Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am not J.K. Rowling. This is a work of fanfiction. This work is used for fun, not profit.

I am not a native speaker, all mistakes are my own.

AN: It has been a while, and I honestly don't know what to say. I'll try.

Chapter 2

"You look like death," Alastor stated. Charlus didn't reply, lighting a cigar and silently offering one to Moody.

"I received a missive today, about a cold case." He drew another long drag, slowly exhaling, watching the grey tendrils cloud the sky.

"One of ours?" Moody questioned, curiously looking at his old partner. Charlus closed his eyes, ignoring the question.

"I went to make sure there wasn't a mistake and… well, there wasn't." How long could he drag out the inevitable? "Alastor, they found Mina. She's at St. Mungo's."

None of them spoke, staring at the skyline of London. Charlus carefully studied the profile of his friend. It felt like hours before he spoke.

"It's her?"

Charlus nodded. "She's sixteen now." Never in their wildest dreams had they believed it possible—Mina Moody was alive.

1070, London, St. Mungo's Hospital
Alastor Moody couldn't move. The minutes passed, but he remained rooted to the spot. Before him were heavy white doors inlaid with glass, his thoughts racing a mile a minute.

"Are you lost, Sir?" a friendly but stern voice addressed him. He could only stare as his mind returned to reality. Female. Purple scrubs. High ponytail. Name tag: Belinda. A mediwitch, then—well, he was in a hospital.

"No," he whispered, flinching at his tone. Alastor Moody does not whisper. She only smiled, waiting patiently. He tried to collect himself. "I am looking for Ms. Mina Moody." There, that had been much better. She nodded.

"Please follow me, Sir." And he did, down an awfully white corridor, evenly interspersed with just as awfully white doors, neatly labeled with ascending numbers. He hated hospitals, and while his thoughts started to spiral again, the mediwitch had stopped.

"Room E408. Ms. Moody is currently the only occupant in this room." She smiled and hurried away. And again, he was standing in front of a looming white door.

Hermione slowly lowered the Prophet, courtesy of Belinda. When the door opened, she had expected to be probed and prodded by yet another of the medical staff, but the only sound had been the door handle. She was met with sky blue eyes, desperation, and a hint of insanity shining in them. And while the eyes roved over her, taking in every inch of her body, Hermione was frozen. She knew those eyes, she knew that man, and yet everything was wrong.

"Hello," she said slowly. He nodded his head.

"Ahm, would you like to sit?" He did.

"How are you?" He kept staring at her, searching for something, his fingers twitching. He wanted to touch her. The realization hit her as she stared at his hands.

"Confused." He nodded; his eyes wide. He hadn't introduced himself, yet she recognized him as the man from her dreams. "Very confused, to be honest."

"Yes. Yes." He took her hand, squeezing it tightly, as if he were afraid, she would vanish any moment.

"Me too." Surprise was her main emotion at that moment. Two strangers, knowing who the other was, not knowing the other at all. She couldn't help but smile.

"But I am also beyond relieved and happy." He chuckled.

"Forgive me. I am Alastor Moody." She couldn't help herself and started laughing. Laughing at the utter ridiculousness of the situation, laughing at the craziness of her life. He joined her, and then they cried.

London, Ministry of Magic, Auror Department
Charlus Potter was a man on a mission, as he easily navigated the long corridors of the Ministry. He had left the highly populated hallways a while ago, into the areas where the wages were lower and few of his position ventured. Shrill laughter caught his ears as he stopped at his destination. He was greeted by a redhead sitting on the edge of a desk, playing with the very engrossed male's tie. For a moment he considered leaving them to whatever that was going to be, but he was a man on a mission.

"Mr. Stefford," he stated. The couple froze before the redhead moved to the second desk in the room.

"Head Auror Potter?" Yes, usually department heads did not venture into the archives themselves, but he really did not wish to discuss this.

"I need case file 59/M411." Stefford didn't move. What was the kid waiting for? Then it dawned on him.

"It's a cold one." And with that, they went through security bars, into the depths of the archive. Charlus hated this place—every box, every folder, the whole existence of this room. This room was proof that magic could not solve everything. This room was proof that they were powerless.

"Merlin, Tripe. Don't scare me like that." Tripe shrugged.

"Was that the Chief?" Shaking his head, Stefford grimaced, sending a quick look to his office partner.

"Just some old case. You here for tomorrow's evidence?" Tripe nodded, following along.

Back at his office, Charlus leaned against his door, inhaling harshly. He wouldn't make it back to dinner on time, the second day in a row. Deciding that it really didn't matter at the moment, he briskly retrieved his sacred bottle of Odgen's Finest from the drawer. Yes, this was what he needed. The folder seemed to glare at him, and then he opened it.

Witness accounts, autopsy reports, and action reports later, the realization had sunk in. The liquor hadn't helped either—this case was a dead end, just like it had been ten years ago. He felt helpless, just like ten years ago. Shrugging, he dropped the file in his folder. Grabbing his traveling cloak, he nodded to himself. Tomorrow would be a new day. Tomorrow would bring answers.

1070, London, St. Mungo's Hospital
"I don't need a mind healer," Hermione stated firmly, staring at the witch who was currently sitting in front of her.

"Standard regulations, healthcare protocols, and quite a few other important protocols disagree."

Hermione shrugged. "I am not traumatized by the curse."

The lady smiled. "We do not need to talk about you being cursed. We can talk about whatever you like."

Huffing in exasperation, Hermione retorted, "I am not traumatized by being kidnapped, either." All she received as an answer was a humming sound.

"I am serious. I am not helpless. I can cope with whatever this is."

Another humming sound. Hermione was getting quite annoyed.

"I am serious. I am fine. I am not sad. I am not angry. I am fine."

The lady raised her eyebrows. "Now, that I find indeed quite worrisome."

"What?"

"You saying you feel nothing. You do not feel angry to have your reality shifted. You say you feel no upset, no hurt, no nothing. Everything being all right—that is quite worrisome. Now, being relieved, being scared, being hurt, being angry—those are normal reactions. Those feelings make us human. But feeling nothing—that is indeed quite worrisome."

Hermione stared at her, open-mouthed, not quite sure what to reply to that.

"I feel confused, mostly." The healer nodded.

"Ah, so instead of feeling nothing, shall we say you do not know what to feel?"