Chapter 1: Part One
Ginny Weasley was only ten when her first Soul Mark appeared. It shone bright silver on her wrist for a full three minutes before fading into a dull white scar shaped like a lightning bolt.
It was September first, she was on Platform 9 ¾, and she had just seen Harry Potter for the first time.
When she showed her mother the Mark on her wrist, her mother hugged her tight. At the time, Ginny didn’t understand why she looked so worried, or why she was so quick to use a concealment charm on her wrist.
Soul Marks weren’t common, but they weren’t unheard-of, either.
That night, as she was about to settle in to bed, she overheard her mum and dad speaking in soft voices.
She crept toward the edge of the landing and held very still, listening, as she’d seen Fred and George do.
“And you’re sure it’s a lightning bolt, Molly?” she heard her father ask. His voice was weighed down by uncharacteristic worry.
“I’m positive, I saw it plain as day. I can only hope no one else noticed in the shuffle.”
“Maybe it means something else? Some one else?”
“Who else could it mean, Arthur?”
“I’ve just never heard of it happening when someone is already Marked,” Dad said.
That took Ginny aback. Already Marked? As far as she knew, she only had the one Soul Mark, and she’d never heard of one appearing anywhere other than the inside of the left wrist. She spent a moment looking over both arms and legs, just in case.
The next words her mother said stopped her cold, just as she was inspecting the underside of her right knee.
“Everyone knows by now that the symbol that represents Harry Potter’s soul is a lightning bolt. And everyone knows that his Mark is You-Know-Who.” There was a quiet sound—a sob—and her mother continued. “That poor boy…”
Ginny rubbed at the spot on her wrist, just over the concealment band Mum had put on her when they’d gotten home. Her elation over knowing she had a soulmate was eclipsed by the revelation he was already Marked by another. A bitter hatred swept through her, the force of which almost knocked the breath out of her. You-Know-Who. What a stupid name!
Ginny only realized later, much later, what she was too young to understand when she was ten.
It was September first, and Ginny Weasley was eleven. It had been a year to the day since her Soul Mark first appeared.
Harry Potter had been staying with them for a couple of weeks now, and Ginny was still too afraid to talk to him. She dreamed of saying something funny that would make him laugh, but every time she tried, she caught a glimpse of his covered wrist and stumbled over her words.
Did he know? Did he have any idea at all? He was raised by Muggles, and they didn’t have soulmates. According to Ron, Harry hadn’t known anything at all about the Wizarding world before he got his Hogwarts letter, so she rather doubted his Muggle family told him about soulmates. They certainly didn’t seem to treat him very well, judging by how thin and pale he was when her brothers brought him home with them. (In a flying car! She would’ve loved to be part of that rescue!)
She avoided the problem by hiding out, mostly, and writing in her diary.
The diary was her new favorite thing, and was incredibly special.
It wrote back to her.
She’d discovered it, an old and battered thing with the words “T. M. Riddle” inscribed in the front, stuffed into one of her second-hand spellbooks after they’d returned home from Diagon Alley.
From the moment she touched it, warmth suffused her very being, as if the diary was calling out to her soul—as silly as that sounded.
She thought, even then, that she’d felt something, a tingling on her covered wrist. Maybe she’d even seen a light from underneath edge of the concealing band, but it had been hard to tell in the sunshine streaming in through her bedroom window.
And that was silly, anyway, why would her Soul Mark react to a diary?
“Ginny! It’s time to leave!” Mum called up the stairs, and Ginny jumped. A splotch of ink blotted out the word she was about to write.
In the chaos of six students getting ready for school, she nearly left it behind.
Tom was so kind, advising her on how to handle her unfortunately large crush on Harry Potter (and if he seemed particularly interested in Harry, well, that didn’t seem strange to Ginny)
Tom was so handsome, a small, traitorous part of Ginny thought, when he showed her the memory of himself asking the headmaster at the time if he could stay at Hogwarts for the summer.
It turned out he was an orphan, just like Harry. She even sneaked a glance at his wrist out of curiosity, but it was bare. Most people didn’t have a Soul Mark, after all.
