[ slowly but surely, too slowly for hermione's taste, she has begun to realise the nature of the problem. hallucinations, like those from a false memory charm, individual and non-transferable. what she hears, others do not; what they feel, she cannot share.
she's seen people cry out for loved ones, flinch from invisible terrors. it's ... too much, really. so she stays in her cabin, as much as she can, focusing on placing up wards and organising (though not unpacking) her bag, making the place feel as homey as she can without sacrificing the easy convenience of leaving in a hurry if she must.
but as the week drags on, as the screams go more prevalent even in the relative quiet of the village, as occasional ghosts slip through even hermione's most deadset wards, she thinks it might be helpful to have someone other than the screams of her friends in pain or the visions of her parents' blank stares for company.
thus, mid-day, an audio call: ]
Peter? [ a beat. ] Hello, is anyone there?
[ it's like a telephone, right? if she calls, he has to answer the phone. ]
[ throughout the week, he's only paid intermittent attention to his tablet. while he's no stranger to hallucinations and to illusions and whatever this is, that doesn't mean it's not unsettling. that doesn't mean it's easy to tell himself that the sounds, the familiar ones that always seem just that little bit out of reach aren't actually coming from anyone he knows; that the glimpses of people he's torn on both wanting to see and firmly, resolutely wanting to be the last people here, ever, still aren't here (thank god).
he'd tried keeping himself busy, but in a small, tiny town ("town" — he's been in classes with more people), it's more difficult than he'd care to admit. there are only so many places to go, so many places to avoid anyone else, just in case—
(because what if?)
and not for the first time, he's found himself wishing for an obvious bad guy, someone to blame, unequivocally, for all of this. someone to punch a couple of times, make a few terrible jokes at, and then for him to exit, sharply, stage right and go home—
but fine, sure. it's not that simple.
the distraction that does come is in the form of his tablet letting him know he has a message. one moment passes, then two, then— (ugh, where did he leave—).
—oh, that's cute. is anyone there. (hermione, it is not a phone.) ]
—Unless there's another Parker here that I'm not aware of. [ (oy, there's a thought. imagine if ben or kaine were to turn up.) ] Hey, Hermione.
[ to be fair, it could be a phone. if he answered immediately rather than let the call go to the modern equivalent of an ansaphone, it could have been a live phone call. instead, it's a strange combination of telephony relay, small snippets of audio recordings left in lieu of text-based messaging.
the latter, really, is too much for her to start with right now. she can only handle one new piece of technology a month, and the concept of an electronic book with seemingly limitless storage in its shell is about three months' worth at the moment. ]
There might be, I'm sure I haven't met everyone yet. [ which is not what he meant, but it's the truth. ] Are you busy at the moment?
[ you know... hearing voices... dealing with ghosts... ]
Depends on which definition of busy we're going with. [ occupied? yes, kind of. but busy? no, not at all. a breath of a pause, then, and clarification comes in the form of: ] Nothing I wouldn't be happy to drop.
[ it's been just over a week, which means that peter has no way, really, of gauging if hermione's okay, if she's messaging him because she wants someone to talk to, to know that someone or something is real; the is anyone there? would imply that maybe it's the latter, but it could simply be that she's not used to audio messages.
The prevailing theory is that I'm dead, and now I'm hearing the voices of people I very much would prefer not to be dead along with me —
[ a sharp, agonized breath cuts off her sentence, hurriedly followed by an uncomfortable silence. (for hermione, there is the sickening wail of her name, cried out by voices in tandem. she cannot help them. for peter, though, it is silence.) ]
No. [ and it takes quite a bit for her to admit that, but now is not the time for bravado or the quintessential british stiff upper lip. now is the time for problem solving. desperate times call for desperate measures. et cetera. ] No, I'm — I'm not.
[ the issue, peter thinks, with the messages not being in real time, is that once the audio's sent and once it's received, the response is always going to be delayed, never quite soon enough to actually help.
her reply is cut off by a breath and a silence that's almost painful to sit through. he doesn't need to know who she's hearing, in much the same way he doesn't want to tell her who he hears. (mj. felicia. gwen. billy.) ]
—It doesn't quite hit the heady heights of apple bobbing and pumpkin carving, but it's one way of celebrating Halloween, right?
