For those who came in late:

As Bobmin356 once wrote, "Ignore the muggle world at your peril". Also, Wardhead Wood is a little close to muggles for comfort, but the name fit. And finally, this is what happens to authors who write without a net. 'Rod for your own back', anyone?

One month later in Scotland:

Being a government driver had its ups and downs, and Neil (probably not his real name) wasn't sure what this was.

Yesterday, he'd been assigned to convey Margaret Thatcher to Dufftown, where they'd spent the night, before being given instructions to drive her at dawn to this spot off the A941 near Wardhead Wood, and wait. Visions of cars with darkened windows and secretive-looking briefcases changing hands filled his head. He hadn't known that the Iron Lady was into cloak and dagger stuff.

About an hour after they'd stopped, a pair of figures emerged from the trees. At first neither Neil nor Thatcher paid them any attention, even as they came close enough to see; then they stepped over an invisible line. Both the driver and the Leader of the Conservative Party stared. It wasn't often you saw a Khajiit in a suit and tie.

The other figure was adorned in teal robes, and was clearly human; once Thatcher recovered from her surprise, she assumed (correctly) that it was the same Dunard Geonette who had corresponded with them about the upcoming meeting. She signalled to Neil and got out of the car.

"Archmage Ra'jirra, I presume?" she asked, looking at his silver-furred visage directly.

"You presume right," he responded, "which is more than I can say for Fudge's pet toad." He gestured to the gentleman accompanying him. "This is Dunard Geonette, who's been ably stewarding our base here, so we stuffed him into his guild bags –"

Dunard shot Ra'jirra a look.

"– for the occasion. I understand we've got quite a journey ahead of us?" He looked at the car. It was a dark-hued Range Rover with tinted windows; the sort that any stockbroker would ostentatiously display, preferably caked in mud, in their driveway.

"Quite," she nodded, "I am Margaret Thatcher, ex-Prime Minister, Leader of the Conservative Party, and more importantly I now head Department W in MI5, but we can discuss this on the road. Shall we?"

"Right," Ra'jirra's curiosity was pricked. "You all right to get back Dunard?"

"If I don't trip over myself," the Breton replied a little stiffly. He did give the Mage's Guild bow first before he hitched his robes and started back across the wards.

"Right," Ra'jirra said again, approaching the car with interest. Neil took his cue and opened the other rear door for him. His confidentiality agreement wasn't needed. Nobody would believe he had an – an – an alien on board.

En route to London:

"So as Prime Minister, you've met Fudge then?" Ra'jirra asked. His eyes roved around the interior of the Range Rover, lingering on the way Neil worked the controls, the passing scenery outside. There was no crushing sensation, no hook in the guts, and no wild spinning. Yes, Ra'jirra decided, he liked the motor car.

"Three times, as a matter of fact," Thatcher's expression hardened. "All three times, I was given hardly any notice before not just Fudge, but his toad... ...y Umbridge, Dumbledore, and other clowns came tumbling out of the fireplace."

Ra'jirra raised his eyebrow at the term 'clowns'.

"The first time was shortly after I was sworn in as Prime Minister in 1979. All they had to say then was that magic is real, that there is a shadow government as per the International Statute of Secrecy, and leave us alone, there's a good Muggle.

"Then in early November 1981, I was visited again, and that was when I learned that there had been a virtual civil war going on under our noses, with non-magical people being caught up in it, and they had never thought to tell us! Instead, they waited until something happened, and claimed that this 'Dark Lord' had been defeated by a one year old child." She breathed deeply, trying to keep her emotions under control. She had a number of things to say about British Wizardry, and a few didn't even involve foul language.

"And number three a few days later: 'Help help, we've lost the Boy-Who-Lived!'" Ra'jirra guessed. Thatcher nodded, smiling slightly.

"Quite correct. After that, I made some enquiries, and learned that officially, our governments keep in contact via the Muggle Liason Office. But in reality, all they do is leave us in the dark as much as possible... even when looking at CASE AVALON BLACK."

"Which is something to do with Department W of MI5."

"You're very quick, Arch-Mage. After those visits, it became clear that we needed a better source of information that actually did inform. So I arranged for additional funds to Department W to develop a network of informants, and also to get the official word on certain events."

