TITLE: In Twain
AUTHOR: Maid Of Many Names
RATING: R (adult themes)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fanfic takes place in the summer holiday between 6th and 7th year. There are four parts to this story.
SUMMARY: Harry's nightmares are not his own. How can one tame demons that belong to another?
Part 1
Screams had died to choked sobs. Hermione found the sounds of Harry's weeping harder to bear than the wails previously erupting from his throat. The disturbance was a nightly ritual that became no less distressing for its familiarity. Curled up in her own bed, she wished for something more substantial to cling to than her own bed sheets. Mrs Weasley would put on a pot of hot cocoa downstairs once she had Harry settled again but for once Hermione did not feel in the mood to be soothed by hot milky beverages. Not that it had done much to ease her mind during the nights past. She was used to subduing her troubles with vellum, parchment and worn leather. She dissected her fears with wisdom painted in ink. Under that weight of knowledge, they would bow and be broken, loosing the power to frighten her. Unfortunately, it was not her inner demons that required soothing. They weren't even Harry's.
With the vague hope that company would help her find some measure of peace, Hermione slipped out of bed. She couldn't seem to linger amid flesh warmed linens knowing that Harry desperately pursued restful slumber that would not come. If he managed to drift into sleep once more, he would only wake again later. Hermione had guessed that Harry barely had three hours of sleep a night. With a heavy sigh, Hermione grabbed her wand. With the ease of long familiarity with the wooden length, she cast a variant of the 'lumos' spell. Soft light sprang into being, matching the glow of pleasure she felt at finally being of age and able to use magic outside of Hogwarts.
On bare feet, Hermione padded towards the kitchen. The sound of voices made her pause at the door. Swiftly she ended her spell and remained motionless, poised to overhear what she could. She, Harry and Ron might have hit their majority according to the Wizarding world but that hadn't stopped Dumbledore and the rest of the Order from excluding them in the name of protecting them. Hermione might have been more understanding if they hadn't been thrust into danger every year they had attended Hogwarts. To her surprise it was Dumbledore's voice that rose and fell in concert with Mrs Weasley's. With a frown, Hermione wondered if Mrs Weasley had flood the headmaster. To Hermione's knowledge Dumbledore hadn't been at Grimmauld place for several days.
"This can't go on, Albus!" Mrs Weasley spoke up. "The poor dear hasn't had a decent night's rest in months! His nightmares are only getting worse."
"You are correct but Severus is doing all he can. Modifications to Dreamless Sleep must be done carefully."
"Then what should we do? You said occlumancy would stop You-Know-Who from getting into Harry's mind."
"I'm afraid I have no more answers than those I've already given you, Molly. The occlumancy was successful in partially blocking the link. It is my belief that once Harry mastered occlumancy, it allowed the subconscious aspect to dominate the link. Sadly occlumancy can only protect the conscious mind."
"If the occlumancy was successful, then why is the poor boy in worse shape than before!" Molly Weasley demanded.
"What resides in Voldemort's subconscious would be enough to give the whole wizarding world nightmares," Dumbledore sighed.
When the conversation drifted to Mrs Weasley bewailing Harry's travails, Hermione slipped away, aimlessly wandering the darkened house. Her mind struggled with what she heard. Harry had always had bad nightmares. Neither she nor Ron found that surprising. When Harry's nightmares became more frequent, they had assumed it was due to the burdens Harry struggled with. Finally when they had realized it was something else, Dumbledore had spoken to them. He had told them about the connection and they had believed Dumbledore when he'd said that he could stop it.
Hidden by the shadows of the darkened house, Hermione bit her lip in dismay. Did this mean that Dumbledore could do nothing? That thought sent ice forming in her stomach. Harry couldn't continue like this. He was already too close to giving up entirely. Hermione knew full well that sleep deprivation would only push Harry closer to the edge. Something had to be done!
Hermione didn't doubt that Professor Snape was doing everything he could. He might hate Harry but he took his duties as an Order member and professor seriously. What bothered Hermione was that Dreamless Sleep, no matter how modified, wasn't a permanent solution. People not only needed to dream but Dreamless Sleep was poisonous if taken long-term. If Dumbledore's hopes were pinned on Dreamless Sleep, then did it really mean that there was no other way to block Voldemort?
