Memoria Excidere

A woman, no longer young, stumbles down a deserted London alleyway. She does not know how she got there, who she is, where she's going. She has only her memories. A man in a dark cloak, with black eyes that became browner when you got close. She screams at the thought of him, and others look at her, confused. She runs. All she can do now is run, so she does, far away, onto trains and back to her homeland. There, she can begin to rebuild what she once was and find something for her to be. Memories are forever. Even those forgotten.

Alastor Moody groaned. He failed to understand Dumbledore's reasoning on many accounts, the first being the purpose of holding Order meetings in seedy Muggle bars. Potter had suggested it was some kind of fetish, but sense then dawned, and he realised that there were some things that one did not discuss about senior authorities. No matter how much Dumbledore insisted that these 'pubs,' as he called them, were, in fact, not as unsavoury as they appeared and could actually be quite friendly once one got to know the locals, Alastor would not budge from his belief that this was where the very essence of evil sprouted from many millennia ago. However, meetings were meetings (rather sadly, in Alastor's opinion), and they had to be attended. If only their headquarters at Grimmauld Place hadn't been uncovered near the beginning of the War, then Alastor wouldn't have to suffer these horrendous surroundings constantly. Even the courtrooms at the Ministry of Magic seemed nicer to Alastor.

It was the nature of the Order of the Phoenix that these meetings tended to last some time, each pair of Agents being required to report back on their task, and the company then discussing the actions necessary. Alastor and his partner were responsible for acting as liaisons for the Ministry of Magic. Their current assignment was in the Department of Mysteries, rallying support for the overthrow of the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. Fudge, even in the wake of genocide, refused to accept that Voldemort had returned - he believed, instead, that the attacks were merely coincidence, a series of terrorist projects that merely happened to target the Ministry and Dumbledore's crowd of followers. The Order of the Phoenix saw this for the weakness it was, and endeavoured to stop Fudge's incorrect propaganda at all costs. The plan was to turn his own Ministry against him; without the Ministry, and especially the press, Fudge would be nothing.

As far as Alastor knew, Dumbledore and McGonagall were working to protect Hogwarts, securing it as a sanctuary for Muggle-borns. Potter and Weasley, having finished their three years of training as Aurors some time ago, were now working as liaisons within the Auror branch of the Ministry, ensuring that the army was more prepared than it was for the last Great Battle - when Hogwarts had nearly fallen, saved only by the many Giants that the Groundskeeper (Alastor couldn't recall his name...Hagrid, yes, that was it) had managed to coax to Dumbledore's side. The last Agents, Snape and Lupin, were working as researchers. It was Alastor's understanding that they were investigating the connection between Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions - specifically the Instauratio potion that had bought Voldemort back to power in Potter's fourth year. Alastor snorted. Snape was an obvious choice for the job, with his history.

This particular meeting was to be held in a seemingly quaint little village in the English countryside. This month, they had taken over the meeting room of the 'Black Swan,' or as Alastor took it upon himself to call it (after inspecting the brickwork with an intent eye), the 'Dirty Duck.' He clicked ominously along the cheap concrete slabs in front of the pub and slipped through the doorway. Muggles sat in groups, drinking pints of some questionable substance and telling fake stories about what people said at work that day, or how they caught their teenage son smoking in the back garden last week. Alastor sneered and made his way to the bar. A woman with short, reddish-brown hair came over to him and smiled shyly.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked in a prim London accent, tinged lightly with a Scottish lilt. He nodded in acknowledgement, grunted his order, and swung himself over a barstool. A glance when he entered had told him he was the first to arrive. "You're new," she observed. "Not from around here, are you?"

He raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "Neither are you, from the sound of it."

She placed his drink on the bar and wiped her hands on a tea towel that she kept at her waist. "Not many round here are. They migrate from the city. Or from Dorset, in your case?" she guessed aloud. Alastor paused for a moment, in a mixture of surprise and slowly heightening suspicion - she had guessed correctly, as that was his birthplace.

