A/N: This story has been in the works for a while, and the entire plot has been planned out. Updates will come either weekly or biweekly.

As a general warning: The story will most likely see a change in rating as it progresses. I'll never be too explicit with violence or anything else, but it will deal with some dark and disturbing themes. 'Grey and Gray' morality would be an apt way to describe it.

My thanks to InkwingsInc, Nautical Paramour, and Canimal—whose excellent stories inspired me to start this one.

"If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?"

(Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn)

Tintagel Castle, Cornwall.

September 1987.

Hermione hid her hands within the large pockets of her coat as she walked behind her parents across the wooden bridge. Seagulls rose up into the air as the wind picked up around her, crying as they flew towards the sharp cliffs of Tintagel island. Beneath her waves broke on the black slate-rock of the jagged coastline, swallowing the jagged rocks and sand which made up the thin strips of beach. Ahead of her, seemingly unaffected by the late September weather, her parents walked calmly; her mother holding a copy of Tennyson's Idylls of the King whilst her father pointed his camera towards their left.

It wouldn't take them long to cross the old wooden bridge and rickety stairs connecting the small peninsula with the main body of the island and its castle ruins further beyond. They had visited what remained of the castle's entrance already and had even seen dedicated exhibition by the entrance. Just barely visible atop the black slate-rock of the cliffs before them, however, was the main body of the legendary castle; its medieval walls, gardens, and gates promising to bring to life the tales her mother had told her of before traveling to Cornwall.

Sniffling, Hermione pushed the hood of her coat up further. The rain had been smart and waited patiently for her family to leave the hotel before beginning the intermittent downpour that had been falling on them all day.

"Look, Hermione, the castle!"

Hermione felt her breath leave her as she glanced up to the edge of the island, crowned by the beginnings of the crumbling gate of the castle's courtyard. It was as beautiful as her mother had promised her, if in a worse state than she had imagined. Frowning, she scrunched up her nose. "Why is it so broken, mum?"

Her mother smiled sweetly. "It's quite old, I'm afraid, dear."

"Oh," she breathed, pausing to look more closely at the walls. "That's a shame. Does anyone know how this castle looked when it was complete?"

Her mother shook her head. "Oh, no, I don't think so—though there are always people investigating the site."

Hermione nodded and followed her parents up the stairs, paying attention to the caves on the island's sides. One of them—a massive, hole-like chasm half-submerged in the rising tide—became less and less visible the more she walked up the stairs, eventually disappearing completely.

Reaching the top of the staircase a few minutes later, Hermione crossed what remained of the gate into the castle's courtyard with her parents. The structures, though not too different from what they had seen at the end most tip of the peninsula, were broader and sparser. The path, which slithered across what little even ground was out in the open, branched into several different strands all leading in different directions further up ahead.

Her mother, smiling brightly, stretched her left arm and hooked it around her father's before pointing at a falling wall with her right. "Look, Hermione!"

"They're really quite impressive, aren't they?" she heard her father say. "Imagine how this place must have been a thousand years ago, back when it was inhabited."

Hermione turned to look at the remains of a set of walls. They weren't too close to where they were, but a path which seemed to continue on to the other end of the island went right by them. Taking some tentative steps in the direction of the path, she paid closer attention to the ruins. Though they were in as much of a state of decay as the other remains of the castle, they must have once been tall and beautiful. Just like the stories and books she had read said.

It was only after a few minutes of walking that Hermione noticed that not all of the structures were in ruins, though her parents didn't seem to have noticed quite yet. Further beyond, in what must have been the far northern side of the island, a tall, grey tower seemed to be in good shape. Squinting slightly, Hermione saw a group of men standing relatively close to it. None of the few tourists visiting Tintagel Castle were remotely close to them.

Taking a few steps in their direction, Hermione skirted around a puddle and walked away from her parents to get a better view.

There were five in total, with four pointing something in their hands towards a lone fifth man. Their clothes, though she couldn't make them out properly, were outdated and overly long. They didn't seem to be aware of the rain at all. It was so bad that it was obvious that the man standing apart from the group, taller than the rest and with hair far darker, was completely soaked.

Hermione turned back around. "Mum, dad!" she called. "What are those people doing there, in front of that tower? It's outside of the path!"

