This chapter is starting to tell the story. So, we start in London - after the War is over, and the bombs have stopped falling.

First Thing's First

HPOV

I walk slowly through the streets, looking at smoking piles of rubble that were once buildings, that were once offices. I reach the river. The Thames still flows, I notice. Not even nuclear war can stop that. Christ. How did it come to this - me looking across the River Thames at a half-standing, half-ruined building. It takes me quite some time to realise I'm looking at the Houses Of Parliament. I know why I didn't recognize it - the clock tower of Big Ben is gone. Jesus. My grip on the rail tightens. I run towards Westminster Bridge. I must find survivors. I halt right at the end.

"Is anybody alive?" I shout as loudly as I can. "Can anybody hear me?" Westminster Bridge is still standing. I don't know how steady it is. But I have to try. If I'm going to find survivors, I need to be on the other side of the river. Trafalgar Square, Parliament, Charing Cross, Embankment, The Strand. There must be somebody alive out there. I cannot be the only survivor. I resist the temptation to run across the bridge. I take it slowly. It creaks alarmingly in the wind. I bolt for it. I land up only minutes from the Houses. Alive. The bridge is still up, but I think if we have a storm soon, it'll go down like a house of cards. The once elegant buildings are nothing more than rubble. I survey the damage. If there is anybody alive in that lot, there's no way I'll be able to free them. I try shouting again. "Hello! Is anybody alive? Can anybody hear me?" There's silence. I turn away. I start moving towards Trafalgar Square. I wish, suddenly, that I could change out of these clothes. A military style, for when I was fighting for the Resistance - the ones who shouted against the war - and the ones who killed the people who were big players in the War. But I can't not now. I have to focus on searching for survivors. Any survivors. "Is anybody alive?" I scream. "Can anyone hear my voice? Anybody!?" I reach the Square. It's devastation. The four columns are empty. The Lions are gone. The National Gallery is on fire, a huge blaze, out of control flames. "Oh my God," I whisper. "How many?" I sit down on what left of one of the two fountain ponds. I watch the flames roar.

I wake up with the sun on my face. It's cold. I sit up, stretching. I spent the night here. The Gallery is still burning. I roll over, awkwardly. My neck hurts. I am starving. I need to find food, and soon. A change of clothes. And then I have to start walking. Every other Resistance fighter I knew was based in Scotland. I can't get to them now - they aren't responding on the radios. But I'm going to go to Scotland, too see if there is anyone left alive. Harry, Ron, Ginny, Fred and George, Bill, Charlie, all the Weasleys, Seamus , Dean - everybody I've ever known and loved. All dead? Maybe. But if I survived it, perhaps they can. Perhaps they too, survive. I think about the only other Resistance soldier they sent to London. Draco. A friend. Where is he, I wonder? Last I heard from him, he was near Canary Wharf, helping evacuate people. God only knows if he's still alive. I can't reach him - but I don't even know if he had a radio. Mobile phones aren't working. My brain won't stop. It lists all the people I've ever known. How many dead? I shout again.

"Is anybody alive? Can anybody hear my voice? Anybody?!" I don't even expect a response anymore. I'll be lucky to ever see anyone again. But the thought of the lonely walk, all those hundreds of miles to Scotland alone, when God only knows what is on the streets now - I shake. But I can't give in now. If I reach Scotland, and there are people alive - then I can go into shock or whatever.

I can't sit here any longer. Nobody is coming. London is dead. And then somebody asks me who I am, and I spin round to come face to face with none other than Draco himself.

DPOVI can see a big column of smoke coming from Trafalgar Square. The Gallery must be burning. I almost turn away. Nobody could have survived that. I turn away. How many dead? I've been walking for days, walking towards the city, looking for any survivors. Looking for hope. I haven't found it yet. I sit down in a doorway. Pizza Hut. Jesus. Look at me, sitting here. I look up at what is left of Charing Cross station. Rubble blocks the doors. Poor souls. And then I hear something. It's faint. Am I imagining it? A girls voice.

"Is anybody alive?" It's coming from the square. I get up. "Can anyone hear my voice?" I run. I run, hope giving my feet wings, even though I haven't eaten properly for days. If there is somebody else alive, then there could be more. I round into the Square and skid to a halt. A young woman with golden-brown curls escaping a neat bun is sitting on what is left of one of the fountain ponds. She is gazing up at the National Gallery. There is a rucksack at her feet. Something about the way she sits, upright, but with her shoulders dropped and slightly forward is familiar. I walk towards her. She's got her back to me. I'm carrying the gun the Resistance gave me. I don't have any immediate plans to use it on her. She gets up before I reach her, picking up the rucksack. She's in uniform - our uniform. It suits her.

"Who are you?" I ask, and she whips round. I nearly fall over in shock. Her cinnamon eyes widen and her mouth drops open. She recovers first.