"Yes, born and bred. You?" he asked, forgetting that he, as a rule, did not usually make conversation with barmaids.

"Born in London, raised here in Norfolk, educated in Scotland." She waved at a regular customer as he exited the pub, and turned back to Alastor.

"And you're here on some sort of leave from university?"

The woman laughed. "You flatter me - I completed my education long ago. No, I'm getting on in the world; this is my full time job." She gestured to the room, and Alastor couldn't help but pity the woman - it was hardly the most delightful place to spend one's existence. "I'm older than most of the punters in here, my dear."

Alastor opened his mouth to question her comment - she looked far too young for her claims - but a hand clapped on his shoulder.

"Moody! Nice to see you going for the ladies again. Jack Daniels and coke, please," the energetic man blurted out at impossible speed.

"Finnigan," Alastor deadpanned with a mere inclination of the head. "Keep it down; you know what we're here for."

"Ah yes, another three hours or so of Albus droning on about how we should keep our spirits up." Finnigan laughed at his own joke and took a gulp of drink. Was it Alastor's eye malfunctioning, or did the barmaid flinch at Finnigan's mention of Albus?

"Albus Dumbledore?" she asked. "You'll be the party here for the meeting room at 2pm, yes?"

Alastor grunted in reply, and she ducked under the bar. Yes, that would explain the flinch, but didn't change the whiff of discontent that was beginning to permeate Alastor's senses.

Handing him a key, she spoke again. "This opens the meeting room. I cleaned it as best I could, but you know how it is. Come and get me if you need anything. Ask for Amelia."

"Thanks," Finnigan said. The two men, with a courteous nod, went through to the meeting room.

"She reeks of it," Alastor sneered. Finnigan stared at him, frowning somewhat.

"What?"

"Magic. It's strong in her."

Finnigan snorted. "That's no reason to call her smelly."

"Finnigan."

"Sorry," he replied, with no conviction whatsoever.

They placed their drinks on the large conference table and began to set up the Silencing and Detection Charms. They were halfway through when the others arrived. Alastor gave them the usual glares as they entered. Potter and Weasley came in first. Alastor could be forced to admit that they had some talent on a battlefield, but aside from that, the Fates had not been kind to them (he often wondered whether either of them actually knew what the phrases 'hold your tongue' or 'calm down' actually meant). McGonagall and Dumbledore followed soon afterwards, with Lupin and Snape trailing behind.

"Ah," beamed Dumbledore. "We're all here, then." He motioned for them to be seated. "Is the location secure?" he asked Alastor, who nodded, just as he finished the last of the wards.

"You might want to run a Magidentify on that barmaid, though," he added as an afterthought.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

Alastor winked in reply. "Just a thought. Reeks of magic."

Dumbledore nodded, managing to contain his amusement at Alastor's choice words, and suggested that perhaps Weasley should go and scan her while ordering drinks as a cover. He left, and Alastor seated himself - rather unintelligently, in retrospect - between Snape and Finnigan. Dumbledore turned to the witch at his right. "Minerva, if you'd be so kind as to begin the meeting. I'm sure Mr. Weasley can catch up on his return."

McGonagall nodded, and rose. "As you know, we have been working separately for some time. However, it has come to our attention that Voldemort is planning, for want of a better description, something big. What, exactly, we do not know," she said, with a stern glance at Snape, "but it promises to be something of great impact. Today, we come together to report back on our individual assignments and see what can be done to prepare. On the part of the strengthening of Hogwarts' security, I am pleased to announce that we have completed the last of the Arithmantic wards, and the castle is stronger now than it has ever been. Our students are safe within not only its walls, but within the grounds, also."

There was a small scattering of applause, and she was seated. Weasley returned with the drinks then and confirmed that the barmaid was magical but not a threat (Alastor noted that he did so with a smirk, and pondered as to whether this barmaid's...personal space had been invaded by the enterprising young Mr. Weasley).

This relieved the council, and the meeting continued.

