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"The Torch," Expanded Edition

"The Torch," Expanded Edition

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I've completed a revised draft of "The Torch," with the idea of posting it on Phoenix Song.  bandcandy is reviewing it now.  The original you already saw has been submitted to the "Phoenix Rising" Challenge as specified, and we'll see what happens.  But I really resented that word-limit, as there was so much more I wanted to say -- details, really, color and atmosphere and tangible things; the story line itself hasn't changed at all.  But with the addition of an extra 500 words or so (making the thing 35% longer), it now feels a lot less breathless.

Don't feel obligated to read it unless you're curious about the differences.  It's still the same story.  I like this version much better, though.

The Torch
By Rhetor
On her twentieth birthday, Hermione Granger went to Hogwarts to say goodbye.
She Apparated into the empty streets of Hogsmeade, thinking wistfully of all the times she’d told her friends that this couldn’t be done at the school itself. Passing the silent shops, smelling dry weeds and dust on the wind, she trudged up the ancient path until she reached the silent castle. The spells that protected Hogwarts, obeying their own obscure logic, apparently still recognized her as a student and let her in without resistance or reproach.
Grass was growing tall in the courtyards; Hermione was pretty sure that Argus Filch still lived at Hogwarts, but it seemed that his heart wasn’t in grounds maintenance these days.  She could hardly blame him. But otherwise the castle still looked tidy; she inferred that the House Elves continued to work. Idly she wondered whether they still prepared meals even when those meals went uneaten. There were more ghosts than before, but that was to be expected. Some of them she thought she recognized, but it wasn’t clear whether they recognized her. She didn’t feel like asking.
Not really by choice, more by old habit, she entered Gryffindor Tower; the portrait of the fat lady didn’t bother asking her for a password. The common room looked as comfortable and comforting as ever it had, even in the resentful silence. But she was not comforted.
The last witch in Britain sat down in a tough old armchair to brood.
Hermione had identified the spell, but it was Harry who insisted that they use it and that Hermione herself perform the anchor charm. Hermione had pleaded with him, saying that DeCamp’s Reflective Curse always obliterated not only the target but also the initiator. He’d be killed, she cried, and probably Ron would too.
He’d said, “This is how we have to do it. The Horcruxes may be gone, but there’s no other way of trapping and destroying a wizard as powerful as Voldemort. The Reflective Curse is all we’ve got, and this may be the only chance we’ll get. You have to be the anchor; you’re the only one with the skill to handle it.”
So she had given in, kissing Ron on the lips and hanging onto Harry as if she could keep him alive with her arms alone, begging them to take whatever precautions they could. Then she’d stepped back, got control of herself, and at 2:03 p.m. (Greenwich) on Sunday, 21st June 1998, she cast the anchor charm for the Reflective Curse.
And it had worked. Voldemort had vanished in a flash of pale blue light. And so had Harry; and so had Ron. Taking in their victory and her loss in one great moan, Hermione had sat upon the ground to weep, swearing that she would tell the whole wizarding world of their sacrifice.
But there was no one to tell.
DeCamp’s Reflective Curse seeks out and obliterates humans with magical abilities. It is a wizard-killer. The mandatory caster of the anchor charm is safe because of the inertial vectors of the spell, but all other witches and wizards within its range wink out of existence. In the recorded history of its use, no single invocation of this curse had ever claimed more than two or three victims. But no one had ever tried to use this spell with two wizards as powerful as Harry and Voldemort; no one had considered that the range of the charm might increase with the magical potential of the initiator and the target. In hindsight, Hermione calculated that the radius must increase as an exponential function of their combined power level.
There were no wizards left in Britain: not a wizard, not a witch, not a magical child. The Weasleys were gone. Hogwarts was empty. Nearly everyone she’d met since the age of eleven had vanished without a trace. The Muggles had noticed the mass disappearances – colleagues, friends, children gone of a sudden and forever –  but never connected them with magic. There was talk of kidnappings, political conspiracy, terrorism, plague. She who might have given them the truth had been in no frame of mind to say anything. And if she had, who would have believed her?
They had destroyed Voldemort – and committed the genocide of the wizarding world.
Her parents had taken her back into their house and cared for her. For the first few months she found it cruel even to get out of bed in the morning, and she’d spent her time thinking up ever more creative and pointless ways of punishing herself. She knew that no amount of research would have uncovered the disastrous exponential impact of the spell, but she found it hard not to think of herself as a murderer. She alternated between bone-cold grief and nauseating guilt. Being awake and remembering who she was was almost too much to bear.
Very slowly she’d begun performing the occasional spell to help around the house; there was no one to enforce the Statute of Secrecy now. She’d give her mother the occasional weak smile, although she never laughed. Finally, sitting before the fire one cold night in March, failing to drink from the mug of hot chocolate her father had put in her hands, she’d started to try to think of what to do with her life.
Overjoyed that their daughter had begun to speak of the future as something she might consider inhabiting, Mum and Dad had tried to talk her into reading Dentistry at university, or reading History and becoming a professor. Although she hardly saw the point, over time these plans seemed as good a way of holding back the darkness as any other.
