Chapter XIV The Dragon Bled by Mice

A/N: This chapter marks the end of the three cramped, disorganised chapters that have come out as of late. From now on we are back at the plan I have made at the beginning of the story, in order so I may I remain organised. I apologise, but I need to balance the story with certain chronological requirements, so every one is actually dead/alive by the time they need to be and is born in the appropriate year.

Reviews are appreciated, naturally… It's good for the soul, remember.

'Untold savageries conducted against our citizens,' read Abraxas, 'A bloodbath… British control outside Creidhne is practically inexistent. Minister surely you understand the need for more Aurors to be sent to Ireland.'

'Send more Aurors, Lord Malfoy?' asked Millicent, 'I have not sent a single Auror to Ireland, if I may remind you so.'

'Certainly there is no need to be caught on technicalities,' replied Lord Malfoy, his voice turning slightly colder, 'I have merely acted on your behalf in making Mr. Crouch understand the severity of the situation.'

'Lord Malfoy,' replied the Minister, her voice returning to its usual subdued state, upon remembering on whom exactly her post rested on, 'I can certainly sympathize, but the truth is I do not have the resources you ask for. Sending away as many regiments as you ask would leave the mainland empty. We would not even have enough Aurors to police the streets. And Merlin knows we have enough problems as it is to handle.'

'Such issues were raised, Minister, naturally,' said Lord Malfoy, handing her a thick parchment 'My colleagues and I have taken the liberty of drafting a resolution to solve that very matter. The entire technical details are explained in full, but we propose the creation of a new force, these Hit Wizards as Lord Lestrange has coined them for policing and protecting the mainland.'

'Untrained recruits is what you would have, Lord Malfoy,' replied the Minister, her eyes rapidly scanning the parchment she had been given.

'Certainly it would take some time for the new force to assert itself and work together as a cohesive unit,' replied Abraxas, growing increasingly irritated by how difficult the Minister was becoming as of late, 'but surely you see the wisdom behind it. By sending our most elite troops to where their skill is needed, we are using the best wand for the job. We do not need Veterans to keep Quidditch matches from turning into riots.'

'I wish I could help you, Lord Malfoy,' replied the Minister slowly, choosing her words slowly so as to not cause offence, 'but to be frank, this would never pass in the Commons. And I need not remind you it falls under their jurisdiction.'

'Surely in times of crisis, the Minister may make bold decisions without subjecting them to voting in the commons,' replied Lord Malfoy, demeaning the lower house. 'I have no wish to be uncouth, but may I also point out that the Nobilitas are what is keeping you in the Minister's seat.'

Millicent turned slightly green at hearing the ultimatum coming out from the Malfoy patriarch's mouth. She had known that the moment would come one day, but the ever polite Lord of the realm had truly waited for a grand situation to make the situation plain.

'I will see what I can do,' replied Millicent in a resigned tone.

'That is all one can ask for,' replied Lord Malfoy, moving to leave, turning around for one last time. 'Do not be disenchanted Minister, you are taking the right action. Good day, Minister.'

'Good day, Lord Malfoy.' As the door closed, the Minister saw fit to mutter between her teeth, 'as if that could ever be in these dark times.'

The students in the Great Hall at Hogwarts seemed to share none of the concerns of the outside world. This environment was what suited Headmaster Dumbledore best. Here amongst the young minds, did he truly feel at ease. Shaping such young minds for a better future of Wizard kind was one of Dumbledore's personal crusades, and the one he enjoyed most. The school was calm and life seemed to be going as usual. The seven year Ravenclaws seemed white with worry of the upcoming exams, while in contrast the Slytherins seemed to be in inordinate good cheer. Lucius had his arm around young Narcissa and even the normally intemperate Bellatrix seemed in good cheer. Dumbledore's calm paradise was interrupted by a whisper from Argus Filch, the caretaker. Dumbledore was glad for the advance warning as the great doors of the hall suddenly opened to allow an Auror of the Guard dressed in the red robes embroidered with the seal of Merlin, striding confidently to the raised teacher table. Several of the elder students seemed to point in admiration, and Dumbledore thought, even envy. The Auror profession always seemed to be set high in the students' choices of career; though the stringent entry requirements meant a select few students each year joined the Auror Academy on Government Alley. The good pay certainly helped motivate some.

'Headmaster Dumbledore,' said the Auror, producing an official parchment bearing the seal of the Minister's office, 'here are my credentials. If I may address the students?'

