Was Tom supposed to pick up all his slack?

Harry, the Fates must've known I wouldn't have children anyway. And Harry felt gut-wrenchingly awful for ever asking in the first place. One day, if he lived to be old, he'd campaign for werewolf rights. It'd happen.)

The Malfoys had also invited him and Hermione to their Manor. They were finally recognising her publicly. They were paying for her ticket into the Box during the cup, they were redistributing their investments, but they were– well, (Hermione wrote,) they were still businessmen and social engineers at heart. They hadn't deferred to the Light side, no, but they quietly slipped away into the greyer zones. The Dark, Lord Voldemort, had hated soulmates. Said that if you were strong, you could defy and reject them. And the Malfoys didn't believe that. They just didn't have need to defy that until now.

The Manor was, Harry realised, was not a lavish home to show off and wow every guest. Okay, Draco Malfoy might have represented it like that, and maybe Lucius, too, but Harry noticed what it really was. It was a homage. A relic. A standing representation all in the honour of the Malfoy family. It was like a statue; people could admire it, yes, but its true intention lay behind respecting the face, the animal, the man that had been sculpted.

Lucius apologised to him, which was probably the motivation behind inviting Harry. He was seated in a comfortable chair in the main study, and Lucius said that he had just wanted to get rid of the diary and let it play a nasty little trick. Truly. Had never known what it would do, hadn't intended to nearly put the school out of commission. Harry hadn't felt any lies, so he'd smiled and said, "It's fine, Mr Malfoy. If you look after my best friend well, I'll forgive you for nearly anything."

Well, his motivation for the visit was that he got to see Hermione and get away from the Dursleys. (Petunia's expression when she saw Mr Malfoy had been rather amusing, too. She'd looked positively offended at his odd-coloured hair, but then conflicted when she realised he had far too much money.) It all worked out. He'd be going to the Burrow, after. The Weasleys would take him to the World Cup and Hermione would go with the Malfoys.

"I'm grateful," Harry said, "that you took her in. Really."

Mr Malfoy waved him away. "If I did not, my son would've eloped." Implying it wasn't out of heart, but the face of the Malfoy family.

Funny.

But it wasn't Mr Malfoy's reputation that was the problem. "Couldn't you have another son as the face of your family?" Harry said, attempting to look innocent. Look at how accepting Mr Malfoy was now, of Hermione. All for Draco, Draco, Draco. Draco who thought he wasn't good enough for his father.

"How I treat my family is none of your concern," the aristocrat said stiffly.

Mr Malfoy focused his eyes and his hands on his desk instead, needlessly shuffling a few papers. The Malfoys had some serious family issues, father caring for son, son feeling hated instead of cared... but they weren't Harry's to solve.

He bid the man a thank you and goodbye, then went in search of a room to stay in. They said he could pick whatever room, since the important big ones were occupied already.

Illuminated corridors and thick carpeted hallways Harry went through, up and down, into and around, until the rooms were filled with silence. Until he could feel the years in the dusted halls. The room he chose was small and humble, with glowing curtains that filtered all the light into yellow like a lampshade, and walls dark brown wood. It was an unused study. Bookshelves lined one of the walls, but they whispered of disuse, and a small bed was shoved into the corner like an afterthought. A desk at the window stood empty.

Harry liked it. He never thought he'd like the heart of Malfoy ego, but hey. One of the Malfoy ancestors' tastes really aligned with his. With a glance down at his hands, he thought Tom would've liked a room like this, too.

Tom seemed to be excited these days. The words had ceased to be curses and were mostly things like, "Yes."

"It will work."

"I will be free."

Hermione roped him into playing lots of games of chess, which he was rubbish at, and proceeded to gush about how she'd introduce her family to the Malfoys and how the Manor was fantastic.

There was a constant push and pull between Hermione and Narcissa. Narcissa was the more open of the two, between Lucius and her. (Only in the matters of caring for family, though. Harry had no doubt that she was a deadly veiled opponent in the political landscape.) But that meant she was at once appreciative and disapproving of Hermione.

"Dear, you absolutely must wear a dress to the World Cup," she said over dinner, and Harry had literally not once ever seen Hermione in a dress. "It will be your debut as a Malfoy."