But first, she’d decided, she had to face her ghosts, take leave of her old life. She had to do it in person.
Well, if she was going to say goodbye, she wasn’t going to do it by spending the whole day in the common room. One by one, as one might visit the pages of an old photo album, Hermione visited all her old haunts: the Transfiguration classroom where she had shined; the Great Hall where she’d had so many delicious rows with Ron and Harry; the Astronomy Tower, where she’d spent evenings wondering about all the people who had ever looked at the same stars she was seeing and all the people who’d ever see them; and of course her beloved Library. She wandered the aisles, caressing the spines of the books into which she had poured so much of herself. She thought about how she could spend years just drinking their contents. But to what end?
With some hesitation, wondering about her motives, she went to the Headmaster’s office.
“There’s no Headmaster and no students,” she told the guardian gargoyle. “You might as well let me in.” Apparently the statue agreed, for the door opened and the revolving staircase was revealed.
The office was just as she remembered it, save for some touches that Professor McGonagall had added during her tenure. The portraits were all sound asleep; no one had spoken to them in over a year. Many of Dumbledore’s old gadgets were still popping and whirring in various nooks.
The Sorting Hat was on a shelf. When she entered, the familiar tear opened up and it spoke, making Hermione jump.
“Hello, Miss Granger,” it said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“Hello,” she said uncertainly. How did one strike up a conversation with a hat? “How are you? You must have been lonely for the last year or so.”
“Not really; there’s lots of company inside my ‘head,’ as it were.” Hermione didn’t know what to say to this; she actually resented it a little.
“What will you do now?” She asked. It was a pointless question to ask. In the silent office the question bounced back at her off the walls.
“Oh, I’ll just wait for the next Sorting,” said the Hat placidly.
Something snapped inside of her; the floodgates opened.
“You stupid Hat!” Hermione found herself shouting. “There won’t be a next Sorting! Never again! Never, never , never – ” She collapsed into the Headmaster’s chair and wept into her arms on the desk, wept yet again for all she had lost, all she had loved that had deserted her.
As usual, she felt a little better after she’d cried her eyes out. She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and blew her nose, looking dully around the room. In the corner she saw a bookstand with a thick book and a quill sitting on it. She didn’t remember ever having seen it before, but it must have been here, mustn’t it? Her curiosity getting the better of her even at a moment like this, she approached the corner, still sniffling a little, and looked at the cover:
Register of Students Accepted into HogwartsSchool
This was the book, then: the book in which all their names were written as they were born, the book that magically predicted their attendance at the school. She wondered idly whether a name was erased when the student finally began to attend the school, or when she left, or when she died. If the latter, then Hermione’s would be the only name there. She opened it with some trepidation.
There were names going back a thousand years – tens of thousands of names written in tiny quill-scratches. A name, a birth date, a date of matriculation, over and over for hundreds of pages. Hermione was fascinated in spite of herself. She paged through the heavy volume, stopping to look at famous names she recognized, then the names of her teachers, then the names of her friends. Somehow she was able to detach from her loneliness and see all these names as part of the great chain that stretched back to the four founders, and ended – with her.
Then she turned to the last page:
Roger Lancelyn Barton
Born 17 July 1998
Enters 1 September 2009
Her brow furrowed in confusion. Born July 17th? she thought. But we performed the curse on June 21st! She read further:
Mary Chanter Song
Born 1 August 1998
Enters 1 September 2009
Melinda Leona Scribe
Born 15 August 1998
Enters 1 September 2009
David Jonathan Blanchette
Born 30 September 1998
Enters 1 September 2010
Hermione’s eyes widened. There were sixteen more names that apparently were to “enter” in 2010.
The last entry said:
Thomas Howard Vane
Born 18 September 1999
Enters 1 September 2011
“Born yesterday,” Hermione breathed.
Like the first glimmer of the sunrise over a foggy hilltop on a cold morning, understanding came to her: magical abilities regularly appear as a rare but viable mutation among Muggle-born children. Although every magical man, woman and child alive at the moment of the disaster had been erased from the world, nothing stopped new ones from being born.
New magical children; children like her. The castle was registering them as students, although the teachers were all gone. Hermione put her hand over her mouth in astonishment.
“I think you may need our help, Hermione,” came a sleepy voice from behind her, startling her again. Recovering, she turned around and saw the portrait of Minerva McGonagall, looking bleary-eyed but smiling at her.
“What?” Hermione asked stupidly.
“We are pledged, you know, to serve the current Headmistress,” beamed McGonagall, stifling a yawn, as if this were the most natural thing in the world to say.
Hermione’s heart beat more loudly and she felt dizzy when she realized the import of her old teacher’s words. She stumbled back to the chair behind the desk and sat down with a thump.
She looked at her hands. Three students would be ready to enter in 2009. Seventeen would be ready in 2010. More would be ready in 2011. There was no one left to teach them.
No one but she.
She clenched her hands into fists. Potions, Transfiguration, Arithmancy, all of it? It seemed impossible, overwhelming.   When the school was founded, she thought franticly, it had four teachers. She was only one.
But she had nine years and 347 days in which to prepare.


