Bringing Them Back

Hermione

It was a bit too quiet for her liking. Not to say that the silence was all together unpleasant, just – too much of it. Hermione had always felt at ease when it came to a quiet place. After spending a majority of her childhood wrapped up in comfy places with a book in her hand, that shouldn’t be too surprising. She had practically lived in the Hogwart’s library during her years at school. Madam Pince had even started allowing her to bring snacks in with her after witnessing her constant presence.

That small allowance had given Hermione the freedom to disappear between the stacks for hours if need be. With everything that she wanted to accomplish, her O.W.L.S and N.E.W.T.S and apparition tests and just everything she wanted to know – that freedom had come in handy. That didn’t even include the fact that she, quite literally, had to study and come to know and comprehend as much as she could to help Harry. Fourth year had been extraordinarily hard on the witch, but even that year had been child’s play compared to the years that followed.

After all, being best friends to the Boy Who Lived required dedication to not just the boy, but the idea of the boy and the inevitability of what he had to face. After Diggory’s death, there wasn’t really an ‘if’ anymore where it came to Harry and Voldemort but a ‘when’.

Silence had been her companion then. Constant and helpful as she had devoured everything, she could in the tombs that the library had available to her. After explaining what was needed with the librarian, she had even granted her a two-hour window three times a week in the Restricted Section as long as she did not remove any of the literature there.

Neither Pince nor Hermione brought up the sixteen books she had taken from that section right after Dumbledore’s funeral. In fact, two of those sixteen – Hermione was pretty sure the old librarian had placed specifically for Hermione to take.

All this recollection, she surmised, was just to remind her that she preferred silence. She quite liked it.

And still – it was just too quiet.

“I get the phrase – the silence is loud now.”

Try as she might breaking through that silence seemed impossible. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t groan or moan or even move to create some kind of sounds. She felt as if she were in a vice – keeping her locked. However, her body did not feel right. If she were able to open her eyes and look down, she would not be surprised to see it missing. Though, she couldn’t get her eyes to cooperate either. And the thought of a missing body sent a teeny tiny jolt of alarm. Like a memory. Like she should find her body missing alarming. The micro thought felt wrong too, so she pushed it aside and concentrated on what was right in front of her.

She didn’t know if the gray she was witnessing was behind closed eyelids or not. It was a little alarming, but then again – not? It was confusing and yet she did feel a rightness to it. As if this was just the way of things and who was she to question it?

Still – even in that rightness – she felt wrong.

What exactly was she thinking about again? Was she really thinking about silence? Too right! Yes, silence and…just why she found herself so immersed in it. What was she doing? Sleeping? If so – what a boring brainscape. Then again, with the way she typically dreamed, or rather the nightmares that she normally had – maybe this gray void was a boon.

Honestly, who wouldn’t take a quiet gray calm over a stark raving, rotten toothed witch looking manic down the length of a wand that had torn apart Hermione’s very nerve endings?

Choice seemed a rather easy one, she decided.

Gray quiet it was – for now.

“HELLO!?” Or maybe not. 

She could not feel her mouth move over the word. Unlike before, however, she knew she said them - she felt the word form and leave her, but maybe not. She glared into the gray void. Her thoughts were forming, she could speak them, but she couldn't speak them?

"Honestly, this is a bit ridiculous.” Definitely not.

Sirius

Blimey, fucking Merlin’s balls, he ached. Ached so deep down in his bones he was sure they were splintered. Every part of his body felt like a giant had taken a mallet to him. It was not a good feeling. In fact – it was utter shite. He had been just fine in his …his…

He heard humming.

Heard.

How? There were no sounds here.

The gray against his eyes wasn’t gray either. It was…he squinted. Bright. Too bloody bright. He groaned at the sharp pain that stabbed his eyes. He actually felt his neck pull back and his chin shifting away from the light, but how? How was he able to feel that? Again pain. Pain.

“Blo…” he choked on the words. If that was what one called the grunting gargle that tried to claw their way out of his throat. Sweet Morgana they felt like gargled acid on their way across his tongue.

He noticed the humming coming to an immediate stop only to be replaced with his name. “Mister Black,” a gentle voice sounded to his left, then a pressure on his forearm that made him want to whimper, “Try not to talk, we will get you some water and a soothing potion momentarily – you are at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, you are currently in our intensive wing and my name is Healer Tribby.”

