Summary: After the war, Hermione receives peculiar visitations from a boy that only she, and baby Teddy, can see; a Post-War tale in three parts.
Blanket Disclaimer: I gain and own nothing but satisfaction and maybe a few reviews.
A/N – lyrics from 'Goodbye My Lover' by James Blunt.

"behold, a hero's grave"
- PART I -
I am a dreamer and when I wake,
You can't break my spirit - it's my dreams you take.

||1||

For the fourth time in a week, Hermione woke in a cold sweat, flailing against her bed sheets in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. With a violent tug, she ended the tussle and fell out of the bed, landing heavily on the floor. She groaned, but didn't move for a few minutes, waiting instead for her breathing to ease back into regularity. Climbing to her feet, she pushed the bushy hair from her eyes and rubbed her hands over her face. The night visions were getting worse.

Harry had fulfilled the prophecy almost five months ago, defeating Voldemort for the final time and ending his reign of terror for good, but the suffering was yet to ease. Too many good people – innocent men, women and children – had been murdered unmercifully and that weight fell heavily upon the shoulders of the living. Harry had been nigh inconsolable for the first two weeks, until Andromeda Tonks brought forth her Black heritage and gave him a stern lecture based mostly on Teddy's well-being (decidedly not Black in nature, but then she always had been a black sheep) and forced him back into the real world where people he cared about were in greater need than those who had already fallen and were at peace amongst the Dead. As a result, Harry had immersed himself into his Godfather duties, taking on the role of pseudo-parent so adeptly that Teddy's normally blue hair now had a tendency to paint itself black as night while his eyes flashed emerald green.

For her own sanity, Hermione had enveloped herself in the reconstruction of Wizarding Britain, as well as that of the muggle disaster zones caught in the midst of the war. Anything to keep her mind off the deaths of so many she knew and loved. But even now, with nearly half a year gone by, the pain arose at times unexpected and she would have to fight to hold back tears. Usually it was when she saw George, because she knew now that she could never be mistaken in which twin had arrived, but just as often, if she let her mind wander, she'd remember scenes from their earlier years and accidentally recall the face of a fallen student, like Colin Creevey, or a teacher, like Professor Lupin.

Unfortunately, despite her attempts to control her world during the daylight hours, sleep proved difficult. Nightmares were vivid, dreams were hazy and filled with faces she'd never see again, and, on occasion, faces she'd never had the chance to see in life. Dreamless Sleep worked sometimes, but she was loath to rely on it too much, lest its addictive nature take hold of her.

Heaving herself up from the floor and out of her thoughts, Hermione padded quietly to the bathroom and turned on the shower, desperate to clear her head. "It's no good thinking of things that can't be changed," she murmured to her reflection in the plain muggle mirror on the vanity as she had so many times in the last few months, taking in the baggy eyes and dull pallor of her skin.

What hadn't happened the last hundred times was the snide male drawl of, "Oh, take your own advice already and start thinking about things that can be," coming from over her shoulder.

Hermione screamed like a banshee.

Spinning around, she grabbed the closest available weapon – a hairbrush – and planted her feet in a defensive stance.

Bollocks. Oh well, you play with what your dealt, and all that, she thought as her fingers wrapped around the slender neck of the brush handle.

She clutched it tightly, and in her a fighting pose observed the owner of the voice as he sat unconcerned on the closed toilet seat, a thoroughly irritating expression of disdain firmly in place on his patrician face.

"Who the bloody hell are you, and how did you get inside this house?" she demanded angrily, wishing desperately that she'd been paranoid enough to bring her wand into the bathroom.

The boy had dark wavy hair, the silken locks reminding her glaringly of Sirius Black (whose house Grimmauld Place had once been) tied back at the nape of his neck in a rather old-fashioned way, grey-green eyes staring while one sculpted eyebrow curved mockingly at her.

"Talk! Or I'll-"

"What? Throw the hairbrush at me?" he interrupted patronisingly with a drawl that sounded all too much like Lucius Malfoy. She almost shuddered, but her indignant feeling beat it down and she scowled instead.

"Who are you?" she demanded shrilly, rearranging her hold on the brush for quick release should she need to throw it.

"Honestly," the boy sniffed disdainfully, "they call you the brightest witch of your generation and you can't even recognise the one person that saved all your souls from Lord Voldemort by delivering the Light the sole path to his downfall!"

Hermione was perplexed, her eyes wide as he rebuffed her haughtily.

They glared at one another.