She refused to believe that. It was well known the Dumbledore was adamant about not using the Dark Arts. Nor did he permit his fellow Order members to use them. The only exception was Professor Snape who used use Dark Magic to insure his position of spy in Voldemort's circle.
Dumbledore's convictions against using the Dark Arts were something that Hermione had once admired. It was only after what happened in the Department of Mysteries, did Hermione realize what that could mean. Against those that had far more in their arsenal than a simple stupefy, she had been as helpless and as ignorant as a first year. It had been an experience that was in equal measures terrifying and humiliating. She refused to be so weak and helpless ever again. That summer she had begun her voyage into the realm of all things Dark. Whenever her courage began to fail or her doubts pile up, all she had to do was finger the long scar that wove its way across her abdomen. Ridged and pink, the scar tissue would forever adorn her body.
In secret, she devoured every book on the Dark Arts she could find. Thankfully, Knockturn Alley sold such things in abundance. She had read everything from the moldering tomes of ancient lore, to ill-printed manuscripts produced by underground publishing houses. Back at Hogwarts, she had plundered the Restricted Section's contents where she found more than she could ever have imagined. Hermione Granger, mudblood Gryffindor and Hogwarts' resident bookworm was going into her seventh year, but knew more about the Dark Arts than most wizards or witches twice her age.
Not that she would presume to know everything. Compared to some she was a mere dabbler. While she knew a great deal, she had not practiced all she had learned. Much of her knowledge would forever remain theory. Having seen what the Dark Arts could do to a person, Hermione preferred to keep it that way. Humility and fear helped to cultivate the ever essential barrier between herself and the seductive possibilities that the Dark Arts offered. So she remained all she had been with the small addition of being a fledgling Dark Witch.
All that experience delving into the forbidden would now be put to good use. Compared to her previous misdeeds, what she was about to do was nothing. By resolutely holding onto that justification, Hermione dulled the vague sense of guilt that persisted. Her goal decided, Hermione made her way to the double doors that she had so often looked at with unrepentant longing. Behind those door was the Black Library.
When she had first arrived at Grimmauld Place, Hermione had been banned from entering the library with the rest of the 'children'. That was yet again another prohibition that hadn't been lifted upon reaching majority. According to Dumbledore it was too dangerous. Hermione was only slightly mollified by the fact that even the other Order members weren't allowed free access. Being banned from entering the library with the rest of the 'children' was possibly the worst torment someone could have devised for her. Indeed she had immediately begun crafting plans to get into the library but had not actually placed those plans in motion. She had not been willing to risk breaking the wards for sheer curiosity's sake. For Harry, she would.
"Okay, Bill, lets see if you learned anything playing Indiana Jones in Egypt," Hermione murmured.
It had been Bill Weasley that had erected the wards around the library. As there were so many other more important demands on Dumbledore's time, it had been decided that the collection hadn't warranted his personal attention. For Hermione that was fortuitous indeed. Without a doubt the eldest Weasley boy knew his craft but Dumbledore's encyclopedic knowledge of magic and sheer power was another matter entirely.
Wards were not her forte but she had done quit a bit of research into the subject. Hermione had initially wanted to better understand the protections the Order had placed on her house. Then Harry had wanted to know about how the blood based wards on his relative's house worked during his semi-rebellion against Dumbledore in his sixth year. Hermione had found the subject very interesting although she would readily admit there was much she didn't know. Hopefully what she already knew paired with the books she had on the subject would allow her to gain access to the library.
Carefully, Hermione scouted the perimeter of the wards. Her respect for Bill went up a notch as she realized he had warded the whole room and not just the doors. If he hadn't, Hermione might have created her own entrance to the library. With the whole room protected, that wasn't possible. Using her wand as something of a divining rod, Hermione traced the paths of the energy flows that held the wards together. They were seamless and uniform in strength. Having had a taste of Bill's expertise, she would have been disappointed had it been otherwise. Even if she had found a chink in the wards that could be used to break them, Hermione wouldn't have used it. If she destroyed the wards completely, then their absence would alert the Order.
Instead she would have to convince the wards to allow her passage. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she lifted her wand and began.