Canvas

Canvas-

12 Grimmauld Place is quiet this summer. There is none of the laughter that echoed through its hallways the last time she was here, none of the voices she remembers coming out to greet her. They are all gone, hiding away somewhere else, already planning the next move against Voldemort.

Hermione is not a part of these plans, though. She has come here to convalesce, to nurse the wounds and the heartbreak of last term's battle, to learn to live with the silence that saved her from falling to Dolohov's spell. They say she will be glad for the calm, that she can make a better recovery if she keeps to herself, out of danger and away from excitement.

An excuse. The Order wants to keep her here so they can keep an eye on her. The after-effects of the spell are dangerous; they do not know what she might do. The Dark magic is still within her, sharp and deadly; they cannot risk having her near anyone, and especially not near Harry.

She knows this, even if the rest of the Order thinks she doesn't.

She waves goodbye to her parents and looks around, watching the car drive off until it turns a corner and disappears. She has told them that this is a project she is undertaking for school, studying the history of the house, and they are satisfied. After all, it is the same lie she told them last year, and they were satisfied then, too.

When she turns back to face the houses of Grimmauld Place, Number 12 is steadily growing before her eyes, the steps unfurling from the darkness and windows blinking into existence.

The door is open, letting out a breath of fetid air, and Dumbledore stands, waiting for her.

'Good evening, Professor Dumbledore.'

'Welcome, Miss Granger.'

A pause in which he looks her over, his eyes lingering on her collar. She knows he is looking for the beginnings of the scar that marks her as another survivor, and she self-consciously pinches the top button of her shirt closed, not meeting his eyes.

'I have made arrangements with Poppy to visit you every morning. She will Floo here at ten and monitor your progress. I trust you will be able to look after the house and alert us if anything... strange... happens.'

'Yes, Professor.'

'Now come inside, child. You need to rest. No one will disturb you here,' Dumbledore says before Disapparating, leaving her alone in the doorway with her thoughts.

She steps into the house, so familiar, but feeling so different now, so empty and forlorn. Nothing has changed; everything is just as she remembers it, but the air around her is so cold, so cold and dead...

*

He laughs. He laughs and laughs until he cries, beating on the floors with his fists, his face hidden by his long black hair.

'You came back, Arachne,' he whispers. 'You came back.'

The wind blows him away.

*

She has a different room from the one she shared with Ginny last year. In this room, the curtains are emerald green and edged with silver, the bedspread emblazoned with an insignia of a serpent. Opposite the bed, there is a fireplace, connected to Hogwarts through the floo network. Madam Pomfrey comes through daily to check on her progress.

This is nothing but a gilded cage, she thinks, and gets rid of all the green and silver, stuffing the bedspread and the curtains into the back of a cupboard. She replaces them with white cotton and lace, a simple life for a simple girl. A simple life for a simple, very lonely girl.

A blank canvas hangs opposite her bed. She sits and stares at it, stares and waits for something to happen, for someone to come through and talk to her.

But even the portraits won't come.

*

The afternoon sun slants through the window, lighting up the gold thread on the tapestry. Hermione looks up, thinking how odd it is that she has never really looked at it until now. It has always hung there, and she vaguely remembers Harry saying something about it...

But all that, and Harry himself, suddenly seem a lifetime away. She rises from her chair, crosses the room, stands before the wall and looks down on the names. She tries not to look up, ignores the motto that is emblazoned across the top.

But she cannot ignore the way her stomach clenches when she reads it despite her vows not to.

Toujours Pur. Always Pure.

Generations of Blacks glare at her, their names standing defiant, etched in thread. But that is all that is left of them, thread on the tapestry and portraits in a dead house.

So much for that, she thinks contemptuously. All dead and gone...

Instinctively, she searches for Sirius on the tree. He does not appear; she already knew that he wouldn't, but still she wanted to know where he might have been if his name was still there. She finds the burn mark easily enough, follows the thread up and back down. She is drawn to the name, one that floats up from the recesses of her mind as a memory of a conversation held long ago.

Regulus Black.

Her eyes flicker over the letters and follow the tiny gold thread that is drawn between his name and another, a name with a date of death some sixteen years ago.

