Chapter Text
1991 / 1992 (Philosopher’s Stone)
Soulmates are a sacred tradition. Their touch, more so.
It was the first sentence in nearly every soul mark text, pamphlet, and primary school lecture. Hermione remembered copying it down in her Muggle primary school notebook, circling the word sacred like it held a code she was meant to unlock.
Now, on the train to Hogwarts, she re-read what she already knew, the comfort of familiarity calming her first day nerves. There was a lot she didn’t know, a lot she must catch up on. But soul marks? Even muggles had soul marks.
It goes this: when a soulmate touches your bare skin, a mark appears, glowing in one of several colours. Not a permanent tattoo, but not entirely fleeting either. For a time, the mark shimmered — a temporary flare. But the very first contact? That left a permanent echo. A physical memory.
Essentially, every time a soulmate touches you, it leaves a trace. You glow under their palm for a brief moment. But that first time? That sticks around. That was how you knew the person touching you was one of significance – a soulmate.
The earliest marks were usually familial — parents cradling newborns, siblings holding hands, cousins pressed together in childhood summers. Those glowed forest green, the colour of roots and home.
Platonic soul marks were the most common, accidents more often than not. A shoulder bump. A shared laugh. A desperate rescue. They shimmered gold, soft and sun-warm.
Romantic marks burned silver. Dazzling, rare. Precious.
And then there were the red ones — the deepest, most elusive hue. Twin flames. Two halves of the same soul. Said to be rarer than phoenixes and twice as likely to end in heartbreak.
Those are the most common, though there are more, of course.
A charcoal grey soul mark might appear when two people carry shared grief.
A deep blue mark often forms between mentor and student, sacred and guiding.
Blush pink, rare and soft, a fleeting connection, like a brush with destiny that passes before it's grasped.
Ice blue, cold and painful, a mark of unrequited love.
Black, threaded with cracks, a broken bond that once burned too brightly to last.
Then there was amber (for creative bonds, often between fellow artists) violet (Quite rare. Formed mostly in moments of extreme danger, when one person shields another out of love or instinct. Common in aurors)
Some people collect soul marks like constellations. Others wear just a few, carefully chosen and deeply meaningful. For some, it’s a badge of honour. For others, a scar they never wanted.
As the train pulled up to Hogwarts, Hermione looked down at her three soul marks.
One on her left palm: forest green — her mother.
One along her right wrist: matching, her father.
And a tiny golden flicker just beneath her collarbone, warm and faint. Her childhood best friend, Abigail. They weren’t really friends anymore, but her mark would last forever. Hermione thought she rather liked that idea.
Most first-years were covered in new marks within the first week. Accidental bumps, shared jokes, spilled pumpkin juice.
Some kids tried to touch Harry Potter on purpose, just to see if they’d glow. Hermione thought that was ridiculous. Invasive.
He’d sat down at the Gryffindor table with three soul marks (just like her, she’d thought), the two from his parents, a green-tinged grey, and an obvious new, shimmering gold along his palm, from Ron Weasley.
But that didn’t stop people from jumping at the opportunity to touch him, offering their hands in greeting, trying to grasp onto him as he walked past. It made Hermione sick. She was careful about who could touch her; as the three marks she sported showed.
She didn’t want marks she hadn’t earned. Didn’t want her skin lighting up just because someone tripped near her in the corridor. She was careful; she wore long sleeves, even when it was too warm. She’d read the entire Beginner’s Guide to Soul Recognition more times than she could count. She would rather no soul marks than a regretted one, than a black or grey one.
By the second night, her bunkmate Lavender Brown already had three gold marks from other Gryffindors. Parvati had a soft, romantic silver blooming under her ear from a boy in Hufflepuff who’d helped her with her trunk. She showed it off constantly.
Hermione kept her sleeves down and her eyes on her textbooks. Soulmates weren’t something you looked for — they were something that found you.
She wasn’t jealous, of course. But she couldn’t help but notice.
Especially the loud, tall third year who was almost covered in them.
He seemed to glow like a rainbow on sunny days. She had gathered he was a Weasley, and part of a set. Fred, she thought, though it could have been George.
His eyes were always laughing at something, sometimes nothing at all.
His soul marks trailed down his forearms like stardust: glittering golds, rich greens, flashes of amber and silver.
Hermione had never seen anyone with so many.
There was a silver curl at the base of his neck, peeking out beneath his collar. A bold amber splash across his knuckles. Two deep gold streaks spiralling up his left arm, likely from George and Lee Jordan. A faint violet arc hugging the inside of his elbow, as if someone had leaned into him for safety and never quite let go.
Some were faded. Others were fresh and vibrant. None of them seemed to bother him.
Hermione felt her stomach twist as she watched him slap hands with someone in the corridor and laugh when they both lit up. He wore his marks like a constellation. Like a story he was proud of telling.
She pulled her sleeves down as she watched. She was happy with her three, didn’t need any more until she earned more.
She was sensible, she was smart, and she would get more soul marks.
No matter what Ron Weasley said.
―
And then, the troll happened.
It was supposed to be a night of celebration. Halloween feast and floating pumpkins, sugar quills and enchanted cobwebs.
