A Few More Brief Interludes

Meanwhile in Belfast…

November 10th, 1981

"Bit worrying, isn't it?" said the Auror.

His partner turned to look at him, with a raised eyebrow; "What is? The graffiti?"

"What else could I mean?" the first Auror snarked back.

The two of them were stood facing the wall of a rather ugly building on Shankill Road, one of the largest thoroughfares in west Belfast. They'd received a call to check out the wall half-an-hour ago, when a middle-aged witch had called up the Regional Office in Dublin complaining about maniacal teenagers. The two of them had been just starting their third coffee of the evening when the call came through, and so were not pleased to be suddenly on duty.

Across the wall they'd been sent to inspect was a large smear of obviously magical paint, emblazoned with the phrase "THE BASTARD IS DEAD!" and a badly drawn picture of a Death Eater's mask.

"I don't see what's worrying about it?" said the partner, leaning forward to poke at the graffiti with her wand. "It's just some idiots celebrating You-Know-Who being gone. Unless you think its cursed?"

"No, I think-" The first Auror paused mid-tirade, and pointed at their partner. "Pureblood?" they asked.

"What?" the second Auror raised an eyebrow.

"Are you a pureblood?" the first Auror asked again.

"None of your business!" his partner spat.

"Don't be like that, I'm not one either!" He raised his hands in a placating gesture; "Let me ask a different way…do you know much about Muggle Ireland? Either of them?"

"A little" the woman shrugged, "My family's from Wiltshire. From what some of the Irish kids back at Hogwarts said…I gather things aren't going well."

"They're going better in the Republic" he muttered; "Right, so you know there are two Irelands, right?"

"Yeah…"

"The inhabitants of the one on top are divided on whether or not they want to join the rest of Ireland, or stay with Muggle Britain. Some of them are a bit too invested in this argument, and so they unfortunately go around blowing each other up. And that's before you factor in the British Military. Got me so far?" He mimed an explosion with his hands.

"Pretty much" replied the woman, "So they're like the Death Eaters?"

"No!" the first Auror barked, "Well, maybe the UDF but no! There's more at work here than the purity of someone's blood."

"Hmm" his partner replied, "If you say so, but it sounds pretty Death Eatery."

"It isn't." The man sighed. "Recently, a few months back – so before You-Know-Who got killed by a cat – about ten men from one of the groups starved themselves to death. To make a point to the muggle Government."

"Starved themselves?" the woman repeats, aghast. "Why?"

"To make a point to the muggle government" the first Auror repeated, before shrugging; "Or as a publicity stunt for the IRA, whichever you believe. Either way, it enflamed things here even more than they were already, so…" He gestured at the graffiti. "I don't think a sign saying 'The Bastard is Dead!' is going to help the situation. I mean, especially with that terrible portrait."

"Mmm" replied the woman, "I see your point. Best remove it quickly, then?" She drew her wand and waggled it in the direction of her partner.

"Agreed." The man drew his wand from its holster, and together the two worked to remove the graffiti. Thankfully the idiotic teenagers had used the more common type of magical paint which could be removed via aguamenti (the water summoning charm), rather than the type requiring a full team of the Ministry's maintenance staff and a magically-enhanced fire engine. Ministry Personal with driving licenses were in short supply as it was.

As the two strolled away to find a convenient alley, the woman spoke up; "My old man said it was always best to leave the muggles to their own business."

"And what do you think?" the man asked.

"I think its none of our business." She replied with a shrug; "What goes on the muggle world affects us about as much as what goes on in China – so why should we care? Staying out of shit like this has kept us alive and thriving for centuries, so I don't understand why madmen like You-Know-Who, or non-madmen like the Scandinavians want to change the situation. What would be the point?"

The first Auror hesitated. "I'm a bit more sympathetic to the idea – that is, the Scandinavian dream, not the kill-them-all plan of the Death Eaters. My parents are muggles, and we still talk a lot; they live in Dungannon, on the other side of Lough Neagh. Seeing some of what the muggles have achieved, without magic, does make me wonder what we could achieve together. They put a man on the moon, you know."

"And?" The woman raised an eyebrow, "We did that in the 19th century. Or at least Persia did."

"Yeah, but they did it without magic. We get to bullshit our way through the 'laws of physics', bending them to our will – but they have to understand them, and work with them to achieve their goals." The man made a sweeping gesture. "Think what we could achieve, if we combined our abilities and their understanding – we might be able to reach Mars before the turn of the millennium!"

