The Project

Memorative Attainability and Analystic Reconstruction

MAAR

That's what the board called it. Hermione Granger wanted something more witty, intelligent, something not so scary. They insisted that since surgery was such a Muggle procedure, that the name must have Muggle properties. She insisted on arguing because the point of bringing in surgery to the wizarding world was to make it appealing to wizards.

She shut her mouth though. She had already been given credit to the entire project, her team, too. She knew that in the research world it was a big deal to get credit.

She just wanted it to work. She wanted it to be used.

"The Project" was what they called it in her lab. Her team never used MAAR. Years and years of working together, using the same words and connotations wouldn't erase "The Project."

Hermione Granger didn't know what she wanted to do outside of Hogwarts. Everyone thought she had it figured out. But she wasn't sure about anything. She applied to everything: Auror Academies, Medi-Witch Hospitals, Charm Inventor Laboratories, absolutely everything. She got into everything, too. There just wasn't anything she was wholly interested in.

Then she got an owl in the May of her seventh year from World Wizarding Research Centres. She hadn't heard of it before. The owl was short and concise and asked her to come in for an interview May 14th and so she did. The building she Apparated to was somewhere located in England country land. Good thing, too. There wouldn't have been anywhere to place the monstrous building that resided what might've been several miles in a large city.

They all wore bright white cloaks long enough to graze the ground. They flapped around them like capes off an American Muggle comic. The building was classic 19th century laboratory. With stonewalls, stone floors. But some of the equipment surprised Hermione. She recognized standard Muggle chemistry equipment. She recognized stainless steel tables and doors. There was high-tech equipment, along with some of the most break-through equipment of the Wizarding world. Excitement rose up in her heart.

"Interesting, isn't it?" a voice said behind her. She turned around to meet an Indian man with dark skin, loose curly hair and wearing instead of a white cloak, a vivid blue cloak. He smiled at her.

"Doctor James Patel," he said with a friendly lilt. "Director of the Cognitive Department." He stuck out his hand in greeting. Hermione took it.

"Hermione Granger. Nice to meet you," she said, a bit intimidated. He laughed.

"Yes, I know. Don't look so scared. You'll get used to the massive size eventually. You should see the Centre in Russia. It's three times as big. But then again, they have the room," he said. He had a thick British accent and seemed friendly enough. Hermione laughed lightly.

"Bigger than this? I didn't know mass got bigger," she said breathily. He nodded.

"I thought the same thing when I arrived here. I was a Hogwarts recruit like you, seventeen and feeling on top of the world. Then I got here and was assigned to the Circulatory and Repetitive Reconstruction of Partial Refuse." He paused after a moment. "Waste. Basically I was shoveling garbage into these contraptions these American, hippy scientists were working on. Good for them, but not me. But now, I'm a Director of one of the dozens of departments."

"How many are there?" Hermione asked.

"Nearly a hundred. But they change everyday. There are projects that end up out of their own category. Therefore, departments are born and depleted nearly once a week. WWRC (employees informally short it to worc, original, I know) is constantly moving and creating new things. Most of them are ahead of their time. You used one of worc's most prized inventions. The creator is dying to meet you," he said with a cheeky smile. Hermione paused and thought about it.

"The time turner!" she exclaimed after a moment. Dr. Patel nodded. "But McGonagall said-"

"Oh, well. Dr. Castello, the creator, didn't necessarily get the credit he deserved," he said. Hermione nodded and sighed. She tried to gather everything in her head.

"Would I go to the Department of uhh... Circulatory Refuse?" Hermione said with grimace. Dr. Patel laughed and shook his head.

"No. I would like you on the team with me in the Cognitive Department," he said, and began walking around the dimly lit walkway.

Windows were large and open to expose the scientists at work. Hermione tried to imagine little James Patel, back when he was still a Mister, waking down the same hall with the Director of some other major department explaining what he was to do in WWRC. Hermione imagined the curious look on his face that must have been mirrored on hers.

"In the Cognitive Department, appropriately shorted to Cogdep, we study the human brain. We are a pretty small department, seeing as not many wizards are ready to tackle how the mind works."

"Why? I mean, why is it like that? In a huge research centre that explores time travel and creates spells, why wouldn't you want to study the human mind?" Hermione asked.

"Think about it. So many Muggles have tried to master it. Take Freud for example. His theories were so amazingly depressing and outward for his time. But the ideas were revolutionary and scientific. Muggles have dissected the brain, but still cannot figure out what makes us feel love, anger or hatred. They think it is an imbalance in hormones. But just imagine, if a wizard took magic to the human brain, what the results would be," he said with passion. It wasn't one of those recruit speeches. It was like Hermione had answered a question that triggered something. She grinned.

"It'd be chaotic," she said.

"Exactly. Now, we don't exactly research emotions. But that is the reason why wizard scientists mostly stay away from the Cognitive Department. We are also mildly under funded.

"But at the Cognitive Department, our main assignment as of such is to decipher the difference between the Muggle brain and the Wizard brain. This assignment started under my guidance four years ago. Our findings are great, but can't be published as of yet.

