Poland
The goods wagon rocked back and forth over a temporary relaying as they clung to the side of the open door and stared out. Through the Floo network and chain apparating they had gotten as far as the Silesian Voivodeship, in western Poland. Now, in a state of utter exhaustion, they felt their train lurch on temporary tracks as they worked their way around the city of Wrocław.
Draco stood next to her, expressionless as he stared out to the shattered and burned ruins that were visible in the distance. “We won’t get too close, will we?”
Narcissa looked around for an answer for her son. Nobody really wanted to give him one. The train continued to rock slowly past what had been some kind of massive factory, where wagons like this one had taken on cargo, instead of the people they now carried, with their belongings carried in bags of holding, or else they’d have nothing at all.
The smoke still rose from parts of Wrocław, where the city was still burning. And in that smoke, Narcissa had learned, they had all quickly learned, and thus Draco’s fear, was radiation. A silent death against which their magic was no cure. Gods, Voldemort, but what a damned fool you are! Bella, how can you stand to follow such a man!? She thought for only the hundredth time, wondering what had brought them here, the insane miscalculation of Voldemort’s that had led him to use these horrible weapons, and cleared the way for armies of enchanted and ensorcelled muggles under his command to now storm western Europe, forcing them to flee fast and far, toward the uncertain shelter of the CIS.
At last, Hermione got up, and stepped to the rocking door of the train. Draco stared at her for a moment, dumbly, and Narcissa winced. She knew how much her son had hurt this mudb—muggleborn girl. But Hermione was nothing if not daring, or forgiving. She held up a ribbon.
“See the direction the wind blows?”
“Of course.”
“It’s blowing over us, toward the city. So, the particulates can’t get onto us at the moment,” she offered, with a faint smile. “So at least for right now, it’s safe.”
A smile twitched to Draco’s face as well, at that honest gesture. He was too stressed to hide the relief, for all of the aristocratic composure Narcissa had tried to teach him. She supposed that in this moment, in the goods van, next to the ruins of Wrocław, the last thing her little dragon needed was to be reminded of the importance of a stiff upper lip. They were alive. That was all that mattered.
Mother and son stepped back from the door, and the train lurched and swayed on. Daylight gave way to night, and they left Wrocław well behind. Narcissa idly mused that she had been raised to still think of it as Breslau; the wizarding world did not quickly adapt to modern politics. But perhaps that was part of the problem. The Statute of Secrecy was gone forever, that much was clear, though it didn’t seem like it would matter if Voldemort was soon going to be in charge of everything. But perhaps Voldemort would not conquer the world, however he fancied himself. Certainly that was going to have to be true if she were going to keep her little dragon alive. So, sitting there against the rocking side of the wagon, as sleep called to her, she thought about the situation, and tried to make sense of it politically.
First, that her objective was the survival of her family was as plain as day. That put Draco, with his visible mark of allegiance to the Dark Lord, in a place of considerable danger. Second, the entire wizard world was threatened. The muggle backlash to Voldemort’s murderous butchery of their cities was bound to be total and savage, if it was not managed. They would also be torn apart in the streets, when they were overwhelmed, if nothing could be done for it. Third, her entire culture and way of life, including her native tongue which was now only spoken in the Wizarding World, would die even if Wizards existed as free people in, say, the CIS where they were now travelling, due to their quick acts to save the State, and assist the nation in resisting Voldemort’s power.
To her, there was one obvious way to stop all three.
The train stopped when they got to Katowice. Draco lurched up and looked out. “Gods, what’s that, uh, Hermione?”
“Hmm?” She stumbled over to the door, and looked across a partially cleared forest. There was a length of track there which did not connect with their own, and a large marshalling yard. Massive snorting diesels were arriving, slowly hauling long trains of special rail flats.
As the train came to a stop, black clouds drifting from the diesels, all along the line of flats, men in uniform with padded helmets came storming up the wagons and clambering over track and tread to reach the hatches. Within minutes, more diesel engines began to start, roaring and sputtering and smoking from each of the wagons.
Narcissa watched in curiosity as Hermione bit her lip—and then she grinned a little. “Tank transporters. Special railway wagons for transporting military equipment.”
She supposed the girl was a know-it-all, though Narcissa, for her part, was immediately curious about where the equipment was coming from.
A Polish soldier, standing alongside the train, understood English and glanced up. “They’re Russians. Goddamned Russians,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I never thought I’d see it again. English?”
“Yes,” Hermione answered. “We’re refugees from that monster, Voldemort.” She glanced up to see that the tanks were starting to unload from the wagons by the simple expediment of braking one track as they ran the other, and spinning until they dropped down, slamming to the ground, and no worse for wear, starting to move away to form up immediately.
Narcissa, though, watched as the man spat, at hearing Voldemort’s name. “Devil take him. This is the terminus of the Linia Hutnicza Szerokotorowa, Miss. Only broad gauge line in Poland. They can run their tank flats almost straight to the border with the Czechs on it, without swapping the bogies. The government says they’ll help us cover the line.”
Narcissa ducked out. “Forgive me, Sir. The Russians are there? How will they face wizards?”
“They have their own! And they’re there, too.”
Narcissa jumped down. Behind her, Hermione called out: “Madame Malfoy, where are you going?”
Narcissa spun around, and smiled to the young, brash muggleborn, brushing the dirt and grime from her coat as she did, as best as she could. “Miss Granger, the best time to ask for asylum is when you have useful information. Our information gets less useful the longer the war goes on. Let’s go introduce ourselves and make ourselves useful. Right now, while we still might be needed.”
The young Lioness perked in interest. She was no Slytherin—but she might yet be the start of one. Come on. If we show a united front and talk fast and hold nothing back about what we know of Voldemort, we can save all of us together.
So that was exactly what they did.