Tom was from the past, only a memory preserved in a diary. She didn’t know who he grew up to be, if he’d followed his dreams or faded into obscurity.
She wracked her brain trying to think if she knew any wizards named Tom Riddle, but the only Tom she could think of was the one who owned the Leaky Cauldron.
She made a face and dismissed that thought immediately.
It was Halloween and Ginny was terrified.
She couldn’t remember what she’d been doing last night. In fact, most nights had become a blur. She would wake up and realize her schoolwork had been done, without any memory of doing it.
There were rooster feathers on her bed one morning, and blood under her fingernails, and no amount of scrubbing seemed to remove it.
Someone had opened the Chamber of Secrets and now there was a monster on the loose. It had attacked Mr. Filch’s cat. Ginny felt horrible about that; though no one else seemed to like Mrs. Norris, Ginny loved all cats.
Tom was so sweet, listening to her worries, but in this case, he seemed unusually dismissive.
“First year is always rough,” Tom assured her, his flowing, elegant script rising to the surface of the paper.
It wasn’t until February that Ginny decided to be rid of Tom’s diary for good.
Tom Riddle was a liar.
Tom Riddle had not faded into obscurity but rather grew up to be the darkest wizard that ever lived.
Ginny lay on the cold stone floor of the Chamber of Secrets, feeling her life leach away, the connection she’d had with the diary giving Tom the strength he needed to live again.
She’d given Tom too much of herself.
Distantly, she could hear Tom and Harry talking over her. She wanted to open her mouth, to speak, to scream, but she was trapped in the prison of her own dying body. Their voices were distorted, as if she were hearing them from underwater.
Harry’s fingers brushed her left wrist, just over the band, and there was a moment where her fading senses sharpened to a point centered on her Soul Mark. Maybe if he kept contact with her, she could wake up. But she felt him snatch his hand back as if it’d been burned.
The cold of the Chamber seeped into her bones. She was numb; feeling nothing but the slowing beat of her own heart and a residual warmth on her left wrist.
“Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted...” Tom was saying.
Darkness stole over her senses, snuffing them out one by one, like candles in the dark. She’d heard once, that sound was the last thing to go before you died. Tom and Harry’s conversation receded into the distance.
I really am dying, then , she thought. The faces of her family flashed in her mind’s eye.
And then she knew nothing more.
...Not until she, impossibly, awoke, with Harry kneeling over her, and the warmth rushing back into her body.
He was holding her hand, and she burst into tears.
Tom Riddle was dead.
Part of him, anyway. The part that was in the diary. The rest of him was, according to Professor Dumbledore, somewhere in Albania.
No one else seemed to notice Professor Dumbledore’s glance darting from Tom’s diary to Harry’s wrist and back. But Ginny did.
Her gaze lingered on the diary, now only an empty vessel, and a wretched part of her wondered what had really become of Tom. His voice rose, unbidden, in her memory: “Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul back into her …”
She shivered in the warm room, wrapping her arms around herself. The cold was coming from within, as if she were carrying a piece of the Chamber in her heart. Maybe she couldn’t warm herself, but she could try to keep it contained.
That day, as she stood in Dumbledore’s office, getting berated by her worried parents, Ginny decided that she would never tell Harry about her Soul Mark.
Chapter 2: Part Two
“We belong together, Ginevra.”
She was running, her bare feet slapping against the wet stone of the Chamber of Secrets. Her usual robes were gone, replaced by a gauzy white nightgown. She was freezing and vulnerable, the thin material only seeming to amplify the cold.
Behind her, a monster gave chase.
Not the Basilisk, but something else entirely. A creature of undulating shadow and razor-sharp fangs and a thousand red, slitted eyes, glittering with malice.
She slipped and fell to the ground, a puddle of filthy water splashing around her and soaking her to the bone.
The beast was upon her, she could feel its hot, sulfurous breath on her neck, impressions of glowing-ember eyes and deadly-sharp fangs amid inky darkness.
She fought. She had no wand but she fought anyway, with fist and foot and nail.
