Author's Note:
Team: Dragons
Spooky Trope Bingo Card Prompts:
Bingo Card 1, Middle horizontal row: The Veil, Ritual
TW: self harm description/mention, dark ritual
A/N: There's a fair bit of darkness in this story and probably some sexytimes eventually, as a treat, but I promise a happy ending. 3 This will be a multi-part work for Ominous October, so please stay tuned for Chapter 2!
Beyond the Veil
Chapter 1: An Obsession Beyond
"I'm not going to lie, Hermione. I'm worried about you."
"What? Don't be silly, Harry, I'm fine." Hermione blinked, looking at her friend, who was sitting across from her in the dimly-lit booth.
"I've barely seen you more than a handful of times since you and Ron broke up last year. You've been working yourself ragged."
"Oh pish," she scoffed, rubbing her eyes and yawning. "I'm just…focused, is all."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I literally had to drag you out of your office, and that was only after I used my Auror badge to intimidate the terrified interns you set up to block the way."
"I was simply ensuring they were feeling useful in some way." Hermione shrugged, looking at her chipped fingernails with feigned interest. "It's not my fault that the higher ups keep sending me interns. It just so happens that none of my research is intern-worthy, hence the sentry duty. They'll bugger off to better prospects eventually once they know they're not being utilized to their full potential. After all, I've already offered to write glowing recommendations."
"You have to know that it can't be helpful cooped up in your workroom for days on end," Harry said, looking at Hermione's rumpled robes with concern.
Hermione noticed and gave her sleeve a cursory sniff. "I've been getting adequate sleep and I've smelt worse. Besides, I know a good freshening charm and I've been getting my meals sent up from the cafeteria. And even you remarked on the comfy chaise lounge I've got in there."
"Hermione, are you listening to yourself? You're sounding absolutely mental!" Harry let out an exasperated growl, but before he could say more, the waitress dropped off the pint he'd ordered along with a big plate of assorted fried appetizers. Hermione took a fried prawn between two fingers and bit into the crisp, steaming meat in one smooth motion.
"Harry, you, more than anyone, ought to understand the importance of my work with the Veil," she said after swallowing the buttery, savory treat.
"I know, but…" Harry looked down at his pint glass, his gaze growing distant.
"We've lost so many," Hermione said. "But what if we didn't have to? What if we could give George the ability to talk with Fred? Or to even see him again? And what of Sirius?"
Harry slammed his fist on the table. "It's simply not natural, Hermione, and you know it!"
The chatter of the pub cut out and Harry flushed as he felt eyes on him.
"Oi!" The bartender called out to the band, "give us a reel!"
They started in on a jaunty tune as Harry cringed and Hermione stared cooly at him. Soon the others had seemingly forgotten his outburst and Hermione finally reached forward, her gloved fingers wrapping over his before squeezing them gently.
"The Veil is not natural, yet it still exists," she said, "and that is why I am studying it. Does it open up into the realm of the dead? Hell? Heaven? Some other place? We were told that Sirius died, but do we truly know if that is the case? For all we know, he is still in there, waiting for us to release him from yet another prison."
"I hadn't thought of that." Harry looked slightly ashamed.
"I promise, Harry, I'm using my best judgment. I'm doing all the research and consulting others where it's warranted," Hermione said, looking up as the bell attached to the pub rang and a familiar group of people began to enter, chatting and talking loudly amongst themselves. "And that's my cue to leave."
Hermione grabbed a handful of fried food and wrapped them in the newspaper that came with their baskets, then stuffed them into her robes. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and Harry turned.
"Hey there, Harry!" Ginny greeted him warmly, throwing her arms around him and squeezing him. "Oi, looks like you got enough appetizers to feed an army, which is a good thing because me 'n Ron are starving from quidditch practice."
Harry turned back, but Hermione was already gone.
'Stupid, stupid!" Hermione berated herself as she strode down the darkening street back to the Ministry.
Her mind was still buzzing with discomfort from the noise and lights in the crowded pub. She shouldn't have gone with Harry at all. And why had she gotten defensive? She didn't need to explain herself!
A chill gust of wind had her pulling on her sleeves to ensure her wrists were fully covered. Harry didn't know about…that. He didn't need to know. She was needed in her office. That was where she belonged.
That was where the Veil would be.
Waiting. For her.
There were some perks to being a war hero. Hermione had ascended to the position of head researcher of Space & Time Artifacts relatively quickly. Her extensive experience with the Time-Turner and subsequent forays into advanced spellcraft had made her an unrivaled candidate for the job. Hermione had always been bookish, but in her new role she had become practically a shut-in. She'd turned her office into a veritable fortress with different layers keeping the truly dangerous artifacts all but locked away from all but herself.
The Veil had been her first acquisition, and it lay ringed in a cage of curling bars at the very heart of a labyrinthine space she'd built specifically to keep anyone from ever accidentally falling through it ever again. To the right of it lay the doors to her inner sanctum, a research room filled with research materials that went on for miles yet managed to feel cozy and secure with a roaring fireplace, chaise lounge, and desk to one side. Hermione technically owned a small cottage out in the country that she could Floo to, but she found herself doing the best work in the dead of night when the Ministry building was all but deserted, and the whispers beyond the Veil seemed to be clearer.
