Harry Potter: A Gift Thrice Given

1. Dreams

Author’s Note: This is a revised version of the story called: Harry Potter The Final Year. I took it down because it was utterly pathetic, outdated and just badly written. I am now starting to revise these chapters and bring them up to my current level of writing. As with the old, this completely ignores HBP and DH because I started it before either of them were published. The updates, unfortunatly, will be slow because of RL constraints. But I am fully determined to not only revise this story but finish it no matter how long it takes or who I have to kill to make it happen. I hope you enjoy and review! *Elivania*

A woman stood at the brink of an old forest. There were two breaks in the trees; two paths in which to enter. Though they held different journeys, their destination was the same. The long, bell sleeves of her robe flapped gently against her skin in the wind, the shimmering silver-blue material catching the eerie light. There was a belt of similar color, loosely buckled around her waist, and a short dagger, sheathed, was attached.

Her journey through the forest would start soon. The first step was to choose.

As her vision crossed between one path and the other, her sight was suddenly filled with a white ring of elegant symbols. As her eyes fell on the left path, the ring became a light, penetrating blue. On the right, a blinding white. She had to choose. Her gazed lingered on the left path. Then it turned to the right. Indecision. Clairvoyant knowledge of what would transpire the moment she entered either path circled through her mind. It made her hesitate. She looked back to the left path. Then, with the ring still glowing blue, she stepped forward.

July 28, 1997

Hermione woke with a start. Cold sweat gathered in patches on her back and neck causing her t-shirt to stick to her skin. Fumbling for her lamp, her room was soon enveloped in the dull yellow light of an incandescent bulb. Her breaths still labored, Hermione wiped her forehead with the back of her shaking hand and quickly glanced at her clock: it was just past two in the morning.

Her brown eyes darted about from place to place, her room was in its normal state. Books and parchment were strewn on her desk. Recent letters from Harry and Ron were on her nightstand next to her lamp. Her dream was the only thing out of the ordinary. It was always the only thing out of the ordinary.

Slowly Hermione pushed back the duvet and sat up, turning to sit at the edge of the bed and plant her bare feet on the carpeted floor. Her hair was its usual tangled mess as her still trembling fingers threaded through it. Leaning over, her elbows resting on her knees, she blew a shaky sigh through her lips, disturbing a loose thread poking out from her pajama bottoms.

Hermione had experienced many of these dreams since the end of term. The first of the dreams was hazy, as if she was surrounded in mist or fog. It was the night after she had pulled Harry out of Voldemort’s path only a month ago. The ring of symbols appeared just as she had touched Harry, but it was only fleeting. Each night following became longer and more vivid. Each dream was the same. She was wearing the same light, long robes, the same forest, and the same choice to make. Tonight’s dream had the first new occurrence. This time the strange letters changed color as she looked from one path to another, and it seemed as though she had picked which path to take.

But what did it all mean?

Hermione pushed herself up off the bed with a frustrated sigh and grabbed the faded periwinkle robe from its place draped over her desk chair. Quietly stepping down the stairs, she snuck past her parents’ room and walked down the hall, dimly lit by the light from the street lamps filtering through the window. The kitchen was at the back of the house; but wary of waking her parents, Hermione only turned on the light over the stove. She filled the kettle with water and set it on the front burner, flipping the corresponding stovetop knob to turn on the heat.

Frustrating, confusing and slightly disturbing, the images from her latest dream flitted through her mind in hazy transparence as she grabbed a mug and sugar from the cupboard. They were out of cream, as Hermione found out after riffling through the refrigerator. “Of course,” she muttered, and shut the door, closing her eyes as the cool air blew into her face upon closing.

The kettle began its low whistle at a hollow quiet whine; slowly building in volume until Hermione quickly plucked it from the stove and poured the water over the tea leaves. Still thinking of the forest, Hermione absently stirred the sugar into the tea, staring out the window over the sink into the darkness of the early morning. The clink of the spoon on the sides of the mug brought her back to the current moment, and she tapped the spoon on the lip of the mug before setting it in the sink.

Taking a seat on the stool just on the other side of the counter, Hermione continued her thoughts. Why, after all these years and everything else she’d been through, why was it now that she had to be plagued by strange dreams?

With a shake of her head, Hermione took a small sip of the scalding tea and tried to focus on something less disorienting.