A/N (Sort of:)
Oh, incidentally:  If the radius of the Reflective Curse with two "normal" wizards were 21 feet, then assuming that this is the base figure on which the exponential function operates, and that Harry & Voldemort's combined power is five times that of two normal wizards, the radius of the expanded curse would be about 773 miles -- enough to take out all of Great Britain and a chunk of France, if performed, say, from Manchester or Leeds.

  • I love that you do all the maths!! Tiny Brit pick - we'd say 2.03pm (GMT) rather than 'Greenwich'.

    But still a great story.
  • This version makes me cry pretty much all the way through...
  • It doesn't seem a third longer, now does it? I think the details add to the poignancy. It's a wonderful, story, Ken.

    Btw, someone is looking for your "Counting to Five Thousand" at Checkmated. I don't belong there, so I can't help that person out. Maybe someone on your flist belongs . . .


  • Love the new version! I had wondered, when I read that you added in details and descriptions, if it would mean this version would drag a bit. But you kept your descriptions concise and the details clarify rather than bog down the story. Beautifully done!

    Btw, last night at 1am as I struggled to get to sleep, my mind might have been worrying over my flight today, family, work, etc. But no. I lay in bed wondering if the magical creatures like goblins and centaurs were still alive. And if not, then how would anyone ever access all that gold in Gringotts? I would assume they are alive since Hermione mentioned the elves.

    I'm also assuming that if they are alive, they pose no threat to Hermione? The Goblin wars don't sound like they were pleasant, but they don't seem in the stories like they are just itching for the opportunity to overthrow wizarding kind.

    And it just occurred to me on this reading that Hermione could always attempt to make contact with the wizarding world in France to let them know she's looking for teachers. Assuming, of course, that the the International Confederation of Wizards doesn't call her up before the court to explain the genocide. Frankly, I can't imagine that they WON'T go looking for her at some point to explain what happened. Something that huge just can't go without a response by the international community, can it?

    Lordy, I've given way too much time to this idea. Damn you for your originality! ;-D
    • Thanks so much.

      Yes, such a lot of details about which I don't have to worry unless I write a sequel! :) I tend to think that the Goblins will be helpful rather than hurtful, because Hermione alone is no threat at all, and there's no profit in hurting her. I also think (I may have said this in my comments to the first version of the story) that she'll contact wizards in France to get help. I don't think the ICW would know who to look for; it must appear to them that every witch and wizard in Britain was destroyed. It'll be after she starts looking for help, if at all, that they'll realize she survived.

  • More Please?

    This is so quintessential Hermione and right up there with Headmaster's Wall. With less pathos and hanky usage. But I am left wanting. Is there perhaps more to this little tale? I do so hope there is.

    Pachabel's Canon, seems just about right for this story. Headmaster's Wall would probably best be served by Adagio in D Minor. That always makes me cry, and so does that story.

    • Re: More Please?

      Thanks, Maggie. I suppose there could be more, but I don't want to get trapped into writing a multichapter fic about a universe I'm sure won't really happen. We'll see what occurs to me. ...Or maybe we'll see what occurs to you; maybe you could write the next chapter in that gorgeous descriptive prose of yours...
      • Re: More Please?

        I can see why you wouldn't want to put more into this particular universe. I've often said, rather dramatically, that I do not wish to live in a world where Harry Potter Bites It! One of the things I'm dreading about Book 7 actually. If that does occur I plan on having seven funeral pyres set up and burn each book in a Viking funeral the likes of which has not been seen in centuries. But that would require me building seven miniature Viking-like boats launching them off at sea and setting them afire at sunset. Darn!

        And as always you're too kind to this lowly writer. I would never presume to add one single word to anything you've written, it's just too good and does not need my rather archaic style of writing.

        As always I look forward to your next bit of writing.

  • Pssst! Have you seen this?:

  • this is a great fic! Althoug one little thing ocurred to me, as I was reading: Filch would still be there, wouldn't he? This would be a funny encounter...
    Also, this BEGS for a sequel!!
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