AN: And here's Chapter 10. Enjoy - MB

Even after having been inside the Imperial Court over a dozen times, Harry never failed to be awed at its impressiveness.

With high inner arches carved of white marble and high towers of grey stone, the Imperial Palace, Nova Britannia's finest and quickest architectural project sat on the artificially created islet in the centre of the Nova Britannia archipelago. It connected to all six islands by means of suspended bridges, and stood out as the only building noticeable from all six islands if one was standing on any of the six beaches looking inward.

It was truly the Empire's crown jewel.

And now, standing in the Imperial Audience Hall, Harry once again felt humbled by the experience, despite knowing he was probably going to be relaying bad news. He hadn't read the report yet, having been too busy with taking care of his wife, but ultimately had his gut instinct screaming at him that it couldn't be good news.

His thoughts were interrupted when the herald by the entrance exclaimed, "Her Imperial Majesty, Queen Elizabeth III!"

Like everyone else in the hall, with the exception of the guards, who raised their rifles in salute, Harry bowed low in the direction of the Queen, rotating ever so slightly to match her approximate location until she was seated on the dynastic King Edward's Chair, newly renovated and once again, fully gilded with golden images of lions and the Protestant cross.

"You may rise," declared Elizabeth calmly, if imperiously, marvelling Harry at how well she'd adapted to her role as sovereign.

After her prompt, however, he quickly straightened up, along with the rest of the small crowd in the Audience Hall, all hoping to be heard. Harry could see a group of delegates from the Imperial Central Parliament whispering amongst themselves, as well as his fellow peers, the Earls of Calgary and Kingstown, discussing something in very hushed tones. Over by the other side of the red carpet that led to the throne, Harry also recognized several of the wealthiest merchants in Nova Britannia.

"Everything alright, Harry?"

Harry turned his attention to his wife and nodded pleasantly. Though still weak from her recovery, Ginny was still well enough to assist him in their functions. She also served as an independent voice in matters of intelligence as well, being a former spy. He also knew that, to his right, stood his other chosen assistant, Colonel Sharpe.

"Hmm," he said noncommittally. "Lots of people here today," he observed quietly. After all, that was the way things were done in court.

Colonel Sharpe glanced around him and nodded briefly, sneering as he saw some of the local defeatists there as well. "Scum and citizens," he agreed.

Ginny looked at Sharpe reproachfully. "Not here, Colonel Wolfe. You are here as the guest of my husband."

"Apologies, Madam Duchess," mumbled Sharpe in apology. Ginny gave Sharpe a wry smile before nodding in acceptance.

Harry, for his part, had his eyes locked on a particular figure standing behind and slightly to the left of the throne.

Dumbledore.

Even now, Harry couldn't help the surge of rage that immediately rushed through his veins. Only a quick, hard squeeze to his hand from Ginny restrained him from moving in for the kill.

Eventually, however, he had to push down his feelings as the Queen raised her hand for silence. Once the crowd had quieted, Elizabeth nodded in satisfaction.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Let us get this day's Court in order, then," she announced. Her eyes sought out and found Harry's group and, for a moment, Harry could've sworn that something had flashed through the teenage Queen's eyes as she saw Ginny at his side.

"My dear Halifax," she addressed him directly. "I understand you have news from the relief mission up north?"

Harry nodded and, giving his wife a soft hand squeeze back, stepped forward and, breaking the seal on the letter, took it out and read it aloud.

"To Your Most Gracious Majesty, Queen Elizabeth III of the British Empire," began Harry. "As per Your Majesty's orders, I, Colonel Christian Moore, led elements of the Fourth Legion to mount a relief mission to the Third Legion, with whom we lost contact some time ago in Empire's Helm…"

Slowly, the five companies of soldiers, all dressed in white winter camouflage, their only distinguishing mark the brown shield badges on their upper left arm sleeve. All had their rifles up cautiously, their eyes darting every which way as they moved closer and closer towards the Imperial-held entrance to Empire's Helm.