Harry’s birthday was coming up in only a few days and she had yet to find a suitable present for his coming of age. It was always so hard to find something Harry would truly like. The broom servicing kit she’d sent him for his thirteenth birthday had practically been an accident, a fortunate one, but totally unplanned. She hadn’t been able to find something that possibly matched up since. The usual sweets just didn’t seem right for this birthday, and Hermione was determined to find something that would do more than stave off the hunger that came from Dudley’s usual summer diet his aunt forced on Harry just to make his fat cousin feel better.

The idea of a book of some sort had floated around in her head for quite a while. Harry had been looking more and more into dark curses and rituals during his research last year, trying to find some edge to overcome Voldemort. But unless she took a stroll down Knockturn Alley, Hermione knew she wouldn’t find a book that would be useful in a place like Flourish and Blotts. She wasn’t completely dismissing the idea, though, in case she happened to find something on defense and had no other alternative.

“Boys,” she muttered, taking another sip of her tea. Why did they always have to be so hard to shop for? Sure, Quidditch and food was at the top of their list, but seriously…that sort of thing just wasn’t useful.

The clock set upon the wall ticked away as Hermione mulled over other possibilities and finished off her tea. It was near quarter to three when she finished. With a yawn, Hermione set the mug in the sink and quietly returned to her room, making sure to skip the fourth step on her way up so the squeak wouldn’t wake her parents.

Hermione awoke to the usual BBC broadcast alarm at quarter past eight. The last few hours having been restful and without any repeat of the dream, Hermione got out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. The muffled sound of voices and bit of clanking of pans coming up the stairs from the kitchen told her that her parents were already up.

Down the hall and into the kitchen, Hermione found her father sitting at the table with his usual cup of coffee in hand while the morning’s Times was spread out over the table. His brow furrowed and neck bent over the pages, Hermione’s father gave a very good impression of her own reading habits: completely absorbed and oblivious to the outside world. She smiled lightly, walking around the table to give him his morning kiss, when her eyes fell on the article he was reading.

“50 Killed In Freak Bridge Collapse: Secretary Young denies faulty engineering. Investigation underway. Third bridge collapse in four weeks…” Again, Hermione sighed. Freak collapse her foot. Voldemort was just continuing his efforts to subvert the Muggle government just as he had the Ministry for Magic in the past ten months.

“Morning, Dad,” she said, finishing her original reason for standing at his shoulder, and kissed his cheek.

“Hmm? What? Oh, morning Hermione,” he mumbled before going back to the article. At the counter where Hermione had had her tea earlier that morning, her mother was currently dishing out the toast and eggs for the three of them.

“Morning, Mum,” said Hermione, kissing her cheek as well.

“Good morning, dear,” Evelyn echoed. “Sleep well last night?” she asked. “Any more of those dreams?”

Hermione sighed, half-wishing she had never told her parents about the haunting visions of the forest and symbols. “Yes, but there wasn’t any change,” she lied. “Just standing there again, staring at that infuriating forest.” She rested her arm on the counter as she leaned against it, staring blankly at the scrambled eggs and toast that sat on the three plates. “I don’t understand it,” she sighed.

Her mother clucked her tongue, setting the frying pan in the sink and pulling three glasses from the cupboard.

“I wish you’d talk to Sherry about these dreams—”

“Mum…”

“Yes, I know, dear,” interrupted Evelyn as she set the glasses by the plates and gave her daughter a sympathetic gaze. “You don’t feel comfortable talking to anyone about these things, but she’s a professional. The law requires her to be strictly confidential and she has a lot of experience in these matters.”

Hermione scoffed. “I highly doubt seeing a Muggle psychiatrist is going to help, Mum, especially since the whole subject of when and how they started deals with magic. And considering Sherry makes a living off dissecting people’s emotions, lying to her is completely out of the question. She wouldn’t believe a word that came of my mouth.”

“There is such a thing as conditional disclosure, love—milk or orange juice?” she asked from the refrigerator.

“Orange juice,” Hermione answered. “And I know that, Mum…but really, could you adequately explain my dreams without getting into the underlying influence of magic?” She grabbed the glass of juice and her plate from the counter, taking it to an empty chair at the table.