Hermione had been crying in the girls’ bathroom. Alone, because she'd overheard Ron being cruel.
Because she'd tried so hard to fit in, to be helpful, to be brilliant and somehow, still, no one liked her.
Over the years, the memory came back in fragments: the sink cracking. The slam of the stall door. A club raised, her scream trapped somewhere beneath the scream she didn’t have time to make.
Then: Ron. Harry.
Out of breath and completely unprepared, but there.
They didn’t hesitate.
When it was over, when the troll lay unconscious, and she was still breathing, and Harry was gripping her wrist, trying to help her up, and oh. Her skin lit up.
A dark, golden flare sparked between them where his hand met her arm.
Hermione stared. He looked equally stunned.
It was Ron next, or maybe simultaneously, a firm grip on her other elbow, trying to steady her, eyes wide behind his fringe.
Another flicker, a slightly paler gold.
They both blinked at it.
Her first platonic soul marks outside her parents and Abigail. Two glows, still dimming, still warm.
They hadn’t meant to.
They hadn’t known.
But they had come for her.
And maybe that was the point. But if it was, it wasn’t one she’d come to understand for many years.
―
Weeks passed, and Hogwarts bloomed into winter.
Soul marks, too, bloomed across arms, necks, fingers. Accidents, friendships, crushes. The school glowed with them.
Lavender got another blush pink, fleeting and delicate, from a boy who helped her gather her dropped textbooks.
Dean sported a deep blue mark across his forearm, rumoured to be from Professor Flitwick. Neville’s gran visited and left an almost blinding green handprint across his cheek — it made him cry. No one teased him for it.
Hermione kept her sleeves long, as ever. But she sometimes looked at her hand and remembered the golden glow from the bathroom floor. It comforted her, it felt like the wizarding world had made its choice, that she was here to stay, and here are two more soul marks to prove it.
Fred Weasley — she’d confirmed his name now — seemed to collect soul marks by the week. A new violet one crept along the side of his neck after he caught a second-year falling down the stairs. Another amber near his collarbone after a day spent sketching something in charcoal during study hall.
He was chaos in motion — laughter and chaos and open-hearted, open-handed warmth.
Hermione didn’t know why it bothered her.
She didn’t dislike him, not really. But something was unnerving about someone so casual about touch. About something that was meant to be sacred.
She avoided him in the corridors. Kept her distance in common rooms.
Once, when he passed her the pumpkin juice jug at breakfast and their fingers almost brushed, she flinched.
He didn’t react, didn’t say anything.
But from then on, he made sure to put the pumpkin juice down before she could reach for it.
1993 (Prisoner of Azkaban)
It was nearly midnight, and most of the dormitory was asleep.
Parvati was snoring softly. Lavender had mumbled something about dragons in her sleep and rolled over with a dramatic sigh. The curtains around their beds were drawn.
Hermione sat up in her own bed, the heavy Runes textbook still in her lap, though her eyes hadn’t moved across the page in ten minutes. Her mind buzzed, stuck somewhere between restlessness and loneliness — not quite the kind a book could fix.
A soft knock on her bedpost made her jump.
Ginny Weasley peeked through the curtain. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Hermione blinked. “No. You?”
Ginny shrugged and slipped inside, pulling the curtain closed behind her. She settled cross-legged at the foot of Hermione’s bed, her red hair haloed in moonlight. “Nightmares. Nothing dramatic. Just noise.”
Hermione nodded. She understood noise.
They sat in silence for a while. It wasn’t uncomfortable.
Then Ginny asked, “Do you miss home?”
Hermione hesitated. “Sometimes. But Hogwarts feels more like home now, in some ways.”
Ginny smiled faintly. “Yeah. Me too.”
It was quiet again. The castle creaked around them, ancient and breathing. Outside, snow was falling — not enough to see, but enough to feel in the hush of the air.
“I’m glad we’re friends,” Ginny said softly.
Hermione looked up, startled.
“I know you have Harry and Ron,” Ginny continued, a little shy now. “But I like talking to you. You don’t treat me like a little kid.”
Hermione blinked. Her throat felt tight all of a sudden. “I’m glad too.”
Ginny reached out — just a light touch, her fingers brushing Hermione’s wrist where it peeked out from under the sleeve of her pyjamas.
And it sparked.
They both gasped, staring at Hermione’s wrist as a soft golden glow bloomed there, curling across her skin like sunlight cresting the edge of a cloud.
“Oh,” Ginny breathed.
Hermione couldn’t speak. Her chest felt warm. Not the fire of panic, just… warm. Safe.
They watched the mark fade to a soft shimmer.
“That was—” Ginny started.
“I’ve never had one like that,” Hermione finished, voice barely a whisper. “Not like this. Not on purpose.”
Ginny smiled. “Now you do.”
Hermione rolled her sleeve back down — but not quite all the way. The gold still peeked out.
She didn’t feel the need to hide it.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
―
A week later. 1993 (Prisoner of Azkaban)
Hermione sat in her usual corner of the Gryffindor common room, half-hidden behind a teetering pile of textbooks and scrolls. She had Transfiguration notes to review and an Arithmancy chart to finish, but her quill hadn’t moved in at least five minutes.
