Chapter One

Mind Matters

The steady thrum of pounding feet on dry pine brush. The hiss of her own ragged breaths as they tore a violent path through her lungs. The burn of her calf muscles as she bounded over fallen trees and protruding rocks. The sudden bite of pain up her left ankle as she caught her foot and nearly fell. The rush of adrenaline that followed the pain, the desperate will to get away, to live.

Around her, the crack and whistle of spellfire sounded. Explosions of white and red light flashed past her cheeks, sending bark flying off trees and dirt spraying up in the air as she ducked and dodged frantically. Twisting about and barely stopping to aim, she sent a spell flying over her shoulder, where it detonated against the earth with a concussion of flame and smoke. She didn't pause to see if it had stopped the two men in closest pursuit of her, but rather pressed on forward.

As she reached a gap in the trees, emerging into a clearing, she felt the icy grip of hopelessness settle around her heart. They were surrounded on all sides, dark figures emerging from amongst the foliage with wands drawn.

Acting almost on instinct, she turned on her heel and aimed her wand at Harry's face, rapidly hitting him with a stinging hex. They mustn't recognize him. At all costs, Harry must be kept alive and free. At all costs.

October, 1966

Hermione awoke hopelessly tangled in her sheets, her arms and legs pinned at awkward angles against her body by the luxurious silk. Fighting down panic, she struggled to sit up, kicking away the bedclothes and shivering as the cold air hit her damp skin.

Shaking from more than just the cold, she slid out of bed and into a pair of slippers left at her headboard by one of the house elves. The marble and parquet floors of the manor would be uncomfortably cool at this time of night, and she was already trembling uncontrollably as it was.

She shuffled out of her bedroom, swinging the thick oak door shut behind her, and glanced around nervously at the shadowy hallway. The torches had been dimmed down to a nearly negligible glow, and the portraits on the walls were all snoozing in their embossed frames, occasionally shifting and catching the shadows in a way which made Hermione's heart skip a beat in momentary alarm. Steadying herself, she padded quickly down the hallway and down a slender spiral staircase to the third landing, eager to escape the shifting, roiling shadows of the empty manor corridors.

A door about halfway down the hall was cracked slightly open, spilling warm, buttery light out onto the floor, and Hermione made a beeline for it, feeling relief well up in her at the sight of the welcome illumination.

Pausing slightly, and feeling suddenly shy, she peeked her eye through the crack in the door, and nearly squeaked upon noting that the study was not devoid of company, as she had expected at this late hour. Two other men, one with a dark, well-groomed goatee, and the other with dull red hair the color of a rusted iron kettle, were sitting in leather armchairs by the fire, quietly conversing with the man whom she had come in search of.

Wringing her hands together fretfully, Hermione finally decided to slink off rather than risk disturbing the three men. She was just about to carefully turn away, when a smooth, gently commanding voice cut through the soft buzz of the two unfamiliar men's speech.

"Hermione, what is it?"

She didn't feel surprised in the slightest; of course he had known she had been here this whole time. Hesitantly, she pushed the study door open wider, blinking owlishly as the full force of the illuminated wall sconces bore down upon her.

Standing there in front of the three well-dressed gentlemen in nothing but her nightgown, she blushed rather effusively.

"I…I had a nightmare, Papa." She whispered finally, darting her gaze up to make brief eye contact with her father.

Training her eyes back upon the plush Persian rug beneath her feet, she missed the pointed looks her father exchanged with his associates. Mere moments later, they had both made their excuses, bowed their heads in brief farewell, and stepped through the floo, disappearing in flashes of green flame.

Feeling more at ease now that the guests had departed, Hermione climbed into her father's armchair, settling herself in his lap and curling against his chest. Frowning down at his daughter, the man gently ran a hand along her wild hair, noting the tremors that continued to wrack her slight frame. Ordinarily he would discourage such a display, but the girl was clearly distressed, and even he recognized that it was unreasonable to expect a six-year-old to exercise proper decorum in such situations.

"What sort of dream, my dear?"

Sucking in several great gasps of air, the girl stuttered an incomprehensible few attempts at sentences, each time foiled as a shuddering sob forced its way out of her. Ignoring his growing concern, the man placed a bracing hand under her chin and tilted it upwards in order to force eye contact.

"Speak. Slowly and deliberately, each word carefully selected to follow the one before it." He instructed, gently but with a hint of steely command, as he had many times when his daughter had been first learning to string words together in a coherent fashion.