Her parents turned to look at her and glanced questioningly in the direction of the tall, grey tower. Dropping his hold on the camera, her father let it hang from his neck. Squinting, he pushed up his glasses, now slightly muggy from the rain, up his nose. A gust of wind picked up, and Hermione offhandedly noticed the seagulls flying further up into the air, filling the area with their cries as waves kept crashing against the cliffs below.

"What tower, sweetie?" her mother asked. "There's nothing there."

Hermione glanced back. The tower—tall and grey, and slightly crooked—was prominently visible, if slightly close to the cliffs on the island's other end. Maybe they can't see it from where they are, she thought. "That one, the one that's close to those cliffs over there," she explained, pointing towards it. "It's leaning slightly."

"There's nothing there, sweetie-pie. What group of people are you talking about?"

Hermione frowned. She turned around again—perhaps she had pointed at them badly—only to find that, despite the tower standing exactly where it used to be, the five men were nowhere to be seen.

"Hermione, sweetie?" her mother called. She was smiling again. "Let's continue on. I'm sure we can find that tower you must have seen before further down the path—it must be around here somewhere."

o-o-o-o-o

Cheers rang through the crowd as Ron kissed Lavender. Smiling, the blonde woman wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in closer, raising herself on the balls of her feet. Parvati Patil, close behind the bride, dabbed off a tear whilst Harry, opposite her, grinned. The cheers grew as the newlyweds broke apart and turned to face the crowd, taking each other's hand before walking down the aisle. Ginny stood up from her front row seat and threw rice, smiling widely as Molly Weasley, besides her, did the same. Hermione—a row behind—clapped as her friend and his wife walked towards the edge of the crowd, where the seating area finished and a group of Aurors stood.

It had been a beautiful ceremony. The entrance had been carefully planned, with bright, colourful spells bursting brightly in the air as the hired string quartet played the meticulously selected music. Ron had been exultant, beaming in eager anticipation from where he had been waiting at the front of the aisle. Lavender had been radiant when she had appeared a full five minutes afterwards in her dress; a beautiful long and floaty white piece in satin and lace. Her hair falling over her collarbones in an elegant display which made the scars Greyback had given her all but invisible.

Quickly standing up, Hermione followed the other wedding guests as they walked towards the ornate pavilion-like tents. A variety of food covered the majority of the tables within, with flowers and candles decorating their sides. Between them, a wide, circular space—a dancing area—remained empty, awaiting the guests.

A delicate arm wrapped itself around her own. "It was a beautiful ceremony, wasn't it, Hermione?"

Turning, Hermione looked at Ginny. "It was—your mother and Lavender really paid attention to everything."

"They did, didn't they?" Ginny grinned. "You weren't there to see it, but with how that one Christmas in nineteen ninety-six went it's been amazing to see them coordinate like they have."

"I imagine Ron can't wait for things to begin returning to normal."

"Not until they return from their honeymoon—Harry told me Lavender had it all planned out. After that, they'll be moving into the house they bought just south of here." Her eyes suddenly widened, and she abruptly withdrew her arm. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I need to catch Harry before he gives the best man's speech. I forgot to—."

"Don't worry, Ginny. We can always talk later."

The red-haired girl beamed and rushed towards her husband. Hermione flattened her lips and brushed the straps of her beaded bag, still with her even after the war, and pushed on towards the crowd of guests.

She smiled as she approached Ron and Lavender. "Congratulations—Ron, Lavender!"

Her best friend smiled back warmly. "Thanks, Hermione. It means a lot."

Lavender looked at Hermione's eyes earnestly. "Thank you for coming today, Hermione. I know we never had the best of relationships in Hogwarts."

Hermione shook her head. Looking on at the other young woman she took in the pronounced scars covering her face, bare and undisguised despite her penchant for makeup at Hogwarts. "It's no problem," she said, smiling.

Lavender smiled and turned towards Ron, pulling at his arm. "Enough standing around. Ron, let's dance!"

Ron groaned and looked at Hermione pleadingly. Before he could so much say a word, he found himself being pulled in the direction of the dancing floor. Hermione glanced at the people around her as she was left alone, noticing the solitary figure of George. Shifting, she turned to look at him. His demeanour had changed drastically since the end of the war, though not for the better.

It didn't take long for the older male to approach her. "How have you been, Hermione?"

"I've been good! I've been placed in charge of another law we plan to present on the regulation of House-elf and Wizard relations." She met George's eyes. "But what about you? Ron told me he'd be joining you in the shop soon."