There was a strange comfort in the whispering voices that emanated from the Veil. Sometimes, Hermione would leave the door open just for the ambient noise. Once or twice, she'd found herself dreaming of someone lost in the war, and they'd conversed in a thick fog. These dreams always left her waking with streaks down her cheeks from where she'd been crying. It was not fair that they had died and she had lived. Sure, she had her scars. Some that had been given, and others…well, she liked to avoid thinking of them.
"Entras Omnus," she whispered, feeling the delicious shiver as the wards dropped just enough to admit her into the first ring of her sanctum. The offices here were more nondescript, offering space for reception and any apprentices or interns that would be thrown her way. They weren't given much more than entry level artifact-sorting work. Usually, they merely filed and checked the archival records to ensure that documentation on known artifacts were in their proper place in order for traveling researchers to check out materials for scholarly or invention purposes.
Hermione was not bothered by the darkness, striding quickly towards the hidden door built into the wall at the back of her faux office, which she maintained as a ruse for any visiting higher-ups who decided to visit. This one required a drop of her blood to raise the ward, the solid wall shimmering like a mirage to offer her entrance.
Finally, she was in the pocket-space where she was most comfortable. Technically a space folded within the office, this massive branching office area was all hers to do with what she wished. Unless one held her blood signature or knew the proper incantation, anyone who potentially stumbled upon the place would be forced to wander endlessly through infinite empty offices without ever getting any closer to her quarters or the Veil room.
Luckily, to her knowledge, no one had ever entered other than herself, and she liked to keep it that way.
The pocket-space was warmed to her ideal temperature, and Hermione quickly shed her gloves and the extra layers she'd donned to go out to the pub with Harry. She winced as she looked down at the red, angry lines on the back of her right hand. She'd need to put more salve on them soon.
"All right, then," she muttered, pulling out the newspaper filled with fried goodies. She didn't have takeaway often, but she hadn't been lying to Harry about taking care of herself. Under her robes, she was no longer the skinny girl she'd been at the end of the war. If anything, her figure had softened as she'd hit her late twenties, but she couldn't be arsed to care about whether she was attractive to others. There was more to scare off any potential beau than a few extra pounds around her middle, but Hermione knew that it was more than her body that had finally severed the tenuous bond that she and Ron had held after the war.
Ron had wanted to move on, and he'd done so amiably at the Joke Shop with George. He'd taken up baking and had a thriving side business doing small catered events while also meeting regularly with Ginny and some of the old Quidditch team for after-work bouts at the public pitch. Hermione, on the other hand, couldn't forget those they'd lost, and her obsession had driven a wedge between them that their relationship could not survive.
She took a seat on the leather wingback chair she'd placed in the Veil room, and snapped off a piece of beer-battered fish into her mouth.
"Accio ottoman," she said with her mouth half-full, and the small footstool levitated under her feet so she could raise them up and look at the flickering veil through the curved bars. It cast a gray, flickering light on the walls around them through the bars, almost like a spirit lantern or Hermione's memories of an indoor pool at night that one summer her parents had taken them to a posh hotel in Spain.
The whispers behind the Veil weren't any louder than they normally were, but she still ate as quietly as she could, closing her eyes to savor both the flavor of the food and the sounds therein.
When she was done, she hastily cleaned her hands with a Cleansing charm and vanished the oily newspaper.
"Now, then," she said, eyeing the boxes of research books, "Let's see if we can make some headway, shall we?"
The box was stamped with the Hogwarts crest, but it wasn't any more important than the others that lined her study. The only difference was that the box itself had appeared to be damaged at some point and the soft corner finally failed as Hermione was in the middle of sorting a few leather-bound books on her shelves. Before she knew it, the entire stack of boxes had collapsed with a great shuddering crash. Hermione was simultaneously glad and irritated that the mess, while extensive, had not injured her, nor had it appeared to affect her carefully controlled chaos of papers and parchments on her desk. The problem was that she still had to right the chaos, which was extensive, even with magic to help her.
It was around the two hour mark as she stacked and sorted documents, portfolios, books, and scrolls that the small, black notebook found its way into her hands.
She brushed her fingers over it, puzzled at the texture of the cover. It was scaled, much like a dragon, but most notebooks were not bound in such an expensive material. She scanned it for any hexes or curses, and, satisfied that it would be safe enough to open, she slowly opened it to a random page.
"Curious," she mused, her voice seemingly loud in such a quiet space.
Immediately she could see that the dragon hide had been manually added to the notebook to improve its structural integrity. It looked as though it had been repurposed from some other garment, but from what she could not tell. There were places in which the hide was scuffed or worn in unusual ways, but she could tell it had also been oiled and buffed enough that whoever had done this had done so deliberately and with as much care as could be managed.
The spidery scrawl within tickled her brain in a familiar manner, but she was immediately drawn into the contents of the notes as she scanned the pages greedily. Someone had been researching time travel and ways to contact and bind spirits. The spell that drew her attention appeared to make the caster able to draw out the spirit of someone who had died by magically tuning their energy and becoming like a beacon to draw them back.
