AN: Right-o. Next chapter! The moment till the battle begins approaches!

Imperial Palace Gardens, Harrisburg

"Parry!"

CLINK

"Jab!"

CLINK

"Parry! No! No! Parry, Your Majesty! PARRY!"

Elizabeth huffed in indignation as she missed her opening yet again, causing her instructor to grumble in annoyance while her attendants giggled at the man's irritation.

"Your Majesty, please try to focus," begged her fencing instructor. The poor man had been trying to teach the young Queen this particular move for the last hour and a half, with little success.

Arguably, though, the Queen could have paid a bit more attention, as she had requested the lessons as a result of her not-so-pleasant run-in with her ex-captors in Panama City. Determined never again to find herself entirely defenceless, the young Queen had demanded that tutors be found to teach her basic self-defence. Considering most of the actual ruling of the Empire fell onto Parliament, as it had always been, it was no great problem to find the appropriate time slots in her schedule—especially since the civil wars in Europe had heated up to the point where all her visits there had been cancelled.

Elizabeth nonetheless felt herself growing frustrated with her lessons. As she rubbed her pale, sore arm, she kept mentally belittling herself for failing so much. First, there was the matter of the Order. She knew that by giving them clemency, she had pushed away the Duke of Halifax and his supporters. To add insult to injury, it seemed that her approval in ratifying Ronald Weasley's position as strategist had ended in disaster—costing the Imperial Army a full legion of its best men.

The young Queen had been devastated when the Duke of Halifax, in a twisted turn of events, read out loud the fates of the men she'd approved of sending into a known death trap on the word of a former traitor.

Then, to make matters worse, she had acted impulsively on the issue of O'Connor and McDonald. Before even thinking on it seriously, she had allowed her childish rage at being snubbed by two supposedly loyal officers dictate her decision—something that had irritated Admiral Staples to no end once he'd received his orders to move against the two pirates.

And even then, the problems kept coming. Apparently, the fact that she was the last in a line dating 1000 years of unbroken rule hadn't escaped the notice of her advisors, or of the general public at large. As a result, whenever she wasn't approving something, or practicing like she was now, she was being tormented, in her own audience room to boot, on the issue of marriage. Never mind that it was ridiculous to her that a teenager should marry, but she could see where they were coming from. With the rest of her family wiped out, her death would effectively end the British monarchy, which she'd sworn to defend. That left her in a precarious position.

Sure, she'd heard (and been reminded of, constantly) that the Duke of Halifax and his wife had been happily married from the age of 16 and 15, respectively. But, in her opinion, that had been a fluke—very few people ever found true love at that age. The Duke and Duchess had merely been extremely lucky.

Sighing, Elizabeth looked out towards the horizon, where the sun was setting, a red aura surrounding it. A soft breeze began to blow at that moment, and the young Queen brought a hand up to hold some stray locks of her red hair from billowing into her face.

Despite the protests she made, despite the reluctant feelings she had towards marriage, she couldn't help but feel some small amount of envy for the marriage the Duke and Duchess of Halifax had. They were so happy together that it made Elizabeth wonder when she would find her own equivalent to Harry.

"Your Majesty?" came the inquiring voice of her teacher.

Elizabeth sighed once more, resigning herself to her duty as Queen. She could not fantasize of prince charming—after all, she had a people to look after; an empire to safeguard. And, as she had sworn in her oath, so she would do.

That was, after all, her duty.

"Mommy, where's daddy?"

Ginny sighed as her precious daughter asked the all-too familiar question. It wasn't the first time, after all. During the first five years of Sarah's life, they had been living in Panama City as exiles, while her father was presumed dead. Then, upon meeting him, she only had several hours a day to see him before work called him back to the office. It had also been the subject of at least two heated arguments between Ginny and Harry.

"Daddy's at work, sweetie," replied Ginny with a comforting smile as she put down her quill and turned to her daughter, arms extended in invitation.

Nodding shyly, Sarah walked to her mother and allowed herself to be hefted onto her mother's lap, where Ginny gave her a reassuring hug. "He'll be back soon," she promised her daughter.

Again, a shy nod was all the answer Ginny received. Sighing for what would probably not be the last time, Ginny wondered to herself just how long that excuse would last. Every time Harry stepped on one of his ships, after all, he was potentially doing so for the last time. There were times when Ginny really wished he would simply delegate the missions to the many capable officers he had under his command. She knew, for a fact, that Admiral Wolf was capable enough to oversee any plans Harry wished to put into motion. And, if he needed ground troops, Colonels Sharpe and Wolfe were both competent and proven. If he really needed someone in his inner circle, he had Seamus, Ernie, and Susan.