“All you have to tell her is the details of the dream,” answered her mother, bringing her husband’s plate and glass of juice with her. “Miles if you don’t move that paper you’re going to be reading the weather forecast through your eggs,” she scolded, momentarily distracted by her husband’s continued reading. He looked up and folded the paper without protest and set it on the corner of the table. “As for the rest, just tell her that you don’t feel comfortable speaking of the first appearance. If she presses, you can figure out a way to explain without mentioning magic. I’m sure you don’t receive those high marks at school for nothing.”

“What’s this about?” asked Miles, taking another drink from his luke warm coffee.

“Just those dreams again,” Evelyn said with a dismissing wave of her hand and walked back to get her own breakfast.

Hermione’s father frowned. “You had another one?” he asked. A slosh of coffee spilled over the side as he abruptly set the mug down.

Hermione nodded, picking up the buttered toast and took a bite.

“And she refuses to talk to Sherry about it,” her mother continued, sitting down opposite Hermione.

“Mum, please…”

“Hermione, your mother is right. Non-magical or not, Sherry knows what she’s doing. She could help.”

Frustrated that her parents just wouldn’t let the whole ‘seeing someone’ go, Hermione sighed again, rolling her eyes and just loaded her fork up with eggs. Under the table, Crookshanks rubbed up against her legs, plopping down on her feet.

“If I say I’ll seriously consider it, will you let it go for the moment?” she asked after a few bites.

“For the moment, yes,”’ her mother conceded.

“Thank you. Because I’d really like to go into town today, and I’d like to spend it not worrying about you putting Sherry’s office address in my handbag again.”

Her mother hardly even glanced at her over the glass as she took a long drink from her juice.

“You’ll be apparating, then?” asked her father, his eyes flitting towards the paper’s headlines.

“It’d be easier, unless you want to drive all the way there,” Hermione answered. “There’s an alleyway just behind the Leaky Cauldron, so I won’t be seen.” Miles furrowed his brow, his lips pursed as he looked back to the paper. As if reading his mind, Hermione reached over and touched his hand. “I won’t be there for very long, and Diagon Alley is very well patrolled. I’ll be careful, Dad. I promise.” The corner of his mouth turned up slightly and he nodded, patting her hand before she pulled away.

“I know you will, honey. I know.”

Hermione appeared in the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron with a distinctive crack at half past eleven. With one last look to see if anyone could have spotted her, Hermione straightened her blouse and adjusted the shoulder strap to her bag before walking back into the warm sun. The wizard pub was just around the corner, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting once the door closed behind her. Tom greeted her with his usual toothy smile, and Hermione waved back. The tables were starting to fill with lunch customers, and Hermione could have sworn she ran into a vampire when she turned the corner to reach the back patio. An archway appeared after Hermione tapped the correct bricks in the wall with her wand and the sights, sounds and smell of Diagon Alley filled her senses.

A smile stretched over her face as Hermione was put back in the world to which she had become so accustomed.

Too early for school shoppers, and so near the lunch hour, the Alley wasn’t too crowded, which made navigating the narrow street far easier. Along the street, in front of the other established shops, were a few independent sellers claiming lower prices for equal quality goods. There was one in particular that caught her attention. There was no one around who looked to be minding the cart, which struck Hermione as odd. And though she had the full intention to just pass right by on her way to Flourish and Blotts, her eyes drifted across the random objects spread on the faded and thread bare velvet display cloth. Quite suddenly she stopped, squinting at a glint of silver reflecting the sun. She glanced around once more, searching for the cart’s keeper. But there was still no one who seemed to take responsibility for the odd trinkets that were splayed out.

Leaning over the display to eye the source of the reflection, Hermione frowned. It was a necklace. Just a simple interlocking chain, with a silver, curvy pendant, which for reasons Hermione couldn’t quite identify, seemed oddly familiar. She reached out to pick it up, but as soon as her fingers brushed the silver metal the ring from her dream flashed in front of her eyes. She jumped at its appearance, pulling her hand back as if she’d just burnt her fingers.

“Is there a problem, young miss?”

Startled beyond words, Hermione audibly gasped, spinning on the spot, stumbling awkwardly backwards into the cart and found herself face to face with an old woman. Hand at her heart, which was beat rapidly as if trying to escape her chest, Hermione shook her head, still unable to utter a word. Her eyes were glued to the old woman.

