A/N: Welcome to the sequel to "The Death of Natasha Romanoff" and part two in the series "Witches of S.H.I.E.L.D." If you haven't read the first part, you should do so — this won't make much sense otherwise. This story begins shortly before that story ends, so you'll see some stuff here that happened "off screen" last time.

The bulk of this story takes place during the events of the movies "Iron Man 2" and "The Incredible Hulk." Timing on them has been adjusted a bit. I try to strike a balance between including enough from the movies to keep you from being lost and not including so much that it's boring (because I'm not making massive changes to their plots). In the end, though, familiarity with those movies will help.

A/N 2: Thanks to Bonnie and Mainsail for proofreading all the chapters in this story and making it better than it was originally.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, that's owned by J.K. Rowling. I don't own the Avengers, either. That's owned by Marvel. I think the first place I saw anything like Iris' power here was in Bobmin's "Wizard's Fall".

Recommendation: This chapter's recommended fic is "Harry Potter: The Avenger" by kb0. Short and fun, it's one of my favorite HP/Marvel crossovers by one of my favorite fanfic writers. Harry/Natasha.

Chapter 01 - Sins of the Past

Hospital, Los Angeles. November, 2008.

Hermione Granger reflected on how much could change in the course of just a few days. A week ago she'd been happily working for Tony Stark, helping to find ways to migrate Stark Industries away from weapons production while surreptitiously trying to figure out how to integrate magic with technology on the side. Three days ago she'd been seriously injured when Obadiah Stane, the second-in-command of Stark Industries, went on a homicidal rampage. Two days ago, she'd discovered that she had been saved from said rampage by Iris Potter, her one-time best friend whom she hadn't seen since Iris disappeared without a word a decade earlier and who was now...

"This is Black Witch," came the voice behind her. "I have the package and am preparing for exfiltration. ETA, 15 seconds."

"Iris!" cried Hermione in exasperation. "I'm a patient, not a package. And you're taking me out the door in a wheelchair, not 'exfiltrating' or whatever you're trying to call it. Honestly!"

Hermione couldn't see how broadly her friend was grinning. "I'm only trying to keep you safe, Hermione. We just found each other, and I don't want to lose you again."

That seemed to mollify the soon-to-be ex-patient. A little. "That's nice and all, Iris, but I hardly think I'm in any great danger leaving the hospital. It's not like anyone is looking to kill me. I'm not sure I can say the same about you, though." As she finished those last words, they went through the hospital's automatic doors and were nearly blinded by the bright sun. Seems fitting, Hermione thought. It's like we're breaking out into a brand new day.

Hermione was overjoyed at finally being able to leave the hospital, but her good mood dropped a few notches when she saw the vehicle that Iris was wheeling her towards. "What on earth is that, Iris?" she asked.

"That," Iris answered a bit pedantically, "is a car."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione huffed and said, "I can see that, obviously, but what kind of car is it? Where'd you get it? What have you been doing that you can afford something like that? It looks appallingly expensive. And fast...insanely fast. What are you doing with a car like..." Hermione's rant was stopped when Iris bent over her and gently pressed a finger to her lips.

"I can't answer your questions if you never stop asking them," Iris chided with a smile. "I don't honestly know what kind of car it is or how fast it goes. I don't own my own car, so I asked Tony if I could borrow one for today to pick you up. He tossed me a set of keys, told me which color car they went to, and said I could use it for as long as I needed it. I wouldn't be surprised if by this time next week he's forgotten he even owns it."

Hermione shook her head in vexation, though she wouldn't have been able to say if it was directed more at Tony or at Iris. Both had an amazing ability to get on her nerves, and she worried about what might happen if they were both in the same room together for long.

Once she was strapped in tight, Hermione turned to her fellow witch and asked a bit nervously, "You aren't going to drive too fast in this car, are you?"

Iris' response of a lopsided grin accompanied by the statement "Trust me" didn't fill her with confidence. If she remembered correctly, Iris tended to say that sort of thing just before doing something stupid, dangerous, or both. "Please, Iris..."

