Disclaimer: Do I give off the impression that I own this series? If so, I'm terribly sorry for misleading you.

Summary: A one-eyed Kurt Russell has to save the President and escape a hostile Manhattan in a near future dystop-wait a minute...

Midnight Blues

Part II: Among Thieves

10.) Bury the Hatchet
or,
Odin's Revenge.

I slip outside, testing my recently healed limbs by discreetly stretching. The Whiterobe is nowhere in sight and that's probably for the best; what I do know is that I need to find my gear and smuggle Ron and Tracey out of the castle. Perhaps the Spear's influence diminishes with distance.

Presently, however, I need to focus on getting out of this dungeon. The hallway leading out from the cell is predictably dark and dank. It would never do for a dungeon to be light and airy, would it? A draft picks up somewhere to my left, instinctively causing me to shiver, having no shirt and tattered pants on. A draft, however, means there's usually a way out in the direction it comes from, so I make to follow it.

Hozhen certainly knows how to give his dungeons the illusion of intimidation. Though I know this part of the fortress is built into the volcano and all that surrounds us is a cliff-face, I can hear the drip-drip of water splashing against the cold, damp stone floor, as though a fierce river is running above it. The entire dungeon (that is, what isn't covered in darkness) is bathed in a sickly green glow, like that of nuclear sludge glinting off the ancient rock. Several torches light the way, but they fight a losing battle against the encroaching darkness.

I creep along these eerie halls, listening for the sound of human footsteps among the scurrying rats. I take stock of the cells lining the walls; there are a lot more prisoners in the dungeon than I had expected, and many of them look they've been here much longer than Hozhen's little power play a few weeks ago. I peer through the bars of one such cell and find nothing but a half-wasted, emaciated old man. He looks like he's been here decades.

I shake my head. A shame, but I should keep moving.

My eyes are used to the darkness of my cell, and the torches sting as I pass, but it's a good sting. I like the warmth. The light, I could do without, but I like the warmth.

"So what exactly are we to do with all these new helpers?" A voice says, alerting me to the presence of two guards standing watch over this section of the dungeons. Both of them stand facing away from me at the entrance to another path halfway down the one I'm on. I move to the slightly oblique corner and hide behind it. Blood Mage or not, wearing rags and being wandless is not the proper attire for a duel. I'll have to ambush them.

"I dunno," replies the other, a dull-sounding Englishman. "I assume Hozhen will use them to march on Beijing and take out the big people. I don't really know."

"Yeah," the first guard says wistfully with an Irish brogue. "Wish I could go... but we'll probably be stuck here on guard duty."

"Cheer up, Brian," the second says, a voice lifting with an unseen grin. "We get our pick of their stuff. It's all in the armory upstairs."

"You mean, like, weapons and stuff?"

"Yeah," says the other. "Of course, Captain's got first dibs and he really is takin' all the best stuff. But there's so many people here, it'd be impossible not to find something valuable." He pauses. "And, if we don't go with Master, then we don't have to deal with those Blood Mages."

"That sure is a plus. That Robards guy gives me the fucking willies."

"He's a bloody psychopath, Brian," the second guard says. "Did you hear, the man ripped Harry Potter's eye right from its socket? Apparently he's been doing nothing but torturing the 'dissidents' like Potter, that Vampire lady and her werewolf pet."

"Mmm..." Brian growls, voice turning oddly husky. "Sophia Mercier. Vampire or not, she's a bloody treat, ain't she? It's a good thing people like me don't get their hands on Master's spear, I'd never leave the damn bedroom."

The second guard nods a couple of times, then he seems to do a double take, nearly stepping backwards through the archway he's standing under and I'm hiding bbehind the walls of:

"Wait... so you'd influence people into fucking you?" He asks, incredulity straining his tone.

A pause. Then: "...Yeah?"

"Not, you know, something important, like assassinating a dictator or something?" The second guard asks, shuffling nervously at Brian's 'no'. "So, just, fucking then? Isn't that, like... rape?"

At some point in your life you wonder why God invented people this stupid. And you wonder why God made you smart enough to complain but stupid enough to listen to their conversations.

"What?" Asks Brian, shocked. "No! How is it at all like rape?"

The second guard sounds a bit squicked when he next speaks. "I mean, from a weird... mind-y standpoint? Like, they can't choose whether or not to have sex with you. You kinda force them to. Like rape." He finishes awkwardly.

"Well, yeah, I guess..." Brian trails off, sounding equally awkward.

"So you're, like, a rapist." The second guard says, then starts grumbling: "Great, out of all of the people to get stuck with, I get the rapist."

"What!? John, we've known each other seven years! It's not like I'm-"

"Whatever, you freak," says John. "Don't talk to me."

Christ. The world is filled with idiots. I think I'd be doing humanity a favor by eliminating these two from the gene pool but I am in a generous mood. And by generous mood, I mean I'm rubbish at wandless lethal spells. That's something even men like Dumbledore and Voldemort wouldn't have mastered until they were well into middle-age. By comparison, I am a baby.

Wandless stunners, however, I can cast them like a pro.

The first one, John, goes down with a stunner, and the second, the rapist, gets kicked in the back of the knees, forcing him down and into a sleeper hold. He tries to fire of a spell at me, but I easily disarm him and finish off the man. When both men are down, I contemplate their uniforms, and begin dragging them back the way I came.

When they are securely locked in my old cell and I've filched John's uniform, a sort of guard that evokes the thought of American gunslingers, I head back for the room the two had been guarding. It's rectangular; a small, vaulted exit in each wall. In the middle of the room are a series of crates, likely for storage.

I grumble, knowing I should have paid more attention to my surroundings when Robards dragged me to and from my cell. It's a goddamned maze in here.

