Rebirth

Chapter One- Interesting Occurrences


Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic was currently at his desk, unhappily sorting through a pile of papers that magically piled up every few minutes. It wasn't that he disliked work of this sort, at times it could be very rewarding, but the work was normally tedious and required every ounce of brainpower he had.

The Auror hadn't asked or wanted to become the Minister of Magic. He was a quiet-loving man, who did not relish the thought of power or the responsibilities that came with a title. When he had figured out that he wanted to be an Auor, Kingsley had only sought to keep the wizarding world as free of injustice and danger as possible.

As described by his closest friends, Kingsley Shacklebolt was a man of simple tastes, a sharp intelligence, a wise soul, an able body, and a kind heart. Though Kingsley hadn't wanted to take up the post of Minister, he would try to fulfill the role. Though he wasn't aware of it, a large majority of the wizarding population felt that he was the best man for the job.

Since the night of Voldemort's downfall, the magical world had been in euphoria. For the first time in many years, their was no fear of Death Eaters bursting into houses at night and ending lives. For the first time in a very long while, they had a reason to sleep safely, and be sure that the next morning would only bring wondrous normalcy.

Though the memory of the deaths were a cause of sorrow, there was understandably more reason for joy. The Dark Lord had been vanquished.

There was still much rebuilding to be done; Hogwarts had extensive trauma to its outer walls and needed quite a bit of refurbishing. Teachers had to be replaced, and so on. Everyone was too busy and relieved to notice that a certain pattern of murders had taken place, in very clear terms.

Someone was out there, seeking to do what Voldemort had failed.

Kingsley picked up the mug at his desk, slurped some of its contents without noticing what it was as he rifled through the papers. Grisly magical pictures showed numerous pictures of people killed in extremely gruesome manners. There was definitely a few connections. For example, what appeared to be the first of these murders had occurred in Little Whinging- the very location where Harry Potter had lived.

The Ministry might not have been involved in the case at all, for it had been in Muggle jurisdiction. But the rather astute Ms. Figg had contacted the Ministry of Magic straightaway about the murder that had happened just within sight of her. Shacklebolt had personally decided to take on the case, although it wasn't necessary. His instincts had told him that there was something very wrong about the entire thing.

When he'd gotten to the crime scene, he had found the kindly old lady looking shaky, her hand clasped on the shoulder of a trembling girl with haunted eyes. "Shacklebolt," Ms. Figg has said, nodding to him.

"What happened, Arabella?" Kingsley questioned, his eyes fixed on the small girl. She was holding a little golden retriever puppy, who was busily licking at the tears trickling down the girl's face.

Troubled, Arabella Figg told him that she had heard a scream from the house next door, which happened to be where Lucie lived. Being friendly with her neighbors, Ms. Figg had hurried out and seen a sight that no one, let alone a child should have witnessed.

"I don't know what should have been done, but I knew I had to call you when I saw this," the old woman said, her hand quivering as she held out a vial. His stomach clenched when he saw that it had the Death Eater insignia enscripted at the top.

Over the next few weeks, it had become apparent that the murderer was consistent, and devastatingly intelligent. He evidently supported Death Eater ideals, if he wasn't one himself, and he picked victims by their blood status, or if they somehow, however distantly, were connected to members of the Order. In two, seventeen people had been killed. They all died in a curious way. The victims' bones were dissolved and their internal organs burst. It was a very painful way to die.

Although Kingsley Shacklebolt had a few Aurors on the case, it had been kept quiet. He didn't want to cause a panic amongst the people, and precious little was known about the person behind these inhuman kills.

Perhaps he should contact the one Death Eater that had walked free. It might have helped him. But the thing that held him back from asking was the fact that Kingsley was not entirely positive that Snape wasn't the one behind the attacks.

*

She honestly didn't think she could stand him sometimes.

Of course, that made Hermione feel guilty and act like a better girlfriend for a while until she blew up at Ron again at his utter IDIOCY. With a sigh, Hermione plunged down into her comfortable couch, her fingers finding the softnesss of her cat Crookshanks' fur. Petting him idly, she thought with annoyance how narrow-minded her long time friend and newly established beau could be.