Lupin rose with a cough and spoke. "Severus and I have, as you know, been working on researching the Instauratio potion, and progress is, I am afraid to say, slow. We are -"

"The what potion?" Weasley interrupted, and Alastor resisted the urge to clap a hand to his forehead in frustration.

"The potion that bought Voldemort back to power, Weasley, were you not paying attention at all during the last meetings?" Alastor snapped, and sneered at him for a moment before sinking back into his chair.

Lupin ignored this and continued, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. "We are no further than we were the last time we spoke altogether as an Order. We are only as far as identifying a few of the ingredients to the potion, aside from the ones Harry identified at the time of the potion's administration." Lupin sighed.

"And while Voldemort exists in this immortal limbo, what can we do? Nothing. The survival of the common good rests on this research, and what have you come up with?" Alastor demanded, giving into his frustration and rising from his seat.

"Maybe if you'd done a better job protecting Hermione, then she would be here with the research, and we wouldn't be in this situation," Potter said, glaring at Alastor, who returned the glare with equal force.

"Maybe if that stupid chit of a girl hadn't got herself so far into this in the fir-" Alastor found himself cut off by the presence of a wand point jabbing into his throat. He laughed, albeit nervously. "Carpe jugulum, Severus? Whatever for?"

Snape pushed harder with his wand and tightened his grip on Alastor's arm. "Never-insult-Hermione," he growled, and threw Alastor back into his seat and slumped there, feeling somewhat confused by the action (but in secret he was at the same time intrigued). Dumbledore coughed loudly, and Snape shook his head at himself and sat down again. McGonagall, however, was aghast.

"We do not attack other members of the Order, Severus!" she shrilled.

Snape sneered. "I had good cause."

Potter shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Look, Snape, I know we all miss her, but you have to understand that...well...she didn't really like you very much. It's not like you gave her cause to. It's Ron and I who miss her the most; she's been gone long enough and we just want to get her back. We miss Hermione."

"You're bloody right it's been long enough." The generation that had been at Hogwarts in the seventies exchanged glances and sighed.

"Why do I get the feeling someone's not telling us something?" Weasley blurted out loudly, and Alastor could do nothing but agree with the boy.

"That would be, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore began, "because we are not telling you something"

"Lots of things," Lupin added, and others nodded in agreement.

"You know, don't you," Alastor realised aloud. "What happened to Granger." Dumbledore nodded, and Potter stared at him. Alastor couldn't blame him, to be honest. He would have reacted in a similar way (perhaps with more hexing and less staring, though).

"Why didn't you..." Potter began. "Where is she?" he asked, and McGonagall shook her head.

"We do not know where she is, Mr. Potter, but we know where she has been. This is, however, a story for another time -"

"Another time?" Weasley yelled. "You can't tell us that much and then say 'oh, we'll tell you later!'" Alastor was almost shocked; again, the boy had a point. Twice in one meeting was surely too much for his excuse of a brain - if he had one.

"Very well, Mr. Weasley. You have a right to know," Dumbledore said. "Which of us would you like to tell the story?"

Potter blinked. "How many of you know?" he asked, and Lupin bit his lip.

"Hermione went back in time, Harry," he said. Seeing that he had thus taken it upon himself to tell the story, he continued. "Lucius Malfoy cursed her. Peraro something or other..."

"Peragro Tempus," Snape corrected, somewhat snidely (this came as no surprise to Alastor, Snape being out of character or no).

"Yes, that - anyway, she ended up in 1977. We know her because she taught us Potions at Hogwarts in our seventh year."

Weasley stared. "All of you?" he asked, looking at the group who had been at Hogwarts then.

"Yes, Weasley. All of us," Snape confirmed, and returned to his glowering. Potter gave Snape a knowing look, and Alastor wondered if Potter was onto something far more intriguing than just Granger being Potions Mistress.

"Did you..." he began, but Snape's gaze of pure loathing stopped him.

"What I did and did not, Mr. Potter, is of no importance to you." The matter was closed. Unlike, Alastor noted, Weasley's mouth, which remained firmly open and verging on aghast.

