Empire

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Author's Notes: As promised, the next chapter is here! Enjoy!

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BOOK ONE

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Chapter Two

Hermione was eight when she befriended Archie MacBoon, a boy a year or so older than her. Having skipped two grades, she already knew him from the classes they took together. He was a rather unremarkable boy, unassuming and quiet. He lived at the far side of the valley, further than where even the cows grazed. He often kept to himself and he seemed to prefer it that way. The kids at Dweller Haven did, too.

Hermione came across him on her way to the library one day, rifling through the bins outside of the village's repair shop. The other kids pointed and giggled behind their hands as they passed. Hermione, on the other hand, stared at him with a curiosity that was not easily satiated.

The boy paid little heed to the passersby. His slight nine-year-old form hung halfway inside the trash bin for him to even notice.

Hermione's grip on the strap of her school bag tightened. With an inquisitive tilt of her head, she stepped closer towards the scavenger. She veered off her usual path to watch him rummage through the trash. Why was he doing that?

"What are you doing?" she asked, partly out of curiosity, partly out of the incredulity of his actions.

"Go away," was the only muffled response she got from the depths of the bin. The boy didn't even deign to look up from whatever he was looking for.

Hermione huffed. She didn't care for his rudeness, but she stayed where she was, too nosy to obey. "But what are you looking for?" she wanted to know. Then as if realising something, she softened her tone, her words coming out tentative. "Are you—haven't you got a home?"

"What?" The boy's head popped out of the bin, dirty blonde hair sticking out in all directions and grease staining his cheeks. He balanced himself on his midsection on the wide metal lid. He shot her an annoyed look, deep blue eyes cutting gimlets, before he dove back down into the rubbish, continuing his search. "Of course I do!"

"Then…" Hermione persisted, "why are you in the rubbish?"

An exasperated sigh emerged from within the circular bin before the boy's voice echoed out of it. "It's none of your business, girl! Now, shoo!"

Hermione stamped her foot on the stone pavement, her frustration bleeding out. "But I want to know! And it's Hermione, not 'girl'!"

"Well, I don't give a—Aha!" he exclaimed. He hopped down from his perch and held out his find in the air like he'd struck gold, his face alight with delight. "Found you!"

Hermione peered up at his treasure to see the tiny thing pinched between his thumb and forefinger glinting in the sunlight. "What is it?"

"It's a heavy hex nut," the boy answered with a satisfied nod as he stored it in the pocket of his oversized trousers.

"A what?"

"A hex nut." The boy clapped his hands against his clothes in triumph, dusting himself free of the dirt and grime – to little avail. "It's a piece I need for my new inven—" he stopped short, as if realising he was answering questions he shouldn't be. "—tion…"

"An invention?" Hermione looked at him with wide, curious eyes.

The boy took a step back, realising his blunder. "It's-it's none of your business!"

But it was too late: Hermione's interest had been piqued. The thought of someone inventing something like the great Archimedes and Leonardo da Vinci was ever so fascinating and ever so exciting! She stepped closer, her excitement palpable. "What is it? Where is it?"

The boy leapt back away from her, giving her a strange look, as if she'd sprouted a second and third head and it was the strangest sight he'd ever seen. Properly disturbed, he ignored her questions, turned on his heel, and walked off.

But Hermione was persistent. So much so that she ended up hounding him about it all the way to the outskirts of the village and to the cottage he lived in with his family. The boy seemed at a loss by her attention, equal parts flustered and annoyed by her interest. It was only when he acquiesced to show her his work that she allowed him some peace.

They rounded into a small dilapidated shed with its ceiling askew and its foundations dilapidated. Hermione stepped inside what looked to be a workshop. Inside, there was a wide, wooden worktable leaning against the far wall, a single chair in front of it. Strewn across the surface of the table were various tools and paraphernalia: screws, gears, and bolts.

