Nobody is exactly pleased when I report upon returning from my scouting mission. They're already on edge from Ginny's and my earlier observations that Colette is a witch unafraid to Apparate in Death-Eater infested London, and their nerves turn to outright dismay when I reveal her address.
"As I said, the house seems to be under the Fidelius, or something similar," I tell the assembled group. "Colette vanished without a trace, and I tested the spot only a few minutes after she did so, which means I should've been able to pick up something if she'd Apparated."
"Correct as usual, Miss Granger," Professor Flitwick says. "Your diagnostic spells should have registered traces of a magical signature – since they did not, this is clearly not a case of Apparition. It is reasonable, then, to conclude that this Colette lives in the area, and that her residence is magically concealed."
"Kensington – wow," Dean whistles. When several of the others – mostly the purebloods of the group – look to him in confusion, he adds, "Kensington is one of the most exclusive areas in London – costs a bloody fortune to live there. Colette's either filthy rich, or she knows someone who is."
"What does that matter?" Ron asks, looking annoyed. I glare at him. Is he so blinded by his own 'suffering' here that he's no longer capable of remembering crucial details?
"It matters, Ronald," I snap, "because only a select few still have the money necessary to live in such a neighborhood! Kensington's not like some other parts of London – it's still very much intact, and those houses are worth millions. Anyone living in Kensington is either a Muggle who's been very, very lucky, or a Dark sympathizer – because let's be honest, very few people on our side ever had that kind of money. Justin's been gone for ages – not that he was from around here, anyway – and we all know what happened to Harry." Perhaps that last bit wasn't necessary – we all know that Justin Finch-Fletchley and his family left the country before what would've been our seventh year at Hogwarts (shame, that, because not only was Justin fairly decent with a wand, but his parents were loaded – he'd been down to attend Eton before he got his Hogwarts letter, after all), and Ron's always been touchy about Harry's wealth – but at this point, I really don't care. I'm sick of pandering to Ron's shit all the time, and if he's offended by what I say, well, that's just too damn bad.
"Hermione makes a valid point, Ron," Bill says, quickly chiming in before Ron can reply and start yet another argument. "Fleur and I have run missions in that area before" – beside him, Fleur nods her silvery head in agreement – "and you have to be somebody to live there. You know how closely the Death Eaters keep track of magical folk around here – there's no way someone on our side, living in Kensington, would've made it until now without being noticed."
"It's not impossible," Ron mutters, but he yelps and shuts up when someone – Ginny, I'd guess, by the look on her face – hits him with a Stinging Jinx under the table.
"At least we now know where the young woman lives and can take precautions as necessary," Professor McGonagall says firmly.
"What sort of precautions?" Ron demands, but McGonagall silences him again with one of her best looks.
"Nothing that concerns you, Mr. Weasley," she states in a tone that says the discussion is over. Turning to the rest of us, she continues, "I think that it is time we discuss plans for the final battle."
"The final battle?" Ginny asks, frowning. "But I thought we said we weren't going to do that unless we knew we were ready."
"Times have changed, Miss Weasley," McGonagall says grimly. "As you know, the latest report from Scotland was not a good one, and as much as we would like to wait, I don't think we have that luxury any longer. We continue to lose people by the day, and of course we have already determined that Lucius Malfoy's presence in London likely means something big is coming, and soon." She shakes her head, her mouth set in a grim expression. "We can try to strike on our own terms, but if we cannot, we must be prepared." Ginny nods in understanding, her face as grim as McGonagall's.
"Let's get to it, then."
