Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended.

Hermione could remember seeing the mark on the back of Remus' hand during third year. Pink. Raw. Its shape reminiscent of an exploding star. Its colour and sheen reminded her of new skin revealed beneath a peeling sunburn. Taut. Shiny. Like it is still too tight to stretch over the recently healed area. She would stare at it during lectures, wondering what might have caused such a unique scar.

Wonder transformed to curiosity when the weeks ticked by with no change. And then curiosity turned to concern when she found out about his… disease.

One chilly morning that spring after a full moon, she brought Remus a bottle of dittany from the Hospital Wing. Young, naive, and intent on fixing what she'd wrongfully perceived as a broken man. She'd wagered it was his lycanthropy that kept the wound fresh and hoped the gesture would show that she understood his condition. She also wished to help him heal the supposed self inflicted wounds.

She'd been wrong.

Oh so bloody wrong.

Not about the lycanthropy. No, she was precisely correct about that, but she'd been so far off on the cause of the sunburst scar on his hand. The unhealing, ever present pink exploding star.

Soulmates.

It was far from the first time she'd heard the idea, even at the tender age of fourteen, but it was the first time it came up in Wizarding terms. The romance novels she stumbled across on her mother's bookshelf told of destiny, endless love, and devotion. They told tales of finding your other half and experiencing eternal bliss with your beloved.

While these things could possibly still be true in the wizarding world, the books had neglected to mention the painful part of finding your soul's match. The part where separation from them was near excruciating. How your soul felt like it was being ripped in two with each passing day. How your match could feel your feelings, pick up on cues you desperately tried to hide, and most importantly, about how life sentences in Azkaban trumped your soulbond with someone.

Even as an adolescent, Hermione thought it unfair that Remus had to travel to that horrid island prison once every fortnight to be allowed just a few hours with the person his soul belonged to.

Sirius Black.

Ex-con, perceived Dark Wizard, and back when Remus had explained to her what being a soulmate really meant, a very bad man.

Of course, that was before the truth was revealed, and well before she'd gotten to know Sirius for what he really was—a smart ass, light hearted and far too devilishly handsome wizard.

Back then she felt sorry for Remus, horrified to think he had zero say in the matter. After all, why would one choose to be bonded to a criminal? Of course, Remus was quick to assure her that she had nothing to worry about when she voiced her concern. She was a Muggleborn. Her biology simply didn't follow the same rules as half-bloods or pure-bloods.

Except now, that seemingly simplistic and logical explanation for why she, Hermione Granger, would never have to deal with that whole soulmate business felt like some weird fever dream.

The lease on her flat was up and well, when one is rapidly approaching thirty with no home, no family and nothing beyond friends, it seemed like there was no time like the present to save up her Galleons to purchase a little bit of land she could call her own.

Remus graciously offered up one of the spare rooms in Grimmauld Place to help with the transition, and Hermione promised to stay out of his and Sirius's way.

Clearly though, that was not going according to plan.

It happened so fast.

One minute she was shoulder to shoulder with her once favourite Dark Arts professor, setting down boxes of her belongings on an old daybed in what would be her new bedroom, and the next she was clear across the room. The world spun off its axis as she clutched her shoulder that felt like it had been singed with an incendio.

The furniture around her seemed to wobble as technicolour rays drifted in through the open window. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen colour before, but it was almost as if she was really seeing the shades for the first time. The room felt dusty, dark, dank, and in desperate need of cleaning only moments earlier, but now?

Now she could see the violet lining in the damask wallpaper. She could see the golden thread stitched into the crimson duvet folded up neatly on the edge of the daybed. It was almost as if she could taste the way the colours burst to life around her, their presentation overwhelming and near excruciating.

"Everything alright up there?" Sirius' voice carried up from the ground floor of Grimmauld Place where he, presumably, was carrying in the last of her boxes from the moving truck.

"Y-yeah!" Remus, whose expression bore more resemblance to confusion than pain, was examining his own arm, jade green eyes wide and already lined gold and wild by the time they lifted to her. "Just a small stumble. We're alright."

The smell of magic still lingered in the air: sharp, electric, magentic, ancient. She didn't need to lift her hand to know what lay beneath, but she kept her hand tightly curled around her arm. Afraid to lift it and peek—to see what lay beneath, because at least if she didn't look, then she could pretend like it wasn't really happening. Like she couldn't feel the throb of a mark that most certainly should not be on her body.

Even through the haze of new magic, she knew this shouldn't be happening. There was no way possible. She was a Muggleborn. These things weren't supposed to happen to her.

Moreover, Remus already had a fucking soul-mate!

"Good. I don't need to deal with dragging your non-furry arse to St. Mungos more than our mandatory once a—" Sirius voice faded under the booming thump of her heartbeat that seemed to grow louder and louder with each passing moment.