But what truly held Hermione's attention was the large contraption sitting innocently at the centre of the workspace itself. It was an odd-looking thing with a round, solid base. Suspended above was a flat metal blade, held aloft by a steel panel that ran parallel to the ground and attached to a thick metal pole. Four thick wooden columns sat affixed to the stone base and the pole, two on each side, holding it all together. Hermione tilted her head, unsure what to make of it.

"What is it?" she asked as she took several steps closer.

"It's a...it's a wood cutter," the boy answered in a soft, timid voice.

"And you made this?" There was awe in her voice. She wouldn't know how to build anything out of raw materials at all, not without instructions!

"Erm, yes," came the affirmative answer. The boy strode around his uninvited visitor and took a small wrench from the work table. He loped towards the wood cutter's metal pole and began tinkering with the gears that were apparently affixed there.

"What does it do?"

He shot her another annoyed look, as if it should have been obvious already. "It's a wood cutter. Obviously, it's going to help cut logs for us. I won't need to lift a finger to split those stupid things!" He stepped back from his work and took her by the hand. He led her a few paces away from the machine. "Here, let me show you!" He ran outside the shed and came back with a large stump between his thin arms.

The boy placed the thick block of wood on top of the base that served as a chopping block. He proceeeded to walk over to the metal pole where a lever stuck out behind it. He yanked it down. Almost instantaneously, the machine started to churn, its gears groaning to life.

A moment later, the steel panel suspended over the chopping block creaked with the minutest motion, before it swept downwards with such force that it split the log sitting on the block in two with a loud thunk.

The boy whooped with delight, flushed with excitement at his success. Hermione cheered along, exhilarated.

The wood cutter's blade rose up with a whine, sliding back to its original position, before it swept down again to where it had already split its victim in two.

Hermione glanced at her classmate, then back at his woodcutting invention. She had never been awed by anything or anyone before. Most of the kids her age were stupid and some of her classmates even stupider. Butnow she wasn't so sure. In the words of her daddy when he was particularly chuffed about something, she was 'mightily impressed'.

She secretly wondered if this was something people would consider only he could do and if this was something people would consider special. It wasn't like the way she could make Special Things happen; magic was a different sort of special. But creating something from their own imagination…

The boy looked back at her, his cheeks red, his eyes bright. "I'm Archie."

Hermione decided that that was Special, too.

"I'm Hermione."

Of course, Archie's wood cutting invention fell to pieces after it's fifth swipe down, much to the boy's consternation. But Hermione didn't mind. She knew a fellow genius when she saw one.

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Archie and Hermione became fast friends after their little run-in that day. Every day after school, the two of them would make their way to Archie's shed, where they could be found sketching out new ideas together, which, in the beginning had almost always devolved into bickering. Archie had more practical ideas – ideas for inventions that helped largely with daily life, such as a some sort of system that could help with fetching water from the well faster. Hermione, on the other hand, had grander, more unrealistic notions that no eight nor nine-year-old in a backwater settlement could even begin create, like a time machine or a mind-reading helmet.

More often than not, however, Archie could be found tinkering on more realistic projects and repairing the farm wagon while Hermione sat and read by the window nearby, content to offer unsolicited advice. And even though Archie acted like he found her meddling bothersome, in truth, he seemed to appreciate the company.

Dweller Haven was not a big settlement. It was no bigger than a small village, really. In Dweller Haven, everyone knew everyone else. So it was quite strange when, despite the level of familiarity with which everyone treated each other, the other children often gave Archie a wide berth.

Hermione hadn't noticed this until her mother had expressed her concern about their friendship at supper one night. She was quick to nip her mum's unfounded concerns in the bud, of course, proclaiming to her parents that he was her friend. She didn't understand why people avoided Archie. Sure he was a little odd, but then again, so was she.

Her parents had shared a look between them, exchanged small uncertain smiles, and let the matter rest. It wasn't often that Hermione made friends, after all (or at all). No doubt they had hoped that she'd take an interest in the other children her age once she'd mastered her magic. Alas, their daughter had pronounced every sprog in Dweller Haven an idiot and denounced any involvement with idiots. So it came as a surprise when she'd taken to dragging the poor boy about.