"Draco?" she gasps.

"Hermione! I thought - you were on the other side of the River. How?"

"I don't know. I woke up three days ago in what was left of City Hall. I followed the River. I went up towards Westminster."

"It's taken you three days -"

"No, you dick," she snaps. "I was looking everywhere I could for survivors. Nothing. Nobody. I thought I was the only one left. I haven't eaten for two days. I managed to find a sandwich place. But there's nobody left, Draco. The radio's totally silent. I've been on every single frigging frequency. I've sent out messages on every frequency. America isn't responding. I tried tapping into the networks -"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. You have the access codes?"

"Nope, but I did have the codes for Headquarters. Don't ask me how. That's partly why I've been so long. I searched his office. Got the codes for the network. But there's no response on the frequencies. Not from America, not from Europe. I tried Ireland, Canada, Norway - Christ, I even tried Russia. Nothing. Not a word. The entire world seems to be dead. Nothing but silence. The thing runs on batteries - I'm going to need to break into a shop and get some more."

"What's the damage like? How did you get over the River?"

"Westminster Bridge was still up - just. Half of London's burning. The other half is rubble. Parliament is a wreck. Tower Bridge - gone. Like it was never there. London Bridge - also gone. I was beginning to think I'd have to swim. City Hall, London Eye - everything's gone, Draco. Everything. What about over here? Damage?"

"Just a bit. The Strand is a wreck. Embankment is all but destroyed. The Tower of London's gone. I saw the bridge. I went down to Charing Cross - totally destroyed. I was in Canary Wharf. Its gone. Everything. It's been totally flattened."

We sit by the fountain, talking.

"You said you were in City Hall - that meant you had contact with Europe, the other fighters, surely some must be alive."

"Paris is silent, so's the Alhambra. Europe went silent the day before London was hit. The last person I spoke to was in Oslo - and that was more than five hours before we were hit. The last person anybody spoke to was somewhere in Sweden - we never found out where. I heard the bombs fall on Spain, I heard the people screaming as they died. I heard them screaming for help - help that everybody knew wasn't coming. Russia - well, nobody has heard anything from Russia for weeks." She pauses, but she doesn't lose control. I used to fantasize about making her lose the calm, collected façade she was always so careful about keeping up. But now I admire her for it. The ultimate soldier. Always, always a soldier, first and foremost. She was bloody scary when she got her hands on anyone who played a major role in the bombs. She wasn't interested in the foot-soldiers, those who did what they did because they followed orders. She was interested in the big fish. "America is silent. But I need to get to Scotland."

"You mean you need to get to Hogwarts," I say, naming the base out of which the Resistance was run.

"Yes, whatever. I need to get there. I have the access codes, they have the equipment. When we combine the two, we can transmit a message globally, on every frequency all at the same time. We can send out a signal strong enough to break through the blocks, to make sure every frequency on the globe hears my voice, calling out for survivors."

"And if we're the only ones that are still alive?"

"Then we cross that bridge when we get to it." She leaves the possibility that if we are the only ones left, then we will be the ones who have to make a decision about whether or not to carry on the human race. "But, first thing is first. We need food - when was the last time you had anything to eat?"

"Three days ago."

"Then we find a place to eat - we're in London, for goodness sake, there are plenty of café's and restaurants and so on around. And supermarkets. We'll have to find a campin store or something - better rucksacks. We'll need to plan for the journey, supplies, clothes, boots. And we might find a map useful."

"Don't need a map - I've got the tracking device."

"Does it still work?"

"Yep - here." I hold it out. "At the moment it only registers me. We can assimilate you, but it might take -"

"You'll be enough. We're going to stay together - yes?"

"Yes."

"Then we don't need to waste time we don't have putting me into a tracking device. Food first. We'll worry about rucksacks and supplies after we've had a decent meal."

The flames of the National Gallery as it burns highlight the colours in her hair. Her face is set. I don't even want to think about how many people she has seen dead. I don't want to imagine what she's seen and done in the last few days. It's what I have seen - and nobody wants to talk about that. Nobody wants to talk about seeing hundreds of dead bodies, piled ten deep on the pavements by what was once one of the worlds most famous industrial centre. Nobody wants to talk about seeing the mangled, broken bodies of children, who died in the arms of their mothers. Nobody wants to talk about what it was like to see Canary Wharf burning, people jumping from the tower blocks to escape the flames when the bombs fell. Nobody wants to talk about what it was like to see a ten year old girl vaporized whilst she screamed for her mother. I don't want Hermione to ever have to see that happen, and I know she will have seen similar or worse. But because she is a soldier, she will never agree to cry in front of me. My heart literally aches as I see her start walking. But I get up and join her. And although she doesn't say it, the brief squeeze she gives my hand shows me all the emotion I'm going to get. I know she is grateful that I am still with her.

We walk away, knowing that people have died in the building that burns behind us.