Disclaimer: Luna's not mine (I wish she were) and neither's the Veil nor Harry. All hail J.K. Rowling.
If you step up close enough, you can almost see their faces. If you stand right up to it, you can feel their breaths stir the Veil onto your skin, and it's almost as if they are touching you. If you want it enough, you can hear them calling.
No many people want it enough.
You were in
[fifth? fourth? third? fourth]
fourth year when you came here first. The whisper-tug beckoned you, you could hear her voice, and you were quietly elated. You were quietly scared.
[she died on your ninth birthday, there was an explosion, remember her
smiling, saying, I am a genius, just wait and see the present I'm
making for you, only she died instead and her eyes were wide open
scared with the light of stars behind them dimming down dead]
[it was her voice. it was her whisper-tug.]
It's been five years since you came. Five years, and for all your age of nineteen, you stand as if you are nine.
[right before she died and she said, oh no, that wasn't supposed to
happen, and she wasn't whispering then. not then.]
By your side stands a hero. His name isn't important: people know him by his scar. You know him by the way his hand finds yours, and by the remembered taste of his tears on your lips.
[by the way he told you, gasping, this isn't anything like love]
He's hearing his own voices. He wants them so badly he can feel it. He can feel that pull, grasping him, and he's stepping forward, the light of dying stars glinting off his glasses, and he's through.
Somewhere, someone feels a pang. All you feel is a deep solid ache. He's the last good one. Count down the list and you'll find they're all dead. Then again, all the bad ones're too.
But – he –
[this isn't anything like love]
You push your hands through. Can you catch him? But you don't want to. Through the Veil your flesh prickles, numbs. She's whispering something. Step forward and you can see her, step forward and you can touch her, step forward and –
[like dying stars]
step forward and you can hear her loud, clear, not whispering
YELLING
'Pull your hands back pull them back now or so help me young lady!' – like being burned.
Did they yell at him to go back, to live, or did they urge him on? Did his godfather beckon, did his parents plead, did his two best friends bribe?
If you had beckoned plead bribed would he have stayed?
[isn't anything like]
But you're not him, and she's not them, and her voice – not a whisper, but a scream – commands you and you
[beyond the Veil she whispers when she never did in life and the only
light is from burnt out stars, and there's not anything like love for
you there, not like for him, so what's the point?]
take two steps back.
If you step up close enough, you can almost see their faces. If you stand right up to it, you can feel their breaths stir the Veil onto your skin, and it's almost as if they are touching you. If you want it enough, you can hear them calling.
No many people want it enough.
You were in
[fifth? fourth? third? fourth]
fourth year when you came here first. The whisper-tug beckoned you, you could hear her voice, and you were quietly elated. You were quietly scared.
[she died on your ninth birthday, there was an explosion, remember her
smiling, saying, I am a genius, just wait and see the present I'm
making for you, only she died instead and her eyes were wide open
scared with the light of stars behind them dimming down dead]
[it was her voice. it was her whisper-tug.]
It's been five years since you came. Five years, and for all your age of nineteen, you stand as if you are nine.
[right before she died and she said, oh no, that wasn't supposed to
happen, and she wasn't whispering then. not then.]
By your side stands a hero. His name isn't important: people know him by his scar. You know him by the way his hand finds yours, and by the remembered taste of his tears on your lips.
[by the way he told you, gasping, this isn't anything like love]
He's hearing his own voices. He wants them so badly he can feel it. He can feel that pull, grasping him, and he's stepping forward, the light of dying stars glinting off his glasses, and he's through.
Somewhere, someone feels a pang. All you feel is a deep solid ache. He's the last good one. Count down the list and you'll find they're all dead. Then again, all the bad ones're too.
But – he –
[this isn't anything like love]
You push your hands through. Can you catch him? But you don't want to. Through the Veil your flesh prickles, numbs. She's whispering something. Step forward and you can see her, step forward and you can touch her, step forward and –
[like dying stars]
step forward and you can hear her loud, clear, not whispering
YELLING
'Pull your hands back pull them back now or so help me young lady!' – like being burned.
Did they yell at him to go back, to live, or did they urge him on? Did his godfather beckon, did his parents plead, did his two best friends bribe?
If you had beckoned plead bribed would he have stayed?
[isn't anything like]
But you're not him, and she's not them, and her voice – not a whisper, but a scream – commands you and you
[beyond the Veil she whispers when she never did in life and the only
light is from burnt out stars, and there's not anything like love for
you there, not like for him, so what's the point?]
take two steps back.