No, Hermione replied, she was not going to be tempted into dressing up for the cameras. To do that once was a trap that would lead to her doing it again and again and again and again… She would be Hermione instead, the Mudblood girl everybody knew as a workaholic, and she would be shown to have been accepted and to have accepted the Malfoy family just as that: the Mudblood girl.

Harry thought Narcissa had been stunned into silence by the fact Hermione had actually called herself a Mudblood. The younger Malfoy was also giving her a frown but was also probably holding her hand under the table.

But, Narcissa began, and Harry inhaled his dinner before politely excusing himself. He went for a bit of a walk around the grounds and met a certain house elf who wouldn't stop singing praises after him. Then he got chased back into the Manor by a few strangely aggressive albino peacocks.

Draco Malfoy found him the next morning, after breakfast. Narcissa had dragged Hermione off to Diagon Alley for a 'shopping session' that Harry was really quite dubious about. "Your soulmate," the other boy said, "do you know her name? Father's off at the Ministry. We can look through his records."

"You know where he keeps them?"

"Of course. It's important to keep track of who's on what side, you know. Now, was she a Death Eater or just a minion?" Malfoy was all business. He'd go fetch them and bring them down to look through.

Tom was powerful, no doubt. Not to mention the Diary had been handled by Voldemort himself. "Probably a Death Eater," Harry admitted. "She–" he was so grateful for the fact that Malfoy couldn't innately pick up lies like he could. "–was born a long time before me."

"Of course she was. How else would she follow the Dark Lord?"

"No," Harry struggled for his words. Should he tell Malfoy this? It was the best chance he'd get to find out exactly where Tom had been in Voldemort's. And under the Fidelius Charm, Malfoy wouldn't be able to tell anyone else. "Like, a long, long time."

Malfoy stared at him. "So, what, five years?"

"More like fifty," Harry said light-heartedly.

There was a dangerously long pause.

"Oh very funny, Potter." But he did not sound very amused. "Unfortunately, we don't have records dating back that far. What a pity."

Backtrack, backtrack, backtrack. "Then I won't need to look through them," he laughed.

"Oh, for– Potter, you can't be serious."

"I'm not," Harry lied, "look, Malfoy, it's fine. I know her name and everything. I don't need to know her position by Voldemort."

As expected, the other wizard flinched at the sound of the name. "That's... accepting."

"I've had a year or two to think on it," and how could he have come to any conclusion except to keep loving Tom? Tom, who'd lived as half a soul for so many years, and ended up splitting it so he wouldn't feel anymore? Tom, who'd been alone for so long he'd grown spite for Harry, Tom, who thought he didn't need a soulmate?

"I hope you don't think you'll be able to turn your soulmate to the Light," Malfoy said, and Harry tried not to look guilty. As it turned out, Harry was a terrible actor. "Thank Merlin Hermione is a cleverer person than you."

"Hey!"

"How much would you consider deferring to the Dark?"

"What?" Harry said, "No way! Excuse me, my parents were killed by the Dark!"

"Exactly," Malfoy replied, "what if her family died because of the Light? Honestly, Potter, get your head out of your arse sometimes." The boy threw Harry a bit of a snooty look, and then twirled away.

Harry went back to the room he'd chosen and sat there for a long while, watching and considering the fading sunshine.

–––

Not long after, he was shipped over to the Weasleys. Hermione visited for a few days, too, but she still stayed in the Malfoy Manor. Some of the younger Weasleys gave the offending Pureblood family a few dirty looks when they heard the news that wonderful Hermione was stuck with snivelling Draco, but their mother slapped them upside the heads and gave them stern looks, and their little romantic hearts were eventually won over by the way Hermione glowed and Draco trailed after her as though she'd hung the moon.

Harry hid a smile and thought about Tom. Maybe one day him, too, eh?

He liked the Burrow a bit more than the Manor. While the solace in the Manor was refreshing, he had to say he loved the boisterousness of the Weasley household. The magic that was used in every small thing – he'd refused to appear awed in the Manor, because that'd remind them that he was Muggle raised – and the sibling interaction was just what won him over. He couldn't imagine that, having these people woven into his life like that, for them to toss jokes around and live so easily together. They were like cogs in a machine, wind currents, that somehow knew how to flow together. Harry didn't even feel like an outsider. He was enveloped in their radiance and loved it there.