'Certainly,' said Dumbledore, hands stretching out to grab the parchment. Although his tone was calm and his face was smiling, Dumbledore's never resting mind raced frantically. An announcement from the Ministry in Hogwarts? And without his knowledge. That generally was a bad omen for anything, but especially when it involved Aurors of late. What mistakes Dumbledore had made in allowing Millicent to fall in Lord Malfoy's claws, the Headmaster did not intend to repeat with her replacement.

'Students,' said the Headmaster, rising from his throne like chair, 'the Auror Guard has an announcement to make. I pray you all listen calmly and in quiet. Even you Mr. Potter,' Dumbledore added as a later thought.

'Fellow wizards and witches,' said the Auror Guard, turning around to face the four house tables, 'As you are aware by now, our great nation is under terrible strain. The Ministry calls upon you to do your duty to the nation at its time of need. Britannia needs able wands who are willing to leap to its defence, now more than ever. As of five hours ago the Minister has signed an executive order detailing the creation of a new corps; Hit Wizards, created especially for police duties and homeland security. I have been sent to train potential recruits in their final year, so they may be able to better serve our nation. In her wisdom the Minister has lowered the recruitments for the Hit Wizards, an Exceeds Expectations in Defence Against the Dark Arts being the sole prerequisite for entry. We are excited about this new organisation and changed our policy to allow for more citizens to be able to join. The Ministry will handle training and everything necessary to best equip you to do your duty.'

Some of the brighter students decidedly stopped paying attention after the lower requirements had been mentioned, but the vast bulk, the mediocre, the ones who had always dreamed of being an Auror but were never talented enough soaked the Auror Guard's words down like warm butterbeer on a cold winter day. Ted Tonks soaked the words down as if they were preciously smuggled Firewhiskey for an underage student.

The same announcement was read and posted in pubs throughout the realm, especially in poorer regions, where the emphasis was less on relaxed entry barriers but more on the generous pay.

'I have to congratulate you, Lord Malfoy,' said Lord Potter, in a chance encounter in the Palace hallways, 'You have managed to raise a small army, the equivalent of five Auror regiments, all without the bill even mentioned in the Commons.'

'Thank you Lord Potter,' replied Abraxas, his cane beating a rhythm on the marble floor, 'I am glad to see you take our nation's concerns so to heart. One can only hope to aspire to such devotion.'

'Thank you Lord Malfoy,' said Richard Potter, 'I certainly wish everyone was as focused on serving the common good of all witches and wizards.'

Ted Tonks walked with Andromeda in Hogsmeade, heading towards the Three Broomsticks. She had tried to appear remotely interested, but Ted's dreams of joining the Hit Wizards to support his soon to be family did not seem as glorious to her as he seemed to portray it. Even as her belly was growing, and some of the more traditional professors looked on with disapproval, she did not regret her decision one bit, staring defiantly at anyone who dared suggest otherwise. Her family had erased her from the family tree, refusing to even accept her existence, but that was not what hurt most. Bellatrix he expected, her father's fury she could handle, her mother's indifference and disdain she was used to, but her younger sister abandoning her she found hardest to adjust to. Although she had never been Narcissa's favourite, Bellatrix holding that position, she had hoped Narcissa would at least be willing to see her sister every now and then.

Enamoured with that dreadful Lucius Malfoy, however, it seems as if Andromeda was truly alone in the world. No. Not alone. She had Ted now, and that was all that mattered.

'Sorry Ted, what were you saying?' asked Andromeda, smiling at her future husband

'I was thinking maybe we should get a place in Hogsmeade once I am discharged from the barracks for training and you graduate,' said Ted.

'I won't graduate, Ted,' said Andromeda, 'Dumbledore can only do so much. I will be allowed to finish the sixth year, but no more. Already, some teachers are complaining that I am bringing Hogwarts into disrepute.'

'But Andromeda…' He didn't get a chance to finish as Andromeda threw him down to the floor, his face coming close to some unidentified faeces. Ted felt as if he would throw up as a jet of green light whizzed past his previous location, setting fire to a bush on the side of the Hogsmeade Road. In desperation Andromeda covered Ted with her body.

Igor cursed from the woods, damning the foolish girl for noticing. Surely, white robes had not been the most appropriate choice for hiding in a forest, but apparently they were the new craze in Lutetia, and Igor had not considered wearing anything else for such a monumental day. Seeing teachers run from the castle, he made up his mind and Disapparated. His orders had been clear. 'Kill the boy. Let no harm come to the girl.' There would be other chances.