Arachne LeNoir.

She traces the names with a finger. They feel warm under her skin, almost as if the thread itself was charmed to react to human touch. A small spark jumps from the tapestry and to her fingers, making her draw back in alarm.

'Ow!'

She suddenly feels uneasy, almost as if there is someone watching her. She stands up, looks around; there is no one there, obviously, or she wouldn't have been so alone. The words on the tapestry glimmer, bright red and gold, and Hermione stares at them for a second, wondering, just a little bit scared.

But when she blinks, the words fade back to normal, and she dismisses it all as a trick of the dying sun.

*

She dreams of black hair, whipping about a pale and scared face. His features are soft and indistinct, but she can see fear, fear and bright green light reflected in his eyes. She reaches out, tries to catch him, but he still falls. She runs to the edge of the roof, runs to watch him, her legs pumping as fast as they can but she is going nowhere. Hands grab her, shake her hard, pull her back. She screams as she reaches for him, but it is already too late.

'Regulus!'

*

Hermione wakes up cold. She cannot stop shivering, despite the obvious heat of the day. She curls up in her blankets, mulls over the dream she had the night before. She has never had such a dream, and she thinks that perhaps it is just her fears, her loneliness eating away at her mind. Nightmares are to be expected in this house, after all.

Her chest hurts and absently she fingers the wound, feeling the scar tissue that has stretched over it, taught and waxy. The moment she touches it, though, she is shaken by the pain that rips through her. It is as if the pain is driving through her fingertips, reaching inside her; cast-iron bands squeeze her chest until she is breathless and her heart feels like it might burst under the pressure. She gasps for breath, throws her head back and lets her hands fall to her sides. It hurts so much, so much, so much...

Madam Pomfrey finds her like this, shaking in her sheets, a cold sweat dotting her skin. For a moment she thinks she sees a note of panic in the matron's face, but when she blinks, it is gone, only to be replaced by a firm, steely resolve.

'Albus thought this might happen,' Pomfrey says as she places a warm hand on Hermione's forehead. The pressure is comforting, but it doesn't make the pain stop, it doesn't help, it doesn't help at all...

Perhaps she is hallucinating, the pain too much for her mind to bear. But she is sure that when she glances at the canvas, there is a ghost of a face there, smiling at her.

*

He curls himself around her, grabs her arms and doesn't let go.

'Why didn't you save me?' he asks, and there is so much pain in his voice that she feels she might weep; angry tears slip down his cheeks. His eyes flash, a terrible, aching grey.

'Why, Arachne?'

She narrows her eyes at him, tries to push him away.

'I'm not... stop... STOP...'

He only holds her tighter, his fingernails digging into her skin so she yelps from the pain. And still, he doesn't let go...

*

The light brings with it discovery, nausea rising within her as she examines her arms and sees the bruises, five on each arm for each of the five fingers. When she looks at herself in the mirror, they stand out against the paleness of her skin, dark and ugly.

She doesn't know what to do. She thinks she should tell Madam Pomfrey, but balks at the idea; a sudden reluctance rises in her as she realises she is ashamed to admit that perhaps she cannot look after herself in an empty house.

No, she will not tell. After all, it was only a dream.

Only a dream where a dead Death Eater thought you were his wife, her mind chides her, but she silences the thought, swallows down her fear and laughs out loud at the absurdity of it all.

*

Night brings with it shadows and strange noises. Hermione lies silent, her hand curled firmly around her wand. The silhouette of an owl creeps across the ceiling, flapping its wings twice as it circles her bed.

As it dives down, she flinches, throws her arms over her face, then shakes her head in disgust at her own fear.

'Stop being stupid,' she says out loud, hoping that by sounding brave, she might actually feel it.

It doesn't work.

Her eyes stray across the walls of her room, over the mantel above the fireplace where she has arranged photographs of family and friends and towards the blank canvas. She tenses as she sees it, fully expecting to see something odd there, wondering if this is why she feels like she is being watched. After all, someone could easily be hiding in there...

But there is nothing. The portrait is as blank as it ever was, a stretch of white on white, the only thing to dart across it being a thin grey shadow as the clouds swim over the moon. Hermione exhales slowly, loosens her grip on the wand.

