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! Quick note: looking for a beta. I don't know how to do these things. Guide me! Also, enjoy.

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 Four

1300.

Gillies was back behind the table, observing as Hermione assisted Dennis Creevey in photographing the body. The younger man had come earlier, having also photographed the scene, to take pictures of the body while dressed and being undressed, and now was repeating the procedure with the cleaned, naked form. A true professional, he was one of the few people they'd interacted with who had made little comment on the woman behind the wounds, though his tightly pressed lips and lack of cheery speech said he was not entirely immune to her identity.

Silently, Hermione directed the tape measure around the body, using her wand to pull it straight across the various wounds, allowing Dennis to take a more accurate picture and, incidentally, her to better examine the wounds. Flint and his Hufflepuff sidekick had done a standard magical residue test at the scene, and she understood from the report that none of them had been magically inflicted, but once they'd seen past the gore of the cats' meal to the underlying abrasions, it seemed impossible that they could have been made by human hands.

"Exceedingly precise knife-work," Gillies observed, leaning over the wrist, where a single vertical slice had cut through flesh to sever the veins. He ignored how Dennis scowled at him for blocking his light. "Could hardly do it better myself. Fucking brilliant."

"Doctor," Hermione chastised, long-suffering.

"Better than yours," her boss replied unapologetically. "Should I get a new lab assistant? You can solve crime to your heart's delight."

"Better not, Doctor. Even murderers couldn't put up with you as well as I do." She said this in a measured tone, because she had always thought it disrespectful to argue in front of a corpse, but the way Gillies' eyes flashed with humour told her that her message had been received.

"Sacrifice, Granger. Not murder." He grinned, the expression all the more disturbing each time she witnessed it. "Agamemnon, you see?"

"It's all the same to me," she replied shortly. "And Agamemnon was a monster."

"Similar scenario. Sacrifice, blood drainage - wonder what they're keeping the blood for?"

"Nefarious purposes, obviously," Hermione muttered, snarkily, as she leaned back down over the wound.

"Sorry-" Dennis interrupted, not looking sorry at all, "But I'm done with this section. Can we move on?"

1546.

Hours later, Dolores Umbridge had been put to temporary rest in one of the cabinets until they needed her again, and Hermione was busily working with another decedent who'd been delivered earlier on. Umbridge might have been Priority One, but that did not mean other people stopped dying, one of whom was the elderly woman on her table.

Brought in covered in a thick black veil and shroud, it had been obvious at first glance that she had been a War Widow, one of an increasing number of women to join their ranks. They were an interesting bunch, the Widows, one which Hermione could speculate on for weeks without answer. In fact, she had, after a Wizengamot session had ended in uproar after one of their members called for a Widow to vacate her seat due to her split priorities. There was very little information available on the subject, however, as they'd become increasingly secretive over the years; all Hermione had managed to piece together was what she'd seen herself.

After the second Wizarding War, the country had been floundering. The Ministry, an institute most citizens relied upon to learn right from wrong, and whose responsibility it was to fix the world, had crumbled after being shown as the rotting, disintegrating example of modern democracy that it was. Hogwarts, a comfort and a home to these same citizens, had been flattened, its halls crowded with the dead and the un-dead, its leadership in constant dispute. In the absence of stalwart leader nor any kindly parental figure from either side, the country had embarked upon a slow collapse from which, it seemed, there had been no hope of recovery.

Until the Widows happened.

It had begun slowly, an evolution. Andromeda Tonks had taken to Hogwarts, appearing on its grounds one day in a huff. Well-meaning volunteers had been, before them, determinedly clearing rubble but with no real view as to what should happen next, or simultaneously, even. Minerva McGonagall had been locked in negotiations with the Board of Governors for days, and the blank spot where her trustworthy guidance had been remained unfilled. Andromeda filled it, giving orders, writing up plans, calling in companies to assist with the rebuilding with the sort of manic energy and determination only a Black daughter could possess. The Goblins came to rebuild the wards and structure; the half-Giants to lay the foundations. The Grindylow teamed up with shy Selkies to clear the Black Lake of debris, nursing the Squid back to health. Witches and wizards from all across the country were dragged, guilted, cajoled and sometimes outright blackmailed into putting their wands to the cause with whatever skill they had. Building, cleaning, crafting, creating - one coven in Finland painted a collection of portraits depicting the Battle to send across, that it might not be forgotten, and the Centaur mares took a hair from the heads of each of the dead to weave into a six-foot long, gleaming, animated tapestry of the lost, through which the cast of portraits could be connected to the other paintings in the school and, if required, their family homes. Arthur Weasley, who had never been wealthy enough to see his deceased relatives live again in oils and paint, had cried to be presented with such a part of his son's soul, and the resulting snapshot had been plastered on the front page of the Prophet the following day.

