A/N: Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling and her associates. Please support the official release.

Hampstead Garden Suburb, London

The neighborhood of Hampstead Garden struck Amelia as a nice-enough place to live… by Muggle standards. A collection of red-bricked buildings separated by hedges and driveways stretched out in front of her – posterchild for the idyllic suburban fantasy that Muggles seemed so captivated by. It was a far cry from a gated residential, but it still retained some of the exclusivity typically offered by controlled entrances and fences.

Amelia's grey eyes scanned her surroundings with blasé lucidity, taking in the houses and the vacant morning streets. She was looking for one person in particular – the elusive head of the Tarwen family, who had apparently deigned it a productive use of his time to visit this little hamlet in London.

She found him on her third sweep of the area, standing on the pavement next to a large oak tree, smoking a cigarette. His brown curls were damp from the early morning fog, sticking to his forehead as he turned his gaze in her direction. His lilac eyes bore into her for just a moment, before turning soft and contemplative.

"So… this is where you've been hiding," she said as she approached, her raven-black hair flowing behind her in the brisk spring breeze. "I've spent all morning looking for you."

He gave no reply. Instead, he took another drag of his cigarette, before flicking it onto the pavement. The blazing tip sizzled slightly as it came into contact with the damp concrete.

"Oh, you're going for the dark and brooding angle today. Very cool," Amelia nodded, her words drenched in sarcasm. "Let me know when you're ready to have a proper conversation, then."

"That house," he said, ignoring her jibe as he pointed to a three-story building with a rather large front yard, just up the road from where they were standing. Police tape had been put up around the property, marking it as an active crime scene. "Do you recognize it?"

Amelia cast a curious glance in its direction, before giving a quick shrug.

"No, I can't say I do. Should I?"

"Hmm… I suppose not," Maximillian muttered, running a hand through his slick hair. "But you will come to learn of it soon enough. As will the others, I think."

"Why? Is there something special about it?"

"You could say that," he said. "Last night, the Dark Lord sent one of his most trusted servants to this house, with orders to kill everyone inside of it."

"Oh really?" Amelia asked, an eyebrow raised in surprise. "And… why did he do that?"

"Because the people living… - or, well, the people who used to live in this house - were the parents of one Hermione Jean Granger," Maximillian explained.

"Aha…" Amelia said. "And… who is Hermione Jean Granger?"

"Harry Potter's closest friend, and lover."

"Uhh… Okay… But I fail to see how… Oh… Nevermind…"

"Precisely," Maximillian nodded, a sad smile playing on his lips. "It's a direct attack on the opposition. And not only that, but an attack targeting the person closest to him."

An almost imperceptible sigh leaked past his lips.

"It's ingenious. By going after her parents, the Dark Lord is forcing the Potter boy to relive what is undoubtedly his worst memory – the loss of his own."

"That's… pretty brutal," Amelia whistled.

"It is. But I would expect no less from a man like Tom Riddle."

A low thunder rumbled to the east, hinting at rain and electricity. A gust of wind blew through, ruffling hair and throwing up leaves.

"So… How exactly is this relevant to us?" Amelia asked, not really seeing a connection.

"It's relevant to us because it'll render the Potter boy weak. The loss of her parents will break his lover, and her grief will, in turn, break him. Sadness will overcome him like a wave, and wash away all trace of happiness. The void left behind in its wake will need to be filled – and we both know what will fill it."

"Anger," Amelia responded. "Anger, and vengefulness."

"And a vengeful man is predictable, and easy to manipulate," Maximillian finished. "We shall wait for the sadness to pass. Allow him time to nurture rage and hatred. And then… we'll make our move. Offer him a deal he can't refuse. A chance… at vengeance."

"Cold, but practical," Amelia smiled. "I like it."

"There is nothing personal to it. It is simply… good business," Maximillian shrugged. "The boy needs to learn that this game we play does not come without its cost. That these violent delights… have violent ends."

There was a moment of silence.

"You stole that line from Shakespeare, didn't you?" Amelia asked.

"Yes, I did," he nodded. "But I find it a rather fitting quote, given the situation."