Lord Voldemort awaited Karkaroff's return eagerly. Ted Tonks' elimination would prove essential to his plans of ensnaring Bellatrix Black. Like a chess master, his mind had already mapped out his movements in advance and the possible responses of his opponents. Igor striding through the doors, seemed to damper his mood slightly, as the exceedingly vain wizard did not seem to be cloaked in triumph.

'My lord,' said Igor Karkaroff, already making up possible excuses, 'I have failed in my mission. The foolish girl covered the mudblood with her own body. I had no way of killing him without revealing my cover.'

Lord Voldemort gnashed his teeth. One could never leave such matters to insignificant underlings. To add to his irritation horrible screams could be heard from down the dungeon.

'We will discuss your failures at a later date, Igor,' said Lord Voldemort, carefully enunciating each word. 'For now see why Mrs. Stuart continues to torment me with her screams. I would have thought the courtesy of comfort I accorded her would have sufficed.'

'Yes, my lord,' bowed Igor, glad to have escaped further dressing downs.

Igor returned with one of the nondescript former criminals that filled the lower ranks of Lord Voldemort's followers, in a somewhat state of undress.

'What is the meaning of this, Igor?' asked Lord Voldemort, growing more and more irritated at the consistent interruptions to his peace.

'You have sent me to investigate the cause of disturbance, my lord,' said Igor, 'this lowly scum was raping Mrs. Stuart in the dungeon. That was the reason for her screams. I have brought him to you to answer for his actions.'

'Summon our followers, Igor,' said Lord Voldemort, recognising the opportunity for setting an example. The lowly scum looked confused, making to leave.

'I did not give you permission to leave,' said Lord Voldemort, 'Mrs. Stuart was to be awarded every comfort despite her sudden change of living conditions.'

'My Lord, I…,' said the wizard.

'I did not give you permission to speak,' said Lord Voldemort, drawing his wand to Igor's surprise. 'Crucio!'

The follower earned a small measure of punishment at the Dark Lord's wand as he writhed on the floor, immeasurable pain raking his body. The rather abrupt shift from pleasure to pain did not help his state of general confusion, as the Dark Lord ended the spell.

'We shall await our audience,' said Lord Voldemort, twirling his wand in his fingers. 'Remain where you are and do not presume to speak, filth.'

Igor had been prompt in his summons, as the assembled followers stood in the drawing room of the castle. Lord Voldemort raised himself from the tall armchair near the fireplace, turning around to face them.

'Perhaps, I had not been clear enough in my intentions,' said Lord Voldemort, adopting a mask of disappointment, 'or careful enough in selecting the wizards who would restore our society to its glory.' Confusion dawned on his followers' faces, each considering his own faults and making excuses for such faults.

'This filth here, who shall remain unnamed, for beasts receive not names,' said Lord Voldemort, 'has raped Mrs. Stuart in the dungeon. Let me ask if any of you consider such conduct appropriate for a pureblood?' None of them made a move to comment, not even the rapist' own friends, although some of them adopted faces of guilt. Certainly such a crime was not a foreign concept to some of them.

'Regardless,' said Lord Voldemort, pacing the chamber, 'I do not consider such conduct appropriate. We are saviours of the realm, not common thugs. Mrs. Stuart's situation was regrettable but necessary. That does not mean we must add to the unfortunate situation.'

'Let it be clear today,' said Lord Voldemort, 'that such actions are not permitted, and will be punished accordingly. A Herbologist must first kill the weeds to grow useful plants.'

'Crucio!' said Lord Voldemort softly, the tendrils of magic connecting with the condemned's body, a sharp reminder of his earlier pain.

Lord Voldemort held the curse for a full minute, careful enough not to break the mind of his former follower.

'Each of you will take your turn,' said Lord Voldemort, 'to deliver appropriate justice.'

By the time the entire contingent was done with the poor soul, he was lacking several parts of his body, his skin had been ripped apart from his flesh, revealing raw, bloodied tissue, his eyes had been boiled and every piece of hair from his body had been painfully extracted with magic. Surprisingly, enough he was still alive after all the torment. Maltius Mulciber, the last of the ad-hoc jury, at a nod from the Dark Lord spoke the two words that ended his life.

