A blue flame burned against the golden edge of the catch, sparking below. The temperature gage beneath it rose gradually upward until it plateaued in the center. Slowly, Hermione pushed her kettle holder toward the flame until it danced underneath its dark belly. She held her breath as the water began to boil. Steam rose from the water. Its colors swirled inside until they wove into a deep jade. The tip of Hermione's poised wand flicked upward, and from the water came a piece of rock no bigger than a sand dollar. Hermione lowered the rock to her work desk. She pulled two black, heat-resistant gloves over her callused hands and picked up her magnifying lens.

"Aparecium," she uttered. Visible now was an ancient language dictating instructions to her. Her eyes scanned them, tilting the rock. There was a slight seam where the two parts came together. Gently, she positioned her wand against it.

"Defodio," she whispered, and ever so slightly the rock began to crumble in upon itself around that seam, showing her its contents. Hermione peered inside the rock and held her breath.

She set it down, pulled her gloves off and wiped the sweat from her brow. Standing, she reaching onto a shelf above her head and grasped a corked bottle with a swirling, transparent solution inside. With care, she rolled her wooden chair back to the desk, sitting upon it and poured the potion over the fossil. The crumbling dust made way to a sticky residue, clinging like colorful wet sand as it dropped off and fell to her table in small mounds.

"Come on, now," she encouraged.

This phenomenon followed the contours of the rock producing a convex, crystalizing bubble where the fossil had once been. She snapped her wand back into her hand and closing her eyes, she moved it left to right. "Ostendio Magicia Anima," she whispered. She opened her eyes. The crystalizing solution turned green. Then blue. Magenta. Then it began to harden. The bottom of the fossil cracked under the expansion of the stuff.

"Shit." She pulled a small hammer from her desk drawer and hurriedly chipped the rest of the rock away from the now glassy, spherical mass. She turned it over. Inside the orb were tiny, white spots like mica on the face of a marble slab. She turned it slowly toward the light and watched the specs flash pink and yellow. She hastily unwound a tendril of her curls from the binoculars on her head and pushed them down over her eyes. Looking through them, she smiled. "Now THAT is wicked."

A cup of tea steamed on the desk in the candlelight as Hermione tipped back in her chair rubbing the bridge of her nose and heaving a sigh. She pushed the binoculars back onto her head, and with it raked her curls into submission and out of her eyes.

"Fossilized bit of Aconite, removed from Mount Olympus, Macedonian side, dated to 1,000 BC... found to be of magical orientation…" She stretched her legs out underneath the desk and the bewitched quill scratched its way down the parchment in her near-to-bursting book of notes. "Aconite, of course, known to be widely used by muggles in Ancient Greek folklore as a poison of sorts, and as a slayer of wolves, being a relative of our Wolfsbane, also known to be of magical orientation. This hereby proves the predating of the Aconite/Wolfsbane lineage to that of the Greek peoples, including their witches and wizards. Though I have yet to discover a link between the Hjiji plant of The Ancient Sumer (most often used for regrowth and deep thinking, of magical orientation) and what is now known as our modern Rosemary herb of no magical origin, the connection of the same magical vein in modern wolfsbane as ancient aconite specimens suggests that locations in the Middle East should be considered for scouting for such a link to Hjiji. I am convinced that these two things share the same Herbology and history. Where it lost its magical essence is unknown at this time, but hoped to be provided upon further testing of specimens in the Middle East, as suggested. It should also be documented that the herb of Rosemary is often used in muggle performed, demi-magical practices to elicit a response which is "unable to be proved" with their science, such as through Aromatherapy, Wiccan spell-casting, and Massage." She rubbed her red eyes and yawned. She glanced at her watch: 2:38AM. "Damn."

