Whom the Gods Would Destroy...

Title: Whom the Gods Would Destroy…
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: MA/NC-17
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Angst, Horror, Mystery
Warnings: Character Death, Graphic Violence, Adult Situations, Dark!fic
Summary: DH-EWE: The end of the world has come. Millions dead, magic waning, Hermione Granger and Charlie Weasley are the last people left in Britain—left to pick up the pieces of their once great civilization. Why were they spared? Who is responsible for the death of a nation? These are the mysteries left as a legacy for two lost and lonely people.
Author's Notes: This is my first attempt at a Charlie/Hermione pairing, so please be gentle. This fic is very much inspired by my morbid obsession with ‘end of the world’ scenarios. There are few OCs in this fic, and I have tried to keep much in ‘canon’ as possible. WGWD is unbeta’d, so pardon the mistakes, please?




Whom the Gods Would Destroy…

Part 6




‘quem deus vult perdere, dementat prius.’ –A Roman proverb





Charlie Summoned ‘Percy’s broom’ when he stood in the Atrium, and Hermione gasped as a Nimbus 2001 zipped through an empty lift shaft, over the top of the grate and into Charlie’s hands.

Charlie knew that Percy kept a broom at the Ministry, hiding it from the girls after they frightened Audrey one day at their house in Islington. Charlie then wondered if Audrey, Molly, and Lucy were at Hogwarts.

He pulled Hermione onto the broom, noticing how she cradled her wrist, but knowing he did not have the time to apologize. Flying out of the Ministry would be a problem. However, a terrible rumble sounded from under the broom as Charlie wrapped his arms about Hermione’s waist, mounting behind her.

“What is…” was all Hermione could say before the rumble turned into a loud whine.

Charlie kicked off the Atrium floor even as it began to shake. He felt Hermione scream as the Ministry began to quake and the floor cracked under them. He shouted for Hermione to hang on, but knew she could not hear him. Charlie moved his hands around Hermione to grasp the broom handle and soon they were flying along the long Atrium, pieces of stone beginning to fall from the roof.

Charlie gritted his teeth, trying to weave and climb, as the Ministry of Magic seemed to tear itself to pieces. There was no way out…

The telephone box that acted as a Visitor’s Entrance was still standing in the Atrium and Charlie groaned as he pulled hard on the broom handle so that they climbed up, up, and into the narrow shaft.

Hermione was clutching the broom as well as they climbed toward a pinpoint of light high above.

“Charlie!” Hermione screamed, and Charlie realized that they would come up into the replacement box.

He would have to blast the box out of the way, but moving his hand to his holster would be difficult. Hermione, however, twisted against him even as they were beginning to slide off the broom, the Sticking Charm only working for a single rider.

Below them, fire was chasing them as the underground Ministry complex began to collapse.

“Reducto!” Hermione screamed, too frightened to incant silently.

The light of the spell blinded Charlie momentarily, Hermione had drawn her own wand from where he had slipped it next to his in chest holster, and suddenly, they were out, a piece of the telephone box hitting Hermione in the head, another hitting Charlie in the right shoulder. Hermione was still conscious, but the gash on her head was bleeding copious amounts of bright red.

Charlie did not stop, however, even as all of Savoy, parts of Covent Garden, Charing Cross, and everything along the Thames collapsed inward. A huge cloud of dust rose from the city as Charlie flew over Trafalgar Square. From above, the crater was filling with water, but Charlie could not tell that the Ministry had been under all the now destroyed Muggle buildings.

He flew around the column of dust and smoke, and came back to Trafalgar Square, which was, despite the haze of dust and smoke, untouched. St. Martin-in-the-Fields was also untouched although it stood on the edge of the carter. It was upon the porch of the church that Charlie landed.

The sky was overcast, but Charlie could tell that they had perhaps two hours before sunset. He dismounted first, and then gathering Hermione into his arms, kicked open the doors of the church to lay her on the nearest pew. Grabbing Percy’s broom, he set it behind the door with the Nimbus 2000 he had taken from Bernie Cadwallader’s.

Charlie began fortifying the doors, which seemed to take only seconds. Then he stumbled to Hermione who was lying on her side, watching him with sleepy eyes.