"Or they might decide to murder us all in a genocidal rage" the woman snarked, "Don't tell me you haven't heard of some of the stuff they get up – not just here, think about Russia or China or a random bit of Africa. What if they tried to do that to us? We'd survive, but we'd have to do some pretty nasty things to get them off out collective backs."

"Maybe we could be a stabilising influence, though?" the first Auror responded, "Consider here, in Ireland – the muggles have been at each other's throats for centuries with no possible end in sight, they can't imagine one without one side giving up…but then we come along, we who have been at peace for centuries, who have given both British and Irish wizards a say in government from day one. Don't tell me that wouldn't have an impact?"

"It would…but not necessarily a good one" said the Second Auror, "Remember, the Ministry of Magic might be different from the muggle one, but both are ruled from Westminster."

"As if that matters-"

"It might matter to someone from the 'IRO', or whatever you called them. Just saying."

"IRA" the man said, "You're probably right, but its always nice to dream. My parents – very much anti-English for reference – warmed up to Wizarding Britain eventually, so it is possible. One day. Just not now."

The two of them walked into a dank alley between two houses, checking behind them to see for any tails, muggle or otherwise. A quick glance ahead and above cleared those directions out as well, so with a nod the two disapparated.

Meanwhile in Wiltshire…

November 11th, 1981

Somewhere in the county of Wiltshire, a rat scampered through the undergrowth. Peter Pettigrew had been on the run for nearly two weeks at this point, ever since the night his mark had burned and his master had died. He'd abandoned his flat in Chudleigh even before then, since he knew that even if the Dark Lord had killed little Harry and his parents, Sirius and Remus would have been still alive to come after him. Even with the favour of Britain's conqueror at his back, that was not a fight he wanted.

And now he had that and worse coming after him.

On the few occasions he had dared to come near other wizards since Halloween, he had seen his face emblazoned across newspapers and flyers. Apparently, they even had the muggles looking for him – he'd heard his name mentioned on one of their radios. While he wasn't the highest-ranking Death Eater who hadn't been captured by the Ministry or gone grovelling to their door, he was in the top five. Only the Lestranges and Greyback were still above him, with the Carrows now on a one-way trip to Azkaban and Lucius Malfoy bribing his way out of trouble. He was curious as to how the bastard had managed it, after James' article all but called for the public to start lynching Lucius and his comrades.

If he did decide to reveal himself to the man, he'd have to remember to ask that.

Peter was aware the more sensible decision for someone in his position would have been fleeing the country entirely. He should have gone somewhere like Gibraltar or Bermuda, where the populace still spoke English but the British Ministry of Magic had no presence. Maybe even America, though their government apparently made the British one look normal. At least that was what James had said, and he was the only person Peter knew who'd gone further abroad than the Low Countries. He remembered James telling them all about his trip to the States, on the train ride at the start of their fourth year. Stories about sightseeing in California, excursions to Ilvermorny and its insane cousin, walking the beaches of Florida where the muggles apparently wore barely anything. Apparently, he'd even managed to cause a diplomatic incident by setting off dungbombs in MACUSA headquarters, though Peter doubted the accuracy of that story due to it never appearing in the Prophet.

The problem with going somewhere like America was that Peter had never learnt to apparate. He'd tried, the same as everyone else during sixth year, but the experience of having his lower half splinched had deterred him from putting in any further effort. That meant he was limited to the areas he could reach by foot, since trying to use a broomstick would bring the aurors down on his head immediately – and he'd had enough close shaves as it was. And since Chudleigh was in the southwest of England, he was far away from all the cross-channel transportation.

And so, he was in Wiltshire. Pureblood country, home to the Malfoys, the Parkinsons, the Carrows and all the other maniacs. The only part of the country that might be friendly to him, or at least not actively hostile. He had come here to grovel and beg, in search of a family that might take pity on a poor, fallen Death Eater. A loyal supporter of their former master and saviour. It was a hope, albeit not a massive one. Failing that, a good number of the families in this county were down to only the elderly or children, now that all the adults were locked away in Azkaban. He'd learnt enough from his…former acquaintances to make the prospect of stealing those resources necessary to survive not an impossible task. Wrapped up in their own snobbery as they were, the Notts or the Rowles would not notice the occasional missing dinner or vanished cloak – and if he was very lucky, a purloined portkey.

Gibraltar would be rather lovely to visit. The sun would be nice after two weeks in the undergrowth, and he'd heard promising things about how Wizarding Iberia got on with Wizarding Britain and their own muggles.

