He had been happy, once. When he was young enough not to understand he was being shunned. When he didn't know God hated him.
He was eight when the realisation finally forced its way into his mind.
"Everyone has a soul mark," Elijah, a skinny boy who had taken to bullying him, had said.
"But... I don't?" he murmured, holding his wrists up, studying their continued blankness.
"Exactly," Elijah bit. "Because you're not a person," he said, and burned the words into his mind forever.
Not a person. No soulmark meant no soulmate. He didn't have one, because no one loved him, and no one ever would.
That was also the day he discovered his magic.
He curled into a ball on the ground and cried. Then, he sank into the concrete, made a small hole for himself, and covered it over.
Without moving an inch. Elijah saw the whole thing.
The fire department had to be called, and they very carefully broke a hole in the surface, and freed him. His parents tried to sue the school, but there was so much mystery regarding the situation, that nothing came of it.
The bullying got worse after that. His parents were more than happy to move schools. The next school was hardly any better.
He never truly understood what had happened that day, until a man came to their house and told him he was a wizard. His parents were confused, but happy he had something special, something to distract him from the fact that he would die alone.
It worked, for a while.
Ilvermorny was interesting. He learned many things in just the first year, including that there was a commonly used spell to cover soulmarks. Many students simply assumed he used it, and not that he didn't have one.
His following years lead him to a grand realisation. No-Majs like Elijah had no way to defend themselves from spells. If any idiot dared to call him unlovable, inhuman or anything of the ilk ever again, he'd kill them. Easy as that.
He dove into his studies, favouring defence against the dark arts and charms above all else. He eventually graduated with decent marks, and was finally free to use magic without supervision.
His first order of business was to hunt down old bullies and punish them.
He so enjoyed the terror on their faces as he tortured them, and felt vindicated as he wiped their memories afterwards. Elijah, in particular, was left permanently broken.
"I hope you enjoyed your jaw. You'll never use it again," he whispered to the unconscious body of the rightfully humbled teen.
The memory alone of broken teeth scattered on kitchen tile was enough to fill him with adrenaline and glee any time he thought of it.
He knew then, that he was made for those situations. He was destined to carry out delightful justice.
It wasn't hard to find the dark side of modern magic and start offering his services. He dealt a dozen beatings before he was hired for his first kill.
He was asked to make it as slow and painful as possible. He did, and the pay was magnificent.
For years he pursued this career, not knowing of any end goal, not seeing the greater purpose, until the world began to fear him.
'The Soul Stealer Strikes Again!' the front page of the paper read one morning. That's what they had decided to call him, given his signature. Was it all that surprising he enjoyed scarring soulmarks beyond recognition? If he couldn't have one, no one could.
He knew then, he wanted to hit the front page again, and again. He wanted to take out more and more important people until the whole country was afraid to speak. Until they knew that soulmarks were meaningless, and didn't make you special. Until they all hid them, forever.
It worked. Witches and wizards all over the country began using the soulmark see-me-not spell, and many took to wearing the metal soul-bands that No-Majs liked to wear.
He'd taken less and less jobs as of late, knowing he had to be more careful or risk being caught. He also stopped taking petty kills, they were a waste of time and the money was meagre.
Finally, he was offered the job of a lifetime.
Henry Winters was famous across the globe as an inventor of spells. He was rich and respected, and he was going to die beautifully.
This time, though, he knew he'd have to act differently.
Henry was famous for creating extremely dangerous and complex spells. He could have many more up his sleeve not yet known to the public. And he was rich, which meant he could afford all kinds of protective wards.
That meant he had to be careful, and quick. He couldn't make this one slow. He'd have to mutilate the corpse afterwards, and lie to the client.
So, once he located the man, he kept his distance, lied in wait, and stalked his prey. It was three weeks before he knew everything he needed to, and was ready to pounce.
Once a week, Henry went into the forest near his home to commune with the trees. They weren't sentient enough to pose a threat to his attack, just enough to entertain the odd man.
It was both far enough from civilisation for no one to hear a scuffle, and close enough to No-Maj territory that his opponent wouldn't be willing to perform any of the conspicuous spells he was known for.
He waited for the perfect moment, when the man was tiring from conversation, and the sun was setting, casting the forest in a deep shadow. The wind picked up, loud enough to whistle, and he struck.
Wand pointed, he chanted the spell with all the raw emotion he could muster.
"Avada Kedavra!" he screamed.
Green sparks of death burst forth from the tip of his wand, and soared towards the man at the speed of light. Henry was hit before he could even turn his head.
The body fell, thunking heavily on the ground. The forest shivered around him.
"Yes, even you would fear me," he praised himself with a devilish smile, glaring at the trees who had been their audience.
He breathed deeply and sighed with relief. Another victory. Approaching the body, he laughed at just how easy it had been. This man was nothing, compared to him.
First order of business. He turned the body over and grabbed the nearest arm to check for his mark.
"Ah," he murmured. Henry had feared him too, given the soul-band covering his wrist. All the more reason to celebrate.
He plucked it off and-
'Avada Kedavra.' it read, in his very own handwriting.
He dropped the arm like it was on fire, and his blood ran cold. He fell backwards, gaped at the scene, and began hyperventilating.
"What did-? No... it couldn't. You... you never said anything. You never- to me, you-"
He stared at his blank wrists, shaking uncontrollably. He couldn't do this, it was too much.
"What have I done?" he asked, realising God hated him far more than he ever knew.
He curled into a ball on the ground and cried. Then, he sank into the dirt, made a small hole for himself, and covered it over.
And stayed there, long after he ran out of air. His last thoughts were...
"I deserve this."