I'm Yours Forever

Soulmate

One thing that Voldemort learned very young was that the counter on his wrist was a fucking waste of space, and if one was to ask him, he would inform them rather coldly that he did not care when the timer hit zero. He didn't care one bit whether he met his soulmate or not. The whole thing was stupid, ridiculous, and not for him.

Tom Riddle didn't give a shit about love or affection. He'd discovered early on that only the privileged got the big breaks and the attention, and an orphan like him was forgotten and lost in the system. His mom had died giving birth to him, and his father disowned him, so he had the misfortune of growing up in an orphanage. It wasn't so bad, really. The adults were nice to him, the kids were obnoxious little assholes who made fun of the way he looked, so he taught himself young to bully them right back. Soon, he was feared throughout the orphanage not only for his face, but for his disposition too. Tom Riddle was no more; he went by Voldemort, and God help anyone who called him otherwise.

That was another reason why he didn't give a shit about finding his soulmate. Who the fuck would want him? His face was gaunt and unattractive to look at, with his sunken eyes and snakelike nose. He kept his hair slicked back to give people the prime view, though. Then they didn't even think about approaching him.

He tried not to watch the timer on his wrist as it counted down from twenty years to fifteen years then to ten. He was a teenager by then and ran away from the orphanage he had been living at. Nobody noticed he was gone, and those who did were probably glad to be rid of him. He ignored the timer as he traveled the streets, and he soon gathered a gang of followers that he called Death Eaters. All of them either feared or respected him or both, and he hated every single one of them. The women threw themselves at him, eager to taste his power, and he fucked them well enough, losing himself momentarily in the meaningless sex. And every night, he tried not to look at that timer as it ticked closer and closer to the moment when he would meet the person that should be the most important in his life.

He didn't think about what his soulmate would be like. Whether they would be young or attractive, snobbish or boring. Male or female. It didn't matter to him. He refused to consider who or what they would be. After all, why should he when he didn't plan on having anything to do with them when he did find them? He was a self-proclaimed asshole, a real piece of work, and they'd undoubtedly be some wonderful humanitarian or something like that.

"Probably some flowery moron," Voldemort hissed to his reflection in the public restroom. He was twenty-three, and the timer on his wrist said one hour. One fucking hour until he would encounter his soulmate. He nervously slicked back his hair again with sweaty hands, and he growled in frustration at himself for being so unhinged. He stared at his reflection, startled to see his eyes widened in anxiety. That was an expression he never wore, an expression beneath him. That pathetic look is what his prey usually wore when he harassed them or his peons whenever he yelled at them. But he, Voldemort, the ruler of the streets, the commander of the Death Eaters, to be shaking like a wet mutt? It was pitiful!

"Snap out of it, Voldemort! You're going to ignore them anyways, no matter who they are!" He splashed a bit of cold water on his face and then dried it with a scratchy paper towel. Ugh, this place was filthy. He wrinkled his nose and used a paper towel to open the door, tossing it back in behind him as he exited.

"My lord, what are we doing here?" Bellatrix was one of Voldemort's most faithful followers and fuck-buddies. She had untamed black hair and rich, dark skin, and Voldemort always thought her eyes were as malicious and wild as he was. She made perfect evil plans with him, and he couldn't deny that she was pretty good in the bed or against the wall or wherever the fuck else he decided to have his way with her.