26

They walked along the empty streets, hand in hand, hearing nothing more than the wind between the buildings. When they entered Trafalgar Square, they found it too was empty. Hermione almost expected to find the piles of dead, the smell of death lingered, but the square was empty. It was much as she found it the day she felt Charlie's magic, devoid of life, the stones under her boots damp, the sun shining down through a watery sky.

She could almost pretend that she and Charlie were indeed the last people in all of Britain. Together, they revisited all the places they had been, no longer afraid of the dark, and no longer truly alone. Walking toward the National Gallery, the wind whipped by their bodies, lifting their coattails, and rustling hair—the air still had a trace of the bland void of un-magic. Charlie's large hand tightened about hers and they stopped for a moment, staring at each other.

They had said so little during their 'tour,' but in Charlie's jade green eyes, Hermione could see they shared many of the same thoughts. The world had moved on, magic flowed under their feet freely and naturally, but all around them, the lack of life was distracting. Nothing would ever be the same. There was no magic in all the world that would set things back to the way they were. Millions of lives could not be restored, and the rest of the world could not remember what Britain was or had been—another void in the minds of billions.

Charlie released her hand and enveloped Hermione against his body, which was warm and alive, real and firm. Hermione felt safe, truly safe, for the first time in months and perhaps in all her life. The man who held her was more than a man, a companion whom fate had thrown into her path. He was hers, and she was his.

The bleakness, the hopeless was lessened in her heart whenever he held her. There was still a spark of light, something she could cling to and nurture. There was hope in Charlie Weasley's arms.

"Teddy was preyed upon, used, and nearly killed."

Hermione stared at Charlie as they sat on a rock just short of the shore of the Black Lake below Hagrid's hut. The day was warm, and there were large white clouds in the sky. When the wind blew, the stench of death was absent, and Hermione wished she let herself believe that the world had never been turned upside down.

Charlie had been telling her what he had learned via Slughorn and the Council's interviews with Teddy Lupin. It confirmed her suspicions and speculations, while also shocking her to feel just as lost as she had the day the Seal was enacted.

"It is going to take months, perhaps years before the boy will be able to cope with what he was forced to do."

Hermione leaned back, her palms supporting her body in the shade of the willows by the loch. Charlie was slouching, obviously still weary from his work, and traveling, all of which he told her about on the walk down to the loch.

They had returned to Hogwarts a day before, and the difference between the atmospheres at Hogwarts compared to the rest of the country was definite. Hermione wondered where they could go to remain close to the safety of the ancient magic that had protected the castle and the grounds.

"The Malfoys will see to him, I would like to think…"

"They will," Hermione said softly, her eyes moving to the lapping water of the shore. "Astoria will see to it, if Draco does not."

Charlie glanced out of the corner of his eye to her face, and Hermione smiled softly.

"They are not always vitriol cloaked in sarcasm…"

Charlie said nothing for a moment, and Hermione sat up and leaned into his shoulder. She realized that they had spoken more in a few short minutes than they had in the weeks following Dinas Emrys and their tour. It felt safe to speak at Hogwarts while they moved so long in silent reverence in the weeks after the Seal was broken.

"The music has stopped, the air is fresher, and the worst is over," Charlie murmured more to himself than to Hermione.

The worst is over… Hermione had to believe in Charlie's words.

"And what will you do now?"

Charlie sighed. "The Reserve needs tending. I've sent owls to a few people to see if than can spare some Keepers, temporarily. The MacFustys survived, and the reserve up north is fine. Dougal MacFusty has volunteered to come down; Cadwallader is coming back from Romania, and few blokes from Peru… Of all of them, I am the senior."

Hermione blinked. "You'll be going back to Wales?"

"Yeah."

Hermione licked her lips, realizing that she had no plans of her own. It was unlike her, she realized. So much had changed around her, inside her, and confusion swept through her.

Was Charlie not going to stay with her?

"I'm giving my place on the Council to Ron. Now that he is well, I think he can handle the responsibility this time…"

She straightened, slouching much like Charlie, and stared blankly across the water.

"Somehow, I hope, all of this mess will be sorted out."

Hermione nodded absently, too lost in her own thoughts to give a true reply.

What would she do now?

