Hey everyone! Now, before you give up hope in this story, I do plan to continue it. I stopped last year because school became way to hectic, but I am by no means ready to give up my guilty pleasure.

Obvious disclaimer is obvious.

The hallway outside her cramped cubicle was unusually quiet. This was for two reasons: 1. Suzanne, a rotund brunette in the Accounting Department, was having a bridal party and 2. It was 8 pm at night. While she had been invited, Hermione Granger declined (as expected) to continue working.

In retrospect, she might as well have gone; the silence was so out of place at The Guardian that it messed with her concentration. It didn't help that the story she was working on—that some bloke in Cardiff wanted all speed-bumps painted orange—was completely and utterly dull.

The most recent edition of the paper was sitting neatly on the corner of her desk. Unsurprisingly, the front-page headlines weren't about traffic regulations; rather, they screamed at her about all sorts of unsavory (though, admittedly, profitable) things. Fires, floods, and explosions had torn through Britain in a series of unexplainable events. Tragic events.

And Hermione was stuck with dull regulations and paper-pushing for the higher-ups.

Great.

She sighed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Life had not been going the way she'd planned; her job was a complete dud, her boss was a condescending pervert, and her social life was nearly non-existent. These were all things Hermione had been used to since childhood, and she supposed she could deal with it. What she couldn't deal with was the sensation that she was being watched, constantly. It had started a few weeks ago, and hadn't let up at all. She prided herself on being an intelligent, intuitive woman, and she just knew that something was very, very wrong indeed.

Simply put, Hermione was not satisfied.

Not that she ever was, really. She didn't belong; she knew that, her co-workers knew that, hell, even her parents knew that.

Her family was another constant source of frustration. They'd always been on the religious end of the spectrum, and that hadn't been a problem in her childhood.

In fact, Hermione had loved it. She had loved bragging, to anyone who would listen, about how her parents were amazing people, how they cared for everyone, especially their little girl. She'd loved that they pinned little "Jesus Loves Me" badges onto her clothes, and read her parables at night.

She had the perfect home life, and she couldn't have been happier.

However, after her eleventh birthday, everything changed.

Hermione, with her impeccable memory, remembered the day quite clearly, of course. She'd woken up to the smell of freshly-baked cookies (chocolate chip, her favorite). Sunlight streamed through her open window, basking her face in its warmth. She stuck her head outside, happy to know that, on this special day, there was not a single cloud in the sky (a rare occurrence). Hermione swore she could hear the hooting of an owl coming from her rooftop, although the animal itself could not be seen.

She dressed in her favorite polka-dotted dress, pulled a brush through her tangled curls, and grinned cheekily at her mirror before bounding out the door.

Things were shaping up rather well for her birthday.

Downstairs, though, it was a different scene. On the table was a small pile of presents, which were to be expected, but instead of a cheerful mum and dad, there were two very distraught looking parents.

It didn't seem that they'd noticed her entrance.

"Mummy, what's wrong?" She asked, fidgeting nervously, playing with the frayed hem of her dress. Hermione tried to think of anything she might have done wrong in the past few days. Had her father noticed the hot-chocolate stain on his study's carpet?

Jean Granger had given a startled yelp at the sight of her daughter, and her tears began to flow more rapidly. "N-n-nothing," she snapped, her usually soothing voice unnaturally shrill. "Eat your cookies."

Hermione couldn't help but notice the small envelope clutched in her mum's tight fist.

What followed were undoubtedly the most stressful four weeks of Hermione's life. Her mother was always bursting into tears, and her father always looked angry and stern. They threw themselves onto their work, and, when that didn't solve their problems, religion. It surrounded them, became everything they cared about. All they worried about.

She tried to keep her head down, hoping that the panic in her home would die down.

It didn't.

In the end, Jean and George Granger quit their successful dentistry careers, choosing instead to become a missionary and a priest, respectively. Again, this wouldn't have been a problem, if it wasn't for the fact that they became distant with her to the extreme.

Her home life was completely destroyed.

She knew that this wasn't a by-product of their religion. The church she attended as a child had several fantastic people, all of whom respected and loved one another. She still saw their families embracing after those days, with smiles on their faces.