It was not right to admit it, but he did miss the other three Marauders. James, the leader – smart, handsome, witty. Sirius, the joker – roguish, mischievous, beloved by boy and girl alike. Remus, the kind one – always willing to help Peter when…Betraying them had not been an easy thing, but he'd thought of it as the only way to keep himself alive – the Dark Lord was winning! If he'd stayed with the Order, he'd have been killed or worse! It was a logical decision. Only James and Lily needed to die anyway, the other two would have been fine if they only just surrendered. They'd even have forgiven him, in time – he was sure of it.

But that wasn't what had happened. You-Know-Who had lost. A stag and a cat had seen to that. And now all of Wizarding Britain was against him, and he was reduced to scurrying about in the undergrowth. Like a…well…

Meanwhile at Hogwarts…

November 11th, 1981

"I tell you Albus, this mead tastes a hundred times better now that You-Know-Who isn't breathing down our backs" said the old potions master, taking a long swig from the glass he'd already refilled twice in the last hour.

"I couldn't agree more, Horace" replied the headmaster, reaching forward to chink his own glass with his co-worker's. The two of them were sat in the Hogwarts staffroom, a low-ceilinged chamber located to the right of the grand staircase on the ground floor. The walls of the staffroom were built of alder wood, many of the thick panels adorned by photographs and paintings of former staff members.

"So…" Albus said, taking a shorter drink from his glass, "How are you finding the new batch of First Years? I hope they've settled in by now."

"Most of them, yes" Horace replied, "Though the Bradford Twins are still in the hyperactive start-of-year phrase, bouncing off each other I imagine. Muggleborns, you know?"

"Learning that magic exists is a big adjustment for them" said the headmaster, smiling; "Its something that you and me can never quite comprehend, because magic has always been there for us. But for a muggleborns, it's a change in their entire worldview. A good one though, I'd say."

Slughorn laughed. "I'd agree there. How was your trip to Beauxbatons?" The headmaster had been absent for the past two days, due to attending a meeting with the leaders of the other European Schools of Magic. During that time, Horace had found himself landed with even more paperwork than usual.

"Constructive" Albus stated, "Olympe was a marvellous host as ever, and I managed to attend a sitting of the school choir. We really should get our own up and running for next year, perhaps Filius or another of our fellowship might be willing to take it…"

Slughorn coughed, to dissuade this topic from continuing. He had taken the Hogwarts School Choir – known more commonly as 'The Frog Choir' – for several years, but stepped down after the same incident that saw Professor Berry banished to the Wizarding Academy of Dramatic Arts. "And the other headmasters?" He took a long swig from his glass.

Dumbledore hummed. "Dear old Abejundio has announced his intent to retire; apparently the latest crop of students have finally worn him out. Paloma del Fondo – the new head from Casamanso – introduced herself and her wife; a very prestigious woman, I'd imagine you and her would get on well."

"The name's familiar, though it has been a while since I visited Italy" said Horace. A thought came to him. "How's the crank from Durmstrang? I heard there's been a bit of trouble over there recently…" He mimed an explosion with one hand, while taking a swig from his glass with the other.

"The Scandinavian Ministry has forced Emiliano to put Norwegian and Swedish back on the curriculum" explained Albus, amusedly; "He was most put out about this – I was informed about the sheer audacity of the ministry several times." Judging by Albus' smile, he did not feel much sympathy for the man. Horace didn't either – Emiliano Birosov still owed him 10 galleons.

He sniggered. "Durmstrang has always valued its independence. Maybe this will finally force the bastard to step down, the place could do with a new head. But who could it be…hmm…"

There's a thought!

"Horace." Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

"I didn't say anything."

"Horace." Dumbledore raised the other eyebrow.

"I didn't say anything!"

"Might I remind you that as headmaster, I am required to strongly disapprove of any attempts to meddle in the running of other schools."

Horace shrugged; "I wouldn't dream of such actions. Even if there are a few of my contacts who might be interested in the position." He leant back in his chair, swigging the remaining part of his current drink. "Besides, its not as if you wouldn't be making your thoughts known in an election, your most supreme mugwumpiness." The room seemed to wobble for a moment, but Slughorn shook his head and it stabilised.

Albus' eyes twinkled. "I have no idea what you mean. Refill?" He gestured to the glass.

"Thank you" Slughorn replied, leaning over; "Don't let me finish off all the mead though, Albus."

