“HARRY! RON!“
Hermione screamed helplessly as she was forced to watch her two best friends in the entire world twist in agony.
“CRUCIO!” screamed a distant voice and their writhing bodies suddenly stopped convulsing. Their paintwisted faces quickly turned into ghastly masks of horror as the floating hooded figure drew closer. In absurd unison they began screaming, “PLEASE! NOT MY CHILDREN!” as they were forced to relive the executions of their families.
As the hooded figure again drew back, Hermione saw something new in Harry’s eyes. Hatred. But not against the hooded figure, not even against their captors.
“IT’S YOUR FAULT!” Harry shrieked.
“SHUT IT!” Ron snapped, in an attempt to defend her.
Sweet, loving, loyal Ron. How she loved him even now. Especially now after all they had been through. But she could see that same light, that shone so brightly in Harry’s eyes, growing in his eyes as well. She knew it was already happening, he would hate her too. It would not take long and once it did, she would suffer the same faith as her friends.
The thought was enough to bring her to the brink of insanity. Their captors must have noticed the change in her because a pill was immediately pushed down her throat. Excruciating crystal clarity forced itself into her brain at once. Insanity would be too mild a punishment after all.
Hermione opened her milky white eyelids and forced herself away from these memories. How long had she been tormented by the events surrounding that day? How many times had her mind looped on those most terrible moments of her living life? The feeling which had once been a burning fire of hatred raging in her chest and spreading throughout her body was now only a frozen feeling, cold as ice.
This was all that she could feel now. A lone lingering sensation of not having put on enough clothes on a cold winter morning. She could no longer feel hunger, nor thirst. Hell, at this point she even missed the feeling of pain. But now all that remained was the cold and so it would until and past the end of times.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Get it together now Hermione,” she thought to herself. “This is no time to feel sorry for yourself. You are the girl who saved the boy who lived dozens of times after all. I need to find her.” Hermione was in the British Library in London. The building stood here, all these centuries later, containing the entirety of knowledge known to humanity. Even her, with her uncounted decades of time, had only been able to read a mere fraction of all that could be found here. Somehow, she found that thought comforting and it eased the coldness somewhat. No matter the age, Hermione Granger would always find solace in the company of books. It seemed fitting, she supposed.
Ghosts were of course unable to interact with materia, but the regime had declared, in its early years, that ghosts were to have access, in whatever form possible, to all things available to the rest of humanity. An old aging librarian could be seen behind his desk. It was rare to witness a human outside of the World Of Worlds after all. This World Of Worlds was the successor to the early internet and most humans stayed plugged into it most, if not all, of the time. Hermione had of course no need for the librarian for the simple task of reading. It had not taken long for muggles to develop devices that could differentiate light diffracted through ghosts, and with the help of these devices they were able to create a type of touch device, only accessible to ghosts. It was one such device that Hermione found herself using to flip through a digital record of the publicly available genomic database of the citizens of Old England. As any self respecting academic would do, Hermione had gotten her entire genome sequenced and stored when the technology became publicly available all the way back in the early 2030s.
“I never thought I would use it for this though”, she said to herself and smiled. By using her own mitochondrial DNA, which is passed down unchanged from the mother only changing when mutating, and matching it to the ones found in the genomic database she was able to trace her lineage through the maternal line of descendants. "Please, let a direct descendant still exist,” she thought to herself.
Her and Ron’s children may have been executed by the regime but their grandchildren had “mercifully” been spared. Harry had not been so lucky. No, the “chosen one” had to be made into a proper example. So the Potter bloodline ended with Harry on that fateful day.
A sudden ping, brought her back from her thoughts, indicating that the search had been completed. “Thank the scientific method,” she sighed to herself. “A few still exist and one is even located here in London.”