Chapter Text
Chapter One: Reflect What You Are
“We all have limits. Remember my warnings about veil madness."
Without even sparing her a glance, Unspeakable Li starts tidying the paper piles cluttering her desk by hand. Hermione’s nails dig into the palms of her hands. A hive of bees angrily buzzes in her ears. The cutting condescension sparks her temper.
Arguments swirl around her mind. Afterall, if Hermione listened to the so-called limits blood purists proclaimed her to have, then she would have flunked out of Hogwarts. Still, Unspeakable Li could halt her research project or, worse, fire her. Hermione swallows down her complaints; they burn her throat as they slowly slide down.
A flurry of paper creatures swoops into the room, emerging from the heavy wooden door without a single crease. Their pale whimsy clashes with her mood. Smothering the urge to childishly squash one, Hermione begrudgingly admires her supervisor’s charmwork.
Noticing the distinct lack of tell-tale turquoise glimmering across the doorface that would signify a Daoist water variation on a permeability charm, Hermione discards her previous hypothesis regarding which spells her supervisor embedded into the door. Unspeakable Li halts the onslaught with a hand. Yet, a particularly insistent paper crane continues, eventually crashing into her still outstretched hand.
Li’s jaw ticks; she unfurls the message, and her nose scrunches up instantly.
Hermione soaks in her supervisor’s shifting expressions, scrying for imminent changes with each twitch and sigh. No immediate answers appear, but by the furrow between Li’s brows, Hermione can tell that trouble is coming. Hopefully, her increasingly prominent frown signifies an onslaught of paperwork for her supervisor, rather than another potential budget cut for their department.
Pursuing her lips, Li scrutinises a calendar, then nods to herself and summons a pen wandlessly. She jots something down in her diary, but Hermione fails to make sense of the miniscule jumble from her chair. Tapping the pen against her lower lip, Li hums to herself as she drags around different coloured blocks, which follow the tip of her wand like eager ducklings.
Hermione eyes the clock. Annoyance clogs her throat. Her mind drifts to her latest test on the veil. Incorporating further particle physics research seems promising. Taking initiative, Hermione begins drafting a request to attend more muggle university modules. Thoughts of navigating the Muggle Relations Department make Hermione grit her teeth. Surely, she could-
“Next week I’ll need to reschedule. How about Thursday, the 15th, at ten?”
Summoned back to their meeting, Hermione blinks. Instinctually nodding, she scrambles to check her schedule. No concrete plans appear. She’ll just have to reschedule assisting Luna in the Souls department. With more confidence this time, Hermione agrees. Li smiles back, a fleeting thing, like snow in London.
As Hermione pulls together her things, Chief Unspeakable Li clears her throat.
“Don’t forget my warning. It would be a shame to lose such a promising young Unspeakable.”
Li leans on her elbows over her crowded, mahogany desk. Inspecting Hermione through indifferent eyes, she rests her chin on one hand and toys with her pale wand in the other.
Li looks at her. And Hermione suddenly cannot remember the last time someone met her eyes. Irises like worn blue denim float to the forefront of her mind. Her heart picks up. Emotions lodge in her throat. Hermione stomps down the image of his pale blue eyes.
The lights flicker. Enveloped in shadow, Unspeakable Li’s chestnut eyes darken. Her pupils seem to stretch. Stumbling, Hermione takes a step back. A look from Li pins her in place. That ebony stare drags Hermione forward, closer. Like a blackhole, that gaze commands gravity itself.
All the books and magical instruments start to shake. The porcelain statue of Guanyin, perpetually presiding over a small altar tucked in the corner, shatters. The white pieces scatter across the office’s plush red rug. Hermione stumbles. She sways as the floor trembles beneath her.
Then, the air itself starts to shimmer, turning iridescent. The shimmer starts spreading like a stain, seeping across the space between her and Li. Rainbows refract wherever light hits the crystalising air. It resembles a disco ball, Hermione notes idly. Soon, the shimmer solidifies. The air itself appears opaque and glossy, and, with time, it starts resembling a mirror.
In its reflection, she sees emerald leaves interspersed amongst burnt orange and bright yellow ones. An autumnal forest appears in the mirror. Terror wraps its hands around her throat and squeezes. Yet Hermione holds herself still and tapes a mask across her face. She cannot display her fear. If Li spots any sign of Hermione’s slipping mental state, she will force Hermione to rest and recover.