Just before she slips into sleep, though, she thinks she hears a voice blowing through the window.

Goodnight, Arachne.

*

He slides an arm around her from behind, buries his face in her hair. She can feel his breath on the back of her neck, light and cold, his lips brushing against her skin with the barest of touches. His fingers intertwine with hers, and she feels that familiar jolt pass through his skin into hers.

'I missed you,' he murmurs. 'I missed you, Arachne.'

She stiffens against him, tries to pull away. He laughs then, laughs softly and holds her closer, closer...

'We'll never be apart. I promise,' he whispers. She closes her eyes as she turns to him, feeling herself weakening with every small touch, every brush of skin on skin, every time he bites down on her lips and makes her bleed.

*

The pillow is dotted with blood and her lips feel sore. She stares into the mirror, hardly recognising the pale shadow that stares back at her, little flecks of dried blood at the corners of her mouth and her eyes ringed with purple.

What's happening to me? she wonders. Is this normal?

She doesn't think so.

Madam Pomfrey sits patiently as Hermione talks, tuts when she hears what happened. She applies a cool salve to Hermione's lips, making her sit up and turning her face this way and that as she checks for other injuries.

'I told Albus that keeping you here wouldn't do you any good. Imagine, a girl as young as you, having to live in this place... and everyone who's ever died in this house... no wonder you're having nightmares!'

Hermione simply nods. Nightmares. Just nightmares, she tells herself, but the thought is not in the least comforting.

*

She thinks this should be all right. She has the run of the house, the freedom to do what she wants. She can work all day, distract herself, tire herself out so at night she won't dream at all. As long as she doesn't think...

She has all the peace and quiet she needs to catch up with her reading and finish the homework set to her for the subjects she intends to take.

But there are only so many books one can read, so many times one can do their essays for class and redo them. She flips through the books, most of them on the Dark arts, putting them away when she has had enough of the gruesome illustrations or the various curses that could be performed against those of impure blood. She does her homework as she has always done, thoroughly, perhaps too thoroughly. She puts out an eight-foot essay to dry in the stale air of the library and thinks that Snape really can't find fault in her analysis of various Transformation potions.

She writes long and pointless letters to Viktor that she knows he will not reply because he is off in South America and too busy to pay attention to her. When they come back, unopened, she feeds them to the fire in the kitchen, watching the parchment crumple into ash.

She writes notes to Ron, but he too is quiet, simply sending back one-word answers to all her questions.

Yes. No. Fine.

Harry is only slightly better.

Hope you're well. I'm sorry.

There are only so many times one can pace the length of the hallway and wait for someone to come and talk to them. She passes portraits in the hallways and approaches them, thinking that they must know so much about the old house; perhaps they could have a discussion on old Wizarding traditions, and what they think of the developments in spellcasting from the time when they were alive.

Perhaps they could just tell her what the hell is going on, she'd settle for anything at this point. They must know, there's no way they couldn't...

But when they turn from her, glaring and muttering about dirty blood, she tries to make herself feel indifferent, tries to filter out the words and concentrates on the sound of their voices alone.

*

Hermione thinks she will be all right if she can make it through the day, the night, the long hours after Madam Pomfrey is gone. She talks to herself, tries to make it seem as if there are other people in the house.

This works for about five minutes.

She thinks she will be all right if she can just sleep.

This doesn't work at all.

*

He holds the wand tightly, facing her. His face is so blurry, as if there is fog between them.

'I'm sorry, Arachne.'

'But... but... you can't...'

He shakes his head, his mouth curving in a cold smile. The silver pendant at his neck shines, flashes in her eyes.

'You always liked your little games, didn't you, Arachne?'

He lunges towards her bringing his wand down in a sharp slashing motion. She does not here what he says, only feels the cold magic that slices through her like a blade. Blood gushes from her in fast, strong spurts and she puts her hands to herself, tries to stop the blood but to no avail. She looks into his face, sees his expression contorting, torn between regret and an eager finality. She feels the magic seeping through her, old and dark and deadly, feels her life bleeding away as she falls down, down, down...

