AN: Sorry about the delay, massive writer's block on my part kept this chapter from getting written.


Zaragoza, Spain, September 17th, 2010 (D-Day +599)…

"What is benevolence?"

Neville looked up from his hand-washing ritual to look at Harry's back in surprise. "What?" he asked, confused. The question had well and truly come out of the blue.

"What is benevolence?" Harry repeated, still staring at the smoking ruin that once was known as the city of Zaragoza. "What is that theory of being charitable and kind, as opposed to pragmatic and brutal?"

Neville stared at his superior's back blankly for a moment before shrugging and looking back down at the reddish water in the bucket he'd been using to clean his hands. "Beats me," he replied honestly, having no clue where Harry was going with this impromptu philosophical stint. "Sounds like a load of crap."

Harry shrugged. "Maybe it is," he allowed. "Maybe ruling in favour of benevolence is a fool's errand in times of chaos. But without benevolence, how does one get the people's loyalty?"

Neville was silent at this question, looking into the rippling, reddish water that had once been clear. Like much of his recent life, it was tainted now, perhaps irreparably so. "Having second thoughts?" he asked softly.

"If I am?"

Neville's gaze hardened as he redirected it back at Harry, who had now turned slightly to look down at his finest subordinate. It hadn't even been half a year since Neville had been sprung from a life sentence in Azkaban by Sirius Black and his cohorts, and already Neville was proving to be one of Harry's most devastating commanders.

"I would kill you," Neville replied bluntly and honestly, now getting back to his hand washing.

Harry chuckled. "So honest," he mused, amused.

"You rescued me from a life of dreariness and mediocrity, and for that I'm thankful," Neville countered simply, ignoring the fact that his wet hands were beginning to prune from the excess water exposure. "Your uncle saved me from Azkaban; I'm also thankful for that. Your goal saved me from living an aimless life, relegated to impotent obscurity; I am thankful for that, too."

In a flash, Neville was on his feet and had a handful of Harry's uniform in his grasp as he pulled up his commander close, until Neville's burning gaze was unmistakeable to Harry. Said raven-haired Military Mage was apparently unaffected by the stare.

"I'm thankful for all that, yeah," Neville reiterated. "But what we've done for all of that; what we've prepared ourselves to do to see that goal achieved…you can't just go and drop it all at a moment's notice," he stated fiercely. "If you do, I'll kill you."

Harry smiled easily, despite the fact that he would probably have a hard fight on his hands if Neville ever did in fact rebel against him. He smiled, however, because he knew that battle would not happen today—if ever.

Instead, he reached up with a gloved hand and clasped it on Neville's wrist. "Then you have nothing to worry about," he said simply. "I haven't forgotten, nor am I willing to forsake that path that I chose when I involved myself in this."

With that, he suddenly tightened his hold on Neville's wrist, causing the man's hand to jerk in surprise and let go of Harry's uniform; now it was Harry who was in control. Still, he dropped his grasp from his friend and turned back to observe the smouldering ruins of Zaragoza.

"Remember those feelings, Neville; they will guide you down the right path," he told to his subordinate, who was now rubbing his slightly aching wrist. "We have eliminated much of the resistance of Eastern Spain, and with this victory, we have done much to cripple their fighting spirit," he observed. "A little more, and we'll have broken this country to our will."

Neville glanced at his superior searchingly. "What do you have in mind?" he asked. Frankly, he would be glad to be off the front lines, even if he hadn't been on them for long. Nothing could have prepared him for the sheer destruction he had been expected to bring upon his enemies. Even the most basic rookie of the Military Mages—those who would barely qualify as an Auror any other day—had exceeded Neville's own contributions for the first few days.

Harry was silent for a moment, as though weighing how deeply to bring in Neville in his confidence. Apparently, trusting the man won out. "Reconstruction," he said simply. "We have won the people's fear here, but not their love, or even respect. If left alone, they will eventually seek revenge on us for what has happened, and we must nip this problem in the bud."

"Your uncle agrees," came a voice behind Neville, causing the brown-haired man to turn suddenly, a spell already on his lips in the event that he had to vaporize someone on the spot. Thankfully, he didn't.

"Xeno," Harry greeted. "How was London?"

"Bad," Harry's all-but-in-name intelligence officer reported. "Riots every day. Every garden variety, too," Xenophilius added. "Anti-mage riots, anti-government riots, anti-war riots…every activist and his dog's come out of the woodwork to promote their agenda, it seems."

"So the news of the attacks' actual breadth have finally leaked out?" Neville asked.

"Just a bit of it," Xenophilius corrected him as he dropped his travelling bag on the ground and took a seat on a pile of rubble nearby. "Warwick's doing a splendid job of keeping most of the bad stuff under wraps, but the numbers, at least, have been released."

"Worried we'll lose control, Neville?" Harry asked calmly.

"Isn't it a legitimate concern to have?" Neville shot back. "If the government back home collapses, how are we supposed to keep our forces here?"

"It won't collapse," Xenophilius assured the younger man blandly. "Black's got the government covered. The only way for it to collapse now is if we let it."

"Of course, that's not all there is to it, is it, Master Lovegood?" asked Harry, chuckling.

Xenophilius switched his gaze from Neville to Harry, who'd turned slightly to face his subordinate. He had a sly smile on his face, too, which made Xenophilius think that perhaps Harry already knew what he was asking him to report about.

Eventually, he nodded. "Your higher ups are beginning to muscle out the civilian administration," he reported. "Black's reported that security is now entirely out of his hands, and there's talk about Education being reassigned to the military administrators, too."

"A coup?" Neville asked, surprised.

"A subtle one, if it is," Xenophilius commented with a grimace. "They haven't touched Warwick, though, and he hasn't mentioned getting approached by the military."

"Which means either they're taking it slow, or it's just some higher-up's move to stabilize the country," Harry concluded, bringing up his hand to cup his chin. "Interesting."

"Either is feasible," Xenophilius added. "We've got riots in the streets everywhere, and at the same time, the military is pretty much the only thing keeping the country on its two legs. Frankly, if they wanted to coup, there wouldn't be any sort of united front to stop them."

"Has force been used to put down the riots?" asked Harry then.

Xenophilius shrugged. "No more than usual; police batons and the like."

Harry nodded, still pensive. "I see…" he mused to himself softly. "A little soon, but not unexpected…What about the mages? What have they been doing?"

"Josefina reported in that your little shock tactic worked; Hogwarts is a mess right now," Xenophillius reported dutifully. "Started a veritable witch hunt, if you pardon the expression, for spies."

"And the Ministry?"

"Still infested with Death Eaters, I'm afraid," he replied, noticing Neville's dark look at the news. "Scrimgeour is on the verge of resigning, if my information's correct; looks like a Death Eater will be in the Minister's chair before long."

"Why don't they assassinate him?" asked Neville then. "Surely with his death, they could precipitate a regime change?"

"To what end?" asked Xenophilius in Harry's stead. "If power switches hands through murder, it's illegitimate, and what the Death Eaters want most right now is legitimacy. If they're seen by even just a fraction of the magical population as the legitimate government, then their power base increases several fold without the need for coercive force."

"Better the victory with as little used resources than the one that requires great manpower, Neville," Harry taught his number one subordinate. "Patience is what will win this war, not impetuousness," he lectured before raising a hand to stop Neville's comeback. "It's getting late. We've got to move out in the morning. Go train the troops for a while before turning in."

Deprived of his chance to speak out on the topic, Neville nonetheless nodded and saluted his superior before walking away, leaving Xenophilius with Harry, both of them observing the younger man walk away.

"He's impatient," Xenophilius observed. "Was it really wise to bring him into our forces so quickly?"

Harry gave his advisor a self-assured smile. "He's too rare a talent to discard, much less keep imprisoned," he assured the older wizard. "If Dumbledore or even Scrimgeour had known how to use him effectively, our rise to power would be threatened by his very presence each step of the way."

Xenophilius shrugged. "Luna was pretty fond of him, but I can't see what you see in him," he admitted, a hint of sadness tinting his voice as he mentioned his daughter.

Harry chuckled. "He's just a stone right now, Xeno, but even the dullest stone can be made into a jewel," he said. "This is just training. When he comes into his own, I dare say even I would have trouble fighting him."

"Dumbledore and the Aurors seem to think less of him," Xenophilius pointed out. "What makes you think he's that good?"

"He's got the spark," Harry said simply with a knowing smile, crossing his arms as he leant back onto a ruined pillar "That drive to become the very best. It's rare among his peers to begin with, but it's shining bright in him."

Harry then fell silent as he readied himself mentally for the next step. "Xeno, how volatile would you say London is right now?" he asked calmly.

Xenophilius looked at him for a moment before responding. "Very. What I said may make things look better than they are, but the truth is, it's pretty damn bad up there," he admitted. "The Death Eaters are inciting mages to harass the normal population, and it's got them on edge."

Harry nodded. "Then it's time," he concluded. "Xeno, call Sirius. Tell him I need him to invite out Richard II's ghost for me."


London, United Kingdom, September 30th, 2010 (D-Day +612)…

When Sirius had received the order from Harry thirteen days ago, he had felt one of the most curious emotional experiences in his life. On one hand, he'd been relieved that the order had finally come, and on the other, he'd been terrified of what was about to happen. Add to that disapproval for the whole thing, as well as excitement, and it made for a really strange emotional cocktail.

Whether he had reservations about the plan or not was irrelevant, however. Harry was in charge of this dance, and Sirius was just one more puppet put in his place for a specific reason: to carry out Harry's agenda.

It wasn't a poor paying job, either; his lifestyle was, in a word, luxurious. With government stability all but dead, prices had hit rock bottom, while at the same time the international propaganda and unauthorized media blackout they kept up in place kept the currency strong enough that Sirius' generous government salary was enough to make him a rich man, without even taking into account his family funds. It also helped that the Goblins helped by using their international contacts to maintain the illusion that the United Kingdom was still economically solvent.

Keeping the foreign companies from withdrawing their investments from the UK had been daunting, however. He wasn't proud to admit that more than once magic had been involved in keeping them in the country, even as society broke down further with every passing day. It wasn't ethical, but it was necessary. The country couldn't bear an economic crisis on top of concurrent political and social crises.

The result was that while it was business as usual with the economy, the cities of the UK were flooded with rioters who found a new reason to voice their discontent every day. That meant deployment of riot squads from the police force, but even these were getting taxed outside of their maximum capacity. That meant, in turn, that the military had been forced to start deploying troops for crowd control, which didn't go over well with the populace, just as Harry had predicted.

Thus, it was time to initiate the next phase of the plan, now that Spain was on the cusp of being won.

This next step had been carefully planned out. It had been long since established by Sirius, Harry, Xenophilius, and the rest of the advisory team that there was no way Harry would ever manage to grab power in his current circumstances. As a mage, even if a state-sanctioned one, he would be forever distrusted by his superiors and kept outside of any meaningful power structure. Even his command of the Military Mages was, in practice, just a step higher than being a grunt.

That meant it was necessary for the power structure keeping them submissive to undergo a crisis of its own—one that would afford an opportunity for Harry to seize power. Surprisingly enough, it hadn't been Harry who devised the perfect crisis for this, but rather William.

Using the Wars of the Roses as his backdrop, William explained that if the brass was given a situation where they could seize total control of the government, at least one of them would try, thus precipitating a constitutional crisis. In that event, it would be possible for a third party—one ostensibly just trying to save the nation—to enter the arena and seize power outright.

The problem was, the situation called for chaos. Controllable chaos, yes, but chaos nonetheless, and that meant trusting the populace not to make things worse than already predicted. That was asking a lot right there. The slightest miscalculation could enact a country-wide civil war, rather than a quick, systemic coup.

The target? The Imperial State Crown.

Perhaps the greatest symbol of the British state, its loss would throw the government into confusion and panic, and the people into a rage. If one could couple this loss with its sudden find by some ambitious general, who perhaps would have a retainer on hand whispering the need for a change in monarch, then how convenient it would be that a war hero, returning to Britain from service abroad, would stand up against such a traitor and take it upon himself to purge the government of the disloyal and corrupt?

The problem was that Sirius didn't like this approach one bit. He would do it, of course, but he felt conflicted. He might've gotten into government to help Harry, but treason was treason, and it offended his sensibilities. He also didn't appreciate the risk they were taking in carrying out this plot; any number of things could go wrong, and then Harry would need every loyal man on board to fight for him if they were to survive the aftermath.

Of course, he had to be thankful that their faction would ostensibly have no links to the theft itself. He had contacts for that—contacts Harry and the rest had all agreed needed to be used to avoid the mages getting involved, lest they make things worse.

The door to his office opened then, snapping him out of his reverie. He frowned as he watched his contact, in his mailman uniform, walked in.

"What's the word, Mister White?" asked the man gruffly. No sense in beating the bush around these types; crooks had no need for fancy words, just a job description.

"The order's come in," Sirius stated simply. "Do it. Pin in on looters; there's enough of them to go around for it to be credible," he ordered as he signed the delivery form the man had handed to him for appearances' sake. The package itself was probably just a gift from another MP or something equally banal. "Remember, no framing mages, no unnecessary violence. Get in, break some things, knock out the guards, get the target, and get out."

