April 1984
Rain pattered against the windows of Hogwarts, the sky colored ceilings were lost in a tempest of mist and the headmaster's office tower was awash in fog. Albus scratched out an idea on the parchment, committing it to memory, then vanished the illusory words. He lifted a teacup to his lips, the lukewarm liquid doing little to ease the pounding in his head.
He cast another warming charm.
Asgardian weaponry, as witnessed, falls into three distinct categories, he wrote, shifting one of the books. He touched one of the diagrams, the three pronged spear.
There was a sound behind him, filtering through the haze, a kind of scratching. He had the feeling that it had been going on for some time. He stood up, opening the window to let the owl in. Droplets of cool rain blew in as he took the letter down, turning it over- it was a single page in familiar writing, perfectly, unnaturally regular.
It has begun, the letter said, and cold fear gripped Albus's chest. He read the rest frantically, eyes skating over the words several times before letting their meaning sink in. They struck by surprise in Cornwall, incurring heavy losses. With allies like these, we should hardly need enemies. Is there a human spell to kill one such as an Abraxan? If not, could one be created?
He set down the paper, feeling a rush of relief. Merely France.
He read through it again, frowning- heavy losses in Cornwall. Could he have prevented this war, had he been less preoccupied? He had returned so many times, trying to smooth over their ire.
He cast that line of reasoning aside. Could he help now? He quickly scanned it again. There was an implicit request for aid, though he did not think he could truly answer it. Instead he turned the paper over, and wrote on the back.
I am sorry to hear that. You may know that the Abraxans' hides are resistant to many common spells. I have heard Petrificus Totalus can work, if cast accurately.
He added an extra note inviting Loki to use the school library, if he thought it might be of use, and let the owl out. He closed the window, casting another charm to dispel the flecks of water from outside, and bore down on his notes.
August 1984
The spells Loki knew for finding things did not work on dolmen doors. It was the obvious solution- have Longbottom inscribe his name on the French doors and there would be no barrier or front to hold them. They could portkey an army into the ministry itself.
Unfortunately, either his understanding of the doors was lacking, or the wards were successfully repelling him, or the earth itself was shielding them, or some combination of the three, because he'd failed to make any headway in the last three hours. He stopped pacing and threw himself down on the futon, drawing Voldemort's wand. As he did, he was aware of a familiar prickle in his chest, though casting a spell had the opposite sensation, a kind of numbing at the center. He cast lumos and twirled it between his fingers, cataloguing his lack of progress. So far he'd had nothing from Dumbledore but sentiment, though the larger plot was going well. He'd found a charm to speed up deployment of the parachutes- he had the bitter suspicion that Lovegood had only given it to him because it was more likely to take soldiers out of the battle, albeit with their lives secured. He was losing.
And after all the effort he had put into this war. What was that Midgardian saying, about watching one's wishes?
A rush sounded from behind him and he swung himself up, looking into the suddenly green flames.
"Commander," he said, flicking through his trackers to judge the level of urgency. "Come in."
Longbottom ducked through the stone fireplace, brushing ash off his robes and looking around Loki's sitting room with curiousity. Loki looked too- he had no need of furnishings outside his chambers, but over the past year and a half, he had begun to fill in some of first level rooms, as the fancy took him. This room was white- sofas, bookshelves, chandelier. A clock with no numbers ticked over the zodiac, and a bowl of clear liquid rippled on the table next to his books on magical creatures. The floo powder was a brilliant green in a china bowl on the mantle. The room looked how well-to-do wizard's sitting room was expected to look, to Loki's mind, and he was proud of the effect.
"Tea?" Loki offered, and Longbottom glanced at him for a moment before shaking his head.
"No thanks," he said, turning back to the now orange fire. Loki waited, the flames casting shadows across the commander's face.
"We lost Guernsey," Longbottom said.
"Yes," Loki said, "I know."
"I really thought we stood a chance," Longbottom continued.
Loki looked into the flames.
"We lost Davies, Brown- good people. And soldiers-"
"Yes," Loki said. The bill was rising and rising.