“Oh no you don’t!” he growled, slapping Hermione’s cheek to keep her awake.

“I know I have a concussion,” she muttered as Charlie helped her sit up.

Charlie lit his wand, realizing that Hermione had her wand still held it tightly in her left hand. He knelt before her with a sigh and examined her wrist. He had broken it, and as soon as he realized this, he began incanting under his breath to heal the tiny bones in Hermione’s wrist. The swelling went down, but the bruising remained.

Distantly, Charlie could hear more bricks and mortar fall into the crater. The terrible wrenching noises continued even as he began healing the gash on Hermione’s scalp, stopping the bleeding and knitting the flesh back together. There was little he could do about the concussion, but at least Hermione was not bleeding.

“Your shoulder is bleeding,” Hermione said, her healed right hand pointing to the tear in his traveling cloak.

It was then Charlie began to feel the pain. Looking as best he could, he could see a shard of glass from the telephone box impaled the back of his shoulder. He moved to pull the glass out, but Hermione moved first.

Wincing, Charlie allowed Hermione to heal him. Hermione dropped the glass to the church floor, adding more blood to the sanctuary.

“Thanks,” he muttered as Hermione sat down in the pew before him.

Hermione stared at Charlie and he felt his face flush. He could not decipher her expression, but it was unnerving. Slowly, she turned her odd amber eyes away.

“The Seal is still in place.”

Her voice echoed in the empty church and as Charlie moved to stand, he wondered how she knew.

Charlie suggested that they find something to eat, and Hermione followed him down into the Crypt café. He could see her hands shaking as she walked and that her legs wobbled. Surprisingly, Charlie was not so rattled. He produced a few cans of food and Charmed the underground room for light. They ate in silence.

He watched Hermione eat slowly, her mind obviously far away from London. Her silence was disconcerting. Hermione had dried blood down the side of her face and the collar of her shirt and vest was strained black. Charlie wanted to suggest that she clean up in the kitchen, but said nothing as he finished a Charm heated can of meat and drank stale tap water.

His thoughts turned to Malfoy’s words. There were survivors at Hogwarts. However, Percy was dead, his father… Charlie felt his chest tighten and he rose and walked into the kitchen. Leaning back against a cold industrial size stove, Charlie let his face fall to his grubby, rough hands.

There were so many certainties and so many unknowns. Questions had plagued him for over two months. Why had this happened to him, to Hermione? Why had they survived? Who was responsible for this hell on earth?

Malfoy’s words about the waning magic then drifted through Charlie’s mind. Charlie was a Pure-blooded wizard, but he could not feel any difference in his magic. Besides feeling tired and traumatized, he felt the same as he had before the Seal was enacted. He had been running on adrenaline for two months and it was beginning to take its toll, on his body, not his magical ability.

The sound of movement made Charlie raise his face just as Hermione entered the kitchen, carrying a lit candle. He watched her move to the sink and turn on the tap, letting the candle rest on the metal draining board. She did not acknowledge him as she began stripping away her clothing, letting it fall to the floor next to her boots.

When he could see her skin, he opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came. Even in the poor light, he could see the bruises on her prominent ribs, on her upper arm where he had pinched her. She peeled away a sweaty brassiere, the white silken fabric stained brown from months of sweat. If she was aware of him, Hermione did not show it. Instead, she leaned toward the sink, cupping her hands under the trickle of tap water.

Letting the water run down her chest, Charlie could see the swell of her breasts. Hermione Granger had large breasts that only seemed too large as the rest of her was starved. The water trickled over her ribs, dripping off erect nipples, and suddenly every thought Charlie had had was gone.

Pushing her long, matted hair over one shoulder, she scrubbed at her face and neck, washing away the blood and soot. As she washed her arms, Charlie’s eyes ran along wiry muscle of her limbs, over half healed bruises and cuts. She was so small in his eyes, so fragile. Her back was perhaps where she truly looked starved. As she began pushing her combat trousers over bony hips, she turned her back to him. The bumps of her spine, the ripples of her ribs, it disturbed Charlie.