The man nodded curtly at the order. "No selling it either, eh?" he asked half-jokingly.

"No," Sirius answered firmly. "Keep it findable. I don't want it showing up in some random collector's trophy case when we find it," he warned. "And believe me, we will."

The mailman nodded again, a little disappointed. "Fine," he agreed grudgingly. "Where do you want it found?"

"Doesn't matter," Sirius said dismissively. "Put it on some homeless person, if need be. No political figures, however; I don't need a political scandal."

"Time frame?" asked the man calmly, not bothering to nod at Sirius' instructions. Both men knew the job would be carried out—Sirius was far too powerful to cross or blackmail.

"Get it done by the fifteenth," Sirius replied. "If it takes longer than that, I'm cutting your payment by a tenth for every late day."

The mailman narrowed his eyes. "That wasn't part of the deal, Mister White," the man growled.

Sirius was unmoved by the man's show of passive aggression. Out of the two of them, it was the mailman who was in most danger of losing everything, and they both knew it; this was just a show of unnecessary and pointless bravado. "I'm making it part of the deal," he said tersely. "You are about to steal one of the Crown Jewels of the United Kingdom. I can't afford for that to take any longer than it should."

"What's stopping me from just telling the public of your part, then, Mister White?" threatened the mailman. Again, pointless threats; still, a dance that had to be danced every so often to reassert one's dominance.

"Your family," Sirius panned calmly. "Which reminds me, how are your daughters—Felicia and Patricia, is it? I do hope they're feeling better after that flu outbreak at their school," he asked, no hint of danger or warning in his voice, just pure concern, as though he had a vested interest in their wellbeing. It was perhaps the most chilling thing the man had ever heard.

"Jus' fine," the mailman mumbled, obviously intimidated. "It'll be done, Mister White. Pleasure doing business with you," he added quickly before taking back the clipboard and hurrying out of the office.

Left alone, Sirius frowned as he leaned back into his amazingly comfortable chair and leaned his head on his fist. He didn't like the fact that he had to intimidate so many people into doing the job that he—or more accurately, Harry—needed done. Especially not when the intimidation called for threats to family. As a filially pious person, he expected Harry to understand not to mess with another's family—but, conversely, perhaps that was exactly what made Harry so aware of the potential fruits of using family as leverage.

How ironic!


Sagunto, Spain, October 5th, 2010 (D-Day +617)…

Today was a day of firsts, it seemed.

For the first time since the war had started, the British forces hadn't been automatically shunned since arriving at a city; on the contrary, they were welcomed into Sagunto as heroes, much to the suspicion and caution of the British troops, all of whom vividly remembered the guerrillas that plagued them throughout the war.

Regardless of the British forces' cool attitude towards the locals, however, they were welcomed happily into the town, even helped as the soldiers of the Second Army made camp on the outskirts. For the first time since the war had started, the British forces watched as locals raised a pre-fascist Spanish royalist flag instead of the fascist yoke and arrows.

It was just as well, really, as the British, once again on the move, needed a better supply route than trucking cross-country all the way from Santander, and Sagunto had a port to its name.

A port that now the Spanish wanted back, having realized how important it was to the British war effort.

"Five corps are coming this way?" asked one of the officers present at the meeting incredulously.

General Stevens, now in charge of the Second Army after the death of his predecessor, nodded gravely. "Our scouts report that the enemy's been advancing steadily from Valencia to our south and Castellón de la Plana to our north," he confirmed for his staff. "Unfortunately, our own forces are beneath their combat strength due to garrison duties along the supply route to Santander, which is why I've gathered you here. We need ideas to counter this surge, and we need them quickly."

"How long do we have before the enemy arrive?" asked another officer.

"Twenty hours before they're in position," reported Lieutenant General Speirs, one of the few men who'd seen combat since the initial relief action at Gibraltar and kept jumping the ranks as a result. "Albert Company from my 34th Regiment reports they're deliberately taking their time in getting here to make sure that all enemy units arrive simultaneously."

"They want to trap us here," realized another officer. "Have four corps cut off our northern and southern routes, and the last cut off our supply route," he reasoned. "Sir, we'd be under siege in a hardly defensible location."

"Our best bet's fortifying the castle hill, sir," observed another Lieutenant General. "We can bog them down in street warfare for a while and retreat up the hill once the city becomes untenable. Should buy enough time for reinforcements to arrive and relieve the situation."

"Fifth Army Headquarters in Madrid is the closest, but even if we sent a messenger there, they'd never get a force ready before a week, at least," Harry, who'd been quietly observing the proceedings so far, piped up. "Not to mention the Spanish will have that chokehold they're preparing for us defended tightly, so it'd probably take them weeks to punch through. Add to that the fact that neither the First, Third, or Fourth Armies can help, and we're relying a bloody lot on the garrison Army," he pointed out.

"We'll have to hope for the best, I'm afraid," Stevens said gravely. "I'll have a messenger sent out to Madrid right away," he nodded to a nearby aide, who saluted back and ran off to carry out the order. "Meanwhile, we need to think how best to stave off the enemy for two weeks, at minimum."

"Can our supplies even last that long?" asked Speirs sceptically. "We'll have to start scouring the city supplies if not."

"We'll need an inventory done," Harry agreed. "We need to find out just how much ammunition we've hauled here—see how long it lasts," he added. "My mages can take care of bombing wards—should let us sleep with some peace of mind."

Stevens nodded, pleased. "Good, that ought to keep their artillery and air support at bay," he agreed. "What else can we do?"

"Sagunto is surrounded by elevated terrain, we'll need to scout it out for potential ambush spots so that our reinforcements aren't ambushed on their way here," opined Major General Sullivan. "Maybe even place a few of our own men there to give the Spanish hell."

"That's a suicide mission," Speirs protested. "If anything went wrong, there'd be no way for them to return to Sagunto. They'd have to trudge all the way back to Madrid through insecure, potentially hostile ground."

"There's also the problem of the castle's capacity," Harry pointed out. "We've got…what? Sixty thousand troops here?" he asked for verification.

"Just about," Stevens confirmed. The rest were either dead, wounded and at the military hospital in Santander, or on guard duty wherever the Fifth couldn't spare any men. "What's your point, White?"

"The castle can probably take, what? Ten thousand, if we cram them together?" Harry pointed out. "That leaves fifty thousand troops without permanent defensive positions, not to mention the civilian population, which counts at about sixty thousand as well."

"Either you've got an idea, White, or you're about to try to convince us to surrender," growled Sullivan.

Harry smiled emotionlessly at his counterpart. He liked Stevens, Speirs, and most of the rest of Stevens' staff, but not Sullivan—he seemed to hate the idea of Military Mages on a fundamental level. "My mages can expand the castle's capacity, but only within enclosed spaces, such as rooms, basements, and the like," he offered. "However, even then we'll be running out of space, so we're going to need a substantial detachment digging or building new rooms for my mages to be able to accommodate all of our capacity needs."

"Aren't we stretching the mages a little thin as it is?" asked Speirs, crossing his arms. "Bombing wards, covering for ambush detachments, fortifications within the city…and now magical expansion? Do you even have enough men for all that?"

Harry gave a confident smile at Stevens. "Believe me, sir, my men are up to it; they've learned a lot since Zaragoza," he assured his superior. Zaragoza hadn't been the mages' finest hour, but it had showcased their considerable battlefield abilities.

"I certainly hope so, White," Stevens said, still sombre. "We're going to be relying on them a lot this time around," he added before nodding to himself. "Very well; I think we've thought this through as much as we can. We have six divisions we can use to defend the city," he summarized as he now pointed to the map on the table in their midst. He tapped six positions on the map of the city. "We deploy defensive positions here, here, here, here, here, and here. Speirs, you command the northern front. Sullivan, if Michaels is back on his feet, he's to take the southern front; if not, you're in charge," he ordered. "I also want both of you to carry out an inventory of our available supplies within your divisions

Both addressed men saluted Stevens. "Yes, sir!" they chorused.

Stevens then looked at Harry. "White, take your mages and fortify our location. I want the castle prepped to accommodate all of our troop capacity, plus civilians as well," he continued. "Also, have one of your men accompany the scouting detail to the hills around our position, just in case."

Harry nodded. "Yes, sir!" he acknowledged.

"I'll be taking care of the centre of our defensive perimeter personally," Stevens informed them. "Let's get to it, then, gentlemen."

So dismissed, the General's staff began to filter out of the room inside the mayoral offices of the town, where they had set up headquarters. That would have to move, too—probably up to the relative safety of the castle.

Outside of the building, Harry was just readjusting his peaked cap, complete with Military Mage insignia on the front, when he noticed Xenophilius waiting for him. Not bothering to let the man know he had been noticed, Harry walked down the stairs and began to walk past him when Xenophilius came to his side automatically, quickly falling into step to his rear left.

"We're on warding duty," Harry told his subordinate simply. "Take…Stevenson, Abbott, Williams, York, Howe, and Bernstein and set up anti-bombing wards," he ordered as they both stopped near a crossroads. Harry pulled out a cigarette then and lit up, enjoying the brief feeling the nicotine surge in his system before continuing. "Also, tell Neville to get his kit together—he's going to be leading a patrol to the nearby hills."

Xenophilius nodded. "Anything else?" he asked the younger man, committing every order to memory.

Harry nodded, thankful for the reminder. "Pick out our twenty of our best technical mages and get them to move to the castle up the hill," Harry said. "They're going to need to expand several of the castle's enclosed rooms. General Stevens should have an overseer there that'll explain more in detail."

"I'll see to it that everything's carried out," Xeno assured him. "What'll you be doing?"

Harry smiled back at him. "I'll be around."

Knowing he'd get no other answer from his superior, Xeno merely stared at him for a brief moment before nodding and silently Disapparating, off to carry out his orders. Left alone, Harry finished his cigarette before flicking it onto the ground and looking up to the sky. Bright blue—what a rarity at this time of the year.

At the sound of footsteps approaching, Harry tucked his hands in his pockets and smiled to himself. "Done already with your work, Speirs?" he asked wryly. "Your efficiency is something to admire."

"Cut the crap, White…or should I call you Potter?" asked Speirs, his frown deepening as he approach his colleague. They'd known each other since Gibraltar, so that counted for something.

"Call me White—keeps things simple," Harry suggested.

Speirs nodded noncommittally. "Fine, White," he agreed. He paused then for a moment before walking up to Harry's side and staring out down the street—empty, but for a few soldiers here and there on patrol. A city under siege could truly resemble a ghost town when so close to the battle lines.

"Let's be frank," Speirs said then suddenly. "Stevens is good man, but he's too timid. He listens to advice, but has no ideas of his own, and he distrusts the mages," he said calmly. "If I fell in battle, Sullivan would be in charge."

"Sullivan is too reckless, and under his command the Second Army would be destroyed," Harry concurred just as calmly, a satisfied smile on his face. He'd been wanting Speirs on his side for a while now, but the man's typical aloofness and neutrality in the whole mage debate had made him practically unapproachable.

"You Military Mages have proven to be loyal to the state," Speirs added next. "Distrusting you any further is counterproductive towards the state's efforts at stability."

Both men turned towards each other then, an unspoken agreement between the two being formed. "What are you thinking, Speirs?" Harry asked then, already knowing what his colleague was hinting at.

"Stevens and Sullivan are liabilities to the war effort," Speirs said bluntly, not one to beat around the bush any further than was necessary. "You're a good strategist and a capable commander. The Liverpudlians in the army follow you without question, and I know you've got support back home and in the brass," he informed the younger man. "During the battle, should anything happen to Sullivan and Stevens, I will follow your orders without question, too."

It was a surprising statement from a man who technically outranked him, but Harry couldn't have been gladder for it. Speirs commanded enormous respect amongst the rank and file for having been a battlefield commander throughout the entire war, even if his rank excused him from actual field appearances. With Speirs on his side now, he had just gained twenty thousand soldiers. "I'll keep that in mind," he replied with a conspiring smile.

Speirs stared at him for a long time then, seemingly trying to force himself to read Harry's unspoken intentions. He probably had a good idea of where Harry's ambitions would lead, but for some reason, he seemed resigned to accept that as inescapable fact, and chose to side with him. After a moment of silent staring, Speirs nodded at him once more and left, leaving Harry alone once again.

Harry smiled at the blue sky above. A good portent indeed.

Harry tugged on his gloves then, making sure they were tightly fastened to his hands. Now, to cement his place in history.


Sagunto, Spain, October 6th, 2010 (D-Day +618)…

In a siege, the first indication you get that you're under attack typically comes in the form of something exploding.

So it was that, in the early morning of October 6th, the first of the British forces' defensive positions were jolted into action as an artillery shell exploded against the wards that Harry's mages had put up.

The British troops were, naturally, of high morale and spirit, given their astounding successes in the war against Spain, and yet even then they were surprised at the mass of Spanish troops forming up just outside of bullet range. Certainly, they had been briefed that the enemy forces outnumbered their own considerably, but even with that warning, the British soldiers couldn't help but be shaken by the vast array of enemies readying to storm their comparably pitiful defensive positions.