"It will. It hasn't been the same since Fred died, having someone to help will be welcome." He stopped and breathed in deeply. "How have your parents been though, Hermione? You've been away for research quite frequently, lately."

Hermione smiled sadly. "The Healers at St Mungo's haven't found anything new, and nothing I've been reading seems to have had any effect. They still don't remember a thing about who they used to be."

"Nothing at all?"

"Nothing, the healers are stumped." So was she, for that matter. In the five years that had gone by since the war's end nothing had seemed to have managed to make a change in their state.

Drawing in a breath, she glanced at the aurors surrounding the tents in a loose formation. They had been posted especially for the wedding by the Ministry; security—as Kingsley had argued. Gawain Robards, the Head of the Auror Office, was standing the closest to the dance floor. He was a veteran, and it showed in his tall and bulky form. Besides him was Mervyn Wynch—recognizable due to his prominent hooked nose and square face—and Cyril Meakin, both of which had joined the Auror task force in the year Voldemort had been in power. Off to a side, patrolling closer to the Burrow itself, were Roger Davies and Stephen Cornfoot

Frowning, Hermione recalled a recent Daily Prophet headline. "Have you heard anything more on the sightings in the countryside?"

George's expression soured instantly. "Nothing beyond what has been reported. It's worrying how Death Eaters like Rowle and Yaxley still are at large."

"I know Harry mentioned that the department has been working on it intensively. That burnt house…" Hermione bit her lip. "Ron was posted in the investigation surrounding the event, right? It was all people in my department could talk about this last week. That and the werewolves in Scotland."

George nodded and looked away pensively. "Lavender—you know how she has been staying at the Burrow lately—was quite worried about it."

Hermione glanced at the golden-haired witch she had shared a dorm room with for so many years. Given the involvement of Greyback's old pack it didn't surprise her.

George clenched his fists. "They should have all been killed after the battle, not be treated to the Wizengamot's full legal protection. Murderers, all of them. Had they been executed this would have never happened. Rookwood—." He breathed in sharply. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I think I need some fresh air. Maybe a drink," George said apologetically. "I'll see you soon, hopefully—mum wants to organize a full family dinner once Ron's back from his honeymoon."

Smiling softly, Hermione turned back to face her best friend's brother. "I'd love to. Should I owl Molly about it?"

"There's no need, she'll tell you the date once it's been organised."

"Perfect. Thank you."

It was dark by the time the celebrations drew to a close. Bidding farewell to her friends, Hermione disapparated away. Apparating into her small apartment in the magical quarter of Whitstable with a faint pop, she sat on the single sofa in her living room.

It was dark, with the room's two lone windows letting in what dim light the lamp posts below shone into the room. A chimney just big enough to allow for floo travel stood untouched to a side, with the remaining walls lined with bookshelves. A lone coffee table sat in front of the sofa; its space crowded with books which had been piling since the beginning of the weekend. Though the majority were new acquisitions, such as the lastest volumes of Challenges in Charming, a few had been with her since Hogwarts. The first volumes of Chadwick's Charms sat at the bottom of the leftmost pile, with Stitch's Extreme Incantations and Lumus' Olde and Forgotten Betwitchments and Charms resting atop it. A stack of parchment was precariously balanced at the coffee table's edge. Atop it rested a slightly out-of-date copy of the Daily Prophet, its cover the single photograph in the area.

DISASTROUS CAMPAIGN CONTINUES

Despite public pressure, the ongoing campaign headed by Fausta Thicknesse recently saw an increase in attention when Ricbert Fawley, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, publicly met with the widow of the late Minister for Magic Pius Thicknesse. Though Minister Shacklebolt has refused to comment on the issue, his aide, Dolores Umbridge, has called out and criticised Mrs Thicknesse for her use of propaganda, stating that…

Hermione tore her eyes away from the newspaper and picked up the stack of notes, straightening them before setting them back down on the coffee table. It had been a long day, what with all the preparation the wedding had meant, and she was expected at her Ministry job come morning. She marched towards her room—a tiny thing at the end of the hall, right by the single bathroom of the flat and its small kitchen— quickly, breathing in with relief as she finally sat on her bed. Crookshanks, recovered after the war's end, was lying atop the covers in a tight circle, seemingly fully asleep.

