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Harry didn't know soulmates were a thing beyond the fantastical love stories Aunt Petunia liked to read in secret.
The concept of the universe moulding someone to be a perfect match to your soul was a little too magical; even for him, even with the knowledge of all the incredible things possible with magic.
Besides, he wasn't aware that muggles and wizards differed in their physiology at all.
Except for the obvious lack of magic, muggles were nearly identical to wizards.
So could he be blamed for his ignorance?
Every time he had heard any female classmates giggling over soulmates and fated pairs he had dismissed it as the fantasies of prepubescent girls spurred on by the presence of one Gilderoy Lockhart.
After all, if it was something important surely Hermione would have mentioned it by now?
So, no, Harry didn't even know what a soulmate was.
And he certainly didn't have time to figure out the differences between muggle and wizarding puberty; what with the murderous teacher and three-headed dog in first year or the giant killer snake and teenage Voldemort in second year.
So imagine his shock when he wakes on his thirteenth birthday to a name inking itself on his skin.
A very familiar name.
Harry's sleep broke in the middle of the night, the pale moonlight slithering in through the flimsy curtains illuminated his tiny room. Harry was confused about what had broken his sleep.
After a lifetime of living with the Dursleys, he had learned to get sleep whenever and wherever he could, so a little moonlight surely wouldn't have woken him up.
Then, he felt it.
With a gasp, he sat up and turned over his right wrist. It was tingling incessantly, but it wasn't painful; rather, it felt as if that thin section of his wrist had been dunked in ice-cold water.
"What on earth?", Harry questioned as he stared down in abject fascination as letters slowly formed from nowhere on his skin.
The letters formed top down, but the elegant slanting handwriting was instantly recognizable to him, even before they were halfway formed.
His heart picked up speed.
No way. Why? How? Was this some sort of cruel prank? How did he even manage to do this in the middle of the summer vacation? Harry hadn't even seen him since school let out.
There had to be some sort of explanation as to why that name had inked itself onto his skin in familiar, pretentious handwriting.
Harry reached out with shaking fingers to trace the looping calligraphy script.
He gasped as he finally touched it but it was indistinguishable from the rest of his skin.
It didn't feel painful or inflamed like a tattoo, it blended seamlessly into his skin. Gritting his teeth, he rubbed the skin harder, willing the ink to come off.
He rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed.
Five minutes later, he was left with a smarting wrist and the name still staring up at him mockingly.
Harry wasn't a quitter however and with a frustrated growl, he shoved his thin blanket off and quietly made his way to the bathroom, taking extra care not to alert the other members of the house unless he wanted to starve for three days.
Squinting, he turned on the harsh bathroom lights and ran his wrist underwater. Cold and hot. He scrubbed it with soap.
Dried it aggressively with a towel. Nothing. The ink wouldn't budge.
It wouldn't even smear. Harry was quickly realising, he wouldn't be able to remove this on his own.
Gritting his teeth, he made his way back up to the bed, ashamed at his defeat.
Harry settled into bed and stared at the name on his right wrist.
His eyes slowly became heavy as the darkness of the night settled in around him.
"What a shitty prank anyways," he mumbled before sleep took him.
His wrist was bared to the cold night air, and adorned with the name Draco Malfoy.
x.