Summary: Revenir: To Come Back, To Return. The death of a prominent Ministry official drags Hermione into Hades, from where she will change the world. Dark!Hermione. Extremely Dark Themes. Polyfic.

A/N: Hi! A Happy New Year to you all! New Year, New Story, or whatever. Thank you to those of you who have followed and favourited so far, and also to my lovely reviewers, whom are so wonderful (and tolerant of my terrible replies). I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

Love, Eliza x

Disclaimer: I do not own the works made use of herein, none of the Harry Potter features or characters belong to me. I make no money from this work. (Basically, if you recognise it, it's not mine.)

Warnings: Rated M for situations, swearing, violence, sexual scenes, minor character death, graphic descriptions of murder victims, references to cannibalism, torture, abuse.

Revenir

Part One: Chapter Two

Friday. 0557.

"Beginning the post-mortem examination of Madame Dolores Umbridge; Case-file 046581. The date is the third of November, the time is oh-five-fifty-seven hours. Performed by Doctor Edward Gillies, assisted by Doctor Hermione Granger."

Performing the autopsy on Umbridge was more difficult than Hermione had been expecting. In general, performing it on anyone she'd known would have been a problem, but there was something about Umbridge, about the way she had been in life so much of a personality. A horrible, genuinely evil one, but a personality all the same. And now she lay, stiff and ugly, on a metal bench in her laboratory like no more than a wax doll. She couldn't help her gaze straying to her face, imagining the unseeing eyes beneath lids which some empathetic young soul had closed. Really, the woman had lived long past her time - by all rights, she should have been killed by the centaurs, years ago, and Hermione felt no guilt about that - but there was just something about the woman in death, some ghost that seemed attached to her body, haunting them.

"Samples have been taken of her skin and hair," Doctor Gillies reported, moving over to the test-tubes, bags and bowls that covered a stainless steel table by their side. "According to procedure, as has been noted on recording 046581-B. Her clothes have been removed to the forensics lab for testing, using the mortus divestio. The decedent is now ready for autopsy, which I shall begin by examining the surface."

Gillies snapped his gloves once, twice, as was his ritual, before turning to pull the sheet back and off. Hermione was waiting to catch it, folding carefully to set aside under a stasis charm. When she turned back, she gaped.

She'd known it would be bad. She hadn't watched him remove the clothes, too busy washing the taste of vomit from her mouth, but the remains of them had been shredded, molded to her skin and patches had been eaten away by whatever cats had been desperate enough to get at her skin. She hadn't applied her knowledge to the rest of her body, though. Just the face had been enough to give her nightmares.

The woman's breasts and stomach had provided most of the meal, it seemed, which was unsurprising, in its way, for Hermione remembered that she'd carried extra weight there. The hips, too, had received a spare nibble, and the flesh had been stripped from her thighs, showing the glossy pink and white of her muscle and bone. Her calves were white, whole, and Hermione was reminded of the white knee-high socks the woman had worn in a parody of schoolgirl innocence; she'd been wearing them at the time of her death. Even the cats showed no inclination of wanting to strip them from her.

Large, flat-footed feet completed the corpse, her nails painted a garish pink.

Hermione moved back up the body as Gillies described its state for the benefit of the recorder, pushing and prodding at various parts of her to measure her state of decomposition. The stench said it all, really; she smelled foul. Death was a scent Hermione had become familiar with in all of its forms, but even she - even Gillies, who had always seemed to revel in every aspect of his patients - had activated a low-level bubble head charm upon removal of the corpse's environmental protection charm, for her smell had been so strong it had felt like a physical attack. Sweet, somehow sticky, and sickening, the effect magnified by the underlying perfume she'd been wearing at the time.

Hermione frowned when she reached the chest again, spotting a dark splodge of something on a flap of flesh that hung loosely down around her ribs. Snapping her fingers to draw Gillies' attention, she, as gently as she could, lifted it and smoothed it back into position, raising her eyebrows as the markings on the skin formed a shape. Gillies swore, moving to the other side to attempt to piece together the loose flesh there, too. They worked at that for a moment in silence, before they'd replaced all the flesh they could, and stood, staring, at the interrupted shape on her sternum.