Even her legs were too skinny although hard muscle gave the limbs shape. Hermione had bruises on the backs of her thighs, on her knees, along her shins. She stepped out of her boots and then pushed away the last bit of clothing, exposing herself to Charlie’s gaze. Charlie licked his lips, as the dark curls of her pubic hair were visible. Hermione went about her ablutions until the stench of death lessened and Charlie could smell her—feminine, living, and a faint scent of perhaps lavender or freesia.

Hermione began rinsing her hair, and finding a bottle of what Charlie supposed was dish detergent, she washed out more blood and dirt into the square bowl of the sink. In the candlelight, her now clean skin glowed white, even her long hair, as it was cleaned had a caramel sheen to it. Despite the degradation of her body, Hermione Granger was a beautiful woman.

She stood up straight, and turned to Charlie, her eyes dull. She stood among her filthy clothes as water ran from her hair, down her body. She said nothing as she bent down to pull her wand from her belt holster. Even as she walked past him, her damp feet slapping against the tile of the kitchen, she did not seem aware of him. When Hermione was out of sight, Charlie remembered to breathe.

His eyes moved down the front of his dusty jumper to his trousers. Charlie sighed loudly, and moved to the sink as well and began washing.

By the time he walked out of the kitchen in magically cleaned trousers, he carried Hermione’s clothes, also Charmed clean, in a pile in his arms. Hermione was not in the café. Panic pounded through his head, and Charlie began running, barefoot, up the stairs to the church above.

Hermione’s pack was still on the pew where he had deposited her, but the Muggle gun was gone. Charlie dropped her clothes on the pew and drew his wand from the back pocket of his trousers. The sun had set, but the distant wail of earth subsiding at the Ministry was still echoing through the city blocks. Charlie bounded up the narrow stairs of the bell tower, up the ladder to leap to the dusty floor below the bells.

The air was cooler in the bell tower, but not unbearable to Charlie who had left his jumper in the kitchen. Hermione stood just before the vent of the bell tower, her Muggle gun pointed out between the slats. She had Transfigured something to wear as a long white dress, like a night gown. Her hair was still damp, but was straighter, cleaner, and pulled up in a sloppy bun. She bent down to gaze through the scope of the rifle to the Square.

“The Inferi seem agitated, if that is possible,” Hermione muttered, pulling back from the eyepiece to gaze with her own eyes between the slats. “I think the collapse of the Ministry may have rallied every Inferi to the area.”

Charlie managed to control his breathing, and stepped to Hermione’s side, avoiding knocking into the bells. He bent down to look out and southwest to the Square. Just as Hermione had said, there was a considerable number of Inferi—hundreds, and all were facing in the direction of the Ministry.

Hermione moved to slip her rifle strap over her shoulder, but winced as the weight settled. In the near dark, Charlie studied her face and the dark rings around her eyes that were no longer dulled. Charlie pulled Hermione’s rifle away, causing her to open her mouth to protest. Shouldering the rifle, Charlie grasped Hermione’s hand, gently.

He held her hand all the way down into the Church, down into the Crypt café and toward the far end where there was a low dais. From the Muggle equipment, Charlie figured that Muggles had played music in the café at some time. With the candles lit, Charlie could feel Hermione’s eyes upon him as he began Transfiguring tables and tablecloths into a low pallet with mattress and blankets. Summoning the candles, Charlie placed them along the edge of the stage after Hermione had joined him in Transfiguring a few chairs into fluffy pillows.

Charlie held her, mindful that she had slipped her wand under her pillow. He lay on his right side, the shoulder still stiff from the glass, which had impaled the muscle, and with his left arm, pulled Hermione against him. They did not speak, but both were awake. Charlie wondered how long it would be before the shock wore off, or how long it would before the magic that made St. Martin-in-the-Fields safe would wane.

Hermione’s small body moved against him and Charlie found her facing him, her eyes not looking into his face, but his bare chest. Pulling her hands up her body, she curled them under chin and then nuzzled closer to Charlie. Charlie shifted his arm so that it curled about her waist and then leaning his head forward, resting his chin upon the crown of her head.

Together, they shut their eyes, and found comfort in the nearness of one another.




