Back for Good

With the potion simmering in the next room, Hermione was left to her own devices. There were only two ingredients left to add: the essence of pure azure, and her own blood. Blood Magic was the strongest and Darkest magic there was; it always, always took something from the person who performed it. Usually something vital. Virgin blood was the most potent blood, and would bind the potion to the virgin irreversibly, and made the potion exponentially more powerful.

But Hermione was not afraid.

She had wanted to tell Harry that she was going to the Department of Mysteries to see the veil. She knew it wasn’t wise to go alone, with no one aware of her location. She could disappear into the veil and no one would ever know. But she was afraid to tell Harry in case he stopped her, or worse, tried to go in her stead. There was no one else she trusted anymore, and decided a note would have to be enough. She felt silly leaving a note on her own table when no one had been at Grimmauld Place in weeks. The note was short and sweet, and she finished just in time to add the final ingredients to the potion.

First to be added was the essence of pure azure. She measured out a dash and weighed it carefully in her hand. It had to be sprinkled in slowly while stirring a half circle every two seconds for four rounds. She did exactly as instructed. She then waited seven minutes exactly, before plunging the dagger into the flesh above her heart. She would not make the same mistake twice by trying to use blood from her hand. Her flesh burned and stung as the blood welled on the dagger tip. Thirteen drops while stirring continually at an even pace. She counted the drops carefully, aloud. She brought the dagger back to the wound on her chest again and again until the last drop sank into the potion.

Immediately, Hermione felt a heavy weight in her heart that spread throughout her body. She felt like she was being anchored to the ground, and could barely move. Her muscles stiffened painfully, and she was held impossibly tense. Then, a grey mist surrounded her like an aura, and entered through her mouth. A terrible ripping sensation began within her, and she felt like her insides were coming out. She tried to scream but choked on the mist while the ripping continued. Finally, something snapped and pulled free, the mist flowing back out of her body, into the potion. The potion turned the darkest black, and the fire below it went out. Hermione’s body began to feel normal again; she could move, and her muscles were loose and obedient. She knew she was missing something, but did not feel any different.

It was time.

Hermione bottled the potion, and gathered the incantation from its hiding spot on the third floor. She grabbed her cloak, her work identification, and made sure she had everything she needed. She brought healing draughts in case Sirius was wounded or weak. Wand, potion, incantation, and dagger just in case something unexpected came through the veil instead of Sirius. She was ready.

She Floo’d to the Department of Mysteries, and found herself before the veil almost before she knew it. The room looked exactly the same as it had when she’d been here last. The veil stood on a stone dais, and she sat before it. She organized the potion, the dagger, and her wand around her. She held the sheet with the incantation, and hoped her pronunciation was flawless.

Holding her wand trained at the veil, Hermione began to speak. Almost immediately she felt the power rushing around her, the veil shimmering violently and the air becoming thick and difficult to breathe. Her words flew out of their own accord, and she wasn’t sure if she was in control anymore. She spoke the words fiercely and clearly, somehow knowing she was saying it correctly. It was like the veil wanted her to speak the words. It trembled before her eyes, and she began to hear a whispering sound, first emanating from the veil, and then from all around her. It seeped into her skin, making her shiver and shake. She felt so cold.

When the incantation was finished, she let it fall from her fingers. She felt odd, unmistakably strong, yet detached from herself. She reached for the potion and removed the stopper.

She drank deeply, nearly gagging as the potion burned her mouth and throat. She could feel it settle like a rock in her stomach, and her insides began to cramp. Her grip on the potion tightened, and she could not finish. She felt faint, and was glad she was sitting down. She wavered slightly. Then she heard a sound in her ear, just like in her dream; a hissing voice ordering her to finish the potion. And just like in her dream, Hermione did. She used her finger to scoop the dregs out, and downed every single drop. When she swallowed for the last time, she heard a noise like an explosion, and felt her body begin to convulse. Then it was like she was looking at herself from above, seizing on the ground, eyes rolled back in her head, hand convulsively grasping the potion bottle.

Hermione watched her body from above, glad that she could not feel what her body was going through. Suddenly, her body’s eyes snapped open, and she stopped shaking. Hermione watched with detached interest as her body grabbed the dagger, drawing it deeply across the already-bleeding wound on her chest. She was going to be a veritable patchwork by the end of this, she mused pensively. The blood flowed and flowed, anointing the ground and spreading around her still-again form. There was more blood than should be possible, she was sure. The blood crept toward the veil, and the second they connected, Hermione felt a great jerking sensation, and knew no more.


When Hermione awoke, she immediately knew something was very wrong. Her body felt ice cold and she was weaker than she could ever remember feeling. But that was not unexpected.

No, the problem was that she was in a bed. Her bed.

She bolted upright, and immediately screamed at the pain in her chest. She looked at herself and saw that she was in clean clothes and her wound was free of spilled blood. But it was wide open and she thought she could see bone, it was so deep. It throbbed, and there were red lines spidering off of it. She fell back against the bed, trying to catch her breath. The door immediately opened, but her eyes couldn’t focus on who it was. She saw shaggy black hair and olive skin.

“Sirius?” she asked weakly.

“Of course not! It’s Harry! What in Merlin’s name have you done, Hermione? You almost died, I could have lost you! How could you be so selfish? I cannot believe you would do something like this, so reckless; it’s not like you!”

Through his tirade Hermione felt her heart sinking. It hadn’t worked. Sirius should have come out immediately, and if Harry was mad, that meant there was no Sirius. She closed her eyes.

Harry sat on the bed beside her and stroked her hair. “Hermione…what did you think would happen?”

“Sirius was…supposed to…come back through. Everything…went perfectly. I don’t…understand.” A choked sob escaped her. She had failed.

