Walking down a street in the late evening after having gone to meet his elder brother at a local pub, a stately gentleman in his mid-seventies moved, despite his age, with the dangerous grace which many martial artists would envy. He caught a sharp cry on the cool wind, and moving carefully, found a child lying on the doorstep of the house, complete with a letter tucked into the thin blanket he was wearing.
Though usually he'd say it wasn't his business, anyone who'd do this wasn't worth giving the consideration of privacy. Opening the letter, his eyes widened as he read through it.
Dear Petunia,
Unfortunately, James and Lily Potter died yesterday in an attack on their safe-house by the wizarding terrorist Lord Voldemort. I plead with you to take their orphaned son in to seal the blood-protection of your sister's sacrifice, making it impossible for any harm to befall you from wizards. I must warn you of the repercussions that would come of your refusal. I expect Harry to be humble and modest, as in the wizarding world, he would become big-headed as it was at his hands that Voldemort fell, and as he is a wizarding aristocrat, something that he must not realise.
Yours,
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of Merlin First Class, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Grand Sorcerer.
He'd seen the devastation wrought by ill-minded wizards working with the Nazis during the Second World War, and the boy would have a chance to live or he wasn't Thomas Bell Lindsey Churchill, Major-General of the British Army, retired. At least his irritating brother would be amused. Mad Jack would probably laugh his head off at him while his wife cooed over the boy.
September 9th 2005
Chewing on his pipe, Captain Hadrian Churchill of 42 Commando scrolled through map after map. Frankly, he was bored, the desert sun wasn't helping, though the cooling effect of the villa they'd taken over in Baghdad's Green Zone did help. Once owned by one of 'Saddam's little butt-monkeys', as they crudely put it, it served a better purpose.
The only thing unusual about the sight was that, unlike most of 42 Commando, he wasn't wearing a green beret, nor were any of his colleagues. Drawn from dozens of regiments, they all shared the tan beret of the SAS. Using their old units as cover, or 'parent regiments', they were the toughest bastards out of almost every special forces unit out there, proud members of A Squadron, 22 SAS.
"What do you think Dai?" he asked.
Dai, 'the Welsh wizard' was their intelligence interpreter, or as the mockingly crude comments of the SAS put it, he did 'clever shit'.
"Well... much as I'm loathe to trust them after their screw-ups, I suggest we put a drone onto our boyo and keep eyes on him for a day or two." he said slowly.
They were chasing a group of men they suspected of being part of a Shia militia, the Jaish al-Mahdi, responsible for the running of various death-squads and encouraging sectarian violence in the country.
Harry considered it for a minute before picking up the phone on his desk and quick-dialling a number.
"Quartermaster, this is Wolf, get me patrols Delta and Foxtrot in readiness, Echo and Golf can stand down for a while. Tell them not too get too comfortable." he ordered before hanging up and dialling a second number. A minute later, he rolled his eyes and drawled; "Captain Churchill, A Squadron of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment, personal identifier bravo-foxtrot-bravo-whisky-victor-zero-three-seven, get me Creech Air Force Base and the drone control centre."
"Look, I don't care what you think, I gave you an order, I have no need to justify it, my clearance is sufficient, you will forward my call to drone control." he barked irritably a minute later, followed just a few moments later; "I want a Predator in the Baghdad area to take my tasking... Look, I don't care if you're the director of the FBI, the CIA or the Emperor of the Galactic Republic, you'll get me the Predator or I'll reach down this telephone and personally strangle you! No, no, you're mistaking this for a democracy... it's a dictatorship."
He shot an acid glare at one of his troopers who had sniggered, before hanging up.
"Yes, I dislike the Septics, get over it. And you can all fuck off, I'll call you if we get an update."
Harry ignored the tapping on his door for a minute, glancing at his watch to see it was getting on for eleven o'clock, before eventually barking at the door;
"Get in here if it's important, if not bother one of the other officers about it."
Slowly the door opened, annoying him further.
"If you're going to come in, be smart about it!" he snapped.
With a touch more haste, an elderly man with a long beard, twinkling blue eyes, wearing grey-blue robes and a fez walked in, followed by a severe-looking woman clad in a tartan dress.