The body had been thrown in the dog kennels that Stuart had kept. Lord Voldemort had not been quite accustomed to taking care of pets, not being a great fan of such animals, and had forgotten to feed them for several days already. The huge Laconian Hounds proceeded to rip apart the remains and digest them. Looking from the balcony in the inner courtyard at the kennels, Lord Voldemort had to concede that dogs did have their uses after all.

Meanwhile in Creidhne…

'We need to take to field immediately,' said Orion, a map of Magical Ireland spread in front of him and Rufus Scrimgeour.

'Governor,' said Rufus, 'we do not have enough Aurors to cover the entire land and defend Creidhne from future assaults by the Resistance.'

'Not enough Aurors, Legate?' said Orion in outrage, 'you have eight regiments at your disposal. If we divide Ireland into seven staging grounds and keep the Thirteenth regiment in Creidhne we can crush this pitiful rebellion in a week.'

'With all due respect, governor,' said Rufus Scrimgeour, 'I disagree. A single regiment cannot possibly cover such a large area. This is not a pitched battle we are fighting. We need to be wary of sending troops without sufficient eyes and wands to root out even the best hidden rebel.'

'Legate I tire of your reluctance,' said Orion, slamming his fist on the map, 'You have your orders and I expect to see them fulfilled to the best of your ability and with your customary speedy efficiency.'

'As you command, governor,' said Rufus, bowing and exiting the chamber. Alastor was not going to like it a single bit. Hades, he didn't like it either, but it was his duty to carry out orders. The ranks needed to see the chain of command intact.

'You are sending our boys out to their deaths,' said Alastor, watching the seven regiments assembled in the fortress courtyard.

'The lads are well trained, Alastor,' said Rufus, gripping the stone handrail, 'I have every confidence they will return triumphant.'

'Save your speeches for the government, Rufus,' said Alastor, turning around and leaving, 'I am going with them. They deserve that at least.'

The Aurors marched through a small village, eyes alert at movement around them, Several Aurors were posted up in the skies on brooms, searching the roof tops for hidden rebels. An informant had told them that this village was the location of a Rebel fist, a unit of one hundred rebels governed by a representative of the Irish Liberation Council. The sub-legate had ordered the Aurors of the Third Regiment to apprehend those responsible. Under the martial law imposed from Diagon Alley and enforced by Governor Black, any who resisted were to be executed on spot, while those who surrendered taken for interrogation. The Irish had heard of such interrogations and there seemed to be few who surrendered these days. That suited John Dawlish just fine. A young Auror, he had risen rapidly through the ranks and now commanded a fifth of a Regiment.

An Auror approached Dawlish at the front, to make his report.

'Sir, there is no movement in the air or on the ground,' said the Auror, 'It looks as if the informant was deceiving us.

'Signal the scouts in the air to land,' said Dawlish. 'We have seen enough. Our "informant" will pay for making us lose sleep over this.' Laughter rang through the ranks as they heard their officer. One of his lieutenants sent red sparks up in the air and the brooms begun their descent, the ten Auror Scouts landing as one on the hard packed dirt.

'Did you see anything from up there?' asked Dawlish.

'No sir, clear as Ministry corridors at the weekend,' replied the Auror.

Dawlish ignored the casual jab against the Ministry, though it had begun to worry some of his superiors. Apparently a book was circulating amongst the ranks that said a great many things about the Ministry and the House of Lords. There were no outstanding orders on that, and the Aurors always complained while on campaign, so Dawlish saw no reason to discipline the young scout. He will learn the small subtleties of life in due time.

'All right,' said Dawlish, 'Disapparate on my mark.'

'Sir,' shouted one of the Aurors, 'ahead of you!'

As Dawlish turned around, he saw the reason for the Auror's warning. Two massive trolls were coming at them, their clubs swinging ferociously in the air.

'You have good eyes, lad. Do you think these are the leaders of the Irish Resistance, command warned us about?' asked Dawlish, receiving bouts of laughter in return. 'Like at the Academy, gentlemen, Killing Curse volley on my mark.'

The Aurors quickly got into position, forming ranks. First rank bend on one knee, the second rank standing tall, all of them taking aim at the two charging trolls.

'Ready?' said Dawlish, he himself following his training to the letter, 'Aim!'

