PILOT PART 1

"Potter! Granger! Shacklebolt wants you!" Harry Potter looked up, heaved a tumultuous sigh and set a thick stack of unfinished paperwork onto his desk. "Now!"

"Yeah, one minute!" he replied, standing up and strolling through the Auror office, turning every so often around the complex maze of cubicles until he finally met his best friend Hermione Granger at Kingsley's door.

"What assignment do you think we're getting this time?" she asked.

"I don't know, but I hope it's not that Flight 8-17 or whatever."

"8-15," corrected Hermione on instinct.

"Right, 8-15."

"Harry! Harry, come and see this!" yelled Ginny.

"What? What is it? Are you all right? Is it the baby?" he ran into the room to see his wife sitting calmly in an arm chair, her eyes locked on the screen.

"No, it's nothing like that. Look," she pointed to the television. Harry glanced up, listening intently.

"' - no news yet on any survivors, but we have received word from our helicopter crew which is currently hovering over the scene that no remains of the plane were discovered. It seems to have simply vanished, leaving concerned friends and family on the mainland. Passengers include spinal surgeon Dr. Jack Shephard, fugitive Katherine Austen and bass guitar player Charlie Pace, member of the band once known as Driveshaft.'" Ginny clicked a button on the remote, and the TV turned off.

"How horrible," she cringed. "All those people, all their lives are just – gone?"

"That doesn't make any sense. No plane can just disappear into thin air – not without magic."

"Come in Harry, Hermione," Kingsley opened the door kindly, his tall body towering over them. "I've got another job for you."

"Of course you do, Shacklebolt," Harry smirked and shook Kingsley's extended hand as he followed Hermione into the spacious warm office.

"Please have a seat," he pulled a chair out for Hermione, who sat neatly on the thick red cushion. "Well, let me get straight to it," Kingsley sunk into his own chair and put his hands onto the desk in a business-like manner. "What do you know about Oceanic Flight 8-15?"

Hermione glanced at Harry with an agitated look. "Not too much," replied Hermione, turning back towards Kingsley.

"Well, Flight 8-15 was a scheduled flight from Sydney to Los Angeles. However, yesterday, September 22, the plane, which had been carrying 324 living persons, one deceased, one Labrador retriever and one rare breed of spider, deviated from its original course and disappeared over the Pacific Ocean," he said while looking over a file. "It is obviously rather curious that no evidence of the plane can be found. I'm providing you with a time-turner, and you're going to be on this flight."

"Wonderful," said Harry sarcastically. "So are we going to disappear as well then?"

"I'm sure they didn't actually vanish, Harry. Planes don't disappear," said Hermione matter-of-factly. "Something else must be the problem – perhaps something the media is hiding from ordinary civilians."

"Precisely," Kingsley agreed. "Look, I'm well aware it was your birthday only a few days ago, Hermione, and Harry, I know you and Ginny are being careful with the baby, but we cannot ignore the loss of 324 Muggles. I'd ask another team, but I have never seen Aurors with your combined talents before. I hope you understand."

"Of course, sir," they said at once.

"There's no need to call me 'sir'. We've known each other long enough. Anyways, here you are." Kingsley handed each of them a large pile of papers. "Have these read thoroughly by tomorrow and report to my office at noon.

Harry began to flip through it casually. "Have a good night, Kingsley," he stood up solemnly, his nose buried in the packet. Hermione nodded in agreement and walked through the door that Harry had propped open with his foot.

"Do you really have to leave again, Hermione?" asked Ron as he tossed a few shirts into her suitcase.

"Ron, do you honestly believe there's anything to worry about? All Harry and I have to do is figure out what really happened. Then I can come home."

He stopped looking through Hermione's drawers and walked cautiously up to her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Promise?"

"I promise," she smiled, leaning her head against his chest. Hermione found it hard to believe they had been dating for six years; Harry and Ginny had only been together for two when they tied the knot, but Hermione had always understood that Ron moved at a much slower pace. Still, she longed for the day when she could wear his ring proudly on her finger. Smiling as he kissed the top of her head, Hermione said, "I'd love to stay like this, Ron, but I have a lot of reading to do."