"I keep seeing it in my head; where it went wrong," Longbottom said. "I keep thinking about how I could've stopped it. But I couldn't. I didn't."
Loki looked at him, the flickering shadows on his face.
"I came to resign," Longbottom said hollowly. "No one else need die on my watch."
Loki gazed into the zodiac clock, ticking away. He was losing Longbottom. He was losing. He was-
"To whom should I give the post?" he asked coldly.
"Sorry?" Longbottom said.
"Who would you have me install as your replacement?"
"Perhaps Malfoy," Longbottom said, and Loki laughed.
"And induce a revolt?"
"Surely-"
"Lucius is a good strategist, but it is you who inspires their loyalty," Loki said. "When they fight it is only because they know they stand behind someone who would give his life and soul for British wizardry."
"What about you, then?" Longbottom said. "You can fight like no one I've seen before-"
"And leave the governing of the country to whom?" Loki said. "I cannot be everywhere."
"Somebody else then," Longbottom said, faltering. "I'm sure someone-"
"Soldiers are dying," Loki said savagely. "They will die faster without your assistance. By washing your hands of guilt you only damn them to the incompetence of others."
"Only if those others are more incompetent than me," Longbottom said.
"Is that what you think?" Loki said. "Then you think I am a fool for appointing you?"
"No," Longbottom said. "No- of course not."
"And France? Would you have us give into their fire?" Loki said, looking into the hearth. It was burning up; the street, the city, everything.
"No-" Longbottom said.
"Good," Loki said, clenching his fist. "Because I need you at your post."
Longbottom closed his eyes, then opened them.
"Okay," he said heavily. "I'll help."
"Sit down," Loki said. The fire was raging behind him, swirling in his head. Losing losing losing losing losing. All his toys were not enough.
He summoned a coffee pot and poured two teacups, pushing one into Longbottom's hands.
"These little battles do not favor us," Loki said, ignoring the poisonous thoughts. "Their horses have no time to tire, and their spellcasters can deal explosive strikes. We need a longer engagement."
"That is difficult to arrange. At any moment they can disappear back to base," Longbottom said. He was sitting hunched over, looking too tall for the couch, the fire flickering behind him.
"Indeed," Loki said, standing up, and Longbottom followed him back to the mantle.
"You tire of the deaths of soldiers? Then let us win this," Loki said. "The next time we strike we will strike at the Ministry." Bring it all down, he thought wildly. It would go at once, in a big conflagration, or not at all.
"You think we can beat them?" Longbottom said, hope in his eyes, and Loki blinked out his previous impulse, resting a hand on the cool stone above the hearth. Perhaps, if they could just outflank the Abraxans on broomsticks; if they could just develop right spells; if they could just get close enough before the French spotted them from the skies...
"Of course," he said smoothly.
Longbottom nodded.
"Alright then." He looked almost lively now, in stark contrast to his earlier demeanor, as if Loki's word alone could protect them from a massacre. An image flashed through Loki's mind; a figure, hung from a metal frame, eyes forced open, shaven head.
"So much trust," he said, despite himself, "Can be a dangerous thing."
Longbottom turned back, his face serious.
"It is," he said. "But we allow ourselves heroes all the same."
Loki nodded stiffly.
"I'll go prepare," Longbottom said, dipping his fingers into the china bowl. "Talk to Lucius about stepping up recruitment, pushing the budget. Talk to the new lieutenants, pull in the reservists. Maybe this could all be over by winter."
"Excellent," Loki said, gripping the white armchair.
Longbottom dipped his fingers into floo powder and tossed it into the flames, and then he was gone.
He'd done it. His words had worked, as they always did. That was good.
The fire went out, leaving dark afterimages in his eyes.
It was overcast in Diagon Alley when Remus apparated in, gray and white clouds advancing across the blue November sky. He looked anxious, checking the time as they walked out. The child waved at a redheaded boy across the street, and the werewolf took his hand.