Hermione had never done well on a broom, but she knew that if she were going to get to Hogwarts, she would have to strive to overcome her hesitation of flying. She could not remember the last time she had flown. Was it on an old Shooting Star at Hogwarts, or was it on Harry’s Firebolt as a lark the last birthday he had had at Burrow when she felt she could come? She could not remember.

All the same, Hermione flew next to Charlie on his Nimbus 2000 while he rode Percy’s 2001. It was morning, and still dust and smoke rose from where the Ministry of Magic had collapsed, killing Draco Malfoy, Hermione assumed. They circled it again as they had the day previous, and still the sheer size the crater astounded Hermione.

They flew north, and Hermione knew that Charlie was not flying as fast as he liked to suit her taste and meager talent. Charlie did not say a word as they flew, but stayed close by her. By midday, they flew over the remains of Leicester.

Hermione remembered waking in the dark, the only thing keeping her from panicking was Charlie’s heartbeat under hear ear. Sometime in the night, she and Charlie had shifted so that her head rested just over his heart, her legs nearly straddling his right leg. Hermione felt awkward as she lit the candles and searched for her clothes as Charlie seemed to start snoring at her absence.

As soon as it was light, they started.

Hermione wondered if Charlie would hold her again. Sleeping with Viktor had brought her some measure of comfort, knowing that she was not alone. Sleeping next to Charlie, however, brought about that comfort, and more. She did not dream, she felt safe, safer than before it had all begun.

She glanced out of the corner of her eye to Charlie only to find his face grave. Hermione’s eyes moved to the landscape before them, she saw nothing out of the ordinary. As they flew however, Hermione felt it.

Charlie’s voice rang out, but it was lost on the wind. Hermione frowned as Charlie raised a hand. He was telling her to land, quickly. Hermione tilted the broom handle down, and began descending. They had been flying perhaps five hundred feet above the ground, perhaps higher, and when the front hit, Hermione was only a hundred feet above the ground.

Hermione considered it a ‘front’ like weather. The front was the absence of magic, as if the air was devoid of wind, or water devoid of flavour, ionized, odd. She was falling toward the ground, a field close to Leeds. Charlie was nowhere to be seen, and Hermione found her wand.

The Charm she cast blasted from her wand tip and as if caught by a string, Hermione’s body jerked to a near stop. On the ground below, Charlie was running. She saw him toss his broom to the ground even as her own broom smashed into the field below. When her feet touched grass, Hermione fell to her knees.

“Hermione!” Charlie’s voice rang out, and soon Hermione was in his arms, his hands moving over her to check for injuries.

“I’m fine,” she gasped, feeling as if her body were still falling.

Charlie held her at arm’s length, studying her face.

“Your Charm worked?”

Hermione nodded.

“Don’t do any more magic,” he growled, not angry with her, but simply angry.

Hermione sat for a while in the high grass of some country field. Charlie moved to pick up her useless broom. Every enchantment on the broom was gone, just was all the magic that lay deep in the soil. Hermione closed her eyes, her head beginning to spin.

The pull of magic was moving faster, pulling north and away from them.

She felt sick, as if she had been sitting on a small boat in the middle of the North Sea, tossed, and battered on black waves. The absence of magic made everything change. The air was stale, the sky overcast, and the grass under her rough. With every breath, there was discomfort.

Hermione knew that by casting a spell, she had added a foreign element into the sterile environment, and it had drained her.

“Get up, we have to go,” Charlie growled, grasping Hermione’s arm and lifted her from the ground.

Hermione’s eyes opened to Charlie’s face. It was clear by the way he moved, he too was feeling the strain due to the absence of magic.

He pulled her along, abandoning the brooms. Hermione allowed Charlie to pull her toward the northern wall of the field, but her eyes moved to the sky. With it being overcast, it was hard to tell the time of day. As they passed through a low gap in the wall, Hermione began looking around.

There was no place to hide if Inferi were to find them, but then Hermione wondered if Inferi would be able to function in a place of an obvious lack of magic. They trudged through field after field for hours until they came to a paved road. Hermione figured that they were somewhere north of Nottingham, possibly north of Mansfield. Charlie pulled upon her hand as they jogged down the desolate road. Hermione did not protest as the light began to fail.