Hermione opened her bag and picked up her wand. Flicking it silently, she levitated a silver pocket watch—a piece from her father's youth—towards her bedside table, right by a worn copy of The Development of Memory Charms and the crooked wand she had kept. Following it came a notebook and a small mirror.

Setting her wand back on her bed, Hermione took off her heels and zipped down her dress. Looking away from her body as the opaque fabric came off, she put on the long cotton pyjamas she had set aside before leaving her flat; barely catching a glimpse of the purple scar cutting across her chest and the carved brand on her left forearm. Waving her wand again, Hermione levitated the dress and heels into the wardrobe before finally lying down.

Shifting, she picked up the thick book at her bedside table and leant back against the bed's pillows. Silently casting a lumos, she opened the worn book. She could still get some reading done.

o-o-o-o-o

Hermione walked out of the gilded fireplace and across the Ministry of Magic's atrium quickly, making her way through the polished, dark wood floor of the splendid hall towards the lifts at its end. Entering the first one she came across, she gazed expectantly around as she awaited its arrival with other Ministry employees, eyes coming to settle on the fountain of the magical brethren halfway through the hall. The space had just recently been restored, its style and components identical to the statue which had stood in its place before the war.

Standing straight as the lift's doors closed, she remained silent until the doors rumbled open at the fourth floor. Walking briskly, she made her way through the smooth black wood of level's hallways to the open area used by the Beings Division—an open hall-like room with a number of paired desks lined up in rows facing two offices separated from the main room with clear glass. She walked to her desk and hung her bag and overcoat—a warm, dark brown wool piece that reached just past her thighs—from her chair before sitting down, only then allowing herself to finally breathe out. She hadn't slept enough and felt considerably drained, particularly given to the lack of useful information The Development of Memory Charms had yielded.

Hermione ran a hand through her hair and leaned into her chair. Breathing in deeply, she glanced at her watch before turning to look at the desk paired with hers. Zacharias Smith, her partner for the job, was late—again.

A soft voice spoke up from behind her. "Hermione? Gethsemane wishes to see you. She's in her office."

Hermione stood up and turned to look at the co-worker who had approached her. "Did she say what for?"

The woman shook her head. Making her mind up, Hermione stood up and walked towards one of the offices at the front of the room and knocked on its glass door.

Gethsemane Prickle made a note on the margins of a piece of parchment before looking up at the door. "Come in," she said, tucking a lock of grey hair behind her ear.

Hermione opened the door. "I was told you wanted to see me?"

The older woman nodded. "I do, Hermione. If you may?" she said, motioning to one of the chairs in front of her desk. "I am afraid it is quite urgent."

Hermione took a seat. "Has a change been made to the project law?"

"No, no. The law is fine. More than fine." Hermione's eyes followed hers as she glanced to the parchment on her desk—a list filled with names. "I suppose that you have heard about the rightsizing process that is taking place within the Ministry?"

"I have, but I didn't know it would affect this Department."

Her supervisor paused and gestured at the piece of parchment in front of her. "Well, I am afraid that we have been forced to allow you to pursue other career opportunities."

Hermione's hands dropped to her lap. "Why me?"

"You've been an excellent employee, Hermione. Going forwards, however, someone who is less engaged with certain ideas and positions prone to cause conflict would be better suited for the department."

Hermione balled her fists. "What ideas and positions?" she demanded. "I'm the best employee in the department!"

Gethsemane breathed in deeply. "The Minister's Support Staff have been clear. Mr Blishwick has achieved excellent results in halting the negative growth affecting department funding and costs," she said tersely. "We won't simply be letting you go, though. Minister Shacklebolt insisted in offering you a different position."

"What position?"

Her supervisor turned around and rummaged through the leather bag by her desk, taking out a few sheets of rolled parchment. Smiling, she handed it to Hermione. "The conditions would be different, but you would be able to start next week."

Hermione glanced at the roll of parchment, and her fists tightened. "Do I need to provide an answer immediately?"

"Oh, Merlin, no! You can think on it until the end of this week. You can communicate your response to it by owl to Mr Blishwick."

"Alfred Blishwick, the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic?"

"The very same." Gethsemane leaned forwards and smiled thinly. "I wish you the best of luck in the future, Hermione. I am very sorry to have to communicate this to you."

"Of course," Hermione said tersely. She stood up abruptly, momentarily shocking the older woman. "I will pack the things in my desk, then."