Well, I think whilst fiddling with Brian's wand (his works better for me than John's), here's hoping I survive to the end of this retarded, retarded contract. A quick game of eeny-meeny-miny-moe determines my route, which ends up with me ducking left into another, wider hallway lined with more cells. Realizing this probably won't get me to my wand, I intend to double-back to the room from which I came when a soft voice interrupts my thoughts:

"Mr. Potter?" Soft, lilting, and undeniably French, I whirl toward the source of the noise, wand at the ready, to see Sophia Mercier giving me a tired look. A single glance'd tell even the stupidest bloke she's seen better days: the natural dankness of the dungeon gives her already pale skin a spectral glow; her red eyes are dimmed, without bloodlust, only exhaustion; she looks thinner than I've ever seen and her hair, usually voluminous, is limp and stringy.

"So, they took you in, too," I growl lowly.

Mercier nods. "I am not human, not fully. The Spear's influence does not to me spread."

"Guard traffic seems light," I comment idly, after a moment's pause to mull over the vampire's predicament.

Mercier's reply is predicatably short and to the point. "They are preparing for incursion into Shangri-La."

"Shangri-La?" I ask.

Mercier scoffs. "Named after the one in the book. An earthly paradise in the western foothills of the Kunlun Mountains."

"I know what it is," I say. "Thought they'd be heading to the Eastern Seaboard. You know, Beijing and Shanghai and all that."

"China's Eastern Seaboard is too populated by Muggles for wizards, the seat of the government is in Shangri-La, and several other wizard cities are in what the muggles think is the Gobi Desert." She pauses. "Security will be lax for a few nights. They locked Andrea somewhere else in these dungeons. I must find him, and then we will finish off Hozhen before he can get to China."

I blink. "Well I reckon that's a mighty fine plan, but who says I'm gonna let you out?"

Mercier betrays only a brief look of surprise, but is otherwise unfazed. "Oh, and here I thought you had a spear that needed... what was the word? Liberation?"

"Maybe in due time," I respond coolly. "As of right now, I'm only looking out for one thing. And that's me own bloody arse. That spear, and that Dark Lord ain't going anywhere. May as well just cut my losses and get out of here." Really, I could do it. As much as I'd like to go back to England, if Tracey's right about Shacklebolt exiling us without that spear, me and Ron'll have to go to America or Africa, considering the powderkeg Asia's about to become. We can send Hermione mail by muggle post or something.

"Mon dieu, you really have no sense of honor, do you?" Mercier exclaims with a harsh laugh. "I have heard the rumors; you're a blood mage, are you not? A hitman, a blood mage, a mercenary dog? Where is the Hero of England I heard so much of, the "Chosen One" that bested Lord Voldemort in a duel?

I give her a cynical chuckle in return. "Ain't no heroes here. I learned that lesson good and proper when I lost my money, my status, and couldn't get a job because they'd figure me for what I really am."

"And what are you, blood mage? A cheap necromancer? One who was raised from the dead by demons that you might raise an army of the dead?" Mercier growls, her usual impassiveness gone.

"I haven't the time for a morality lecture from a blood fetishist," I say, tipping John's hat toward her. "Enjoy your life. Or what's left of it, at the very least."

"Wait!" Her desperate voice stops me. Damn my chivalry. "So you're just going to leave your friends here? The Weasley and the other woman? Is that Granger?"

"Hah," I chuckle, thinking of the literal oceans of difference between Tracey and Hermione. "No, no that isn't Granger. And I'm not going to leave them. I'm going to knock their arses out and get as far away as possible."

"They'll still be his slaves," replies Sophia. "The Spear's influence does not diminish with distance. When you woke them up, Mr. Weasley and the woman would still be your enemy."

Christ. Shit. That would not be good. Though this vamp is fucking desperate. She might be playing the long con:

"Bullshit," I growl.

"It may be," she says, smiling smugly. "But do you really want to test it? If you take them away now and they wake up in the middle of nowhere, you'd have to kill them both."

"And what would be the remedy, hm?"

"You will help me get out of here and help find Andrea. Then, I swear you will have our help in taking that spear from Hozhen, as it's the only way you can free your friends from its spell."

I mull it over. Mercier's good people, and I have no reason not to trust her. Furthermore, it's better to be safe than sorry when it comes Ron and Tracey because if they do wake up somewhere in Siberia even if I manage to escape with them, the ensuing fight will be to the death. And more likely mine than theirs.

Finally, I stick out my hand. "You have yourself a deal. But if this goes sour, don't expect my help."

"Understood, now help me out of this cell," says Mercier. "The guards had the keys. I do believe it was the rapist holding onto it."

I chuckle. "You heard that too, then?"

"Unfortunately," the vampire drawls. "Now off you go," she finishes with a shooing gesture.

So here I am, back-tracking to the rapist and his buddy to steal a key, all on the account of a bloody vampire. Sexy as all hell, but still, a vampire. Have I told you how much I miss England? And my flat? And Fleur's cooking? And Teddy's laugh? And Seamus's Bar? And watching pornos with Luna when Ginny's out of town? And being nagged by Hermione?

Jesus, I even miss being nagged by Hermione.

But here I am, one-eyed in a dungeon with a vampire and a werewolf, my brainwashed friends, a Blood Mage with a torture fetish (and his friend who's helping me, for some godforsaken reason), looting the bodies of the not-quite-dead.

Morosely, I pick through Brian's pockets. "Hello again, gents," I say to their unconscious forms as I pick up a heavy iron key, coal black. "The world's much easier when you're an idiot. Embrace it." I pat John's bare shoulder and head back for Mercier.

"Well that took less time than I expected," Mercier says as I slide the key into the lock and click it open. Suddenly, the overpowering stench of garlic hits me and when Mercier walks out, she takes a deep, gasping breath, like a man half-drowned does after reaching surface. What little color she has returns to her face, her locks are once again silky and bouncy, and she suddenly looks like the predatory femme fatale I met a fortnight ago.

"Sorry," she says. "Vampire restraints."

I nod. "I take it you don't date very many Italians, then."

Her laugh is musical as she dusts off the rags she wears. "I suppose not, Mr. Potter. But let's go find our Italian before that spear is out of reach."

"After you, ma'am," I reply with a polite Southern drawl. Mercier shrugs and leads on.