When the World Cup rolled around, he felt like this would've been what it'd feel like everyday if his parents were still alive. Maybe he'd even have a younger brother or sister at this point. He felt a stab of anger – at Voldemort, of course – for denying him a lifetime. How many other families had also been snuffed out, ended like a spluttering flame, because Voldemort had crushed them? How many people had lost their worlds because of this– this– Voldemort?

To him, Voldemort was a caricature of pain, of death. Voldemort was the one who'd stolen Quirrell's life, this ominous looming figure that shrouded the world, more idea than man, who hated Muggles and hated soulmates and just seemed to dictate everyone to hate everything.

Harry snapped out of his bitter thoughts, instead watching hundreds of eyes follow Hermione's every action, but mostly the fact that she was holding Draco Malfoy's hand in front of the entire world. Nonetheless, no one dared to stand up and yell. In fact, more people looked like they wanted to clap, but Harry caught some cold glares Mr Malfoy flashed here and there to keep a few people in check.

The game was over in whoops and cheers, the Quidditch players looping around the field. Harry thought maybe this could one day be his future.

It was was an unpleasant wake-up call when a skull appeared, in the night, over the stadium.

"Get out, get out, get out!"

There were screams in the din and nothing but a mad scramble. "What are we running from?" Harry demanded. Ron was crashing through the campsite beside him, eyes blown wide with fear.

"The Dark Mark." Torches and firelight, and there were Muggles being hung upside-down. Laughed at. Tortured. Harry hesitated at the treeline. He'd fought Quirrell before, hadn't he? Someone had to put a stop to this–

"Harry!" Ron hissed under his breath, "don't tell me you're thinking of doing something stupid again!"

"There are–"

"Aurors coming!" Ron said, then dragged Harry further into the trees.

There were Aurors, in fact. Harry learnt this after he was ordered to kneel with his hands behind his head and was accused by one Bartemius Crouch. And then a house elf appeared holding his wand. Hadn't that elf been sitting next to him in the Box?

The Daily Prophet the next day was truly something formidable. Between the roaring news of the Malfoy heir's new 'Mudblood' and the attack on the World Cup, the Wizarding World had plenty to chew on.

When Summer cooled down and Harry finally re-entered the Hogwarts halls it was awash with whispers. The ceiling overhead was deep and dark and cloudy, and Tom was murmuring on his hands "Yessssss."

The doors of the Great Hall flew open as Dumbledore was speaking and lightning ate the world from inside out. For a moment Harry swore his body filled with an elation that wasn't his – it lifted him up, swathed him in a churning roiling tainted joy – and he threw himself at it, equally as joyed, a dying man scrabbling for water, tomtomtomtomtomtom–

But his head fell silent once more.

And when he looked up, he swore that electric eye of the Mad Moody was staring straight at him.

–––

"The Killing Curse," Moody growled, and the class stared on in silence. "There's only one way to stop it, and the proof of it's sitting right here in front of me. Love!" he barked. They all jumped in their seats. "If your soulmate cares for you enough, they might just take the hit for you! They might die, they might live. But none of you have soulmates who are strong and loving enough, so don't rely on it!"

"Constant vigilance!"

–––

It really shouldn't have been surprising when Harry's name flew out of the goblet. But his jaw dropped and he felt like someone had ripped him away from his seat.

He stared over at his friends, and when he met Ron's eyes–

The world lurched because Harry'd stumbled out of his chair. He couldn't face that look. He never thought he'd see Ron look at him with such disgust and loathing. Hermione, too– Gods! She looked horrified. Not for him, but at him.

Even the teachers were staring. He met his Head of House's eyes, and they were filled with disapproval.

How could he handle this?

The hundreds of gazes dragged his feet to a stop.

He thought he could just have a normal life. Wasn't Voldemort already dead? Hadn't the Dark already taken enough from him? His parents, his soulmate, now– his friends? His classmates? Couldn't he just have a life like the Weasleys, where he had brothers and sisters to come back to, people who would always accept him?

"I don't want to participate," he blurted. His voice gave an embarrassing warble, and whispers broke out behind him. He was fixed to the spot. Please let him go, please, tell him that he didn't have to–

"Unfortunately, Mr Potter," Snape said from behind the stage, his dark eyes glinting, "the Goblet creates a binding contract. As you might have known if you had been listening instead of plotting how to thwart the age limits."