"Professor Snape?" she ventured tentatively, disbelievingly, after a minute's silence, loosening her grip on the wooden brush handle, but the boy's face grew even more disgusted.

"No! Not Severus-bloody-Snape, you stupid witch," he denied crossly, managing to look impressive despite his position atop the loo. "Regulus Arcturus Black!"

The petite brunette gaped at him for several long seconds, taking in the now so obvious Black cheekbones that had made post-Azkaban Sirius appear so gaunt; the grey-green eyes she remembered seeing in photos from the deceased boy's room upstairs; and the hair that wouldn't have been out of place on Sirius' own head.

Speaking of heads…

In a movement faster than even she'd expected, her hand had flung the brush right at Regulus' head, and it was only the boy's childhood of playing Quidditch that saved him from collecting it right in the centre of his forehead. He dived awkwardly out of the way, falling between the toilet and the bath, and when he righted himself his glare would have turned boiling water to ice.

"What the hell was that?" Regulus growled at Hermione.

"Erm, sorry, I was just trying to see if you were, well, solid. Really there," she explained meekly, still seeming a little shocked as she stood leaning against the vanity in her pyjamas.

"And you couldn't have asked?" he commented irately, folding his arms across his chest. "No, throw the hard, wooden object at the boy who is sitting down, defenceless!"

Hermione looked abashed, but pushed on: "Are you…?"

"Am I what?" Regulus snapped, still focused on his own tirade.

"Solid."

He frowned.

"Well, I'd like to see if I could throttle you after that little fit, but I don't think so. Anyway, it's entirely beside the point," he argued as she opened her mouth to speak. "You threw it at my head, and if I had been solid it would have hurt."

He was pouting at her, just like Teddy always did when it was time to go to bed.

It was too bizarre.

"Urgh! What is going on?" Hermione exploded, slapping a hand over her eyes. "I'm talking to a dead man in my bathroom."

"Not your bathroom; this is Black property," Regulus interjected. "But as for the 'dead man', can't argue that. You must be crazy."

His voice had changed from disdainful and irate to a gay lilt that irked Hermione more than his superiority complex. She turned about face, intent on ignoring him for the moment and stomped out of the now very steamy bathroom to collect her change of clothes. Ripping a pair of shorts and a tank top blindly out of the drawers followed by underwear, she dumped them on the tiles and had anticipated rounding on Regulus to herd him out, but the space he'd filled only seconds earlier was empty.

"Regulus?" she called, her sharp voice breaking through the silence of the house. There was nothing; not a sound besides Crookshanks mewling questioningly at her from the bed.

Shaking her head in confusion she murmured, "I really need to get more sleep at night," before finally getting into her shower, sighing blissfully as the jets of water hit her skin, determinedly putting the strange hallucination she'd just experienced out of her mind.

||2||

The day passed like any other Friday, with Hermione skipping lunch to ensure that a piece of late paperwork that was supposed to have been completed by one of her co-workers was finished and sent off to the required Head of Department.

It had been relatively quiet, with only three people in the office, but then again Fridays were usually when people slowed to a halt, readying themselves for a weekend of relaxation – that is, if their name was anything other than Hermione Granger; she preferred to go out into the muggle world and volunteer at the various areas that had been (unknowingly) affected by the late Wizarding war – rebuilding parks among other things, seeing as living in Britain meant that actual construction was left to the professionals and their mighty machines.

Stacking her completed documents into a pile, Hermione gathered them to her chest after collecting her purse, intending to drop them off at their various resting places on her way home. The pile was so huge she couldn't see over it, but was grateful to glimpse a figure appear by the door.

"Excuse me, would you mind opening the door for me?" she asked politely, but there was neither an answer nor movement.

"Hermione? Who are you talking to?" her colleague, Penelope Pucey, seated several desks away on the other side of the room spoke up sounding baffled.

Turning more fully to face the unhelpful figure by the door, Hermione gasped and almost lost her hold on the pile of papers.

Regulus Black stood there, as clear as day to her, with arms folded and a rakish smirk on his handsome face.

"I can't open doors. I'm not solid, remember?" he reminded her casually, looking over her shoulder at Penelope, who was either a brilliant actress, or (more likely) couldn't see the six foot spectre hovering near the door with a lecherous spark in his eye as he ogled her tight fitting work dress. The Pucey family were well known for their consistent production of children that could've given Mary Poppins a run for her money; practically perfect in every way, indeed! But it was hard for Hermione to detest someone so polite and friendly for something as petty as looking faultlessly pretty every day, so she'd just focused on the work Penny did instead and found that she quite liked her.

