Disclaimer: I don't own or make a profit from Harry Potter or DC Comics.
Rating: T for now, the rating may go up.
Spoilers: All seven books for Harry Potter. Pre the most recent Crisis in DC Comics, I think. I haven't really decided yet
Summary: What do you do when your memories aren't your own? When everything you think you knew about yourself is a lie?
Pairings: There will be ones later, I think, but for now, nothing. I'm open to suggestions, by the way. And there will be NO Hermione/Luna, for reasons which will become apparent in a couple chapters.
Author's Notes: This is my take on a very common story line. The cliché of Hermione Granger truly being a pureblood or the daughter of Severus Snape or the daughter of squibs is relatively common. This is and isn't like that. I'll leave you to figure out how this story differs from those, though I will tell you that whoever her parents may or may not be, they are not cannon Harry Potter characters. Neither, however, are they OCs.
Prologue
A young, pale police officer sat on the steps of the small brownstone, pale face between his knees. He'd already lost his lunch and the man couldn't help but wonder if he'd loose his breakfast as well.
He fought down another wave of nausea as Detective Tate walked out of the building. A sickly salty-sweat odor drifted out of the open doorway.
It was rare, even in a city such as this to see such a crime scene. And once again, the young police officer's mind shuddered away from the images he'd seen.
The coroners weren't even sure how many had died, from what the young police officer had heard. Whoever had been there had been torn limb from limb as if all the bones in their body had been torn apart, taking the flesh with them.
He glanced up. It was all he could do not to flinch back. The ambulance hadn't left yet. With a large blanket wrapped around her sat a little girl so traumatized by whatever had happened that she did only as instructed, no more, no less. Nobody had been able to get her to talk yet, though the young police officer doubted that anybody had tried too hard.
It was her screams which had alerted a passerby to the crimes which had happened inside the brownstone, though doubtless there were still many horrors which had not yet been uncovered. The girl had stopped the moment the police arrived.
And the young police officer couldn't help but to think cynically that the neighbors had been aware-at least somewhat, to the fact that something was not right with the residents of this building, yet they had done nothing. They'd done nothing, though doubtless the little girl had screamed and begged for mercy before, though doubtless, the smell emanating from the building had reached them, though doubtless they'd heard the little girl's screams this morning.
Having had the chance to calm down slightly, Johnny Brightwaters stood. No matter how horrifying the contents of the small house, he had to go back in. He just hoped he wouldn't throw up again.