Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
A/N: This is the prologue to a rather long fic. I might or might not post the rest, depending on two factors: The acquisition of a beta reader and general ideas tester, and the resolution of some of the more severe plot issues. To be honest, some parts of it read like a farce and other parts read like a tragedy, and I can't make up my mind which one I want. What I've got here is the only part I really feel confident about, so I hope it's not too bad.
The Prime Minister looked up in alarm. The fireplace was flaring green, as it had not done since he first took office. He had hoped and prayed that what he'd seen, or thought he'd seen then had been an illusion, a hallucination, brought on by over-indulgence at his victory party. Unfortunately, the woman stepping sedately out of the fireplace proved otherwise. She was tall and thin, with a prominent nose and graying hair pulled severely back. The total effect reminded him distressingly strongly of his Aunt Anne, who had terrified him as a child. She even spoke like his Aunt Anne as well, with a condescending tone that gave the impression that she believed the listener to be a complete and total imbecile. "I am Millicent Bagnold, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It is not usual for anyone except the Minister himself to meet with you, however, he has been incapacitated. Given the current state of war-" she paused, and looked at him as his eyes widened in shock. "You are aware of the war, are you not?"
The absolute contempt with which she asked that made him straighten in his chair and scowl, the termagant of his childhood forgotten. "No, Madam, I am not. I am not surprised, given that I am not informed of anything that concerns," he spoke the word with distaste, "Magic. It does not and will not concern me one bit; I am as unmagical as..." he fumbled for a word, and gave up.
She raised an eyebrow at him, in a way he'd never been able to do, and which always drove him mad. "I rather think that magic does concern you at the moment, and shall probably concern you for the rest of your life." At his look of disbelief, she elaborated. "The Wizengamot is our equivalent to your... Parliament, I believe is the word. It has voted to rescind the Statute of Secrecy. We are coming out of hiding, Prime Minister, and our first public act is this: we wish to buy a missile."
He wavered between shock and horror, then settled on a kind of calm that he knew would shatter any minute, but still meant to hold onto as long as he could. In tightly controlled tones, he asked, "Who, exactly, are you at war with?"
"It is a purely internal affair, but nonetheless one of such scale that drastic measures are called for." She was having difficulty concealing her unease, and it sat uncomfortably on her face; evidently, it was not something to which she was accustomed. "There is a... faction that advocates the destruction of Mud-" She caught herself. "Muggles, and they are using a startlingly effective combination of guerilla tactics and dark magic to press their point. It has become a rare day indeed that does not see the violent death of someone sympathetic to Mu- Muggles. The death toll is nearly a thousand. This state of affairs cannot continue."
He gritted his teeth, and reached for the bottle he kept in his drawer. "A thousand, Madam? For a war, that is a negligible sum. The war that just ended in Indochina has claimed more than a quarter of a million lives." He poured himself a drink, studiously ignoring the look of outrage on her face.
"The magical population, Prime Minister, is fewer than twenty thousand in the United Kingdom, and less than a million in the world. For us, a thousand is an unimaginable loss. You will give us what we need, whether willingly or not."
The resemblance to his Aunt Anne was back, but he made last gesture, however petty, of defiance. "I should very much like to know how you propose to force me to do anything against my will."
She smiled in a distinctly selachian manner. "Like this, Prime Minister. Imperio." His eyes went blank, and she smiled. "Now, I want you to make arrangements for the sale of several short range missiles, to be delivered to an address I will send to you later. I would also like you to call a press conference, in which you will say the following..."
Severus smiled to himself. The Daily Prophet sat in front of him, its headline screaming 'STATUTE OF SECRECY REPEALED!'. Next to it lay an open notebook containing a plan he had worked on meticulously since his third year, with many pages crossed out entirely. He had always intended to have some kind of a career involving potions, and starting a few years ago had begun working out a business plan for the apothecary shop he had wanted to open. But now, with a near infinite number of new possible customers, he was rethinking it. Muggles, after all, couldn't even make the simplest potions, the ones that no one needed to buy because they could make them themselves. He was willing to bet that they would pay, and pay well, for such things. Mass production would be the key, though, that and finding a market. But mostly mass production. He smiled even more widely, and turned to a new page in his notebook. As he scribbled equations and formulas in a small, lopsided hand, he thought to himself, Who knows? I might even get rich.
Sirius Black grinned maniacally. He had liberated a map of Scotland from the library, and was plotting a flight path to Inverness, the nearest town of any size worth mentioning. He'd borrowed Peter's Bottomless Box, and strapped it to the back end of his broom. He looked at his list again, making sure he'd written everything down: guitar, amp, microphone, gasoline generator, gasoline. He frowned, and added two more items; a record player and albums. It was all well and good listening to the Sex Pistols and such at Remus' house over the summer, but it wasn't enough. He wanted to be that, not just listen to it. He wanted to be a rock star. The words were music to his ears. Rock star.
In the library, three tables down from where Severus was trying devise a means to mass-produce potions, Remus Lupin was writing a letter. Dear Doctor Weston, he began, I have heard that you are the foremost researcher on blood borne diseases in Europe, and would like to offer you a unique opportunity. You have, of course, heard the news concerning the existence of magic, and I would not be surprised if you were researching magical methods of healing as we speak. However, there is a downside to magic, which is that there are also magical diseases. One such disease is lycanthropy, which I suffer. I am willing to used as a test subject, should you choose to take on the challenge of creating a cure for this monstrous disease. If you wish to take me up on this offer, you may send me a letter by non-magical post to R. Lupin, c/o Mrs. A. Lupin... He scribbled down his address, signed it, and stuffed it in his last remaining Muggle envelope. As he walked up to the owlery, he thought, Oh Merlin, I hope he says yes.
