AN: Sorry to all those of you who wanted an action chapter. This one's a Bill/Fleur, Elizabeth, and ex-Order centric chapter. Lots of action planned in the next one, though. - MB

HMAS Invincible

Bill exhaustedly flopped down onto the couch in the Officer's Lounge with a satisfied grin on his face. He had reason to, too; after all, it's not just anyone who can say that they had almost single-handedly taken down a Hogwarts ward.

"Gods, that nearly killed me!" he exclaimed dramatically before bursting into laughter. As a curse breaker, this would have probably been the height of his career. As it stood now, though, it was just another task he had set himself out to do. Still, it was enormously satisfying to know that he could, with time and effort, take down even one of the famed protective wards of Hogwarts.

Sitting in a comfortable, high-backed chair nearby, his assistant, Fleur, rolled her eyes at her boss' exaggerated performance. It was her who felt exhausted. Throughout the whole process, she had been wanting to simply drop unconscious on the platform and just sleep, while her boss had kept going without blinking at the effort it was taking the two skilled magicians to take down the considerably tough ward. It had even taken a few hours longer than Bill had predicted, which had initially irritated the Imperial scientist enormously—although that seemed to have evaporated when the ward finally did fall.

So now the two had been granted leave to recuperate from their harrowing ordeal. Sure, it wasn't exactly dodging bullets and/or assaulting fixed positions, but the two had nonetheless scored a major victory for the Empire. With the ward up, Riddle's forces would be able to hunker down behind their walls and the castle without having to fear airborne assaults. The Hogwarts Anti-Technological ward was simply too strong for an Airship's typical shielding, much less a fighter jet's shielding. Blasting at the ward would have also taken inordinate amount of time and ammunition, neither of which the Empire was willing to waste on something that two brilliant, skilled, and accomplished magicians could take down with enough preparations.

Glancing around lazily, Bill noticed that he and Fleur had been left alone in the lounge. Wolf, he knew, had opted to go back to the bridge, but he had somewhat expected some random aide to stay behind, in case Bill or Fleur needed anything. It was odd, but nothing worrying.

Instead of worrying on this non-problem, Bill decided to turn his attention to his assistant. She had done well during the ward breaking, and he was mighty pleased with her. Her exhaustion had not gone unnoticed by the redhead, but every time he was about to tell her to go rest, she seemed to rally herself and press on tenaciously. It was admirable, if perhaps unhealthy. Nonetheless, she had his admiration now—heck, he was beginning to think that maybe being his assistant was holding back her potential as a researcher and as an intellectual in general.

Bill furrowed his brow. Had he considered this before? He honestly couldn't remember; he was absent-minded like that when work came into question. Either way, Bill wasn't one for pointless musings. If he was curious about something, he did his utmost best to figure it out. Hence, he decided to go right to the probably most knowledgeable person on the issue.

"Hey, Fleur?" he said, turning his head to meet her curious gaze. "Have I ever brought up possibly promoting you?"

Fleur seemed surprised at the question, so Bill tentatively hypothesized a negative answer. He almost instantly recanted that opinion when she began to nod.

"Several times, Mister Weasley," she informed him, giving him a wry smile. "I had assumed that you'd changed your mind each time."

Now it was Bill's turn to be surprised. So he had broached the topic before. Man, his social skills sucked. Whatever had happened to smooth, socially savvy Bill Weasley from Hogwarts? The guy so popular and so cool that girls had to line up to go on a date with him?

Well, no matter. The past is past. The eldest Weasley son instead decided to make up for his past social mishaps by putting things to right here and now, when he wasn't distracted by some shiny project.

"Then I'm unofficially promoting you as of this moment, Fleur," he told her seriously. "You've earned it, and it's not fair of me to keep holding you back due to my own lack of awareness."

Fleur actually giggled at his self-deprecating comment, despite how serious he was. She waved off the implied apology with her hand and smiled contently at him.