While not particularly threatening in looks, Hermione would have never let that affect her judgment if it weren’t for the very way this old woman was gazing at her. There was a kindness in the depths of those old but brilliantly visible teal eyes, and they were somehow broadcasting youth in spite of the deep wrinkles etched around her mouth, forehead and eyes.

Those very wrinkles deepened as the woman’s brow lifted in concern. “Why my dear, you’re pale as a ghost. Did I startle you so greatly?”

Hermione shook her head again, lowering her slightly trembling hand from her chest. “No, I-I’m fine,” she said breathlessly. “I was just…I suppose I lost track of reality for a moment.” She glanced back at the now tossed contents of the cart. The pendant still sparkled in the sun light, shimmering peculiarly as it had not just moments before. Turning back to the old woman, Hermione felt utterly naked beneath her gaze. An odd smile was now exposing the slightest bit of crooked but white teeth behind old, chapped lips.

“Did you find something interesting?” asked the old woman. She had a cane, Hermione now realized as the woman moved towards the cart. Boney, wrinkled fingers wrapped around a white length of wood with an intricate weave of carvings sprouting up from the base, ending in a curve of impossibly dense vine-like webbing.

“Yes, well, actually…” Hermione tore her attention away from the woman’s cane to look back up at the necklace that seemed to attract her eye like a flame did a moth. The old woman’s gaze followed Hermione’s, and her eyes sparkled.

“Ah yes,” she said softly, reaching forth to pick up the silver pendant. “A very wise choice you have made, dear.” The woman held out the necklace to Hermione. “ ’Tis very old. I was very fortunate to stumble across it myself.”

Hermione’s gaze flitted between the woman and the necklace lying in her hand. She felt so drawn to it, and a small part of her mind asked if perhaps she had unwittingly been placed under an enchantment. Tentatively she reached out to take the pendent from the lady’s outstretched hand, expecting to see another vision of the symbols from her dream. But there were none. Encouraged the by lack of response, her fingers looped around the chain, brushing lightly against the palm of the woman’s hand.

A snap of electricity, like a static shock, hit her fingertips the moment they made contact with the old woman’s hand. Her eyes darted up once more to focus on the old woman, half expecting to see a triumphant expression or even a Death Eater newly revealed. But it was still the kindly woman, her eyes sparkling as they watched Hermione cautiously take the necklace from her hand.

“It won’t bite,” said the woman in an amused tone when Hermione finally took the necklace. “I promise.”

The smallest smile flitted at the corners of Hermione’s mouth in response, but her attention was entirely on the small figure hanging from the chain. If only she could place where she had seen it before.

There was a clear weight to the pendant, swinging heavily for its size in the light, warm breeze. A sparkling of light reflected in several directions as the sunlight hit the small crystalline stones which lined the edge. Dots of light danced across Hermione’s face and blouse as it swung gently from her hand.

“It is very beautiful,” she whispered, taking the pendant in her other hand to examine it further. So smooth to the touch, her fingers practically slipped off the metal. Elegant was the best word she could find to describe it; like an S with over exaggerated curves, the final stroke running back through the body of the figure. The woman had said it was old, but there were no scratches, tarnish, missing stones or any sign of wear at all. Hermione held it closer, trying to pick apart the details of the silver-white weave which was inlaid upon the center of the figure running from tip to tip.

“Would you like to have it?” asked the old woman, a gleeful expression spread across her face as she observed the younger witch scrutinize the necklace.

“Sorry?” So absorbed in the pendant, Hermione looked up sharply at the sudden question. “Oh…well…” She looked back down, feeling the same sort of draw to keep the necklace as she had when she first set eyes upon it. With a smile she nodded, closing her hand around the necklace. “I would. How much is it?” she asked, already loosening the strings of her money bag. But the old woman’s hand covered hers, stopping her search for the galleons and sickles she had left over from her last shopping trip in Hogsmeade several months ago.

“Consider it a gift, young miss,” said the woman when Hermione looked up.

“But—”

“I must insist on this,” the woman continued over a half begun protest. “You seem so well suited for it.”

“Oh, but I really couldn’t!” Hermione tried to say, digging again for a handful of coins. But again, the old woman stopped her, giving her such a look that Hermione forgot to breathe for a moment.