We end up taking the archway on the other side of the crossroad-room I've been in what feels like ten times now and following it all the way down. The snaking hallways, much like Mercier's and my own, is very lightly guarded. As we turn a corner into another cell block, Mercier stops short as I slam into her.

We both find ourselves facing another guard.

"'Ay!" He begins, staring me down. "What the bloody 'ell is this vampire bitch doin' out her cell?" Of course, being the kind of man predisposed to cloak and daggers, I mean to answer him. But just as I open my mouth, wham! Mercier responds for me with a wicked right hook to the face as the man goes sailing back in a crumpled heap.

Jesus. Woman's got an arm.

She turns and raises an eyebrow at my gawping. "Close your mouth, Mr. Potter. It's unbecoming." I comply, and gesture for her to lead on; I'm more than comfortable taking the rear.

We take a right and continue down a long corridor; I keep a vigilant watch as Mercier peeks through the cell bars until:

"Sophia?" An Italian accented voice says from the cell opposite Mercier, further down the block. Mercier visibly sighs in relief and I do believe that is my cue to appear on scene.

"Mr. Lombardi," I greet, taking in the sight of the bedraggled werewolf. "You look like shite, mate."

"Say what you will, Mr. Potter, I have two eyes," responds the werewolf, standing up with surprising spryness for a man that looks as though he just got back from a double shift in the gulag.

I laugh as Sophia lets Lombardi out. "Now, I helped you two out. Any chance either of you know where they might be holding my wand?"

"Where they're holding the rest of our things," Lombardi says. "The armory storage one floor up. They confiscated everyone's weapons and holed them up in that storage. They're probably going to sell most of it, and whatever is left, the non-brainwashed guards will cast lots for."

"Far out," I drawl unhappily. "Which way do we go to get there?"

"We'll have to double-back," says Lombardi. "It's the other way."

Of course it is, because nothing's ever simple, is it?

So it is with heavy heart that I follow in their wake to the crossroads room and take the only path left untaken. I don't think it takes any kind of genius to realize this will be guarded much more heavily than the last three if it paves the way to freedom. Surprisingly, the pathway is short and has no cells, just a staircase leading to much more heavily guarded floor.

We sneak past several rotted wooden doors, all sorts of wickedness going on behind them, no doubt, until we find ourselves nearing the armory, just across the hall from one of the torture rooms. It certainly isn't the one Robards had been working me in; I would've remembered going up stairs. Luckily, there is no one in the torture room at the moment and the armory contains only a skeleton crew at the moment. We are able to sneak in by sticking to the shadows. The guards don't notice us dive behind a long table weighed down in guns, swords, and confiscated wands.

That, however, is enough to piss me off.

"Are those my robes?" I growl lowly upon seeing some puffed-up jackass wearing my combat robes. The bastard even dyed them black and red. I mean, who the fuck does that? Black and red? What is he, twelve?

"Be calm," counsels Mercier as Lombardi places an arresting hand upon my shoulder.

"I took 'em off Potter meself," he says, Irish-accented. He does not lack for braggadocio, it seems. "The English dog cowered at the very sight o'me, you know? I took his robe, his wand, his guns, and gave that waste o'space to Robards to work. So much for the 'Hero of England'."

I blink. I don't recall a dandy Irishman anywhere near me when I got caught. It took ten guards, two blood mages and a brainwashed Ron and Tracey to finally take me down.

"What a load of bollocks that Man-Who-Won bullshite is. Probably had his little Mudblood bitch doing all the work for him while he whimpered in a corner." The other men giggled as the Irishman continues. "And he let his ginger friend have his way with her, too. Face it, Potter hasn't balls the size of rabbit pellets."

There are two things in this world that I hate more than braggarts: people who insult my friends, and California-style pizza. Hermione, on account of being the nicest person on planet Earth since Christ himself, gets special treatment and anyone who insults of her gets twice the walloping.

So, you would excuse me when I cast a silent silencing charm on the door, reach for a pair of pistols upon the desk we're hiding on, and opening fire on the group. Two men go down quite easily, and the other three turn in shock.

"Balls the size of pellets, eh?" I ask, smiling. "Well, we'll see about that."

I give in to the dark power thrumming within my veins. Many people assume that the use of Dark Magic determines morality, that a man using an Unforgivable has all but sworn his allegiance to evil. I've been taught, however, that magic is about intent. Is it impossible to imagine a wizard using dark magic for good or light magic for evil? Light and dark are not moral distinctions, but arbitrary classifications based upon perceived cruelty. People who believe otherwise are limited in their arsenal, and those that understand are free.

You are only as free as your mind believes you to be.

It's how I came to cope with being a Blood Mage; I raise a hand and will the Power out.

The Irishman's eyes turn dark as he unholsters his wand, but rather than aim it at us, a green light fires at one of the two guards flanking him. The second guard reacts too late and is tackled to the ground by the Irishman. A knife appears in his hand, summoned from the closest table of stolen loot. One stab, two stabs, three, four, five, sixteen. When the light fades from the last guard's eyes, only then do I allow him to see what he has done.

And as though the scales have fallen from his eyes, the man looks in horror at what he's done. The knife clatters to the floor as he stumbles back, I stalk forward, raising my hand and calling out: "Accio wand!".

And with little pretense, my faithful holly-and-phoenix-feather wand zips out from under a pile of wands and into my outstretched hand. The Irishman blubbers.

"What are you?" He asks. "The voices, the voices! They were horrible..."

His words dribble out to infinitely, his sounds unintelligible. I survey my wand, and it's amazing, that this one thing and the tiniest bit of intent might bear the world to the edge of doom. Magic is intent and morality is action. But there's not to reason why, not now. So I point the wand at the muttering form.

"Avada Kedavra," I whisper as pale green light softly enters the man like a divine wind. He slumps.

Magic is intent, and morality is action.

So what does that make me?

"Got everything?" I ask, tightening the belt of my trousers and putting on my now black-and-red coat over it. I'll have to dye it once I get back to England. Seriously. Black and red? It's garish.

"I believe so," replies Lombardi, wearing one Hozhen's bodyguard's robes. "And you?"