Just not her family.

And it hurt.

Badly.

Hermione often thought back to those days. She couldn't fathom the change, and her parents had always avoided the topic.

In the public, they were called the perfect family. People praised the devoted Grangers, and dotted on their studious, if strange daughter. Her little catholic town had high hopes for her, with her intelligence and ambition, that someday she'd become Mother Teresa 2.0.

She couldn't help but notice, however, that occasionally, they'd look at her with something akin to fear in their eyes.

Like she was a volcano, ready to blow.

Ready to change their existence forever.

Dangerous.

It was true that Hermione was as odd as she was smart. Things happened around her, all the time. Unexpected things, when she was angry or worried or sad, that no one could explain. One moment, she'd feel something build up inside her, and the next, there was mass panic and confusion. Walls crumbled, animals popped out of nowhere, and people were silenced. Just... weird things.

One time, a group of boys had cornered her in the playground and teased her mercilessly about her frizzy curls. She cried, and cried, but no one came to her rescue.

Quite suddenly, all the boys stopped. Instead, they clutched at their own throats, seemingly choking.

Their tongues had swollen dramatically.

Of course, there was no evidence that Hermione was at fault (they chalked it up to some strange allergic reaction), but that didn't stop everyone from blaming her. And avoiding her.

Things like these made her mother and father very upset, because, for all they tried to hide it, they didn't like their daughter.

Perhaps that was too harsh. Hermione did believe (or perhaps hoped) that they liked her, at least on some level. They just didn't have much in common. They couldn't understand her—neither her oddness nor her lack of faith (had she mentioned the lack of faith? Well, with all the bullying, the concept seemed a bit farfetched). But they wouldn't let some silly thing like that ruin their spotless reputation.

This was, of course, the reason that they invited her back home for the weekend.

She arrived shortly before lunch-time, parking in front of a quaint little brick house with a neat lawn and frilly curtained windows.

The house looked exactly like those around it.

With a defeated sigh, she walked through the freshly painted, spotless front door and into the kitchen, where her mother was preparing food. Hermione's mother was a skinny woman, in her mid-forties, with a stiff back and an even stiffer apron. Her hair was always pulled into a severe bun.

"Hello, mother," Hermione said, forcing a smile.

"Hello, Hermione." Hermione remembered a time when her mother called her Mia, when she was very little. She'd say things like Oh, Mia, you'll grow up to be so beautiful, while she'd wrestle her daughter's frizzy hair into a manageable braid. You'll be the talk of the town.

Hermione found herself wishing that her mum would call her that again. "May you set the table?"

"Sure."

"Place two extra plates, your cousins are coming."

Damnit. "Okay."

It wasn't that she didn't like her cousins, per say. They were fine people… if you believed the definition of 'fine' stretched to fit boring, unintelligent, rude, and manipulative.

In other words, she really, really hated them.

They didn't speak to one another until everyone was seated at the table.

"How is work, sweetheart?" Her father asked. It may sound wrong, but Hermione much preferred her father over her mother. At least George Granger knew how to genuinely smile.

"It's... fine. With all the things happening around the country, people are really attacking the government. There's so much going on, really! I haven't been reporting on the hard issues as much as I'd hope, but I understand that I need to start small and…" He humm-ed at her little rant, seemingly bored at the conversation. Her words died in her throat abruptly.

Here we go again…

"The Minister is a heathen," he offered," and that paper of yours is a rag. I told you to get a good, respectable job at the church. You could've been great, sweetheart."

She sighed. This was always a point of contention between her and her father. She loved learned about the world, and she wouldn't give up her journalism career for anything. He thought she should just settle down.

Thankfully, Jean Granger chose that moment to shout out: "Lunch is ready!" and the conversation ended.

Pastor Granger, with his handsome face and salt-and-pepper hair, sat at one end, with his wife seated on his right. He was chatting animatedly with Vivian and Eric, her cousins. Jean was rearranging the cutlery, as if unhappy with Hermione's work.

Vivian fluffed her shiny blonde hair as she turned to face Hermione. "So, dear, find a nice man to settle down with yet?" Her lips stretched to form a sickeningly fake smile. As a child, Vivian always bragged about her 'pearly-whites'; apparently, that fixation had not died with age.

