The Ruins
Metz. They had found Ron looking sick, and it might have been from a radiation dose, but it was just as well from his utter horror. There were tens of thousands of dying people there, and he could only help so many, and ineptly, too, not being a healer.
The rest of them had arrived soon enough. They used magic openly. It was the first time in her life that they had done this, the first time in the lives of anyone who was alive. There was no more Statute of Secrecy, not anymore. Instead, they worked on through the day, and into the next night, healing, distributing Andy’s potions, getting healers in place to fix as much of the damage as possible.
The thermal burns, the injuries from exploding glass, from collapsing walls, from flying debris-this, the exiles could and did save people from. They saved people by the thousands from those injuries, and it was something to be proud of. As Hermione used her wand to lift parts of a brick wall off of a trapped person with a deft series of five spells in close succession to keep any part of the rubble from falling on the wounded man, she was proud, there was a part of her that was proud. There was also a part of her that was sick.
Voldemort had done this. Her failure had done this. If they had only stopped Voldemort, then none of this would have happened. The world would not have been smashed, broken, destroyed. God alone knew how many were already dead, and how many more would die in the days to come. It felt like a sick dream.
And from the puffy eyes, still finding the strength to cry, to have emotions, Hermione knew that Ron felt the same way. Hermione turned away, focused on her spells, forced herself to get the job done. One more man free, straight into the arms of healers and muggle medics alike, now working side by side, with elements of wonder, and fear, but also hope.
Andromeda had been right when she had said it the night before. They had to show the muggle world that witches and wizards could be on their side, too. It was that, or in the end, utter annihilation for them all.
Satisfied that she had once more done her bit, Hermione turned to Ron. “We’re doing good work,” she said, and stepped up and gave him a hug. “We’re doing good work, Ron. And it matters, promise.”
He took a hard breath, and shook hard in her arms. “No, ‘Mione, we’re not. Voldemort is coming. He’s coming, and he’ll be coming fast and hard. He wouldn’t do this unless he wants the entire world. And how can we stop him? We failed. We failed. Harry’s dead. There’s not another chance. My God, look at this, we’re all…”
She hugged him harder, she couldn’t let him say those words, she didn’t dare let him say those words aloud, even if she thought them herself. She didn’t want to give voice to the feeling that they, personally, were at fault for the hideous injuries that so many people in this city had suffered, that so many people all over the world had suffered.
So she just hugged him, and held him, and gave him a kiss to keep him from talking. It felt strangely distant, like an automaton going through the motions of life. “Come on, let’s get back to it,” she whispered after that. “Every person we save is a victory we’ve denied to Voldemort, a victory we’ve claimed for ourselves.”
She held Ron firmly, she looked into her boyfriend’s eyes. “Believe me on that. It matters.”
“Voldemort will get everyone, ‘Mione, he’s got the whole world down… We might be the only wizards left who haven’t capitulated to him. Nobody ever imagined he’d do this, people thought they were prepared for a muggle nuclear war, they weren’t expecting wizards to use them, weren’t expecting it to be this bad…” He shook his head slowly, looking around for his mother, perhaps, if he could see her. But she wasn’t there.
There was Hermione, continuing to force herself to smile with a reassuring confidence that she didn’t feel inside, but that she wanted Ron to feel. She wanted Ron to hang in there, to pull together, even if it was for the selfish reason of providing a reassuring bellweather for her own sanity, mutual strength instead of mutual weakness.
And then she heard a commotion, and whipped to her right, going for her wand with an instinct which she had gained during her life on the run—with Harry and Ron.
Andromeda Tonks. She relaxed.
Narcissa Malfoy and Draco Malfoy. She wanted to tense again, for all that they had been on the same side at Hogwarts, for all that Narcissa had been instrumental in securing their escape, in reaching the safety of the Burgundian Circle and fighting the Death Eater attack in Den Helder.
Ron grimaced next to her.
Hermione looked closer, and saw how pale, how withdrawn Draco was. Like today was the day he had finally faced the full magnitude of Voldemort’s design. Horrified, sickened… Angry.
Good. Keep that anger. You need to have it, Hermione thought with a hint of savageness but also a hint of relief. She had always tried to think the best of people, and if Draco could get angry over this suffering, perhaps even her school tormentor had something redeemable within him.
“We’ve got to go,” Narcissa said. “Try to secure as many of these people as you can, but it’s best for you all not to be around them anyway; Voldemort is not harming muggles who surrender to him, in fact, he’s mobilising the British muggle population for War,” she was explaining, mostly to Andromeda and Molly, who had finally come around, but in fact to all of them. “He’d punish them for associating with any remnant of the Order, though, even if it was just having their lives saved by you all. So you don’t want to be here, for their sakes, when his Death Eaters and the British troops he’s ensorcelled arrive.”
“You mean he’s ensorcelled the British Army? He’s using it in war?” Hermione stared in blank horror, her mind beginning to process the magnitude of what she’d just heard.
Narcissa looked at her, and nodded once. “Yes, Miss Granger. They’ve crossed the Channel, and they’re already driving hard on Paris. We were in Brittany, and helped defend Brest from the nuclear attacks, but we were forced to flee almost immediately, as Death Eaters led landings along the coast.”
Andromeda cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Well, where the hell will we go then, Cissy? If they’re moving that fast, and using muggle troops to hold ground… They’ll just take everything over.”
Narcissa smiled, and it was a very Slytherin smile, Slytherin enough to make Hermione almost uncomfortable. “Not quite, Andy. The Head of the Russian Ministry came on the magical radio two hours ago in an all-channels broadcast that cut through the British jamming, and said, and I quote, ‘Russians do not know how to surrender, and we will not accept a foreign tyranny. You may come as the others have. We have plenty of land left for graves.’ He then announced that a single unified muggle and magical coordinating government for the former Soviet countries considered itself in a state of war with the so-called Dark Lord, and called for a general muggle and magical national mobilisation in all European states to join in the resistance.”
“Those countries have been nuked,” Andy answered with her eyes wide. “The Russians probably got it bad, too. They won’t stand a chance.”
“The European countries will slow him down, if they fight. We need to get to Russia, Andy. It’s enough of a chance to work with. You’ve got your Nymphadora and little Edward to think of, I’ve got Draco. Go or die. At least they’ll fight, and we can make something of those willing to fight.”
At least they’ll fight. Hermione saw the savage look of a cruel hope dawning on Ron’s face. “I want to fight, too,” he said, listening to Narcissa and Andromeda. “I want to fight every inch of the way. We’ve got to stop him from taking over.”
Hermione knew enough about the Second World War to immediately recognise that they were now in the Third. She felt cold, standing there in the rubble of Metz, knowing that a massive Army was already driving toward the east. There would be famine, there would be destruction on an unfathomable scale… But the nuclear war had already guaranteed both. They truly had no choice. There was still a cold hope in the chance of fighting, of resisting, of at least having people to fight alongside, a chance, however thin, to stop him.
And if not stop him, at least hurt him, at least embarrass him, punch him in the face and tell him the world where people like Hermione weren’t allowed to exist, wasn’t going to come about without a fight. Something hot and sure glowed inside of her.
She nodded once. “We’ve got to stop him.” But it will get worse before it gets better. Oh God, will it ever get worse.