Chapter Text
Hermione was a smart girl, very brilliant, her caretakers told her. But also, they called her odd. Every time she would show any strong emotions, something strange would happen. Maybe her books would float, and perhaps the lights would flicker. She would call it peculiar. Hermione never knew her parents; all she knew was that they had left her at the orphanage. She always thought she would never get adopted; she knew she was too smart for those who even tried. But she did want a home, but for now, she had her books to keep her company.
Regulus walked around Muggle London. A few days ago, he had survived the cave to his death. He knew never to trust the Dark Lord, but he still joined the Death Eaters, not because of his horrible childhood, but for his own research. He always felt suspicious about the Dark Lord; he had been here for centuries, in the 1940s, he believed. So how is he not dead? He understood how Albus Dumbledore isn't dead; the man is in his 100s, for Merlin's sake. After a few years, he finally found out what he had been doing. Horcruxs. The Dark Lord had been putting half of his soul into objects. And that's how he's been led into his “Death.” And Regulus had one of them. Salazar Slytherin locket. Regulus had been planning to destroy the object, but he had no clue how to do that. As Regulus was about to head back to Grimmauld Place, he stopped. He felt something strong. Magic. A feeling hit him hard, deep, and certain, and his head turned in quiet recognition. An orphanage, before Regulus could stop himself, he quickly opened the door, without any thought.
Regulus looked around the orphanage in search of that powerful magic. It was like something was missing inside of him, had been found. “Well, hello, sir! How may I help you?” A woman’s voice asked, Regulus saw a woman, probably one of the caretakers. “U-Um, no, just looking around,” He stuttered. The woman nodded her head as she walked away.
Regulus felt the magic swell, gathering around him like a rising storm. Every step he took brought him closer to that fierce, pulsing energy. He halted before a door thrumming with power. This was it. With a steadying breath, Regulus lifted his hand and knocked.
Hermione rapidly lifted her head from her book she was reading; she had heard a knock on her door. She guessed it was one of the caretakers coming to give her daily clothes. “Come in,” she said gently. The door eased open—slow, yet somehow fast. Hermione saw a man with short, long-looking curls, an elegant black suit, and he had sharp features; he looked like a model to her. Hermione looked him up and down. “Hello, sir, how may I help you?” Hermione wondered. The man stared at her as if she had something stuck to her.
Regulus looked at the girl. Her messy honey brown hair, the wise-looking features of her, the stubbornness spark in her eyes. Regulus felt something in him shift. Like a piece of him had just been found once more. Regulus walked forward to her, just a couple of steps before stopping. “Hello, young lady, my name is Regulus. What's yours?” The girl looked at him with curious eyes. When the girl spoke with him, she had a polished tone; she had to be at least 5, but was reading a book. Usually, kids at her age would be playing with toys, but she was different. “Hermione,” Hermione said. Regulus nodded his head as he sat down, getting on his knees. “Your hair is really pretty, mister. Is it okay if I play with it?” The question was very straightforward: did the child already trust him? Or was this girl not familiar with stranger danger? “Um, sure,” He replied, giving a weak smile to Hermione. While she smirked, behind the sweet girl's face was definitely something sinister.
Hermione had never had so much fun with a person, but Mr Black was a fun person. She had no idea how much time she had spent talking to Regulus. She thought he was a model, but he told her it was good genes; he was just a financial manager, he told her, but she didn't believe it; he was a little bit hesitant when he said, but shrugged it off. As she was telling Regulus all the books she had been reading since her time in the orphanage, until he spoke. “Hermione, would you like to be my daughter?” Regulus asked, and Hermione quickly turned her head towards Regulus. “What? Really!?” Hermione grasped, she had never been adopted before; it would usually be old couples, but they always had something to say, but she always snapped them back into sense; she was not someone you talked back to. “Yes, would you like that?” Hermione couldnt help but give him a bright smile. “Yes! I would love to!”