It wasn't until a few days after that Hermione found out the reason for Archie's isolation.

"Why are you hanging out with me?" Archie asked her out of the blue one quiet afternoon as they sat inside his workshop.

Hermione looked up from her book with a confused furrow of her brow. The look she sent him was blank and uncomprehending, though he failed to see it with his back to her, his head down low and his gaze focused on whatever he was working on. "Because…" Hermione began, her heart starting to pound in her chest, "we're friends?"

They were friends, Hermione's fingers tightened their grip on her book, weren't they?

Aside from her cousins, she had never cared for the other kids at school, nor did they for her, but that didn't mean she wasn't lonely. She was a bit too smart, she knew. Kids her own age didn't like her, and the older kids thought she was being arrogant and uppity, even though she was smarter than they were, too. But Archie was different. He could make Special Things, not in the way she could with magic, but he could make actual New Things. That was special.

The boy glanced at her over his shoulder, blue eyes glittering from where he sat by his stained, cracked worktable. "Friends?"

Hermione nodded, holding her breath and his gaze.

"Even though I'm a squib?"

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A squib was a person born from clobs but were themselves unable to use magic. Hermione had read all about them, but before Archie's revelation, she had not even considered that such a person existed in Dweller Haven — but, of course, they did! It was, after all, only logical that, just as she had magic despite being born from parents who were obviously ordinary, mundane people, there would be someone who was born with the exact opposite circumstance!

The fact that Archie was a squib did not deter Hermione from being friends with the boy, though it did answer why most other kids in Dweller Haven shunned him. From what little Archie had told her, he had been sent to Dweller Haven from a magical settlement called Pegasus Peak after he'd failed to manifest any bouts of accidental magic and when it had been clear that he didn't possess any magic.

His parents had willingly given him up, he'd told her as he kicked a loose stone on the road they'd walked on. Willingly. Because they'd been ashamed that he was...lacking.

Hermione had been so outraged when she'd heard this that she'd raged in front of her friend at the injustice. If this was how clobs treated their own children, magic users or not, then she was glad she stayed in Dweller Haven!

But what made her angrier was how things were not much better for Archie in Dweller Haven either. The villagers steered clear of him. In fact, people generally gave even his foster family a wide berth, because Mr Pickering was also, in fact, a squib. Even though Mr and Mrs Pickering were the nicest people who often gave Hermione fresh loaves of bread to take home with her. Even though Archie was a smart boy with a head for mechanics and a mind filled with imaginative inventions.

By the time Hermione had made it into the safety of her home, she'd worked herself up into such a state that she'd let loose a shockwave of magic that sent the windows trembling and light bulbs inside the house flickering. She hadn't lost control over her magic like that in years and it had sent Elizabeth Granger through the house in a panic.

Hermione's mother had taken one look at her before Hermione burst into tears, blubbering at how terrible people were and how clobs were so cruel.

Elizabeth had taken Hermione's face in her hands and pressed her forehead to hers, her own eyes sad. "It's the way of things, darling. If they had found out you had magic, we wouldn't have had a choice but to let you go too."

"But you didn't give me away. Archie said his parents were ashamed of him." Hermione's tone was almost accusing, anger once again surfacing.

Her mother wiped the tears from her eyes and smiled sadly. "I don't know any clobs, nor do I know how they live. But I reckon it's easier to hide a child with magic than a child who didn't have it in a place that was filled with it."

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There were very few people brave enough to leave Dweller Haven. Everyone knew the risk of going out into the world, out in the open, where any clob from the Empire could snatch them up without mercy. But even in a fairly self-sufficient, hidden society like the Freelands, a running economy would not be possible without some form of trade. That was where the travelling merchants and traders came in, magical and mundane both. Moving under the Empire's nose, the Freeland Traders were the fundamental link between all the other settlements throughout the continent.