Without another word, Iris stomped on the accelerator and the car leapt forward at high speed.

"Iriiiiissss!"

Unknown Location, California, United States.

"How did we not get stopped by the police?" Hermione asked, knuckles white from gripping the armrests in the car.

"Oh, I put a subtle notice-me-not charm on the car," Iris answered nonchalantly as she stepped out.

"Wait, wouldn't that affect all other drivers? Wouldn't they be more likely to hit us?" asked Hermione, panicking even more now despite having stopped.

"Of course," answered Iris in a matter-of-fact tone. "That's why I had to drive so fast. To avoid all those other drivers who couldn't see us."

Hermione tried, but she couldn't work her brain around that. It was wrong, she knew it; but she was still too freaked out to think clearly enough to explain why. She felt a bit like she had when Iris took her on that broom ride in sixth year; she never would have imagined that anyone, even Iris, could have recreated that feeling without leaving the ground. Well, mostly without leaving the ground. There had been a couple of intersections where she was pretty sure they'd achieved liftoff for a second or two.

"Where are we?" she asked as she slowly climbed out of the car. "Is this your apartment?"

"One of them," answered Iris as they walked into the building.

"You have more than one? How many? Why?"

"Well, before last week I had quite a few," answered Iris, annoyance clear in her voice, "but I discovered that Nick Fury knew about more than I thought he would. I found him waiting for me in a bolt hole that I had thought was secure but which clearly wasn't. So I've abandoned a bunch and will have to get some more. I may have to give in and start putting them under a Fidelius Charm."

"Why didn't you do that before?" Hermione wondered.

"The Fidelius Charm is pretty strong magic, and I didn't want to do magic that big. Small charms are fine, but bigger magic that requires a lot of power is something I've avoided." By now, they had entered the sparsely furnished and undecorated apartment. There was enough furniture there to use but little else, and none of the smaller items like photographs and magazines which usually indicate that a place is truly lived in.

Hermione looked around briefly, then turned to Iris and gave her a pointed look. "Speaking of magic, there's a long discussion that we need to have. A discussion about you, your magic, why you left... about a lot of things."

Iris bit her bottom lip in thought, an unconscious imitation of something Hermione had always done when they were teenagers. "You're right, we do — and sooner would be better." She looked at her watch before continuing, "It's still early enough. I have a place I go to for privacy. I don't do it often because of the distance, but I'm sure no one else knows about it. We'll be able to talk without being watched or overheard."

"Alright, if you're sure," Hermione answered.

Iris stepped forward and held out her arms, inviting Hermione into an embrace. "Do you trust me?"

Hermione hesitated, and they both noticed. No, I don't trust her — not really, Hermione thought. After what she's done, how can I? But then again, she did save me, both recently and multiple times when we were teenagers, and she agreed to do whatever is necessary to earn back my trust.

Finally, Hermione met her gaze and said, "I will." Iris smiled in understanding, pulled Hermione in tight, and spun.

Rocinha, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

Bruce Banner sighed deeply as he punched out for the day. Work in the soft drink bottling plant was difficult, but it was also anonymous — especially if you could work as a day laborer instead of on the payroll. Even better, the owner was a decent sort who was flexible when it came to someone needing off for a day or two, even without advance notice. This was especially true for workers like Banner, who had significantly above-average skills and education — qualities not in large supply among those willing to work in places like this.

"Good night, Davi," he called out to one of the workers he tended to spend the most time around.

He didn't like to get too close to those he worked beside lest he put them in danger. Davi had a wife and four kids. His wife, Isabella, had invited him over for dinner many times, and he suspected she wanted to set him up with a cousin of hers. He never accepted, of course. All he could think of was tripping over a toy or getting burned by some food, then his vision being filled with green rage while the children screamed in the background. General Ross would have a field day hunting him down after an incident like that.

