Prologue
Friday, April 28th, 1916
General Post Office, Dublin
The dull thud of shelling beat an incessant tattoo against the walls of the old building, after each impact another measure of dust settled from the ceiling onto the men huddled below. Flames were licking at the walls in the abandoned outer wings, and smoke was beginning to clog the air. Breathing had become a chore, and many of the men had wrapped scarves around their mouths and noses. Each of them had abandoned himself to the certainty of death, and had resolved only to die well, and take as many of the hated English with them.
These were those few brave souls who had garrisoned the GPO throughout the entirety of Easter Week, who had come to the sound of drums to throw off the yoke of oppression and form a free Irish Republic. Several among them sat staring grimly out the window, rifle at the ready, peering through the mask of powder and smoke praying for a glimpse of the enemy, praying for a chance to kill just one more before they died. From the haze behind them a figure scrambled to the wall, half-bent to avoid the sporadic incoming fire. The men at the window glanced back, relaxing as the figure resolved itself into the famed Michael Joseph O'Rahilly, affectionately known to as The O'Rahilly,
"Right men." He began.
"Need volunteers to come with me and draw the bastards off, so the PG can get out and set up a second command post."
The men at the wall glanced at each other, some licking their lips nervously. They'd all heard the chatter of machinegun fire, and knew that the sortie would almost certainly be subject to a withering hail of bullets. Finally, one of them nodded.
"Aye then O'Rahilly. I'm with you." The speaker's voice rolled with a thick Kerry accent, rising and falling each syllable. A few more men nodded, their courage to face the guns bolstered by the presence of their comrades.
"Right. Out the doors, up Moore, then we go left, toward William and Woods. We'll meet up with some of the volunteers there, and keep up the fight."
Even at this late stage, even when the rising had failed, their headquarters was under direct bombardment by Britannia's Huns, The O'Rahilly, who had come knowing the rebellion would most likely fail, would not let despair touch his heart. His men moved to take up positions near the doors leading out to Moore Street, gripping their rifles tightly and making a few last prayers as they waited to charge.
"Go boys! Go!" The O'Rahilly yelled, suiting words to action as he kicked threw open the doors and charged, the first of the GPO's garrison to leave the building in days. The men behind him let out a ragged cheer, a few snatches of different battle-cries drifting on the wind.
"Tiocfaidh ár lá!"
"Faugh a Ballagh!"
"The O'Rahilly!"
Others just let out a mindless scream, shouting their despair and anger into the breeze, their dream of a free Ireland shattered and nothing left to them but the most base refusal to lay down and die without a fight. The British hesitated, perhaps stunned by the reckless Irish charge, perhaps waiting to see if more would exit the GPO. Whichever it was, the men made it the better part of three quarters of the way down Moore Street before a Maxim machinegun at the intersection began its deadly chattering.
The O'Rahilly was the first to go down, stitched with bullets from hip to shoulder he fell into a doorway, gasping and trying to staunch the blood. After him was the man from County Kerry, the first to follow, who fell with two bullets in his gut. He fell into the gutter, sitting but half slumped, staining the cobblestones around him bright red. Many of the others fell, some still alive but many deathly still. A few at the rear of the group, forewarned, managed to duck into alleyways and escape the murderous hail, but not many. Through dimming eyes the man from Kerry watched the British leave their gun, and begin to walk forward, bayoneting the wounded as they came. They were casual and methodical, speaking quietly to each other as they came. The man watched as The O'Rahilly made a dash for a side-street, miraculously making it unseen.
That was good, Seamus Finnigan thought to himself, his breathing labored now and his thoughts slipping away from him. He regretted leaving behind his pregnant wife, and he regretted that the rising had failed, but he regretted little else. As the British came closer he struggled to keep his grip on his rifle, wanting suddenly more than anything else to die fighting. There was a live round in the chamber he knew, and he fumbled, trying to find the trigger. His finger suddenly felt the smooth curved trigger of his Howth Mauser, and he slowly, excruciatingly slowly, pulled the trigger. The rifle went off with a sudden crack and jumped in his limp arms. He heard shouts of alarm from the small group of British, and as he let out a final rattling breath, a small smile graced his face.
