A/N: Chap 27 review responses on my forums as normal. Here we have another glimpse of the international stage that, believe if or not, will impact the future in England however mildly. And then we come home to see how Harry and the gang are doing.
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Dominos
[Author's note: While I should not have to say this, nonetheless I feel it is important to note that the ideas or perspectives of individual characters do not necessarily reflect the views and perspectives of the author.]
The only good thing about winter along the Mexican border was that it wasn't as hot as summer. It sometimes got cold, but averaged in the sixties to seventies most days, cooling at night. It was one of those warmer days on December 5th which found Douglas Hanson sitting in the bed of his Ford F250 on a stack of fence posts and a length of barbed wire and stared at the group of illegals walking in among the dried arroyo from the Arizona and Mexican border. The border was not half a mile away, and this was not an unusual sight at all.
In his father's day, the elder Hanson would have chased them off with his shotgun and his dog. Nowadays, Douglas was more likely to be shot himself, and so chose to sit back and either ignore the people entirely, or call in immigration.
Hanson didn't blame the people for coming. Things were not good south of the Border, this he knew well enough. He crossed himself for medicine, since as a self-employed man he couldn't really afford drugs in the States. In fact, most of his friends did the same. Naco, the nearest town worth the name, had half of its streets on the other side.
After thinking about it for a few minutes, he decided to call it in. It was a much larger group than normal—almost two hundred of them. On the CB, the Border Patrol told him they were already aware of it and on their way. So, with a shrug, Hanson went back to work on the section of fence his steers broke down.
Not ten minutes later, he spotted a caravan of Border Patrol trucks zoom by on the International Road, and moments after that the roar of rotors as a Border Patrol helicopter zoomed overhead. Hanson paused only because it was a larger response than most he'd seen, which, given the size of the group, was not untoward. He climbed back up into the bed of his truck, took a long swig of water while wiping sweat from his brow before replacing his hat, and watched as the whole world turned upside down.
A group of at least ten of the illegals suddenly had what looked from the distance to be old-fashioned broomsticks, and shot up into the air like rockets. They zoomed around the helicopter and seemed like they were shooting at it, but he couldn't actually see what. Whatever it was, the invisible weapons blew the chopper out of the air better than anything Hanson saw in Iraq.
The three trucks didn't do any better. The rest of the illegals broke into ranks as if they were all military and began shoving their weird, skinny guns at the agents. The first truck exploded so strong it made the one behind it flip over, while the third squealed to a stop. Border Patrol agents poured out, firing their weapons, but suddenly the illegals began to disappear and reappear seconds later behind the agents, killing them so fast Hanson felt his blood run cold. In just seconds, at least fifty Border Patrol agents were dead.
Then things got really weird.
More people appeared, clad in what almost looked like green dresses. They appeared with pops, so many it sounded almost like distant gunfire or popcorn going off. Some had their own broomsticks, and they had their own strange, stick-like weapons that they pointed and shoved at the illegals. The illegals seemed to stand and block whatever it was the newcomers were doing, but the newcomers had a few big men with bigger sticks, and from their body language the sticks seemed to be shooting powerful blasts. Hanson couldn't see what they were shooting, but he saw how some of the illegals flew backward as if struck by a .50cal sniper round.
Hanson sat on the back of his Ford, and watched a full-on battle of magic with only the slightest understanding of what was happening, since he could not actually see the magic. He knew the Mexicans were killing Americans, he just didn't know how. He was a former soldier himself, having done two tours in Iraq before taking first a bullet from the top of his tank from a road-side sniper, and then a medical discharge and a purple heart. He also knew he had three different guns on him.
He had his .44 on his hip for when he needed his hands; he had a 12 gauge pump action in the cab of the truck, and for those special occasions when it wasn't just illegals coming over, but gangs coming, he had an Ak-47 knockoff with five ten-round clips. It took only a moment for him to get on the CB, let the Border Patrol outpost know that every one of their folks were dead, and to get his weapon ready.
He climbed back into the bed of his truck for visibility, and took a look down his scope. He'd guess most of the fighting was three hundred and fifty or so yards away, which was the edge of the range not just of his weapon, but of his skill. But he decided it was worth the effort to at least try.
