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"Who do you think it was?" Ron asks.
Harry stares at the neat letters twisting around his wrist, a grey so light they make a stark contrast against his dark skin. On Ron, the light silver would blend right in, but Harry's mark stands bright, an open invitation for questions he doesn't know how to answer.
"Well," Harry says, at last, "it definitely wasn't Cho."
They could laugh but they both know it isn't funny. There have been too many deaths already, too many marks that have gone so light they're almost white. At least Ron's words still gleam in that mid-to-dark grey of the unrevealed. Harry watches him, the way Ron eyes Dean and Seamus almost wistfully. Their marks had changed the moment they met, and they haven't been apart since. Harry supposes he can understand the envy. It would be nice not having to guess at who his soulmate might be.
But Ron doesn't linger on the way Dean runs his hand through Seamus's hair. His eyes skip over to Luna and Ginny, to Hermione, to Lavender, to land, for a moment, on Justin Finch-Fletchley. If Harry wasn't watching, he'd miss the way Ron's eyes follow the slope of Justin's shoulders, the way he seems almost hypnotised by the movement of Justin's hands.
It comes to Harry in a moment of perfect understanding and he can't help himself. "At least you're not thinking of Cormac McLaggen," he says.
Ron turns, bright red spreading beautifully across the bridge of his nose and the sides of his cheeks. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says.
Harry just looks at him and waits him out.
"Oh, fine," Ron says. "It's not like I was keeping it a secret."
Harry lets his eyes drift over to Justin, to the confidence with which he holds himself. He thinks of Sirius and his father, of how being raised in money makes it easy to believe that everything will always be taken care of. No matter how well Harry knows Justin, or how friendly the two of them may be, he can still feel that distance in the casual way Justin goes through clothes and shoes. How he never seems to want for anything, even though they're all barely eighteen and wanting is the only thing they know.
Justin's kind, and Ron deserves someone who will treat him well. Even if that means he gets swept up in Justin "I almost went to Eton" Finch-Fletchley.
"You never said you liked him," Harry says.
Boys. Girls. Those things aren't a surprise. It's just caught Harry off guard that it's Justin, blond, tall, fit, blue-eyed and handsome. He's so different from what Harry expected of Ron, so unlike Hermione, who was Ron's first love.
Ron doesn't say anything and when Harry finally turns to look at him, Ron's frowning.
"What?" Harry asks.
"I don't like Justin. I just think he's fit."
Harry eyes Justin's soul mark, the bold, grey, unturned letters that crawl up his neck. Harry can't read them from this distance but he knows they say, "we should get married," and it's an unexpected relief to know they don't belong to Ron. They're barely eighteen after all, fresh from a war, and marriage should be the last thing on their mind. Better not to rush into things just because they all survived.
"Not like it matters anyway," Ron says, almost bitterly.
"Why not?" Harry asks.
Ron sighs, sprawling out on his armchair in defeat. "Can you imagine how embarrassing it would be to tell Mum that I have to marry Justin Finch-Fletchley?"
Harry laughs, suddenly interested in what Ron's going to say. Harry doesn't dislike Justin. He just finds him slightly irritating, with his perfect accent and his self-assured walk. He can't imagine him sitting at the Weasleys' table, surrounded by all their warmth, by the loud chatter as the Weasleys fight over the dinner rolls.
"Good thing you don't like Justin, then," Harry says.
Ron closes his eyes, as though he's holding back from rolling them at Harry. When he opens them again, he's grinning, a carefree boyish smile that reminds Harry of their first meeting on the Hogwarts Express. It's been so long since they could just be boys, talking about the people they thought fit. It eases a knot deep in Harry's chest that he didn't know was there. He's content to sit with Ron and let the heat of the common room's fireplace wash over them.
It's cold outside and the walls of the castle only emphasize that chill. But the fire is warm and there are enough bodies in the common room that Harry doesn't feel adrift. He could almost fall asleep there, surrounded by noise and chatter, Ron on the armchair next to him, close enough to touch.
-
Harry's mark bloomed to life on his eleventh birthday, wrapping around his wrist to form a grey band that read, "it's a soul mark, mate."
He was eleven when Ron said his words, his eyes drifting from Harry to the floor, a shy eleven-year-old, hoping and pretending he wasn't. Harry's words didn't change. There was no searing heat that burned him from the inside out. The world didn't right itself and he didn't suddenly forget the sting of having no one to guide him onto Platform 9 ¾.
