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 and Nautical Paramour, whose excellent stories inspired me to start this one.

Update #1: Text revised and edited as of 28/12/2020.

"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 across the wooden bridge. Seagulls rose up into the air as the wind picked up around her, crying as they flew away from 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. Barely visible atop the cliffs beyond them was the main body of the legendary castle; its medieval walls, gardens, and gates promising to bring to life the tales of knights she had read before traveling to Cornwall. Beneath it, a massive, cave-like chasm was slowly being submerged in the rising tide.

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. "Why is it broken, mum?"

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

"Oh." She scrunched up her nose. "Does anyone know how it used to look before?

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

It didn't take them long to reach the top of the stairway. Slowly, taking care not to slip on the bare stone, they walked through what remained of the castle's gateway. The path slithered across what little even ground was out in the open, branching into several different strands that snaked their way around the different ruined structures.

Her father, smiling brightly, stretched his left arm and hooked it around her mother's. "Look, Hermione!" he exclaimed, pointing to his right.

Hermione turned to look at the remains of a set of walls. They weren't too close to where they were, but a path on to the other end of the island cut right through them. Though they were in a state of decay they must have been tall and beautiful, once. Splendorous, just like stories said.

"They're really quite impressive, aren't they?" her mother said, walking on. "They must have once been quite a sight."

It didn't take Hermione long to notice that not all of the structures were in ruins, though it didn't seem like her parents had seen it yet. Further beyond, in what must have been the far northern side of the island, a tall, leaning tower seemed to be in good shape. A group of five men stood close to it, far away from any of the other tourists.

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

There were five in total, with four pointing something at the lone fifth man. Though she couldn't make out their clothes properly, it was clear that they were outdated. Worse, they didn't seem to be aware of the rain at all. It was so bad that it was obvious that fifth man, dark haired and tall, 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 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 muggy glasses.

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

Hermione glanced back. The tower and the group of people were prominently visible, if slightly close to the cliffs on the island's other end. "That one," she said, pointing towards it. "It's the one that's close to the cliffs."

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

A sudden gust of wind swept through the island. The seagulls flew further up in response, filling the area with their cries. Frowning, Hermione turned around again. The five men had disappeared.

"Hermione?" her mother called. She was smiling again. "Let's continue walking. 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, standing 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 and Molly stood up from their seat and threw rice, smiling widely. Hermione clapped as the newlyweds broke apart and turned to face the crowd, taking each other's hand as they walked down the aisle.

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. Lavender had been radiant when she had appeared a full five minutes later in her dress; a long and floaty piece in satin and lace. Her hair, perfectly styled, falling over her collarbones in an elegant display which made the scars Greyback had given her all but invisible.

Hermione stood up and followed the other wedding guests to the ornate pavilion-like tents. A variety of food had been laid across the majority of the tables within, with flowers and candles decorating the remaining available surfaces.

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

Hermione turned to look at Ginny. "It really was. Your mother and Lavender paid attention to everything."

"They did, didn't they?" Ginny grinned. "You weren't there to see all of it, but with how that one Christmas went it was amazing to see them coordinate like they did."

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

"He still has the honeymoon to think of. After that, they'll be moving into the house they bought just south from 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 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 neared Ron and Lavender. "Congratulations, it was a beautiful ceremony."

Ron smiled back warmly. "Thanks, Hermione. It means a lot."

"Thank you for coming today, Hermione," Lavender said earnestly. "I know we never had the best of relationships in Hogwarts."

"It's really no problem," she said, shaking her head. "I'm happy for you two."

Lavender seemed to be about to say something when the string quartet began to play again. Barely waiting a moment, she swerved around. "Enough standing around. Ron, let's dance!"

Ron groaned and looked at Hermione pleadingly. Before he could so much say a word, however, he found himself being pulled in the direction of the dancing floor.

Still smiling, Hermione glanced at the people around her. Most of her friends had dispersed through the crowd of guests. Only George, standing the edge of the dance floor, was alone.

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

"I've been good. I'm working on another law we plan to present on House-elf and Wizard relations." She met George's eyes. His demeanour had changed drastically since the end of the war, though not for the better. "What about you? Ron told me he'd be joining you in the shop soon."