[ is his answer. (it's a no, but he's not there yet in actually saying as much.) an inhalation of breath, and: ] You know it's not real? They're just illusions. Hallucinations.
Yes — [ of course she knows it's not real. it's all in her head, of course it is. but that doesn't make them any less unsettling, or make the feel of ice down her spine any less chilling. ] Yes, I know.
[ it does not help that hermione is not in the habit of asking for help. she has always been enough on her own, whether it be to know the answer or to find it or to implement it in some fashion; she always has managed between her mind and her work-ethic to get to the end of a challenge.
except, her mind taunts her now, with the horcrux hunt. she hadn't won that out, had she? no, she'd gone and died while trying to apparate, splinching herself as if she hadn't passed her apparition test with a perfect score, a brilliant study in calm environments but apparently a disastrous failure when push came to shove. her only saving grace in that moment was that she hadn't killed harry along with her.
and now, so soon after arriving, does she find herself failing again. it isn't a feeling she relishes — and yet, even still, peter reminds her: it's just halloween. it's just ghosts and poltergeists. they must be scarier in whatever dimension this is, meant to truly frighten rather than just spook in the dark.
she's over-reacting, isn't she? ]
I know it isn't. I'm sorry to have bothered you about it.
[ he must think she's quite stupid, getting out of sorts about this. is everyone else handling it so... easily? ]
[ is the first reply he sends, a little hurried because that wasn't what he'd meant. he makes a noise, something that's between a groan and frustrated, because—
he should have known that wasn't the reply to send. not everyone's had the pleasure of mysterio, not everyone's had the fun and games of experiencing kraven's jungle potions and even then, he's still bothered by it, isn't he? he knows that it's not real.
(can't be real, there's no way it's real, and whilst there's a rational side of him that argues exactly that, there's a less rational side that says he only thinks that because he doesn't want it to be real—.)
a second message, then: ] That's not what I meant.
[ third message: ] It feels real, and that's the worst part. You know it's not, but there's a part of you that says what if, and I get it, but—. [ but what? just ignore it? that's easier said than done, and he's not exactly doing a stellar job of it. ]
[ fourth message: ] I'm sorry, Hermione. But you've just got to keep that in mind. Whoever you're hearing, they're not here. If they weren't on the ferry with you, they're not here. [ he can't say they're not dead, because he doesn't know that, so that's the closest he can get. ]
[ not here doesn't mean not dead. not here doesn't mean not hurting. not here doesn't mean those voices aren't real, that harry and ron aren't reaching out to her through the veil, that this isn't another repeat of the department of mysteries, strange experiences far beyond that which logic can control.
hermione so often latches to logic as a grounding force, but it's been slipping from her over the last few days. no sun, no light, just the fire-flicker of her lantern in the dark of her room, nothing but the occasional sounds and sights of ghosts she can't seem to stop for company.
is she alone? ]
I don't know.
[ perhaps that's the worst of it. the not knowing. the uncertainty that breeds fear, without a rational resolution to make it stop. she's tried all she can think of and then some, and yet... ]
You don't know. [ he repeats, carefully. okay, so that means that there's no-one with her from beacon, no-one that's definitively — existing, here, because he still hasn't really decided if he believes they're dead, or if it's a convenient story they've been fed, not entirely unlike these hallucinations. ] Do you want company?
—Actual company, not maybe-company. [ he adds. in the background, there's the sound of movement — footsteps (his), just for a moment, and then nothing for one second, then two, then three, and then an exhale of breath, something between a sigh and a huff of a laugh—.
(don't think about it, right?) ] So, I used to teach science.
[ she'd like real company, actual company, not almost-company that does more to frighten and unsettle her than calm her nerves. she'd like to be able to reach out and know for certain that the person sitting across from her is flesh and blood, and not just a specter or a flash-burn or a ghost.
she'd like the sounds of his footsteps in the background to correspond to the thump of feet on the ground, and not just distractions in the dark meant to spin her around. ]
What kind of sciences?
[ she hasn't taken a proper muggle science class ever. primary school had been only introductory, and though hermione had always been clever, she hadn't exactly taken physics. ]
Where are you? [ it, too, is a short, quick message. ]
Biology and chemistry, mostly. [ there's a pause and a muffled sound of rustling and a a quiet, indistinct mumble, before— ] It was at my old high school. There was an administrator— [ julie. julie. ] I'm pretty sure she's immortal, sustained by a petty hatred of competency. [ beat. ] I asked her to order a book, once — The Poetry of Science. D'you know what I ended up with?