It was all right just being friends with Ron, to know that their soul marks matched, their words wrapping around their right wrists, Ron's, "it's you, it's always been you," flashing every time he moved his hand. It was even okay when Ron said he might be in love with Hermione because Harry knew about platonic soulmates by then. He didn't care what way Ron loved him, only that Ron did. Only that Ron was the first person Harry loved who loved him back.
Then the war came and Harry walked to the Forbidden Forest, knowing that he'd be the reason Ron's mark turned light grey. He doesn't know whether or not knowing for sure that Ron was his soulmate would've made what happened next easier. Because, although Harry walked into the Forbidden Forest with every intention of never coming out, he survived. And the mark on his wrist turned a grey so light it was almost white, a stark contrast on his dark brown skin.
When the dust settled after the Battle of Hogwarts, Ron reached out a shaking hand and ran his fingers over Harry's wrist, as though he might change the colour if he tried hard enough. Harry's mark faded away and Ron's stayed, unturned.
Harry doesn't know what it means. Every night since they started their eighth year, he lies awake in bed wondering why only his mark is gone. He pretends with Ron, allows the guesses at who he might've been destined for. But he knows. Deep down, where he keeps the things he's not ready to deal with, Harry knows why his mark faded, why Ron's remains.
He was never Ron's soulmate, no matter what his eleven-year-old self might have thought. And anyway, even if he was, everyone knows that in order for one to have a soul mark, they need to have a soul.
*
A soulmate, Ron knows, is someone chosen, not destined.
Mrs Weasley's mark changed on the day she met Mr Weasley. They'd known of each other the way that all pure-blood families know the names of every other pure-blood their age. But they didn't officially meet until the moment they were waiting for the enchanted boats to take them to Hogwarts. Mrs Weasley's cloak got stuck on the edge of a boat and she tripped right into Mr Weasley's lap.
"Most embarrassing moment of my life," she said, whenever she told the story.
Without missing a beat Mr Weasley would say, "Best day of mine."
Those are his mother's words, a messy scrawl on her left shoulder that's still solid black. There are some people who get married, whose words fade away with time. Too much change in opposite directions. It's not spoken of, and those whose marks aren't obviously visible can, and do, hide it. It's better to live with a partner who's no longer one's soulmate than it is to admit the union didn't work out.
Aunt Muriel would know. Her mark faded on the same day as her wedding, and her first husband died not long after. It was easy for her afterwards. There's more pity for someone whose soulmate died than there is for someone who couldn't keep their marriage together. Sometimes, Ron's not sure Aunt Muriel didn't get rid of her first husband so that she wouldn't have to explain her faded mark.
It's easier when both marks match even if it takes a little longer for one of the partners to come around. Mr Weasley's mark changed ten years after Mrs Weasley's, on the last day of their honeymoon.
"But why did you get married?" Ron asked, once.
Mr Weasley took off his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of his shirt. He had a faraway look in his eye as he thought it through. Eventually, he put his glasses back on and looked at Ron, smiling as he reached out to tousle Ron's hair.
"Sometimes, you just know," he said. "With or without a mark to confirm it for you."
Sometimes, a man just knows, Ron thinks, glancing at Harry across the common room.
Harry sits at one of the tables by the windows, right underneath the lantern on the wall. He's writing the essay for Potions that Ron gave up on hours earlier. These days, it feels as though Harry's always writing essays, always off by himself, buried in a book or pretending he's asleep. He's getting worse than Hermione, who skipped their last year entirely and went straight onto a job at the Ministry. Overachievers, the both of them.
But it's more than that. These days, Harry's hair is messier than usual, as though he's given up on even running a comb through it. He falls asleep in the strangest of places, curling up in the corner of the common room, sprawling out between two armchairs, and one memorable time, at the foot of Ron's bed.
It isn't that Harry's avoiding him. It's that Harry thought Ron fancied Justin Finch-Fletchely, and he's been acting strange since then. And it isn't as though Ron doesn't know what it means. He and Harry have been gradually falling into each other from the moment they met. Over the last seven years, their marks haven't turned—Harry doesn't even have one to turn anymore—but Ron knows that Harry's it for him. Because sometimes, a man just knows.