"As a recruit, I would like you working on our minor subject. That is the effect of brain-related magic on the brain. Such as truth potions, memory obliviation, last memory extractions and the such. I would, in fact, love to put you on our main assignment, but as a recruit it is prohibited by the rules. Your resume is extensive and I would love to have you work with us. What do you think?"

Hermione was a bit taken aback. "But what about schooling and training?" Hermione asked.

"Degrees at WWRC come in work. Recruits become fully graduated at anywhere between six months and two years. It depends on progress, intention and will. It all balances in what you want here," Dr. Patel finished.

To Hermione, it sounded like an amazing experience. She knew she belonged out fighting in the war, but it had not yet arrived. She knew it would in the next year and she couldn't do anything about it. That's what drove her crazy. She would make the decision when it came to fight. But now...

"I'll do it. I would love to be on your team, Dr. Patel," she said with a grin.

__________________________________________________

Hermione went back to school where she completed her last exams and spent her last days in her favorite places on Hogwarts grounds. She got the guys up at three in the morning and took them down to the kitchens where they pigged out on éclairs, cheesecake and spiked pumpkin juice.

They would lie in the pleasant almost-summer heat against the bright green on the grass and laugh at the ridiculous images they would charm the clouds into. They even held a mock Quidditch game on the field with their friends, and yes, a game Hermione participated in herself. Harry and Ron tried to get into as much trouble as possible without being expelled for the last week of school (and yes, the professors would say, we can expel you for the last week and it will go out your employment resume). Hermione eventually joined them after realizing that she would be leaving them for WWRC.

Hermione was supposed to go into Auror training with them to prepare for the war but she knew it wasn't what she wanted to do for the rest of her life. She knew she was going to be by Harry and Ron's side when the time came, and they knew that. She belonged in the war, fighting for what she believed in, but she knew that after the war was over, Auror continuation was not what she desired.

In fact, she had made an agreement with the Order. She had told Harry, Ron, and the Order that she would be leaving to go work at WWRC until the time came, and if they needed her word, they could sign an agreement.

They believed her, but most soldiers that were working for the Order were signing themselves over to them. It was a promise that when the war began, they would be there to fight wholeheartedly. There were exceptions of course, like if you suddenly became life-threateningly sick, were impaired to not be able to fight.

Hermione signed over her life to the war in promise that she would fight. It was a promise to the Order, Harry and Ron, and herself. It cleared her guilt of achieving her dreams. She did indeed feel guilty, selfish even, for deciding to work at WWRC, but she believed that it would make her happy and most people understood that.

She was to leave for WWRC a week after school ended. Graduation was teary and heartfelt. But dates were already set for a reunion ten years later, so there were promises of keeping in touch, and if not, seeing each other then.

She spent the first and last week of her free summer with Harry and Ron at the Burrow.

They had gone exploring through the forest behind the Burrow. The woods revealed a massive fairytale land of shattered sunlight, ripe vines and angry creepers that threatened to steal the ankles of anyone careless enough. Deep in the center, they found a blossoming fig tree with rich, heavy figs. Hermione was carrying a light bag in which she stuffed nearly three dozen of the ripe fruit. Further along, Ron had swung himself into the depths of a tree.

Having following suit, they found them selves situated comfortably in the trees.

Hermione straddled a particularly thick branch, her ankles crossed under her and her arms straightened behind her, her palms digging into the bark of where the branch connected with the trunk. Her bag was looped around a knob, tossing the guys a fig whenever they wished for one. Many figs laid on the ground in a sad attempt of tossing a fruit and failing.

Harry was above her to her right, one leg hanging and the other parallel to the branch, stretched out before him. Ron was in the tree across from him, sitting in a similar fashion.

"Hey, I've got a question," Ron mused suddenly after a long pause of contemplative silence.

"Mmm 'k," Hermione hummed.

"Do you think any of us will get married?" he asked, looking up from the fig he was currently gnawing on. Hermione laughed, surprised. Harry chuckled, too.

"To each other?" she asked to add a bit of lightness. Ron shook his head sheepishly.

"No, just in general. You know with...everything," he said quietly.

"I don't think I'd want to get married," Harry said thoughtfully. "It just seems like an awful way of putting someone's life in danger."

Hermione frowned at this. "I don't think the war should keep anyone from doing what they want to do," she said disapprovingly.

"Why not?" Ron asked.

"Because it isn't even here yet. I understand why we are preparing for it, but I can't comprehend why everyone is putting their lives on hold for an agonizing terror that isn't even here. I don't see why any of us wouldn't get married," she said forcefully. What they all meant was would they be alive to ever be married.

"That's our Hermione, the philosophical and reasonable one," Ron said cheekily.

Hermione reached into her bag and chucked a fig at him. of course, the fig missed and smack into the trunk, falling to the rest of the mis-thrown fruit.

"Nice aim, 'Mione. Gonna fig the Death Eaters to death with that precision?" Harry teased, laughing. Had he not snatched it out of midair at the last minute, a flying fig would've nailed him right in the temple.

____________________________________

Their days went along like that. They spent endless hours talking. It was hard to keep angst out of their conversations, but dejection had seeped into everyone's lives like a syrupy dye. A stain on everyone's mind that wouldn't come out. But with the heat of the summer and the sun that seemed to shine endlessly, even in the England countryside, angst was easily avoided in most conversations. Hermione tried to make the best out of her weeklong summer vacation.