"Someone was rather productive," she said, arching one eyebrow as she turned the page to see a large spell circle drawn in painstaking detail with intermittent notes and arrows pointing to show the steps in which the ritual must be laid out for maximum potency.
"A ritual?" she breathed out excitedly, running her fingers over the swoops and turns of the shape on the page.
Then, she turned the page, and her hopes dwindled. The writer had noted that the results had been subpar and inconsistent. Hermione mirrored the frustration of the writer, but she couldn't help but turn back to the ritual page. Something in how the turns and runic symbols had been laid out made her mind itch. With even steps, she left the remaining pile of upended boxes and slowly strolled back to her desk, already lost in thought on how she would improve the work.
It took her three solid days of bone-aching work. It was only here, basking in the whispers of the Veil, that the anxieties in her head were finally silent. She'd shed her outer robes, leaving herself in a light, breathable cotton shift with a potion-stained smock cinched loosely around her thick-set waist. She knew her hair was a fright, but simply tucked the stray strands behind her ears when they threatened to fall into her eyes.
Music helped her focus and, oddly enough, her old CD player, which was held together with duct tape and holographic stickers, didn't seem to be affected by the ambient magic in the area. It lay snugly tucked into her front smock pocket as she finished the summoning circle with a red line painted in her own blood. There were some benefits to having cursed scars. They broke open with very little coaxing.
Hermione didn't particularly balk at using blood magic if it stood between her and her goals. The pain wasn't a problem. She knew that it was part of building the spell. She merely paced herself with a strict regimen of blood replenishing potions and unrelenting focus.
Her messy work complete, Hermione slowly wrapped salve-infused linen bandages around her wounds and sank into the chair to survey her handiwork. She bobbed her head as she listened to one of her favorite mixed CD's, her mind fuzzy with blood loss and fatigue. She glanced on the little table where the notebook lay open to the ritual page. A circled note admonished her that she had the highest chance of success if she began the incantation as soon as the circle was complete.
"No time like the present," she said, picking it up, "and no rest for the wicked."
It didn't matter that there was a sizable chance that nothing would happen. The ritual hadn't specifically required the Veil. It had been meant to be placed at "thin" places, such as ley lines, places where violent death had occurred, or the gate to an ancient necropolis. Hermione paused her CD player, tucked the headphones around her neck, and began the incantation. She stood on wobbly feet, holding the notebook and focusing on her words as she circled the outskirts of the circle in a counter-clockwise motion. As she got to the end, she came to stand in front of her wingback chair, waiting for something to happen.
For many long moments, nothing stirred.
And then everything went to hell. Hermione was blown backwards by a gale force wind that reversed again just as suddenly. She found herself holding onto the heavy old chair for dear life, the notebook snatched from her grip by the magical hurricane as it tried to suck her into the Veil. She squinted, glad for the cage, but even so did not fancy slamming into its meta bars. There was a strange smell of ozone, tar, and wet leather, and Hermione vaguely registered a horrible crashing noise before a shockwave of magic rolled over her, knocking her senseless.
Hermione's head felt like it was spinning around in circles. She raised her hand to her forehead only to feel the telltale sensation of blood dripping down from a cut on her forehead. Reaching for her wand, she sealed the cut with the precision of one used to regular injury. The pain barely registered as it seared closed with the spell.
Blinking through the smoky haze that hung in the Veil room, she realized at once that the cage had been horribly mangled, and was upended on one side, the metal bars sticking out on one side like the legs of a horrible, rearing spider.
Hermione stood carefully, checking for any serious injury, but luckily, her cuts and bruises seemed superficial.
Moving towards the ritual circle, she blinked through the smoke. Visibility was poor, but she could tell that there was something crumpled on the floor near where her chair had been. Stepping forward with her wand raised, Hermione cleared her throat and coughed.
"Hello?" she asked, her voice wavering ever so slightly.
The crumpled heap didn't move. It was probably just the rucksack she'd used to haul all of the ritual circle ingredients into the room, she realized. It hadn't been successful after all. Turning towards the circle, she noticed the notebook had come to rest over the lip of the rusty red lines. She bent to pick it up carefully.
Out of nowhere, a hand grasped at her ankle, dragging her down. She screamed in surprise, lashing out and kicking her attacker with her boot even as her wand slipped from her grasp and rolled away when she tried to catch herself and scraped her palms on the stone floor.
A cry of pain escaped the rumpled form of whatever had manifested onto the stone floor, and Hermione crawled backwards, clutching the notebook. She finally realized that her wand was lying on the ground a few feet away and she leapt for it just as her attacker did the same. They struggled briefly, but Hermione was still drained from the incantation and blood loss, and she found herself summarily disarmed and pinned down, her own wand pressing against her chin.
"Lumos," a gravelly voice wheezed, and her wand tip began to glow, revealing a craggy, sallow face that had haunted Hermione's nightmares on and off for over a decade.
"It's you," she whispered, her eyes so wide they hurt.
He took one look at her wand and met her eyes, his lips twisted in fury and recognition.
"What the fuck did you do this time, Hermione Granger?" Severus Snape hissed back.