"Uhh..." I trail off, looking for something that I might holster the pistols I stole off the pirate, alongside with the other two I had liberated to shoot those two guards dead. Rifling through a few tables, I find a second pistol belt, slinging it over one shoulder and fixing the guns through the two loops resting on my chest. "I do believe that should do it. So, what next, my intrepid assassins?"

Mercier narrows her eyes at me. "And now, we get the spear and topple the Dark Lord."

Amazing plan. Really.

"Well I reckon that's great and all, but how're we gonna do this in real life?" I ask, incredulous. "Killing a Dark Lord ain't something you just do. We need a plan."

"And how do you suppose we go about it, Mr. Potter?"

"Haven't the slightest clue," I answer, earning me two glares. "But I think I might know someone who does. It's all a matter of cornering them where they haven't any backup."

"Hullo there," I greet the hooded, white-robed woman, who shakes her head:

"I thought I told you to get out of here," she growls, her voice enticingly familiar. She then takes in the sight of both Mercier and Lombardi as they fade in around me. "And you freed other prisoners. They always told me you were wild one, Harry Potter."

"Joan of Arc over here threatened to scream for the guards if I didn't take her with me," I shrug casually.

"I did no such thi—" Mercier starts, offended, but Lombardi lays an arresting hand on her shoulder.

"The wop's her boyfriend," I finish, and now Mercier is the one to hold back Lombardi.

The Blood Mage laughs. "Charming one, isn't he?"

"The very best," drawls Mercier.

"So, you managed to sneak out from the dungeons and crowd me in a locked room," says the Blood Mage. "I don't know why you three are here, and I certainly don't know why you're speaking to me again, but the smart option would be to leave before Robards sounds the alarm."

"You know we can't do that," I say, crossing my arms.

I can feel, rather than see, the Blood Mage's glare. "Oh? And why is that?"

"The Spear. Its influence is not distance-based. If I want to free Ron or my lady-friend, we're gonna need that spear. And by my counting, that involves a dead Chinaman."

Her jaw clenches, the thoughts spin in her head furiously, and she answers: "What do you want from me?"

"A chance at your boss," I say, as though it's the simplest thing in the world.

"Are you insa—?" The Blood Mage begins, but is almost immediately drowned out by another voice:

"A splendid idea, Mr. Potter!" Thomas Robards smiles as he shuts a door behind him and strolls down the length of the dining room the four of us have gathered in. We whirl around and four wands are trained on the smug man, who continues to wear that acidic smirk. "And one, I think, that needs to be implemented."

"What!?" The Blood Mage shouts in a whisper, and I must confess, I'm confused as well. I chance a glance with my less-than-human companions and they look similarly befuddled.

"I do not believe I was talking to you, Preacher," says Robards. "I was saying that I agree with your judgment, Mr. Potter. I do tire of torturing people and the Spear is wasted on a dullard like Hozhen and his dreams of freeing China through slavery. We should take it from him, put it some real use."

The woman Blood Mage, 'Preacher' as he called her, stalks over to Robards, leans into his ear, and whispers something unintelligible. However, Robards clarifies just a second later:

"Chamberlaine," he begins loudly, to the mortification of the Preacher, "has heard the turn of events here in Siberia. He deems Hozhen unfit for our enterprise. In fact, he thinks there's someone much more valuable to the cause here."

"Not—" The Preacher starts.

"—Oh yes, Preacher. Oh yes."

I finally decide enough is enough. "Not that I don't love cryptic conversations, but do stop speaking in riddles before I have to shoot you both."

"What does it take to attain your loyalty for a certain period of time?" Asks Robards.

"Well, money's always nice," I reply to Robards's nod. "That and not cutting out my eye."

The Blood Mage laughs. "Are you still sour about that?"

"You took my aiming eye; my accuracy's all shot to shite because of you."

"I'm sure you'll manage," the man drawls. "After all, you are the 'Hero of England'."

"Funny thing that," I drawl in equal measure. "Nobody in England calls me such. In fact, I'm surprised they even remember my name half the time."

"How about we ensure that we'll do all we can to help you kill Hozhen. You three split the bounty on his head, and give us the spear. Believe me; six Blood Mages, a vampire and a werewolf could certainly kill off the old man. Especially if we do it at the right time." The Preacher says, and her plan ain't half-bad, but I don't trust Robards and I most definitely don't want to give up that spear. Not after all this.

"I don't like this," Lombardi warns.

"Well, neither do I," counters Robards. "But I think eight-on-one is better odds than three-on-one."

Better odds, indeed. I still don't trust Robards, but the Preacher hasn't led me wrong. There's something trustworthy about her. I'll have to make sure to land that killing blow on Hozhen because I need that Spear and I need to snap Ron and Tracey out of their daze quick if we're to keep that Spear. I feel a hand against my crossed arms and find the Preacher resting her hand there, like a little reminder of her kindness in freeing me. It's a little too intimate and I flinch away.

The Preacher makes no indication of having noticed it.

"Dunno about you guys, but it sounds like our best option," I say, hoping to hell this house of cards won't fall back on me. "Deal," I extend a hand out to the Preacher, who shakes it with surprising firmness.

"We have no choice," says Mercier. "We will follow."

"Good," Robards grins, an unsettling sight. "Follow us; we'll keep you out of the sight of rank-and-file."

He turns and strides back the way he came, leaving us to follow in his wake, unsure of where we're going and if we'll be alive at the end of the day.

"Nice place you have here," I say crossing through a heavy oaken door which Robards and the Preacher have led us to, undetected. "And where is here, exactly? I don't recall ever being in this building."

"We're in the armory spire," answers Mercier. "You and your little friends met us outside this building a fortnight ago."

"And Hozhen?"

"Main building, 'organizing the troops', got a long bridge to cross to get there," replies Robards. "Heavily guarded, too."

Lombardi looks dour. "So how are we supposed to get across it?"