When darkness fell complete, along with cold rain, Charlie had dragged Hermione into a barn off a dirt track. There was not a house in sight and as Charlie finally released Hermione’s hand, he slid the door closed. Rain pelted a tin roof high above, and Hermione lit her wand to survey the contents of the barn. Loose hay was stacked almost to the rafters, and near the door were empty stalls, seemingly for horses.

“Put the light out!” Charlie hissed, slapping Hermione’s wand from her hand.

As soon as the spell was cancelled, Hermione felt her world spin. Unwittingly, she had used magic again. Charlie caught her before she fell, tremors taking her. Hermione’s body contorted in something like a fit, and she gagged. Charlie laid her on the hay-strewn ground, rolling her to her side. She did not vomit.

Hermione felt as if the tremors would never stop, but when they did, she stared at a crack of light from under the closed barn door. She felt hollowed out, exhausted. Her hand stung from Charlie’s slap, but she could not fault him his reaction. She allowed Charlie to pick her up in his arms, cradling her against his wide chest. Carrying her into the barn, he set her upon an old crate, sitting next to her.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he mumbled, rocking her against him, feeling her face, brushing back her hair from her face.

Hermione licked her lips and raised a hand to touch Charlie’s arm.

“Enough…” she whispered. “Enough, Charlie…”

Charlie slowly released her, and making sure she was able to sit on her own, rose and crossed the barn to pick up her wand.

Hermione grasped her wand weakly and slipped into her holster. She wanted to speak, but the energy it took to move her tongue and open her jaw was too much. All that mattered was that she could sleep.

Somehow, they would have to move faster, the vacuum of magic was oppressive. Hermione feared, however, that no matter where they went next, the absence of magic would remain.

Hermione tried to smile as Charlie moved about the dark barn, preparing a bed of hay. She tried again to speak as he helped her out of her pack and set the rifle aside. Charlie laid her down on the hay, using his traveling cloak to keep the hay from scratching their faces. The staccato beat of rain continued overhead as Charlie pulled Hermione close.

Hermione slept, not worrying about Inferi or any other darkness or danger. Charlie held her close, pressing an apologetic kiss into her brow.





Charlie felt the air change just outside of Tingley. It seemed as if the wind had returned, and with it, the stench of death. There was magic again, as there was a break in the weather and the sun shone on the earth.

He knew Hermione felt it too, but her condition did not improve much. Since losing the brooms, Hermione had used magic twice, resulting in lethargy and illness. He carried her on his back on and off since the barn north of Mansfield. It had made the travel slower, and what should have been only a day or less had turned into three days with Hermione on his back. Granted, she was light, but the oppressive lack of magic had slowed Charlie as well.

It was a strange sensation, the lack of magic. Charlie could not feel life, could not sense life. It was as if he were walking on the moon, or something comparable. Outside of Tingley, Charlie could feel the change. He could breathe properly; he could feel the substance of his body again. Even under his feet, there was a type of palpable hum. There was life, albeit small, but the earth was alive.

“Can you hear it?” Hermione rasped against his neck.

Hermione hanged to Charlie with weak limbs, her legs wrapped about his waist, her arms draped loosely about his neck.

“Hear what?” Charlie asked as he walked through a wide field toward a motorway ahead in the north.

Hermione shifted on Charlie’s back and Charlie frowned as Hermione’s small hand moved to form a cup behind his right ear. Charlie slowed to a stop, listening.

He heard a distant sparrow’s call; he heard the wind, but nothing else.

“I don’t…” he started.

“Listen deeper, under everything else,” Hermione whispered.

Charlie listened, and listened.

“There’s nothing,” he grumbled and continued walking.

Charlie set Hermione down on the back of a lorry on the M62 as he moved to an automobile and opened the door. The bodies inside had decayed beyond the point of recognition, but Charlie paid little mind to the unmoving dead. Instead, he searched a pocket in the car door and found a road map.

Hermione had lain down in the back of the lorry, using Charlie’s backpack as a pillow. Her eyes were closed and from where Charlie stood, it looked as if someone had punched her in either eye. In fact, as the sun warmed her, she looked as if she were dying. Hermione’s skin was too pale, her face too gaunt.