Bruce shook his head, trying to suppress the images. Most of those who needed an unexpected day off did so to sleep off a hangover. For Banner, the need stemmed from something much more serious. Despite Bruce's best efforts, the Other Guy still insisted on coming out every once in awhile. The most recent incident had happened a week ago, requiring Bruce to be out of work for three days: one day while the Other Guy rampaged through the jungle chasing after some child slavers, another day to recover, and then a third day to make his way back home.

And Bruce was still tired from the exertion, both the chasing down of the slavers and the effort required to return. Bruce was intrigued by the fact that, despite the blind rage which drove the Other Guy, he still seemed to have a basic sense of justice and morality. This had been demonstrated quite effectively by how much effort he'd put into tracking down and hurting those slavers.

Where did it come from, though? Bruce wondered. Was it part of the Other Guy's nature, like the rage, or was it borrowed from me? Maybe there's more to Him than I've realized? I'll have to meditate on that tonight. If the morality does come from me at all, it would be wise to do what I can to strengthen that in me, in the hope that it will strengthen in Him as well. If I can't calm Him down, perhaps I can at least learn how to guide Him, maybe even guide His rage, so it's aimed in more appropriate directions.

Bruce lifted his wrist to look at his new heart monitor and saw that his heart rate was still low. He'd been three days without an incident now and intended to keep that going for as long as possible.

Deep within, buried far beneath Bruce's subconscious and well beyond his ability to understand yet, something rumbled. Then it smiled.

Tintagel, England.

It was both the longest and the gentlest side-along apparition that Hermione had ever experienced. When the squeezing finally stopped, she found herself standing on a rocky ledge about five meters square and halfway between a cliff above and crashing water below. A little ways away to their right looked like a large sea cave. Hermione looked around, but couldn't recognize anything. "Where are we, Iris?"

"Welcome to Tintagel," answered Iris, spreading her arms wide. "Below us is the Iron Gate, where ships can be tied up if the waters are calm enough. Off in that direction is Merlin's Cave and above that is, of course, Tintagel Castle.

"Tintagel?" Hermione half-shouted. "Iris, intercontinental apparition isn't possible!"

"Oh?" Iris asked dryly, one eyebrow raised.

Hermione huffed, "Well, it's not supposed to be. It's supposed to require too much power for any one witch or wizard to be able to do. That's why international portkeys are so expensive — they have to be created by several wizards or witches working together, and even then they are usually magically exhausted from making even one."

The ledge was big enough for two people to sit on, and after the application of a strong cushioning charm, it was soft enough to sit on, too. Once Iris was on the ground and comfortable, she looked up at Hermione and said, "You're right, it is supposed to be impossible. And yet I can do it with ease. I can go much further, too, if I want, though I don't risk doing it too often. And that's one of the reasons why we're here."

"So we definitely can't be seen?"

"Nope," Iris answered. "I've got this ledge under strong notice-me-not and muggle-repelling charms that are tied directly into the area's ley lines. I also added some comfort charms to fend off bad weather. With all of the ambient magic around here, no wizards or witches will realize that something is odd. For all intents and purposes, this ledge doesn't exist in the world anymore. We're more isolated here than we would be on top of Mt. Everest. I come here to think when I need to be away from everyone and everything else. You are the only other person on the planet who knows about it."

Sighing, Hermione lowered herself to the now-softened ledge and said, "OK, so let's talk. What happened to you?"

"Well," Iris began, "if I remember correctly, I told you that in collecting the Deathly Hallows, I did indeed become the Mistress of Death, yes?"

"Yes," Hermione replied. "You also said, though, that it didn't seem to mean anything."

"Actually," Iris corrected, "I left you with that impression, but I didn't say it. I had an idea of what it meant but didn't want to talk about it. I didn't like what it seemed to do to me. It scared me. Even worse, I thought it would scare you."

Hermione inched a bit closer and asked, "What is it?"

"I can't be 100% sure, of course. I mean, it's not like there are standard tests for this sort of thing. All I can do is look at what I know changed and assume that becoming the Mistress of Death was the cause. Tell me," she asked suddenly in an apparent non sequitur, "were you tired after the battle on that last day?"