The problem with wards, to compound the issue, was that as they kept things out of their perimeter, so too did they keep these same things inside, meaning that a bombing ward would just as easily render their own artillery pieces ineffective, and that the Military Mages were forced to withdraw until such a time when the enemy troops penetrated the ward's defensive perimeters.

Which served Harry just fine.

Watching the action a from a few blocks away via binoculars, he calmly observed as the improvised defence works blocking the streets became a hive of activity as the British defenders rushed to get their final preparations in order. He watched as a two-man HMG team readied their weapon, the loader handling the ammunition belt like gold, while the gunner stared down his iron sights, his left hand briefly leaving the gun grip to quickly cross himself, no doubt asking for divine protection in this hour of need.

He watched as, further down the road, mortar teams readied their tubes, with the radiomen squatting by, no doubt waiting for coordinates to relay to their charges.

Fifteen. Fifteen different defence checkpoints had been set up between the city centre and the enemy coming at his flank. To reach Harry, however, the enemy needed only to cross three. To get to the castle hill, thirty. To the castle proper—fifty.

Watching through his binoculars, Harry had no doubt that the large enemy host would reach the very walls of the castle. Even with his mages fighting, the enemy had effectively trapped them in Sagunto, victims of their commanding general's lack of foresight.

Still, Harry had a plan. And that plan would bring immeasurable rewards—if it succeeded.

"Enemy troops converging just outside of firing range, sir," the radio operator informed him, relaying the front lines' reports, no doubt. "Captain Hollenbeck reports that enemy vanguard consists of about five thousand troops."

Harry nodded. "Stick to the plan—hold position until deemed untenable," he ordered the radioman to relay. "On my signal, have the mortar teams fire their ordinance at the predetermined targets."

Harry didn't even hear the radioman acknowledge his order, instead refocusing his binoculars to the hill on the other side of the fields bordering Sagunto. Neville and his team were still there, and judging by the utter lack of interest the enemy army was showing towards those hills, they hadn't yet been found—or if they had, then they weren't being considered much of a threat.

Or rather, that was the superficial reasoning one could draw. Instead, Harry expected that the Spanish commander knew full well just who it was that occupied Sagunto. Moreover, Harry could guess who it was that led the Spanish forces—General Alejandro Ruiz-Perez, the man who'd been the bane of the British Second Army during the entirety of the war.

An honourable, if devious and intelligent man, he'd been at the forefront of every difficult battle the British had to fight every step of the war. When the invasion had first started, he'd been in charge of the North-Eastern Army of Spain, hindering the Second Army's otherwise inexorable march. When he was finally transferred away towards the west to counter the First and Third Armies, the Second had finally been able to subjugate the Spanish North-East.

It seemed ridiculous—even fictional that a single man could pose so much trouble, but that was the truth. Amongst the British, General Ruiz-Perez was nicknamed "The Wall" for his amazing defensive leadership skill. If he wasn't such a big headache for him, Harry would've loved to have such a man on his staff. As it was, Harry had no doubt the man would only ever surrender if he died.

A pity.

The radio crackled again then, this time buzzing alive with the sound of stressed soldiers.

"CONTACT FIRST POSITION!" a soldier could be heard screaming through the radio. So, the enemy had finally crossed through the wards. They were more determined than he'd expected—this was certainly not what he'd come to expect from the Spanish commander. "We're being suppressed! Enemy is moving up without adequate resistance!"

He raised his binoculars again and aimed them towards the first position of his flank. As the radioman had yelled through the apparatus, Harry could see the street asphalt burst here and there where the bullets hit, victims of bad aiming. More importantly, however, were the British soldiers practically huddled against the barricade, only the HMG teams firing their guns, relatively safe behind the makeshift steel bullet screens they'd built around their gun emplacements.

"First position is in danger of being overrun," one of Harry's aides, a remarkable non-mage by the name of Albert Clarke, noted as he, too, watched the situation develop via his own binoculars. "Shall we advise General Stevens to have the mortars fire, sir?"

Harry stayed silent, still watching the advancing Spanish troops move in on the first barricade. They were being careful, advancing only along the sides of the street and using the outlying buildings as cover. A mortar strike would only do minimal damage at this point. He needed them towards the centre of the road before such a strike could be called in.

He toyed with the idea of having the mortars fire rounds on the buildings the Spanish forces were using as cover, but dismissed it almost as quickly. Forcing them into the centre via such a tactic would probably fall within the Spanish commander's expectations.

Harry had another idea then. Lowering the binoculars, he turned his head towards his aide. "Call up Lovegood. Tell him to have two Blasting Mages report here immediately."

"Yes, sir!" the radioman acknowledged before changing frequencies. "Shield-One, Shield-One, this is Sword-Three; Hellfire requests Triad to send over two—say again, two Bravo-Mikes!"

"Sir, won't General Stevens object?" asked Clarke. "The Mages are supposed to be stationed at the castle," he reminded his superior.

"General Stevens is being influenced by dubious judgment from short-sighted officers, Major," he informed his subordinate. "General Speirs will support my action, in any case."

Silence permeated the forward command post for a few seconds before the radio crackled back to life. "Sword-Three, Shield-One. Roger; Triad is sending over requested Bravo-Mikes. Out."

Almost immediately thereafter, two soft pops alerted the people inside the forward base to the arrival of two mages. Without turning to meet them, Harry knew the two had saluted him and smiled to himself. "Report," he said calmly.

"Sir! Codenames Earthshaker and Meteor, reporting for duty!" a rough sounding male voice spoke up behind him. Impressive codenames, to be sure—typically a good sign. Military Mage codenames were given on the basis of their magical strength, hence Harry's own ominous nickname. To have Meteor and Earthshaker as one's codenames indicated quite a bit of power.

"The first forward position is on the verge of being overrun," Harry informed the two mages who stood stonily at attention, their impeccable blue-and-white trimmed uniforms the very picture of perfection. "The enemy is making it worse by being clever about their approach, minimizing their own casualties at our expense."

He raised a hand to point towards two spots along the sides of the road towards the forward position. "I need you two to force the enemy troops to move along the centre—our designated killing ground. Do it quickly, before General Stevens realizes we've deployed mages to the battlefield," he ordered. He watched passively as both mages thumped their chests in salute before disappearing as softly as they'd appeared.

It didn't take long after that before the first results of his ploy began to emerge. Loud explosions shook the area around the first defensive position as massive explosions on both sides of the road startled the attackers towards the centre of the road, where the British HMG positions finally had a clear shot at them, cutting the advancing wave of troops to ribbons.

"Looks like it worked, sir," Clarke noted phlegmatically, tacitly admitting he'd been perhaps wrong in questioning his superior's tactical decision.

Harry smiled. "Indeed, Major," he said modestly before snapping his fingers towards the radioman. "Get me Meteor and Earthshaker on the radio, Corporal," he ordered.

"Sir!" came the acknowledging grunt before Harry felt a metallic object being placed in his outstretched hand. Pulling it up to his mouth, his binoculars held up with one hand, Harry turned his attention to his two mages on the field.

"Meteor, Earthshaker, this is Sword-Three; good job on completing your mission," he praised them—it never hurt to let the troops know you cherished their accomplishments. "I need a repeat performance along the eastern and western approaches of this sector. Looks like the Dons are looking to avoid whatever artillery we seem to have aimed at your location."

He heard a few chuckles over the radio, glad to see that the anti-magic shielding was holding for the radios—well, actually, it was just EMP shielding, but it seemed to be holding for the most part. Mind you, a concentrated burst of magic would burn the shielded equipment without much trouble. Still, it was nice to see that the radios would survive Apparation, at least.

"Eartshaker copies," the reply eventually came. "Meteor copies," the female, Irish lilt followed.

In short order, Harry watched as four more massive detonations occurred at the western and eastern flanks of Stevens' defensive locations, and the subsequent, nightmarish mix of gunfire and screaming informed Harry that the plan had worked as Spanish troops funnelled towards the centre of the approaches, right into the iron sights of the British defenders.

"Enemy troops have moved into optimum barrage position," Clarke reported dutifully. "Shall we advise General Stevens?" he asked.

Harry was silent for a few moments. "Corporal, sitrep on the Spanish advance in the other sectors," he ordered, apparently ignoring his subordinate's question.

"Yes, sir," the man replied before chattering away at the radio. "Sword-One, Sword-One; this is Sword-Three, please advise on hostile advance in your sector, over."

"Sword-Three, we are currently holding all positions," came the disembodied, mechanical response. "Casualties light, over."

The radioman glanced at Harry for a second before nodding to himself. "Copy that, Sword-One. Sword-Two?" he followed up.

"Sword-Three, we are holding position, but are coming under heavy attack!" came the expected report from Sword-Two. "Casualties are mounting, and Major General Sullivan has been forced to take to the front to calm morale!"

The radioman again glanced at Harry before giving his response. "Copy that, Sword-Two; Sword-Three—out."

Harry crossed his arms over his chest then, his head tilted up thoughtfully as he thought out the situation. That Sullivan was under heavy pressure was no surprise—the man, while a good commander, was fitter for attacking positions than defending them, due to his impetuous nature. He wouldn't accept the help of Harry's mages, either, probably suspecting them of being loyal only to Harry, and not the state—something which, truth be told, he wasn't wrong about. Still, it meant a flank would possibly fold under the superior numbers of the Spanish ahead of schedule, and he couldn't allow that.

The time had come, then. If Stevens and Sullivan were taken out of action, Harry could swiftly take over early on, assuring that the morale drop wouldn't come at a critical juncture later on.

"Major Clarke," he said suddenly. "Please inform Lovegood that we are initiating Contingency Omega," he ordered. As the people around him sucked in air in shocked understanding, Harry felt reassured that the secret plan hadn't been leaked. No one outside the small circle of officers and auxiliaries he'd organized would know about the plan, and all of them were either here with him or up with Xenophilius, whose loyalty to him was beyond question.

Still, it was a testament to his men's stalwart loyalty to him that none of them hesitated in carrying out their assigned task, even as they knew what the end result would be. Harry felt a surge of smug pride at realizing that, pleased that his efforts at cultivating his men's loyalty had been successful both among the mages and non-mages.

"Triad reports that Agents One and Two are moving into position now, sir," the radioman informed him stoically, obviously not pleased with the plan, but still going ahead with orders.

He wasn't the only one, Harry could see. Clarke was visibly holding himself back from saying something, but rather than rebuke him for it, Harry decided to let him vent out his thoughts—hidden thoughts tended to fester and foment doubt.

"Speak your mind, Major," Harry ordered his subordinate, who hesitated for a moment before nodding.

"Sir, couldn't we just wound the General and arrest Major General Sullivan?" he asked. "Why kill them?"

"Woundings and arrests lead to scrutiny, Major," Harry informed his subordinate. "That means everyone in this room and in on the plan will be investigated, thereby bringing with it the danger that we will be found out. This must be done for the greater good," he said firmly.

"Shadow-One in position," a female voice sounded through the radio then. Good—his agent nearest to Stevens was in place. That assassin he'd had to pick personally—if he'd picked at random, there was always a chance that the shooter would have second thoughts. He needed someone absolutely devoted to him to pull that trigger to avoid any such complications. Sullivan, for his part, had numerous enemies within the Regiment, so finding his assassin hadn't been all that hard. "Target acquired. Need confirmation."

"Shadow-Two in position," he heard a male voice through the radio then. "I have a shot."

"All assets in place, sir," the radioman reported. "They're just waiting for your order."

Harry nodded. This was it, the moment when he'd finally come into his own as a military power within the British system. "Do it," he ordered, his voice as unfaltering as his resolve.

The radioman, for his part, was more reticent in so casually relaying the assassination order. "…All agents, plan is a go," he said eventually into his mouthpiece. "Say again, plan is a go. Take the shots."

"Copy." "Roger."

The room waited for a moment while the radios went dead. Another radio-op had his frequency set to the general British channel, thereby hoping to intercept any alarming notices. They didn't have to wait long.

"Jesus Christ!" the room heard someone shout through the British channel. "Those bastards got Sullivan! I say again, Major General Sullivan is down!"

"Sword-Two, this is General Speirs, can you confirm that General Sullivan is KIA?"

"Sword-One, we have a confirmed KIA notice on General Sullivan!"

"Christ," Harry heard Speirs swear. "Sword-Three, this is General Speirs; I need General Stevens on the line—"

"MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY," another voice interrupted Speirs mid-request. Throughout the entire brouhaha, the room was utterly silent as they listened to the situation spiral out of control. It wasn't time just yet for Harry to step in, but it was almost at hand. "General Stevens is down! I say again, Stevens is down! The forward positions are folding!"

"This is Shadow group—targets eliminated; returning to base," they heard the two agents report mid-crisis via the private channel one of the radios were tuned to.

"All forces, stand your ground!" Speirs could be heard berating the panicked operators, obviously quick on the uptake despite the frustrated edge to his voice. "Keep combat discipline, damnit all! We are not beaten, and we will not retreat unless according to plan! I say again: hold your ground!"

The radio kept going on with excited chatter, but what drew Harry's attention was the sudden upward snap of a third radio-op's head. The man's eyes narrowed for a moment before nodding seriously to himself. "Yes, sir," he spoke to whomever was on the other side of the call. The man turned to face Harry. "Sir, General Speirs on the line—he wants a word," he reported dutifully.