They had taken an oversized sheet out into the backyard of the Burrow to eat a gigantic lunch of Mrs. Weasley's leftovers when Hermione had the sudden urge to catapult mashed potatoes at Harry's face. And so she did, a large lump of warm mush lading right over his left eyebrow. Thus, ensued a war of their own, which evolved into a high-adrenaline chase into the woods. Hermione was armed with an enormous bowl of banana pudding, vanilla wafers and all; Harry had a pot of chicken potpie; and Ron- well, he had spaghetti. He was to be feared.

They flew past trees and bushes, all subconsciously dashing for the lake that was hidden, abandoned and secluded. Their hysterical laughter rang through the woods, glittering like the splotches of sunlight that littered the forest floor.

Hermione had apple pie in her hair, spaghetti wrapped around her ankle, pumpkin juice down the front of her, and a variety of unrecognizable gunk that fell into the miscellaneous category all over her. She was then nailed in the side by chicken, peas and gravy. She halted and looked for her assailant. He streaked past her in an array of laughter. She scooped a handful of banana pudding in her head and it splattered against the back of his head.

She then ran as if her life depended on it. Her feet flew under her and she felt amazing and carefree. Her muscles strained under her pushing and her abdomen was still halting from her laughter.

Finally, the long, sagging and narrow dock stretched before her. She tossed her plastic bowl to the side and took off across the caving, but still sturdy dock. Her footsteps were followed by another pair, their feet vociferous against the sun-bleached wood. A third pair was added to the noise that echoed against the wall of trees that surrounded them. Soon, Hermione felt spaghetti raining down on her, sauce sliding into her hair, and noodles splattering against the wood.

With a great laugh and a yelp, she pushed off of the edge of the dock and dove headfirst into the green lake water. She surfaced immediately to see Harry in midair, falling to the surface of the water and Ron following suit with a giant whoop.

Pieces of food were surfacing against the water, food ready for the fish to devour.

They swam, splashed, and laughed for a while, letting the warm water immerse them. They laid out on the dock, letting their clothes dry to their skin, decorated with food stains and lake water smells.

Hermione realized that this would probably be one of the last times she would be allowed to be this incredibly happy. This carefree, ecstatic and childish. With that thought and both guys of either side of her, she reach out for their hands, her eyes lids still closed to the sun, and squeezed.

__________________________________________________

On the eve of the day before Hermione was leaving for her parents' homes, Ron came to fetch both an awake Hermione and Harry at two in the morning. They ascended to the roof, the top still warm underneath Hermione's bare feet, her heart freaking out at the height.

They sat down against the slanting platform and stared at the stars as if their futures were written out there in the wide-open sky for them. There on the roof, Hermione thought her life looked pretty promising up there in those stars.

When she started to cry, both Harry and Ron wrapped their arms around her. She wept into their shoulders

"Promise me that no matter what happens, we'll be there for each other," she said, muffled by their collarbones. "Promise me that the world may be five seconds from imploding but we'll be there by each other. Just like first year in the bathroom. Ever since then and ever since now."

Both guys took advantage of the minimal light to let their emotions shine on their glistening faces.

"I-" Ron started, but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I promise," he said, his voice still cracking.

Harry nodded and spoke softly, "I swear. To the both of you." Ron nodded in agreement.

"I'm not ready for this," she said softly. Harry and Ron pulled back.

"I don't think any of us are. Waiting is the worst part," Ron added. It was quiet. Fire-flies were erupting in the grass below them and little bats could be heard fluttering around the trees.

"I love you guys," she said with more voice. "Please don't ever forget that."

"We love you, too," they both said in rocky unison. The both exchanged glances that indicated that they were too proud to say anything, but they meant what they never said.

They stayed up there until the sun rose, leaving a humid fog around their skin, lazy bags under their eyes, and Hermione's especially puffy ones. Goodbyes were curt and dismissive. They wouldn't go through that again. She gave them two short kisses to their cheeks and Apparated out of the Burrow with a stomach that felt like it was ready to heave at any minute.

She popped into her parents' small cottage where she was to get ready to move into her new flat about a mile from WWRC. They spent their day chatting over brown cardboard boxes either being carried or levitated.

The flat was bright and white, with large windows and hardwood floors. It was small, but appropriate. It was in a Muggle village, but Wizards were not uncommon. Her heart was pounding rapidly with tomorrow's excitement.

__________________________________________________

Hermione arrived at WWRC the next day. She was handed a light blue lab cloak to wear as her uniform. She was showed to ropes around the Cognitive Department. Dr. Patel had said that they were a small division. but to Hermione the places was rather large. When she said this, Dr. Patel replied in saying that a lot of the major departments took up acres. She was shocked.

The Cog Dep had a steady array of electrical lights and plenty of electrical objects. By looking around, she could see the thousands of pounds and galleons that were used to supply the lab with Muggle and Wizarding equipment.

There were three small labs that made up the department. One major lab for Dr. Patel's primary project and two others that were shared by the interns and other employers on the minor projects.

