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 7




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





Charlie knew nothing about Muggle transportation. He knew of trains, of course, he had ridden trains since Hogwarts, but when it came to automobiles or motorbikes, he was lost. His father has been the one obsessed with Muggle cars, and Hagrid cared a great deal for Sirius Black’s enchanted motorcycle, but Charlie could only stare at the motorbike, no, motorcycle, Hermione had found. They had spent three more days in the hotel in Leeds, talking little. Hermione seemed to regain a bit of healthy weight, and she no longer had dark circles under her golden eyes. In fact, she filled out her scavenged leather riding gear a little too much. Charlie could not look at the black leather trousers that covered her curves for too long.

“Ducati three-nine,” Hermione had said, opening the gas tank as they stood in a sunlight car park an hour’s walk from the hotel, she had found the keys in a valet office. “Six speed transmission, very fast,” she said to Charlie. “Much better than a broom,” she added with a smile.

“Oh?” he had asked.

“It stays on the ground, if you use it right,” she said with a grin.

Charlie remembered sighing. They had found two helmets, and had all their gear shrunken into a pack on Charlie’s back. Apparently, he was to ride on the back of the silver bike when they refueled the beast.

They were going to leave Leeds the next day, heading north along the M1. Before that however, Hermione was adamant that they find whatever they could to salvage and take with them.

Charlie could not understand Hermione’s sudden burst of drive. For days, she was nearly comatose, having expended a great deal of magic, or, having it drained from her after casting north of Mansfield. Charlie had worried that she would never recover.

Hermione had sat down on the bike, feeling the grip handles, settling into the seat. Charlie had watched, disinterested, but listened to the lack of noise in the rest of the city.

By sunset, they were atop the tallest building in Leeds, Bridgewater Place. Hermione had hidden the bike in the looted lobby of the building, snickering about something she had read when the building was completed. “The Dalek,” she sniggered. Charlie, again, did not understand, and did not bother to ask.

There was no electricity in Bridgewater Place, and when Charlie stepped onto the roof behind Hermione, he wished there had been. Thirty-two stories, perhaps was not many, but walking up a stairwell, Charlie could not keep thinking about trudging up to Divination Class, times seven.

The wind whipped Hermione’s hair about her face, but she walked along the pebbled roof toward the rounded northern edge, her leather jacket zipped up to her chin, her rifle strapped across her back. Charlie knelt with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. However, as Hermione’s boots hit against the metal-sided ledge, Charlie stood straight, eyes wide. Hermione stood with arms wide, the sun having set to her left, her face pointed to the north.

She stepped back from the edge, finally, and Charlie could breathe again.

Since waking, despite looking and seeming to feel much better, Hermione’s behaviour troubled Charlie. Something had happened the night she awoke, but Charlie did not know what.

“Set up here for the night?” she said, having moved to his side, her eyes on his pack. The wind rose and fell, and Charlie had only managed to pick out the first part of her words.

Charlie shrugged out of the pack on his back, the wind seeping under the long black waterproof trench coat he had found, making the tails flap about his legs, the shoulders lift slightly. Hermione helped to pull out a few cans of food, Charmed to be light, and then the shrunken sleeping bags.

Hermione paused in resizing her sleeping bag with her wand, her head lifting.

When Hermione rose again, slipping her wand into her sleeve, Charlie huffed in frustration. He had not planned to sleep on a rooftop that was possibly not secure. The hotel had been a lark, an oddity. He was not sure why the Inferi did not seem interested in the building, but it was the safest place he found in such a large city. Now, atop Bridgewater Place, Charlie knew he should at least feel comforted on being outside. However, the screeches of the Inferi far below created a horrid hum around him.