Hermione turned mechanically and made to leave the office, uncomfortably aware of the way that other members of the Beings Division followed her with their eyes. Her lips curled briefly at the sight of her partner's empty desk. She started packing the stationary, office supplies, and what few belongings she had left on her desk into her beaded bag, and, when the table had been cleared, put on her overcoat and walked out of the office.

Pushing the doors open, Hermione retraced her steps through the hall, only coming to a stop once she was sufficiently far away. Mechanically, she unschooled the sheets of parchment the Head of the Department had given her and read the alternative job offer. Turning a page over, she felt herself pale as she read over the conditions and pay; a part-time position in the archives of the Wizengamot Administration Services, remunerated only at a hundred and twenty Galleons, four Sickles, and eight Knuts.

Hermione leaned back against a wall. Her monthly rent in the magical quarter of Whitstable, the very best she had been able to find in a magical area, was of a hundred and eleven Galleons.

She would have to get another part-time job or find something else entirely if she wanted to manage anything beyond paying her rent. Worse, her savings weren't substantial enough. Not after years of trying to research and fix the memory charm that had stolen away her parents beyond what the healers at St Mungo's had assured her were trying.

Scowling, Hermione clenched her fist around the pieces of parchment.

o-o-o

The utensils rattled as Harry banged his fist on the table. "That's outrageous!" he shouted, causing the few other patrons filling the Leaky Cauldron to turn sharply in their direction. "You're the best person they've got, everyone knows that!"

A flash of anger run through Hermione. "I'm apparently too engaged with certain ideas and positions prone to cause conflict, and thus unsuited for the job," she quoted, retelling Gethsemane's words. "That's not all, though. I've lucky enough to get offered a part-time position at the archives for a hundred and twenty Galleons, four Sickles, and eight Knuts."

Harry's eyes widened. "A hundred—," he repeated. "That's less than half than what you were already getting! What's Kingsley thinking?"

"I'm not sure it was Kingsley. If my supervisor is to be believed, this was all on the Minister's Support Staff—Alfred Blishwick in particular."

Harry pursed his lips and looked down at his plate. "You were the entire reason why that House-elf law got passed in the first place. It would've never been approved as a project hadn't you hounded Kingsley for weeks. Is that it?"

"I can't think of any other reason," Hermione said. "You know how I ranked within my Department. Beyond that, there's the fact that Zacharias Smith's father has been in the Minister's Support Staff for years."

"And a good friend of Tiberius McLaggen, from what I understand."

Hermione nodded slowly, and the corners of her mouth contorted into a grimace. "Then there's Umbridge."

"Umbridge," Harry spat. "How that woman is not in Azkaban is beyond me. The amount of times that—." He stopped speaking and breathed in deeply. "They must have been out to get you, Hermione. She must have been out to get you."

Hermione clenched her jaw and nodded minutely. "I know."

"I'm taking it straight to Kingsley," he said loudly. "I don't care what you say. I'm going to take this straight to Kingsley."

Her face fell slightly, and her eyes rose to meet her friend's. "I'm not sure he'll be able to do anything if the Minister's Support Staff arranged it under the restructuring. I'm afraid my only options are to find something completely new, or to compliment the part-time position with another job."

Harry shook his head. "Don't say that, Hermione. You know how much Kingsley likes you. If he's told what's going on, he'll do something. You know he will."

Hermione sighed. "Hopefully," she said, "though you know that his hold over the Ministry is still up in the air. Voldemort—."

"Voldemort died five years ago," Harry interrupted, "it's time the Ministry realises that. Umbridge headed the Muggle-born Registration Commission. To have her remain under employment goes against everything we fought for."

"I know, Harry," she said sullenly. "Hopefully Kingsley can do something about it, or at least discover what is going on."

Harry took a bite out of the food in his plate. "I don't like this though, Hermione. Not one bit." Sighing suddenly, he leant towards her and ran a hand through his hair. "There's been news in the Auror department I was meaning to tell you too."

"How bad?"

Her best friend breathed in deeply and shook his head. "I shouldn't be talking about this too loudly, given what we've been told in the office, but it'll likely be published in the Daily Prophet tomorrow." Motioning for her to get closer, he glanced around them. "There was a report two days ago about one of the old Death Eater Gringotts accounts being opened again."

"Opened? Whose account was it?" Her heart skipped a beat. "I thought those accounts had been embargoed on Kingsley's orders following the war."