Charlie knew he had to get her somewhere safe and see to her health. Unfolding the road map on the dusty hood of the car behind the lorry, Charlie’s jade green eyes moved over the wrinkled printed paper. According to the map, if they travelled due east along the motorway, they would come to a junction with the M1. Following the line of the M1 north, they would pass outside of Leeds. If they continued along the M1, they could cross west to the A66 north of Richmond and follow the M6 to Carlise… Charlie’s eyes memorized the route numbers leading north, to Hogwarts.

They would have to find the railway to Hogsmeade, Charlie was not sure if he would be able to locate Hogwarts any other way. Ron and Harry had flown Arthur’s Ford Anglia to Hogwarts from London; surely, Charlie could find the railway.

“We need to go to Leeds.”

Hermione’s ragged voice startled Charlie and he spun around to look at her. Her eyes glowed in the sunlight, a terrible shade of gold that was offset by the dark rings around her eyes.

Charlie swallowed. “We cannot risk going into the city, luv…”

Hermione struggled to sit up, her legs dangling over the edge of the lorry’s bed. In the sunlight, her loose hair fell about her shoulders in luxurious caramel waves. She glowed in the sunlight.

Dying people often had a glow about them, Charlie thought, and then wished he hadn’t.

“It is coming from that way,” she said, her eyes burning into Charlie’s.

Charlie sighed, “What is?”

Hermione was delirious, Charlie believed.

“The music.”

Charlie blinked. Music.

During his darkest hour, finding the Burrow burnt, his family gone, Charlie had heard a chord of music. It had unsettled him, and since then, he had not listened so keenly.

“You are ill, Hermione…” Charlie started, stepping toward her, his hand touching her knees.

“No, Charlie…” she uttered with conviction.

She raised a hand to cup Charlie’s cheek as he looked up into her golden eyes. The touch of her hand was cold, too cold to be healthy.

“We have to go to Leeds.”

Charlie caught her before she fell off the back of the lorry. Her hand had slipped from his cheek and her eyes had shut. Hermione’s head fell against his chest as he hoisted her up in his arms. The wind caught the road map and blew it up into the blue sky as Charlie watched.

And upon the wind, he heard it for the first time since the Orchard—a distinct sound of several chords of music fitting together into a song.





Three days passed, and Hermione was vaguely aware of the passage of time. She was lying in a large bed, staring up at a beamed ceiling. Turning her head to the right, an exposed beam blocked her view of the window. To her left was the back of an open white door.

Hermione could hear Charlie moving beyond the room and smell what seemed to be soup, hot. Sitting up slowly, Hermione’s view of the room improved and she found that she was sitting in what seemed to be Muggle hotel room. There was a flat screen television in a cupboard across the room, tasteful fake sprays of flowers on a coffee table before an expensive leather sofa set to the right side of the room. To the left was another door leading into a luxurious bathroom in white marble. What struck Hermione more than anything was the electric lit lamp by the bedside. It seemed impossible that the light be lit, and it seemed like a dream that electricity still existed.

She rolled onto her side, toward the light, a thin hand reaching for the bulb. The heat she felt was real enough. Hermione sighed and threw the duvet off her body only to shiver as the trapped body heat rose from the bed. When her bare feet hit the floor, she stood. She had her strength. Dressed in a white night dress that Charlie had Transfigured days before, Hermione crossed the room to the lavatory.

It took her a few moments to realize that the switch was working, and she flipped it so the lights over the sink blinked on. After so many years, she had grown accustomed to magical lighting, candles, or lamps that lit upon entering a room. Hermione went about relieving herself quickly, moving to the sink to wash her hands. In the mirror, she winced at her reflection. Her hair was a rat’s nest of tangled waves, dulled by the fluorescent light.

Hermione’s face was still gaunt, her skin ashen, but her eyes were bright. Even the bad lighting could not dampen the brilliance of her eyes.

She was still alive, somehow, and as she moved back into the bedroom, passing the open door, Hermione retrieved her wand and returned to the lavatory. Running the tap to fill the elegant porcelain tub, there was heat to the water. There even bath beads in fancy glass bottles on the edge of the tub.