Hermione moved to the northeast edge of the building, the sun set, the air growing cold. Charlie sighed and went to begin securing the roof access door lest there were Inferi in the building under their feet. Glancing out of the corner of his eyes, Charlie saw that Hermione had raised her hands to her ears. Perhaps the haunting sound of the Inferi in the streets had caught her attention, but as he walked back to the pack and began unrolling the resized sleeping bags, he realized Hermione was not listening to the sound of the walking dead.

Her hands were cupped behind her ears, her face pointed to the sky. It was a striking pose to Charlie, her hair floating upon the updraft, her booted feet apart on the metal ledge with a dark sky before her. Charlie moved toward her, his own boots crunching in the pebbles.

She was humming.

“What is that?” Charlie asked, even as Hermione’s hands lowered from her ears.

“Listen,” she said softly, turning to him. Then she smiled, eerily. “Come up here and listen.”

Charlie chuckled. “No, I’ll listen from here…”

Hermione’s face seemed to twitch, and suddenly, her hands had grabbed his. Charlie blinked as Hermione moved his hands to press behind his ears. Pulling away, Hermione mimicked the motion, standing just to Charlie’s right.

“Now, listen,” he head Hermione say.

He rolled his eyes, but gave it a try, anything to keep Hermione from edging any closer to the far fall to the plaza below. Charlie could not help but feel a bit worried about the woman.

With one last sigh, Charlie closed his eyes and began to listen.

Thunder rolled in the distance, and the white noise of rain miles to the northeast, it was the first thing he heard over his own heartbeat and the Inferi far below. He cleared his mind of those sounds, categorizing them as unimportant. Turning his head slightly, as if to adjust a wireless receiver, Charlie listened as he tuned into other sounds.

Wind over the distant fields beyond Leeds, past the hum of electricity albeit soft, geese flying…and then he heard it.

It was like a brief transmission of a wireless signal from somewhere far beyond Britain. If conditions were right, Charlie could sometimes pick up French wireless signals on the set in the Lodge. Wizarding wireless worked on magical current, but as there were vacuums of magic all over Britain, it would be almost impossible to hear anything on wireless now. However, that was what it sounded like, a weak wireless signal, playing old music.

“Heaven, I’m in heaven…”

Charlie’s eyes opened to see that Hermione had lowered her hands from her ears and stood on the ledge, face pointed to the sky. She began humming the rest of the melody. Charlie did not recognize the tune, but he knew he had heard it before, somewhere.

“…when we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek…” Hermione sang softly.

Charlie shivered. It must be a Muggle song.

Hermione turned to Charlie, a satisfied smirk on her lips. “You heard it, didn’t you?”

Charlie swallowed thickly as the dark clouds blew over Leeds, the wind heavy with rain.

“Yes.”

Hermione’s smirk turned to a toothy grin. “Thank Merlin!” she whispered, and suddenly launched herself off the ledge into Charlie’s arms.

Charlie grunted as they fell roughly into the pebbled roof, Hermione laughing, grasping his face between her hands. Charlie’s jade green eyes widened as she laughed and peppered kisses over his face.

“I’m not mad, I’m not mad,” she laughed, her body over his.

Charlie was still, shocked, even as her kisses became more and more urgent, moving closer to his mouth. When he did move, it was not to push her away. Rain was beginning to fall heavy upon them, but Charlie did not mind. Slowly, he was accepting her kisses.

When their lips met, Charlie closed his eyes. He could not remember the last time he had kissed someone. Hermione sighed into his mouth even as their kiss deepened. Charlie could taste canned fruit on her tongue as he dueled with his between their lips. She felt warm against him, and he wrapped his arms about her waist to hold her close.

Hermione Granger was not mad, for that matter, neither was he. He had heard the music, as if trying to tune into a wireless that lay miles away. The fact that he heard it so clearly stirred something in his blood, as if the music beckoned him to move. However, holding Hermione Granger was far more important. She was real and alive, and she was kissing him as if her very life depended upon it.

