Author's Note: Welcome to my fantasy world! This story, or saga, as I lovingly refer to it, is my dear child. I have only one request of you, my readers. Please remember, as you read, the number one rule of the magical universe of Harry Potter: things are not as they seem.

All reviews are greatly appreciated, but please, make your criticism constructive.

Disclaimer: The magnificent world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling and not myself. I am in possession of solely the characters I have created and the non-canon situations I have placed them in.

Cursed

Prologue

August 4th, 2007-

Two loud cracking noises rang through the Scottish countryside. Birds scattered away from the source, and the peaceful serenity of the area momentarily dissipated.

Two men had suddenly appeared, the casual observer would assume, out of thin air. One of the men, slightly shorter than the other, with graying light brown hair, a worn, tired face, and warm golden eyes said, "I suppose this is it."

The other man, with unruly black hair partly covering a peculiar, lighting-shaped scar, surveyed the area with striking emerald eyes behind stylish, wire-framed glasses. "I like it," he stated. "Nice and peaceful. She live here?"

"I would assume so," the other man replied. He too surveyed the area around him. "Oh, I see it. Over there." He pointed to a cluster of trees which, upon closer examination, hid a small, homey-looking cottage.

"Well," the black-haired man sighed. "I suppose we should get this over with." The pair began to walk toward the quaint home.

"I don't know why you insisted I come with you," the black-haired man said sourly.

The other man sighed exasperatedly, as though they had been over this subject many times before. "Well, I didn't want to go alone," he said somewhat brusquely. "And out of all the Order you knew Rose the best."

"Remus," The man replied impatiently. "I barely knew her at all! The only ones that really knew her were—"

"Aislinn and Raleigh?" The man called Remus supplied heatedly, causing the other man to lower his head and stare awkwardly down at his feet. "They're obviously in no condition to complete the task at hand."

"I'm sorry," the black-haired man replied grimly. "It's just—I hate doing this kind of thing. It's worse than the actual fighting."

"Well, Harry," Remus sighed, not out of exasperation, it seemed, but tiredness. "It was either you or Ron. And Ron has enough on his plate right now."

"Oh," said Harry, with a tinge of guilt in his voice. "Well… why not Hermione?" he added with a suggestion of false hope.

Remus chuckled slightly. "I don't think this kind of situation is her strong suit," he replied as if Harry should know this.

"Yeah," Harry said, half laughing. "She's a little too straight-forward to be… tact, I suppose."

They approached the cottage and Remus timidly raised his hand to the knocker and knocked three times. They waited a few moments.

"Well," Harry said hastily. "She's not here. What a pity—now let's go." He quickly turned around but was stopped by Remus, who laid a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Give her a moment," Remus said. "I think I hear footsteps."

The door creaked open halfway. A middle-aged woman with mousy, graying hair pulled back into a loose bun and cold, stern eyes stood leering at the two men in her doorway.

"Er—hello," said Harry a bit awkwardly.

"Are you Miss Finvarra Macarthur?" Remus asked gently, eyeing the woman with concern.

"Who wants to know?" Miss Macarthur asked disdainfully, looking at Harry and Remus with obvious premature contempt.

"Forgive me, Madam," said Remus charmingly. "My name is Remus Lupin, and this is Harry Potter." The woman scoffed slightly but Remus chose to ignore it. "We're from the Order of the Phoenix, an organization who worked against the reign of the Dark Lord. We… we were good friends of your daughter, Rose; she was a lovely woman. And we regret to inform you of her passing—"

Miss Macarthur laughed harshly. "I've had children play pranks on me before, but I would expect better from two grown men such as yourselves." She paused a moment and smiled mockingly at Harry. "Especially if one of them is Harry Potter."

"Madam," Remus interjected quickly, obviously sensing Harry's rapidly growing indignation. "I'm very sorry, but this is no joke. Your daughter… she died bravely…"

Miss Macarthur laughed harshly once more. "Nice try, but I suggest the next time you try to pull off a stunt like this you find someone who actually has a daughter. Good day." Harry blanched as Finvarra Macarthur's door was slammed in their faces.

Remus blinked. "Well… that was certainly not the reaction I was expecting."

October 12, 2031-

It was all over, Hermione realized. That was what she had been telling herself for the past two months, but somehow, she kept on forgetting. For as long as she could remember her life had been leading up to that one climax, that one pivotal moment… and now… it was over? The idea was almost unfathomable. What were they supposed to do now? Lead boring lives with nice, Victorian homes and white-picket fences? Poor Harry would be bored out of his skull! The thought almost brought a smile to her lips. Almost. But not quite.

And as much as she wished it possible, they just couldn't go back to their own home, resume activities normally—there were simply too many memories. And plus, the house was just too big for her and Harry to live in by themselves. Aiden had been the last to move out a few years ago, and even if there had been no war and the house didn't hold heart-wrenching memories, it was time to move on.

There had been a picture on the mantel in their living room. It had been one of Hermione's favorites. The whole family—all five of them—waving furiously up at her every time she glanced at it. It used to make her so happy, having it there; it used to lift her spirits.

She couldn't stand to look at that picture anymore. It's amazing how things change.

She closed her eyes and remembered back to when the photograph had been taken. There was Kris, only fifteen at the time; beautiful, clever, confidant… everything Hermione had always wanted to be when she was a girl, everything Hermione could have wanted for her.

Then there was Shane. Also just fifteen when the picture was taken. A lot like Hermione, Harry had often said. Hermione had secretly disagreed. He was smart, yes, and he always had his nose in a book, but in every other aspect he was just like Harry. Noble, generous, kind, and a temper Hermione knew for a fact that was inherited from his father.

And then there was Aiden. Sweet, shy, subtly mischievous Aiden. He had only been eleven when the picture was taken, about to turn twelve. He looked much like Harry, except his jet-black hair was longer and slightly tamer than his father's, and his eyes were deep brown and not obscured by glasses. It amused Hermione to no end how Aiden had always abhorred flying, while Kris and Shane, especially Kris, thrived on it.

"I'm perfectly happy with my feet firmly planted on the ground, thank you very much," he had said on occasion.

It never ceased to amaze Hermione how much he had grown up over the years. How much they had all grown up. But, she thought with a wistful sigh, that's what's supposed to happen. Now, having your children live out their youths in the midst of a terrible war… that wasn't supposed to happen.

Hermione looked around the living room, searching for knick-knacks she had not yet packed away in a cardboard box. Moving was inevitable, she kept telling herself.

It was a heartbreaking thing, packing up memories in a box like she was doing now. She walked warily over to the mantel where the picture she had avoided looking at for so long stood. She suddenly felt a familiar lump building in her throat. Funny how little things like simple photographs can trigger one's emotions to such an astonishing degree. There were many pictures of her family scattered around the house, yet somehow, this one had that peculiar affect on her.

She didn't have the heart to throw it away. It would be like throwing old memories away. And it wasn't like she didn't want those old memories, she just wanted to… hide them for awhile. Like the picture. She wrapped it in newspaper and set it gently into the cardboard box she was currently filling. Someday she would be ready.

If it hadn't been for that damned war… she sighed. She shouldn't spend her time lingering on the "what ifs," she knew. But still, she always wondered what would have happened if she hadn't found that notebook…

She shook her head. In no possible reality could she have not found the notebook. She knew enough about the course of time to understand that aspect now in full.

Once, a month or so ago, Harry had found her sobbing in their bedroom. He hadn't asked her what was wrong. He had merely wrapped his arms around her and cried with her. He thought he understood.

But he didn't know the half of it.