"Hermione, you can't keep using that excuse to get rid of me," he teased, his hands sliding up to lightly touch her cheeks, and she gazed upwards into his eyes.

"Get rid of you?" Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck. "Never," she stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips lightly against his for a few blissful seconds. Using all her strength to pull away, she mumbled, "Now I really have to work."

"Oh fine," he let her go with a smirk. "I'll finish packing for you." Ron continued where he had left off, allowing Hermione to curl up on their bed with the stack of papers. The first page was simply a more detailed explanation of Kinglsey's summary.

The next few described the aliases Hermione and Harry would become: Emily Belgarde and Albert Holmes. Supposedly, Emily was an architect who had spent a couple months observing Australian architecture and was now spending a few days examining the Golden Gate Bridge. Underneath these papers were notes on buildings and structures, but Hermione barely glanced at them, having spent most of her life reading any book she could get her hands on, no matter the topic. Harry, on the other hand, was a writer working on his first novel and returning from a visit with his uncle. They were strangers to one another, and Hermione was glad that their lack-of-interaction would not have to last long.

Following these pages were several dedicated to the passengers. The first on the list was a man by the name of Leslie Arzt. There wasn't any interesting information on him except that he was the owner of the spider, if you could even call that interesting. Following Arzt was a stunningly beautiful woman filed as Katherine Anne Austen. She had the most papers of all the passengers because she had been charged with murder in the first degree, theft, and several accounts of escaping from and attacking a United States federal marshal by the name of Edward Mars. Hermione flipped to the marshal's page next, but obviously, little was found there.

Finally, after six hours of reading, re-reading and rubbing her eyes red, Hermione closed the packet and cozied into the blankets, allowing sleep to pull her from reality and immerse her in peaceful dreams.

Harry woke the next morning at ten o'clock, picking sleep from his eyes and sighing. Beside him, Ginny lay peacefully, her hand over her face.

Harry began to sit up cautiously, attempting not to stir the blankets, but he had not been blessed with the gift of grace. Ginny mumbled and rolled over slowly, her eyes barely opening. "Where are you going?"

"I need a shower," he replied softly.

"What – what time is it?" yawned Ginny, who seemed incapable of keeping her eyes from shutting.

"Ten," Harry checked the clock, "o' three."

"I should get up and make breakfast before you have to leave," she muttered.

Harry kissed her lightly on the forehead. "Don't worry about it; go back to sleep. After all, James needs more rest than you might think."

"You'll wake me before you go, right?"

"Of course I will. How could I leave you, love, knowing I never said goodbye?"

Ginny somehow managed to roll her eyes despite them barely being visible, but she pulled the blankets closer to her and in seconds, was breathing slowly and quietly once more.

Harry lumbered into the bathroom and began to run the warm water. He could not stop thinking about the possibility that Hermione and Kingsley were wrong about the crash. What if the plane really had vanished? No, that's a stupid idea, Harry thought almost immediately, Hermione may have been wrong about the Hallows, but this was something else entirely.

Shaking his head at himself, Harry removed his clothes, climbed into the shower and tried to remember all that he had read last night. The first page he had flipped to, simply by chance, was a boy's file – Walter Lloyd. What could Harry recall about Walter? He thought for a moment, drawing a blank, and instead moved on to the boys' father – Michael Dawson. This man's papers had had a startling effect on Harry.
Walter had been taken from Michael when the boy was only a few years old – all because his ex-wife could afford better lawyers. Harry could not imagine the torment he would endure if he was not allowed to see James. Ever. Even though he desperately wanted to.

Harry turned the water off and ran a hand through his wet hair. He could not think about that; the mere contemplation of it was enough to make him shake with anger and a slight fear of losing yet another loved one.

Somehow, Harry managed to dress himself and think only about what his hands were doing in order to stop his thoughts from wandering to Walter and Michael, or to a man named James Ford, whose mother had died when he was seven as he watched, or to a John Locke, whose own father had stolen one of his kidneys.

He zipped up his suitcase at 11:45 and stared at Ginny's blissful form. Harry could not wake her up – not when she was so at peace. He smiled down at her, left an apologetic note on his pillow and whispered goodbye to his wife and son before closing the bedroom door behind him.