“You won’t win,” Tom said, his voice soft and low. He was leaning against a pillar, watching her try to escape the beast with amused detachment.
A concealment band on his left wrist glinted in the dim light as he uncrossed his arms.
“You should just give in, Ginevra.” Tom took a step towards her, and then another. Slow, calm, and measured, uncaring as she fought tooth and nail against a nameless demon.
He knelt next to her, ignoring her thrashing, and grasped her left wrist.
Pain shot through her, freezing fire and electricity surging along her every nerve, radiating from the spot on her wrist where the Mark was.
She screamed, raw and feral, and the demon seized the opportunity and plunged in through her open mouth, down her throat. She felt her body writhing as the demon infiltrated every vein, spreading darkness throughout, until it was as though her marrow had been replaced with shadow.
She lie on the floor of the Chamber, a contradiction. Completely drained of and yet buzzing with energy, simultaneously burning and freezing. Alive and dead.
Tom still held her wrist.
Her naked wrist.
“Silly girl,” he whispered. “You can’t escape. You belong to me.”
Then his eyes flicked to the lightning bolt Mark. “You both do,” he said, softly.
And then he pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. She opened her mouth to scream, but only inky darkness issued forth.
Ginny woke in a cold sweat, gooseflesh erupting along her arms, a sharp contrast to the sweltering midsummer air wafting in through the open window in her room at the Burrow.
Her wrist burned. For the first time in years, she took the concealment band off.
There were two Marks.
One, a lightning bolt that she’d memorized the shape of, after having traced its remembered form so many times.
The other, a snake in the shape of an “S.”
Both Marks were burning.
The snake, in particular, was a painful, dark red. As she watched, a drop of blood oozed from it, slithering a path down her arm and dripping onto the thin sheet.
The blood looked black in the faint light of the crescent moon, and Ginny felt a chill sweep through her body, horror and dread making a nest in her belly.
The dream, the monster.
She pulled the sheet around herself, and tried to calm her racing heart.
Little did she know, that many many miles to the south, Harry Potter awoke from a dream where Lord Voldemort had killed an old man.
The years passed and she grew. They all did. Her wrist remained covered, and so did Harry’s. She experimented with other boys, and the occasional girl, all with un-Marked wrists. But it was no use, not really.
Not when she knew .
She watched as Harry pined after Cho Chang, his infatuation obvious to everyone. Cho didn’t have a Mark on her wrist at all.
Having a Soul Mark didn’t guarantee romance, though most Marks did have a romantic bond.
The day she won the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor, the same day Harry Potter stormed back into the Common Room and kissed the breath out of her, was the happiest of her life.
Finally , she thought, finally, we can be together. We can defeat the dark lord and be happy. We can do it together.
The whole world seemed to burst into color, as if her life had been dull and drab before that moment.
She could’ve died happily, then.
“Have you ever taken yours off?” she asked Harry one day in late spring.
He looked at her for a long moment. “No,” he said, at last.
She thought that was all there would be when he followed it up with, “I’ve tried, but it won’t come off. I’ve worn it for as long as I can remember. I don’t even notice it most of the time.”
But he was lying. The knowledge of it surprised her, but she knew it was true. She could sense the lie.
“Do you wonder who it is?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and she immediately felt stupid. Of course he knew. Everyone knew, but pretended they didn’t. The wizarding world’s worst-kept open secret.
He very carefully didn’t look at her. “I think I know who it is.”
She didn’t press, because she knew it, too. The unspoken truth of it hung heavy between them, where they lie in the shade of an old oak tree, overlooking the Black Lake. The spectre of Tom Riddle cast a pall over the sunny day.
Memories of dark, burning eyes in a handsome, pale face rose, unbidden, from where she’d locked them away. A nightmare made flesh, a beast with a thousand burning eyes, yet still not as monstrous as the demon who wore the face of an angel.
Ginny remembered the dream she’d had, one night when she was just thirteen. All the marrow in her bones replaced with darkness while Tom pressed a kiss to her Marked wrist.
Dumbledore was dead.
She and Harry held hands while they attended his funeral, their concealment bands bright in the sun.