But for some reason, that husband of hers was adamant that he should always be at the front lines, regardless of the personal sacrifices he made.

It was at such times that Ginny absently wondered what would happen to her dear husband once the war was over. Harry was so obviously a soldier it was painful. When the war ended, what would he do? He would be a soldier without a war, and would probably not be able to easily adapt back into a lifestyle of peace.

For her part, Ginny was glad that her missions were far and few in between. In a way, she was a last resort that the Imperials used only if it was absolutely necessary. As such, she had plenty of time to re-adapt to the relative peace of Imperial society. She always made time for her daughter, and for family and friends. In fact, barely an hour ago, she had been entertaining her brother Bill and the twins, who'd come over to see how she was doing when they heard that Harry was leaving again. She'd assured them that she was fine.

The truth, however, could not be farther. In truth, Ginny always felt horrible when Harry left. But it wasn't anger, or rage, but rather disappointment, and perhaps even a tiny sliver of guilt. She couldn't help it, but there were times when she wondered if perhaps the reason he always left for battle was because he no longer wished to remain in her company. Perhaps he found her unattractive now—all passion for her gone.

It was a ridiculous concept, but she thought it nonetheless, unaware that men around the capital and the rest of the Imperial territories would have killed to spend a single night with her. It was even more ridiculous due to the fact that Harry himself was madly in love with her, but couldn't keep his own demons from controlling his mind.

"Mommy?"

Ginny snapped out of her thoughts as she turned concerned brown eyes towards her daughter's own emerald orbs. "Yes, sweetie?"

"Does daddy not love us anymore?" asked the redheaded child, eliciting a look of utter horror from her mother.

"Of course he does, sweetie!" reassured Ginny with a tight hug, which the five-year old returned just as fiercely. Even through her dress, Ginny could feel some of it get wet as Sarah's tears were absorbed by the silk.

"Then why doesn't he stay?" demanded the small redhead.

Ginny stroked her daughter's fiery red hair softly and comfortingly. "Oh, sweetie…daddy's just gone to keep the bad men away," she told her daughter. "He'll be back soon. You'll see."

Ginny tightened her hold on her daughter unconsciously as she said those last words. She dared not believe otherwise, but she couldn't deny fearing that, perhaps, Harry wouldn't come back to them. That, like five years ago, he would disappear in some unknown circumstance.

Or perhaps even worse, that he'd leave both of them for someone like Allison. Ginny gave a small gasp of shock as she felt the moisture roll down her cheeks. Without knowing it, she had begun to cry, albeit silently—finally releasing the pain that she'd held within her at Harry's past indiscretions. She'd pushed them down in favour of loving him then and there—willingly deciding that the past wasn't worth her attention, but she couldn't deny the hurt she'd always carried in her heart over his infidelity.

She could understand it, of course, but it still hurt, nonetheless.

"You'll see," she repeatedly softly, her tears still slowly making their way down her pale, porcelain-like cheeks.

"Last call!" shouted the bartender as he wiped a dirty glass with a rag that looked like it had lost in a contest against nature.

Several of the pub's patrons looked outside and, sure enough, they saw it was pitch black, and church bells in the distance announced the lateness of the hour. Though mostly deserted, still a few patrons were left by now—usually drunks and people who needed to drown their sorrows in alcohol.

Sitting at the counter was one such person—Susan Bones.

Though officially on duty, the redheaded Major of Her Majesty's Third Imperial Legion, 2nd Battalion, was anything but fit for service at the moment.

Her usually lustrous red hair looked like it hadn't seen the company of a brush in days, and heavy bags were forming under her eyes. Her rosy cheeks were tear stained, and her uniform looked like it had been lived in for the past week, which wasn't that far from the truth.

Ever since news had arrived of the Third Legion's decimation, Susan had taken to pubs like flies take to decay. Though Seamus and Ernie had come to see her, as well as Ginny on several occasions, Susan had all but shut her friends from her life. She knew they were concerned for her, but she didn't care. All she cared about was making the pain go away.

The pain of having one's heart torn out. The pain of losing the person you loved.

Even now as she attempted to practically commit suicide by inebriation, Susan could still hear the bagpipes playing at Neville's in absentia funeral. The pipes and drums had blared out Amazing Grace with all the sadness they could. Hundreds, if not at least a thousand, people had shown up—mostly former RNA soldiers, or friends he'd made aboard the Retaliation on its maiden voyage, or even local townsfolk. All had attended.

