Continued…
----
It wasn't the sights of the war that were disturbing to Lieutenant William Takenue, of Chicago, Illinois. High above the ground, in his F/A-22 Raptor, war was of explosions, cold data, and ever changing skies. He was a falcon, a predator, a raptor.
The enemy were not people-They were prey. He was to rake them to death with talons of depleted uranium and concentrated explosives. He was to ambush them and render them to pieces without them knowing who or what had ended their lives. He was Death, and his fighter was his scythe.
No, what disturbed him most was how much he enjoyed these facts. How, upon that first weightless leap his fighter took from the runway, his eyes narrowed, his teeth bared in a grin, and all his fear and doubt and frustration were replaced by a cool, calculating, but vibrant glee.
"Mwahahahahahahahaha!"
His maniacal cackle could not be heard by the dementors flying at 40,000 feet, but ever since his squadron, the 531st Tactical Squadron (codenamed "Widowmakers") had been transferred to RAF Menwith Hill, the dementors had seemingly begun to sense the presence of this pilot in particular.
And when he appeared, they ran.
Though they were only a small group, they were staying far apart from each other. If they were too bunched up together, they'd learned, they made very easy targets.
Their change in tactics, however, did not save them. The first died in a blast of cannon fire-If they did die. The other scattered, attempted to flee through the cloud cover. Takenue only grinned.
The Raptor came about, switching to super cruise mode and diving into the clouds. He switched to infrared scanning, and smirked when the moving dead spots of low temperature showed up.
"Gotcha." Six rounds of cannon fire later, and the dementors were reduced to shards on the IR scanner. A thump on the wing of his fighter made Takenue turn his head and raise an eyebrow. A dementor had grabbed onto the starboard wing, and was now trying to tear it apart. Takenue accelerated, before toggling the stick sharply and swinging upside down, before diving at a 90 degree angle. The HUD projected on the inside of his helmet alerts him to his air speed, and the rapidly dropping altitude.
Mach 1.62... Mach 1.83... Mach 2.01... Mach 2.24...
The altimeter was swiftly shrinking, as he dropped under forty thousand feet… Then twenty thousand… Then ten…
He spared a look out the canopy. The Dementor has crawled to the reinforced glass, it's robe torn away from the speed, it's rotting flesh rippling and flapping unpleasantly in the extreme slipstream. It's mouth, round and spiked in a circle of jagged, rotting teeth, opens and seems to hiss at him.
Mach 3.0... Mach 3.22... Mach 3.45...
The ground is rushing up at William. The altimeter is down to the thousands… Then the hundreds…
Mach 3.67... Mach 3.79... Mach 3.88... Mach 4.02...
He engages the afterburners, and fights back a scream of anguish as he pulls up violently. His helmet HUD registers negative 9 gees pulling at himself and the aircraft. The Raptor groans slightly around him, it's inertial compensators kicking in, his seat moving back slightly with the force. The gee counter is up to negative 12 Earth gravities. He feels as though his eyes will be crushed into jelly…
He levels out, a blur, as he passes a small sheep cottage on a hill overlooking the vast moors of Southern Scotland. A few seconds pass, before the cottage is shattered like a glass statue from the sonic boom, erupting over the rocks and sending the herds of sheep and their shepherds scattering in panic.
Takenue takes deep breaths, the cockpit's inertial compensation system moving his ejection seat in reaction to the extreme forces. He checks over at the starboard wing. The Dementor is gone. The surface of his fighter is covered in claw marks as the dark creature tried to hang on. The imprint of it's horrible mouth is pressed against the otherwise smooth polymer-glass mesh of the canopy.
He sighs under his breath. He knows that showboating like this is going to get him a severe dressing down once he reaches home. His was supposed to be a simple patrol mission-Not a Tom Cruise imitation.
Tom Cruise is a dish rag, William thought, pulling up and heading back to his patrol route. He'd deal with the brass over another one of his stunts when the time came.
----
"Once again, Harry… Tell me why you and your friend were breaking into the compound." The RAF man was still implacable, his gaze boring into Harry's own stubborn glare. At either side of the thin boy were stone-faced guards, armed with heavy rifles. Harry still stayed silent, defiant, the energy of his suppressed anger crackling behind his green eyes.
"Harry… Just how long are you going to keep this up?" The interrogator asked gently. The boy had only asked to see Ron, his friend. He had not asked for a lawyer, or to call his folks. The impression he gave the interrogator was of an orphan, a lonely child who had had to fight for life from the day he was born.
Harry made no response. There was no need. They knew what he wanted. They both did.
"Harry… Don't you want some food? Are you sure you don't want any?" The interrogator asked, indicating the untouched pitcher of ice water, and the bowl of biscuits in the center of the table. The answer, of course, was more defiant silence. The interrogator sighed.