“I’m going with you,” she told him, in no uncertain terms, after the service.
They had walked off, away from the rest of the grieving crowd, along the shore of the lake.
Harry didn’t say anything for a long time, but then: “Voldemort uses the people I’m close to. He uses them to get to me.”
He stood on the shore, staring out over the lake. The sunlight glinted off the water, dazzling her eyes. She could tell what he was driving at, but wasn’t about to let that stop her.
He turned to look back at her, his eyes hard with resolve. But she was just as stubborn.
“I’m just as far into this—” at “this” she gestured at his covered wrist “—as you are.”
“No, Harry. Whatever you’re planning on, I’m going with. I have to.”
And then she did something she’d never done with another person around. Something she swore to herself five years ago that she’d never do.
She took out her wand and tapped the concealment band. It fell to the flat stones of the lakeshore with a clatter that sounded unnaturally loud, echoing across the water. Wordlessly, she held up her hand and showed him her Marks.
He stared at them in shock for several long, breathless moments. So long that Ginny began to feel self-conscious. Maybe the lightning bolt didn’t symbolize Harry’s soul, after all? What if this was a mistake?
But Harry’s gaze was fixed upon the snake in the shape of an “S” right next to the lightning bolt.
He crossed the space between them in three steps and made to grab her arm, but stopped himself before he touched her, glancing up to her eyes, silently asking permission.
She nodded, once, slowly.
Harry reached out and gently grasped her forearm. The pad of his thumb traced over the two Marks, slowly, reverently, and there was a small, traitorous moment where she remembered the dream, and Tom kissing her there.
He licked his lips and glanced back up at her, the green of his eyes shockingly bright, like sunlight through leaves on a summer’s day.
Then he let her wrist go, and his next words surprised her.
“Do you know what a Horcrux is?”
Ginny dodged a spell flung at her from Bellatrix Lestrange, and intercepted another meant for Hermione.
Her shields had gotten pretty good over the past few months of traveling and practicing with Harry, Ron, and Hermione while they hunted Horcruxes.
One such Horcrux hung heavy around her neck, since they hadn’t figured out how to destroy it. A locket inscribed with the same snake “S” that appeared on her wrist.
She’d known that Tom was the Heir of Slytherin, but it was another thing to see the evidence so plainly.
Bellatrix cackled madly as Malfoy Manor was destroyed around her. A wild storm of spells cracked the walls and sent chips of marble flying.
Ron aimed a stunner at one of the Lestrange brothers, but was knocked over by a flying divan and lay still.
Ginny screamed, her voice lost in the maelstrom of magic, and tried to scramble over to where he was. But before she could get to him, Hermione let loose a Reducto that took out an entire wall and Bellatrix with it. The shimmer of a Shield Charm amidst the rubble was all that could be seen of Bellatrix.
“Filthy fucking Mudblood!” Rodolphus Lestrange roared, rapidly firing spell after spell directly at Hermione, whose shields were eaten away as fast as she could summon them.
Ginny swept her wand around and Levitated a chunk of stone pillar and flung it at his head. Rabastan Lestrange shattered it before it could hit its mark, and then took aim directly at her.
She dodged behind a broken sofa as a jet of green light soared over her head, so close she could feel its sizzle.
Across the room, Harry was engaged in a duel with Draco Malfoy, the intensity of their curses scorched the floor around them and had set fire to a tapestry.
A horrible, manic cackling came from the direction of the destroyed wall, and there was Bellatrix, standing atop the rubble, her hair wild and eyes crazed.
The air became electrified, the energy crackling along Ginny’s every nerve. Following an instinct she didn’t have time to examine, she cast the strongest Protego she could, and shouted to Harry to do the same.
Bellatrix let fly a storm of spells like lightning in a hurricane. The remaining walls of Malfoy Manor gave a mighty groan and cracked. The wards, which had been anchored to the physical walls, snapped, and the backlash shook the very foundations of the building.
People were Apparating in now that the wards had fallen. Sharp cracks echoed off the broken walls. Many of them wore Death Eater masks, but several were people she recognized as Order members.