*

She wakes up, safe in her bed. The wound across her body hurts horribly and even as she puts a hand to her chest she can feel the blood seeping through her nightdress, damp and sticky. The canvas has fallen from its hook, to the floor, and in the moonlight she can see bloodied handprints on it.

*

The potion makes her gag, tears slipping from her eyes as she tries not to throw it back up again. The slash on her chest throbs, edges burning for all of one second before they meld into her skin again, icy thread sewing her back together.

'I know it hurts, dear. It doesn't help that Albus insists on keeping you here, cooped up...'

But Hermione doesn't complain. Hermione is a good girl. Hermione is a good girl who drinks her potion on time and doesn't mind the pain, who lies back silently as Madam Pomfrey slips a hand under her shirt to check on the now healing wound.

'That was a horrible, horrible thing they did. I'm not surprised the wound opened again... there's Dark magic in your blood, and that's very difficult to cleanse. You're very lucky to have gotten out alive,' the matron clucks as she runs a finger over the scarring edges. Hermione nods, looks away.

Lucky to have gotten out alive.

The words echo long after Pomfrey has gone, a whisper that wraps itself around her heart like a cold cloak and refuses to be banished.

Lucky to have gotten out alive... will I get out of here alive at the end of the summer?

*

The house is a living, breathing memento of some life once lived, a life that haunts Hermione and invades her every conscious thought. Left on her own for most of the day, she cannot help but notice the doors that have closed themselves upon her, the books scattered in the library and the dirty firewhiskey in the bottle by the fireplace.

This was not here yesterday, she is sure of it. She fiddles with her fingers as she looks around, wondering if perhaps the wards were left down, if Madam Pomfrey might have been looking for something.

Or maybe she left it like this and completely forgot. She's been forgetting things lately, what book she read, which essay she's done. Yes, she must have left the library in a complete mess...

But she knows she is lying. She is sure that if anything, she didn't bring Firewhiskey of all things in here.

That's definitely very odd...

She finds herself toying with the idea of tasting the Firewhiskey, nights spent watching Sirius drink away everything that he thought was wrong with him all coming back to her. She thinks it might offer her a small respite from the questions and the confusing thoughts that assault her mind, even if she feels completely irresponsible for even thinking so. She picks up the bottle and uncorks it, sniffs it delicately. It is too strong for her. She pulls a face as the stench of alcohol assaults her, then quickly tips the bottle back, takes a small gulp that makes her sputter and throw the bottle away, leaving it to smash on the floor.

She hears someone laugh and turns around. There is no one there, just an empty portrait she doesn't remember seeing before.

A chair in front of a window with emerald green curtains.

She starts, then shakes her head. It is not that surprising to think that perhaps a portrait was once painted in the room she now occupies... perhaps it is not even her room after all.

She walks up to it, places her hand on the canvas.

'Hello?'

No answer. The curtains flutter in some unfelt wind, and the chair falls over. She steps away.

Get a grip on yourself, she thinks, or this house will drive you mad.

*

He whispers in her ear, trails a finger down the side of her face.

'Arachne... please... you're the only one who can help me...'

She sighs. 'Regulus...'

He presses his lips to the side of her neck. 'Arachne...'

She knows that this is not her name, that it belongs to some other girl. But she cannot remember... she cannot...it is hard to think when his lips meet hers and his hands trail over her skin, sending feverish chills through her... it is so hard to just think...

She turns to him, takes the book he offers from his hands. The moment she reaches out to touch him, though, he falls apart, sifts away into nothingness. She glances around, sees the dust flying back to the canvas and settling itself there.

He waves once, and is gone.

*

She succumbs. She looks for the book, recognises it immediately, lying on the floor of the library.

Incarnate: Death into Life

She dares to take it up with her, and goes to bed reading it. The pages stick together and she licks her fingers, carefully prises the paper apart. She cannot see, so she holds the book up to the candlelight to read the old text.

There are stains on these pages, dark and old and ugly, and spidery handwriting in the margins. Comments on each spell and technique used. The pictures in the book writhe before her, and she can feel the blood rushing to her face, her hands growing shaky as she traces the lines of words talking about rebirth, the spells of blood and bone, flesh and flame.

