An outtake from Outside Your Castle, set pre-story back when Harry’s soulmate was alive:
Harry returns to consciousness in the same place he left it: on the stone floor of the newest battleground. The back of his head is wet with blood. The wound aches.
His ears ring, but not enough to drown out the words being spoken to him.
“You have fought bravely against Lord Voldemort.”
When Harry opens his eyes, he sees Voldemort standing above him.
The bottom of Voldemort’s robes are dirty. Or maybe that’s just the spots in Harry’s vision.
“Thanks,” Harry croaks out.
“It is a futile fight, but I suppose I cannot fault you for it. There is a great anger within you. I know it, for it is mine. You do not put yours to productive use, as I have said many times.”
Harry wonders if the universe would do him the favor of allowing him to pass out again. “I’m not joining you.”
“As you have said, many times.” Voldemort sighs. Something so theatrical shouldn’t sound so threatening, too. “Don’t you grow tired of this, my soulmate?”
“Yeah,” Harry admits after a moment. “I do.”
It’s a confession, but not acceptance. Voldemort takes it for what it is. With a flick of his fingers, Harry finds himself pulled up by magic into a standing position. Voldemort’s magic holds him up until he finds his legs again. His head is dizzy. Is that one or two dozen bodies on the ground around him? He can’t tell. Maybe he’s seeing double. He can only hope that his friends aren’t among them.
Voldemort reaches out, touches the streak of blood on Harry’s cheek. Harry doesn’t flinch away. He’s used to it now, the strange dance between enemy and soulmate. “You will get yourself killed one day.”
“Might even be by you,” Harry says to him.
Voldemort’s gaze holds steady. “No. Not by me.”
Harry doesn’t argue with him. He tried in the beginning. Tried arguing, pleading, making his case. But year by year, Voldemort’s tenuous hold on sanity has slipped. It is only to Harry that he shows some gentleness, just as he shows cruelty.
Voldemort isn’t wrong. Harry is angry, down to his bones. He’s also exhausted, in desperate need of sleep. The war’s gone on long enough.
“Can we skip this? The part where I try to convince you to stop fighting? I’m tired.”
Voldemort’s magic is oppressive around him. His touch is gentle. He places a kiss on Harry’s brow, leaning in to do it. It’s a parody of affection, surrounded here by death and destruction. Harry sways into it anyway.
“I will see you in the next battle, my soulmate,” Voldemort says, taking his time in stepping away.
Harry closes his eyes. “And the next. And the next.”
“A war’s worth of battles.” Voldemort’s hand brushes his cheek. “Until you capitulate or die. I would not have you die.”
“Maybe I’ll be the one who kills you,” Harry offers.
He opens his eyes.
Voldemort is already gone.
He can still feel the touch of Voldemort’s cold skin. Can still feel his kiss on his brow. He’s never been able to understand if each kiss is a punishment or a reward. Maybe both. Voldemort is inscrutable, impossible. As his soulmate, Harry feels as though he should understand him better than he does. All Harry knows is that Voldemort is a unyielding wall against which he throws curse after curse, and watches each fail.
The letters on his wrist feel like chains after a battle. And yet Harry can’t make himself wish they turned black.