"Hermione?" Penny called again worriedly, moving to stand up.

"Nobody- nothing; don't worry, Penny," Hermione said quickly, waving her back down. "It was just a trick of the light. I could have sworn I saw somebody, but anyway, I'll see you on Monday."

With an awkward wave and an even more awkward opening of the door, Hermione disappeared into the hallway, not bothering to see if her dead guest had followed. She didn't have to worry.

"So, Hermione," the image of Regulus said, elongating her newly discovered name annoyingly. "It seems you're seeing dead people. By which I mean yours truly, here."

"You think?" she snapped waspishly, shoving a stash of papers through one pigeon hole.

What in the bloody-blazing-hell was going on? The only dead people she should be seeing were ghosts, or visitors in her sleep, and Regulus Black was neither, however adamant he appeared about auditioning for a lead role in her nightmares.

"Oh, I know," Regulus confirmed with a smile, "because I spent quite a long time in the In-Between before coming back here as an angel to get my dues."

Hermione goggled at him for a full five seconds before bursting into laughter.

"An angel? You? What a complete load of nonsense!" she scoffed disbelievingly.

He was no longer smiling, but glowering at her, his eyes stormy. "Quiet, witch; there are things bigger than what the living human mind can conjure at work here."

"Sounds more like the work of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes to me."

"You would do well to listen, rather than shun."

"What? I'm supposed to just take it all in good faith that you're a bloody angel? That's rubbish. More like, Regulus, my missing lunch has brought on hallucinations, and the stupid sleep deprivation is finally getting to me. I don't belie-"

"Enough."

His voice was powerful and edgy as it interrupted her spiel, and if that hadn't been enough to silence her, the bright flash of lightening that erupted inside the hallway with a silent sensation of thunder certainly was. Gobsmacked, Hermione staggered back against the wall as the flash of white revealed a pair of black feathered wings extending from his shoulder blades out across the beige walls and ceiling of the Ministry.

He was beautiful and hideous all at once, and Hermione pressed herself as far away as she could with the wall behind her as the pressure in the air around her climbed. A split second later, the light had vanished and Regulus looked just like any other seventeen year old pureblood boy, standing in his fine black robes in the centre of the hallway with bright eyes trained on her gently trembling figure.

"Do you believe me now?"

Hermione nodded weakly, unable to find her voice.

"Good," he breathed. "Now, get a move on. I'd like to go home, if you wouldn't mind."

Hermione had scrambled to finish up after that demonstration, nervously exiting the Ministry via floo and stumbling into Grimmauld Place with a definite intention to down at least half a bottle of Ogden's – and get some answers while she was at it. The sheer awe that had flowed out of Regulus during his display of power had shaken her dreadfully – after all, it wasn't everyday an angel presented itself to the lesser being and then decided to give a show (even if she was Hermione Granger, best friend to Harry Potter – the Boy Who Lived – and had endured all manner of unbelievable quests).

Yet, on arrival, she found that Regulus had vanished. Again.

For an absurd second she thought maybe he'd missed the floo and she'd left him stranded in the Ministry, but she shook her head chiding herself softly – he was an angel, it wouldn't be nearly so simple to get rid of him (that was from an entirely objective perspective, she assured herself, just in case anybody was listening).

Instead of waiting to pair her drinking with answers, Hermione summoned a bottle and tumbler and, after the first reassuring gulp, proceeded to get totally bungalow'd.

||3||

There was a large field, and in it were hundreds of garden gnomes milling about while they whistled and sang, bizarrely enough, the working song from the Disney film Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. When they turned around she was startled to see Fred Weasley's face staring back at her from each and every one. Looking down she realised that she was riding a pink unicorn that had two heads with familiar twinkling eyes that spoke to her in Dumbledore's calm, clear voice as she dismounted.

"Nobody is born evil," she was told gravely, before the unicorn began reciting poetry by Thomas Hardy. "They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest Uncoffined – just as found…."

She knew it quite well; the poem was titled 'Drummer Hodge', and it painted an image of the Boer War, Drummer Hodge being a young casualty of the horrors faced there. Drummers were usually young, probably a similar age to herself when she had fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, but Hodge's final resting place, unlike those who fell during the Wizarding War, was an unmarked grave in a strange setting, far from home and forgotten. It was a humbling poem.

The unicorn started to trot away towards a large oak tree, calling out her name; "Hermione…Hermione…Hermione."

