Chapter Text
The end of the calendar year flew by in a blur of exams, papers, and late-night messages with Regulus that left her feeling more awake than any revision schedule ever had. She’d confessed her plan to involve Kreacher in his resurrection; Regulus, in turn, had coached her patiently through ways to reach the cantankerous old elf. Appeal to his loyalty, not his logic, he’d written. He’ll trust you if he believes it is what I would have wanted.
And now she was here.
Finally, Hermione had made it to Grimmauld Place and, finally, she had the house to herself while Harry was at work.
Well… not to herself. Kreacher was here too. Which was rather the point.
Hermione wiped her damp palms on her robes and made her way to the kitchen, the floorboards creaking in ways she swore they hadn’t last time.
She found Kreacher exactly where Regulus had said he would be: curled stiffly in his corner beside the stove, knobbly hands folded over his tea towel, muttering to himself in low, habitual grumbles. His large eyes flicked up when she entered.
“Kreacher,” Hermione said softly.
He gave her a suspicious grunt. “Miss Granger returns. Kreacher supposes she wants something.”
Hermione inhaled slowly. This was it. No turning back.
“Yes,” she said, stepping closer. “I do. And… I’m going to tell you something important. Something I think you deserve to know.”
Kreacher’s ears twitched.
Hermione steadied herself. “I’ve been communicating with Regulus.”
The elf froze so completely it was almost frightening. His breath hitched; his eyes went wide and wet and furious all at once.
“Master Regulus is dead,” Kreacher rasped, voice shaking with insult and remembered grief. “Miss Granger should not—should not make cruel jokes—”
“I’m not joking,” Hermione interrupted gently, lifting both hands as if approaching a wounded creature. “Kreacher, listen to me. I haven’t been speaking to his ghost. I’ve been speaking to a piece of his soul.”
The elf stared at her, trembling. “His… his soul?”
Hermione nodded. “Before he died, Regulus created a Horcrux. He hid it in a journal he meant to destroy once Voldemort was defeated. It survived. And Regulus is still… connected to it. He’s still there. I’ve been messaging with him for months.”
Kreacher’s mouth opened in a silent, shuddering gasp. His hands clutched at his chest.
“He didn’t make it the way Voldemort did,” she added quickly, pushing her voice softer still. “It wasn’t out of cruelty. It was in defense of an innocent life. And so that he could still let others know about Voldemort. Regulus told me everything. He never wanted you to carry the burden alone.”
A broken, keening sound escaped the elf.
Hermione pressed on. “And I think—I know—there’s a way to bring him back. His body is still in the cave. His soul is in his journal. And if I can reunite them… Kreacher, I can give him back to you.”
The elf stared at her for a long moment, disbelief and hope warring in his eyes.
Then Kreacher whispered, hoarse and cracked, “Miss Granger… can save Master Regulus?”
Hermione swallowed, pulse racing. “I believe so. But I can’t do it without you.”
Kreacher blinked at her—once, twice—his throat working around words that didn’t seem to come easily. Then his eyes narrowed, suspicion clawing its way back up through his grief.
“Why,” he croaked, “would Miss Granger do this? Wizards do not… do not bring back masters long dead. Not for elves. Not for—” He swallowed. “Not for Kreacher.”
Hermione expected the question. It was the one she’d been rehearsing an answer to for weeks and still didn’t have a clean explanation for.
She took a slow breath.
“I’m not doing this for you, Kreacher,” she said gently. “Though I want to help you. Truly.”
She hesitated. “But the real reason is… because Regulus and I are connected.”
Kreacher’s ears twitched sharply. “Connected how?”
Hermione’s cheeks heated despite herself. It felt absurd to say aloud, even after months of knowing it was true.
“My soulmark,” she said softly. “Regulus had the counterpart. We didn’t know—neither of us knew. Not until I saw the mark on his journal.”
Kreacher stared at her as though she’d sprouted tentacles.
Hermione pressed a hand to her thigh instinctively, over the hidden mark. “Regulus didn’t choose me. I didn’t choose him. This… bond just is. It always was. I’ve been talking with him, learning him, for months. And I—”
Her voice caught.
