Marked

The Soulmates

Chapter 31: The Soulmates

Hermione opened her eyes slowly, knowing she was waking, wondering what she would tell Theo about what she'd seen.

I know I promised I could bring him back, Theo, but Death appeared in my potion-induced dream and told me I'd been a fool all along . . .

She rolled over, seeing a note on the pillow next to her. If you wake up alone, just call me with this; I'll be there in an instant. She noted that rather than signing with his initials, the way she had been given to understand pureblood wizards normally did, he instead wrote a hastily scribbled Theo; perhaps he'd never liked how many qualities he shared with his father. Or perhaps he had been less than attached to his family name, unlike Draco.

Draco. She winced. The overall state of being without him was an unending, intangible pain. A tireless burning. A dull roar.

And then sometimes - like now - it was a sharp and penetrating stab. The twist of a knife, straight to the chest.

She looked around the room at the dark walls and the elaborate, richly threaded tapestries and pondered calling Theo; she didn't want to be alone, but she also dreaded the moment she would have to tell him the truth.

I can't do it. I can't bring him back.

She blinked painfully, fighting tears of rage and disappointment. Master of Death. What a cruel, heartless joke. What an excruciating overstatement. What an arduous lie.

Her mind whispered to her, reminding her. Don't be greedy.

The stone. Her eyes focused on it next to her, sitting innocuously on the table beside the bed. Theo had an uncanny understanding of her needs; he'd clearly been careful not to remove the Hallows from her sight.

She bit her lip, considering it. She knew the story, and she knew the moral as well; there would be no satisfaction from its use, surely. But perhaps . . . perhaps if she only used it for a short time . . .

She slid out from under the heavy duvet, picking up the copy of the book that had been sitting on the floor and running her finger over the text - not that she needed to. She already knew what it said. Every word of it was still seared into her recent memory, a remnant of what felt like so long ago when every line had still been a glimmer of hope.

Here he took out the stone that had the power to recall the dead, and turned it thrice in his hand.

Thrice in her hand. Her palm was moving before she even realized she grasped the stone, her eyes shut so tight as to force small explosions of light behind her lids.

She heard a soft thud, a small movement. Or was that just her heart? It kept beating, didn't it? Despite her best intentions.

"Granger."

So close it made her ache.

"Granger. This is very rude."

"This isn't real," she whispered, sliding to the floor and bringing her knees to her chest. "I'm going crazy."

"You're not going crazy. You are not crazy."

"I am," she said, burying her face in her arms and refusing to open her eyes. She couldn't face him, nor the phantom of him, nor whatever version of him she had managed to call. Maybe it was all in her head. Maybe everything was in her head. "You don't know what I've done."

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes," she insisted, fighting the crimson tint of her memories. White walls. Red floors. "Yes, it does - "