We spend the rest of the day poring over maps and drawing up battle plans. Ideally, we'd stage the final confrontation somewhere away from the Muggles – since we're in London, the Ministry is our best bet – but just in case fighting breaks out before then, we have to have backup plans. We're hoping to get as close to the Ministry as possible before barricading the surrounding area to contain the chaos as much as possible – and there will be chaos, there's no doubt about that. 'Survival of the fittest' might rear its ugly head when it comes to food, but any Muggles caught in the crossfire won't stand a chance, and too many people have died in this war already. If we can keep the Muggles out of the way, we will. We make lists of supplies and plan raids, and McGonagall sends messages to our groups in Surrey and Scotland. Getting them here will be exceedingly difficult (not to mention dangerous), but if this really is going to be the final battle, we're going to need all the help we can get.
St. Paul's – come quickly!
The message on our charmed Galleons has those of us at headquarters – and presumably anyone stationed elsewhere in the city as well – on our way in minutes. Thank Merlin the coins still work – risking a Patronus message is akin to a death sentence, so we really don't have any other instantaneous methods of communication. With no time for Ginny to do it for me, I spell my hair into a braid, stuff my pockets with emergency Portkeys, and turn on the spot, reappearing on a side street near the iconic church. I've barely materialized when I'm yanked to the ground, a nasty-looking spell sizzling right through the place I'd just been standing.
"Thanks!" I gasp with a glance at my savior. It's Dean.
"Anytime." His eyes are wide but determined, and as soon as he's confirmed that I'm alright, he's on his feet and racing into action. I jump to my feet as well, taking in the scene as best I can.
I'm not sure who sent the call for help, but it was warranted. Smoke is billowing out from another alley not too far from my own – not from the cathedral itself, as far as I can tell, but something nearby is definitely on fire. Shouts and flashes of light fly in all directions, and someone cries out in pain as I turn the corner. Muggle bystanders are screaming as they try to flee the scene, the lucky few fast enough to get away while others fall to stray curses. The Death Eaters are getting bold, attacking in broad daylight without a care for the statute of secrecy. I see a trio of them raise their wands against what looks like a group of teenagers.
"Reducto!" The wall behind the Death Eaters explodes, their bodies buried under tons of brick and stone. The teenagers look around in fright for a moment before running away as quickly as they can. I hurry toward the pile of rubble, searching for signs of life, and spy a hand clenching a wand sticking out from under a rock. Without a second thought, I stomp on both the hand and the wand, snapping the wand in half and guaranteeing the hand's unfortunate owner at least a few broken bones, if they're even still alive.
"Crucio!" I just manage to duck the Unforgivable flying my way; it hits the wall behind me with a nasty sizzling sound.
"Sectumsempra!" I hiss. It's a horrible curse and I know it – did I not verbally rip Harry to pieces for using it on Draco Malfoy in the bathroom all those years ago, especially when he didn't know what it did? – but the time for playing it safe is long past. The Death Eaters have always shot to kill; we can't afford to do otherwise. The GHRS forces refuse to use Unforgivables if we can help it, but there are plenty of other spells that cause death just as easily, and since the cure of this particular spell died with its creator, the chances of anyone recovering from it are slim. The curse hits its mark and vicious cuts slash their way across my unfortunate victim's torso as they fall to the ground, blood pooling around the body and running in little streams down the road. I don't know what it says about me that I barely even feel nauseous anymore at the sight – or thought – of what I've just done. It's not my first kill, and it won't be my last.
"Bombarda!"
"Incendio!"
"CRUCIO!"
Spells continue to fly all around me as I take shelter behind a pile of melted, twisted metal that looks like it was once several outdoor café tables. My eyes sting from the smoke, and the stench of blood and other bodily fluids is horrific. I look up over the remains of the table just in time to see Ginny bring down a Death Eater with her infamous Bat Bogey Hex, and two more fall as the pavement around them explodes, the caster invisible from my vantage point. Fleur races by, fire sprouting from her fingertips and her beautiful face streaked with soot – she's only a quarter-Veela, but she did inherit certain traits from her grandmother, and a Death Eater a good twenty yards away shrieks as a fireball hits its target.
