Chapter 1

October, 2004

The embers of the burnt-out bus still glowed as she walked past, the acrid smoke bitter and sour as she breathed. The once-bright red paint was curled and discoloured, but she could still faintly make out the advert that had proudly adorned the side of the vehicle – "Wicked" Returns to the West End! Come Experience the Magic." A corner of a green face and pointed hat was still visible. She shivered and averted her eyes, continuing to walk cautiously across the junction, her muted footsteps echoing faintly in the empty, desolated street.

In the distance a car alarm sounded, the only noise aside from the odd rustle of plaster and paper in the breeze – she wondered how long it had been going off. Months? Years? There was no one coming to switch it off, that was for sure. The city had been sealed off after the last attack on Westminster, and anyone still there had been left to rot in the toxic fumes from the ruins of the parliament. The sky was dark with clouds, polluted beyond recognition – rumour had it that London hadn't seen sun for nearly five years. Not that there was anyone left in London to see it, anyway.

Finally, she spotted what she had been looking for, and after checking – as had been drilled into her after so long on the run - around her, above her, for any movement, any shadows that shouldn't have been there, she made her way across to the telephone box. Its window panes had long been smashed in, and sprayed across in fading black paint was the final headline of the Daily Prophet: 'The Ministry Has Fallen.' Once a gateway into that institution, the telephone box had been smashed, broken, burnt and rendered useless. She knew that; had known that for years. But she didn't need to get into the Ministry – not that there was anything left of it below London's streets anyway; it had long since been cut out and transplanted to the towering walls of Hogwarts, now tainted beyond recognition or repair. What she needed was a message.

She scanned outside the box, her fingers running along the edges of the rough and splintered frames, feeling for anything unusual – a small grain of glass sliced her finger, and she swore softly. Nothing. She tried to pull the door open, but it was sealed shut, the hinges melted and blocked. Taking a few steps back she raised a foot, decked in worn but still sturdy lace-up boots, and with three sharp kicks crumbled the door into pieces. She stepped over the shattered wood, taking another look over her shoulder and tightening her hood, just in case. There, in the top corner, peeking out from behind an old poster for a comedy show, was a plain white card – no writing, but an embossed image on one side: a lotus flower. A small smile crept to her lips, and made her cheeks ache. She reached up and tugged it down.

Stepping out the box, she shoved the card into her back pocket, and walked briskly away without looking back. Away from the main street, she ducked into alley after alley, keeping to the shadows, with the rubber soles on her trusty boots masking most of the sound of her footsteps. The clouds were growing darker and darker, but still she walked. The streets were empty except for the debris that remained in the abandoned city – crumbling bricks and plaster from nearby towers and houses; overturned wheelie bins; and the odd crumpled heap of human remains. These she walked past the fastest - she did not ponder too long, not anymore. Muggle, wizard, who cared? She learned long ago that they all died the same way, around the time she realised she had a capacity for compartmentalising that would have once terrified her. The truth was, nothing did anymore. She stepped over bodies as though she were avoiding a large puddle.

Finally, the large expanse of grass and trees came into sight, along with a large white structure rising from behind over-grown bushes. One side had completely caved in, but she walked towards the left, which by some miracle still held most of its glass panes. She parted the branches and stepped inside, the smell of vegetation still overpowering, but without the heat that had once made this place so full of tropical plants and flowers – like much of the city, they had withered and died, and only the things with thorns and ancient vines remained. She burrowed herself down into a dark corner, and only when she knew she was completely obscured from view through the glass panes, she whispered "Lumos."

The card was perfect white – so clean and bright amongst the dark moss and dirt and dust that bled into the rest of her surroundings. Its corners were sharp, except for one that had crumpled in her back pocket. She smoothed it out as best she could, her grubby fingers leaving a grey smudge. Pulling down her hood, she ran fingers through her short hair, ruffling its greasy waves – she made a mental note to find running water at her next stop. But where was that next stop to be?

She pulled out what was left of the bread she had been given as she has left Normandy and stepped into that rickety little boat – it was hard now, but she nibbled it reverently. The older woman had been so sad as she pressed the little baguette into her hands, still warm from the oven.

"S'il vous plaît soyez prudent, mademoiselle," the woman had muttered, before turning away and walking quickly back to her cottage. She had had no time to reply, or reassure the elder woman – what could she have said anyway? Nothing the woman would have believed; nothing anyone could have believed, not after the darkness and the emptiness that had polluted Europe. She had pushed her boat from the shore, its ancient wood creaking against the waves, small though they were, and had kept her eyes on the shore as she rowed. She made out the cottage for a long time, but the woman never reappeared and that saddened her a little. Eventually the cottage disappeared, too, along with the shore, as she rowed further and further into the darkness, all the time praying that the sea stayed calm, and that she could have just this little piece of luck.

Swallowing the last small bite, and licking her finger, she lifted as many as the crumbs from her jacket as she could, and scooped them into her mouth. There was no waste in her life – nothing could be unappreciated, even stale breadcrumbs. In her other hand, the card still glowed lightly into the darkness. It was time.

Breathing deeply, she straightened her shoulders, and tapped the card three times with her wand. A message slowly appeared in a small, neat scrawl along the bottom, and for the first time in months, maybe years, she smiled:

'Miss me, Granger?'