Their screams were muffled by makeshift gags as they were dragged from their home in the dead of night, muscles burning from the exertion of struggling against their captors and fear dulling most of their thoughts. It reminded them of the war, the fighting, struggle, pain and fear they thought they'd left behind when it had ended. They thought they were safe now, that nothing could touch them. But they were entirely too wrong.

This fear, however, was worse than any he'd ever experienced before. It was all consuming; all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, the muffled sobs of anger and fear from her, and the heavy boots of those who dragged them down the street. All he could feel was sheer terror. This was different from entering a battlefield already strewn with bodies. There, at least, you could see your opponent. You knew there was a possibility that you could die. Knew of the possibility that, when you went home, your loved one wouldn't return with you --- if you were lucky enough to see your house standing at all.

Now, he couldn't see his opponents. They were carefully cloaked and masked, and all his war instincts slowly left him after he was lulled into the false security that had been life after it. It had made him slow, and it had made him fail her.

If he thought it impossible to be more afraid, he already changed his mind. The fact that he was no longer being dragged and no longer hearing those boots walking - in fact, not hearing anything at all -- was terrifying. The silence, which in his peaceful life had reminded him of safety, was eerie. Now it only reminded him that he was probably miles away from any decent civilization, and that even if they weren't gagged, no one would hear them if they yelled.

Suddenly, the gags were ripped sharply from their mouths, and a cold voice hit their ears. "String them up." What on earth did that mean? String what up? And where? From the faint glow of his captors’ wands, he could make out where they were. They were in the center of Diagon Alley, on the night before the start of term for most schools, standing beneath the tall memorial of all those who had given their life in the war against the Dark Lord. He felt her shudder beside him, and he moved closer to her, trying to touch her and offer her any false sense of security that he could, but they yanked her from him.

His fear turned into something he could control: anger. "Who are you?! What do you want?! Unhand her!" Any curses he could throw at them were uttered between demands for answers in all three languages he knew. One of his captors silently jerked his head towards the monument, something he'd unfortunately ignored. He began fighting with vigor, for hanging from it was his bride to be.

She was looking steely and resolved, but her gaze became loving when she looked down at him. Guilt and sorrow were pushing at him now and building a tension behind his eyes; anger and bloodlust weren't far behind, both leading into a crescendo of emotions all begging to burst forth. He was screaming her name, calling for her, and she was reaching for him. His yells, however, were unheard by all those beyond the circle of captors and prisoners due to a complicated silencing charm. The rope was forced down over her head, and her eyes still locked to his even as a blade, glinting with moonlight, came out to trace her jaw.

"Such pretty eyes...Don't mind, do you? After all...you won't need them..." And then her screams came, raw anguish, unlike anything he'd ever heard before, and he could only watch in horror as the act was completed before she was shoved from the monument, her delicate neck snapping. When the noose was shoved down over his head, he no longer resisted, resolving to only glare hatefully at all of them. "You'll pay for this." He muttered as his rope was tied, not asking for a damn thing. He didn't pray for it to be quick, and he didn't pray for a burial. For, if there was really anyone out there to hear him, they were either enjoying this or had been ignoring him for far too long to start paying attention now that his life was coming to an abrupt close.

As he was shoved off to hang beside her, he realized immediately that something had gone wrong. His neck hadn't snapped as it should have. His body's instinct for survival had him wriggling, all the while staring at her, taking in his fill of her: perfect head bowed, the steady drip of her blood as droplets hit the pavement bellow. As black spots started to appear at the edge of his vision, he sent her a silent apology, and he was almost unconscious when the blade laced with her blood pierced his own skin.

---

The next morning was bright and far too cheery for the occasion. The sun sat high, proudly letting its light shine without clouds to cover it, despite the fall weather. A light breeze was stirring, and in Diagon Alley, right at the center there was an uproar. Tears, screams, and anger surrounded those gathered in the square, for not only had their precious testament to the memories of those who'd they'd loved and lost been vandalized with what they later realized was blood, there hanging from it was one of the most surprising couples to spring up in the Wizarding World.

