Two Aurors & A Bookworm

Prologue: The Noble Friends the Former Weasel, the Former Boy-Who-Lived and the Former In-House Miss Know-It-All

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint stowp!
And surely I'll be mine!
And we'll tak a cup o'kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou'd the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary fit,
Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne.

And there's a hand, my trusty fere!
And gie's a hand o' thine!
And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.

"Auld Lang Syne" - Robert Burns.

It wasn't often that Hermione was able to actually feel veritable sunrays, feel them truly soaking her skin. It had been weeks, probably months, since the last time she had been able to get out in the sunlight instead of bathing in the shadows and the nightfall, usually well past ten o'clock when everyone had long gone home and to bed. And yet she would stay behind, oftentimes spending the night in the library searching and re-searching until her mind turned to mush or she fell asleep, face plastered into a paragraph when she woke up the next morning. Sometimes with ink smudged on her nose or her cheek.

Dr Hermione Granger was co-Head Researcher in a rather big Healing firm in Oxford. The fact that she was now enjoying a slurpee on the outside terrace of Diagon Alley's seasonably 'in' ice cream shoppe was nowhere near amusing or fun right now: propped in front of her were dozens of dusty old books that smelt of century-old parchment paper. Thankfully the owner of the new Rosenbaurf Gramarye Public Libraries already knew her name by rote and had overlooked the seven extra books she had carried to the front desk for temporary loan. She only needed them to quickly find some information on the medicinal properties of a rare plant anyway; surely the ancient books carried information on it, or at least some hints to make her research just that bit easier.

Technically speaking, Hermione had drawn a blank when her superior had assigned her the unknown affliction that was eating away at new-borns' magical abilities, and disorganising their DNA in a most dangerous way: worse than rendering them Squibs, this virus spread a gangrene through the insides of the infants, and within weeks the babes were but a matter of the past. So far she had hit a wall: this was so novel that not one person in her department - Magical Disease Remedials, to precise - had heard about it. So she had come to London, to the best and greatest new wizarding public library in Britain, which was located right here in Diagon Alley where Flourish and Blotts had once flourished.

Surveying her surroundings with a slightly disinterested eye, Hermione sucked at her colourful straw, drawing out the Elixir of Bee-Buzz. Grinning lazily to herself, she welcomed the warm buzzing in her ears like a breath of youth. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she had last penetrated Gambol & Japes, or any other amusing shoppe for that matter. Suddenly she felt so old. At twenty-eight...

Hermione's once long wild curls now rested gracefully on the top of her head in short boyish curls underneath a large chocolate witch's hat. Her petite button nose and heart-shaped lips had remained the same, of course, as had her plain coffee eyes, lined with thick brown eyelashes that tangled and clotted together unmercifully.

Through the years and especially during her last year at Hogwarts, her thin and rather linear curves had filled out quite generously. Somehow, in her mind, her self-confidence had been given quite the boost right then and there, knowing that she was a woman in every sense of the term. Oh, she still could not boast that she was alarmingly attractive, but filling out had surely been a plus in the social relations area for the always-shy Hermione Jane Granger.

Grossing herself back into her reading materials, Hermione quieted her already overrunning mind and slowly set her glass back onto the table, choosing another book arbitrarily. Running paragraph over paragraph of magimedical text in her mind, she mentally groaned.

This is apparently heading nowhere... but surely... ah... She ran her thumb over the words: 'Particles of negative magic dust imprinted in the infant's very genes... virus feeds on primal magic... unknown dark curse cast on mother... the womb has healing and shielding properties, however they exclude nonmagical accidents such as falling and death of muggle arms and natural causes i.e. impromptu heart attack... if unprotected can become infectious to family members...' This looks like one very big lead, Granger.

Hermione's eyes scanned the name of the disease. Hereditary Cold Child Virus, 1348. Somewhere it seems to coincide with the muggle Black Plague years. Perhaps the wizarding world was hit similarly, but with this magic-eating virus. Infants and families alike died. I should have remembered something about this in History of Magic, no?