“I care about him. I care more than I meant to. And I can’t leave him trapped in there when there’s a chance—any chance—to bring him back.”
Kreacher’s old, knotted hands trembled in the folds of his tea towel. “Master Regulus… is Miss Granger’s soulmatch?” he whispered, the words reverent and bewildered.
“Yes.”
“Then Miss Granger—Miss Hermione—must bring him back,” Kreacher said immediately, almost fiercely. “Kreacher will help. Kreacher will do anything. When does Miss Hermione wish to go?”
Hermione blinked; she hadn’t expected him to pivot so fast into urgency.
“I—well… I need time to prepare. The cave is dangerous. The lake is worse. The protective enchantments—”
“Kreacher knows the cave,” the elf interrupted firmly. “Kreacher has been there. Kreacher will take Miss Hermione safely. But it must be soon. It may already be too late. The body…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
She bit the inside of her cheek. “Harry is working a double shift at the Ministry on Christmas Eve, on Thursday. He’ll be gone from early morning until late that night. That’s my best window. I can have supplies ready by then.”
Kreacher nodded briskly. “Thursday. At dawn. Kreacher will prepare as well. Miss Hermione must rest. Must gather strength. Miss Hermione will need to be strong.”
“Thank you, Kreacher,” she whispered.
The elf shook his head violently. “No. Kreacher should thank Miss Hermione. She brings hope back to this house. Hope Kreacher buried with Master Regulus.”
He bowed deeply, shakily, with a devotion that made Hermione’s throat tighten.
“We go at dawn,” he said. “And we bring Master Regulus home.”
Hermione swept upstairs as quietly as she could, every step echoing with the certainty of what she’d just set in motion. By the time she reached the tiny bedroom—Regulus’s old room—her hands were already trembling.
Hermione sat cross-legged on the bed, lit her wand with a faint Lumos, pulled the journal from her bag, and opened to a blank page. Her quill hovered only a moment before she wrote:
“Regulus?”
The ink sank into the page, and then his handwriting appeared with startling speed.
What’s wrong?
Hermione swallowed hard.
“I spoke with Kreacher. About you. About the cave. He wants to go. Soon.”
Define ‘soon.’
“Thursday. At dawn.”
She watched the pause; it seemed intentionally long.
Then his reply appeared all at once:
Hermione, absolutely not. Tell Harry. Tell anyone. Do not go into that cave alone.
She bit her lip and wrote:
“Kreacher will be with me. And I’m not alone. I have you.”
The next words came hard and fast, sharp enough to make her flinch.
You have a journal, not a shield. Do you understand the danger of that place? That lake? The Inferi?
Hermione felt a familiar indignation—the same feeling she always got when someone doubted her abilities—but it was covered by a warmer realization.
He wasn’t angry.
He was scared.
“Regulus, I can do this. I’m prepared. I’ve fought worse.”
His reply came slowly this time, each letter appearing as though dragged out of him.
Hermione. I know exactly what that place does to a person. You are…
The sentence cut off. A drop of ink pooled and soaked into the parchment.
Then, steadier:
You are not expendable. Not to me.
Her breath caught. She pressed a hand over her heart like she could steady it.
“I’ll be careful,” she wrote. “I promise.”
Regulus’s response was immediate, almost vicious with worry:
You can’t promise that. Not in that cave. Tell Harry. Tell your friend Ginny. Bring a curse-breaker, at the very least. Should I enumerate the ways this can go wrong? Because I can—
“Stop.” Hermione scribbled the word hard enough that her quill nearly tore the page. “If I tell them, they’ll forbid it. Destroy this journal. Seal the cave. And I will lose every chance of bringing you back.”
Silence.
Long enough she wondered if she’d pushed him too far.
Then, finally:
Hermione… you shouldn’t risk yourself for me.
Her throat tightened painfully.
“Too late,” she wrote softly. “I already chose to.”
The ink wavered as if he didn’t know what to say to that.
When words finally appeared, they were smaller, fainter.
I care what happens to you. More than I have any right to. If you’re determined to do this, then—Merlin help me—I won’t try to stop you. But I won’t pretend I’m calm about it.
