Metempsychosis

The battle was won. All was well.

That’s what everyone wanted Hermione Jean Granger to believe, that evil had been triumphed and everything was okay now. 

But Hermione was always one to draw her own conclusions. To her, the world was still in a pit, albeit a less dastardly one, but she felt like her brain couldn’t switch off the past. Couldn’t let go. 

And why shouldn’t it, she thought. People died.

People she loved had died, people that hadn’t deserved to be caught up in a war, people that were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, people trying to get out of the crossfire. 

A week after Voldemort had crumpled to the ground, every body that had fallen at Hogwarts had been buried, a mass cemetery that had to be hastily erected on the fenceline of Hogsmeade and the school. Headstones were huddled together, each inscribed with a name and a date, a little message that they were someone’s son, someone’s daughter. Just someone.

Looking at the cemetery had made the girl vomit, hurrying behind a tree as the bile couldn’t remain inside her unsettled stomach. Crouched behind the old oak, she choked down some air, trying to steady her breathing. 

Today wasn’t about her. It was about the Weasley’s. They were mourning their own losses.

Get it together, Hermione. You didn’t lose a brother or son. One voice in her head snapped. No, you just sent your parents away.

That little voice had existed for as long as she could remember, its sharp nails scratching under her skin, wanting to poke and prod until she cried. It was louder now, having reached its crescendo since the day she had sent her parents away. It laughed at her when the bouts of melancholy reached their own fever pitches, when she’d pretended to recheck the wards when they were hunting for horcruxes, when her tears would stream until she shook. 

Today’s not about you, she repeated in her head. Trying to get her breath under control, rubbing her face with the cuffs of her sleeves. You can mourn later. 

Brave Hermione. Sweet Hermione. Loving Hermione. All things that her mother would call her. The Hermione that had been named for the Greek maiden, the daughter of Helen. The girl whose mother had been swept away.

So put on a brave face she did, calm her mind, school her features until she couldn’t feel tears brimming anymore.

Standing up behind the tree, she smoothed the skirt of her black dress and stepped out to follow the red-headed family through the graves.

When Molly Weasley had wept until she was coughing, Arthur had given Hermione and Harry a nod to say that they could leave if they wished. Hermione gave him a tight-lipped smile in reply before turning for the gate. She knew Harry wouldn’t follow, too caught up in consoling Ron and Ginny.

It wasn’t that Hermione was heartless and couldn’t care. But her fears were creeping into her mind, like snags of a comb in her hair. She would much rather let her tears fall in isolation.

Arriving on the front step of Grimmauld Place, she braced herself for the onslaught of slurs hurled from the painting in the entryway. Thankfully, they were minimal before the curtain stuck back to the portrait.

Taking the stairs to the third floor, she entered the room that she’d occupied since the battle. It’s dark green bed drapings, and regal furniture now a little pock-marked with age. She wasn’t quite sure why it appealed to her, something about the somber colours soothing her, or whether it was because it had a window that overlooked the front stoop, where she could spy into the park across the road.

She hadn’t fully unpacked, most clothes still jumbled in the bottom of her little beaded bag. Harry and Ron had tried to convince her to empty the bag, that they could help her find places for all her books. It was sweet, really, sweet enough that she’d released a little sob. But the night they’d spoken about it, the nightmares that had plagued her since Malfoy Manor had intensified.

It was always of running, in the forest, whether it was the howling of Greyback the Abomination or Bellatrix’s deranged cackling and shouts of spells. She’d see a door up ahead, whether to her parent’s home, Grimmauld Place, the Burrow, her dormitory at school. It was always locked, no matter how much she shook it and threw herself against it. She’d turn back and scream, hand still clutching the door as a spell would strike her, or sharp rotten fangs would sink into her.

Her bag became a staple, an obsession, that she had to have within grasp at any moment of any day. Just in case.

It was today however, that she opened the wardrobe in the bedroom, hoping to find a book, a journal, anything to occupy her thoughts until the others returned. The doorknob was cold to the touch, a little lion etched into the brass. It was decidedly empty, apart from a large rectangular object at the back, obscured by a gauzy black cloth.

Wand armed in one hand, she pinched the fabric with her other, bracing herself for whatever this portrait might hurl at her.

It was quite anti-climactic then, when the painting was empty. Just a grey mottled background. She pulled the cloth completely free of the painting before sitting on the foot of the bed, watching the painting in the closet. 

“Come now, Hermione. That was quite silly.” It was easy to speak to oneself, especially as a way to abade the silence. She huffed out a little laugh at her own admonishment, before reaching into the depths of her bag, to pull out her own journal.

It had been an early birthday present from her parents, and she’d since filled it with endless writings, newspaper clippings, photos, any memories she’d squirreled away from her home, and anything that felt important. The spine was bowed, pages dogeared and torn from hasty flipping. Normally, she preserved books, keeping them pristine for others. But not this one, this was just for her and her alone. She’d enchanted it with as many privacy charms as possible to keep her sanctuary safe.

Flipping idly through the journal to find a blank page to scribble out her feelings, Hermione sighed.The day had just begun, it was barely ten, and yet, sleep was already wrapping itself around her like a shroud, squeezing her lungs enough to warrant yawns, and drooping eyelids enough that the world took on a haze.

Hermione wasn’t quite sure how long she had been asleep, only that she’d been graced with a blank sleep, no nightmares stressing her muscles. Stretching languidly, she rolled over on the cover, dress bunched awkwardly around her knees. Letting out a sigh, Hermione didn’t expect to be met with a response. Particularly the clearing of a throat. 

Eyes startling open, Hermione’s neck cracked as she checked the room in earnest before coming to still on the wardrobe. The one that sat opposite the bed. The wardrobe with its doors open. And the portrait of a decidedly frustrated young man glaring at her, his arms crossed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The portrait’s tone was snobbish, his nose raised as if in command. It was a strong nose, on a likewise strong face, with sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw.