Across the room, Fred Weasley was explaining something to a group of third-years. He was using big hand gestures.
Laughing.
Dramatically miming a transformation spell with exaggerated flair.
Hermione could hear him even through the buzz of the room. He was always louder than necessary, always occupying space like he’d been invited to every corner of it.
She tried not to look.
(She failed.)
Fred’s sleeves were rolled up, of course. They always were. Soulmarks bloomed across his forearms like ink-splashed poetry — gold and green and even a silver curl just below the elbow. One near his collarbone sparked as someone clapped him on the back, another mark being added to the constellation he wore so easily.
He was chaos incarnate. Open, unguarded, easy.
Hermione dragged her eyes back to her notes.
She didn’t care.
She didn't.
She was just curious.
In an academic way.
She had enough marks to be content: her parents. Harry. Ron. Now Ginny. She wasn’t trying to collect more. She didn’t need people pressing themselves into her skin to know they cared.
And yet, every time she looked at Fred Weasley, she noticed something new. A mark she hadn’t seen before. A moment where someone lit up beneath his touch. The way he never seemed startled by it. How he expected it.
Like it was natural.
Like being wanted was the default.
Hermione dipped her quill in ink and tried again to focus.
“Merlin, you should’ve seen his face,” Fred said, voice too clear, too close now.
He’d moved nearer. His group had spilled into the space behind her table. “Poor bloke lit up gold and nearly dropped his wand.”
Someone laughed. Fred grinned wider. Hermione’s stomach twisted.
She told herself it was because she hated the disturbance.
That had to be it.
Summer, 1994 (Pre-Goblet of Fire)
The sun poured over the Burrow like melted honey, casting long golden streaks across the sloping paddock.
The Weasleys’ makeshift swimming hole, the pond, magically expanded, bubbled with laughter and shrieks.
It was, undeniably, a perfect day.
Hermione sat on the edge of the dock, her toes dipped in the cool water, a towel wrapped firmly around her shoulders despite the heat. The others were already splashing about: Ron and Harry dunking each other, Ginny doing laps, George and Lee Jordan conjuring little fireworks that crackled above their heads. Fred was floating on his back like he hadn’t a care in the world. She supposed he didn't.
It was a scene she should’ve been at ease in.
And yet.
Her eyes drifted, as they had started to do more and more often, to Fred Weasley.
He was a riot of colour. Soul marks bloomed across his skin like constellations.
She could see golds, greens, slashes of amber and even violet — scattered across his chest, arms, even the slope of his neck. When the sun hit just right, he practically shimmered.
The violet one caught her eye. Inside his left wrist, like a quiet curl of lightning. She wondered who’d given it to him — who had needed him in a moment of danger enough to leave that kind of mark. Maybe Angelina Johnson, maybe one of the younger years. With Fred, there were too many possibilities.
Hermione knew all her marks by heart. Neat, deliberate, quietly treasured.
Her mother's and father’s forest green glowed from her palms and wrists. A soft gold still flickered on her collarbone, Abigail from childhood. She hadn’t seen her in years.
Ginny’s was on her other wrist, quiet, intentional.
Molly’s rested along her upper arm, from the first time they’d embraced properly, when she had arrived earlier that summer. Arthur’s glowed steady on her shoulder from when he had patted her shoulder, father-like, as if it was second nature. Maybe with as many children as he had, it was.
There was even a small, accidental brush from George on her ankle when she had tried (and failed) to use a broom last summer, and he had tried (and failed) to catch her.
And then Harry and Ron, platonic, gold. Harry’s mark had deepened over the years into something rooted and calm.
Ron’s… Ron’s mark sometimes flickered silver when he made her laugh too hard, or when he watched her across the common room like he didn’t realise she could see.
There was even a faint blush pink along her hip. A Muggle boy from a family holiday when she was thirteen. They’d only kissed once. He hadn’t even asked her name.
She had a few blue ones, too. Mentor bonds. One was from Professor McGonagall, and it glowed like her. Like steel and wisdom. A quiet connection, guiding and respectful.
She had them all catalogued, remembered.
She had one from almost every Weasley (except Bill and Charlie) – even one from Percy (gold, on her forearm after she’d figured out the answer to a problem he was solving), even George (an accident, sure, but a soul mark nonetheless)
But not Fred.
Never Fred.
He was the only one she’d managed to never touch. Somehow. She didn’t think he’d noticed. She was sure he hadn’t. Why would he want her soul mark? Better yet, why did she want his? To complete a collection?
To know she could?
Speak of the devil:
“Oi, Granger,” Fred called, paddling closer. “You joining us, or have your books convinced you water is morally corrupt?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m drying off.”
“You didn’t get wet.”
“Well, I’m pre-emptively drying off.”
“Efficient,” he said, grinning. “Merlin, I’d forgotten how charming you are.”
She raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t reply. He floated closer. Just enough to make her heart kick in her chest.
“Lovely day for a swim,” he said casually, water droplets sliding down his neck. “Reckon you’d glow like a Patronus if you’d let yourself have a little fun.”