"Isn't that Berkana?" Gillies wondered, his voice full of intellectual curiosity.

"For rebirth. Yes." Hermione shared none of his calm. In fact, she was freaking out inside, wondering exactly what this would mean. Frantically, she searched the rest of what little flesh she could see; little black splodges covered more of her flesh, she realised, but most were too decimated to decipher. She caught the tail end of what might have been the rune for 'gift', and the tip of 'yew' before she had to give up. Reporting her findings to Gillies, his scientific delight faltered, and he quickly suspended the inspection aloud on the recorder.

"Well, this'll be fun, kiddo," he muttered, kneeling down where she'd found the 'yew' rune. "Looks like we've got ourselves a good old fashioned ritual sacrifice."

0825.

Hermione strode through the Ministry up towards the Auror Corps, one hand tapping impatiently against her thigh. Her face was the blank mask she'd perfected during the first year on the job, when she'd found that wandering about looking dazed and somewhat disgusted didn't endear her to anyone. Of course, they didn't know that it was from the lingering smell of rotting flesh in her nose, so they tended to take it personally.

The secretary for the DMLE nodded at her as she passed, and Hermione stopped to hand over a fresh croissant she'd cited as an emergency to collect. Which it had been, sort of. She'd had to shower, get dressed and inspect a dead woman, all before breakfast. She'd deserved it.

So, too, did Pansy Parkinson, who worked that desk day-in, day-out. She knew the offices under her domain like the back of her hand, knew the names and ranks of all who dwelled there. She knew their families' birthdays, their friends' crises, which ones had mistresses and which had venereal diseases. None of them appreciated it, and as for respect?

"Why would we respect some Death Eater's whore?" they asked incredulously. "She's lucky to have escaped Azkaban."

Dawn to dusk, that girl slaved away, despite being told that her job was as dead-end as it got, filing their paperwork, correcting their spelling errors, ensuring evidence was returned safely to the vault and juggling their personal lives to boot. She was pleasant and polite to all who came through the doors, even that feral werewolf who'd wandered in just a half-hour before moonrise in the hopes of making her a midnight snack.

In Hermione's eyes, the bitch deserved an Order of Merlin, just for that.

Still, one day she'd snap and go on a rampage, so Hermione brought her pastry to assure her that she was appreciated at least by Hermione, and also, in the hopes that when that day came and Pansy laid the government to waste, she'd remember the feel of it melting into her mouth and perhaps spare her.

A girl could hope.

"Morning, Parkinson," Hermione greeted her, dumping the little white bag on the table.

"It is that, and that's all I'll say on the subject. Apricot jam?" Hermione dropped the little container on the table and Pansy let out a dreamy sigh. "The muggles do some things right, at least."

"Your low-key blood purism gets more and more subtle every day," Hermione told her wryly, resting on the desk with her elbows as Pansy produced a dainty knife and fork set. "It's half past eight, surely there hasn't been time for your morning to be that bad?"

Pansy favoured her with a look that suggested she had been born an idiot and that trait had only increased with time. "Let me see. Oh, yes. I was called in at four because, and I quote, 'if the Aurors are in, you are in. Honestly, Pansy, I'm having difficulty understanding why you're not there already'. Once here, I was greeted by a pinch to the arse by Flint, three propositions from your gross ginger friend, a lecture by Madame Winston on the joys of punctuality - it seems the secret to punctuality is telepathy, or at the very least, some psychic skill, by the way - and a pile of unfinished paperwork on the Umbridge case. I suppose that's why you're here, by the way. Don't tell me you're exhausted, I won't pity you. At least you get to cut the bitch up."

Hermione laughed slightly. "Trust me, it was not as satisfying as you're imagining. We've not even gotten to the slicing and dicing yet. The bloody toad just had to throw a wrench in there, so it's suspended until I talk to the lead investigator."