From what Hermione knew, paintings were not able to harm someone physically, (emotionally, yes, that much was obvious from Walburga downstairs) so she raised an eyebrow in question at the boy. “Clearly, I have just woken up. What are you doing?”

“Wondering why there is a stranger in my bed.” His words were sharp, attempting to make her feel lesser. And yet, this boy reminded her so much of another young prince, a similarly poncey one.

“Well, I don’t think that’s very proper of you.” She tilted her head in question, “Watching a girl sleep, that is.”

She was met with a slight pinkening of his cheeks as his eyes dropped down, away from hers.

“You’re Regulus, right?” It was an obvious question, she knew of him, had read his spidery penmanship, and heard Sirius’ recounts of his brother. But the painting didn’t know that. Hell, she thought to herself, maybe this painting hasn’t spoken to anyone since he died.

“Yes.”

“I’m Hermione.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Right, okay. “Are rules of etiquette that different from the 70s to now?”

His head picked up, “What do you mean?”

Okay, so he probably hasn’t spoken to anyone.

“What year do you think it is, Regulus.”

His eyebrows drew together for a moment, “I believe it is 1978.” He recanted a moment later at Hermione’s little head shake, “It’s not?”

“Try 1998.”

“So who are you then? I don’t believe I would take a child bride.”

Her lips quivered at his disgust, a small laugh escaping. “No, child brides are still quite frowned upon. I’m…” Well, damn, how would you describe who she was? “Just a family friend.”

“And where am I?”

At least he didn’t beat around the bush. “Dead.”

“When?”

“About 1979.” Regulus’ eyes fell again, seeming to absorb the information. “You died trying to take down a Dark Lord if that helps.”

“It does not.”

Hermione pursed her lips, an apology on the tip of her tongue when he looked back at her.

“So what are you doing in my room, then?”

“Well um, that Dark Lord, you tried to defeat? Yeah, he only died last week. And Harry was left this house, and we didn’t really want to be alone.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re some bastard child of Sirius and his Lupin fellow.”

It was the first time she’d laughed in a while, listening to the scoff of this boy about his brother.

“No, Harry is Sirius’ godson.”

“And you’re his… girlfriend?” The word seemed to catch on his tongue, causing Hermione to laugh again.

“No, no. Gods, no. Think quote-unquote brother.” That seemed to pique his interest, as his eyebrows arched, a smirk tugging at his full lips.

“So no boyfriend?” His arms dropped as he moved forward in the painting, arm perching as if he was merely resting on a windowsill.

“No, Mr. Painting.” She tried to regulate her breathing, a stitch forming from Regulus’ almost heel-turn pivot.

“Hey, I happen to know a lot of people who fancied paintings.” It was a quick retort, filled with mirth.

“Oh yeah. Name one for me?” Hermione had rested back on her hands on the bed, feet dangling absently off the end. Regulus’ eyes darted around the painting before turning sheepish. “Besides, you’re like twenty years older than me.”

“And dead, apparently.”

“That doesn’t help.” She lifted her face towards the canopy of the bed, before snapping immediately down again. “Enough of that, what does one do as a painting all day.”

He hummed for a moment before starting, “Well, we don’t eat, so that’s out. My great uncle was very known for sleeping, but I don’t think to much about that. Mostly I just wander around the paintings in the attic that Cissa did.”

“Narcissa?”

“Yes, you know her?” A quick nod in response. “How is she?”

“Well, as good as you can be when your husband is sent to Azkaban and your house was overtaken by insane criminals.”

“So as regular as a Black can be?”

“I guess.” She could see it more, the similarities between Draco Malfoy and the painting: the pale skin, the steely grey eyes, the air of superiority and excellence. She couldn’t stop the question before it already left her mouth. “Is the story about the Black family madness true?”

If Regulus was taken aback, he didn’t show it, his posture still at ease against the frame. “Are you talking about Bellatrix?”

She nodded. 

“To an extent, I guess. Most say inbreeding caused it, but I turned out just fine and my parents are cousins.” He said it with that smirk still present, aiming to make her laugh. And it worked.

“What about your family? Surely, there’s a rogue Black that has married into it?”

Hermione looked away, the light-heartedness of the room dimming a little. It was nice while it lasted. A sigh left her lips before she responded. “No chance. I’m a muggle-born.”

It wasn’t that she wasn’t proud of who she was, because she was. But family still maintained a tenuous tightrope as a topic at current, leading her to cry quite easily. And all she wanted at the moment, was to not be thought of as anything other than a witch, free from the baggage.

“Hm.”

She looked back up, Regulus’ eyes roaming over her face. “Whatever you’re about to say about my parents, please don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

Hermione looked at him again, trying to judge if he was sincere or not.

“It’s not as big a deal as my family would have you believe. Plus my friend, Severus, he’s one of the most clever people I know, and he is absolutely obsessed with a muggleborn.”

She felt her breath deepen, feeling a little more settled in the moment.

“So long as you’re not a Hufflepuff or Gryffindor, you’re alright in my books.”

“Well…” His jaw dropped a little at her words, “Funny you should say that.”

And so Hermione Granger spent the rest of her afternoon and well into the evening in a way she’d never thought before. Talking to a painting. Of a long dead boy. Listening to him recount his tales of Hogwarts and adding her own. It was the longest she’d spent enjoying a conversation, devoid of mortal peril, for the majority of a year. By the time that exhaustion started to creep back into her bones, Hermione had changed into her pyjamas, and received a quick gasp from Regulus as he clasped a hand over his eyes as he cried “Scandalous”, before she bade him goodnight, and closed the wardrobe doors.