And how would you ever repress all those terrible, terrible things you’ve done then?
Jubilant, the voice mocks her. His posh accent crowds out her thoughts, but she hears how this velvet voiced stranger who takes residence in her mind savours her misery. He unearths all those thoughts that she buries six feet under. Still, Hermione refuses to scream. Li might notice. So, instead, she swallows down cries slithering up her throat. Hermione steels herself, spreading her feet a shoulder’s width apart.
The air itself starts to crack, a jagged gash, shaped like a lightening bolt. Black nothingness swells up to fill the gaps caused by the still expanding crack. The world fractures before her, and it sounds like the tinkling of broken glass.
Li watches Hermione from her desk. Those ebony eyes match the nothingness seeping out through the cracks like blood.
Hermione’s pulse thuds in her ears. Her heart pounds against her ribcage. Time contorts itself, bending and twisting. The second hand of Li’s clock sprints counterclockwise, while the minute hand stays still and the hour hand races ahead. Seconds stretch into eternity; hours condense into minutes.
Swaying, Hermione inches closer to Li’s desk. The movement causes her necklace to shift; however miniscule, the scratching against the back of her neck shatters the compulsion compelling her closer to that blackhole-like stare. The mirror-like quality to the air starts to fade.
Scrunching her eyes shut, Hermione shakes the fog out of her head. When light presses against her eyelids, she opens her eyes. The hands on the clock move at their usual paces. The cracks are gone. Hermione risks a glance at Unspeakable Li. Warm brown eyes welcome her. Hermione’s shoulders relax. Then, she absorbs Li’s last words before Hermione’s overactive imagination tangoed with her.
The warning hangs in the air. No fantastical parchment creatures stir. None of the various instruments cluttering Unspeakable Li’s bookshelves move. Not even a particularly noisy breath disturbs the looming words, which seem to suck the air from the room. Hermione inhales. Her lungs protest at the stretch; still, she holds her breath, trapping the air there. Anxiously, she rubs the links of her necklace between her thumb and forefinger.
Straightening her shoulders, Hermione forces herself not to look back as she leaves.
A chill wraps around her. It leaves her shivering for hours.
...
Head throbbing, Hermione drags herself away from her latest reading covering the materiality of death. Seems she’ll need to add attending a course on theoretical physics as well. Visions of paperwork haunt her. Tugging out the half-way filled out form, Hermione tacks on her rationale for requesting permission to attend a theoretical physics module or two.
A wave of ice crashes over her. Shivering, she rubs her arms for warmth, then strengthens her warming charm. Still, the cold lingers. It feels like someone cursed her blood into frozen slush. Hermione buttons up her coat. Such a bone deep cold reminds her of those months spent half-starving during the horcrux hunt.
Pain blooms across her temples. Moaning, she squeezes her eyes shut. Downing a migraine relief potion, Hermione decides to rest her eyes by taking a break. She grabs Ron’s letter, stuffing it into her pocket with unnecessary force. Annoyance crests. Hermione leans into it, letting the emotion distract her from that haunting cold and her pulsing migraine.
Hair crackling, she strides down the hall with a scowl. Colleagues duck out of her way as Hermione stomps past them. Hastings opens his mouth, but Ribeiro silences him with a spell. Goldstein’s eyes bulge at the sight of Hermione. Cho Chang frowns, inspecting her. Hermione rushes past before Cho Chang can ask a probing question.
Music spills into the hall through the staff kitchen’s open door. She slows. Hermione’s shoulders relax. Her jaw unclenches. Half-smiling, Hermione slips inside and drinks in the sight. Luna’s blonde hair shines silver under the enchanted lights; her dress shimmers like woven moonlight. Anemone flowers adorn her braided crown. Kitchen utensils dance long to Luna’s solitary waltz across the room. The scene shoos away her migraine.
A kettle whistles. Luna’s waltz shifts to swaying as she walks to the counter. While singing to herself, Luna charms the kettle to fill her mug. Just as the kettle glides away, returning to the hob, a puff of sparkles explodes in a rainbow coloured mushroom cloud, hovering above Luna's freshly brewed tea. Luna beams. Hermione eyes her friend's newest teatime concoction.