Pansy grimaced. "Don't tell me that, I've been having the most satisfying daydreams. You'll be pleased, though. It's the Wonder Twins' case."

"I am delighted," she muttered sarcastically. "And where can I find them?"

Pansy leaned over to a stack of parchment Hermione recognised as her sign-in book. Pansy had introduced it herself, to the disdain of her colleagues, but they'd eventually given in, if only when Harry himself had ordered them to. The Chosen One had significant sway among his peers, despite being a run-of-the-mill Investigative Auror. He'd marched them up to the desk one by one and had them link their wands to it, so that one tap of the wand as they came on shift would allow it to track their movements until they signed back out again. Not at all fancy, it was simply a stack of parchment listing names and locations, but it says enough for Pansy, their partners, the Head Auror and even the Minister, and proved especially useful when it came to taking cases before the Wizengamot, or should grievances be filed against one of the team.

Wistfully, Hermione wished again that their department provided the kind of excitement that would lure Pansy to them. Katya was great, but Pansy was phenomenal.

"Looks like they're at the scene, still," Pansy told her, using her free hand to tear the end off her croissant and dip it in the open jar of jam. "Probably found something, or just waiting for you. They know better by now than to leave before you've had your say."

Hermione could admit to feeling a little smug about that. She'd been the reason several cases had broken in the past, and she wasn't too modest to admit it. By now, most Aurors had gotten into the habit of waiting for her, but never had they waited - she checked her watch - five hours.

"Don't be too flattered," Pansy said, as if reading her mind, licking buttery residue from her fingers as she swallowed her pastry. "They only got in at six, nicked the case off Blundering Bob McGee. And they had time for breakfast - I could smell the bacon on them. Almost took a bite right out of one or the other. I'm not choosy."

"You're grim, Parkinson. Got an address?"

The secretary smiled, showing all of her teeth, and scribbled something down on a corner of parchment. She went to hand it over, but snatched it back at the last second. "Coffee later?" she asked, quietly, so that no-one else could overhear.

"Max's opens at six. Will that work?"

"Perfect." She passed over the note with a polite smile. "Enjoy!"

Hermione stuck her tongue out childishly, and went to flee the department, only to slam into a figure just outside the door.

"Merlin, I'm so sorry," she apologised, offering a hand to the crumpled woman. Tall, thin, and elegant, she turned a dark veil-covered face up to hers. Hermione cringed back at the sight, shame crawling on her skin. "So sorry," she reiterated with feeling, withdrawing her hand.

"It is no problem," the War Widow said, calmly. She pulled herself to her feet with very little trouble, as Hermione averted her eyes. "Please, don't let me keep you."

Reminded of her goal, Hermione stuttered out another apology, but the Widow merely inclined her head and glided off. Struck dumb by her own idiocy, Hermione paused a moment more, before the urgency of her job caught up to her and she fled the Ministry, swiftly forgetting the encounter.

0915.

Umbridge's townhouse was exactly what one would expect. Nestled down a sleepy street in Hampstead, the place looked perfectly normal from the outside, an impression that was shattered the moment one stepped through the door.

The floors were carpeted in a bright, Calpol pink, the walls painted white with hot pink panelling. Those horrific feline plates that had haunted Hermione throughout her fifth year had apparently come in bulk, for the godforsaken things dotted the walls. No evidence of a God here; despite the death, the living cats, and the dozens of clumsy, trampling lawmen flitting in and out of the house, not a single one had smashed.

The Auror at the door had greeted her with a nod - not respectful, more lazy - and directed her to the first floor with a bored grunt and an offering of both gloves and shoe protection. Hermione duly slipped them on, attempting to ignore his foul gaze, before shoving past him into that pink Hell. She veered off towards a chorus of meowing, pausing to order the cats sent to the lab, before getting back on track. She was careful not to touch anything as she climbed the stairs, not for any significant forensic reason but more because the pink was so sickly it could have been contagious.

"Is that Hermione?" a voice called from within the first room on the left, a door decorated with yet more cats. One gambolled across the bottom of the frame chasing a ball of twine, its eyes dull and glassy.

