Chapter Text
PRELIMINARY NOTES
I held this story captive in my mind for a long time before putting it on paper. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always found something strangely beautiful in the brokenness of a dystopian world. The Road by Cormac McCarthy is one example of an artful piece of literature that didn’t depress me, but touched me on a deep, human level. What happens when the world is empty, void of hope and light? Both video games of The Last of Us rocked something inside me, and made me question how a realistic downfall of humanity would unfold. Therefore, I decided to write something dystopian, postapocalyptic-ish.
And oh boy, did I enjoy writing it. But this story could never be canon, because there are at least 3-4 alternate universes (AU) mixed into one. So, if you don’t mind, play along! Let’s pretend it’s realistic. This is a story about the rise of a new regime and the fall of society as we know it. It’s a story about survival, redemption, resilience, morality, solace and of course, love.
On another aspect, be mindful and gentle with me—I’m a human being just like you. I have thoughts, opinions and emotions. My craft is imperfect, English is not my first language, and I have no betas*. There are so many beautiful and unique fanfictions out there, and if you don’t enjoy mine, please move on quietly to something else! You will undoubtedly find your cup of tea, and I will be very glad for you even if mine wasn’t it.
However, if you like my story, make a fangirl HAPPY and don’t hesitate to leave a comment! It goes a long way, and way more than you think! <3
*Note: The amazing beta AstraNoctis volunteered to beta this work after it was written and posted. As of Feb. 2025, each chapter will be reuploaded with the edits as we progress. Might take months.
Spotify playlist: Numberland playlist
Pinterest moodboard: Numberland moodboard
Choices of covers: Numberland covers (I love making covers so much so I made a bunch. I'd appreciate if you could use those for your Kindle uploads but you don't have to). Also, I received a wonderful gift of a FANART COVER by Darrusha, you can see it below. It's simply gorgeous. You can follow Darrusha on Instagram here.
You can follow me on Instagram and connect with me!
Disclaimer
I MAKE ABSOLUTELY NO PROFIT FROM THIS STORY, AND YOU SHOULDN'T EITHER. ALL RIGHTS AND COPYRIGHTS BELONG TO J.K. ROWLING (BOOKS) AND WARNER BROS (FILMS). SORRY FOR THE ALL CAPS BUT THIS IS SERIOUS. I DO NOT ALLOW ANY EXCHANGE OF MONEY REGARDING MY FANFIC. IF YOU WANT A BOUND COPY, YOU CAN LEARN HOW TO DO IT YOURSELF OR MAKE AN EXCHANGE WITH A BINDER.
Happy reading. x
CHAPTER 1: GRAVE NEW WORLD
England, Highcross Mall—May 2004
Some shops in the shopping centre hadn’t been looted yet. In a few places on the second floor, the glass railing was shattered. A dangerous hazard to anyone nearing the edge. Hermione had heard the story of the Muggle who had crashed below, his body fracturing in multiple places on impact.
He had a freshly new box of toothpaste clutched in his fist when he was found.
Hermione and Neville were walking side by side, lining the wall—not the railing. They kept their bandana high on their nose by force of habit. The smell of the fog was stronger outside, but its rancid stench slipped through every crevice and hole of the building. At least, its deadly fumes had faded since its first appearance seven years ago.
Neville was holding the tiniest green radio by its handle. It was sputtering with an omnipresent white noise. The voice changed every day; they suspected that whoever was behind it altered their voice.
“We have received information that the Empire has opened another international Floo fireplace. The Russian Ministry of Magic will be the seventh sponsor of the games.”
Hermione sighed loudly, hand wrapped around her wand. “Seven. That’s one sponsor for each year.”
“They haven’t reached across the ocean yet.” Neville stopped to peek inside a deserted clothes shop. “That’s a plus.”
“Here’s a list of every reported Scavengers sighting in the last 24 hours: London—2, Glasgow—2, Plymouth—1, Aberdeen—2, Edinburgh—1, Oxford—1.”
She frowned, looking at him. “You think that’s their goal?”
The store was in disarray, with plastic hangers strewn over the carpeted floor, various pieces of clothing on the floor or hanging limply from one edge of a hanger.
Neville shrugged. “The fog is already all over the world. I’m pretty sure they want Empires in every country.”
The radio sputtered. “If you spot a Scavenger, please report it to FM-034.”
Hermione shuddered, imagining a Numberland empire in every country.