Harry tuned in his handheld radio to the appropriate frequency and pushed the talk button. "White here," he said laconically.

"It's done, then?" asked Speirs.

Harry smiled to himself. So Speirs really was on board. Here he was worried he'd have to dispatch another Shadow agent to take care of him. "It's done," he confirmed.

There was a pause in the transmission then before Speirs spoke again. "Very well. Your orders?"

Harry's smile turned to a triumphant smirk. He had this in the bag. Now his rise to power would be unstoppable. "Follow the plan," he ordered. "Lure the enemy into the city. Triad has our welcoming mat ready to be rolled out."

There was radio silence for a moment again before Speirs spoke up again. "Very well. It will be done. Speirs out."

Harry lowered the radio with a satisfied smile. Everything was going according to plan so far, with a few minor hiccups here and there. He looked at his staff and tossed the handheld radio to one of the radio-ops, who caught it handily.

"Gentlemen, time to pack up. Our work is done here," he informed everyone. "Set up at the base camp."

When the staff evacuated the room, Harry was the last to go, smiling to himself the whole way out, pleased at how well everything had gone. Once out of the building they'd requisitioned, with a little resistance from the former tenants of the apartment in question—one of whom's dead body Harry had to be careful not to trip over—he carefully arranged his expression to show grim-faced seriousness as befitting a military commander who'd just heard that two superior officers had been killed in action.

Two pops nearby told him his deployed mages had returned then.

"The building is secure," Harry told them. "Destroy it."

Meteor and Earthshaker both bowed to him as he passed by them. "As you wish, sir," they rendered dutiful obedience before walking towards the next target of their destructive magic.

As Harry walked away, he closed his eyes as he savoured the sound of the building collapsing behind him.


Sagunto, Spain, October 10th, 2010 (D-Day +622)…

The siege, for all intents and purposes, had gone badly for the British defenders. The Spanish numbers had ensured that they would push the British out of their trenches and further into the town, with each defensive position eventually overrun as the anti-artillery wards began to fail due to continuous barrage from the enemy. It was just a matter of time, then, before the British were in a full rout to the castle, where the mages' magical touches had ensured that they would all fit and that the walls would stand up to the abuse they were about to be inflicted on. Nonetheless, the cost had been high; hundreds, if not thousands of British soldiers lay dead in the streets of Sagunto.

The castle hill itself was now completely surrounded by the enemy, and while the defenders could breath easy knowing that there was only one real, feasible way to mount an attack on their defences, it didn't mean that they could afford to be complacent. It was made worse with the fact that eventually, the artillery ward surrounding the city had gone down, leaving the hill briefly exposed before another ward, this time protecting only the castle hill, had been slammed into being after the mages were immediately deployed to contain the situation. Even so, the mages responsible for the wards were being forced to continuously channel magic into the ward, given the constant barrage of artillery and mortar fire that hammered it. Unfortunately, not all of them could take the stress, and at least ten mages died as they poured everything they had into the wards.

Even worse was the fact that, cunningly, the Spanish commander had waited to take the battle to the castle long enough for the civilians to evacuate into the castle as well, leaving the defenders' supplies in a precarious position, dwindling down quickly as the soldiers were forced to share their rations with the refugees they were protecting.

In the midst of all this chaos, with the Spanish now battering at the castle walls relentlessly, the British defenders nonetheless managed to keep their discipline—perhaps teetering on the edge overall, but still holding for now. This was more a mark of their desperation, however, than their belief of victory. They were cut off and reinforcements before they were eventually overrun seemed unlikely, causing each British soldier to fight like a desperate, cornered animal. The results were telling: for each British soldier that died, nearly ten Spaniards lay dead on the ground.

"INCOMING!"

Xenophilius ran along the ancient castle's parapets, ducking his head as bullets flew overhead, each of them threatening to end his life in an instant if he wasn't careful. No amount of magic could fix a hole in the head, after all, and any he put up now would fall almost immediately, considering the amount of firepower being levelled at the castle. He heard a few screams coming from the courtyard then, preceded by a loud explosion that signalled a mortar hit. The wards were beginning to fail, then. That was bad news.

He slid to a stop then, briefly glancing over the bullet-riddled parapets to see the Spanish insisting on their assault on the castle. While they could've waited for the defenders to starve, Xenophilius guessed the commander wanted to be sure that the castle—and more importantly, the mages within—were all dead before the British could send reinforcements to relieve the siege. Nevermind that the casualty rate was horrific.

He brought up his wand and took careful aim at a knot of Spaniards seemingly protecting something with their bodies as they advanced. Another siege ladder, no doubt. They'd already tried setting a few up along the walls, and succeeded in a couple of attempts, but the defenders had always managed to destroy them in time, thus preventing the castle from getting overrun.

"Confringo!" he hissed, watching with satisfaction as the ground beneath the knot of enemy soldiers exploded violently, effectively decimating the ladder they had indeed been carrying towards his section of the wall. He heard quite a few soldiers near him give triumphant whoops as they watched the covert attempt foiled and smiled. That ought to put a dent on the attack, even if for just a few minutes.

Satisfied he'd contributed in some small part to this particular wall section's defence, Xenophilius scrambled back up to his feet and continued his run down the wall, still looking for Harry. While he'd no doubt prevented a potential gap in their defences from forming, Xenophilius had no doubts that the Spanish wouldn't let up, and the problem with that was that the defenders were figuratively almost at the end of their rope.

That the wall section had been defended from that particular assault did not mean that Xenophilius didn't have to keep his head ducked as he scrambled along the parapets, the Spaniards' attempts at breaching the castle becoming more determined and ingenious as time passed. At one point, they began stacking stones at the bottom of a wall, knowing that it short of exposing oneself, it would be hard to dismantle the makeshift siege ladder. That particular attempt was only foiled when the British lobbed a multitude of timed explosives over the walls towards the foot of the pile of rocks and blasted it away, causing some damage to their own walls in the process.

Xenophilius craned his head around, looking for Harry, when he caught sight of a couple of sections of British soldiers buckling under the pressure of assaulting Spanish besiegers, one of the ladders apparently having managed to get set up. Already, numerous British bodies littered the parapet floors, their Kevlar vests finally having run their course in defending their wearers from death.

He had to think things through only a moment before making his decision. While he did need to inform Harry of the desperation of their situation and convince him to initiate the second part of their plan, leaving a potential gap to open up in their defences was a worse choice. Wand out, he dashed towards the defenders, who were only holding on thanks to the encouragement of their comrades-in-arms along the sides of the breach who were in turn firing on the advancing Spanish troops.

Picking up speed, the elder mage jumped onto a battlement, onto another, and then jumped over the knot of embattled British soldiers near the ladder, his wand pointed at the Spanish climbing the ladder.

"Out," he ordered them mid-air, jabbing his wand at them, just before another blasting curse shot out of his wand. The spell impacted the middle of the ladder just as he landed on one of the battlements, stepping onto another, and then jumping back behind their protection, just as the astonished Spaniards at the foot of the ladder opened fire on him again. The ladder, naturally, exploded with over twenty Spaniards still on it, flinging them in every direction.

The couple who actually managed to hang onto the wall were quickly dispatched by a lone British soldier, who gleefully shot the men who'd come so near to killing him, only to suddenly fall backwards as one of the advancing Spanish party shot him immediately thereafter, taking full advantage of the man's sudden appearance from cover.

Xenophilius grimaced, but put aside his feelings at the man's death. The man had taken an unnecessary risk and paid for it. Instead, he turned to the other defenders and nodded at them.

"You all good?" he asked them over the din of gunfire and explosions. At the collective nods and thanks, he smiled and gave them an encouraging thumbs-up. "Make them bleed for every inch they try to take!"

The sections of British defenders gave a small cheer as they watched Xenophilius dash away again, a little more inspired in their defence than they'd been when they were on the verge of being overrun. Xenophilius, for his part, kept looking for Harry on the parapets, but couldn't manage to find him. Giving up on finding him on the walls, he descended the stairs, taking great care to avoid the shimmers of disillusioning spells, and went into the castle proper, seeking out the war room that Speirs and Harry had commandeered.

Indeed, he found both men hunched over a map of the castle and its immediate surroundings, while another, larger map hung from a wall, denoting the city and its surroundings. Both maps had an incredible amount of markings written on them, while the radio operators and computer technicians were working feverishly to stay on top of the battle information and transmissions.

Speirs was talking when Xenophilius entered the room, pointed towards the northern approach of the city.

"…doesn't make sense," he was telling Harry. "Why mobilize so much of the Spanish capital's defensive force to take out a fragment of our forces, especially with the First and Third Armies moving in on Barcelona?" he pointed out. "The smart thing would've been to entrench them around Barcelona and have the First and Third pay for every square inch of ground."

Harry leaned onto the table, his eyes scanning the maps. He had an idea as to why this siege had come about—which had admittedly bugged him since he'd heard of their advance from Barcelona. He only then noticed Xenophilius standing at the door frame, looking winded. "Xeno," he greeted noncommittally.

Xenophilius took in a deep breath to steady his heartbeats and saluted both men. "Defences are starting to buckle," he reported. "We've managed to push back the Spanish, but we're at the end of our rope here," he added. "We need to launch step two of the plan; please give the order!"

Harry and Speirs exchanged looks before Harry shook his head. "Not yet," he replied firmly. "We're still waiting on a signal."

Xenophilius goggled at the two men. "Signal? What signal?" he asked, confused and not a little outraged. He'd been fighting for the past four days alongside the common soldiers and he was starting to feel the brunt of exhaustion, both physical and mental.

Harry smiled, even as the roof shook from an impact blast and rained down dust and grit. "Our ace in the hole."


Outskirts of Sagunto, Spain, October 10th, 2010 (D-Day +622)...

"Shhhh," Neville hissed to his team as they hid behind foliage, the Spanish patrol soon passing near them. He waited until the enemy had passed by before waving for his two assigned squads to move up towards his position.

Putting up a concealment charm—which wouldn't really hold up to a thorough inspection, but would probably be enough to keep any further patrols out of their way—Neville motioned for one of the soldiers to unfurl the map she'd kept in her pack.

"It's official," he summed up grimly. "Sagunto is completely surrounded."

"Sir, what about the enemy convoy we spotted coming from the north?" asked one of the NCOs. "Command has to hear about it."

Neville glanced at the radio operator, who shook his head. "Comm lines are still down, sir. Anything trying to send a signal in or out of Sagunto just gets feedback," he reported.

Neville grimaced at their bad fortune. The way things were, there was absolutely no way to get back within Sagunto to report back to Harry and his superiors. The stranglehold the Spanish had enacted around the city essentially made any attempts to sneak in impossible, and there was no way they could strike at some weak point in the Spanish formation—it was simply too good, and Neville didn't have a fraction of the men he needed to pull off such a gambit.

"Sir, Sagunto's going to fall if something miraculous doesn't happen soon," one of the sergeants pointed out unnecessarily. "And it doesn't look like Madrid is going to be able to send reinforcements in time."

That was another complication. After the ring around Sagunto had been formed, the Spanish had detached a significant amount of troops to blockade the roads from Madrid, meaning that any hopes of getting reinforcements to the besieged forces in Sagunto quickly had been dashed. Even if they did manage to defeat the blockading forces, the battle would probably take too long, and the defenders would probably have been defeated by then.

"A surgical strike at the Spanish general could do the trick," one of the sergeants suggested, although his tone of voice suggested in turn that he wasn't quite convinced of the plan's feasibility.

"Too many troops between us and him," Neville dismissed immediately.

"Should we go back to Madrid then?" asked a Corporal. "I mean, we can't get in, they can't get out, the supply routes are all cut off, and we're too undermanned to hurt the bastards. What's left?"

Neville gazed at the map on the ground, observing every written annotation and symbol on it, and slowly began to form an idea—a crazy, absolutely bonkers idea, but an idea nonetheless.

"The convoy," he said, first to himself, then to the group of NCOs by him. "We strike at the convoy," he repeated himself. As he expected, sceptical looks welcomed his idea.

"Look, we've got two choices at this point. Do what Corporal Brenner says and go back to Madrid and let the Second Army bite the dust, or we hit the Spanish hard and hope to high heaven that it rattles them enough to break their formation," he pointed out, a little heat entering his voice. "I don't know about any of you, but I'm damn tired of watching them batter away at our friends in Sagunto, and I'm not one to sit around doing nothing. Even if that convoy's full of hay, it'll still get their attention, and maybe give our lads a fighting chance—especially if the Spanish think that it's the work of reinforcements."

The NCOs looked amongst themselves as Neville spoke, doubt still clouding their faces. The truth was, none of them enjoyed watching the Spanish crawl ever deeper into the city, and they'd all felt helpless when they realized that their comrades had been forced into the castle at the top of the hill, where they were no doubt making a last stand. The problem was, the convoy they'd observed, albeit briefly, was both large in number and undoubtedly armed. Against their three sections, 24 men in all, what hope did they have of success?

Yet, as Neville had pointed out, that was the only choice apart from retreat, and all of those who'd accompanied the Military Mage on the scouting mission were members of the legendary Francis White's 75h Regiment, the Liverpudlians. All of them knew and had seen Francis White, known as Harry Potter, defend the lives of their fellow soldiers on the battlefield. To leave him to die in Sagunto, where he was fighting to protect their comrades, then, felt like the worst kind of betrayal one could perform.