Seemingly steadied by the familiar tone of firm authority, the girl began to speak slowly, hesitating slightly as she fought to articulate herself. It was all so vivid, every moment ingrained in her mind down to the smell of pine needles and smoke and the sensation of hot, crackling spellfire flying past her face. She had never in her life felt a curse flash past her face—she had never even seen such magic preformed outside of book illustrations or portraits—and yet the dream had felt so real. Less like a dream, and more like a memory.

"I was being chased…chased through a forest. Not like the forests behind the manor, though; it had darker trees, with needles instead of leaves. They were firing spells at me, mostly red ones, but I managed to dodge all of them. They smelled like…like the fireworks at Grandmama's on Midsummer's Eve."

The man's frown grew even further pronounced, disturbed to hear his daughter describe her nightmare in such detail. Stunning spells manifested in red flashes of light, and carried with them a faint yet distinctive sulfurous odor. But his six-year-old daughter should not know such things.

"By whom were you being chased?" He asked, his tone emanating reassuring composure despite his growing disquiet.

"Snatchers." She whispered, and the man felt a chill run up his spine at the tone of utter fear and hopelessness that accompanied the single foreboding word.

She could provide no explanation for what this meant, nor how she knew that this was what they were called, and so her father quickly gave up on the line of questioning.

"And why were you being chased?"

It took her longer to formulate a response to this question, but when she did, it was even more unsettling than her answer to the first.

"They were after Harry. I cast a hex at him so that his face would swell up and they wouldn't recognize him. I knew they couldn't know it was Harry, they couldn't know, because then they would bring us to…to him."

She began to shake in ernest now, trembling like a leaf on a brisk autumn day, and the man felt real alarm begin to take hold of him. He let none of it show in his face, of course, as he calmly ran his hand in soothing circles about her back and shoulders.

"Who, Hermione?"

"Him!" She wailed, burying her face in his robes and losing any last shred of coherence as she dissolved into sobs.

It was then, in that moment, that Abraxas Malfoy began to realize that his daughter was far from ordinary.

November, 1966

Ursula Finch was a highly qualified semi-recent graduate of St. Mungo's mind-healer training program. She had graduated top of her class six years previously, and had shortly after established an instantly successful private practice in Diagon Alley. She was becoming well known within the healing community for her skill in treating various maladies of the mind with an unconventional yet highly affective combination of prescribed potions and personal counseling.

She was also prized amongst her clients, many of whom were well-known members of the wizarding community, for a very different reason. All mind-healers were required to establish healer-patient confidentiality agreements, but Ursula Finch was unmatched in her discretion; she was willing to take an Unbreakable Vow to never disclose her patients' secrets, barring those holding the potential to harm the patient or those around them. This made her understandably popular amongst members of the wizarding elite, who were eager to keep skeletons in their closets where they belonged, well away from the eyes of the prying public and personal enemies alike.

And so it was that a few subtle inquires amongst relatives and associates had led Lord Malfoy to seek out Healer Finch and make an appointment for her to see his daughter the second Friday of November.

Ever since her sixth birthday, which had been the month before, the nightmares had been growing progressively worse, leading his daughter to seek out either his or his son's company nearly every night. After he had found her, in the early hours of the morning a week earlier, wandering about the dungeons muttering about a hidden chamber and a snake that lived in the walls, Abraxas, however reluctantly, had felt obligated to unbend both his pride and his desire to keep such family matters entirely private.

Lord Malfoy cast an imperious look about the minimally yet tastefully furnished reception area, noting with some satisfaction that the witch seated behind the front desk had straightened in her chair upon registering his presence.

He certainly cut an impressive figure, towering well over six feet and clad in midnight blue robes of the finest quality and make. In his left hand was an ebony walking stick topped with a silver snake's head, and his right rested upon the slight shoulder of his young daughter.

Gently guiding the girl forwards, Abraxas glided up to the desk, treating the receptionist to a smile that was perfectly polite yet distinctly lacking in any real warmth. The young witch swallowed slightly more heavily than normal, and fixed a responding smile in place.

"Welcome, sir. Do you have an appointment?" She inquired, managing to keep her voice even.

The wizard in front of her carried with him a palpable aura of command, and it was clear merely from the way he conducted himself that he was a man who was used to being listened to and obeyed by those around him. The receptionist, a recent Hogwarts graduate by the name of Belinda Zealcock, was working only her second day that afternoon, and had still not grown used to the high-profile clientele who came in and out of the office with some regularity. Healer Finch had assured her that she would quickly become immune to the imposing witches and wizards who frequented her practice, but Belinda wasn't entirely sure it was possible to get used to a man like this.

