The green flame burned against the gold of the sparking catch beneath it. The temperature gage beneath it rose gradually upward until it plateaued in the center. Slowly, Hermione pushed her kettle holder toward the flame until it danced underneath its dark belly. She held her breath as the water began to boil. Steam rose from the water. Its colors swirled inside until they folded into a deep blue shade. The tip of Hermione's poised wand flicked upward, and from the water came a piece of rock no bigger than a sand dollar. Hermione lowered the rock to her work desk. She pulled two black, heat-resistant gloves over her callused hands and picked up her magnifying lens.

"Aparecium," she uttered. Visible now was an ancient language dictating instructions to her. Her eyes scanned it, tilting the rock down. There was a slight seam in the rock where the two parts came together. Gently, she positioned her wand against it.

"Defodio," she whispered, and ever so slightly the rock began to dig in upon itself, showing her its contents. Hermione peered inside the rock and sighed.

"Yes…"

She placed down the rock, pulled her gloves off and wiped the sweat from her brow, reaching to a shelf above her head and pulling out a corked bottle with a swirling solution inside. With care, she poured the solution over the fossil and it began to take shape.

"Come on!"

It followed the contours of the rock producing a convex bubble atop the fossil. She snapped her wand back into her hand and closing her eyes, she moved it left to right.

"Ostendio Magicia Anima," she whispered. She opened her eyes. The solution turned green. Then blue. Then it began to harden. The rock cracked under the expansion of the stuff.

"Shit." She pulled a small hammer from her desk drawer and banged the rest of the rock away from the now crystalized mass. She turned it over. Inside the solution were tiny, white spots like mica on the face of a marble slab. She turned it slowly toward the light and watched the specs flash pink and yellow. She unwound a tendril of curls from the binoculars on her head and pushed them down over her eyes. Looking through them, she smiled. "Now THAT is wicked."

A cup of tea steamed on the desk in the candlelight as Hermione tipped back in her chair rubbing her temples and heaving a sigh. She pushed the binoculars back onto her head.

"Fossilized bit of rose hip leaves from around 2500BC, Greece, were found to be of magical orientation…" She stretched her legs out underneath the desk and the bewitched quill scratched its way down the parchment in her bursting book of notes. "Though I have yet to discover a link between the Hjiji plant of The Ancient Sumer, most often used for regrowth and deep thinking and what is now known as our modern Rosemary herb of NO magical origin, I am convinced that these two things share the same Herbology and history. Where it lost its magical essence is unknown at this time. It should also be documented that the herb of Rosemary is often used in muggle demi-magical purposes to elicit a response which is "unable to be proved" with science, such as through Aromatherapy and Massage." She rubbed her red cheeks and yawned. She glanced at her watch: 2:38AM. "Damn."

For a moment she relaxed, letting the dimly lit room remind her of the sweet relished feeling of closing her eyes. The room swam before her as it hadn't in weeks… the moving photograph of Harry, Ron and she accepting their Modern Day Merlin Awards for their roles in defeating The Dark Lord… beside it, the photo of Harry and Ginny walking the newly one year-old Lily across their kitchen floor. Hermione smiled. Beneath it was the picture Lily had finger-painted "Godmommy Hermy" last year. The reds changed to greens depending on the temperature of her office. It was beginning to collect dust in her carelessness. She looked away. Her degree from Oxford University hung high- crookedly from where the nail had chipped- on the wall above her desk, atop two shelves so full of paperwork and documents they were sure to give way at any moment (had she not thought ahead and reinforced them with a strengthening charm)… Bachelors Degree in Science and Research, Valedictorian- surprising no one, of course... but faking the muggle school transcripts had been a real pain in the arse.

The chair dug its heels in as she pushed it back away from the desk and she scratched up and down her arms, yawning again. She stood up and an orange tabby cat rubbed his way along her shin bones, standing on his tip toes to purr up at her knees. "Bedtime, Crook," she said. He hopped onto her desk chair for a last minute nap. She crossed into the kitchen and opened her empty fridge. The bright light stung her eyes and she searched through what she knew was likely mold and empty boxes to no avail. She sighed and shut the door. The smiling, waving faces of Ron and Cousin Elsa greeted her as she did. She smiled back, casting a look over the last letter they had sent her. They were in America, now, visiting "The Alamo." She could just see Ron now dealing with the traditional views in Southern America. Good grief.