Still, this wasn't the type of mission you could just assume everyone would volunteer for. Or even would agree to go on.

"Volunteers, then," summed up the senior sergeant, a little resignedly.

Everyone in the circle nodded their heads and crept back towards the small resting grove where the soldiers had been left to take a breather. As they were fairly hidden away from the Spanish patrol routes, they didn't have to worry about standing or speaking normally.

The senior sergeant, not wanting to risk the volunteer numbers to be affected by dislike or hero-worship over mages, stepped up to his men and fixed them all with a hard stare.

"Bad news all around," he told them, noting grimly that this had their complete attention. "Sagunto's completely cut off, meaning there's no way for us to get in there to help out, nor is there a way for them to fight their way out," he informed them bluntly. "Reinforcements will never make it in time either, thanks to the Dons' deployment we all saw three hours ago," he added for good measure. "That leaves us with two choices: retreat back to Madrid and hope the boys in Sagunto can hold out long enough…" he let that idea fester for a moment before continuing with a savage grin, "…or we bring the fight to the Dons anyway in the hopes that it'll scare them so hard they'll be changing their trousers every second of every day they think of the British goddamned army from now to the day they die!"

The enthusiastic cheers from the soldiers were commendable, but also a security liability, so the sergeant quickly waved them back down to silence. "That's the spirits, boys," he praised them. "Now, we've got a plan. It's a stupid plan, but a plan nonetheless," he informed them. "A convoy will be passing by Sagunto in four hours, at which point it will be impossible to get to it due to the enemy camp being so full of Dons the very air smells like sausage and booze," he briefed them. "The plan's simple: ambush the sodding bull-humpers and raise some hell so the Dons in Sagunto get all confused!"

His savage grin then decayed into a grim, vaguely displeased grimace, as if the next part hurt him just saying it. "Unfortunately, it won't be easy, and it's not a mission we're likely to all come back from. That convoy's probably got reinforcements in it and adequate escort, so the operation is pretty much a one-way trip, lads," he told them frankly—maybe a bit too frankly for Neville's tastes, but he knew he had to keep himself separate from the proceedings, lest his status as a mage colour the end result.

"So we need volunteers," the sergeant concluded. "Who here's willing to go spit in the Dons' faces?"

Neville watched patiently as the soldiers in the three sections he'd brought with him debated amongst themselves for a moment before the first of them rose to his feet, followed by another, and then another, and so forth. By the time they were done, Neville was pleased to see that all of them had risen from their places, all of them volunteers for the mission. He knew this wasn't always the case, of course; some people just weren't ready to risk their lives this readily.

"We'll need someone to get to command anyway," Neville reminded the sergeant in a whisper as he leaned in. "In case we fail."

The sergeant nodded. "Right then; Hawthorne, Beckett, you two are to get to command in Madrid and report to Army HQ what we've found," he ordered arbitrarily, thereby removing from the soldier pool the two youngest soldiers. Might as well use that energy to move quicker towards HQ, he figured. "The rest of you, gather your kits and get ready to move out in five. We've got a lot of terrain to cover, and not a lot of time to do it."

With that said, the sergeant dismissed the troops while the assigned two soldiers went with their sergeant to gather the accumulated intelligence for their trip. Their radio signals wouldn't reach as far as Madrid, and with the transmission jamming equipment the Spanish seemed to have, it was likely they'd have to report in person.

Meanwhile, Neville took a place by the senior sergeant and tucked in his hands into his blue greatcoat. "We'll stick out like a sore thumb if we move on foot," he noted.

The sergeant nodded. "Think you can turn the uniforms into something Spanish with that magic of yours?" he asked.

Neville shrugged. "I could, but the enchantment will fade away before we manage to get to the convoy," he warned. "Better to get the real thing—no time limit, and stands up to inspection."

The sergeant grimaced. "But there's no way to get them without killing the guys in them," he pointed out. "Bloody uniforms are just as bad as fake ones."

Neville grinned. "Don't you worry about that," he assured the man as he drew out his hands and made gripping motions, cracking sounds ringing from the move. "I've got this."


"Que haces, Juan?"

The Spanish soldier who'd turned to look around frowned as he continued to examine the forest around his patrol. "Juraría haber escuchado algo," he replied, still straining his ears to pick up on any errant sounds. Behind him, his patrol squad laughed amongst themselves.

"Probablemente un ciervo," his colleague suggested wryly, laughing then when a rabbit darted from one bush to another. "Ves?"

The soldier named Juan looked at the bushes where the rabbit had emerged from nervously, still uncertain whether it'd been his imagination or not that he'd seen a flash of blue and the sound of footsteps amongst the foliage. Was he really being paranoid? He couldn't help it, in a way—this entire war was driving him out of his mind. First, they're winning, then when the British strike back, they bring along some sort of superweapon that obliterates their defences, only to find out that said weapon is a person—a human being like himself, only possessing of powers far beyond the scope of a normal human being's.

He'd known quite a few of soldiers outside his own regiment, and within the year, most of them had been killed, almost all of them through engagements with the Second Army, with whom the monster in question—a man they initially only knew as El Demonio, and later as Harry Potter, known also as Francis White—had been stationed. Given that Sagunto was supposedly garrisoned by said army, Juan felt he was well within his rights in feeling absolutely terrified.

Still, he was holding up the patrol at the moment, and none of his squad mates seemed particularly worried. Maybe he was being a bit too jumpy? Shrugging, he turned away from the bushes he'd been so keenly observing and began to walk back to his squad, his fellow soldiers still throwing the occasional jeer at him for his apparent cowardliness.

Hearing Sergio call him a wuss was the last thing Juan ever heard.

The patrol was stunned to see a flash of green light enveloped their comrade briefly before dissipating, causing the man to drop to the ground, dead before he hit it. Behind him, his hands locked before him in a pushing fashion, was a man wearing a blue greatcoat over an all-blue uniform which the Spanish had long since been trained to recognize due to its first wearer's fearsome reputation.

Military Mage.

Instantly, the patrol leapt into action by bringing up their weapons and firing at the mage, but were just as quickly foiled as a slab of tightly packed earth shot up in front of the mage, no doubt product of the man's magical ability. The patrol began reaching for their grenades when they heard the earth rumble around them for a moment before slabs of earth began to rise around them.

Panic quickly overtook deadly intent as they realized the slabs were bending and converging over them, making a couple of them dash for the slabs to avoid getting trapped in an earthen dome. Unfortunately, their intent had been foreseen by the mage, and as a result, earthen spikes shot out within the dome—only long enough to detract further charging towards them. The spikes worked, as the Spaniards all huddled together at the centre of the dome, which was now reaching its final completion as the light of day began to dim, and finally disappear before their eyes.

Hopefully one of the other patrols would have heard the gunfire and come to rescue them. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen, as this patrol was already the third one attacked.

Outside the dome, Neville observed his handiwork passionlessly. He hadn't liked using the Killing Curse, as it both used a lot of magic and also seemed to have severe physiological consequences for the user, but it had been necessary to eliminate the one soldier who'd been outside of his dome range. This next part was simple, however.

Walking forward towards the dome, he could faintly hear the sounds of angry, defiant shouting within the earthen structure, but as this was practically routine for him, Neville dismissed the shouting and placed a gloved hand on the dome, harnessing his magical power for the next step.

Closing his eyes, Neville allowed the magic to flow through his hand and into the dome, no longer needing to visibly know that flowers and grass were beginning to sprout from the structure. He continued pouring magic into the dome even so, until every inch of its outer shell was covered with vegetation, and the shouting inside became even more intensive and tinged with panic. Good, they were beginning to understand their predicament.

Despite the fact that he heard them shout surrenders at him, Neville kept going with his spell, knowing that any enemy troops left alive could ruin his detachment's mission. Soon, flowers began to bloom within the dome; flowers that, despite their beautiful appearance, had nothing beautiful about the effects of their pollen.

He now heard dulled gunfire inside the dome, probably an attempt to break out of the dome, but Neville knew that was useless. The earth would just regenerate itself with the abundance of magic he was pouring into it. Even if it didn't, the time they needed to carve a way out through gunfire would take more ammo than they had, or even just time.

He felt a tingle in his hand then, telling him that it was time. He drew back his hand, just as the shouting devolved into outright panicked screaming, and waited for ten minutes. On the dot, Neville looked up from his watch and snapped his finger at the dome, which crumbled into dust that the wind blew away. Left in its wake was a circular pattern track where the grass seemed to have simply disappeared, and eleven more bodies, untouched and unspoiled but for the terrified, panicked expressions they held at the moment of death.

"Wingardum Leviosa," he intoned as he motioned towards the twelve bodies in total. The corpses began to float in the air, limp, and Neville observed his handiwork with some satisfaction. Not a single trace of violence on them or their uniforms.

Silently, Neville walked away from the scene, the corpses floating behind him as though led by a tether.

Just like that, the forest returned to its eerie quiet.


Getting to the hill they needed to get to was a lot harder than most people would think, given the flat terrain and general lack of Spanish troops in the track of land separating both geographical features. One would assume that, now that they were all dressed in Spanish combat fatigues, that they could just march their way unimpeded, but that wasn't the case.

First of all, they were thirty-seven in total, which meant that if they all wanted to get to the ambush spot at the same time to be ready for the convoy, they needed to keep a unanimously quick pace for quite a few kilometres. Beyond that, there were several checkpoints along the way—mostly to regulate traffic between the besieging army and the blockading forces.

Finally there was the language barrier.

In a country they were warring against, the British had lamentably few Spanish-speaking soldiers within their ranks, and those few who did know tended to hide this knowledge from their fellows for obvious reasons.

Fortunately, Neville had no time to deal with such petty reasoning, so the moment he found out that one of the privates, John Carver, was in fact Juan Carver, son of a British man and Hispanic woman, he'd put his linguistic skills to good use when the patrols began to get called by their central command.

It also helped now, when they'd been forced to commandeer a few trucks to drive to their destination.

Neville and the rest of the sections waited patiently as Carver and three others—essentially a fireteam, walked up to the two soldiers guarding the cargo trucks at the gas station that doubled as a checkpoint. Through amazing luck, the vehicle depot lay behind the actual checkpoint, and so they were cleanly in the checkpoint sentries' blind spot.

The hidden troops watched patiently as Carver began making friendly chat with the two sentries, who both seemed momentarily confused due to the fact that they'd never seen him before, though they seemed to shrug off the unfamiliarity and soon got into a casual chat with Carver, not even noticing that the other three in his fireteam were unusually silent.

After a few minutes of chit-chat, however, the fireteam moved into position behind the sentries, acting as though they were observing the truck that the two sentries had been standing next to. In a flash after that, everything was over, as two of the fireteam drew combat knives and, clamping one mouth over their respective targets' mouths, stabbed deeply into the sentries' kidneys, slashing the renal artery in the process. Not content with just a single strike, however, the two assassins went for multiple stabs until they were certain the wound was irrevocably fatal. Only after they felt their victims go limp did they then put the two on the ground and wipe the blood off their knives before sheathing them.

Carver then appeared to say something to the lookout of the fireteam, who replied with a thumbs-up as he glanced around the edge of the truck. Carver reached into his fatigues and pulled out his communication mirror, aligning it just right to for Neville to see the flash.

"Area secure," Neville mumbled to himself, with the senior Sergeant nodding beside him as they crouched in the foliage. "Move out," he ordered almost automatically, despite the fact that as a Military Mage, even though he was technically a Lieutenant, he was still outside the Sergeant's command hierarchy.

Thankfully, it seemed the Sergeant wasn't about to quibble over authority, and acknowledged the order with a simple, "Sir," before ducking back towards the rest of the sections who were waiting. Within moments, the remainder of the makeshift platoon, all 23 of them, were waiting for the order.

"Let's go," Neville hissed as he moved out of the foliage and led the contingent towards the trucks at a trot, the whole operation necessitating a bit of speed. By the time they reached Carver and his team, two members of his fireteam were already dragging the bodies away into a nearby tool shed, while Carver and the lookout remained.

"Report," Neville ordered immediately.

Carver glanced at the lookout, who spoke up for the two of them. "It's going to be tricky, sir," the lookout reported. "We might be out of sight, but we're definitely not out of hearing range. The moment we turn on these babies, they'll be all over us."

Carver nodded, agreeing with this teammate's assessment. "That's not all," he added. "Even if they don't manage to nab us, the noise and the trucks' disappearance will be enough to get them on the radio to alert the rest of the Dons."

Neville shut his eyes tightly as he felt a migraine start to form. "Then we have to clear out the checkpoint," he concluded.

The sergeant, however, disagreed. "And what about any other patrols that have to come through here?" he challenged. "If the checkpoint guards are all dead or missing, it's a fair bet they'll alert their headquarters too, sir."

Neville swore under his breath. He hadn't thought of that. Thank goodness for NCOs, he supposed. "Then we have to sabotage that radio without making it look like sabotage," he suggested then, giving silent thanks when he saw the troopers and the sergeant nod their heads. "Any suggestions?"