"Am I gonna get glasses?" the boy was asking, and Loki had a sudden image of James Potter, twenty years older, but similar to Harry in all but the eyes.
There was a strangeness in the air, a gauzy shimmer like the world had been doused in a spell. Loki looked up, jumping trackers from Remus's arm to the building ahead to see a spell arc down from the sky and the building begin to tumble. He jumped, quickly, finding Harry's forehead- there was a pulse there if he concentrated very hard, magic bright amid the dark of the rocks. A turning, shifting, and he suspected Harry was burrowing in, his breaths coming loud and fast.
Loki jumped again; the veins on Remus's elbow pulsing as he stumbled, half maddened in pursuit of the child. There was little Loki could do from this vantage but keep checking on Harry- he did and then jumped back to the street, tracing the Abraxan assault, getting the measure of it. Anti-apparation wards had been effected just below their lines, giving them unimpeded access to the alley- and keeping civilians trapped like flies in a jar. He opened his eyes, as vision slammed into his body, hands clenched on his chair. He stood, brushing off the vertigo, and strode downstairs, sending signals ahead to his trackers as he reached the hall of war where Longbottom prepared the troops.
"They're here," he said, as they began to fly out.
Loki perched invisibly on the wall, watching the alley explode into battle. The air churned as the tower collapsed into its composite parts, bricks and dust and glass soaring outward in every direction. Even used against him, there was something awe-inspiring about bringing so much destruction, about knowing that he could. He had caused this, in the end- this explosion of fire and fury, with just the barest touches of some silver words.
His soldiers had managed to get beneath the Abraxans and were driving the white horses upward, patches of white and green soldiers spiraling higher into the clouds. But the whitecoats had chosen the right day- their mounts blended in perfectly with the cloud cover, making them hard to hit even with the spells they had.
Remus had found Harry, was pulling him to his chest like one who'd been mortally wounded, though he was the better off of the two of them. Longbottom was straining to cover the holes in their ranks as the horsemen blasted through stone and man alike. A fire had started in one of the buildings.
What about you, then? Longbottom had asked, those months ago by the hearth, and Loki had evaded the question. The army was supposed to stand on its own- if they couldn't defeat mere mortals, how could they beat Asgard?
Does it matter? He glanced down. The thread of escaping civilians was thinning now, the evacuation assisted by his ground troops as the white-cloaks demolished the alley. It was breaking open, spilling with glass and pearls and shards of broomstick. He thought of Remus and Harry, adrift in the crowd. One of them was falling. Does it matter?
The next spell arced downward.
Loki dove, shedding his avian form amid the blast. He unleashed an incantation- he'd been shaping it in his head, unconsciously. A curving ward sprang to life, blocking the brunt of the explosion.
"Minister!" one of his soldiers shouted, and the shouting grew louder as people glanced up to see.
"Soldier," Loki said, holding out a hand.
The soldier saluted, deftly tossing him her broomstick. Loki grabbed it and launched himself into the air, the alley shrinking away beneath him. The Abraxans scattered as he slammed into the center, welding green fire. His hand pulsed and a rider fell from the sky, blackening with soot. He unleashed another blast, setting white robes ablaze, dodging stunners with ease. His own troops roared with approval and rallied, forming a cone as they rushed the main contingent. Loki rose through them, a cat among pigeons, a god amongst mortals, raining fire from the sky.
A wave of spells streamed from behind him and he saw horses' wings stop beating, frozen in space. He roared with approval and followed up with more fire, causing the nearest formation to break and turn. He laughed, letting them flee with scorched tails.
A violet bolt shot toward him and he sidestepped, turning toward the new opponent. It was the French general, Hamidou. She signaled and a battalion of soldiers spread into a vertical formation below, engaging Longbottom's defense as she rose, whipping another bolt at Loki. He volleyed lazily with a ray of green fire. She sent a third one, this time taking just a little more time to form the spell. Loki narrowed his eyes, wondering what it was exactly this spell did as the bolt came racing toward him. He whipped to the side and it followed, nearly bisecting him. Instead he dropped and it collided into a wall not far from his soldiers. He frowned, watching them engage the platoons. Something seemed odd about their formation…
Another bolt flew past his hand and he snapped back to the general. She had an intense look of focus on her face as she cast, ceaselessly now, forcing him to expend more effort into dodging. He put up a shield and she immediately switched tactics, casting silent sleeping charms, which ignored most shields. He shot back a silent body bind into her path and her horse froze, dropping, buffeted by wind.