From across the wreckage, Ginny caught Hermione’s eye and then looked frantically to where Ron was lying beneath broken furniture, and back to Hermione.
Hermione nodded once, grabbed Ron, who was stirring weakly, and Apparated away.
The shock of the wards breaking had knocked Harry and Malfoy down. Ginny crawled over to Harry, her shield dutifully following along, and reached for his hand.
Before she could even make contact with him pain like she’d never known before coursed along her every nerve, radiating out from...the Mark on her wrist.
She had just enough time to see Malfoy’s eyes widen in terror and he scrambled to prostrate himself on the floor.
Someone was screaming.
She felt hot and cold by turns; freezing fire snaked its way up her arm from her Marked wrist and wormed its way into her heart. The locket was hot, burning against her skin and eating away at the fabric of her shirt. It pulsed as if it were a living heartbeat. I’m dying, she thought. She noticed, in an absent sort of way, that there was blood oozing from underneath the concealment band.
An ice-cold voice spoke from behind her.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a lovely sight?”
And then darkness overtook her.
The word was spoken with utter contempt.
Ginny forced her eyes open.
Voldemort loomed over Harry, tall and pale. The burning on her chest was gone: she no longer wore the locket. She was bound in place by a spell, and, looking up through the curtain of her hair, she saw Harry was, too.
They were alone with Voldemort, in a room she didn’t recognize.
Voldemort reached for Harry’s left hand, spidery-thin fingers closing around his wrist and pulling it up.
He examined the concealment band with a sneer on his monstrous face. “Dumbledore’s work, naturally. But now that the old man is dead, it shouldn’t be troublesome to remove.”
He dragged the tip of his wand across Harry’s concealment band, and commanded it to open in Parseltongue. Ginny was not surprised she could still understand the snake language, even though she wasn’t a true Parselmouth. The band fell away, landing upon the stone floor with a clang like the door of a prison slamming closed.
There, exposed to daylight for the first time in what must be sixteen years, Harry’s Soul Marks shone silvery-pale upon the inside of his wrist.
Two Marks: a snake in the shape of an “S,” and a stylized flame.
Harry struggled against the Incarcerous that bound him, but his wand had been taken by Voldemort.
Ginny could only watch, bound by magic, wandless and helpless, as Voldemort traced a long, thin finger over the scar on Harry’s forehead. Harry jerked his head back as far away from Voldemort’s touch as he could and spat in his face.
“Fuck you,” he hissed.
“Language, Harry,” Voldemort chided.
He then used Harry’s own wand to cast a sleep charm on him. Harry struggled against it, but slumped forward, right into Voldemort’s arms.
“Don’t touch him!” Ginny snarled.
Voldemort set Harry down on the floor with surprising gentleness and turned to Ginny next. “You are in no position to tell me what to do, my dear.”
Voldemort was examining the wands in his hands. “I knew, of course, that Harry’s wand and my own shared a core. A feather from the same phoenix.”
He raised his eyes to Ginny, and memories of the Chamber rose up within her, memories she’d buried for years. Memories of a shadowy beast with a thousand burning eyes turning her bones to darkness.
“And your wand, Ginevra, is made of yew, just as mine is. Isn’t that fascinating ?”
He took a step closer to her, and she refused to flinch back.
“I’d known Harry Potter wore my Mark, how could he not? There was a Prophecy about us, after all.” He was now so close that she could see the oblong, slitted pupils of his eyes. “But you? You were a surprise, Ginevra. And yet...you were the one to find my diary. And I found you with another piece of my soul around your throat.”
Then he wrapped icy fingers around her left hand and hissed the same “open” at her wrist. Her band fell away, revealing the snake and the lightning bolt.
He raised his left wrist to show her the same lightning bolt she wore, and the same stylized flame that was Harry’s second Mark.
“I had thought I had no need for a soulmate...but fate, it seems, has given me two, and who am I to deny fate?”
He reached out, and grasped a bit of her hair between his fingers. “Three is a magically potent number, you know.”
And then he turned her own wand against her—as if to add insult to injury—and murmured a sleeping charm.
