Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

A few minutes post-soul mark (1995, Order of the Phoenix school year.)

Hermione didn’t run.

That would be dramatic. Pointless. Immature. All things which she was not, thank you very much. 

She simply… left, quickly, with purpose, and without looking back.

Her bag bounced against her hip as she rushed down the corridor, turning sharply into an empty classroom. The door closed behind her with a soft click, and she stood very still.

She didn’t cry.

That, too, would be unnecessary.

But her breath came fast, and her fingers trembled. She stared down at her wrist, the mark had stopped glowing, but it was still there.

Bold and unmistakable, it curled red with threads of something silvery and bright woven through it like starlight. The mark was thin and intricate, almost vine-like, with tiny curls of silver looping through the red.

Not just romantic, then. Something stronger. She didn’t need a book to tell her what it meant.

Twin flames.

And it was Fred Weasley.

Fred.

Of all the people in the world, (and she could admit that she had spent many a night wondering who it could be):

Fred?

She let out a breathless, half-hysterical laugh and immediately covered her mouth, as if someone might hear.

Five years.

Five years of carefulness.

Of pulling her sleeves down.

Of stepping sideways.

Of flinching without meaning to.

Of upholding personal space like scripture.

Of never touching him — not once — even when he stood beside her, even when he joked too close, even when her hands itched with the temptation of it.

(Even when she had touched him, in her dreams.)

When marks had bloomed all over her body from his hands – gold, silver, pink, violet, amber – it changed each night, like her mind wasn’t sure what the mark would be.

Just that there was one.

Even in her most wild of dreams, the deep silver-edged ones that had her waking up with a gasp, fingers clutching at a phantom body, heart thumping hard and fast in her chest, she had never imagined this.

She’d seen his marks. Everyone had.

Fred Weasley practically wore his heart on his skin, gold and green and pink and silver, like a living mural of connection.

People touched him easily.

He made it easy.

But not her. Never her.

She’d told herself he didn’t notice.

That he didn’t care.

That she was just another person in the crowd to him, an annoyance he occasionally liked to tease.

Someone off limits to flirt with, a nice challenge.

But in the back of her mind, she'd sometimes wondered if he did notice, the way she tensed when he got too close, the way she backed away.

Maybe he'd thought she didn’t like him; maybe that was easier for him to believe.

It was easier for her to believe.

The truth, of course, was worse.

That she was every bit a Gryffindor, and still, she was scared.

Terrified, even.

Of soul marks, of Fred Weasley and his easy love, of her never getting either.

Fred, with his jokes and winks and chaotic brilliance.

He was constantly moving, he was a kaleidoscope of colours, he was the kind of person you marvelled at.

Not the type that Hermione understood, not that she could trust, but one she could admire. One she could envy.

One she could have a harmless, inconsequential crush on.

Because they would never, never, have a mark.

She had watched Ginny with him, with George, with Ron, with Harry. It was effortless, the way they all flowed around each other. The way Fred flowed around anyone.

Hermione had always stood just outside of that circle, of every circle, grounded by rules and caution, worried that the second she let go, she'd be swept away.

And now this.

This mark.

This terrifyingly permanent thing.

Outside, she heard it, footsteps in the hallway.

A pause.

Then a knock.

“…Hermione?”

Harry.

Of course, it was Harry.

Stupid, noble, loving Harry.

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t tell him to go either.

The door creaked open. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there in his baggy jumper, messy hair even messier, wand tucked behind his ear like he’d forgotten it was there.

She looked up at him, and he blinked.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

Hermione gave a small, helpless shrug and then burst into tears.

Harry walked in, quiet as ever, and sat cross-legged beside her, pulling her into a hug. He didn’t press, didn’t demand she explain herself. He just waited.

It made her cry more.

She lifted her wrist slowly, as though showing him something fragile, breakable. Harry leaned in to see, his eyes widening.

“Bloody hell,” he said softly.

“I know.”

Harry didn’t say anything right away.

Instead, he glanced down. Tugged up his sleeve just slightly.

A slim silver curl shimmered faintly at the base of his wrist. Delicate. Soft. Familiar.

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Ginny?”

He gave a small nod, "Since summer. We haven’t really… talked about it. Not properly. But it’s there.”

“You haven’t talked about it?”

“Some things don’t need words right away,” he said quietly. “Sometimes you just… know. And you figure it out as you go.”

There was a beat of silence as she absorbed what he said. Then:

“You’re telling me in five years you’ve never touched?!”

That startled a laugh out of her. It slipped out before she could stop it, a sudden, shaky sound, and she brought a hand to her mouth.

“Same could go for you and Ginny.”

Harry grinned, but only briefly. Then he sobered again.

“Are you okay?” he asked, more seriously this time.

Hermione sniffled and hesitated before answering.

“I don’t know.”

Another pause.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she said. “I wasn’t even thinking. My sleeves were rolled up. I just…I fell. And he, he caught me. And that was it.”

Harry didn’t say anything, so she filled the silence herself.

“I’ve spent years avoiding that,” she said. “Avoiding him. I’ve always been so careful. And now—”

She looked down at her wrist again, the mark glowing faintly in the shadows.

“…Now I don’t know what to do.”

Harry nodded slowly, eyes distant. “Is it because it’s Fred?”

“Yes. No. I— maybe.”

She exhaled, pressing her palms against her eyes.

“I just. He’s never serious, Harry. Not about anything. He flirts with everything that breathes. He’s iridescent literally and figuratively, he’s almost inexpressible. I don’t know if he means half the things he does, and I’m scared of that…” she trailed off.

Harry waited for her to continue.

“But I think I’m more scared that he does mean all these things he does. That he does love unashamedly, that he could be serious about me – about this.” She gestured to her mark, “And I’ve spent five years being scared, and maybe a little judgmental, and now I can’t take it back. That I’ve been a fool”

Harry blinked slowly, then gave her a soft smile, one without judgment, only understanding.

“You’ve never been a fool,” he said. “But it’s okay to be scared.”

Hermione didn’t respond.

She just sat there, heart thudding, and leaned into Harry’s shoulder.

The deep glow of their soul mark lit the room.

Also, a few minutes post-soul mark (1995, Order of the Phoenix school year)

Fred wasn’t sure if she’d touched him or if it was lightning.

Because something struck.

One second, he was catching her, hand around her elbow, the other on her waist — and the next he was watching light radiate from where they touched.

It didn’t shimmer.

It didn’t glow.

It burned.

It seared up his arm like a spell gone wrong— crimson, alive, crackling with something silver-white and otherworldly.

It hurt, almost. Not painfully, not really. But like remembering something too beautiful, too fast.

He supposed, in retrospect, he should have never expected anything less from Hermione Granger’s soul mark.

He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

Couldn’t.

Because her eyes had widened massively, and she’d stared at him like he was a ghost, a threat, a prayer answered too late.

And then she was gone.

Out the door, bag slapping her hip, curls bouncing, eyes bright with something he couldn’t name.

He didn’t chase her.

Couldn’t do that either.

Not when he was standing there in the middle of the Room of Requirement with an entire crowd watching his soul write itself on his skin. Watching her soul write itself onto his skin. 

The silence was immense.

Even George was quiet. That alone told Fred how serious this was.

He looked down at his arm.

At the mark.

Red and silver.

It twisted around his forearm like something ancient, something wild.

He supposed it was.

He’d seen romantic marks before, he had enough.

But this was different. It had depth. Like you could fall into it. Like it had its own gravitational pull.

Twin flames.

He’d only seen one other before.

And now he had it.

With Hermione Granger.

