Chapter 25: Mired

Ron Weasley asked himself if heading home to Britain while he recovered from his wounds had been as smart a decision as he had thought. He and the other British soldiers that had fought in Berlin had gotten two weeks leave, more for those who were wounded. While many had taken a portkey back to Britain, a number had decided to stay in Berlin - the Alte Strasse may have been a mix of rubble and burned-out ruins, but the muggle city was untouched, after all - or visit Paris. They were without a doubt enjoying the bars and clubs, and were not confined to bed by an overprotective mum. No wonder Ginny had decided to stay in Poland! "Keeping an idiot company who is too stubborn to head home and cannot be left alone or he does something stupid" had sounded fake to him. His little sister had known how mum would be, with her two youngest wounded in war.

To be honest, he didn't really mind his mum that much - it was nice to be mothered when one's body was still hurting and one had to rest a lot, and nothing beat her meals. It was just the principle of the thing. And seeing George pranking him… Merlin, to see him act normal again! Ron had almost forgotten to act outraged enough to not spoil the whole prank! Percy's visits too were a boon - his older brother kept him informed of the state of the war, and of the ministry. Charlie had visited once, but returned to his Dragon soon enough. His father had showed him the latest prototype he was working on, looking happier than ever.

And there was Bill, the brother sort of responsible for the current bane of Ron's existence. The blonde bane currently sitting at his bedside. Gabrielle Delacour. He glanced over from the book he was pretending to read to the teenage veela. She didn't actually do much, other than "keeping the wounded 'ero company" as she put it. But when he caught her looking at him, he couldn't help but shiver, she had a really predatory look in her eyes. Not an expression a 14 year old girl should have when looking at a grown man, a veteran soldier! And sometimes, when he looked at her… he had asked Bill if the "veela aura" was really a myth. Twice. Which had gotten him a lecture from Bill, and Gabrielle a talking to from Fleur. Not that he had understood anything the two had said to each other, despite the rising volume - he should really learn French. Or not - Gabrielle would volunteer to teach him. And get ideas. And she might get her and his parents to go along with it since that "would give her something to do, to help her get over her ordeal". That's what they said when they explained why she would be keeping him company while he rested, after all.

Gabrielle noticed his look, and smiled at him, showing perfect teeth. Ron weakly smiled back and thought of something to say that wouldn't cause trouble for him. He was saved by the arrival of two unexpected guests - Harry and Hermione. If they were surprised by the enthusiasm he greeted them, they didn't show it. Though Harry had that knowing grin on his face when Gabrielle curtsied to him. Git probably thought having a kid having a crush on you was funny. Well, it was, when it happened to someone else. And when the kid's big sister couldn't throw fireballs when angry. At least Harry waited until Gabrielle had left before laughing… and Hermione was giggling? Ron scowled at both.

"Sorry, Ron, it's just too funny." Harry didn't sound sorry at all. Amused rather.

"Yeah… so, how are things at the office? Any news from the Russians?"

Harry sighed, and Hermione frowned, levity suddenly gone. "They are throwing everything they can spare at Poland. Or that's what they want us to believe. We're holding the line, but we already started to send the British troops in Prussia to Poland. The Prussians can't spare any yet, but the new Polish government might not want them there anyway, despite those Prussians crushing Grindelwald's followers." Harry sighed.

Hermione shrugged. "The Prussians are seen as Grindelwald's forces in most of Eastern Europe. Even their muggleborns have some reservations, but that's because of the Second World War. We can expect more help from the French soon though, and I'd think in the end, muggleborn Prussians will be more welcome than Russian War Wizards."

"In the meantime, people are dying in numbers we haven't seen since Grindelwald. While we have noticed a higher rate of entire units retreating, many of the Russians fight to the bitter end. So do many Polish wizards." Harry shook his head at that.

"I guess the standard War Wizard turtle tactics make retreating difficult." Ron mused.

"We do have heard rumors of unrest within the Russian ranks. Many of the muggleborn and half-blood wizards and witches are said to be unhappy with the current war and leadership by the exclusively pureblood War Wizards."

Ron nodded at Hermione. "Would I be wrong if I assume that it's those wizards and witches who are retreating more quickly?"

"You would not be wrong. If they revolt it would take Russia out of the war. But we'd have a civil war in Russia instead, and the Russian muggleborn would certainly ask for our help. Everyone else did too. Sometimes I think this war will never end. And yet, we haven't even fought for a fraction of the years Grindelwald was at it."