Carver and the lookout glanced at each other for a moment while the sergeant sighed, apparently in exasperation. "Sir," the sergeant began, looking at him askance. "Are you or are you not a mage?"

Neville blinked once before smacking his forehead lightly. How stupid was he? Magic would do the trick with even the simplest spell! "Right, forget I said anything," he quickly said. "Any idea where their radio is?"

Carver nodded. "I asked the sentries when we got here; told them I needed to report back to basecamp," he said, his English only slightly accented by the Spanish he'd spoken a few minutes ago. Clearly, Carver had worked hard to hide it prior to his outing as a Spanish-speaker. "It's in the convenience store by the fuelling stations."

Neville nodded at the soldier. "Excellent," he praised before looking to the sergeant. "Get these trucks ready to go," he ordered. "This ought to take just a few seconds."

The sergeant nodded. "Already got the lads loading up," he reported. "One section per truck. Lance Corporals at the back, Corporals at the passenger's seat up front. Got a private driving each one of them," he added before looking at Carver and the lookout. "Carver, Edmondson, your section is in truck two."

"Sir!"

Neville saluted back at the two privates as they acknowledged their orders and then went for their assigned truck, leaving Neville with the sergeant. "Okay, here's the plan," Neville told him. "I'll set up a ward around the building, which they'll be able to see pretty damn easily. However, the moment that's up, their communications will be fried, at which point we need to be gunning out of here ASAP," he informed his second in command. "Think you can get the trucks running by then?"

The Sergeant grinned. "Absolutely," he confirmed.

Neville nodded back at the man as he turned to get the drivers to do their jobs. Meanwhile, Neville used the cover of the numerous trucks in the carpool—as there were many more than his detachment needed—to move as close as he could to the gas station shop, making sure he couldn't be seen by any sentries or off-duty soldiers. Previously, it wouldn't really have mattered, as he would have had Carver around to provide some excuse. This time, however, he wouldn't have any chance to cover his ass through Carver, and if, when he started doing the warding magic, someone managed to see him, they'd immediately recognize him as a British Military Mage.

As he ducked behind one truck after another, he mentally judged the distance to the shop. Once he reached the last truck before the shop, he calculated he was about fifteen meters away from it. Close enough.

Leaning against the side of the truck, Neville took a few calming breaths before closing his eyes and curling his fingers into fists. Focusing his mind as Harry had taught him, he let the magic flow through his body and into his hands, which began to glow green with barely suppressed power. He had to act quickly now. Suppressed magic was one of the easiest ways to harm oneself, as the raw power, desperate for release, would start attacking its container until let out.

In this case, his hands.

He counted down from three as he tried to muster the courage to step out into the open and cast a very visible and very obvious spell that would no doubt immediately attract unwanted attention of the lethal kind. Just as he counted two, he wondered what was taking the Sergeant so long in starting the trucks. At one, he heard their engines roar to life, and a couple of surprised shouts from the checkpoint told him the Spanish had heard too.

Zero. Cursing to himself, Neville stepped out from the protection of the truck, his hands alit with magical energy, and raised them towards the building, just as the people inside seemed to realize that something was wrong in the car pool. He saw a grizzled soldier notice him almost right away and raise his hand to point him out, and yet the man was too late.

Mumbling the incantation, Neville felt the magical energy leave his hands as it shot towards the building, the spell already forming as it raced towards its destination. He didn't bother to stay and watch as it actually formed, however. The moment the spell left his hands, he was already turning to run towards the stolen trucks.

Gunfire erupted then, coming entirely from behind him. The Spanish had obviously reacted quickly and were beginning to pursue him, or the trucks. Either way, Neville picked up his pace and sprinted towards his detachment, feeling relieved when he saw that two of them were already beginning to roll out while the third was waiting for him. Out of the back, he could see the sergeant calling out to him to run faster. Behind the man, soldiers raised their assault rifles and fired at the unseen pursuers behind him that he was sure were trying to kill him.

It wasn't like the movies (one of which he'd had the pleasure of seeing at a military camp once) at all, really. There was no slow motion, nor was he about to miss the truck by a second. Instead, he managed to run normally towards the truck, get lifted into the back by a corporal and another helpful private, and helped lift the back flap as they rolled away from the parking lot, stray bullets from their on-foot Spanish pursuers peppering his truck.

Getting an idea, Neville focused his magic in his hands and clapped, the magic racing into the ground underneath the first truck. A second later, earthen spikes shot up under each remaining vehicle in the motor pool. None of them, unlike what the movies loved to show, exploded, which sort of disappointed him. Nonetheless, his people were now on their way to pull off an insane stunt, and he had to focus.

Getting up from the floor, he walked over to the front most of the cargo area and sat next to the small window that separated the rear from the driver's cabin and knocked on it. A second later, it slid open, revealing the Sergeant's face.

"Glad to see you made it, sir," the Sergeant greeted him with a wry grin. "I suppose that bloody racket when we left was your doing?"

Neville nodded. "I daresay the Dons won't be following us any time soon," he noted sardonically. "Status on the other trucks?"

"They've slowed down to flanking positions on either side, and we sustained no casualties during the raid," the sergeant reported. "We're making great time, otherwise," he added. "We should be in position in about two hours, so get comfortable."

Neville nodded and sat back against the railing, emulating his fellow soldiers, who were all, understandably, quite exhausted after five days of non-stop backpacking across a large hill infested with enemy troops. Thankfully, they'd managed to scrounge up some ammunition at the checkpoint—most of it pre-stashed in the cargo trucks for rapid deployment, no doubt—so they wouldn't be hitting the convoy with stones and bad attitude.

He just hoped they got there in time. From the veritable columns of black smoke rising from Sagunto, it looked like the city wouldn't last much longer.


"HARRY! WE'RE LOSING IT!"

Harry discharged his sidearm into a climbing Spanish soldier's face just as he heard Xenophilius shout at him the alarming message. Four hours had passed since he'd assured Xenophilius that everything would be alright—and that observation was quickly becoming harder to repeat, as the Spanish redoubled their efforts to breach the magically defended castle, and the British survivors fought tooth and nail to keep them at bay.

Already, small gaps in their defences—caused by either gunfire or explosives, or a mixture of both—were quickly getting plugged in by Spanish troops managing to finally breach the parapet defences. Their numbers were minimal, of course, but for every Don who went over the wall, another British trooper died needlessly.

Over the radio, he could hear similar panicked reports coming from all over, all of them essentially summarized by Speirs' private transmission to his frequency moments later.

"White, we can't hold out much longer," the heroic general told him firmly, even as Harry ended another Spaniard's life with a blasting spell to the chest. "I recommend we activate our contingency plan right now, or else we're done for the moment the Dons hit ground."

Harry cursed to himself. He knew Speirs was right, and that Xenophilius' panic was well-earned. He'd put off the plan as long as he could, truthfully, because he expected another pawn in his grand scheme to act first, thereby confusing the enemy. No such luck, so far, even though he knew Neville would manage to survive cut off from the main army.

Nothing for it, then.

"Speirs, give the order," he ordered over his earpiece. "Gloves are coming off, ladies and gentlemen," he then transmitted to the other Military Mages, many of whom were still waiting for deployment orders within the fort itself. "Engage at will."

He pulled on his gloves then, making sure they were tightly on, observing the puzzled expression on the enemy soldier's face as another one tried to climb over the wall. The expression lasted for a second before it was burned to charcoal, courtesy of a finger snap from Harry in his direction. Casting a strong anti-ballistic shield before him, Harry stepped onto the battlements, the siege ladder which the Spanish had been using to get over the wall in the space between his legs, and raised his hands to his sides.

For a moment, he took the chance to admire the gory scenery before him. The entire fortress hill seemed to be crawling with Spanish troopers filtering in from the city. Within the city itself, many more could be seemed marching through the streets confidently, assured that the British artillery had been destroyed. Harry wondered where the Spanish commander would be amongst the organized chaos in the city. Would he be at the front-most building, to have easier access to his troops? Or perhaps at the very back, surrounded by the reserves to prevent any magical attempts on his life?

None of that mattered anymore. The Spanish were about to overrun the fortress, and Harry had no choice but to accelerate his plan. He merely needed a thought for the magical energy to course through his being, accumulating at his hands. A year and a half ago, a single Fiendfyre spell would've knocked him on his ass, exhausting as that spell was to cast wandlessly.

He had grown since then.

"Incendium Malus," he incanted, his hands suddenly bursting into flames as he brought them up to bear on the enemy troops, who froze at the sight of it.

Stories had long been circulating amongst the Spanish troops of the Briton who'd unleashed the very fires of hell on the beachhead at Rupuente. They had spoken of a titanic snake made of fire who gobbled up and ran through all the Spanish defences within seconds, burning everyone and everything in its path to ashes.

Within seconds, over two hundred Spanish troops died in the birthing burst of twin, titanic fire snakes. The two fiery vessels of Harry's wrath had been born from the two sparks his snapping fingers had caused, the spark consuming the immediate air around it and fuelling its own creation, until they became the monstrous snakes that had ravaged Rupuente a year and a half ago.

Panic gripped the magic-less Spanish forces then as they immediately recognized the beast and ran for their lives. Unfortunately for them, Harry had counted on this. He tapped his earpiece.

"This is Hellfire to all units; Caduceus has been delivered. Proceed with step two," he ordered via wireless.

"Sir!" he heard the cacophony of acknowledgements through his earpiece.

Within moments, he saw what seemed to be a ring of explosions rip through the city of Sagunto, cutting off the bulk of the Spanish forces which had been attacking the fortress hill from their reinforcements. When the dust cleared, a fifteen foot deep, twenty feet wide trench came into sight, the work of Harry's explosive-specialized Military Mages, such as Earthshaker and Meteor.

"Report," Harry ordered immediately, ignoring the relieved shouts of celebration from the British defenders all throughout the fortress parapets.

"Sir! Trench complete! We lost Quake and Meteor while withdrawing, sir!" the familiar voice of Earthshaker informed him, a tinge of grieving anger in his rough voice.

Harry swore. Meteor had been a powerful mage, and Earthshaker's partner. This wasn't the time for grieving, however. "Copy that. Initiate step three," he ordered. "Fire Mages, deploy."

"Sir!"

Moments later, he spied a large group of mages start to deploy along the parapets, all of them wearing the blue uniform that set them apart from the rest of the armed forces. These were, for lack of a better explanation, Harry's apprentices. More accurately, these men and women were those who followed in Harry's footsteps as fire-based mages who, while capable of other spells, excelled—and perhaps even revelled—in pyrotechnics.

The Spanish, for their part, seemed to recognize that something absolutely catastrophic was heading their way, and what level of panic they had already been at seemed to double within seconds as they started rushing the fortress and firing desperately, hoping to take down some of the mages before they managed to fire their deadly spells.

No such luck. With a flick of his wrists, Harry sent his two Fiendfyre serpents onto the advancing enemy, incinerating them in moments. Moving his fingers, he directed the serpents to cut a large swathe in the enemy troops, soon joined in by a multitude of other fire-based spells, such as your average fireball or even the dreaded Firestorm spell, which one of his mages seemed capable enough to direct towards the enemy.

The screams were horrible—they always were—and yet Harry refused to stop and react to the utter monstrosity that he was unleashing on the enemy. He had to do this. He had to show them that he wasn't kidding around; that if they cornered him, the gloves came off. Most importantly, however, he wanted to cultivate their fear.

Fear drove armies to panic, and that meant the loss of any gains their discipline might have afforded them. It made them make mistakes, which he could use to exterminate all opposition. That was why he baited the Order, why he cultivated his fearsome reputation before the Spaniards.

It was only then that he heard an unexpected explosion ring out from afar. His attention momentarily diverted—causing the flame serpents to writhe, as though they were trying to break free from his control—he glanced over towards the northern approach of the city, and was surprised to see black smoke rising from the distance.

It took him a few moments to realize what was probably going on, and then his expression turned gleeful. Clenching his fists before him, the snakes writhed in their death throes before collapsing into themselves. If his guess was right, then it was time for step four.

Hopping down from the battlements, Harry tapped his earpiece. "This is Hellfire. Begin step four; all batteries, open fire on marked locations," he ordered.

Almost immediately, the few mages in the castle courtyard began running to and fro, incanting cancelling spells every few meters. Gradually, the concealment spells faded away, revealing at least thirty 25-pounder Howitzers aimed up at the sky, each piece fixed into the ground with trail pits to ensure maximum elevation. Their barrels had all been cranked up as high as possible to ensure that the shells wouldn't go too far, and each had been fixed with dial sight adaptors.

"Battery, report!" Harry ordered gruffly.

Speirs answered him, having left the security of the fortress to stand with the artillerymen. "Still getting into position, White," came the curt response. "Battery will be ready in two minutes."

Harry nodded to himself. "Copy that," he acknowledged before switching channels. "Fire Mages, increase rate of fire. Blasting Mages, provide support. Wards, report."

"Fire Mages acknowledge."

"Blasting Mages acknowledge."

"Wards reporting; Sir, we've lost Jackson, and Kilburn has collapsed. Anti-ballistic shield is holding, but barely. Another two rounds of artillery, and we're done," he heard a woman report.

