Author's Note: Further details on the Quinteped can be found in Magical Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Salamander (which is a pseudonym for J. K. Rowling).
I'm a soldier of freedom in the army of man
We are the chosen, we're the partisan
The cause it is noble and the cause it is just
We are ready to pay with our lives if we must
- Dire Straits "Ride Across the River"
A Day in the Life of the Lord God Almighty
In the life of every person, there are defining moments. Moments of reflection. Moments of transition. Moments of decision. Many times, these moments are visible to others. Other moments pass seem to pass unnoticed by others, despite their ultimate importance. Such was the case for Martin Joseph Deveraux. It happened like this:
"Daddy, why did Snuffles have to die? I didn't want him to die," the six year old complained to his father.
Snuffles had been the family's aged golden retriever and young Martin had been very fond of him. The Deveraux family was something of a rarity, a wizard clan which had extensive dealings with muggles. Though their fortunes were somewhat on the decline in both worlds, the Deveraux family was still quite wealthy and could afford servants to watch over young Martin when business or pleasure occupied his jet-setting parents. Snuffles was quite probably the only friend of Martin's who wasn't paid for such service. And so, his presence was sorely missed.
Winston Deveraux, who was close to being unfashionably late for a cocktail party, gave his young, serious son the only answer that popped into his mind. "It was just God's will, Marty. He wanted Snuffles up in Heaven with Him, that's all. I'm sure that Snuffles is very happy there."
Martin didn't reply at once. He chewed his father's answer over in his mind. Then, coming to a decision, he said, "Daddy, can I still grow up to be anyone I wish to be?"
Winston, who was at the very best only barely familiar with church doctrine, felt on firmer ground with this one. "Absolutely, my boy. You're a Deveraux, after all. You can grow up to be anyone you want to be."
"Good, then," Martin said, nodding his small head for emphasis. "When I grow up, I want to be God. Then I can visit Snuffles and do anything I wish to do to."
Winston Deveraux had given a vaguely approving response to his boy's decision and then left, not want to be late for the Jones' party. By the time he'd gotten to his car, the story was an amusing anecdote to tell at the party. A few hours after that it was completely forgotten by everyone.
Except, of course, for young Martin Deveraux.
*****
"Yes, Prime Minister, yes I'm very proud of the lads," an older Martin Deveraux said to the man on the other end of the phone. "Indeed, sir, I'll be glad to pass that along to them. Yes, sir. Well, I'm glad you'll be able to get a good night's sleep as well, sir. You're quite welcome again, sir. Goodbye to you, sir."
Ah, good, Deveraux thought with satisfaction. That should take care of our budget for the next two years or so. Bugger me, what a long, strange trip this has been.
The boy who'd been cast out of Hogwarts had grown to become a man, and a quite powerful one at that. He'd fled England after the expulsion and lost himself in Rio, rum and self-pity for perhaps a year. Afterwards, he'd returned and joined the British army, needing to belong to something bigger than himself. He soon saw action in the Falkland Islands conflict with Argentina. An Argentinean bullet had shattered his knee and gotten him decorated for conspicuous valor under fire. It had also effectively ended his active military life and forced him to walk with a cane to this day.
Still, he'd forged bonds and made friends in the conflict and those ties aided him in getting an appointment to MI-5, the British government's intelligence agency. While there, he showed a talent akin to genius in being able to recruit and manage spies in other countries. Martin had carefully cultivated the ability to seemingly see into a person's secret heart, determine what they most wanted (or feared) and leverage the person accordingly. So talented was he at his game, that others jokingly ascribed magical powers to him. Deveraux took a certain bitter joy in their praise, given the fact that he was completely unable to work magic anymore.
Then came Voldemort. The previously secret, stable relationship that the highest levels of the government enjoyed with the Wizards inhabiting Great Britain began to become anything but. Weird creatures stalked the land and sighting of UFOs (which greatly resembled people on broomsticks fighting with one another) became far more commonplace. Inexplicable deaths of people began to occur. SICPUP, which was theoretically supposed to "contain" magic-based situations, was nearly powerless. People in charge were desperate for answers and finding none. It was in that climate that Martin Deveraux decided to bet his life to win his future.