[ does he wait for a reply? no, not really. another message comes, a few moments later. ] The essentials of cooking with fowl, pig and cow. I still have nightmares about it.
The village. [ the Village, perhaps, in her tone. she rattles off a few descriptors to narrow down which tiny a-frame cabin is hers... not that she's had much time to do anything to it yet. ] Grand Portal, I think.
[ she means to laugh — or react, in some way, to show she's listening — but whatever message she meant to record and send back in response to his story is derailed by a hitch in her throat, the involuntary reaction to the sight of blood pooling on the floor.
it isn't her own blood. she's not bleeding. there's no one else here, so logically, it would stand to reason that it isn't real. but blood doesn't just appear, and so hermione's mind whirs with complications, fear and rational thought warring all over again. ]
I'll need to lift the wards for you if you're coming.
[ that if is a damn near please in all but the words themselves. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@hermione
she's seen people cry out for loved ones, flinch from invisible terrors. it's ... too much, really. so she stays in her cabin, as much as she can, focusing on placing up wards and organising (though not unpacking) her bag, making the place feel as homey as she can without sacrificing the easy convenience of leaving in a hurry if she must.
but as the week drags on, as the screams go more prevalent even in the relative quiet of the village, as occasional ghosts slip through even hermione's most deadset wards, she thinks it might be helpful to have someone other than the screams of her friends in pain or the visions of her parents' blank stares for company.
thus, mid-day, an audio call: ]
Peter? [ a beat. ] Hello, is anyone there?
[ it's like a telephone, right? if she calls, he has to answer the phone. ]
no subject
he'd tried keeping himself busy, but in a small, tiny town ("town" — he's been in classes with more people), it's more difficult than he'd care to admit. there are only so many places to go, so many places to avoid anyone else, just in case—
(because what if?)
and not for the first time, he's found himself wishing for an obvious bad guy, someone to blame, unequivocally, for all of this. someone to punch a couple of times, make a few terrible jokes at, and then for him to exit, sharply, stage right and go home—
but fine, sure. it's not that simple.
the distraction that does come is in the form of his tablet letting him know he has a message. one moment passes, then two, then— (ugh, where did he leave—).
—oh, that's cute. is anyone there. (hermione, it is not a phone.) ]
—Unless there's another Parker here that I'm not aware of. [ (oy, there's a thought. imagine if ben or kaine were to turn up.) ] Hey, Hermione.
no subject
the latter, really, is too much for her to start with right now. she can only handle one new piece of technology a month, and the concept of an electronic book with seemingly limitless storage in its shell is about three months' worth at the moment. ]
There might be, I'm sure I haven't met everyone yet. [ which is not what he meant, but it's the truth. ] Are you busy at the moment?
[ you know... hearing voices... dealing with ghosts... ]
no subject
[ it's been just over a week, which means that peter has no way, really, of gauging if hermione's okay, if she's messaging him because she wants someone to talk to, to know that someone or something is real; the is anyone there? would imply that maybe it's the latter, but it could simply be that she's not used to audio messages.
which means, ultimately— ] You holding up okay?
no subject
[ a sharp, agonized breath cuts off her sentence, hurriedly followed by an uncomfortable silence. (for hermione, there is the sickening wail of her name, cried out by voices in tandem. she cannot help them. for peter, though, it is silence.) ]
No. [ and it takes quite a bit for her to admit that, but now is not the time for bravado or the quintessential british stiff upper lip. now is the time for problem solving. desperate times call for desperate measures. et cetera. ] No, I'm — I'm not.
[ so, naturally, let's make it not about her. ]
Are you alright?
no subject
her reply is cut off by a breath and a silence that's almost painful to sit through. he doesn't need to know who she's hearing, in much the same way he doesn't want to tell her who he hears. (mj. felicia. gwen. billy.) ]
—It doesn't quite hit the heady heights of apple bobbing and pumpkin carving, but it's one way of celebrating Halloween, right?
