Author's Notes: Thanks to the few yet wonderful people who reviewed my story so far. Yeah, I know the last chapter didn't really give you a glimpse of my story at all, but this chapter is mighty long and makes up for it. And for the person who asked: this story is NOT a one-shot. I have a long way to go yet. So grab a Coke – or, if you prefer like me, a red crème soda – and get ready for a chapter which is mostly all flashback. Don't you just love those? And at the end, you can show how much you love me by reviewing!
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CHAPTER ONE – A HAUNTING NIGHTMARE
"Good day, London! It is seven o'clock in the morning and you are listening to WLRN. I'm Brock Stevens, this hour's host, and coming up next in the top ten countdown is –"
"I could care less," mumbled Hermione groggily while reaching unsuccessfully for the radio on the bedside stand, trying to shut it off. "Don't know why I ever bought that thing."
The day was young as a lethargic twenty-three year old Hermione Granger crawled out of her warm bed and fumbled around the room for her fluffy pink slippers. An entire day of stressful work was ahead of her, but at the moment, the only thought that flashed across her dazed mind was "make strong coffee".
Hermione's morning routine was the same every day of the week: wake up to loud and annoying music, stub your toe once or twice while trying to get out of your bedroom, burn your tongue by drinking scorching tasteless coffee, and throw on the nearest robe in order to be on time for work. Life was so brutal.
After finding the strongest coffee available in the large apartment kitchen, Hermione turned on the Muggle television and collapsed in a hard, rigid chair at the table. On top of the sparkling linoleum was a large pile of different-sized letters, all bearing the same name stamped on the back of the envelopes: THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC. With a sigh, Hermione shoved the letters to the side of the table, not in the mood to go through them at the moment. During the night, she left the kitchen window open as she knew the Ministry was constantly shipping off owls to her house with news and tips concerning her work at all hours of the day. Rarely did she ever open a single one of them.
Hermione diverted her attention to the anchorwoman on the television screen. She was standing in front of a smoldering building (or what was left of it, anyway) and moving her arms intricately to gesture at the ruins behind her.
"… at five in the morning. Investigators are not at liberty to reveal their theories on what caused the horrendous fire, but it is believed that the investigators have not yet reached a conclusion at all. The burning of this shoe warehouse was as deadly as it was suspicious. Not a single can of lighter fluid nor any other evidence has been found. This is Marcia Scott, and now back to you, Ben."
The screen changed as Ben, London's favorite news host, appeared with a large, toothy grin on his face. Hermione shut the television off and walked across the kitchen to pour the biggest cup of coffee she could.
Life for the young, inspiring adult was at its ultimate high. Hermione was impressed with her living accommodations (a six-room apartment on the eleventh floor of a renowned London complex), her relationships (she was currently seeing no one and definitely liked it that way), and, most of all, her career. Working as a top secret agent for the British Ministry of Magic wasn't the dream job she had always wanted, but it sure was pretty amazing. She had traveled to all seven continents at least five times each; caught notorious bandits of wizardry in the midst of their evil schemes; and won the Most Valuable Witch award for her department three years in a row. She had to admit that there wasn't much more she could ask for.
A sudden tapping on the window directly in front of her face caused Hermione to jump, spilling the fiery coffee in her hand on the floor. A dark owl was wavering in the air, angrily pecking the glass with its sharp beak. Ignoring the coffee stains on her tiles, Hermione unlocked the window and ducked as the owl flew in, dropped a bulky dark envelope on her table, and zoomed off through the trees.
As if I don't have enough trash in my kitchen already, Hermione thought irritably. The letters the Ministry sent her were junk, anyway.
But the large crimson envelope held her attention for far many more seconds than it should have. It looked rather intimidating, perched atop the pile of letters, darker in color than the rest and superior in size. It seemed to whisper the words "open me… read me…", or maybe that was just the voice in the back of Hermione's head. But what could this mysterious letter contain? Perhaps it was a thank you from the American Minister. Hermione did save San Francisco from being blown to pieces by terrorists, after all. Or maybe it was from that Austria bloke, whatever his name was, asking Hermione to come back for a ceremony in her name. She did deserve one, after rescuing his wife from a villain's clutches in a hot-air balloon thousands of feet above the country.
A letter that mystifying didn't look too friendly, Hermione decided. It was probably a death threat from Jacques Pierre, France's latest in the insane dark wizard category. Imprisoning him in Azkaban for seventy years didn't exactly propose a positive relationship between the two. No, it really looked more to be along the lines of work by Dr. Achjonspielwhatever, the mad German Muggle-killer Hermione had caught four years ago while roaming the streets of Berlin. Actually, it could've been sent by –
"Oh, God, it's just a stupid letter," Hermione muttered aloud before reaching across the table to grab the crimson letter that was causing so much curiosity in her mind. She tore off the envelope bearing the Ministry of Magic seal and extracted the paper inside.
"Damn."