"Of course I was," Hermione replied, vividly remembering the bone-deep weariness that had afflicted her after the chaotic day of fighting. "I was placing unprecedented demands on my magic — and I seem to recall it was a rather long day, at that," she added with a quirk of her lips. Then she sobered. "I was just this side of magical exhaustion by the time it was all over. Why? Weren't you?"

Iris shook her head. "When we were fighting in the Final Battle, I didn't consciously notice it at the time, but I didn't tire at all. If anything, I felt continually refreshed. While I didn't figure it out until later, every time I killed a Death Eater, I absorbed their magical core. Not merely whatever magic they had left, but their core itself — it fused to my own, which meant that their entire magical potential was added to mine. I didn't tire because I kept getting an influx of magic. Once the battle was over, though, my now-expanded core kept filling and filling."

"Oh, my," Hermione whispered.

"And that's not the end of it," Iris said, her own voice going softer. "If you remember, it wasn't only Death Eaters that I killed that day."

Hermione put her hand to her mouth when she choked out "Voldemort!"

"That's right," Iris said. "When I was dead, Dumbledore clued me into some of this. He knew because he had sought the Deathly Hallows in his youth. But he didn't know a whole lot, and I deduced the rest later on. I don't know how accurate my conclusions are, but they seem to fit the evidence."

"Wait, you were dead? You met Dumbledore?"

"Oh, yeah," Iris said while looking embarrassed. "I guess that wasn't something I told you back then. You remember when I went out into the Forbidden Forest and was brought back by Voldemort, who claimed to have killed me?"

"Yes, but then you got up and started fighting, so he was obviously wrong."

"No, he wasn't wrong," Iris said with a sigh. "He killed me. I walked up to him, no wand in my hand, and let him hit me with an Avada Kedavra. I was dead. I woke up naked in some sort of afterlife transit station where Dumbledore met me and explained a few things — things he should have told me when I was alive. Quite a few things, in fact." The last statement was muttered quietly, but Hermione heard it and made a mental note to ask about it at a later date.

"Anyway," Iris continued, "I was given a chance to go on and be with my parents or to return and keep fighting. I chose the latter, but Voldemort didn't realize that I was back and so reported me dead."

Hermione had started sobbing quietly by this point. Even though the events had happened a decade ago and Iris was clearly alive and healthy, the idea of her dying — and not just dying, but voluntarily dying without raising a wand to defend herself — hit Hermione like a bludger to the gut. "Why, Iris? Why would you do that?"

Unable to look her in the eye, Iris stared down at her lap and whispered, "As a Horcrux, I needed to die for Voldemort to become mortal. It was the only way to ensure he could be eliminated and give you a chance to grow up and create a happy life for yourself in a free world. I didn't like the idea of leaving you, but I didn't regret for a second what I was doing."

Both witches had to embrace then, needing the emotional support which only the other could provide.

"Alright," Hermione said after she had collected herself. "I'm not done with that subject, but we should go back to the original topic. All of the Death Eaters you killed, you absorbed their magical cores. Then the same happened with Voldemort, right? Not just the magic they had, but their magical potential as well?"

"Right," answered Iris.

"What about the various dark magical creatures — trolls, giants, or even werewolves?" Hermione asked with some trepidation.

"No, I didn't seem to absorb anything from them. I'm guessing that even with werewolves, the dark magic they have has twisted them enough that their cores aren't compatible with mine anymore."

Hermione nodded in relief, agreeing that that sounded plausible. "Did you get anything else? Memories? Skills? Any addiction to dark magic?"

"No, nothing like that," Iris responded. "However, my magical core grew to such a size that it's no longer constrained like it is with most wizards and witches. As I'm sure you know, when you push a high-power spell, you feel a pull in your abdomen, right?"

"Yes," Hermione answered, "because that's where your core can be found — spread through the abdomen."

