The Second Empire

The Second Empire

Hunger.

A horrible hunger had eaten him, slowly, agonizingly, until only it remained. He was a hollow shell; he was an armor for a darkness. His hunger lead him to horrors untold of, of atrocities so barbaric they would have horrified the most terrible conqueror. Still, he hungered for power, more and more and more. He had been scarred horribly that day, when he lost everything, his school, his friends, and his lover. He sought vengeance above all else.

He had murdered many. His followers had footholds all over the world, manipulating politicians, engaging in shady business deals. No one would see his rise to power, it would be so swift. No doubt, there would be rebels, but he would crush them slowly... systematically...

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Hermione had learned to ignore the thunderous crash of bombs and the chatter of gun fire. She tuned it out, just like she tuned out the screaming faces of those she killed.

Her war was a long one, stretching decades into the past and, no doubt, would continue decades into the future. She fought for the Order of the Phoenix. At least she like to tell herself that. The Order was long dead, just as was the cause they fought for. No longer was the war about stopping evil, it was now survival. Nothing was sacred to either side; nothing sacred was left. Hermione was traveling down a torturous, mile-long trench in the midst of a battlefield.

She finally arrived at a bedraggled artillery post. Its occupant's clothes' were torn and bloody. Their faces were black with soot. Some had bandages were hurriedly looped around arms and legs; one soldier's entire scalp was bandaged.

"Fire," said Hermione, her voice as cold as Antarctic night. A soldier nodded, and turned to one of the salvaged cannons, and fired it with accuracy gleaned from years of experience.

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A thunderous crash was heard through his camp. He turned, unconcerned. A warehouse containing several tanks had been destroyed. They could be replaced. He nonchalantly returned to the armored gunship that brought him here. He had enchanted it himself. Resistance to bullets, the armor was sub-zero, impervious to heat seeking missiles, and shielded from most spells.

The barrage continued. As the shells from the artillery devastated the camp, a single tear crept down Hermione's cheek. It was not like her to cry, but she allowed herself despite the lack of leadership it indicated.

"There was once a person named Harry Potter," she said, quietly, "may he rest in peace."

Chemical gases drifted across the troubled field. Grass no longer grew, for fire had burned it away. Flowers no longer bloomed, for they had been poisoned by spells cast in ill will. It seemed as if only humans lived on the scorched planet. The soldiers were hidden beneath gas masks. Tanks were magically sealed tight. As the lethal gases cleared, enemies began charging across the open field. They were cut down, yet more always came. Hermione had made them faceless animals. This was wrong and she knew, but all in honor of the greater good.

The deadlock was still unbroken, and many enemy soldiers lay dead. The shadow of the old Hermione was revolted at the carnage, but the tiny voice of her conscience carried no weight with her. She had lost far too many friends to the so called 'morality'.

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He quickly signed the necessary documents, and his vast production chain stretching from Mars to Earth began to churn out replacements. Resources were teleported on board a spacecraft going to the Moon, where they would be processed and converted into weapons, which were given to soldiers. He had concern for the fate of those who used them. He turned to the circular window that looked upon the wasteland once known as Dover. Only a few foundations jutted up from the ash.

He was always sad, even when he was angry, he was sad. It was this deep agony of the soul that had driven him so far. How? How could she have scarred him so? With such cruelty in her mind, such malevolence in her heart, she had convinced him she loved him, only in stab him in back. He had her captured immediately, but somehow she escaped, now out there... Did he still love her? Maybe, in some twisted sense of the term. His soul was buried, the part that loved and cared was burned beyond recognition and buried.

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Hermione had spent too much time underground. It didn't matter too much; the sun was shrouded by far too much dust to be seen, and on the rare days it was visible, with the lack of an ozone layer, its rays would fry you to a crisp. As a result, her skin was as pale as paper. She was as thin as a rail; her eyes had dark rings under them. She was young, only about twenty-two, yet her hollowed eyes showed the experience of hundreds of miserable years.

Hermione's scars were similar to her nemesis, only she fought for right, was entrenched in right. However, long ago, she accepted this war to be about vengeance, not righteousness. She no longer cared about the original reasons for this war, only watching her foe dead amongst the ash, with his evil ideals. She had lost too many friends, seen too much.