She knows she shouldn't. She knows she shouldn't. But with each word she feels the fire pulsing within her, each heartbeat laden with this new knowledge.

She knows she shouldn't. But she feels she must.

She knows she shouldn't. But she can't help it, can't help but read on.

*

Posession, she reads, by the spirits in a house is not uncommon.

'But I'm not possessed,' she says loudly. 'I am not possessed by anything or anyone...'

Am I?

*

She finds a photo of her second year that she had forgotten about wedged between her clothes. In it, she stands between Harry and Ron, laughing.

Ginny stands aside, staring at all of them, her face blank and pale, her hair falling limply on her shoulders. One hand is in her pocket. The other clutches a diary furiously, her knuckles a sharp white against the black leather.

A dull thud makes her whirl around. The blank canvas has fallen to the floor. She makes as if to pick it up, put it away, but as she does, she notices how her skin pales, almost as white as the canvas itself. She runs her fingers along the crack in the side of the frame, drops it as she notices her fingers blossom with red. She backs away from it, completely unsure of herself, watching as the canvas bleeds crimson into the carpet.

*

She stares in the mirror, watching the surface ripple and contort her features. He is standing behind her, his black hair weaving in with her brown curls.

When she blinks, her eyes turn from brown to blue to green to grey.

*

Hermione finds herself forgetting more than just books and essays now. She forgets to take her potion, forgets to eat or sleep. Madam Pomfrey chides her, gently reminds her that her well-being is necessary if she wishes to leave the house.

But the words are wasted on Hermione. The moment the emerald flames die away, she forgets what has been said.

She is scared the morning she wakes up and forgets where she is, where she's supposed to be. Green billows around her, green sheets and curtains and her hair is wrapped around her throat like a snake, nestling there.

*

Those who hang between the worlds of the Dead and the Living may be brought back through certain rituals, she reads. The transfer of blood on its own, however, is not enough. It requires will and desire, the Dead soul connected to the Living world by way of a willing intermediary.

The intermediary need not be human. The spirit of a witch or wizard residing in a Living body can suffice...

She inhales sharply, bites down on her lip until it bleeds.

I am not...I am not...

*

Phineas Nigellus returns to the house, the only one of the portraits who will talk to her. Or, rather, talk at her; he babbles in his frame, paying almost no attention to her as if she is nothing but an empty canvas, not worth being looked at. He calls to the other portraits in the house.

He calls to Sirius, Bellatrix, Narcissa, Andromeda.

No one answers.

Out of pity she steps towards his frame, looks up into the old man's wild face. He has changed so much since Sirius died. She thinks he may have gone mad, unable to deal with the end of the line of Black. Unable to deal with death, even if he is long dead himself.

'Mr. Nigellus?' she asks timidly. He smiles.

'Oh, Arachne.'

She stiffens.

'Arachne, go call Regulus for me. I wish to talk to him.'

Hermione feels herself going cold. 'What did you call me?'

'Arachne. You are Arachne, aren't you?'

She hears her voice coming as if from far, far away, her lips forming the word that she never meant to say.

'... Yes.'

*

She is bound with silence, floating through the house with no-one to anchor her down. He stands below her, calling to her anxiously.

'Save me, Arachne, save me!'

Before her eyes, he bursts into flame. His screams are horrendous and she tries to come down, tries to reach him. Her left arm is on fire... oh Merlin, it hurts, the flesh singing, dripping onto the floor like wax. She tries to control her arm, ignore the pain, claps a hand to his shoulder. He crumples like the parchment she threw away in the morning, ashes falling through the floorboards and leaving his bones, burnt bare.

*

Her face is smeared with ash and a sickening smell of charred flesh surrounds her. She picks herself up, coughing from the smoke that still lies heavy in the air. Her left arm throbs and when she rolls up her sleeve, she sees the burn, ugly, shaped like the Dark Mark. She stares at it in horror, already feeling the bile rising within her, burning her throat and forcing her to flee to the toilet.

What's happening to me? she wonders, hunched over the toilet bowl, retching violently. She grips the porcelain with trembling hands, watches her knuckles turn as white as the tiles she kneels upon.