"Well, not with me," Iris said. "Not anymore, at least. My core is now spread evenly throughout my body. As a consequence, it has enhanced my body — my muscles are stronger, my nerves transmit signals faster, my senses are better, and my brain even processes information faster. I also heal much, much faster than anyone else — I can even see them heal, though I need to concentrate on it for it to happen that fast. I can run faster and for longer than any human. I can lift more, too. I have agility and balance that any Olympian would kill for. This is why I've been so successful as an assassin and agent without using active magic — my magic passively improves everything I do."

Hermione bit her lower lip as she considered all of this. It was a lot of information to take in. "OK," she finally said, "I think I understand what happened to you — or at least what probably happened to you, barring any better explanation. So tell me again why you left?"

Iris looked uncomfortable to be tackling that question, but she had known it was coming. "There were a lot of reasons involved. At the start I had a lot of guilt over the people who died — mostly those who died on our side, because I felt like they died because of me and that I had failed them. But I also felt some guilt over all those I killed myself. I felt like my hands were covered in blood that would never wash off."

Hermione nodded, already knowing Iris' propensity to take on guilt and responsibility for everything that happened around her. Hermione had tried more than once to break her of that, to no effect; clearly it had been impacting her at the end far more than Hermione realized.

"On top of that," Iris continued, "was this new 'power' I got from being the Mistress of Death. I feel like I'm some sort of magical vampire, Hermione. When I think about it much, I disgust myself, so how could others not be disgusted by me as well? I never wanted to see that emotion in anyone's face, least of all yours. Then there's the fact that I don't fully understand this power or what being the Mistress of Death is. What if there's worse that's yet to come? What if someone in the Department of Mysteries decides they want me for experiments to see what's different about my magic?"

Iris had to take a big breath before concluding, "Finally, I realized that I couldn't completely control my power — and I mean my magical power. There is so much of it that doing almost anything is easy. Too easy. You have no idea how much of a rush it is to let loose — to let my magic go wild and bring to reality whatever I'm thinking. It's addictive, almost — and I mean any powerful magic, not simply dark spells that you'd expect to create addiction. So I lose control and then risk succumbing to the temptation to do it more and more. That made me dangerous to be around, and I didn't want to put you at risk."

Hermione reached out to put her hand on Iris' shoulder. "But what about the other day when you went after Stane? You didn't lose yourself then."

Iris laughed bitterly. "Oh, you have no idea, Hermione. I did lose control. I was happy to have a chance to fight. I was eager to tear Stane apart. I threatened him. I toyed with him. And when I was done playing, I tortured him by ripping through his mind, stealing all his secrets. I wanted nothing more than to cause him pain and then destroy him. He hurt you, and I was going to avenge you. After that, who knows what I would have done? Tony was there, being a nuisance, so he probably would have ended up as my next target."

"Then why didn't you do that?" Hermione asked. "Why did you stop?"

Iris turned to look into Hermione's eyes. "You. Pepper came to get me because you were going to be taken to the hospital. As soon as she said you were leaving, I lost all interest in Stane. I came back to myself, at least mostly. It was almost like I could feel a 'click' in my brain as my priorities and values shifted to focus on you again."

Hermione squeezed Iris' shoulder in understanding and appreciation. "Thank you. But you're right, that is dangerous. I'm not surprised that you've avoided using powerful magic, but I am disappointed that you left me ten years ago. I'm disappointed because you didn't have the sort of faith that a person should have in a friend."

Iris frowned, apparently not understanding what Hermione meant.

Sighing, Hermione tried again. "Iris, real friends have faith in each other. They have faith that the other will do the right thing and come through for them, even if there are times of stress and separation. Even when they disagree and argue. You should have had faith that I wouldn't turn my back on you. You should have had faith that I wouldn't have been disgusted by you, no matter what you did, because I can tell you now that I wouldn't have."

Hermione turned Iris' head so she faced her again. "And that's what's damaged our friendship, Iris — not your leaving, as bad as that was, but your lack of faith and trust in me. You asked me earlier if I trusted you. Well, how can I trust you if you don't trust me?"