SFHR – SFHR – SFHR
Wednesday, February 2nd, 1972
Merrion Square, Dublin
"JUSTICE!" Came a hoarse scream from the broiling mass of the crowd.
"JUSTICE!" The crowd roared in response, the sound shaking the windows of the British Embassy. The thin line of Gardaí, a mere 200 strong, shifted uneasily. They were keeping back near 30,000 furious Irishmen from the building, and were clearly none to enamored of the job. The majority of them privately agreed wholeheartedly with the protestors, who had assembled after Bloody Sunday, when British soldiers had massacred 13 unarmed protestors in Derry.
"JUSTICE!" The same voice shouted out, noticeably closer and noticeably female now.
"JUSTICE!" The crowd echoed.
There had been thousands assembled here for three days now, blockading the British Embassy in protest of the massacre. Men and women had given speeches from the front, and some Republican leaders had been allowed through the Gardaí cordon to symbolic coffins on the steps, and to burn Union Jacks over them. So many bricks had been thrown at the building representing the colonialist power that still held sway over six of Ireland's counties that none of its windows were left unbroken.
There was a sudden tumult at the front of the crowd, and a woman pushed her way through. Her sandy hair in wild disarray. Her face was surprisingly young, but if any of the Gardaí had met her eyes they would have seen a steadiness that outweighed her apparently youthful appearance. She pressed her hand over her mouth, and unseen to any around her muttered sonorous, pressing the wand in her sleeve against her throat. The spell was weak, so as not to arouse suspicion, but enough to give her the voice to carry over the sound of 30,000 protestors.
"Today!" She began, then coughed, and dialed back the spell just a bit more. "Today! We buried eleven Irish men! Eleven sons of Ireland who did naught but ask for freedom! Eleven unarmed, innocent men, shot in the back by British soldiers! Two more lay unburied, and John Johnston fights for his life in a hospital bed. Today also, we are told that Lord Widgery will lead a tribunal into the shooting."
The crowd booed and shouted at the name, none having faith in the British Lord Chief Justice to hold an impartial tribunal into the killings.
"Aye! A British Judge, to exonerate British soldiers, for the killing of Irish men!"
The crowd roared its disapproval, and another volley of bricks were hurled at the embassy, opening many of the gaping holes in the windows even further.
"We demand Justice!" The woman cried.
"JUSTICE!" The crowd roared.
"UP THE RA!" The woman shouted, throwing her fist into the air.
"UP THE RA!" The crowd yelled back, and the first of many petrol bombs was thrown at the embassy, splashing against the wall and sending a sheet of burning gasoline down the wall.
The witch ended her spell, and slipped back into the crowd, flashing a winning smile at the man a few paces back who had hurled the petrol bomb. He grinned back and picked her up in a bear hug.
"Good show Mary!" He said, his smile seeming to split his face. He was older than she was, looking to be in his mid-fifties. What he had no way of knowing yet was that his girlfriend, appearing as she was in her late twenties, was in fact the same age as him, owing to her magical heritage.
"Thank you Patrick." She said, and hid her wand deeper in her sleeve. It wasn't time yet, but she had every intention of marrying Patrick Finnigan, and when she had she'd tell this strong Catholic man she was a witch, but not before.
Patrick Finnigan fingered the ring in his coat pocket. It was the same one his father, Seamus, had given to his ma just a year before he died at the GPO. He didn't quite know what this vivacious young woman saw in him, but he knew he loved her and after seeing her up there, fired up in the cause of the Republic, he knew it was near enough time to ask her. Oh it might take them a few years to get married, the man who'd be his best man had a few years left in a British prison, but he wanted to put the ring on her finger all the same. After this protest today, he knew, would be the right time.
SFHR – SFHR – SFHR
Monday, September 1st, 1997
Platform 9 ¾ of King's Cross Station, London
Seamus Finnigan looked around the platform and frowned softly. It wasn't that he hadn't expected there to be fewer people attending Hogwarts this year, it was that he'd never thought so many wouldn't come back. Sure, the half-bloods and muggleborns wouldn't come anywhere near the school this year, not with Dumbledore dead and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in command of the Ministry, but they weren't the only ones who hadn't come back. He hadn't seen Harry, Ron, or Hermione yet, and he had a sneaking feeling he wouldn't be seeing them this year.