He sighted up on a target and was surprised to see through his scope that it was a woman. In fact, most of the illegals appeared to be women, even the ones already down. But they were fighting and killing just like anything, so he figured that made them fair targets. He didn't like shooting women, but he'd had to shoot more than a couple in the war and didn't hesitate now.
His first shot hit center of mass, as good as he could have hoped. He knew his weapon and himself enough not to go for anything fancy. But he was firing a 7.62 x 39 mm round, and the woman definitely felt it when it hit. She dropped instantly with a fan of blood from her chest.
He had two more shots out—his second missed but his third winged another woman—before the report of his weapon reached them. He continued shooting, and in the roar of the weapon he didn't hear the popping from nearby. His fifth shot went wide, though, when something hit him and knocked him flying over the edge of the truck.
He landed in a heap and turned to see a woman shouting at him, only this was not like any woman he'd ever seen. Her hair was black, and her skin at first seemed the typical Mexican brown. Only, one second look he realized it was paler than normal, as if something had sucked some of the colour out of her skin. What got him, though, were the eyes. They shone in the late afternoon sun in a way that didn't seem natural.
She raised not a gun, but just a little stick, and shouted something that was not Spanish. Hanson spoke Mexican Spanish as well as a native—it was hard not to in that part of the country. What the woman shouted sounded more like Portuguese.
"Protego!" He couldn't see anything happen, and yet whatever the dark-skinned woman shot at him never reached him. He turned and saw another, slightly younger woman in what at first looked like army fatigues, only in a dress. "Get the hell out of here!" the younger woman shouted at him.
She, too, had the strange gleam in her eyes as she started jerking her own stick at the woman.
Hanson scrambled into the bed of his truck and looked out the rear mirror as the two women fought with invisible bullets that came from mere sticks. They moved around like boxers as they exchanged fire that Hanson could not perceive. But even though he couldn't see the magic, he saw its effects as the illegal got a shot through the younger girl's defences that sent her spinning with blood flying from her arm. She screamed in pain as she slammed into a nearby mesquite.
Whatever else he might not have known, what he did know was that the younger girl was American and had saved his life, and the older woman was not American and tried to kill him.
He grabbed his .12 gauge and quietly climbed out of the other side of his cabin. The illegal had a smirk on her face as she pointed her stick thingy. Hanson didn't hesitate—he put the shotgun to his shoulder and fired from ten feet away.
The woman's head pulped like a melon and she dropped to the ground.
In the distance, the battle appeared to have moved on, leaving maybe a dozen bodies littering the desert. Whatever fight was going on, it appeared to be over. Putting his shotgun down and pulling his magnum from his hip, he walked over to the younger girl. "You alright there, miss?"
The girl was cursing and holding a torn and bloodied two-dollar bill in her hand. "Damned thing lost its Portkey charm…" She sighed and let her head sink back against the wood as she regarded the rancher.
"You're bleeding," she noted absently, as if the hole in her arm was nothing.
"You're bleeding more," he said right back. "I've got a first aid kit in the truck."
"Save it, I have my own," the woman said. She appeared to Hanson to be roughly thirty like he himself, with light brown hair tired back in a tight bun at the base of her skull. She didn't wear any make up, and looked awfully pale for the area. People with her complexion tended to turn leathery fast in southern Arizona, or die of skin cancer.
She started to reach for something, and then grimaced and cried out a little.
"Stop, I can help," he said. "I did a tour as a medic. Tell me what you need?"
She regarded him intently for a moment, her strangely lit eyes shimmering with pain. "You wouldn't believe me."
"Lady, I saw women on broomsticks blow a helicopter out of the air. I'm not much against believing anything at this point. Who were they?"
With a huff, she said, "Would you believe Brazilian and Mexican witches trying to invade us?"
"So it was Portuguese," he muttered. "Knew it. Well, I figured you saved my life, so I owe you one."
"You saved mine. She had me beat."
He shrugged and knelt down next to her. "So what am I looking for?"
