Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the incomparable J. K. Rowling. No money is being made from this.

Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition – Season Seven – Round Eight

Captain for the Tutshill Tornados

Round 8

You Can't Predict It All

… Except, we're going to try our best to do just that! So, grab a seat, and be prepared to read your future!

You may choose either upright or reversed, and your plot must revolve around the meaning of the tarot card given.

The words themselves do not need to be used, but they do need to have a clear presence within the story

(It should be obvious which you've used, but please state in your A/N whether you chose to write for upright of reversed)

CAPTAIN: Ten of Cups — Upright: Inner Happiness, Fulfilment, Dreams Coming True, Reversed: Shattered Dreams, Broken Family, Domestic Disharmony

Chosen: Reversed: Shattered Dreams, Broken Family, Domestic Disharmony

Words: 2986

A.N.: Thanks to my team for beating. You're all amazing!

Your Words Upon My Skin

Tom stared at the scribbles on his arm in morbid fascination. He knew what it was, of course; he just never thought he would have them. He was turning eleven soon, and he was the only one at the orphanage with no scribbles all over his arms or legs—something the other orphans delighted in pointing out.

As he continued to watch, a small stick figure formed on his forearm, then a sun with a smile.

Gently, hesitantly, he traced the stick figure with his finger.

He was so transfixed that he only moved when the drawings stopped appearing. With none of his usual calm, he upturned his backpack, searching for a fountain pen.

Hello!

He quickly wrote on his arm, just below the sun—too frantic to worry about his sloppy letters.

Heart thundering away in his chest, he didn't dare to look away from his arm. Then, slowly, another stick figure was drawn beside the first one, this one with a smile on its face.

Laughter bubbled up his throat.

He wasn't alone.

It quickly became obvious to Tom that his soulmate—his heart still thundered in his chest every time he thought about it—was too young to know how to read or write.

Tom didn't care, for his soulmate, he would be patient. They had all the time in the world—he could wait until his soulmate was older. Meanwhile, Tom was content to draw to him. Most days he would wake to see his arm full of scribbles—flowers, clouds, trees, stick-figures, suns, random lines twirling and curling around his arm.

They were the most precious thing Tom had, and while every other orphan was happy to parade around showing their bare flesh and revealing whatever their soulmates decided to write or draw to them, Tom guarded his fiercely.

Hello

The letters were all uneven and slightly slanted, but they were the most amazing thing Tom had ever seen.

He rewarded his soulmate with a drawing of a bird—his soulmate had a fascination with anything sky related and Tom was more than happy to draw him all manner of birds.

His soulmate deserved nothing but the best.

Tom was jittery. A wizard. He was a wizard! He'd known he couldn't be like the other orphans. They were all so… bland.

He was special.

He didn't think he could ever be happier than at that moment. He would be leaving the orphanage and going to magic school! There was nothing better than that.

Just before he fell asleep, he saw words appear on his forearm, and he learned that he had been wrong.

My name is Harry

Tom started at his arm in horror.

FREAK!

Over and over the word was written on his skin. As he watched, it spread to his chest. The letters big and bulky and different from anything he had ever seen from Harry.

STUPID FREAK!

He saw the words appear on his forehead, and then, just at the corner of his mouth a smear of what could only be blood.

"Tom?"

Tom startled; his head snapped towards' Abraxas' soft voice. His housemate stood at the door to the bathroom, looking at Tom with horror-filled eyes.

From the corner of his eye, he caught another streak of blood being painted on his skin starting on his temple and running down his jaw.

"Get out."

"Tom…"

"Leave!"

The door closed softly, and Tom's legs gave up on him. He stumbled against the wall, but he never looked away from the harsh words and blood splatters marring his skin. He memorized every word, every hurt, and as his eyes filled with tears for the wrongs done to his soulmate, he swore that he would do anything in his power to protect Harry.

It took almost a week for anything else to appear on his skin. Tom hadn't dared to write anything, not wanting to risk the people—he would never call them Harry's family; Tom was his family, not them, never them—who were with his soulmate to see them.

I'm sorry

The words were tiny, near the crook of his elbow and Tom's heart broke.

He reached for the quill.

It's okay. It's fine.

Even though it wasn't. It wasn't okay. It wasn't fine.

Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry

Tom scribbled all over his arm, just to stop the litany of sorrys to spread any further.

When there was a pause, he was quick to write back.

It's not your fault. What your relatives do isn't your fault. Why didn't you tell me it was so bad?

The orphanage was no paradise, but Harry would have been better off there with him than wherever he was now. At least Tom would be able to protect him.

Harry was eight years old—five years younger than Tom—when he finally came to Hogwarts, Tom would already be a sixth year. Who knew what those relatives of his would do to Harry in that time?

Don't wanna be a burden

Tom had to stop himself from cursing everything in sight. No eight-year-old would know that word if it hadn't been used against them.

You're not a burden. He wrote furiously. You're my soulmate. My treasure.

Promise?

The word was even smaller than the first sorry that had appeared on his arm.

I swear. You're my whole world.