For a moment she relaxed, letting the dimly lit room remind her of the sweet, relished feeling of closing her eyes. The room swam before her as it hadn't in weeks… the bewitched photograph of Harry, Ron and she accepting their Modern Day Merlin Awards for their roles in defeating The Dark Lord… beside it, the photo of Harry and Ginny walking the newly one year-old Lily across their kitchen floor. Hermione smiled. Beneath it was the picture Lily had finger-painted "Godmommy Hermy" last year. The reds changed to greens depending on the temperature of her office. It was beginning to collect dust in her carelessness. She looked away. Her Masters Degree from Oxford University hung high- crookedly from where the nail had chipped- on the wall above her desk, atop two shelves so full of paperwork and documents they were sure to give way at any moment (had she not thought ahead and reinforced them with a strengthening charm)… Bachelors Degree in Science and Research, Masters in Archeology, Valedictorian- surprising no one, of course... but forging the muggle high school transcripts had been a surreal experience for her. And hanging below, the aged parchment bestowed upon her out of honor more than merit: the proof that she had graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She yearned to feel the truth of those words in her heart the way the eyes read them, but she would always know. She didn't technically have a final year at Hogwarts. No... she had saved the world, instead. She sighed.

The chair dug its wheels in as she pushed it back away from the desk and she scratched up and down her arms, yawning again. She stood up and an orange tabby cat rubbed his way along her shin bones, standing on his tip toes to purr up at her knees. "Bedtime, Crook," she said. He hopped onto her desk chair for a last minute stretch. She crossed into the kitchen and opened her empty fridge. The bright light stung her eyes and she searched through what she knew was likely mold and empty containers to no avail. She sighed and shut the door. The smiling, waving faces of Ron and Cousin Elsa greeted her as she did. She smiled back, casting a look over the last letter they had sent her. They were in America, now, visiting "The Alamo." She could just picture Ron now dealing with the traditional views in Southern America. Good grief. She smiled.

She was glad she'd introduced those two… long after the awkwardness of she and Ron being on again, off again… after he'd finally worked up the courage to seduce her on New Years Eve those long ten years ago… after waking up to him, day after day, for five years thinking, "This is what it's like to love your best friend," in contentment, but never really in love… but she was able to forget about the magic, and where it all came from… what it all meant… until she saw him with Elsa.

She'd restored her parents' memories as soon as she was sure the threat of The Dark Lord was passed, and after she had, she'd brought her boyfriend home to meet the family. Five years into their relationship, it took seeing the way Elsa had looked at Ron… the way Ron had looked at Elsa, for her to finally understand. In ways, Elsa and Hermione were very much in common… despite the fact that Elsa was a muggle. Still, she knew what Ron was, and despite the challenges ahead of them, Hermione wouldn't have tried for the world to stand in the way of that. She had to let him go, guilty as he may have felt… and she didn't blame him for going. Never would. Trauma may have bonded them, time and time again, but in a way, she was grateful to know... it was possible for love to be like that.

Though, she thought, casting a look into her wayward, dark room with an unmade bed and only one bedside table… it may not have lent to the most fabulous end result for her. At this point, her contentment came mostly from plants, rocks, and ancient texts... more than contentment... passion. Passion she had never had with Ron. Still. The bedroom hadn't benefited the way her brain had.

She walked into the bathroom and flicked on the light. "Bloody Hell," she whispered. "Am I 27 or 49?" The dark purple blotches covering the bags under her eyes were evidence of her three long weeks of research and documentation. It would all be worth it when it was complete; when she had an answer. She opened up the medicine chest and squeezed some toothpaste onto her toothbrush. Crookshanks slid his head into the doorframe. "You know she was raised by Dentists when she hasn't eaten all day- or touched a spot of hot tea- but feels compelled to brush her teeth before bed." He licked his lips. Her brow furrowed. She ducked her head into the hallway to peer at her desk. Her empty teacup rolled across the surface. She glanced at Crookshanks. The teaspoon dangled dangerously on the edge of her desk chair. He headed toward the bedroom, tail in the air.

"At least one of us will have some energy tomorrow morning."

The alarm buzzed noisily in her ear at a blasphemous 6AM. She grit her teeth and rolled over, retrieving a pillow from behind her and smashing it over her head. Her left hand fumbled for the alarm.