Hermione took her spot beside two empty seats and avoided glancing at the tail-end of the plane, where Harry was seated. Glancing around, she began to look for signs of a threat. To her annoyance, Hermione kept sneaking peeks at the Islamic man she had read about – Sayid Jarrah – which filled her heart with disappointment in herself. Hermione would not allow herself to profile as Malfoy had. Now, she became resolute not to look at him at all.

Hermione brushed her hair back habitually with her right hand, opening the notebook on her lap, getting into character and sketching the Golden Gate Bridge.

Finally, the plane was ready to take off, and Hermione strapped on her seat belt, surprised and pleased that no one had claimed the spots beside her. After a few moments, however, a large man with wild hair, whom Hermione recognized to be Hugo Reyes, stopped alongside her aisle. He was sweating profusely, and he stank but was clearly happy to be here.

"Just made it," exclaimed Hugo, dropping into the seat and grabbing his headphones. He turned to Hermione with a smile. "Sorry, dude, I know I smell, but it's my mom's birthday, and if I miss this flight, she'll kill me."

Hermione smirked helplessly. "Well, tell your mother I said Happy Birthday …"

"… Hugo, Hugo Reyes, but you can just call me Hurley," he stuck out his hand, and Hermione shook it. "So what's your name?"

"Emilie Belgarde," Hermione lied, leaving no evidence of her falsehood as she shook his hand.

"So Emilie, is that the Golden Gate?" asked Hurley, gesturing to her notebook.

"Yeah, that's where I'm headed," she replied.

"Cool, dude," Hurley sounded genuine, and he stuck his headphones over his ears and did not speak again.

Harry was staring out of the window a few hours into the flight, curious that nothing at all peculiar had happened. Ironically, at this moment, a man Harry knew to be Charlie Pace ran abruptly past his aisle and through the curtains while flight attendants began to chase after him. After that, Harry saw nothing more, and he began to relax again.

Then, out-of-nowhere, the plane started to shake violently for a few seconds. When it had stopped, the 'fasten seat belt' sign flickered on, and Harry did not hasten to obey. However, the tremoring seemed to decrease for a moment and then increase rapidly at an even faster pace. Harry reached for his wand, knowing the incident was about to happen when there was a loud creak, and the tail-end split from the front of the plane, and he began to tumble freely through the air. His head spun as Harry frantically pulled out his wand, but blood had rushed to his head, and he blacked out and knew no more.

Water. Water filled her nose, her mouth, her lungs. Hermione felt it spewing from her as she opened her eyes and continued to cough, kneeling over and burying her hands in coarse sand.

"Son of a bitch!" she heard a man with a heavy Southern accent exclaim. "You vomited all over my shirt!"

Hermione turned around, shivering and wiping her mouth. "Sorry," said Hermione to the man, who wore an expression of disgust as he ran his hand through his golden-brown hair, which was rather messy and filled with grains of sand - James Ford.

He let out a heavy sigh. "Whatever, Queen Victoria. Now I gotta go wash this off in the damn ocean."

Hermione watched him leave but yelled her thanks to his back and saw him wave his hand casually in return.

Slowly, she began to take in the scene around her: many large pieces of their plane lay scattered across the beachfront; Boone Carlyle was crouched over Rose Nadler, attempting to perform CPR; Shannon Rutherford was screaming obnoxiously; Jack Shephard burst from the forest, two small gashes on the right side of his mouth; last, Hermione's attention turned to a slightly younger, pregnant girl - Claire Littleton - who was clearly having contractions, and Hermione decided her need was greatest and took off at a sprint, sliding into the sand beside her.

"How many months along are you?" she asked gently.

"Eight - eight months," replied Claire in a smooth, Australian accent. She clutched her stomach tightly.

"Okay, okay, um, can you tell me your name?" Hermione continued, trying not to panic.

"It's - Claire," she managed through a great effort.

"Claire, I want you to take a few deep breaths, all right? Just breathe in and out slowly, and I'll try to find someone who can help."

She nodded, and Hermione ran to get Jack, all the while calling out for a doctor so as not to appear suspicious. Finally, he stood up from beside Boone and Rose and exclaimed, "I'm a doctor."

"Oh thank God," replied Hermione. "Please come with me. That girl down there is having contractions," she pleaded.