She tapped out the countercurse and rose back up, but the pause allowed Loki to see what the engagement had concealed- Abraxans were dropping, then retreating back into the cloud cover. He looked closer, searching for the portkey. One of the soldiers reached upwards, toward his neck.
Got you, Loki thought, the corners of his mouth curving upward. He scanned the crowd and swooped down to the nearest platoon-leader wearing a charm on a leather cord. A knife to the throat bisected the cord, and he shot downward, collecting it. He gave it a shake to get some of the blood off, then went to try it again.
A purple bolt caught Loki's attention and he reared up, turning to face Hamidou's onslaught. She'd drawn a shield that she could shoot through, something that blocked his fire. He shot a knife half-heartedly in her direction and dove, going for another platoon-leader. Violet lightning arced over his head.
He dodged it, reminded annoyingly of Thor, and sent an illusion while he picked off another patrol leader.
Longbottom's troops had them surrounded now at the outer edge of the last bordering ward, flying almost down to the rooftops. The remaining Abraxans were falling hard, pressed against the rooftops and the wards. Hamidou looked distracted despite herself, glancing forward at Loki and back at the troops, muttering and throwing half-hearted spells. Loki threw the knife, slicing through her shields just as she turned, droplets of blood splattering through the air.
The border ward broke and the French contingent vanished, spells blasting into the stones where they had fought moments prior. Hamidou turned around, blood streaming from the cut just beneath her eye. She nodded, once, then she too vanished.
Across the sky, Loki met Longbottom's eyes with a grin, grasping his gathered portkeys.
"Catch."
The week after the twin battles at London and Paris, wizards and witches poured into Hogsmeade, clamouring up the station and the Three Broomsticks, filling the inns and the bookshops. The holiday shopping season had already begun, and though magic did wonders for property repairment, each mother and father had independently decided to stay away from Diagon Alley just then. But there was another brand of customer wandering around in the drizzle, more curious than rushed; more awed than anxious. Those were the ones who lined up at the newsstand, putting down two knuts and picking up a copy of the Daily Prophet. Every so often, someone would be drawn into the line after spotting the headline. The headline read: France to Accede Sovereignty to British Gov.
And they read.
ACM council forced Minister Lefevre into early retirement after critics within France publicly denounced her for the spectacular defeat. The defeat came as a surprise attack after the whitecoat's own assault on Diagon Alley (see page 6).
In the Hogs' Head, the bartender scowled, lifting yet another glass off the shelf for the gathering crowd. They swarmed in, tracking muddy boots on the floor- the weather had turned rainy again.
"Do you have a spare paper?"
"Somebody read it-"
A couple of people glanced around fruitlessly before a hag with a balaclava stepped onto the table, enunciating slowly.
In an almost unprecedented move, the British army used the enemy's own portkeys to gain access to their base, catching them completely unawares. Though the battle had been raging back and forth, the last assault, ending at the ministry gates, decimated the French army, coming close enough to destruction to force a surrender from Paris, and its monarch.
Why did Lefevre step down?
In a bed in St Mungo's, Remus folded the paper between his fingers, frowning. Stepped down? What were they going to do with France? Harry was sitting at his bedside table, drawing pictures of exploding buildings in crayon. He rubbed his temples, soothing his aching vision, and turned the paper back over.
Despite her age, the Levefre has historically been vehemently opposed to abdicating. However, a council led by her former advisors gave her no choice but to do so. A particularly salient factor in the council's over 400 page statement was Lefevre's refusal to listen to repeated offers of peace on the British side. As pundit Jacques Minuet put it, "Dumbledore practically begged her to call off the battle and she didn't; how thick can you get?"