Neville made a beeline for the till, which had already been pried open. He grunted in frustration. “Ginny won’t be happy.”
Trades happened often, between Wizards, between Wizards and Muggles and between Muggles. Most Muggles still preferred to be paid in cash. They had a monopoly of guns and ammunition—these were the supplies that Muggles had flocked to seven years ago. Petrol was as rare as a home-cooked meal.
The metal carcasses of cars littered the roads and highways, abandoned, burned or out of petrol. The main arterial roads were clogged with endless lines of abandoned vehicles. When the raids happened, the Death Eaters had brought down bridges, burned the boats and the airplanes, destroyed the radio and cell towers. The fog had wiped out humanity, the raids decimated society.
Muggle survivors had only recently restarted travelling by car, avoiding the clogged roads, but it attracted a lot of attention, so only the Rogues did it.
Neville had purchased three gas masks and one M16 rifle from a Muggle seller. Muggles made Wizards pay even more for a weapon, since they already had their wands. Neville kept the gun strapped to his chest every time he went out.
Hermione watched the weapon dangle between his shoulder blades and blinked away. “Let’s look into the other stores.”
The radio kept talking. “Here’s a list of the people we know have been captured in the last week to play: James Greentoe—Muggle-born, Patricia Mackenzie—Muggle, Clarice Miller—Muggle, Aurelia Sparks—Muggle-born, and Dallas Silverthorn—Half-blood.”
Hermione and Neville exhaled at the same time. No familiar name. Captured Half-bloods and Purebloods were new from this year, though. For the last six editions of Numberland, it had always been Muggles and Mudbloods.
Since her encounter with him three years ago, she took even more precautions. The Empire now probably knew she was alive. She always tied her hair in a tight bun on top of her head, wore large sunglasses and always kept her purple bandana high on her nose.
Neville exited the store and she followed closely. “Actually, we can’t do all the stores,” he said. “We’ll waste time.”
“We can separate,” she offered.
“Remember, avoid large, open areas above the ground,” the radio went on, “cover your face and don’t travel alone. Stay safe.” The white noise returned, and the voice disappeared.
Highcross was quiet, as usual. There hadn’t been any reported Scavengers sightings in Leicester for over a year. It almost felt peaceful, roaming in an empty shopping centre cluttered with discarded and broken objects.
Neville stopped in his walk and gaped at her with the hint of a smile. “Ginny will hex me if I let something happen to you.”
Hermione chuckled. “And she’ll behead me if something happens to you, so,” she sighed, “let’s stick together.”
They continued their progress through the second floor, inspecting every store. The vitrines were all shattered, so entry wasn’t hard. Their soles crunched on the floor.
As they approached the unmoving escalator, there was a loud boom on the first floor below, followed by a shower of tinkling sounds. Something made of glass had been destroyed. They reacted instantly. Neville grabbed her arm and tugged her quickly and quietly behind the nearest stand.
They stared at each other in dead silence as they listened, wand in hand, crouched. How they were going to react and how the situation was going to unfold depended on whether it was a Muggle, a Rogue, another Wizard or a Scavenger on the first floor.
There was a cackle, feminine.
Then the sound of a gun cocking. “Lower that thing or I shoot!” A male voice.
“Do you really think your toy scares me?” The young female voice replied. It sounded familiar to Hermione’s ear. She had heard that voice at Hogwarts a long time ago.
Neville was frowning at her, wondering the same thing. They kept listening.
“I swear, one move and I shoot you in the head!”
“Aw, there’s no need for that, sweetheart.” Another soft cackle. The echo of the voices reverberated against the high ceiling, surrounding them completely. “The choice is simple. You play or I kill you right here.”
“Millicent?” Hermione mouthed, eyes wide, and Neville nodded. It had clicked. The ex-Slytherin was standing somewhere under them. The situation was easy to imagine—she was dressed in Scavenger black and pointing her wand at a Muggle that was pointing a gun at her.
A gunshot was fired, and glass exploded somewhere. “You fucking bitch!”
“Last warning.” Millicent’s voice was lower, harsher, now. “games?” A pause. “Or death?”
Hermione’s thoughts were racing through her brain with fear of what could happen. To Neville, to her. They each had their suicide pill if anything happened. And Millicent seemed to be alone, so she was outnumbered.
They could intervene. She probably should. With the element of surprise, they could take the Scavenger down. But they wouldn’t.
Intervening meant risking your life.
As a second shot was fired, Millicent’s protective spell rang in the mall. A short silence. “Thank you for choosing. Avada Kedavra!”
