Prologue

Hermione didn't understand how she ended up here, standing in front of a parsonage. She couldn't fathom how the universe had mustered up the will to endlessly challenge and confuse her. How had the young eager witch six years ago become the frowning woman wondering the abandoned streets of a village unknown? How had her sense of self-identity mutilated so violently that she could barely concentrate on any task ahead? Even the simple goal of showering in the morning took disciplined effort.

For the fact was so plainly clear, Hermione Granger had lost her ability to hope. She no longer anticipated a future that would be safe for her children. She could no longer envision a beautiful cottage bordering the shimmering sea, water lilies guiding to the steps of the porch and a small yard with a swing set and cream colored patio. And even some chairs and a table for Harry, Ron, Ginny and herself to drink morning tea and reminisce on their adventurous escapades during their youth. Lord Voldemort would be a whimsical memory instead of a foreboding threat. That fantasy vaporized in thin air as soon as the reality of the past couple months surged with great velocity in her mind.

She knew there was no possible option left. Curiosity came at a price and she would eventually have to pay. Now, it seemed quite naïve of her to believe that when the truth surfaces, the universe will be corrected. But the truth had crippled her, gave her a sense of helplessness. She was just an eighteen year old with. Sure, she had magical powers – and of course she could defend herself if the time ever arose – but could she protect everyone else? What was this going to cost and was it even worth it? Hermione was a logical person, even a bit shrewd in some eyes, but she was no fool. She had spent months gathering her research and preparing for this decision. But standing there, in front of a building that preserved the posterity of a past life forced her to re-examine her own.

As she tightened her wrinkled black cloak around her shoulders, Hermione imagined what her parents would think of her, how they remembered her. When she was eleven, leaving for Hogwarts for the first time, she recalled the fear so strong her heart nearly stopped before boarding the train. She had clutched at her father's burgundy coat when she hugged him, and her father had realized that the enthusiasm she'd been feigning for these past months was just an attempt to mask his daughter's insecurities. Hermione had known that coming from a family of Muggleborns put her at a great disadvantage from the other students of her grade. They were all going to be well-versed in this culture of magic but the only knowledge she could acquire would come from her studies.

Her father had stroked her boisterous curls that resembled the woman he fell in love with fifteen years ago. She was a direct resemblance of her mother, even while she was shaking in his arms, seeking comfort. He smoothed her tendrils from her damp cheeks in a comforting gesture and held her soft face in his palms. "You must not fear your fate, Hermione. Stay true to yourself and you'll have nothing to fear." He unhooked her arms and patted her back in the direction of the doors of the train. "We'll always love you, no matter what."

Would they love her now? She couldn't help think. Would they love and support my decisions, encourage me to do the impossible? If they knew this predicament, would her father retrieve those words he confidently put into her head, drive far, far away from the platform, and force her to the world she belongs – among the Muggles? Who would she be now? And suddenly, she felt paralyzed from a cold draft that forced her eyelids closed to withstand it.

A holy sanctuary, the prayer to a God, the regret of her given path – nothing could halt the inevitable.

Her choice had already been made and no attempt to retrace her steps would be possible. She must follow the direction of wind against all odds. The promise she committed to earlier that year was holier than a vow to a superior being. This sanction defined her purpose to the magical world; the reason she was bestowed with a power her ancestry could not access.

During her studies, Hermione had memorized the nation's geography, food, religion, history, and mythology. The legend of Constantin's besa was one that stressed the importance of honoring one's word for eternity, even upon death.

Hermione tightened the scarf around her neck, feeling anew with warmth. He had visited her, this mystical soul, to remind her of her promise. Perhaps it was a sign of the universe, but whatever happened upon her in her utter loneliness from three months of isolation, believed in her. And that was enough. That was enough for Hermione to step away from the parsonage and hurry through the empty, yellowing valley.

She would go to Albania to find the Dark Lord.