He went to his highest superiors and told them who he was. All of who he was. Given the current paranoia gripping the highest offices in the land, Deveraux risked much. Disgrace, imprisonment, perhaps even execution as a wizard spy. Fortunately, his superiors were open-minded enough (and desperate enough) that his gamble paid off. Deveraux had kept up with news on the wizard front and was able to give his higher-ups a much clearer vision of what was going on. He described common magical effects and how to recognize them. He explained, to the degree he understood it, how magic worked. He helped identify some of the magical creatures beginning to plague the "muggle" portion of the country and how described how to deal with (or even destroy) them. Ultimately, of course, it was somewhat irrelevant. Before the government and military could actually use most of the fountain of information Deveraux had provided them, Voldemort met his downfall at the Potter's house and the crisis was over.
Still and all, there has always been a tendency for people to want to learn geology after an earthquake has occurred. The government and military had been caught off-guard by forces they barely understood. They had no wish for this to happen again. And so, decisions were made and money was spent.
SICPUP was effectively gutted as an agency. They would function as a think-tank, but little else. To replace SICPUP, the Bureau of Occult Operations (BOO) was formed. Primarily, BOO would be an information gathering agency. It would forge ties with the wizards' own Ministry of Magic and act with them to help deal with future occult outbreaks. In order to actually deal with these outbreaks, Beta Section was formed.
The Bureau of Occult Operations, Beta Section (BOOBS) was to be the hands of the Bureau. The easily mocked acronyms for the agency were deliberate. "Muggles" had always had a reputation for absurdity and fecklessness among wizards and the silly acronyms played to that reputation. Thus, when BOO asked the Ministry for information on spells, potions and other magical knowledge, their requests were approved by people who did not take the muggle agency seriously. This information was then poured over, analyzed and evaluated by agency people who were eager to "live down" their agency's lightweight reputation. The analysis of magical knowledge was then forwarded to the BOOBS (which was in fact formed using soldiers who were already in the Special Air Service (SAS) and thus considered by many to be the finest special forces soldiers in the whole of the world). The BOOBS then incorporated that knowledge into their training exercises. Deveraux, being the acknowledged "expert" on magic, as well as having combat experience, was placed in BOOBS as their "unit wizard."
And then things really started to take off, he recalled.
Further remembrances were cut off by a quiet knock at his office door.
"Yes, what is it?" Deveraux asked, his tone for once devoid of the sharp impatience that usually characterized it. The resolution of the Sirius Black situation had put him in quite the good mood.
"Your papers, General," said his secretary, Margaret Smyth-Watkins. She entered the room. Margaret was a thin women in her early 50s and the maintainer of most that was orderly in Deveraux's life.
"How many times have I told you, Maggie? Don't call me "General," I work for a living," Deveraux teased her. In fact his full title was: General Administrator of the Bureau of Occult Operations. In the field, the title was shortened to General, or simply "G. A." In private he tended to be referred to as "God Almighty," in semi-joking fashion. Deveraux was aware of this, and rather liked it, if the truth was told.
"I believe that this time was number three hundred and fourteen," Margaret replied blandly, handing him his newspapers.
"The Times and the Daily Mirror came by mail, of course, and this," she wrinkled her nose slightly as she handed him the Daily Prophet. "Came by bird." Despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that she worked in an agency devoted to the investigation (and occasional elimination) of the supernatural, Margaret tended to dislike events that were outside her basic worldview. Having a wizard-printed paper delivered by a magical owl was somewhat outside her worldview.
"Ah, bless you Margaret, what would I ever do without you?" Deveraux asked.
"Most likely drown in your own disorganized paperwork, I suppose," Margaret replied, giving his office (and particularly the pile of paper on his desk) a faintly disapproving glance before returning to her own work outside.
Deveraux's office was actually quite impressive, in its way. During a visit to the Oval Office in Washington D. C., Deveraux had been impressed by its design. He'd become even more impressed after learning that the Oval Office and in fact the whole city of Washington D. C. had been designed and built with the aim of impressing and intimidating foreign dignitaries and visitors. So, using some of his own money, he'd had his office remodeled accordingly.