"Don't worry about that," says the Preacher. "We'll get you across just fine."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

The Preacher makes a gruff noise of acceptance and walks past Robards into a cavernous anteroom, littered with what appears to be the standard-issue robes of Hozhen's guards, weapons of all shapes and sizes, and chests filled with god-knows-what. The Blood Mage skims past the robes, pirouettes by the swords and cudgels and axes, and finally stops by one of those chests in the way-way-back.

With a wave of her hand, the lock of the chest clicks open to The Preacher's will, and inside I spot the translucent glow of something silvery. And then, she pulls them out, layer-after-layer, sheet-after-sheet of invisibility cloaks. Of course they'd have invisibility cloaks. It occurs to me then that I hadn't packed my own invisibility cloak. Which was really stupid on my part.

I really should prep better next time. If there's a next time.

"Put these on, you three," the Preacher jogs back over and hands one to each of us.

"Are there no detectors in the main complex that we could get in simply with invisibility cloaks?" Asks Lombardi, inspecting the silvery material with a critical eye.

Robards shrugs. "There may be, but there are Hozhen's little worker bees buzzing around the entrances right now, and you'll be following us. Even if the detectors weren't disabled for all the people coming and going at once right now, they wouldn't dare check us."

"You're sure about that?" I question. "Because if this goes screwy, I've got my wand on you and you'll be long dead to enjoy capturing me again."

"Believe you me," says Robards, for once without a trace of amusement or whimsy, "if I wanted any of you three in the dungeons right now, you would be there. If I wanted you crippled, I would have taken your arms and legs instead of one measly eye. If I wanted to cause you true pain, I could think of worse things than chains for a werewolf; I could think of worse than the Cruciatus for a blood mage; and I could certainly think of far worse punishment for a vampire, and especially a vampire woman. Threaten all you want; you're only alive because I deemed it so."

None of those alive because 'he deemed it so' look particularly pleased, least of all Mercier, who must have caught the double meaning to Robards' aside about her. Vampire and impassive she may usually be, but she is one of the world's best bounty hunters, and I'm certain she's not about to take lip like that. However, any and all tension is immediately defused by Robards' female counterpart:

"Always one for drama, aren't you, Thomas?" She deadpans with a long-suffering sigh, before turning to me. "You will get into the main building with no trouble, I swear it. What happens after that, however, is entirely up to you three. Now, are we ready to leave?"

I look around at all the unused weapons, and then spot something small and butterfly-shaped along a table far removed from the rest of the armory. And quite suddenly, an idea formulates in my head. "Not quite yet. I think I have a few more things to search through, and then we'll be off."

"What are you thinking of?" The Preacher asks.

I smile. "Something that might save China from invasion."

The large, menacing doors I remember from our introduction to this place open and shut behind us, and we're immediately drawn into a throng of five-hundred men. Gone are the tables and streamers from the party, rafters and scaffolding in its place, as if the group had been fortifying the dome with wooden planks. Gone are the waiters and waitresses. As far as the eye can see, from wall to wall of the dome, are men and women dressed in the armor of Hozhen's bodyguards. No one takes notice of us, even as I All of them surround a raised dais, where Hozhen sits on simple, hard-backed chair.

He really is something else. He carries himself as a man of the people, though I'm still not sure would he rather be king.

"Tonight is the night," Robards remarks. "Seems as though you three escaped just in time. If you can't stop him tonight, Hozhen will take this army of his and march into China. And I'm sure you'll never get your friends back, should he crown himself king of an entire country."

That kicks my arse in gear. I survey the crowd for any sign of Ron's shock orange hair but find nothing. There are too many men. I've been prepared for situations like this, however, and draw in a deep breath. Finding your friend in a crowd of hostiles is no different than finding an enemy in a crowd of friendlies. The only difference is that I'll have to be more careful.

I open myself up to the currents, which is what Nicholas P. Danziger, author of Zen and Magic: A Guide to Harmony Between Wizard and Nature, called them. Hermione had recommended as a light bit of reading during the rainy March of 1999 when Ron had come ill with Dragonpox and she and I were left to take care of the oaf. I can still remember Hermione's explanation:

"...Nature knows all, it's the soul of the world. And Danziger states that man and nature are inexorably intertwined," she stated foppishly, standing over the couch I laid on with her hands on her hips, "by process of meditation and magic, a man can augment his own senses with Nature's perspective."

Of course, as Hermione would later go on to state, it was all speculative, as few (if any) ever found success with Zen and Magic. I live, however, to make the impossible possible, and you could imagine little miss bookworm's surprise at that.

I've been using it quite frequently lately, and this time is no different, sounds become crisper, sight goes further. I know that I probably won't hear him, but with magic reinforcing my godawful sight, I'm able to pick out a mop of red hair in the crowd, and, instinctively, I can tell Tracey's standing next to him. Now that I know where the two are, I start moving within the crowd, paying little attention to Mercier and Lombardi, who make to follow.

Creeping along the outer-edge of the crowd and pressed into the vaulting walls of the dome, I reach into my pack and pull out several lumps of clay. Or, at least, what looks like several clumps of clay. These puppies are Tessler Bombs, a unique blend of powders and potions to create a "stable" bomb. That is, the bomb is stable until you shoot it up with some magic, and then it blows up something fierce. Placing it along the walls, I have to hope that the plan works. The Preacher and Robards are with us, but their Blood Mage friends are about to set off a distraction at the base of the volcano. So as to keep his army intact, Hozhen will try to move the brainwashed out and keep only his most loyal to check on the disturbance. When everyone is gone, I will draw Hozhen into a fight, along with Mercier and Lombardi.

Hopefully, we can get to the spear and daze Hozhen long enough to get out of the building and at a safe distance where we can detonate the building. Hopefully old Hozhen won't even know what's coming.

So in a circle we go, planting Tessler Bombs at the north, east, west, and south ends of the dome as Hozhen stands to speak:

"I was born," he begins, "in a small town not too far from Shangri-La. It was nestled in the mountains, and we were known for our hard labor. Our proximity to several iron-ore rich mines gave us several steel mills. Our rice was second to none. I can still taste it. It was a fine place, filled with fine people."