Hermione reddened in indignation. "I'm 21 years old, for god—goodness sake. I don't need to settle down yet! I don't want to."

"Well, all I'm saying, dear, is that you'd best hurry up. It only gets more difficult as you get older." She ran a manicured hand over her hair slowly, in an effort to showcase her gigantically distasteful engagement ring. She was tying herself to some bloke named Merold. Poor boy.

Vivian was a slime ball, in Hermione's opinion. She went to church every Sunday in a stupendously expensive car, with a stupendously expensive dress, and cared nothing for the poor or downtrodden.

It made her sick.

"Care to pray, dear?" Her father asked her. He knew the answer, of course. No, I wouldn't. She chose to remain silent, and, with a disapproving glare, her father began the prayer himself.

"Thank you, Lord, for this food which is set before us."

Hermione suddenly felt a nervous tingling inside her; a deep-seated sense of foreboding that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. It wasn't out of place; this was a feeling that she often associated with her childhood home.

She was in the proverbial lion's den, after all.

Still, it seemed stronger this time… more potent, and infinitely more immediate.

She was probably being silly, but she couldn't shake away the feeling that something bad was about to happen. She raised her head and snuck a glance at her family, wondering if they felt it too. They gave no inclination that anything was even remotely wrong.

The voice of her father droned on.

"May we use it to nourish our bodies, and thee to nourish our souls."

Her heart began pounding in her ears. She could have sworn she heard something outside their house—a faint series of rhythmic popping noises. Why wasn't anyone moving? Did no one else hear?

She became tempted to interrupt the prayer, to tell her father about her suspicions. But then, maybe she really was being paranoid. Her father always hated it when he was cut off.

"Make us ever more mindful of the needs of others, and the needs of our planet."

There.

She had definitely heard something now. With a muttered curse, she gave up all pretense of prayer. Her adrenaline was skyrocketing, and she could feel it coursing inside her, concentrating in her fingertips. Her chair toppled over in her rush to stand. Her mother looked up, shooting her a nasty glare that screeched, 'We'll discuss this later, now be quiet.' Hermione chose to ignore this.

Something was very, very wrong indeed.

"Through Christ Our Lord, Amen."

CRASH!

The door (and it's fresh paint, what a shame) was blown to bits. In the back of her mind, Hermione registered her family's terrified screams. Oh, why didn't she bring some form of protection! As a reporter for a highly successful newspaper, she usually had pepper spray on her person. But no matter, it was too late now. Instead, she grabbed a steak knife from the table, ready to face whatever came through that door.

She was not prepared for the site before her.

The room began to fill with figures dressed in black… cloaks? It was almost comical, seeing them assembled in her mother's peach-colored dining room with the decorative plates; instead, it was just damn terrifying. They wore horrid masks, white and bony, like death. Hermione was vaguely reminded of a movie called Scream, which a co-worker had recommended for her. She'd declined, on the basis that it looked too scary.

This was worse.

So much worse.

One of them spoke.

"Put that down ya' Muggle bitch. Ain't gonna help you none where you goin'." It was a man, with a rough voice, and his laughter was loud and cruel. Her hand began to shake.

Needless to say, she didn't up the knife down.

"Wha—what are you doing here?" Her eyes darted back and forth, trying to find an opening. She didn't know much about self-defense, but she had taken a class or two of anatomy, and she was sure she'd be able to stick the knife somewhere to cause harm.

But that wouldn't make a difference, she realized. There were at least a dozen of them in the dining room. They closed in on her from all sides, like dark shadows, trapping her in a corner, directly in front of her family.

She took a moment to look at them out of the corner of her eye, making sure that they were all safe. Her mother was muttering under her breath, and Vivian was clutching a Rosary. Both were crying. A sense of pity overtook her at the sight. Despite their problems, they were still family. Her father was looking up at the heavens, a look of determination on his face.

A different man spoke. Although it was hard to tell under their heavy clothing, this one was incredibly tall. He towered over all of them. Hermione's knees shook.