She didn't go into the lab right away, though. She'd come into work and be trained as a member of WWRC and specific details of working for Cog Dep. There were certain spells to know, background information that was useful and mandatory for use in the labs. Training was short and she was already working in the lab with the other interns and recruits.

There was an exceedingly old man who wore giant glasses that surrounded nearly the entire half of his face. The little ovals in the bottom proved them to be bifocals. He would push up on the bridge of the glasses or pull them down several times a day. He never talked, just carried a small clipboard with a quill and his ink well.

He was part of the Board of Directors and had many recruit teams. He never experiment, but he covered about ten of the small recruit projects on the floor. He was basically a supervisor, but Hermione couldn't help but think that he was like a Muggle janitor, one of those kinds that know everything, like House Elves and servants.

There were about five other recruits on the team. Hermione was the only new one from the ending school year. The others were between a year and three years older.

She immediately befriended a girl named Becca who was eighteen and had been recruited from being a Ministry secretary six months ago. She was light and bubbly with fierce hazel eyes poking out from jagged raven bangs. Her hair was always pulled into a ponytail and gave her a sense of repetition that comforted Hermione.

She was pulled into work viciously. The recruits were not slackers. They made sure that their goals were finished at the end of the day. They worked furiously everyday, with Saturdays and Sundays as half days, but were still crammed with exhausting but exhilarating worc. She had so much to do, and it excited her. She was busy constantly, reading books on the brain, reading up history. She was in hybrid heaven. Hybrid meaning she mixed both of her worlds Muggle and Magic.

But no matter how busy she had become, she had always made time for Harry and Ron. They hosted dinners every Saturday and Sunday to catch up on their weeks. They did their best to never miss the weekends, for it felt like it was the only keeping them together. They would go in circles as to who treated the dinner. When Harry and Ron hosted, they normally went out to eat. But one Saturday, when it was Hermione's turn to host, she had them come over to her flat.

She was bustling around the kitchen when Ron popped in, unnoticed by Hermione. He scooped her up right as she was frantically diving for a pot of boiling sugar and cinnamon that was quickly bubbling up at rapid speeds. She yelped.

"The sugar! The sugar!" she cried while trying to wiggle out of his grasp. He let go with what might've been a saddened expression. She jerked the sticky substance off of the stove and in an instant, she had tackled Ron in a giant hug.

"Ugh! I've missed you," she exclaimed. "You better have had fun in Australia, or you best not be here." She grinned and a pop echoed her statement. Harry stood in her foyer with what looked like a bottle of alcohol. She smirked at him and enveloped him in another rather large hug.

They exchanged greetings and Hermione finished preparing dinner and set it on her round unpolished oak table.

"Breakfast for dinner?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I thought it was a good idea. Except I kind of scorched the syrup. Hope you don't mind," she said sheepishly. She poured the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc Harry brought over into her nicest wine glasses. She raised her own glass.

"A toast. To new jobs, vacations in Australia, and preparations for what's to come," she said with a grin. She looked down at her plate. "Oh, and good pancakes, rubbery, scrambled eggs and some slightly sweetened bacon."

They glasses clinked together in agreement and began their meal.

"How was Australia, Ron? You've been there for three weeks and we haven't even gotten a story yet," Harry stated after a generous sip from his wine.

"Yeah, Ronald. There were very few letters," Hermione exclaimed.

"I told you 'Mione, it's just work. Nothing exciting. They would've sent Harry too if he wasn't working with the Order on training the rising seventh years throughout this summer."

"So, no stories?" she pouted.

"Not particularly. There was this one odd incident with Vegemite, but fill in the blanks when I said, vomit, humiliation and tar-like substances," he said with a laugh.

"What about you Mione, how's worc?" Harry asked. Hermione grinned.

"It's amazing. I absolutely adore it. Although, I'm always afraid that I'm just going have to get up and leave when the war comes. I feel like I should be training or something." She sighed. Ron and Harry frowned a bit. They've heard this plenty of times. Sure, they wanted her training with them, but she was happy and she had nothing to be worried about.

"You're not doing anything wrong. You'll be well-prepared by the time the war comes. You don't have anything to worry about," Ron said, pushing the last of his pancakes into the homemade syrup.

"What exactly is going on there?" Harry asked.

"Well, it's amazing really. I've only been in the lab for a week, but I'm already finding results in the obliviation charm. That's what we're working on right now. The effects that an obliviation charm has on a person. I've found some really amazing stuff. I still feel like the kid first-year though," she said with a laugh.

"Uh, so what...exactly did you find?" Ron said, a little uncertain.

"It's difficult to explain. We're not sure if what we're finding is a result of decomposition-"

"What?" Harry sputtered.

"Oh, we have to use cadavers for experiments. It's too expensive to pay for volunteers to come in and get tested. So, we use cadavers from local morgues and hospitals. We get a lot of Muggles, so then again, we're not sure if there's a difference," she said.

"You mean people volunteer to be studied?" Ron asked, a bit disgusted.

"Of course. It pays very well even given the risks. People are lazy and daredevils, so they offer the only thing they have: themselves. But we wouldn't be able to pay the volunteers nearly enough money with the budget that the Board of Directors grants us."