"Yes?" Harry asked impatiently.
"Are you Captain Churchill?" enquired the elderly man.
"I'd assume that given the nameplate on the door." he replied sarcastically; "Then there's the fact that you could ask any of the fairly numerous people around the Green Zone where to find me."
"Well, yes. We are looking for a boy called Harry Potter, we need to speak to him with the utmost urgency." said the bearded and robed man.
"Potter's no boy." Harry laughed, glad that he was wearing reflective sunglasses and had his beret covering most of his hair, concealing his most notable characteristics; "He's twenty-five years old and a soldier of going on ten years."
"Where can we find him?" asked the woman, speaking for the first time.
"Who are you and what do you want with him?" demanded Harry.
"I am Professor Albus Dumbledore and this is my assistant, Professor Minerva McGonagall, we were friends of his parents and worked at the school they attended and he was supposed to attend." replied the man.
"Right... you came out to the world's bloodiest warzone of the current time to speak to an old family friend. Pull the other one, its got bells on it." he snorted.
"We've also come to alert him there's a terrorist who wants to kill him, and if possible, bring him to Britain where he can be sufficiently protected." replied Dumbledore reluctantly, noting that Harry's right hand was resting on a pistol, the damage of which he didn't underestimate, having seen them used during the Grindelwald Conflict.
"The Special Air Service deals with terrorists daily. If he's a threat, we'll go after him, if not we'll let him come to us and capture or kill him." Harry said dismissively.
"I'm afraid you can't understand-" began Dumbledore.
"Look, one wizard comes after us, we capture or kill him. Done it before, we'll do it again." interrupted Harry.
"What!" the two visitors chorused, and Dumbledore's wand came up, flicking a grey-coloured spell at him.
Harry drew a length of wood from a fixture underneath his desk, and in one smooth movement, swept aside the memory-charm and flicked a Parsel disarming curse through Dumbledore's shield. Snatching the wand out of the air, Harry felt a strange tingle from it, ancient magic. A moment later, a length of rolled silvery-grey fabric streamed out from one of the pockets of Dumbledore's robes.
"Okay, one warning, cast a spell at me again and I kill you." he said seriously; "I'll let that one go as I'm sure you assumed me to be completely non-magical."
The two were gaping.
"Have you ever wondered what became of many of the first-generation magicals who were let go, especially veterans of the last Voldemort conflict twenty-four years ago? Dozens of them work for the government, including sixteen under my command here." Harry stated, leaning back into his chair; "Me, I'm a halfblood from a noble house, means fuck all to me, I'm a soldier and fucking proud."
While the two looked scandalised, neither made any comment about his language as the soldiery outside had been equally foul-mouthed. Harry swivvelled around as he heard his phone ringing.
"Yes?" he snapped, pausing for a moment before killing the call, dialling another number; "Have you Green Slimes got anything for me? Yes, do send it over." that call ended quickly and he dialled a third number; "Quartermaster, get me two armed Land Rovers, Delta and Foxtrot patrols in the briefing room in fifteen minutes, and I want a Chinook fuelled and on the flight-line in an-hour and a half... That's fine, and put up the black flag. They touch our US special forces buddies, we collect their fucking heads." he hung up finally.
Turning to the two school-teachers, he commented;
"I've got some insurgents I need to deal with. The day's coming to an end and going out there in the dark is suicide unless you're SAS, Delta or a Ranger. Grab a couple of rooms up the hall, I'll need briefing on your little insurgency which threatens one of my guys."
"Shaddup!" Harry barked, storming into the briefing room. Immediately, the eight troopers fell silent, looking forward to when their boss was off-duty, becoming a far nicer person. "We've got three targets I want to hit. One produces explosives for suicide bombers, but for the usual reasons of collateral we can't wipe it out with an air-strike. The second is the home to a gunsmith we reckon is spreading the love, AK style, the third is a mid-level local commander."
Harry threw the briefing documents onto the table as he pulled on a flak jacket and his Level IV body-armour. With a bit of bungee cord over his left shoulder and under his right armpit, he slung a powerful battle rifle while he'd mostly use the custom M4 lying in the chair next to him.