"And he was stopped in Russia. So, are you staying for dinner?" Ron knew no one would mention the Revolution, or the Tribunals while they were here, but it was still a touchy subject, and hard to avoid completely with the war that was spawned by the Revolution affecting so much of their lives.

"We'd love to." Harry grinned, promising more teasing at the dinner table.

Ron smiled. It was another step towards restoring the extended family he was used to and wanted. Gabrielle was already sitting next to his usual seat, smiling happily. Maybe the family shouldn't be too extended.

Vladimir Petrovich Volodin was tired, covered in mud, and hungry. Like he had been for weeks, or so it felt like. His small group had been moved from camp to camp and from field to field, ordered around by commanders trying to plug holes left by the desertions and retreats of others. Not that it helped much - Vladimir and his friends were barely fighting, and always looking for a way out. Sasha, their half-blood leader, was good at keeping appearances up. That was why they were not using scourgify to clean themselves up until it was time to sleep - that way any of the prissy purebloods looking for some cannon fodder were more likely to dismiss them as too exhausted from fighting to be sent out again. Even Konstantin had understood that, despite his craving for clean robes and clean skin. And Klava… she could act so well, it fooled most who didn't know the little minx well enough.

Earlier today, a War Wizard had come around, looking for some poor mudbloods to order into battle. Sasha had gotten everyone to stand in line and looking ragged but determined. And Klava had been swaying on her feet, a dirty reddish cloth wound around her left thigh, robes ripped to show it, her face showing just how much she hurt and how much she didn't want to show it. The War Wizard, in his perfectly clean robes, had taken a look at the straggling group, even returned Sasha's bow when she rattled down their names, mentioning how they had lost 6 of the original 10 witches and wizards but were still effective, and waved them off "to get some rest" while he went on to search for for some fools who looked less eager, and less dead on their feet. They had waited until they were in their secure tent before laughing like hyenas at the dumb pureblood.

Two bottles of vodka had been passed around - Vladimir couldn't stand the magical stuff purebloods drank - and talk had turned to more serious, more treasonous matters again. Like every evening, lately.

"Why are we fighting anyway? What did the Polish wizards ever do to us? Or the British?" Konstantin whined. He was painstakingly clean again. Klava had joked he had to have burned out his wand with so many cleaning charms.

"We're keeping the hordes of Grindelwald from massacring our families." Vladimir answered, with a fake nasal accent to imitate a caricature of a pureblood.

Sasha, a bit too much into her cups again, scoffed. "Hah! The British killed all of Grindelwald's scum in Berlin. Burned down the entire magic quarter to get at them, and then fiendfyred the ones who tried to escape! We're not fighting for our families, we're fighting for the pureblood parasites."

Vladimir cast another silencing spell on the tent, just tobe safe, while Klava nodded. "It's stupid. We're fighting British and Polish wizards. Those countries fought Grindelwald in the last war. And why are we fighting them? Because the British killed off their pureblood rapists, and our purebloods took offense."

"Our pureblood rapists you mean." Sasha added, sounding even more grim than usual. Vladimir was getting concerned about her - she usually held her liquor better.

"Damn right. We bleed and die so they can plunder the Polish villages and bedrooms." Klava drank deeply from her own cup.

"We do their dirty work so they can do their dirty deeds." Konstantin laughed at his feeble wordplay, as did the others, helped along by lots of vodka.

"We work and they reap the fruits of our labor. That sounds familiar." Vladimir once again realized only afterwards that he had spoken out loud.

"Very familiar!" Konstantin grinned, then turned a bedsheet left by a fallen comrade - Grisha, maybe - red. Another flick of his wand had it floating in the air like a flag. "Мир, Хлеб , Земля!"

"Всю Власть Советам!" Klava shouted. Vladimir and Sasha joined in, and raised their cups.

"Мир Народам, Хлеб Голодным , Землю крестьянам, Всю Власть Советам!" was shouted from four throats in the tent. The famous slogan of the Russian Revolution - Peace to the nations, bread to the hungry, land to the peasants, all power to the soviets! - was followed by an inspired, if very drunk rendition of the "Internationale", the even more famous anthem.