With a sudden jolt, Hermione's eyes flew open, the field of Fred-faced gnomes and unicorn vanishing into a hazy memory like all dreams eventually do upon waking. A dark, scruffy-haired young man with sparkling green eyes crouched in front of her in the dim light. It was morning, but the curtains of the sitting room remained drawn.

"Harry!" Hermione cried, her sleepy brain catching up to events. "What are you doing here? What's go-"

She stopped abruptly as she swung herself into a standing position. The result of her drinking episode the night before had arrived. A stale taste in her mouth, sore eyes and a headache that rivalled any exam-stress she'd ever felt made her distinctly queasy.

"Are you alright?" Harry, ever concerned for his sister-like best friend, asked worriedly.

"Peachy," she replied faintly. And this was why she rarely ingested alcohol. Damn that blasted Regulus, angel or no! Her foot knocked over the tumbler and Harry's eyes widened in realisation of exactly how much she must have drunk as two further bottles – both empty – clinked against one another.

"What on ear- Hermione? Did you get sacked or something?" he asked, genuinely at a loss to understand why his normally conservative and sensible friend had done something so utterly and unfathomably out of character.

"No, it's fine really. Just had a bit of a craving is all…" she trailed off when Harry's brow raised disbelievingly. "I didn't get sacked! Everything is fine," she defended herself, before throwing in her trump card – she knew Harry wouldn't harp after this, though that didn't assuage any of the guilt she felt in using it (though to be fair, she had started to reminisce tearily before she'd passed out), "I just got caught up in memories…"

He swallowed thickly and nodded in understanding and wrapped her up in a comforting hug. Unfortunately, Hungover Hermione couldn't take the added pressure against her stomach and gagged; pulling away, she darted to the bathroom and, with aim an Olympic archer would have been proud of, projectile vomited into the toilet without any mess reaching the tiled floor.

"Charming," Harry commented drily, a hint of sadness still in his voice, as he followed her in, pulling her hair back out of her face. "I think one bottle might have been enough, Hermione."

As she retched up everything she'd ever eaten or drunk, Hermione considered telling Harry about the here-again-gone-again apparition of Regulus – after all, Harry had rather an inordinate amount of experience in dealing with the dead and their forms of spectral appearances.

Being the Boy Who Lived had provided him with all sorts of strange and wonderful and dangerous adventures; and being the Master of Death, well, that had been something of a mystery to everyone in the end, but it had saved him in the Battle and had brought him face to face with a multitude of spirits.

Yet she couldn't bring herself to tell him.

Regulus was an enigma. Sirius long-dead younger brother, the one who hadn't been bold enough to run away from his family and everything he'd ever known; who hadn't spat out the silver spoon that poisoned him blood prejudice every day of his life; who had become a Death Eater at the tender age of seventeen, before falling far too deep and becoming entangled in Lord Voldemort's final attempt at immortality: the Horcruxes.

Hermione made the decision as she wiped away spittle from the corner of her mouth with a damp towel that Harry handed her to keep mum on the subject, at least until she had a fuller idea of what the stupidly stunning angel wanted from her, and why she was the only one who could see him.

"Feel better?" Harry asked as she got to her feet.

"Loads."

"Brilliant. Anyway, I just popped in to say that I was thinking of bringing Teddy over today for a little bit of a play – Andromeda's extended her holiday for another month – and you know how much Teds loves this place – the weird child," he remarked fondly.

"Oh, sure," Hermione responded brightly, "bring him over, but just let me clear things up – won't take a second."

Indeed, magic shortened mundane household tasks into bare minutes, and ten minutes later Teddy Remus Lupin with a mop of unruly black hair and bright green eyes was deposited into Hermione's welcoming arms with a happy smile. She cuddled him close, cooing and smiling at the darling child. He might have been an orphan but between his adoptive families (comprising mostly of the many branches of the Weasley tree and his grandmother and godfather) he would have plenty of love to share.

Wrapping pudgy fingers into Hermione's bushy curls was a favourite pastime (hence Crookshanks' tendency to hide during visits from Harry and co.), and true to form, within three minutes the young metamorphmagus latched onto her hair and was yanking gleefully while Hermione and Harry tried to pry his little hands off the errant brown curl.

"Ow, ow, ow, Teddy, please let go of My-My's hair," Hermione was pleading in a pained voice, using the name that he called her in his baby gurgle, but the boy ignored her wilfully.

"Come on Teds," Harry tried, "I'll find you Crackles."

Crackles was his favourite plaything; a plush dog toy that Hermione had altered ever so slightly to make it resemble a Crup (in other words she'd given it a forked tail, which was really the extent of her sewing talents, with or without magic). But not even the offer of his favourite toy would encourage the baby to release her hair.