Hermione nearly fell off her chair, swallowing the mad screech she was about to let out just in time, when two hands suddenly rested on her shoulders and a warm breath stirred her short curls for a moment before the man started to speak just loud enough for her to hear, only a hairbreadth away from her ear.

"Miss Know-It-All, reading a brick? No, I must be seeing visions..."

The sarcasm had never failed to make her smile, or to at least acknowledge him. Grinning to herself, Hermione watched Ron Weasley - but no, it was now Junior Auror Weasley, the weeks-old papers she had picked up on her way out of the research facility had claimed - round the white-painted iron parlour table and set an enormous cup of ice cream in front of himself - she guessed a Knarry Mouth Strawberry ice creamby the colour. It was his favourite back when they all still attended Hogwarts.

Ron was wearing tattered brown robes. He looked much older than the Ron she remembered, but that was only to be expected - when she looked at herself in the mirror, she often cringed at the comments it made to her reflection.

Circles under his eyes, tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and tired, yet illuminated stormy blue eyes. He wore his ginger hair in a shaggy style, and Hermione could discern bristles from a stubbly but rather nice unkempt beard - if that was at all possible - on his chin and cheeks. It only served to remind her that Aurors, even juniors as he was, worked tirelessly and probably took extra shifts as well... she was not the only one riding the boat, after all.

"Great heavens, Ron," she began in a lecturing tone before catching his eye as he stood there uncertainly, ready to walk away if she told him to. "Please, have a seat," she continued in a much lighter tone, feeling like an idiot despite herself. What was she doing? They were far from Hogwarts and she was not about to boss him around anymore. Feeling guilty, she changed the subject. "So how is work lately?"

Ron grinned before lifting his spoon to his mouth and motioning someone over. Hermione turned around but saw no one until, out of nowhere, a shorter raven-haired man appeared by her side and pecked both her cheeks before settling down in an iron chair next to her, a Chocomud ice cream set in front of him.

Hermione was not used to such attention lately.

Ron regarded her with amusement playing behind his eyes. "Well, you know... work is just that: work. Lately someone and their clique has been trying to terrorise the Ministry, but we have been able to contain them... so far."

Harry cut in, rolling his eyes. "From what we've been able to gather, the terrorists are from some part of France."

"Oh," was Hermione's only response.

"Yeah, that's what Ron and I thought." He shrugged aimlessly, then continued in an explaining vein. "The French Ministry of Magic has been the target of many attempts at terrorism in the past five years. Since their ex-minister Jacques Bossé released the new Chart of Human and Non-Human Magical Rights in 2007, things have been rather out of control. There have been scandals left and right, one of them being that one of the Ministry's biggest sponsors was a bloke in Russia going by the name of Duke Vladislaw Vladimiriska."

"Yes, I heard of that story at work," Hermione replied thoughtfully, obviously remembering a whispered conversation she had overheard at work. "Dark Creatures all over Eastern Europe, claiming to have converted to our ways, owned the Ministry, in other words."

Ron nodded gravely. Hermione shuddered at the prospects implied here. "Yes. Terror still reigns in France. Who would have thought, really, eh?" His expression darkened. "Harry and I were sent on mission there quite a few times in the last two years to try to straighten things out. They're desperate."

"That's terrible! I remember Paris, Marseilles and the Côte d'Azure as peaceful, magical places - excuse the pun." She had dreamy eyes then, apparently lost in reminiscences.

Ron winked at her. "Keep your memories intact, Hermione. They're rather shady places now."

Harry sighed, picking up a leather-bound volume from Hermione's pile and glancing at its cover carelessly. "God, I was so naïve when I signed up for Auror Academy. I thought it was all over, the dark times were over and there was nothing to worry about anymore except to re-build over the ruins, you know." He turned the volume over before picking up another one and frowning at the title, puzzled. "Are you a Healer?"

Hermione blinked for a few seconds at the break in his train of thought, then burst out laughing. Of course, it had been so long since they had last seen her. When Harry and Ron had left for their Auror training at the Academy, she had told them she was going to magimedical school. But even then she hadn't known what she wanted to do. So she had dabbed left and right for a while. Magimedical research had pretty much come to her suddenly and she had stuck to it since.

