Very far away, beyond the solid English soil under Harry's feet, in a world no longer touched by Voldemort, stood a house held up only by magic. The frail and reddish walls shone brightly with the first indigo rays that filtered over the horizon, the tattered and old stones basking in its warmth and their cracks gleaming proudly like old veteran scars. The roof was covered by loose and battered tiles, and every now and then a stray sparrow would chirp and pop in and out from the home it had built underneath the tiles. The windows were numerous and smoky, an unearthly and alluring light in them.

Small chickens pecked tiny bugs from the grassy soil, while garden gnomes could be found crawling stealthily around the messy garden. From time to time, a stray cat could be seen prowling around, glancing at the chickens with a predator look.

In any other circumstance, this scene would be taken as the epitome of morning serenity across the British countryside. Everything seemed to be at peace, calm, quiet, tranquil — seemed.

If one cast aside the pretty sight the dawning sun produced, one would notice that the state of the landscape was far from idyllic. As soon as the first soft morning rays soared above and stopped warming the old house, it was plainly visible that the dwelling had seen better days. The gleaming, proud stones were long gone, they were replaced by rusty, dusty and cracked walls. The tiles were broken and dirty, and only the most adventurous of sparrows dared to live underneath them anymore. The windows were no longer mysterious, but looked black and very dirty, with smudged patches on them. Some had even been shattered, and the shards were scattered on the ground below.

The chickens were skeletally thin and ragged, and even though they were constantly pecking at the ground, there was no green grass or little bugs to eat. The garden was dry and derelict, with mounds of mud, dry sand and cracked earth. The grass was mostly yellow; few green tips could be seen. The cat, previously graceful and nonchalant, had a half-crazed look in its eyes, starvation taking a toll on it. The fur on its back was patched and crusty, as if it had got into too many fights.

The house used to have a small pond where many different fish lived; some magical, some not. It used to have translucent waters that allowed the life that lived in them to be seen. For years, the children that lived in the house had gone to the pond to have innocent fun, and had squealed in joy each time they played with the fish and frogs and other things that lived in it. But the pond was now dried up and muddy, the corpses of the fish rotting lazily on the bottom, emanating a putrid smell that not even vultures would find appealing.

The trees that surrounded the property were no longer tall and green, with many leaves and bird nests in them. It was the landscape you would expect to find in a remote place, forsaken by men and ravaged by nature — but not the sight you would expect to see in green and rainy old Britain. The previously wild yet cared for household was in shambles, as if it had been attacked by earthquakes and tsunamis; uprooted trees laid dead on the ground, dried heavy branches strewn across the cracked soil, unmoving birds squashed by them.

The house and its surroundings were called "The Burrow", and inside the dwelling, on that cold and crisp January morning, the people whom Harry thought of as family were awake, dishevelled and alert.

Hermione Jean Granger wrapped her nightgown around her as she descended the staircase leading to the dining room. She treaded on the steps carefully, over-flexing her knees and moving her feet gently, trying to make as little noise as possible. She grimaced when the stairs creaked under her weight. She detested that sound. She promised herself that whenever she found a place of her own, she would make sure that no eerie sounds would come from the furniture. Hermione liked peace and quiet; and the smell of pines and roses and coffee in the morning. As much as she loved the Burrow and her parents' place, she knew that she was already nineteen and should start thinking about her future.

She shook her head and snapped herself out of her reverie. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself tightly. She hadn't been herself ever since Voldemort died, but it was only after Harry left that she had really noticed the changes inside her. She was sometimes swept by an intense rush of pain, focused on her heart, and she felt as if her very core was going to be ripped off. She would double over and gasp, and before she could start thinking what was wrong with her, the pain would fade. Usually, that is. There was once when the pain was so excruciating and so lasting she collapsed and passed out.

Hermione felt clammy and ill at all times, and for the life of her, she couldn't find a possible reason for it. Of course, she had had many wild theories, but each seemed as unlikely as the next. She winced when she reached the bottom of the staircase; another surge of pain had assaulted her again. Fortunately, this time it looked like it would only last a second.

Rubbing her stomach, she walked towards the kitchen, where she thought the rest of the family would be. She sighed sadly at the state of the house. No matter how hard Mrs Weasley worked to keep her home habitable, there seemed to be some unknown force that liked to wreak havoc in it. The Burrow had never been as immaculate and pristine as her home, but despite the slightly messy and illogical things scattered about, there was something about the Burrow that made her feel at ease. Perhaps it was the soft fumes emanating from the kitchen, signs of Mrs Weasley making breakfast for her incredibly large family. Perhaps it was the excited smile that played on Mr Weasley's lips when he saw her, no doubt wanting to ask her how some Muggle gadget worked.

Perhaps it was simply that she had been welcomed by them with open arms and considered one of their own. When it came to Muggleborns, the magical world seemed to be divided in three kinds of people. The first were the Pureblood supremacists who believed she was nothing but scum that should be eradicated. They wouldn't even consider her human, with the right to think and have an opinion. She smirked slightly. Those inbred bigots had been defeated.

The second group was made up of people like her: Muggleborns, Halfbloods and Purebloods who believed in Dumbledore's legacy. They had fought for the idea of a world where the level of inbreeding wouldn't determine the quality of an individual, for a world where actions mattered instead of spawning from the right male and female.

The third group encompassed most of the Light Purebloods. They had fought on the same side during the war, but now that it was over, it was clear to everyone that they were not as open-minded as they seemed. They were against everything Voldemort stood for and believed that Muggleborns had a right to learn magic and live in the Wizarding World.

But.