The next morning none of them could remember who had planted a red flag in the middle of the camp. Neither did the War Wizards find out. But in the following night, someone replaced it - and Vladimir knew it hadn't been any of his group.

"You can't stay here, Neville! You need to return to Britain so they can fix your leg!" Ginny was fuming while staring at her friend. He stared back.

"I don't need a working leg to fly on a broom. A sticking charm will keep me astride. I can still fight."

"And what if we crash again? You can't run. You can't even walk without two crutches!"

"I can apparate. Or portkey. Or carry a spare broom. Or two."

Ginny cursed under her breath. They had been over this a dozen times, or so it felt. Neville was simply too stubborn for his own good. Or too afraid his grandmother would make him leave the army. She didn't say that though - some topics neither of them touched. Not even in anger. "What if they can't fix it if you wait too long? And don't say you'll cut it off and grow a new one!"

"Then I'll get a peg leg. Moody had one."

"And you'll get a peg head too? You pigheaded idiot!" Ginny threw the fruits she had brought at him and stormed out of the room. She almost ran into the Polish local commander, Makary Bercik. "Oh, I am sorry sir… I didn't look where I was going." She managed to get out, blushing in embarrassment.

He chuckled. "No problem, Miss, I mean, corporal."

Ginny stood at attention, as she had been drilled to. Even though the Polish forces didn't follow muggle soldier customs, he still was a superior officer. Better safe than sorry anyway. And it reminded him that she was a soldier first, girl second - the polish wizards sometimes had trouble understanding that, the rumors about their gallantry were not unfounded. Ginny didn't usually mind the attention, it was flattering, but there were times and places for innocent flirting. Like when and where Neville could see it. And of course not in the field.

"How is your friend?"

"Stupid! I mean, his leg remains not working. It's not hurt, all seems healthy, it's simply not working, They haven't found the curse that did it yet."

"I see. Will he be transferred to Britain soon?"

"That's what he is stupid about! He wants to stay here and fight, stuck to a broom since he can't walk!" Ginny couldn't help but scowl and pout.

"Admirable." Was that a hint of amusement in his voice? What did he found funny about Neville's condition? He must have noticed her sudden glare, since he coughed, and excused himself to visit a wounded comrade of his.

Ginny scoffed. Men! Stupid Neville! She didn't want to return to Britain either, but she had a good reason - her mum would never let her leave again after she had been wounded!

Viktor Krum was looking down on Sofia, his country's capital. He was sitting on his best broom, disillusioned, and studying the magical quarter hidden from muggle eyes by countless charms and wards layered over each other. There was the Ministry, with two stone lamias guarding it. Legend had it that those were actual lamias, turned to stone by the founder of the Ministry, and spelled to wake and defend it in times of need. He hoped that this was just a myth - things could get ugly if it was not.

His revolutionaries had reached the capital, with everyone opposing them fleeing after at most token resistance. Enough to preserve their personal honor, not enough to invite retribution. Everyone understood the rules.

But the Ministry would be different. They had too much to lose, his people had too many grievances piled up. The Minister had been a bit too greedy, and a bit too accommodating to the wishes of his Russian "allies". His people remembered. Viktor did too. Especially the feelings the Bulgarian Veelas had on the matter. He didn't think there would be much need for a tribunal, after the Ministry would have fallen. Everyone understood the situation.

He banked left and dove down, landing next to his officers. Lieutenant Baker, for a change without his fiancée clinging to his arm as if to make sure he'd not come to his senses and flee, was waiting, as were the other three British soldiers and most of the local leaders. Thankfully, his own family was busy preparing the wedding of his cousin, so he didn't need to have Baker - James, he reminded himself - discreetly guarded from his more volatile future in-laws. He'd have to thank his mother in private for that.

"I didn't see anyone on the street, and from what we hear from our local sources, there are no enemies hidden in the houses next to the Ministry either. All points to them being holed up in the building. The lamias are not moving so far." Laughter, though some of it nervous, answered him.

"It could be a trap. Like in France." Lieutenant Baker spoke up.

"We'll be carefull. And we'll not come through the doors." Viktor looked at the two british Soldiers with the weird muggle contraptions. Hermione had assured him they would blow straight through stone. "Rally the men, we'll strike now!"