"Small black box on my right hip."
He carefully unclicked the box from her belt. "Okay, now what?"
"Open it."
He opened it, but didn't quite understand what he was seeing. His eyes glazed over as he saw what looked like dozens of little glass vials of water superimposed over each other in a way that was simply impossible for his mind to understand.
"It's magic," the woman said softly. "I'm a witch too."
"Hmm, must be," he said, so numb from the shock of the day he didn't react now. "So, what do I do?"
"Say Essence of Dittany."
He did so, and suddenly one vial popped up from the others. He took the vial, closed the box, and looked up for more instructions. "You pour it on my wound. But you'll…here." Using her right arm, she pointed her stick at her shoulder. He didn't see anything happen, not really, but suddenly the sleeve of her strange desert camo dress was gone, exposing her pale arm and the truly horrific wound that ran from her shoulder almost to her elbow, as if something literally ripped the flesh off. Blood dripped down from her wrist in a steady rivulet.
"Gods above, girl, you must be tougher'n hell," he muttered. "I'd be crying like a baby with that."
He looked, and saw she was. "Shit," she muttered before squeezing her eyes shut. "Just pour it over the wound. Please."
He did so. The girl screamed and kicked one leg, but did not otherwise move the arm in question. But Hanson did—he almost fell over as, where the strange water touched, flesh began to fill back into the gouged area. There wasn't enough water to completely heal it, but by the time he was done it looked more like a deep cut rather than something had ripped her arm in half.
"Got any more 'o this stuff?"
"No, and I can't…transport," she said, tears now streaming down her face. "The incursion moved inland and my unit had to stay with them until reinforcements came. They'll probably think I went down. I'll…I don't…"
Hanson stood and walked back to the cab of his truck. He returned a few minutes later with his first aid kit, and a bottle of Jack Daniels. "Here, take a swig while I dress that arm," he told her.
He knew he was dealing with a professional when she did not hesitate for a moment and took a deep, long pull on the bottle. Meanwhile, he did a quick field dressing on her still bleeding arm using his first aid kit. "So, you and those others, you're like magic soldiers or something?"
"Sergeant Jennifer Speltz, 3rd Regiment, WestCon army," she said.
"Doug Hanson, Captain, 2nd Armoured Division, United States Army. Retired."
"Well, captain, thank you for saving me," she said before taking another swig of whiskey. "It was pretty dumb of you to jump into a fight like that, but I'm glad you did."
"Ma'am, if I were smart I'd have figured out a better life than ranching out here," he said with a tired grin. "Come on, I'll get you back to the house. I have better med kits there, and you can use a phone to call wherever you need."
She stared at him again. "You don't care that I'm a witch at all, do you?"
"Sergeant, as soon as I know you're safe, I promise I'm going to get shit-faced drunk. Right now, I need to get you out of here."
He stored his weapons, closed the gate of his truck bed, and returned to try and help her to her feet. That's when they realized that she had another wound on her leg, fully as bad as the one in her arm, that she was so numbed she didn't even feel. She cried out and would have fallen if Hanson hadn't caught her. He quickly applied another field dressing which slowed the bleeding considerably.
"Right, now we definitely need to get home," he said. "Sergeant, I'm going to carry you, okay?"
Gritting her teeth and fighting back more tears, Speltz nodded. Hanson was a strong man in his prime, and was prepared for the weight of a grown woman. He was surprised at just how light she actually was, though. In fact, she was as light as his six-year-old niece as he lifted her up and carried her to his truck.
Once he had her seated, he handed her back the Jack Daniels. She took another swig and said, "Thank you."
He nodded and walked around to the driver's seat. He drove very slowly to keep from jostling her. By the time the WestCon Obliviators arrived to erase all evidence of what happened, he was long gone. The Obliviators were as well, by the time the Border Patrol arrived. The deaths of the Border Patrol agents would be attributed, like everything else, to drug-related violence.
~~Firebird~~
~~Firebird~~
Harry watched the memories with a growing numbness. Finally he pulled his head out of the Pensieve and looked at Minister Shacklebolt and Secretary Trelawney. "So it's started?"