Regulus had never imagined he would become a father, yet the moment he saw Hermione, something inside him shifted. He signed the adoption papers with a quiet certainty while she packed the few belongings she owned, the room already feeling like a memory. When he finished, he walked down the narrow hall to find her standing by the window, small and thoughtful in the fading light. “Are you ready to go, Hermione?” he asked softly as he stepped toward her. She didn’t look away from the glass at first, her voice gentle when she finally answered. “I’m going to miss this place… and yes, I am ready to go.” Regulus smiled at her then, warm and steady, before reaching out his hand. Hermione looked up at him with a small grin of her own and slipped her hand into his.
When they arrived at Grimmauld Place, a shiver crawled down Regulus’s spine. “It was my parents’ house before they died,” he murmured, looking up at the dark concrete as if they were old memories made solid. “I always hated how cold it was. It felt… very unwelcoming to me and my—siblings.” He hesitated on the word; they were technically cousins, but they had always treated one another like siblings. Hermione didn’t respond at first. She stepped forward, studying the dim, heavy entryway, then turned back to him and gently held out her hand. “How about we decorate it,” she suggested softly, “and make it more… alive?”
“Well, it’s not a bad idea,” Regulus said with a faint, nervous laugh, “but my mother would jump out of her grave if we did that.” He squeezed Hermione’s hand gently, a hint of warmth returning to his voice. “Let’s do it.”
****
After a long day of shopping, they transformed the cold, empty, and unsettling Grimmauld Place into a warm blend of spring and autumn. The once-dark walls shifted from a heavy grey to a soft atrium white, and every shadowed corner bloomed with color. Regulus’s clothes were streaked with paint, while Hermione had splatters across her clothes, arms, and even her face—forcing her to take a much-needed bath. But the mess was worth it. When Regulus finally stepped back to look at their work, he barely recognized the house. Like Hermione herself, it felt brighter now—more alive.
It had only been a few days since Regulus adopted Hermione, yet they were easily the best days of his life. They baked together—something that made Kreacher unusually pleased, considering the elf’s obsession with cleanliness. Regulus was still shocked at how quickly Kreacher had grown fond of Hermione; the elf rarely liked anyone. They spent their time painting, laughing, and watching Muggle movies, and in the quiet evenings, Regulus told her everything she needed to know about the wizarding world—even the part about how he had technically died once and come back. Life felt simple, warm, and full. But one evening, as Regulus sat in the living room reading a thriller, the doorbell rang. He frowned. It was 6:23 p.m., the sun had already set—no one should have been visiting. Gripping his wand, he walked carefully toward the door and peered through the crack. Standing on the doorstep was Pandora… holding a baby. Regulus blinked in confusion, then finally opened the door.
Pandora?” Regulus breathed, the single word slipping out before he could stop it. Pandora turned toward him with a bright, dreamy smile and swept him into a tight hug just as Hermione came downstairs. “Hello, Reggie! It’s so lovely to see you again,” she said, before her voice softened into hurt. “But Regulus… I’m terribly cross with you. You slipped away like a shadow at dawn, and I thought the world had swallowed you whole. I mourned you. And now you stand here—warm, alive, real. Why didn’t you come back to me?” she murmured, a hand pressed gently to her chest. Her starry dusk pajamas shimmered softly, perfectly matching the tiny set worn by the unknown baby she held. “U-Um, look—I’m sorry, Dove,” Regulus began, flustered, “I was focused on the mission. I almost died—” But Pandora gasped sharply, cutting him off. “O. M. G! Reggie, it’s one thing to be dead and alive, but it’s another thing entirely to not tell me you have a daughter!” Pandora exclaimed, and Pandora slammed him into the wall, walking towards Hermione. He had completely forgotten how strong Pandora was. Regulus groaned in pain.
“Well, hello, little sage. Your magic hums like starlight—so bright, so powerful, sweet one.” Pandora crooned. “Well, Panda… you also forgot to mention you had a tiny copy of yourself,” Regulus remarked. They all sat in the living room, and it was very silent until Pandora broke it. “This is my daughter, Luna,” Pandora began before glancing down at the girl beside her. “I came here because I thought I could find a way to understand how you ‘died’.” She lifted her hands to make air quotes. “Xenophilius died in a scientific experiment that went wrong. I was devastated… and so was Luna. It happened about a week ago.” She wiped a tear from her eye before going in a happy state of mind. Pandora didn't always care about death; she would like to say, “Death is a natural part of life. When it comes, acceptance is the only path forward.” He thought.
