A/N: I previously started this same story, and then tried to go back and edit it, which I somehow screwed up, which necessitated me uploading it again. Anyway, this is the new and improved version, compete with quotes. Any reviews at all in how to improve are welcome.
Also: be sure to check out my Lord of the Rings/ Black Company crossover, located in my profile.
"Goddamn them all, I was told/
We'd cruise the seas for American gold./
We'd fire no guns, shed no tears,/
Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax Pier,/
The last of Barret's Privateers."
-Stan Rogers
At the start of any play, you tell the audience who's who and what everybody wants. You know, these two simpering idots are the inamorati, or the young lovers- they're sweet, though stupid, and they love each other. This doddering old fool is Pantalone- he's rich, though a bastard, and he wants to keep the lovers apart. These colorful dope is Harlequin- he's smart, though bizarre, and he wants to help the young lovers. I have decided, possibly against my better judgement, to tell my story, so I choose to tell it the right way- these are the dramatis personae
There was obviously You-Know-Who, Whom You presumably Know about already. He is evil, though powerful, and he wants to rule magical Britain. There was a brief fad of calling him by his actual name, started by the late and lamented Albus Dumbledore. That fell out of fashion with Dumbledore's murder and stopped altogether with the implementation of the Taboo.
There was Harry Potter- The Chosen One, The Boy who Lived, and so on. He is noble, though scared, and he wants to stop You-Know-Who. In most stories told about the Third Wizarding War, he's the protagonist. I didn't see too much of him, except at the end, and since this is my story, he won't be figuring too prominently.
There was me- Miles Brand, former Auror. I'm- well, it's hard to classify yourself like that. You'll just have to learn what kind of character I am as you read along. I'm pureblood, and can trace my lineage back to the Roman occupation of Britain, though you couldn't call us in any way rich, not like the Potters or the Malfoys or the Blacks. I used to believe in blood superiority, though neither I nor any of my family ever supported You-Know-Who. We were quite gracious about the whole issue. Muggle-born and half-bloods were wizards too, it's not their fault they have impure genealogies. I used to believe in a lot of things I don't any more.
There was also Robert Wilson, a Muggle-born thug. He was ultraviolent, though loyal, and he wanted to kill all servants of the Dark Lord. He was a well-respected member of the criminal world before You-Know-Who came to power again- he was known to be a murderer, a smuggler, an arsonist, an extortionist, and who knows what else. He was also my friend. I should probably cross that out; he wasn't my friend, I hated him. Scratch that. I can't think of a way to express how I feel about Wilson.
There was Mortimer Solberry, a pure-blood supremacist. He was cowardly, though sadistic, and he wanted to torment the world, possibly in vengeance for being born. The best character note I can give for him is that his greatest fear was that You-Know-Who's supporters would capture him and torture him to death, and that his favorite past-time was torturing captured Death Eaters to death. He was my friend the same way Wilson was my friend.
Various Death Eaters, Aurors, innocent bystanders, Snatchers, Order of the Phoenix Members, and so on. With a few exceptions, they are minor characters.
I'm writing this, the shameful story of how I spent the Third Wizarding War, primarily because I'm sick of reading the stories they're making up about it now that it's been over for more than a decade. Some stupid wizard back in Britain wrote a radio drama based on the true story of Dumbledore's Army and the Battle of Hogwarts, where every fucking Gryffindor is Godric reborn and all the Death Eaters are slimy, despicable monsters; and every one of the good guys lives till the end except the one fictional character who wouldn't shut up about how she hoped her parents were safe; she died tragically, but nobly, and even got in a monologue before she died (although how anyone can wax dramatic after having been struck with the Killing Curse is beyond me). A Muggle-born witch in Scotland has written a heavily fictionalized series of books based on Harry Potter's childhood shenanigans at Hogwarts. I hear that former Minister Shacklebolt is in the midst of writing an autobiography, which promises to "tell the real story" of the Third Wizarding War. I'll bet my soul to peanuts that it will be a harrowing yet heartwarming tale of Resistance to Oppression, of the Power of Love over Death, and how we beat back the Tide of Evil.
Something in me won't let these stories go unbalanced. I have to let it out. Maybe it's a deep-seated need to confess the things I've done, and ordered done. Maybe I need the money from the book sales to maintain my life of indolence, and the market is already glutted with feel-good heroic tales. Maybe I want to see the smiles wiped off those bastards' faces when they hear that not everyone got through the war and remained one of the good guys.
Back when I was an Auror, before the Ministry fell, I got to talking to an Unspeakable. They were ordinarily a close-lipped bunch, but this one was chatty. He told me that stories are, in some sense, alive. Like wands, they are almost sentient, and like all sentient things, they want to survive and propagate. It's possible that my story is living inside me, and is insisting that spread it far and wide, like pollen. I don't know, and I don't care. Either way, I'm still all alone on a wonderful Caribbean beach, soaking up sunshine and sipping Firewhiskey, and ready to put quill to paper and let the world know the kind of person I am.
This is the story of Miles Brand, a man who fought for justice and failed utterly, who hoped for peace and left a wake of blood behind him. It's not pretty, it's not flattering, but it's what happened. Hey, there it is- my character. I am idealistic, though bloodstained, and I want to make the world right. Well, the source of all drama is watching someone try and fail, isn't it?
We shall begin in a Muggle house in the suburbs of London. There is a Stunned Death Eater named Frank Maison tied to a chair with conjured ropes in the living room, and there are two psychopaths and one mildy nauseated former Auror in the room with him. In the bedroom are the bodies of three innocent Muggles. Outside, on the dark streets of London, You-Know-Who is consolidating his power. Let us begin.