Hermione exhaled shakily.
“Kreacher will get me into the cave. I’ll use the protections you taught me. And I know what I’m walking into.”
Another pause, and then his handwriting curled across the page, hesitant in a way she’d never seen from him.
I wish I could be there. Not as ink. Not as a voice. But beside you.
He paused.
Come back to me, Hermione. If anything happens to you…
The sentence faded unfinished, but she felt every unspoken word.
Her hand trembled as she wrote her last message of the night:
“I’m coming back. And I’m bringing you with me.”
The reply appeared slowly, each letter deliberate, like a touch pressed to her skin.
Then I’ll wait. I’d wait forever for you, Hermione.
Hermione carried his words with her through the next few days, their sincerity lingering like a hand at her back. When Thursday came, she was ready.
She left a note for Harry in a place he’d only discover if things went wrong—not that she planned on letting them—then reviewed her supplies a final time and met Kreacher as the first edge of sunlight broke over the horizon.
Kreacher Apparated them straight into darkness.
After a murmured Lumos, Hermione’s wandlight pushed back the shadows enough to reveal the vastness of a large cave, the smell of salt thick in the air. Moisture clung to her skin as she shivered at the sudden change in temperature. Somewhere in the distance, water echoed faintly against rock.
To her left and right, the cave split into two openings. One was narrow and jagged, more a fissure than a passage, that looked as if it might lead down into a submerged tunnel. The second was a broad archway, deliberately carved by magic.
Kreacher didn’t hesitate. “This way, Miss Hermione,” he whispered, already shuffling toward the arch, his slight silhouette bobbing ahead of her in the pale glow of wandlight.
As they passed through, Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. The lake was exactly as Harry had described: broad, black, and utterly still. The island in the center lay empty.
Voldemort was gone, and some of the remnants of his dark magic here were gone as well.
But the Inferi, Hermione was sure—the Inferi remained.
And with them, Regulus’s body.
Hermione stepped closer to the shore, her wandlight skimming over the surface.
The water was too dark to see through. But she felt him. A spark in the air. A tug low in her stomach. A warmth pulsing near her thigh where her soulmark lay hidden beneath layers of clothing.
Kreacher made a thin noise at her side. “Miss Hermione must not touch the water—”
“I know,” Hermione said softly. “I won’t—not unless I have to.”
She pressed her palm to her pounding chest and took a steadying breath.
This was insane.
This was reckless.
This was absolutely, unforgivably dangerous.
And she had never felt more certain of anything.
“Okay,” she murmured, remembering the plan. “First, a safe base. Inferi hate fire.”
She raised her wand. Heat gathered instantly; her magic answering with fierce intensity, like it wanted to burn, to protect, to claim this space for her.
“Incendio Circumferre.”
Flames roared outward in a neat, controlled circle, forming a ring of brilliant fire on the stone floor around them. Heat licked her face.
Hermione exhaled once. This next part was the piece she hadn’t told Kreacher or Regulus she was uncertain about.
She leveled her wand at the lake’s black surface. “Accio Regulus.” She waited, willing her hand not to shake.
Nothing happened.
She nodded tightly as though she expected nothing less. A small part of her had hoped Voldemort’s death would have weakened more of his protections, but—despite what she’d told Regulus and Kreacher—Hermione hadn’t truly believed the spell would work. Moving to the edge of the fire circle, she stared down at the pitch-black water.
Regulus. I’m coming.
She shrank her boots and tucked them in her pocket for later, rolling her trousers up to her knees. The cold air bit her skin.
Kreacher gasped as he realized her intent. “Miss Hermione—no—”
“Kreacher.” She turned to him. “He is your master. But I care for him too. I can’t leave him down there. Please let me try.”
For a long moment, Kreacher looked at her the way one might look at someone both astonishingly brave and heartbreakingly foolish.
Then, trembling, he bowed. “Kreacher will protect Miss Hermione. Kreacher swears it.”
Hermione nodded, tears prickling behind her eyes.
And she stepped out of the circle, into the water.