The rain was cold, and soon the kiss was over. Hermione mumbled something that sounded like an apology and crawled from his body, leaving Charlie staring up a dark sky. The spell was over and Charlie could not hear the music or Hermione’s frantic heartbeat. Necessity had him rise, shivering in the cold rain as it soaked through his clothes.

By wand light, they moved to magically erect a small tent, waterproofed with no magical alternations. It was large enough for two people to sleep side by side, and that was how it was when Charlie lay down. Hermione was outside in the rain, casting several more spells to shelter the tent from wind. Charlie rolled onto his side, his face away from Hermione as she lay down.

She was still humming.





Hermione had learned to ride a motorcycle during a writing assignment for the Prophet not long after she was hired on part time. Her ‘Technology’ section dealt with magical innovation, usually in terms of how Magical and Muggle combined. The United States and Japan were the two countries leading the way to incorporate more Muggle technology. Being Muggle-born, Hermione found that Wizarding companies using Muggle technology to ‘update’ wizarding life was novel and ingenious. For years, Arthur Weasley was constantly experimenting, how he would have loved the small businesses and entrepreneurs Hermione met with in the States.

Her so-called guide in America was a young man named Gareth MacMurthy, another reporter interested in writing about the new surge of technology in the Twenty-First century. It was in upstate New York, beyond the notice of many Muggles that Hermione stayed for one month, working on her piece of the Prophet.

Besides hiking in the Adirondacks with Gareth and his sister, Gail, Hermione was taught how to ride a motorcycle on the winding forest roads. It was to break up the boring lulls between appointments touring through workshops and conducting interviews. Hermione had always hated flying, not because of the heights or the speed, but because she could not trust a narrow piece of ash or oak and some tail twigs to keep her from plummeting to the ground. Motorcycles could move just as fast, but kept on the ground.

Starting as a passenger behind Gail MacMurthy, Hermione became accustomed to the rumble of a gas-powered engine and the shifting of gears. The MacMurthys like herself, were Muggle-born, which added to the pleasant visit and the work involved. There was really no discrimination between Muggle-born and Pure-blood in the States, and Hermione was allowed to forget for that month. By the end of the assignment, Hermione had a great article, an idea for a book, and could add a few things to her skill set. Riding a motorcycle, fishing, basic orienteering, and how to use a Muggle firearm, were the major new experiences.

Hermione wondered if the MacMurthys had forgotten about her now that Britain was now Sealed. She pushed those thoughts aside as Charlie’s arms tightened about her waist.

The high-pitched sound of shifting gears under her, made Hermione realize that she was finally riding a motorcycle that Gail MacMurthy had mentioned was one of the better bikes for speed and maneuverability. If only Hermione could show her American friends, how well she was handling such a powerful bike. At least she had not killed herself yet, let alone Charlie Weasley clinging to her, his helmeted head watching over Hermione’s shoulder as they got onto the congested M1, weaving around cars and bodies.

They were leaving Leeds, finally. Hermione felt better than she had in months, her bones no longer aching, and her muscles no longer strained. She had become muscle, hard and lean, but still, Hermione preferred to have a little more healthy weight about her body. Perhaps the next time she scavenged, she would look for Muggle vitamins, something to supplement what her body was lacking.

Charlie’s arms tightened about Hermione as she slowed the bike to weave between a narrow pass between cars, now heading north. Charlie had said near to nothing since the morning’s greeting. Hermione, in turn, only said what she needed to Charlie, how to ride properly behind her, how to lean into a curve with her, not to make any wild movements, etc. So far, Charlie obeyed. In many ways, it was like riding a broom, the only difference being that one could feel the horsepower under them with a motorcycle.

It was early, the sun just having risen in the east. Hermione could feel the warmth of the sun on her black leather jacket. Soon, the days would grow warmer and the stench of death double. Hermione dreaded the summer.

Past Aberford, the motorway was almost empty. There had been a pileup at some point somewhere outside Brown Moor. Only a few abandoned cars were left. Hermione sped up, feeling Charlie tense behind her; so far, he had said nothing. Hermione bit her lips behind the tinted visor of her helmet, and when the turn off came for the A64, Hermione took it.