“Is that…” Hermione sifts through her vocabulary for a nonoffensive adjective. All elude her. Concern crowds out other thoughts when Luna raises the cup to her lips. Hermione shoots a hand out, covering the drink. “Safe?” She asks.
Luna tilts her head to the left; her large, bluebell coloured eyes zip across Hermione’s face. Her smile turns conspiratorial, even as her gaze grows distant. Beckoning for the mug, Luna adds two slivers of lemon and squeezes honey into the drink. Hesitantly, Hermione thumbs her wand. Healing charms repeat on a reel in her mind.
“It's just tea,” answers Luna. She takes a delicate sip of lilac liquid, then continues, “It only looks different.”
Luna holds out the mug towards Hermione.
“Try it.”
Glitter swirls across the light purple drink. Her common sense protests. It screams about Luna's fantastical beliefs, and, more relevantly, Luna's countless questionable cooking choices, like that disastrous dandelion leaf red curry topped with rosehip jam.
Luna's stare peels back her skin with its intensity. Inhaling, Hermione braces herself. With their friendship in mind, Hermione tentatively takes a sip. Yorkshire tea dances across her tongue. She blinks. Hermione takes a longer sip. It still tastes like regular tea, albeit sweetened with honey and lemon.
Warmth infuses her. Unbuttoning her coat, Hermione shrugs it off, banishing it to her office. As she sets about preparing her own cup of tea, Luna hovers a step behind. Hermione catches Luna frowning slightly from the corner of her eye. Goosebumps raise across her shoulders and spill down her spine. Taking a sip of tea, Hermione readies herself. Luna takes her cue.
After digging through her crocheted tote, Luna grips an identical copy of Ron’s letter. Unlike Hermione’s, this one appears open. Luna probably read it, then. Sadness gathers in the corners of Luna’s increasingly prominent frown. A spiky lump lodges itself in Hermione’s throat. With shaking hands, she gulps down her tea. Luna caresses her arm, and Hermione doesn’t need confirmation. She knows.
“He didn’t tell you,” states Luna.
Swallowing, Hermione shakes her head. Luna nods. The creases between her eyes deepen.
“Not very loyal or chivalrous, then.” An uncharacteristic smirk tugs at Luna’s lips. “Not even brave, really.”
Luna envelops Hermione in a hug. Despite her slight frame, the blonde radiates warmth. Blinking back tears, Hermione dissolves into Luna’s arms. A boulder sits on her sternum, threatening to crush her ribcage. Each breath becomes a battle. Hermione drags down air.
“What a terrible excuse for a Gryffindor,” whispers Luna.
The joke sends Hermione into a hiccupping, sobbing mess. She starts to wipe her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper, but Luna transfigures one of the flowers decorating her hair into a handkerchief. Hermione forces a grin. It feels shaky.
“I don’t even love him anymore, not like that.”
Hermione forces the words out, pushing them around the boulder resting on her chest and past the stone clogging her throat. Luna nods; her sharp chin pokes the top of Hermione’s head.
“But, I thought he’d at least tell me he’s marrying her in person, you know?” Hermione sniffles. “We’ve been friends for so long.”
Her voice cracks. And Hermione hates herself for still clinging onto the memories. Hates herself for remembering those years spent dragging him and Harry out of danger, armed with her wits and her wand. Hates herself for thinking of such a bond as immortal, untouchable by time. Hates herself for crying over a cheater who barely apologised. She doesn’t care about the relationship anymore. Not really. Rather, she misses their friendship before the hurt formed a barrier between them.
Luna hums. The melody tugs at Hermione’s memories. Inhaling, she pushes down her bothersome, unruly emotions. Pulling herself out of Luna’s hug, Hermione starts tidying herself. She must look a proper state. Blowing her nose one final time, she cleans the handkerchief and unravels Luna’s transfiguration. Holding out the anemone flower, Hermione forces herself to smile.
Taking the flower, Luna returns Hermione’s grin. Melancholy darkens Luna’s bright blue eyes.
“No matter what happens, I’m your friend.”
Luna’s words carry the heft of a promise. Hearing this should ease the worry draped across her shoulders.
Anxiety claws at her lungs. Ice replaces her blood. She feels so, so cold.
Do you honestly think anyone besides me will choose to stay beside you?
The voice’s dulcet tones engulf her, and Hermione fears losing herself during such a fragile moment. So, with one last smile towards Luna, Hermione rushes to lose herself to work. His taunts cannot reach her in the throws of research.