"Well, the entertainment in this place has certainly gotten better," a silken voice noted idly, causing Hermione to wrench her head around in shock, and Teddy to tighten his grip, leaving a reasonable chunk of hair clutched in tiny fingers.

"Bloody hell, Hermione!" Harry exclaimed as he stared at the prize in the young metamorphmagus' hand. Neither she nor Teddy noticed however, because both had their attention focused unwaveringly on the striking figure of Regulus, perched carelessly in one of the large Louis XVI chairs, a forefinger resting lazily against his temple as he observed them all with an air of aloofness.

Evidently, Harry couldn't see him, because he was still fixated on the clump of hair the combination of Teddy and Regulus had ripped from Hermione's skull: "That's a fair chunk of hair!" he expounded, before a proud sort of look took over and he added, "A Quidditch player in the making, I'm sure of it."

Hermione, who until then had been staring rather obviously at the self-proclaimed angel, looked down at Teddy's clenched fingers and realised, with some surprise, that Teddy was looking straight at Regulus, an interested sparkle in his eyes.

Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would have said.

"Hermione?" Harry's voice snapped her out of her reverie, and she registered how much pain was erupting on her scalp.

"Owwwww," she groaned, wincing sharply as she ran a hand over her head, choosing to ignore the new arrival in lieu of more important things. Like finding a hair tie so Teddy couldn't get a purchase on her head. Unfortunately, Regulus had other ideas.

"You know, you really should look after your hair better," he noted casually as she passed Teddy back to the Boy Who Lived.

"I'm just going to find a tie, Harry," she said more shrilly than strictly necessary, and ran out of the room and up the stairs to the bathroom, "Won't be a moment!"

Regulus tailed her.

"Honestly, a babe shouldn't be able to just rip it out like that," he continued as she threw drawers open in her search.

"He didn't; you scared the living daylights out of me and I started!" She growled, finding what she was looking for and gathering her bushy hair into a bun before securing it in place. "What do you want?"

She was standing defiantly and proudly before him, arms akimbo, and Regulus found that he much preferred this feisty character to the one from the Ministry that he'd frightened into submission with his angelic Presence. "I want a lot of things, darling," he said loftily, "but right now? I'd probably say sex."

"Urgh! You're infuriating!" Hermione said, somewhere between exasperation and despair.

"Relax, woman," he placated half-heartedly. "If you must know, I'm here on unfinished business. It's the vocation of angels."

Hermione leaned against the sink. "You know, I still have no idea what angels are supposed to be; I mean, they've never been mentioned in any of the books I've read," she informed the hologram.

Regulus buffed his nails on the lapel of his robes. "That's because they're barely folk-lore. Purebloods are the ones who passed the stories down, and I'm pretty sure everybody else believes them to be a myth. Mother certainly did," he recalled in fond distaste. "And now I am one of the bloody things."

"Do you know why?"

Regulus looked at her with absolute incomprehension. "Are you listening to a word I say? I just explained it," he griped.

Hermione scowled. "Remind me."

"Angels only pass on when their business is complete; when their human life is fulfilled," he said slowly. "Clearly, I'm still waiting for that fulfilment. Now, we'd best be getting back to four-eyes downstairs before he comes up here and discovers you're the crazy cat lady you've been threatening to turn into your whole life."

Hermione glared at the name he'd called Harry, ignored the taunts directed at herself, but acquiesced to his suggestion, slipping out of the room and descending to the ground floor to find Harry gazing at Teddy with a small frown.

"Hey, Hermione, who do we know with grey-green eyes?" he asked, confused, "Teddy's just changed his completely out of the blue. He normally has to be mimicking someone to change eye colour."

"Mine, clearly," Regulus said snootily, "He's got good taste. Black taste, even."

'Well, my best bet is the dead guy hanging around the room with us. He's Teddy's cousin once removed, and a real snide bastard to boot!' was what Hermione wanted to say.

Instead, she offered, "I've no idea, maybe he's started experimenting," and tried not to glare at the angel as she feigned a moment's thought before suggesting: "Of course, it could be their natural colour."

Placing the child on the floor with a shrug, Harry put the tea on and the two teenagers settled down to chat (Hermione trying her damnedest to ignore the irritating, cocky angel staring at her) while Teddy occupied himself with a teething ring as he lay on his tummy and practiced his breaststroke kick.

"How's everything, Harry?" Hermione asked fondly.