She was so glad she'd introduced those two… long after the awkwardness of she and Ron being on again, off again… after he'd finally worked up the courage to seduce her on New Years Eve those long seven years ago… after waking up to him day after day for four years thinking, "This is what it's like to love your best friend," in contentment, but never really in love… but she was able to forget about the magic, and where it all came from… what it all meant… until she saw him with Elsa. She'd restored her parents' memories as soon as she'd known the threat of The Dark Lord was passed… and after she had, she'd brought her boyfriend home to meet the family, of course! Five years into their relationship, it took seeing the way Elsa had looked at Ron… the way Ron had looked at Elsa. In ways, Elsa and Hermione were very much in common… except for the fact that Elsa was a muggle, of course. Still, she knew what Ron was, and despite the challenges ahead of them, Hermione wouldn't have tried for the world to hold her best friend back from that. She had to let him go, guilty as he may have felt… and she didn't blame him for going. Never would. In a way, she was grateful to know... it's possible for love to feel like that. Though, she thought, casting a look into her wayward, lonely, dark bedroom with an unmade bed and only one bedside table… she had been single for far too long. At this point, she could do with some contentment.

She flicked on the bathroom light and looked in the mirror. "Bloody Hell," she whispered. "Am I 25 or 49?" The dark purple blotches covering the bags under her eyes were evidence of her three long weeks of research and documentation. It would all be worth it when it was complete… when she had an answer. She opened up the medicine chest and squeezed some toothpaste onto her toothbrush. Crookshanks slid his head into the doorframe. "You know she was raised by Dentists when she hasn't eaten all day- or touched a spot of hot tea- but feels compelled to brush her teeth before bed." He licked his lips. Her brow furrowed. She ducked her head into the hallway to peer at her desk. A tipped over, empty teacup rolled across the surface. The spoon dangled dangerously on the edge of her pulled out chair. She cast him a look. He headed toward the bedroom.

"At least one of us will have some energy tomorrow morning."

The alarm buzzed noisily in her ear at a blasphemous 6AM. She grit her teeth and rolled over, removing a pillow from behind her head and smashing it over her ears. Her left hand fumbled for the alarm.

"Not yet…" she pleaded. It continued to buzz. With a crash she sat up. Her newly broken water glass- from Merlin only knew how many days ago- lay in a puddle on the bedroom floor, the alarm only inches from it. "Good morning," she mumbled and hopped up. "Mondere," she waved over her shoulder as she walked to her overwhelmingly dirty laundry basket. The alarm went quiet. She removed a towel from the heap and turned back to the mess that Crookshanks was beginning to circle. The broken glass stood now with all its most sharp, dangerous pieces pointed up toward her in the middle of what looked like twice the water she had originally spilled. She eyed it. "Mondere!" The pieces jumped to surround the puddle like a tiny water fortress of spikes. The alarm clock sparked in the puddle. Crookshanks hissed at it.

"Why is she- dashing, gorgeous- such a very single 25 year old woman, anyway? It's not like she can't keep a clean house…" Crookshanks walked to her feet, sat down and looked up at her. "…Or ever talks to her cat, at all…"

The alarm began to go off again.

Hermione headed down a busy London street with a coffee cup in one hand a bag full of research in the other. She was going to be very late for work if she wasn't careful, and this project was costing The Department of Magical History and Research a fortune. If she didn't come up with some serious case work soon, they were likely to pull the plug, and the idea of that brought her closer to vomiting than even one of Hagrid's most stony apple dumplings. The last thing she needed was time riding her back.

Stuck waiting for a bus to vacate the crosswalk, she was so close she could spit on it… not that she ever would, mind you. A mother carrying grocery bags and the hand of a small child walked the sidewalk toward Hermione. A harmless but very smelly vagabond Hermione knew well lay sleeping, his face underneath last week's stained newspaper to hide the sun, on the steps of the "No Trespassing," burnt out Public Library. The mother squeezed her daughter's hand as she passed him. He stirred, slipping the paper away from his mouth and wiping it on the back of his sleeve, waking.