T here was always a but. In this case, after the war, it was clear that the Light Purebloods with whom she had fought didn't think she and the rest of the Muggleborns were good enough to make an impact on their world. They looked at her with condescending and patronising smiles, as if she were some sort of cute and helpless little puppy and not the witch whose unlimited brainpower could very easily leave them looking like half-evolved baboons.

She huffed indignantly. After Voldemort died, it had all been smiles and hugs. Not too long after his demise, the new government had started to rebuild itself, with Kingsley on top of it. For a short period of time, it seemed that everything would be all right. But it wasn't.

The Purebloods wanted power, the economy was destroyed, corruption started spreading through the Ministry officials — and Hermione had watched all of this with terror in her eyes. She bit her lip as a thought crossed her mind, but she couldn't deny that after the fated Boy Who Lived had disappeared, everything had spiralled backwards.

In the mind of Hermione Granger, there was something that just didn't make sense, and it all seemed to be connected to her friend Harry Potter. There was no logical reason for it, and as much as she hated considering the idea of something as wobbly and unfathomable as Fate, she suspected it had something to do with it.

Hermione pushed the door that led to the kitchen gingerly, one arm wrapped around her midriff, holding the nightgown tightly to her body.

The sight that awaited her was not one she was unfamiliar with. Half of the Weasley family was already in there, with the exceptions of Bill, Charlie, Percy and Ron. Charlie was at St. Mungo's getting a check-up since he was suffering from the same mysterious illness that had gripped Hermione, only on a smaller degree; Bill was at his cottage with his wife, Fleur, and newborn daughter, Victoire; and Ron… Hermione smiled wistfully. Ron was probably still sleeping soundly in his bed. Percy, to everyone's surprise, had quit his Ministry position and was very efficiently handling the twins' shop in Diagon Alley. Perhaps he was not the most amusing of sellers, but he was most certainly a capable businessman.

Mrs Weasley was fretting in the kitchen, her wand moving haphazardly as pots and pans arranged themselves over the stove. Mr Weasley sat in front of the table, one hand holding a cup of tea while the other flicked over the pages of the newspaper in front of him, his forehead creased in thought. In front of him, George was half-naked in his underwear and sprawled on a chair, an emaciated and zombie-like version of himself, his eyes staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. In his hand, tightly clutched, was the pointer that had fallen off the Weasley Family Clock the moment his twin had died. A few seats away from her father, Ginny sat with her head resting on her hands, asleep.

Hermione cleared her throat. 'Good morning,' she croaked.

'Good morning, dear,' Mrs Weasley greeted her motherly.

Mr Weasley lifted his head and smiled kindly at her, small crinkles at the edge of his eyes. 'Good morning, Hermione. How did you sleep?'

She shrugged her shoulders in a very Harry-ish way as she grabbed a mug. 'As well as expected, Mr Weasley. Any news?' she asked, a kettle in her hand to make herself some tea.

Mr Weasley shook his head defeated. 'Nothing of relevance, no,' he said, sipping his tea. He frowned and added, 'They should be writing what's happening, and not just speculating and throwing the Quaffle around.'

Hermione plopped onto the chair next to George and placed her hands around the steamy cup, enjoying the leafy and aromatic fumes that emanated from it. 'Skeeter and Baines again?' she asked sympathetically.

He scratched his chin, clearly irritated. 'If only. I wish it were those two gossiping hags. It's Elladora Capellarius again. As if the situation isn't bad enough as it is, this — woman — has to barge in and cause an even greater pandemonium!' he said darkly, scrunching his nose. 'I don't know why I bother reading this anymore,' he huffed and brandished his wand, levitating the newspaper and muttering 'Incendio!'

She sighed. Every morning, Mr Weasley would go over the Daily Prophet, skim through it, become annoyed at the outright lies printed in it and would proceed to incinerate it. Even though she agreed that reading the papers was useless, she could understand why he still had it delivered to his home.

Mr Weasley became especially peeved when the mysterious Elladora Capellarius wrote an article. They had never heard about that reporter until the end of November, and from then on, she had only caused mayhem. Unlike the infamous Rita Skeeter, Capellarius did not thrive on gossip and warmongering; no, she was deadly accurate in what she published and managed to twist the facts in such a way that they were completely believable and, to the average reader, they were the truth printed on paper. Of course, to a person as highly intelligent as Hermione was, she could see that it was all a bunch of rubbish — but masterfully done.

However, the reporter's last name caused somewhat of an upheaval at the Ministry. "Capellarius" was a very old Pureblood name, supposedly rooted in the Ravenclaw line, but the family was defunct and had been so since the Goblin Rebellion of 1787. Claiming such a name without the right to do so would not only break out a media war, but it was punishable by law.

Hermione had done her homework, and the only Wizarding line that could possibly claim such a last name was the Rosier Family, defunct since the last one of them, Evan Rosier, had died when he was apprehended by the Auror Alastor Moody.

Despite those staggering facts, Hermione knew that something was amiss. "Elladora Capellarius" was no Muggleborn or Halfblood. She was certain that woman had been raised as a perfect Pureblood; her style and remarks were proof enough of that. They were acid and apparently straight to the point, but if one took a closer look, it was nothing but a sea of well-woven words that when read, would make the reader believe she had said something, when in reality it was the reader all along who put the words together and formed an idea in his mind. Hermione had to applaud that warped psychological technique. Her style reeked of Slytherin strategy and Pureblood dances. Whoever that woman was, Hermione knew it would take a lot to bring her down.