"So, I still want to know what you find," Harry said. Hermione was getting giddy with her worc. It had become a passion.

"Well, I can now do obliviation charms perfect wandlessly. I've cast so many obliviation charms that I'm sure that my wand is going to reach its quota for its lifetime," she said with a laugh. "It's against protocol to use wandless magic in the labs. Too many accidents, too much scandal. Your wand must be present at each time," she explained further.

"But what I have found on our cadavers is dilation of the irises. Well, not particularly. I've been working on only sight for the week. I've had to dissect human eyes several times before. But when I look at the cells before and after the spell, I find that afterwards those cells in the eyes expand considerably."

"That's not weird or anything," Ron said, swirling the wine in the bottom of the glass. Both Harry and Hermione laughed.

"How about you, Harry? How's your life?" Ron asked.

"It's alright. Training kids who I am barely a year older than. It's really odd. I can't bring myself to be superior over them. Some of their arm movements are more mastered than my own." He paused slightly. Then, randomly and remorseful, "There was an attack, I trust you guys know?"

Both Hermione and Ron sighed. Hermione was twirling a fork around, the handle between her fingers, and one corner making a small little ole in her table. Ron was still picking at his pancakes.

"Yeah, I heard," Hermione said, speaking up.

"Who didn't?" Ron concurred. "Five Death Eaters dead when attacking Muggle home in Chelsea," he recited the headlines.

"Guns right?" Hermione stated. Harry nodded.

"We arrived about two minutes too late. The husband kept a shotgun under his bed-"

"That's a little extreme," Hermione said.

"Yeah, he's pleading self-defense. And he'll win, as he should," Harry said nodding.

"There were eight Death Eaters that invaded their home around two in the morning. It was a family of seven." Ron frowned here. "The mother, father, sister of the mum's, her eight-year old daughter and the mother's and father's five year old son, fourteen-year old daughter and nineteen-year old returned for the summer from an American university."

"The Death Eaters Apparated into their home, no signs of forced entry or unlocking spells. They went for the sister first," Harry wore a very grim face. He was obviously bothered by the images flashing through his head. "The police had to leave the room in order to not wreck the evidence with vomit. The only was to describe the sister was maimed. They had used awful Muggle methods. There were signs of sexual abuse." Harry looked like her was going to be sick. They had all pushed their plates away but they wanted to truth, so they didn't stop him. Harry took a deep breath.

"The husband heard the noises and took his gun out from under the bed. He woke his wife, not wanting her to be alone, so he says. They go in search of the noise, when the wife was hit with Crucio. The husband said this is when he shot the first Death Eater. His wife's screams made him reflex. The Death Eater was killed instantly, but his wife was still writhing in pain. She would die thirty minutes later of internal bleeding in her abdomen.

"To make the rest of the story less gruesome, the sister, wife, and two girls died. The husband shot five Death Eaters, each one dead instantly. He was in the process of being tortured by the last three Death Eaters when the Order arrived," Harry said sighing. "They didn't want to kill him, they said. The Aurors have a sneaking suspicion that female targets were their way of 'reducing the Muggle population."

"Oh, my God. That's awful.That's...oh, Merlin. Awful," Hermione said, trying to blink away her tears. Ron was shocked into speechlessness.

"Do you think this starts the war?" Hermione asked quietly.

"I don't know. Not many magical people were involved. But I can't imagine that it's going to come much later," Harry said. The both of them nodded, frightened.

"You still promise?" Hermione asked. Both Ron and Harry grinned.

"We swear."

_______________

Hermione was pulled into worc, always fascinated with her discoveries. The recruits worked together, compared their results to the others and made conclusions. They spent a great deal of time together, and being the youngest on the teams, the recruits did fun, young adult things. Like started food fights in the Cog Dep lounge. They swapped stories and laughed like mad. Hermione couldn't ever imagine herself leaving WWRC. It was what she was supposed to do and she knew it.

There were pleasant grounds that surrounded the massive facility. Becca, Hermione and two other friends of theirs Henry and Jacob would find solace from sterilization and gloves under a giant oak tree and swap stories.

Becca turned out to be a sadist but at the same time, sweet and adoring. Her hazel eyes penetrated you with the truth and at the same time, a lie. She went to Wizarding School in Italy on the coast of Capri. She was born in Manchester in England but moved to an English-speaking town in Belgium before attending school in the Mediterranean.

Her parents were archaeologists who traveled the world in search for knew evidence of the past, evidence that may reveal secrets to the Muggles. Becca was always prattling on about how history was not nearly as inconspicuous and careful as the present day. She spoke her parents' philosophy when she meant that the magicians of the world needed to be more careful when it applied to exposing the world of their own.

Henry was a shy character with dark brown eyes hidden behind rimless, rectangular glasses and cropped sandy-blond hair. He was serious and studious, but science was his passion. He had a kind smile and quick wit that always had Becca and Hermione doubling over in his deadpans. He graduated from Cambridge in May with a degree in neuro-science and was home schooled by his mum while his father taught as a professor in quantum physics.