Jack nodded and followed Hermione to where Claire was still hunched over in the sand, tears staining her cheeks now. Slightly impressed, she watched as Dr. Shephard calmed her down enough that the contractions seemed to stop. "I need to go help the others, but you stay with her, and let me know if the contractions come back."

"What if I can't find you?" she asked.

"Just yell my name – it's Jack," said Dr. Shephard, whose hands were on the sides of his suit coat as he panted heavily.

Hermione nodded and sat beside Claire as they watched him leave. "So … boy or girl?" she asked in an attempt to make conversation.

"It's a boy actually," replied Claire with a small smile, putting her hand over her very large stomach.

"Have you picked out a name yet?"

"No, I – well, I was going to give him up for adoption," she sounded guilty.

"The father was too cowardly to stick around," Hermione said knowingly. There was an awkward pause in which Claire stared curiously at her. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I'm sorry you've had to do it alone," she turned and smiled at Claire, who blushed and smirked back, clearly thrown off. "My name's Emilie by the way," added Hermione.

"Nice to meet you, Emilie – and thanks – for everything."

Hermione was about to open her mouth when she heard a sudden creak of metal and instinctively looked up. All her Auror training and alertness paid off as she pulled Claire up and pushed her away, running as fast as she could from the falling plane wing as it exploded behind them, sending Hermione flying forward as a small shard scraped roughly against her leg, leaving a deep gash and a steady line of blood running down her thigh and staining her socks.

"Claire?" she lifted her head and stood up, limping to where the girl was brushing sand off her black shirt. "Are you okay?" asked Hermione.

"I'm fine. I can't believe you did that. You saved - " she panted and then suddenly noticed Hermione's leg. "Emilie, you're bleeding!"

"I'm fine," said Hermione, her throat beginning to feel dry, and her head starting to spin. She felt herself stumble slightly and fall backwards as someone caught her and set her onto the beach.

"Oi!" the voice said as Hermione's eyes spun between Claire, the sand, the ocean, and this newcomer – a young British male with blond hair and a peculiar scent on his breath. "Are you guys okay?"

"Jack!" That was Claire's voice. Hermione began to blink away spots.

"Really, I'm fine," she tried to sit up, but someone gently pushed her back down, leaving a firm hand on her shoulder. "Let me up," insisted Hermione.

"You need to relax. Do not move, and I will see what I can do about your wound." This was another new voice – Sayid. Hermione could determine its owner even in her light-headed state.

She felt water creep underneath her body and retreat again, and the salt brushed her leg. Hermione gasped in unexpected pain. "I am afraid you are going to need stitches. … You - "

"It's Charlie."

"Charlie, go and find a man named Jack. He will know what to do." Hermione felt a pair of strong arms pull her up, and she did not protest because at that very moment, even as Claire walked beside them, telling Hermione to hold on a little longer, she passed out.

Hermione's eyes fluttered open, and she felt an odd, nauseating feeling in her leg; it was enough to make her cry out in pain and almost sit up abruptly had two strong arms not been holding her down. "Jack, she's awake," said a female voice, which, Hermione saw as she looked up, belonged to Katherine Austen. She felt a sudden urge of panic both to do with the fact that a murderer was holding her down and that Jack was giving her stitches – without the Novocaine.

"Emilie, right?" asked Austen in a calm voice, and Hermione nodded after a second of thought.

"I'm sorry; I know this hurts, but you had lost so much blood by the time I got back. There was no time to look for medicine," explained Jack.

"It's fine; I can handle it," said Hermione through gritted teeth as she tried not to think about the feeling of the needle being pushed and pulled through her skin as if it were some sort of blanket to be woven.

Katherine seemed to recognize this and tried to distract her. "I'm Kate by the way."
"Hi – BLOODY HELL!" shouted Hermione, her hands clenching the edge of what seemed to be a make-shift table. "Hi Kate," she let out in a breath.

"What's your job?"

"I'm an architect," Hermione replied. "What's yours?"

"I work at a farm," said Kate, though Hermione knew she was lying. However, she kept her mouth shut.

At that moment, there was a sudden pain in her leg that caused her to actually scream in pain, and tears began to fall down her face; Hermione felt embarrassed. "I'm so sorry," said Jack in a soothing voice. "We're almost done; just a few more minutes."