She sighed and pushed her thoughts away from that media warmonger. She stretched her arm and picked the nearest teaspoon. She dipped it into a bowl of sugar and then poured it into her tea, smiling slightly at the face Ginny would make if she saw her defiling the drink. Hermione pursed her lips, amused. If Ginny were awake, she would look at her in mock contempt. In Ginny's opinion, tea was a sacred beverage that should never be besmirched by any sweeteners or milk. In Hermione's opinion, Ginny was probably channelling her mum and her ideas of a proper and very English breakfast. Hermione snickered blithely at Ginny's would-be haughty face.

She gasped and clutched her chest. 'Ouch!'

'Hermione!' Mr Weasley was quick on his feet and rushed to her side and grasped her free hand, while Mrs Weasley dropped her pots and ran towards them, worry etched on her round face she started rubbing soothing circles on her back. George turned to face her, horrified but unmoving. Ginny woke up with a start and quickly got on her feet to stand by her side.

Hermione was hyperventilating, the pain searing through her was getting worse. She hunched forward until the counter was barely an inch away from her face. She could barely breathe and she could feel her eyes bulging from the pressure underneath her breastbone. It was a ravaging pain; she could swear that she would feel better if her heart was ripped out of her chest. It was as if her insides were being tugged at, and at the pace it was going, she wouldn't be surprised if her organs bulged out from her body.

She gripped the end of the table forcefully, breaking one of her nails, but she didn't notice it. Her breathing was laboured and her lungs were constricted. She coughed hoarsely, trying to find some relief, but she couldn't. Her mind began buzzing and she could feel her consciousness starting to ebb away…

But as quickly as it had hit, the pain left her and she was able to breathe again, coughing soundly with each intake of air. Without saying a word, she hastily grabbed her wand and conjured a bucket in front of her, before she emptied the contents of her stomach in it. Disgusting, she thought.

'I'm all right, I'm all right,' she squeaked.

Mrs Weasley shared a look with her husband and then turned back to Hermione. 'Dear, perhaps it would be best if you lay down for a while — '

'No, Mrs Weasley,' she croaked, regaining her composure, 'I'll be all right, I'll be fine. I just need a couple of minutes and I'll be as fit as a fiddle again,' she lied. She pointed her wand at the bucket and muttered 'Evanesco!'

Mrs Weasley pursed her lips and walked to the nearest cabinet. Hermione tore her eyes away from her and quietly thanked Mr Weasley and Ginny. She open her mouth to say something to George, but he was already staring transfixed at the ceiling again. She closed her mouth and turned to Mrs Weasley who had just planted some evil-smelling potion in front of her.

She gulped it down and started to feel better immediately. 'Thank you, Mrs Weasley.'

'It's no problem, dear,' she beamed at her fondly. Turning to her husband, she said 'Arthur, could you please get Ron? Breakfast is almost ready.'

Mr Weasley nodded briefly and went to fetch his youngest son. Hermione, meanwhile, felt warm spread through her body at the thought of Ron. The small tentative steps they had started taking as a couple after the Battle of Hogwarts had yielded very positive results. Hermione snickered lightly at the face Ron would pull if he heard her talking about their relationship like that. In any case, even though they were still awkward from time to time — too much contradictory and twisted history between the two of them — they had managed to pull through and, step by step, they were building a solid relationship.

It hadn't been easy, though. Especially since Harry was not around to play peacemaker between the two of them. They still bickered and fought like cat and dog, but now they both knew that they cared for each other. And let's face it: bickering was tremendously fun and exciting for the two of them.

Hermione was snapped out of her thoughts when a very exhausted Mr Weasley appeared, pushing his outlandishly tall and obnoxiously sleepy son to the table. Ron was wearing a very rumpled night shirt and a pair of maroon pyjama bottoms that were cut a couple of inches above his ankles. His longish, vibrant red hair was bedraggled and messy in a way that resembled Harry's bird's nest of a head. Hermione blushed when she realised she had let her stare wander and turned her gaze sharply to the counter, trying to get rid of her red-tinged cheeks.

'Gonmong,' Ron slurred, slumping on a chair next to her. 'Ows' you?' he asked drowsily, crashing his hand on top of hers.

Embarrassed yet very pleased, she grabbed his hand and swiftly moved it under the table to rest on her knee with hers. Ron didn't seem to mind (in fact, Hermione bet he hadn't even noticed her quick move, since he was now snoring on the counter) and if Mrs or Mr Weasley noticed anything, they chose not to say a word. Ginny, however, did catch her action and winked at her.

Mr Weasley cleared his throat. 'Right, it's time for me to get ready and leave.' He kissed his wife's cheek and then turned to the rest of the occupants. 'I have a meeting with Kingsley,' he explained. Then he narrowed his eyes at George and frowned. 'George, get up. Percy told me this morning that you had to be at the shop at ten sharp.'

George didn't even spare him a glance, but did as he was told and left the kitchen to get dressed. Hermione felt horrible for him, but he had to let go of his pain and start rebuilding his life again. She couldn't even imagine what it was like to lose a twin, but she knew that if George didn't start to pick up the pieces of his life, things could only go downhill from there.

Mrs Weasley placed an extravagantly full plate in front of Ron, packed with bacon, eggs, kippers and other foods. Hermione smiled fondly when she saw that Ron — who was snoring with his mouth wide open and a bit of drool trickling down from it — grabbed a spoon unconsciously and started shoving food into his mouth, not even bothering to open his eyes. Proof of how far she had come was that she hadn't jumped to scold him yet for his appalling lack of manners and etiquette. Ron was quaint in a caveman manner; despite that, he still made her heart flutter.

'So dears, what is your plan for the day? Studying again?' Mrs Weasley asked.