She watched Remus' lips move, urgency evident in the way his brow furrowed, and those three little lines appeared in his forehead. She watched him take two large steps toward her, the vibration from his boots slamming against the scuffed wooden floor felt like a bass drum, rattling every bone in her body.

She should move. She should hide from his touch that scarred her once already, run away and disappear into the great beyond. But just as he drew near, close enough for the large pink and raw scar on his arm to reveal it's exact shape—a small jagged hexagon—the dark floor seemed to rise up and swallow the world whole.

"Hello Kitten."

She hated nicknames. No, scratch that. She absolutely fucking loathed them. Growing up her Grannie would call her poppet, and even as a young child, the term of endearment would make the little hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Every blood time Harry or Ron called her 'Mione she had to physically bite back the impulse to correct them.

But the way Sirius would croon that two syllable word...

The way his gravelly voice would emit that stupid, annoying, horrid nickname. Well, she might not hate that one so much, but only when it came from him.

"Sirius." She didn't dare crack an eye open yet, not sure if she could handle another technicolour rainbow attack from the sun at this very moment. Not in the half-sleep, half-awake state her brain slowly slogged it's way through. "What time is it?"

"Three."

Oh bugger, she slept through lunch. Reaching up she pressed her palms against her eyes, slowly working the sleep from her system as she stretched out. She was due at work in two days time, and had she any hope of unpacking and settling in before her return to the Ministry, she would need to get her—

"What the…" Her train of thought came to an abrupt halt as her eyes fluttered open to reveal a dark room, a small patch of silver moonlight cascaded over Sirius who sat perched in her window, the soft red ember glow from his cigarette bobbed from his lips as he chuckled at her obvious confusion.

"In the morning, love." Tattooed fingers curled around the filter and he pulled it from his lips, blowing the ivory smoke out into the night sky. "It's to be expected after your match. I think I slept for nearly two days before I came to. Moony's a bit of a different beast though. It's that whole wolf thing, harder to knock his ass out, if ya know what I mean."

Match.

Moony… Remus.

The words took their time working into her consciousness, reminding her that no, this wasn't an odd dream, and no, she hadn't stumbled across some of the illegal potions she knew Sirius stashed in spare cupboards.

Her brow furrowed, and she could feel the thought lines etch deep across her forehead as she instinctively reached to the spot on her arm, fingertips grazing across the now marred patch of skin. As if on cue, she felt a rush of adrenaline course through her system, the simple touch igniting every nerve ending in her body.

She jolted upright, legs kicking free of the heavy crimson comforter as if acting on their own accord and she quickly withdrew her fingers from the soul-mark.

"Yeah, I wouldn't do that for a bit, Kitten. It's pretty sensitive at first. After a while it won't feel so—"

"Sirius." Normally she wouldn't interrupt his little banter. She'd sit back and listen to his gravelly voice, enjoying the way it would caress her senses and lull her into an almost dreamlike state, but right now, his presence felt like more like torture than pleasure. "Can you just—can you just shut the bloody fuck up?"

A small airy laugh echoed across the room towards her, igniting goosebumps down her arms and bared legs. The squeak of the window opening wider was followed by the sound of heavy footfalls. Just as she lifted her eyes from the comforter, he claimed the foot of her bed in a loose cross-legged perch, the lit cigarette still dangling from his lips.

His pack of cigarettes were held out towards her, expectancy colouring his eyes. Was he really offering her a… no. He knew better. She didn't smoke! At least not regularly and certainly not that he knew about.

"It'll calm the nerves." He insisted as she shook her head, shaking the box in her direction until she took it, careful not to let her skin come in contact with his.

That was how this mess started in the first place, wasn't it? She and Remus broke the cardinal rule. Never have skin to skin contact.

It didn't make sense when she first became a part of the wizarding world, how everyone shied away from physical touch. How Molly looked almost horrified when she offered to shake her hand. And all the fucking gloves. It wasn't even cold when she boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time.

She just chalked it up to what her parents would lovingly refer to as the 'Wizard Weirds'. Owls, cloaks, potions, goblins. All fixtures in her life, but most definitely odd to any outsider. She'd just assumed the gloves and the physical distance were a part of this fringe society.

It was just three short years, one misguided gift, and a short lesson on soul-mates that brought it all into perspective.

Wizards and Witches didn't shake hands; they didn't touch without gloves but not because of some societal norms. No, they didn't want the chance of matching with someone they might not be fond of. Most would avoid contact the majority of their lives, only allowing their eventual significant others that level of proximity.

Which also meant that many, many spent their lives married to someone who they knew was not their soul's match. Because statistically speaking, the chances of actually finding your soulmate were nearly non-existent. Especially because no one was looking—at least not actively.

Most matchings Hermione had heard of were accidental, chance encounters. Daphne brushed against a stranger at the apothecary by accident when reaching for the newt spleens, and the next week she was married to Phillip and moving up to Scotland to help run his farm. Padma was fitting a customer's dress, her glove lifted from her wrist and bam—suddenly she was in love with Bridgette, a witch who was already married with two fucking kids.