One Tessler bomb is in place. I look around surreptitiously, so as to ascertain whether or not I have attracted any attention. Thankfully, I have not, so I slide around a burly-looking Ukrainian and continue on.

"But, something had changed after the People's Revolution," Hozhen said. "First, it was the muggles, then, fifteen years later, an even more brutal regime took over us wizards. And my village? No longer was it fine; no longer was it filled with fine people. Within months, our rice-fields had been exchanged for weapons factories, our food tins of hard-bitten rations. Beaten-down men, men I'd later find out were political dissidents, came and took over the mines. They were beaten, underfed, forced to break rock, and at night, they were sent to their camps, that no one from the press knew of, and no one from the village dare speak of."

This story of his begins to break down my concentration. What is he talking about, and why is he talking about it?

"I was a sheepherder. And once, when tending to my father's flock, I stumbled upon a man who had escaped from the quarry. Half-dead from exhaustion, I took pity on him, though I knew he was a 'criminal'. I gave him water from my own canteen, and never, never had I heard so grateful a thank-you from another person. I tried to bring him back to my home, dodging the soldiers looking for the man. My father, who had taught me to be distrustful of the new regime's soldiers, took the man in. He was a scholar, a writer, and because he spoke out against the government, he was sent to the quarry in my hometown."

I plant the last Tessler Bomb, leaving a few to spare, and make my way through the crowd, melting into the middle with Mercier and Lombardi not too far away. I keep one eye on Ron and Tracey on the other side of Hozhen's overgrown soapbox.

"The soldiers eventually found out; we were betrayed by our neighbors. I watched them drag my father and this innocent man to the edge of this quarry. And do you know what they did? They bound them, gagged them, and made them stand as four soldiers took aim at them and cast the killing curse. I will never forget seeing my father fall over the edge of that quarry. I will never forget seeing a scholar, a man who should be respected, fall with him.

"Is that a country that should be allowed to continue? Is that a nation we want to cast our lot with as world grows smaller?"

"NO!" A large chorus rushes through the crowd, surprising myself and Lombardi, who stands relatively close by.

"And yet, there are enemies among us, that would see those atrocities perpetuated, are there not, Harry Potter?"

Hozhen raises the spear and the crowd opens up before me, parting as the Red Sea to raised dais. And at the end of the path awaits Hozhen with a placid smile, my own twisted pillar of cloud and fire. "Come, Mr. Potter," he says. "You have escaped my dungeons, and I assume you itch to fight me."

More than you know, you miserable piece of shite. But, of course, I don't say that, and merely walk toward the man and lift myself over the dais. The path that had been parted for me is immediately closed by Hozhen's brain-slaves.

"Here he is, the man who defeated Lord Voldemort," Hozhen sneers at Voldemort's name. "Rest assured, Mr. Potter, I am nothing like that man. He was a fool who sought nothing but power. I stand for much more than he, and you will not stop me."

He turns to the crowd theatrically, facing away from me. God, he's about to do some grandiose philosophical speech isn't he? Why is it that all bad guys need a sob story and a philosophy for me to empathize with them? Why can't bad guys just be bad anymore? It's a real pain. Sure, Hozhen might think Voldemort was a fool, but at least the man knew himself. Hozhen, the man enslaving people to fight for freedom just doesn't have that kind of self-awareness, does he?

"This is the modern man," Hozhen sneers, indicating me behind him as he heads to the other end of the platform. "The hero Europe manufactures, a puppet led to destroy the very notion of freedom, who culls beautiful revolutions, a man who just won't give mankind a chance."

Oh, God. Here we go, Harry Potter is the big bad European, here to colonize the world and strangle it with his Imperialist order. And here's Hozhen, the champion of freedom, patron of the arts, lover of mankind. I've lived an eventful life, even at 24, and I've had enough of men justifying their actions and their speeches of causes and ideals. I want this man dead and I want to sleep in my bed in Birmingham. So, to keep Hozhen on his toes, I whip out my wand and intone "Avada Kedavra" at the man, just so he could dodge it and get to the real fighting.

But, then, something amazing happens. Hozhen is so caught up in his speech, he doesn't notice the green light sailing for his back, and it strikes him softly. The Dark Lord freezes for the longest moment, and then slumps over, falling off the dais and into the crowd that had been straining toward him, hanging on every word.

Silence rings throughout the dome. No one moves, none of the brain-slaves can comprehend what do without Hozhen's orders and I am struck with one thought: That's it?

That's fucking it!?

The man who made the last fortnight utter hell for me didn't even get a spell in edgewise? THIS is the great and fearsome Hozhen? Unbe-fucking-lievable. I live for a good fight, and I thought Hozhen was it. All that build-up, and for what?

Nothing.

Jesus.

Suddenly, I have the presence of mind to check my surroundings and find Hozhen's lackeys, not the brain-slaves, but his original guards trying to push through the catatonic crowds toward myself and Lombardi and Mercier, who have just joined me on the dais. I make a dash for the spear, snatching it up. The metal is cool to the touch, even though Hozhen gripped it like a fiend mere moments earlier. There is a sense of calmness that invades me, as if I'm touching a facet of divinity, or, if not divinity, extremely powerful, extremely light magic. It feels nothing like The Power, though they accomplish more or less the same goal.

It's amazing.

I hoist the blade above my head and try to force my magic into it, to disable the control Hozhen had over the party-goers. The remnants of Hozhen's magic attempt to claw on to their hold of the men and women in front of me, but I burst through it like a tidal wave through a beaver's dam. And just as suddenly, I retreat my magic, allowing the brain-slaves to drop the 'slave' part.

Groans erupt all across the crowd as I do so, but I only look for two faces. Ron and Tracey clutch at their heads, Tracey balancing herself on Ron's shoulder. Several streaks of light fly through the crowd and I turn to see Robards and the Preacher systematically downing the guards headed my way. The preacher looks up and indicates for us to come over.

I lean over to Mercier and Lombardi. "Run."