...
Tattered black fabric undulates slowly, as if underwater. Frost creeps along the inner rim of battered grey stones encircling the portal. The runes transcribed into rock morph, constantly shifting languages. A chorus of unintelligible voices call out to her. Her heart aches.
Cho Chang peers at the runes, her quill racing across her parchment. An enchanted camera floats above her left shoulder, recording the moving script. Hermione clears her throat, and Cho Chang jumps. Her quill falls, clattering against the floor.
Sheepishly, Cho Chang ducks down to pick up her quill. She greets Hermione with a smile and wave. Sweeping away her earlier meltdown, Hermione beams back. She lets her colleague update her on her own research interpreting the script bordering the veil. Hermione hums along, then prompts Cho Chang along with timely questions. The two chat while Hermione sets up a prototype diagnostic she developed to examine the veil on a molecular level.
Then, it catches her eye. Hermione stills. Words shrivel on her tongue. Though diminutive, the box looms before her. If Hermione squints, it seems to disappear. Yet, she senses its presence. Just like those black eyes earlier, the box wields gravity, pulling her closer. Hermione stumbles forward, then stops herself.
Has the veil driven you mad yet, like Unspeakable Li suspects? Will the others want you without that clever mind of yours?
The voice picks at her. She bears her teeth in frustration, but holds back her retort. Hermione lives for her job, and she’s on the brink of a breakthrough. She needs more time with the veil. Hermione knows her limits. Her mental health is fine. She's fine. She is fine.
From the corner of her eye, Hermione watches Cho Chang. Chang raises an eyebrow in confusion, but Hermione dissipates her concern by starting to loudly chat aloud her incantation, rather than using the nonverbal magic Hermione favours. Chang gives her a thumbs up, then returns to work. She never once glances at the box.
Before Hermione’s eyes, the present seems to solidify and expand. It grows from the size of a ring box to one as long as her hand in moments. Hermione commands herself to breathe.
With her wand out, Hermione begins testing the box for curses, while continuing to erect her diagnostic charm. She cycles through all the usual curses and jinxes, then starts examining the present for increasingly rare ones. None appear. Even the cursebreaking spells Hermione found tucked away amongst some of the darkest tomes at Grimmauld Place fail to sense a single spell.
Cho Chang continues to work alongside her. Never once does the other woman’s attention drift towards the giftwrapped box two steps to her right.
Hermione silently summons the present. Now, the box’s steady growth seems to stop. Its dimensions remind her of a standard piece of notebook paper. She gives it a shake. Something shuffles and slides within the boxed confines.
For something so menacing, it feels upsettingly light.
The gift wrap feels laminated. Although black, rainbows dance across its planes whenever light hits. The sight reminds Hermione of an oil slick. Nausea coils around her stomach.
A gift from beyond the veil?
The voice’s bass raises in pitch from surprise. Pins and needles poke her fingertips. Hermione vibrates.
Sitting in her hands, rests a black box that emerged from the veil. On an attached tag, she spots her name.
Her diagnostic charm clicks into place. Hermione marvels at the sight: the present shares the same molecular composition as the veil itself.
Mind flickering to Ron’s wedding invitation, Hermione banishes the present to her beaded bag. She lives for her work. Hermione lost Ron, and she may lose Harry to the siren call of the found family offered by the Weasleys. She needs this.
...
Hours later, Hermione summons the present. Crookshanks meows, his tail curling around her calf. Hermione absently strokes him. He headbuts her, demanding more affection, and Hermione forces out a shaky laugh. She scratches him behind the ears, then bribes Crookshanks by serving dinner thirty minutes earlier than his regular schedule. He yowls, seemingly affronted at her graceless bribe, but begins to eat, leaving Hermione with her supposed gift.
The voice remains silent, but she feels his presence hanging over her. The box beckons. Tentatively, she unpeels the wrapping paper. It unveils an elaborately decorated hand mirror, only slightly longer than the length of her hand.
Silver snakes and hawks twist around its border. These animals weave between floral sights. Flowers she cannot recognise bloom, and bird’s nests lay in the crooks of silver trees. Within the mirror’s reflection, Hermione sees a forest scene during mid-Autumn. Her hands begin to shake. She spots a burgundy striped tent. A single crack crowded with endless darkness mars the surface. Hermione screams.
And screams.
And screams.