Bodies fresh, murdered brutally and hanged for all to see as a warning. The war might have been over by definition of the death of the Dark Lord, but the Death Eaters weren't going anywhere. The word "TRAITOR" glared underneath the feet of Draco Malfoy and Ginevra Weasley. Him missing his heart, the part of him he shouldn’t have discovered, and she, missing her eyes, her face no longer possessing a laughing smile.

---

A/N: This was based off the movie, "The Crow" and the more recent "sequal" of sets that came out in 2004. The rest of the story is going to pull elements from both movies, and a lot of stuff I'm just going to take creative privilage with, and explain as I please. Big thanks to Faith for BETA-ing this for me ^^

Let me know what you think.

A/N: Hopefully the chapters will be getting longer as I write them. Thanks again to Faith for BETA-ing this, and otherwise, happy reading. ^^

---

Fall-coloured leaves crunched loudly under the trainers of one Hermione Granger-Weasley as she walked through the silent cemetery, silently searching for the Weasley plot. It was September 1st and the first year anniversary of the passing of her only real female confidant and her fiancé. She'd opted to come alone, afraid that she wouldn't be able to maintain her composure if she had to see the open grief that was still fresh in everyone else’s faces.

When she managed to find the tombstone, she simply knelt in front of it and stared at it for a moment before she placed a bouquet of roses onto the mound of earth she was kneeling on. After a moment's hesitation, she pulled out one of the flowers and laid it on the grave next to Ginevra's.

They'd been buried side by side, because Hermione had been sure that's what they'd wanted. It was in both of their wills drafted by the war, and since neither of them had updated it since, it was what was carried out. Molly and Arthur had refused to bury their daughter in the Malfoy's plot, and since Draco and Ginny hadn't decided to buy their own, they were rested with the other Weasleys. She was sure that if Draco was alive, he'd probably have died from the disgrace of a poor Weasley burying him under a modest headstone.

She rested her elbows on her knees and placed her fingers together under her chin, looking at both graves, as if she were trying to look through them, it was at times like this that she would allow herself to remember. She made sure she was too busy working to do so during other times.

No one had been sure exactly how the relationship between Ginny and Draco had started. The one story Hermione personally believed was that it had been a result of the war. Something about fighting together, about knowing that the other was always watching your back, even when they had an entirely different target, was probably what drew them together. Draco hadn't made it known publicly which side he had chosen, and for a long time, most assumed he hadn't. He had the mark but he answered to it not at every bidding, but only when the fancy struck him. It looked like he was playing both sides or playing neither at all, waiting for the weight to tip in one direction before he swore a loyalty.

After Lucius Malfoy's death, Draco was finally free to live life the way he wanted it. If Draco was unsure as to how that was, no one could tell. Hermione supposed that what had finally gotten him on their side had been Ginny. They'd never shared a mission, but when forced onto the same battlefield, they watched each other's backs as if they'd been assigned to do so. Whatever she personally thought of Draco Malfoy, Hermione couldn't deny that he was a much appreciated ally, and because of the insight he had into the Dark Arts due to his lifestyle, he turned quite a few battles in their favour.

Whether or not people suspected there was more to Ginny and Draco then what they'd shown in battle, all were surprised when the couple had finally announced their relationship and quickly got engaged. When your friends and loved ones dropped like flies around you everyday, you learned not to put any scrap of happiness you could have on hold. Just in case you never made it.

She was startled out of her remembrance by the appearance of a crow that had settled on Draco Malfoy's headstone. She didn't mind the company of something that was still alive to unsettle the silence, even if it was a bird. She fingered one of the white roses on the grave silently while going back to her musings. Ginny loved roses, but never the red ones. She could still remember fondly the one time Draco had made that mistake. Ginny had told him that red roses reminded her of death and mourning because they were the flowers used in almost every funeral she'd ever attended. And in their short lives, they'd all attended a lot. He'd simply quirked his brow in the way that suggested he thought her insane and didn't comment on it. One would have thought he hadn't really been listening if not for the fact that he'd never bought her another red rose again.