"The Hippogriff bows before none so proud, but one who's more likely to be standing…?" He certainly had the child's attention now. The mother stopped for a just a moment, staring at him. She tugged on the child's hand. "Not today, sweetheart. We'll bring him a sandwich tomorrow." Hermione tipped her head down as they passed her. She often questioned the naivety of muggles… was it easy not to see for them because they did not want to? What of the ones who had "a feeling"? She hugged her research closer to her and approached the bum, adjusting himself on the stoop.

"The Hippogriff bows before none so proud, but one who's more likely to be standing—"

"Down," she answered. He smiled.

"Right, Miss. We'll take yer down." And in the blink of an eye she was whizzing through a system of complicated slides, and just as quickly, back on her feet in the lobby of The Department. She adjusted herself to find she had spilled coffee on her right lapel. She cursed.

"Mondere," she muttered. The stain turned bleach white. She frowned. "Better than coffee," she decided and headed to the front desk, the secretary blinking up at her from behind a pair of very thick glasses.

"Hellooo," she crooned at Hermione, smiling genuinely and widely. God, why can't I feel like that in the morning? She thought.

"Hermione Granger to see the Board? I have a meeting at 8:15."

"You had an appointment at 8:15, yes… did you know? It's 8:26 now…." Hermione sighed, glancing at the clock over the boarded up fireplace with a side that read, "Closed for renovations." She nodded toward it.

"Yes, well, without the Floo Network in operation, it was a bit of a challenge to get here this morning, you understand."

"Ah, yes, dear. Budget cutbacks," she smiled apologetically. Hermione winced. Cutbacks? That cannot be good….

One of the two doors behind the secretary opened and Alexander Fishbottle stepped out. He was a long man in his mid-50s with a distended belly as if to indicate his impending motherhood, and he dressed it up well with tailored robes and a shiny golden pocket watch in his front pocket that Hermione secretly loved, for it reminded her of one very like another she used to wear.

"Miss Granger!" he said warmly, throwing his arms up to her. She smiled at him.

"Dr. Fishbottle," she nodded, walking toward him. He ushered her into the board room.

"Yes, yes. Sit down, child!" He called, showing her to her only empty seat at a table that seats 12. They were all here today, weren't they? That never meant anything good.

"Now, before we start today, Dr. Fishbottle, I just wanted to say that I'm aware and very- VERY appreciative of all The Department has done both to aid my research and also fund it while I continue to search for—"

"All business so soon, Miss Granger? I'd much prefer to start the meeting with a simple, "Good Morning," how about you all?" He turned his smile to the rest of the table. About half of them looked as if they really hadn't thought about her opening sentence and would much rather still be enjoying their beds… a smaller percentage seemed happy to hear her gratitude… and the rest much looked like they were ready to send her packing.

"Of course. Good morning, Dr. Fishbottle—The Board. So good to see you all." They grunted their responses toward her. Satisfied, he settled back into his chair to hear her speak. "Now… as to my research-"

"Yes. What is it exactly you're researching, Miss Granger?" A younger witch asked from behind horn-rimmed spectacles which reminded her very much of her favorite professor from school. A little too much, to be true.

"The exact origins of magical energy and all of its many forms."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Well…" Hermione started. It was complicated to explain water to someone who had only ever drank pumpkin juice before. "I'm looking for—I mean, I've FOUND in some cases—the root of the magical essence inside of what is understood to be non-magical materials… to try and find a Warlock Zero: the first case of magical energy within a person, place, or thing, in known historical time, here on this planet."

The man seated next to her, a stuffy younger man of a certain Percy Weasley capacity chortled. "Do you mean to suggest, young lady, that magic in a—what to they call them… a 'toaster oven' can exist in a comparable form to the magic we are born with as wizards?"

"Well, not exactly, I—"

"How about a fossilized bogie from a tyrannosaurus rex?" Now some of the others were beginning to giggle… and he was dead wrong. And she was starting to fume.

"Exactly, Mr.?"

"Doctor. Dr. Henry H. Plume."