She bristled. “I glow just fine, thank you.”
“Mm,” he said. “Wouldn’t know. Haven’t had the pleasure.”
That made her look up. She chanced a look at him. He was, of course, already looking at her.
Cocky bastard.
He didn’t say it accusingly, not quite. But the smile was a little forced now, his eyes not quite meeting hers.
Before she could respond, George cannonballed into the water next to him, drenching them both. Fred spluttered and cursed, and the moment was gone.
Much later, after she had washed away the grime of the pond, but before she wrapped a towel around herself, she examined her soul marks in the mirror. She remembered each touch as clear as day, remembered the feeling of worth that filled her veins as the mark burned her skin. In that moment, she realised two things:
One – Fred Weasley absolutely knew they didn’t share a soul mark. There was no more questioning that.
Two – He was the only one who had never tried to change that.
He flirted, teased, and joked. But never touched her. Never even reached for her hand.
There, staring at the spaces he could fill, she didn’t know if that made him cautious or kind.
Maybe both.
And maybe that scared her more than any accidental soul mark ever could.
―
Fred POV
Fred towel-dried his hair with more force than necessary, watching Hermione from the corner of his eye as she retreated toward the house.
She was still wrapped in that towel like armour. Still avoiding him like he was cursed.
He let out a breath and flopped down into the grass, ignoring George’s quip about his “love-struck expression” and Lee’s wolf-whistle as Ginny soaked them with a well-aimed splash.
He didn’t feel very love-struck, to be honest.
He felt… tired.
And a little bruised. The kind that doesn’t show up on skin.
It wasn’t that Hermione didn’t like him. He was fairly certain she did — in that sharp-eyed, exasperated way she liked anyone.
She rolled her eyes at him a little less often than she used to. She smiled sometimes, when she thought he wasn’t watching.
In the last year, they’d even graduated to full-blown conversations. Mostly in group settings, but every now and again, Fred caught her unawares.
He lived for those moments — the ones where it was just the two of them, where she’d sigh at him in that precise, world-weary way, cheeks pink from the heat or his teasing, where he could coax a laugh that felt like striking gold.
In those moments, he wondered what colour her soul mark would leave on him.
But, it didn't matter; he didn’t have one.
Because Hermione Granger was very careful not to touch him. Not accidentally. Not on purpose. Not ever. She flinched away if he leaned too close. Adjusted her path in the corridor. Passed objects with sleeves stretched to her fingertips.
Fred had soul marks from nearly everyone in this godforsaken country.
A childhood spent shoulder to shoulder with George meant he practically glowed gold by age six. Molly left marks every time she hugged him, even now. There was a romantic silver from Angelina he’d never quite gotten around to addressing. A faint blush pink from a Muggle girl one summer. A violet curl across his ribs from shielding Lee during a prank gone wrong. Blues from teachers, greens from cousins, golds from classmates, prank victims, rescued first-years, and strangers.
He had no deep red.
And no Hermione.
He wasn’t sure which he minded more.
George slid onto the grass beside him, wringing out his shirt.
“You good?”
Fred shrugged. “Yeah.”
George gave him a look, quiet but steady. The kind that didn’t need words to ask: really?
Fred let out a breath. “I think she’s scared.”
“Of you?”
Fred huffed a laugh, dry and soft. “Maybe. Or of what I’ll leave behind.”
George studied him for a beat, then looked away toward the house. “She’s not exactly liberal with the physical contact, mate.”
“I know,” Fred said. “But it’s different with me.”
He pulled a blade of grass between his fingers, twisting it until it split. “You know she has marks with everyone but me? Once Bill and Charlie get here, I’m sure they’ll join the club. Have you ever noticed that?”
George paused, glancing down toward his fingers, where a faint, unintentional gold mark from Hermione lingered.
“I’ve noticed, sure. But I don’t think it means anything. She’s careful with who she touches. Ours was an accident. Wouldn’t exist if I hadn’t tried to catch her that day.”
Fred nodded once. “She’s very careful to avoid any accidents with me.”
The grass itched at his back as he lay down again, arms folded beneath his head, eyes on the sky.
“It’s not even about the mark,” he murmured after a while. “I don’t need one from her.”
George didn’t press him. He knew when to let Fred sit.
“I just want to know what it is,” Fred said. “What is it about me that makes her pull away? She lets Ron hug her, Harry too. Percy patted her bloody shoulder yesterday. But me?”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
The sky stretched endlessly above them, streaked with clouds that looked like they’d been pulled apart at the seams.
“I don’t think she even realises it,” he added, voice quiet. “Or maybe she does. Maybe it’s easier not to.”
George was silent for a long time, then said, “Maybe she’s scared of what she might feel.”
Fred let out a breath that felt like a slow deflation.
“Yeah,” he said eventually. “Or maybe she’s scared she’ll feel nothing at all.”
Summer, 1995 (Pre-Order of The Phoenix)
The kitchen at Grimmauld Place buzzed with idle chatter, the kind of nervous energy that came from too many people crammed into a space too small, trying to pretend the world wasn’t about to crack open (again).