Jacob was the kid of the team. Hermione, in respect, was the youngest, but Jacob enjoyed goofing off and making dark situations or long resultless days better. He had hilarious impersonations and was bold when it came with his elders. He had quite an attitude, but was still easy to work with. He was always in trouble with Dr. Patel, but he was too intelligent to be let off the team. He was tall and lanky with brown eyes that were surrounded by long brown eyelashes that matched his light brown, curly, and unruly hair. He only graduated a year before Hermione at Hogwarts but they didn't meet until they began working together.

Their own team was a comfort to Hermione when she missed Hogwarts or Harry and Ron. Or anyone really. She missed being with the Weasleys and curling up in the window seats of her dorms. She missed the train rides back to school and their late-night extravagant rendezvous.

They laughed a lot and worked hard. The work was maybe tedious, but the excitement of finding something new enticed them from boredom.

Early August, Hermione had moved from exploring the eyes of cadavers, believing that she couldn't proceed unless she knew more about the other four senses. She was dissecting a tongue with careful precision, collected the taste buds, five to a vile to be frozen and tested when Dr. Patel entered the laboratory.

Everyone turned to him expectantly, but when he made his way towards Hermione without any acknowledgement to them, they retreated back to work.

He had a solid white envelope in his hand. The first thing that registered in her mind was my parents. If it weren't, she'd have be expecting a roll of parchment.

She watched him, scalpel still in her hand, as he approached her, then kneeling down by her stainless steel table she was operating on. He looked at her with sympathy. Her heart skipped a beat and she took off her rubber gloves with a snap and removed the goggles from her face. She had a angry, red imprint wrapped around her eyes where the goggles had been for the past few hours.

His lips pursed. Oh, Merlin. Something is wrong. He placed the bright white envelope entitled Hermione on a clean stack of papers that were not covered in dissecting and preservation fluid.

"I want you to pack up your things and get yourself home before you read this." His young face was etched in a cross between pity and disappointment. "Let us know how many days you'll need to take off so your work can be split among your team."

"I'm sure Dr. Patel, whatever it is, that I'll be able to come back tomorrow," she said, standing up. Her heart was beating rapidly with what ever be wrong. She just knew that the blue ink scratched across the otherwise blank envelope was her mother's handwriting.

"Miss Granger, please just do as I say. I don't think that reading this letter next to a half-gutted cadaver would be very appropriate. I would also like to know that my laboratory is not disturbed by personal complications," he said sternly.

"And by me leaving wouldn't be a disruption?" Hermione started.

"Miss Granger, this is a Cognitive Research Centre. We study everyday the effect emotions have on work. We are very aware of what disruption would occur. Now, if you would, please do as I say. I do not expect you back in work tomorrow," he said briskly, although his still black eyes still screamed pity. Hermione sighed and gathered her belongings, eyeing the letter as she sterilized the table. Removing her cloak and pristinely-white Keds, she tucked them away in the closet.

She went to the Apparition port and popped into her foyer of her darkening-room. She quickly opened the flap, discarding it on the floor, the familiar blue and red-striped lined paper staring at her. She unfolded the neatly creased pages as the scent of her mother floated out to meet her along with the short prose.

Dear Hermione,

Your father is in the hospital but we do not know what to do or say. I do not anyway. He does not remember anything. I fear of saying too much.

Your Mother.

Hermione inhaled sharply, her vision becoming unfocused. With a few panicked breaths, she seized the knob of her door trying to push away the horrible visions she was receiving. She dumped her things to the floor, excluding her purse and Apparated as quickly as she could to her parents suburban.

Her pop echoed the room, but there was obviously no one there but her to hear the echo. Even then, she called out for her parents, who were nowhere to be found.

The normally tidy house was a bit in disarray, pushing Hermione into a even deeper panic. Figurines lined the floor, broken and cracked. There were pillows strewn across the floor. Her eyes went in search for her parents' bedroom, but when she noticed the upturned, stool that accompanied her mother's vanity from the hallway, she turned and ran looking for any sign of her parents anywhere.

Then she noticed that the coffee table that normally was ornamented with coffee cups and old newspapers only supported a single sheet of paper, folded just as neatly as her former note, name written in the exact same script, her mother's. In a measurement that kept her from being sick with worry, she snatched up the paper reading the short line.

The Memorial Hospital, Room 504.

Hermione immediately left the house, snatching the keys off of the hook. She didn't bother in getting her license, but her parents taught her when they found out that driving wasn't a normality in the Wizarding world. The drive was a bit nerve-racking for it had been a year since she had to last drive the navy blue SUV that belonged to her father, the black luxury car that belong to her mother, missing.

Although her fingers were wrapped around the steering wheel, not going over 45 mph, she was relieved with the distraction. She found it easier to focus on the glistening gravel before her instead of what could possibly be one of the worst discoveries and occurrences in her life.

She argued with the receptionist at the front of ER until she was forced to let her in without ID or anything. Hermione foregoed the elevator and climbed the steps to the fifth floor, skipping three at a time.

She whipped past 532, 515, 509, and finally 504. She took a deep breath and looked inside the large window to see her mother holding on to her father's hand. She looked towards her father and saw him unscathed. Her worst fear erupted in her stomach like sodium and water. Heart attack.