"Fine, fine; getting a sight less busy these days, but I think things will pick up once everything goes back to some semblance of normal. Diagon Alley has been finished – it's completely rebuilt now! – and the recruits, that's my lot, we go into proper training in three weeks."

"Oh, Harry, that's excellent," Hermione told him with feeling, smiling proudly, "You'll do so well, I'm positive."

"Yes, well, I'm certainly hoping so," Harry replied with a charmingly goofy grin.

The conversation flowed freely, and Hermione heard all about the Weasley's; Ron was on a sabbatical with – of all people – Luna Lovegood (only as friends he'd insisted, but Hermione couldn't have cared less, because Luna was lovely and kind and she would be able to help him grieve and live in a way that Hermione and Harry couldn't, and that his family wouldn't have been able to at the time); George was putting his heart fully into the shop, his only explanation being that Fred wouldn't have had it any other way; Bill and Fleur were expecting (this bundle of joy due on the anniversary of the Battle, heralding a new start with a new generation); Charlie had remained at home, helping his parents hold together like the force he had always been made out to be, even as his own heart had broken with the losses; Percy was welcomed back and was aiding in the reformation of the Ministry; and Ginny, she was helping to heal Harry Potter while struggling to gain her NEWTs via an advanced and adjusted course provided to War Veterans who had still been at school during the War.

With a visible softness to her gaze, Hermione turned to watch the youngest addition to her variegated Wizarding family lying on the ground. He'd rolled over onto his back, and was now gurgling contentedly to Regulus, who had come to sit next to him in a very inelegant pose and was making faces at him, much to Teddy's delight.

Harry followed her line of sight.

"I forgot to say," he informed her brightly, sounding ever the proud father, "Ted's learnt to roll over. First couple of times we must have missed it because Andromeda walked in the other day and he'd rolled halfway across the room; off the blanket and away, he was."

Hermione managed a pleased smile as Regulus looked up at them. "Just because I'm a pureblood doesn't mean I eat babies, you know," he drawled, sniffily closing with: "I always liked playing with Cissa when she was little."

"-a terror when he starts walking," Harry was saying, and Hermione realised he was looking at her to join in the conversation.

"I can imagine," she said, hoping it would be a suitable back-channelling effort. Harry seemed not to notice anything amiss.

"Mmm. Andromeda has a whole armoury of spells though, so it should be alright. Child-proof locks, Anti-Climbing Charms, Softening Charms; honestly, they should teach this at Hogwarts. Unless you're from Wizarding stock they're a nightmare to find," he confided, and then looked quizzically at Teddy. "What is he laughing at?"

Harry checked his watch. "Oh, gosh, I'm supposed to meet Gin at twelve!"

"Well, you'd better get moving!" Hermione said good-naturedly, gathering up Teddy's circus of bags for Harry, who walked right through Regulus to pick up the baby boy ("Oi, look out, you yob!" the angel cried out, affronted, as he did so).

When the pair vanished in a tangle of bags and flame into the floo, Regulus was standing with his hands in the pockets of his fancy, black tailored pants.

"Lovely little baby," he said pleasantly, "Can't say much about the other one though – walked straight through me, the rude bugger."

Hermione fought the urge to smack her palm to her forehead. "He can't see you."

"Nit-picker. That's beside the point. I don't like him much," Regulus reported. "The baby could see me, though. Rather interesting, don't you think."

"Will you just tell me why you're here bothering me?" Hermione whined pleadingly, not really expecting him to consent.

"I already did," Regulus told her, more than a little incredulity coating his words (she found that rather rude!), "I'm here to get my dues: recognition for my part in bringing down Voldemort. My body and memory retrieved!"

||4||

Regulus Black's fate hadn't been much considered by the Golden Trio aside from the initial shock and gratitude, and Hermione felt a little guilty when she realised the implications of the angel's words. Nineteen year old heir to Orion and Walburga's branch of the Noble House of Black, Regulus had been all alone in a violent, dangerous world, with only Kreacher to trust. Credit where credit was due however, Kreacher had done all he was asked, and had served his master faithfully until the boy-wizard's untimely end, providing company and comfort to the lonely lad, and, despite her own grievances with the aged house-elf (they had abated in the last year, thankfully, though she would never be received with the same grace as Harry), Hermione was grateful to him for his part in the war.

Regulus had died attempting to destroy the first of Voldemort's horcruxes in nineteen seventy-nine, telling Kreacher to leave him in the cave as the inferi rose from the depths; to take the locket and leave his master to die.