It was the best of both worlds. Healing and researching, two activities she prized in everyday life anyway. So she read about magical medicine all day long and wrote reports to famous Healers, analysed blood samples from all over the United Kingdom, and so on and so forth.

"Not quite." Ron raised a curious eyebrow at her much like Harry right then. Her eyes flickered from one to the other before she realised she would have to elaborate. "I'm a researcher at a Healing firm in Oxford. Perhaps you've heard of it... Auldenberk."

"Sounds German," Ron immediately commented, brows screwed in thought.

Hermione smirked. "My boss is half-German, half-English. He chose the name accordingly, or that's what I've been told anyway. I'm actually here in London for work. I've been studying on a rare and fairly new disease that has been targeting the DNA."

"Wow, you don't hear that everyday," Harry commented dryly as he reclined on his chair. Ron looked uncomfortable.

Hermione sighed, eyeing her Elixir of Bee-Buzz idly. "Oh, don't worry about your health, it only affects infants. Only problem is, it's a disease all right, but no one has ever heard of a gangrene that eats away at the magic in an infant. And it's causing ravages in the north of the country as we speak."

Ron winced as if the disease had personally hit him. "Oi. Well, you know, Harry and I... we won't be of any great help there." He seemed about ready to stand up and take his leave.

Hermione seemed to startle. Had she been blabbing about her boring work? After so many years, couldn't she make pleasant conversation without turning automatically to medical subjects? For heaven's sake, they were her best friends! Harry and Ron were already standing when she blurted out, "No! Do stay. I've been locked in for weeks. A little company will do me good." She smiled genuinely, and a sparkle flared in her eyes again as they sat back down indulgently. "How long exactly has it been, lads? Seven? Eight years?"

Harry leaned forward conspiratorially. Hermione and Ron soon followed suit. The three of them looked like plotting kids just then. She could imagine Ron rubbing his hands together, getting ready to devise a brilliant plan of action. "Far too long," Harry said as seriously as he could manage, having apparently just thought of the same.

Hermione sat back and laughed. A clear, ringing laugh that Harry and Ron had not heard in many years. When they had left her, some five years ago, she had been an inch away from dullness, sad as she was that they were going their separate ways after so many years of proximity at Hogwarts, where their lives really began.

"Tell me," she said suddenly. "You two share that flat you talked about when you left?"

Ron's eyes nearly bulged out as they widened the size of teacup saucers. "Merlin, no."

Harry, in turn, guffawed. "I had almost forgot!"

Hermione relished in their tender amusement as she watched their eyes glaze over, no doubt immersed in memories.

Harry was the first to break away and inform her of his whereabouts. "We did, for a while," he growled pointedly in Ron's general direction. "I live just outside of London in a much nicer flat now, thankyouverymuch."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, Harry, at least admit it wasn't so bad..." Hermione watched Harry bite his tongue. Ron conceded, "All right, aside from the mould and the, er... wonderful neighbours."

Harry picked up another book at random, grumbling as he went.

And suddenly Harry's eyes lit up excitedly. He almost jumped off his seat, excitement bubbling in his voice. "Ron, Ron, listen to this: 'The Evanidus Corporis Morbus is a disease which attacked men in their late twenties during the sixteenth century, attacking the magical desoxyribo nucleic acid cells (adenine, cytosine, thymine, and guanine) and erasing its victims until they are completely invisible to the human eye.'" He lifted his eyes from the book until they met Ron's. Both suddenly wore a similar expression of pure astonishment, as if a troll had whacked them with its staff. "Remember the -" And then their eyes took over the role of speech. They were in on something that Hermione was not!

"What is going on?" she asked after a few seconds of this 'conversation' going on.

Harry seemed to remember that she was there first (again!). "Sorry. A couple of months ago, Ron and I were sent to Lyon to investigate a case that had holes pretty much everywhere. Men were disappearing left and right. Blood samples evaporated into thin air. I can't tell you how disorienting this whole ordeal was. The Ministry officials were prosecuting their own Aurors for 'lack of professionalism' and for 'tempering with evidence'. Remember, Ron? It was horrible."