"MISS GRANGER," roared a ferocious voice, filling the entire room. "I DO BELIEVE YOU ARE FAILING TO OPEN AND READ YOUR WORK LETTERS AGAIN. FURTHERMORE, I PRESUME YOU ARE UNAWARE OF THE FIRE THAT OCCURRED AT FIVE O'CLOCK THIS MORNING ON WESTCHESTER BOULEVARD, SOUTH OF SURREY."
Hermione should have known it was a Howler. She herself had not received any before, but she knew of several people who had. The intimidating envelope, the dark, crimson color… now there was nothing to do but sit and listen to the words of her angry boss. She could only pray the neighbors wouldn't come knocking on her door.
"Westchester Boule – that's the warehouse that burned down," Hermione muttered, beginning to sort through the clues and fit them together. It was a Ministry spy skill she had developed over the years.
"NOT DONE BY MUGGLES, GRANGER," continued the voice. It was growing louder and louder with every sentence. "NOT DONE BY MUGGLES! IT WAS CLEARLY THE WORK OF OUR KIND. BUT YOU'D ALREADY KNOW THAT HAD YOU BEEN KEEPING UP WITH YOUR MAIL! THIS CASE SHOULD HAVE BEEN SOLVED THIS MORNING AT FIVE O'CLOCK – WHEN THE LETTER ASKING YOU TO ATTEND THE CRIME SCENE WAS SENT OUT! YOU'RE SLACKING OFF, GRANGER. YOU'RE OUR TOP SPY AND I ABSOLUTELY WON'T HAVE THIS HAPPEN. I WANT TO SEE YOU IN MY OFFICE PROMPLTY ONE HOUR FROM NOW, OR YOU'LL NEVER HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO RECEIVE ANOTHER HOWLER FROM ME AGAIN!"
"Wouldn't want to miss that chance," mumbled Hermione. She was slightly shaken by the Howler sent from her boss, though. Slacking off didn't fit into her job description. And she couldn't afford to get fired – no, she wouldn't get fired. She was Hermione Granger, after all.
* * *
An hour later, dressed in her most impressive black suit carrying her most impressive (empty) briefcase and with her hair up in the most impressively ridiculous bun ever, Hermione Granger marched down the crowded London streets, feeling like the regular Muggle businesswoman. It was rather a shame that she missed the commotion present on the roads of London when she usually just Apparated to work. This morning, however, she had time to spare and decided to take a walk to work instead.
True, Hermione had morphed into a rather different person since she graduated from school. No longer was she the studious bookworm her classmates had always envied; now, Hermione could be described as an attractive young lady with a definite sense of adventure. She had developed such a sense over the years from being a secret agent for the Ministry and traveling the world. In fact, if any of her old acquaintances from her school days could see her now, they would most likely drop dead in shock (probably because Hermione had learned to straighten her hair. She had to admit, it was quite frightening.)
A couple with a small child passed Hermione, all three of them laughing uproariously. The mother ruffled the daughter's curly hair, swept her into her arms, and kissed her all over the forehead as they continued down the street.
I wonder what it's like to still have parents, Hermione wondered silently, while haunting memories came quickly and unwillingly gushing back into her mind.
[FLASHBACK]
The night was dark and rainy. Though the times were dangerous, Hermione had left her parents at home for a brief time to assist the Order. They had been on the lookout for several murderous Death Eaters for months, and Ron had just Owled her with a new lead. After explaining how much she was needed, she said goodbye to her parents for what unexpectedly turned out to be the last time.
Along with other prominent Order members, Hermione traveled the city in search of clues concerning the Death Eaters' whereabouts. When things started looking positive, the group followed a series of signs that would hopefully lead them to the site where the Death Eaters were planning to strike next. Hermione was quickly growing in anticipation while wondering if the chase would result in a violet confrontation or not.
The hunt was coming to an end, and as the group (traveling by broomsticks) lowered to the ground through the thick fog, an unusual and deathly silence surrounded Hermione and her fellow trackers.
Then, a panicked shout rang through the night that caused Hermione's heart to stop. "Oh, my god – Hermione!" The voice belonged to Tonks, who stood at the front of the group. The terror in her tone alarmed Hermione at once. A chorus of gasps and murmurs followed her cry and when Hermione pushed through to the front of the small crowd, her stomach dropped a good five feet and feelings of nausea started coming like tidal waves.
In front of her eyes stood a smoldering and completely destroyed building – the building that had once been her own home.
Harry and Ron automatically appeared at her side, their jaws a mile long. The entire group was silent for several long minutes, lost in shock, while it really seemed to Hermione like several long lifetimes. Standing in front of her burning home was one of the most trying times in Hermione's entire life. It was a moment that haunted her dreams every night for years to come. The emotion of knowing that her hospitable, loving home was ablaze merely fifty feet from where she was standing nearly caused Hermione's early death.
"Oh, my – Oh, God, oh…," were the only words Hermione's mouth could utter. She felt like someone had thrust something large and heavy into her stomach, taking her breath away. Then the awful truth slowly dawned on her, causing Hermione to reflex automatically.
"My parents."
She stepped forward, hardly able to believe she could still move her legs, and began moving towards her ruined home at a slow walk. Then it turned into a jog, then a run, and then a full-out sprint. She didn't care about the flames ahead of her – the only thing on her mind was the condition of her parents.