Viktor led the flight to the Ministry's roof in person, despite the British trying to make him stay back. He was the leader, it was his responsibility. He'd not hide when others fought for him. No one was on the roof, the Minister and his remaining guards must be trusting their wards to keep Viktor's people away. It would have worked, if not for the ward breakers he had brought, hired for this task from Gringotts, and the information a deserter who had worked in maintenance at the Ministry had gotten them.

While he waited for them to finish their work, Viktor wondered if that was how Hermione and Harry had felt, getting ready to storm their Ministry. Or had it happened too quickly, too spontaneously for them to worry and think much about it? Next to him wizards, witches, and British soldiers were eyeing the edges of the roof, and the roof itself as if it could swallow them any time, or spit enemies at them. One was keeping an eye on the stone lamias. Just in case.

Finally the ward breakers, looking exhausted, had removed the wards protecting the roof, and the British positioned their "shaped charges". Once everyone was behind a dozen protegos, the charges were detonated. The force of the explosion, blowing holes through thick stone, shook everyone but the British. That was terrifying - hopefully for their enemies as well. Viktor led the men to the holes - they had to strike fast before the defenders rallied. Behind him, one of the muggleborn shouted "Na nozh!" The cry was taken up by more muggleborns, even some purebloods, as the jumped down the holes, cushion charms breaking their fall.

Viktor was in the lead, trying not to think about the remains he was running over - the shaped charge had turned the entire room beneath it into an inferno. Some fires were still licking at the doors, and Viktor shouted for one to extinguish them while blowing said doors open. A dazzled looking Ministry guard was reeling from the shock, and Viktor followed up with a bludgeoning curse right to the man's chest. The wizard was struggling to get up when one of the rebels jumped at him, shouting "Na nozh!", and cast a diffindo straight into his throat. To the knife, indeed.

Viktor led his witches and wizards through the corridors of the Ministry, clearing room after room. Some were smart enough to surrender - or not so smart, depending on their past - others fought, isolated and futilely, until they were cut down. Organized resistance wasn't encountered until they reached the Minister's office. Viktor knew the place. He had received a medal here, for his deeds at the World Cup and in the Triwizard Tournament, from the very man he would now be killing, or helping to kill. It didn't faze him - the man had started the war, after all, when he had sent aurors after him. He was now reaping the results of his folly.

The Minister and his guards were prepared. They were brave too, ready to sell their lives dearly. It didn't help them. An rpg blew the door away, taking at least one defender down judging by the screams, then hand grenades followed, before the first attacker stormed in. Two of the attackers went down, struck by curses, but the defenders were overwhelmed, sometimes in melee. "Na nozh!" Viktor saw the Minister fall, a cutting curse to the throat, and their eyes met. Viktor didn't look away until the man had bled out. He thought the man understood.

The Russians in the building had made their last stand near the defunct floo, and taken more attackers with them. None of them had been taken alive - or so Viktor was told. He didn't question it.

He left the building through the untouched front doors, greeted by the shouts of the crowd that had gathered there. He didn't remember what he said, only that it was patriotic, and well-received, before the crowd stormed inside the building, looking to settle old grievances with those defenders who were still alive. Viktor, for a fleeting moment alone in the crowd, leaned against the right stone lamia, a tired smile on his face. On an impulse he patted the statue - and felt not stone, but moving scales under his hand. Then there was but stone again. And he understood.

Tsar Cyril Dmitrovich Romanov was wearing his "field robes", not the formal robes of the ruler of Magical Russia, when he met his advisors and commanders. He was here as the leader of a nation at war so it was only proper to look the part. Descended from a side branch of the Imperial Family, split off even before the main line ended with Peter II of Russia, his family had ruled Magical Russia ever since the Statute of Secrecy had went into effect. It wasn't the first time his dynasty was in danger, but it was the first time the entire way of life of Magical Russia was endangered.

Not for the first time the Tsar wondered what he could have done differently when the British purebloods were lost. To accept it would mean to leave such a crime unpunished, inviting more mudbloods to raise their wands against their rulers. One had just to look at the nations that had fallen to the rabble since the war had started to know this was true. And yet, the attack on the British had caused the very war that was threatening to undo all the gains magical Russia had made since and despite Grindelwald. Had undone most of them already, if he was honest. But what wizards would they be, if they had stayed their wands when such a noble cause had needed them? Never since Grindelwald had Magical Europe been in such danger, and once again the cause were the mudbloods, rabble roused to defy the natural order.