He separated himself from the group with an air of grace uncommon of petty thieves. The half of his face that wasn't covered was tan, and his eyes were dark.

Mystery Man-Death-Thing raised a stick—a wand? her brain supplied dubiously—in her direction.

"We do not owe you an explanation, you pathetic Muggle. Now, put your knife down. You will come with us. Our Lord, for some reason, requires your presence, specifically."

For a moment, Hermione was too confused to speak. Who were these people? And what they hell were they rambling about? Lords and Muggles—she'd come across the first word, but never the second.

This had to be a prank.

"NO!" It was Pastor Granger who spoke next, darting from the wall. His eyes were wide and wild, and spittle flew from his gaping mouth. Either way, he stood tall, unmoving, in front of these monsters. His gaze was solid, powerful, and his chin jutted out defiantly; he had the look of a man with full confidence in what he was saying.

Hermione felt warmth flood into her heart for her father, who would, despite their differences, stand-up for her dignity. Later, she'd classify that feeling as one of love and admiration. But he continued to speak:

"We swore to ourselves 10 years ago that we wouldn't let your folk take her away. She is normal, I tell you! Normal! We will not allow our daughter—"

The first man interrupted him. "You dare speak, you filth? We are allowed to harm you. Crucio."

Hermione hardly noticed the strange word this time. Instead, she saw something that would haunt her for the rest of her life. Her father dropped to the floor, screaming in agony. His mouth gaped open, his limps contorting at inhuman angles. His face twisted, his eyes screwed shut. Blood spewed from his nose and through his open lips.

Her father, the man she had looked to her entire life as the physical embodiment of strength, had fallen with a single word.

Her mother sobbed louder, joining the yells of her husband to turn the once-peaceful room into a ghastly symphony.

"Stop it, please!" Those words came from her mouth, and she found herself unable to stop speaking. "I'll do anything! Just leave my father alone!" Truth, she realized.

She needed this to end just as much as her father did.

The man laughed, and continued whatever it was he was doing to her poor father.

The bastard.

The color red clouded Hermione's vision. How dare those people—those monsters—do this to her family! How dare they enter into a home that is not their own and threaten innocent people? The rage built inside her, bubbling to the surface. It flowed through her, filling every crevice, a growing power.

And suddenly, the man flew across the room, smacking against the wall. Her father lay in a heap, unconscious, on the floor. His breaths came in short pants, and he shook, but he was no longer screaming.

Time seemed to stop for a moment. Everyone was silent, including the previously jeering intruders. She imagined that, beneath their masks, they were rather shocked (goodness knows she was). Then they all began speaking rapidly at once.

"It appears we found a wittle Mudblood." Hermione blanched. This was a woman's voice, and the woman was mocking her. Not to sound sexist, but Hermione couldn't fathom why a woman would ever want to partake in such evil activities. "I want to play with her."

"Settle down, Bellatrix," spoke the tall man, the one from before. Mystery Man. The woman—Bellatrix, she forced herself to remember, if she ever miraculously managed to speak with the police—snarled, but backed off. Perhaps this was the boss?

Hermione could not contain her sigh of relief, even as her head began to spin. Now that they were all speaking, she was getting disoriented. A fierce headache made itself known. And you, Rodolphus!" He turned to the man she had, somehow, managed to hurl across the room. How did she do that, anyway? "Are you daft? That little stunt was not part of the mission."

Finally, he turned to face me. "You, Mudblood," was he talking to her? What in the world was a Mudblood? She didn't like it. It sounded offensive. "You'll come with us."

Hands, covered in black gloves, began grabbing at her, pulling her to them. She struggled, kicking and screaming, but their numbers overwhelmed her. She attempted to stab at them, but, in the middle of all the commotion, her knife was thrown to the ground. Two hands clamped, vice-like, on her shoulders, and she was thrown against a man with a large, protruding stomach.

"We gonna 'ave fun with you," he whispered, his foul breath making her dizzy. The man was Rodolphus, she registered. This was the man who had caused her strong, unyielding father to break down without even touching him. For the first time in a long time, Hermione was speechless. Too afraid to utter a single word.

The last thing she heard before being smothered in darkness was a command—kill them—and a flash of green light.