“Mate,” George whispered, stepping up beside him. “Bloody hell.”

“I know,” Fred said hoarsely.

Ginny’s voice rang out behind them. “You’re telling me in five years you’ve never touched?!”

Fred blinked. “Evidently not.”

Someone laughed nervously. Someone else muttered a hushed, “Whoa.”

But Fred didn’t care.

Because he was replaying it, the exact second her skin touched his. Her elbow. His palm.

He’d touched her a thousand times in his mind, casually, teasingly, even recklessly, but never in real life.

She always moved away.

She always stayed a breath out of reach.

He used to think it was nerves. Or dislike. Or maybe just Hermione being Hermione.

But now…

Now it felt like maybe she’d known.

Somehow.

Like she’d been avoiding this.

Avoiding him.

The thought made his stomach twist. Not from offence. From fear.

Because if she had known — or suspected — and still spent five years avoiding so much as brushing his arm, then what did that say?

That she didn’t want it?

That she didn’t want him?

But still, he couldn’t ignore the look on her face when it happened.

It was the same look she got when she figured out the answer to a difficult homework question. (She had finally figured it out, trusted herself and solved it.)

The same look he had seen her give Harry after their near-death escapades. (She was scared and relieved all at once; they were safe, but for how long?)

She had looked like it meant something. 

Fred rubbed a hand through his hair, suddenly exhausted.

The room was still buzzing.

Harry quickly called an end to the meeting, slipping out after Hermione.

Fred thought he had the right idea.

He couldn’t deal with it.
Couldn’t handle the noise or the questions or the eyes.

So he left.

The castle was quieter, but not by much.

Every hallway he passed through felt like it knew.

The walls, the portraits, the torches; everyone knew.

Hogwarts had always been alive in a way. Magical in a way that saw too much and said too little.

And right now, Fred hated it; he felt seen.

Which was awful. And exhilarating. And terrifying.

He ducked into an empty corridor and leaned against the stone, staring down at his wrist again.

The mark was fading slightly, no longer blinding, but still bold. Still real.

It was beautiful.

Even if it scared the shit out of him. Hermione.

Hermione.

The cleverest girl he knew.

The one who had never laughed at his dumbest jokes but sometimes smiled at the clever ones.

The one who challenged everything he said but still listened to his reasoning.

The one who had never touched him — not once-and — somehow, that had made him crave her more.

He didn’t know what to do.

Didn’t know if he should do anything.

Because if she ran from this — from him — what right did he have to follow?

What right did he have to force her?

Soul marks were not a death sentence, they weren’t compulsory.

But gods, he wished they were.

Because he really wanted to.

A week post soul mark, 1995. Order of the Phoenix school year.

The castle corridors were quieter than usual — final-period hush, when most students were tucked in classrooms and the sunlight filtered through tall windows in dusty gold beams.

Hermione Granger wasn’t supposed to be out.

She had a free period, but she had told Harry she’d be in the library catching up on Charms theory.

Instead, she ducked into a lesser-used side hall behind the Great Staircase, gripping her books to her chest like they were armour.

“Hermione.”

She flinched.

Ginny was leaning against the stone wall, arms folded, one brow raised.

"Oh.. hello Ginny. Do you often wait in secluded hallways and surprise people?"

“Only when that person has been avoiding me for days,”

“I needed a minute to think.”

“That’s what you’ve said every day since the DA meeting.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “I have been thinking.”

Ginny’s brow stayed raised. “Have you? Or have you just been hiding?”

Hermione’s grip tightened on her books. “Ginny—”

“Look, I’m not judging,” Ginny said, softer now. “Really. I’m not. But you haven’t even looked at Fred since it happened, and I know you. That’s not because you don’t care.”

Hermione’s expression flickered. “It’s complicated.”

“It always is,” Ginny said gently. “But if you’re going to avoid him forever, I’d at least like to know you’re honest with yourself about why.”

Hermione looked down at her shoes.

“I’m scared,” she admitted after a moment. Quietly.

“Not because it’s Fred, not exactly. But… he doesn’t take things seriously, and I... I take everything seriously. I have to. I always have.”

Ginny stepped closer. “You think he wouldn’t take you seriously?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, voice strained. “Maybe he would. Maybe he already does. But if I let myself believe that, and I’m wrong—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.

Ginny nodded slowly. “So, it’s easier to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Hermione let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking up. “You know what the worst part is?”

Ginny waited.

“I used to think about it. About what colour it might be. Who it might be with. Even Fred, sometimes. Not often. But enough. He made me laugh, and it was rare, and part of me wondered... But I was always too scared to find out.”

She looked down at her wrist, where the mark now hid under her sleeve. “And now that I know… It’s worse. Because it’s real.”

Ginny’s voice softened. “So why not let him in?”

Hermione blinked at her.

“Because if he means it,” Hermione whispered, “then I’ve spent five years building a wall for nothing. And if he doesn’t, if it’s just another thing to him. Then I’ll break.”

Ginny reached out and touched Hermione’s hand. “You’re not going to break. And Fred is a lot of things. But he feels deeply. It’s all over him. You’ve seen it.”

“I know.” Hermione’s voice cracked slightly. “I just don’t know if I’m ready.”

“You know, marks don’t mean you have to rush,” Ginny said. “Sometimes it’s enough to know it’s real. You don’t have to do much more than that.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Is this... hypothetical?”

Ginny smiled, and for a second, glanced down at her sleeve.

“Let’s just say I understand what it means to wait.

Ginny reached forward and squeezed her hand. “I’m not asking you to rush into anything, I just don’t want you to punish yourself.”

Hermione swallowed. “I’m not punishing myself.”

Ginny smiled gently. “Aren’t you?”

Hermione didn’t answer.

They stood there a little longer in the sunlight, the silence more honest now, less heavy.

Ginny didn’t press again, just stayed there with her, shoulder to shoulder.

Because sometimes friendship gives space.

And sometimes, it was holding it open, gently, until someone could step into it.

A week post soul mark, 1995. Order of the Phoenix school year.

The Gryffindor common room was loud, the kind of loud Fred usually liked.

Background chatter, someone’s enchanted cards whirling through the air, the occasional shout from a chess match going nuclear on the far table.

But Fred Weasley was in the armchair nearest the fire, slouched low, feet up on the coffee table. He wasn’t talking. Wasn’t playing cards, or chess, or scribbling in his notebook. Wasn’t even smirking.

George threw a Bertie Bott’s Bean at his head.

Fred caught it without looking, then popped it in his mouth. Winced.

“Bleach,” he muttered.

“Serves you right,” George said, plopping into the seat across from him. “You’ve been brooding for days.”

“I don’t brood.”

“You’re brooding now.”

Fred didn’t answer. Just picked at a thread in the armrest.

George waited a beat, then leaned forward, all faux casual. “You could just talk to her, you know.”

Fred went still.

George whistled low. “Wow. Not even pretending you don’t know who I mean.”

Fred dragged a hand down his face. “I can’t, George.”

George blinked. “You can’t? Did your legs fall off?”

Fred shot him a look.

“Oh, right. Not physically. Emotionally.” George leaned back, kicked his feet up. “Big scary emotions. Got it.”

“George.”

“No, no, go on. Tell me how the girl you’ve pined after for two years accidentally reveals she’s your soul mark match, and now you want nothing to do with her.”

Fred looked like he might throw the chair. “That’s not what’s happening.”

George raised his brows. “Isn’t it?”

Fred didn’t answer.

“Because it sure looks like you’re ignoring her.”

Fred’s voice was quiet. “She’s ignoring me.”

George paused.

“Oh,” he said, more gently.