Chapter 3: Part Three
Flower petals rained down upon the path, covering it in white and delicate pink, as she and Harry walked down the aisle. Her family was seated on both sides, since they were the closest thing Harry had to a family, too. The sky was a brilliant, clear blue, and the grass was so green it almost looked unnatural. A spring wedding, with the apple trees flowering in profusion, just as she’d always dreamt of as a little girl.
A wizard garbed in the customary ceremonial robes of a High Priest stood upon the dais at the end of the aisle, waiting for them.
For whatever reason, Ginny couldn’t make out the features on his face, almost as if they were blurred. But that didn’t matter, she was too overjoyed to care. She was finally going to marry her soulmate.
They reached the end, and she and Harry turned to face each other. Harry grinned down at her, looking a bit nervous.
She looked up into his ruby-red eyes and grinned back. It was truly a perfect day.
(No, no, no, this is wrong.)
They joined their left hands, and the High Priest raised his wand and tapped on their concealment bands in turn. Both bands melted away, dissolving like mist.
Harry’s Mark was a snake in the shape of an “S.” There was no other.
Ginny looked down at her own wrist in curiosity. She, too, had a snake, and nothing else.
(That’s not right! That’s not right at all!)
Puzzled, she looked back to Harry. The scar on his forehead was bleeding. Blood dripped down his face. He was still smiling, but his eyes were wide and scared.
(And red! They’re green, not red! This is wrong, wrong, wrong!)
“You may now kiss each other,” a high, cold voice, tinged with sibilants. Familiar. Too familiar.
(Wake up, Ginny!)
The High Priest was standing very close to them now. Too close.
Cold, pale hands wrapped around her wrist and Harry’s. Pain sang along every nerve as the glamour that hid the true nature of the High Priest fell away.
Red, slitted eyes glittered with malice in a horrid, pale visage that looked more like a skull than a person’s face.
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Distantly, she heard as her family clapped and cheered, unable to see the truth in front of them.
“The bond must be completed, my dear.”
Ginny woke, clammy with sweat and gasping for breath. For a confused moment, she thought she was still dreaming, since the fine silk sheets beneath her hands weren’t anything like her bedding at the Burrow, or even Hogwarts.
“You were having a nightmare.” Tom’s smooth, velvety voice soothed and frightened at the same time.
He was lying on the bed next to her, his dark hair artfully tousled, falling over one red eye. A vision and a nightmare. On the other side of him, Harry slept on.
Tom held out his arm in clear invitation, and Ginny had a moment of indecision (wake up) before wriggling closer. Wordlessly, she allowed him to wrap his arms around her, and together they lay back against the dark green silk and she stared up at the velvet canopy above them.
“How long have we been here?”
The question was more a ritual than anything else, since there was no way of knowing for sure, and Tom never answered.
Tom hummed, and said nothing.
The suite she and Harry were kept in was luxurious beyond anything they’d ever known before, but there was no method of keeping track of time.
The large window wasn’t really a window, but an illusion trapped behind glass—sunny days and starry nights that seemed to change on a whim, even after what couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours. It only showed the sky, which is how she knew it was an illusion and not a real window. (Though that hadn’t kept them from trying to escape through it, the first few days/weeks/months.) A mockery of freedom.
The only thing that showed the linear passage of time was the fact they’d both outgrown their first set of fine clothes, and Ginny’s hair was down to her waist. He never let her cut it.
Tom ran his fingers posessively through her hair, as if he’d picked up on that thought. She shivered, in disgust or desire, she didn’t know.
Harry, at least, was allowed a haircut every once in a while.
Fine clothes, fancy jewelry (which they both studiously ignored), three solid meals a day, almost any books or entertainment they’d desired, including a wizard chess set (they’d both gotten very good at chess). A bathroom bigger than the whole kitchen at the Burrow, with a tub almost as large as a swimming pool. Harry said it reminded him of the Prefect’s Bathroom at Hogwarts, though how he knew that, she had no idea.
And, of course, a bed soft as a cloud and large enough for three.