Harry grimaced. The anti-ballistic shield was the only real thing preventing the Spanish from using air-based vehicles and general artillery to wipe them out. If it fell, the Spanish could withdraw and bomb them from afar at their leisure.

"Copy that," he replied, keeping his voice sounding confident. "Give it all you've got, soldiers; we're nearly there."

"Wards copy, Hellfire. Over and out."

Harry wished he could help the warders' plight, but sadly he had no talent for wards. Neville, in fact, was better suited for the task than he was, and the man was, if Harry was correct, pulling off an insanely brave and suicidal stunt to get the Spanish to back off.

That meant that Neville needed time.

Good thing for Harry that he was an expert in buying people time on the battlefield.

Harry climbed back onto the battlements, his ballistic shield holding back the pot-shots the fleeing Spaniards kept firing at the fortress, and lit his hands with magical energy.

"Incendium Malus."


Thirty Minutes Ago…

The ride to the ambush spot had been dull, all things considered. Despite having raided a military checkpoint and gotten away with three trucks, it seemed that the attempt at disrupting communications had succeeded well beyond what they had expected. Nearly an hour and a half had passed since they'd left the checkpoint, and not even a helicopter had flown by to intercept the miniature convoy as they raced towards the ambush spot.

Not that any of the soldiers were complaining—any time that the enemy was loathe to track them down and shoot at them was a welcome one. Nonetheless, it was making them slightly edgy, as this meant that for the past hour and a half, they'd been doing exactly nothing except checking their weapons, exchanging small talk amongst each other, and letting the dread towards the incoming mission wash over them.

Leaning against the driver cabin, Neville waited a few minutes before knocking idly on the window at the back of the cabin. Immediately, the glass slid sideways and the Sergeant peeked out. "Sir?" he asked.

"What's our status?" asked Neville.

"Five minutes out, sir," the Sergeant replied. "All troops report combat readiness," he added.

Neville nodded. "The convoy?" he asked next.

"Carver's been listening in on the radio chatter—looks like they're on schedule," the Sergeant replied. "We're ahead of them by about half an hour."

Neville was silent for a moment. "Half an hour's not that long," he noted grimly.

The Sergeant nodded out of sight. "Won't be much time to get to cover, that's for sure."

Neville thought about that. Sure, the original plan had called for the troops to take cover amidst the tree line on the hill next to the road, but what if he took out that option? What if, instead, he provided them with the necessary cover?

…sure, it was crazy, but who dares wins, right?

"Change of plans, Sergeant, gun the truck right for the convoy," Neville ordered the man, who sputtered in surprise.

"Excuse me, sir?" the man choked out. "Did I hear you right? You want us to charge the convoy?"

"Damn right I do," Neville replied, noting that the other soldiers in the back with him were openly goggling at him in horrified surprise. "Half an hour's too little time to get us all in position, and the cover's minimal, at best. So, new plan: I make the cover, and those bastards don't see this ambush coming from the front."

There was silence for a moment while the Sergeant pondered the idea, though the soldiers were noticeably less restrained in their vocal horror. After a moment of incomprehensible shouting, the Sergeant shut the dissenters up with a short but powerful, "SHUT UP!"

And they did—probably as a result of indoctrinated training to keep quiet when ordered. Whatever it was, Neville was glad for it.

"A charging ambush, is it?" the Sergeant mused. "…I suppose it is crazy enough to work. Alright; Private, gun the damn accelerator and aim right for the middle of the convoy!" he barked at the driver.

"The middle?" asked Neville.

"Causes more chaos," the sergeant explained. "If we hit the front, they'll just use the reserves from the middle and back to push against our lesser numbers till we break," he added. "But if we hit their middle, they'll be screaming bloody murder and wetting their pants before they realize they've got us outnumbered ten to one."

Neville wasn't so sure, but he decided to defer to the sergeant's veteran status.

The ride to the convoy was noticeably much more tense than the previous legs of the journey had been, given that the soldiers were now aware that they would be charging headfirst against superior numbers, with only the element of surprise and sheer ballsiness on their side.

As they neared the convoy, however, Neville heard the sergeant swear quite colourfully and loudly. Instantly, he tapped the window and it slid open. "Report," he ordered.

"It's not a supply convoy," was the sergeant's brief summary.

Neville raised his eyebrows in surprise. "It's not?" he asked, confused. "Reinforcements?" he asked.

"Better," the sergeant replied, the sound of something hitting the dashboard. "It's a civilian convoy. A special kind of civvie convoy."

Neville heard the driver start shouting joyful obscenities then, and the radio seemed to come alive with such chatter. Neville started to have an idea as to why, but he wanted confirmation before he got his hopes up.

"What kind?"

"The prime ministerial kind."

Neville felt his hopes soar. This was it—the way of turning Sagunto around, and perhaps even end the war in one blow.

"Sergeant," he spoke up, "Charge them down."

"With pleasure, sir," the sergeant replied, a hint of the man's feral joy lacing his tone. "Private, your heard the man—hit the gas and ram this truck down their fucking throats!"

"Sir, yes, sir!"


The results of Neville's charge were…predictable, to say the least.

The three army trucks, barrelling at full speed towards the middle of the armed civilian convoy, took the travelling convoy entirely by surprise, crashing into them at full speed and forcing a few of their own army trucks into a road ditch on the other side of the road. It probably helped that Neville transfigurated the front of their truck so as to possess six deadly looking spikes to ram through the troop truck they aimed for—although that particular action also shorted out the truck's electrical system as well.

Naturally, the soldiers in the conductor cabins all but stumbled out of it, dazed and a little confused due to the heavy impact. The soldiers in the rear, however, had no trouble getting out and quickly fanned out as they began to engage the stunned Spanish soldiers who were providing convoy escort.

Neville himself was one of the first out, dropping to the ground and simultaneously bringing up his sidearm to fire it off at a recuperating Spanish trooper who'd been thrown clear of one of the rammed troop transports.

Feeling something zip right by his head, Neville next turned to see a couple of soldiers levelling their firearms at him shakily and quickly dispatched them as he raised his hand and fire off a transfiguration spell at the ground in front of them, causing spikes to burst out and impale them.

"Fan out! Fireteams move to objective by the numbers!" the sergeant was roaring over the commotion they'd caused by ramming head-first into a convoy. "Secure the civilian vehicles! Take down the guard detail!" he ordered.

So many orders, so little time before the bulk of the Spanish army realized that their precious civilian convoy was under attack and came to obliterate them. Heck, they wouldn't have to wait long for any reinforcements, either, seeing as the convoy was well outside the magical wards of Sagunto, which prevented airborne vehicles from flying within the area.

Fortunately, the surprise attack had the Spanish with their pants down, so Neville was able to quickly formulate a makeshift ward spell that covered the length of the convoy, disrupting any electronics within the convoy and buying the raid some time before the main army at Sagunto noticed something had gone wrong.

The spell done, Neville raised his sidearm and dashed for cover as more Spanish troops raced to meet the raiders, firing their weapons wildly in an effective attempt at suppressing fire. Neville, however, had a very good counter for it.

Closing his eyes, he raised his middle and pointer fingers of his free hand and channelled magic into the ground, causing an earthen barrier to shoot out of the ground.

"Cover formed!" he shouted to his troops. "Move to intercept!"

With a fierce battle cry, a fireteam raced to the newly formed wall and took cover behind it as they opened fire on the advancing Spanish guards, driving the enemy into taking cover as well.

For a moment, Neville wished that the ward hadn't disrupted the radios his detachment carried, but there was no use crying over spilt milk. "Anyone got eyes on the target?" he shouted as he leaned out of cover and fired a shot into a cowering Spanish soldier who'd been peeking out of cover to see if the coast was clear. "Sergeant?"

"Negative, sir!" the sergeant yelled back on the other side of the truck separating them. "Civvie vehicles are towards the rear. We hit the escort contingent!" he reminded Neville.

Neville cursed. "I need a fireteam on me!" he yelled as he broke out of cover and started running towards the back of the convoy.

"Fireteam Charlie! Back up the Lieutenant!" he heard the sergeant roar over the constant sound of gunfire.

It took a few moments, during which Neville was essentially storming the rear of the convoy by himself, but soon enough he heard gunfire to his right and knew the assigned fireteam had caught up with him.

"Fireteam Charlie, report!" he yelled. More sound of gunfire.

"Sir! Corporal Donahue reporting!" he heard the response. "Looks like bodyguards filtering out of the civvie vehicles! We're being pinned down one car north!"

Neville swore and quickly skidded to a halt as he stopped his charge in front of an obviously armoured car, judging by the lack of penetration from British gunfire. Indeed, he could see bodyguards taking cover behind open doors—also heavily armoured, it seemed—taking potshots at his men.

Well, to hell with that.

Neville holstered his sidearm and raised both hands. With a grunt, he felt a pulse of magic shoot out towards the car, which immediately bent to the magic's will. Within moments, the whole car was a metallic reproduction of a porcupine, impaling the bodyguards outside and anyone who might still be inside. No sense taking chances.

"Clear?" yelled Neville. Good grief, by the end of the mission, it wouldn't be surprising if they all went weeks with a sore throat!

"Clear!" Donahue replied as he and his team moved into view and deftly avoided the bloodied spikes from the car. "Moving up!"

Neville nodded as he drew his firearm again and moved in sync with the fireteam, accurately shooting any bodyguard who came into view. If there was one thing to be said about Auror training, it was that their accuracy training was second to none.

A bodyguard soon surprised Neville as he stepped into view just seconds before Neville would crash into him. Knowing there was no way to slow down in time, Neville simply hopped, kneed the bastard in the face, and dropped on his feet, turning only to fire into the man as he lay there with a broken nose, dazed by whatever the hell had just happened. He was dead a second later.

Neville continued his charge until they reached the halfway point, where he began to wonder where the hell the presidential car was. Or Prime Ministerial. Whatever.

"Any sign of the target?" he yelled.

A spatter of gunfire. "Negative, sir!" Donahue replied. "No marked cars in sight!"

Neville cursed. "Damnit!" he yelled to himself, before adding to Donahue. "Check each one! One by one!"

"Sir!"

There was no question as to whether the fireteam would recognize the Prime Minister or not. Each individual British soldier was issued a pack of playing cards that had a picture of a highly valued target on each card. It was something they'd picked up from the Americans, and it had taken to water amongst the British troops.

The problem was finding the weasel bastard. Apparently the Spanish hadn't been taking any chances and had made up the civilian part of the convoy as indistinguishable from each other as possible, and it was working. Between him and the fireteam, Neville could only count with five troopers, himself included. They had maybe ten cars to go through—excluding the one making a porcupine impression—and there was no telling whether any of the cowering passengers inside the intact cars were armed.

Neville swore. "Pair up!" he ordered. "Odd man out on me! One pair per car!"

Immediately, the fireteam split into pairs and the odd man out, a Private with short brown hair whose nametag read Billson, slid over the trunk of one of the armoured cars to link up with him. Immediately, Neville nodded at Private Billson and motioned to the car.

"Door," he said simply.

With a nod, Billson levelled his weapon in one hand as he reached for the door clasp and pulled, opening the door while Neville held up his firearm to shoot any hiding hostiles.

No one inside. A bodyguard car, it seemed.

"Clear," he said calmly. "Next car, go."

Again, a nod in response as the young man dashed to the next car, Neville right behind him, this time taking his spot next to the car door. He saw the soldier lift his assault rifle and nod. With a yank, the door opened and the Billson narrowed his eyes.

"Hands in the air!" he shouted, making Neville step up next to him and raise his own sidearm.

"Hands in the goddamn air!" he added to the soldier's shouts. Unfortunately, it wasn't their target they found, but rather what seemed to be a gaggle of officials who were no doubt also trying to escape.

"I don't see him, sir," Billson spoke up.

"Next car," Neville said simply.

"WE GOT HIM!" Neville heard Donahue shout further down the line of cars. "WE GOT THE BASTARD!"

Both Billson and Neville's heads shot up at that moment, and one of the officials in the car decided to take advantage of that momentary distraction to play hero. Unfortunately, this wasn't an action movie, and the man wasn't Bruce Willis or any other action star. Thus, for trying to get a grip on Billson's assault rifle, the man got instinctively sprayed with bullets until the inside of the car was rife with his blood.

"STAY THE FUCK WHERE YOU ARE!" Billson shouted furiously at the now utterly terrified civilians inside. "The next fucking wanker who moves gets a bullet in their gob, got it?"

Neville heard the few women inside the car whimper and a whole lot of what sounded like prayer before he clapped a hand on Billson's shoulder, which was shaking, oddly enough. "Private, let's go. We've got a war to win."

Billson took a moment to collect himself before he nodded and backed off from the opening, his weapon still levelled at the blood-drenched innards of the car. When they were both sure they were out of grasping or heroics reach, Neville and he turned to jog over to where Corporal Donahue stood looking like he'd won the lottery thirty times over. Kneeling by the rest of his fireteam was an older man, his hands clasped behind his head and rocking himself ever so slightly while making almost inaudible whimpers.

"This him?" Neville asked sceptically as he observed the man who'd launched a war on his country.