From her worryingly heavy briefcase she extracted a folder stamped with suitably ominous legends and the words PAX LEO NARNIA. Opening it, the first thing Ra'jirra saw was a wizarding photograph of himself, clipped from the Daily Prophet. Every ten seconds, he slapped a wand aside and threw a punch in the face of a dandy the caption identified as 'the renowned Gilderoy Lockhart, author of Holidays with Hags, Year with the Yeti, Voyages with Vampires, and many other works of his adventures, as well as five times winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award.'

"Once we had a better picture of the state of the Wizarding World, our department developed a set of scenarios for CASE AVALON, when it can hide no longer."

"How long before that happens? Twenty years? Ten?"

Thatcher smiled faintly. "Frankly, we're hoping for a little more than that. Obviously the scenarios are colour coded, white for best case and black for worst. Currently we're braced for CASE AVALON YELLOW, which is..." she waved a hand. "...very much in the middle."

"If it was black, you'd be calling in the troops and taking over right?"

"Exactly, and it would be disastrous, with magic exposed in the worst possible light. How much do you know about the Ministry and the Wizengamot?"

"Not much. I know the Wizengamot's a sort of council of noble families or something like that, and the Ministry runs the day-to-day affairs, taxation, law enforcement, stuff like that."

Thatcher looked down at her briefcase. "That can wait until we return to Number 10 and discuss this and more importantly, you and your realm." She smiled. "Speaking of which, I understand you're a grandfather now?"

Ra'jirra relaxed. "To a darling little girl," he declared, "who I fully intend to spoil as much as possible. A gorgeous little Suthay-Raht – I'm Cathay-Raht myself. She'll probably be climbing all over everything she can before she learns to walk..."

"Sorry? I thought you were a... Khajiit?"

"It's the influence of the moons when we're born... ah, it's a bit tricky to explain. Anyway, I suggested Abhima as a name, and I think my granddaughter liked it, when I suggested it to her she couldn't contain herself..."

All well and good, now what's all this at No. 10?

Pedro watched the Range Rover enter Downing Street. There was quite a phalanx of Secret Service men waiting for it, making a wall of dark suits between the door and whoever was inside. With that lot, whoever was visiting the PM was Very Important Indeed, and thus a shot of what was undoubtedly supposed to be a secret meeting would be Very Lucrative Indeed.

The vehicle had tinted windows, but Pedro had a very good flash on his camera, and he knew the settings that would let him get a good shot from right up against the window. As the car stopped, Pedro made his move, along with several other paparazzi, and the suits countermoved just late enough. The flash went off, and so did Pedro before the bastards could get their hands on his film.

Later that night, Pedro glowered over his fifth drink at the developed image. It was a joke. It had to be. There was no way that the Iron Lady would be riding with a... what were they called... furries? But then who would consider wearing a mask like that... more to the point, who would buy the fucking thing?

Inside No. 10 that afternoon:

It had started quite well. After introductions were made, tea was served, and the Rt. Hon. John Major was pleased to learn that the Arch-Mage Ra'jirra was as jaundiced about Magical Britain as he and Margaret were.

"From what I can tell," the decidedly leonine chap had summarised, "your wizards believe ignorance really is bliss for both sides. The Ministry's stuffed with idiots who got their positions because of their bloodline or their money or both. The Wizengamot is basically trial by nobles for both laws and people alike, which means nobody who can wants to change anything, and those who do can't. And the whole shebang is in the thrall of Albus Dumbledore, who frankly strikes me as overstretched and out of touch."

Then they had got down to business: finding out what Tamriel was actually like, and whether Earth in general, and Britain in particular, had anything to fear.

When Major mentioned Tamriel, Ra'jirra had been surprised, and when Major extracted his son's game, the Khajiit had nearly fainted.

The game was stored in a cardboard box decorated to look like some fantasy tome. On the lid, an inset image showed an elf wielding magic, a man in armour with a sword, and what the artist supposed to be an Orisimer and a Khajiit. All were facing off against a dragon sitting on enough riches to overflow the Imperial Treasury's coffers ten times over. Emblazoned over all this was the legend THE ELDER SCROLLS; underneath the subtitle Adventure Awaits in the Land of Tamriel!

"What in the name of Arkay, Stendarr, Mara and Zenithar is this?" the old Khajiit had asked in shaky tones.

"This is what we call a role-playing game," Major explained, taking the lid off and extracting several books bound in the Earth style, along with other papers and several oddly-shaped dice. "It was released by Bethesda Gameworks about five years ago, and describes a world called Tamriel, governed by an empire spanning the provinces of..." he pulled out a cloth map the creators meant as a keepsake. "Cyrodiil, Hammerfell, Morrowind, Skyrim, Valen... Arch-mage? Are you all right?"

