No one knew the exact origins of the The Flame, a heart shape ruby set in a twenty four carat gold necklace, studded with over one hundred single cut diamonds. Some believed it was an ancient relic dating back hundreds of years. Others believed that it was specially made for Josephine upon her and Napoleon's coronation. Whatever it's origins, The Flame was worth an impossible amount of money, and because of this, it was insured to the hilt by it's owner. Finius Q Rogers III had discovered The Flame in a sunken ship of the coast of Portugal in 1948, along with several other smaller gems. At first Finius had kept The Flame in his own personal collection and had kept it with him at all times, but after countless attempts on his life by thieves in pursuit of the ruby, he had installed it in the highest security museum in the world. Millions saw The Flame each year, protected behind bullet proof glass, several security systems, full 24 hour watch by a specialist team of security guards, as well as a nasty guard dog by the name of Butch. With all these security precautions, no one had dared to try to steal the Flame.
The museum that housed The Flame was an ugly structure of mainly glass and steel that looked as though someone had taken a blowtorch and a sledgehammer to an otherwise normal looking building. However, no one could fault the security systems in place at the museum. Employees underwent a full background check, psychological exams and a lie detector test. To gain entry to the building, their palms and irises were scanned. Visitors were forced to undergo metal detection, all personal effects were left at the main door, and they were escorted in small groups of four and five through the museum. It was with good reason that the museum was protected in this fashion. As well as housing The Flame, the museum held countless artworks by some of the masters. The most famous painting of all time, the Mona Lisa, was moved to the museum in 2003 after an extremely close call with an attempted robbery.
With all the security precautions in the museum, it was extremely odd that someone was prowling the halls after closing time. That someone had managed to slip unnoticed through the security check-points. A beam of light from the opposite end of the hall announced that guard 645 was on his nightly round. The intruder pulled a long, thin stick from inside the sleeve of their leather catsuit, which firmly covered the curves of a woman. She aimed the stick at the guard and muttered 'stupefy', sending the guard tumbling to the floor. The female intruder paused for a moment, as if waiting for twenty guards to come rushing around the corner. When none arrived, she headed in the direction of The Flame. Small lights inside the bullet proof case illuminated the jewel, sending small beams of reflected light around the room. Several guards stood around the perimeters of the room, constantly on the lookout for intruders they knew would never come, due to the impossibility of stealing The Flame. When the female intruder strode into the room, they were stunned in more than one way. A further wave of the thin stick disabled the security system, allowing her access to the great glass case holding The Flame.
The intruder was inspecting the case when Butch the guard dog bounded up, threatening to take out a chunk of her thigh. She stunned the dog and turned back to the case. The stick in her hand glowed bright blue as she traced a pattern on the glass. She didn't manage to catch the chunk of glass as it fell to the ground, but she didn't seem to care. One gloved hand reached in and picked up The Flame, after a quick examination it was placed in a pocket of the catsuit, somehow managing to not make a bump to indicate its presence. The woman pointed the stick at the chunk of glass on the floor, sending it back to its original position. The case looked as though it was brand new. From across the opposite side of the room, the woman reactivated the security systems. To an observer, it would have appeared that the woman somehow disappeared from in front of the case, appearing a split second later thirty metres away. Before she left, she pointed her wands at the guards and muttered two things. The first of which was 'Enervate', the second of which was 'Obliviate'. The intruder then simply disappeared.
When the security guards were questioned the next morning, they all claimed to remember nothing. Police were baffled at how someone could take The Flame without setting off the alarms, or being attacked by Butch. They loudly exclaimed over the brilliance of a master thief, an inside job, insurance fraud and a number of absurd possibilities. One man stood quietly beside the empty bullet proof case, examining every inch of it. He pushed his messy, black hair from his face and peered closer. It appeared as though there were scorch marks on the case. Before he could look for more marks, he was accosted by several policemen.
'Hey!' One exclaimed 'How did you get in here?'
The man flashed a badge 'I was sent here.' The officers exchanged glances. The badge the stranger had flashed denoted a high security clearance. They walked away without a word. The man's emerald eyes followed them across the room then turned back to the case. He'd seen these marks before. They'd been there when the Briolette of India had been stolen, and when the Sultan of Morocco had disappeared, two of the world's most priceless jewels. This thief obviously had a passion for priceless jewels and according to these scorch marks, a talent for magic. The man sighed. Whoever this person was, they'd managed to somehow evade the detection of the International Security Federation, not an easy thing to do. The man walked out of the room to a smaller, unoccupied place where he vanished into thin air in the blink of an eye.