Her mum looked up from her husband to see Hermione peering into the window. She crossed the room just as Hermione moved to open the door. She had barely closed the oak door behind her when she was embraced fiercely by her soft, plump mother. Hermione felt her mother trembling in her arms, but when she let go of Hermione, she realized that it she who was shaking, not her mother. She was trembling with fear and ignorance.

She looked down into her mother's pristine blue eyes. Hermione over-shot her mum by at least three inches. Her face was blotchy and red. She seemed years older than when Hermione had last seen her. Tears were pooled at the crevices of her eyes and she began to babble.

"He doesn't know who I am," she kept repeating over and over again. Her eyes darted back and forth across Hermione's face in anxiety. Hermione held her mother at arms length and looked at her father. No blood, no bandages. Just the steady beat of his electrical heart monitor, the green line bouncing steadily across the screen. It had to be a heart attack. She looked back to her mother.

"Mum, what happened?" she said in a low whisper. Oh, God please don't tell me he's dying, Mum. Please, lie to me anything, she pleaded with her eyes. Her mother chocked on a sob, and Hermione pulled her to her again, put she pulled away.

"It was...was...them," she stumbled.

"Who? Who's them?" Hermione questioned further.

"I don't know. But you talked about them, the god awful creatures in dark robes. And horrid masks. I thought I was dreaming, but their cackling woke me. It was such an awful sound," she stumbled.

Hermione let go of her mother as the world spun around her. She fell lethargically into the wall, dizziness taking over her as she clutched against the painted concrete. Her back pressed into the cold stone as her knees bent beneath her to support her better. Her mum gently led her to a coral-colored visiting chair where Hermione could catch her breath. She looked at her mum wildly.

"Death Eaters?" she croaked. Her mother nodded vigorously.

"Yes, them. They attacked. We were sleeping when they got there. Their laughing echoing around my dreams until it became too loud. They were in the doorway of our bedroom just sitting there. I screamed as your father reached for the gun in the drawer behind the bed. You remember it, honey? The end table, not the gun. The one you finger-painted on 'accident?'" her mother said reminiscing. Hermione stared at her mum, who was kneeling in front of her on her knees.

"Mother, yes, I remember it. But what happened?" Hermione pushed. The lightness in her eyes of Hermione's five-year old antics being replaced with not tears this time, but fear.

"When, there was light, a lot of light. Then Patrick started to scream and he dropped the gun. I've never heard your father in all of my life, sound like that. The sounds were loud an in unison. Their laughter was madness. But the light disappeared and Patrick stopped screaming. As I reached for him, he was still shaking, I felt- it was horrible. I can't get rid of the feeling. It's like a ghost," she said, placing a hand to her abdomen.

"Oh, God, Mum, are you alright? Does it hurt anywhere? Why aren't you in bed?" Hermione said in a panic. Her mother's aimless rambling was making her uneasy.

"Oh, it was so short. Your father stopped it. Then they seemed to panic. They cast one more spell at your father. They cackled. The sound won't go away. It was the most even sound. Except the way they said that horrid spell. They cackled then left. Just left," she finished. It wasn't until he stared at me with the most vacant expression that I took him to the car. And now, they're telling me that he's suffering amnesia. I can't tell them what happened, because you warned me against it. And they don't know what's wrong."

"He doesn't remember anything?" Hermione gasped out in horror, her body shaking violently. Her mother noticed and embraced Hermione into a large hug.

"Nothing after twenty-five years ago," she said weakly. Hermione felt her lungs contracting, her heart breaking and her mind detaching itself from her. She mimicked her brain and removed herself from her mum's embrace to slowly approach her sleeping father's bedside. She brushed away a long strand of sandy-blond hair with sprinklings of white around the edges from his forehead. She knelt down beside him on her knees and took his big hand in hers.

She outlined the calluses in his hand. The spirals of white, dead skin reminded her of gardening with him. They'd plant a new tree every spring break, the circle they had started when she was five.

The past month of March had completed the ring of vegetation, with each trees smaller than the other. It wound around like a spiral staircase. Her father would tell her that it was a pathway to Heaven, the skies, the clouds, moons and stars. Most importantly the moons and stars.

She blinked away the puddles that rimmed her eyes. Would those memories be lost to him? The thought made her audibly gasp in emotional pain, one cool tear fell from her cheek and onto a light-brown mole.

"Oh, Daddy, please, please wake up," she muttered pitifully. The noise answered her with his eyes fluttering open to reveal her own mirrored brown eyes.

He looked around the room, the color and ceiling assumingly familiar to him, but when he looked down at the pressure of her hand in his, and the tickling of the moisture still sitting precariously on his knuckle. She thought that she saw something flicker in the globes and her heart fluttered with hope.

Hermione waited for him to say her name. Please, Daddy, say my name. Please, oh, please.

He searched her face but every faded freckle, eyelash and crease in her lips brought more confusion in his sleepy eyes. He smiled uncertainly.

"Well, who are you?" he asked kindly, weariness lacing his melodic lilt.