Charlie seemed to shout something, but Hermione ignored his voice and the tightening of his strong arms about her ribs.

York.

York was northeast from Leeds, from Bridgewater Place, and it was somewhere in or around York Hermione knew she had to go.

She had heard the music clearly for the first time, the voice singing, and the melody. ‘Cheek to cheek,’ written by Irving Berlin, had been a favourite of her father’s. She had not heard the song for a long time, had not had a sudden recollection of the melody, but Hermione knew it and every word by heart.

It haunted her. It made her feel as if she were truly insane. Of all the music in the world, why that song?

The A64 was desolate, as was the countryside on either side of the road. The sun shone down hotly, and the rain that had passed over the night was beginning to quickly evaporate. Hermione gunned the engine as they passed Islington and kept pushing the bike past the signs for Steeton Grange.

Time was flying, and as Hermione sped over the pavement toward York, a large pillar of black smoke came into view on the horizon. It was as the A1237 roundabout intersecting with the A64 for that Hermione had to put on the brakes hard, spinning the bike slightly, Hermione’s booted foot skidding on the pavement. With Charlie’s added weight, stopping the bike was harder than Hermione thought, but it did stop, Charlie jumping off, jerking off his helmet, his face angry.

There was no way to continue along the main road. Hermione stared through her visor at the pilled cars, a barricade, very much like the ones she had come across in Brighton. Over the pile of cars, Hermione could see the pillar of smoke was closer.

“What the hell are you playing at, Hermione?” Charlie had shouted over the sound of the engine, throwing down his helmet on the road.

Hermione ignored Charlie, her eyes moving over the cars, some intact, others burnt, but no corpses. She tried to remember where she had stopped noticing the bodies. It was outside of Leeds, surely, before she pulled onto the A64.

Hermione killed the motor and kicked out the stand to balance the bike on the road. Dismounting, she could see the black tire mark on the drying road. Charlie was shouting at her, but Hermione could not hear it. Instead, she moved closer to the barricade, not bothering to remove her helmet.

Peeking through a crushed window to the other side, she could see more cars along the road, pushed against the barricade for as far as she could see. Hermione frowned, turning back to the bike.

“Why are we here? We need to head north!”

Hermione pulled off her helmet, her hair falling about her shoulders over the leather jacket. Placing the helmet on the bike, she moved to Charlie.

“Cast the Charm,” was all she said as Charlie’s face contorted. The tails of his trench coat were damp from road spray and the pack on his back was also damp. He did not question as he pulled his wand from the holster hidden under the coat.

However, he did not cast the Charm to point out life, instead, he stared hard into Hermione’s eyes.

“I heard the music, but don’t expect me to understand what it means.”

Hermione sighed. “Viktor had a theory.”

“Do tell?” Charlie growled.

Hermione stepped closer to Charlie, moving to stand just behind his left shoulder.

“Magic calls to magic. Last night, we both heard it coming from the northeast. We are northeast of Leeds…”

Charlie sighed. “You think someone is here?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “You know smoke does not mean life, luv…” he trailed, his jade green eyes moving to the top of the barricade to the plume of smoke.

Hermione said nothing, but waited, watching Charlie’s motions as he began casting. When the wave of magic went out, Hermione held her breath.

Charlie’s body straightened. “Less than two miles to the northeast, very faint.”

Hermione inhaled. “Let’s go.”





Charlie helped Hermione move the motorcycle off the road before walking north and into a field. The barricade, Charlie thought, was a sign, but it was hard to say when someone had moved the vehicles to bar the way along the loop about York. When they cut back onto the road about a mile along, the road was empty, seemingly every vehicle used to barricade the intersection for two major roads.