Once or twice a month, a travelling caravan of non-magical people would come through Dweller Haven. They brought with them food and wares, services and information from other non-magical settlements. And it was during these events that the people of Dweller Haven could get in touch with the world beyond.

Nine-year-old Hermione loved it when the caravan came to town; everyone did! The arrival of the caravan gave the bored inhabitants a much needed change of pace and the excitement around the village was always apparent. But none was more thrilled than one Archie MacBoon. The elation he felt was so palpable, he practically vibrated with it.

"Come on, Hermione!" he shouted over the din, waving a beckoning hand at her frantically.

"Archie, wait!" Hermione called after him, huffing in irritation as he shot off between the stalls, mules, and wagons. She ran after him, dodging and wriggling between the press of bodies crowding around the square. They'd been to many caravans together, why was he in such a hurry? Honestly!

A few sharp left turns and a duck under a heavy trunk that two burly men were carrying later, Hermione found herself skidding to a halt beside her friend in front of a familiar merchant's wagon. The sign etched on a long rectangular plank that was hung on its side read, 'Travelling Tinker'.

Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes in mild exasperation at the sight of the hulking old wagon with its large wheels and curved roofing. It was made out of wood and metal, not unlike all the others around them. Aside from the moss green cloth that hung by the open window, the wagon seemed plainer and more nondescript than the rest, with little to no frills and hangings made to draw in a crowd. Of course, Archie would go to the tinker's shop first, of all the wares and services offered by the travelling caravan. Where else would he go?

Hermione hoped he'd hurry up; she wanted to go to the bookstall too, and her mum had given her enough money to buy three new books for herself today.

"C'mon, Hermione!" Archie tugged at her sleeve then walked over to a tall, lanky man standing by the open rear door waving a satisfied shopper goodbye.

"Hey, Mr Taylor!" Archie called out with a huff as they approached the tinker, slightly out of breath from his mad dash.

Mr Taylor bestowed them with a friendly, weathered smile. "Ah, Archie, Hermione!" he said. "What can I do for the pair o' ya?"

"Hullo, Mr Taylor," Hermione greeted with a polite smile. She had met the older man several times already, ever since she'd started going to the caravan with Archie. He always had funny contraptions with him, like mechanical mice and strange geared gizmos. It was obvious why Archie liked him, as one tinker would to another.

"I'd like some washers, rivets, and gears, please." Archie rummaged inside his canvas messenger bag and pulled out a thin piece of tattered paper, his laundry list of materials.

"Well, o' course, lad. Why don't we head on inside and see what I've got?" Mr Taylor jabbed a thumb at the open wagon door behind him.

Archie nodded enthusiastically and rushed off to clamber up the wagon, disappearing into its depths without even a backwards glance at Hermione. Mr Taylor gave Hermione an expectant look but she quickly shook her head and took a few steps back, deciding to hang back.

"I'll, erm, wait out here, thanks," she said sheepishly. While she enjoyed looking at all the knick knacks inside, the novelty of seeing a room full of mechanical devices she knew nothing about had worn off ages ago.

Nodding, the tinker turned and followed Archie insidemwhere they would no doubt get lost in conversation about technical whatnots for the next half hour and would likely not be out for at least that long. Shrugging, Hermione took a seat on a patch of grass nearby, under the shade of an old oak tree. She intended to wait for Archie and she lamented the absence of a book while she did so. She'd feel bad if she hurried him along, though. She knew how hard he worked to save up enough money to buy all the things he needed for his 'latest invention'.

She sighed again and settled in, letting the ambient noise of animals, jovial chatter, and general activity wash over her.

"Ah, I've just got the thing for your little beasties, Mrs Figg!" Hermione heard a jolly voice waft through the wind, enthusiastic.

Beasties, Hermione echoed absently, leaning her chin against the palm of her hand, her elbows resting upon her knees. Now that she thought about it, Mrs Figg was known to have a lot of cats. Some kids even said she had thirteen. Thirteen! And her mum wouldn't even let her have one!