Quick thinking and some smelling salts had brought the oldster back to his senses.

"I'm fine," Ra'jirra muttered, "That map's too right. I mean, that mountain's really between Whiterun and Riften, and the road from Skingrad doesn't go straight to Bravil, but... it's too right. How could they know?"

Both politicians looked helplessly at him.

"Well," he began with a long breath to steady himself, sneaking glances at the impossible box, "everyone is magical. They can access and use their magicka, I mean. You need to be taught in order to do the more clever stuff, that's why the Mage's Guild was formed, and I was responsible for setting up Black Plateau Magickal Research Facility..."

Ra'jirra forced himself to stop rambling, then got down to brass tacks.

"Anyway, in recent history, the Imperial Family died out about twenty years ago," he resumed at last. "All but one were assassinated, and the last sacrificed himself to close the jaws of Oblivion, which damn near swallowed us all. Daedra invaded just about everywhere, doubly so in Cyrodiil. I think they were looking for Emperor Martin. Or Saint Martin of Akatosh to some people. If you don't mind, I'll skip the gory details for now."

"That's fine," Major nodded.

"Sounds ominous though," Thatcher frowned, jotting something on a notepad she had extracted.

"Chancellor Ocato got sworn in as Potentate two years ago to try and hold the Empire together – he wasn't happy about it, but we needed a leader because we have two big problems.

"Problem one is the ongoing war between Morrowind and Black Marsh. With the fall of the Tribunal religion, two of the Great Houses there fell on hard times, doubly so when King Helseth brought the Dunmer into modern times and outlawed slavery. Black Marsh wasn't as badly affected by the Oblivion Crisis – I reckon they all sank in that swamp – so there were a lot of Argonians itching for a fight and remembering the Dunmeri's slaving ways quite well. So there's been a three-way stoush with Helseth and us trying to restore order, the forces of Black Marsh looking for a little ancestral vengeance, and the other Great Houses trying to grab the remnants of Indoril and Dres." He absently licked a hand and groomed his ear. "It's a gods-awful mess.

"Problem two is a pack of racist wankers in the Summurset Isles called the Thalmor. The Altmer monarchy took a big hit when the daedra toppled the Crystal Tower during the Oblivion Crisis, because it was holding most of the refugees and the royal family, and the Thalmor are the most dangerous of the syndicates trying for a coup. Probably because they kill anyone who either opposes them, or isn't an Altmer, or both. The Empire's pledged support to the monarchy, so our troops are stretched thin.

"And as such," Ra'jirra concluded, "the other provinces are starting to ask why they bother belonging to an Empire with no Emperor, sending their lads to fight in other people's wars when there's still the odd daedra running around and rebuilding to be done. We've basically got a war on two fronts, and the last thing we need is a third."

Major didn't miss the inference. Tamriel might be able to reach Earth, but they couldn't present any real threat. Yet.

"Now, about twelve years ago, a spell went strange and opened a portal to another world." He quickly sketched a picture of the post-apocalyptic Earth he had accompanied Doctor Earnest Haines across on his quest. "It was, and I swear to Julianos I do not lie, a complete fluke.

"Then after that we find a baby boy on our doorstep with footprints coming from Zenithar's wayshrine and disappearing. We're less concerned with the why than that the babe needed succor, so we took him in."

"Lord Potter," Thatcher surmised.

"Yep. Then a few months back we start getting these letters appearing out of nowhere. Harry was starting to get scared about the time he went to the jakes and –"

"They didn't!" Thatcher gasped and Major just blinked.

"They did. Poor kit had to use the chamber-pot or a bush for weeks afterwards. So we applied what we'd learned to the letters as they arrived, and crafted a portal spell that backtracked to where the letters were coming from, namely Hogwarts."

"Anyway, we're here, and Harry's learned about his inheritance, and we'd be in your debt for any technology or advice or any other aid you can offer us."

As soon as he finished, the old Khajiit looked like he could have bitten his tongue. Evidently a diplomat he wasn't.

He realised that the two were looking at him oddly. "Forgive us," Major said carefully, "but we have our own, ah, problems to handle. Also, what makes you think that we can help you, let alone profit from it?"