Before February 21st, she had been researching for her next book, and since February 21st, she had not thought about it at all. Hermione then wondered about her own parents. Would the fact that Britain ever existed be struck from their minds? She would have to see them, or at least, write them. Where was she going to live? With Harry and Ginny gone, she could not impose herself at Grimmauld Place, and the Burrow was surely too full and busy with renovations.

Hermione gnawed on her bottom lip, until a thumb pulled at her chin so her teeth released the plump flesh. Charlie stared down into her eyes and Hermione let her worries fade for the time being.

"We can still escape, Hermione. I was not joking about Lima."

Laughter escaped her lips, but there was a bitter edge about it. She doubted very much that if they left that they would be allowed back in Britain. Hermione had read the IMCFA pamphlets about 'Registration Papers.' So far, she had none although the process would take little time.

"And what would be do in Lima?" she asked, her hands moving to cup his handsome face.

"Oh, I don't know… Sightsee, eat lots of local cuisine, drink until we don't know our names, and make love for hours?"

Hermione smiled. "Far too decadent…"

"It would be a suiting counterpoint to this place," Charlie grumbled as his arms draped about her waist.

"True."

With a sigh, Hermione knew it would not be 'appropriate' to leave just yet, if at all. Her home, Britain, needed her help, Charlie's help. Hermione could not leave it all behind for the sake of making her forget her problems. She always faced things, no matter how unsavory.

Hermione kissed his lips, gently, and whispered: "Our struggle is not over yet, Charlie."

He said nothing for a moment, but blew out a deep breath, his forehead falling to her shoulder.

"I know… I know."

The darkness of the world was still all around them, but for the meantime, Hermione felt, they could finally relax.

Hermione read the names of the Minister's new cabinet, and smiled fondly. Marcus Flint, despite his reputation in school, was far more intelligent than most people gave him credit as the Advisor to the Minister for Magic; Hermione need not worry much about the new 'government.'

The first thing the new Minister did in January was open the newly renovated St. Mungo's, dedicating it to those who had died, Magic and Muggle. Ron Weasley was the youngest Minister for Magic in known history, and as his stoic face gazed up from the page at her, Hermione knew that Ron would do well.

Despite the strain and the fear, Ron had proved himself capable. Hermione knew that Ron was perhaps the best strategist the Wizarding world had ever known, and that with the proper support, he would do everything in his power to be fair and balanced when it came to the tougher decisions. With Marcus Flint as Advisor, and the rest of the cabinet of mostly younger people who had all proven themselves in cunning and worth, Hermione could breathe easier.

The second main article on the front page was on the state of Azkaban Prison. Oddly, it had fallen outside of the Seal, and the Dementors and guards, as well as prisoners, had fared well with the assistance of the French Ministry.

Hermione learned much later that Ireland had been included under the Seal, but had been untouched by the Inferi attacks. It seemed a strange oversight. The Inferi were deployed from the North, missing the Hebrides, and from the south from Cornwall. However, the Holokaustion was used by several Imperius'd wizards that returned to Ireland in February. Millions died in Ireland, and those very few, numbering approximately two thousand, who survived were suddenly very aware of the Wizarding world. There was a debate as to what to do about the Irish Muggles. Hermione knew it was something Ron would have to decide upon and act.

Folding the Prophet, she dropped it on the kitchen table next to the breakfast plates left behind. Slipping her new Vinewood wand from the sleeve of her jumper, she Levitated the plates to the sink, knowing she would have to begin setting some basic household Charms soon. However, doing dishes by hand was one of the few moments of near meditation she could get at times.

Leaving the kitchens and moving into the front portion of the house, Hermione eyed the front door, finding it slightly open, and snow beginning to accumulate on the mat on the inside of the door. With a sigh, she Charmed the door shut and began climbing the stairs into the upper story of the house and to the room she had renovated to be her 'study.'

Her typewriter was silent as she sat before it, gazing out the windows to a snowy Scottish morning. The garden's Charms were holding well, and she knew that the Charms that kept a bubble of heat about the plot would need to be renewed by the end of the day. Hermione supposed she could pick some beans to fix for dinner, maybe a few ripened tomatoes.

Sometimes, she thought, it was wonderful being a witch, and being able to grow food year round by means of Charms. Of course, Hermione already had plans to begin building a good sized hothouse to save herself some of the work of setting Charms, but it would have to wait until spring.

Stretching her arms out over her typewriter, she threaded her fingers and cracked her knuckles before reaching for a new sheaf of paper to feed into the machine.