Ginny gave Hermione a sideways glance and then shook her head. 'No, today's our day off!' she said nonchalantly.

Mrs Weasley pursed her lips. 'Ginny, even though Hogwarts is closed this year you shouldn't be leaving your studies aside —'

She waved a hand dismissively. 'Mum, you know as well as I do that we have been studying and working for hours on end. If I spend one more hour with a book, I will end up with the social skills of Madam Pince. Or worse — Percy. You don't want that,' she finished theatrically.

Hermione sent Ginny a grateful look. She knew it was because of her and the illness that had taken over her that Ginny was postponing their studies. She had never thought that a time would come where she would be relieved not to open a book.

Ginny pulled her hair into a ponytail and faced her mother. 'I think that we will relax and perhaps do a bit revision. Kill our brains trying to decipher why we can't just get to Harry, and what is wrong with Charlie and Hermione.' Her face turned pensive for a fleeting second. 'All right, so Ron and I will relax while Hermione will try to figure that out,' she concluded, sticking her tongue out at Hermione.

'Quidditch,' Ron grunted.

Ginny grinned. 'I'm not singing "Weasley is our King" again, Ronniekinns,' she joked and then turned to her mother. 'I guess we will just have a lazy day. Merlin knows that Hermione needs to learn that lazy doesn't equal heresy!'

Hermione snorted as she rose to help Mrs Weasley clean up the kitchen. Oh, she already knew what being lazy was. She had been friends with Ron and Harry since she was twelve, hadn't she?

Soon enough, Ginny and Hermione were trudging up the stairs, a still very drowsy Ron lagging behind them. They parted at the landing of the first floor and Hermione went quickly to her room — Bill's old room — to get some clean clothes and take a shower. Stepping into the bathroom, she braced herself and forced herself to look into the mirror and see her own reflection, which she had avoided at all costs for the past three and a half months.

She gasped when she saw herself in the mirror. She was nothing but the cadaverous image of her former self; it was ghastly. Her infamously bushy hair was lank and devoid of life. She touched her cheek with her spidery fingers and felt nothing but the form of her zygomatic bone under her dry skin. Her lips were crusty and chapped, her figure skeletally thin. Her skin was clammy and greyish, giving her an unearthly look. But worst of all were her eyes, sunken and hollow, with an eerie light to them.

Hermione tore her eyes away from her reflection and sought refuge in the warmth of the hot water the shower provided. She had been spooked by her appearance, and there was no way she could deny it. She wondered why the others acted normal around her when she resembled a hairy Dementor.

Truth be told, she had no idea why she had fallen ill. She had no idea either why only Charlie and Luna Lovegood were sickly too, only to a lesser extent. She had done her research, but there was no magical or Muggle disease that could explain her symptoms. Her magic had been hindered, she could barely cast a spell — yet she wasn't suffering from magical exhaustion.

Ever since Harry disappeared, she had worked herself to death so that when she was with him again, she could do her best. However, the weird illness that had taken over her was progressively diminishing her life force and there was nothing she could do about it. She had visited Muggle doctors and the best specialists St Mungo's could provide — nothing. She could feel it in her bones; it was as if life was being sucked away from her body.

She hadn't voiced these thoughts, but she knew that whatever was going to happen to her would happen soon. A part of her mind — a part she tried her hardest to ignore — told her that, whatever illness had hooked her would not leave her and that soon, her time would be over.

Hermione turned the water hotter, practically boiling. She would drown that thought.

Sometime s, Harry really wished that banging one's head against the nearest wall would be considered normal and perfectly acceptable behaviour. But alas, some things were just not meant to be.

He was exhausted, and dropped into his bed with splitting headaches almost every night. Dumbledore was to blame for that; not only he was pushing him to near magical exhaustion every single day, but he was also attacking his mind, with the flimsy excuse that he was teaching him the arts of the mind. Harry now knew why Dumbledore was the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared. Harry himself was beginning to dread seeing his former Headmaster, the sight of him making him cringe.

On New Year's Day, he had been contacted by Owl, who had told him that Squeamish and Dragon had tracked down another Death Eater camp, and would be attacking it on the eighth of January. To Harry's surprise, he was actually looking forward to it. Anything to get rid of the evil coot also known as Professor Dumbledore.

Deep down, Harry had to admit that he was deeply grateful towards the old Headmaster. He had trained extensively and his skills were almost unparalleled; but in this world, Voldemort would not tread softly around him. Whenever he encountered him, if he displayed an unusual amount of skill and power, Voldemort would do his best until Harry was six feet under. If Voldemort discovered who he was and realised that his nemesis was back — a fully-trained and powerful nemesis — he would employ all the vast knowledge he had gathered during his life.

Harry knew that Voldemort liked the Unforgivables, but against someone as trained as Harry, they could only get him so far. The Unforgivables, contrary to popular belief, were not unblockable. True, if you were hit then you were a goner; but if you were able to keep your wits and be fast enough to dodge them, then you would be spared. Because of that, Harry was incredibly grateful for his quick reflexes and agility. If you had asked him ten years prior to that moment, he would have laughed at the thought of Dudley's "Harry Hunting" game coming in handy someday.

He shook his head in amusement as he rolled the duvet over. He cricked his neck and winced at his sore muscles. With a visible effort, he pushed himself off the bed and opened the curtains, grinning when he saw a thick layer of snow outside.

Tossing his pyjamas and undergarments aside, he grabbed a clean set of robes from somewhere around the war zone that was his room. Harry stretched his body and left his room, yawning obnoxiously, headed to the bathroom for a quick shower. Gasping, he realised that, considering he no longer lived alone in this house, it wasn't the best idea to prance around naked.