Fred investigated the fire like it held answers.

"She ran after the meeting. And since then? Nothing. Won’t even look at me. I tried to say something in the corridor yesterday, and she ducked into a classroom like I was a boggart.”

George whistled. “Yikes.”

“I didn’t think she’d be… I dunno. Horrified.”

George studied his brother for a long moment. “Do you think she’s horrified by you? Or by the idea of you mattering to her? Of her mattering to you?”

Fred didn’t say anything.

George leaned forward.

“Mate, she’s not scared of you. She’s scared of how much she feels for you, scared of what this means. Has for a long time, probably.”

Fred let out a dry laugh. “She used to flinch when I got too close.”

“Because she knew, Freddie,” George said, now with a gentleness rare even for him. “And she didn’t want to know. Because knowing would mean it was real.”

Fred leaned back in the chair, head tilted back, staring at the roof. “You think she’ll come around?”

George shrugged. “Do you love her?”

Fred looked at him, wide-eyed.

George blinked. “Oh, Merlin.”

Fred put a hand over his face again. “I’m not saying it out loud.”

“You just did,” George grinned.

Fred groaned. “I didn’t even touch her on purpose, George. She fell. I caught her. That was it. Five years of not so much as a handshake, and now—now there’s a bloody twin flame mark on my wrist. I don’t even know what to do with that.”

George’s grin faded into something warmer.

“You don't do anything. You give her time. And in the meantime, you keep being you. The you she’s been quietly watching for years.”

Fred looked at him again, and George just shrugged.

“She noticed, mate. You don’t spend five years not touching someone unless you’re very, very aware of them.”

“…I hate it when you make sense.”

“Yeah, it’s unsettling. But only happens once every few months, so enjoy it while it lasts.”

Fred huffed a laugh, but his shoulders didn’t look quite so heavy anymore.

And in the firelight, the faint glimmer of a red-and-silver mark peeked from under his sleeve — no longer glowing, but steady.

Like it was waiting, too.

Chapter Text

Ron wasn’t sulking.

He wasn’t.

He was just sitting on a bench, chewing the edge of a sugar quill and watching Hermione talk to Ginny across the courtyard. They were decidedly not looking or talking to Ron, not after his outburst at breakfast. Not after he’d gone and put his foot in his mouth. Again.

The air had started to chill as winter began to creep in, but Ron knew something else had changed. It was more than just the cold weather.

Beside him, Harry sat cross-legged on the grass, scratching notes into the margins of his Potions essay. Ron wasn’t sure if he was actually editing it or simply trying to make it look like he had tried to before asking Hermione for help later that night. Regardless, Harry didn’t seem bothered.

But Ron was.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The way Hermione had bolted from the Room of Requirement. The way Fred had stood frozen, like someone had slapped him and then not spoken a word for the rest of the night. The way neither of them had made eye contact since.

And worst of all, the way Harry wasn’t even surprised.

“You knew,” Ron said suddenly.

Harry didn’t look up. “Knew what?”

Ron tossed the sugar quill into the dirt. “About Hermione and Fred.”

Now Harry glanced up, slowly, eyes guarded.

“I didn’t know,” he said. “But… I wasn’t shocked. If that makes sense”

Ron let out a breath through his nose. “Yeah. Well. I was.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, watching as Fred walked into view from the opposite side of the courtyard. He was talking to Lee about something — loudly — but his usual swagger looked strained. The brightness was there, but it felt different. Forced.

Hermione looked up. Caught sight of him, and immediately turned away.

Fred laughed at something Lee had said and didn’t seem to notice.

Or pretended not to.

Ron clenched his jaw.

“Five years,” he said. “We’ve all known each other for five years. And now there’s… this. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it all. What it all means?”

Harry was quiet for a beat. “It’s not about you.”

“I know that”, Ron snapped, then softened. “I know. I do. It’s just—”

He struggled for the words. Not jealousy, not really. Not anger, either.

Just something sharp and twisting, like he’d sat too long in a familiar seat only to find he suddenly didn't fit.

“I thought it might be me,” he admitted quietly.

Harry looked at him. He wasn’t shocked or judgmental. He was just open, curious. Waiting.

Ron shrugged one shoulder. “Not in a ‘I’m in love with her’ way, but… I always thought maybe. One day. That I’d be the one who—”

He gestured vaguely.

At Hermione.

At Fred.

At the glowing red-and-silver thing curling beneath two sets of sleeves.

“I guess I thought she was waiting for me, too.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He just drew a careful line under his notes before saying, “Mate, you’re allowed to be surprised. Or hurt. I get it,"

Ron scoffed. “Great. I’ll just be hurt and surprised and happy for them at the same time, then. Piece of piss”

And he meant it, in the way that made his chest ache.

Because he was happy for them.

For Hermione, who’d finally let herself feel something.

For Fred, who may have someone who saw him.

But that didn’t stop the hollow in his stomach. The one that came with realising your story wasn’t the one you’d quietly hoped for. That your friends were part of something you didn’t get to touch.

That maybe your mark — if it ever came — wouldn’t be hers. And hers wouldn’t be yours, either.

Just… something else.

“You gonna talk to her?” Harry asked after a while.

Ron shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not done being stupid about it.”

Harry snorted and patted Ron's knee, “Alright mate,” he said, returning to his essay.

And Ron kept staring, just for a second longer, at the two people not looking at each other, as if he watched long enough, one of them might finally break the silence.

✦ . 　 ⁺ 　 . ✦

2 weeks post soul-mark. Order of Phoenix school year, 1995.

The Gryffindor common room was warm, loud, and buzzing with end-of-day noise, which normally would’ve comforted Hermione. Tonight, it was suffocating.

She sat cross-legged near the hearth, her back perfectly straight, her Charms notes spread out in front of her like a shield. She was definitely revising. That was the story. That was the intention.

If she didn’t look up, she didn’t have to see Fred Weasley.

Who was sitting on the other side of the room, doing absolutely nothing, loudly.

He was pretending to read a copy of Which Broomstick?, but his eyes hadn’t moved in ten minutes.

George sat beside him, doing actual homework for once, but kept darting glances between Fred and Hermione with all the subtlety of a Bludger.

Hermione’s quill scratched too forcefully across the parchment. She was aware of Fred in that painful, electric way that meant she wasn’t just noticing him — she was mapping the space between them like it was a battlefield. Which exits were open? Which chairs could she claim if he moved?

Where Ginny was sitting — Ginny, who knew. And worse, who was waiting for Hermione to crack.

“Hermione?” Lavender Brown’s voice rang out, far too loud for the space.

Hermione didn’t look up. “Yes?”

“You and Fred have been acting weird lately.”

Hermione stilled. Her quill paused mid-sentence.

“Lav,” Ginny warned, low but not exactly disapproving.

“No, seriously!” Lavender leaned forward from her perch on the ottoman, grinning now. “It’s like watching two magnets repelling. You’re always exactly a room apart.”

“I wasn’t aware we had a seating chart,” Hermione muttered.

“You kind of do,” Lee Jordan added from the couch. “It’s like... this invisible buffer zone. The No-Touch Truce.”

George perked up. “Oh, are we naming it now? I vote for 'The Mutual Panic Pact.'”

Fred shifted in his seat. Hermione felt it, like a change in gravity. He didn’t say anything.

Lavender beamed. “See? Even George agrees. It’s like watching an animal documentary. Two creatures pretending they’re not circling the same watering hole.”

Lee snorted. “Waiting for one to pounce. Or spontaneously combust.”

“Not happening,” Fred said flatly.

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. She looked up without meaning to.