Not needing to be told twice, Team Werepire sprints off the dais with me as I head in the direction of Ron and Tracey, stopping first to sever a finger from Hozhen's hand to prove I did indeed kill the man for future payment purposes. I hear a distinct "Damn it!" coming from Robards. When we reach Ron and Tracey, I set of several off the Tessler Bombs by the Preacher and Robards.

Tracey and Ron still look dazed. "Come on, chop chop, no time to waste you two!" I shout, dragging them both with me. Tracey is the first to regain her bearings:

"Potter?" She questions confusedly. "What the fuck happened to you?" She indicates the eyepatch.

"Two weeks of torture, that's what, now run you arseholes!" I push them ahead. Ron turns back, now completely lucid:

"What happened to you?"

"We'll talk about it when we're in the clear. Now make like the Vampire," I say, as Mercier passes by us, "and bloody run!"

"Where!?" Shouts Tracey, "we're headed towards a wall!"

Oh ye of little faith! I send a little magic toward the wall and detonate another Tessler Bomb, knocking the offending pile of rock over. The dome rumbles precariously and the other members of Hozhen's slave army get restless, stampeding toward the exit. I look back and find The Preacher and Robards trying to avoid being trampled by the raging coterie. We sprint out into the cold morning air, the sun just under the horizon.

We immediately stop, though, crashing into one another, as Mercier keeps us from falling over the edge of the solid rock Hozhen's dome was built on and into the volcano below. We have to get around the side of the building to get to the bridge that leads us to Hozhen's forest. So, naturally, I take the lead, and being more nimble than my compatriots (with the exception of the vampire, most likely) skirt around the small ledge in front of the crumbling walls of the dome. Tracey and the Werewolf follow behind, with Mercier and Ron bringing up the rear. After what feels like century, I see the bridge where many of the liberated slaves are rushing out the main doors.

A jet of yellow light hits the rock just above me, causing a few to tumble down and nearly causes Tracey to fall over the edge. Only quick reflexes allow me to catch her arm before Tracey ends up pancake by Hozhen's vault. I hoist her up relatively easily as another spell nearly connects. I look over to see a Blood Mage, though one that is neither The Preacher or Robards.

With a curse, I quickly survey a small gap between the ledge and the bridge and jump, landing into a sprint toward the blood mage. He deflects a stunner I send at him, but he's too slow to down me before I reach him. He raises up his arm to cast but I catch the arm and jam my palm hard into his elbow, fracturing the bone immediately. He cries out in pain and I take advantage of the momentary distraction to shove him over the edge of the bridge, listening to the man's screams.

Just then, I am jostled by a group of Southeast Asian pirates and lose my footing, sent sprawling to the ground. the spear falls out of my grasp. In a flash, however, a hand grabs my own, and there's Ron, hoisting me up, handing me the spear back, and pushing me into a sprint.

"Thanks mate!" I call.

Ron grins. "Always got your six, Harry."

Oh, touché, Ron! If only you had my six when you stabbed me in the back. Prick.

I'm not bitter. Really.

Any time to dwell on that, however, is lost when several more Blood Mages seem to pop out of the woodwork and start on the chase, with The Preacher and Robards running anchor.

"Fuck me," I growl, shoving past the Russian sailors Ron had been playing cards with a fortnight ago. At the end of the long bridge is that gate, which has already, thankfully, been breached by the crowd, which had quickly gone from confused to angry, mobbing out the gate. I pass by a guard who's getting the ever-loving brains smashed out of his head with a large rock by a beast of a man. I almost pity the poor bastard. Almost.

Past the gate is the long stairway down the volcano, and fortunately, we're too far ahead at this point. I think. It doesn't keep me from sprinting down the stairs with all my might, however. After some long minutes, we reach the ground and continue toward the forest, a large expanse of tall green that may hopefully shield us.

"Tracey!" I call. "Have you got a way out of here?"

Tracey laughs. "Got a portkey! The guards managed not to find it!"

"How?" Ron questions, mirroring the same questioning look on Lombardi's face.

Tracey gives the redhead a coquettish smile. "We have more hiding places than men."

Ron pinkens and shakes his head. "I don't even want to know what that means."

"Two minutes 'til London!" Tracey shouts. Ron shakes his head again, though this time more to clear his head than an expression of disbelief.

And just as well Ron shook his head, as a red light grazed by the redhead. I turn back to find five blood mages converging on us. "Set the portkey on timer, we can't afford to wait, we'll keep running until it's ready!" I turn back and unholster the stolen pistol, aiming for Robards. He dives out of the way as I fire, but it catches a big, burly motherfucker right in the chest, and it's enough to send the man tumbling to the ground. Pleased with my work, I continue sprinting as Mercier, Lombardi, and Tracey send a volley of spells, only Mercier's connects with a tall woman, but as it is a stunner, she won't be out of commission for long.

Ron, however, is cleverer than all of us, and once again makes use of the Anemoi branch of spells, using the Eurus spell to conjure a fog around the Blood Mages. Hopefully we can lose them while they totter around blindly in the fog.

"Thirty seconds!" Tracey calls as we burst out of the forest and back into the Siberian cold. We all cluster around her and her portkey, a fat English galleon. Each touching the coin, we await the inevitable naval tug and pull out of Russia and back to the goodly realm of England.

Of course, knowing my luck, that doesn't hold.

"Harry!" Ron cries, as I turn to see a red streak hit my arm holding the spear. The blade goes flying away into the snow and the Blood Mages advance.

"Ten seconds, Harry," Tracey says dubiously. I sprint off like a horse from a gunshot and slide through the snow, curling my fingers around the spear. Jinxes and hexes and one killing curse whiz by me as I stand. "Five seconds!" Tracey shrieks.

I dodge another hex and sprint back reaching out for anyone, anything, but the moment I am about to touch Lombardi's back, they spin out of existence, leaving only snow, the spear, and three angry Blood Mages.

I am alone.

"Give it up, Potter!" Robards shouts. "It was a good try, and that impresses me. So, in my generosity, I say: if you give it to us, we'll let you slink off with your life."