"Not yet…" she pleaded. It continued to buzz. With a crash she sat up. The newly broken water glass- from Merlin only knew how many days ago- lay in a puddle on the bedroom floor, the alarm only inches from it. "Good morning," she mumbled and hopped up. "Mondere," she waved over her shoulder as she walked to her overwhelmingly full laundry basket. The alarm went quiet on its own after so many rings. She removed a towel from the heap and turned back to the mess that Crookshanks was beginning to circle. She tsked at the mess that instead of cleaning itself as she had cast, had instead rearranged itself with the broken glass standing with all its most sharp, dangerous pieces pointed up toward her in the middle of what looked like twice the water volume she had originally spilled. She frowned at it. "Mondere!" she repeated, in focus. The pieces reassembled, surrounding the puddle like the moat of a fortress of death. The alarm clock sparked as the outskirts of the puddle glazed it. Crookshanks hissed at it.

"Why is she- dashing, gorgeous, clever- such a very single young woman? It's not like she can't perform a simple cleaning spell…". Crookshanks walked to her feet, sat down and looked up at her. "…Or ever talks to her cat, at all…".

The alarm began to chime, again.

Hermione headed down a busy London street with a coffee cup in one hand an over-the-shoulder bag full of research in the other. She was going to be very late for work if she wasn't careful, and this project was costing The Department of Magical History and Research a fortune. If she didn't come up with some serious case work soon, they were likely to pull the plug, and the idea of that brought her closer to vomiting than one of Hagrid's stony apple dumplings. The last thing she needed was time riding her back. Time should be on her side. This was History, after all.

Stuck waiting for a bus to vacate the crosswalk, she was so close she could spit on it… not that she ever would. A mother carrying grocery bags and the hand of a small child walked the sidewalk toward Hermione. A harmless but very smelly vagabond Hermione knew well lay sleeping, his face underneath one of last week's stained newspapers to hide the sun, on the steps of the what appeared to be a closed and dilapidated Public Library. The mother squeezed her daughter's hand as she passed him. He stirred, slipping the paper away from his mouth and wiping it on the back of his sleeve, waking.

"The Hippogriff bows before none so proud, but one who's more likely to be standing…?" He certainly had the child's attention now. The mother stopped for a just a moment, staring at him. She tugged on the child's hand. "Not today, sweetheart. We'll bring him a sandwich tomorrow." Hermione tipped her head down as they passed her. She often questioned the naivety of muggles… was it easier not to see because they did not want to? What of the ones who garnered some intuition? Had they some spark of magic, themselves, she wondered... and on what level of consciousness? In the brain, or heart? She hugged her research closer to her and approached the bum, who was adjusting himself on the stoop.

"The Hippogriff bows before none so proud, but one who's more likely to be standing—"

"Down," she answered. He smiled.

"Right, Miss. We'll take yer down." And in the blink of an eye she was whizzing through a system of complicated slides, and just as quickly, back on her feet in the lobby of The Department. She adjusted herself to find she had spilled coffee on her right lapel. She cursed.

"Mondere," she muttered. The stain turned bleach white. She frowned. "Better than coffee," she decided and headed to the front desk, the secretary blinking up at her from behind a pair of very thick glasses.

"Hellooo," she crooned at Hermione, smiling genuinely and widely. God, why can't I feel like that in the morning? She thought.

"Hermione Granger to see the Board? I have a meeting at 8:15."

"You had an appointment at 8:15, yes… did you know? It's 8:20 now…." Hermione sighed, glancing at the clock over the boarded up fireplace with a sign that read, "Closed for renovations." She nodded toward it.

"Yes, well, without the Floo Network in operation, it was a bit of a challenge to get here this morning, you understand."

"Ah, yes, dear. Budget cutbacks," she smiled apologetically. Hermione winced. Cutbacks? That cannot be good….

One of the two doors behind the secretary opened and Alexander Fishbottle stepped out. He was a long man in his mid-50s with a distended belly as if to indicate his impending motherhood, and he dressed it up well with tailored robes and a shiny golden watch in his front pocket that Hermione secretly adored, for it reminded her of one very like another she used to wear, with special privilege.

