AN: I always wanted to do something with the Soulmates AU and always have had a fascination for "love through the ages" and the idea of reincarnation. This is my own personal take on these tropes, in the hope that I can entertain you as much as I am entertaining myself writing this story.

The storytelling is not linear and if you're lost, just sit back and enjoy the ride.

Rating will probably go up for future chapters. Reviews make me happy (and they make me update, that's a fact).

"Is there a God? Where is He? Shouldn't we be looking for Him? So we can finally ask him: do You judge us all the same?" Wand or not? Magic or not?

Hermione stares at her only audience, an ageless man with white hair and a whiter beard. His red cheeks and half-closed eyelids tell her he is as drunk as she is.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I'm making some research and it's wearing me out."

But he seems to think as much of it as the bartender and they both remain silent, staring in silence at nothing in particular. She finishes her drink before sliding from her stool and leaving the bar with a barely audible Goodnight, gentlemen, her own restless questioning spinning her head around all the way to her apartment.

It's ridiculous, she thinks. She is in London, finalizing her Public Administration degree, on her (metaphorical) way to the Ministry. Ginny and Ron exchange banters day after day while Harry sips at his Butterbear and the loud chatter of the city accompanies their evenings. She is riding her life along the rhythm of endless practical challenges, enjoying the permanent come-and-go between the Burroughs, the Shell Cottage and her apartment.

But she had woken up one day after a night in her childhood bedroom with a knot in her stomach and a restless mind. The day before, she had realized her parents were growing old, and so was she, so were they all, and her mother had asked "Are you happy, Hermione?" as they drank chamomile after diner and yes, yes, she was.

But happiness and fulfilment do not come in paired packages and next to her bed she still had her Muggle books and forgotten totems of her childhood and they stared at her for a long time asking Is this all it will ever be now?.

.o0O0o.

200 AD. Rome. Height of the Roman Empire. Reigh of Septimius Severus.

"They take us away and they spin us around and we're always still there, waiting."

The arena roars and comes to life as another slave is slaughtered by the tiger.

"Who?" Asks Ginevra, as she frowns at the sight of blood. "Who are you talking about, Hermione?"

"Men. Who else would I be talking about?"

"Gods. I thought you were talking about Gods. Because that's what we were talking about. Why the Gods let these men die this way."

"The Gods don't matter." Hermione adjusts the rim of her robe and stares at the endless rows of spectators, all of whom scare her infinitely more than any savage beast. "They don't care." Her heavy golden necklace is lashing at her skin and she almost scratches herself trying to change its place.

Ginevra rolls her eyes and is ready to answer when a cold and familiar voice interrupts her:

"You sure do seem to know an awful lot about what a God would think."

Draco Malfoy is seated a row behind them and holds a golden wine cup on the lap of his toga. Arrogance is a second nature for his features and Hermione has to remind herself politeness before answering:

"Are they not made to mirror our faults and follies?"

His silvery eyes become bright at her words and she knows she has him – he feeds on this, on words and ideas and fights of the quill. And his arrogance will be his downfall when it comes to a mind like Hermione's.

She knows she is a far better spectacle than any slaughtering could ever be and his eyes drink her in as she holds his stare, until Ginevra pinches her to make her stop. Even as she turns around she knows he's still watching. The crowd roars once more and this time she feels it in her bones, like the cold stare on her neck, gnawing at something deep within her.

She feeds on this too. And if his fault is ambition, her folly will be to mirror him.

.o0O0o.

The book has always been there. In her mother's study, always. It is old and her mother had inherited it and it is expensive for auction houses but priceless for her. When she was a child, she was not allowed to touch it, by fear she would tear a page or spill something on it.

It smells of feather and candles and worn-out paper. It is thick and beautiful, the writing so elaborate she had been unable to read it when her mother had opened it for her once, a long time ago.

When she had moved in in her new apartment, her mother had offered it to her, as the cornerstone of her own personal library. And it is finally calling for her.

Please let me know if you liked it :)