The first words she typed out was the title of her work: "quem deus vult perdere, dementat prius or Whom the Gods would destroy, they first make insane."

'Page 282, September 2, 2010, we found Klemper's body resting against the wall before a pile of ash and charred bone. He was much as we found him the first time, blackened by death, but in death, there was a peace to his features…'

Hermione's fingers moved over the keys, the hammers striking the paper, the little bell pealing at the end of the line. She swiped the return bar and began line after line. After two hundred and eighty two pages, Hermione had yet to delve into the theories rattling around in her head.

Pulling a type written page from the typewriter, Hermione added another. By noon, she had everything up until November documented, ending with Ron's new appointment. Hermione still had to document December 2010 through March 2011. However, she rose, stretching and craved a cup of something hot and chocolaty. Rationing was still on in Britain, but Hermione had managed to find several tins of cocoa in Tyndrum. As far as anyone knew, rationing would continue for the foreseeable future, at least until the summer.

Winter dragged on as the country's ecology was readjusting after the Seal, and spring would be late. Equinox was in a week, Hermione remembered, setting a kettle on the kitchen stove, lighting the fire with a match. There was still a good four inches of snow in the village of Tyndrum, and perhaps six around Strathfillian House.

Glancing out the kitchen window and to the garden again, she sighed. There were notices in the Prophet urging people to begin growing surplus food for their 'less fortunate countrymen.' One thing Hermione could say about Ron and his cabinet was that they knew how to spin positive propaganda. It reminded Hermione of the things her father told her when he was a boy, growing up in Woodcote, Oxfordshire during the War.

The kettle began to whistle, and Hermione was brought away from her thoughts. Her letter to her parents had been brief. It seemed that the Grangers, safe in Melbourne, knew nothing about what had happened in Britain, and did know that the island nation existed. They were concerned; however, that their phone calls were not going through, and that their letters to friends came back with a notice saying 'no such address.'

Hermione had taken two days to write a lengthy explanation. The reply had been short.

Come to Melbourne.

That had been before Christmas, and Hermione had made no arrangements. She tried to explain that she could not leave, not yet.

Carrying her hot chocolaty drink back up to her study, Hermione began typing again.

'Page 312, Y Ddraig Goch and Celebgrist…'

Celebgrist was sheathed and resting on the mantel above the small fireplace in the room, and not a day went past Hermione would not unsheathe it and hold the hilt in her hands.

The hatchling had been injured somehow, and Tom Cadwallader was just about to pick up the small Welsh Green when a screech deafened the three handlers.

At only a few months old, a hatchling weighed about one hundred and twenty pounds. Of course, a full-grown Green would weight several tons, but as the hatchling was injured and ill, Charlie supposed it weighed less than a hundred pounds. The hatchling had been left, to die, at the edge of a small lake on the Reserve, but as the screech grew nearer, Charlie knew better. The mother had been hunting with the other two hatchlings, hoping to bring back something for the third to eat.

"Drop it, Tom!" Diego Serras, another handler from Peru, shouted.

Tom's blond head rose as the mother came bounding over the hillock, her wings open wide in a defensive posture, her neck rearing back ready to spew dragon flame.

Charlie stood twenty yards away from Tom, and was about to bring the medical kit from his broom when the mother had either heard or seen them from a distance near her injured hatchling. He knew there was no time to run, and Tom, his good friend, either would have to Apparate or be burnt. Unfortunately, Tom was still holding the hatchling that was too ill even to cry out for its mother.

"Tom!" Diego shouted, already moving to Apparate.

Tom laid the hatchling down, gently, as if unperturbed as the ground shook by the force of the mother dragon's bounding reptilian legs on the ground. Tom was not going to make it…

Charlie ground his teeth, and Apparated.

The ground and rock tore under massive claws, and Charlie was suddenly face to face with a yellow-eyed monster, feeling the hellish heat of her exhale through flaring nostrils. His arms were wide, as if to bare the huge beast from moving closer, and slowly Charlie lowered his arms, staring into the left eye of the dragon and seeing his own reflection. He could see his long red hair, his jade green eyes, his black clothing, and the determined expression on his pale and bearded face.

No harm, only help, Calenamlug.