“Anyway. Your turn—tell me about you. And when did you start decorating this dreadfully depressing house?” Pandora quipped as she glanced around the room. Regulus exhaled slowly before answering, “First—I’m truly sorry for your loss. Second, it happened just a few days ago. And third… this is my daughter, Hermione.” He gently pulled Hermione closer, noticing the fantasy book she somehow already had in her hands, and wondered how on earth she’d gotten it so quickly. Pandora’s face lit up the moment she saw the girl. “Aw! She acts just like you, Regulus—quiet, silently judging everyone, always carrying a book. She’s like a tiny copy of you! Is she adopted? I know you were an ace in the hole!” Pandora chirped, Regulus blinked once, slowly, then leveled Pandora with a flat stare. “Pandora… please don’t call me that,” he muttered, pulling Hermione a little closer as if shielding her from the sheer chaos of Pandora’s vocabulary. “It’s a short saying that means someone is aroace—or asexual. It’s an old phrase from the 1950s, back in New Orleans.” Hermione clarified.
Regulus blinked, caught completely off guard that Hermione even knew that phrase. His brows lifted a fraction. “Where on earth did you learn that?” he asked quietly, equal parts startled and impressed. “In this old book from the ’50s, the term shows up a lot. Honestly, half the writers back then were queer in some way—just look at James Baldwin.” She pointed out. How did she even know that? Merlin… he was going to have to do some research of his own.
After an hour, Pandora and four-year-old Luna finally headed home—only then did Regulus learn that he was apparently the godfather of little Moonbeam. Hermione had taken to Luna instantly; the moment the door closed, she looked up at him with bright determination and announced, “I like little Moonie. She’s my little sister now. You have no say in this.” Regulus stared at her, realizing with a faint chill that his daughter, sweet as she appeared, was just a little bit terrifying.
****
Two years had passed since the day Regulus adopted his little Raven, and they had been the best years of his life. Hermione had turned seven that September, and already he feared she was growing up far too fast. His little Moonbeam’s hair had grown long and curly like her mother’s, and he knew it was only a matter of time before she inherited the same gentle quirkiness as well. But nothing had compared to the day Hermione had looked up at him and called him Papa for the first time. Regulus had cried for hours—happy tears. It had been one of the best days he could remember.
“Papa! Can we go somewhere today?” Hermione inquired, surprising him; it was two in the afternoon, and she was usually a bedworm who preferred hiding under her blankets with a book. “Um… sure. Where?” he replied from the kitchen, where he’d been making cupcakes. The moment he heard her footsteps on the stairs, he quietly summoned Kreacher to watch the oven—he could finish them later, since they were meant for Pandora and little Luna anyway. Hermione brightened instantly, practically vibrating with excitement. “Can we go to Barnes & Noble? Ooh! And Hobby Lobby! I want to get some new books and maybe some art supplies!”
Regulus froze mid-stir, staring at her as if she’d just spoken Parseltongue. Hermione… wanting to leave the house? Voluntarily? He blinked, still processing. “Books and art supplies,” he repeated softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Merlin, help me, you really are my child.” He wiped his hands on a towel, giving her an amused, fond look. “All right, Little Raven. Go get your shoes—I suppose we’re going on an adventure.” Hermione sprang to her feet, victory claimed, and rushed up the stairs without a backward glance.
****
Regulus and Hermione walked to Barnes & Noble first; it was a short walk, nothing too tiring. Hermione wore a yellow, orange, and blue polo shirt paired with blue jeans and a soft fur denim jacket, her white Converse tapping lightly against the pavement. Regulus, ever the picture of elegance, wore a long-sleeved white button-up shirt with a dark red corset layered over it, matching dark red trousers, and high-shine dress shoes that caught the afternoon light with every step.