For Neville had, according to the preacher, given his life in the finest tradition of the service—something she had desperately wanted to challenge, considering no one had ever found his body, but instead had chosen to remain silent and let the others grieve as well.

Though no one, no one was grieving more than her. At least, that was her reasoning.

"One more," she ordered the bartender, who was looking quite nervous now. After all, he was torn between giving in and serving the Imperial officer and doing his law-bound duty to stop her from drinking anymore. She already looked like hell, after all.

"Sorry, lass, but I think ye'v had enough," apologized the bartender, having made up his mind to try and curb the redhead's dangerous drinking.

Susan gave a low, guttural growl that resonated very clearly to the bartender. "I said, one more!" she repeated angrily. "Don't you know who I am?"

The bartender shrugged. "Sorry, lass, but the law's the law. Besides, aren't you supposed to be back in the barracks by now?" he asked. "Most of yer kind's out of here by now."

Susan snorted. "Not my fault the wankers can't drink," she mumbled as she fingered her current mug.

The bartender sighed and put down the glass he'd been cleaning for the better part of the night. He then leaned forward towards Susan and gave her a meaningful stare. "Alright, lass, what's yer woes?" he asked bluntly.

Susan looked up in surprise at the man's bluntness, which the bartender shrugged off casually. "Yer not the first drunk I've had who needed a shoulder to cry on. Back'n Ireland, I had a pub in Dublin. Had yer type around all the time, 'specially during the Troubles. So, what's eatin' at yer heart, lassie?"

Susan looked at the man in open, unblemished shock for a moment before, unthinkingly, she gave in and poured out her heart to this stranger.

"Neville got killed," she mumbled out. For his part, the bartender merely nodded knowingly.

"Africa?" he asked. Susan shook her head. "Canada, then," a nod. "Figured. Both of them's hot spots leave widows like ye would'na believe. This Neville lad, he your husband?"

Susan hiccupped as she shook her head. "Boyfriend…" she corrected softly.

The bartender nodded. "How long?"

"Six years."

The bartender whistled appreciatively. "Impressive, lass. And ye've not been officiated for, yet? That's some commitment you two have there."

"Had," Susan corrected bitterly.

"Have," the bartender repeated firmly. As Susan's eyes shot up angrily, the bartender met her with an equally stubborn look. "Yer heart broken 'cause ye think ye'v lost everything. Am I right?" a reluctant nod. "Well, ye'r wrong. Those six years, they were good, weren't they?"

"Yes, but…"

"No buts, missy!" the bartender cut in. "Those six years were good, and so ye should honour them by thinkin' on the good times, not the bad'uns. Now listen here, lass, I've lived long enough to have been through the Troubles, seen the United Kingdom destroyed, and watched as them murderin' bastards burned down meh country. But still, when I think o' Ireland, I don't think on those times. Instead, I think back on the laughs and good times I had at my little pub in Dublin."

"But…Neville…" she tried again, this time her hiccupping getting worse. To make matters worse, she felt her eyes tearing up, which she angrily tried to resolve by wiping at them aggressively with her sleeves. She was stopped, however, by the bartender's firm grip on her arms.

"None o' that, now!" he barked harshly. "Crying's not for the weak, y'know," he told her bluntly. "It's what makes us different from machines, and them murderin' bastards that took away me country and yer Neville," he reminded her.

"But…"

"Now listen to me, lass," growled the bartender as he leaned forward towards her, so that his face was mere inches away from hers. The man's aged, grey eyes held her own brown eyes firm as his greyed beard bristled. "Ye'r an officer o' the Queen's army. Ye've seen friends and foes alike get killed. This happens. This is war. If yer Neville was an officer too, then I've nary a doubt that he faced his death like a true soldier. So why, then, are ye tryin' to dishonour his mem'ry?" he asked softly.

Susan felt herself reeling back at the man's words. How dared he say that? Couldn't he see how much Neville's death was tearing up her?

"How dare y—" She started, before a glare from the bartender stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Ye know I'm right," he stated simply. "Yer Neville died a soldier. The best thing ye can do about it is find 'is killer and then put 'im through hell—not get drunk and try ter commit suicide by drink!" he scolded her. "There's enough spells and bullets in the world to help ye go to yer Neville's side, so why not take as many of those murderin' bastards with ye when one of them finally catch up to ye?"

Susan stared at the bartender in total shock. She hadn't thought of that. Hadn't even considered that option. All she could think, for days now, was simply how she wanted her life to end, so she could see Neville. But here was another option. An option that would let her fulfil her oath to the Crown, satisfy her need for vengeance, and would ultimately end with her death. All in all, a perfect situation for her.