Deveraux's office was similar to those of other high-level officials of the government (if a bit more richly appointed due to its occupant's subsidizing of certain expenses). Tasteful portraits of the Queen and the current Prime Minister hung in places of honor on the wall. There were multiple phone lines that allowed him to be connected with others in high positions. There were a few differences, though. Along with books, for example, his bookshelves contained curios, souvenirs and downright oddities that he'd acquired during his unusual services to the government and people of Britain. He'd occasionally put one of them in prominent sight on his desk when he expected important guests. The current "conversation piece" was a sealed glass jar that had a single, human-like eye floating in some sort of fluid. It looked like something that would be found in a biologist's lab, except for the fact that this eye blinked, briefly manifesting eyelids from some unknown source.
Deveraux was quite fond of the object, which he'd found in India and never exactly identified. He used it to point out that "There's nothing quite like looking eye to eye with the unknown to change a person's perspective on things."
Chuckling slightly, Deveraux opened the Daily Prophet. As he'd expected, the death of Sirius Black was the banner headline. He smiled as he noted the tone of the articles. The paper conveyed considerable relief that Black was no longer a threat. However, the fact that it was a group of "Muggles" who'd brought the "murderous and insane" wizard to justice didn't go down very well, it seemed. The editorials pressed this line of discussion. One writer wondered why the Ministry of Magic had been so incapable of catching the man, suggesting that they should "stop playing with their wands all day long and do their jobs." Another writer had half-seriously suggested, "Perhaps it might be a good idea to retain the services of this 'elite anti-terrorism group of muggles.' Maybe they can show Cornelius Fudge how one goes about catching dangerous criminals."
Deveraux laughed long and hard at the irony of that statement. Unbeknownst to him, that writer had hit dangerously close to the truth of the matter.
Shortly after his appointment to BOOBS, the fledgling department encountered its first major test. A freak storm in the North Atlantic had forced several fishing vessels to take shelter near an unplotted (and unplottable) island off the coast of Scotland's northernmost tip. Adding to the fishermen's troubles was the fact that the island in question was the Isle of Drear, home of the man-eating Quintepeds. The Quinteped were furry, five-limbed creatures who'd been transfigured into their state as part of a feud between two wizard families. Although some unknown (and probably magical) process prevented the Quintepeds from starving to death on their barren, rocky, island home, the creatures nonetheless had a near-insatiable desire to consume human flesh. They were also quite weary of their current residence. The fishing vessels, therefore, came as quite a welcome sight for the Quintepeds.
The first word Deveraux and his people had of the situation came from the Ministry of Magic. The Ministry had received a hastily scrawled note sent by owl that a horde of hairy monsters was attacking the fishing village of Dunkirk. Unfortunately, the witch who sent the note had a history of exaggeration and even hallucination, so the Ministry didn't take the report all that seriously. However, since the then head of BOO had been pestering them for a chance for Beta Section to get some field experience, the Ministry decided to "investigate" the case. So it was that three Ministry wizards and the twenty man unit that was the whole of Beta Section traveled to Dunkirk to deal with the situation.
There followed twenty-two of the most nightmarish hours in Deveraux's life. The "squats" as they were nicknamed were incredibly fast and hideously strong. They also possessed near-human intelligence so they could use their capabilities to their best advantage. Most of the time passed as a blur of house to house searches for an enemy that could seemingly appear from anywhere and kill in an instant. Ultimately, the vile creatures were destroyed, though at hellish cost. Of the twenty members of Beta Section (not BOOBS, never again BOOBS), three had made it out alive. Most of the villagers, including the unfortunate witch who'd given the initial warning, were dead. Deveraux's team had managed to save several small children whom the Quintepeds had imprisoned in the constable's jail cell, which they were apparently using to store their future meals. The site was documented by BOO researchers. Then it was destroyed utterly by Ministry wizards, who used their magic to call up gigantic waves, supposedly from the recent storm. After all, there had to be some kind of "mundane" explanation for the deaths of almost every man, woman and child in the village.