She hadn't gotten very far when tugs on her arms and yells of, "Hermione!" broke her concentration. While it had seemed that everything was happening in slow motion when the sight of her burning home met her eyes, the world was moving once again and Hermione caught glance of Order members flashing past her, running towards the blazing structure. Neighbors that Hermione recognized were piling out of their homes and standing on their doorsteps in bathrobes and pajamas. Sirens blared in the distance, lights of police cars behind her reflected in the windows of the surrounding houses, and incomprehensible shouts filled the clammy night air.
Their search had been definitely been fruitful. The Death Eaters had chosen Hermione's own home as their next attack. Unfortunately, they had not arrived on the scene in time.
A truck came to a screeching halt in the background and dozens of yellow-clad firemen appeared on all sides of Hermione, some carrying water hoses, others carrying axes and hatchets. They disappeared into the home without so much as a flinch while water spewed from ten different gigantic hoses, trying to put out the raging fire.
Why am I still standing here? Hermione thought to herself as she watched a firefighter put out a flame on his pantleg. My parents are still in there, and that's where I should be!
She shifted forward in attempts to escape the hands that were holding her back but did not succeed. Two people were forcefully keeping her in place and wouldn't let her budge at all. Hermione began to grow hysterical, repeating, "Let me go! My parents need me!" to her captors. She waved her arms elaborately and strained her muscles to break away from the human hands that bound her to the spot like chains.
"Hermione, stop," commanded a harsh yet soothing voice. She awkwardly slumped in place, having given up hope of freedom, and didn't try to restrain her tears. They flowed freely, mingling with the hair that was hanging over her face.
"Come on, Hermione. It's okay."
Hermione looked up to see Harry and Ron standing above her, holding her arms back in case she would attempt another escape. Their eyes were round and full of pure concern for her. And they all were thinking the same thought, but it was Hermione who was brave enough to voice it.
"They're dead."
"No, they're not," said Ron with false confidence.
"They're dead. They're gone. I couldn't save them in time."
Harry and Ron exchanged nervous glances, unsure of how to respond to such a comment. "They aren't dead. And it isn't your fault, Hermione."
Hermione's head flipped up to stare Ron in the eyes. "I'm the one who left them alone, Ron, when I knew I shouldn't have! It's my own fault that they're dead! If I had stayed home, then I could've –"
"You could've what?" Harry asked. "You could've fought of a dozen Death Eaters all on your own? You could've saved them?"
"It isn't your fault," Ron repeated softly. He was about to open his mouth a second time and add, "You don't know that they're dead," but it would have been pointless. As much as none of them wanted to admit, they all knew the truth – Hermione's parents were dead.
Hermione knew it, too. She knew they were dead. And she honestly believed it was her own fault and her mistake that had cost them their lives. Glancing up again at the horrific scene before her caused her to unexpectedly fling her arms around Ron's neck and sob hysterically.
"It's – okay," Ron said uncertainly, patting her on the head. He and Harry too gazed at Hermione's ruined home and the wizards and firefighters trying to extinguish the flames. It was nearly impossible to believe that only two days ago, the trio had been sitting in that very house, sipping tea with the Grangers and discussing the situations at hand.
They stood like that for a long time, deeply immersed in thought and transfixed by the sight. When a frazzled looking Arthur Weasley emerged from the collapsing doorway, followed by several other wizards, the trio broke apart to hear the news he carried.
"Look at this," he called shakily. In his hands appeared to be a scorched piece of wood. "We found this laying in the kitchen –"
A group formed around him to examine the mysterious object he possessed. Hermione unsteadily moved toward Arthur with Harry and Ron, inconspicuously holding Ron's hand.
"What is it, Arthur?" asked Molly. Arthur glanced around at the firefighters and the gathered neighbors before holding the plank of wood out for the group to see. "Look at the initials burned into this wood," he said, pointing.
Two visible letters were carved into the wood, either by fire or magic. Every member of the group gasped and recognized the symbol right away, as they had seen it in attacked homes countless times before.
"B.L.," Harry said. "That's –"
"Bellatrix Lestrange," Hermione murmured. On every scene that had been assaulted by Death Eaters, the initials of Bellatrix could be found. Leaving her mark on the homes she had demolished came to be her villainous trademark.
While the rest of the group moved away to examine other remnants of the house and converse with the authorities, only one thought remained on Hermione's mind.
Bellatrix Lestrange had killed her parents.
Hermione had made it her life mission to track down Lestrange and punish her for killing her parents. She would stop at nothing to make sure this merciless woman who had murdered so many innocent families before would not do so again.
When Hermione looked up from the ground where she had been watching her feet rhythmically step right then step left, she realized that she was already at work. The flashback of that horrific night had made her oblivious to the outside world. Unfortunately, she had missed most of the hustle of the Muggle life that she had ventured out for in the first place.
Remembering suddenly that her boss had seemed quite perturbed the last time they spoke (well, the last time he spoke, and rather deafeningly too), Hermione quickly began to pray that she wasn't about to get fired in the next five minutes.