Later at breakfast, Harry would swear over and over that the blush that covered his face was due to the extremely hot bath he had taken.

He arrived at the kitchen, smiling slightly at the countless pots scattered around it. His kitchen had been literally turned into a greenhouse. It used to be a fairly simple kitchen, packed with indispensable things and no decorations: a sink that overlooked a window, a table in the centre, chairs and the whitest walls you would ever see. Since Neville showed up, it was more like a jungle. A jungle in pots, but still a jungle.

'Saw the rubbish in the Prophet yet, Harry?' said Neville, walking through the kitchen door with a piece of toast in one hand, the newspaper in the other. He slumped down onto a chair, disgust etched on his face. 'This is bloody ridiculous! How can Voldemort's birthday be more important than Christmas Day, for Merlin's sake?' he cried exasperatedly.

Harry nodded, while taking a sip from his cup of tea. The truth was that he hadn't expected the country to be out in the streets in fervour, celebrating Voldemort's birthday. He even wondered if he cared about that. But the extent to which people manifested their joy on the thirty-first of December was simply outrageous. From the tumultuous and cheering crowd, you would expect that something grandiose had happened: like the end of the war, for instance. But no, there were overjoyed because, eons ago, Voldemort had the bad taste of being born. People were bonkers in Harry's opinion.

'Yeah, the Daily Prophet here is worse than back home,' said Harry, chewing on a bit of toast. 'The Death Eater propaganda published here is so blatant it makes me want to throw up.' As if on cue, he imitated puking noises all around the table. It took him a while to calm a distraught Kreacher, who, seeing Harry with what he believed to be a severe bout of nausea, went into a crying fit, thinking he had poisoned his master.

Neville chuckled at the pair's antics and opened the newspaper again. Not less than ten seconds later, he was already grinding his teeth and muttering threats. Harry wasn't sure why Neville had taken a liking to getting angry in the mornings; perhaps to make up for his usual lack of aggressiveness?

'Whoa, whoa — what's got into you?' asked Harry, when he saw Neville tearing up a page.

'I hate this — I hate that everyone is sad about poor Bellatrix Lestrange because she lost her brother-in-law, as if she is just some innocent woman!' He growled, pure hatred on his face. 'I hate it that nobody remembers that she destroyed my family — twice!'

Harry winced. 'Don't worry Neville, she will get her comeuppance,' he said reassuringly.

Neville muttered under his breath but didn't say anything else about Bellatrix. He focused on the newspaper, hissing from time to time.

Harry didn't really know what to say to him: in one world, his parents had been driven to insanity; in the other, they had been killed. Was there anything he could do to soothe Neville? No, there wasn't. Especially because, technically, Harry wasn't an orphan anymore. He was brought out of his thoughts when he noticed that Neville was talking to him.

'Sorry. What was that?'

'I said, what do you think of this Artemis person?'

Harry frowned, scratching his hand bemusedly. He put his mug down. Staring into space he sighed, pulling his thoughts together. 'I don't really know, Neville. These Innominabiles are something we are not used to. There is Voldemort, then the inner circle and then the rest of the Death Eaters. There isn't much difference between the inner circle and the rest of the Death Eaters, only that the former have bigger Gringotts' accounts, heavier names and more refined techniques. But the Innominabiles? They sound like Voldemort's extended arm — especially Artemis.'

'I know, it's just weird. I always thought that nobody could be closer to Voldemort than Lestrange, but it turns out we were wrong.'

Harry nodded. 'Exactly.'

Neville scratched his head. 'What I don't get is why Voldemort would have an heiress. Isn't he supposed to be immortal?'

Harry shrugged noncommittally. 'I don't know. Perhaps he wanted someone who would never betray him, no matter what happened. If you can't be loyal to your family, you can be loyal to nobody, right?' he asked rhetorically.

'I guess,' answered Neville, unconvinced. Flapping the newspaper with a frown, he turned back to Harry. 'Who do you think they really are?'

'Their identities you mean? Number Three is Bellatrix, even if someone else was posing for her. But as for the other four, I haven't got the faintest.'

'Yeah, same here. Well, number five seemed a lot like Draco Malfoy; but he's dead, had a huge funeral even. Yeah, I researched it,' he added, noticing Harry's inquisitive eyes at that comment.

'Whoever they are, they are bad news. Especially Artemis. From what I read in the newspaper, she seems like the female version of Voldemort: red eyes, manipulative, sly, conniving, powerful, arrogant, assertive… and the list goes on,' said Harry, resting his back on the chair. 'Whoever she is, she is going to make the outcome of the war ten times more difficult than it already was,' he muttered, defeated.

Neville massaged his temples absent-mindedly. 'Doesn't it feel like once we sort things out, ten thousand more problems spring up to hit us in the face?'

Harry grunted in agreement. 'No kidding.'

A comfortable silence filled the kitchen. Harry closed his eyes, basking in the lack of chatter. He could hear Kreacher rustling at the sink and Neville flipping the newspaper pages over from time to time. He stretched his legs under the table and crossed them, allowing his body to get rid of the tension, trying not to think about when the Headmaster from hell would pop up for their next lesson.

'How are you holding up, Neville?' Harry asked, eyes still closed.

Neville smiled weakly at him. 'You mean besides being completely confused?'

Harry arched an eyebrow. 'Confused?'

Neville nodded. 'How would you describe your mental state if you are pulled from everything you know with only a few items — including a Mimbulus Mimbletonia — and landed in a place where Voldemort is Merlin, Dumbledore is in Azkaban, Hermione is some super assassin birdie, and Luna is not just mental, but plainly psychotic?'