Still, she couldn't help but feel her eyes tearing up as she finally found her answer. Shutting her eyes fiercely, she looked down as the tears nonetheless made their way down her pale cheeks, teeth gritted in impotent rage and sadness.

"N-Neville…" she whispered painfully between her teeth. She held her hands to her eyes now as she leaned onto the counter, her thin body wracked by the occasional sob. Standing behind the counter, the bartender could only lay a comforting hand on the redhead's shoulder as she finally allowed herself to cry her soul out.

Sitting in his office, James Potter looked at the requisition papers in front of him with some distaste. It was, frankly, one of the more dreary parts of his current job—that is, being a senior staff member of the War Department. Due to his well-known, effective tenure in managing the Falklands during the pre-War period, the higher-ups had decided to put him in charge of supplies. After all, it was only due to James and Lily that the islands had been well-prepared enough to withstand a full Death Eater siege, and then beaten their enemy back.

Still, that didn't mean he liked the paperwork. Sighing, the dark-haired man took out his pen and signed the order form. With that, he had ratified the order to acquire enough metal to build at least seven more Assault Ships. James gave this little thought, however. Despite the Empire's already awesome air power, the Imperial war machine kept spouting new Assault Ships nearly every month.

It was one of the miracles of hybridizing magic and technology. With the process of creating the Assault Ships completely documented and perfected, Gifted and goblins had worked together with Ungifted engineers to hybridize the machine with magical energy, thus cutting back on energy costs, and leaving the machines to work continuously and freely. Furthermore, goblins came every week and cast a Reparo charm on all the machinery in order to keep it top notch. As a result, construction time for Assault Ships had gone from a full year to about three months.

The problem, however, was more along the lines of finding the necessary amount of crew. For, as many Assault ships as they had, there simply wasn't the amount of able-bodied volunteers necessary to crew all of them. Thus, the Empire had turned towards magical creatures, despite the protests of some of the Gifted.

The first they turned to were Werewolves, for whom many of the Assault Ships were now equipped with full moon containment rooms. In addition, a steady supply of Wolfsbane was provided for them in order to make the transformation easier. Still, there wasn't enough to crew all the new Assault Ships, so the Empire turned to the goblins now.

The goblins were an interesting race, to say the least. While the Empire and the goblins had mutually aided each other in the past, the goblin race had all but disappeared during and after the coup. It wasn't that they were wiped out, but rather went into hiding—taking most of the Death Eater treasure with them, while transferring everyone else's money to distant, non-combatant branches (such as in China or the Philippines).

Only a year ago, however, the goblins had approached the Empire by way of one of their Assault Ships, the HMIS Revenge, which had been on patrol in the Pacific when the goblin transmission came through. A meeting had been quickly set up, and an agreement struck. The goblins, having been practically chased out of Britain, wanted revenge on the Death Eaters, and agreed to help the Empire for a share of the overall war earnings, and the right to be represented in the Imperial Parliament. When questioned on this, the goblin representative had merely stated that, "Britain was our home, too. Do we not deserve a voice in its government, then?" The Bill of Rights was then suitably amended to extend all rights of citizenship to goblins as well.

After the agreement had been struck, the goblins had come through in their promise to help the Empire. Smaller, fully goblin-manned Assault Ships were now often seen accompanying their larger, human-manned counterparts. In the fleet Harry led, there were at least five of them: the Krog, Ragnok, Artouk, Olgrof, and Huardin. From what James could figure out, all goblin ships were named after a famous goblin hero. The only one he was familiar with, however, was Ragnok, the last director of the Gringotts branch in London, who had, reports stated, led a rearguard so valiantly that he'd successfully bought his staff to fully evacuate and empty the vast bank. Unfortunately, he was ultimately killed while retreating.

James turned his head towards the window behind him as he heard the tell-tale sound of an Assault Ship's turbines accelerating to lift-off speed. From his office, James had a perfect view of the main airfield, where most Assault Ships re-supplied whenever the docks were crowded with merchant vessels.

James couldn't help but feel nostalgic, now. Planes had become a thing of the past, practically. While one could argue that airships were now the new breakthrough in aviation, James was no fool. The Airship was mainly an ocean-going ship that had several turbines strapped to its bottom to keep it afloat in the air. The only planes still in use, in fact, were fighter planes, which were uniquely under the management of the Imperial Air Fleet. Any travel between the archipelago and the rest of the world was accomplished only through Imperial-owned shuttles (much like the one that had transported the Queen on her world tour), or sea ships.