Tom spent the rest of the night watching flowers and birds appear on his skin, heart heavy and mind buzzing with plans on how to protect his little soulmate from people who didn't deserve to even look at him much less know such a beautiful soul.

I got it! I got it!

Was the first thing Tom saw when he glanced at his arm when he was ready to go to bed. A smile pulled at the corner of his lips.

Congratulations, I knew you would get it.

No matter how much Tom had insisted that Harry's letter would get to him by his eleventh birthday, Harry had been reluctant to believe him. Not that he didn't believe in magic—Tom had been quick to correct that notion once Harry had told him what his relatives had been spouting—Harry simply didn't believe that Harry was magical. Which was ridiculous, of course.

Harry was as special as Tom, and Tom would make sure that Harry knew it.

It's a bit late for owls.

Harry drew a frowny face.

It got here this morning. I hid it in my cupboard.

Tom clenched his fist, almost snapping his quill. One day, he would kill those disgusting Muggles for all the harm they had done to Harry.

I can't believe it's here! I can't wait to meet you!

His anger washed away. Gently, tenderly, he caressed the words on his skin.

"I can't wait to meet you either," he whispered, his heart near bursting for the only person he was sure he would ever love.

Tom's heart stopped as all the first years were sorted and there had been no Harry. Or even anything close to it.

Had Harry's family done something to him? Harry hadn't told him anything, but Tom wasn't blind. He had seen the blood on his back and on his shoulders and under his nose and near his eyes. He had memorized every streak across his skin—a morbid painting of Harry's suffering at the hands of those that should have loved him.

He's not dead. Tom would know if Harry died—Harry was his soul. Of course, he would know!

"Tom," Abraxas whispered.

"What?" He was clenching his jaw so hard he barely got the word out.

"Your hand." Abraxas stopped just shy of touching him, knowing how he hated when anyone came too close. Only Harry would ever be allowed those sorts of liberties.

Tom's gaze snapped to his hand, and there, on the curve of his thumb: Gryffindor.

Tom's heart leaped in his chest, its thumping drowning out everything else.

Gryffindor.

Gryffindor?

Harry was in Gryffindor?

Harry was here?

No more words appeared on his skin, and Tom could only count the minutes until the feast was over and he would be safely away in his dorm where he would be able to speak with Harry.

Tom watched as one by one his fellow Slytherins filed out of the room. Slughorn heaved himself out of the armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk. Tom stood as well, and Slughorn turned to face him.

"Look sharp, Tom, you don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you're a prefect…"

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away…"

For a moment, Tom hesitated. He knew Harry would never approve of this. From what he had read, it would damage him in ways Tom couldn't truly understand. However, he didn't see any other way.

It hadn't taken them long to figure out they were in different timelines—and how amazing did that make Harry? How powerful was he that he was able to break through time to speak with his soulmate with his accidental magic? For every new thing he discovered about his soulmate, Tom felt more awed by him.

It didn't change the facts, however.

Tom was terrified.

Harry had said it was nineteen ninety-one. Almost fifty years from where Tom was. And in the years Tom and been communicating with Harry, there had been no sign of him in Harry's time.

Tom could only think of one reason for that—he was dead.

Why else would Harry's magic reach through time to him if he were alive in Harry's time?

No, this was the only way. He needed to be alive to meet Harry. To save him.

"Sir," he said, steeling himself, "I wondered what you know about… about Horcruxes?"

Slughorn stared at him, his thick fingers absentmindedly caressing the stem of his wine glass.

"Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?"

"Not exactly, sir," Tom said. "I came across the term while reading and… would creating such a thing harm one's soulmate? It is soul magic, isn't it?"

Because the book had not even mentioned soulmates. If there was even an iota of a chance of this harming Harry, Tom would find some other way to assure his immortality.

"Ah," Slughorn exhaled, leaning against his desk. "Not the question I was expecting," Slughorn whispered, eyes darting to the good night with a smiling face beside it that was scribbled around Tom's wrist.

Tom had to stop himself from pulling his cuffs down—just as fiercely protective of his soulmate's words as always.

"Truthfully, no one knows how it affects the soulmate. There haven't been many who created a Horcrux—truly dark and despicable magic. The act of creating one…" Slughorn shook his head. "It is a despicable act." Slughorn looked at him then, face grave. "The only thing we know for certain is that the bond isn't broken. One of the last people known to have created one was found with the words of his soulmate on his skin. Pleas for him to stop, to not hurt himself anymore."

Tom leaned forward. "The soulmate, though, he was fine?"

"As fine as one can be when one knows that their loved ones are suffering."

What did Tom care about his suffering though, if it meant he would be alive to meet Harry?

"Tom."

He looked up, quickly rearranging his expression into one of innocent curiosity when he saw the frown on Slughorn's face.

"This is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic…"

"Yes, sir, of course." Tom smiled, though not as convincingly as his usual.

"Tom…"

"Good night, sir."

"Ah." Slughorn's shoulders dropped. "Good night, Tom."