“Think of it as an early birthday gift, Hermione,” the woman said softly.

Hermione sputtered in shock. “How did you—”

The woman shook her head, tapping a crooked finger against her nose and smiled. With surprising quickness, the woman laced her arm with Hermione’s, leading her away from the cart and into the middle of the alley. “Off you go now, dear,” she said. “You still have much to do.”

“But I can’t just—” Hermione began, spinning around the moment the woman released her.

The cart and the woman were both gone. And no one on the street or near the shops acted as though anything had gone awry.

Though Hermione wished a moratorium on the discussion of her dreams, her parents could not help but continue once she had apparated away to London.

It was Saturday, a day off for the both of them as their practice was closed for the weekend. Lounging on the couch, Evelyn’s legs tucked under her petite frame as her husband’s long legs took up the rest of the couch, they sipped some lemonade and tried to discuss everything except that subject which they knew could not be avoided for much longer.

Crookshanks was curled up asleep under the glass-topped coffee table, wedged between the top and the various magazines stacked on the shelf underneath. Occasionally his pink tongue would dart out, flicking at the disheveled fur around his mouth.

With speeches of concern and exasperation at their daughter’s refusal to talk to a professional about the dreams exhausted, Miles and Evelyn fell into a tense silence.

It was difficult to avoid thinking of the reason for the lapse in conversation. Just over fifteen years and they had both managed to ignore and often times even forget what would have to be discussed, what must be explained when their daughter reached this age. Had time really passed that quickly?

“Miles…” she began delicately after several moments.

“Hmm?”

“Hermione’s birthday is just around the corner...”

“’I’ve tried to forget that,” he said sharply, scowling at the dregs of pulp clinging to the side of his glass.

“I know,” she said. “So have I, but really…hav-haven’t you thought of it? These dreams, just months from her eighteenth birthday and after she and her friends so recently had to escape that Dark Lord—”

“I know, Evelyn,” he snapped. “But it could all just be a coincidence. This is why Hermione should speak to Sherry: we don’t want to jump to conclusions and do something we may regret, if it’s all caused by a reaction to something far simpler.”

His wife regarded him stiffly mid-sip, the sour drink splashing against her pursed lips before lowering the glass to rest on her knee.

“Stop trying to be logical about this, Miles,” she scolded. “This is magic not some new root canal procedure. And you know just as well as I do that it is no coincidence.”

With a sharp clack her husband set his glass on the table. His jaw set and lips thinned, Miles ignored Crookshanks’ hiss of disapproval at being woken, and sent his wife a steely gaze. “I am not treating our daughter’s situation like a root canal,” he snapped. “I am merely trying to explore all the options; all the possible explanations.”

“You’re trying to find a way around the truth,” she retorted. “Around the facts, and that just isn’t possible!”

“Evie—”

“Denial isn’t going to get us anywhere, Miles,” she snapped. This statement seemed to deflate her husband’s efforts, and he slumped against the back of the couch with a defeated sigh.

They had made a promise.

“I’d always hoped it was some sort of strange dream,” he said after a few moments. “Or just a precaution on a whim.”

His wife set down her glass on the table and crawled over his legs, pushing one aside so she could sit between them and lean against his chest. “Me too,” she sighed softly, wrapping his arms around her waist.

A frown developed as Mile’s struggled to find a comfortable position for his right leg. Something was digging into his inner thigh.

“What in the world…Evie what do you have in your pocket?” he asked, spotting a lump bulging out from her trousers and into his leg. She chewed on her lower lip, a somewhat guilty expression crossing her features; her husband didn’t wait for a response to fish his hand into her pocket and pull out the small box. Her eyes closed when he inhaled sharply; his breath released slowly, tendrils of her hair being displaced and blown into her face.

“You…Evie…why do you have this in your pocket, of all places?” he asked, his eyes glued on the white satin box held between his fingers.

“I was just looking at it earlier,” she tried to explain. “All these dreams and everything else she’s told us about in the last few months…the protections placed on our house to shield us from those Death Eaters…oh, I don’t know, Miles…” she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Chalk it up to my wish that it didn’t really exist. But it was still there, buried behind your socks in the bureau drawer.”

His arm dropped heavily to his leg, fist tightening around the small box that he hadn’t seen in over fifteen years.