Hermione would have loved to have said that Ginny had made Draco a better person, had changed him, but then she'd be lying. He was still the cold, calculating bastard of a man he had always been. Nearly unnatural grace had still accompanied his every movement. She was sure he'd never done anything for anybody other than himself before the war, and only then had he ever looked out for someone else. No, he hadn't really changed. Whatever Ginny had seen in him had been lost to anyone else, even now. Her only consolation was that if he had a chance to escape his captors he'd never taken it. Ginny hadn't died alone, and she hoped she wasn't alone now.

Being the scholar that she was, she refuted most religions, especially now that she was a witch. And with everything that she'd seen, she couldn't imagine a better place after this life. There couldn't be, not with the way two innocent people had died - two people who had saved countless others. She furiously blinked back her tears and stood slowly, working out the kink in her leg that had formed from kneeling for so long.

The ruffle of the crow's wings had startled her momentarily. She gave it a slight smile. "Going to keep them company while I'm gone? I imagine they're lonely." The bird tilted its head and ruffled its wings again, letting out a loud caw almost as if responding to her question. She shook her head sharply. She was talking to a bird now? Ron was probably right: she was barking mad. She eyed the graves again for a moment before turning and walking out of the cemetery. She didn't notice the crow leave shortly after she did.

---

After two of the most prominent players in the war had been found in Diagon Alley, life had started again without a hitch. There weren't any more warning messages, there weren't any more unnatural deaths. Babies were born, and people got married. People went about their businesses without fear. It seemed like the attack had been a one-time thing, and the younger children who had witnessed it had pretty much forgotten. The memorial had become a place of quiet reminder and tribute once again.

The only people who still seemed very affected by it were the Weasleys. They'd lost people in the war like everyone else. Percy had been killed on a raid of the Ministry, Fred's Hogwarts sweetheart and wife Angelina had gone missing in action and a body had never been found. It was doubtful she was still alive. Bill had scars marring his once handsome face, and some argued it helped his bad boy look even more. Fleur had lost her sister Gabrielle and had named her first daughter with Bill after her.

Charlie Weasley walked with a constant limp. It was a slight one on good days, but besides the ailment he suffered very little. Other friends had fallen in combat or simply disappeared. Some hadn't been able to take the strain of war and went around the bend, admitted to Saint Mungo's and never coming out. Despite all that, one of the biggest blows had been to see Ginny hanging from the monument in Diagon Alley so brutally murdered.

Even now, a year later, the grief was still raw. After Hermione and Ron had married they'd moved into the Burrow to help out and keep Molly as distracted as they could while her grief was still new. Harry had become an Auror and had tried to find the people responsible for the murders, but there had never been any evidence to find. They weren't even entirely sure what Death Eaters had been left alive after the war, never mind how to find them. It was one of the many unsolved cases that probably would never find an end.

But for an entire year they'd been left to grieve, to start again, and to get comfortable, to think it was now really and truly over. It was then that another attack started. Pretty Hannah Abbott, a kind former Hufflepuff and wife to Neville, had been buried under the rubble of their home while Neville was at work -- he’d taken over teaching Herbology for Professor Sprout.

Hermione had heard as soon as she walked into the Burrow. She'd walked in to find ashen faces, a distraught Neville which normally wouldn't have surprised her. He'd grown into his own and shown he was capable of bravery during the war, but afterwards, he was unsettled by anything that didn't fit properly in the normal way of things. When most of your friends were dead, you held onto those you still had tightly, and so it also hadn't been unusual to see Neville standing in the living room of her home.

What had startled her had been what he'd told her. "Traitor" graced the front of his lawn that hadn't been covered by the remnants of his home, just like the murders the year before. Her mind was already whirring with possibilities even if the rest of her felt the cold effects of shock.

---

Somewhere on the other side of London, a pair of stormy grey eyes snapped open.

It was dark, that much he could tell -- and it was suffocating. The walls were too close, the roof too low, almost as if the place he was in was made specifically for his body type. Perfectly manicured nails scrabbled against the silk lining beneath his fingers. He swore under his breath and punched his way through the wood, not even taking the time to be surprised at the strength that he shouldn't have. He was cursing the dirt that rained down on him and cursed it even more for sliding under his finger nails as he dug his way upwards…or was he going down? He couldn't tell. He was going somewhere though. He wasn't staying in that wooden confine a second longer. He felt a tugging deep down into his soul that was forcing him to dig and climb, not allowing him to rest. And really, who was he to deny the pull?