Soulmates weren't all rainbows and happily ever afters either.

Sometimes, soulmates were bad people.

Sometimes finding your soul's other half revealed things about you that you were not aware of.

For every happy story, there was a darker tale of people using the connection it forged for nefarious purposes.

Which is precisely why most people didn't look. Because what if their soul's match was actually a bad person? What if they revealed a darkness within them they usually tried so desperately to hide?

"You know, you actually have to light the thing for it to work, Kitten."

Sirius' sultry baritone pulled her back to reality, and Hermione looked up from where she'd been staring hopelessly at the cigarette perched between her fingers. "Oh… right. Sorry I—"

"Only you would apologise at a time like this." His laughter came out in breathy little puffs, smoke trickling off his tongue and dancing between them in wisps. When she lifted the cigarette to her lips, Sirius leaned forward with his index, thumb, and middle finger pinched together with a barely-there whisper of a small flame flickering to life.

Hermione couldn't help but notice the way the shadows danced across his face as she leaned towards his hand to light the cigarette. Sirius had always been handsome, even when he appeared half-crazed on that fateful night in the Shrieking Shack, but now? Well, to say her heart rate didn't increase each time he'd turn those smoke coloured eyes on her would be a lie. The age lines did him well: the soft crinkles at the corner of his eyes, the smile lines that ran alongside his plush lips.

Even his tattoos, no longer brilliant black as they were when fresh, seemed to highlight his alabaster skin so perfectly it was impossible to ignore. While she'd never had a thing for tattoos, or thought herself as finding them attractive, she couldn't deny the way they seemed to fit him.

Inhaling, she brought the cigarette to life, letting the smoke fill her lungs as she pulled back, the corners of her eyes watering as it came out in a small coughing fit that only managed to make Sirius laugh.

She'd smoked before, typically after several drinks at the pub, but it had been a number of months since she'd found herself intoxicated to the point of this particular nasty habit.

Leaning back against the headboard, Hermione lifted the hand not holding the now glowing cigarette to her mouth, and she narrowed her eyes at Sirius as he reclined across the foot of her bed. He propped his head up on a bent arm, making it as clear as day that he had no intention of returning to his spot at the window.

They sat in silence for what was beginning to feel like an inappropriate amount of time with only the sounds of them taking slow drags from their respective cigarettes and subsequently blowing the smoke away moments later filling the room. And it was that particular silence that finally did her in.

How could he be so… calm about this?

How could he not be upset?

How could he not have a million questions?

Even in the few coherent moments of wakefulness, she could feel endless questions trickle through her consciousness at a steady pace. Her soul-marking with Remus shouldn't have happened for a number of reasons, but most importantly because the man who lay mere feet from her was already soulmatched with him.

"Aren't you… don't you—I…" The ability to string together the words into a coherent thought felt nearly impossible, not with all of the questions fighting to emerge off the tip of her tongue at once. Tucking her legs underneath her, Hermione rose to sit on her heels, a trembling hand pushing the thick mess of curls back across her forehead. "Sirius, how can you be so bloody… cavalier right now?"

He slowly cocked his head as he withdrew the nearly spent cigarette from his lips, that trademark Sirius Black crooked smile spilling across his lips. For half a second, Hermione nearly expected him to tell her she was acting daft—that nothing had happened, and the mark on her arm meant nothing.

She most certainly did not expect what happened next.

Sirius rolled on his back before carefully tucking his cigarette between his lips and his hands moved to lift his shirt, inch by inch exposing a toned stomach littered with tattoos and a small line of dark hair that ran underneath his navel.

Under different circumstances, she might have been caught off guard and asked what the hell he was doing. She would have blushed and looked away, but she couldn't manage to lift her eyes off his side once it became exposed.

A large purple mottled patch of skin that covered nearly all his ribs. It was one she'd seen a thousand times, but not on his skin. No, she'd seen it on her own.

"Because I've known about this for quite awhile now, Kitten."

Author's Note:

Hi Ya'll. So I am trying to get back into the rhythm of writing, because after a long break, it's hard to set that flow again so I figured why not write a new little fic. I am not sure of it's length. 3 chapters is where I am leaning so don't get too hopeful it goes longer.

I am gifting this to my dear, dear, dear friend LumosLyra. She has helped me so much lately and is truthfully the reason this came about. I asked her to pick a trio, and she just so happened to pick my favorite triad! (What a doll!)

The soul mark/soul scar concept isn't new to any fandom, but to give credit, I have read a lot of Reylo pic's lately that have the concept. So thank you Reylo fandom for the idea, and I hope my little spin on this is fun and unique.

Alpha/Beta Credit: Disenchantedglow & LumosLyra

Until next time. xx