Hermione walked ahead of Charlie, anxious as her face was pointed to the ever-larger plume of black smoke that was blowing off to the east. They came upon Copmanthorpe as the sun was highest in the sky. It was as Hermione began deviating off the A64 into Copmanthorpe that Charlie could smell the death in the air.

The fire, the source was coming from a large field in the south, just outside the town, and that was where they went, jumping low rock walls toward the black smoke. As they approached, Charlie could tell that the fire was large, the wind shifting so that the smoke obscured the sun.

Charlie moved a hand over his face, as the smell grew increasingly worse. Hermione, however, began running toward the sight of smoke and flame.

“Here!” she called back to Charlie as she leapt lithely over another low wall, stopping short before running further.

Charlie began to jog, his wand in his hand as he neared the wall. Beyond was a pile of black fuel to a high fire, producing the billowing smoke. Charlie’s eyes narrowed in the shadow of smoke to see what the fuel was…

Bodies, perhaps hundreds of bodies were burning.

“Sir? Sir, are you alright?” Hermione’s voice rang out over the roar of fire.

Charlie turned back to the wall to see Hermione kneeling before a figure seated on a rock. Charlie could not tell if the figure was male or female, and except wide jaundiced blue eyes staring at Hermione’s face then the rifle strapped to her back, Charlie would not believe that figure was alive.

An ancient voice rumbled from the slumped figure, and Charlie recognized German, Austrian German.

“No, sir, I am not a ghost. I am a witch, and my companion is a wizard,” Hermione explained, her hands moving to grasp blackened, gnarled hands clutching a cracked wand.

The man was black with soot and ash, his long hair matted with it, his skin and clothes stained black.

At Hermione’s words, the man seemed to straighten and Charlie could see that under the soot, the man wore what was once an impeccable three-piece suit. He was a wizard, but would only speak German.

Dead, all dead, he had said.

“Sir, do you speak English at all?” Hermione asked.

The ash seemed to blow off his long hair as he nodded.

“Who are you?” he asked, his English perfect, with no audible German accent. In fact, if Charlie had to guess, the man spoke with a Yorkshire accent, but clearer since English was not his first language.

“Sir, could we get you something first, or get you away from the smoke?” Hermione asked kindly, grasping the man’s arthritic wrists as she knelt before him.

“No… I cannot leave this, I must tend the fire and see that everything burns.”

Hermione glanced to Charlie, her eyes wide. Charlie shifted on his feet, and then cast a spell, hoping that a magical breeze would blow the smoke away from where they were.

“Water, perhaps?”

The man shook his head, his breaths coming out laboured. Charlie wondered if the man had inhaled too much smoke.

“Who are you?” the man asked again.

Hermione sighed as the smoke shifted so that sunlight peeked through the haze of heat and smoke, lighting her face.

“I am Hermione Granger, my companion is Charlie Weasley.”

The man coughed, but through the strain, Charlie caught two words. War heroes.

Hermione said nothing.

“I am Hans Klemper,” the old man wheezed. “How is that you came here?”

Hermione again, said nothing. Charlie, however, stepped forward.

“Sir, that is what we would like to ask you. How is it that you survived? Why aren’t you at Hogwarts with the others?”

Klemper’s eyes moved to Charlie and under the black soot that coated the old man’s face, Charlie thought he smiled.

“I don’t know why I survived the Holokauston… Hogwarts? Hogwarts should be gone, like everything else here…”

Charlie frowned. “What do you mean?”

Hermione stood as Charlie asked his question, turning back to the fire.

“It should be gone by now, Hogwarts,” Klemper repeated. “They said they were moving there a week ago…”

Charlie covered his nose again as a hot breeze laden with burning bone and flesh wafted over the ground. Klemper did not seem bothered by the smell.

“They?” Hermione asked.

Charlie watched Klemper seem to sigh.

“The man and the boy, the ones responsible for this hell on earth.”