Suddenly, the tent flap opened, and in walked James Ford. "Damn it, woman, can't you keep it down?!"

"Get out of here," said Kate.

"No can do, Freckles," Hermione saw Kate clench her teeth in anger. "Some of us are tryin to have civilized conversations, but it ain't so easy when you're torturing the English in here."

"Get out before I have to make you," she spat in reply.

"Ooh, I'm scared now. Go on, hit me. I bet you ain't never hit anyone in - " But he was stopped short as Kate punched him, hard, across his face.

"Hey!" yelled Jack. "Take that outside!"

James had a bemused look of hidden pain on his face as he threw open the flaps and shrugged his way through them. Jack, however, bore a clearly entertained smile as he set back to work.

Kate shook her wrist a little and went to stand back over Hermione, but she did not restrain her anymore.

"Finished," said Jack, and Hermione let out a grateful breath. "You're going to have to relax here for a few hours. Is there anybody you want us to look for? Anyone you'd like to keep you company?"

Finally, after all this time and chaos, she remembered Harry, and Hermione longed to say 'Albert Holmes' but she couldn't. "I don't really know anybody but Claire. I'll be fine," she replied.

Jack nodded, but Kate said, "I can stay with her."

"No, you don't have to do that," insisted Hermione.

"I don't really know anybody either. We might as well get to know each other," she countered reasonably with a small smile, taking a seat on a piece of the plane.

Hermione could find no reason to argue with her, so she simply shrugged. "Why not? … Thanks, Jack."

"Don't mention it," he smirked. "Just get some rest."

Hermione sat up and faced Kate as the folds of the tent rustled to a close again. "So why were you in Sydney?" she asked, putting her hands on her lap and resisting the urge to look at her leg.

"Your name's not Emilie, is it?"

Hermione was thrown completely off guard. "Y – yes, it is."

Kate laughed. "Then why'd you hesitate?"

"What?"

"When you told me your name, why'd you hesitate?"

"You really work on a farm?" was Hermione's clever reply.

"I guess we're both pretending then," said Kate as she stood back up. "But if there really is someone you want me to look for, I'll keep it a secret."

Hermione struggled with herself for a moment before whispering, "Albert Holmes. His name is Albert Holmes."

Kate smiled. "I'll keep an eye out for him."

The night passed slowly as Hermione stared at the great blue sky over her head, thinking about Harry, Ron, Ginny and James and worrying that she may never go home, and James may never get the chance to meet his father. And it was these thoughts that finally brought her to tears, and Hermione wrapped her arms around her legs and pulled them against her chest, leaning her head forward and shaking as she sobbed.

It was all her fault. I'm sure they didn't actually vanish, Harry; then I can come home; promise; I promise. Ron would be disappointed as she broke yet another promise to him, and worse would surely be the look on Ginny's face when she realized Harry was not coming back this time.

That was another problem: where was Harry? When Kate had returned to tell her she could come out and sit on the beach, she had also passed the news of no one seeing an Albert Holmes anywhere. Hermione could not bear to wonder whether or not he was dead; he had to be alive – somewhere – maybe with the other tail-end passengers.

But hadn't the tail split off from the plane? He could be in the middle of the ocean – starving, wandless, cold. Hermione shivered at the thought, goosebumps riddling her bare arms and legs. Why today, of all days, had she chosen to wear a tank top and shorts? She huddled closer to the fire, but it did little to warm her up.

Hermione laid her head against the sand, tears still streaming from her eyes and stared into the flames for a long time until she heard footsteps.

"You all right there, Queen Victoria?" Hermione sat up quickly and sniffled.

"Fine," she said a bit hoarsely, very surprised that James was talking to her.

"Well, I – here," he gently draped a blanket over her shoulders. "I don't like – blankets," said James, sitting beside her.

"Thanks," whispered Hermione in confusion.

"You know anyone on the plane?" asked James, clearly feeling awkward.
"No," she lied, feeling the tears on her face give her away slightly as one more trickled down her cheek.

He did not say anything else, clearly uncomfortable, so Hermione attempted to break the ice. "Why do you keep calling me Queen Victoria?" she asked casually.