'Spiculum ferrum!' roared a voice to the left of the trolls. Dawlish looked surprised for a second turning to fright as he recognized the spell. 'Shi…'

He didn't get to finish the command as iron darts, rushing at the speed of a charging unicorn ripped through his neat ranks. Closely packed Aurors ensured that a single dart did not only strike one man, but penetrated and ripped through the flesh of his comrade behind. In cruel irony, as the Aurors, rose, many of them missing limbs and several remaining on the ground, the two supposed leaders of the local rebels smashed into the remaining Aurors. Dawlish was bleeding from his right arm, but flexing his arm he saw he could still wave a wand. Others were not so lucky. The scout who had criticised the Ministry had an iron dart poking from his eye to the rear of his skull. Several had ripped limbs. Staring at the devastation around him, Dawlish felt the cold breath of death on him as the trolls ripped through the remaining Aurors.

'Retreat,' shouted Dawlish at the top of his lungs, as more spells begun to fly from all directions towards his ragged remains of a fifth. Aurors begun to Disapparate, Dawlish staying in the field, awaiting all of them to get to safety first. An officer always left the field last, even in retreat. Dawlish counted a pitiful twenty-two Disapparating, many of them grievously wounded. Sending a last Killing Curse at one of the trolls, not looking to see if it hit, Dawlish fixed the destination in his mind, prepared to force the magic to transport him there and then he passed out.

In the governor's office in Creidhne Fortress the mood was turning sour every day. The rebels had proved most elusive and casualties were beginning to mount. Aurors executed caught rebels on spot, but they seemed to be hiding like maggots in the ground. An Auror Squad had even been knifed by children in a village! Orion damned the day he had accepted this assignment. He damned the reason for accepting it and most of all he damned the Irish for insulting his good intentions.

'Sir you should see this,' said an Auror to Legate Scrimgeour.

An Auror had appeared out of thin air and was walking the fields, heading up to the fortress of Creidhne. His clothes were partially torn; he had no wand and was bleeding from several wounds. He did not quite make it to the gate as he collapsed several metres away.

'Get him to the infirmary,' snapped Rufus, disapparating to his position. He recognized the Auror. John Dawlish, an officer of the Third Regiment, presumed dead in an apprehension mission several weeks ago. He had received the Order of Merlin, Third Class, posthumously which had been sent home to his family.

'Dawlish, what happened,' asked Rufus, holding his head up.

'Sir,' chocked Dawlish, spitting blood on Rufus' sleeves, 'they are coming, sir, we must leave at once.' Dawlish sounded terrified, his eyes darting around as if looking for hidden enemies.

'There, there lad, you're amongst friends now,' said Rufus, casting a few diagnosis charms, the extent of his medical ability. 'Who's coming and why must we leave?'

'The Irish, sir,' said Dawlish cryptically, just before collapsing. The Healers of the Thirteenth Regiment appeared on cue, taking him to the Field Infirmary in the Fortress. Dawlish had appeared to be tortured severely for information, then portkeyed outside Creidhne and make to walk the distance. His wand had been confiscated, alongside with all his other belongings.

Rufus made his way towards the fortress, entering the Governor's Office. Orion Black was pouring over maps, as usual, regretting his assignment as of late. After several assassination attempts he had grown paranoid and had two of the largest Aurors Rufus had ever seen posted outside his door at all times. He barely ate anything nowadays out of fear of poison, and had grown to regret being named to his grandiose post. Rufus could not blame him the slightest.

'Legate,' said Orion, raising his eyes, 'What brings you here?'

'Sir, Auror Dawlish which we have previously thought dead, has returned with a warning,' said Rufus, 'His mind does not seem entirely intact. He might have been subject to aggressive Legilimency. We must assume at least some of our plans are compromised.'

'I see,' said Orion, 'That is regrettable, naturally; however his survival is joyous news. I will contact his family personally. It would be the sole good news I have owled back to Britannia in a while.'

'Sir,' said Rufus, 'he also babbled a warning.'

'A warning?'

'He said they are coming, the Irish are coming, we must leave", repeated Rufus, 'I recommend we call back all regiments inside the Fortress. We must reinforce for an Irish attack on the capital.'

'Recall them, Legate?' asked Orion, 'for the deluded words of a wizard whose mind is perhaps not entirely sane anymore?'

'Sir I have a bad feeling about this,' said Rufus.

'Your feelings are irrelevant, Legate Scrimgeour,' said Orion, in a tone that belayed any further arguments, 'I will not loose whatever hold we have on the provinces on such poor intelligence and superstition. Leave me.'