Hermione whirled back to Klemper, her wand drawn. At the sight of her wand, Klemper rose suddenly, his cracked wood wand shaking in his hand.

“Tell us!” Hermione demanded.

“Hermione, stop!” Charlie shouted, moving to place himself between the suddenly angry woman and the old man.

Klemper calmed as Hermione lowered her wand, settling down on the rock again. As he did so, more soot fell from his hair.

“Why are you burning these bodies? Why are you here?” Hermione shouted around Charlie.

Charlie could not understand Hermione’s anger, but as one burnt corpse rolled from the pile, he was beginning to understand.

“Klemper, Hans Klemper, I know your name!” Hermione shouted.

Charlie turned to the old man. The name meant nothing to him. Hermione seemed to calm, sensing Charlie’s confusion.

“One of Grindelwald’s men, an Exterminator…” Hermione hissed for Charlie’s benefit. “Hans Klemper has killed thousands in the name of the ‘greater good!’”

Turning back to the old man, seeing the defeat in his slumping shoulders, told Charlie much. Hermione was always the ‘brains’ of the so-called ‘Golden Trio,’ Charlie knew, it was only natural that she knew her history.

“That was a lifetime ago, Miss Granger. I am not proud of it, and have paid dearly for the mistakes of my youth,” Klemper wheezed.

“Of course you knew it was the Holokauston…” Hermione muttered, stepping around Charlie. Charlie kept his eyes upon Hermione, and could move before she could do something foolish if he needed to.

Klemper nodded. “To see it again… It was too much…” the old man whispered.

“Why burn the bodies?”

Klemper’s blue eyes blinked. “I would think that it would be easy to understand, Miss Granger.”

Hermione frowned.

“So they won’t rise again,” Klemper continued. “The dark man had raised many while I watched…”

Charlie coughed as the stench of burnt flesh wafted by him again. Hermione seemed unperturbed by the scent.

“Tell me. Everything.”

Klemper sighed, as he did, soot blew from his blackened lips.

“My niece… I have been living with my niece in York since the 1960s. I was given a new life after ’45, after the trials, after being imprisoned in Nuremgard. I was released in ’59, and moved to Britain to be with my only family, my niece Ilka.

Then in February, it started. A witch was moving about Yorkshire, killing everything. It was a young woman, I did not know who she was, but I knew the Curse. I could never forget the cloud of black and the death it caused. Ilka died, her whole family, died, except me.

We lived in Heslington and everywhere I went, everyone was dead. Then the monsters came, like a plague of locusts, searching for anything alive. I hid, I ran. Then two weeks ago, just in the town past here, I saw them.”

Hermione listened silently, her hands shaking. Charlie watched as tears spilled down Klemper’s blackened cheeks, leaving clean white tracks in their wake.

“A man was raising the dead to add to his army of undead. The weather here has kept many of the dead from rotting much, and when they rose, they were his…”

“Black,” Hermione muttered, but Klemper continued.

“I followed them to the road. The monsters only followed him, did not look for me, did not look for life. Then in the dark, a boy approached, and the monsters did not attack. I was afraid; I had not seen anyone alive since the beginning.

The boy was not hurt. The man bowed down at the boy’s feet, but I could not get close enough to hear much. I could see the boy’s face, but I knew it was a boy by the voice.

The man called the boy ‘Master.’”

Charlie’s insides seemed to lurch. He could not think properly, could not form a conclusion.

“Then they spoke about Hogwarts and the protections. I only heard part of their words. A seal and a secret.”

Klemper shook his head, his eyes widening.

“Kill everything, the boy had said, except those who would be useful, and then they parted. The boy went north, the man and his monsters went south. I hid for a long time, afraid.

I made the barricade on the road in case they returned…but I was not thinking clearly. What did it matter if I blocked the road? Then I took the bodies, all that I could find…” he trailed.

Hermione licked her lips and then spat on the ground, her saliva blackened. She glanced to Charlie with a frown, knowing that they both were breathing in the soot and ash of human bodies.