In the midst of the moving conglomeration, Colonel Christian Moore moved just as stealthily and quietly as his men, his white-painted pistol out as he hushed orders to the appropriate sergeants.

Slowly, the rescue element got to the entrance, and Moore felt his heart fall as he witnessed the sight before him.

"Upon reaching the entrance, we were met with a most disheartening sight. The Imperial outpost that had once been the site of many a guard unit was now a smouldering ruin."

Moore shook his head as he looked down at the charred bodies of what had once been redcoats. In morbid fascination he looked up to see a particular skeleton hang loosely form a tree branch that had obviously pierced his/her chest.

"What the bloody hell happened here?" shouted one of his men.

"Quiet that man!" barked Moore instantly as he raised his pistol at his surroundings, his men following shortly. After making sure that no ambush was about to spring out at them and do the same as they did to the poor men and women who'd guarded the outpost with their lives, Moore finally lowered his pistol, though he did not holster it.

Glancing over to a random sergeant, Moore nudged his head towards the bodies. "Form a burial detail. Take your pick of seven and give these poor lads a proper burial."

The sergeant nodded grimly before turning and quickly picking his seven "volunteers."

Sitting on a nearby tree trunk, Moore put his head in his hands and sighed, frustrated.

"Looks like we're too late," he said aloud to himself.

"Sir?"

Moore looked up to see a young man standing before him.

"What is it, soldier?" asked Moore tiredly.

"Sir, the lads and I found something odd," mentioned the soldier.

Moore raised an eyebrow. "Odd how?"

The soldier shifted uncomfortably. "Well, tracks, sir. Leading to where the bodies were."

Moore looked frustrated now. "Of course there would be tracks, soldier! They had to rush back from their patrol to defend the outpost!"

The soldier shook his head. "No, sir! Not from outside the valley. The tracks are coming from the valley!"

Moore goggled at the man. "You're telling me these men ran?"

The soldier shifted again. "It…would appear so, sir!"

Moore rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Headquarters is not going to like this."

"I could not believe, Your Majesty, that Imperial soldiers would run from their commitment—from their comrades, friends, and duty, in such a shameful manner; and, for a moment, I considered halting the burial procedure—for no traitor should ever be served with such respect."

"Sir, please stay calm!" begged a sergeant. "We don't know the full story!"

Moore was furious. He'd dragged his men halfway around the world to see deserters get what they deserved? "I know enough! These men deserted their place and ran like cowards!"

"Sir, no Imperial weapon can do this sort of damage!" implored another sergeant.

That stopped him. Moore considered this as the sergeants sighed in relief.

It was true. No Imperial weapon to his knowledge could cause this sort of damage. Perhaps a more thorough investigation was in order, then?

"Sir!"

Moore turned his head to see the group of scouts he'd sent ahead run back towards the main detachment. The leader of the group, a corporal, jogged up to him and saluted.

"Sir, we found more bodies!" he reported.

Moore's heart fell. More Imperial bodies? "Where?" he asked quickly.

The corporal pointed down the path. "Right after the turn there. Tons of them. Looks like the Third was in full retreat."

Moore was stumped. What was going on? What had made Colonel Longbottom—long known as a bastion of strength and stubbornness in the Imperial Officer Corps (to the point where he was known as "Steadfast Nev" by the public)—retreat this way? Moore felt his bones chill.

"We need to get down there," he declared quickly. "We need to find the rest of the Third."

The sergeants seemed sceptical at this, but agreed anyway. Moore was grateful. Common soldiers usually followed orders far easier if the sergeants agreed with them. For once, Moore cursed himself for not being as popular with the troops as the Duke of Halifax.

"Alright, ten men scout the road ahead. We'll follow with the rest. Leave five behind as a rearguard," he ordered.

Once the appropriate teams were made, with one of the sergeants staying behind, Moore turned to the man and gave his final orders. "If anything comes up behind us, give a volley then retreat to find us. Do not stand and engage," he stressed. "This position is not defensible."

