It was early in the morning, and it was cold as Petunia Dursley made her way downstairs to put the kettle on to make Vernon a coffee before he left for work. He didn't like it, but complained when she didn't make him one, so she made him one anyway, and poured the cold coffee down the sink every morning. She pulled her tastefully pale pink robe tighter around her and instinctively rapped on the second bedroom door as if to wake her nephew up, even though she knew he wasn't there.
Her face darkened as she thought about her nephew, so she forced the thoughts away and padded quietly down the stairs. The door under the stairs obviously hadn't been latched properly, because it had swung open during the night, and Petunia fancied she saw the scrawny bespectacled boy sitting on a mattress in there, swatting away spiders as she walked past. When she blinked the image was gone, and she shook her head firmly. She was seeing Lily's son everywhere that morning.

It was odd not having Dudley in the house; it wasn't like he would be downstairs at this hour, the idea was laughable (unless it was his birthday), but she could usually hear him muttering, snorting and rolling around in his sleep, if he was audible over Vernon's snoring. Petunia loved her husband, but sometimes the urge to smother him was almost overwhelming when the sound of his snoring seemed as loud as a lorry thundering down the road past the house.
As she filled the kettle with water, she peered out of the kitchen window, craning her neck to try and see over the garden fence at her neighbour's garden. Petunia had often tutted over the man in the house's smoking habits, despite having smoked for years in secret in her twenties- this, she argued to Vernon when he snapped at her to stop being hypocritical, was exactly why she disapproved so much- she knew how disgusting it made you feel and smell. It was her first crush that had gotten her into cigarettes, and it was him moving away that had gotten her off them.

She prepared their mugs and leant against the kitchen counter as she waited for the kettle to boil, surveying the kitchen for dirt. Her mother had been as particular with the cleanliness of their childhood home as Petunia was, but Lily had always been a slob, both to her mother's and her despair.
Petunia grabbed the third bottle of disinfectant she'd gone through that week and wiped down the counter where she could see some crumbs she'd obviously missed in her tiredness from Vernon's yesterday's last night toast and chocolate spread, and straightened some of the magnets on the fridge, reading the latest postcard from Marge in her sister-in-law's large, weirdly neat handwriting.

Just about to pour the coffee and take it up to Vernon, who was crashing around upstairs as he got ready to go to work, she started as the doorbell rang and was quickly followed by several loud, forceful, insistent knocks. Petunia frowned, mind rushing to: Who calls so early in the morning?, which then faded to embarrassment over the fact she would have to answer the door with her hair still in curlers and herself still in her dressing gown. Scowling now, she sighed and hurried up to the door. As she fumbled with the key, she stared at the two figures behind the glass: what looked like a tall man with dark hair and a short woman with flaming red hair.
I'm seeing my sister everywhere this morning. Maybe I had a dream about her or something.

Petunia pulled open the door.
And almost fainted.
She stared and stared and stared at the two figures standing on her doorstep at seven thirty in the morning. She stared and stared and stared until her eyes started to water, and she realised that it wasn't just because she wasn't blinking.
Suddenly she was grasping for the door frame because she thought she was going to fall over.
"Vernon." She cried weakly. "Vernon!"
"What is it, Petunia?" He yelled down the stairs. "I'm getting ready! Who is it?"
"It's…" She muttered. "It's…"
"Petunia? Who is it?"
"But it's not…" She muttered. "It can't be. It's not."
"Petunia? I'm getting ready! What is it?"
She didn't answer, just stared and stared and stared.
Behind her Vernon was stomping down the stairs, huffing and puffing, annoyed.
"Honestly, Petunia, what is it?"

Then he stopped behind her and focused on the couple standing outside on the doorstep. He gaped.
"Can we come in?" Lily Potter said quietly, eyes never leaving her sister.
Petunia opened her mouth to speak but just sucked in a breath. She couldn't think. Her eyes were wet. Her heart was pounding. She was frozen, just staring.
Vernon spluttered something, reached forward and began to shut the door in their faces.
Petunia made a jerky movement with her arms, let out a strangled cry of protest and threw her arms out to stop the door. It slammed into her wrists and made them ache, but the pain was anchoring and it was enough to stop Vernon from trying to close the front door. She pushed it back open, and it swung round and hit the wall, shuddering from the impact.
Finally Petunia found her voice, gripped with surprise and disbelief. She croaked, "Lily?"
Lily Potter's eyes were hard, like her husband's. "We need to talk."

Hermione Granger's legs were folded under her and were cramping up, but she ignored the ache.

The common room was almost empty, most of her year, including Ron, retreating to bed a while ago, and only a few seventh years whispering secretively over a table in the corner, Fred and George playing Exploding Snap laid out on the rug and her stuck in her armchair were remaining. Her eyes were aching in the dim light of the fire as she ached to read to distract herself, but an abandoned Daily Prophet on the coffee table in front of the fire had a headline on its front page that glared at her.
NECROMANCY SHOCK- DUMBLEDORE A DANGEROUS DARK WIZARD?

She tore her eyes from it and tried to force herself to focus on her book but she shifted uncomfortably, her attempts at distracting working to no avail, and shut the book with a snap. As she stared at the newspaper the dark whispers she'd been shoving away all day clawed at her, toyed with her.

He's not the Dark Wizard, you are.
You're the one who broke the law.
You committed necromancy! It's the only thing worse than an Unforgivable Curse.
Someone's going to find out how you did it.
Someone important's going to find out what you did.
Someone's going to actually find out, and that someone's going to report you.
You'll be sent to Azkaban.
And look what that did to Sirius.
Someone's going to find out.
You're the Dark Wizard, not Dumbledore.
You're-

"No." She whispered aloud to herself, stopping the torrent of unwanted thoughts. "No. Stop that."
I did a good thing. I brought Harry's parents back to life.
I gave them a second chance after being murdered!
Harry is thrilled. Professor Lupin is thrilled. Sirius is thrilled. Everyone's happy!-

So why do I feel so guilty?

Hermione moved the book she'd been trying to read about Patroni aside and looked at the second book she didn't even really remembering borrowing in the library, only flicking through it for something and marking the page with a spare scrap of parchment. She glanced at the cover: it was in Latin.
She remembered asking Madam Pince for help finding it.
The page she'd marked was crammed full of words in a tiny, faded font, and she squinted to read, tilting it so it was in optimum light from the dying fire.

And so for the crime of attempted necromancy the penalty would be life incarceration in Azkaban with appeals being a small possibility and for the crime of successful and complete, lasting necromancy that resulted in the violation of Death the penalty would be circumstantial, either life incarceration with no appeals or retrials with absolute proof or in some countries execution by the method preferred by the country of origin and/or the country in which the crime was committed depending which is considered most relevant by the judge to the situation at hand. Necromancy is a crime for which there must be certainty of no repeat offence or more than one crime committed with similar connotations. If there has been more than one offence of necromantic nature then the court's preferred method is execution.

"Are you all right, Hermione?"
Fred's voice was concerned but still tinged with the laughter he had just shared with his brother over a joke one of them had made.
"I'm fine." She said quietly. "Just tired. Thanks, Fred."
He grinned widely at her, George sharing his expression, and then they went back to their game.

She stared down the small text, which suddenly seemed to buzz and fly around the page like wasps. One word screamed at her.

'execution-'

Hermione shut the book.

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