Harry laughed. 'Well, when you put it that way…'

Neville grinned. 'Seriously, I wouldn't be surprised if Trelawney turned out to be the Head of the Department of Law Enforcement, or Umbridge proclaimed her love for centaurs.'

Harry snorted. Those two things were as likely as Voldemort handing out sweets. Still, the mental picture of Trelawney in an immaculate suit along with a neatly trimmed moustache was pretty amusing.

'Look on the bright side. At least Owl isn't pestering us to do our homework and coming up with screaming schedules for us.'

Neville seemed to ponder his words very carefully. With a serious expression, he nodded at Harry. 'Anything for a quiet life.'

They both laughed hysterically at that comment. It wasn't really that funny, but both of their nerves had been stretched.

Unfortunately, Harry's fun time was cut short. Professor Dumbledore, no doubt guided by their raucous laughter, must've realised that both boys were awake and entered the kitchen with a bright smile. His blindingly yellow robes made both Harry and Neville shut their eyes synchronically, thus avoiding having their optic nerves being burnt because of the Headmaster's vivid robes.

Harry and Neville watched Dumbledore's breakfast quirks, transfixed. After grabbing a couple of slices of bread and dipping them into butter, he proceeded to grab a full jar of marmalade and spread it over the heavily buttered bread. He then dropped what seemed like two stones of sugar on it and made a sandwich fit for Dudley.

'A healthy breakfast, a healthy mind,' Dumbledore said merrily, sipping from his mug, something in it that resembled Polyjuice Potion.

Both Neville and Harry, deciding it was safer not to look at the Headmaster while he was eating, busied themselves by helping Kreacher clean up the mess they had made. Kreacher of course, would have none of it, so Harry decided to "help" Neville with the many plants he had placed all over the house.

'So what is this one for?' he asked, pointing at a thorny… thorny thing that had taken residence in the nearest bathroom. Really, there wasn't a better word to describe it. It was a red ball with lines etched all over it, no stem, no leaves. Plants were supposed to have those two, weren't they?

Neville chuckled. Placing his head at the thing's level, but maintaining a healthy distance, he whistled softly.

Harry jumped back and exclaimed in surprise. The red ball wasn't a ball anymore. That thing had split apart, becoming the most hideous flower he had ever seen, and probably the most dangerous, according to Neville's explanations. Neville kept whistling, and Harry could see a dark stem growing from the earth at inhuman speed. The flower itself was also growing quickly, until it reached the healthy size of a human head. Looking at it carefully, Harry could see that the petals had tiny red teeth, almost invisible unless you were looking for them.

'It's only the initial phase, Harry. But this plant is for seeping magic out of someone —'

'Turn a wizard into a Muggle?' Harry blurted.

Neville nodded grimly. 'It's not yet developed, and it doesn't always answer to my commands. It's in an experimental stage at the moment. I can't use it until I'm positive that it will only attack my enemies and not backfire on myself.'

Harry was shocked. He hadn't known that plants could be used that way. He hadn't known either that Neville could create such things. He was most definitely more talented than anyone could have thought — and he also had a very nasty streak. Still, Harry was fascinated by it; if it worked, it would save them a lot of trouble.

'Mate, this is bloody brilliant!' Harry exclaimed, awed at Neville as he whistled again, watching as the plant dwindled and became a red ball again.

Neville beamed and then frowned. 'This is not exactly how I wanted my Herbology career to go…'

Harry winced. 'Yeah, I know. I never pictured myself practising the Dark Arts,' he said sadly, a rush of shame searing through him.

Neville smiled sadly. 'Come on, I have man-eating plants to pot and you have a lesson with your would-be assassin.'

Harry groaned.

Hermione stirred. A sudden movement under her head caused her to wake up. With a herculean effort, she opened her eyes and realised she had fallen asleep on Ron's shoulder. She blinked in confusion; when they had sat on the couch for some light reading, she hadn't realised she was so tired. Still, a warm sensation swept through her, making her feel safe and cosy.

Night was falling quickly. The fire was lit and she basked in the warmth of the glowing embers, snuggling closer to Ron. The strong flames licked the wood ablaze, slowly annihilating it yet making it look so pretty.

She turned her head slightly to gaze at Ron. It made her smile when she saw him with a thick tome on his lap. His left hand and stare lingered on the page he was reading, while he silently practised wand movements with his right hand. He seemed to notice her fond gaze and turned to her, the edge of his mouth turning upwards.

'Hey. Did I wake you up?' he asked quietly.

Hermione beamed at him and shook her head softly, careful not to make her senses spin. 'What are you reading?'

Ron frowned. 'I'm trying to master the wand movement behind the Perimeter Shield Spell. I am doing something wrong, but I just don't know what,' he said, frustration leaking from his voice.

Hermione sat up instantly, ignoring her protesting muscles. 'Show me,' she said briskly.

Ron smiled mischievously at her. 'Of course, Professor Granger,' he teased, making her roll her eyes. He dropped his manner a second afterwards and scrunched his nose in concentration. 'Protego Circumscriptio!'

Nothing. Hermione frowned. 'Well, the incantation, timing and the intonation are both perfect. Do the wand movement without the incantation.'

Ron obliged and drew his wand. He performed a quick circular twirl and added as slashing motion at the end.

She arched an eye brow. 'What area are you visualising?'

He stared at her blankly. 'Er, do I have to visualise an area?'