"Miss Granger!" he said warmly, throwing his arms up to greet her. She smiled at him.

"Dr. Fishbottle," she nodded, walking toward him. He ushered her into the board room.

"Yes, yes. Sit down, child!" He called, showing her to her only empty seat at a table seating 12. They were all here today, weren't they? That never meant anything good.

"Now, before we start today, Dr. Fishbottle, I just wanted to say that I'm aware and very- VERY appreciative of all The Department has done both to aid my research and also fund it while I continue to search for—"

"All business so soon, Miss Granger? I'd much prefer to start the meeting with a simple, "Good Morning," how about you all?" He turned his smile to the rest of the table. About half of them looked as if they really hadn't thought about her opening sentence and would much rather still be enjoying their beds… a smaller percentage seemed happy to hear her gratitude… and the rest looked like they were ready to send her packing.

"Of course. Good morning, Dr. Fishbottle—The Board. So good to see you all." They grunted their responses toward her. Satisfied, he settled back into his chair to hear her speak. "Now… as to my research-"

"Yes. What is it exactly you're researching, Miss Granger?" A younger witch asked from behind horn-rimmed spectacles which reminded her of her favorite professor from school. A little too much, to be true.

"The exact origins of magical energy and all of its many forms."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Well…" Hermione started. It was complicated to explain pumpkin juice to someone who had only ever tasted water, before. "I'm looking for—I mean, I've found in many cases— the spark of magical essence inside of what are generally understood to be non-magical, and often historic materials… to try and find a Warlock Zero: the first case of magical energy within a person, place, or thing, here on this planet, and from there, understand how that magic is shared and passed on."

The man seated next to her, a stuffy younger man of a certain Percy Weasley capacity chortled. "Do you mean to suggest, miss, that magic in a—what to they call them… a 'doily' can exist in a comparable form to the magic we are born with as wizards?"

"Well, not exactly, I—"

"How about a fossilized bogie from a tyrannosaurus rex?" Now some of the others were beginning to giggle… and she was starting to go red, with no small amount of resentment.

"Exactly, Mr.?"

"Doctor. Dr. Henry H. Plume."

"Doctor," she corrected with just a dash of sardonic flavor, "You're quite right. Fossils are the tools I have been using to peer back into the pages of time that predate books, slabs, and written language, entirely… in some cases, they predate the human form. In others, they go beyond what muggle scientists have spent years determining was the exact time the first dinosaur crawled out of the water and began to live on land. And in more cases, still…" She plopped her bag on the table and opened it up. Inside, amongst the many papers, were a mortar and pestle, and a protective case for the fossil inside. She placed them on the desk and opened the case. The withdrew the orb she had molded from the previous night from the case.

"From Fossilized Aconite, 1,000 BC, modern day Greece" she explained. Carefully, she dropped the sphere filled with dozens of glittering gold and magenta lights into the mortar. For a moment, her spectators just watched the glimmers as they grabbed the light available to them in the room. Without warning, she crammed the pestle into the bowl and burst the crystalized coating. She began to grind. She ground and ground until a white shimmering powder remained. She poured the powder onto the glass table top and put her hands, palms up, on either side of it. She closed her eyes.

For a moment, silence. And then they began to whisper.

"Are they?"

"Is it… moving?"

The pink and gold glittering lights had begun to sift through the white powder and find their way out. They caught the air, riding a breeze, and landed in Hermione's open hands, where they began to glow. Hermione smiled.

An older board member leaned in toward the table. "What is this?"

"The magical vein tapped within a fossil predating human settlement. It's drawn to the magical energy in me..." she moved her right palm toward the center of the table. The glittering light rose again and moved toward other board members. "In you... in all of us present, here. When ground to a nearly weightless form, it will travel to where it feels it will be strongest... i.e, with us- humans- the most complex of nature's machines."