"Oh, Mr Wimbles! These fabrics are just terrific! My kitties will love this!"

Hermione looked over her shoulder towards the voice and watched as Mrs Figg spoke with a tall, reedy man with an overly large nose by the wagon adjacent to Mr Taylor's. She was holding a coarse-looking fabric up for her inspection. "Do wrap them up for me, dear. I'll take them!"

"Oh, right away, mam!" The cloth merchant beamed. "Wonderful choice, mam!" He collected the cloth and wrapped it in a large roll of brown wrapping paper before handing it back to the grey-streaked, elderly woman.

Just then, Mrs Figg grabbed the poor merchant's gangly arm and practically dragged him a few paces away from his wagon. "So, have you got any news, Wally?" Mrs Figg whispered, loud enough for Hermione to hear from where she sat a few metres away, hidden behind the old oak tree the pair were standing by. "Any developments?"

Hermione regarded their mundane exchange absently. Dweller Haven was always more exciting when the caravan was in town, though she had heard her mum once tell her dad with an ironic roll of her eyes that people were more excited about the gossip the merchants brought with them than the goods themselves. Hermione supposed she couldn't blame them. Any news Beyond the Dell was certainly more exciting…

Hermione leaned back against the tree this time. She eyed the gossiping adults over her shoulder with disinterest, growing bored now. Where was Archie? Why was he taking so long?

"As a matter of fact," Mr Wimbles whispered back, voice in an unsuccessful sotto voce. His words sounded as airy as it was conspiratorial in the wind. "I heard that there was a raid in Belgium not too long ago, just outside of Brussels. Trashed a Facility, is what I heard."

"Oh, my!" Mrs Figg gasped, scandalised, hand fluttering to her chest. "Was it...them?"

"Aye, mam." Mr Wimbles leaned in closer. He glanced both ways, as if ensuring the absence of eavesdroppers and completely missing the little girl seated in the shadows. "The revolutionaries are doing as much as they can, but if you ask me, it's The Order that's got the Empire's knees shaking."

Hermione sat upright, intrigued now. She knew about the Freedom Forces. The revolutionary group of non-magical Freemen that openly opposed the Empire was very popular in the Freelands. They were certainly all anyone ever talked about in Dweller Haven. Her mum and dad often mentioned them during supper. The kids at school played at being a Freedom Revolutionary all the time. And though she liked to think she was above such childish imaginary pretend playing, Hermione thought them admirable and heroic to fight against the Empire.

As it was, everyone clamoured for news of them from the merchants during caravan days.

Mrs Figg hummed in agreement. "Indeed, The Order of the Phoenix is causing quite a stir, aren't they?"

Hermione blinked. Order of what?

Her gaze snapped back towards the adults. Now that was news to her. She'd never heard of an 'Order of the Phoenix' before. She frowned. In fact, if she was recalling it right, weren't phoenixes supposed to be some type of magical creature? She knew all about the other dangerous creatures that roamed in the Empire: trolls, dragons, goblins, vampires, creatures that hunt, kill, and eat human flesh, but no one had ever talked about phoenixes before.

"Aye, an' a big one, I can tell you tha'," Hermione heard Mr Wimbles murmur with an exhuberant nod.

"Well, good!" Mrs Figg huffed with conviction, drawing herself to her full height. "I daresay—"

"Hey, Hermione!" Archie called from a distance, drawing her out of the conversation she was listening in on. The boy waved at her from beside Mr Taylor's wagon, arms laden with tools and bolts, cogs, and metal whatnots. "I've got everything I need! Let's go!"

"Coming!" Hermione called back, now distracted. She jumped to her feet eagerly, the grown-up's conversation about revolutionaries, orders and phoenixes swept away in favour of the caravan haul of books that awaited her. Finally!

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Author's Notes: What did you think? I would love to hear your thoughts!