Hermione practically dragged her father toward the fantasy section of Barnes & Noble, her little hand wrapped tightly around his arm . She’d been waiting days—no, eternities—to finally get her hands on The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and The Girl Who Drank the Moon. The moment she spotted them, her eyes lit up like she’d found treasure. She snatched both books off the shelf with impressive speed for someone so small—her greed absolutely ravenous today. “Whoa, slow down, little Raven,” Regulus murmured, a hint of amusement tugging at his voice. “The books aren’t going anywhere. I don’t think anyone your age is fighting you for those.”
“You never know, Papa—just in case,” Hermione insisted. Regulus scoffed softly as she skipped past the other sections without a second thought.
After Regulus paid for Hermione’s books, the two of them headed toward Hobby Lobby. It was only a block away from Barnes & Noble, close enough that the walk barely counted as effort. Hermione walked with a little bounce in her step, clutching her new books like treasure, while Regulus followed beside her, amused by her sudden burst of enthusiasm.
When they stepped into Hobby Lobby, Hermione immediately latched onto her father’s sleeve and dragged him straight to the art supplies section. The moment her eyes landed on the rows of paints, brushes, and neatly stacked sketchbooks, she froze—completely in awe. Her gaze darted from shelf to shelf, already forming a list in her mind. She only needed a small watercolor palette, a set of watercolor brushes, a water brush pen, a mixed-media sketchbook, colored pencils, graphite pencils, fine-liner pens, and—much to her father’s quiet dread—a hot glue gun. She did have to use her puppy eyes, though—wide, pleading, and devastatingly effective. Regulus lasted all of three seconds before sighing in defeat.
When they finally finished in Hobby Lobby, Regulus couldn’t help noticing just how much Hermione was becoming like him. “That was very Slytherin of you, my little Raven,” he remarked. “Of course it was, Papa. Who else taught me how to be clever?” Regulus paused mid-step, staring at her as if she’d just revealed a state secret. Then, slowly, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, Merlin,” he muttered, shaking his head, “I’ve created a miniature menace. ”But his eyes softened as he looked at her. “A very clever one.”
They left Hobby Lobby with Hermione clutching her new art supplies like priceless artifacts, while Regulus carried the rest of the bags, already regretting the decision to arm a seven-year-old with a hot glue gun. As they walked, Hermione skipped beside him, humming, her curls bouncing with every step. “Papa, do you think the glue gun will make me more powerful?” she asked sweetly. Regulus nearly stumbled. “No. Absolutely not. You’re powerful enough.” She only giggled in response. “Then why did you buy it?” He shot her a dry look. “Because you weaponized your eyes. Emotional blackmail, really.” Hermione gasped in mock offense. “Papa! Slytherins don’t blackmail—we persuade.” Regulus huffed a laugh. “Brilliant. She knows vocabulary now.” Hermione only hugged her sketchbook tighter. “You love me.” He sighed in surrender. “Yes, and that is precisely the problem.” They continued down the street, Hermione glowing with joy, Regulus silently praying she never discovered glitter bombs.
When they returned home, Kreacher appeared in the foyer with a sharp pop, prepared to grumble about something—until he spotted the Hobby Lobby bags in Regulus’s hands. His face tightened with immediate suspicion. “What has Mistress Hermione acquired this time?” he muttered. Hermione beamed up at him. “Art supplies!” Kreacher’s eyes narrowed. “Supplies… for mess?” Regulus placed the bags on the table with a sigh. “She has a glue gun, Kreacher.” The elf froze, staring in horror. “A… glue gun.” Hermione nodded cheerfully, already digging into the bags. “And watercolors!” Kreacher turned slowly toward Regulus, betrayal etched into every wrinkle. “Master Regulus has brought weapons into the home.” “It’s not a weapon,” Regulus groaned, but the elf wasn’t convinced. With a dramatic huff, Kreacher declared, “Kreacher will move everything,” then vanished with a pop—no doubt to relocate every fragile Black family heirloom before Hermione’s creativity could reach it.
Regulus stood in the foyer long after Kreacher vanished, staring at the spot where the elf had disappeared. He rubbed a hand over his face, somewhere between exhausted and deeply amused. “A glue gun,” he muttered to himself.