"I wouldn't worry about that" said the man, eyes twinkling; "Filius was kind enough to give me several bottles for my ninety-ninth, and I only open them when I have guests round."

"Still…" Horace slurred, "Its too good to waste all on me. But if you insist." He leaned back, sniffing at the latest glassful.

"I confess, its not quite to my taste" Dumbledore said, taking a small sip from his own glass; "I tend to prefer my mead a bit sweeter, much like Rosmerta's own make. Though the best version I have ever drunk came from the Ethiopian Highlands – that was called Tej, I believe and was so beautifully bitter."

"I shall have to try it if I get the chance!" Slughorn replied, "Though by order – I'm at the age where I'd rather not leave the country unless I have to, it'd be bad for my constitution."

Albus smiled "Don't be so hard on yourself, Horace – you have at least a few decades left in you yet." He chuckled for a moment. "Provided you remember that the Ministry no longer tolerates giving alcohol to the under-17s. That might be against the spirit of the Slug Club, but the law is the law."

Horace groaned "I know, I know. You, Minerva, Pomana and Poppy have been on my case for weeks about that."

"One cannot be too certain" said Dumbledore cheerfully; "But talking about the Slug Club - if you don't mind me asking, have any of your former members reached out to you since the events at Godric's Hollow?"

Slughorn wobbled slightly in his chair. "A few" he replied, "Lucius asked for me to visit his manor for a chat the next time I find myself free, and Parkinson's always wanting something or other. Barty as well last night – he was in a right state over his son, y'know. Apparently the boy's gone and got himself injured."

"I shall have to drop him a call to check up" said Albus, looking concerned; "I do hope it isn't anything serious."

"Quite, quite" Horace agreed, before the room seemed to wobble again and he almost fell out of his chair

Albus reached out a hand to steady him. "Careful there, Horace. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine" Slughorn responded, putting down his glass; "But…but I think I've had quite enough to drink. Too fond of sherry, that's my problem!"

Albus looked grieved; "I should probably have not offered you all those refills; Aberfoth is better than I at judging this sort of thing. My apologies."

Slughorn snickered. "Indeed, indeed. Well-" he said, standing up; "-I think I shall avoid taking up more of your time Albus. High time I got into bed, work tomorrow and all that."

Dumbledore stood up as well. "I think it best I walk you back to your office, just for support" he said gently, though without leaving opportunity for argument; "The hallways can be treacherous at night."

Horace slouched in place. "You needn't. I've been here for enough years that I know the way back to the office, I could probably do it sleepwalking by now."

"I insist" Dumbledore stated, "For my own piece of mind as much as anything. The company will be surely nice, as well."

"If you must" Horace slurred, "Though…though I wouldn't bother." Even as he said it, the room wobbled again.

"It is no worry." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

As the two professors walked out of the office, one being supported, the elder one struck up a new topic of conversation. "There's something else I've been meaning to ask you."

"Is it about grading?" the younger slurred.

"I'm afraid not" the elder chuckled, "It's about this book…"

Meanwhile in Luxembourg…

November 12th, 1981

Deep within the maze of bureaucracy that made up Wizarding Luxembourg, lay a cluster of larger-than-average buildings holding the various embassies and representatives of the European magical world – aside from Constantinople, which refused to associate with the other city-state out of jealousy. In one of these embassies, the ambassador of Bohemia had been about to turn in for the night, until she was interrupted by a knock on her door…

"Just a minute!" Hedvika called, frantically pulling on a dressing gown and stuffing her feet into slippers; "Be patient! Its your own fault for calling at this hour!" She stumbled down the stairs towards the entranceway, managing to trip over two umbrella stands and a half broken bust of Charles the Fourth. The second of the two stands sent her sprawling on the tiled floor with an exclamation that was certainly unsuitable for public use.

When Hedvika finally managed to reach the door, she was greeted by the soaked figure of the Swiss Ambassador, Alessio Messerli. He was cowering from the rain under a Imperturbable Charm, but had apparently failed to keep it up on the journey over from the Swiss Embassy. Notably, he was also clothed in a dressing gown over pyjamas.

"Alessio!" Hedvika greeted, "What brings you here at this hour?"

"Bad business" Alessio replied, "A lot of bad business. Sorry about the late hour, but might I come in?"

The tone of his voice concerned Hedvika. "Of course. Let me make you some tea." She gestured him inside.

"That would be most appreciated."