It was more luxury than either of them had ever had. But a cage was still a cage, no matter how gilded.
The first time she’d seen him in his current form, she’d thought she was dreaming. The old nightmare in the Chamber with Tom and the demon. (Sometimes she dreams she’s the demon.)
It had been the early days of their imprisonment, before all hope had fled, when anger and resentment simmered just below the surface, and she’d lashed out when he appeared in their room.
But a murmured spell stopped her in her tracks.
“This is why your soul is fire, Ginny my dear.”
He stepped close, and she was powerless to resist as he pressed his lips to the inside of her uncovered left wrist.
There was a snarl from somewhere to her right, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Harry rush at him too, only to be stopped just as effortlessly as she was.
Harry, similarly, was powerless, and could only watch as Tom stepped even closer to Ginny, grabbed her hair and kissed her soundly. She tried to back off, escape, something, but her traitorous body melted against his, surrendering as he explored her mouth.
He pulled back with a smirk and then turned to Harry.
Harry, who had just witnessed his soulmate kissing his greatest enemy. (His soulmate being kissed by his other soulmate.)
Harry, whose heartbreak and betrayal shown plain on his face.
She still couldn’t move when Tom released her and turned to Harry. Tom crossed the room in measured steps, dragging out the scene for his own sadistic pleasure, no doubt. He pulled Harry’s left wrist up to his mouth, and, without breaking eye contact with him, pressed his lips to the Marks there. Ginny felt as if she were intruding on something painfully intimate.
With one last, mocking look at back at Ginny, he tangled his long fingers into Harry’s hair and kissed him—far more violently than he’d kissed her. A flash of teeth and then a dribble of blood from the corner of Harry’s mouth.
Now she felt her own heart breaking in two, watching her soulmate kiss another (which one, she couldn’t say, and that was the worst part.)
She couldn’t look away as Tom deepened the kiss, as Harry trembled and finally submitted, closing his eyes in defeat even as he opened his mouth further and let Tom devour him.
Harry looked dazed when Tom finally pulled away, his green eyes dark, and lips swollen. She wondered if she’d looked the same.
Tom licked a bit of blood from his own swollen, red lips, and with one last, pleased smirk, was gone.
And that had been the beginning of the end.
By unspoken agreement, they didn’t talk about their lives Before. They didn’t talk about her family, or the Order, or the fact that the war must’ve fallen in his favor, now that the Boy-Who-Lived had been captured.
Now, it seemed they both waited for Tom’s visits to break up the monotony of their existence.
Often, he would come in the dead of night (or, at least, when the illusionary window showed only stars and darkness) and climb into their shared bed.
Sometimes, he’d fuck one of them and make the other watch. Other times, he’d command them to please each other while he reclined upon the bed like a king, stroking himself while he watched them.
“Hold him still, Ginevra,” Tom instructed.
Ginny did as she was told, sitting on the bed with her legs spread in a V and Harry between them, his back to her chest. She wrapped her arms around him, securing his wrists in her hands. His breathing was heavy, and his messy hair tickled her naked breasts. She squirmed a bit, trying to get comfortable, and shamefully, already slick with desire.
Tom spread Harry’s legs wide, stroking along the inside of his thighs, and running his fingers through the thick, dark hair at the base of Harry’s cock. Harry was hard, his cock leaking against his twitching stomach.
“Are you watching, Ginny?” Tom murmured.
He wasn’t looking at her, his gaze possessively locked upon Harry’s face as he left teasing touches along the length of his cock. Harry writhed, trying to seek out more friction, but Tom pulled his hand away.
“What do you say?”
“Touch me,” Harry hissed.
“Not what I meant, darling.”
Tom lifted one of Harry’s legs and settled it over his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to the inside of Harry’s knee, and then curled his hand over his own hard cock, stroking lazily.
“Your stubbornness has outlived its charm. Perhaps I should spill myself, and then leave you both bound and wanting on opposite ends of the room.”
Ginny felt Harry tense, the urge to escape battling with his need.
“Touch me...please...my lord,” Harry bit out, finally.
Tom leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the scar on Harry’s forehead. “Good boy,” he whispered, and Harry whined.