Cold shot up her leg instantly: icy needles that stole her breath. She bit down on a gasp and moved deeper until the water reached her knees.
The lake remained silent. Still. Watching. The only sound was the crackle of fire behind her.
“Regulus,” she whispered, pleading.
And then her foot bumped something. She couldn’t say how, but she knew—
Her lungs seized. Hermione plunged her hands into the water and felt pale, cold skin beneath her fingers.
“This is him,” she whispered. “Kreacher—I found him, I—”
The water shifted.
Just barely.
A ripple.
Kreacher’s ears flattened. “Miss Hermione. OUT—NOW—”
Hermione braced her feet and pulled. Regulus’s body rose slowly, terribly heavy from years submerged—
Then a hand shot up from the water and grabbed her ankle.
“NO!” Hermione screamed.
The lake erupted.
Grey, bloated hands broke the surface. Dozens. Then hundreds. Inferi eyes gleaming white in the wandlight. They surged toward her, silent, relentless, reaching for her legs, her waist, her wand, anything warm—
Fire flared behind her as the circle reacted to the surge of undead. The Inferi hissed and shrank back, but only those within reach of the flame. Still, it freed a path back to the shore, if only she could get there.
Three more hands closed around Hermione’s calves. Her balance faltered.
“MISS HERMIONE!” Kreacher shrieked.
She tried to wrench free, but the weight of Regulus’s body dragged at her. She wouldn’t let go. She wouldn’t.
Desperately, she cried out: “KREACHER. HELP—PLEASE—”
The elf launched himself out of the fire circle without hesitation, something she hadn’t expected, something she didn’t mean to ask for.
He grabbed her cloak, yanking her backward with impossible strength—
And one of the Inferi grabbed him.
“KREACHER!” Hermione screamed, her voice cracking.
With a horrible wrench, Kreacher shoved her back into the fire circle, flinging Regulus’s body after her—
And the Inferi dragged him under.
“NO—NO—KREACHER—”
Hermione dove forward, but the flames roared higher, reacting instinctively to her fear, creating a barrier even she couldn’t pass. She reached into it, but the fire singed her sleeves, her eyes burning with tears.
“KREACHER!”
The cavern shook with splashing and shrieks, then silence.
One moment. Two. Hermione held her breath as her flames finally began to die down.
Then, finally, a wet thud.
Kreacher’s small body slid across the stone floor, thrown violently from the water. He lay limp just outside the circle, chest rising weakly.
“Kreacher!” Hermione leapt over the barrier and scrambled to him, wandlight shaking over his face. “Kreacher, can you hear me? Stay with me—please—stay with me—”
He didn’t wake.
Hermione’s breath came in quick, panicked bursts. Tears streaked down her cheeks. She quickly reached for his limp body and carried him back to safety, back to where Regulus’s body waited.
Kreacher had saved her.
Because of Regulus.
Because of what she felt for him.
Hermione pressed her trembling hand to Kreacher’s forehead, then reached for Regulus’s cold fingers.
“We’re going home,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Both of you. I promise.”
With one hand on Regulus’s chest and the other gripping Kreacher’s wrist, Hermione turned on the spot and Apparated.
Fire, darkness, and cold water fell away into the early morning light as Grimmauld Place took her in.
Hermione landed on the uneven stones of Number Twelve’s kitchen floor with a crack like thunder.
For one terrible heartbeat she didn’t move. The weight of Regulus’s cold body was crushing her knees. Kreacher’s limp form was sliding from her arms. Her lungs refused to pull in air.
Then everything hit her at once. And she gasped.
“Kreacher—oh Merlin—Kreacher—”
She dropped to the floor beside him, her wand already in her hand. The old elf lay sprawled on the tile, skin grey, eyes closed, chest barely lifting.
Not dead.
Not dead yet.
Hermione’s whole body shook as she lifted him, turning him carefully, checking his breathing, her healer’s training flaring to the front like instinct.
“Aqua anhelitus,” she whispered, sweeping her wand along the line of his throat. Water burst from his lungs in a thin stream, splattering across the floor.
“Kreacher, stay with me. Please, stay with me.”