"It's been no trouble at all, Mister Weasley," she assured him. "After all, it's been quite the experience working alongside one of the Empire's most brilliant and renowned minds." She smiled mischievously then. "Besides, who would keep your schedule organized if I wasn't around?"

Bill actually looked stumped at that off-hand comment of hers. The fact that he had failed to promote Fleur for a while now had been a real eye opener to his own total lack of environmental awareness—how would he survive without someone to keep him on track and organized? An uneasy feeling came over Bill, and he started to fidget nervously on the couch, shooting Fleur several apologetic looks before each time turning away in shame.

"Say, err…Fleur…?" he started. "Would you terribly mind…err…umm…"

Fleur waited patiently for Bill to garner his courage to give her his request, but merely saw the most brilliant mind in the Empire falter as the words seemed to fail him. Thus, after about five minutes of stuttering, Fleur rolled her eyes and stood up.

"Bon dieu!" she exclaimed in French. "It's not that hard, Mister Weasley! Yes, I will stay with you as your assistant," she told him with a wry smile.

Bill sagged in relief as Fleur co-opted his question and answered it in the same breath. Man, he really had to work on his social skills again, didn't he? He hadn't stuttered before a girl in decades. At least, not that he remembered. Which wasn't saying much.

Letting his head fall back onto the couch's soft cushions, Bill decided to relax, now that the most pressing issue at hand had been taken care of. Said rest, however, was quickly swept away when the door to the lounge hissed as its mechanisms sprung to life, and quickly slid to the side. Though he lifted his head to see who was coming to join both him and Fleur, the glare from the hallway lights outside blinded his view of the person at the door. All he could tell was that whoever it was, they possessed a feminine figure. Bill observed as the person's head shifted slightly—an indication of one's mouth opening.

"Mister Weasley," came the soft greeting, and both Bill and Fleur knew immediately who it was.

The scientist duo quickly got to the carpeted floor of the lounge and took a knee in obeisance as they were graced with the presence of their sovereign, Queen Elizabeth III. With the lack of energy that the two had, they must have looked somewhat pathetic to their Queen, but neither cared. This was the woman who had lit a world on fire with her mere presence—who had inspired the shattered remnants of the British Empire to come together and forge itself into a mightier Empire than it had ever been before. This was not a woman to disrespect, dishonour, underestimate, or dismiss. Her enemies were almost all dead, victims of furious Imperial retribution—her assailants were condemned to oblivion as nameless faces that would never be mentioned in history books, merely shown in photographs as examples of a deceased way of thinking.

It was a very real maxim in these new times that he who crossed the Queen of the British Empire would soon become acquainted with Death.

Elizabeth took a step forward into the lounge and raised a pale hand to stop her guards from doing the same. Her pale, delicate neck turned slightly so that her left-most eye could glance at one of the guards.

"It's alright. I am among friends," she told them, her tone brooking no protest. "Please wait outside."

Without a word said, the two crimson-clad guards saluted their charge with a fist to their heart and a simultaneous bow before stepping back into the hallway and allowing the door to slide back into its closed position.

There was a moment of silence before Elizabeth looked at the kneeling figure of Fleur and a flash of sincere surprise came across her face.

"Oh, my apologies! I do not know your name," she said apologetically as she neared Fleur's kneeling figure and, with her thin arms, prodded for the blonde beauty to rise. "Please, rise and rest, the both of you. You must be tired after your hard task."

Gratefully, the two scientist magicians got to their feet—Fleur blushing as the Queen's soft hands still on her arms. Only then were they able to fully take in the Queen's appearance.

Contrary to her Harrisburg wardrobe of soft colours, Elizabeth seemed to have decided to darken the tone of her vestments during this campaign. Gone were the blues and yellows—her entire wardrobe was a combination of black and red, with white lace at the cuffs, giving her a decidedly dark, gothic, and yet delicate and sensuous look. She looked like the personification of death, sacrifice, and virtue, all at the same time, which seemed like an interesting paradox in themes to the two scientists.