"Doctor," she corrected with just a dash of sardonic flavor, "You're quite right. Fossils are the tools I have been using to peer back into the pages of time that predate books, slabs, and written language at all… in some cases, they predate the human form. In others, they go beyond what muggle scientists have spent years determining was the exact time the first dinosaur crawled out of the water and began to live on land. And in some more cases, still…" She plopped her bag on the table and opened it up. Inside, amongst the many papers, were a mortar and pestle, and a protective case for the fossil inside. She placed them on the desk and opened the box. Carefully, she dropped the solid solution filled with dozens of glittering gold and salon lights into the mortar. For a moment, her spectators just watched the lights as they grabbed the light available to them in the room. Without warning, she crammed the pestle into the bowl and began to grind. She ground and ground until a white shimmering powder remained. She poured the powder onto the glass table top and put her hands, palms up, on either side of it. She closed her eyes.

For a moment, silence. And then they began to whisper.

"Are they?"

"Is it… moving?"

The pink and gold glittering lights had begun to sift through the white powder and find their way out. They caught the air as if riding a breeze and landed in Hermione's open hands, where they landed and began to fizzle. Hermione smiled.

An older board member leaned in toward the table. "What is this?"

"The magical energy within the fossil predating mankind is drawn to the magical energy in me. In you. In all of us present, here. When ground to a nearly weightless form, it will travel to where it feels it will be strongest... i.e, with us- humans- the most complex of bodily machines."

Dr. Plume stuck his nose up to her. "And how are we to know that this is not some parlor trick, Miss Granger?" Her hands glowing, she smiled, accepting the challenge.

"Just give me your hands, Dr. Plume." His smile faded away, but he did so. She closed her hands around his, unpleasant as it was, and before their eyes, the hands began to glow. The whispers grew louder. Dr. Plume released her hands, brushing them off on his robes as he did so.

"Could have done without the child's art project stuck beneath my wedding ring, however…"

She rolled her eyes, no longer caring if he saw. She had the rest of them, now. She had them. She gently brushed her hands back into the mortar, put the pestle inside and put the whole thing into the protective case. She set it back in her back. She scattered her notes on the table for them to see.

"This is what I've been doing. Collecting, analyzing, running tests… I've developed a serum that bonds with the magical essence in all things. I apply that to my findings to look for the magical similarities between us and them. What I want to know is where it all comes from… why us? Why not them? Where did the direct line stop? And if it DID stop… who was the first known muggle-born? How did the energy transfer? How does it all WORK? And how far back does it predate man?"

The woman with the horn-rimmed glasses leaned toward her now, astute and concentrating on her. "Do you expect to get all the answers of these questions for us, Miss Granger?"

"I expect to try… anything less than that would be… a disservice to the burning questions I've had in me since the first day I found out I was a witch. Had I graduated from Hogwarts with my class, I would have been Top Girl. I was Valedictorian at Oxford—"

"That Muggle Institution?" someone muttered, incredulously.

"That Muggle Institution holds real facts, sciences, and histories, Johnstar whether or not you're interested in that… it seems it has aided Miss Granger here to finding her solutions so I suggest we regard it with respect," Dr. Fishbottle interrupted. He nodded to Hermione to continue.

"Everything I've done in my life has come down to these questions. I can't help but to feel like the knowledge runs through me in a way I can't even take credit for. I have to explore. And… frankly… I will do so with or without the affiliation of this organization. But without will take longer." She swallowed, hard. She hadn't been intending to give them her "do or die," speech just yet, but that is how it had shaken out. She hoped she hadn't blown it.

The older woman thinned her lips and squinted at Hermione. "How old are you?"

Hermione blushed. Why do I have to always look 49? "I'm 25," she answered. The woman blinked at her.

"And how far back have you thusly been able to trace the existence of magical energy?"

"Back to when the earth was still in its bacterial stages, reproducing and growing, without any sign of true 'intelligent' life."

A man who had not laughed, reacted or spoken sat forward now. She had an icy stare, and very particular clothing and hair. He cleared his throat for her. "Have you a theory, Miss Granger"

She hadn't expected the question. "Pardon?"

"A theory… as to where it all comes from… and why us?"

The room was quiet, and all eyes were on her. Had she a theory? Truthfully, she'd never wanted to. She didn't want to guess. She wanted to know. She straightened.