Ron nodded grimly. "Yeah, it was like that until just a couple of weeks ago, when we came back home. There was one man working alongside us, Rémi, who was infected all along without our ever knowing. We never figured it out until we received an owl a day after our arrival here in Britain, and then we knew he had been infected. But every single body evaporated into thin air before we had the chance to properly investigate what was going on. Are these people dead? Do they walk amongst shadows now?"

Hermione shuddered at the thought.

Harry took over. "But most importantly, we never figured out who or what was behind this. Or rather, we have an idea, but no proof." He looked back at the book sadly. "This may very well be it: the Evanidus Disease."

Hermione curiously grabbed the book and glanced at its cover. It read Curative Theories: When the Inner Gramarye is Threatened. She seemed deep in concentration for a few seconds, as if she was pondering the results of an especially hard formula or Runic table, and then started furiously scratching something on a piece of parchment on the table. The two young men slowly leaned over it and read: 'Evanidus - Harry & Ron - a.s.a.p.'

"What does this mean?" Ron inquired, puzzled at her quickly jotted notes.

Hermione smiled gleefully. "It means I am getting out of my way to give you a hand. After all, I've only ever worked with Healers and Healing magic. I guess I could do with a bit of criminal investigation for a change."

The two Aurors met eyes and, without further ado, agreed to her plan more than happily.

"Now," she said, pulling out a quill and a few parchments, "tell me anything and everything you know or could connect to these disappearing cases. Anything at all... Events, dates, marks, signs - you name it, it could have a link with this." She grabbed her favourite new Italian Bona Fide quill and poised it on top of the parchment, ready to take notes.

Ron cocked an eyebrow at Harry, who could only be glad that the years had not changed her one small bit.

It is their fate, they murmur. It is anyway their way
to shun the theatrical or gothic gesture.
They would not rattle chains if chains could hold them.
It is the wind, so much stronger, that slams doors

"All The Ghosts" - James Richardson

The light was quickly dimming. There was much to be done. The woman stood just tall enough to reach the pot of combustion oil and dumped half of its contents into the container, turning a little brass knob to push the flame up. The room brightened to a warm glow.

She looked outside the window. Dark. All dark. And the window. Dirty. Trails of an oily substance on the dirty glass. Cold. Just cold. She wrapped herself tightly in her wool shawl and rubbed her hands together to produce warmth. But still the words reflected themselves, pale and jutting out sharply before her eyes, insistent and unrelenting.

'Originally in 1348 - The Damnation (era)

17 wizard disappearances - men - 20's - 'erased'

Related to 2007 Chart of Rights?

Jacob Angrivent - Death 2006 - Illiers-Combray - 27

Henri Fellé - D2006 - Rouen - 29

Vincent Trécourt - D2006 - Paris - 26

Jean-Christophe Ardent - D2006 - Rouen - 28

Gabriel St-Jean - D2007 - Paris - 28

Raphaël Condiacre - D2007 - Paris - 28

Philippe Monticrastre - D2007 - Bourges - 27

Matthieu Petitcours - D2007 - Vézelay - 26

Louis-José Patenique - D2007 - Reims - 29

Martin Marsouin - D2007 - Troyes - 28

Émile Canéda - D2007 - Tours - 27

Jules Snyder - D2007 - Paris - 27

Julien Bellemire - D2007 - Le Havre - 29

Jacques Sansoupirs - D2007 - St-Étienne - 28

Rémi Rocher - D2007 - Lyon - 28

Jonathan Arson - D2007 - Lyon - 27

David Létourneau - D2007 - Lyon - 26

Is it a curse? A virus? A bacterium? Could it be potion-induced?

Mostly greater north-centre cities, moved to south at the end

There is a link between the blood sample disappearances and this disease, to be sure.

Mg gene erased, which in turn erases the body (?) Could it be gradual, or is it sudden?

Go see head geneticist - Auldenberk.'

The woman sighed at once at an empty space and closed her mind against a nagging little voice: You're so far away from the truth, Hermione...