Their eyes met for half a second — and it was too much. His eyes were unreadable, his jaw tense. Hers were wide, startled, and quickly dropped to her notes again.

Lavender blinked. “Whoa.”

Fred stood abruptly. “Some of us have better things to do than listen to relationship speculation from the Gossip Ghouls.”

“Fred,” Ginny said quietly.

But he was already halfway to the dorm stairs.

He didn’t look back.

Silence followed. A thick one.

Hermione’s hand trembled slightly as she reached for her notes. She told herself no one noticed.

Ginny let out a slow breath. “Maybe that’s enough, Lav.”

“What? I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to upset—”

“I know,” Ginny said. “But maybe just... not tonight.”

Lavender quieted, for once. Lee muttered something about chess and disappeared to the far corner. George gave Hermione a long look, then followed Fred upstairs.

The room returned to its normal hum.

But Hermione felt like she was vibrating just under the surface.

✦ . 　 ⁺ 　 . ✦

Later, when it no longer looked as if she was fleeing the scene, Hermione closed her book and made her excuses, heading up to bed.

Sleep did not come easily for her, but when she finally fell asleep, her dream was a variation of one she had been having since the soul mark had formed.

It went like this: the world shimmered like looking through the water of a fish tank.

Hermione stood in a field that wasn’t a field. The grass curled upward like ink-strokes on parchment, swaying gently, though there was no wind.

Trees rose in the distance, their trunks arching into constellations rather than leaves.

The sky overhead pulsed violet and silver, breathing like lungs.

Every time she blinked, the stars rearranged themselves into unfamiliar patterns.

Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed, it sounded like when she went skiing with her parents as a child.

Each night, when she entered the dream, she was already here. She wasn’t sure how it was she got to wherever here was; she couldn’t retrace her steps if she wanted to.

But she was certain he was already waiting.

Fred sat cross-legged in the middle of the field, dressed in something too soft to be real, a robe that shimmered like candlelight, or maybe smoke. The colours around him shifted, but he stayed solid. Still. Warm.

“You’re late,” he said, like they’d done this before.

She supposed they had.

Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came. A bird flew overhead, feathers trailing stardust. She stepped forward. The ground turned briefly to tile – the great hall, she thought – then to wildflowers before settling back into grass.

Fred patted the space beside him.

“You always look at me like I’m about to disappear,” he said when she didn’t move.

“Maybe you are,” she managed, her voice distant. It sounded like it was echoing from somewhere all around them, instead of from her throat.

He tilted his head. “I’m not.”

She sat beside him, and the ground welcomed her. She could feel the heat radiating from Fred. Normally, she would fight the urge to lean against his warmth. Tonight, she thought she deserved it.

His arm wrapped around her, like it was second nature.

She supposed it was.

The stars blinked out. Returned as fireflies.

“You’re not really him,” she said. “Are you?”

Fred shrugged. “I’m not not him.”

Silence settled between them, familiar and strange. Hermione looked at his hands, long fingers ink-stained like always. One of them glowed faintly red. The other glowed silver.

Her wrist ached.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

Fred looked at her, eyes soft and endless. “I know.”

The fireflies spiralled upward and became snowflakes.

They didn’t melt when they touched the grass. A tree nearby grew backwards, its leaves unfurling into buds, then slipping back into the bark.

The air around her smelled like the burrow. She thought if she strained her ears, she could hear her parents talking softly in the next room.

This was home.

“I’ve dreamed this,” she said. “I think. Before.”

Fred leaned back onto his elbows, gazing up at the sky where two moons now hung.

“Maybe. Or maybe you remembered it,” he murmured. “We do this sometimes. You and me.”

Hermione blinked. “Do what?”

“Meet in the in-between.”

She looked around at the backwards trees and the shifting sky. “This place isn’t real.”

He turned to her then. He wasn’t grinning or smirking, just aware, he was more real than anything else.

“It could be,” he said. “If you wanted it.”

Her heart twisted. The ground beneath them rippled again—briefly, they were sitting on the Astronomy Tower steps, then the Gryffindor common room, then back in the strange starlit field. Only Fred stayed the same.

“I’m afraid,” she said.

He nodded. “I know.”

“I’ve always been afraid.”

“I know that, too.”

She looked down at her hands. They flickered between childlike and aged. Her nails glowed red. Then gold. Then nothing.

Fred reached out. Slowly. Not touching. Just offering.

“I’ve already had your soul, Hermione,” he said. “And you know you have mine. I’m not asking for everything, not right now, just the chance to prove it to you again.”

Hermione reached out to take his hand.

(In these dreams where they meet, in this raw existence they had forged, Hermione forgot to hold back. It had always been this way, even before she remembered. It would always be this way.)

She looked up at him.

The world darkened at the edges, the way dreams do before waking.

“I wish this were real,” she said softly.

Fred looked at her and smiled. The sun seemed to rise in his mouth. “It can be.”

“You’ll forget this when you wake up,” Fred said quietly, voice already distant.

“No. Not this one,” she said quickly. And then more quietly, surer, “Not all of it.”

He smiled, and she felt his warmth envelop her. “That’s enough.”

And then the stars blinked out.

And she woke up.

✦ . 　 ⁺ 　 . ✦

The Next Night, Order of Phoenix school year, 1995.

The fire cracked low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the rug where Harry sat cross-legged, his Potions textbook open in front of him. Ron was sprawled sideways on the couch, muttering under his breath as he flicked through his Transfiguration notes with one hand and devoured a sugar quill with the other.

He had apologised for being a tosser, and Hermione had accepted, but she had refused to help with his essay until he at least attempted to edit it himself.

Hermione sat nearby, curled in the armchair by the window. She had a book open in her lap, but she wasn’t reading, not really. Her eyes kept drifting toward the window, where moonlight spilled over the sill in faint, shifting beams.

“Alright?” Harry asked, glancing up.

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“You sighed. Thought maybe your book insulted you.”

Hermione managed a small smile. “Just tired.”

Ron made a noise of agreement, muffled by sugar. “Same. This essay is evil. Did McGonagall specifically say three feet, or did she say two and a half, and I just imagined the rest?”

“She said three,” Hermione said automatically, but her voice was distant, like she was answering from underwater.

Ron grumbled and shoved his parchment aside. “Great. I’m not even halfway.”

Silence stretched between them again, comfortable, but not quite familiar. Not like it used to be.

Harry watched Hermione from the corner of his eye.

There was something about the way she sat: tense shoulders, fingers pressed together too tightly in her lap, like she was holding something in. Not anger. Not even sadness.

Just… pressure.

Like she was here, but also somewhere else entirely.

Ron didn’t notice. He’d already flopped backward onto the couch and was using his notes as a pillow.

“You sure you’re alright?” Harry asked again, quieter this time.

Hermione’s gaze flicked to him. Her lips parted like she might say something, then closed again. She looked back at the fire.

“I had a dream,” she said finally.

Harry nodded, like that explained everything. “Bad one?”

“No,” she said. “Not bad. Just… strange.”

She didn’t elaborate.

He wasn’t sure what to say, so he just nodded again.

Ron made a vague noise and rolled over. “If I start dreaming about essays, I’m throwing myself out the window.”

Harry snorted. Hermione smiled and leaned back into her chair, breaking out of the trance she was in.

“Alright, you’ve suffered enough. Give it here,” She said, reaching an arm out for Ron’s essay.

The firelight caught the edge of her sleeve, which had slipped down just a fraction as she extended her arm.

Harry caught a faint glimmer of red.

He said nothing.

✦ . 　 ⁺ 　 . ✦

Same Night (later), Order of Phoenix school year, 1995.