"Well, I gotta call you somethin'," he replied with a slight smile.

"Why don't you call me my name?" chuckled Hermione in spite of herself. James waited expectantly. "Emilie," she said.

"Emilie? You sure as hell don't look like an Emilie to me," he laughed.

Hermione paused. "I get that a lot, but I've never been told I look like a Victoria either."

"You have a better idea in mind?" he asked.

She sighed, leaning back against a log, finally beginning to relax. "Well, what's your name then?"

"My name? … It's Sawyer," replied James.

"Sawyer? Your parents actually named you 'Sawyer'?"

But something about the sentence must have upset him: James grew suddenly stiff and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I ain't gonna tell you my whole life story," he stood up abruptly.

"I'm sorry; I was just - "

Hermione was cut off by a cacophonous collaboration of noises unlike anything she had ever heard before. A loud horn-like sound bellowed through the jungle, followed by several snapping trees. She stood up, stumbling slightly as her leg came into play, but Sawyer helped her stand, and they walked forward in a trance towards the assembly of people staring into the forest.

Whatever had made the noise was huge – it continued to convey loud clicking sounds that frightened Hermione to her very core as trees fell easily while it passed them. Her first inclination was a dinosaur, but she shot that theory down immediately.

Finally, there was another horn-like sound, and it seemingly disappeared. The first one to break the silence was Charlie: "Terrific."

Hermione was one of the only people who fell asleep that night; she had seen, heard and felt far worse. The only problem was that she had lost her wand, but maybe that would make her cover more believable than if she carried around a strange-looking stick all the time.

Hermione woke up to Claire shaking her gently. "I have a bit of food – it's just a granola bar, but John told me it would do," she said feebly; then after contemplating Hermione's look of pure exhaustion as she clenched tightly to Sawyer's blanket added, "Sorry, I should have let you sleep."
"It's fine," yawned Hermione as she slowly sat up. "Have you eaten?"

"No, I'll find some more."

"Claire, I can't let you give this to me. You need it – for the baby, and I wouldn't want you to waste your breakfast on me anyway."

"You saved my life."

Hermione shrugged. "It really wasn't that incredible. … Please just eat this," she shoved the chocolate back into Claire's hands. "It'll make me feel better."

"We'll split it then," she insisted, and Hermione decided not to continue the argument as they took turns biting into the surprisingly delicious snack.

"Jack and Kate were talking about going into the jungle to try and find the cockpit, so they can radio for help," said Claire after a few moments.

"They're crazy; they can't go in there. Didn't they see that thing last night?"

"I know, but Charlie – oh, you don't know Charlie yet, do you? Well, he's over by Jack and Kate right now," Hermione pretended to look. "Charlie offered to go with them."

"Then he's crazy too," Hermione paused, suddenly recognizing the possibility that Harry could be in that jungle. "I'm going too." She stood up.

"What?!" Claire jumped up as quickly as she could manage to. "I thought you said this was crazy. Didn't you see that thing last night?"

"I did, and trust me: there are far worse things to fear out there."

"Like what, jungle expert?"

"You don't want to know," replied Hermione, ignoring Claire's jab and marching up to Jack, Kate and Charlie.

"Emilie," said Jack in surprise. "How do you feel?"

"I want to come," she smiled eagerly. "With you – to find the cockpit."

"I don't think that's the best idea," said Kate slowly.

"Yeah, I mean, your leg isn't exactly fit, mate," Charlie agreed.

"I'll be fine," insisted Hermione. "I've been through more than you might think."

"I'm sorry, Emilie, but those stitches won't last any longer if you come with us," Jack added. "Why don't you stay here with Claire?"

Hermione sighed. "Fine, I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for in the cockpit and not that monster," she said honestly, turning back towards Claire as the three began to walk into the jungle.

"I told you," said Claire.

"Oh shut up," Hermione smiled.

"So what do you know about tents?"

"Tents?" she tried to hide the look of memories on her face.

"Yeah, everybody else is setting up tents along the beach, and I have no idea how to make one."

"Lucky for you, I do."

"Would you mind helping me? You could even share it with me if you want." Hermione smiled gratefully and began to grab scraps of tarp and plane wreckage. Through all the chaos and panic raging inside her, at least she had managed to make a friend.