"The French light covens have declared their Sabbat broken," Kingsley said. "They've formed a resistance, but it is tough going. Dame Maddalena's efforts in Italy have had some success, but they're essentially in the same position we are. And we just received word that Brazil has declared the Eastern Confederation traitors to magic and launched a full-scale invasion of the WestCon with the stated goal of killing Morgan Murchison."
They went down the list of potential allies, one-by-one, and discussed the unrest almost every European magical ministry was experiencing. The few non-European nations had already stated their desire to remain neutral, and though Harry felt bitter about it, he could not blame them. From what he understood, the British Ministry of Magic never actually helped Australia or New Zealand with their spats of dark lords in the past, so why would they want to help their mother country?
And India was a dark magic country in general, practicing a mix of eastern and western magics that set them apart from their European cousins and made both sides hesitant to involve the other in conflict.
When the depressing international state of the world was thoroughly debriefed, Harry then gave his report of the recent Battle of Trearddur Bay, in which a goblin force under the Dark ministry's orders managed to ransack a private magical school and abduct fourteen witches, all under the age of twelve. Harry lost four of his constables in the fight, and one of his Aurors was injured.
"They were using Muggle guns again," Harry reported sadly. "I think they're charming their bullets with a potion mix just like they do with their coins. The bullets had the same feel to them. We can't shield against them, and they go through dragon and basilisk armour like paper. And they're so many of them, we just don't have the numbers to do more than mop up after."
"You know we're trying to make inroads with the PM on that," Shacklebolt said. "But we've run into a problem."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked.
"The old Ministry building had a special Floo connection to Downing Street," Kingsley said. "We used it to provide magical protection to the PM during the last war against Voldemort. Without that connection, all our attempts at setting up a meeting have been rebuffed. We can't Apparate in, either, not without letting the Dark Ministry know exactly what we're doing. We need another way in."
"I think you and Hermione might be the key," Trelawney said, though in a grim fashion. "I know we're asking a lot, Harry, but the situation is bad. We need Muggle fighting men to use against those damned goblins. And the only backdoor we have is Finch-Fletchley."
Harry started as if struck. "Justine's mum?"
"Sir Marcus Fletchley worked with the Home Office before his death," Kingsley said. "His wife, Allison Finch-Fletchley, is still alive. Amelia Obliviated her after what happened the summer before your O.W.L. year, but she's still alive. The memory block has a specific key to break it. We need you and your second wife to contact her and see if she can set up a meeting with the home secretary."
"Kingsley, they were capturing and murdering witches," Harry said. "Their own daughter turned against them. This is not going to work."
"It's all we have, Harry," Trelawney said. "We have to at least try, or things are going to get much, much worse."
Harry sat in silence as his mind played through the various scenarios in his head. With Voldemort instigating small wars all over Europe, his own people here in England were using the Goblins to do their fighting, heedless of the long-term damage such a policy created. But when Voldemort returned, it was likely he would have a legitimate army at his back. An army of disgruntled European wizards teamed with Goblins would crush any efforts the new Ministry made.
He didn't need magic to foretell a disaster. Moreover, Kingsley and Trelawney were not ordering him to make contact with Justine's mother. They were asking, fully aware of the price of such action. They were now waiting for him to make his own decision, even though the decision was practically decided before he even contemplated it.
"Okay, I'll go," he said. "But I can't make any promises. Once the memory block breaks, she's not going to be happy to see us."
"We know, Harry. Thank you," Kingsley said sombrely.
"Now comes the hard part," Harry said. "Convincing Hermione."
~~Firebird~~
~~Firebird~~
Lady Allison Finch-Fletchley sighed bitterly as she climbed into her waiting limousine outside the terminal at Heathrow. It was January 15th, a year and a half now since the death of her husband, and she was returning home for the very first time since that terrible day.
She stared out the window at the cold, rainy landscape as the driver took her out of London entirely, not speaking a word. Her recently purchased novel lay unopened in the seat beside her in the dim interior; one hand sat limp in her lap, while the other cupped her chin as she stared. Finally, they reached the manor that was her family's ancestral home. The small staff was there to greet her—two maids and the cook. She greeted them civilly enough as her driver took her bags into the manor, even though this was the first time she'd been to the manor in over a year.