Ginny had never believed in fate.

Not really.

She believed in timing. In choices. In people who showed up and people who didn’t.

But soul marks… those were different.

She sat in a corner of the common room, feet tucked under her, pretending to do her homework.

Across the room, Hermione was curled in her usual chair, book open but untouched, eyes distant.

Fred was nowhere in sight, but Ginny could feel the tension he’d left behind like smoke in the walls.

Hermione had changed since the mark, Ginny knew that.

Not worse. Not better.

Just... quieter. Different.

She moved like her skin didn’t fit right. Like something had shifted under the surface, and she was afraid to look too closely in case it shattered.

Ginny understood that.

She glanced at her own wrist. The silver shimmer was barely visible now, tucked beneath the cuff of her sleeve. She hadn’t talked to Harry about it yet. Not really. But she didn’t need to.

She knew.

And Hermione? Hermione knew, too.

That was the problem.

Because Ginny had watched her spend five years building walls out of reason and rules, and textbooks.

She’d watched her flinch when Fred got too close, watched her pretend not to notice him lighting up every room he entered.

And now?

Now she looked like someone had pulled the rug out from under her and handed her the blueprints for the universe in the same breath.

Ginny closed her book and sighed, standing.

Hermione looked up as she approached, startled.

“Want to go for a walk?” Ginny asked, like it wasn’t a loaded question.

Hermione hesitated. Then nodded.

They stepped into the corridor, silence stretching between them. Ginny didn’t speak until they reached the next corridor, cool stone pressing under their feet.

“I saw you the other night,” Ginny said softly.

Hermione’s head snapped around. “What?”

“Dreaming. You were asleep in the chair the other day. Just for a minute. I saw your fingers twitch. I don't know, I guess it just looked like it was an intense dream.”

Hermione swallowed. “It was just a dream.”

Ginny shrugged. “You looked like you wanted to stay in it.”

Hermione didn’t answer.

They stopped at the base of a tall window, moonlight streaming through.

Ginny crossed her arms. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I’m not here to pry, you know that. But I am your friend. And I’m Fred’s sister. And I’m watching you both walk around like your skins are on inside out.”

Hermione looked down at her sleeve. "I don't know what to do,”

“I know.”

“And I'm scared, Ginny.”

Ginny nodded. “I know that, too.”

They stood in silence for a moment, both watching the moon rise over the towers.

“I think about marks like threads,” Ginny said finally. “Some are short. Some are long. But some—some stretch across lifetimes. Some keep pulling you back, over and over, until you pay attention.”

Hermione’s voice was barely a whisper. “Do you think that’s what this is?”

Ginny didn’t answer right away.

“I think… you’ve spent a long time pretending you didn’t feel anything. And he’s spent a long time pretending he felt everything. And now, maybe, you both need to stop pretending.”

Hermione blinked rapidly. Didn’t cry. But didn’t argue either.

Ginny stepped away. “You don’t have to decide everything tonight. But I think you should stop running, because I don't know how long he'll keep chasing.”

She paused at the end of the hall, turning back once.

“You’ve always been brave,” she said. “Just… be brave in this, too.”

Then she walked away, leaving Hermione in the moonlight, heart beating like something half-remembered.

✦ . 　 ⁺ 　 . ✦

2 (and a half) weeks post soul-mark. 1995, the order of the Phoenix school year.

The Room of Requirement had reshaped itself again. Today, it resembled a duelling arena crossed with a disaster waiting to happen. Padded mats lined the floor. Floating practice dummies hovered mid-air.

Harry clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Alright! Today we’re practising Disarming Charms and low-impact Stunning. Pair up!”

Instant chaos. Spells fizzled in the air, the murmuring got louder as kids darted for their favourite partners, and in the corner, Ginny and George exchanged a meaningful look like generals about to launch a siege.

“You ready?” Ginny asked.

George grinned. “For mischief? Always.”

On the far side of the room, Hermione was already walking toward Luna, hand half-raised.

“Luna—”

“Partnering with Neville today,” Luna said dreamily before Hermione could finish. “He owes me a rematch from the last time he fell into the wall.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh. Okay—”

“You’re with Fred,” Ginny said suddenly, appearing out of nowhere, arm thrown around Hermione’s shoulder, faux causally.

Hermione froze. “I—what?”

“Already sorted,” George added, shoving Fred gently but firmly toward the centre of the room. “It was decided. Fate and democracy have spoken.”

Fred stumbled to a halt in front of her, blinking. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Hermione said flatly, eyes narrowing at Ginny, who gave her a thumbs up and fled.

Fred rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m being strong-armed into this, just so we’re clear.”

“I gathered,” Hermione said, voice clipped.

A beat.

“Though, I suppose,” she added, eyes flicking to the crowd, “we’ve made it kind of hard to ignore.”

Fred smiled wryly. “Yeah. Subtlety’s never really been our brand.”

They took their places, standing several feet apart. Around them, duelling pairs were already sparring. Spells bouncing, shields shimmering, one unfortunate Hufflepuff getting launched into a beanbag pile.

Hermione adjusted her stance, lifting her wand.

Fred mirrored her, serious for once. “Non-verbal, yeah?”

She nodded. “Try not to set anything on fire.”

“I make no promises.”

They began.

It started simple. Spell. Shield. Rebound. Again.

But Fred had flair, and Hermione had focus, and somewhere in the middle, it got personal.

Hermione aimed low, quick and sharp — Fred yelped as he dodged, nearly tripping over his own feet.

“You trying to disarm me or assassinate me?” he called.

“Stay still and find out,” she shot back, wand flashing.

They circled, faster now, spells ricocheting off wards and walls.

Their friends had stopped pretending not to watch.

Ron leaned over to Harry. “Ten galleons says they accidentally touch and freak out again.”

“I’m not betting,” Harry said. “I’m emotionally invested.”

Ron rolled his eyes, “I’m emotionally invested, too. Why can’t we also be financially invested?”

George whistled low. “They’re in love.”

Ginny elbowed him. “They’re in denial.”

Meanwhile, Fred ducked a Stupefy with a little more drama than necessary and flopped onto the mat. “Okay! Truce. Time out. I surrender.”

“You can’t surrender in a training exercise,” Hermione said, exasperated, lowering her wand.

Fred grinned up at her. “Sure, I can. I’m innovative like that.”

Hermione sighed and extended a hand to help him up, then hesitated.

Fred noticed.

He sat up on his elbows instead, eyes softening. “I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”

Hermione blinked.

The air between them went a little still.

“I didn’t say that”, she said quietly.

Fred tilted his head. “Then what are we doing?”

She didn’t answer. 

Instead, she sank to the mat beside him, cross-legged, wand across her lap.

They sat like that for a moment, barely breathing.

Around them, duels raged on. Sparks flew. Their friends pretended they hadn’t been watching the show.

But Fred and Hermione just sat there, a few inches apart, not quite touching, not quite talking about the thing burning under both their skins.

“You’re not bad at duelling,” Fred said eventually.

Hermione snorted. “Such high praise,” she said, “You’re surprisingly graceful for someone who mostly causes chaos.”

He laughed. “I practice.”

Silence again. Then:

“Alright, Weasley. We won’t win this war by sitting down.”

Hermione stood, and before she could think about it, extended a hand to help Fred up.

He looked momentarily stunned but quickly reached out to grasp it, standing up.

They stood facing each other, hands still loosely linked.

Something soft and red glowed between them.

“Too right, Granger.”

And across the room, Ginny nudged Harry and whispered, “Told you.”