"He will. Having someone to help will be welcome, it hasn't been the same since Fred died." He breathed in deeply. "How have your parents been, Hermione? Has anything new been found?"

Hermione shook her head. "They still don't remember a thing about who they used to be; nothing seems to have had an effect. The Healers at St Mungo's are stuck."

"Nothing has helped at all?"

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

Drawing in a breath, she glanced at the aurors standing at the edge of the tents. 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 that some Death Eaters are still at large."

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

George 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. Given the involvement of Greyback's old pack it didn't surprise her.

"They should have all been killed after the battle, not be treated to the Wizengamot's full legal protection," George said harshly. "Murderers, the lot 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."

"There's no need to apologise, George."

George smiled apologetically. "I'll see you soon, hopefully—mum wants to organize a full family dinner once Ron's back from his honeymoon. Do you think you'll be able to make it?"

"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."

It was dark by the time the celebrations drew to a close. Bidding farewell to her friends, Hermione apparated directly into the small apartment she rented within Whitstable's magical quarter. She breathed in with relief as crossed through the apartment's wards. 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.

Dropping herself on her living room's single sofa, Hermione looked at the dark, cramped space. Walls lined with bookshelves; a chimney just big enough to allow for floo access; a lone coffee table, its space crowded with ever-growing piles of books…

She leant forwards. The majority were new acquisitions, though a few had been with her since Hogwarts. The first volumes of Chadwick's Charms sat at the bottom of the leftmost pile, with Lumus' Olde and Forgotten Betwitchments and Charms and a precariously balanced stack of parchment resting atop it. Besides them, a slightly out-of-date copy of the Daily Prophet crowned a similar-looking pile.

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. She marched towards her room—a tiny thing at the end of the hall, right by the kitchen—quickly, breathing in with relief as she finally sat on her bed. Crookshanks, recovered at the war's end, was lying atop the covers in a tight circle, seemingly 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. Leaving her wand on the bed, she took off her heels and zipped off 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 carved brand on her left forearm or the purple scar cutting across her chest.

Finally lying down, Hermione picked up the thick book at her bedside table silently cast a lumos. Lying back against her pillows, she opened the worn book.

o-o-o-o-o

Walking past the fountain of the magical brethren at the Ministry's atrium, Hermione joined the crowd of ministry employees and entered one of the many lifts lining its walls. She remained silent as the doors closed and it began to move, eventually coming to a stop at the fourth floor. Before too long she was at the main office of the Beings Division; an open hall-like room with rows of paired desks facing a set of offices separated only with clear glass. Walking towards her desk, Hermione hung her bag and overcoat—a warm, dark brown wool piece that reached her thighs—and sat down. Feeling drained after her late night, she allowed herself to sink into the standard-issue furniture. Breathing in deeply, she glanced at her watch before turning to look at the desk paired with hers. Zacharias Smith was late again.

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

Hermione looked up at her co-worker. "Did she say what for?"

The woman shook her head. "Not that I know".

"Alright, thank you."

Standing up, Hermione walked to one of the offices at the front of the room and rapped her knuckles on its glass door. Inside, a woman made a quick note on a piece of parchment before answering.

"Come in."

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."

"Has a change been made to the project law?" Hermione asked, taking a seat. "Was it rejected?"

"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."

"What?" 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 conflictive ideas and positions would be better suited for the department."

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

"The Minister's Support Staff have been clear. Mr Blishwick has achieved excellent results in halting the negative growth of the department." Gethsemane breathed in deeply. "We won't simply be letting you go. Minister Shacklebolt insisted on offering you a different position."

Hermione balled her fists. "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'd be starting next week."

"Do I need to give an answer immediately?" she asked, glancing at the roll of parchment.

"Oh, Merlin, no! You have 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 to pack the stationary, office supplies, and belongings into her beaded bag, and, when the table had been cleared, put on her overcoat and walked out of the office. Mechanically, she opened the sheets of parchment and began to read the alternative job offer. 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.

Her monthly rent was of a hundred and eleven Galleons.

Hermione leaned back against a wall. She would have to get something else entirely or get another part-time job if she wanted to manage to pay her rent. Her savings weren't substantial enough, not after years of trying to fix the memory charm that had stolen away her parents.