Finally feeling his hand breaking some kind of surface, he pulled himself the rest of the way up and out onto the ground. He took a moment to lie completely flat on his back, staring up at the dark studded sky. Who was he? Where was he? Why was he? He wasn't sure. Slowly, almost as if he wasn't used to sitting up, he looked around him, taking in his surroundings. It was dark out, much too dark for his taste. It was almost like where he'd been. And then he looked for it, and his eyes bugged out in righteous indignation. Who had dared to bury him?! And bury him ALIVE?! He knew he was a jerk sometimes, but this totally took the cake!

A few minutes went by as he stared unblinkingly into his grave before it occurred to him to look up at his grave stone. Draco Malfoy. That's what it said. And then it all came rushing back. The screams, the blood, the choking feeling. Ginny. He felt sick and raw anguish. He was dead! He knew he'd died! He looked at the grave beside him, unable to hold back the relief that someone had listened to their wills and buried them beside each other. Her grave was undisturbed, which made him feel worse. And then...He felt the anger and bloodlust that he'd felt watching them kill her. He would make those who had done this pay, and then he would worry about the hows and whys. He stood up slowly, brushing his fingertips across her name on the headstone as he left. The crow that he'd just noticed sitting silently on his headstone flew up in a flurry of wings and settled on his shoulder for a moment before taking flight and leaving him to himself.

He hadn't been irritated and he wasn't sure why. He'd always hated it when the owls had landed on his shoulders instead of perching on his arm as they should’ve. When they flew away they'd always managed to smack him in the head. He felt some connection to the silly bird and he somehow knew he'd see it again soon. Might as well get used to it now. Nothing made sense anymore, why not be connected to a bird? But first things first. He needed new clothes, not the dirty excuse of a suit he was wearing, and then he needed answers. And he thought he knew just exactly where to get them.

---

Hermione set a cup of tea silently in front of Neville, who was hunched over his end of the table and didn't even flinch when she'd set it down. He hated sudden movements, and the fact that he was not jumpy concerned her. He'd calmed down much after the initial explaining of the situation again to her, so she hadn't put a calming draught into his tea, but for a moment she almost wanted him to be raving and frantic again. This wasn't normal, and while she wasn't overly paranoid like Neville, she did like things to be the way they were supposed to be. A lot had changed over the war and she'd had to make new routines that were far too different from the old ones, but they were routines. She preferred not to have to change them again.

She moved back to the counter so she could regard him silently, her lower back pressing into the edge of the kitchen counter. If she strained her ear in this silence she could just make out the sounds of Molly and Arthur whispering in the living room, debating on who they should contact, if anyone. And she knew that they were discussing the murder of their daughter. It was sitting in the back of her mind as well. Were they really connected murders? Or was there just a copy cat out there somewhere? And if not, why wait so long for another attack? What was so special about this day that now three people had died on it?

There weren't any answers and she felt frustration. It was familiar, it was the feeling she'd had in the war. Hermione prided herself on intelligence and book learning and disliked it when she couldn't learn it in a book. She couldn't look these answers up, and even if she looked up Muggle Psychiatry there were never exact answers of why. Would there ever be? She was roused out of her thoughts by two distinct pops as Ron and Harry apparated into the kitchen, Harry looking dishevelled and tired. Both men looked older then they were at that moment and she felt worry digging itself into the back of her brain, another familiar thing. She pounced on it and ushered them into seats with Neville and hurried to get them tea before returning to her position against the counter to watch them all, crossing her arms under her chest and waiting for someone to be the first to speak.

It was Harry. He took a sip of his tea out of force of habit, knowing Hermione would hound him otherwise. "It's lovely Herm, thank you." She simply nodded and he turned to regard Neville who looked up at him expressionlessly. "Th...We managed to clear the rubble alright. She was left intact and there weren't any signs of torture." They could all see him struggle to say this as professionally as he could and not let his personal feelings get in the way. His expressive green eyes were slightly shiny and held so much sorrow. They'd all gotten to know Hannah well when she'd started her romance with Neville, she was a sweet woman. It was hard not to feel sad over her death. Harry continued.