"Hmm… I'll let it slide, just this once," Amelia said. "Either way, we should leave this place. No use hanging around a crime scene like two would-be criminals."

"They won't notice," Maximillian shrugged. "I put up some rather strong Notice-Me-Not and Muggle-Repelling charms. The fact that you didn't even register passing through them on your approach means I did my job well."

"A-Ah…" Amelia coughed, the tiniest hint of a blush spreading across her cheeks. "I knew that."

"No, you didn't," Maximillian smiled, before closing his eyes and furrowing his brow in concentration. A moment later, Amelia felt a sudden rush of stimuli, like someone had lifted an intangible veil from her face. At once, the world seemed a tad bit more… manifest than earlier.

"Now we can leave," Maximillian said, lilac eyes glinting with humor.

"Very funny," Amelia said, before grabbing hold of his arm and apparating the both of them far away, to a place only she knew.

The Great Hall

A mutter of annoyance escaped Harry as he re-read the note in his hand for the seventh time that morning. It was not a particularly long note – just a simple collection of three sentences, written in ornate letters that seemed to radiate a certain sense of regality and propriety.

Remember.

This Saturday, third-floor corridor, 17:00.

Come alone.

Ahh… The audacity of this Greengrass girl… to call for him like he was some kind of servant - a tool to be used at her discretion.

Alas, he was the one who had agreed to help her. And so he supposed it was only natural that she would expect him to honor that deal, and be at the preordained location at the preordained time.

Yet, there was just something about the way she had talked to him that day that… left him feeling like he'd lost, somehow. Lost in whatever unspoken game she had made him play. And Harry oh so hated losing.

"Morning, Harry," Neville called to him from his right, getting seated at the lunch-table with a confidence uncommon from the Gryffindor boy. "Had a good day so far?"

"Eh, can't complain," Harry said, stuffing the note into his robe pocket without further consideration. "Had worse – had better."

"That doesn't sound too bad," Neville replied.

"Nah, I suppose it isn't. I'm just… wondering where Hermione is," Harry continued, shooting a curious glance across the busy hall. "I haven't seen her since breakfast."

"D-Don't you have the same classes?"

"We do. Which makes it all the more suspicious, since Hermione never skips class," Harry frowned.

"W-Well, uhh… I think you might be about to find out why," Neville commented, nodding in the direction of Professor McGonagall, who was currently heading straight for them.

Another summon to the Headmaster's Office, perhaps? Harry thought to himself as he watched her approach. Or maybe there's a second death-tournament being hosted somewhere, and my name came out of their goblet, too.

"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said once she made it to their table. "I need to speak with you. The… The matter is urgent."

"Sure," Harry shrugged. "What is it?"

"Perhaps… it would be prudent to move the conversation elsewhere?" she inquired, looking both incredibly conflicted and somber at the same time. "It's… Well, it has to do with your friend, Miss Granger."

Harry felt the bottom of his stomach drop out at her words.

"No, it's… it's fine," he said, doing his best to sound confident. "We can speak here. What's happened…?"

The following conversation was among the worst things Harry had ever had to endure. It only lasted for a couple of minutes, yet it felt like a small eternity to his rapidly-shattering mind. He understood, on a logical level, what had transpired – yet his brain refused to acknowledge it as truth.

When at last Professor McGonagall finally stopped speaking, Harry had been rendered a soulless husk of a man, filled with so much anxiety and dread he could scarcely think straight. Only one thought occupied his mind as he got up from his seat, and excused himself to the others:

I need to find Hermione.

Room of Requirement

He found her in the bathroom of their shared living space, sitting naked on the porcelain tiles with her legs pushed up against her chest. Hot water ran in a steady stream from the waterfall shower head above, coating her body and darkening her hair. He couldn't see her face, hidden as it was in the confines of her knees, but he didn't need to – just the sight of her alone was enough to tell him that she was anything but alright.

"Hermione…?" he tried, keeping his voice low and even as he spoke.

Unsurprisingly enough, there was no answer.

"Hermione, I… I just got the news from Professor McGonagall, and I… I wanted to…"

The rest of the sentence died on his lips. After all, what was he supposed to say? That he was sorry? That he was there for her?