"Seamus now you be smart this year. Keep your head down and come back to me, you hear? God above only knows what I'm doing letting you go this year." Seamus turned and smiled at his mother.
"I'll be fine ma. And I'll write you regularly, don't worry."
"Of course I'm going to worry!" She snapped. "Sending my only son off to this god-forsaken school with Dumbledore dead and You-Know-Who in command of ministry? I'm a damn fool letting you go off, for sure a damn fool."
Seamus wrapped his arms around his mother, and felt a momentary pang. When had he become taller than her? Her head fit beneath his now, and her body felt frailer than he thought was right. She hadn't shown it, but the news of the war had gotten to her. Though he hadn't been alive for it, he knew she'd fought in the First War, and the rumblings of a new one scared her. Well, they scare me too Seamus thought, and fought off a grimace. It wouldn't do to let any kind of hesitant expression onto his face now, if his mother saw it she'd like as not try to convince him to stay home again, and that he couldn't do. His reverie was interrupted by the harsh shriek of the train's whistle, it was nearly time to depart.
"I've got to get on the train ma, I'll write you. I love you!" He yelled this last over his shoulder as he picked up his trunk and began to board the Hogwarts Express. He heard his mother call out a goodbye from behind him, as he turned down the corridor and began looking for a compartment to sit in. As he moved down the corridor a sudden jerk nearly sat him down hard, but he recovered his balance and recognized that the train had begun to accelerate out of the station. A few minutes later Seamus poked his head into a compartment, and smiled broadly.
"Nev! Good to see you mate, give us a hand with the trunk?"
Neville Longbottom grinned shyly back and helped Seamus toss his trunk up into the rack. Seamus sat down, and greeted the rest of the members of the compartment. All of them sitting in the compartment had been in Dumbledore's Army, aside from Neville there was Luna, Ginny, Terry Boot, and Ernie Macmillan.
"Hey Seamus, weren't sure you'd be here this year." Ginny said.
Seamus shrugged. "I almost wasn't. Had a hell of a time convincing my ma to let me come. Worried about everything that's going on, worried I'd get caught up in the DA again."
The rest of the compartment exchanged glances.
"Seamus, we don't know if the DA will be necessary this year," Ginny began, hedging. "But if it is… it won't be fun and games. We need to know if you're in or out."
Seamus looked affronted.
"Of course I'm in, I'm here aren't I?"
Ginny sat back and relaxed a little.
"Yeah, yeah you are. Alright. We're not sure what's going to happen when we get to Hogwarts, but our letters still had McGonagall as Headmistress."
"Then who's the headmaster?" Seamus asked, concerned.
"Don't know, but my gran said it'd be one of You-Know-Who's loyalists for sure." Neville chimed in.
"Snape." Seamus' lip curled. Like all Gryffindors he'd experienced his fair share of the Potions Professor's hatred, and the strong dislike their entire year felt for the man had turned into a burning hatred when it became clear he'd killed Dumbledore.
Neville swallowed. He'd been getting over his fear of Snape but years of being beaten down doesn't disappear overnight.
"Yeah. Probably." Neville said.
"Guess there's nothing else we can do until we see what's what. But, when we get there, not a word to any of the other members. Not until we figure out a way to keep everyone separated" Seamus ended his sentence quietly.
The rest of the compartment shared varying levels of surprise, all except Ginny who looked like she'd known this was coming.
"Why not?" Ernie asked, half-bewildered and half-challenging.
"That bitch Umbridge used a blood quill fifth year. There's an honest-to-god Death Eater in charge of the school this year. It's so if they interrogate one of us, they can't get all of us."
The other students shared uneasy glances, and the rest of the ride to Hogwarts passed grimly.
SFHR – SFHR – SFHR
Author's Note: So I was thinking to myself a few things. One, that the First Wizarding War corresponds awfully well to The Troubles in Ireland. Two, that that's not touched on in canon, at all. Three, that Seamus Finnigan is an underutilized character. Four, that it'd be really fun to write about someone prosecuting a proper insurgency in Hogwarts during the Horcrux Hunt. So I put it all together, and since there's no reason Seamus' family can't be nationalist (and there's some small canon support for it) I went for it. I'll try to do updates every Friday but no promises.