She pressed two fingers to his neck.
A faint pulse. Weak. But there.
Hermione muttered incantations under her breath, half the spells things she’d learned while helping Madam Pomfrey, half things she’d reverse-engineered from books no Hogwarts student should’ve had access to. Soft golden light seeped from her wand into Kreacher’s chest and limbs, knitting the worst of the damage caused by the Inferi, calming the ragged spasms beneath his skin.
His breathing smoothed until it was still shallow, but steady enough.
Hermione exhaled sharply, tears burning her eyes. “You stubborn, brave, ridiculous little elf…”
But there was no time to cry.
Her head snapped toward the other body on the floor.
Regulus.
His hair was still dripping lake water, dark curls plastered to a death-pale face. His lips were bluish, skin like marble. He didn’t look peaceful. He looked unfinished, like the world had stopped mid-breath the moment he died.
Just as she’d expected, Voldemort hadn’t bothered to return to the cave in order to turn Regulus’s body into an Inferi. And, even better, the restorative properties of the water—the same properties that kept the Inferi strong—kept his body from decaying. But Regulus was out of that water now.
Hermione’s heart lurched viciously.
“Kreacher is stable,” she whispered to herself. “But Regulus—Regulus—”
Her vision blurred. She wiped her cheek with the back of her shaking hand.
She didn’t know exactly how long she had until his body would start to decay. Minutes? An hour? Less?
Either way, if she waited, he would be gone.
Permanently.
Hermione forced herself to move.
She reached into her beaded bag and yanked out the journal and thumped down the heavy ritual tome she’d stolen from the Restricted Section.
Her hands shook so hard she nearly dropped both.
“Please,” she whispered to the journal. “Please hold on.”
She set it beside Regulus’s body, then opened the textbook to the marked chapter. Her eyes skimmed the complex set of steps, a series of circles and helixes and elliptical sigils necessary to draw a soul from an anchor back into its rightful vessel.
Hermione swallowed hard, lifted her wand, and began reading the spell aloud.
Her wand tip glowed a thin, pale silver that brightened as she moved it through the air. She followed the steps carefully, drawing each loop, each swirl, each tightening spiral precisely. Sweat beaded on her forehead.
The markings hung glowing above Regulus’s chest, suspended in light. And suddenly, she saw it.
A breath caught in her throat.
The diagrams in the tome had always been cramped, lifeless, just disjointed words and lines she’d memorized without thinking.
But here, suspended in the air, the shapes danced and spiraled together, forming a pattern she knew intimately. One she had carried on her own skin all her life.
Her soulmark. His salvation.
Of course. Of course this was the magic that would bring him back to life.
That’s why her soulmark had always been so different. She was meant to do this. She was meant to save him.
Hermione pressed her trembling left hand to the mark on her own thigh hidden beneath her clothes.
“Come back,” she whispered. “Come back to me.”
The journal rattled.
Inky tendrils curled upward from its pages, drawn toward the shimmering runes like smoke pulled by a breeze. Hermione held her breath, heart hammering painfully against her ribs.
She guided the final flourish of the spell, the most delicate: a swirl matching the curve of her soulmark, a looping connection that stabilized the tether between soul and body.
Silver light narrowed. Focused.
“Regulus Arcturus Black… revertere.”
The last syllable left her mouth like a plea.
The runes blazed white, the pages of the journal snapped upward, the ink lifted in a stream of shimmering black—
And the light dove straight into Regulus’s chest.
His back arched violently. Hermione screamed: “REGULUS?”
Kreacher stirred faintly. The house creaked. The magic hissed out in a sudden rush.
Regulus fell still. Hermione’s breath stopped. The journal thudded closed. And then—
A shudder rippled through Regulus’s chest. A gasp tore from his throat. His eyes flew open.
They were wild, frightened, but brown. Human.
And the first thing they landed on was her. For just a moment, she saw his gaze widen in recognition, in disbelief, in awe.
But then, Regulus tried to take a breath, and it sounded so wrong.
Too thin. Too harsh. Too new—air scraping past lungs that hadn’t worked in nearly two decades. His entire body convulsed as though shocked by its own existence.