He reappeared moments later in front of an impressive white building. People passing by him didn't seem to notice the building, despite the fact it towered above the buildings on either side of it. Their eyes only seemed to see the tiny stores either side. The man jogged up the pristine, white steps. The uniformed guards at the entrance bowed him into the building. The moment he entered, an older man stopped him.
'The same scorch marks?' The older man's black hair was streaked with grey, giving his handsome face a distinguished look.
The younger man nodded, massaging his temples. 'I have no idea how they've managed to get around the magical detection capabilities we have, Sirius.'
The man called Sirius looked just as confused. 'We're obviously dealing with one of the most talented sorcerers in existence. I only wish Hermione were here. She'd have probably figured this out after the Transvaal Blue.' He patted the younger man on the shoulder. 'I know I'm not the only one that wishes she were here, Harry.' With this, Sirius left Harry to his thoughts.
Yes, he did wish Hermione were here. Not only because she were one of the most accomplished witches to ever come out of Hogwarts, but because he loved her. Harry sighed deeply. No matter how much wishing he did, Hermione would never come back. She'd disappeared the night they'd discovered her parents' bodies. Harry's feet led him to his office, and he sat down, remembering that night…
He and Hermione were walking hand in hand through the leafy suburbs where her parents lived. They'd spent the entire weekend together; talking, making love, and making promises of undying love. It was a beautiful night, there wasn't a cloud in site, the stars were shining brightly and the crescent moon sent soft light to the earth. Hermione was examining the diamond ring Harry had given her earlier when she'd consented to marrying him. Despite the fact they were only twenty, they knew they wanted to be together.
'I can't wait to tell Mum and Dad,' Hermione had whispered, moving closer to Harry. He'd wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. 'Me neither,' he'd answered.
They were barely a block from her parents house when they saw it. The dark mark sent a chill into both their hearts. They'd both apparated to the house, knowing what they would find. Hermione had raced from room to room, until she found her parents in the kitchen. Her mother had obviously been in the middle of making dinner; the smell of roasting chicken filled the air. Both she and Hermione's father were lying on the floor, looking as though nothing were wrong with them. However, Harry and Hermione knew what their fate had been. The killing curse left people unmarked. Harry had tried to comfort Hermione, but she'd thrown him off. Her cries of grief had filled his heart with sadness.
Hermione had lost faith in the Ministry of Magic that night, and everyone connected with it. Her parents were supposed to be protected. When Harry had tried to soothe her, she'd turned on him, accusing him of bringing this on her family. She'd taken off her engagement ring and thrown it at him, before disapparating.
That night had been six years ago. Harry didn't know whether she was dead or alive. He'd spent three years scouring the globe for her, without finding a thing. She was either dead, or didn't want to be found.
A knock on his door brought Harry back to reality. It was Sirius.
'We've found The Flame.' He announced. Harry leapt to his feet.
'What about the thief? Any sign?' Sirius shook his head. Harry swore loudly. He followed Sirius to the Apparition Point and together they apparated to the crime scene.
The Flame had been discovered in the vault of an antiques collector, which had been emptied of the millions of dollars of cash and gold bullion it previously held. He claimed to have nothing to do with The Flame's disappearance. Harry and Sirius recognised the signs of someone having had their memory modified. They decided to use the modified pensieve, which would unearth the hidden memories and display them for all to see. When the collector had been put in a deep sleep, the pensieve was put to work. Harry and Sirius watched with amazement as a cloaked figure presented The Flame to the collector. He eagerly paid up the cash and bullion to the thief. As the thief bent over to examine the gold, a lock of chestnut hair fell from the confines of her hood. She hastily tucked it back with an ungloved hand. Harry gasped as he recognised the distinctive pattern of dark freckles on the back of the woman's hand. They'd laughed over the freckles so many times. There were five of them, in the shape of the constellation the Southern Cross. He knew that hand as well as he knew his own. There was only one person who had that hand.
'Hermione,' Harry cried in a choked voice.