Hermione's posture slackened, and her face stretched in preparation of crying. She felt something inside her break painfully, as if a part of her heart was knocked off by a blunt object. For some reason, she imagined a large mallet used to beat tympanis with the soft fuzz-like material wrapped around the top. Wham, right in to her heart, the sound resonating around her chest cavity.

"Daddy," she whispered. She stared him straight in the eye. "It's me, Dad. Hermione. Your daughter?" her voiced cracked on the last word, the knot in her throat threatening to suffocate her with held back tears.

Be strong.

She squeezed his hand and with both hands, brought his long-fingered hand to her heart, as if the rhythmic beat would remind him of the parental duty of telling their child what a heartbeat is. Her head on his chest with her right ear over the top of his right lung. Giggling and laughing from the sound, Hermione insisted that he listened for her. She wanted to have this amazing sound that her father did.

She heard her mum from behind her, standing in front of the chair Hermione had crumpled into, her arms wrapped around her like she was cold.

"Patrick, dear-"

A frown crossed her father's features in unmasked confusion and distress. He pulled his hand away from Hermione's, uncomfortable about the loving gesture. "I'm sorry. You must be mistaken. I don't have a daughter."

The timpani roared with the clamor of the mallet striking her fiercely. The pain rippled from the crown of her head, the cuticles of her fingers and the calluses on the bottoms of her feet. She began to tremble and when she couldn't take the pressure anymore, she picked her hands up from her lap and covered her face. She slid down to her heels and leaned into the side of the mattress, her hands clutching at the starched, white, cotton sheet that hung neatly off of the side of the hospital bed. She sobbed helplessly, lost memories swirling freely among her own mind.

The smell of latex and corn starch on his hands after work, the way she would trace the white powder from in-between his cuticles. She remembered the trees, each with a name of their own, springing from his imagination. She remembered the way they would banter during the summertime meals. Everything she remembered, that he had no recollection of.

Then the terror of what they must have felt during that night. Guilt sobered her up quickly. She should have been there. It was her duty as a witch to protect them. She pushed herself up with fury.

"Mum, we're taking him to St. Mungo's. Go discharge him," she said briskly. She then went to the bathrooms, for she knew her father wouldn't be susceptible to her disappearing out of the room.

__________________________

"What do you mean there's nothing you can do? There has to be something! My God! This is the Wizarding Society! You can't just say with such ease that you can't do anything to restore his memory!" Hermione screamed at the Medi-Wizard. His hands were tucked in his cloak pockets with a stern disposition.

"I'm sorry, Miss Granger. But your father has suffered an extremely powerful obliviation charm. You of all people should know that there is no undoing an obliviation charm. Or should I direct you to Mr. Lockhart's room?" he said sternly.

"But that was years ago! You are the best doctors in the country! You just can't tell me this rubbish!" she screamed. But she knew he could. She was just angry, and unreasonable. She studied obliviation charms. She knew there wasn't any possible way to restore his memory.

Due to Hermione's incessant pleads to get checked by a Medi-Witch, which turned out to be a good idea. Both her father and mother were attacked with Crucio and her mother had some minor bruising on her abdomen. Seeing her mum staring helplessly into a goblet of pumpkin juice against the white sheets, her chestnut-brown hair smiling past her shoulder-blades into creases of her stomach chased her anger away.

"Dear, you shouldn't get so angry at the man. It's not his fault that your father was hurt," she said. Hermione sighed exasperated, sitting down on the edge of the cot.

"No, I take the blame for that one," she said bitterly. Her mum gave her a harsh look that proved her that her mother did not feel the same way. "I know, it's not his fault, but I don't want to believe there's nothing we can do. Muggles, they knock their head, lose their memory, and it eventually comes back. But with an obliviation, they just tell me there's nothing they can do. How am I supposed to take that?" Hermione asked rhetorically.

Helen Granger stared at her with big, sad eyes. "I really don't know." There was a sad silence that clung to them. It was sad, but comfortable. Hermione had many questions, but didn't really know how to ask them.

"How long did you say the time frame was?" she asked.

"Time frame?" she repeated. "Oh, you mean the memory loss?" Hermione nodded. "Twenty-five years. Almost exactly. The police asked their own questions, then had me ask my own. I started with the most recent, then went backwards. No Hogwarts graduation, no passing of his mother, then his father."

"What about you? Does he remember...uh.." Hermione asked, uncertain whether or not it was a good idea. She shared a smile with Hermione.

"He remembers Helen, the young girl he met as a boy, courted through college years. But he doesn't remember the wedding, the proposal, the new two-bedroom home we decorated ourselves with you in my belly. Not even the practice we opened together," she recollected. Her eyes were dry but Hermione couldn't tell if she was trying to be strong, or all cried out.

For the first time Hermione saw how much this was hurting her mother. This was the man she was in love with. Her college-years sweetheart. And he didn't remember their life together, the child they had together, the ancient memories that weren't supposed to fade for ages from now. Hermione wrapped her arms around her mum and they clutched to each other, sharing enough memories to reincarnate Patrick Granger for them in the room.

With her face buried into her mother's bare shoulder, the smock slipping off of her shoulder, the soft skin touching her cheek like a silent promise.

Then, Hermione vowed to do everything in her power to fix this.