Tears welled up in Hermione's eyes without warning as she gasped in acknowledgement; her dream – the unicorn – Drummer Hodge, the poem by Hardy! It all made sense! (Well, most of it did; she still had no idea what the two headed unicorn was about, aside from providing her with the poem's words via Dumbledore's serene voice.)

"Regulus," she said softly, "You poor thing."

And then she began to cry.

Weirdly enough, the younger Black brother hadn't been expecting water works because he very quickly ran through several emotions and expressions (including confusion, shock, panic, and discomfort) before reaching out tentatively as if to place an elegant hand on her shoulder.

"Don't cry. Please, don't cry," he begged her. "I can't do crying girls."

Hermione choked out a wet giggle, and hurriedly wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry, it's just, I – well, we, I never thought about what you did outside of what we had to do, and the War's end kind of overtook all other thoughts-"

"Hush up; you're rambling," Regulus cut her off. "It's fine, really," he added, "I just want to be remembered; given a proper resting place."

"Yes," Hermione agreed, nodding earnestly, "absolutely!"

"Will you help me?"

Hermione looked up into the grey-green eyes of Regulus Black, angel, and gazed deeply for several long moments before she breathed in a strong pull of air and nodded her consent.

"I will."

The smile that broke out on his face was beatific, and Hermione could do nothing but smile back at his relief. The boy leaned in so their faces were mere inches apart.

"If I could hug you," he informed her earnestly, "you'd be in the tightest embrace you've ever felt in your life right now."

She laughed gaily, wiping her eyes again in an effort to collect herself.

||5||

One of the absolutely brilliant benefits that came with being an Unspeakable was the way she could get away with asking for things without a detailed explanation as to why she needed to know. It was coming in handy as she cornered Harry one afternoon, intending to discover the location of the cave Voldemort had used to hide the locket. Pleading and wheedling eventually provided her with an agreement from her best friend along the lines of 'I'll take you there myself if you just quit harping on about it'.

So, on a windy, overcast morning Hermione woke up and prayed to Tiberius Hopkins, the weatherman on the Wizarding wireless in Grimmauld Place's kitchen, the skies would clear.

In a show of goodwill, his forecast came true.

Hermione stood with Harry on a craggy rock, waves crashing around them, the mild sun bearing down on them as her hair whipped around their faces in the wind.

"This is it."

Hermione frowned.

The cave itself was barely noticeable, hidden among the cracks and weather-beaten rocks. How a young Tom Riddle had managed to get two other children in there was beyond her.

"Can we go in?" she asked, and Harry took on a pained expression. It didn't hold very pleasant memories for him. The last time he'd been inside the cave was the night Dumbledore had died. Hermione reached over and clasped his arm comfortingly.

"If we have to," Harry said, swallowing thickly. Hermione took pity.

"Not today, Harry. I'm sorry for asking."

She smiled sadly, taking his arm and transported them smoothly back to Grimmauld Place.

"I hate that place," Harry said emphatically once they'd arrived, sitting heavily on one of the kitchen chairs. Hermione pulled out a cup and saucer, preparing tea for them. Tea fixed most things, according to Molly Weasley, and it was a procedure hard not to adopt when you were around The Burrow a lot.

Sipping the calming herbal tea, the two friends let a companionable silence fall over them.

Harry was washing the tea equipment the muggle way when he broke the quiet of the house.

"Why do you need to know about the cave?" he demanded, not unkindly. Really, she couldn't blame him for being curious.

"It's a special project I've undertaken on behalf of a third party," she explained carefully. "The benefactor intends to acknowledge those the Ministry haven't remembered – from both the first and second wars."

Harry nodded, a little crease appearing between his eyebrows. "People like Regulus Black, you mean."

Hermione was startled. Truthfully, she hadn't expected him to piece it together so quickly, but for Harry the cave was linked almost intrinsically with the younger Black brother. He glanced back at her.

"It is, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes," Hermione conceded. "The ones who've been left, forgotten as time went by, to die deaths unacknowledged, even though they were vitally important in securing Voldemort's defeat."

Harry was still and silent for several seconds, before he sighed, "You're doing the right thing, Hermione."

"I know," she replied, smiling at him and reaching over to cover his hand with hers.

||6||

"Regulus," Hermione asked the angel one rainy afternoon, "I don't suppose you know how to get past Inferi, do you?"

He looked up from his intense concentration – he was trying to pick up a piece of carrot. He'd achieved a pea earlier in the week, but heavier things seemed to drop straight through him, so they'd figured slow and steady, with a slight rise in weight each time.