A body collapsed with a thud. Hermione held her breath and Neville took her hand. She hoped Millicent wouldn’t go to the second floor. She hoped she wouldn’t cast a Homenum Revelio.
She didn’t want to kill today.
“You could have been good.” Millicent sighed dramatically. “You had the build for it.”
Her footsteps started crunching as she walked away, in the opposite direction from the escalator. Hermione and Neville remained crouched and perfectly still until her footfalls were distant and barely audible, then they listened for the faraway plop as Millicent disapparated.
They exhaled a breath of relief.
Her throat was tight and her palms were clammy.
She dusted herself and looked up, noticing the Empire’s games symbol painted on the glass railing. Three full geometrical shapes, side by side. A triangle. A circle. A thick, slightly diagonal line.
The Muggles knew it as the Empire’s games symbol.
Hermione and the disbanded Order knew it as the Deathly Hallows’ symbol.
________________________
Scotland, The Empire — July 2004
Voldemort sat at the centre of the ebony table, facing the room, his serpentine hands gracefully crossed in front of him. Dolohov and Yaxley were flanking him.
The Dark Lord’s companions were seated in front of him, half to the left and half to the right, on elegant chairs equidistant from each other. The building that had become a sort of Town Hall had been built where Hagrid’s hut used to be. It was a colossal, spiked structure made of black granite, with front windows as tall as a tree. The main room was luminous during the day, soaking up the daylight.
The Death Eaters looked haggard and thin, with various shades of purple pockets under their eyes. Various degrees of how tired they were.
Voldemort had invited all High Scavengers, Trainers, Gamemasters and his top Death Eaters to this early August morning meeting. The room was filled to the brim, even though half of Voldemort’s body of followers were deployed around the world to maintain control.
In the last chair in the last row, Rita Skeeter was scribbling fanatically on a notepad. She always attended these meetings, using them as fuel for her articles in Empire This Week—the only chronicles still circulating across the country. It wasn’t a newspaper. It was single articles, folded into planes when they were finished. They flew wherever the wind took them.
Draco Malfoy sat, spine straight, besides his fellow Trainers. He wasn’t a Scavenger anymore. Keela, his German shepherd, was either still asleep on his bed, or roaming around the dorms, questioning where he’d gone. He didn’t like bringing her into Town Hall.
The first time the Dark Lord learned that Draco had ‘brought back’ a dog, the only thing he’d said was don’t let that animal get in the way of your work. So Draco had trained her to help him in his duties.
“Where are we with our games’ financial statements?” Voldemort asked Dolohov. Nagini was wrapped around his bare ankles, hissing quietly.
Draco’s eyes landed regularly on the snake, searching, wondering. The words he had overheard so many years ago slipped back into his mind sometimes, when the snake was in their presence.
The snake is the only one left.
Only what left?
Dolohov looked at his parchment and cleared his throat. “Fewer than last year, my lord,” he said.
The Dark Lord turned to him. “And why is that?”
Dolohov looked at the four High Scavengers in the room. “Players are getting harder to capture, my lord. They’ve reclaimed some territory on the surface.”
Voldemort looked at the High Scavengers too, his red eyes burning into them. “That is quite unfortunate.” He gestured to rise from his seat and Yaxley stood up, moving his chair back for him. The Dark Lord picked Nagini up from the floor, wrapped her around his shoulders, and started pacing.
“It has been seven years since my victory over the Wizarding World,” he declared, caressing Nagini’s leathery head. “I believe in this number. I believe seven means something. This year will be the seventh edition of the games. We need this year’s money to expand our Empire in the eastern region.”
This wasn’t a new speech. Voldemort said something similar every year. Last year, they had expanded to the Forbidden Forest, and it was still teeming with creatures. It took several skilled Ward casters to establish the wards around each new parcel of territory they gained. There were four ward stations around the Empire, one at every cardinal point.
“Furthermore,” he continued, “China has expressed its interest in replicating our lifestyle. If we have the necessary workforce, we can assist them in building their Arena.”
Murmurs of assent hummed around the room.
A corner of the Dark Lord’s mouth twisted up. “They have been invited to our Christmas celebration. They will announce their decision then.”
Draco watched him and his snake, gaze dancing between them. Players had been easy to capture in the first years after the Battle, when he had been Scavenger. Everyone was confused, scattered like terrified bugs—trying to escape the fog and the Death Eaters. But since last year, the other side was more resistant. Crawling back to the surface, their features forever hardened and carved by grief and hunger.