[ is his answer. (it's a no, but he's not there yet in actually saying as much.) an inhalation of breath, and: ] You know it's not real? They're just illusions. Hallucinations.
no subject
[ it does not help that hermione is not in the habit of asking for help. she has always been enough on her own, whether it be to know the answer or to find it or to implement it in some fashion; she always has managed between her mind and her work-ethic to get to the end of a challenge.
except, her mind taunts her now, with the horcrux hunt. she hadn't won that out, had she? no, she'd gone and died while trying to apparate, splinching herself as if she hadn't passed her apparition test with a perfect score, a brilliant study in calm environments but apparently a disastrous failure when push came to shove. her only saving grace in that moment was that she hadn't killed harry along with her.
and now, so soon after arriving, does she find herself failing again. it isn't a feeling she relishes — and yet, even still, peter reminds her: it's just halloween. it's just ghosts and poltergeists. they must be scarier in whatever dimension this is, meant to truly frighten rather than just spook in the dark.
she's over-reacting, isn't she? ]
I know it isn't. I'm sorry to have bothered you about it.
[ he must think she's quite stupid, getting out of sorts about this. is everyone else handling it so... easily? ]
no subject
[ is the first reply he sends, a little hurried because that wasn't what he'd meant. he makes a noise, something that's between a groan and frustrated, because—
he should have known that wasn't the reply to send. not everyone's had the pleasure of mysterio, not everyone's had the fun and games of experiencing kraven's jungle potions and even then, he's still bothered by it, isn't he? he knows that it's not real.
(can't be real, there's no way it's real, and whilst there's a rational side of him that argues exactly that, there's a less rational side that says he only thinks that because he doesn't want it to be real—.)
a second message, then: ] That's not what I meant.
[ third message: ] It feels real, and that's the worst part. You know it's not, but there's a part of you that says what if, and I get it, but—. [ but what? just ignore it? that's easier said than done, and he's not exactly doing a stellar job of it. ]
[ fourth message: ] I'm sorry, Hermione. But you've just got to keep that in mind. Whoever you're hearing, they're not here. If they weren't on the ferry with you, they're not here. [ he can't say they're not dead, because he doesn't know that, so that's the closest he can get. ]
—Are you alone?
no subject
hermione so often latches to logic as a grounding force, but it's been slipping from her over the last few days. no sun, no light, just the fire-flicker of her lantern in the dark of her room, nothing but the occasional sounds and sights of ghosts she can't seem to stop for company.
is she alone? ]
I don't know.
[ perhaps that's the worst of it. the not knowing. the uncertainty that breeds fear, without a rational resolution to make it stop. she's tried all she can think of and then some, and yet... ]
no subject
—Actual company, not maybe-company. [ he adds. in the background, there's the sound of movement — footsteps (his), just for a moment, and then nothing for one second, then two, then three, and then an exhale of breath, something between a sigh and a huff of a laugh—.
(don't think about it, right?) ] So, I used to teach science.
no subject
[ she'd like real company, actual company, not almost-company that does more to frighten and unsettle her than calm her nerves. she'd like to be able to reach out and know for certain that the person sitting across from her is flesh and blood, and not just a specter or a flash-burn or a ghost.
she'd like the sounds of his footsteps in the background to correspond to the thump of feet on the ground, and not just distractions in the dark meant to spin her around. ]
What kind of sciences?
[ she hasn't taken a proper muggle science class ever. primary school had been only introductory, and though hermione had always been clever, she hadn't exactly taken physics. ]
no subject
Biology and chemistry, mostly. [ there's a pause and a muffled sound of rustling and a a quiet, indistinct mumble, before— ] It was at my old high school. There was an administrator— [ julie. julie. ] I'm pretty sure she's immortal, sustained by a petty hatred of competency. [ beat. ] I asked her to order a book, once — The Poetry of Science. D'you know what I ended up with?
[ does he wait for a reply? no, not really. another message comes, a few moments later. ] The essentials of cooking with fowl, pig and cow. I still have nightmares about it.
no subject
[ she means to laugh — or react, in some way, to show she's listening — but whatever message she meant to record and send back in response to his story is derailed by a hitch in her throat, the involuntary reaction to the sight of blood pooling on the floor.
it isn't her own blood. she's not bleeding. there's no one else here, so logically, it would stand to reason that it isn't real. but blood doesn't just appear, and so hermione's mind whirs with complications, fear and rational thought warring all over again. ]
I'll need to lift the wards for you if you're coming.
[ that if is a damn near please in all but the words themselves. ]