Luxury, was the only word she could think of as she undressed and sank into the scented, steamy water. Muggle luxury was soothing. Hermione washed her hair, washed her skin, finding that the bruises on her limbs and hips were beginning to fade. She lay back in the tub and let the heat suffuse her body and bones, the ache of so much activity and exhaustion draining away.

Charlie was sitting in the room beyond the bedroom, a combination living area, and kitchenette. Hermione had found clean clothes in the closet, new clothes that still had tags hanging from them. She figured that in the days since coming to Leeds, Charlie had scavenged what he could. Hermione settled for a pair of too large jeans and green blouse that had the price listed as over three hundred pounds. Hermione had smirked before ripping the handwritten tag off. Three hundred pounds was far too much for a blouse that was barely a step up from a tee shirt.

Charlie sat on a leather sofa; a glass coffee table pulled near, but loaded down with pieces of newsprint, Magical and Muggle, as well as hand written notes in a sharp, slanting hand. He seemed to pour over the papers even as the soup on the stove in the kitchenette began to smoke slightly. Hermione moved to the kitchen feeling quite rejuvenated and took care of the soup. The still open can of tomato soup was resting by the stove.

“You look much better,” Charlie commented from the living area, finally looking up to Hermione.

Hermione nodded as she salvaged what she could of the burnt soup, finding two bowls. As she carried the soup, with spoons, into the living area, she saw that Charlie too, looked better. He was not so pale, his body not so taut with anxiety. Dressed in new, clean clothes, he looked out of place in a Muggle room in Muggle clothes. Hermione sat down next to him, passing him the steaming bowl of soup.

Hermione glanced about the white sitting room. “Where are we?”

She knew they must be in Leeds, at the very least, but where in Leeds was the question.

“A hotel in the city centre, it’s quite safe,” Charlie added before spooning soup into his mouth.

Hermione withheld the rest of her questions in lieu of eating. Despite the slight scalding smell, the soup made her mouth water. They ate in silence, but both sets of eyes moved over the clippings and papers on the coffee table. Hermione could see that Charlie had constructed a rough timeline of events, using Muggle newspapers and notices, along with bits of the Prophet to outline why Britain was dead.

It seemed to start with an article from a Cornish newspaper. The village of The Lizard, on the southwestern tip of Britain reported sudden disappearances as early as February 1, 2010. By February 8, the town of Helston and Penzance were under a state of lockdown, the Lizard Peninsula blocked off by the military. Reports were sketchy in the Muggle press, but the Military, said one forgettable spokesman, ‘had everything under control.’

Hermione’s eyes moved to the next article from a newspaper in Exeter, dated February 10, claiming that the Military was moving to exterminate ‘infected livestock’ for fears that a new strain of ‘foot-and-mouth disease.’ However, this explanation did not suffice. Cornwall was ‘quarantined,’ as was the western half of Devon.

By February 18, there was no more news from southwest Britain. The next article was from the Prophet, dated February 15, an editorial consigned to a space buried between notices of sales in Diagon Alley, births and deaths. It was written by someone Hermione knew quite well. Luna Scamander nee Lovegood rarely wrote anything outside of her studies of flora and fauna, along with her husband. However, as Hermione read the editorial, her eyes narrowed.

‘The first sign of an impending change in climate is the noticeable lack of animal life. In the past month, there has been a sudden disappearance of animals from their natural habitats, beginning in the southwest, and in the far north. What can this mean?

Magical or not, animals have simply begun to vanish. What is more shocking is that this winter has been harsher in the north than it has been in many years. Why are animals leaving the safe confines of their burrows, caves, and forests? As a naturalist, I have looked into food shortages, new predators introduced into the environment, anything to explain why creatures such as Thestrals, unicorns, hippogriffs, and some species of dragons, primarily the Hebrides Black, are suddenly gone from their habitats. Non-magical creatures, ‘livestock’ are also missing. This includes sheep, cows, oxen, and goats. Horses and household pets are also disappearing in great numbers. The bird population, however, has remained steady and in its normal parameters.

Recently, I consulted the herds of the Forbidden Forest around Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I was unable to contact the Chieftain Magorian, but I was allowed to speak to his mate, a kindly centaur mare named Morgwena. When I asked about the missing creatures, I was told that the centaurs have foreseen a great cataclysm in the stars. In other words, impending disaster.