While Andromeda was the first such woman to effect such a change, however, she would not be the last; even while she worked to recreate Hogwarts from the ashes, other widows came out of the woodwork the length and breadth of the British Isles to do the same in their communities. Most notable was Augusta Longbottom and a collection of Wizengamot Widows, including Mrs. Greengrass, Mrs. Zabini and Mrs. Shafiq, all of whom took to the Ministry, scouring the scattered departments for signs of magical influence or the Dark Mark and depositing every single one they found on the doorstep of either St. Mungo's or Azkaban.

Mr. Burbage, who had recently gone by Mr. Spenlow, had named himself a widower, and lured a cerberus to guard Azkaban.

Mrs. McKinnon built a war orphanage.

Mrs. Goyle, at a loss, donated her house to the hospital as a recovery centre for injured fighters.

And on the list went, all of the women and men gathering under the banner of their lost loved ones, until the papers simply began referring to them as the War Widows, and Andromeda set up the charitable organization in their name.

The day she opened their sandstone Knockturn Alley offices, she stood outside, shoulder to shoulder with both Light widows and Dark, and gave what became the most memorable soundbite of the whole war period. She'd looked directly into the camera, and announced, "It was the fate of our men to fight and die; of us women, to live, and rebuild."

Since then, their numbers have grown to encompass not only widows, but young women with no wish to marry, or single women of advanced years. It became cultlike, but no less good-willed - members began to wear full-mourning or half-mourning, constantly. Their members lists were confidential, their members wearing thick veils when out on charitable business. Andromeda finally dropped the mantle of leader last year, giving up on the whole business after a public statement saying that their 'interests no longer aligned', that she 'bore no ill-will' toward the organization, and retreating into obscurity to be replaced by a faceless woman constantly veiled.

Widows commanded a certain level of respect in their society, no less than a peer. One did not touch them in public, nor did one tear away the veil. Why their privacy was so important, it was unclear, but these were the unwritten rules that surrounded them. So pervasive were they, in fact, that the whole autopsy felt wrong, in a way that it didn't on any other. Hermione was quite certain that having even Harry or Ron on the table wouldn't discomfit her as much as lifting the gauze from this woman's face had.

"Oh, my." She was a pretty woman, even at her advanced age, with steel-coloured locks tumbling around her shoulders and perfect, tan skin. Lines folded her face in a pleasing manner, but she looked young in death.

The woman had been found on a park bench in Hogsmeade, the death unexplained, and as so had been sent to them for investigation. Healer Davids, who had been called to the scene, had supposed death by old age, and it was Hermione's job to confirm that - a simple task, one that Doctor Gillies had been comfortable with leaving her to do on her own. The lack of suspected foul play meant that she was left to carry out all of the steps on her own: removing the clothing, taking pictures, washing the body, and finally the autopsy itself.

It had just gotten more complicated, however.

The woman had come to them without identification, and no wand had been found on her body to track back to its wielder, but Hermione recognised her. She had been younger then, much too young to look so old now, and most pertinently; she had died. Before.

"Bugger," Hermione swore, sighing. She stared down at the face, trying to unsee what she was seeing, but it was impossible. That nose, the elegant neck, the hair-style, even.

She cast a strong stasis over the body and left the lab, pulling off her gloves and dropping them into the incinerator as she passed. The day receptionist was at the desk in their small foyer, and nodded at Hermione as she stopped by, dropping a courtesy note for the Aurory into her 'out' box. The rules said that they needed to be notified, but not a precise timeframe in which to do so - if the woman didn't send the memos out until the end of the day, well, Hermione couldn't be blamed. She sent the note at first opportunity.

If she knew that the receptionist was lazy and definitely wouldn't send the notes out until the end of shift, then that was between her and her conscience.

Hermione excelled at playing by the rules.

She would have sent a letter, but that seemed like a cop-out. Impersonal. Instead, she caught the lift, nodding at the workers who crowded in with her, and ascended to the Wizengamot level, where she knew her quarry had an office. There was no guarantee she'd be there, but it was a wise start.

The plaque on the door was shining but old, not having yet been changed for its successor. Knowing the woman who lay within, she had been the one who'd objected to its change, rather than mere neglect. Hermione knocked brusquely twice, not able to soften it even with the knowledge of the odd news she brought.

"Come in," was called in a pleasant voice.

Hermione pressed open the door to enter a homely room, not much larger than her bathroom at home. During the refurbishment after the War, Hermione knew that the Wizengamot offices had been knocked out and rebuilt smaller with whatever funds were available, leaving room for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes to move into the space where the old Wizengamot's disused private restaurant, lounge and smoker's bar had previously been. Level Three, just below them, now homed a Department of Familial Matters, including births, deaths and marriages, but mostly the running of orphanages and social workers providing assistance to both muggle-born children looking to integrate into their world, and magical children in difficult home environments. A good cause, to be sure, and while some of the older families complained about the lack of space in their new offices, Hermione's quarry had been delighted.