Having retreated her arms from Fleur's, Elizabeth's thin arms disappeared beneath the heavy-looking, imperial crimson cloak hefted on her shoulders. Bill was amazed to see that the dark, brooding, and vengeful look she had carried in Harrisburg—always a source of reprimand from her closest advisors (for fear it would make potential husbands flee in terror)—had now been shorn in favour of a sort of refined, Imperial elegance. Just by looking at her, Bill could not have guessed that she was still only 16 years old. Rather, she looked 20, and her garment added another two years to that. The only real sign of her Royal status was the golden tiara that held together the elaborate coiffure her long, dark red hair had been made into.

"Are you here for your check-up, Your Majesty?" asked Bill as submissively as he could without sounding like the eager scientist he really was. Were it not for her Royal status, and the fact that she was a family and personal friend, Bill would have seen her as nothing more than another test subject.

Nonetheless, he was pleased when the Queen nodded once. "Excellent," he said with a smile, before motioning for Elizabeth to sit. As she did so, Bill raised a hand and snapped his fingers, prompting Fleur to move forward without any further need for instructions.

"Please prepare the room for extraordinary testing procedures," he requested immediately as Fleur stepped forward. "No need to seal it entirely—just make sure that the section I'm working in is as clean as magically possible."

Fleur nodded once and immediately got to her task, wand in hand. She needed no explanation for the unusual order. If it dealt with the Queen, then it was likely that it was way over her security clearance—and Fleur had one of the highest possible. Heck, she half-expected Bill to throw her out of the room the moment she was done with the quarantine procedure.

Meanwhile, Bill and Elizabeth were quietly communing; the redheaded monarch was staring at Bill with sharp, intelligent eyes, and yet Bill seemed unfazed.

"…I understand your concerns, Your Majesty," he told her seriously. "However, please believe me that such symptoms are not proof of side-effects from the procedure. No such symptoms were found in the test subjects," he explained.

"You're certain?" Elizabeth asked again.

Bill nodded. "Your Majesty, we went over every theoretical possibility when we created this project. We left no avenue of thought unexplored. Every possible side-effect was researched extensively and nothing of the kind you are describing to me ever came up."

Bill took in a deep breath before continuing. "When we approached Your Majesty with the possibility of becoming the first, true beneficiary of the project, we only did so after we had achieved ninety-nine-point-ninety-nine percent surety in the results. I would say we'd reached one hundred percent surety, but as a scientist, I refuse to believe in the infallible. The point being, Your Majesty, that we dared not consider putting you through the procedure until we were absolutely certain that we knew what we were getting into."

Elizabeth nodded. "I see. That does a lot to put my worries at rest, Mister Weasley."

Bill smiled. "Worries aside, Majesty, how are you finding the benefits?"

Elizabeth smiled then, and it struck Bill how beautiful the young British monarch had become. It was as though her whole countenance had lit up, accentuating her looks enormously. "It's simply wonderful!" she said with excitement—or, at least, as much as her collected, Imperial presence permitted. "The things I'm able to do now, it's…it's…"

"Wonderful?" Bill suggested teasingly, prompting Elizabeth to let out a giggle, though most of it was muffled by her gloved fist. It was very cute, Bill thought.

"Indeed," she agreed after she had calmed herself.

"Well, it's not surprising," noted Bill as he leaned his head onto his fist, legs now crossed. "I imagine it's quite like how the first human being must have felt when he or she realized the usefulness of opposable thumbs."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at the comparison. "Are you suggesting I'm the same as an primitive member of our species, Mister Weasley?" she asked archly.

Bill grinned unrepentantly. "The comparison was merely figurative, not literal, Your Majesty," he corrected. "And, in any case, the same feeling of wonderment stands, I would suppose."

Elizabeth dropped her mildly offended act and smiled genuinely. "Indeed. It is truly out of this world," she agreed, before the figure of Fleur, hard at work, caught her eye. She glanced back at Bill wonderingly. "Have you told her?" she asked in a low voice.