Alastor thought that perhaps it was time he said something. "But what you did, Snape, would seem to be connected to Granger, considering your earlier...outburst, and therefore we all have a right to know."

"I know things even Albus doesn't know," Snape said, almost silently, and received a raised eyebrow from the Headmaster for his troubles.

"Like what?" Weasley said.

"Death Eater."

Potter blinked again. "You what?"

"Death Eater, you stupid little boy. She was a Death Eater."

"What?" cried Potter and Weasley simultaneously.

Alastor pondered this. "Never thought it of her," he said aloud, and McGonagall nodded her head in fierce agreement.

"Don't act so shocked, Potter. She did it so that she could find out how to get back to you and your heroic schemes. I bet you think Pettigrew was your parents' Secret Keeper, don't you? He wasn't. Granger was - she Memory Charmed the others to make them think it was that rat. Then she sold your parents to Voldemort, Potter. She killed them, not Pettigrew - although he thinks it was him that did it."

"I don't believe you," Potter spat. Alastor could see the boy's hands clenching into fists. "Hermione would never, ever-"

"Do not tell me what Granger would and would not do!" Snape snarled, rising from his chair again. "I know what she's capable of, Potter. I have seen her kill - I have come close to being killed by her. So do not tell me that she would not have killed your parents, Potter, because you don't know a damned thing about her."

"How much did she know about the potion?" Lupin asked. Alastor repressed a smirk as he realised that Lupin and Snape must not communicate much about their assignments.

Snape pinched his nose, and Alastor could have sworn that he heard the other man sigh. "She wouldn't tell me, but she spent all of her free time in the past researching. Less Dark books had been destroyed then, so more information was available. I'm sure she distinguished what Instauratio - that's the potion Voldemort used to return to power, Weasley, don't give me that look because even your memory isn't that bad - contains, but whether she found an antidote, or the means of constructing an antidote, I do not know." Snape crushed his fist into the table. "I don't know."

Then he went silent, and Alastor began to fear for his sanity (although the presence of Snape's sanity had always been an ambiguous matter).

"Snape?" Lupin said, prodding him in the shoulder. Alastor thanked Merlin he wasn't on the receiving end of the glare Lupin got for that. Alastor didn't mind Lupin - level headed, knew what he was on about. Unfortunate, that werewolf thing, but Alastor was never one for prejudice, and some things were best left unsaid. Dumbledore sensed the animosity levels rising presently and, rather intelligently in Alastor's opinion (though he rarely thought less of Dumbledore), changed the subject abruptly.

"Alastor! Do tell us how your work at the Ministry is going."

Alastor could not resist a small smirk. "Very well, Headmaster. In fact, we have been instructed by our Head of Department that our help has been such that it is no longer required; they feel ready to face the Minister on their own."

"Do you feel that the Department is ready for this, Seamus?" Albus leant forward, placing his chin on hands folded carefully in front of him.

"Yes, Fletcher is good at his job, and his hatred of Fudge is strong enough that he won't stand down - he remains to fight that idiot...sorry, Albus...the Minister, until the people can run Britain again, like we should be. We don't have any assignments for the Department any more, and are free to help you in whatever way necessary." Finnigan almost puffed his chest out as he relayed the information of their success.

Albus smiled, and pondered this. "I believe, then, I shall be sending the two of you after the elusive Ms. Granger." There was a pause, which would have been silent but for the protests from Snape, Potter, and Weasley, the irony of whose alliance was not lost on Alastor. He noticed that Finnigan was keeping quiet about the matter, perhaps (and that's childhood brainwashing for you) as a means of escaping the wrath of Snape, something that Alastor knew Finnigan was still wary of. A small but accurately timed cough from Dumbledore managed to quiet their wails, for which Alastor was truly grateful.