“We have to give it to her, don’t we?” he asked, still wishing that this was all some sort of dream. He could feel his wife nod against his chest.

“She—they said we must, for her own good,” said Evelyn quietly. It had been such a dark night and a dismal following three days. “We must. Perhaps Hermione can find out what it is really for and why they insisted upon her being the person to have it.”

Miles let out another long breath and leaned his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. Those days were burned into his memory as well. It was the first time they had ever come in contact with the magical world; the night they found out their daughter was a witch and would forever live a life far different than either of them had ever planned.

Yet again, silence reigned between the both of them until they heard a distinctive crack echo through the house.

“Hermione?” her mother called out, sitting up quickly from her husband’s lap as he tried to shove the box in his own pocket. “You’re back early. Did you find everything for—oh!”

Evelyn and Miles sat shock still when they turned in their seats towards the entry hallway.

Black robes covered a tall body from head to foot, a mask concealing a face under the hood, they stared at a figure who was so clearly not their teenage daughter, hardly able to breathe. The blood drained from both of their faces in recognition.

“Where is the Mudblood girl?” The hollow, cold tone clipped each word as the Death Eater stepped forward, raising its wand.

The sting of those words slapped across their minds, waking them from the momentary shock. Miles stood abruptly and Evelyn screamed as muttered words and green light shot out of the tip of the Death Eater’s wand within the next breath.

Her husband rocketed across the room, crashing into the table beneath the window. Screaming his name, she rushed from the couch and dropped to her knees beside him.

“Miles!” she shrieked, shaking his shoulders. “Miles!” Blank brown eyes stared up at her stricken face. There was no response to her desperate screams of his name.

Something sharp wrapped around her waist and pulled her violently backwards. She crashed into the glass coffee table, crying out again as shards of glass cut into her back. Blinking through burning, tear filled eyes, Evie looked up at the masked Death Eater. Its wand was still focused on her face. Choking back sobs, Hermione’s mother looked back to her fallen husband.

“I will not ask you again, Muggle,” it spat from behind the mask. “Where is your mudblood daughter?”

Evelyn did not answer. Trembling in the rubble of glass and wood, her eyes remained locked on her husband’s body.

“Crucio!”

Pain tore through her body. Writhing on the floor, Hermione’s mother screamed until she had no more voice.

Hermione could hardly concentrate on the book she’d picked out from a shelf at Flourish and Blotts. That woman... Hermione sharply turned around so many times when she crossed the street, hoping to spot the cart or the faded, threadbare cloak she’d been wearing, that she put a crick in her neck. Not only had the old woman and her cart completely disappeared without a trace, no one she spoke to even knew what she was talking about. There was never any independent seller in front of the apothecary. The owners never allowed it. “You must be mistaken,” they all told her.

But that wasn’t possible. The necklace was real enough. It was around her neck, she could feel the weight of it against her skin; the metal was warm from lying out in the sun for so long. It was almost as confusing as those dreams.

Those sodding, interfering dreams with their symbols and colors.

It had shown up again, the circle of symbols, when she was putting the necklace into her purse. After a few well chosen words muttered under her breath that would have made Ron proud, Hermione put the necklace on and tucked the pendant beneath her blouse. The symbols disappeared and Hermione did her best to act normally as she tried to refocus on finding a suitable gift for Harry.

Snapping Dark Magic in Legends and Myths closed with a frustrated growl, Hermione shoved it back in its place on the shelf. Her eyes moved from one title to another, fingers trailing along the spines as she slowly stepped along the narrow aisle in the section.

With a frown Hermione brushed at the pendant which was lying against her skin. It was exceedingly warm. Even more so than she remembered when she had reluctantly put it on. It couldn’t be sensitive to body temperature could it? But surely then the metal would not be warmer than her own skin.

Her free hand fisted around the figure against her collar bone, Hermione continued to browse through the varied selections on obscure notations of Dark Arts research. Another title soon piqued her interest, Dark Arts: Evil or Just Unlawful? and she pulled it from the shelf, releasing the pendant to open the book to the index.

Just what the book contained, Hermione never found out. Echoed from the very back of her mind, earsplitting screams filled her head, deafening all other sound. The pendant seared white hot against her skin, and Hermione cried out, collapsing to the floor.