Tom

He stilled, eyes going to the word on his forearm. Gently, he put the diadem in his backpack—he needed to find a good place to hide it.

I'm here

His fingers shook as he wrote. It had been happening more and more lately. Along with several other small things that he pretended not to notice. His mind wandered often, the control he had over his magic slipped from time to time, and his temper—something he usually controlled with an iron will—erupted for the smallest of things.

Only Harry cleared his mind. Only Harry calmed his emotions. Only Harry.

I'm scared

Tom shuddered, eyes closing. It physically hurt to read those words. He was almost afraid to ask, dreading the answer. The fact that Harry was at Hogwarts should be a comfort—at least his relatives couldn't hurt him there—however, not even Hogwarts was a haven to his little soulmate.

Even as he felt his mind slipping, he had kept track of every hurt that had graced Harry's skin.

What's wrong?

Would Harry even tell him? Harry had been so careful with what he said, never revealing anything that might endanger the timeline. They knew nothing but their first names. And thousands of little details that no one but them knew about each other—the things that truly mattered, their dreams and hopes and the glimpses of the life they'll have together.

I

Tom didn't rush him. He waited, drawing an owl beside the letter. He did his best to make it look like a snowy—Harry was particularly fond of those. When he was almost finished with his drawing, more words appeared.

There's a prophecy. I… I'm meant to kill him. Or he'll kill me. I can't win. He's so much more powerful. I'm going to die. And I didn't even get the chance to meet you, and I don't know what to do. And now Dumbledore's showing me memories of his parents from before he was born, and how's that meant to help me? I can't

Tom scribbled all over his arm, stopping the frantic writing.

Calm he wrote. Who's trying to kill you? Whose memories?

Those were the important questions. Tom would simply kill them now. What was one more murder to his name?

Small splatters appeared on his skin as if Harry had his quill hovering over it, hesitant to write the name. Did Harry suspect what he would do as soon as he had the name? Did Harry think him a monster for doing it?

The Dark Lord.

Tom frowned. Grindelwald? He had been locked away for years now.

Voldemort

Tom had been about to reply when he froze, realization dawning. Harry wasn't calling him. Harry was telling him the name of the Dark Lord.

He killed my parents.

Tom shook his head, trying to look away from the words appearing on his skin.

He's been trying to kill me since I came back to the Wizarding World.

It wasn't true. He would never harm Harry. Never!

Harry

His hands hadn't been so steady in a long while.

Everything's going to be alright. Trust me.

Tom's heart burst when the words appeared on his skin.

I do

"Tom."

Tom stood, inclining his head. "Professor," he greeted, motioning to the seat in front of his.

Slughorn chuckled, taking the seat. "I haven't been your professor for years now. Call me Horace."

Tom smiled, as charming as he always had been when dealing with Slughorn.

Slughorn took a sip from his drink. "I have to say, I was quite surprised when I got your owl. Now, what do you need my help with?"

"Honestly, sir, I didn't know who to ask. Then, I remembered you speaking about studying Time years ago, when you were working on your Mastery, so I thought, I might as well try." Tom leaned forward, eager and terrified in equal parts. "Can time be changed?" Slughorn frowned, and Tom hurried on. "Will what I do now, affect what will happen? Or is what will happen already set in stone, and will my actions simply be a product of an already established course?"

Slughorn sighed, leaning back. "Unfortunately, that is something I can't answer. No one knows. It is said that wizards who meddle with time go insane, but has anyone succeed? Have they changed what was? We don't know. We will never know because if they did, then this is what always was, and therefore, in our perception, nothing has been altered even if they did."

"So it's possible."

Slughorn gave a little shrug. "With magic, everything's possible."

Tom sat on a boulder overlooking Hogwarts.

Hogwarts. His home. Harry's home. The place he had thought he would finally meet Harry. Where he would be with the person he loved, and neither of them would be alone again.

He had so many plans for them, places to explore, magic to discover, and dreams to realize.

He glanced at the trinkets at his feet—a diary, a locket, a diadem.

Slowly, carefully, he sliced his palm. He drew the needed runes, made the needed sacrifice.

He took a deep breath, then another, and then the needed words tumbled out of his mouth, and once he started, he couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop. With shaky, bloodstained fingers, he wrote on his skin.

I love you

The scream woke him up. It took a moment for him to realize he was the one screaming. It was loud and gut-wrenching and utterly broken.

Hands were trying to hold him down, and he couldn't breathe.

Something was wrong, wrong, wrong!

Then, two small delicate hands held his cheeks.

"Sweetheart, open your eyes."

He did.

"Mom," he croaked, voice raw.

His mother smiled at him, and his father sat on the other side of his bed, holding him down.

His heart twisted, and he couldn't stop the tears. He lurched forward, burying his head in his mother's shoulder as heartbreaking sobs wracked his body.

"Harry…"

His father leaned closer, placing a large, warm hand on his back.

"What's wrong?" his father asked, but Harry had no answer. He didn't know what was wrong, only that it was.

As he cried in his mother's arms, filled with soul-crushing anguish, he missed the fading words on his skin.