"Harry… Unless you want to make things worse for your friends, you are going to talk to me, and you will do so, now," the interrogator said calmly, though his teeth were gritting. He'd tried patience, tried being nice… To hell if he was a minor, he was a wizard, and so far no rules of conduct had been written for captured wizards.
The door to the room opened, casting yellow light in place of the light blue of the fluorescents.
"That's quite enough, left-tenant," a cool, American-accented female voice stated. The interrogator gaped up at the source of the voice, as Harry turned in his chair.
A tall, brunette woman, whose hair curved inward around her scowling, heart-shaped face, was standing in the doorway. Her arms were crossed over her chest, dressed in green fatigues, combat boots, and a black, bullet-proof vest. Her blue eyes blazed at the RAF officer in a fury that made him gulp.
"Wha-What are you doing here? Who are you?" He demanded. The woman's glare did not let up.
"Chief Warrant Officer Colleen Bristol. I'm the JAG attaché to General Braxtan, and I'm here to place Mr. Potter under the protection of the United States government." She slapped down a folder of paperwork and pushed it to him, which he took and quickly skimmed, his eyes widening.
"But-But-He's under our jurisdiction!"
"Not anymore. General Braxtan has been appointed the supreme commander of all NATO and Allied forces in Europe. As such, he has the authority petition civilian and military courts to transfer detainees and change their custodial status at any time. "Furthermore, considering that Mr. Potter is, in fact, a minor, and a citizen of Great Britain, he has all the rights of any other citizen who is arrested and charged with a crime. However, as his crime took place in a compound under US control, we are taking full responsibility for retaining custody of him until such time as a proper UK court is arranged to hear his case." Her eyes burned more fiercely, and the interrogator gulped. Harry just sat, gaping at her.
"In addition, you have held Mr. Potter without regards to the due process of the law, or his civil rights. Even given his ambiguous legal status, he is still entitled to legal representation. A right you, sir, have overlooked. In other words, I will now act as Mr. Potter's official legal representative, until such time as he is acquitted, or he chooses another lawyer to act on his behalf. I believe all the paperwork is in your hand. Now, if you'll excuse myself and Mr. Potter, we'll be going now."
"Wait just a minute here, woman! Since when do Americans have the right to detain our citizens!" The interrogator demanded, as Harry stood to leave. Bristol rolled her eyes in a way that reminded Harry of Hermione.
"Because, we have a court order by a legally-recognized civilian judge to take charge of Mr. Potter, given the atrocious behavior of the RAF in handling his case. Good day, sir," she stated flatly, taking a confused-looking Harry by the shoulder and gently guiding him out of the interrogation room, leaving a flabbergasted trio of RAF troops.
"Er… Thanks," Harry said quietly, as Bristol moved them along the brightly-lit hallways of the RAF base. The strange looks the pair received were ignored by the American officer.
"No problem. Just doing my job," she replied with a small, reassuring smile. "Now then, we've got to get moving…"
"Er… Why? Where are we going?" Harry asked, blinking. He was still having trouble registering this latest event in what was becoming an increasingly long day.
"General Braxtan, actually, would like to speak with you."
"Why?"
"Well, you are the Boy-Who-Lived, right?" Bristol pressed. "The one to survive Voldemort, what, five times? Six?"
"Er, well, yes-" Harry stammered.
"Then we're going to need your help if we're going to win this war," Bristol concluded, guiding him around a cart being pushed by a medical officer. "Now then, this way please…"
----
"Bloody hell, am I glad to be out of that cell," George grumbled, popping his neck with a grimace. Fred, next to him, nodded emphatically.
"Too right. I couldn't stand another minute cooped up in that bloody fish bowl…" They took another step forward as the long line moved. Fred looked about the desolate prison compound, now littered with US troops patrolling the area, handing out coffee and donuts-Hell, a few were playing with a couple of wizard children who giggled. In the mix were a few Royal Army troops, who also joined their American counterparts-But none of them were of the former prison guards. Fred repressed a shudder. Those blokes had been terrifying…
"Next!" George elbowed his twin, and the two moved forward. Both brothers grinned at the woman sitting behind the desk at the entrance to the camp, now open. On the outside, dozens of wizards and witches were hugging, crying and leaving with their families, some to buses provided by the local Muggle authorities, others simply apparrating away the moment they were handed back their wands.
"Names?" The pretty blonde American woman asked again, looking slightly annoyed. Fred coughed as George grinned.
"Pleasure to meet you, love," said George.
"And Likewise," Fred added. The woman rolled her eyes.
"Please… I've had a long day. I'm not interested in another wizard hitting on me."
"Aw, but it'd two hot wizards hitting on you, love!" Fred gasped, looking offended. George grinned his most charming smile.
"And doing other things to you, if you'd like," he murmured seductively. The woman death glared them both and pulled out a handgun. She leveled it at George's crotch, eliciting a slightly terrified expression from the Weasley.
"Would you like to remain perfect twins?" The woman asked pointedly. Fred and George gulped.