Iris' mouth opened in surprise. Of all the things she had blamed herself for over the course of her life, this was one sin that she had committed but never realized... and it was probably the most important one, too. Tears silently running down her face, she leaned against Hermione until their foreheads touched, a position similar to the one Iris had adopted when she first encountered Hermione after she'd been injured by Stane.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," she kept repeating. "I didn't realize. I was only thinking of myself — of trying to protect myself from being hurt."

Hermione rubbed Iris' back while she cried. She hadn't forgiven Iris yet, not by a long shot; but at least Iris was finally starting to understand. Hermione could see why Iris would be so desperate to protect herself — the decade plus she had spent with the Dursleys had damaged her, yet that didn't excuse her choices. The two of them had spent more than enough time together that she should have known that she didn't need to protect herself like that from Hermione of all people.

This was only the start of their reconciliation and healing, but it was a good beginning.

Moscow, Russia.

Ivan Vanko seethed while watching a TV news report about Tony Stark. His father, Anton, was dying in the other room. He himself wasn't in the best of health, not after having spent so much time in Russia's brutal prison system. He looked around at the poor, dilapidated hovel he and his father lived in. The two of them were smart, educated, skilled, and inventive, yet what did they have to show for it? Where was their wealth? Where were their accolades?

Ivan looked back at the television, watching Tony Stark parade around like some sort of hero — all because of a suit of armor. How did that make him a hero? Ivan asked himself. Stark's armor is powered by technology he wasn't responsible for creating or developing. Not even Stark's father was responsible for it — my father was! Howard Stark stole the technology and then had my father deported to cover up his theft!

Tony Stark is a thief and the son of a thief, Ivan concluded. His wealth is based on theft. His fame is based on theft. His accolades are based on theft. Tony Stark has stolen everything he has, and much of it was stolen from the Vanko family, now reduced to two men living in squalor.

Ivan took a long draw from his cigarette. Someone needs to teach Tony Stark a lesson. Someone needs to teach him that even thieves like him can be stolen from... that his suit of iron doesn't make him invincible. He's a man, not a god — and all men bleed. But who? And how?

Loud coughing from the other room interrupted Ivan's reverie about getting revenge on Tony Stark. The end was coming soon for Anton, and he needed to be there by his side. Stubbing out the rest of his cigarette, Ivan Vanko rose slowly, reluctant to face what he expected would be his last minutes with his father.

Someone will pay for all that we have suffered, he vowed to himself and his father. I will see that justice is done.

Tony Stark's Home, Malibu, California

Announcing that he was Iron Man, alongside shifting his entire company away from weapons production, was causing Tony Stark to reflect on the past. He wasn't a sentimental person ordinarily, and he loathed thinking much about his father, but right now he felt almost compelled to take a stroll down memory lane by flipping through old company yearbooks. I suppose it makes some sense to take stock of where the company's come from before launching it and myself in a new direction, he mused. No matter how new and bright we try to make the future, we can't entirely escape our past, can we?

His hand froze when he saw the cover of the 1974 yearbook and the title emblazoned on the cover:

Stark Expo 1974.

Tony remembered that expo. He remembered how his father loved the Stark Expos. Howard Stark had started them in 1943 in order to introduce the country to the latest technology, and they had continued down through the years. The 1974 Expo's theme was "City of the Future," but unfortunately the technology of the time hadn't been up to Howard Stark's vision or standards, so the event floundered and it had never been held again.

Tony thought about all of that for a couple of minutes. Technology. Future.

Isn't that what I'm trying to do now with Stark Industries? he asked himself. Instead of making weapons to destroy things and kill people, I want us to create consumer products that will make people's lives easier. I'm trying to make a better life in the future through new technology. What better way to demonstrate this to the world than through a revival of the Stark Expo! And, unlike my father's 1974 Expo, my technology will be advanced enough to meet my vision!

S.H.I.E.L.D. Facility, Unknown Location.

Nick Fury leaned over his desk and looked across the files he had arrayed before him: Iris Potter. Tony Stark. Bruce Banner.