She took dinner alone in her office while she played catch-up with everything the estate manager thought only she should handle. Inheritances from Marcus were a part of it, of course. His brother would be inheriting the man's titles and some of the family lands since Marcus was childless, but the Finches were landed as well and she did not begrudge her brother in law with continuing the family name and title. He, after all, had two fine young sons and a daughter himself.
His family was already living at the estate she and Marcus lived in a year ago, with all of her personal effects having been moved here.
There were more bills to settle, the insurance settlement for Sir Marcus's death was pending due to its sheer size. There were notices from the Home Office and a box of his affects. For some reason, she'd completely forgotten that he'd taken work with the Home Office again. Perhaps that was for the better.
Allison Finch-Fletchley could not remember exactly how her husband died. More important, no one else could either. When she first received the notice from the agents at the Home Office, she stormed in to speak to Home Secretary Andrea Bath herself. Between her titles, her husband's position and her own dabbling in politics, it was not difficult for Allison to find out everything the Home Office had.
What terrified her was how little there was of it. She knew her husband led an entire taskforce that had pulled in specialists from several scientific fields, but there were no reports, no material acquisitions, and the specialists themselves had returned to their previous job with no memory of what happened—at least those that survived.
She was also able to determine that all the agents directly under Marcus were dead as well, and that the whole project had been swept under the rug either to avoid embarrassment, or to keep from alarming those in higher positions of authority.
Allison remembered sitting outside of Thames House, holding a small box of Marcus's things, including a silly Dr Who coffee mug she bought him years ago, and realizing how empty her life was without him. And so she left not just their home, but England itself.
Until now... She took the insurance settlement and put it on a to-be-opened stack. She was practical enough to know that estates such as the one she was in currently took money to maintain; she would not refuse a settlement. She tried not to think of the fact that she was the last Finch of her family—her parents were dead, and unlike Marcus she had no siblings, nor children. When she died, the Finch family would be no more. A thousand years of history would simply cease, leaving nothing but mementos and a few photographs behind, and… "What the blazes!"
Flipping through the mail, she chanced upon a strange photograph. It looked like a picture of her and her husband, happy and holding each other in on the beach north of Narbonne. Marcus looked so fetching in his trunks, tanned and strong. But what caught her attention was the attractive young girl standing between them. The girl had a long, elegant neck and compassionate eyes, just like Marcus, though with a rather gangly build that reminded Allison of herself as a teen. Her dark hair was cut short in a bob. Surprised and confused, Allison picked the picture up, and the moment her hand touched it, it felt as if a gun had been fired in her head.
There was a deep, grating snap in her mind, followed by a flash of white as if she'd been shot, and then a flood of memories unlike anything she had ever experienced before. She wept tears of joy when she remembered holding her baby girl for the first time, and frowned with concern when the girl's touch at first shocked and then attracted her.
With the memories came realizations; came pain; and finally came a deep, abiding rage. It was in the midst of that terrible rage that the air in front of her desk popped, and she found herself facing a witch she recognized. For, looking at the woman, she could be nothing else. Her skin was pale and her eyes shone brightly in the dimmed light of her office. She wore a Muggle teal blouse and a black skirt. Her wild brown hair was pulled back in such a way as to complement her admittedly beautiful face.
And she was weeping. "How you must hate us," Hermione Granger said softly.
With effort, Allison stilled the shaking in her hands. "Were you the one, then? Were you the one who killed my husband? Where is Justine?"
Hermione wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, like the teen she was, and said, "Yes. When we found out what you were doing, we called the Ministry in. So it was our fault, Justine and me both."
"Where is my daughter?"
"She's dead. Evil witches poisoned her. I'm sorry."
Allison placed both hands on the desk when the shaking got worse. Her daughter, her only flesh and blood, was dead. "Was she in pain?"