✦ . 　 ⁺ 　 . ✦

Everything, Everywhere (Across all of time).

It began with roots.

Twisting through earth not made of dirt but memory, two trees grew side by side, but always leaning toward each other. One bloomed white as moonlight. The other, red as blood. Their trunks curved together like the arc of a vow.

They were silent. But somehow, they knew each other.

Wind moved through the branches like breath. The world turned. And time cracked open.

—

Now: candlelight, warm and flickering.

A stone room, walls lined with scrolls and books and chalkboards drawn over with strange diagrams. A jester stood on a rickety table, juggling enchanted apples that hovered midair.

He laughed, a ringing, golden sound, and looked toward the girl hunched over a scroll at a nearby desk, quill stuck behind her ear.

The jester winked. The scholar rolled her eyes and tried not to smile.

“You’re distracting,” she murmured, but her voice was soft.

“I’m a delight,” he countered, balancing an apple on his nose.

She snorted, but she still reached out a hand to help him down.

Their hands brushed.

A shimmer sparked between them. Not red. Not silver. But something older. Threaded.

—

A throne room now, all velvet and iron and tension.

A girl stood at the centre, chin lifted, crown trembling in her hands.

She looked out across a sea of nobles, ignoring their murmuring at the scene she was causing, her eyes fixed on only one: a freckled boy in a worn tunic, standing just inside the shadow of a pillar.

He didn’t bow.

He didn’t smile.

He looked terrified.

And still, when she stepped down from the dais and crossed the floor, crown still in her shaking grip, he didn't hesitate as he moved towards her.

She dropped the crown between them.

It clattered against the marble.

“I choose knowledge, I choose freedom”, she said, voice steady. “And I choose you.”

He reached out, almost reverently, touching her wrist.

Red.

The murmuring of the nobles turned deafening.

—

A porch. Sunset bleeding across the sky.

An old couple sat side by side in weathered chairs, their fingers intertwined. They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Their hands rested on the wooden armrest between them.

Both bore faded soul marks, faded as their skin had aged, faded with the years.

But they matched, red twined with silver, like thread stitched through old cloth.

The woman’s eyes were lined with time, but she still looked toward him like he held the sun.

The man, older now but familiar, turned his head.

Smiled that same crooked, lopsided grin.

She smiled back.

Their fingers tightened.

And then the world dissolved into light.

—

Hermione was in a room that didn’t have walls, didn’t have gravity.

Just stars.

She floated, or stood, or existed in a way that didn’t obey rules anymore.

Her skin felt soft with stardust. Her thoughts echoed as if they’d been said before.

A figure stepped from the dark, lit not by any external source but from within.

It was Fred.

Or someone who had been Fred.

Or someone who would be Fred.

He looked at her with those same stupid warm eyes, full of mischief and something softer—something ancient.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to kiss him.

Instead, she stepped forward.

Trembling. Terrified.

And whispered, “Every time, it’s you.”

He smiled as he reached for her hand. His voice echoed all around them, “I told you we’d done this before. You and I.”

And the world fell away.

—

Hermione woke with a gasp.

She was drenched in sweat. The sheets tangled around her legs. Her wrist burned faintly where the soul mark still shimmered beneath the skin.

The dormitory was silent. Night pressed thick against the windows.

She sat up, clutching the blankets to her chest, heart thudding wildly. Her body shuddered with realisation.

Because Gods, she was stupid.

This wasn’t just a dream.

It wasn’t just a mark.

It wasn’t even just Fred.

It was something else.

Something that had followed her across lifetimes.

Something she couldn’t ignore anymore.

And suddenly, this was all very familiar. This was a dance they had done again, and again, and again.

Suddenly, being in love with him felt less like a choice.

And more like a memory.

Chapter Text

Hermione,

Astronomy tower, midnight. Are you in or out?

Yours.

A week post dream. 1995, Order of Phoenix school year.

The Astronomy Tower was quiet at night, too high and too cold for most people to bother with.

But Hermione climbed the stairs anyway, her hand clenched tightly around the folded note Fred had left in her copy of Hogwarts: A History.

Of course, she didn’t know it was from Fred, he hadn’t signed his name. Just left it at yours. But she knew what that meant, knew who hers was.

She was nervous, shaking as she ascended the stairs. She told herself she didn’t know what to expect. Maybe Fred invited everyone to have mysterious conversations on the astronomy tower at midnight?  Maybe he wouldn’t be there.

Maybe… She was lying.

She had been lying for the past week, since the dream. Had been lying really, since they touched for the first time. If she wanted to be really honest, she had been lying since she first met him. (But she wasn’t quite that honest yet.)

Fred was already there when she stepped out onto the balcony — hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, head tipped back like he was trying to memorize the constellations. He didn’t turn when he heard her.

“You came,” he said, like it was obvious.

She stepped beside him, slower than she needed to. “Don’t sound so smug.”

“I’m not,” he said, finally looking at her. His voice was quieter now. “I’m just… reassuring myself. I’m glad.”

Hermione nodded, unsure what to do with her hands, her breath, her heart.

There was a long silence — not uncomfortable, but thick with all the versions of this moment that could’ve happened sooner. That should have happened. That probably have happened.

Fred broke it first.

“I’ve had the dreams too,” he said. “The ones with the trees. And the old couple. And you in a crown, looking at me like I was the whole bloody library.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

“I thought I was losing it,” he continued. “Until you looked at me the other night in the common room and I knew. I felt it. That… burn. Like the earth had cracked open and the lava was spilling out.”

She nodded again. “Same.”

Fred glanced at her, lips twitching into something like a smile. “So… we’re not crazy. Just cosmically fucked.”

Hermione laughed — a tiny, soft thing — and folded her arms across her chest.

Hermione’s breath fogged in the cold. The tower felt like it was holding its breath with them.

“I’m still not convinced I’m not crazy,” she said softly.

“I knew, I think” she said again, voice quiet but steady now. “Years ago. I knew if we ever touched, it would happen. That the mark would show.”

Something like hurt flashed cross Fred’s face, shock, maybe. He tilted his head slightly at her words. The wind played with his hair.

She flinched as he opened his mouth, preparing for the harsh words she surely deserved after all she had put him through, put them both through.

But his anger never came, instead he looked at her – truly looked – and said one word:

“How?”

She gave a short, helpless laugh.

“I don’t know. It wasn’t a conscious decision, I need you to know that” she looked up at him earnestly, “It’s not like I was avoiding it because I knew, and I didn’t want that.”

“It was just, … something in my chest. This hum, like a ward vibrating under the surface every time you got too close. Every time you looked at me like I might say something important. Every time you looked at me after you made a joke,”

Fred swallowed.

“I thought I was imagining it,” she admitted. “Or projecting. Or — or just trying to distract myself from everything else. Ron. The war. The rules.”

“You never said anything,” Fred said. Again, not accusing. Maybe surprised.

“Of course not,” Hermione snapped, then caught herself. Her voice softened. “I was terrified.”

“Of me?” he asked, with his usual joking manner, but it didn’t sound like a joke. It sounded like he was bracing for it.

“No,” she said, turning to face him fully. “Not of you. Trust me, Of what it meant. Of what it would take from me. My choices. My certainty. I’ve spent my whole life being careful.”

Fred was quiet. Thoughtful.

“I get that,” he said finally. “Sort of. I mean, no one ever looks at me and sees someone careful. But—"

He hesitated. Took a breath.

“Truth is, I’ve always been a little bit scared of being... serious. Of wanting something real. Of not being the funny one. Not being the chaos.”

Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”

“Because if people expect you to laugh, and you don’t, they ask questions you can’t answer,” he said. “Because if I really wanted something — like you — and I didn’t get it... it’d break me.”