All were powerful individuals. All were powerful egos, too — none of them were good at being team players. Yet Nick Fury wanted to do exactly that with them: make them team players. In fact, he wanted them to play on the same team, together. He wanted them to join something that would become much bigger and better than the sum of its parts so they could protect the world. Some people will say I'm crazy, he admitted, but I've got a feeling in my gut that we're going to need a bit of crazy on our side before too long.

He looked again at Iris Potter's file and thought about another name: Hermione Granger. She doesn't have the ego problem, at least, but on the other hand she hasn't proven herself in a fight, either — not against the sorts of threats that I have to deal with, at any rate. Once I get her into S.H.I.E.L.D., I can observe her more closely and consider including her as well.

Only a few, select individuals even knew of the existence of his Avengers Initiative, and even fewer knew exactly what it entailed. Fury was keeping the project as close to the vest as possible because he knew that naysayers would scuttle it before it got off the ground. He needed it together and operational before it was announced — that way, it would be much harder to kill.

Thinking back, Fury remembered how Howard Stark had been such a driving force behind the supersoldier program which eventually produced Captain America. That had been the beginning — the genesis of remarkable individuals who were called upon to do remarkable things to protect the rest of humanity. His Avengers Initiative was, in Fury's mind, simply the logical extension of Howard Stark's pioneering work.

I wonder what Howard would say, though, if he could see this roster of super soldiers...

Los Angeles, California, USA. Late November, 2008.

Hermione read over the latest letter from Hannah Longbottom. She and Hannah hadn't known each other well in Hogwarts despite being in the same year, but after the Hufflepuff had gotten together with Neville and eventually married him, the two witches had formed a close friendship. It also helped that she was a good letter writer; unlike so many others from their class in Hogwarts, Hannah was good about keeping her up to date on a wide variety of news and events.

Unfortunately, her letters in recent months had not been filled with good news or glad tidings. Hermione had walked away from magical Britain several years earlier, in part because of the absence of Iris, but in even larger part because of what she believed to be the ultimate failure of the Light Side in the Second Blood War. Voldemort had been defeated, but as had happened after the First Blood War which ended with the murder of Iris' parents, the ideals of the Blood Purists had neither been killed nor defeated.

It could have been worse — unlike in the aftermath of the First Blood War, there was no Lucius Malfoy using his gold to corrupt the ministry. Nevertheless, the corruption was there; it was simply moving more slowly. Some might say that it was moving more carefully. Marked Death Eaters had been removed from positions of political and cultural power after the Final Battle, but not all those who had facilitated Voldemort's terrorism and later control over the Ministry of Magic had been marked, and no one had ever bothered to try to discover who those unmarked supporters and sympathizers were — not even within the Ministry itself.

So, despite being on the winning side, Hermione was forced to watch magical government and society start sliding back towards blood purity, oligarchy, corruption, and, she feared, eventually another bigoted, fascist government. She tried to warn people, to explain what all the signs were pointing to, but too few believed her. Eventually she'd had enough and left.

Hannah was one of those who believed her, and that's one reason why she wrote such detailed letters. Every missive contained at least some information that she thought Hermione would find relevant, but in recent months that seemed to be about all her letters contained. Fear was growing again, much like it had the two times Voldemort was moving behind the scenes, preparing to take over. People were disappearing, another hallmark of Voldemort's rise to power; but curiously, this time those who were going missing seemed to be the old, marked Death Eaters.

Because of their exclusion from the halls of power, few paid them much attention, but now the numbers of them missing had grown too great to ignore. Some thought that it was radical muggleborn who were exacting some belated revenge against purebloods. Hannah and her best friend, Susan Bones, were worried that the Death Eaters were dropping out of sight in order to work in secret on some plan — and any plan of theirs would not be good for everyone else. Because Susan went into the DMLE to continue her murdered aunt's legacy, Hermione was inclined to believe her.

She was so glad that she wasn't there to have to live through that again, but at the same time she feared for the friends she had left behind. What will become of them? she asked herself. Many will probably fight, assuming they're given enough warning to prepare themselves. How many will die this time?

She just wished she were in a position to do something to help...