"If I knew how to get past Inferi, don't you think I'd be able to pick up more than pea?" Regulus said acidly, throwing the carrot stick at her head. "You know, because I'd be alive!"

Hermione threw her hands up in the air. "Well, excuse me, for trying to find some information!"

"You're not excused," he pouted, petulance echoing through his voice. "You've brought up a traumatic episode of my life and it makes me unhappy to think of 'what ifs' like that one."

He abandoned his carrot-carrying attempts and wandered over to the bookshelf behind her, scanning the ancient spines. Eventually he stopped at an old bound book of deep green, entitled 'Deathe & the Other Worlde'. "Here, try this one."

Hermione stared at him, lost somewhere between the mood swings.

Regulus scowled. "Don't look at me like that; I do want your help. I'd look myself but I can't manage a book just yet."

Hermione huffed out a laugh. "Start small, Reggie, start small."

Flipping open the book, one she'd never have considered browsing before, she scanned the index for hints with Regulus peering over her shoulder.

"Look," the young witch cried out excitedly. "There's a section on angels. You must be classed as Other World beings."

"Focus on the task at hand," Regulus scolded gently and pointed to a chapter near the bottom of the page. "There! Re-Versuls of Dark Magicks on Wakeing Dead," he read, adding somewhat musingly, "You know, they could have worked a little harder on the spelling. 'Dead' is spelt differently each time."

But Hermione was already palming her way through to the chapter they needed, navigating her way down the writing until she found the heading 'Inferi'.

"Inferi are birthed in the heart of Dark Magick, thieved from the Lands of the Other Worlde for Dark perpusses in the Mortal king dum," she read. "Inferi are Ageless. Fleshe and Bone remayn where Bludd flees, forever Unchanged until they garde no more. This isn't what we need," she mumbled under her breath and skipped a few paragraphs. "Blah, blah, blah… Ah-ha – here we go! To destroi Inferi-"

Regulus interrupted quickly. "We don't want to destroy them completely, you realise. The whole point of this is to have something to recover."

Hermione smiled encouragingly. "I'm aware, Regulus. And I'm sure it won't come to fire and flame," she comforted him, and looked back to the ancient book.

"To destroi Inferi in the Mortal Worlde, their Anger muste be put to reste by receeving a sacrifyce of bludd from whosoever Imprisonn'd them in the Worlde they left at Deathe, foiling their time of being at Peace,"she read, and frowned. "Well, there goes that plan. We haven't any way of getting blood from Voldemort, 'cause he's dead. And even then it hardly matters, because even if he were alive we'd never be able to get any blood out of him and live to tell the tale anyway."

"Already dead," Regulus reminded her curtly, gesturing at his holographic body before adding more seriously, "but it's not from Voldemort we need the blood sacrifice…"

Hermione's head snapped up. "What do you mean?"

"I mean: Voldemort didn't create the Inferi. He delegated it to one of his most trusted followers." The younger Black brother paused thoughtfully. "Mother used to talk of it incessantly before Cissa's wedding."

"Whose blood do we need, Regulus?" Hermione demanded impatiently.

The angel stared at her with bright eyes.

"That of Abraxas Malfoy."

"Oh, great," Hermione huffed and, after marking the page, she shut the book rather more violently than needed.

The Malfoys were a heavy point of contention and controversy post-war. Neither Narcissa nor Draco had ever posed much threat, and by nineteen ninety-seven Lucius was fundamentally a prisoner in his own house, but the Malfoy family had always been a major force in the side of the Dark and their previous dalliances certainly counted against any redeeming scenes in Recent Events, important though they may have been – Narcissa had saved Harry's life in return for news of her son.

Ever the pureblood wife, she had subsequently been acquitted of all charges due to extenuating circumstances, and while awaited his trial in Azkaban, Draco had been released due to age constraints and Pensieve memories (collected from Harry, of all people), and was now on probation.

How Hermione was going to obtain a blood sacrifice, she had no idea. Her only hope would be Narcissa or Draco, and the lady Malfoy had sequestered herself away in France after her husband's (reduced) sentence to Azkaban, so, really, that left just Draco, and to be frank, they didn't exactly have the best relationship in the world – he had no inclination to aid her whatsoever and she didn't particularly fancy asking.

"Can you get it?" Regulus asked, not aware of her history with the Malfoy family.

"Well, Lucius is in Azkaban, Narcissa's a recluse in France, and Draco, well, the best way to describe our relationship is either non-existent or more volatile than a Hungarian Horntail," she confided guiltily and then sighed, "but he's our only option really."

End, Part One.

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