"It appears that...they just blasted down the house when she was in it...and let that do the job." He rushed to assure Neville when he saw the look in his friend's eyes. "It was instant, I promise you. She didn't feel pain." Or much anyway...He mentally tacked on grimly. He would assume a piece of plaster landing on your head would hurt as it knocked you out, but after that the house had collapsed down on her unconscious form and therefore couldn't have caused her more pain. For that he was thankful.

Neville nodded and then looked at the three faces in the kitchen with him. He felt only a slight sense of relief that it had been a brief and painless death, and nothing like the way that Ginny and Draco had died. He'd take the small mercy as he could and licked his lips nervously, light brown eyes darting in between the three companions. "Will...will you help me plan the funeral..?" His voice sounded dead to his own ears but he did notice the pleading note within it. He couldn't do this by himself. Merlin, he'd loved Hannah.

"Of course." Hermione jumped in quickly, a little guilty to feel such relief at being able to set her over active brain to a draining task. She was good at organizing, and she'd take anything that would allow her to help. "Don't worry about anything." She said firmly. "I'll do it all." He didn't argue and she instinctively knew he was grateful and wasn't put off by his lack of response. She turned her attention to Harry, mind working on voicing the questions she'd been thinking earlier.

"Is it the same group who killed..." After all this time she still couldn't say it. It was hard enough to even think it. "Or is it some form of a copy cat?" She watched Harry rub at his forehead in a stressed gesture as she moved to sit with them at the kitchen table.

"That's just it Hermione. We don't know. It's the same type of thing. The same words, only not in any human blood that we can tell…perhaps cow's blood as far as I can tell, but there's no evidence to indicate anything! No bloody trail! Nobody should be that clean and efficient!" His voice had risen as his frustration grew, and then he slumped his shoulders down in silent defeat. Ron put his hand on his best friend's shoulder and shook his head lightly. "It's not your fault mate. That's the trouble with magic you know, can just charm away anything you'd like. And then, after a few hours, magical residue disappears so you'd never know what had been cleaned to reverse it." A pause. "Besides, if it's Death Eaters like we assumed last time, they've been killing for ages. They know how to not get caught."

Harry nodded mutely and looked between his two best friends and Neville. They would help this investigation as much as they could, he knew that. He would share everything with them, they wouldn't tell, and he knew they deserved to know. He felt relief for being able to share a case with them, most often he wouldn't tell them more then the law would allow, but this was different. This was family. They'd do this together, and hopefully this time, there would be something, anything to find.

---

Muddied shoes stepped up cement stairs lightly but quickly, as if the person was far too impatient to get to the top. Upon reaching it, there was a momentary pause as he looked over his shoulder, and then the door received a solid kick and sprung open immediately. The man slipped inside and closed it soundly behind him. Pale eyes scanned the darkened surroundings.

Everything was left exactly as he remembered it. It was just a lot dustier, and obviously unused since he'd lived there. He supposed then that her living relatives had been to heartbroken to go through her things here, and maybe felt that they didn't have the right to go through his. In a way, he was pleased it was all untouched. It made everything so much easier for him. He didn't even feel a moment of guilt as he tracked mud all across the Persian carpet as he headed to the bathroom. He needed a shower, desperately. He was dirty, and it was gross, and he was pretty sure that if no one had touched anything in the flat, he was pretty sure his bathroom had been left alone as well.

---

He'd been right. Satisfied, dressed well, and clean. Now to make a special little visit for all the information that he needed. What he would pay to be able to watch that little scenario, over and over again. And with that thought, he left the flat in a hurry, not thrilled, but not surprised to see the crow sitting a few roof tops down, and taking flight after him. It proved to be pretty useful. He felt tugs deep down again, like he had when he'd been climbing out of the grave. The feeling seemed to lead him to where he wanted to go. It certainly made finding this place short work.

A/N: Bah! Sorry for the lateness of this chapter, I'll try to get the next one up sooner. School work is terrible. : And sorry for the bad quality of my rushing to get this finished. Thanks again to Faith for editing this for me. ^^ Enjoy!