Lily's lips curved upwards in a crooked half-smile, her eyes focused on the last paragraph of the lead article in the Daily Prophet. 'Headmaster Dumbledore says that transcripts will be provided for any student who wishes to attend a Muggle institute of higher learning.' She'd been horrified to learn that there was no magical university, no way to stretch her education past the age of eighteen. James always laughed at the notion that anyone would want to prolong what he considered a necessary evil, and had never understood that she wasn't trying to prove anything, that she really did enjoy learning. He was like that sometimes; she'd tried to get him to see her point of view, but it hadn't worked. It hadn't worked with feminism either, or Muggle literature; he still believed that women should stay home and that Muggle novels were crap. She was suddenly filled with the resolve to do something to jolt him out of his complacency; something shocking, something he'd never think of her as doing in a million years. Something like... attend Muggle college.
James sighed. He should have been happy, overjoyed even. The wizarding world was coming out of hiding at long last. Instead of being pleased, all he could think about was the lack of entry level jobs that paid enough to support two people. His hand slid down to rub the velvety surface of the little box in his pocket, and he smiled. They were going to be so happy together, him and Lily. He'd have a good job at the Ministry and when he came home everyday, Lily would be there waiting for him, with dinner on the table and a smile in her face. They'd have loads of children, and when they could afford it, they'd buy a house in the country near his parents' home in Godric's Hollow. Of course, he had to find a job first. He sighed, and turned his attention from thoughts of the future to the want ads spread in front of him.
Peter laughed bitterly. A whole new world of opportunities, they said. Yeah, a world of exciting new jobs that he wouldn't get. His grades were lousy, he had nearly no marketable skills and his only notable accomplishment was so illegal he didn't dare mention to anyone. So he could turn into a rat; so what? Ahhh... It didn't matter. He'd just smile and nod and act like nothing was wrong. He was good at that. Wait... Acting. That was a skill, wasn't it? Hadn't Sirius said something about being a movie star or something of the kind? If Sirius, who could never hide anything or even lie convincingly could be an actor, so could he. He wasn't brilliantly handsome or anything, but he wasn't totally hideous, either. He could easily get enough bit parts to support himself decently. Peter shrugged. Hollywood, here I come.
Millicent Bagnold scowled at the paperwork in front of her. The missiles had been delivered, the Mu- Muggle military units were in place, but where were the Aurors? According to the report in her hands, they were all too old, too anti-Muggle (a tiny voice in her head cheered 'good for them!' even as she ruthlessly squashed it) or too injured. This meant that she'd have to consider that idiot Fudge's proposal. How a twit like that rose as high as Assistant Head of the Magical Catastrophes Department was beyond her. He had all the ambition of Slytherin House but none of the cunning or subtlety. He was the kind of person who gave Slytherin a bad name, and left people like her to receive suspicious looks and public distrust. No point in thinking about it though, she told herself firmly. She had to read his proposal before rejecting it, after all, and the sooner it was in the trash, the better.
Flipping through it, she soon realized that not only was it not his usual florid writing style, it was not the kind of idea he would ever come up with on his own. Turning back to the front page, she saw that under Fudge's large, looping signature was a name written in small, angular letters. Hmmph. Whoever Arthur Weasley was, he obviously had brains and tact. She'd have to see about doing something nice for him, like getting him out from under Fudge. Weasley's proposal (she'd bet a month's pay that it was his idea) was simple and brilliant. Draft new Aurors as needed; none of this useless 'recruiting' nonsense. She smiled slightly; this was going to make her life so much easier, and the only person capable of overriding her decisions, the Minister of Magic, was comatose in St. Mungo's, and probably would be for the rest of his term.
A smile still lingering on her face, she began to draft the new orders. 'All able-bodied witches and wizards between the ages of 18 and 25 are to report to the Ministry of Magic on July the 1st. Due to the low number of Aurors fit for duty, new Aurors are being selected from the general populace. Attempts to avoid service will be met with lengthy prison sentences. All recruits will be paid full Auror salary. By order of Millicent Bagnold, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.'
Severus only glanced at the poster hanging on the door of the Great Hall. He knew his dueling skills were nowhere near good enough for an Auror; he'd show up, be dismissed and have the whole thing over with then and there.
Sirius saw the poster and swore luridly. He didn't want to be an Auror, dammit! Of course, he didn't want to go to Azkaban either, so it seemed he had to; he had no doubts that he'd be chosen. Ah well, his musical career would wait.
Remus looked at the poster and sighed. He would have liked to be an Auror, but the 'able-bodied' requirement was not one he could meet. The pay would have been nice too; Aurors were paid as much as assistant department heads. He shrugged philosophically. He'd find work somewhere.
Lily grinned widely. This was even better than college. Her charms skills made her a dead cert, and her potions skills were none too shabby either, if she did say so herself. She might even be made an Auror healer!
A smile slowly spread across James' face. The pay for an Auror was three times what he might hope to make working at a desk; maybe a nice cottage for him and Lily wasn't so far off.
Peter eyed the poster in disbelief. He hadn't realized they were so hard up for new recruits. Didn't really matter; they couldn't possibly be desperate enough to pick him. He'd let them have a look at him, then go about his merry way to California; he heard it was lovely this time of year.