A flick of the wrist and my wand is in my hand. "Fat fucking chance, Robards." I raise the spear.

"Didn't work on you," says Robards. "Doesn't work on us."

The Preacher, however, walks toward me. Slowly, but cautiously. "Back up, or I turn you into paste," I growl at her. But she continues on, heedless of my warning. Her hands go to her hood, the hood that has been covering her face the whole of the time I have known her, and she lowers the fabric. Angelic hair, flaxen and silky gives way to smooth tan skin and hauntingly familiar sea-green eyes. I drop my wand. It can't be.

"Do you see me?" She asks, standing eye-to-eye with me.

I don't respond—can't respond. How? How?

"Do you see me?" She repeats. "What do you see?"

"H—Hannah?"

"Give me the spear," Hannah Abbott, my former fiancée holds her hand out expectantly. Too astonished to do anything, I keep a firm grip of the Spear. "You always were stubborn, Harry." She smiles, and that smile is my undoing; I let the spear crash to the floor with my wand, my arm falling back limply to my side. She bends over and picks up the discarded metal.

"How?" I ask softly, drinking in the vision before me. I mourned her. For a year-and-a-half, I mourned this woman, and her she is before me, as living as she ever was. "Why?"

Hannah's gaze is soft and sad. "Someday, you'll understand, Harry. Go home. Stay home. Forget this ever happened."

With that, she turns away and looks toward the Blood Mage I don't recognize. "Stay here and make sure he apparates away. If he attacks, do not engage, you will die. Apparate to Point B if he attacks, and Point A if he leaves."

"Yes, Ma'am," says the mook. Hannah turns to Robards, who smiles that ugly smile:

"Come now, Preacher," he says. "Chamberlaine's not a man to be kept waiting."

Hannah nods, and closes her eyes for a moment. A moment later, with an unholy crack, she and Robards are gone.

Suddenly, the hurt, the confusion, the shock, it all fades away and I am left with burning anger. How dare she leave me to mourn a living woman? How dare she join up with these Blood Mages? I don't care what she wants; I loved her, and I will not simply forget. And so it is settled, I will use this waste of space in front of me to find her.

"Leave," says the resident 'Waste of Space', aiming his wand at me.

I make to comply, slowly lowering for my wand. He jerks, readying himself to bolt just in case. I raise my arms outwards, a sign of peace. Slowly, I pick up the wooden stick and start to back away. When I do that, the man makes his fatal mistake. He relaxes. And I pounce.

I apparate right in front of him and knock his wand away, but don't attack any further, waiting for the man to apparate. He's not the brightest of people, so he apparates, and I latch onto the surprised man's arm for a ride to God-knows-where.

The Blood Mage hits the ground in a heap and mews in pain. I quickly understand why; both his opposite arm and leg are missing. The man's gone and bloody splinched himself! I guess I should count my lucky stars I didn't end up like him. I try to ignore him and survey my surroundings, but his cries get louder, and I'm not sure anyone's nearby. So I really, really need to shut him up. So I crouch before he can scream, grasp his head firmly, and twist sharply. A satisfying snap puts an end to that man's pathetic attempt to alert any allies.

I look up, finding myself in the craggy base of a mountain at daybreak. When I am sure no-one is around, I start to descend; the incline gently slopes to a landing of sorts at the confluence of two mountains. In the distance, among green plains and green hills, I spy waterfalls, and trees, and a city I can hardly believe is real it's so beautiful, nestled between the mountains and a rushing river, hidden from the eyes of muggles, heading no doubt straight to the Indian Ocean.

Enhancing my sight with magic, I can spot Hannah and Robards making their way into the city. I'll need to get down there and find the two and this Chamberlaine they speak of so often. If nothing else, there is a Spear that still needs reclaiming.

So I make my way down the Kunlun mountains and toward Shangri-La, China's premier magical city, tired, alone and completely unsure as to whether I'll live to see the end of this particular adventure.

A/N: Whew, that was a doozy, it was. I just wrote the final 3,000 words in a night and quickly went over it, so forgive me if there are any egregious typos within the chapter. Someone guessed in a review that the Blood Mage who freed Harry is Hannah. Congratulations, you were right! The circumstances of Hannah's death was deliberately vague for this reason; it's also the reason why the body was never found. The full story as to how Hannah got mixed up with people like Robards will be told in a few chapters. There's also Chamberlaine figure. Wonder who he is.

Hozhen: It amuses me to no end that people thought Hozhen was to end up being a major antagonist, when, in fact, I had originally wanted to build the man up over several chapters as an honorable but formidable antagonist, but it ended up bogging down this chapter. So, my solution was to kill him anti-climactically, and I think the way it happened was fucking hilarious. Harry's disbelieving reaction is intended to mirror the reader's.

Odin's Revenge: Odin is a one-eyed god, Harry's a one-eyed man: he gets revenge. Sort of. The chapter is entitled bury the hatchet as Harry was originally supposed to kill Hozhen with a transfigured axe, but hey, I think the way it worked out is funner.

Black and Red: Harry's aversion to black and red is a fandom poke; as most stories are written with Harry (or insert protagonist from every fandom ever) loving black and red and trenchcoats and being a pretentious Hot Topic douche in general. Due to this, MB!Harry despises black and red, and it will bother him for quite some time until he can get his robes re-dyed.

Abbott: Abbot is a monk, particularly at the head of an abbey. Hence the reason why Robards continually refers to Hannah as "Preacher".

"Why can't bad guys just be bad?": Harry bemoans any antagonist with a noble ideal and would very much prefer it to be black-and-white with the antagonists. Spoiler Alert: It won't be.

Next chapter will start with Harry returning to Birmingham and then flashback into his time in China, so don't freak out and think you missed a chapter when you see Harry palling around with Hermione and Lauren at the beginning of next chapter.

Thanks for reading,
Geist.

P.S.: Give my new HP fic, "Babylon Unbound" a gander, would you kindly? It's certainly not a comedy, but if you like noir and mystery, I think you might like it. Please read it would you kindly?

P.P.S.: Yes that is a Bioshock reference.