Dr. Plume stuck his nose up to her. "And how are we to know that this is not some parlor trick, Miss Granger?" Her hands glowing, she smiled, accepting the challenge.

"Just give me your hands, Dr. Plume." His smile faded away, but he did so. She held her left hand out to him and watched as he enclosed it, hesitantly, with his own, and before their eyes, their hands began to glow. The whispers grew louder. Dr. Plume released her hands, brushing them off on his robes as he did so.

"Could have done without the mess, however."

She rolled her eyes, no longer caring if he saw. She had the rest of them, now. She had them. She gently brushed her hands back into the mortar, put the pestle inside and put the whole thing into the protective case. She set it back in her back. She scattered her notes on the table for them to see.

"This is what I've been doing. Collecting, analyzing, running tests… I've developed a serum that bonds with the magical essence in all things. I apply that to my findings to look for the magical similarities between us and them. What I want to know is where it all comes from… why us? Why not them? Where did the direct line stop? And if it DID stop… who was the first known muggle-born? How did the energy transfer? How does it all WORK? And how far back does it predate man?"

The woman with the horn-rimmed glasses leaned toward her now, astute and concentrating on her. "Do you expect to get all the answers of these questions for us, Miss Granger?"

"I expect to try… anything less than that would be… a disservice to the burning questions I've had since the first day I found out I was a witch. Had I graduated from Hogwarts with my class, I would have been Top Girl. I was Valedictorian at Oxford—"

"That Muggle Institution?" someone muttered, incredulously.

"That Muggle Institution holds real facts, sciences, and histories, Johnstar, whether or not you're interested in that… it seems it has aided Miss Granger here in discovering these findings, so I suggest we regard it with respect," Dr. Fishbottle interrupted. He nodded to Hermione to continue.

"Everything I've done in my life has come down to these questions. I can't help but to feel like the knowledge runs through me in a way I can't even take credit for. I have to explore. And… frankly… I will do so with or without the affiliation of this organization. But without will take longer." She swallowed, hard. She hadn't been intending to give them her "do or die," speech just yet, but that is how it had shaken out. She hoped she hadn't blown it.

The older woman thinned her lips and squinted at Hermione. "How old are you?"

Hermione blushed. Why do I have to always look so dreadful? "I'm 27," she answered. The woman blinked at her.

"And how far back have you thusly been able to trace the existence of magical energy?"

"Prehistoric times, to when some of the earth was still in its bacterial stages, reproducing and growing, without any sign of true 'intelligent' life."

A man who had not laughed, reacted or spoken sat forward now. He had an icy stare, and very particular clothing and hair. He cleared his throat for her. "Have you a theory, Miss Granger"

She hadn't expected the question. "Pardon?"

"An answer to all of the questions you mentioned. Have you a theory?"

The room was quiet, and all eyes were on her. Had she a theory? Truthfully, she'd never wanted to. She didn't want to guess. She wanted to know. She straightened.

"I believe it was one of my childhood heroes, Sherlock Holmes, who once said, "We would do better to have facts that stew theories than theories that stew facts. I'm faithful only in facts. I would hate to limit my own ability to understand any findings I make by something as small as my own opinions."

"Ah… but has it occurred to you yet, that… these things may not HAVE a tangible answer?"

"That's just not something I'm willing to accept at this time."

A beat of silence passed… and the woman across from her cracked a smile behind those glasses. She rose. "My Great Aunt was right about you, dearie. A very clever one, indeed. I am Professor Belinda McGonagall—new teacher in History of Magic at Hogwarts." She reached for Hermione's hand. Hermione shook it graciously. "I am happy to assist you with anything you need in this endeavor. You have my vote." She sat down again. Hermione swallowed. It was up to them now, she saw. Dr. Fishbottle cleared his throat and sat forward in his chair.