Silence.

The wind picked up again, ruffling the edge of his sleeves.

“You… wanted me?” she said, very small.

Fred let out a breath of laughter that got stolen by the wind.

“Always,” he said. “And not just because of the mark. Gods, the mark confirmed it. But I knew before. Every time you talked about SPEW like the world could be better. Every time you corrected me. You made me want to be smarter, not just louder. You made me want to be more.”

Hermione blinked, hard. Her eyes were starting to sting.

“I’m still scared,” she whispered. “I’m scared of losing myself in it. Of giving up control.”

Fred stepped closer. Just one pace. But it felt seismic.

“You don’t have to give up anything,” he said. “Not for me. Not for this. You don’t owe the mark anything. Blood hell, you definitely don’t own me anything. You choose this, or you don’t. But I want you to know… I’d choose you. Even without it. Even if the mark never appeared at all.”

She looked up at him then, eyes glassy, and it hit her like a wave — this boy who never stopped joking had never once joked about this.

“Do you regret it?” he asked.

She didn’t hesitate. “No. I regret being afraid.”

Fred smiled, something gentle and knowing and a little sad.

“I’ve had soul marks before – romantic, I mean,” he said. “Two. Once when I was thirteen, blinked and it was gone. One in sixth year — it was warm, nice. But it never burned.”

He reached out, slowly, turning his wrist so she could see the faint shimmer of red and silver curling like smoke under his skin.

“You felt like fire.”

Hermione stepped forward, her hand moving on instinct to brush against his.

“It scared the hell out of me,” she admitted. “Because it wasn’t subtle. It was you. But I’m not scared of you, and I’m learning not to be scared of this.” she gestured to their marks, “I think I’ve always known that loving you would never be small.”

Fred gave a shaky laugh. “Good. I don’t do small.”

Hermione looked at him, “I don’t think I do either.”

They stood there, breathing in sync now, their hands not quite touching, like the air between them had its own gravity.

“Do you think,” he said, voice low and tentative, “that maybe we’re allowed to not know what it means yet?”

Hermione nodded.

“As long as we don’t pretend it means nothing.”

Fred’s lips parted. Then closed. Then smiled.

And this time, when he reached for her hand, she reached back. Fully.

No flinch.

No hesitation.

Their fingers laced.

And the glow that sparked from their skin wasn’t explosive. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was steady.

Soft.

Certain.

Fred exhaled, a sound of relief and disbelief.

“I can’t promise I’ll be good at this,” he said. “I’m probably going to say something stupid in the next ten minutes.”

“You always do,” she said, eyes full of something like laughter. “But I still come back.”

Fred leaned in just a little, forehead nearly touching hers.

“Come back again tomorrow?”

Hermione nodded. “And the day after that.”

He closed his eyes, and he smiled.

“That’s all I need.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The next morning

Hermione woke up smiling.

It startled her. She lay there for a moment in the quiet dormitory, blinking up at the canopy above her bed, wondering what her face was doing — why her cheeks felt warm and her chest strangely light.

Then she remembered.

The Astronomy Tower.

Fred’s hands in hers.
The quiet glow of red and silver between them, no longer burning but warm.
A steady fire instead of a spark.

She sat up slowly, her fingers brushing her wrist. The mark was still there — intricate, sure, no longer glowing, but quietly present like a promise. It curled beneath the sleeve of her pyjamas like a secret she’d finally decided to share with herself.

She got dressed slowly, careful not to wake the others. Parvati murmured in her sleep, and Lavender rolled over with a snuffle, but neither stirred. The castle was still wrapped in morning haze, lit by soft shafts of sun angling in through the high windows.

Hermione left quietly, her shoes muffled by the corridor rugs. She didn’t head straight to breakfast — not yet. Her feet took her to the long hallway by the library, the place she always passed when she needed to feel like herself.

She stood there a moment, letting the silence stretch. She could hear distant footsteps. The rustle of owls in the rafters. The castle breathing, gently.

That was where Ginny found her.

Hermione didn’t hear her approach — just turned and found her leaning against the wall, arms crossed and expression unreadable.

“You’re up early,” Ginny said.

“You are too.”

Ginny shrugged. “I figured you’d be avoiding the Great Hall.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You’re loitering in a window corridor.”

“I’m contemplating,” Hermione corrected.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Contemplating breakfast?”

Hermione rolled her eyes — but gently. “Contemplating… things.”

“Fred-shaped things?”

Hermione didn’t answer.

Ginny took a few steps forward and stood beside her, their reflections faint in the window. “You look different this morning.”

Hermione glanced at her. “Different how?”

“You’re breathing,” Ginny said. “Properly.”

Hermione blinked.

“It’s weird,” Ginny continued. “You’re always thinking. Always moving ahead, planning the next step. But right now, you look like you’re here.”

Hermione looked back at the window. At her reflection — hair a little messy, eyes still soft with sleep, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“I feel like I’m here,” she said.

Ginny grinned. “Good.”

They didn’t say anything for a bit.

Then Hermione asked, quietly, “Do you think… this will change things?”

Ginny tilted her head. “Between you and Fred?”

“Between me and everything.”

Ginny thought about that. “Maybe. But maybe it’s not changing anything — maybe it’s just making it visible. The thing that was already there.”

Hermione looked down at her wrist, where the mark lived quietly under her sleeve.

“I think I was waiting for the world to shift. But I think… maybe I’m the one who shifted.”

Ginny smiled. “That’s how you know it matters.”

Hermione’s stomach grumbled softly. Ginny raised an eyebrow.

“All that shifting, and you forgot breakfast?”

“I’m capable of being many things at once.”

“Come on,” Ginny said, tugging her gently. “Let’s go be complicated over toast.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The Great Hall was full of its usual chaos — clattering cutlery, owls dropping post, first-years trying to butter their toast too quickly and flinging marmalade across the table. But it felt easier today. Lighter.

Hermione sat beside Harry. Ron was already there, halfway through his second helping.

“You’re late,” Ron said, mouth full.

“I’m not on a schedule,” Hermione said lightly, reaching for the tea. “Good morning, Harry.”

Harry gave her a quick smile. “Morning.”

He didn’t say anything. But he bumped her shoulder, just slightly — the way he always had — and that was enough.

Across the room, Fred stood by the end of the Gryffindor table, trading jokes with Lee and Angelina. His hair caught the light. He was grinning — not the wide, cocky one, but something quieter. More real.

He glanced her way.

Saw her.

Smiled.

And this time, she didn’t look away. This time, she smiled back — not big, not obvious. Just enough. Just for him.

Fred’s grin widened.

Hermione turned back to her tea, cheeks warm.

Beside her, Ron saw the look. Followed her line of sight. His eyes landed on Fred — then on Hermione — then on her sleeve.

He raised his eyebrow, flicked his eyes between the two of them, as if he was studying them.

Hermione braced herself for him to say something, for them to fight again, for her to have to explain what this thing with Fred was before they really knew it themselves.

But after a long moment, he nodded.

Once. Quiet. Solid.

And in that tiny moment, something let go inside her. A thread loosened. A fear she hadn’t named began to dissolve.

She turned back to her toast. Bit into it. The marmalade was too sweet.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, it didn’t ruin the morning.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Sometime, in the bliss of new (old) love. 1995, Order of Phoenix school year.

The classroom was supposed to be locked.
Hermione had checked. Twice.

But Fred had a way of unlocking doors that had nothing to do with spells. It seemed that no matter how often she locked a door, it didn’t work for him.