Beta Section was repopulated under Deveraux's command (since he'd been the highest ranking survivor). The photos from the Dunkirk butchery caused purse strings to loosen considerably. Deveraux was able to obtain the supplies and facilities he needed for the operation. Based on the testimony of the one surviving Ministry wizard, the Ministry began taking Beta Section and its parent organization seriously. Indeed, whether it was from genuine respect or simply cold-blooded calculation ('better the muggles than us") the Ministry brought in Beta Section to help them deal with some of the more lethal magical menaces. That way, the "muggles" could do the bulk of the fighting (and dying) while the Ministry took the credit (since Beta Section was kept a secret from other wizards, who would have been horrified at the involvement of "mere" muggles in such matters). That trend had continued until now.
Though the newspapers had only been told that the group which had brought down Black was an unnamed anti-terrorist group, Deveraux knew that Fudge was certain to know who'd stolen his thunder. So, it wasn't all that long before Deveraux took a call that started off with,
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE PLAYING AT?!"
Deveraux winced at the unexpected volume of the furious Minister's voice. "And a good day to you, Minister Fudge," Deveraux replied calmly. "Anything I can do for you?"
After several ragged breaths Fudge continued, "Don't you play stupid with me! You know exactly what I'm talking about! Sirius. Black."
"Oh yes, that," Deveraux continued. "Well, Fudge, the man was a murderous wizard. He killed a rather large group of people, at one point, most of them innocent British citizens. He was a vicious fugitive. We brought him to justice. I fail to see the problem."
"You were supposed to leave Black to us," Fudge reminded him. "Had you simply informed me as to his location, my people would have handled it. Instead, your actions have made the whole Ministry look like fools. Upstaged by muggles!"
"Perhaps," Deveraux acknowledged. "On the other hand, your people have been trying to "handle" this fellow for over two years, by my reckoning. I suppose we could have sat back and hoped he didn't kill too many other people before dying in his sleep of old age, but the Bureau's mandate doesn't really allow for that. It's that pesky bit about "seeking out threats to the well-being of the public and dealing with them using all due speed." Perhaps you should talk to the Prime Minister about adding "unless it happens to annoy the Ministry of Magic" to that particular line."
On the other end of the phone, Deveraux could almost hear Fudge's teeth grind. You know, if I were getting any more pleasure out of screwing another man like this, I'd have to rethink my sexual orientation, Deveraux thought to himself smugly.
After a pause to presumably reclaim the tattered remains of his composure, Fudge spoke again. "What happened to Black's body?"
"I had his remains sent to you, they should have arrived today," Deveraux replied.
"Something arrived from your office, but it was only a vile-smelling gray paste," Fudge retorted. "We assumed it was yet another potion about which you muggles were ignorant. It's being analyzed."
"Ah, I see," Deveraux said, in the tone of one suddenly receiving enlightenment. "That "paste" was Black's remains. Given the nature of the things we encounter, I tend to emphasize caution and thoroughness when training the men. One of my adages is: 'Don't believe it's dead until you've chopped off its head, incinerated the corpse and pissed on the ashes.' I suppose one of my men took the adage a bit literally."
There was a strangled grunt from the other end of the phone and then silence. Probably too much to hope that the twit's keeled over and died of apoplexy, Deveraux thought.
It was. Fudge's voice came back on the line, frosted with cold anger and malice. "Then this closes the Black matter. We appreciate your work, Mr. Deveraux and we look forward to working with your office in the future."
"So that we can ram a pike up your arse and listen to you scream," Deveraux said after Fudge was gone, interpreting the probable meaning behind his final words.
Much of the rest of the day was spent doing paperwork. While an army might travel on its stomach, it bedded down in a nest of reports, files, forms and memos. Then the time came for the final bit of business Deveraux had for the day.