By the time the tea was ready, Alessio had dried off somewhat. The two of them were now sitting in the embassy's small library, a room covered with panels depicting scenes from Bohemian history (a few of them arguably fictional). Two large armchairs sat in front of a roaring fire, set ablaze quickly via Incendio. The Swiss ambassador was busy warming his hands on the fire, while Hedvika clenched and unclenched her own in worry.

She coughed to draw Alessio's attention to herself; "So, what is the problem that had you calling at this hour."

"Bad business, very bad business." the man began.

"Yes, I got that" she interrupted, "Could you be more specific?"

"Sorry" Alessio sighed, "I've been talking to the Federal Council for the past five hours, trying to convince them that I can sort the matter without economic sanctions."

"Oh dear" Hedvika said, worriedly; "I do hope these sanctions wouldn't be levelled against the Bohemian Republic?"

Alessio waved a hand. "No, I can assure you of that" he stated, "Bohemia isn't the problem – Austria is. Do you know what the idiots in Vienna have done now?"

"I haven't heard of President Aigner starting any trouble" replied Hedvika; "With his party in power, my government's been getting on fairly well with the country. The last time we had any real disagreements was back in the 1970s, when they were busy indebting themselves to all their neighbours. Ahem…"

The Swiss Ambassador coughed "Of which Bohemia was also one, might I remind you?"

"Reminder accepted" Hedvika said, with a wry smile; "So, what is the problem?"

"Liechtenstein" Alessio said, gravely.

"Liechtenstein?" Hedvika said, exasperated; "That's what got you to rush over here at this hour?!"

"It's a serious matter!"

"They've been pushing claims on that canton since for two hundred years at this point!" she continued, not happy to have been woken up for apparently frivolous reasons. "You know as well as I do that they're never actually going to do anything about it. They didn't back in the war, despite the fact that everyone's borders were in flux!"

Alessio was clearly unhappy. "I am well aware of the history of Austria's claims on Liechtenstein! Usually, however, they have refrained from the measures they have taken in the past twenty-four hours. They have moved men close to the border, and once again 'broken' diplomatic relations with us until we 'return rightful Austrian soil'."

Ah. That was more serious.

"My apologies, Ambassador" Hedvika replied, "I see now why the Council were so worried. I assume your desire is for the Swiss Wizarding Confederation and the Wizarding Republic of Bohemia to make a joint statement on the matter."

The Swiss Ambassador took a moment to regather his thoughts. "That would be most appreciated. If we can rope in the Venetians as well, then the Austrian Government will have no choice to stand down. They can go back to moaning over not being respected or rich, rather than being wannabe warmongers."

The Bohemian Ambassador thought for a moment. "I shall be happy to talk to my government on your behalf" she said, "But I suggest that a few 'favours' from Switzerland might speed things along – Austria is a increasingly valuable trading partner, and we would have preferred not to have disagreements that might impede further development."

"I am sure that the Council can work out something to compensate Bohemia" Alessio replied, "Please, do talk to them with some agency – the prospect of border changes always makes the ICW nervous, and with the British apparently sorting out their little problem they might start breathing down out backs."

"I shall get on with it…" Hedvika paused, "Tomorrow. It is two in the morning, after all."

Note on Countries/Borders in the Wizarding World: As you might have been able to guess from the interlude above, wizarding borders in Central/Eastern Europe are a bit different:

Liechtenstein is part of Wizarding Switzerland, since the series of events that led to it existing never happened on the wizarding side.

The Czech Republic and Slovenia, and previously Czechoslovakia never existed. Instead, most of the region is divided between the Wizarding Republic of Bohemia and the Second Austrian Republic.

Venice is independent from the rest of Italy, controlling a sizable portion of land around the top of the Adriatic.

For reference, the crisis described in this interlude came to naught.

Elsewhere…

November 12th, 1981

First the aurors and now this…

Rabastan Lestrange was tired. There were several reasons for this.

The main one was standing in front of him, screeching at the top of her lungs.

"I swear I'll rip that boy's eyes out!" His sister-in-law strode at speed around the study of the muggle home they'd occupied; "I can't believe him! Deserting us now! When our lord's MURDERERS are so close!" The word 'murderers' was screeched loudly enough to wake the dead, though probably not the one Rabastan would have wanted.

"He's a coward" Rabastan stated, wishing he had a glass of wine to sup on; "So what, Bellatrix? He can't give us up without outing himself, so let's forget about him. Let's focus on the task at hand."

"How can you be calm at a time like this?!" Bellatrix advanced on him, wand in hand; "We are THREE! THREE to avenge our Lord! Three to find out whatever the POTTERS DID TO HIM!"