“What are our exact numbers, Dolohov?” Voldemort asked.
“We are nineteen players short, my lord, and last year, at this time, we were only four players short.”
Voldemort hummed, faking reflection. He clasped his hands behind his back. “What can be done?”
An uneasy silence settled in the room. Nobody said anything. Voldemort kept pacing, quiet and ominous. “What can be done?” he repeated, louder, demanding replies. Nagini nestled in the crook of his neck, coiling tighter around him.
“Raising the stakes?” suggested a gamemaster.
Voldemort kept pacing. “The games are a chance for the muggles, mudbloods and traitors to be part of our new world, to prove that they are worthy. We give them freedom, shelter, and salvation. Amongst other things.” He sighed audibly. “The stakes are already at their highest.”
Silence fell once again in the room. Draco kept glancing up at the snake. The only one left.
“High-value players.” Rosier cleared his throat after a little while. “My lord.”
The Dark Lord stopped pacing, his white face turning to stare at the Death Eater. “Can you expand on this idea, Rosier?” He never gave any choice, he simply liked to give the illusion of a choice.
Rosier blinked six times in a row, his nervousness transpiring, and leaned forward on his cane. “We need high-value players to participate in the games, my lord.”
Something hateful and ugly came over Voldemort’s face. “Muggles and Mudbloods don’t have value .” He spat the last word as if it tasted acrid.
Rosier didn’t falter. “I meant—”
“I think what Rosier meant,” Nott Senior said, “is that we need players that are recognizable. Players that are highly famous. Like the youngest Weasley boy two years ago.”
Voldemort hummed in acknowledgment. “It’s a pity that we still haven’t found our Undesirable Number One after seven years.”
Draco’s heart skipped a beat and something cold coated his stomach. He knew where this was going.
“Yes, Potter’s mudblood,” the Dark Lord continued, his voice lower and thoughtful.
“She hasn’t been spotted since the Battle, my lord,” Yaxley interjected. Draco looked at his shoes, ignoring his thundering heart. “We don’t know if she’s alive.”
Somehow, Draco was sure that she was still alive. The first and last time he had seen her was already three years ago. Almost caught her. No, that was a lie—he had caught her.
And let her go.
He had never told a soul about their encounter.
If he said something now, he was a dead man.
He occluded immediately and started to play mindlessly with the hem of his dark navy sleeve. Trainers had to wear navy blue, Gamemasters grey, and Scavengers black. Only Death Eaters were cloaked.
Draco missed wearing black. On his days off, he liked wearing his black cloak.
“Draco, boy, you were her classmate, weren’t you?” Voldemort slithered, pinning him with his red stare. “Any ideas how to get her to play?”
Draco blinked his stare away from Nagini and swallowed the bitter bile burning his throat. “Draw her out.” His response was quick, expeditive, like the answer was begging to come out. Like he was expected to answer.
“How can we manage that?”
Let’s go back three years ago and send another Scavenger to Bromley that day. “She’ll play only if she’s forced to.” Draco held the Dark Lord’s gaze, thinking back to his encounter with her. “She doesn’t care about her own life. Threatening to kill her to force her to play won’t work.” He thought about the suicide pill she’d almost swallowed. Had she taken another since then?
No, Granger was above suicide.
Voldemort nodded. “I assume you are right.”
“What about her relatives?” Dolohov suggested. “What if we get them first?”
Draco didn’t know bloody thing about Granger’s parents. They could be dead for all he knew.
“Dolohov, your task is to ask Soothsayer at the Archives,” Voldemort decided. “We must have records. Once you have a location, take Yaxley with you. Don’t come back until you have some vermin who share the same blood as her.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Voldemort looked at all his followers at once. “Meanwhile, I want every Scavenger to be on alert for…” He looked at Draco, “what’s her name, again?”
Draco blinked. “Granger.” Voldemort frowned, and he cleared his throat. “Hermione Granger.” Her name felt wrong on his lips. He couldn’t remember the last time he used it. Had he ever used it?
“I want every Scavenger on high alert for the mudblood Hermione Granger,” Voldemort repeated, then looked intently at Skeeter. “Refresh our fliers, if that’s what it takes. Let’s offer a generous reward.”
Skeeter nodded, and murmurs travelled in the room. Draco thought at that exact moment how childish this all seemed. Making people partake in the Empire’s games.