She chuckled good-naturedly. 'Of course you do, silly. It's all about intent with magic. You have to see perfectly in your mind what you want to protect — see every corner in your brain. If you want to produce a shield for a rectangular room, you need to have the image sharp in your head and then produce a rectangular movement with your wand. The slashing motion comes when you pronounce the "go" at the end of "Protego". Try it again, picturing a small area.'

Ron nodded and closed his eyes briefly. 'Protego Circumscriptio!' A blue beam of magic shot from his wand and morphed itself into a circle that penetrated the carpet in front of them, making it gleam slightly.

Hermione squealed delightedly. 'You did it! Well done!'

He grinned at her. 'So Professor Granger, what is your verdict?'

She smirked at him. 'Ten points to Slytherin!'

Ron gasped. 'What?'

Hermione chortled and ruffled his hair. 'You are silly.'

Ron huffed in mock annoyance for a minute and then dropped his demeanour. He gazed at her fondly and kissed the crown of her head lightly. 'Thank you. I was going bonkers trying to understand what the bloody book was saying.'

Her skin felt white-hot where his lips had touched her, and she felt somewhat embarrassed that, after months of dating, he still caused that reaction on her. 'You are welcome.'

'Seriously, I spent hours trying to do this spell, and the bloody book would just drag on and on and not explain anything about picturing an area. Stupid book!' He protested, glaring at the tome on his lap.

Hermione chuckled lightly. 'Where's Ginny?' she asked suddenly.

Ron shrugged. 'Out in the courtyard, duelling with Luna.'

'Oh. Shouldn't we go there to supervise it? In case they get hurt?' she suggested.

'Nah. Ginny's old enough, she doesn't need us to chaperone her. Plus, Bill is outside checking the wards.'

Hermione opened her eyes widely, surprised. 'Bill is here?'

'Yeah, Mum asked him to come over to go through the wards. So don't worry about Ginny and Luna, they'll be fine,' he told her comfortingly, placing an arm over her shoulders and drawing her closer to him, making her shiver.

Ron frowned. 'Are you cold? Let me conjure you a blanket. Lodix!'

She blushed lightly. 'I-I wasn't cold, but thanks,' she stammered, covering her body with the blanket.

His cheeks turned red and they both looked away, an uncomfortable silence spreading through the room. Hermione set her eyes on the Weasley Family Clock, where ten hands were. It should have been eleven, she thought sadly, her mind drifting to Fred Weasley. She forced herself away from those morbid thoughts and focused on the newly added hands on the clock: her own and Harry's. She smiled sadly: Harry should have been there too to see his own pointer in the clock. She could just see him in her mind: he would be dumbstruck, unable to say anything, because he would be so touched and moved he would lose his ability to speak.

She sighed. She missed her best friend. It just wasn't the same without good old brave and good-hearted Harry around. Ever since he had vanished at the last equinox, they had thrown themselves into their books, practising and learning at the most ungodly of hours. The Weasley family had all got into it too, along with Neville and Luna. They were determined to do their best, so that when the time came, they could help Harry.

Glancing at the tattoo on her arm, she smiled weakly. Of course, Harry wouldn't see it that way, but she had to admit that he had the most loyal of devotees. They were all literally killing themselves to prepare for the upcoming war — including George. Most of the adults still had their lives to contend with, but they somehow managed to do everything at once.

She was frustrated that no matter how hard they all tried to get to Harry, they hadn't managed it. Each time Hermione tried, she felt a wave of sickness spread through her. The same thing happened with Charlie and Luna. Ginny, on the other hand, confessed that when she tried, she could only feel a whiplash of cold and dread. The rest of the Weasleys, however, said that they felt a block. She had tried many times to decipher what that meant, but she was no closer to coming up with a plausible reason.

Her mind wandered back to Harry. Merlin, she missed that moody git. She couldn't even begin to imagine how Ginny must be feeling, with her boyfriend gone.

Everything seemed to have gone crazy ever since Harry left: the Ministry was in shambles no matter how hard they tried to rebuild their world, the economy was destroyed to the utter bafflement of the goblins, people were deathly sick (including her), the weather was out of control… It all seemed linked to Harry, but why?

Her brain just couldn't come up with a feasible reason. And Merlin, she missed her best friend. Christmas had been very subdued without him in their midst. And when Neville vanished, it had spiralled downwards. Professor Sinistra, Justin and others had started disappearing too and nobody — not even them, who were extremely well informed — could explain it.

She glanced at the clock again. Eight hands pointed at home, two at "Mortal Peril": Harry and her own.

She knew she was sick, but the hand on the clock only reminded her of it. And she hated it. She hated the increasing doubts that plagued her mind, the fear that she might leave this world at the age of nineteen. She —

'I'm worried about Ginny,' Ron interrupted her thoughts, his face filled with sorrow.

She nodded. 'Me too. She has thrown herself into this, it's almost an obsession,' she said sadly. 'Seeing her duelling with reckless abandon, not caring if she is bleeding or hurt… it just scares me to death.'

Ron nodded and pressed her closer to him. 'I know. I can't blame her. If it -' he looked at her timidly, 'if it were you in Harry's shoes, I would be the same. I don't know if this is stupid, but even though I'm dead worried about Harry, I feel guilty that I'm not working as hard as Ginny is -'

'Don't,' she interrupted him harshly. 'Don't — just don't. You are working yourself tirelessly. Seeing you with a book at every waking hour and muttering spells in your sleep is so unlike you it's downright eerie. Ginny has a motivation neither of us do — even though Harry is our best friend.'

He looked puzzled at her. 'Er, a motivation?'

