A/N: All right, I suppose I had better explain myself. I haven't been updating anything, for which reason I owe people an apology. I'm sorry, and I know that no excuse will satisfy you, so I won't give you one. I'll just let you know that I won't be updating again soon—except for this story—until this summer, at least.

I owe an explanation for this story as well. Yes, I realize that, while I haven't been updating anything else, I've taken the time to start a new story. For this, I actually have a reasonable excuse. That excuse is: I entered this contest way back when, and for one thing, they won't quit bothering me to write my entry, and for another, I felt it was only right that, because I entered, I should at least make an effort to follow through.

The contest I entered was the Draco/Hermione Valentine Fic Exchange. Yes, that's right, the characters in this fic aren't just a bunch of unidentifiable people that I made up—that is, you'll probably eventually realize who most of them are. My challenge was this:

Fic Challenge # 82

RATING(S) OF THE FIC REQUESTED:  PG to PG-13

3-5 Things to Include in the Fic:
1. Music
2. Dancing
3. Singing

What Not to Include in the Fic:
Umm...Ron and Harry being evil.

So here's Fic Request #82, entitled,

***

The Casualties of War

***

Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even the challenge for this fic.

***

The Shower House was steamy, huge, and filled with the echoing noises of people arguing and bathing.

It was also portable. That was the wonderful thing about magic. You could take things with you.

Sergeant Lainey paused at the small, zippered entryway to the Shower House, and just listened.

"Can I borrow your soap?" The echo repeated, --oap, --oap, --p...

"What are you doing?! Don't take your wand in the shower!"

"Ahhhhhh! This faucet is faulty! It's running cold!"

Clatter. Someone dropped their shower bag.

"...in magic? In a young girl's heart? When the..." one woman was warbling, extremely off-key.

"Shut up!"

"Hey, you sing sometimes!"

"Yeah, but at least I'm not contributing to noise pollution!"

"Soap? Anyone, soap?"

"Here, Pascal!" A bar of soap went flying over the shower stalls.

Sergeant Lainey cleared her throat.

"Thanks, Marty!"

"...When you begin the beguine...um..."

"Wassamatter, run out of songs?"

"I don't know but I been told, Private Orly is mighty bold!"

"Hey, shut up--"

Sergeant Lainey cleared her throat again, louder this time.

"--I'm gonna shove that scrubber right up your--"

"Privates," said Sergeant Lainey in loud, clipped tones. "'Tention!"

It took all of three seconds, and there was a straight, if dripping, line at the front of the Shower House.

Then one of the towels fell down.

After what seemed like an hour, Sergeant Lainey said, "You may retrieve your towel, Private Jenkins."

The towel was retrieved. All the other soldiers' faces turned rapidly red as they held back their snickers. It wouldn't do to laughin front of Sergeant Lainey.

"As much as I enjoy listening to your showering squabbles," said the Sergeant condescendingly, beginning to pace the line, "I did not come here for a pleasure visit." As she reached the end of the line, she spun briskly and headed back the other way. Next the disheveled soldiers, her full uniform seemed almost ridiculous, but she was so intimidating in it, it didn't really matter where she was. "We've been given new orders," she said, finally halting with a jerk. "We're to head into battle at Midden Field tomorrow. Pack up yoru bedrolls and tents, load 'em onto the cart. You know the drill.

"We will be joining three other troops when we arrive at Midden Field. We're going to be the defending force against an invasion.

"You may resume." It took a few seconds for this to sink in. "Now." Everyone rushed back to their shower stalls, shivering, and began to discuss their new orders. Maybe one of the three troops they'd join would be...gasp...men.

A certain soldier went back to singing. "I can't live without your lo-o-o-o-o-o-ove! When I'm in my room at night, when will I hear your sweet lumo-o-o-o-o-o-os?!"

"Shuddup, will ya?!"

One soldier stayed behind, marching up to the Sergeant and saluting briskly. "Sir, permission to ask a question, er, ma'am?"

"Yes, Private Weasel? And don't salute or anything, you look enough like a fool with just your towel on."

"Ma'am, it's Weasley, ma'am," corrected the very young-looking Private.

"I know. What's your question?"

"What are we to be defending, ma'am?"

All activity seemed to stop in the Shower House, as all the other soldiers held their breath and waited for an answer.

"Didn't they teach you geography at training, Weasel?" asked the Sergeant. "Midden Field is adjacent to Hogwarts. Or don't you remember Hogwarts?"

The cowed soldier spat out, "Yes, ma'am, thank you, ma'am," and ran as quickly and quietly as she could back to her shower stall, where she promptly created a great deal of noise by dropping her conditioner.

Sergeant Lainey stood at the door for a moment longer, observing the controlled chaos. Turning smartly, she exited the tent, not noticing that a few wisps of hair were escaping from her tight bun due to the steam in the Shower House. A few of the showering soldiers watched her go, wondering what nearly every soldier in her troop had wondered for years, and what they themselves wondered on a regular basis: what was going on in her head?

"And I wish you would bring back the light to my life, instead of this endless NOXXXXXXXX!!!"

"I still have that SCRUBBER!"

***

The military in the magical world had come to be there in a rather peculiar way. When the second British wizarding war of modern times had been unofficially declared, those who supported the continued existence of the Ministry of Magic had expected it to be, once again, fought covertly. That is, small tussles, easier to clean up after, hopefully ended quickly with the help of their ace in the hole, Harry Potter.