Fred and George were arguing good-naturedly over who had left the last Chocolate Frog on the counter. Ginny was sprawled across the bench, flipping through a battered Daily Prophet. Hermione sat at the table beside Harry, a book half-open in front of her, but her eyes kept darting toward Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, who stood by the hearth with mugs in hand.
Tonks had just asked an innocent question, something about how long Sirius and Remus had known each other, and suddenly the room had gone strangely quiet.
Not uncomfortable. Just expectant.
Waiting for something good, on the precipice of everything bad.
It was the way Sirius glanced at Remus, something silent and long-suffering passing between them, that made even Fred stop talking.
“You’re talking about soul marks?” Sirius asked, like the idea of it was both amusing and slightly dangerous.
“Well,” Tonks said, drawing out the word. “I’m not not talking about soul marks. If you want to talk about your very obvious one, that is.”
Sirius barked a laugh. “Obvious, is it?”
“You glow like a bleeding starfield when you stand near each other,” said Ginny without looking up. “It’s a wonder half the kitchen isn’t reflecting it.”
Sirius looked over at Remus, who gave the barest shrug, as if to say: It’s your story.
He sighed and leaned back against the hearth, swirling the dregs of his tea. “Alright. If you want a story, you’ll get one.”
Everyone leaned in — even Mrs. Weasley, who had previously been cooking dinner.
“It started off gold,” Sirius said. “Or at least, I thought it did. Light, almost silver around the edges. The kind of mark you get from friends, close ones. The ones who’d throw punches for you in back alleys or sneak out with you after curfew.”
“I thought the same,” Remus added, quieter, but steady. “We both assumed it was just… a particularly bright gold. Nothing rare.”
“But over time,” Sirius continued, “it didn’t deepen like it should’ve. If anything, it lightened. Took on a kind of shimmer, you know?”
George let out a low whistle but said nothing else. Every eye in the room was trained on Remus and Sirius.
“We ignored it. Or tried to. Called it a trick of the light. A product of stress. Too much full moon exposure, maybe.”
Remus made an annoyed noise in his throat, and Sirius turned to look at him, grinning, eyes fond.
“Until…” Tonks prompted, leaning forward eagerly.
“Until after Azkaban,” Remus said, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s when it turned fully silver.”
The silence in the room was different now.
Heavy, reverent.
“We hadn’t seen each other in over a decade,” Sirius said. “He thought I was a traitor. I thought he’d moved on without me. And then that night, when we cleared it all up — when we stood side by side again, after everything — it was like the mark had been waiting. Waiting for us to come back to each other.”
Remus looked down at his forearm, at the soft gleam that always lived there now. “The moment I touched him, it flared. No doubt about it. Silver. Like the moon, like me, I suppose. All this time, it had just been waiting for us to stop lying to ourselves.”
Harry blinked slowly, absorbing it all. “So… it’s romantic?”
Sirius smiled faintly. “Sometimes, yes. Sometimes not. It doesn’t need to be one thing. That’s what makes a soul mark a soul mark. It’s a bond, Harry. Not a contract.”
Remus stepped in gently. “And remember, even red isn’t a sentence. Just because you can doesn’t mean you must. Soul marks are a possibility. Not fate.”
Hermione was nodding, already halfway lost in thought.
Harry was lost in thought, tracing the deep green on his wrist from his mother.
“I…” Harry hesitated. “What about my parents? Did they have a soul mark?”
The room shifted again, gentler this time, as though something sacred had been named.
“They did,” Remus said softly. “But it didn’t manifest until their Seventh Year.”
Sirius nodded, grinning now at the memory.
“Prongs and Evans were allergic to touching each other for six straight years. Swore they couldn’t stand each other, I think it was mostly your Mum, Harry. But anyway, you’ve never seen two people try so hard not to brush arms in the corridor.”
Suddenly, the carpet in front of Hermione was very interesting.
“And then they were made Head Boy and Head Girl,” Remus continued. “Had to share a common room. Patrolled together. Argued about everything.”
“They forgot,” Sirius said, eyes distant. “One night, they were bickering about… something. Neither could remember in the morning. But James passed her a book to prove his point, and she reached for it without thinking.”
Remus smiled, just a little. “And the mark flared. Red. Like wildfire.”
Harry's breath hitched.
“They were stunned for about ten seconds, apparently,” Sirius said. “Then Lily said, ‘Well, that explains a lot,’ and walked off like nothing had happened.”
“They started dating three weeks later,” Remus said. “But the mark didn’t make them. They chose it. They were already headed in that direction, it just… made everything easier.”
“They were good together,” Sirius said quietly this time. “Laughed a lot. Argued like hell. But always came back to each other. They were what I imagine when I think of soulmates.”
No one spoke for a moment.
Fred looked down at his arm again. He felt the gap in his constellation now, more than ever. Still no blush of gold. No shimmer of silver. No accidental touch from the girl who sat across from him at breakfast, legs crossed just-so, sleeves tugged to her wrists.
He hadn’t even meant to look.
But he always looked, didn’t he?
Across the room, Hermione’s head turned, and for a split second, their eyes met.