Harry jerked as if slapped, his face heating. "I did not–"

"That's enough," Snape said. "Come," and then Harry's feet began to move again, slowly, with the growing sense that he never wanted to look back.

–––

"He is too young!" Fleur said, in her lilting accent, raising imperious eyebrows.

"Dumbledore!" Karkaroff demanded, "Do you have an explanation for this blatant attempt at cheating?"

The voices swirled in Harry's head. Accusations. Defenses. And he'd just stood there with his head bowed dreading the moment he'd have to return to the Gryffindor tower. He didn't want to compete. Wasn't Voldemort dead? Wasn't the Dark already at bay? Why was he dragged into chaos, once and once again? He just wanted to sit back and learn, make his there-but-not parents proud, make Tom proud, find a way to be strong–

Not be the laughing stock of the Daily Prophet and his peers. For fuck's sake.

The Gryffindor portrait swung open to noise. "Harry!" someone called over the din, "Tell us how you did it, mate!" A party was in full swing, bright colours hanging all over the couches, Gryffindors laughing and making a general ruckus, and a banner over the wall that looked suspiciously like it read, 'Slytherin, eat shit!'

Couldn't they see the misery on his face? "I didn't–"

"Nonsense," Fred said, stomping over to Harry, slinging an arm over his shoulder and winking. "But we get it, Harry, a magician never shares his secrets."

Someone pushed a Butterbeer into his hands. "Look–" Harry tried again.

People jostled them around and Harry could feel it all rising inside him to a boiling point. None of this– none of this he deserved. "Don't worry!" Fred continued obliviously, "we're not going to force you to spill the beans. Would've been nice to know, though."

"Yeah," suddenly Ron was there, sneering, "would've been nice for you to tell us and put our names in too. Or, you know, you could hog all the fame to yourself. Don't you get enough of it already?"

Harry just burst.

"I didn't put my name in!" The room paused to stare, and Harry was just– it was clawing under his skin, lashing out in his words. "What about that don't you get?! Why do you just immediately assume–"

"Well," Ron cut in coldly, the cruel look on his face unfamiliar, "you've always been breaking the rules, haven't you? About time you decided you weren't going to break them with your useless friend anymore."

"I didn't put my name in," Harry gritted, fists clenched. Later, he would regret having an argument in full view of his entire house, but for now he was too enraged, too blinded by the red mist to think clearly.

"Real easy to believe that, isn't it?" Ron said, "Do you have any idea, any idea at all, how hard it is to live under you? You've got no bloody clue! Just look at you."

"Do you mean you think I want this?" Harry said, and there might've been a fine tremor running all throughout his body, where anger was threatening to burst at the seams, "You want this? You want to be shit on by the newspapers, you want no one to believe you – you want a life where you have no family?" People were murmuring uncomfortably among each other now, and Harry didn't care at all what they were thinking.

"You really don't see what you get. Winning the cup each year? Seeker? Defeating the Darkest wizard of all time? Name one thing, Harry that you aren't better than me at."

"I–" Words weren't enough. "How petty are you?!" he exploded, "who cares if I get better scores in class–"

"I guess the Boy-Who-Lived just has never had to care about being at the bottom," Ron sneered. "Look, I'll tell you one thing I'm better at: at least I have a soulmate," Harry could see the ink moving on Ron's hand, suddenly distinctly aware of his own broken, shattered bond. Ron's words stung like a betrayal. "Doesn't that make you feel the way I always feel?"

"You know what," he said, voice suddenly dry, the room suddenly too small, "if you hate me because you're so jealous that you're not 'special', that sounds like more of your problem than mine." He backed away, out the portrait hole. He just needed to get out of there. "Also? Fuck you, Ron. Fuck you for stooping so low–" he raised both his hands, where the whole room could see his empty palms, "–it doesn't hurt because I'm jealous – no, I'm happy for Hermione, for anyone who's got their soulmate – it hurts because I know s–she's in pain and I'm not there to save her."

As he turned away, stumbling out into the corridor, he only caught the tail end of Ron's comment of Harry's "hero complex" before he was fleeing and gone.