Hermione lurched forward. “No. No, it’s okay, it’s okay. Regulus, don’t try to move—your body isn’t ready—”
He tried anyway. Some reflexive instinct to sit up, to fight, to survive. His muscles spasmed uselessly, his limbs trembling like paper in wind. He collapsed back, chest heaving in shallow, painful pulls.
Hermione cupped a hand behind his head, guiding him down gently. “Stop, please, you’ll injure yourself. I need to heal you first. Just breathe—”
He wheezed, eyes squeezing shut.
“Hermione,” he rasped. His first word in nineteen years and it was barely more than a breath. “It hurts.”
Her throat tightened. “I know. I know it does. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
She brushed trembling fingers across his forehead—cold, too cold—and forced herself to think, to focus.
She wished Madam Pomfrey was here.
But no—
She had prepared for this. She had planned for this.
Her bag. Potions. She’d brewed everything she could possibly need over the past weeks, pretending she was studying advanced healing theory.
“Regulus, I’m going to get something to help you breathe. I’ll be two seconds—don’t move.” She squeezed his hand once, gently, then scrambled for her bag.
Glass clinked as she rummaged, then: “Got it,” she breathed, yanking out three vials: restorative draught, circulatory stimulant, warming tonic.
She knelt beside him again, uncorking the first.
“Regulus, can you swallow?”
He opened his eyes again barely. They flicked to her face, softened, and he nodded the tiniest bit.
She lifted his head carefully, guiding the restorative draught to his lips. He choked on the first sip; Hermione winced but steadied him.
“Slow,” she murmured. “Slow, darling. Just enough to get your strength back.”
The endearment slipped out unthinkingly. Neither of them seemed to notice, except the faintest flush rose beneath his colorless skin.
He swallowed again. And again.
The potion took hold quickly. Color warmed faintly in his cheeks, his chest rising a little deeper, less frantic.
Hermione let out a shaky breath.
“Good. You’re doing really well. One more—this will help with shock.”
He obeyed, his trust in her immediate and solid.
After the third potion, the violent trembling eased. His fingers twitched against hers, not convulsively this time but deliberately searching.
Hermione laced her fingers through his.
He exhaled shakily. “You really did it.”
Tears rushed to her eyes. “Yes. And you’re safe now. I’m not letting anything happen to you.”
She cast a quick drying charm on the whole room, her magic practically leaping out of her in its attempt to be useful. She felt immediately warmer—her clothes were dry—and when she looked down at Regulus, his hair and clothes were dry as well.
But then, Hermione heard a soft groan. Kreacher.
Her head whipped around. The elf was curled where she had left him, eyes squinting open, face pinched with pain.
“Kreacher, no. Don’t move. Stay there, I’ll come to you—”
But Kreacher focused on her, then on the body lying beside her. His jaw dropped.
“Master—Master Regulus—” His voice cracked. “Miss Hermione… she… she succeeded—”
“Don’t speak,” Hermione said softly, rushing to his side. “You’re hurt and you need rest.”
“But Master Regulus—”
“He’s alive,” Hermione whispered. “He’s alive and he’s safe. Because of you. Now please, lie still. You’ve done more than enough.”
Kreacher’s wet eyes shifted to Regulus again, and something like peace settled over him. He nodded once, weakly, and slumped back, his breathing evening out.
Hermione gently carried him over to his bed in the corner, covering him with a nearby blanket, brushing a hand through the sparse grey hair. “Rest. I’ll look after him.”
When she walked back to where Regulus lay, unfortunately still on the kitchen floor, he was staring at her with bald admiration in his eyes.
“Let’s get you upstairs,” Hermione said quietly. “Somewhere more comfortable.”
Using a stretcher spell, Hermione levitated him upstairs to his room and placed him on the bed, the same bed she had been sleeping in. She transfigured his clothes into something more comfortable and then tucked him in carefully before dropping the spell, watching his body settle into the mattress.
It was incredible. He looked as if he hadn’t aged a day over seventeen, like time had frozen for him in that cave. But, more incredibly, he was here. He was alive. Hermione felt her shoulders relax for the first time in hours.