"I believe it was one of my childhood heroes, Sherlock Holmes, who once said, "We would do better to have facts that stew theories than theories that stew facts. I'm a firm believer in facts. I would have to limit my findings by something as small as my own opinions."

"Ah… but has it occurred to you yet that… these things may not HAVE a tangible answer?"

"That's just not something I'm willing to accept at this time."

A beat of silence passed… and the woman across from her cracked a smile behind those glasses. She rose. "My Great Aunt was right about you, dearie. A very clever one. I am Professor Belinda McGonagall—new teacher in History of Magic at Hogwarts." She reached for Hermione's hand. Hermione shook it graciously. "I am happy to assist you with anything you need in this endeavor. You have my vote." She sat down again. Hermione swallowed. It was up to them now, she saw. Dr. Fishbottle cleared his throat and sat forward in his chair.

"Miss Granger, I don't have to tell you that the department is experiencing an all time low in funding. We just don't have the resources to donate to projects that we once did. We've been given a direct line into a great heap of money from The Ministry of Magic that denotes a certain amount of our time should be spent their way. It's come to my understanding however, that your projects are not known only to us, and that some others share your curiosities… others that have a good deal more money than The Department does. Lorenzo Mazuko," he gestured to his right at the neatly dressed man with the icy eyes, "is here representing one of those third party contributors, today. Now, I it was just The Department firing here, we'd have to let you go… but Mazuko seems quite keen to keep you on here with us in exchange for a few amendments to the current state of your research. We'll ask you now to step into the lobby… and the board and he will try to come up with something that can suit all of our needs. Please excuse us."

She rose, gathered her things and with one last look into the faces of the people who would be deciding whether or not she could follow this dream of hers, landing on Lorenzo Mazuko in particular. She stepped out and closed the door behind her. As soon as she did she heard rushed voices on the other side. The secretary whirled to face her.

"That, my dear, is the first time they've been that excited in weeks!"

Hermione sat in one of the chairs badly in need of new upholstering in the lobby and relentlessly chewed on her thumbnail. It was starting to hurt and yet she couldn't stop. It was murderous, waiting for these people she hardly knew to decide whether or not what she felt was her purpose in this world was worth following. And if they said no… she didn't even want to think about it. She was barely making ends meet as it was, eating two meals a day and feeding Crookshanks the best looking pieces of fish from the market. She was down to some of her last galleons in her vault, and try as they might, Mom and Dad weren't going to be able to help her with anything other than her rent- and she hated to ask them. This had to work, it just HAD to. She'd worked too hard for too long.

The door opened and she stopped breathing.

"Miss Granger?" She looked up sharply. Dr. Fishbottle called her back inside. This time, the board was standing, wands out before them on the table, all pointing at a silvery contract at her end of the table. There were 12 spaces for signatures. "Have a seat," Dr. Fishbottle said. She sat, barely able to understand how she was still able to function.

A straight-laced man in his mid 30s began to read from the contract before her: "Here reads the terms of the contract which is to exceed no more than nine months for the time being while it is determined whether the witch in question is able to provide the information we currently seek, and whether she is willing to go forward. For the span of these nine months she must work in conjunction with a third party contributory to explore the relativity of magic in object form, vs. magic in plant and animal form, vs. magic in human witch and wizard form to exceed no more than half the budget allotted for time spent in her Sociological Projects. If at the nine-month mark it is determined that one or more of these tasks has become moot, it will be decided then to end it. If before that nine month term the witch in question disobeys a direct order, the third party contributor breaks contract, or if the thesis itself is deemed insufficient, her budget will be stripped from her as will any duties to The Department of Magical History and Research."

Dr. Fishbottle looked pleased as punch, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he pointed his wand at the first line of the contract and his signature appeared. The other board members followed suite. Hermione was pink with excitement, though she dared not show it. Conjunction with a third party contributor? Well as long as he doesn't have to hold my magnifying glass for me. Probably just a suit, she thought. Someone to sit in an office, call the shots and expect results. She couldn't believe her luck! She was going to be able to continue! And all she had to do in the meantime was dig up something worth publishing for this bigwig. She was ecstatic. She saw Dr. Fishbottle bringing her two folders with paperwork inside and watched his lips move as he probably told her to call his home fireplace if he needed anything, and gave her a swift pat on the back, but her thoughts were already home in her bathtub, going through this stack of papers.