"Yes, I believe we are scheduled for three thirty with Healer Finch." He replied smoothly.

Trying not to let her nerves show, the young receptionist nodded in eager acknowledgement, and gestured to a row of cream-colored armchairs arranged neatly along the wall to her left.

"I'll inform Healer Finch that you've arrived, Mr. Malfoy. In the meantime, please take a seat."

Abraxas inclined his head in the barest hint of acknowledgement, before moving to take a seat in the leftmost armchair, crossing his gloved hands over the head of his walking stick. Hermione, looking about with curiosity at her new environment, appeared reluctant to take a seat beside her father, but quickly relented under the force of a single raised eyebrow.

The youngest Malfoy child was rarely allowed off the grounds of the manor; in fact, she had only been away from her ancestral home four times, all of them for holiday visits to family. Her father was zealously protective of her, convinced that she had inherited her late mother's frail and sickly disposition, and thus heavily censured any exposure she might have to the outside world. Even the brief glimpse she had caught of Diagon Alley before her father had swept her away from their apparition point and into the healer's office had been enough to make her eyes wide as snitches from excitement.

Lysithea Malfoy had been a delicate and frequently ill woman, and her second pregnancy had weakened her to the extent that a particularly nasty strain of mumblemumps had been enough to carry her off several months after Hermione's birth. Abraxas had been (privately, of course) devastated by the loss of his wife, but their daughter had been his saving grace; the girl was a poignant reminder of Lysithea, and had it not been for her presence in his life, he was certain he would be a very different kind of man.

The Lord Malfoy was broken from his momentary reverie by the voice of the young witch at the reception desk.

"Healer Finch is ready for you now, Mr. and Miss Malfoy."

Standing, he made a small gesture with his hand for his daughter to follow, and the girl dutifully slid off the armchair and trotted after him, smiling shyly up at Belinda as she passed by the witch's desk.

The young woman, delighted by the little girl's bashful grin, treated her to a kind smile in return, and wished that she wasn't concerned that Lord Malfoy might curse her into next week if she even considered offering his daughter a sweet.

Healer Finch's office was a large, airy room, the wall facing the alley entirely composed of soaring French windows framed by powder blue curtains, and a pair of plush cream couches facing one another across a low coffee table. Everything was a soothing, muted shade, and the portraits on the wall were all of things like laughing children and good-natured-looking animals. Nothing like the intimidating ancestral portraits lining the walls of Malfoy Manor, Hermione couldn't help but think—she also doubted the three adorable ducklings toddling about in the painting to her right would offer her unsolicited advice about posture and proper tea-time attire, unlike the dour portrait of her great-great grandmother that hung in her bedroom.

The woman who rose from the couch facing the door was younger than Lord Malfoy had expected, but she had come highly recommended, so he pushed his doubts aside.

"Healer Finch I presume?" He inquired politely.

The witch hardly seemed to be paying attention to him, however, her gaze immediately training on his daughter. Abraxas resisted the urge to respond to the slight, merely gripping the head of his walking stick a bit tighter.

"You must be Hermione. Ursula Finch."

The girl ducked down into a well-rehearsed curtsy, only stumbling slightly as she rose.

"Hermione Malfoy. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

It was only now that Finch seemed to deem it necessary to acknowledge the presence of the other adult in the room.

"Right. Mr. Malfoy, you are here to oversee the formation of the Unbreakable Vow between myself and your daughter. If you would assume the proper position?" She said briskly.

Finding himself simultaneously off-put and appreciative of the woman's abruptness, Abraxas nodded curtly, and withdrew his wand from its place ensconced within his walking stick.

Healer Finch's secretary had owled him the exact parameters and wording of the vow earlier in the week, and Abraxas had had the family's legal team scrupulously review it prior to the day of the appointment. He had also ensured that Hermione practiced her spoken part of the vow, and as the ribbons of golden magical energy leapt from the tip of his wand to encircle the healer's and his daughter's clasped hands, he couldn't help but feel a flutter of pride as she clearly articulated each word, her wide brown eyes filled with seriousness.

As an aura of finality settled upon the room with the conclusion of the spell, Healer Finch rose to her feet, kindly offering his daughter a hand up and indicating that she take a seat on one of the cream couches by the window. Then she turned her businesslike gaze upon him, looking rather expectant.