"It's me," she responded, stepping over a shoe strewn carelessly in her path. The room was obviously the crime scene, or at least the dump site, for scraps of shredded material scattered the bed, claw marks cutting through to the foamy interior of the mattress. A certain stink hung in the air, of deteriorating flesh and the final bodily functions of death, which Hermione had recognised from the stains on the clothes. A matching one spread out across the middle of the mattress, dark yellow against the white sheets. Lamps, objet d'arts and jewelry scattered the floor where the cats had attempted to catch their owner's attention, before giving up and attacking the woman herself.

"Alright, love," Harry called from the opposite side of the bed, demurring any more physical greeting by simply raising his gloved hands in explanation. "We wondered when you'd arrive."

"The Gods forbid we start anything without you," his partner muttered bitterly, his attention determinedly fixed on the remains of the bed so that all she could see of him was his sleek cap of platinum blonde hair. Draco Malfoy had at first seemed an odd choice of partner for her best friend, but once they'd spent a half-year getting all their petty squabbles off their chests, they'd turned out to be one of the best teams the DMLE could boast. Harry's innate empathy and dueling skill meshed perfectly with Draco's keen observational skills and Slytherin cunning, despite their prickliness together. If she could choose, which she couldn't, she'd have liked to have been on their cases permanently, simply for the success rate.

"I was in autopsy," she told them stiffly, bristling from Draco's comment. "I do apologise if carrying out my actual duties interferes with my solving your cases for you."

Harry shot her a disappointed look. "Don't be like that. Either of you. You're adults - at least pretend to like each other."

Hermione sniffed, but inclined her head to Malfoy, and he did the same. Disagreement thus settled, Hermione took another turn of the room.

"We think she died here," Harry said, pointing at the bed. "There's no sign of foul play, or, not that we can spot. It's difficult, with the cats."

Hermione leaned over the bed, brushing her fingers against the stain and sniffing her hand. Yep, urine. A quick scourgify to her gloves and she moved to the top of the bed, where pillows had once sat but had long since been tossed to the floor. The sheet, or what was left of it, here was a pure white in contrast to the slight grey tinge of the rest, which in normal circumstances Hermione would have attributed to the lack of exposure to air, but simply could not in this case.

"Someone magically cleaned this section of sheet," she informed them, straightening back up. "You'll want to send it for residue testing."

"And why do you think that, Granger?" Malfoy asked, his voice automatically unpleasant. It was a reflex by now, she was sure.

Humouring him, she pointed to the stains further down. "Faeces, urine and other viscera stain both sections, sure - that's as it should be. But what about the other stains? More domestic ones? Down here," she moved back a few steps to indicate the area, "not only is the sheet discoloured, but you find evidence of menstrual leakage, faded by washing, and sweat, and discolouration from contact with other items. Up here, however," moving again, she gestured to the paler section. "Beneath the run-off from the corpse, there's nothing. Evidence of a strong cleaning charm, perhaps strong enough for its signature to be found in the threads, given how little traffic this room has seen since it occurred. If you ask me, someone killed the decedent here, in her bed, and then scrubbed away the evidence before leaving her to rot. Which brings me to the reason I'm here."

Stepping back, she made purposeful eye-contact with first Harry, then Draco. "You want evidence of foul play? It's in the morgue. Doctor Gillies and I, upon examination of the body, found evidence of runes drawn upon the body. It's difficult to tell when they would have been done, without a complete picture, but the lack of fading suggests they were a recent addition." She took a deep breath, then looked directly at Harry. "Yr was possibly among them."

"Sonofabitch," Draco spat, while Harry's eyes hardened.

"I'd like to reiterate that we cannot confirm that they were used in any manner, but the layout and use of the runes does point in the direction of…"

"Sacrifice," Harry spat, as if it were a swear word. "Fucking Hell, this is just what we need." He strode to the door, a determined expression on his face as he shouted, "Foster! Bring in the landlord, the neighbours, the fucking Gods if you can - this case just became Priority One!"