"Three is all we need to deal with the blood traitors-"

"Is it?" she spat, "They outnumber us. They outpower us – if Dumbledore or Moody shows up, what then? You know what the latter did to Rosier, and its not as if you or your brother were his equal!" She sighed. "We should've…there should've…they should have come to our aid! Damn my sister! Damn her husband! At this hour, I see how it is! Cowards! Saving their own skin! IF I HAD THEIR RESOURCES, THE SCUM WOULD ALREADY BE DEAD! I knew they couldn't be trusted, I knew, I told him, I told him that Malfoy would screw us all over at one point! I can't believe Cissy-"

Rabastan tuned the rest of the rant out. The harpy his brother had shacked up with had made at least three of these rants every day since she realised the Malfoys weren't coming to help them. Considering how many screws loose she'd had even back at Hogwarts, he shouldn't have been surprised. He'd been against inducting her into the family from the start but had been unable to speak sense into the idiot off scouting the Longbottom's house.

'Crazy is fun brother, and her blood is pure!'

What a goddamn nitwit.

"Are you going to ranting until my brother gets back?" he shouted at the woman, more for the sake of his hearing than anything else; "I want our Lord back as much as you do, but you grinding a hole in the floor-" His sentence was cut off by Bellatrix bursting into tears. "Oh for God's sake!"

"I'm sorry!" she cried, "But what are we to do? What if the Potters don't know how to bring him back, are we supposed to go after Dumbledore?"

"If that is what it takes, then we will" Rabastan replied, "We'll catch him unawares, somehow and force the knowledge out of him."

"But its Dumbledore!"

"I KNOW THAT!"

"Cripes almighty!" Rodolphus said, kicking open the door; "I could hear you shouting from the street aside, give it a rest."

"What was it like?" Bellatrix spat, instantly at her husband's side.

"How many of them were there?" Rabastan said, though unlike Bellatrix he didn't bother to move.

"Give me a moment, I've been walking for an hour" Rodolphus replied, waving off both their questions. He sank into an armchair, throwing the bag he'd been carrying into the corner of the study. "You two need to relax, the Aurors don't have any idea where we are."

"What. Was. It. Like?" Bellatrix snarled.

"Don't get your panties in a twist." Rodolphus stuck out his tongue, refusing to answer the question.

Before his sister-in-law could become a widow the violent way, Rabastan cut in: "Answer the question, Rodo."

"Fine, fine" the Death Eater replied, "There are only two of them there, at the moment. The others must be trawling over Ireland for the mongrel with the rest of the Auror Corp."

Bellatrix's eyes had lit up. "Only two…"

"Which ones?" Rabastan questioned, leaning towards his brother with sudden interest.

"Alice Longbottom and the mudblood – Potter's whore. Probably the spawn as well, I couldn't see." Rodolphus shrugged. "Maybe a house elf as well? You can't see them if they're any good."

"You leave Kreacher out of this-"

"We'll attack tomorrow" Rabastan cut in

Rodolphus and Bellatrix shared a look. "Just like that?" the former asked.

"Shouldn't we take a day to prepare?" Bellatrix said, for once acting reasonably; "Longbottom is one of the Ministry's finest, and the mudblood is no slouch. They might be able to hold us off for long enough for backup to arrive."

"If we take a day, we'll loose our opportunity" Rabastan replied, with finality; "We can prepare tonight, there are so few of us that we don't need to take longer. Then we hit them unprepared, find out what they know, and we'll be gone before anyone can come to help."

Sincere apologies about the wait for this chapter (I was aiming for April! Arrgh!), Job Hunting and Teacher Training have taken up even more of my time than I feared. I'm free for the next month at least however (and even after that, Teaching should be easier from now on), so my hope is to get the next chapter out very soon. As you can probably guess, it involves a certain trio and is entitled 'The Lestranged Couple'.

As for the interludes above, they're a bit more important to the overarching story than the last batch of them were (minus Luxembourg, which was just worldbuilding). 2 and 5 are directly setting things into place for the future, while 1 and 3 are a bit less obvious - I wonder if anyone can guess the actual divergence (nothing to do with the diary!) in number 3.

The first of these in particular was one I've wanted to write for a while, dealing with the Troubles in Northern Ireland and how they affected the Wizarding World and vice versa - in this case the 1981 Hunger Strike. The Troubles are something that will pop up quite a bit in this story, though mainly in the background of events.

Anyway, sorry again, hope you enjoyed the interludes!