Harry looked at her grimly. "Yaxley's. Apparently, the matter wasn't as cleanly-cut as we were led to believe."

"Has Gringotts volunteered any information so far?"

"None at all," Harry said, shaking his head. "We know that none of the other Death Eater accounts have been opened, but nothing else. The goblins have claimed the entire affair is covered by the usual secrecy laws."

Hermione leant forwards and rested her chin on her hands. That much was probably unsurprising, given how precedent had tended to be in Gringotts-related cases. "Yaxley…" she muttered, shoulders tensing. "Do you think this involves the other Death Eaters, Harry?"

"That's what has Robards and Wynch worried." Harry leant into his chair and ran a hand through his hair again. "Yaxley was one of the ones to evade capture along with Rowle, as did Travers and Selwyn. The same thing goes for Greyback. If you factor in the escapees from two years ago…" he continued, not finishing his train of thought.

"Rookwood, Lestrange, Avery, and Dolohov," Hermione added pensively. It was worrying news. None of those men were like to stay quiet for long no matter what had happened at the Battle of Hogwarts, not with access to a Gringotts account. "Then there are the reports on the werewolf packs in Scotland," she added. "It's Greyback's, isn't it?"

"Most likely. Wynch and Davies have been handling the case."

Hermione nodded and glanced down at her plate and breathed in deeply. Suddenly, to their side, one of the Leaky Cauldron's chimneys flashed green, and out of it came a tall figure wearing the tell-tale grey uniform of the Auror task force. It was easy to tell who it was, even if he had changed drastically—Stephen Cornfoot, a Hufflepuff in their year. Deep scars ran across the right side of his face, distorting his expressions slightly. His blond hair messy and unkept despite being tied in a bow at the height of his chin.

Stephen Cornfoot started striding towards them barely after appearing at the crowded pub, not wasting any time in scanning the area around him. "Potter. I'm sorry to interrupt your break, but a new report has just come in."

Grimacing, Harry turned to face his colleague. "What is the report on? Is it serious?"

"I'm afraid so."

Harry nodded grimly and looked back at Hermione. "I'm sorry, Hermione, but I don't think I'll be able to stay for much longer."

Hermione shook her head. "There's no need to apologize, Harry."

"I'll see you soon?"

"Of course," she nodded.

Harry smiled hopefully, and with that the two Aurors turned to leave the Leaky Cauldron. Biting her lip, Hermione gazed absentmindedly in the direction they had left. The news wasn't good at all.

o-o-o

It was barely two when Hermione apparated into the old magical quarters of Whitstable, loud crack ringing around her. Hermione closed her eyes and breathed in, enjoying the crisp air from the nearby sea before making her way through the tiny magical street. It was a beautiful town; its smaller magical community the main reason why she had chosen it upon finishing her N.E.W.T.s.

Hermione turned into a alleyway half-hidden between two apothecaries near the street's end. The clacking of her heels echoed as she slowly walked through it, towards a rickety wooden staircase. Ascending slowly through it, she pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the door at its top. A loud creak reverberated as she swung it open, and she stepped in decisively. Shutting the door behind her, she began to walk up a spiralling staircase. The wooden steps groaned as she climbed past the first and second floors, to the flat she had called a home for almost four years now.

She smiled despite herself as she saw the familiar door of her flat. Hermione shut her eyes and breathed in. Standing still, she focused on the area around her. A shiver ran across her spine as she felt her wards, welcoming and familiar. The complicated set of layers she had carefully constructed upon first moving in were exactly as they had been early in the morning, with nothing any different or out of place. Satisfied, Hermione opened her eyes and unlocked the door. Crossing through its threshold quickly before locking the door behind her.

Grabbing the strap of her beaded bag, she had just about taken it off when her eyes zeroed on the chaotic state in which the books and parchment stacked on her coffee were in. Some were opened half-way, with volumes piling on top. The bookshelves weren't in much of a better state; many tomes were out place, unseemly stacked atop each other, and some had been moved onto the floor.

Hermione drew the wand at her forearm and pressed her lips together. Silently, she focused on her wards again and verified their integrity. She hadn't made a mistake—they hadn't been broken or changed. Her heart raced. Someone's been here, she thought, but how?

Swallowing with difficulty, she pressed her back towards a wall and scanned the room around her once again. "Revelio," she whispered, waving her wand.