He tried to look towards this healer, but again the pain that stabbed his eyes when he tried to open them kept him from being able to see her. He felt sluggish and weighed down which…after spending so long feeling as if he had had no body at all this both concerned and thrilled him. He wanted to cry in relief, but he didn’t think his body could conjure the tears. He was beyond thirsty.

“Ah, here,” he heard before a cold sensation pressed against his lip, “Drink,” and Sirius would never utter a single word to anyone about the fear that followed that command because – how do you do that? How do you…swallow? He tried to remember, tried to force himself to do it, and just as the panic seemed to outweigh his cognitive reasoning, he heard the healer, “Forgive me, let me,” and then the drink must have been tipped, and a warm liquid filled his mouth. It seeped along his tongue, over his teeth and toyed with his raw throat – and then his body took over where his mind could not. He swallowed. He could feel the liquid slowly working its way down his esophagus and into the pit of his stomach. It tasted like feathers. Or what he remembered of quills in his long nights of studying and nibbling on the end of a quill.

Immediately, his throat hummed in appreciation, and he took a larger drink.

“Good,” the press of the vial was taken away from him, he heard it being set down before another was pressed to him, “This is just water.”

Greed. Greed like no other filled Sirius then and he opened his jaw to take in as much as he could. During the third deep drink he peaked his lashes open and was happy to note that he didn’t immediately wish to close them.

The last name of the Healer was the first thing he saw, embroidered on lime green linen, then he followed the line of the shoulder to look at the woman who was still helping him with the water. His brows dipped down low at the pinched expression on her face.

Sirius stopped drinking and she moved the glass, after darting his tongue out to lick his lips he tried again, “Why so serious, doc?”

She tilted her head, and he watched as she examined his face and then moved her attention towards a floating purple HUD of information. All his, he presumed, “I am serious, Mr. Black, because out of all the cases I have been assigned, you are the first that is unexplored.” He frowned at that, shaking his head slightly and grimacing at the stiffness of his muscles. “You were a nonbeing and now you are a being again. This should not be possible.”

“A non-being….” He was about to question, but the door to the room opened and both of them turned to look at the person who entered.

James! He nearly shouted but stumbled on the name when he noticed the scar. No – not James. James was dead. Dead and buried and he had gone to Azkaban for it. Memories surfaced that he had not had to think about for a long time. He whimpered, literally whimpered, when he remembered the losses. If Harry was here, then, if Harry was here…

“Sirius,” the boy said slowly, in a low timber that sounded far too much like a man than a boy. “Sirius,” he repeated and came to a halt beside him on the bed, he reached out his hand and slowly touched him on the shoulder, “I…”

“Harry?”

And he watched as the boy’s face crumbled. The grip the boy had on his shoulder tightened and he almost seemed to fall forward. Sirius tensed as if to brace for the impact, but the bed caught Harry’s hips and only slumped against the edge – his free hand pressed against his face as he cried.

Sirius looked away from him towards the Healer who wore an expression he couldn’t quite decipher. She didn’t’ seem to be any help in regard to what was going on.

“Mr. Potter,” the Healer’s tone was slightly terse, “I suggest you sit in the chair and remove your hand from Mr. Black.”

He frowned deeply at the demand and looked away from the Healer towards Harry when he felt Harry’s hand slip down his shoulder to his upper arm and then completely off of him while he sat in a vacant chair. Sirius noticed the way he looked then. His clothes were dirty, torn in places, unkempt, he had scratches and bruises along his jaw and, though his hand was obstructing the view, he was pretty sure the boy had a black eye or nose. Harry looked up and Sirius’ eyes widened. Nose. Definitely a broken nose.

Both of Harry’s eyes were marred with swelling and deep angry bruises. His upper lip was split at the corner and the right side of his jaw was swollen so much he was shocked Harry had been able to speak at all, “What happened to you?”

He just shook his head and sighed, “Not the time.”

“It most certainly is not,” Healer Tribby agreed before she cleared her throat and address Sirius, “You are in good shape, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Considering we do not know where you have been for the last eight years.”