"You may come collect Hermione in an hour's time, Mr. Malfoy, or I can arrange to have some refreshments brought to you in our reception area if you would prefer to wait." She said cooly, adjusting her wire-framed glasses with an elegant, long-fingered hand.

Abraxas, already rather affronted by the woman's apparent lack of regard for his position, balked at this. He let none of his irritation show on his face, however, instead smiling and saying,

"I was under the impression that I would remain present for the duration of the session, Healer Finch. She is my child, after all."

Hermione, perched primly on the couch with her ankles crossed, was watching what was shaping up to be a power struggle between the two adults with mild interest.

"I will be happy to give you my comprehensive assessment based upon what your daughter and I discuss, as the Vow allows, Mr. Malfoy. But with my younger clients, I find that the presence of a parent in the room can often impair their ability to discuss certain topics openly with me." Finch replied, her tone of crisp professionalism remaining unwavering.

Feeling mounting annoyance, both at the woman's tone and what she said—certain topics! Hermione was much too young to be keeping secrets, and no daughter of his would ever have anything shameful to conceal from him to begin with—Abraxas nonetheless inclined his head in acknowledgement and exited the room, feeling a rather sadistic satisfaction when the woman at the front desk jumped nervously at his return.

Watching the door snap shut behind the imposing figure of Abraxas Malfoy, Ursula sighed imperceptibly and fought the urge to roll her eyes. Given her unusually comprehensive privacy policy, she was well-accustomed to dealing with the likes of Lord Malfoy, and haughty and imperious members of pureblood society were nothing new to the young mind-healer. But it didn't mean she didn't grow tired of being looked at like an upstart fleck of dirt that had worked its way onto the toe of a highly-polished designer shoe.

Turning to her newest client, Ursula fixed an encouraging smile on her face and moved to take a seat across from the small girl, quickly visually assessing her. She was small for her age—the preliminary paperwork Lord Malfoy had filled out indicated that she was six—and somehow made to look even smaller and younger by the tightly-starched, lace-trimmed robes she had been bundled into. Long-lashed, intelligent eyes met her own with unusual composure and confidence for a young child, and a froth of wild blonde curls framed her face.

"So, Hermione. You may call me Healer Finch or Ursula, whichever makes you more comfortable." She said, settling back in her chair and flipping through the neat stack of parchment attached to her clipboard. "How are you this morning?" She continued, looking up from her clipboard and sliding her glasses off her nose to make direct eye contact with her young client.

"I am well, Healer Finch." The girl replied politely, if a tad stiffly.

Ursula fought back a sigh. These pureblood society types were often the most difficult to work with, what with the stiff-backed ways that had been bred into them literally since before birth.

"Hermione, I want you to know that my office is a place where you can be at ease. Your father explained to you, I hope, what the bit of magic we just preformed means?"

"Yes." The girl nodded, her halo of curls bouncing slightly. "It means that you cannot divulge anything I tell you unless it is likely to cause harm to me or those around me. If you do, the results will be…unpleasant for you."

Ursula nodded. No doubt verbatim the explanation Lord Malfoy had provided.

"Exactly. Which means there is nothing you should be afraid to tell me. And you needn't act as though you're at a high tea. Although I can certainly have Belinda bring us some tea and biscuits if it would help you relax." She added, with a conspiratorial smile that she hoped would make the girl unwind a bit.

It did seem to do just that, as Hermione smiled slightly in response, and seemed to relax slightly against the cream-colored cushions. Now that she had gotten the girl to loosen up a smidgen, it was time to get into the meat of it, Ursula thought.

"So, your father said that the primary reason for your visit today is that you've been experiencing nightmares?" Ursula questioned, her eyes darting down the parchment on her clipboard.

Hermione nodded hesitantly, her dark eyes becoming slightly closed-off once more.

"I suppose." She replied at last, and Ursula cocked her head to the side slightly.

"You suppose?" She probed lightly.

"Well…they're not exactly nightmares." Hermione said softly after a moment, her eyes flitting to the windows to her left in what read to Ursula as mild embarrassment.

"What makes them different from ordinary nightmares?" She prompted gently.

The girl took several moments to respond, but when she did it was a clearly well-thought-out and descriptively-worded explanation.

"Ordinarily, when I dream it's almost like a watercolor painting. Blurry, indistinct, details I can't recall. But these are not like dreams. They're like memories, clear and filled with all sorts of details that I would normally never notice in a dream."