And in Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, high above, overlooking so many things, the last piece fell into place.
Chief Advisor Pierre Ruiz is slated to step up in Lefevre's stead, though he in terms of surrender he has agreed to defer, in all things, to Minister Loki. This unprecedented move has wizards and witches wondering- what comes next? Who knows? Whether the minister is looking to build an empire or start a barrier against the USSR is uncertain, but one thing's for sure- life in France will never be the same.
"I see," Albus said, his voice hollow. His elbow was digging into the desk. "The stone, the council…"
He had been played, and masterfully so. If he hadn't gone to beg so publicly for peace, would Lefevre still be in control? She would let France die rather than be taken over by the British, of that he was certain.
Loki had arranged this; it was the only thing that made sense. The stone, his belligerence at the council; all this time he had been pushing them slowly, inexorably towards war. Albus had thought he'd been playing aloof, badly, that his movements with the stone and the council had been a bungle, not a plot. And now…
A second shockwave hit him like a lightning bolt. Something that Loki had said, some days after they'd read Flamel's notes, when Albus had still been searching for information.
We'd never be able to defeat them, the letter had said in his strange, even handwriting. Not like this.
"Not like this…" Albus murmured, fingering the newsprint. No, not as they were. But united, perhaps, under one force…
Yes, Albus saw it now, the outlines of Loki's scheme. He thought back to the questions, the insistence on letting the troops fight for themselves, of coming up with a spell that could defeat a magic-repelling creature- the bloodshed would not be ending here at all. Many more countries would fall- would have to fall before they came anywhere near possible to defending themselves. Germany would be next perhaps, or Bulgaria, or Egypt. There would be thousands of casualties; tens of thousands perhaps.
And Albus would not be the one stop it.
He would help it along, even.
Because if that was what it took to stand up against the great and terrible force that Loki had shown him; the force that lived in the history books, then ten thousand lives was just a drop in the bucket. They could tear the world to shreds.
Albus Dumbledore folded the paper, laid his head on his arms, and wept.
"What is a hero?"
Loki strode across the corner of a rooftop on Diagon Alley, looking out over the metal rim. It was the same rooftop on which he'd stood during the battle, in fact, though the battle was long since gone.
There was an immense pleasure in looking down at his city, over his reign. He had wrought this; the war, the conquest, and now this peace.
He glanced up in the drizzle, banishing a stray thought.
"To be a hero, one must protect," he said, looking through the fog. He thought back to Longbottom, earnest but weak, much too weak, to accomplish his goals alone. "One must be able to protect," he amended.
"But capacity isn't everything, of course," he said. "If you lack the will to use it."
He thought of Dumbledore, trusting the best in everyone, constantly fettered by moral constraints. Had he grasped Loki's ploy yet? What would he make of it? Loki still had his final plan, slowly gathering pieces of information to discredit the man.
One way or another, Loki would destroy him in the end.
A lone shop-woman bent before the ruins of a building, poking through the rubble.
"A hero," he mused, "Is not naive."
How could he protect them if he wasn't looking over their shoulders, seeking out the threats? He needed to stay six steps ahead; gathering information, bribing, blackmailing, coercing.
"Is that ignoble?" he asked, smirking. "Well, say I am a better kind of hero, then."
The magical construction workers were positioned around a ruined store, beginning to cast.
Beneath him the building was slowly putting itself together, bricks and glass and masonry slipping off corners and out of cracks.
"I am the one who watches in the night."
A wind blew, rustling his hair.
"Who guides wizard-kind."
Droplets of water fell against the metal rooftop. His shadow was amorphous in the silver-gray light.
"Who finds and shapes you into something… better."
Inchoate clouds swirled overhead, the uncertain promise of a storm.
He smiled benevolently onto the city below.
A/N:
Many thanks to Prevaricator's Penchant for the work on this chapter, as well as to Blue Jay and TheTzip for prereading. Please share your thoughts with a review!