She turned to exit and was blocked fully by Lorenzo Mozuko. She stared at him for a moment… didn't much like his look… but she smiled toward him none the less, and held out her hand.

"I guess we'll be working together, then?" she asked. He looked at her hand.

"Miss Granger… are you prepared to accept that this may end much differently than you had always anticipated? Can you live with the frustration of never knowing?"

Her smile faltered a bit. "Look… we're going to be working together, right? Maybe it's best if we cross that bridge when we come to it. I mean, err… I don't know that your investor shares those concerns, right? Otherwise… he wouldn't have… invested." She blushed; hated when she sounded like a complete imbecile out of discomfort.

"He certainly does not share these concerns. This is what worries me."

She put her hand into her pocket awkwardly.

"So… can we get past this then, you and I?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm not the one you'll be working with," he said. He tossed her a third well manicured file in an expensive, leather bound file carrier. She stared down at it. "Was just hoping I could talk some sense into the less thick of the two of you."

He exited. Hermione looked down at the leather carrier in her arms, and for a moment she pondered in the empty room.

Her feet hardly touched the ground on the way back through town, up the steps to her flat, or into the bathroom. Her clothes were off and her hair up in a messy bun on top of her head before she thought twice about it. She splashed into the near-boiling water and let the goose-pimples lick her flesh as she did, sinking into the sweet warmth of triumph. She turned the water off with her toes and sighed. For just a moment, she let everything be perfect. She let the air around her settle and the bathwater steam. Crookshanks sat on the edge of the tub, flicking his tail back and forth just inches from the water. She thought of calling Harry and Ginny, and writing Ron and Cousin Elsa. She couldn't wait to tell them… couldn't wait to hear the pride in their voices. Merlin's Beard, she might even be able to visit her Goddaughter again, soon. And then she could bear it no longer and she reached a dripping arm from the tub to grasp the two manila folders.

She settled down and opened them up, beginning to read… "First Assignment in Collecting Field Date with Old Wizarding Families, 2123 High Mountainside Way… yada yada… hoopla hoopla," she read aloud. It was all a bunch of bureaucratic jargon she was well used to deciphering when it came to The Department. "Boring," she decided. She chucked it to the floor. She pursed her lips, tapping her fingers on the edge of the tub. She knew what she wanted. She wanted to rip open that million dollar leather carrying case and examine every spec of information under a microscope… but she was afraid. She cast a glance down at it. It laid there haphazardly on the floor with the other folders, so small against it… so trivial. It reminded her of the first time she ever looked at Hogwarts: A History… how nostalgic it made her. She took a deep breath and reached for the folder. She slipped off the crook of the ribbon that held its clasp over the edge. She cracked it open. "Merlin, even the paper is perfect."

They were notes, she realized… notes that looked rather like a mad man's would. Notes that went on for pages and pages, and the more she read, the more confused she became. They were theories, all right, spouting the whys and wheres of magic… why some had it, why some didn't… some of them were pigheaded, she thought, and much like the feelings of her pre-war Slytherin enemies. Others were more gentle… some were just mad. She turned page after page, and realized they were not all notes—but a collection of articles and interviews that dated back generations and generations of Wizarding families she had recognized from the Black Family Tree. It left a bad taste in her mouth to see the state of their opinions written neatly in wonderful penmanship on these perfect sheets of paper. And then she turned and found something that made her jump clean out of her skin. She lost her grip on the folder, and some fell to the floor, but not what had made her lose her focus… that fell gracefully down and touched the steaming water, and floated delicately above her belly.

It was a photograph of The Malfoy Family, taken when Draco was still a baby. A man stood beside Lucious whom she had never met… but she could certainly discern who he was… because written across the top, in the same penmanship she was beginning to fantasize about, it said, "Mum, Dad, me and Uncle Rory. Where is he?!" She stared down at those words, and to the face of the baby with those gray eyes that made her stomach heave. "ME?" she read aloud, aghast.

And from the puddle of water beside her bed… her alarm began to go off again.