"Harry," she murmured, sadly, looking out through the bunkers makeshift periscope, seeing the massacre her followers had wrought. Occasionally she thought of the wives, girlfriends, and children of those who she killed with so little remorse. Did they feel as she did when she thought of her old lover? Probably, but Hermione did not care. This was a selfish time, and she was a selfish person. She knew that; she accepted that.

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All he wanted to do was talk with she who had hurt him. She was out in the wastes; he had seen her, sometimes alone, sometimes with her comrades. He wondered if he should call a truce; speak with her one last time, before dueling for the fate of the Earth, nay, the Solar System!

Why do you have the right to send others to their deaths? his buried soul asked.

Because... it was what was done to me, he responded.

He would call a truce, and speak to her himself.

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Another charge, another massacre,

Still more die with every slaughter.

'Listen to what we leaders say,'

'Listen to us well'

'You must follow us or fall,'

'Into the heart of hell.'

Are they right, are we wrong?

Never we consider, never we think,

Charging ever forwards.

This was the verse every soldier knew. No one knew who wrote it; no doubt he was dead, they only knew that it was true. Hermione knew it to be very true. Her men repelled another attack, taking a step back with every bloodbath. Still, they listened to her, hanging on every word of her morale speeches, every syllable of her encouragement. Her charisma- was it a gift, or a curse? Men would follow her to the ends of the Earth, even march with her off a cliff.

Suddenly, the sound of a record player was heard through the shadows. The rickety device was playing March Slav, by Tchaikovsky, the equivalent of a white flag of truce. Hermione ordered her guards to follow her, and proceeded to the twisted tree that marked the border between her territories and no-man's-land. Several figures, presumably Imperial Guards, appeared through the fog of war. They were guarding a tall figure, dressed in a purple coat- the Emperor himself.

He stepped forward, and Hermione did likewise.

"Rest in Peace, Harry Potter," said Hermione, defiant of the Emperor.

"Do I look dead to you?" he said coldly.

"You do not, but the Harry Potter whose body you know occupy is dead," she said, her voice as resistant as two positively charged magnets.

"You betrayed me," he said, his voice always at a sub-zero tone, "you hurt me." Suddenly, it flared into emotion.

"You used me for your nefarious schemes in a collapsing government. Voldemort couldn't have been fought that way! You moved against him silently, trying to espionage your way out of it. You used my 'celebrity' status to advance yourself in the government," he said, furious.

"He could have been fought silently," Hermione responded, "and I did not use you. You were willing to take the risk."

"You screwed me over," he said, his voice burning with the rage built up over a decade, "and now we will the feud it."

Both figures stepped back. This would be a short duel, whoever cast first would win.

Hermione raised her battered wand. It was disguised as simple baton, customary of rebel officers. Harry raised his wand, a slender device of obsidian. Light seemed to fall into it as if down a pit. There were five seconds of silence. Two green flares shot from the wands, and one hit its mark. It all came down to this moment, victory or defeat. Suddenly, silently, the Emperor was dead; however, he looked somehow... serene. Hermione lowered her wand. The five Imperial Guards bowed respectfully, acknowledging her as the better leader. They picked up the first and last Emperor, and disappeared into the fog.

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Hermione knew atrocities had been committed on both sides. She knew those she had committed. However, the war ended without a costly, pointless guerilla conflict. The enemy simply threw down their weapons and joined the liberators. The Earth was being renewed, and animals were returned to their restored habitats.

Hermione returned to her infant daughter, hidden deep in a hideout on an abandoned oil rig in the North Sea. She hoisted the child up, and returned triumphant to New London, several miles down the Thames from the ruined old London.

She had often been just as bad as the Empire. She acknowledged that; she had come to live with that. At ideological extremes, was either side behaving very differently? It was all over, and now, cradling the infant in her arms, Hermione could at last be at peace with herself, knowing this tiny life was entirely dependent on her. Could Hermione ever bring herself to tell her daughter the Emperor was her father?

The End