I don't know, and I'm too afraid to ask.

*

She knows she should tell Madam Pomfrey about this.

She knows that the woman would simply not understand.

She knows that she is in trouble now, but perhaps, just perhaps... she doesn't want to stop. There is an illicit thrill in looking down at her arm and seeing the Mark etched there; she finds an odd pleasure in touching her fingers to the scar on her chest and pressing down until the wound fairly crackles with magic, splitting open with such pain that she passes out.

When she wakes, she laughs and wipes the blood away, but she cannot stop touching it for even a moment.

*

A letter arrives from Ron. She carefully unties the parchment from Pigwidgeon's leg, stares out the window as the small owl flies away. It feels odd under her fingers, thick and clean, so unlike the pages of the books she reads.

Her name is scribbled on the front.

Hermione

It looks odd to her, the handwriting all coarse and sloppy, not neat like spidery comments in the margins. Even the name seems wrong, her tongue slipping when she tries to say it, but unable to.

That evening, she adds another ball of parchment to the flames, watching as the blue ink melts into yellow, the letter crumbling into ash, still unopened.

*

'We haven't much time, Arachne.'

He tilts her face up to the light, kisses her softly. Immediately she feels the familiar tug on her heart, feels the current dance over her skin.

'What must I do?' she murmurs between kisses. 'What do you want me to do, Regulus?'

*

'Hermione?'

She doesn't answer. She pretends to be asleep, her eyes screwed up tight and her body curled into a foetal position. She feels the hand on her forehead, hears the harsh intake of breath, the feet scurrying away.

The moment she hears the floo flaring up, she knows she is alone. She throws off her sheets, falls to the floor. She feels weak, so terribly weak, but she knows there is work to be done, and that she is the only one who can do it. She must. His life depends on her...

She crawls across the room, uses the door to pull herself up, ignoring the sound of her breath, raspy and shallow, and the burning pain in her chest. She ignores everything but the face that has imprinted itself behind her eyelids and the voice from the canvas, telling her to hurry.

*

She sits in the library, fired up by feverish purpose, the book on her lap and a quill and parchment beside her. Her heart swells as she imagines a voice whispering in her ears, telling her what to do, and she imagines that perhaps she is in love with this voice, in love with the power that travels over her in its wake and the idea of grey eyes boring into hers.

She copies down the spell in the book, the process of incarnation. A delicate ink flower blooms from the tip of her quill, spreads over the parchment like spilt blood. She watches it travel through the paper, a spider's web of ink created from her words, trailing off the page and onto her skin, disappearing under her sleeves.

When she pushes her sleeves back, she can see her veins, almost see the blood itself pulsing beneath her translucent skin. And the Mark. Always there, shiny and raw and deliciously painful.

*

He is lost. He is lost and she cannot find him, she cannot see him in the thick jungle that surrounds her. She runs through the foliage, ignoring the way the branches tug at her hair and scratch at her skin, tearing her clothes to shreds.

Only when the jungle clears and she is left on barren land does she see him, standing, waiting, his face turned to the sky. His toes are dug firmly into the ground, dirt on his cheeks and in his hair.

A single rose blossoms from his tears.

*

She is ordered to take a turn outside in the garden, to get out of the stale air of the house. The sunlight hurts her eyes and burns her skin, and she hisses sharply, recoils from the bright light of day.

It seems like years since she has been outside, but it has only been about five weeks.

The garden is overgrown, tangled to a point where there is no definite path, just the skeletal remains of bushes that once lined a way through. Dead leaves litter the place like a rotten brown blanket and the trees all appear twisted and charred, the result of some long ago fire.

The garden may be dead, but Hermione thinks she can hear it breathing. It calls to her, tugging at her as if it were something alive and animate. She hesitates for a second, then closes her eyes, removes her shoes. She walks barefoot and blind, hearing the leaves crumble under her steps and letting the earth slip between her toes.

Come... let me show you...

The wind is warm, damp, like breath on her skin. She feels it curl about her, pressing up against her like arms around her neck, the faint ghost of a heartbeat sounding in her ears and a brush of petals against her lips. It leads her on, the voice beckoning to her, and she lets it sweep her away.