The sergeant nodded at the orders and saluted, which Moore returned.

Looking around him to the gathered men, Moore nodded and shouted the order to advance.

"…and so we moved down the road. As the scouting party had reported, we came across masses of bodies, leaving us to believe that part of the Third was in full retreat when they were cut down. However, the number we found did not total up to the entire Third, and so we decided to continue down to the Helm, ready to engage any enemy of the Crown…"

Moore held up a fist as the man in point did the same. Instantly, the whole detachment halted.

Moving forward to the point-man, he asked, "What is it, soldier?"

"Smoke," said the soldier, pointing to the pillar of said black smoke that was rising ahead. Unfortunately, all they could see was the top of the pillar, as the rest was occluded by mountains.

Moore nodded. Turning around, he made hand signs to indicate the smoke, then gave the order to resume movement.

"…I decided, Your Majesty, to continue nonetheless, despite knowing, in my heart, that the base at Empire's Helm was no more. The pillar of smoke—herald most vile of our defeat—merely gave me more impetus to find out what had happened—what army had been responsible for our men's tragic end. We were, however, not ready for what we found…"

Moore stared. There was nothing else he could do, after all.

And so Moore stared.

Behind him, he absently heard someone retching, and felt the man's disgust as if it were his own.

After all, what else could you do when you found yourself standing in a field covered with British dead?

"What happened here?" he heard one of the sergeants whisper in horror.

"I don't know," admitted Moore as he stared, wide-eyed, at the field of horrors before him.

"This wasn't a battle, it was a bloody blood bath!" he heard a soldier cry out in anguish.

"Quiet that man!" ordered Moore instantly. The last thing he wanted was a full-scale panic. After all, the Third was made of elites—what chance had they against a foe that so easily took down one of the Empire's greatest fighting forces?

Hours later, the detachment had begun collecting the dead and massing them next to a ditch a group of the rescuers were beginning to dig as a grave.

At the same time, Moore was meeting with his sergeants.

"Anyone have an estimate?" asked Moore quietly.

"Approximately three quarters of the Third are accounted for," replied one of the sergeants quietly and gravely. "That's not counting those that are most likely pulverized out of existence."

Moore nodded and one of the sergeants lit up a cigarette. "We checked out the fort, too," claimed that man.

"And?"

"Nothing. The entire garrison was slaughtered. No one left alive."

"And Colonel Longbottom?" asked Moore.

"Missing," grunted another sergeant. "He wasn't with the bodies in the field, or in the fort."

Moore didn't know whether that comforted him or not. "Weaponry?"

"No wands," answered the first sergeant. "Couldn't find a single, non-Imperial wand."

"Death Eaters probably took them with them," dismissed the second sergeant.

Moore looked sceptical, but said nothing. "It's odd, though," put in the third sergeant.

"What is, sergeant?"

"Did anyone else see any footprints leading towards the fort?"

Harry was pale now as he continued reading, noticing peripherally that the entire Court was sombre, and that many a woman in it was weeping.

"…indeed, as Sergeant Cooper had noticed, we could not find any footprints that would lead us to believe that an army assaulted the fort. We are stumped, Your Majesty. At this moment, we are finishing burial preparations for our fallen Third comrades. My estimates dictate that we should be returning back to base in five days. Ever loyal, signed Colonel Christian Moore, Fourth Imperial Legion."

With that, Harry silently folded up the letter as the court erupted in whispers and indignant cries.

"Halifax," stated Elizabeth loudly, silencing her court as all eyes fell on Harry. "What make you of this report? What action should we take?"

Harry thought for a moment before answering. "Your Majesty, Empire's Helm, while a fantastic foothold in capturing more Canadian territory, is not vital," he declared. "In fact, in taking Empire's Helm, it required our men to go behind enemy lines—and thus, beyond allied support—and safely traverse it to enter the valley. We should, in my opinion, abandon Empire's Helm and launch an attack further up. Preferably, against Montreal."