"Miss Granger, I don't have to tell you that the department is experiencing an all time low in funding. We just don't have the resources to donate to projects that we once did. It's come to my understanding however, that your projects are not known only to us, and that some others share your curiosities… others that have a good deal more money than The Department does. Lorenzo Mazuko," he gestured to his right at the neatly dressed man with the icy eyes, "is here representing one of those third party contributors, today. Now, if it was just The Department voting here, today, we wouldn't have wasted your time… but Mazuko's client, this benefactor, seems quite keen to keep you on here with us in exchange for a few amendments to the current state of your research. We'll ask you now to step into the lobby… and the board and he will try to come up with something that can suit all of our needs. Please excuse us."

She rose, gathered her things, and with one last look into the faces of the people who would be deciding whether or not she would follow this dream of hers, landing on Lorenzo Mazuko in particular, she stepped out and closed the door behind her. As soon as she did, she heard rushed voices on the other side. The secretary whirled to face her.

"That, my dear, is the first time they've been that excited in weeks!"

Hermione sat in one of the chairs badly in need of new upholstering in the lobby and relentlessly chewed on her thumbnail. It was starting to hurt and yet she couldn't stop. It was murderous, waiting for these people she hardly knew to decide whether or not this single purpose that drove her passion in this world was worth following. And if they said no… she didn't even want to think about it. She was barely making ends meet as it was, eating two meals a day... She was down to some of the last galleons in her vault, and try as they might, Mum and Dad weren't going to be able to help her with anything other than her rent- and she hated to ask them. This had to work, it just HAD to.

The door opened and she stopped breathing.

"Miss Granger?" She looked up sharply. Dr. Fishbottle called her back inside. This time, the board was standing, wands out before them on the table, all pointing at a silvery contract at her end of the table. There were 12 spaces for signatures. "Have a seat," Dr. Fishbottle said. She sat, operating on pure muscle memory.

A straight-laced man in his mid 30s began to read from the contract before her: "Here reads the terms of the contract between The Department of Magical History and Miss Hermione Granger which is to exceed no more than one year for the time being, while it is determined whether the witch in question is able to provide the information currently sought, and whether she is willing to go forward. For the span of these 12 months she must work in conjunction with a third party contributor to explore the relativity of magic in object form, vs. magic in plant and animal form, vs. magic in human, witch and wizard form, to exceed no more than half the budget allotted for time spent. If at the 12-month mark it is determined that one or more of these tasks has become moot, it will be decided then to end it. If before the end of the 12 month term the witch in question disobeys a direct order, the third party contributor breaks contract for their own reasons, or if the thesis itself is deemed insufficient, the budget will be stripped from her as will any duties hereto The Department of Magical History and Research."

Dr. Fishbottle looked pleased as punch, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he pointed his wand at the first line of the contract and his signature appeared. The other board members followed suite. Hermione was pink with excitement, though she dared not show it.

Conjunction with a third party contributor? Well as long as he doesn't have to hold my magnifying glass for me. Probably just a suit, she thought. Someone to sit in an office, call the shots and expect results. She couldn't believe her luck! She was going to be able to continue! And all she had to do in the meantime was dig up something worth publishing for this likely eccentric, old bigwig, whoever they were. She was ecstatic. She saw Dr. Fishbottle bringing her two folders with paperwork inside and watched his lips move as he probably told her to call his home fireplace if he needed anything, and gave her a swift pat on the back, but her thoughts were already home in her bathtub, going through this stack of papers.

She turned to exit and was blocked fully by Lorenzo Mozuko. She stared at him for a moment… didn't much like his look… but she smiled at him nonetheless, and held out her hand.

"I guess we'll be working together, then?" she asked. He looked at her outstretched hand, and rejected it in his lack of movement. She lowered it and swallowed around the lump in her throat.

"Miss Granger… are you prepared to accept that this may end much differently than you had always anticipated? Can you live with the frustration of never knowing these answers? Or would you rather lose yourself in pursuit of them, no matter the cost?"

Her smile faltered a bit. "Look… we're going to be working together, right? Maybe it's best if we cross that bridge when we come to it. I mean, err… I don't know that your investor shares those concerns, right? Otherwise… he wouldn't have… invested." She blushed; hated that she sounded like a complete imbecile.