When she opens her eyes, she finds herself in a graveyard. Here, too, everything is old, charred, the dates obliterated off the stones. Rose petals are scattered all over, the only colour in this bleak world.

A skeleton lies at her feet, bones bleached white by the sun. Around its neck, a silver R glitters.

*

The Mark glows in the moonlight, scarred skin raised and ugly against the rest of her pale arm. She raises the knife, traces the lines that make up the skull, the snake. It is easy to follow now, easy to follow the lines cut into her skin for her, easy to ignore the sharp sting of the blade cutting into her flesh and instead concentrate on how the blood oozes out in droplets, clumping together and trickling down her arm.

It drips onto the canvas, spreads and disappears.

He kisses her arm, then presses his bloody lips to hers. She can taste herself, running through him, and it makes her shiver in delight.

'Almost there...'

*

She is not surprised when she wakes up to find him staring at her from the canvas. He is a smudge, dirty brown with charred edges, his skin not quite whole.

Blood still drips from her arm, drips onto the green sheets and pools there. She rubs her fingers in the wound, watching them come away red; she walks over to his portrait and presses her fingers to his lips, watching him become clearer as he feeds off her blood.

When he breathes, she can hear the rattle of air against cloth, feel the wind blow against her hand, and she smiles.

*

He carries her upstairs, his feet silent and light but his breathing coming in loud gasps. She clings to him, one arm curled around his neck, the other playing with the silver 'R' he wears.

But there are no more stairs to climb now, nowhere else to go. He crosses the landing, ignoring the first two doors, stopping before the third to put her down. She still holds on to him, though, lets herself lie back against his chest as he takes her hand, draws their initials in the dust. An R and an A.

Her breath hitches in her chest as she feels his hands wandering down and slipping under her shirt. He turns her around and kisses her, hard and hungry and urgent; he tastes of salt and dust and anticipation.

*

One... two... three...

She counts the steps on her way up, her hollow footsteps ticking away the time. She carries the canvas under her arm, wrapped carefully in old newsprint so that the portrait does not bleed away. Rat bones crunch under her feet as she walks. She thinks she should be scared of the sudden sounds, should be disgusted with the mess of bones and blood and fur, but she only feels excitement, rushing through her and settling in the scars on her chest and arm.

One... two... three...

Three doors, set into the wall. Three nameplates, tarnished by time, the names all but obliterated from the silver. The first door is ajar, revealing a bare floor, shoes strewn about, sheets trailing from the bed. The middle one has claw marks etched firmly into the wood, and the trail of rats' remains leads into it.

The third is plain and coated with dust. She squints, comes closer; a ghostly R appears, brown on brown so it can barely be seen. Next to it, an A.

So this is the place.

There is something in the air about here, something that crackles almost audibly over the sound of her feet dragging on the floorboards. It tugs at Hermione, almost as if cold fingers were reaching into her through the slash on her chest and forcing her to move closer to the door. She places a hand on the door knob, takes a deep breath.

The floo flares from downstairs, a whoosh that travels through the still air and blows against her cheek, reminding her of where she is supposed to be.

She doesn't care. She turns the knob and steps inside.

*

He lies on top of her, kissing her feverish skin. Brows, nose, lips, the hollow of her throat. She feels the silver around his neck pressing into her skin, embedding itself and leaving his initial on her, his brand.

She is his now.

She gasps as he flicks his tongue against her pulse, his hands moving down, touching touching touching, her body arching upwards as he kisses the scar on her chest.

'Please... Regulus...' she pants, pulling his face up to hers, kissing him forcefully. He moans in her mouth, sending shivers through her. His hand brushes against the Mark on her arm, her hand grips his.

'I love you so much... so... much,' he groans.

The circle is complete. She tastes blood in her mouth, blood and sweat and tears as they move frantically against each other, made one by magic, made one by love. She feels that she will die if he moves away from her, she will die, she will die...

*

Hermione wakes up to a world that is flooded with overwhelming light. The air feels heavy, almost too hard to breathe. When she tries to stretch her arms, she can't; she is paralysed, unable to move at all, unable to say or do anything. She tries to blink the haze from her eyes, swallows the first dredges of panic rising within her as she looks around.