I notice the change in myself. It is like my mind has a brain of its own. So many thoughts that continue to push me to the limit. I glance at time and see the many possibilities of reality. These ghosts tend to hide in the shadows. Lurking to strike at any given second. How did they get in here? I would like to know. But as usually my mind drifts down the path in a rather unspoken way. It is as if my soul wants to be found. Like a dove in the sky, gently flying to the breeze of the air. He sees all but knows not the fury of his power. When the light is shown he doesnt take the easy path but pursues the challenging one.

"Moment's Glance", Pirrone

Harry stroked his scar - it didn't hurt at all anymore, it was just an old habit that repeated itself especially when he concentrated, like he expected searing pain to come bursting at him unsuspected. Ron had once called him a masochist - that he actually enjoyed the pain Voldemort had once induced in him. It pissed him off royally.

Harry rolled his eyes and scratched away at the open parchment in front of him, marking the major events Hermione had asked him to check and date for accuracy. The flame next to him quivered, but he scratched away still.

It was not often that he worked with your ordinary wizard or witch - usually he and Ron, and basically all of the Auror crew, were the ones doing their own dirty work themselves, whether it be on the field, on assignment or in the other sub-departments. But since their encounter with Hermione - a pleasant surprise, really - Harry was not so sure that he and Ron would be working alone by themselves much anymore. Three brains are better than one, Harry's mind kept repeating to him like a broken record. Of course he knew; the three of them had been successful in pretty much everything they engaged in together... He needn't reminding.

Harry looked at his hands with sluggish disinterest. There was not much ink to be wasted when it came to him in particular. The Man-Who-Saved-All, with dirty stiff hands and blackened under-nails; a dull square English face and its pallid, almost sickly tint...

Seventh year was when Harry Potter noticed a major change in him that had absolutely nothing to do with his tardy physical growth. His skin used to itch with the strange new hidden secret lying deep within him. A monster, he had thought himself to be when the first burst of it trembled and split through him. He still remembered the painful explosion in his fingertips, the terrorised scream that had not found its way out, the pounding in his ears and the surprise of finding that he was still alive.

He still sometimes felt the urge, but knew now how to handle it. Sometimes it became attuned to his strong emotions; other times it just wanted straight out.

So, now, as Harry James Potter felt the tell-tale tingling rush through him, almost taunting him, he sighed and rested his head on the soft headrest behind him. The young man held his wand hand, empty, aloft in front of him.

Next thing he knew, the whole room around him was glowing a bright eerie blue colour, enveloping his body it its brilliant light.

Any passer-by might have been surprised at the sudden change in lighting in the drawing room of that corner flat by the road, but none knew the very essence in which Harry James Potter bathed in everyday.

On a day like any other
Almost everything ends in tears

It's terrible! Mad, cold, hurrying
Home, it's all too much

A ghost gray arm inside a purse
Billboards shining with dew

"Adult" - Fanny Howe

Ron's eyes were bloodshot with fatigue when Vivian Weasley, nee O'Sullivan, opened her eyes to find her husband standing stock still in the doorway as he often did after long sleepless and tiring days or nights of assignments at the Auror Department.

She held her little cry of surprise at seeing him thus, like she often did when she found him like this. Instead the young woman shifted and caught his eye. She swallowed with difficulty. "What's wrong, love? Have you seen a ghost?" she asked very quietly, hugging her legs tightly, wishing he was not standing so still, eyes bulging out of their sockets, wishing he would just take her to bed and get it over with until next time when, who knew...?

Ron's strange behaviour had become a habit. They were newlyweds: who would have known it would someday come to this? To a moment in their marriage where they could not even recognise each other, let alone speak to one another without feeling like strangers. It was true, she had never known much about him or his past, which he never talked about. Ron Weasley preferred to keep his image as mysterious as possible... or with her, anyway. Who knew what he told everyone else? Who knew how very ignorant she was of the single most important man in her life?

Her husband said nothing as he slipped out of the drawing room, leaving Vivian a small anxious form in the dark, eyes shining and miserable. The lonely woman heard the door to her husband's office shut with a crisp, unmistakable clicking sound of the lock.

Locking me out.

"The Past is a Time we all long to meet again one day."