Harry sat across from Hermione with his legs crossed, staring at her in an unfortunately heavy gaze. She hardly ever noticed the fact, however, her own brown eyes looking at the book that was so precariously placed before her. The words were ones that Harry had seen at least a few million times over, their meanings and sentences all things he'd placed down with intent on sharing with the world, though they'd have to get pass Hermione first.

How long the pair had been sitting in front of the window, with their tea getting colder by the second, was unknown to both witch and wizard. Their tea was cold by now, that much was sure, and the sun was well above the world, shining straight through onto them making the summer all the less bearable. Then again, summer had never been bearable when in such heavy wizarding robes.

Five years after the war, and both Harry and Hermione reveled in this chance to just be alone with their friends and family. Neither had initiated any relationships, nor had they sought one out. It had been far easier to simply wait a while, work on their careers in the ministry, and heal. Harry was happily residing in Grimmauld Place, the bachelor he was, and with all the free time he found, it looked homely enough for visitors and the likes. Especially with a pleasant Kreacher mumbling about the place.

Hermione lived humbly in her flat alone, casually flirting with an attractive neighbor, but no more occurred than that. She enjoyed the constant work the ministry provided her, allowing her to often delve into the most interesting of books. The young witch enjoyed when her invites to Grimmauld lasted a few nights, and her and Harry speculated over cases together. Ron would stop by, but he never stayed, always worried over his family and helping George with his business.

Finally, the last page turned of the book Hermione had been reading and smiled brightly at her staring companion.

"Your autobiography is perfect Harry," she said, smiling, "I adore the way you try and give Ron and I far more credit than we deserve."

Harry laughed in response, but he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, a knowing look in his eyes, "There is a 'but' coming, I reckon?"

"But," Hermione sighed, "You need an editor."

"You sound as though you are volunteering," Harry stated hopefully, watching her smile widen, her magic swelling about her.

"I thought you'd never ask," Hermione admonished, pulling a red pen seemingly from nowhere as she snapped the book back into her hands.

"At least wait until I'm not here, I would hate to witness you tearing it apart."

"Fine," the brunette agreed.

"How is that neighbor of yours?"

Harry's companion rolled her eyes, though she did make to reply.

Harry attempted to listen, truly, but after four years of being an Auror, his focus was more attuned to the dark figure walking down the rather light Diagon Alley. He was cloaked in black, rather odd robes hanging from his limbs as though he didn't belong to the British Wiarding community.

"Hermione," he stopped her, jerking his head towards the alley in hopes that it wasn't just him seeing this. Her eyes widened, though, as she took in the figure as well.

When its wand raised, Hermione pulled herself and Harry below the edge of the windowsill, a spell hitting the glass moments after.

"Thanks," he said, though he was already standing as she attempted to tell him to wait it out.

The figure cast another spell, but Harry just as quickly cast Protego, though it didn't help much as it turned anyways and cast another spell towards the window. Was he attacking Hermione? She had decided to stay ducked below the window, her wand in her hand, poised to attack if he got close.

"Expelliarmus," Harry attempted, though it seemed not to help as the figure flicked his wand at Harry and knocked him down. That hadn't happened in years, since Dumbledore had fought Voldemort his fifth year.

There was no point in attempting to leave the shop as people screamed since the figure moved forward enough to nearly step through the window, it and Harry throwing spells at one-another. Though, his spells from the floor did little less than Hermione's were popping up from below the window.

Finally Harry stood, his wand directly pointed at the figure, but his wand wasn't anywhere near close to pointing at Harry, or Hermione for the matter. Glancing back, the wand was certainly not pointed to a customer, as they had all fled… it was pointed to his draft, a spell leaving the figure that admittedly even Harry hadn't heard, and by the looks, neither had Hermione. The distraction worked all too well as the book suddenly vanished with Hermione's red pen, and then Harry saw Hermione fall unconscious, and he was aware of the danger this figure presented once again.

Though, there was little he could do about it when a powerful spell knocked him back towards a wall of the cafe and he, too, fell prey to the blackness that was unconsciousness.

A/N

Hello lovelies! So, obviously I am a new writer to this site, but in no means am I a new writer. I have had three years experience on other writing sites, and I am now here as well! This is just my prologue, obviously, so real chapters will be much longer, I promise!