One second went by, followed by two and three. Nothing happened. Beyond the state of her living room, nothing was out of place. Stepping sideways, she glanced at Crookshanks suspiciously and waved her wand again. "Homenum revelio," she nearly hissed.

As the tell-tale swooping feeling of the charm rushed through her, Hermione's eyes darted up and narrowed on the hall leading up to her room. Whomever was inside her flat was there. Breathing in deeply, Hermione adjusted the grip on her wand. Pointing it at herself, she whispered one final charm. "Quietus".

Taking her first step forwards, back still to the wall, she advanced slowly until she was faced with an oddly half-locked door. Pushing it open as gently as she could, she saw a dark figure standing at its centre.

The intruder—a wizard, if she were to judge by their body—was tall, but not enough to reach past her door's threshold. He was wearing what seemed to be somewhat tattered dark robes, at least from a distance, along with a wand holster strapped at the front left of his hip. A thick cloak hung from his neck, its hood down as he held one of her books open with one hand. She could barely make out any of his other features, with only a beard being visible from where she stood.

Hermione's fingers tightened around her wand, and she feinted forwards. "Stupefy!" she exclaimed.

A jet of red light lit the room. The intruder turned economically, drew his wand, and blocked her spell. Moving minutely, he flicked it in her direction. A white light lit the room. Before Hermione could so much as react, she felt herself stiffen and collapse sideways onto the floor, bag crashing besides her. Her wand fell from her grip and bounced off, barely within her line of sight.

The intruder threw the book onto her bed and started walking towards her, footsteps clacking on the wooden floor. Leaning forwards, he picked her wand from the floor and placed it within one of the pockets of his robe. Hermione started to panic as the knowledge that there wasn't anything, she could do dawned on her. Not when alone, wandless, and petrified. Despite it, mind racing, she tried move and reach for her bag, where the crooked wand she had obtained during the war rested.

"I will admit that I expected more," a voice said, low and gravely, eastern European accent curling over the syllables as they cut through the sound of her own hectic breaths. "Though I suppose this makes things more convenient."

The man took a few steps towards her. Observing her for a brief moment, he hauled her up and rested her back against the bare wall of her room, allowing her a sight, for the first time, of just who had broken into her flat.

The proud, broad man standing before her was a far cry from the one who had attacked her at the end of her fifth year. Whereas then, as during the war, he had been curled and weakened from years spent in Azkaban, the way he held himself in now belied a quiet sense of power. Dark hair waved to his shoulders, with a few, shorter strands falling just short of his eyes. His sharp jaw didn't sport the tangled, unkept beard she could remember. The coarse hair, spanning its full length, instead presented a short, neat cut. His muscles were visibly taut, even though the heavy cloak he wore.

Moving away, the dark wizard pointed his wand at her. Hermione drew in a breath, feeling nausea at the back of her throat. Distantly, she noticed just how cold and clammy her skin felt. Beneath her working robes she felt the purple scar cutting across her chest, the remnant of his curse, twinge with pain.

"Stay still. I don't want to see a single movement," the Death Eater commanded brusquely. "Finite."

Hermione lunged sideways as soon as she felt her limbs again. Reaching for her bag through the remains of the paralysis, she drew the dark crooked wand that had once been Bellatrix's own and pointed it at the Death Eater in her room. A silent scarlet spell sent it flying out of her hand before she could so much as think of what to cast, followed by Dolohov's boot stepping on her arm hard enough to make her gasp with pain.

The dark wizard narrowed his eyes and fixed them on her own. His expression, a veritable stone wall, didn't shift as he put more pressure onto her arm. Hermione cried out again, feeling tears well up in her eyes. "Like I said. Stay still," he ordered.

Hermione tried to pull herself away, to no effect. My wand. Where is my wand? I can't apparate without my wand. "Why would I?" she rasped. "You're going to kill me!"

Dolohov's eyebrows lowered, concealing his eyes ever so slightly. Silently, he lifted his boot off her arm and stood back up. "No."

Flinching, Hermione pulled herself further against the wall, trying to put some distance between her and the Death Eater. "Why else would you be here then?"

The man observed her dispassionately. Silently, he leant forwards and picked up the crooked wand she had just lost. He let out a breath as he examined it, muttering something under his breath.