Voldemort dismissed them and they rose from their seats, chair legs scraping on the marble floor.
Draco dodged everyone that could have something to say to him and left the building. He went back directly to his quarters. Dormitories had been built, huge rectangular structures on the other side of the Empire, near the Forbidden Forest. Everyone had individual rooms, but they shared a hallway. Their rooms were obviously larger than what the dormitory could hold, thanks to magic.
Draco got back to his room and Keela greeted him with a frenetic tail-wagging. “That meeting was dreadful,” he said out loud, throwing his jacketv on his bed.
His room was plain, bland and cold. It didn’t have any personal touches or colours, not a single sentimental trinket.
Sensing his emotions, Keela sat and tilted her head. Her upper lip had caught on her fangs, and her silly expression loosened something inside Draco. He snorted, kneeled before her and started wrestling with her.
She licked his face and growled playfully. She was biting, but her jaw never closed too hard on him. After a minute, he wiped his face and got up.
“How about a run?” he asked. “A run for Kee?”
Her muzzle opened, tongue slipping to the side like she was fully grinning at him.
Keela followed him outside, where Draco set her free to run through the tall grass. As his German shepherd ran, he looked around. The silhouette of the castle could be seen on the horizon, outlined against the teal morning sky. Early skies were normally blue-green, before slowly turning yellowish in the afternoons. That was thanks to the fog that forced the survivors to hide underground. Scampering away from them, crawling in the crevices, basements and hidden parts of this world, hoping they wouldn’t be found.
Draco knew a whole new network existed underground—not the same kind of structure that ants build, with everything interconnected. But in the sense that he knew the survivors—Muggles, Mudbloods, Wizards and Witches, whoever they were—had turned them into habitable places. They had gradually begun to surface again, though, especially since the fog’s virulence had faded. The air was once again somewhat breathable the more you distanced yourself from London.
Like every year, looking at the castle, he couldn’t help but think of all those eleven years old who wouldn’t be going through the school gates for the first time.
What a waste of magic.
Now Hogwarts was no longer a place of marvel. Now, September 1st meant the annual start of the Empire’s games. Draco didn’t know if Voldemort had an awful sense of humor or an incredible flair for irony.
He whistled to call back Keela. The dog came running back, happy and panting, circling around him a couple times before stopping. She hunched over on her front legs, sticking out her bum, tail wagging merrily.
Draco cracked a smile. “You’re stupid.”
Keela barked once, responding, before scampering to the side and doing the same thing, lowering on her front legs. He couldn’t resist petting her aggressively. Keela growled and huffed, gleeful with the attention her master was giving her.
He would never have imagined himself as a dog person, or an animal person for that matter. He had encountered a few animals in his youth, particularly when distant relatives visited with their royal poodles, but they’d had a nasty temper. He’d had an owl for most of his school years, but he wasn’t particularly attached to it.
The owls had long since retreated into the mountains anyway, since the fog. They didn’t trust Wizards anymore.
Now he couldn’t part with Keela. It was hard to imagine going anywhere without hearing the clicking of her paws following him closely. Draco was often wandering alone, alone on his missions, alone with his thoughts. But his dog kept him company, reminding him that someone—a silly dog—was depending on him.
Being loved by a dog felt fucking good.
“Do you wanna go to the lodge?” he asked Keela, caressing her head. “Just for an hour?”
Her ears shot up with excitement and she barked her agreement. He apparated immediately, his hand still on her. He had learned by coincidence that apparating with an animal was possible. He hadn’t intended to do it, but Keela ran between his legs at the same moment he was apparating and got carried along.
Of course Keela had vomited upon apparating, the first time.
And eaten her vomit, because apparently, dogs did that.
Now, she could stomach it.
When he apparated to the lodge, a weight lifted off his shoulders. The lodge was in the Yorkshire Dales, on a vast plain of long grass that danced in the breeze. Mountains and hills lined the western horizon, faint with distance. Low stone walls bore witness to the tourist trails that wound their way across the plains years ago, but that was only a memory. The place was deserted, with an endless ocean of swaying grass. There were cedar trees in the distance, prancing with the wind, and if Draco was lucky, sometimes he could hear owls at night.
Here, he wasn’t a Trainer anymore. He wasn’t a Death Eater or the Student That Almost Killed Dumbledore or the Scavenger Who Had Let Hermione Granger Run Free.
He was Draco Malfoy. A 24-year-old man that played fetch with his dog.