And now they were here, tucked behind a half-ajar door, the moonlight slanting in through high windows like it was conspiring with them.

Hermione’s arms were full of stolen pastries — two croissants, a cinnamon scroll, and what looked like a piece of treacle tart. Fred had insisted they needed “fuel for sneaking.” She wasn’t sure why, but she’d let him talk her into it anyway.

“Do you make a habit of charming sweets out of house-elves?” she asked as he set a folded napkin down like it was a tablecloth. “Or is this a special occasion?”

Fred grinned, flopping into the seat beside her. “Only on nights when I’m trying to impress brilliant, beautiful, terrifying witches.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “And how’s that going for you?”

He gave her a wink. “I mean… I got you to break into a classroom with me, so I’m counting it as a win.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re here.” He nudged a pumpkin pasty toward her. “Eat. You’re not allowed to stress while holding a pastry. House rule.”

She scoffed, but took it anyway, biting the corner and trying not to smile.

They sat in the half-dark, side by side, the scrape of their shoes echoing faintly on the stone floor. Fred tapped his fingers against the edge of the desk in rhythm with nothing in particular. Hermione watched the curve of his knuckles, the way the red-and-silver soul mark peeked from beneath his sleeve.

It felt good. Not just the stolen pastries or the quiet or the way Fred kept glancing at her like she was a secret he got to keep now. But the ease of it. The stillness.

It had taken them so long to get here — and now that they were, it was quiet. No grand declarations. Just breathing the same air, without fear.

Still, after a few minutes, Hermione exhaled slowly. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Fred turned his head toward her. “Eat pastries in forbidden locations? I think you’re doing great.”

She gave him a look. “You know what I mean.”

His smile softened. “Yeah. I do.”

“I’ve never… I mean, there were things with Viktor, and then… Ron. Well not really Ron. Maybe almost Ron. But not like this.” Her voice dropped a little. “Not someone who makes me want things I didn’t think I was allowed to want.”

Fred tilted his head, gentle. “Like what?”

Hermione hesitated. “Like… softness. Not having to explain every thought before I speak it. Being known without being dissected.”

She didn’t look at him. Not right away.

But he didn’t rush her. He just leaned back slightly in his chair, one leg kicked out, thumb rubbing gently over the mark at his wrist like he was grounding himself.

“I’m afraid I’ll ruin it,” she whispered. “That I’ll be too much. Or not enough. That I’ll scare you away,”

Fred was quiet for a beat. Then leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice low and steady.

“You’ve never been too much for me,” he said. “You’re the one who makes me want to be more.”

Hermione blinked, fast.

He tapped his knuckles against the edge of the desk. “You’re not going to scare me away. Danger is my middle name,” he laughed lightly, “Look, I know I’m not the obvious choice. I’m loud. I joke too much. My idea of conflict resolution is a prank.”

“You forgot charming,” she said softly.

Fred grinned. “Ah yes, my best quality.”

“I’m serious,” she said, nudging his knee. “You surprise me. In ways I never expected.”

He looked at her — really looked — and something in his expression shifted, grew solemn.

“Your soul’s heavy,” he said.

Hermione blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I just mean…That came out wrong.” He paused. “You carry a lot. Always have. It’s part of who you are. But you don’t have to carry all of it alone.”

She stared at him, mouth slightly parted.

“I’m not asking you to give it to me,” Fred added quickly. “Just… let me help. When it gets too heavy.”

Hermione’s eyes stung.

“Fred…”

“Even Atlas had bad days, you know.”

That made her laugh — wet and startled, at the muggle reference, at his earnest heart. “That’s not even mythologically accurate.”

“Still stands,” he said with a grin. “You’re not alone anymore. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

Hermione reached across the space between them and took his hand. Their fingers laced easily, like they’d done it a hundred times before.

“I don’t know where we’re going,” she said.

Fred squeezed her hand. “Me neither. But I’m in.”

She nodded.

“So in.”

He raised their joined hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Brilliant. Now pass me the cinnamon scroll before I cry.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The Room of Requirement, 1995, Order of Phoenix school year.

The Room of Requirement looked the same.

Hermione stood just inside the doorway, noting the cushions hovering in the corner, the shelves lined with books on practicing magic, the softly glowing lanterns casting golden shadows across the floor. It looked exactly like it had the night her world tilted.

But it felt different now.

There was no tightness in her chest. No sick twist of dread. Just a hum beneath her ribs — a steady thing, warm and pulsing like a heartbeat.

Beside her, Fred bumped her hand lightly with his.

Not quite a grab. Not quite nothing. Just enough to say I’m here.

They hadn’t announced it. There had been no speeches, no grand reveal, no confetti or declarations. But everyone knew.

They walked in together now. They stood a little too close. Their smiles were softer. And when their fingers brushed, the world didn’t end.

“Look at them,” Ginny whispered to Harry from across the room. “Subtle as a Dementor at midday,”

Harry grinned. “At least they’re not combusting anymore.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” George muttered, adjusting the collar of his robes as he watched Fred casually toss Hermione her wand, “He’s been insufferably pleased with himself lately.”

“I have ears, you know,” Fred said mildly, not turning around.

George rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately.”

Hermione pretended not to hear them. She caught her wand, flicked it once, and turned to face Fred.

“Well?” she asked. “You going to duel me?”

Fred wiggled his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Not unless I want to lose in front of witnesses.”

“Smart boy.”

The group around them chuckled, the tension easing, not that there had been much anymore. If anything, the silence that had once hung around Fred and Hermione like a fog had been replaced by something easier. Familiar. Like they had finally taken their rightful place in the story, and everyone else was just happy to see it written down.

They paired off — Luna with Neville, Ginny with Harry, Dean and Seamus already playfully arguing about rules.

Fred held out his hand.

Hermione didn’t hesitate. She took it.

As their fingers met, the soul mark flickered to life beneath their sleeves — red and silver, curling and glowing just faintly where their skin brushed.

No one gasped this time.

No one stared.

It just was.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Show-off.”

Fred leaned in slightly. “Only for you.”

They moved to the centre of the room, standing shoulder to shoulder.

“Ready?” Hermione asked.

Fred smirked. “Always.”

They raised their wands.

Hermione cast first — a graceful Disarming spell that Fred dodged by inches. He retaliated with a nonverbal hex that made her laugh aloud as her shoes started tap-dancing without her consent.

“You absolute menace—”

“Unclear what you mean, Granger.”

She countered with a tickling charm, and he fell to one knee with a yelp, grinning like he’d won the lottery. Laughter echoed through the room.

They kept duelling — lightly, playfully, moving in rhythm. And when their hands touched again — when their shoulders bumped — the mark flared, steady and sure.

Hermione didn’t flinch.

Fred didn’t pull back.

And that was the real victory.

Not the spell work or the precision — but the way they moved in tandem now. The way they didn’t question it. The way they looked at each other without fear of what they might find.

George watched from the sidelines; arms crossed and face unreadable.

Then, slowly, he grinned. Turned back to his own partner, there was no more meddling needed here.

Ginny caught Hermione’s eye as she paused to cast a Shield Charm.

She gave her a wink.

Hermione smiled — real and wide.

Across the room, Fred caught the look.

“You’re showing off again,” she teased.

Fred’s wand dropped a little. “Nah. Just admiring my very intimidating girlfriend.”

Hermione’s breath caught, just for a second, not from shock, but from the unexpected ease of it. Of him saying it like it had always been true.

And maybe it had.

She leaned in, just enough for only him to hear. “I like being yours.”

Fred smiled back. No smirk, no quip. Just something steady and quiet.

“I like being yours too.”