He could even remember the first time he'd ever ridden on a plane. Lily and he were 18, fresh out of Hogwarts, and she'd wanted to go travelling. When he'd suggested flooing, Apparation, or portkeys, she's insisted on going on a plane, much to his initial consternation. Once he'd gotten over his initial fear at being locked in a floating metallic death trap, he began to see why she'd insisted on a plane ride.

It had been breathtaking.

Beyond actually flying on brooms, flying on a plane was the next best thing. He was comfortable, there were interesting movies (which, Lily had to explain to him, were in fact not small people being trapped in plastic cubes), and the view outside the window was spectacular. After all, broom flying only took you as high as the oxygen and temperature allowed your body to. In a plane, James saw a whole new horizon open up. He could go higher, and at faster speeds than any broom.

But now, planes were far and few between. While the commercial vehicles still existed, it was widely accepted that flying these huge machines in the midst of an international war was nothing short of suicidal. As such, most, if not all, were grounded on a permanent basis.

"James?"

James looked up from his work to see his beautiful darling wife at the door, smiling lovingly at him. She was wearing a nice dress today—green, with gold lacing. It certainly accentuated her eyes and hair, he had to admit—his two favourite features on her.

"Hey Lils," he greeted her with a huge grin. He swiftly got to his feet and circled his desk towards his wife, whose hands he grabbed lovingly as he bowed down and placed a strong kiss on her rosy lips. When the sweet kiss was broken, Lily was looking up at her husband with sparkling eyes and an amused smile.

"That bored, were you?" she asked mischievously. James laughed heartily—she knew him too well.

"You have no idea," he told her sincerely. "Honestly, it's like the entire War Department feels the need to get my approval to use even the bloody loo."

Lily laughed at that, making James' heart skip a beat. Even now, well into their marriage, Lily's laughter was still cause for him to feel like the seventeen-year old nervous wreck he'd been when trying to prepare for their first, actual date. It was, to James' mind, the one reason he knew, beyond a doubt, that he was still head-over-heels in love with his wife.

"S…So what are you doing here, Lils?" asked James, mentally cursing himself for stuttering like a crushing teen. Lily smiled widely at it, however, looked at him knowingly.

"I was dropping off Sarah back at Harry and Ginny's," she told him. "She had another assignment today, and Harry's off to fight O'Connor's merry little band of pirates," she reminded him.

James looked at Lily oddly. "It's the twelfth already?" he asked. "I thought Ginny's assignment was tomorrow!"

Lily giggled at her husband's absentmindedness. It was so endearing. "Aye, it was today."

James groaned. At Lily's concerned look, James gave a sheepish grin. "Sorry, love. Looks like I'll have to stay in a bit late tonight, then," he apologized. At her outraged look, he quickly explained. "I have to send out the work teams to provide the monthly maintenance to the Defence Grid! You know I'm not allowed to leave the office until that's been taken care of!"

Lily glared at her husband, but James knew that there was no real malice behind it—just disappointment. From her dress, he could tell she'd been planning something special for tonight, and part of him really wanted to ditch work and find out just how special, but duty called.

And James was nothing if not a man of duty.

Lily, of course, knew this, but decided to make him squirm a bit—maybe even make him think he'd be sleeping on the couch for this. Eventually, however, she just sighed in reluctant acceptance and nodded, pulling on his suit towards her so that her head rested on his well-toned chest. James absently curled his arms around her, bringing her more into contact with him.

"I'm sorry, love," he apologized once again.

"I know," she replied softly.

The agent in place looked directly to his front as his team was passed through the security scanners at the Defence Grid Headquarters entrance. Here, in this facility, was the heart of the most advanced defence network ever built and thought of by man. From the single building not sixty meters away, over two hundred MAG Cannons were operated, and it was from that building that they were to be taken to each emplacement to keep the cannons working. Or, at least, that's what their job was supposed to be. His, on the other hand, was quite different.

He was to shut down the entire Defence Grid.

Being caught was not a problem, as long as his job was done. He was not a man, nor capable of truly feeling pain—though he could fake the effects well enough. Rather, as long as his mission was complete, then his purpose to exist had faded.

For, lying underneath the human appearance, completely indiscernible from the other humans in his work team, lay one of the Death Eaters' Terracotta soldiers, his programming dictating that the time for his mission to be complete was now.

First, the grid would go down. Then, the fleet would arrive.

And tomorrow, Harrisburg would burn.