The only issue is that he doesn't know how to break the news to Harry. They're on the other side of a war. Harry died with a soul mark and came back to life without one. There are things Ron can't talk about yet, things that haunt him at night. There are things that don't let Harry sleep. Things they both need to deal with on their own before they can say they're ready for any life-changing steps.
But Ron grew up in a family of seven. He's not used to handling his grief alone. Besides, there's never been any doubt in his mind that he and Harry are meant to be together.
*
"I choose you," Ron says.
Harry looks up from his pile of parchment and frowns. "Thanks," he says.
Ron nods and takes the empty seat on the other side of the table. He shoves Harry's books out of the way and reaches out to bat the quill away from Harry's hand. The ink pot spills between them, soaking into Harry's bag. Harry jerks away, doing his best to save the rest of his essay.
"What?" he asks, exasperated, as he shakes ink off his fingers.
"Listen to me," Ron says. "Soulmates aren't real."
Harry flinches, rubbing his mark reflexively. "Have you gone mad?" he asks, glancing around the common room.
No one is paying them any attention. There aren't many of them back for their eighth year, but those who came keep to themselves for the most part. The war changed them all, whether they fought in the Battle of Hogwarts or not, and Harry isn't the only one who has nightmares.
"All that soulmate shit is bollocks," Ron says, vehemently, reaching across the table to take Harry's hand. "What kind of wanker lets a mark on their arm dictate their life?"
He holds on tight, his fingers digging into the back of Harry's hand. Ron's mark is on display for Harry to see, every curve of the letters so familiar to Harry, he could copy them down perfectly with his eyes closed. He knows the slope of the t's, the haphazard slash above the i's, the messy scrawl that's hard to read. Those are his letters, his handwriting, printed forever into Ron's skin.
He's always hoped those were his words, always wanted it confirmed, even if deep down he always knew. The same way he wanted confirmation that he carries Ron's mark on his wrist. Faded away, and yet still so bright against his skin.
"It's just a fucking soul mark, mate," Ron says, leaning across the table to catch Harry's eyes.
Ron grins, his smile lighting up his face until Harry has no choice but to believe him. He's still holding Ron's hand, their words facing each other. It's just a mark, Harry thinks. But even so, he longs for the words on Ron's wrist to turn black, to settle into his skin and mark him as Harry's. He wants it so much, he can feel his hands trembling.
Ron is the first person Harry loved who loved him back.
"I choose you," Ron says, shaking their joined hands. "So, go on, say it."
Harry looks at Ron's words and imagines them changing. He wants it so much, it's almost painful. He inhales shakily, dropping his eyes to the table, to the spilled ink that's sliding to the floor. Ron tugs on his hand and when Harry looks up, it's to see Ron looking at him with an expression so gentle, it makes Harry's breath catch in his throat. Ron brings their hands closer to himself, keeping eye contact with Harry as he leans down to press a soft kiss to the back of Harry's wrist. Even after Ron moves away, Harry can feel the spot where Ron's lips touched his skin, the heat of that touch burning so much, Harry's almost convinced that his mark is changing.
He looks down at his own words, at the light grey, "it's a soul mark, mate."
He feels flayed open, a pain so deep in his chest, he's not sure he can ever get it out. Ron sits across from him, beautiful, perfect in the low light of the common room. He's everything Harry's ever wanted, everything Harry's ever needed. If Ron wants him, Harry's never letting go. It would be impossible to do so, mark or not.
"Come here," Harry says.
There's no room for doubt now that Ron's made his choice. Now that Harry knows. There's only Ron, half-laughing, leaning closer across the table. There's only Harry reaching for Ron's robes, burying his hand in the fabric to drag him closer. There's only the spilled ink underneath Harry's other hand as he levers himself up and across, until he's close enough to count every single individual freckle on Ron's face.
They kiss, right by the windows in the common room, with the low lights surrounding them. Harry can feel the ink seeping into the sleeve of his robe but he doesn't care. All that matters is that Ron's mouth is warm on his, that Ron presses forward again and again, that they have all night.
"It's you," Harry murmurs between kisses, ignoring the pain of the table digging into his stomach. "It's always been you."
He doesn't need to look to know. He can feel it in the way Ron's fingers dig into his arm. He knows long before Ron presses their foreheads together and tells him.
Soul or not, he has a soulmate, and for the moment, that's enough.