She paused for a moment, but looked as though she were going to continue, so Ursula remained quiet.

"Once, when we were visiting my Grandfather Malfoy on his estate in France, my father used his pensieve to show me a memory…of my mother. They're almost like that, like looking to a pensieve."

Ursula unobtrusively scribbled this detail down on her notes. To her knowledge, Lady Malfoy had died shortly after the birth of her daughter, and this had no doubt had a profound effect on the girl. She wondered if these dreams were symptoms of post-traumatic stress relating to the loss of her mother. But it was too early to be making assumptions.

"Would you speak more about your mother?"

Hermione frowned, powdery brows coming together like lightning bolts.

"I don't see that she has anything to do with these dreams, Healer Finch. She has never featured in any of them. In fact…not a single person I recognize has ever been in any of them." She finished, as if just realizing this for the first time.

Ursula frowned slightly, in turn. That seemed rather unusual.

"Could you perhaps tell me about one of these dreams, in detail, Hermione?"

By the end of the hour, Ursula had broken out in a cold sweat, and glancing at her wristwatch, flicked her wrist at the memo pad on the coffee table. A message quickly appeared and then faded away, and the mind-healer knew that it would have appeared on the matching pad on Belinda's desk out in the waiting room. It instructed the woman to cancel her next two appointments, and to inform Lord Malfoy that she wished to extend her session with his daughter considerably.

The…visions that Hermione was describing, with vivid detail and haunting precision, were of a world at war, and the figures in them were unerringly recurring and consistent. Ursula was beginning to think that the girl might be a Seer, in which case Ursula would be mostly helpless to assist her. But there was only one way to be certain.

Over the course of the hour, as the girl had grown more comfortable in Ursula's presence, she had removed her shoes and was curled up in stocking-feet against the plush cushions of the couch, her frizzy hair settled around her shoulders in a glimmering pillow. No doubt her high-born relatives would gasp to see her behaving so indecorously, but Ursula was grateful the girl had grown less wary.

Leaning forward, she laced her hands together and looked very seriously at Hermione.

"Hermione, there is a form of mind-magic known as legilimancy, are you familiar with it?"

The girl nodded slowly.

"Yes. Father has explained it to me before, he says that I shall start lessons to defend myself against it with oc—occlumency before I leave for school." She stumbled a bit over the word, but Ursula nodded, confident the girl had a general understanding of what she was talking about.

"I am an accomplished Legilimins, and often I will use that skill to look into my patients' minds when they are feeling or experiencing something that they are having difficulty conveying to me. I understand that this may be a compromise to your privacy that makes you uncomfortable, and if so we can certainly proceed without it."

Hermione chewed her lip thoughtfully, her eyes filled with thoughtfulness. Ursula patiently waited, and after a few minutes, was rewarded with a hesitant nod that slowly became more assured.

"Yes. Yes, you may look into my mind, Ursula." The girl quietly said.

Removing her glasses, which she had returned to their perch atop her rather beaky nose, Ursula looked deep into the polished brown of her client's eyes, leaning into the familiar sensation of slipping into and past those eyes.

Suddenly, without warning, Ursula felt a yank on her collar similar to what one would experience with a portkey, and found herself sitting on a bench in what appeared to be an idyllic country garden. Glancing around in confusion, Ursula saw that the by-now familiar figure of Hermione Malfoy was perched on the bench next to her, looking around with equal confusion.

"Where…where are we?" The girl breathed, and Ursula felt the breath leave her lungs. She had assumed, for a moment, that she had lost control of the Legilimancy—which hadn't happened in years, skilled practitioner that she was—and been thrust into one of the girl's random memories. But this wasn't right, she ought to be a removed onlooker, and Hermione could clearly see her.

At a loss, Ursula was scrambling for an explanation, when the shadow of an approaching figure fell upon the park bench. Ursula looked up, and was taken-aback by the sight of a witch who looked to be in her late teens or early twenties standing in front of them, her arms neatly tucked behind her back and a contemplative expression fixed upon her oddly familiar features.

After a moment of regarding the utterly flummoxed mind-healer and her young companion, the woman smiled slightly at the two of them.

"Hello, I'm Hermione Granger." Her eyes shifted to rest on Hermione Malfoy, who looked a combination of intrigued and fearful, and her smile widened. "I've been waiting for you for quite some time, Hermione. I'm afraid I have a bit of explaining to do."