The room is quiet and still before her. Black curtains hang limply at the window, and spiders swing their cobwebs from the rail to the large grandfather clock standing in the corner. The walls are grimy, old handprints peeking out from under layers of dirt smeared against the paint.

Right in the center of the room, there is a bed. Black sheets trail on the floor, and a pale body nestles within them. Hair falls over his face, black and silky like the sheets he sleeps upon. He is breathtakingly beautiful; his skin is white, so translucent that she can see the veins in his eyelids and the lines of his lips; his features typically Black, haughty and handsome.

Almost as if he has sensed her looking, he stirs, opens grey eyes. He sits up in the bed, his face one of childlike excitement as he looks down at himself, at his arms and legs, as he runs his fingers over his skin in true awe. He wears nothing but the silver pendant around his neck and his skin is clean, unmarred, as smooth as that of a newborn child. He raises his left arm to the light, inspects every inch of his forearm, the corners of his lips turning up in a smile as he finds nothing there.

And then, he looks at her.

Hermione holds her breath as she sees the light in his eyes, the wonder in his face suddenly replaced by arrogance. A sneer twists his smile and his laugh is loud and harsh and cruel. She stares at him, feels her heart sink as he swings himself out of bed and swaggers over to her, his naked feet silent on the floorboards.

'I suppose I should thank you.'

She tries to nod, tries to say something. She opens her mouth but nothing comes out. He laughs at this, and Hermione feels her puzzlement giving way to shock as she tries to reach for him, but fails to move even an inch. She doesn't understand why he is laughing, doesn't understand why she can't move, doesn't understand what is happening...

'Oh, Arachne, don't you understand? You left me to die that time. It's time for me to return the favour.'

Suddenly Hermione is horribly aware of what is happening, horribly aware that she has simply been stupid, led to believe that perhaps she was... no...

Don't you do this to me, Regulus... please...no...

He only smiles.

'You bastard! I... I believed you! I even thought... I loved you, and this is what you do?' And this time, it is Hermione talking, Hermione who speaks of her own accord, forcing the words through her stiff lips.

'Love? What's that? It's just a pretty word, isn't it, a pretty word that means absolutely nothing.'

'But... but... I'm not her!'

He laughs. 'I know you aren't,' he says quietly, 'but it was easy enough for you to believe that you might be. Easy enough for me to share what I remembered of her with you.'

'But... but why... why did you...' and her words freeze up again; it's getting harder and harder to speak, to breathe, to do anything...

'Why did I trick you? Because I hated her. She killed me, you know.' For a second, Hermione thinks she hears a note of remorse in his voice, the high-pitched crack that reveals some sort of sorrow. 'I have lived in this house for years, trapped in that canvas... no, not a memory, but actual flesh and blood. A portrait of a dying man. My last spell was on that canvas... I let myself bleed into it to keep myself from truly dying. My body rotted in the garden; I lived as a spirit in a blank portrait. I thought I was lost, though... no one would ever want to bring me back, no one would care enough. But when I saw you... I saw her. I saw a chance to come back. And you were powerful... tainted, yes, but powerful. Powerful enough that your blood could revive what was left of me.'

Hermione is left reeling by his statement, unable to wrap her mind around the details. Unable to understand how she could have been so stupid to actually believe she was... so, so stupid... so, so blind...

'It was easy enough to get inside your mind. You were already open to Dark magic...'

He reaches out to her, makes a quick slashing movement with his finger. Hermione shudders, feels a dull burn make its way across her skin.

'You have to understand... this was my only chance at coming back. I pity you girl, I pity you, but I will not let my pity be the death of me again.'

The words seem to bleed from her, coming in a slow stiff whisper.

'But... what happens... now?'

Regulus sighs, his mouth settling in a thin, hard line. He turns on his heel and picks up a mirror from the floor. He holds it up, and this time, Hermione does scream, feels her heartbeat race, go impossibly fast until it is as if her heart could explode, feels her blood bubble over and course down her cheeks with the tears that threaten to leave her blind.

In the mirror, she sees her face, a painted mask settled in a fast-fading portrait.

*

fin

*