The Green shifted on her feet, her wings folding against her back. Her tail swished, but not to whip at Charlie or Tom who was gaping behind him. Slowly, the dragon took a step back and with a snort, sat on the ground as the other hatchlings waited in the distance, curious.

"Tom, get to healing the hatchling," Charlie said softly, moving to crouch on the ground, staring at the Green, evenly. "Now!"

Tom Cadwallader finally moved, Summoning the medical kit from where Charlie had dropped it and began examining the injured and ill hatchling. Charlie blinked as he and the Green regarded each other, sitting on the frosted ground.

She was drowning, rotten hands pulling her down deeper into the murky water. The light was going out around her as more hands tore at her skin, wrapping about her throat. She could not breathe, could not fight. The darkness was swallowing her whole and the pain in her back, in her gut, along her spine was poignant and piercing.

Hermione opened her mouth and screamed, waking.

He was there, though she had not known he had returned. His arms held her down into the bed in Strathfillian House, the same bed where they had made love for the first time. Hermione could not see for the darkness, the fire out, the night at its darkest hour with no moon. Her screams turned to sobs, the weight of his nude body pinning her arms and legs to the bed to keep her from lashing out.

Charlie smelled like earth, soothing her unsettled mind.

He whispered to her, but the words were wrong, not English, but something familiar, something ancient. The words wound about her, calming her body and mind.

When he kissed her mouth, she closed her eyes, feeling his long hair fall about her cheeks. Hermione knew Molly hated that Charlie's hair was as long as Bill's, but Hermione loved it, touched it often. It was rare that it was ever loose, even in sleep.

Charlie moved over her, lifting himself off her chest to allow her to take a normal breath, all the while sliding her nightgown up her body and eventually off. His body was hot against hers, dry where hers was sweaty from another nightmare. Hermione had many.

If it were not a dream of her being pulled down in the dark waters in the Horcrux cave, it was standing in Trafalgar Square waiting for a Charlie Weasley that never came. The reality of the Seal and the Inferi had been nightmare enough, but still Hermione dreamt of the terrible possibilities that could have been but were not.

Every time she awoke screaming, Charlie was there.

His hips slipped between her thighs and the head of his cock nudged at her folds. Hermione opened her eyes to the dark, letting her sight adjust. When her eyes caught the fraction of light from the window, she could just make out Charlie's face peering down at her.

He continued to whisper to her in husky words that stirred something deep inside her belly and had her opening her knees wider. Reaching up to touch his shoulder, Charlie devoured her mouth again.

The penetration was sharp and Hermione wailed into his mouth. Hands caressed, squeezed, and pinched, but still Charlie ate at her mouth. It was unlike him.

However, when he pulled his mouth away to gasp at the sensation of her body clenching around him, English came from his mouth, at last.

"I love you."

Hermione felt tears in her eyes, making Charlie's silhouetted face blur. With a nod, she bucked her hips against him, her knees brushing his ribs. Charlie dropped his head and let his chest press tightly against her breasts. A rhythm began, and the dregs of the nightmare were flushed away with the endorphins that rushed through her body with every thrust and twist of Charlie's hips.

She clung to him, never wanting to ever let him go.

Hermione awoke to find him gone again, already off to the Reserve. Her left hand reached out to his side of the bed, the sheets cold. On her finger, however, she found something new. A ring.

It was small and delicate, silver and glowing faintly in the morning light. She stared at the beautiful little ring for a long while. It fit perfectly, and Hermione wondered where Charlie had found it.

The sound of his laughter made her stop shucking corn and look up. There was always something about his voice that forced her eyes to him and forced smiles to curl her lips. Charlie had a wonderful laugh.

Charlie was rolling in the grass in the front garden, a small boy jumping onto his chest and rubbing a muddy face into his beard. Hermione began laughing as well as their son sat on Charlie's chest, squealing as Charlie tickled ribs and bare feet.

When the laughter faded, mirthful words passed between them, in a language that was one Hermione barely grasped, a language that had been born to the boy as much as his bright green eyes and curly dark auburn hair and freckles. Charlie grinned at the boy and took him in his arms, lifting him high above his prone body. The boy stretched out his arms as if to fly while Charlie made swishing noises through his teeth.

"Gaerchen, come wash up," Hermione called from her seat on the doorstep, dropping the last of the corn in a basket on her lap. "Dinner will be ready soon."