Scowling, she clenched her fist around the pieces of parchment and continued walking thorough the corridor.

o-o-o

The utensils rattled as Harry banged his fist on the table, making a few of the other patrons filling the Leaky Cauldron turn sharply in their direction. "That's outrageous!" he shouted. "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, and thus unsuited for the job," she quoted, retelling Gethsemane's words. "I've even been 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, particularly".

"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," Harry said indignantly. He looked down at his plate and pursed his lips. "Is that it, then? Ministry politics?"

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

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

"Yes," she said, nodding slowly. "Then there's Umbridge."

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

The corners of her mouth contorted into a grimace. "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 to Kingsley. It is intolerable."

Her face fell slightly. "I'm not sure he'll be able to do anything if it was the Minister's Support Staff that arranged it. My only options for now are to find something new outside of the ministry or to compliment the position with another part-time 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. He'll try to, at least."

"Hopefully, 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," Hermione said sullenly. "Hopefully he can at least discover what is going on."

"I don't like this, Hermione." Sighing suddenly, Harry 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. "I shouldn't be talking about this too loudly, but it'll likely be published in the Daily Prophet tomorrow." Motioning for her to get closer, he glanced around them. "One of the old Death Eater Gringotts accounts was opened again."

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

Harry looked at her grimly. "Yaxley's. The matter apparently wasn't as clean-cut as we were led to believe."

"Has Gringotts volunteered any information so far?"

"None at all, the goblins hold that the entire affair is covered by their usual secrecy laws. We just know that no other Death Eater accounts have been opened."

Hermione leant forwards and rested her chin on her hands. It was unsurprising, given how the precedent was. Gringotts was outside of the Ministry's control. "Yaxley…" she muttered, shoulders tensing. "Do you think this involves the other Death Eaters, Harry?"

"That's what has Robards worried." Harry leant into his chair and ran a hand through his hair again. "Yaxley was one of the few that evaded capture together with Rowle, Travers, and Selwyn. The same thing goes for Greyback. If you factor in the escapees from two years ago…"

"Rookwood, Lestrange, Avery, and Dolohov," Hermione added pensively. It was worrying news. None of those men were like to stay quiet for long, 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."

One of the Leaky Cauldron's chimneys suddenly flashed green. A tall figure wearing the tell-tale grey uniform of the Auror task force walked out of it. It was easy to tell who it was, even with the scars distorting the right side of his face—Stephen Cornfoot, a Hufflepuff in their year. His blond hair, messy and unkept despite the bow tying it at the height of his chin, was covered with grime.

He strode towards them quickly, not wasting any time scanning the area around them. "Potter. I'm sorry to interrupt your break, but a new report has just come in."

"What is the report on? Is it serious?"

"I'm afraid so."

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

"There's no need to apologize, Harry." She shook her head. "I'll be seeing you soon?"

"Of course."

o-o-o

It was barely two when Hermione apparated into the old magical quarters of Whitstable, loud crack ringing around her. Closing her eyes, she breathed in, enjoying the crisp scent of the nearby sea. 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.

Opening her eyes, she began to walk through the tiny street, towards an alleyway half-hidden between two apothecaries near its end. The clacking of her heels echoed as she cut through it, directing herself towards a rickety staircase. Ascending slowly, she pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the door at its top. A loud creak reverberated as she swung it open. Shutting the door behind her, Hermione began to walk up a spiralling staircase. The wooden steps groaned as she climbed past the first and second floors decisively, 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. They were intact, like always.

Hermione opened her eyes and unlocked the door, crossing through its threshold quickly. Grabbing the strap of her beaded bag, she had just about taken it off when her eyes zeroed on the chaotic state of the books and parchment stacked on her coffee table. The bookshelves weren't in much of a better state; many tomes were out place, unseemly stacked atop each other, with some having been moved onto the floor.

Her heart began to race. Someone's been here, she thought, but how?

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.

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

Nothing happened. Beyond the state of her living room, nothing had changed.

Stepping sideways, Hermione glanced at Crookshanks suspiciously. "Homenum revelio."

Hermione's eyes darted up and narrowed on the hall leading up to her room as the tell-tale swooping feeling of the charm rushed through her. Whomever it was that had entered her flat was in there.