Then she looked away.
She always looked away, didn’t she?
Same day, a few hours later. Summer, 1995 (Pre-Order of The Phoenix)
It started, as most of their arguments did, with a disagreement over something inconsequential.
Well really, it started over a footnote.
After the story of Remus and Sirius, most people had gone to bed. Hermione and Fred, of all people, were still awake, holed up in the library.
Hermione sat cross-legged on the rug in the library at Grimmauld Place, surrounded by open books. Magical Soulmate Theory: 18th Century Onwards lay cracked open in her lap, and she was frowning at the page as if it had personally offended her.
Fred, sprawled out in the window seat with a stack of prototypes beside him, noticed.
“What’s the frown for, Granger? Did your textbook insult your honour?”
Hermione didn’t look up. “This author refers to soul marks as ‘biological inevitabilities.’ Like, we have no say in them at all. As if they control our lives.”
Fred closed his sketchpad with a soft thud. “Bit dramatic, even for magic.”
“It’s not dramatic,” Hermione said sharply. “It’s dangerous. It implies we don’t have autonomy. That if you get a red mark, you’re… bound. That’s not how it works. It’s not how it should work.”
Fred shrugged, swinging his legs over the edge. “Tell that to Sirius and Remus. Or your Head Girl idol Lily Evans and Prongs. Seems like they did all right by letting the marks guide them.”
Hermione glanced up at him then, eyes narrowed. “That’s not the point.”
“No?” Fred asked, voice lighter than his expression. “Because it sounds like the point is: you’re scared of that being exactly how they do work. Scared of what it might mean if the marks do mean something.”
The air tightened. Hermione snapped the book shut.
“I’m not scared.”
“Right,” Fred said slowly. “That’s why you act like you’ll combust if anyone so much as brushes your hand.”
Hermione stood quickly. “That’s not— You don’t know anything about it. You couldn’t possibly understand”
Fred stood, too, slower but more deliberate. “I know you’ve got soul marks from every single member of my family except me. Even George, who you’ll let catch you when you fall. I, of course, should let you fall.”
Hermione bristled at his words. She hadn’t meant for it to happen, and she had regretted it for a long time after.
Fred stepped forward, not close, not too close, but enough that the distance between them felt loaded. “Do you even realise how careful you are? I could be holding a live bomb for you to diffuse, and you’d still find a way not to brush my arm.”
Hermione’s voice dropped. “Maybe that’s because you treat marks like trophies.”
Fred flinched. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s true,” she snapped. “You wear them like you’re collecting them — people, moments. Do you even care what they mean?”
Fred’s jaw clenched. “Of course I care. But they’re not supposed to be shackles. They’re not supposed to make you scared of being known.”
They stared at each other. The room crackled with the kind of tension that made things break.
Hermione opened her mouth. Closed it. Her fingers twitched at her side.
“You don’t get it, Fred. It’s not… It’s not as easy for you as it is for me. People don’t just love me like they do you. What if…”
Hermione trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought.
Fred studied her before stepping back.
He gave a half-shrug, hollow, like it didn’t matter. “Forget it.”
He turned on his heel and left, not storming, not dramatic. Just gone.
Hermione thought that the silence after the door clicked shut was worse than any slammed one could have been.
She stood still for a long time, heart pounding. She touched her sleeve.
And for a moment—just a moment—she wondered what colour his hand would leave behind.
Still the same day, more hours later. Summer, 1995 (Pre-Order of The Phoenix)
Fred threw a quaffle up and caught it again, over and over, lying on his bed in George's and his shared room.
The door creaked and George dropped onto his bed, arms folded.
“You’ve been doing that for twenty minutes.”
Fred didn’t stop throwing the quaffle. “I’m practising.”
George raised a brow. “Or maybe you’re brooding.”
Fred snorted. “I don’t brood.”
“You argued with Hermione Granger in the library and then spent the whole night not being funny. That’s brooding.”
Fred dropped the quaffle onto his chest and closed his eyes. “She’s impossible sometimes.”
George didn’t say anything.
Fred cracked one eye open. “She gets this tone. All logic and righteousness. And I get it, I do. She’s brilliant. She’s scared. Everyone’s scared. But she talks to me like I’m a joke. Like I’m trying to collect soul marks just to be some sort of glittery idiot.”
“You are a glittery idiot,” George offered helpfully.
Fred smiled faintly, but it didn’t stick. “I think I just… I thought we were finally getting somewhere. Not like, I don’t know, not anything necessarily. Just… somewhere. She talks to everyone else. She touches everyone else. Even you.”
George glanced down at his hand, where a soft gold shimmer remained. “That was an accident when she was falling off a broom.”
“Exactly,” Fred said, sitting up. “She avoids me so well it’s like she’s trying to avoid fate itself.”
"That's what you think it is? Fate itself?"
Fred startled and shook his head slowly, "No, I... that's not what I meant. Its just a figure of speech."
George tilted his head. “Are you really mad at her?”
Fred sighed, then shook his head.
“No. I’m mad at… I don’t know. I’m mad I care. That’s the worst bit. I don’t know what this is, curiosity, pride, some messed-up part of me that wants to be marked by someone who means it.”