She smiled kindly at him, clasping his hand and squeezing it slightly. Boys could be so endearingly oblivious sometimes. 'Your sister is very much in love with Harry, Ron,' she whispered softly.

Ron's ears turned pink. 'But she is only seventeen!' he cried, aghast.

She rolled her eyes at him. 'So? Look at the history between those two. Age doesn't matter in this case.'

He muttered something incongruently under his breath. He faced her with a pained expression on his face. 'Can we leave the topic about my baby sister and my best mate being a lovey-dovey couple alone? I don't want to have kissy-kissy nightmares,' he whined dramatically.

She rolled her eyes again. 'Honestly, Ron. You sometimes have the maturity range of a teaspoon!'

He smirked mischievously at her and wrapped both of his arms around her in a vice-grip, his face looming close to hers. 'Still a teaspoon, eh? So what utensil would be if I told you that I would very much enjoy giving Ginny kissy-kissy nightmares about the two of us, hmm?' he asked huskily, waggling his eyebrows at her.

She flushed red. 'I- I' she stammered.

'At a loss for words, eh, illustrious Professor Granger?' he teased, pulling her towards to him, slowly closing the gap between them.

'Ron!' she scolded half-heartedly.

'What will you do, professor? Land me in detention?' he asked hoarsely, his lips barely an inch away from hers.

Hermione couldn't think. Her mind, for the first time in her life, had gone completely blank. She could only register that Ron's nose was spattered with freckles and that his lips were dangerously close to hers.

Her mind exploded when he kissed her, an electrical bolt cursed through her spine. Her head was hazy and her thoughts distorted, she could only feel the acute sensation that spread from her lips to the rest of her body, an overpowering tingle running through her. She couldn't help the throaty whimper that escaped her lips when she felt Ron's mouth seeking entrance to hers, nor could she resist it when he laid her softly on the couch and pressed his body to hers, his weight covering her completely.

The usually huge logical part of her brain had been subdued, although it did kick in from time to time. We shouldn't be doing this here where we could get so easily caught, she thought briefly — but it was quickly silenced when Ron grabbed her leg and wrapped it around his waist, their bodies coming even closer than they were before.

Satisfactorily crushed under Ron's weight, Hermione decided that kissing him was the best feeling in the world. Nothing could compare to it. She squirmed in pleasure underneath him, a slow, rumbling sound spreading through her belly.

Hermione ran her hands through his hair and used her leg to crush him against her, all sense of proper and décor forgotten. She arched her back when one of Ron's hands went under her shirt and caressed her side, waves of heat spreading through her body…

Hermione felt a brief stabbing sensation on her midriff, but she chose to ignore it, since she was too busy kissing Ron to think about small discomforts. One of her hands left his hair to anchor itself on his belt, while her foot trailed up and down the length of his leg.

The pain in her abdomen started worsening, and it felt damp to her. But she refused to let her sickness destroy the moment she was sharing with Ron. She placed her other hand on his cheek and kissed him fiercely, panting heavily.

Ron broke it off. 'What the — Hermione!'

At first, she was angered that he had stopped with his ministrations, but then she followed his stare. She gasped.

Her stomach was covered in blood. Dark red blood oozed from her abdomen soaking her clothes and now that the pleasure was over the pain kicked in with a force.

'HELP! HELP! HERMIONE'S HURT!' Ron yelled, jumping to his feet and trying to perform every healing spell he knew.

She looked at him with pleading eyes, silently begging him to help her as the rest of the inhabitants barged in, their wands at the ready. She couldn't see their faces, but the horror dripping from the voices was enough to tell her it wasn't a pretty sight.

'Ron! What happened?' Ginny demanded, frantic.

Ron stamped on the floor, as he tried to perform yet another Episkey on her to no avail. 'I don't know. Episkey! Sano! Episkey! She just started bleeding -'

'I'll go and get the healing potions from the cabinet!' Mrs Weasley cried. 'Bill, Arthur, help me!'

Ginny ripped off the cloth over her stomach and told Ron and Luna to cast healing charms all at once in sheer desperation, but it didn't work. She could feel the wound closing up with each spell only to burst open a second afterwards, making her scream in agony. She lifted her head a bit and saw that she had a deep wound on her stomach, the flesh at the sides of it green.

Her eyes bulged out —

'She's been poisoned!' Ginny shrieked.

Hermione thrashed, excruciating waves of pain running through her. She writhed on the couch, panting. She screamed; something was moving inside her, dissolving her organs. The throbbing pain was acute and her breathing became laboured, her strength rapidly decreasing —

'Ron, do something!'

'What? It's not working!'

Her eyelids fluttered, the voices around her becoming hazy and distorted, the figures turning blurry. The pain wasn't receding, but her brain was suppressing it, consciousness slowly ebbing away as her mind started to shut down.

She opened her eyes wide and gasped, her back arched in pain, a silent scream on her lips, her legs thrashing in one last moment of torture. She couldn't take it anymore, she was about to explode, nothing mattered anymore —

And so, when she saw a distant white light accompanied by distant cries of fury at the back of her eyes, she embraced it with all her might and plunged into it recklessly.

Hermione Jean Granger died that night on the couch at the Burrow, on the fourteenth of January, surrounded by the people she loved. Her body relaxed and slumped back down on the sofa as her eyelids closed and her arm fell limply to the floor, blackened blood still leaking from her body, morbidly staining the carpet below.

The smoky silhouettes of a phoenix, a basilisk and a lion appeared out of thin air and encircled her body in a furious and frenzy mist.

Black flames licked her body and it vanished with a flash of light.

One world away, the Renegade known as Owl collapsed.