"He certainly does not share these concerns. This is what worries me."

She put her hand into her pocket awkwardly.

"So… can we get past this then, you and I?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm not the one you'll be working with," he said. He tossed her a third, well-manicured file in an expensive, leather bound file carrier. She stared down at it. "Was just hoping I could talk some sense into the less thick headed of the two of you."

He exited. Hermione looked down at the leather carrier in her arms, and for a moment, she pondered in the empty room.

Her feet hardly touched the ground on the way back through town, up the steps to her flat, or into the bathroom. Her clothes were off and her hair up in a messy bun on top of her head before she thought twice about it. She splashed into the near-boiling water and let the goose-pimples lick her flesh as she did, sinking into the sweet warmth of triumph. She turned the water off with her toes and sighed. For just a moment, she let everything be perfectly as it was. She let the air around her settle and the bathwater steam. Crookshanks sat on the edge of the tub, flicking his tail back and forth just inches from the water. She thought of calling Harry and Ginny, or writing Ron Elsa. She couldn't wait to tell them… couldn't wait to hear the pride in their voices. Merlin's Beard, she might even be able to visit her Goddaughter again, soon. And then she could bear it no longer and she reached a dripping arm from the tub to grasp the two manila folders.

She settled down and opened them up, beginning to read… "First Assignment in Collection, with respect to Old Wizarding Families, 2123 High Mountainside Way… yada yada… hoopla hoopla," she read aloud. It was all a bunch of bureaucratic jargon she was well used to deciphering when it came to The Department. "Boring," she decided. She chucked it to the floor. She pursed her lips, tapping her fingers on the edge of the tub. She knew what she wanted. She wanted to rip open that 20 galleon leather carrying case and examine every spec of information under a microscope… but she was tentative. She cast a glance down at it. It laid there haphazardly on the floor with the other folders, so small against it… so trivial. It reminded her of the first time she ever looked at Hogwarts: A History… how nostalgic it made her. She took a deep breath and reached for the folder. She untied the elegant, golden ribbon that held its clasp closed over the edge. She cracked it open. "Merlin, even the paper is perfect." The lifted it to her face and inhaled. Beautiful. Regal.

They were notes, she realized, lowering them again. Notes that looked rather like a mad man's would. Notes that went on for pages and pages, and the more she read, the more confused she became. They were theories, all right, and no doubt part of why Lorenzo Mazuka had asked for her own. The writer was spouting the whys and wheres of magic… why some had it, why some didn't… some of them were pigheaded, she thought, and mirrored the feelings of her pre-war Slytherin enemies. Others were more gentle… some were just mad. She turned page after page, and realized they were not all notes—but a collection of articles and interviews that dated back generations and generations of Wizarding families, using names she had recognized from the Black Family Tree. It left a bad taste in her mouth to see the state of their opinions written neatly in wonderful penmanship on these perfect sheets of paper. And then she turned and found something that made her jump clean out of her skin. She lost her grip on the folder, and some fell to the floor, but not what had made her lose her focus… that fell gracefully down and landed atop the steaming water, and floated delicately above her belly.

It was a photograph of a family, a handsome man with perfectly straight, long, icy blonde hair, holding an ornate Wizard staff that she knew housed an elegant wand, capable of dark magics, indeed. He wore black and silver robes and a confident smirk. Beside him was a beautiful, well dressed woman holding a blonde baby boy, and beside her, a stranger to her, but one who looked very much like the blonde boy this baby would grow to be. The photograph was dated, Spring, 1981. With four people in the frame, waving and smiling- if you could call it that- one might be curious as to which of them it belonged to… but she could certainly discern who it was… because written across the top, in nearly the same penmanship she was beginning to fantasize about, it read, "Mum, Dad, me and Uncle Rory. Where is he?" She stared down at those words, and at the face of the happy baby with those gray-blue eyes that made her stomach heave. "ME?" she read aloud, aghast.

And from the puddle of water beside her bed… her alarm began to go off.