Speaking with centaurs is at times akin to speaking in riddles, but what I gathered from Morgwena, the centaurs were retreating further into the forests for safety. It seems that many magical creatures had followed suit, migrating to places they know instinctually to be safe. The Forbidden Forest’s exact acreage is unknown, and it seems that a great deal of creatures, some of which live in the far reaches of the north and south, are moving into the Forest. Why?

We should pay heed to the movements of the creatures we protect and care for in our world. A great change is on the horizon, and by the feeling I got from the Forbidden Forest, it is not a change that will be weathered well by the unprepared.’

Hermione set her bowl down on the carpeted floor under the coffee table and leaned forward, her eyes moving to a handwritten piece of paper reading: ‘February 20, 2010, Seal set?’

“I’ve been figuring in what Malfoy said,” Charlie uttered softly, also setting his bowl on the floor under the coffee table. Hermione jumped at the sound of Charlie’s voice, and then sighed, slipping to kneel between the sofa and the table. “And what we saw in the mirror.”

Hermione nodded. “Regulus Black,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Charlie sighed. “I only know what I have been told by mum and dad…but was there anything…?”

Hermione licked her nearly healed lips. “When we were searching for the horcruxes…” she trailed, her eyes moving to Muggle notice of evacuation from London. It was the last printed piece of paper Charlie had managed to find.

“Regulus Black supposedly died when he was stealing Slytherin’s locket. He was dragged down by Inferi and drowned…” Hermione said distantly, to herself.

Charlie seemed slightly befuddled, and Hermione retold what she had learned, not sure what Charlie actually knew. It seemed that with her words, Charlie’s mind sparked and producing a ballpoint pen from a pocket, he began scribbling on the corner of one of his notes.

“I was told the basics. Did you ever find out where the cave was?”

Hermione shook her head. “All that mattered was that the locket was gone, and Harry had found Regulus’ replacement. Dumbledore Apparated Harry to the cliffs, and took him down during a low tide into the cave entrance. It could be anywhere. Cornwall, maybe. Harry told me that Voldemort knew of the place because of trips the orphanage took to the seaside. I somehow doubt that an orphanage would take children as far from London as Cornwall, but I simply do not know.”

Hermione wondered if the early reports of disappearances perhaps gave a location to the horcrux cave.

“I still cannot figure out what was happening in the north. Of course, we haven’t even crossed into Scotland yet…” Charlie muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. “I can only assume so much…”

Hermione said nothing, but rose, gathering up the empty bowls of soup and walking to the kitchenette. The sheer curtains over the large windows in the sitting room were growing dark, and Hermione frowned.

“Why electricity here and no where else?”

“I don’t know. Parts of Leeds are lit, other parts are not,” Charlie answered, beginning to gather up his clippings and notes to place them in an orderly stack before Conjuring a band to bind them together and shrinking it with his ash wand. “I don’t know anything about Muggle electricity,” he conceded, leaning back into the sofa.

Hermione rinsed out the bowls and wiped her hands on a dishtowel she found lying in a heap next to the sink.

“Generators, maybe, or there is a power source that has not been affected by the loss of the Muggle population to run it…”

Hermione rubbed a hand over her mouth. With the Muggle population gone, who was taking care of things? The power plants, etc? Were they simply switched off or powered down? Would it be another danger she would have keep in her head during the rest of the journey to Hogwarts? Hermione sighed.

She moved from the kitchenette to the telephone near the room door and lifted the receiver. It was dead, like everything else outside. She then moved to the television in the bedroom and switched it on. Static and snow… Then to the alarm clock radio, flipping through channels of either silence or static, Hermione stopped for a moment as a strain of music came through the speakers. It was as if she were listening to music from inside a tin can, the sound so distant and faint.

“Heaven…I’m in heav—“

The radio hissed static again as Charlie appeared in the door. Hermione’s eyes widened.

“Did you hear that?”

Charlie frowned. “Hear what?”

Hermione switched the radio off, sitting on the edge of the bed, her wide eyes moving to the floor.

“Nothing…” she whispered.



TBC...