"Fred Weasley. And this is my brother, George."
"Good. Now then… Here are your wands," she stated, after another soldier had rummaged about in a large container and handed her two wands labeled F. WEASLEY and G. WEASLEY. The twins took them both.
"Oh yes… There's a memo to you from a Miss Weasley… Your sister, I believe?"
"Is she okay?" Fred asked. The woman nodded.
"Yes. She wanted to let you know to come to St. George's Municipal Hospital. She's there with the rest of your family… Something about your brother Bill?" She handed the note over to the twins, who, after looking it over, nodded to each other and grinned back at the blonde.
"Call us?"
"When I'm desperate," she shot back, though she was smiling as the Weasley twins headed off, and apparated away.
----
What the two Weasley twins found as they popped into the room the nice muggle nurse at the front desk had told them their family was in, was something both had thought they'd never see again.
Their brother, Bill, grinning without a lick of wolfishness in his face or eyes. A very happy Fleur was in his lap, as the rest of the family crowded around. Mrs. Weasley was crying and hugging a bemused-looking Muggle doctor, while Ginny, Percy, Charlie, and their father were excitedly chatting amongst themselves around the hospital bed.
"What the… Bloody hell!" Exclaimed Fred and George in synch. The two rushed over to their brother and joined Fleur in hugging him.
"What the hell! You look brand new!"
"What happened?"
"Indeed! That's what we've been waiting to find out," Percy added in his too-self-important voice, as he adjusted his glasses. The Muggle doctor managed to free herself from Mrs. Weasley's sobbing grip, and brushed her short pink hair out of her eyes. She smiled.
"Well, um… He was injured in a firefight and so he was brought here… And when the subject of him being a partial werewolf came up, I started some research…"
"You mentioned something called an RMA inhibitor?" Ginny asked, frowning slightly. The doctor smiled and shook her head.
"RNA. Basically, RNA is a kind of messenger between the cells of the body, that carry little bits and pieces of DNA, in order to send different growth commands and such to different cells."
"You mean… Like owls?" Asked Arthur, looking fascinated. The doctor nodded.
"Yes, I suppose… Anyway, I was doing some bloodwork, and I found a certain RNA signal that matched some blood samples we've collected from a few dead werewolves the lab boys dissected… And, I had a hunch… Anyway, the RNA inhibitors are basically subtlety altered RNA signals that program your brother's cells to reject the werewolf RNA signals. It took a while, a month or two, but we've finally managed to perfect it." She grinned. "Your brother is completely cured."
"Really? He never has to worry about-about transformations?" Mrs. Weasley sobbed happily. The doctor (Fred belatedly noticed her nametag-Dr. Rogue) nodded.
"Nope! Er… He'll need some booster shots, every few months, to keep the RNA inhibitors at full strength, but otherwise…" Dr. Rogue found herself smothered in a full Weasley family hug.
"Erkh…" Her eyes bulged. "But… You shouldn't… Thank me…"
"What? Why?" Aruthr asked, confused. They had completely forgotten about Bill and Fleur, who were now busy making up for lost time in the hospital bed. Rogue shrugged.
"Well, um, I couldn't created werewolf RNA inhibitors without some blood samples from a living werewolf-The dead cells are already coagulating and rendered pretty much useless by the time we get to them-But, lucky for all of us, one was willing to volunteer…"
----
"Ow! Ow! Bloody hell, I didn't think Muggles employed vampires."
"Oh, stop being such a baby, Remus," Tonks giggled, as the muggle nurse withdrew another large syringe of the werewolf's blood. He growled in annoyance.
"ME? You're the one who fainted at the sight of all the needles! You don't have to get blood drawn!"
"And I'm enjoying every minute of it," Tonks cackled. The Muggle nurse smiled apologetically, then frowned at the Metamorphagus.
"Er… This may seem rude, but, um… Are you two, together?" Tonks grinned and shook her head, as Remus blinked in shock.
"Nah… I'm just his annoying best friend and sorta-little sister." She shrugged. "There was… Some confusion, but it's all good."
"That's good," the nurse purred slightly, smiling at a very nervous-looking Lupin. He coughed. Tonks grinned evilly.
"Besides, after what you did for them, I think the Weasleys are gonna give you Ginny in thanks. Can't say I won't envy her…"
"Tonks!"
"What? You'll love her. The Gryffindor boys think she's lovely. And Harry doesn't have any interest in her, you're free to go! Shag her brains out!"
"Honestly! Is sex the only thing you think of?" Remus asked in exasperation. Tonks rocked back and forth in her chair, smirking.
"Nah… I also think about-WAH!" CRASH!
"Certainly not about your balance," the werewolf noted dryly. A muffled curse was his only response as the nurse giggled.
----
TBC… Please review!
What happened to Ron?
Where are the American Wizards in all this?
And what will General Braxtan talk to Harry about?
Suggest answers to these questions, and more!