Gaerchen was a nickname Charlie gave their son not long after he was born. The boy's given name was Henry Arthur Weasley, but Hank was what his parents called him other than his strange nickname.

Henry 'Hank' ran past her into the house, and into the downstairs lavatory. Hermione began to turn and go inside as well, knowing that the lemon cake she made for dessert needed to come out of the oven soon. However, before she could enter the house, Charlie's hand gently caught her elbow. The basket of shucked corn and husks dropped to the walkway to the front door and Hermione found herself in her husband's arms, lips moving over hers.

Charlie's hands ran along her spine where her halter-top sundress was open to the warmth of the summer. Calloused fingertips rasped against her shoulder blades and along the backs of her arms. When their lips pulled apart to allow air to enter their lungs, jade green stared down into warm amber.

At forty-five, Charlie Weasley was perhaps more handsome than when he was a young man, age had seasoned his face, made his eyes depthless. He carried himself with a strength that Hermione had come to know in the years after their world had effectively ended. Of course, after the Seal was broken, Charlie was much more than the second Weasley son, the Dragon Keeper, the lover, and eventual husband of Hermione Granger. Charlie was a hero to so many people for so many different reasons.

There was a quality about Charlie Weasley that Hermione, in the years following the fall of the Seal, could not quite identify. In Charlie's eyes, Hermione saw knowledge, power, and anticipation. She knew that this quality had come after the Red Dragon had been unleashed once more over the skies of Britain. Hermione could only imagine what had really happened to Charlie by awakening Y Ddraig Goch, her memory of that night had grown fuzzy after a few years.

"Mummy, something's burning," Hank said from the kitchen door, and the spell that had Hermione gazing deep into her husband's eyes ended.

The cake was slightly browner than Hermione would have liked, but by the time the three family members sat down to eat, it did not matter. The months of nearly starving and eating out of tins had given Charlie and Hermione an appetite, and wasting food was akin to a mortal sin. Whatever was not eaten was saved, and what could not be saved, used as compost.

The world had turned many times since those dark months, Hermione knew, but still the lessons they were forced to learn were with them still, as were the fears. Looking to her son, Hermione smiled as Hank complained about one of his teeth being too loose to eat all of his corn. Charlie grinned, and reached for the cob, using a knife to cut the kernels away and passing his plate to Hank to rake off the golden morsels onto his own.

The world had turned, and still Hermione did not feel perfectly at ease. She supposed it was this unease that made Charlie fall into deep silences, looking to the stars, at times. Hermione did the same, not knowing why, but feeling anxious.

The world had turned, and Hermione felt as if the threat of Voldemort, the Inferi, the War, were ancient history. They both had caught a rare glimpse of something bigger than their world and the concerns therein. With that glimpse, the unease grew and the need to raise their son with the knowledge they held was imperative. It was not just the basic moralities they taught, and it was not the histories of the past, it was much more. It was the lesson that they had almost lost.

Listening to the earth and the magic that coursed under their feet, they taught their son how to feel the ancient music that underscored everything that was and would be.

Sitting on near the summit of Y Garn, he watched as the hatchlings, all three, romped over the slopes of the mountain while the mother flew overhead. Gliding on the wintry wind, the dragon was majestic, sunlight suffusing the thin greenish skin of the reptilian wings.

Far beyond Y Garn, he could see the shimmer of black hides of two Hebridean mates. The Reserve had survived, despite the force of destruction that had plagued the rest of Britain. In the face of evil, the dragons had not cowered.

So many things had changed, and Charlie knew that he had changed enough to make his friends and colleagues, even the woman he loved, notice. It was not a terrible change, but an unsettling change. He felt stronger somehow, younger, virile.

Charlie Weasley was still himself, still loved the outdoors, still loved to laugh, still loved to dream, but there was something…

It lurked deep inside, like a dormant piece of soul that was waking slowly into some realization. Charlie knew where it came from and when it had started, but he remembered nothing about how it had happened. He was compelled to watch and wait, knowing that at some point, perhaps not in his lifetime, something like the Seal, Voldemort, the Inferi, would happen again.

Whom the Gods would destroy, they first make insane… It was the title of Hermione's book, and Charlie knew the implications of the title. However, he was not insane, and the Gods, if they were real, had in no way destroyed him or the ones he loved. They would survive for another, another battle.

And when it came, Charlie would have to be ready, his children, his children's children, would have to be ready.

Acknowledgements

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