Harry held her while he told her what had happened. Snape had firecalled Harry after attempting to contact her repeatedly to no avail. He told Harry what he suspected, saying that he believed she might be at the veil. By the time Harry and Snape got there, she had almost bled out. Only her own healing draughts and Snape’s blood replenishing potions had saved her. They brought her back here, and Snape was ready to murder her.

“Harry…I’m so sorry. It should…have worked. He should…be with us.”

“Please don’t do this. Don’t you get it? He’s gone! You don’t come back from the veil. You don’t come back!” he shouted, and she cringed at the finality in his voice. She did not argue, only closed her eyes again, letting sleep take her.

When she awoke, she saw Snape in the arm chair next to her bed. She immediately froze, and pretended to be asleep, but she must have given herself away. Without looking up from his potions journal, he drawled, “So, the little lioness attempts to rebuild the pride. How does it feel to have relinquished a part of your soul for nothing?”

“Not for nothing,” she answered immediately. “I tried my best. Now I can live with myself.”

“It will not be much of a life, with a portion of your soul missing,” his voice was accusing, like she had personally affronted him. “You foolish, stupid girl. You have no idea what you’ve done. Your suffering is far from over, Miss Granger. Get used to pain, for your life just might consist of it.”

Hermione only sighed. She had done the best she could, and now she could only try to forgive herself for her failure. And try to get Harry to forgive her for being selfish, and not telling him what she had planned. She didn’t care about Snape—he would never understand, and she wouldn’t waste her breath trying to explain it to him.

“Can I have some food please? I’m starving.”

“Seeing as how you haven’t eaten in nearly three days, I don’t find that surprising whatsoever,” he muttered sarcastically, leaving the room.

Three days? Had she slept, been unconscious? Died? Now that she had nothing to research, nothing to look forward to after having had a mission for so long, Hermione felt bereft. She reached for the potions journal, and began to read. Snape returned with her food, and she ate heartily, making herself sick in the process.

Three more days went by in this manner, with Harry demanding to know what she was thinking, and Snape abusing her intelligence and demeaning her choices. Once she was able to walk around on her own, she asked that they leave. Snape didn’t hesitate, and was gone after a final rejoinder on her lack of foresight, but Harry hesitated.

“Please, Harry. I can be alone. I’m done trying, I promise. I accept that he is gone.” Her voice shook on her final words, but she meant what she said. Harry looked at her appraisingly and finally nodded.

“I’ll be by every day, though, to make sure you’re recovering as best you can.” Hermione nodded, knowing she could not escape his concern.

“And Hermione…no one else knows what happened at the veil, okay? I’ve told everyone you’re under the weather. That’s all. No one needs to know.” Hermione was thankful for this, not wanting her few friends to think her crazy, or to know of her failure.

When Harry left, Hermione decided she would read a little before catching up on the work she’d been avoiding. She nearly fainted when she saw the Black Family Library was completely empty and devoid of books.

The small potions cabinet was bare of ingredients.

The cutlery drawer had no knives.

And her wand had been limited so she could only use basic spells and charms, or signal for help. She had been neutered. A fury built within her the likes of which she’d never experienced, and she raged, throwing a lamp and tearing paintings from the walls, creating a path of destruction all the way to Sirius’ room, where the rage reached a pinnacle. Before she knew it, her hands were bleeding, one finger was surely broken, and there was not a piece of furniture or linen in the room that was not destroyed beyond repair.

She slept amongst the damage.

When Hermione awoke, she was grateful to discover she could perform healing spells with her wand, and she fixed her broken finger, and her swollen and bloodied hands. The work was amateur, and her finger looked a little funny and clicked when she bent it, and she wasn’t able to fix the scars from all the cuts, but at least her hands were useable.

Hermione set about cleaning up the mess, ashamed and embarrassed that she had destroyed Harry’s house, Sirius’ home. She did not touch Sirius’ room though. She started to pick up a piece of tinder that may have at one point been a chair, but a feeling of coldness and emptiness stole over her so quickly she felt ill, and she left the room, feeling immediately better upon exiting. She did not go back there.

Hermione cooked herself a pork chop for dinner, eating with her bare hands and feeling deliciously savage. She couldn’t stop the thoughts about Sirius from circling in her brain. He was still alive. She knew it like she knew her own name. She could feel it in her blood, and she never felt it as strongly as when she was raging through the house. It was like he was right there.

Hermione dropped her head into her hands and sobbed.


She returned to work as usual, citing illness for her absenteeism, and threw herself into her job. She barely stopped for lunch, and worked through to the last minute. She gathered up as much as she could and brought it home with her, dumping it on the dining room table and beginning again like she had never left work. She carried on thus through dinner and well into the night. She didn’t notice the tears streaked her cheeks, or the way her hands were shaking. Finally, when she was too exhausted to do anything but absently click her poorly healed finger, she carried herself upstairs to bed. She passed Sirius’ door and said “Good night,” under her breath, knowing she was going crazy and not caring in the least.

Her dreams were tortured and guilt-ridden, images of Sirius being tortured, being killed over and over, having his gut plucked out daily by vultures, pushing rocks up mountains only to have them tumble endlessly. This was the reward for her failure, and she accepted it.

She had just awoken from a vignette of Sirius on a stone slab being dissected with rusty tools, when she heard a banging on the front door. Knowing it was well after midnight, Hermione ignored it, unwilling to open the door to some drunk wanting money to Floo home.

The banging continued for a straight minute, every desperate crash strumming directly into her heart, and finally Hermione couldn’t stand the tension. She pulled on her dressing gown and walked to the front door, approaching it cautiously. The banging stopped, but still she was compelled to open the door.

When she did, Sirius Black fell through the threshold, and onto the floor at her feet.