Ginny watched as Tom wrapped his hand around Harry’s hard cock and stroked it, running his thumb over the sensitive spot under the head. She shifted again, her clit throbbing at the sight. Harsh breathing and the soft sounds of skin on skin were the only noises in the room.
Just as Harry’s quick breaths seemed to reach a crescendo, Tom pulled his hand away again, and Harry actually moaned, writhing.
Tom smirked, and whispered a pair of spells they both knew so well. He looked Ginny right in the eye as he lined his hard cock up with Harry’s spell-slick arsehole and slowly, relentlessly, pushed in.
Harry cried out, and Ginny held him closer, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear as Tom rolled his hips and bottomed out. Tom adjusted his grip on Harry’s legs and started to thrust, setting a punishing pace.
Ginny’s body cushioned Harry’s as Tom fucked him into the mattress. She tightened her grip on Harry’s wrists when he tried to pull free to reach for his neglected cock.
“Not yet,” she whispered, because playing along with Tom’s demands was easier than fighting him.
Tom’s thrusting increased in intensity, and the bed rocked, the headboard knocking into the wall, and she could tell he was nearing his end.
But before he could finish, he pulled out, letting Harry’s legs drop to either side of his hips.
“Ride him,” he commanded Ginny, and her clit throbbed at his tone.
She let go of Harry’s wrists, and somewhat awkwardly climbed out from behind him. Harry flopped, panting, to the bed, arms up and twisting his hands into the silk sheets on either side of his head. His cock was flushed so hard it looked painful.
She swung a leg over Harry’s waist, bracing herself with her hands against his chest. Before she was fully in position, Tom’s hand was around Harry’s cock, holding it in place so she could line herself up.
Tom’s hand slid away as she sank down on Harry, his heat filling the aching void within her.
Tom gripped both of her hips as she started to fuck herself on Harry, so tight there would no doubt be bruising. She was close enough already from simply watching that she knew it wouldn’t take long.
She rolled her hips and chased her end, and only moments later Harry let out a long moan and she felt him spill hot and sticky inside her.
Tom pressed himself against her back, his breath hot on her neck as she rode out Harry’s orgasm. When Harry whimpered from overstimulation, boneless against the sheets, Ginny took pity and lifted herself off.
Tom’s still-hard cock pressed hot against the crack of her arse, and he held her close, the fingers of one hand reaching up between her breasts to the scar over her heart the burning locket had left. (What had become of that locket, she didn’t know.) His other hand snaked down between her thighs, his thumb rubbing circles against her clit while two fingers slid up inside her. She came in seconds, crying out as her climax rippled through her body.
Tom let her go, and she collapsed atop Harry, panting and sweaty.
Behind her, she heard the slap of skin as Tom wanked himself, his free hand hot on the small of her back. Tom hissed as he came, and she could feel hot stripes of come landing on her arse, and probably Harry’s spent cock and balls, since Tom took pleasure in marking them any way he could.
Harry’s fingers tangled into her hair and he kissed her, gentle and sweet, and for a moment she could almost forget everything else.
The tingle of a cleaning charm took care of the mess, and Ginny knew that meant Tom would stay for a while. He had no problem leaving them sticky and spent if he had somewhere else to be, but he was too fastidious to sleep on come-soaked sheets, himself.
Ginny rolled off of Harry onto her back, while Tom wormed his way between them.
She watched as he reached for Harry’s left wrist, pressing his lips to the Marks there. Without being prompted, she presented her left wrist to him, and he did the same to her Marks. The ritual complete, he wandlessly pulled the sheets over them and extinguished every light in the room.
Tom wrapped an arm around her, and she snuggled close, resting her head upon his shoulder. She reached blindly across Tom’s chest, and found Harry’s hand.
The darkness of the room echoed the darkness within her soul, as she clasped hands with her soulmate, across the sated form of her other soulmate. She wasn’t happy, but she wasn’t unhappy , exactly, and the guilt that nested in her heart was not enough to keep her awake at night.
She only prayed to whatever power might be listening that she didn’t dream.