The figurine, the chain…such intense heat as Hermione had never experienced before shot through her body as the screams and unintelligible pleas rang painfully through her mind.

With another excruciating burst of heat, the symbols from her dream appeared in her vision even as her eyes were clamped shut. They were circling, changing form, flashing in such a dark red the color seemed to burn through her very soul.

Another flash and within the circle of symbols, the most horrifying scene played out. Her mother was on the floor, writhing among the remains of their glass coffee table. Hoarse screams erupted from her throat while a masked Death Eater twisted and turned a wand in her direction.

“Mum!” Hermione screamed. Her eyes snapped open and for the briefest moment she glimpsed the shop assistant kneeling in front of her, his mouth moving though she heard no sound. With one last flash, the symbols blinded her and the air compressed so tightly around her she could no longer breathe.

Just as quickly it was gone, and Hermione managed to open her eyes in time to see two wands pointed at her. Two jets of yellow light struck her square in the stomach. Propelled through the air, Hermione smashed into the opposite wall. A clatter of plaster and dust fell upon her winded body.

“So glad you could make it, Mudblood,” taunted one of the Death Eaters. Hermione’s ears were ringing, her body trembling as she tried to push herself up on her hands and knees.

She coughed sharply in the dust and blinked furiously through the burning tears and plaster particles as Hermione pushed herself up. Her knees buckled slightly and Hermione stumbled against the crumbling wall as she finally stood.

Her mother was lying limp in the remains of the glass coffee table, slow, thin streaks of blood creeping out from her back and arms crawled over the hardwood floor. Across the room her father lay in an awkward pose, his arm bent beneath his body, eyes staring blankly out into the remains of their living room.

From her father’s face, her eyes drifted back to her mother’s unconscious body. Only the smallest rise of fall of her chest denied her fears of death. In some midst of distraught emotion, her legs found strength to hold her own weight and Hermione finally stood and locked her eyes on the Death Eaters.

The symbols were still there, changing form and circling her vision, their black color reaching beyond the depths of her mind.

“What do you want with me?” It was a voice so steady and detached; Hermione thought she was experiencing a nightmare, just needing the right cue to wake up.

“We just want you,” said the shortest one.

“Then let my mother go,” she demanded. The taller Death Eater still had its wand pointed at her mother. The head turned to the other two, who nodded.

“Of course,” it said. The voice was so distorted by the mask and Hermione’s aching ears that she couldn’t even determine if it was a man or woman. “We are not so unmerciful as to refuse peace to a suffering life.”

Before Hermione could even breathe, the words were spoken and once again a green jet of light shot out of the Death Eater’s wand.

Stinging tears poured down her cheeks, unable to voice emotion as the Death Eaters laughed behind their cold masks. Her throat had constricted shut, and her knees buckled. Once again, Hermione fell against the wall behind her. The image of her mother, lying lifeless on the floor burned into her mind, no matter how tightly she shut her eyes, it didn’t go away.

“Now with that done,” the taller Death Eater continued as though they were discussing the weather over tea. “The Dark Lord wishes to meet Potter’s famous Mudblood.”

A shadow fell over Hermione and the hairs on her arm rose as the presence of the Death Eater entered her personal space.

Tightening her jaw, she swallowed and opened her eyes slowly. The ring of symbols continued to circle, black as the abyss as she stared up at the being who just murdered her parents.

“Over my dead body,” she growled, standing up from the wall. A reservoir of strength welled up within her, filling every starved muscle and crackling in her mind.

“That can be easily arranged,” said one of the other Death Eaters from the other side of the room.

“Prove it,” she challenged, never taking her eyes off the taller Death Eater in front of her.

“If you insist,” it sneered, raising the wand.

Reflexes that did not belong to her took command as her arm shot out, taking the wand from the Death Eater’s hand. The symbols flashed brightly, the intensity of the new white light shooting blinding pain through her mind even as her wrist flicked and swished, building an unknown spell in the core of the wand before it exploded from the tip.

Wave upon wave of intense pain shot through Hermione until she went numb with agony. Sounds of shouts and crashes were slowly dulled until silence remained.

Hermione collapsed to her knees. Rhythmic pounding vibrated through the floor and an even greater intensity of pure white light enveloped her from behind before something tight wrapped around her waist.

Then all was dark.