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Five minutes before midnight, they gathered around in front of the fireplace. Sirius rolled up his sleeve and they stared at his wrist with bated breath to see what would show up. Then the clock struck midnight and they leaned in as one. They waited and they waited and they waited but his skin stayed a horrible blank.
“Oh,” Lily whispered finally.
Sirius breathed out in a rush, eyes stinging. “Yeah. Happy fucking birthday to me.”
“It’s okay, Siri. You’ll always have us,” James said firmly.
But he didn’t.
Soulmarks are a very private thing. It’s one of the first things Harry learns about when he enters the magical world and Hagrid makes him buy a soft leather wristband in addition to everything else on his list. He knows he won’t have his for a while, that he’ll have to wait until he turns seventeen, but he’s excited.
A person just for him who will love him no matter what.
Whoever they are, Harry already loves them, just a little.
Throughout the years he learns that that’s not exactly what soulmarks are, that they are guides rather than guarantees, Magic’s nudges in the right direction. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley don’t have matching marks either, Ron confesses to him when they’re twelve, and they don’t love each other any less for it.
Harry stares down at his blank wrist. He knows it’s supposed to be a reassuring tale, that it’s alright if he doesn’t find the person bearing his mark, everyone keeps repeating that. According to Hermione, more and more people have been going against their soulmarks and leaving tradition behind. That younger generations are considering it old-fashioned.
Harry nods in all the right places during Hermione’s rants, which throughout the years become more and more elaborate as she develops her views properly. She agrees that predestined love is ridiculous, that they should have a choice in the matter, and Harry outwardly agrees. Secretly, however, he’ll gladly go the traditional way. He wants this person and be loved unconditionally, the way it’s supposed to be.
Sirius agrees with her. “It’s all garbage,” he says bitterly.
Harry wants to ask what the story is, because he’s sure there is one, but Sirius hates soulmarks more than even Hermione does. It makes him sad, because Harry can’t imagine hating the person who will bear his mark, already a little in love with them without even knowing who they are. He trusts Magic knows what it’s doing, trusts it to pick someone who will love and treasure him.
Still, when Hermione turns seventeen, she goes quiet, staring at her wrist for long moments before covering it back up. “It doesn’t matter,” she says in the end, her cheeks a bright red. “It’s all stupid.” She refuses to show them the name written on her skin.
She shows him one evening when it’s just the two of them.
Ron Weasley, her wrist says in Ron’s chicken scratch.
Oh.
“I don’t have one,” Sirius confesses the week before Harry’s birthday.
Harry’s eyes widen with horror. “I didn’t know that could happen,” he whispers.
Sirius shrugs, but there’s something in his eyes that Harry recognises as yearning. “It’s rare but it does happen, just that nobody talks about it. It’s shameful. I used to want one, you know. When I was younger. I thought it would be—well, it doesn’t matter now. I don’t have one and that’s that. Now c’mere, my darling godson. Stop looking at me like that and kiss me again.”
He does.
Harry falls asleep despite his anxiety, held securely in Sirius’ arms, but it takes some time before he does. With the way he and Sirius fell together so easily, he’d sort of… assumed that it’d be him, because he can’t imagine loving anyone the way he loves Sirius, completely and utterly.
But Sirius doesn’t have a mark, so how would that work? In the end, does it even matter? Hermione’s words echo through his mind, years and years of her rants that he’d cast aside because he’d been convinced he’d find love with his soulmate, and now it turns out that maybe—that maybe he’s already found what he’s been looking for, even without a mark. So really, does it matter?
Harry already has Sirius, he doesn’t need a soulmark to know he is loved.
The clock strikes midnight and he doesn’t look. He shoves his wrist under Hermione’s nose and watches her eyes widen and still he doesn’t look. “Don’t tell me,” he says. “I just… I just wanted someone to know, before I…”
“Before you what?” Hermione asks quietly.
“Before I cover it up.”
The Muggle tattoo parlour is closed, it’s just Harry, Hermione and the tattoo artist.
“This is why we tell clients not to put names on their body,” the artist sighs. “They always come back. You realise it’ll just be a black bar on your wrist, right?”
“I know,” Harry says, swallowing thickly, heart thundering in his chest. “Worth it.”
“Okay then.” The artist goes to work.
Hermione Obliviates her after.
Sirius kisses him until he’s breathless. “You stupid boy,” he whispers through his tears. “What have you done?”
Harry smiles through his own. “I love you.”
~fin.