It wasn't that Ron had his heart in the wrong place, or was a bad person, because none of that could be further from the truth. Ron was a wonderful boy, and could even be quite thoughtful at times. He was also good looking in a perpetually boyish manner, with the Weasley red hair flopping over his forehead, honest blue eyes, and that leanly muscular Quidditch body.

In fact, Ron Weasley was a very good catch in the eyes of witches everywhere. The best friend of Harry Potter, a brave Gryffindor hero, an up and coming Chaser for the Chudley Cannons, which was actually winning for a change, and handsome to boot. He was even more popular than Harry, in some ways, with his more earthy personality. Perfumed envelopes arrived by the sackful for him.

Yes, many girls would probably kill to have Ron as their boyfriend. Hermione had received quite a few death threats, as a matter of fact. No love letters, though. It seemed that wizards didn't care that she was basically a heroine, since she wasn't stunningly beautiful. Men were shallow.

If she were honest to herself, Hermione wasn't really sure what about Ron irked her so much.

Well, there was the fact that he had to have things literally beaten into his mind for it to stick. Ron could be quite hard-headed about studying, and didn't care for it at all, whereas Hermione was an avid bookworm, and really couldn't tolerate slowness.

"Just loosen up, 'Mione," he would say, a charming smile on his face as he dragged her to yet another party or Quidditch match. A light went off in Hermione's head, as she realized Ron always got to choose where they wanted to go, and she mostly didn't enjoy herself.

He never seemed to notice how awkward it was for Hermione to go to these events. It wasn't that she didn't like hanging out, but the truth of it was that she wasn't a social butterfly. She had always been the girl on the sidelines, the brainy one who offered ideas and helped people do their homework. Not that it had been too great being used for her smarts, Hermione thought ruefully. But at least no one had looked down on her.

At the parties Ron went to, the rooms were chock full of slinky young women who were ten times more beautiful than Hermione would ever be. They dressed in glittering, silky dresses and didn't have wildly curly hair. Even though her hair had tamed down a bit, all the witches seemed to be models, with their endlessly long legs and super skinny bodies. Hermone felt awfully dowdy and boring when she walked in, clinging to Ron's arm.

And Hermione had never taken to Quidditch well. She wasn't opposed to others riding, and watching could be often entertaining, but it didn't seem to be the hyped-up event that everyone made it to be. She was more interested in making new spells or learning about different plants and their uses.

Also, Ron's kisses were all right, but his movements were rather awkward, and he never seemed to know what to do. It made Hermione a bit impatient, and sometimes he'd make her all hot, but then leave her unsatisfied.

It all bored her, and that was frightening. Ron seemed perfectly content with what they had, and always told her how much he loved her. He had such an earnest look on his face, and hope in his eyes, that Hermione couldn't help but whisper back, "I love you too," feeling like an awful fraud.

Perhaps she wasn't meant to be a girlfriend. Maybe she really was going to end up a spinster, withered and gray and never having had felt love. She already had the cat.

Hermione was roused from her depressing thoughts when she heard an insistent tapping at the window of her cottage.

*

"George," Molly Weasley cajoled from the other side of the splintery wooden door, "open up, dear. It isn't healthy for you to stay in the room all day." Silence. The red haired woman sighed heavily, turning aside with a hopeless expression on her tired face. She knew Fred's death was difficult for George more than anyone, even herself, but it was so hard to watch her once animated son turning into a zombie.

And George Weasley really felt that he was dead. No one could understand the loss of his twin brother. It was as if he himself had died. Fred hadn't been just the other part of him; they had been a single unit, and George didn't know where to turn or what to do now that he was gone.

From the day they had been born, the two had been together- inseparable. Fred had always been a mere arm's length away. It was unthinkable that he was gone... forever.

The tall, red-haired man buried his head into the pillow, his face scrunched up with pain. There was nothing left to do, nothing left to live for. The laughter had gone with his other half. Suddenly, George got up, a frightening look in his eyes.

He murmured, "I'm coming, Fred."

With a resounding crack, George Weasley was gone.


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