"Hermione, help!" I turn quickly to see Dean gesturing frantically in my direction from a shop entrance just a few doors down. I can't see what's wrong, but he looks terrified, and it must be something bad for him to call out my real name like that. I hurry to his aid as quickly as I can, firing curses as necessary and taking down two more enemies along the way.
As soon as I reach Dean, my battle-hardened senses are tested, and I nearly vomit when I see what – or rather, who – lays at his feet. It's Professor Flitwick, his face covered in blood that still leaks from an unseen injury.
"What happened?" I demand, throwing up protection spells to give us a minute to talk.
"I don't know," Dean replies. He's breathing hard as if he's just been running. "I turned just in time to see him fall – took down the bastard who got him, but I'm not sure what hit him. He needs help, fast." I nod. Whatever it is, Flitwick is in a bad way.
"I hate to leave you here," I say, my eyes quickly scanning the battle still raging all around us. Another wall explodes, sending detritus flying in all directions, and we instinctively duck, although the protection spell stops anything coming our way.
"We could use your help," Dean agrees, "but we need Flitwick. If he dies…" I nod grimly. The Charms master has been instrumental in our campaign this far, strategizing with Ron and teaching us all some immensely tricky spells that have saved our lives in one way or another. If he dies, we're in big trouble. I understand Dean's indecision as well. I'm a strong fighter, but I'm also one of the few GHRS members who's mastered advanced healing spells, and given the severity of Flitwick's injuries, the basics won't cut it here. McGonagall and Fleur are quite good as well, but I haven't even seen McGonagall since the battle began, and Fleur is still a walking inferno. Getting their attention would take precious time that Flitwick doesn't have to spare.
"Say no more," I tell Dean. "Flitwick's not dying on my watch." I pull one of the emergency Portkeys from my pocket, wrap both my own hand and the unconscious professor's around the little token, and whisper the activation phrase. Seconds later, we materialize in the entrance of headquarters.
"Ron!" I shout. "Lavender! I need your help!" I know they're both here – Ron, of course, is still under house arrest after his stupid stunt with Colette, and Lavender's nonverbal magic is fine for her spying operations but definitely not strong enough for battle, so she always stays behind. Both of my former schoolmates come running, and with their help, I get Flitwick situated in our makeshift infirmary.
"Bloody hell!" Ron mutters at the sight of Flitwick's mutilated face. "What happened?"
"I don't know, Ron," I snap, "but if I don't help him now, he's going to die. Get me some dittany! Lavender, I need a big bowl of water and some towels." They hurry to comply with my orders, and the greater world dims around me as I focus everything I have on saving the Charms master.
Hours – or maybe it's days – later, we're all situated around the table in headquarters, utterly exhausted. The rest of the group returned not long after I did. Fleur's left arm was bleeding, Ginny had a nasty gash on her forehead, and Dean was limping on a broken ankle, but no one else had any major injuries. Flitwick, thank Merlin, is going to pull through – he's lost his left eye, which accounts for all the blood, but diagnostic spells revealed no lasting effects or lingering curses. He's resting now, but he'll be alright.
"One of the schools near St. Paul's is burned to the ground," Bill reports. He looks ready to keel over and sleep for eternity. Fleur, her healing arm in bandages, rests a comforting hand on his. "We're not sure how many students were in there when the fire started, but it doesn't look good." I grimace at his words. The attack happened in the middle of the day – there's no way the school was empty, and although I saved that one group of teenagers, it's too much to hope for that all of them made it to safety.
"They attacked in the middle of the day," Ginny echoes my thoughts, her brow furrowed in a deep frown. "They've never done that before – they've always been careful to avoid outward displays of magic around the Muggles."
"I don't think they care anymore, Gin," Bill replies with a sigh. "The fact that they openly attacked today just tells me one thing – Lucius Malfoy's arrival was some sort of catalyst, and they're ready for the final confrontation, whether we are or not."
Bill's words sit heavy with all of us as we digest their meaning. Ready or not, we're out of time.