“Hermione,” he whispered. “You did it.”
Her pulse stuttered. “The ritual to bring you back. It was our soulmark.”
Slowly, shakily, he pushed the blanket aside and tugged the fabric of his trousers just enough to bare the inside of his left thigh.
The mark there—curved and spiraled in the same looping geometry that she’d traced in the ritual—shone faintly under his skin.
Hermione’s hand drifted to her own mark, hidden beneath her clothes, the exact same place, exact same shape.
Regulus’s eyes lifted to hers. Vulnerable. Uncertain. Hopeful in a way that broke her.
“It’s real,” he said softly.
Hermione nodded, tears slipping free. “It is.”
Regulus reached out slowly, as though every movement hurt, and brushed the back of his fingers against her wrist.
It was the barest touch.
And her heart ignited in her chest. Every nerve fluttered, crying out for more.
“Hermione,” he whispered, voice breaking, “you brought me back.”
She leaned in, forehead nearly touching his.
And whispered back:
“I wasn’t letting fate take you from me. Not when it gave me the proof that I was meant to do this. That you’re mine.”
Regulus’s hand trembled as he lifted it, fingertips brushing her cheek in a feather-light caress. Hermione leaned into it without hesitation.
“And you’re mine,” he murmured, voice still rough but steadier than before. “My brilliant, incredible soulmate.”
Her breath caught.
Warmth bloomed beneath her skin, flaring beneath her soulmark, spiraling outward until her whole body felt wrapped in light. The bond awoke between them at last, responding to his admission, their closeness. For the first time, she felt it: the soft tug of their souls aligning.
Regulus’s gaze softened. “No matter what we’ll face after this,” he whispered, “we’ll face it together.”
Hermione swallowed against the happy tears threatening to spill. “You’re not alone anymore,” she said. “You’ll never be alone again.”
He closed his eyes for a moment in relief so profound it seemed to lift some unseen weight from his shoulders. When he opened them again, the panic was gone. The confusion was gone.
Only trust remained.
She helped him sit up slowly, carefully, propping pillows behind his back so he could rest without straining. He winced a little but didn’t let go of her hand, thumb tracing shaky circles against her skin.
His breathing evened. His color improved little by little. The warmth of the potions settled through him.
Hermione brushed soft curls from his forehead. “You should sleep soon. Your body needs time.”
His lips curved faintly in a tired, amused smile. “I’ve been unconscious for nineteen years.”
“I meant real sleep,” she said, smiling despite the tears still drying on her cheeks. “Safe sleep.”
Regulus’s fingers tightened around hers. “Only if you stay here.”
“I will,” she said softly, squeezing his fingers in return. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She shifted to sit beside him on the edge of the bed, letting him rest his head lightly against her shoulder. His breathing slowed even more, deep and steady now.
“Your magic,” he murmured, almost dreamily, “it feels different up close.”
“Different?”
He exhaled, eyelids fluttering. “Like… home.”
Hermione felt something inside her click into place with a certainty she’d never experienced before.
She pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. “Rest, Regulus.”
His hand slid down her arm, finding her mark through the fabric on her thigh, thumb resting directly over it. The matching warmth pulsed beneath her skin.
“There’s so much to think about,” he murmured, voice frayed. “So much to fear, so much waiting for us out there.” He turned his face to hers, ember-brown eyes meeting hers directly. “But none of that matters as much as this. As you. I just—I just need you to know how ardently I love you.”
Hermione felt her breath catch. For once, she didn’t analyze or overthink, she just followed the pull in her chest. She cupped his face, gently brushing her thumb along the smooth line of his jaw.
“Regulus,” she whispered, “I love you. I love you too.”
Relief softened every line of his face. He let out a quiet sound, a sigh of gratitude and wonder, before his eyes finally closed. He melted into her, exhaustion winning at last.
She held him as he drifted into sleep, her fingers threaded through his hair, her heart beating in steady time with his. And whatever came next—Kreacher waking, Harry returning, the world realizing Regulus Black was alive—they would face it.
Together.