She didn't know what she expected, but when Hermione sobbed and nodded sombrely, Allison squeezed her eyes shut and lowered her forehead to her desk. "Why are you doing this to me?" she ground out between clenched teeth. "Why let me know the truth when the truth is nothing but pain?"
"Because you deserved to know the truth, and because you're in danger."
Allison slammed her hands on her desk and screamed, "What more can you take from me?"
The witch did not bat an eye. "Your life and freedom, and the lives and freedom of everyone in this country. You've regained your memories—that's what the charm on the photo was intended to do, as well as to alert me to your return. You know who Voldemort is."
Allison forced her rage down, grasping desperately for that cool reserve that made her Marcus love and value her so much. "I remember."
"He won," the witch said with terrible simplicity. "He took control of our Ministry and is now doing the same to Ministries across Europe. Harry Potter and I have helped form a ministry-in-hiding to fight him, but it's been very difficult. He's enlisted the Goblins as mercenaries."
With her restored memories, Allison knew about the goblins. "What are they doing?"
"They are attacking whole communities, killing all the men or non-fertile witches and stealing the rest to be used as broodmares. They're using enchanted guns against us, and we're losing. We need help."
"Why are you telling me this?"
The young witch, who Allison now remembered seeing for the first time when she was just a child of eleven, leaned forward; despite her great self-control Allison could not help but lean back in response. "We need help, Lady Allison. We need Muggle soldiers with their own guns to help us fight the goblins. We've tried contacting your PM, but Voldemort's forces control our only viable means of contacting Downing Street. We were hoping…we hoped you would help get us an inroad."
Allison shook her head angrily. "To do what, enchant the Home Secretary to do your bidding? This is exactly why Marcus did what he did. You…you… monsters are a threat to the whole world!"
"You're talking about your own daughter."
"I HAVE NO DAUGHTER!" Allison screeched, all control lost as she rose to her feet. English reserve finally came to the fore and she sank back to her seat. "I have no daughter. You people took her from me, so thoroughly you even tried to steal my memories of her. Why should I help you?"
"You're not helping us," the witch said. "You're helping yourselves. If the Light loses, Lady Allison, England as a nation will be lost. With a whole nation under his control, Voldemort will spread his poison across the continent, and then the world. It took the Second World War to stop the last dark wizard who gained control of a Muggle government. This time, with nuclear weapons in play, the world would not survive. Imagine Hitler with ICBMs, Lady Allison."
She shuddered despite herself. "The problem, Hermione, is that you're no better," she said with soft but deadly earnestness. "You are as much a villain as this Voldemort is. Your entire race is an abomination—an aberration of nature. You don't deserve to live."
"We snuck down to the cellar, Lady Allison," Hermione answered with a tightly controlled tone. She wiped her tears and glued the older woman with her odd, back-lit eyes. No veil, there—just the power of the witch. "We spoke to the ghost of one of the girls your husband abducted, tortured, and then murdered and dissected. Justine loved you both so much, but what you were doing was evil. Because we both heard Sir Marcus say he could easily do the same to me, despite being your daughter's best friend. Witch-born are not perfect. Some of the aspects of our civilization are abhorrent, and Harry and I are fighting to make them better. But we need help. We need your help."
Lady Allison said nothing for the longest time as she stared at the young witch sitting across from her. "Was Potter there, when she died?"
"They were married. She was my sister wife, for the last few minutes of her life. We did love her, Lady Allison. She was the one that made us all work as a family. And we have not stopped missing her."
Lady Allison moved abruptly, causing Hermione to jump a little in her seat. The older woman began pawing through her desk until she found what she wanted and handed it over. It was a black business card with white text—nothing but a phone number.
"That is Andrea Bath's direct number," Allison said. "That's all I can do. I'm never stepping foot in the Home Office again. And I do not want to ever see you, or your kind, in my home again. Get out."
Hermione took the card. "Thank you, Lady Allison. I'm so…"
"GET OUT!"
And with a pop, Hermione was gone.
In the silence that followed, Allison bowed her head into her hands and cried huge, bitter sobs.
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Author's Note: Very special thanks as always to Teufel1987, JR and Miles for beta reading. If there are any major faux-pas, they are entirely of my own doing.