She now sat behind the desk, flipping through folders and looking completely at ease in her environment, despite being the youngest female ever to take and hold a Wizengamot seat. Auburn hair fell over her face as she looked up to smile a polite hello, and she brushed it back impatiently. "Hermione? Hi. It has been a while…"

"Hi, Susan," Hermione murmured. She nudged the door shut behind her. "Is this a bad time?"

Susan blinked at the question, then looked down, seeming surprised to find work still on the table. "Time? Is that still a thing?" Giving a humourless laugh, she indicated the seat opposite her desk while she shuffled the papers into a drawer. "Don't mind me. I've been here since the news broke this morning, going blind looking over legislation the old bitch drew up. Did you know she put clauses in most of it, ensuring it couldn't be repealed until she was no longer an active member of the Wiz? Well, dead is inactive enough for me, and Augusta agrees. Lots of work to do, though. I'd welcome a distraction. How can I help?"

Susan Bones had changed a lot since school, Hermione acknowledged. They'd met in passing in the corridors, of course, but never for long enough that Hermione could appreciate this fact up close. Always a pretty girl, now the marks of her profession lay upon her, defining the potential that had been. Her face was still soft, sweet, but her eyes were narrowed by constant squinting at laws on paper, her lips chapped from speeches and debates. Her fingers bore the tell-tale ink marks Hermione herself had worn constantly during school. Otherwise, she was a gorgeous woman - and not to be underestimated.

"It's about your aunt," Hermione said, her voice grave.

Susan cocked her head, expression calculating. "Amelia? Yes, what about her?"

Hermione kept a close eye on the Hufflepuff, measuring out her next words. "She's dead."

A bemused look crossed Susan's features, followed a moment later by concern. "Yes, Hermione - for over a decade now. What does that have to do with anything?"

Satisfied that by her reaction, Susan hadn't known, Hermione shook her head. If she wasn't involved, that made this the hard part. "No - I mean, she's dead. As of today. Her body is on a slab in my office."

Stunned, the other woman simply stared for a long time. Hermione was just getting fidgety when she seemed to come-to with a gasp, and fixed an accusing eye on her. "Is this a joke?" she demanded. "Because if it is, it's not bloody funny."

"When have you ever known me to joke about my work, Susan?" Hermione replied, not without sympathy. "I assure you, it's true. She was found this morning, and she's still in rigor. In my progressional opinion, she wouldn't have been - deceased - for more than a day."

Susan paled drastically, prompting Hermione to leave her seat and round the desk, taking the other woman's hand in her own. "It's not possible," Susan murmured, clenching tight. "She died, I know she did."

"There's more," Hermione continued with reluctance.

"How can there be more? What could be worse than this?" Without giving her a chance to reply, Susan was out of her seat and pulling on her cloak. "I want to see her."

Hermione eyed her warily. "Susan…"

"Do you know how quickly I can get your department shut down? Do you?!" Susan clicked her fingers, face fierce. "I want to see my aunt!"

1723.

"Miss Granger," Aubrey Chisholm drawled when she entered her lab once more, Susan on her heels. The sound of his voice made her stop in her tracks and pinch the bridge of her nose in exasperation. Of all the times for the bloody receptionist to decide to do some work...

"Where is she?" Susan asked, more composed from the walk. Wordless, Hermione indicated the table Auror Chisholm was blocking with his massive bulk - the man had muscles where she, with her intimate knowledge of anatomy, was pretty certain no muscles should exist. Susan strode over without even a glance of recognition for the Auror, and Hermione stamped down a smirk.

"Don't bother, Lady Bones," Chisholm said with no small amount of relish as he glared at Hermione. "You'll find nothing to interest you here."

Susan lifted an imperious eyebrow. "I should think I am capable of judging such a thing for myself."

A strong sense of foreboding slid down Hermione's spine when Chisholm looked at her again, some dark amusement in his eyes. "Let her pass, Chisholm," she ordered all the same.

"You sure you want to do that?" he asked in a mocking tone. "The joke's gone far enough. Good play, Miss Granger, in pulling me out of the Aurory, but the fun ends here."

"What are you talking about, fun," Hermione spat, disgusted. "There is a dead woman on that table that needs identifying. Step aside!"

His mouth twisted, and he moved, revealing the table.

The empty table.

"What-"

Susan stared at it for a moment in complete silence, before turning and leaving without so much as a word, but not before Hermione caught the heartbreak and betrayal in every line of her face.

Chisholm smirked. "Jolly good show, Granger. Jolly good."