He got up, walked to his bar and poured one shot glass full of the vile Brazilian whiskey that had fogged his brain during the months immediately following his expulsion from Hogwarts. He slammed the stuff down his throat in one gulp, feeling it burn toward his stomach like an acid. The taste of it lingered in his mouth, the taste of failure, despair and hopelessness. He'd made a ritual of drinking exactly one glass of the stuff a day, to recall from where he'd climbed and to build his resolve never to fall back into the abyss.
The ritual accomplished, Deveraux gathered some files he thought he might need and left his office. He also buckled to his hip a holster carrying the Colt .45 caliber automatic pistol he wore as a sidearm. While all the countries in the NATO alliance had officially switched from the Colt (which had seen service since 1911) to the 9mm Beretta in 1990, Deveraux preferred the stopping power and sense of history of the Colt. He walked down the halls of his headquarters, the hollow sound of his own footstep echoing ahead of him. The corridors of the building Beta Section inhabited were mostly deserted. He didn't encounter another person until he saw Sergeant McTavish, who was guarding a rather valuable prize the Section had recently taken.
"Out fer a stroll, Cap'n?" McTavish asked in his Scottish burr. The two had known each other since the beginning of Beta Section. The brown-haired, muscular sergeant had been one of the few to survive the quintepeds' near-slaughter of the first Beta Section team.
"Something like that, Sergeant," Deveraux replied in a studied, casual voice. "I need talk to someone. And then make a decision."
"Yeh know, just this once yeh could leave that to the folks upstairs. Yeh dinnae have to take it all on yer own head," McTavish reproved him.
"Don't be absurd, Angus," Deveraux said, beginning to walk toward the doors the big man was guarding. "This situation is my responsibility from beginning to end. Now, I have to deal with it."
"Oh, bloody hell, man. Nae wonder they call yeh God Almighty!" McTavish almost spat at his friend. "Yeh sure as death play at it enough."
Deveraux fixed the other man with an icy stare. "Given the fact that a person's life hangs in the balance of my decision, I hardly think that 'playing' is the correct term. Do you, Sergeant?" responded Deveraux, emphasizing the other man's rank.
The fight seemed to depart from McTavish at that, replaced by resignation. He stood to the side to allow Deveraux to pass unhindered.
After he crossed the door's threshold and began walking to his destination, Deveraux heard the Sergeant speak a final time. "Yeh know, I'm nae sure what worries me th' most: How much yeh put yerself into these positions, or how much yeh seem t' enjoy it."
Deveraux let the silence behind him be his reply. Then he took he cleansing breath and tried to clear his mind for what would be something of an ordeal. Afterwards, he walked into the room of the one patient in the base's medical wing.
"So, how are we feeling today?" he asked lightly.
The patient was restrained by flexible leather cuffs designed to hold injured prisoners, which was an accurate assessment of the current patient's status. In addition to normal restraints, around the man's neck was a tightly fitting collar attached by a metal chain to the steel bed frame.
The patient turned an unfriendly glare on his visitor. "Better than I might have been, I suppose. What do you want from me?"
"To business it is, then," Deveraux responded. He drew his sidearm, disengaged the safety and laid the weapon on a small, wheeled table. Then he sat down in a chair near the table at eye level with his prisoner. The gun was in easy reach.
The prisoner watched Deveraux's actions, but betrayed no obvious fear. His attitude seemed instead to be one of a person subjected to a lengthy, irritating and unnecessary inconvenience.
"I find myself troubled by certain doubts about your trustworthiness, Sirius," Deveraux informed the very much still living Sirius Black.
"Oh for God's sake, Deveraux, how many times to I have to say it: I did not betray the Potters!" Black insisted angrily. "You even said you believed me, before you had your men use their contraptions to knock me unconscious and crack several of my ribs!"
"Oh, I haven't the slightest doubt about that, Sirius," Deveraux informed him. "I am quite certain that you are a loyal "dog" as it were. No, the question I need to an answer to is whether you are a mad dog as well."
Sirius' glare reflected both anger and puzzlement as Deveraux continued speaking.
"And I will have that question answered to my satisfaction. Otherwise, I will send you to "that good night" of a real death," Deveraux informed Black, his eyes filling with a merciless determination. "And this time, I promise you that you will not return."