She was sprawled on a hardwood floor, praying to a god she did not believe in that death would take her soon. Agony licked up her spine, like wildfire let loose on a wooded countryside.

"I'm going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword?"

A frozen lake in the Forest of Dean, whispered a traitorous voice in the back of her skull. But her lips, numb from pain, did not move. They would never form those words, even as a fresh wave of pain pulsed across her skin and through her gut.

"We found it!" Her vocal chords were raw from screaming. "We found it! Please!"

"You are a lying, filthy Mudblood! Crucio!"

Intense though the pain was, it was the word that left lasting echoes. Mudblood. It speared through the dark, ornately furnished room like a whip crack, settling over her very bones. The word, and not the memories of pain, was what startled Hermione awake. Her racing mind did not comprehend, at first, that her bedroom was not the cold floor of Malfoy Manor. There was no Bellatrix lurking in the corner, no Greyback slavering for her blood. Just simple, modern furnishings, and her cat Crookshanks dozing on a nearby armchair.

The vinewood wand in her hand was warm, and thrummed with a familiar energy as she whispered a quick Lumos. It illuminated the way to her kitchen, which was dimly lit by a few everlasting candles, and a quick flick had the television flaring to life. The morning news was a comforting drone that chased away any lingering remnants of her nightmare, though a chill that was entirely misplaced in the late August heat still rippled in the pit of her stomach. Hermione could just make out, in the dull blue light of a waxing moon, where the ocean met the pebbly shore beyond her cottage home. There was no one in sight, Muggle or otherwise, and some of her tension eased. A hot coffee drove away the rest of the unseasonable cold.

Crookshanks, with his uncanny intuition, seemed to sense that Hermione was ill at ease. He curled up next to her on the sofa, where she had settled with her feet tucked beneath her. Even if she didn't have to be at the office for a few hours, there was little point in trying to fall asleep again— she rarely could, after a bad dream. Idly stroking Crookshanks' ginger fur, she was content to sip at her coffee and allow the morning to gently unfold.

"Police are investigating a triple homicide in Stratford-upon-Avon," came the news reporter's voice, jarring Hermione from her sleep-hazy thoughts. "Official reports have yet to be released, however investigators have revealed that they are perplexed by the lack of forced entry and no visible causes of death. Nancy Clayton, reporting to you live at 6:57am."

Shakespeare's birthplace; a quaint town on the River Avon where some of the world's greatest works had sprung into being. And now, a set of horrific murders. Hermione wondered vaguely if they would be buried near the playwright, but that fanciful thought was whisked away when she allowed herself to properly consider the implications of the news. No forced entry, no visible causes of death.

The chill in her stomach returned.

A dignified looking barn owl delivered her copy of the Sunday Prophet at 7 o'clock exactly, and Hermione couldn't fight the shaking in her fingers as she tore it free. Sunday, 18th August 2002 read the date, and below it, in large black letters:

MUGGLES MURDERED IN STRATFORD-UPON-AVON BY THE KILLING CURSE

All at once, Hermione found herself back in 1996. This was how it had begun last time, with deaths and disappearances. She was a fool, a complacent fool who had allowed herself to become soft in the four years since the war ended. With her wand held in a white knuckled grip, Hermione marched to the fireplace and tossed a handful of Floo powder onto the dying embers. Flames erupted in an emerald wall, allowing Hermione to shove her head into it and announce 'Twelve, Grimmauld Place!' Her knees remained planted firmly on the carpet, but she felt her upper body twist and sway through the Floo network.

"Hermione?"

"Harry!" she cried through a mouthful of soot. "I just saw the Prophet. Are you and the other Aurors investigating?"

"The Stratford-upon-Avon killings? We're all going in this morning for a meeting with Robards and Kingsley about it," Harry said. Through the fireplace, Hermione could make out his blurry outline as he hopped into her line of sight. He had clearly just dressed, and was in the process of pulling on his other shoe.

"What does this mean, Harry? He couldn't be… He couldn't be back, could he?"

"Hermione, you saw me kill him, and you saw the body." Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, still bleary-eyed from sleep. "As awful as this is, I'm almost certain it's just a deranged pureblood supremacist. Just to be safe, though… can you come keep Ginny company?"

Hermione distinctly heard an indignant voice in the background claim that she didn't need babysitting, but she couldn't hear Harry's reply— he had left the room, no longer hopping. Without bothering to dress herself, Hermione pulled her dressing gown tighter and seized another fistful of Floo powder.

Autumn had come early to the kitchen of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Pumpkin and cinnamon scents laced the air, emanating from a simmering cauldron placed over a merrily crackling fire. The familiar house elf that normally manned the kitchen, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"Ginny?" Hermione called tentatively.

"Sitting room."

What had previously been a dreary space infested with Doxies and cursed artefacts was now a sunny room painted mint green. Not dissimilar to the Burrow, the sitting room had mismatched, but comfortable looking furniture strewn about— in one such armchair sat Ginny Weasley, gazing sullenly out the window while a purple Pygmy Puff dozed contentedly in her lap. The witch had sheets of long red hair hanging down her back, pulled away from her face in a low ponytail. Hermione padded slowly around the sitting room, her slippers sinking into the fluffy rug underfoot.

"Where's Kreacher?"

"At Hogwarts, helping the other house elves for the start of the school year." Ginny leapt to her feet and dislodged Arnold, who gave a frightened squeak as he toppled to the carpet. Her eyes were blazing with frustration as she began to pace. "It's like he doesn't think I'm a perfectly capable witch in my own right! I was part of the DA, I fought at the Battle of Hogwarts. And if I had wanted to, I could've become an Auror… So what if I wanted to pursue Quidditch?"

Hermione knew that Ginny's tirade wasn't referencing Kreacher.

"Gin… Harry's just worried about you, that's all."

"I'm his fiancée, not his daughter," Ginny muttered, before slumping back into her chair.

Half a dozen framed photographs were pinned to the wallpaper, their inhabitants waving and smiling out at Hermione as she wandered past. A sad smile stole her lips— there was baby Teddy, chubby little arms flailing while Remus and Tonks smiled from either side of his cot. Beside it, a photo of the Weasley family beamed in front of a distant pyramid. Hermione was being helped into one of the enchanted boats on her final day at Hogwarts, accompanied by Ginny and Luna.

"How long do you think he'll be?" The anger had leached from Ginny's tone, leaving the witch sounding quiet and anxious.

Hermione breathed out a soft sigh, and moved to grasp Ginny's hand. "I don't know, but I'll be here as long as it takes."

Neither witch said a word as the minutes ticked by. A far off cuckoo clock marked the hour, and Hermione had just opened her mouth to speak when a stag Patronus came soaring into the room. Ginny's grip around her fingers turned painful as it spoke in Harry's voice.

"Lucius Malfoy is dead," it said. "We need you at the Ministry, Hermione. You may need to become an Auror after all."