It was an intriguing prospect, he had to admit, this supposed relationship of Granger and Snape's. Alastor had never been one for over-analysing the sociological workings of his peers, but this interested him. In many ways, they were similar. He remembered Granger from teaching Defence at Hogwarts in her sixth and seventh years, remembered her as having a strong belief in her abilities but faltering in her grip on relationships often. Not that Alastor took such interest in his students (however, in retrospect, he really would have liked to know more about that incident between Potter and Weasley's sister).

Further speech from the Order bought Alastor back out of his thought pattern.

"Then it's settled. Alastor and Sirius will go after Hermione, and the rest of us shall continue with our original assignments. Is there any other business?" McGonagall wore her serious face, and Alastor couldn't help but suppress a chuckle at her formality.

"But you can't send them after her! We care about her more than anyone; it should be us going," Potter protested, gesturing to Weasley, who nodded vigorously.

Dumbledore sighed. "And that amount of emotion is exactly why the two of you," he paused, glancing at Severus, who was glowering at anyone who dared look at him, "and especially you, are not going on this assignment."

---

As McGonagall concluded the meeting, Amelia Winter, standing at the door to the conference room of the Black Swan, realised that the time had come to pack her things and take off again. She hurried back to the bar, for risk of being caught. A Unicus Witch was a valuable one, and much sought after. Death Eaters, Phoenix Agents, and the like would always be on the lookout for someone as powerful as she. Amelia couldn't risk her past catching up with her - not with people looking to bring it back to the surface. She had to go back to the one place she knew she could reside safely: France, home for some years of her life, and the last place they would expect her to be.

But it couldn't be that simple. Amelia couldn't disappear and hope that no one would notice her absence. Going into the back and finding her coat, she began to pack up for the end of her shift. She would leave as normal, pretending she was just your average witch hiding amongst Muggles as so many did, and take a train down to Dover. No magic from then on - tracing was too much of a threat. A ferry across to France, and a train ride to Paris. It was that simple. It had to be that simple. Because she'd had just about enough of things being difficult. As she came back through to the bar, smart clothes discarded in favour of some more comfortable attire and hands dripping from where she had washed them, the conference door opened. Ducking behind the counter to check the Charms that cloaked her from detection, she pretended to pick up a discarded packet of crisps before resurfacing to address Alastor Moody.

"Ah, er, Amelia, was it?"

She feigned a smile. "Yes, sir. How can I help you, gentlemen?" she added, noting the presence of others behind him. She gave Alastor a brief smile before drying her hands on the towel at her belt.

"Your keys..." he said, offering them in an outstretched hand, which she took. Their hands touched briefly for a moment, and Alastor found himself filled with an insufferable darkness for a fraction of a second, replaced suddenly by the calm after a storm. He frowned, and she noticed.

"I hope you enjoy your stay in the area," she said, "but I really must be going...it's the end of my time here..."

--

Amelia Winter walked calmly out of the pub, quickening her pace only when out of sight and Disapparating at the corner of the road. It dawned on Amelia that she should never have returned. Too much was at stake, and she could not risk discovery. Arriving back at her cottage, Amelia packed what little belongings she had collected in her stay, and leaving a note for the landlady, ran to the train station where she could begin to rebuild her life again.

Alastor could do nothing but shrug at the woman's speedy exit, and wonder whether he was getting slightly jumpy in his ever-increasing age. That, however, was a preposterous idea, because Alastor was never one to let things get past him. Constant vigilance, his father had taught him, and Alastor endeavoured to carry this motto through life. There was restraint too, though, so this mysterious Amelia could be left mysterious. She did not seem to pose any real threat. At least, not to Alastor. Sighing, he accepted Finnigan's offer of one last drink before they left, and put his mind to thoughts of finding Granger. After all, how hard could she be to find?

She's running again, running away to places safer than home. He will not find her, must not find her, for Nyx is losing power slowly, and as much as she needs Erebos, she must hide from him. Their love forgotten now, too strong to fade into nothingness and instead lingering, everlasting reminder of what was and what should be, but never what is. It is too much to hope that love can re-knit the shattered pieces of the past, once the future has played itself out.