It all rang hollow in his mind. Just empty words that couldn't possibly hope to stem the bleeding in her soul. And so he chose to say nothing at all, remaining frozen in the doorway like a man stuck in time.

For several excruciating minutes, this stalemate continued. In that time, Harry came to realize something; Hermione wasn't crying. She wasn't sobbing, or shaking, or wailing. She was simply… sitting there, like a puppet who had lost its strings.

His mind screamed at him to say something – do something – to remedy the situation. To comfort her. To help her. Yet… he could think of nothing.

At last, he made his move. Slowly, and with great reluctance… he left the room.

She heard him retreat out of the bathroom, lingering in the doorframe for just a moment, before closing the door shut.

The silence left in his wake was deafening.

She knew she should have said something – responded in some way to the kindness and concern he was attempting to show. Yet… she simply could not bring herself to speak.

Everything around her felt indistinct, as if she was gradually fading from existence, her physical connection to the world having come undone. Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing. Not even her own emotions.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to shout at the top of her lungs, until her throat gave out, and her consciousness dimmed.

But no sound came. Instead of overwhelming sadness and grief, there was simply… nothing. She felt numb, and lifeless. As if someone had sucked all of her feelings out with a straw, leaving behind an empty shell of a person.

Her ever-analytical mind told her she was most likely in shock. That the reason she did not feel much of anything right now, was because her brain had yet to fully process the implication of her parents' death, and what it meant for her and her future.

But when would it hit her, then? That wave of anguish and heartbreak she knew must be coming.

She tightened the embrace on her legs, pushing them even closer to her chest. The hot water was soothing against her skin, but even that sensation felt distant and muted. Surrounded by steam and warmth, a cold shiver ran up her spine.

Mom… Dad…

A violent bout of nausea suddenly welled up in her stomach. She untangled herself from her legs just in time to retch, as she regurgitated her breakfast onto the wet porcelain tiles. It came in several waves – spewing forth like an awful flood of half-digested food and bile.

Once it finally stopped, she was left a shivering mess on the floor, vomit pooling around her as it mixed with the water from the shower. She continued to dry-heave for several minutes afterwards, her stomach cramping as it attempted to eject food that was no longer there.

In the midst of this suffering, the bathroom door was opened once more, and she heard Harry step back inside. He said nothing as he slowly started to disrobe, removing his clothes before stepping into the vomit-riddled shower.

"I'm going to lift you up now, okay?" he whispered, getting down on one knee next to her trembling form.

She gave no response.

He took her silence as assent, and placed an arm around her shoulders, rising from the ground with her in tow. Once he had her on two legs, he grabbed a separate shower-head from its stand, and proceeded to gingerly rinse her body and hair of filth, his touch soft and comforting. He did not attempt to converse with her as he did this; he merely allowed the silence to blanket them, the outside world incapable of intruding upon its sanctity.

A tiny crack of emotion appeared on Hermione's otherwise vacant heart.

After cleaning away the last traces of her shame, he took hold of a nearby towel, and moved to dry her hair. The light tugs on her head as he dragged the towel along her wet curls served as tiny reminders that she were, in fact, still alive, and not just some detached spirit floating aimlessly around the material world.

They were both entirely naked, yet Harry did not ogle her. He did not stare, nor make unnecessary contact beyond that which was necessary to perform the task at hand. He moved with purpose and confidence; his facial expression entirely neutral as he wiped her clean. Once he was done, he gave her a once-over to check for any remnants of water, before nodding his head and moving towards the exit.

"A-Ah…" Hermione started, the unbidden sound emerging on its own from somewhere in the back of her throat.

"Don't worry; I'll be right back," Harry replied, without breaking his stride nor turning around. "I'm just going to fetch some dry clothes from your wardrobe."

The answer set her confused heart at ease, which had begun beating faster as soon as he moved for the door. Another fissure opened in her stone core, creating visible cracks on its solid exterior that let slip pinpricks of light and emotion.