Taking her first step forwards, back still to the wall, she advanced slowly towards her room's half-open door. Gently pushing it open, she observed the dark figure standing at its centre.

The intruding wizard was tall, though not enough to reach past her door's threshold. He was wearing slightly tattered dark robes, with a wand holster strapped at the front left of his hip. A thick cloak hung from his neck. A book, likely one of the ones at her bedside table, was held open in his left hand.

Hermione feinted forwards. "Stupefy!"

A jet of red light lit the room. The intruder drew his wand and blocked her spell. Moving minutely, he flicked it in her direction. A white light lit the room. Before Hermione could react, she felt herself stiffen and collapse sideways onto the floor, bag crashing besides her. Her wand fell from her grip and rolled away, barely within her line of sight. Hermione felt herself panic. There wasn't anything she could do if petrified.

"I'll admit that I expected more," he said, 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 intruder threw the book onto her bed and walked towards her. Crouching down, he picked her wand and placed it inside one of his robe's pockets. 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. Dark hair waved past his ears, with a few, shorter strands falling just short of his eyes. His jaw didn't sport the tangled, unkept beard she could remember, and instead presented a short, neat cut. 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.

Nausea grew at the back of Hermione's throat. Beneath her working robes she felt the purple scar cutting across her chest, the remnant of his curse, twinge with pain.

Antonin Dolohov. One the four Azkaban escapees.

The dark wizard pointed his wand at her. "Stay still. I don't want to see a single movement," the Death Eater commanded brusquely. "Finite."

Hermione threw herself sideways. Reaching for her bag, she drew Bellatrix's old, crooked wand and pointed it at the Death Eater in her room. A silent, scarlet spell quickly sent it flying out of her hand. He stepped on her arm before she could reach for it again. Hermione cried out, feeling tears well up in her eyes.

The dark wizard narrowed his eyes. His expression, a veritable stone wall, didn't shift as he put more pressure onto her arm. "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, she thought desperately. "Why would I?" she rasped. "You're going to kill me!"

Dolohov frowned. Silently, he lifted his boot off her arm and stood back up. "No."

Hermione flinched. "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, seeming to recognise it.

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

Dolohov looked away from the wand with a jerky and abrupt movement that denoted impatience. "I have no interest in killing you. I am here to offer you a deal."

A deal? she thought incredulously."I don't believe that." Clenching her fists, she forced herself to meet the Death Eater's dark eyes. "Even if you were, there is nothing you could offer I'd 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'll 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 he was, 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 her throat. Breathing in deeply, she tried to contain the wave of panic she felt grow. No one, not one person beyond her friends or the healers at St Mungo's, was supposed to know about her parents. "How do you know about that?"

The Death Eater ignored her. 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.

The panic quickly turned into anger. "Answer me!" she shouted.

Dolohov turned towards her again. "This," he said, tapping on a single 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, 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. She didn't believe him. "And what is it that you are prepared to offer?"

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

Hermione breathed in sharply. Her mind began to race. Unprompted, her eyes focused on the blue tome. "Why?" she asked. "What could you possibly know?"

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

"Even if I believed you, why should I trust you at all?"

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

Hermione's eyes darted at the open doorway. He hadn't attacked for now, and, if they kept talking, she might eventually get the chance to run to her chimney and escape through the floo network. "And what would I have to do in exchange?" she asked tersely.

Dolohov regarded her impassively. "Two pieces of information—one for each of your parents."

"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 ignored her. Reaching into his pocket, he took out her vinewood and walnut wands. Holding them in his fist, he searched through an inner pocket further, until, eventually, he drew out a dark, pocket-sized book. Smiling wryly, he threw it onto her bed together with her two wands.

"What is that?" Hermione asked. "What are you trying to do?"

"I will not demand an answer now, but you'd do well to consider my offer," he said easily. "If you are interested, come to the White Wyvern on the first of October. Be there at seven in the evening."

Taking a step back, Dolohov raised his wand. A faint crack reverberated within her room as he 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 swallowed the lump in her throat and ran her fingers through her hair. Seconds later, she stood up again and walked to her bed. Grabbing her vinewood wand, she began to cast the first wards she could think of, not sparing a glance to the book the Death Eater had left behind.