Donahue grinned. "Don't look like a prized terrier, but that's the wanker indeed, sir," he affirmed all smiles. "Just needed to stick a gun in some berk's face and they gave up ol' sniffles here quicker than a tart loses her clothes."

Neville grinned at the very vulgar way Donahue had described the capture and clapped him on the shoulder. "Donahue, I do think you've just won us our war," Neville asserted. "Next three rounds are on me."

"Three? I expect free ale and loose skirts for life!" One of the Prime Minister's guards spoke up.

While the fireteam had a laugh at that, Neville climbed up on top of the car and then hoped onto the truck at the front of the civilian part of the convoy. He couldn't just yet see the Sergeant or the rest of the detachment, but the sound of gunfire told him the fight along the convoy was still going on. Time to put a stop to that, then.

He turned to face the fireteam. "Hog-tie the wanker and let's go," he ordered as he jumped down onto the civilian car's hood and then onto the ground. "More fighting to be done, and I expect this fella," he grabbed the Prime Minister by the neck with his arm. "Will make a bloody good bullet shield."


The fighting didn't stop the moment the Spanish Prime Minister was captured, however. Unlike a game, real combat tends to go on until everyone hears the news or one side is dead. Fortunately, the former option occurred in Sagunto as the battle began reaching its fever pitch.

The beleaguered British defenders, having suddenly rallied around a surprise attack that split the Spanish forces in two, had sallied out, led by the Military Mages, to retake the town in a last-ditch attempt at blitzing their way into victory. At the head of the sallying action was Harry himself, whose twin Fiendfyre snake constructs went through the Spanish troops like water through toilet paper.

Thus, when the news filtered in that the Prime Minister of Spain—the real culprit behind the devastating war—had been captured, Harry and his men were smack dab in the middle of fierce street fighting. While many Spanish troopers who heard the news surrendered almost immediately, there were still a few who hadn't heard the news or refused to bow to the inevitable, and kept fighting.

The result was that up to three hours after the news hit the Spanish HQ in Sagunto, fighting was still rife in parts of the city, where mostly fanatical troops held on against the reinvigorated British forces.

It was a testament to the fighting's intensity, in fact, that when Harry, Speirs, and General Alejandro Ruiz-Perez all met to settle the terms of surrender, none of the three men were in any way, shape, or form presentable according to typical codes of dress for such a situation. Speirs' uniform was torn at various places and smudged with dirt nearly everywhere, and his helmet was missing—presumably riddled with holes when he ducked in the nick of time as a Spanish HMG position opened fire on him during the sallying action. Harry's uniform was singed from his own magical flames and had one sleeve nearly shredded entirely from the intense street fighting, and he was limping from a nasty gash in his left leg—now professionally bandaged. General Ruiz-Perez, the best dressed of the three, had his uniform covered in dust, dirt, and torn at the seams. All in all, one would have never imagined their meeting, set up in a bombed out home, to be one that would end the war. It certainly would have never matched the public's imagination as to how these proceedings went.

And yet, went they did. Realizing the fact that he was finished, General Ruiz-Perez placed his sidearm, holster and all, on the table between him and Harry and Speirs. "I ask only that my men be spared from any ignoble retaliation, General White," he said, his voice thickly accented with his native Spanish. "Whatever the differences between our countries, gentlemen do not revenge themselves on those not at fault."

Speirs had then leaned down to whisper in Harry's ear, presumably to advise him on how to proceed. Whatever he heard, Harry seemed willing to take it at face value and nodded to Ruiz-Perez. "Deal, General," he agreed as he took Ruiz-Perez's holstered firearm into his hand and then offered it back. "In return, I want you to order the resistance movement across to stand down."

The Spanish general looked at Harry a little uneasily. "I am not the one responsible for the Resistencia's movements and doings, General White," he protested. "I am not sure what effect you think my orders will do."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "General, I am fully aware that you, amongst your peers, carry the most weight in terms of fame and influence amongst the populace," he stated bluntly. "They will listen to you. Order them to stand down, or I make no promises regarding anything," he threatened. It was a tenuous threat, and he knew it, especially considering that in terms of military might, the Spanish general had him beat at the moment. His only card in play right now was the fact that the Prime Minister was in his power.

The bluff worked; the Spaniard looked at his counterpart across the table and sighed in defeat as he nodded. "As you say, General White. I will broadcast the order today," he promised.

Harry heard Speirs give a small sigh of relief—practically inaudible—and sympathized with his colleague. The Fifth Army would be able to have a much easier time holding down the occupied sections of Spain if the guerrillas stood down, especially given the difficulty of uprooting such irregular combatants.

It was part of the reason why the Fifth Army, despite being based in Madrid, could not come to their aid with any real quickness. Any forces not already in combat were being tasked with anti-insurgency operations, which was severely draining British resources.

With this, however, the insurgency would hopefully stop, and with that, it would mean that resistance from the Spanish was ultimately futile and doomed.

Harry snapped his fingers and immediately a trooper came forward to stand beside his chair. "Your radio, soldier," he ordered. Harry had picked this specific soldier for the sole reason of still having a functional radio, courtesy of the man's guard duty over the civilians who had been hiding in Sagunto Castle. The thick, magically reinforced walls had done well to protect the piece of equipment.

With due speed, the soldier unclasped his holding pouch and dug out his handheld radio, passing it to Harry, who then placed it on the table before the Spanish general.

"No time like the present, General," he stated calmly.

The Spaniard had a brief look of distaste, as though he hated being cornered and push around like this, but picked up the handheld without vocal protest. Observing the channel, he pressed the dials to the appropriate channel and brought up the radio to his mouth, pressing the talk button and glancing momentarily at Harry, as though sizing him up.

He paused for a moment, reluctant to continue, but then opened his mouth. "Habla el General Ruíz Perez del Segundo Ejército Real," he stated in Catalonian-accented Spanish. "A todas las fuerzas regulares e irregulars que puedan oir este mensaje. El Primer Ministro ha sido capturado y ha capitulado. Repito, el Primer Ministro ha sido capturado y ha capitulado. Bajen sus armas y rindanse ante las fuerzas Inglesas. La guerra ha acabado. Hemos perdido. Fin de mensaje."

He let go of the talk button and waited now—everyone in the room did, anxious to see what would happen. Would the troops and irregular forces obey? Would they not? Everyone waited with baited breath.

One minute. Two. Five. Ten.

Nothing seemed to be happening, and as Harry began to conclude that this apparent war hero had indeed very little clout amongst the Spanish irregulars and the other combatants still fighting the British tooth and nail, the radio suddenly crackled to life.

"General, mensaje copiado," a defeated-sounding voice rang out from the handheld, which was still in the general's hand. "El Decimo-Tercero regimento de Barcelona está bajando sus armas. Hemos reenviado su mensaje, y tenemos confirmación que la Resistencia de Barcelona se ha comenzado a rendir."

The Spanish general was grim faced as he listened to the radio report. "Barcelona is yours, General White," he said evenly, despite the obvious pain in his eyes. "I dare say this will be the first of a torrent of such reports, if our most ardent fighters are surrendering so fast."

Harry nodded, a pleased, yet equally grim look in his eyes. "I certainly hope so, General," he said. "This war has gone long enough."

Even as he spoke these words, the radio, as the Spaniard had predicted, buzzed to life as report after report came in of Spanish forces declaring their intentions to surrender, intermingled with a few here and there that refused to do so. All the while, General Ruíz-Perez could do nothing but listen as his country fell to a foreign army.

Speirs, meanwhile, looked relieved that everything was going so well, and bent down to whisper to Harry.

"I didn't know those radios had such output as to reach Barcelona," he observed wryly.

Harry had to suppress a smile. "They don't."

"Then?"

"We recovered relaying equipment from the Spanish during the sallying action. It's boosting the signal to Madrid and other regional centres," Harry explained. "When Madrid heard the message, they probably retransmitted it to the rest of Spain."

Speirs nodded. "Good thinking," he said softly. "But how did you know he'd agree to send the message?" he asked.

"I didn't," Harry replied honestly. "It was a gamble."

Speirs looked a little shocked, but then smiled approvingly as he glanced to the defeated Spanish general, who remained stiff at attention and his head bowed in defeat as the reports came filtering in. "Well, congratulations then; your gamble worked."

The war was over.

But even as the British soldiers in Spain celebrated, the gathering storm clouds of another conflict were already forming up in the horizon. That was the problem with wars—no matter how many you stamped out, another one was ready to take its place.

And this one would change the world.


London, United Kingdom, October 15th, 2010 (D-Day +627 – VS-Day)…

"So, tell me again why the Spanish Prime Minister just happened to be heading for Sagunto?"

Sirius grinned at his old friend as he returned a book he'd been reading to its place on his bookshelf. "It's not that hard, Remus," he chided playfully. "Barcelona was under siege by two full field armies, and they had only two to defend the city with. Even if the First and Third somehow botched it up, that still leaves the Second, Fourth, and Fifth Armies to finish the job—they didn't have that same amount of backup. So, they decided to evacuate," he explained as he picked another book and drew it out, observing its well-worn green cover.

A book on Metternich. Why not? Could be interesting.

Remus, meanwhile, was sitting in a comfortable lounge chair his oldest friend in the world had offered him in his study. "So they decided to run?" he asked, the movement of his mouth making the triple scars on his face twitch ever so slightly; a parting gift from a particularly vicious Werewolf in Europe.

Sirius nodded. "Correct," he confirmed. "Intel that the First Army recovered confirms that the Prime Minister panicked and ordered a retreat to Mallorca," he told Remus as he drummed his thumbs on the book cover. He then raised it with one hand towards Remus, giving his friend a sly grin. "The bugger thought that if they could hold out in Mallorca, we would send our armies after him and destroy ourselves in trying to take the island."

Remus shook his head in amazement. "Utterly foolish," he judged. "Mallorca would've been bombed into submission."

Sirius chuckled as he moved back to his desk and sat in his office chair. He closed his eyes in contentment as it perfectly moulded to his figure. "That's what the bastard's officers said," he told Remus. "He didn't care. Ordered what was left of the Second Royal Army to escort him and his cabinet to Sagunto and board ships for Mallorca. Air was too dangerous, and they still had a fleet of ships in the Mediterranean that the Royal Navy hadn't sunk," he added.

"Harry got lucky," Remus noted. "If it hadn't been for the Prime Minister being a coward, he and the rest of his forces would've gotten butchered eventually," he noted. "Did you see the casualty rate for his forces at Sagunto? Makes me sick just looking at it."

Sirius nodded grimly. "Aye. He had to file an official report, so all of Parliament saw how precarious the situation was," he informed Remus before smiling thinly. "On the plus side, it's made it impossible for the military to deny him any promotions, whatever the brass' misgivings about him."

"Oh?"

Sirius nodded. "Harry is now a bona fide General," he announced proudly. "Crown, pip, and sword and baton—the whole deal. Four star man of wonder," he added jocularly. "He's also got himself an admirer, it seems," he added with a chuckle. "General Curtis has been tracking his progress, and allegedly said that he was, and I quote, 'the only man amongst the officers,' for having had the nerve to stand his ground at Sagunto."

Remus raised an eyebrow at that, and Sirius snickered as he opened his book. "I may have paraphrased the second part. Word has it there were quite a few outraged officers when she said what she actually said."

"I bet," Remus observed wryly. "So when's Harry due back?"

"Last I heard, he should be arriving in two days," Sirius said with a smile. "By then, Warwick will have raised quite the media storm to bolster his already enormous reputation."

The intercom on his phone rang then, surprising both men, though Sirius reacted with well-practiced nonchalance as he pressed the speaker button. "Yes?" he asked.

"Sir, Baron Warwick is on the phone; shall I patch him through?" the musical, incorporeal sound of his secretary's voice asked.

Sirius and Remus exchanged glances at this point—one worried, one suddenly grim and determined—just as Sirius pushed the talk button again. "Speak of the devil…Patch him through, Emily," he ordered, and moments later the phone began ringing with a dual-tone.

Sparing it only two rings, Sirius pressed the loudspeaker button. "Joshua, nice to hear from you," he said pleasantly.

"Same to you, old chap. Unfortunately, I believe we're going to have to dispose of the pleasantries," the Baron's voice said before he paused for a beat. "Something's happened, and Parliament's in a right fit."

"Oh?" Sirius asked, catching Remus' increasingly anxious gaze, and making a hand sign near his throat to make sure Remus understood that he had to stay quiet. "Do tell."

"Riot broke out this morning along Tower Hill Road," Warwick said. "Big one. At least twenty dead, maybe six times that in wounded."

"I'd heard, yes," Sirius answered levelly. "My understanding is that the uniforms managed to contain it, though, so what's this about?"

There was a pause again, like Warwick was himself trying to process what he knew. "Someone's stolen the Imperial State Crown," he finally said.


Post-AN: So, this chapter essentially finishes what I imagine to be the "Origins Arc," whereby Harry's childhood, his training, and rise to a position of fame are covered. Next up should be the "Rise to Power Arc," which is pretty self-explanatory.

If people feel the initial dialogue is odd, I might be revising it at a later point. Also, about the foreign-language parts, I'm not translating them because, really, they don't really have any sort of massive, storyline impact that hasn't been brought up in English subsequently. Cheers. - MB.