part one: sensory deprivation
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.
Warnings/Spoilers: Post-War Harry Potter AU
A/N: This is a Wishlist fic that came from a prompt provided by jaq_of_spades. The poor prompt provided was quite respectable but it was eaten by my brain and got regurgitated into this craziness.
A/N 2: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.part one: sensory deprivation
After Fred's burial the Weasley's pulled in tight and both Harry and her understood that Ron needed to stay home at the Burrow. It was harder for him then them really - he still felt such guilt from abandoning them in the woods previously. But this wasn't anything like before, this was mourning - pure, sharp and strong but never simple. This was something that his family needed him despretly for.
It left the two of them alone again though - both now orphaned in a way (and Hermione still can't allow herself to look to closely at that loss she willing sacrificed by her own hand, her own spell. Still isn't ready to let go), they needed no words to know they would stick together as they always had in the past.
So, she was there in the middle of the night, lying in bed at Grimmauld Place, staring at the ceiling in the dark and thinking of nothing - think of breathing perhaps - thinking maybe this was it, the War was over. Maybe now they could all start to finally relax.
And she had just let her eyes start to drift shut when the screaming started.
Harry's dreams are terrifying in their clarity (especially since what he is describing is such a...a lack
, an absense) - she sometimes wonders if with all of the mental manipulation he has undergone over the years (since he was a baby, reallly) if he has ever even had normal dreams - and it makes her stomach churn just to hear him talk about them.
But this time they aren't of Voldermort, that link is dead - that man, that creature
, is dead.
Sirius, it seems, is not.
Harry describes to her this darkness, this utter weightlessness. Trying to scream, trying to run and always always
trying to reach towards back home. And the belief, the single minded belief (the only thing keeping him from giving up and just letting himself drift through nothingness) that he was slowly reaching back the way he had come.
They alert the others of the Order (the others that are still alive) of Harry's dream and Hermione is honestly shocked by the way they are brushed off. It infuriates her, like little else has the power to do, this lack of trust in her best friend even after he has fought, after he has died
for them - they couldn't even take his word.
But, to everyone else, Sirius is dead. (Has been dead for a while.) That is final - like all of the other deaths they are busy mourning. It is easy for them to push this off as stress or simple nightmares.
(And a small part of her understands. She too can see how Harry looks when he talks about these things - wide eyed, hands gesteculating randomly, whole body shaking, and breathing hard. To put it plainly, he doesn't look sane.
Hermione, believes him though. She has seen the things magic can do since becoming a part of this world and has learned that most witches and wizards have no true idea of it's limits no matter what they actually think. She is far past Sirius being alive being a possibility in her mind. Harry has dreamed it, experieced it
, and she trust that. Trust him. And, while it might not have been once; now - that is enough.
But she has no idea where to start looking for answers on this, honestly. There is no expert that she knows of - no place to begin researching. The Veil is part of the Department of Mysteries and everything about it has been carefully classified.
Surprisingly, Harry does know someone - a single name and the first flickers of a smile that she's seen in the days since this began.
It only takes a single Owl for Luna to arrive by lunch with a knapsack over her shoulder that rustles and shifts alarmingly but ends up simply being full of old leather bound books and scrolls.
And they research. A mixture of what seems like reliable resources and crack pot theories that go back thousands of years with only well maintained presevation charms to keep them from disintegraging (these are the heirlooms that come down to Luna from her father's side). Food and tea are made while translation spells filter through Latin, old Germanic, Sanskrit and some languages that aren't human in orgin.
It is surprising to her to find Luna is good
at this. With a topic at hand she becomes fiercely engaged. Hermione was always aware of the fact that she was in Ravenclaw but the way she usually carried herself made it hard to look closer at that.
And she can't help but be fond of the girl just for how she handles Harry. Her best friend is barely sleeping - has become jittery, depressed, and single minded (as he has a tendency to do). Luna some how manages to coax him to lie down on the couch between the two of them as they scour through pages of books. His eyes will blink heavily as he tries to protest but it doesn't take long before Harry goes limp. The calm never last long - evey time, every time
, he will startle awake calling for Sirius (and that only pushes her harder, Harry deserves peace. He needs it - he can't keep this up forever.) But she is grateful for even the short moments.
It is surprising when the moment comes. The book is a translation (of a translation, of a translation) that was originally in an old language of the Veelas. She is eating toast away from the pages and glancing at it out of the corner of her eyes. She sees the passage and drops her toast which attracts Luna's attention to scoot over, pick up her food, set it on the coffee table, and then begin to read over her shoulder. (Harry is in the kitchen making the rest of their breakfast.)
It is almost starkly explained (which is to be expected the Veela are a warrior race at heart).
The only way to call those physically lost beyond the Veil was with a direct blood relation and a cermony using a type of wandless magic similar to that one would use to call you wand to your hand - but much stronger and more directed perhaps. Different types of wandless magic were more common to those with Veela blood (the fire balls not being the only type of magic they used to be able to summon) and the book had had quite a bit of interesting detail on other spells of the like.
Hope builds momentairily before it crashes because if their was ever a question in her mind that she might be able to convince Andromeda (or maybe despreately even Narcissa perhaps) to help that was banished by a small chart bellow the description that showed just how close the blood relative must be - clearly mapping out only parent and child or brother and sister bonds with beautiful swirling lines.
It was devestating to come so far and hit a wall. Hermione curled her hands into fist and closed her eyes tight biting back tears of pure frustraion. But a touch on her arm distracted her and when she opened her eyes again it was to look straight in to the unblinking gaze of her unconventional research partner.
"There is a way," Luna said solemely.