“It was like the old days, burning the bodies left after Herr Grindelwald’s spell. It makes me sick, but…” Klemper trailed again, unable to continue.

Hermione turned back to the pyre, her golden eyes moving from the bottom to the top. The pile was at least thirty feet high. Charlie felt his stomach twist.

“How did you come here?” Klemper asked.

“Motor bike,” Charlie answered. “On foot and by broom before that.”

“Broom?” Klemper asked. “You had a broom?”

Charlie nodded. “South of here, we lost them. There was a wide area where there was no magic…”

“Yes!” Klemper exclaimed suddenly. “It was here too! Several days ago!”

Charlie narrowed his eyes as Klemper continued.

“I felt it coming, and I tried not to use my wand. But I did one night, and it cracked. It was foolish, and I nearly died, but then the next morning…

How did you know to come here? Did you see the smoke?”

Charlie sighed, glancing to Hermione who was watching the fire as ashy remains of Muggles began to collapse, sending more ash into the air.

“We were in Leeds…” Charlie started.

“It was the music,” Hermione said dully, not turning back to Klemper.

Klemper said something in German, a swear, Charlie thought, and then began laughing, though it soon turned into a cough.

“The music, yes, that infernal music…”

Hermione turned back to Klemper slowly; her eyes keen as they settled on the old man’s face.

“Irving Berlin. Herr Grindelwald had no interest in Jews, but Herr Hitler did. I wonder who was more insane, Hitler or Grindelwald?

Yes, I have heard it.”

Hermione brushed ash from her face, “When?”

Klemper grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. “This morning, before that, when I saw the man and the boy. There were other times, only for an instant, sometimes strong, sometimes like a whisper. The loudest was after the boy went north, trailing after him. It frightened me.”

Charlie closed his eyes. Perhaps they were all insane, but it was not a coincidence that three magical people had heard the music. It was odd, insane even, and just as Klemper had said, frightening.

“’Cheek to cheek’ does it mean anything to you at all?” Hermione asked.

Klemper shook his head. “Muggle music. My mother was a Muggle; she liked American music, but not Berlin… She died in ’45, like so many of us…”

Hermione sighed, and began walking toward the wall between the fields. Charlie blinked as she continued on, leaving him and Klemper behind.

“Where will you go, boy?” Klemper asked, his eyes shut at Hermione’s departure.

Charlie wiped soot from his nose and answered slowly. “Hogwarts.”

Klemper laughed. “It is gone, surely, and we will all die when this is over. Holocaust, it is a fitting word, but perhaps Armageddon is better. Albion is the battleground, where many battles have been fought, a true ‘Har Megiddo.’”

Charlie was not sure what ‘Har Megiddo’ was, but he could not deny that the ‘end of times’ had come for Britain.

“Come with us, Herr Klemper,” Charlie said in German causing the old man to open his eyes.

“No, my boy. I have found my ninth circle of hell, and here I shall stay till the end of time.”





Hermione could not stop her tears, and by the time Charlie caught up to her, she cast a cleansing Charm over her body to rid herself of the ashes of human bodies. Charlie ran to come to stand before her, his own face streaked with soot.

It had been months since she cried, and she was not exactly sure why she was doing it again. She swallowed the last of her tears just as Charlie’s hand rose to touch her face.

“It was a mistake to come here,” Hermione muttered, pushing past Charlie, walking along the road back to the barricade.

She was not sure why she had said this statement when Hermione had learned more about the mystery surrounding her current situation. Charlie was talking to her, but she would not listen, not until she was on the bike and far away from the lingering smell of smoke.

The sun had moved toward setting by the time Hermione wheeled the motorcycle back onto the road, only pausing before kick starting the vehicle to let Charlie on the back. He had finally stopped talking, and Hermione sighed, adjusting her helmet before the roar of the engine drowned out every sound in her head.


TBC...