“Do you want her mark?” George asked, quiet for once.
Fred hesitated.
“I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “But it hurts. That she doesn’t want mine.”
Still the same day, more hours later. Summer, 1995 (Pre-Order of The Phoenix)
Hermione sat alone at the kitchen table, a mug of tea cooling in her hands.
“You look like you’ve just been through a war,” Remus said gently, stepping into the kitchen.
Hermione forced a small smile. “Just the library.”
“Ah,” he said, settling into the chair across from her. “One of the more dangerous battlegrounds.”
They sat in silence for a beat. Then:
“I upset Fred,” she said quietly.
Remus looked at her, but said nothing, allowing her the space to continue.
She stared into her mug. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just, he doesn’t get it. He touches people so easily, like it means nothing. He’s got so many marks. I have twelve. And I can name every single one. I remember earning them. I remember every single moment.”
Remus watched her, brow furrowed but kind.
“I know it sounds silly,” she said softly, wrapping her hands around the cooling tea mug. “But Fred, he’s always joking. Always deflecting. And I like that about him, I do, I think we all need to laugh, especially now. But when it comes to this, to soul marks, I just… I don’t know if he could ever really take it seriously.”
She looked down, as if the words were too much to hold eye contact through.
“He flirts with everyone. He laughs everything off. And this—” she touched her collarbone lightly, where the mark from Abigail shimmered faintly, “—this isn’t a joke to me. None of it is. If I touched him and something showed up — it doesn’t matter the colour — I think I’d want it to mean something. And I’m scared it wouldn’t to him.”
Remus didn’t interrupt. Just nodded once, slowly.
“I’m scared he’d make a joke about it,” she whispered. “And I wouldn’t know how to laugh. And I don’t think I could pretend”
There was a long pause.
“That doesn’t sound silly at all,” Remus said gently. “It sounds very much like someone who wants to be taken seriously, in a world that doesn’t always know how to.”
Hermione’s fingers tightened around the mug.
“He’s not a bad person,” she said quickly. “He’s not. He’s just—”
“Larger than life?” Remus offered.
Hermione gave a small, tired laugh. “Yes. And I’m… not.”
Remus stirred his tea absentmindedly, the quiet scrape of the spoon the only sound in the room for a few moments after Hermione spoke. She sat across from him, rigid on the bench seat of the kitchen table, eyes fixed on the space between them, but her mind far away.
“Do you know,” he said eventually, voice soft and reflective, “that Lily didn’t speak to James for nearly a week after their soul mark appeared?”
Hermione blinked. “She didn’t?”
He smiled faintly. “She was furious. Not because she didn’t like him, though she certainly told herself she didn’t at the time, but because it meant something. Something she wasn’t ready for. Lily was very much like you. Bright. Focused. Didn’t want anything or anyone to derail her plans. And a twin flame mark? That was like the universe handing her a detour she hadn’t signed up for.”
Hermione looked at him closely. “But she did love him. In the end.”
“She did,” Remus nodded. “But not because of the mark. The mark only confirmed what they eventually chose. They fell in love the old-fashioned way — over arguments in the Head’s Office and late-night patrols and eventually, moments of quiet understanding. The soul mark… it just gave them a starting point they couldn’t ignore forever.”
Hermione looked down, thumb running over the seam of her sleeve. “Did she ever say what changed?”
“She said he stopped trying to impress her and started listening to her. That’s when she knew it wasn’t just about fate, it was about choice.”
She nodded slowly, letting that settle. “And you and Sirius?”
Remus paused, and something behind his eyes shifted, a shadow, a memory. He leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers resting against the ceramic of his mug.
“Sirius and I…” He smiled to himself, bittersweet. “We had a soul mark that changed over time. At first, it was gold — friendship. Blazing and loyal and loud. Then, somewhere between the wars and the betrayals and the quiet nights in between, it began to shimmer silver. I think we both ignored it. Thought we were imagining it. Or maybe we were just too scared of what it meant.”
“Did it ever go red?”
Remus shook his head. “No. It wasn’t that. It was silver—deep, bright, unwavering. Romantic, yes, eventually. But not… not twin flames. And honestly, I think I preferred it that way.”
Hermione tilted her head slightly, something stirring behind her eyes. She glanced down at her arm, fingers absently brushing the place she knew Ron's mark was.
“Is that… is it common?” she asked. “For a mark to change like that? From gold to silver?”
Remus looked at her more closely. “It can happen. Not often, but enough that it isn’t unheard of. Why?”
She hesitated, then said quietly, “Ron and I have a gold mark. It’s always been that, since we were twelve. But… sometimes, especially lately, I think I see silver in it. Just for a second. Like the edges catch the light differently.”
Remus didn’t speak right away. He let her words settle, gave them weight.
“Have you talked to him about it?” he asked gently.
She shook her head, gaze fixed on a knot in the old table. “No. I don’t think he sees it. And I don’t know if I want him to. We’re not… I don’t think we’re there. Or maybe I’m just not. It’s just confusing. He's confusing”
“That’s fair,” Remus said. “Soul marks can reflect what might be, not just what is. Possibility, not promise.”
