Harry Potter Imagines

Remus Lupin 》Scars and Tattoos

Summary: Soulmate!AU in which wounds, scars, and tattoos that you get appears on your soulmate's body.

Warnings: Self-inflicted wounds (not for self-harm's sake)

A/N: There used to be a part two to this but I didn't think the mood fit and I didn't like it so it's gone now!

Words: 1.7k

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Thank Godric it didn't hurt.

Here's the thing about soulmates: whatever happens, it happens together.

To wake up one morning when you were just five years old with deep gashes across your face was perhaps the most terrifying thing you could imagine coming from this unholy way of binding soulmates, but unluckily for you, it happened. The wounds were closed quickly – most likely by magic – but the scars remained for the rest of your life. It earned you some unwanted attention when you went out, but it was something you learned to live with. After all, you weren't alone in it.

And the scratch marks that appeared on your body monthly – you learned to live with those, too. Your looks, you figured, didn't matter; not compared to what they were going through, whoever they were.

It worried you, the idea that they were being hurt by someone or perhaps something, but you couldn't very well do anything about it, because until the day you found the person who had scars matching yours, you had no way of communicating with them whatsoever.

That was, of course, until you found a dreadful object in a very sketchy shop and came up with a stupid idea that anyone would have disapproved of, especially for a ten-year-old girl.

But you had loads of stupid ideas, and you knew that this wouldn't hurt them, and it would eventually heal, so it was your choice, wasn't it?

The only problem was that they wouldn't be able to respond, but still, it was better than nothing.

So that night you sat down at your desk, parchment in front of you and black quill in hand, and decided what you were going to say. Then, you braced yourself, squeezed your eyes shut, and began scrawling away.

I hope ur ok.

It burned. Merlin, did it burn, but it burned only you, and that was okay. You stared at the words sliced into the back of your hand, taking deep breaths to get through it. They had been through worse, you reckoned. They were strong. You could handle this.

The message wasn't much, but you couldn't ask questions, so all you could offer was support. You wished they could write you back, but the pain made you glad they didn't.

Every once in a while, after the cuts healed, you'd say something more. Each time, your tolerance got a little bit higher, and you allowed yourself to write more.

U must b brave.

U'll b alright.

Can't w8 2 meet u.

When it was time to go to Ilvermorny, you brought your quill with you, having absolutely no plans to end your tradition. With time, your hand became calloused and bumpy from the scarring, but as it was not your ugliest trait, you really didn't give a shit. At times, you became nervous that these notes would annoy them – not that you had any evidence to back up this idea, but you had none against it, either, and a rather intense case of anxiety. Still, you'd always gather up all your courage and confidence and eventually write another.

Suddenly, when you were thirteen, your best friend grabbed your wrist during a Potions class and forced your attention to the black ink that was slowly appearing on your skin, dot by dot. It took what felt like hours and you couldn't focus on your classes for the life of you, but letters were formed one by one, until your wrist finally read, in tiny little lettering...