Ra'jirra absently groomed himself again as he collected his thoughts. "There was a wizard who jumped Harry and me on the way to Gringotts when I took him to the will reading. Your Aurors, I mean their Aurors, decided to shout first and bind later. He was already shooting, so I plugged him in the shoulder with Ern – ah, Dr Haines' old laser pistol."

"Laser? You mean, an actual, working laser pistol?" Both politicians perked up at that. This was something the MoD would be interested in.

"That's right," Ra'jirra nodded, "The people of Earth-1 knew their onions when it came to throwing atomic energy around. The nearest we can get to it is shock magics, but they're not as precise or efficient, and we still don't have the nous to work out how to emulate them. So far, we have managed to build a single steam engine and railway, not to mention a telegraph line, but that's only between Bruma and Cheydinhal.

"Our problems are," now, what did that scholar say... oh yeah, "Transport, communications and firepower. We need faster transportation of people and cargo around the Empire, quicker communications, and superior weaponry, since a lot of troops were killed in the Oblivion Crisis, and with those two problems we have, we're stretched. In the time it takes a message to get to the general staff, any orders they give are probably twice out of date. And someone's most likely set up an ambush on the way back.

"Earth weapons have better range, faster firing rates, and do more damage – normal and energy weapons alike. But we just don't have the skill or tools to make them or their ammunition. And as I said, we're trying to work out how to do so from first principles, and about half-a-dozen copies of The Big Book of Science which are destroyed in different places."

Ra'jirra thought for a bit. "And I think we really could use our own radio station," he murmured thoughtfully, "but the Institute's still debating that."

"Sorry?" Thatcher's interest was piqued. "What institute?"

"Eh? Oh, the Institute for Technological Philosophy. After I came back from Earth-1 bearing wonders, it didn't take long for the Council to realise that just adopting all these new things at once would cause problems. Basically it's a forum for discussing whether or not some gadget's a good idea yet, and if not, whether it ever will be. Otherwise you'd have yokels trying to work atomic piles or something."

"That's all well and good," Major said carefully, "but suppose we do provide you with scientific and... military... support... what is there to stop you from, ah, turning on us? After all, you have the ability to open, ah, portals to Earth; I can envision a scenario where portals open up everywhere and troops come pouring out."

"What's there to stop us? Quite a bit," Ra'jirra seemed to relax slightly. Evidently he preferred to talk shop. "First off, we've tried experiments to enlarge the portals, but nothing works. They get unstable real quick and we still don't know what happened to the poor buggers who tried to walk through one last time." He shuddered. "Guess they were lucky.

"Second, the first portal to Earth-1 was a fluke and didn't last long enough for me to get back. The second, more stable one I had to open from Earth-1; between my getting stranded and Big Town, the lads at Black Plateau tried tons of times, almost got killed by things, before they found me. And it was about the size of a manhole too.

"With Harry, we had to wait for enough of those letters to pelt him before our mystics could work out how to adjust the spells to... to follow their spoor back, I think that's the best way to explain it. And note: spells, plural. The invocation is bloody complex as well and takes a while, so one of your lads would have plenty of time to shoot.

"Thirdly..." Ra'jirra straightened and looked solemn. "There's plenty of evidence to suggest the gods are involved. Frankly, I suspect that Earth-1's gods, or God," he shrugged, "had a little confab with the Nine and they jiggered things to send me through. And, when Harry arrived, the only tracks we could find were a woman's, coming straight from Zenithar's wayshrine to the inn door, where they just stopped dead. No walking away, nothing. If Akatosh at least isn't involved I'll eat my shoes.

"Finally." Now he knew it was time for the king-hit. "My son's here, and I want him to form a better opinion of his home realm than I have. Which might be a little difficult if my guess is right, and you two are not willing to wait for one of these CASE AVALON scenes to arise.

"You're preparing to force one, aren't you?"


A/N: In Earth-2, the Bethesda we all know and love was formed well before the internet became public knowledge (I never heard of it before about 1995) and as such would have used existing role-playing technology: the good ol' dice-and-paper RPG. The copy of Dragon Dumbledore was looking over in chapter 3 was roughly five years old.

This scene has in fact been fermenting for months. It makes sense that the British Government would not only remember the magicals, but over time it would be easier to track them; and naturally they wouldn't rely on official channels either. And it occurred to me that the 'Iron Lady' would not be happy with their cavalier ways. At all.

I'll finish it off next update. Happy holidays.