Hermione looked up. “But what if one person sees silver, and the other still sees gold?”
“Then you give it time. If it’s meant to deepen, it will. If not—” he shrugged lightly, “—then the mark will stay where it’s meant to. Sometimes feelings are lopsided for a while. Sometimes forever. That’s the risk of being human, soul marks or not.”
She nodded slowly, the crease in her brow easing just a little.
“You’re allowed to be uncertain,” Remus added. “And you’re allowed to change, too. What you see now might not be what you see in a year — or a week. Soul marks are magic, Hermione, but they don’t override your agency. They’re only one piece of the story.”
She gave a soft, breathy laugh. “You sound like Dumbledore.”
Remus smiled. “Don’t tell him that. He’ll never let me hear the end of it.”
They sat in silence for a beat longer, something softer between them. An understanding, an acknowledgement.
When they hugged goodbye that night, Hermione felt a soft blue mark trace up her arm.
1995. Order of the Phoenix school year.
The Room of Requirement had taken on the form of a wide, open training hall today — all stone floors, warm torchlight, and enchanted targets floating mid-air like lazy moons.
Students moved in scattered pairs, casting Disarming Charms and Shield Spells that ricocheted in all directions. The energy was high, frantic, the kind of wild momentum that came from rebellion mixed with too little sleep.
Hermione had rolled up her sleeves.
It was small. Barely worth noticing. But it was the first time Fred had ever seen her forearms: pale, freckled, a few soul marks – he wasn’t sure from whom – a faint ink smudge near her wrist from an earlier note.
He’d never seen her so unguarded. She’d laughed when Ginny had accidentally knocked over a full stack of cushions with a rogue Stinging Hex. Not just a smile — a real laugh, open and surprised, like it had snuck out of her chest.
Fred had always thought of her as a little brittle, a little too sharp for her age.
But tonight she was warm. Open. Human. He thought she was beautiful like this.
He thought it was dangerous, the temptation of her.
He was watching her too closely, and George elbowed him once with a smirk, but said nothing. Fred ignored him.
“Alright, pair off!” Harry called across the room. “We’re practising non-verbal Shield Charms.”
Hermione was about to move toward Neville, but he was already pairing up with Luna. Before she could look lost for too long, Fred stepped in with a grin and a mock bow. “May I, Miss Granger?”
She rolled her eyes, but there was no bite in it. “If you properly hurt me, I’ll hex your eyebrows off.”
Fred grinned. “Noted.”
They faced each other. He noticed how careful she was, even now, wand angled just so, feet evenly spaced. Duelling stance. Controlled.
But the spell she was aiming fizzled out midway, and she furrowed her brow, shaking her wand like it was at fault.
Fred quirked a brow. “Having performance issues, Granger?”
“Don’t start.”
He laughed, just as she took a step backward to reset — and her heel caught on a loose training mat.
It all happened in a blur: her arms flailing slightly, a small yelp of surprise, and instinct took over before Fred could think.
He reached out. One hand gripped her elbow, the other caught her waist. Her hand clutched his forearm.
Contact.
There was no spark. No jolt of magical lightning. No blinding flash.
It was rather boring, on recollection.
It was like the air between them stilled, like oxygen pausing in its cycle — the world caught in suspension.
And then came the light.
It spilled from his hand first, curling up from where his palm touched her skin — a slow, pulsing red, deep as garnet and threaded with silver.
Her skin glowed where he touched her.
His arm lit up like molten glass.
Hermione froze.
Fred’s breath caught. “Bloody hell.”
Gasps echoed around them. Someone dropped their wand. A soft, stunned silence fell over the entire room.
Ginny, nearest to them, blinked. “Wait. Are you telling me… in five years you’ve never touched?!”
Hermione wrenched back as if burned.
The light dimmed instantly, but the mark remained, a deep, unmistakable crimson swirl that now bloomed along the side of her left wrist. Fred looked down and saw the matching one glowing faintly across the base of his forearm.
George whistled low. “Well. That’s... unexpected.”
Hermione was pale. “Oh.”
Fred opened his mouth, then shut it again. For once, he had no quip, no charm.
All he could offer was stunned silence. His heart thudded somewhere too high in his chest.
Harry cleared his throat gently. “Alright, maybe… that’s enough practice for tonight?”
Laughter, nervous and too loud, trickled through the group. Students began to pack up quietly, glancing back at Fred and Hermione like they were exhibits behind glass.
Fred still hadn’t moved. Neither had Hermione.
She stared at him. Her eyes were wide, not angry, not cold, but afraid, uncertain.
“I'm sorry," she said, barely above a whisper. "It was an accident.”
Fred flinched like she’d struck him. But he answered just as quietly, “Yeah,” he said. “I know.
She nodded once and then turned on her heel and walked out.
Sleeves still rolled up, red mark burning bright under the skin for all to see.
George came to stand beside him. “Well,” he said, “at least you have her mark now.”
Fred didn’t respond, staring at the space of wall Hermione had disappeared into.
His arm burned where her fingers had wrapped around him.
He thought he quite missed it.