He let his thoughts wander while he received the greetings of the men and women forming his council - the most trusted commanders of the Imperial Guard and the War Wizards, his closest advisors, and his heir, Alexander Cyrilovich. If only his older brother had lived…

He shook those dark thoughts off and formally addressed the council. "Be welcome, members of my Council, and advise me freely and without fear." Not that they would, of course - to enrage the Tsar was courting dangerl. "How goes the war?"

He listened to the reports. Reports his Spymaster had already given to him. And yet he paid attention - if there were any discrepancies between the reports from his spymaster and those he received directly, then something would be amiss, treason afoot. He found no hints of treason, only of fear. Well hidden, but in every report.

"So, our troops fight bravely, but can only hold the line, unable to push the aggressors back?" No one corrected him. "A war cannot be won like this! What can we do to win, not just to hold out? Answer me!"

His council exchanged glances. Anxious men and women, the lot of them. He glared, until Gerasim Alexandrovich Yenin, the commander of the north western front, spoke up. "Your Imperial Highness, the British use muggle weapons extensively and effectively. If we are to beat them, we need to do the same."

He was about to expand on that and explain his reasons in more detail, but the Tsar cut him off. "And who would use those weapons? Mudbloods? Muggles even? Do you propose to arm those same mudbloods that run from the shadow of danger even now, and whose traitorous brethren in France have already turned on their ruler, murdering him in his home? Is that your plan? Or would you have noble wizards stoop to use muggle tools, like animals?" He scoffed at the now pale man. "The day we need muggle weapons to win is the day we lost this war, for we would have sunk to the levels of our foes. We will rather die with our wands in hand than pick up such barbaric weapons." No one dared to object.

Rodion Stanislavovich Klimov, the head of the Russian Academy for the Magical Arts, the best researchers in his realm, was the next to show some spine and voice a proposal. "Your Imperial Highness is correct. In order to beat the mudblood-loving enemies we need not sink to their level, but delve deeper into the dark arts. Inferi, Your Imperial Highness, are the answer. Muggle weapons cannot hurt them effectively. An army of them will see our victory. Divide them into small groups and send them behind the enemy lines, force the enemy to spread their forces out to defend their homes and families, so we can concentrate our forces and overwhelm them piece by piece, group by group!"

The Tsar shook his head. "A bold proposal, Rodion, but they share their homes with muggles. What of the Statute of Secrecy? Would you risk the wrath of the ICW in our current situation, by having Inferi roam the muggle cities?" He shook his head, but didn't glare. The man meant well, but had no sense for politics. He only saw what could be done, never what shouldn't be done. And judging by some of the more secret reports, the muggle had weapons that could deal with inferis.

Nina Ilyina spoke up - surprising the Tsar. The young female commander from the War Wizards usually left the more senior War Wizards speak. "Your Imperial Highness, the idea is sound, but the means are not. If we split up our forces, send them out to strike at the enemy's homes, we force them to cover so much ground they cannot hold the line, much less advance. Concentrated we are vulnerable, divided we are far harder to hit while we can hit where we please. And the Statute of Secrecy will not be endangered."

Her proposal had merit, but was not that sound either. "And what if they push through, and do the same to us? We would end up massacring each other's families, for no gain." Again, his Spymaster had had the answers.

He addressed his Council, speaking confidently. "What we need is time. Time to rally and unite our forces. Time to get rid of the rot that undermines our nation, so we stand tall and strong again. I will send envoys to the British to ask for an armistice, so we will have that time." The council broke out in whispers. A glare from him silenced them again. "The enemy is weary of this war. Unlike us, they have not the stomach to endure such hardship, nor such losses. Already they need muggles in order to not collapse. They will agree to an armistice, maybe even divide their allies over it. We will start to negotiate a peace treaty. And during those negotiations we will prepare a blow the enemy won't see coming, and from which he will not recover." Most were smiling now. A few frowned at the duplicity they saw - which pleased the Tsar. Such wizards and witches wouldn't be quick to commit treachery themselves.

His Spymaster was correct. They couldn't win this war by the strength of their wands, not against such a dishonorable foe. They needed to use cunning, guile, and treachery to win. It wouldn't be glorious, nor honorable. But history was written by the winner.

He looked at his heir. The Tsarevich smiled. He of course understood perfectly what was needed, and what would happen. That didn't please the Tsar, but there was nothing he could do. Not anymore.