Of course, this was all unofficial. There had never been a government-published document that stated that an eighteen-year-old boy of the Potter family would ever be used as a weapon against the leader of the Death Eaters, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It was simply expected by magical people, both Ministry and civilian alike. Just as it was expected that the Death Eaters would continue to fight, as they had before, in a sneaky, underhanded way, with quick, deadly strikes at important people. The same way that it was expected that the Order of the Phoenix, as usual, would rise out of the ashes to the people's defense.

Nobody expected the Death Eaters to continue fighting after You-Know-Who had been taken down.

Nobody expected that, after You-Know-Who had been taken down, the Death Eaters would be generally consisted of young adults who wanted to launch full attacks on the magical people of Britain, in wide open spaces, with the hopes of domination.

And nobody, nobody expected to lose almost the entire Order of the Phoenix. Nobody expected that, when You-Know-Who was taken down, Harry Potter would go with him.

As the black-uniformed Death Eaters had initiated battles with large groups of the opposing civilians, the magical people of Britain had cried out for some sort of organization to their counterattacks, some way of decisive defense.

That was where Admiral McGrove came in.

The Acting Minister of Magic, who'd been catapulted into office after Cornelius Fudge had been booted out (the people had demanded a leader who was capable of acting against a menace, let alone getting it through his head that a menace existed before it was entirely too late), desperate for any sort of option, had contacted an old friend of his.

Admiral McGrove was a Muggle. He was only about seventy years old, although by looking at him, one could suppose he was a great deal older. Close to retirement from the British Army, he was not often taken seriously by either his peers or his inferiors. He was certainly not the only man in the army to believe in the existence of magic.

He was, however, the only man in the army who had seen proof of the existence of magic.

It was a long story, the Acting Minister of Magic always said if asked, but yes, Admiral McGrove has seen me perform magic, and yes, he is willing to help us, and, no, I won't take any more questions at this time, thank you.

The magical population of Britain had cried out for order, and in Admiral McGrove's left lower desk drawer, there was a file containing just the order that had been demanded. It was rarely updated, but the appropriate paperwork had been filed for the continued reality of Unit X-7. No one questioned Unit X-7, since its creation had been routine, and, frankly, any paper that Admiral McGrove put on a desk was signed since 1) he had seniority, and 2) no one cared anyway. What the British Army didn't care about was several hundred British soldiers who had their own private funding from their own private government, and who were, on the whole, very proud to be serving in their own private British Army, Unit X-7.

In about a hundred drawers in a well-guarded room in the Ministry of Magic, there was a slightly more well-kept series of files on Unit X-7.

One out of that series of files had been removed from the drawers and transferred to the desk of the Acting Minister of Magic, Remus Lupin.

Remus was feeling slightly bemused that day, still a bit in shock at being put into office about seventeen years before. Why would the people put a werewolf in such a position of power? Personally, he still saw it as a rather large mistake. However, undoubtedly, he mused, he'd been selected simply because he was one of the few survivors of the Order of the Phoenix, and because Dumbledore had outright refused to be shifted from Hogwarts. Still, Remus had tried his best in the situation.

Carefully, Remus lifted the flap of the folder that had been placed in the center of his tidy desk. Seeing the name at the top of the first sheet of paper, he sighed. This happened every year, at least once a year, that this particular officer in the BMA, the British Magical Army, was put up for promotion. Some unknowing Colonel or General would submit a recommendation. Every year, Remus would find himself staring at this file and sighing, remembering what a future this officer had had.

Henrietta Lainey, the information parchment read.

Rank: Sergeant

Enlisted: June 06 2003

Last Promoted: January 16 2012

The parchment went on to list her birthdate, all awards she had received, and every bit of required registration information. Sighing again, Remus turned to view the next page. He couldn't bear to look at that name glaring at him from the top of the page, right next to the official Ministry seal.

The next sheet was the latest recommendation paper.

Recommended for Promotion by: Michael Brewster Rank: General

Under the Reasons for Recommendation there was the typical description: an amazing officer, can't believe she's been passed up for promotion for so long, has her troop in outstanding order...Remus released a third sigh, and turned this sheet over as well.

And there it was. If you'd read this report, Remus told General Michael Brewster silently, you'd know why she's been passed up for promotion for so long.

It was a report submitted by a superior officer, dated December 19, 2003. Instead of sighing again, Remus chose instead to rub a hand through his thinning gray hair. A sigh, at this point, simply did not seem appropriate.

The report detailed the first, and worst, incident involving the now-Sergeant Henrietta Lainey. In the nicest, most military way, Lainey's superior officer had described exactly how Lainey had taken out twenty enemy soldiers in a mere minute and a half. Remus knew that if anyone else had been put in charge of the affairs of promotions, Lainey's outstanding destruction of the opposing troops would have merited several rapid promotions. As it was, the continued, though admittedly milder, reports of violence had made the Acting Minister of Magic think twice before giving Lainey the promotion that so many officers claimed she deserved.

If only those officers knew.

No, Remus told himself, shaking his head. Lainey was a berserker--she was unstable, no matter how well she acted on a regular basis. He'd seen it happen once, and he didn't want her to be put into such power as he had been. Just as he feared the mistake of his position, he'd fear the mistake of hers if she was promoted. No, he thought again, turning back to the recommendation, scribbling his signature on the sign that said Rejected.

Closing the folder, Remus leaned back in his seat heavily. No, he told himself again, closing his eyes and thinking of the young, innocent woman he'd known before she'd enlisted in BMA. No.

Eventually, he found the willpower to put the folder in his outbox and call for a cup of coffee.

***

To be continued…