True to his word, Harry returned moments later with a fresh change of clothes. It was nothing remarkable – just a simple, brown sweater and a pair of baggy jeans – but it was enough. He left it in a pile on the ground, before picking up his own clothes and turning to leave once more.

"I'll cook up some tea. You're welcome to join me… if you feel like it," he said, trying for a smile despite the tense atmosphere. He almost succeeded – it came off a tad bit forced, but Hermione was thankful for the attempt.

"I'll… I'll be there," she whispered, her own voice sounding foreign to her ears. It was so… weak, and frail, and devoid of warmth. Surely this couldn't be what she normally sounded like?

"Happy to hear it. It's, uhh… just an offer, though. Don't force yourself."

She shook her head.

"Good. Good," he nodded, and then he was gone.

Hermione let the silence wash over her once more as she got dressed, her movements sluggish and heavy.

What was happening to her? Why did she feel so… wistful, and empty? Why wasn't she bawling her eyes out like a child?

The sound of water being brought to a boil reached her ears from beyond the bathroom door. It would seem Harry was almost done with the tea. She went to join him without much thought given to her actions. In a way, it was almost like sleepwalking. Her body just acted of its own accord, without any intervention from her brain.

She found him again in front of the fireplace, using wandless magic to gently stir two cups of chamomile tea. It was her favorite kind – she had never told him it was, but he must have picked up on it through repeat observations. She also noticed a sizeable chunk of honey on one of the teaspoons. A flicker of warmth coursed through her veins.

He knows.

It was a simple thought, and not one she usually would have paid much attention to. But in that moment, it exemplified something so much grander than just tea preferences.

A cascade of emotions tumbled through her body. Harry knew. He knew her, and he exactly what it was like to lose someone you loved.

He knows, because he's lost his parents, too.

Tears welled up in her eyes. Her breathing grew rugged, and heavy. The dam in her chest finally burst, letting slip a maelstrom of emotion.

He knows. More than anyone else.

A subdued sob forced its way up her throat, and past her lips. Harry turned his head at the sound, and quickly noticed the change in demeanor. A sad smile ghosted across his face.

"So… you finally realized, huh?" he asked.

She gave no response. Instead, she fell to her knees in front of him, and started crying.

Broken sobs of pain and anguish tore through her body. Tears streamed down her face, landing with soft thuds on the grey carpet. She was utterly helpless to resist the weight of her grief.

She had lost her parents. They were never coming back. She would never get to hug them again, or tell them that she loved them.

Comforting arms lowered themselves around her trembling body, pulling her close. A soft hand came to rest on her back, stroking a reassuring pattern across the fabric of her sweater.

"I'm… I'm n-never going to see them again…" Hermione cried, her face burrowed in his shoulder.

"I know," he whispered, tightening his grip. "I'm so sorry, Hermione…"

The sound of her sorrow cut into him like a knife, unearthing old wounds he thought long gone. The death of his parents had tainted Harry for as long as he could remember, and yet… he had never known them. Not personally, at least. He had been too young to understand, too young to remember. Yet he felt their absence all the same, like a constant tug on his heart.

So how horrible must this not be for Hermione, who had an entire lifetime worth of memories with her parents? How deep the loss, how terrible the pain…?

The thought alone was enough to send shivers down Harry's spine as Hermione continued to shake in his arms, spilling her tears into his robes.

And, before long… he too was crying.

A/N: Apologies for the long wait. It's exam season for us university students, and the work-load has been... immense. Couple that with social obligations and other responsibilities, and you're left with precious little time for creative endeavors.

That being said, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It's a little shorter than usual - but I think you understand why. Adding any more to it would only have served to lessen the emotional impact. In other words, it ended where it needed to end.

Can't speak much on the next chapter yet - I still have two more exams ahead of me (including a massive project summary that is going to be roughly 30 pages long when finished) before I have my bachelor's degree in my hand. But I promise I'll do my best to work on this story whenever I can. We're closing in on 1200 Followers now which is nuts (we might just reach 2000, or maybe even 3000, before the story is complete) so uhh... yeah, keep on reading, I guess lol. And I'll see you guys again in the next chapter.

-Twisted