'Certainly, governor,' said Rufus, bowing before exiting the room. He had come close to losing his nerve, but he had not climbed in the ranks by shouting at his superiors. That did not make him abandon the idea completely. Bound by the governor's orders, as he was, he still put all the Aurors of the Thirteenth Regiment on alert, doubled the patrols on the walls and put as many scouts as he had in the air. Rufus would not be caught surprised, no matter the governor's wishes.

As the witching hour came and went, it seemed as if the Governor was correct, and his feelings were nothing more than superstitions. As he was prepared to finish his inspections on the wall and retire for the night, the sound of massive apparitions outside the warded fortress sent him to full alert.

'Send a runner to rouse the entire regiment,' snapped Rufus, 'tell them to be here in five minutes.' Seeing the frightened faces of the Aurors around him at the large numbers of Irish assembled on the plain, Rufus saw fit to calm them.

'Relax, lads,' said the Legate, 'They are merely militia and we are standing on warded walls.' His words seem to reassure some of the Aurors, but it was the Thirteenth regiment who had seen the usefulness of the warded wall in the first battle.

True to their training and discipline, the entire Thirteenth Auror Regiment was raised and wands drawn on the wall, awaiting the Legate's command. Not willing to repeat past mistakes, even those of his enemies, the Regiment was spread out, half at the gate, and half arranged on the wall. For all his innovative thinking however, Legate Scrimgeour was still a product of the Auror Academy on Government Alley, which one hundred years later still followed "A Treatise on Magical Military Tactics" by Lord Charlus Potter. Aurors were arranged into ranks, volleys of spells readied to be fired.

The Irish rebels, in contrast, where in loose formations, dressed in variable different robes, and each man had his own favourite spell on his lips. Their leader was a particularly tall former Irish Auror, holding a deadly looking wand, sickly green light pooled at its tip.

Rufus waited until the Irish mass advanced at the maximum distance, raised his wand and shouted, 'Killing Curse Volley!'

As one, the Aurors, shouted 'Avada Kedavra!', jets of deadly green light forming gaps in the Irish mass. However, due to the dispersed nature of the Irish rebels, fewer strikes found their target than they would have if the opponent were a British formation. Suddenly, the lead Irish had reached their own casting distance. Shouting plain curses at the enemy, the leader stepped in front and screamed 'Forward!'

'Ligament Traho!' shouted the leader, a silver rope extending to the British ranks, grabbing several, pulling them down from their posts on the wall. One seemed to make it intact; however another had cracked his head against a stone at the base of the wall, while the third's legs looked to stick out at odd angles. Several Irish rebels had spotted them and three Killing Curses struck out, hitting even the dead Auror. One could never be too sure an enemy was dead, after all.

The massive blob that was the Irish resistance's army split suddenly in two, one half heading towards the gate, rapid, powerful blasting curses illuminating the wards. One lucky shot broke through the wards, ripping the wood underneath.

'Fiendyfire!' the Irish Leader said, possessed flames jumping at the wood like drunk merpeople upon intruders, fiery limbs devouring dry wood. Soon the wooden gates were mere tinder. The Irish made to push forward, but the cramped spaces did not bode well for their safety. A killing curse volley ripped through the first two ranks, until the Irish had closed in and any hope of organised casting was abandoned, as the fight turned to personal duels.

Although their élan could not be brought to fault and their strange tactics had initially tipped the scales of Mars on their side, with time discipline begun to come through, Red cloaked Aurors pushing back militia. The Leader stood pacing on a small stone outcrop. He had specific orders, and was willing to die here to accomplish them. To the surprise of the British side, large fireworks begun to explode above the Fortress in Creidhne, a particular large one in the shape of a leprechaun causing cheers to emerge from the Irish Ranks. The leader permitted himself a small smile. The first step for Ireland's liberation had been taken.

'Mission accomplished lads!' shouted the leader, 'Retreat!'

To Rufus' amazement, the Irish suddenly disengaged and ran for their lives. The Aurors seemed intent on pursuing, but fearing a trap, Rufus held them in check. He still could not shake a bad feeling, however. Fireworks? And they retreated in the middle of what seemed an even fight for now?

'Legate, Legate,' shouted a runner from the fortress.

-To be Continued-

Damn, I wonder what happened? Rest calm fellow readers for the truth will be revealed soon...