Silence. Not unlike the silence he had grown accustomed to filling the room. Eight years. What? He blinked, looking from the healer to Harry and back again. What?

“…silence is loud now.”  

“Huh?” Sirius whipped his head back to the Healer. “What?”

“I said you have been missing for eight years.”

“Not really missing, though, was he?” Harry said and again the deep timber of his voice shocked Sirius. Okay. That was different, the last time he had heard Harry speak his voice had been a funny little cracking thing of puberty.

“No, I suppose not,” Healer Tribby frowned, and Sirius just did not understand what they were talking about.

“I’m not following,”

“You um,” Harry sighed, “You fell through the Veil down in the Department of Mysteries.”

“It is not something we wish spread around, however,” Healer Tribby pressed, “There are only three Healers that have been informed of this and two of them run this establishment. Aside from that, the Minister knows and those closest to you,” she sighed, “Please remember that this is not supposed to happen and what or where you have come from is an unknown.”

“The Minister has cleared him,” Harry would defend.

She shook her head, “I mean he was presumed dead, Mr. Potter. He should not be here. If and when the word gets out– the questions as to how a dead man came back to life will have to be carefully answered.”

“He wasn’t dead, he was just missing!”

“Oh? And did you not mourn him as if he were? The dead ought not be brought to life, Mr. Potter.”

“He,” Sirius said, looking towards Healer Tribby, “Is here though, very much not dead. I understand what you are saying.” And he did. Missing or not – eight years was a long time for an assumption of dead. Especially if the story of him going through the bloody Veil had been broadcasted through Wizarding Britain. Still eight years? He shifted slightly, trying to sit up better, but he didn’t have the strength in the motion. He frowned and looked down to his body. It seemed healthy, he didn’t look as weak as he felt anyhow. This conversation was far too much to be having after just coming to. “I…I am tired.”

“Hm,” Healer Tribby’s understanding tone a stark difference than the way she had just been speaking. As much as he understood her caution, he felt there was a deeper story there. One he desperately wished to know but had no right to ask. He almost laugh – when had that ever stopped him before?

Before.

Before when?

Before eight years?

Before forced exile at Grimmauld Place?

Before Azkaban?

Thirteen years there.

Or was it before even that? Before he had found the dead bodies of his best mate and his wife? Before he had found little Harry crying in his crib with a nasty cut and a bloody cheek.

Before he had gone to the bar chasing some bird that night?

Nothing had stopped him before.

“Hello?”

Sirius’ turned his gray gaze upward to the Healer, the feminine voice loud and unfamiliar. When he saw she was gathering the potion vial and empty water glass – her attention not on him at all, he looked back towards Harry to see if he, “Did you hear that?”

Harry looked up from the floor, tired green eyes peeking through the bruises, “Hear what?”

“Honestly, this is a bit ridiculous.”

He blinked - once again thrown off by the voice he now knew was inside his head. Now he knew for a fact that he should not elaborate. Being where he was. He peaked at Healer Tribby as she stepped away from the bed and placed the glassware in a disposal bin that magicked the items away, he knew better. They didn’t take kindly to people hearing things. “Nothing, just tired.”

“Understandable,” Healer Tribby smiled kindly at him, “Perhaps some Calming Draught is in order," and he was impressed when she swished her birch wand and conjured a vial, handing it to him. Sirius was glad that his hand cooperated, and though she helped him guide the potion to his lips - she let him drink it unassisted. "I will let the Minister know you have woken, Mr. Potter,” she looked towards the younger man. “Do remember that visiting hours end in seventeen minutes.”

“Fine,” came the answer from the man in the chair.

Healer Tribby took the empty vial from him and with one last smile directed toward him and a curt nod at Harry, she left out of the room.

“Bird doesn’t seem to like you very much,” Sirius relaxed into his pillows as the draught already beginning to work on him, looking at his Godson.

Harry had been watching Healer Tribby leave the room and he sighed, “No, she doesn’t.”

A/N 

I want to apologize! This work was updating under "Completed" tag. It is not a complete work and as someone who favors reading completed vs WIPs - I know that this can irk people. That was an error, and I am so sorry! Thank you to my reader, ecesis, who commented to let me know this! 

Thank you all for reading and I hope you have a great rest of your day! 

-SB