Sounds of agreement permeated the room, and Elizabeth herself seemed willing to accept this. Dumbledore, however, moved forward. "And what of movement east?" he asked.

"How so, Dumbledore?" asked Elizabeth. She was observing the older man carefully, as if finally weighing his usefulness to her. While she knew full well that the older wizard disliked her on principle, she had nonetheless hired him in a show of independent decision-making, which had been her intention; she wanted everyone to know she was not the puppet of anyone in her staff; that she was master of her person and mind.

The elderly wizard straightened up. "While I can understand attacking the Death Eaters and capturing lost Imperial territories, perhaps we should also launch the first of a series of attacks on the Death Eaters in Europe. I'm sure that, with careful negotiations, we could also convince the Irish to join the Imperial cause and rebel against their Death Eater oppressors."

The capture of the Irish island five months ago had been a harsh blow to the Imperial cause. Unfortunately, the Death Eaters had been smart about it, and so Nova Britannia had failed to hear of its capture until a few days ago, when a boat filled with refugees finally arrived at the new British capital.

"We hold no territory in that area, however," protested Harry. "McDonald holds Gibraltar, and he won't recognize the Crown's authority."

"A problem in and of itself!" inserted one of the Parliament delegates, much to the agreement of his peers. "The rebels must be brought down first before we can safely expand our borders once more!"

"My company has already lost seven ships due to O'Connor, and we've been outright blocked from trading with our European allies by McDonald's fleet!" added one of the wealthy merchants in the room amongst the rising volume of agreement.

"At what cost?" protested one of the men Sharpe had termed 'defeatists.' "Can we really impose our will on McDonald's lands? Or O'Connor, for that matter?"

"Is the honourable sir saying we should just abandon those lands to pirates?" demanded one of the merchants. "Their existence is an affront to our Empire—a tarnishing ink blot on our name!"

"The honourable sir would have us believe that the pirates are a menace to our every day way of life," shot back the protester. "But how great a threat can they both be if they have to resort to piracy to sustain their military?"

"Don't mistake disgraceful methodology for weakness, sir," intruded Sharpe sharply. "O'Connor was a decorated officer of the Royal Navy before the coup. McDonald was equally decorated in the Army. Neither man is incompetent, and both have been known to use underhanded tactics as preludes for all out assaults."

The dissenting man and his group snorted or sighed derisively and dismissively, respectively. "Please. Why would they?" asked their leader. "They have achieved the independence they wanted, no?"

Sharpe shook his head. "Hardly," he stated snidely. "McDonald and O'Connor don't just want independence—they want to use a vacant throne as justification for their ambitions, so as to make it easier for their soldiers to swallow some of the actions they take. With Her Majesty on the throne, their position is threatened, even from within."

"Your Grace, what do you think?" asked Elizabeth towards Harry, quickly interceding in the argument before it got too heated. Regardless, it wasn't as if any of this was legally binding. Whatever they discussed here, she would simply use to determine a general policy, but the specifics would ultimately fall to Parliament, who could still scrub the policy, if it was deemed unfeasible. It was a statement to how much Harry was respected, however, that he was asked rather than Sulu, who didn't seem fazed by this.

Harry cupped his chin with his hand while he thought. "O'Connor is a pest, I will grant you that," Harry conceded. "He is, however, also well-armed. Not as well as us, granted, but well enough to be worrisome, if left well enough alone."

Harry glanced at Ginny for a moment and, receiving a smile in return from his wife, straightened up and turned completely towards the Queen. "Furthermore, the only fleet we have in the area ready for battle is the First Fleet, the Nova Britannia Defence Fleet, under the command of Admiral Staples. If we deploy the First, the six islands are undefended."

Elizabeth seemed to accept this, as did most of the assembled people. The Queen, however, had one further question.

"If we were to engage the pirates, under normal circumstances, could we win?"

Harry needed no time to think it over.

"Absolutely."