Hermione grit her teeth and tried to pull herself upright. "Why are you here?" she demanded. "Whatever it is, be quick about it!"

Dolohov looked away from the crooked wand with a jerky movement that denoted impatience. "So long as you don't move further, I have no interest in killing you," he said, shaking his head. "I am here to offer you a deal."

A deal? she thought incredulously."I don't believe that." Clenching her fists, she tried to regain some semblance of control over herself and forced herself to meet the Death Eater's dead eyes. They were dark, she noticed; some of the darkest she had seen. "And even if you were, there is nothing you could offer I would be interested in."

The corners of the Death Eater's lips quirked up slightly. "Really?" he asked, gesturing at the book he had thrown minutes ago. "The 'Development of Memory Charms' is a classic, but not something you will ever get counter-charms from."

Hermione's heart skipped a beat. Her eyes darted towards the single door leading out of her room; she was closer to it than him, but she'd never manage to make it out without a wand. "I don't see how that's of any relevance," she bluffed.

"Not even if what you're researching has to do with the Memory Charm you cast on your Muggle parents?"

Bile rose to Hermione's throat, and she stumbled back against the wall. Breathing in deeply, she tried to contain the wave of panic she felt rising through her. "How do you know about that?" she blurted out. No one, not one person beyond her friends or the healers at St Mungo's, was supposed to know.

The Death Eater ignored her and leaned forwards, eyes still fixed in her direction. Picking up the book with a deceptively careless movement, he flicked past a number of pages until he came to a stop midway through it. "That doesn't matter," he said simply, looking over a page.

She clenched her fists harder. "Why should I believe that?"

Dolohov turned towards her again. "This," he said, tilting the book towards her and tapping on a page, "is the only useful commentary you will find in this entire volume on the practical applications of the Memory Charm. Still, it is a step in the right direction by comparison to the other books you have here, if insufficient."

"If you harm my parents—,"

The Death Eater's eyes narrowed. "Let's make one thing clear," he said, shutting the book loudly. "I couldn't care less about your Muggle family. Contrary to whatever it is you believe; I am here solely to offer a deal to you."

Hermione scoffed. "And what deal are you prepared to offer?"

"A solution for the memory charm you cast on your parents."

Hermione breathed in sharply. Looking away from the man, she forced herself to focus her eyes on the blue book briefly. Her mind started racing. A cure? How can he pretend to—? "Why would you offer that?" she asked. "Why should I trust anything you have to say? You nearly killed me twice."

"What you cast wasn't just a memory charm. You erased their very identities." Dolohov's eyes brightened as he talked, widening with wonder. "It was much more powerful than that. Far darker. Older."

"Even if I believed you," Hermione said, forcing herself to pay attention to the wizard's words. "Why should I trust you to help at all?"

The Death Eater narrowed his eyes. "A promise made is a promise kept," he said gravely. "Without the aid of someone like me, you'll never get your Muggle parents back."

Breathing in slowly, Hermione glanced again at the open doorway. He hadn't attacked for now, and if they kept talking, she might be able to try to make an escape or get to the floo. "And what would I be have to do in exchange? I can't imagine you'd help out of your own free will" she said steadfastly.

Dolohov regarded her impassively, his eyes not leaving hers. "Two pieces of information—one for each of your parents."

Hermione flared her nostrils. "Why would you trust me to even help you in return?" she snapped. "You know I'll tell the Ministry I saw you the second I can, and you'll finally be put down!"

The wizard scowled and stepped forwards. "An oath goes both ways, witch."

Hermione stared silently as the Death Eater reached into his pocket and took out her vinewood and walnut wands. Holding them in his fist, he searched through an inner pocket further. Eventually, the dark wizard drew out a dark book and threw it onto her bed along with the two wands.

"What are you trying to do?"

Dolohov smiled wryly. "I will not demand an answer now, but you would do well to consider what I offer. If you are interested, come to the White Wyvern on the first day of October. Be there at seven in the evening," he said simply.

Taking a step back, he raised his wand. A faint crack reverberated within her room as the wizard disapparated away, cutting through her wards as cleanly as he must have when he had broken in.

Hermione felt herself fall onto the floor. Bringing a hand to her face, she ran her fingers through her thick hair. She stood up seconds later, swallowing the lump in her throat. Walking to her bed, she grabbed her vinewood wand and began to cast the first wards she could think of, not sparing a glance to the book the Death Eater had left behind.