Bill silently shook his head, and a look of consternation crossed Elizabeth's face. "Why ever not?" she asked, surprised. "Her performance during the ward takedown seems to suggest enormous skill on her part, does it not?"

Bill shrugged. "She has certainly earned the promotion I want to give her," he agreed. "And her theoretical knowledge is on par with most of our theoreticians, but I'm not sure where she stands on the issue of genetic tampering," he confessed. "And I'd much rather not potentially harm such a brilliant mind with an Obliviate if I can help it."

Elizabeth sat back in her chair pensively. It was a sound argument, she supposed. "And your family?" she inquired. "Do they know what you are doing?"

Bill raised a curious eyebrow. "Charlie, Ginny and the twins? Certainly. They're main backers in the operation, after all. You know this," he stated.

Elizabeth frowned at him. "I meant your parents, Mister Weasley. Your estranged brothers as well."

It was now Bill's turn to frown. "Why should they know?" he asked curtly. "Ron and his wife were given the public tour, as is their right as British citizens, probationary though their citizenship may be. They need not know anything else."

"They are your family, whether you are ashamed of them or not," she pointed out.

Bill scowled—not at her, but at the idea of his estranged family. "By blood, perhaps," he conceded at length. "However, they refused, and as I hear, still refuse to see that the Empire is the natural evolution of mankind. They bury their heads in the sand, refusing to join the march of time, and content themselves with consorting with shadows of times past."

Elizabeth stared at Bill in silent contemplation. "You're quite the social Darwinist, aren't you, Mister Weasley?"

Bill shrugged, his free hand held up before his eyes, as though he was inspecting his nails—he wasn't, not really. "I don't quite buy into the whole survival of the fittest, to be honest, and race has very little weight with me," he told her frankly. "But I'll admit there are some parts of the philosophy that appeal to me."

Whatever Elizabeth was going to say then, she suddenly stopped herself and, via eye contact, motioned for Bill to look behind him. As Bill did, he saw Fleur standing there, an obedient look on her face and her posture submissive. From the fact that she wasn't working, he surmised that she had finished her task.

Bill nodded gratefully at her, giving her a bright smile. "Thank you, Fleur," he thanked her. "If it's not too much trouble, would you mind going to check up on the reinforcements we're sending down?" he half-requested, half-ordered.

Fleur took the hint and, bowing respectfully before Elizabeth with her delicate hand on her heart, she showed herself out of the room, leaving Bill and Elizabeth alone. Within seconds of his assistant's departure, Bill was on his feet and, with a snap of his fingers, his wand was in his hand.

He then took a cubic object from his pocket and threw it up into the air, followed by a wand swish towards it. Instantly, the cubic object, no bigger than half the length of Bill's thumb, expanded until it was a waist-high wooden crate. With another flick, the lid was off, and its insides were revealed. A clutter of equipment lay firmly packed inside, and with another move of his wand, all of it—much more than the crate seemed capable of carrying, flew out and arranged itself as Bill willed it.

In seconds, the redheaded scientist had a fully functioning examination room set up within the lounge. Surrounded by dozens of medical instruments was a hospital bed, which Bill motioned Elizabeth to lay down on.

"You know the drill, Your Majesty," he said affably, even as his scientist persona took over. "Do you desire privacy while you change into your gown?"

Elizabeth shrugged off her heavy crimson cloak, leaving her in her black and red dress. "You have seen me naked enough times for that particular nuisance to become irrelevant to me, Mister Weasley," she said plainly as she gently pulled off her elbow-length black gloves.

Accepting her observation tacitly, Bill moved behind Elizabeth and helped her undo the knots that held the whole dress together. With expert tact, he quickly unravelled the seven knots, instinctively causing Elizabeth's frame to heave slightly as she suddenly felt it easier to breathe. With a shrug, the dress fell to her feet, and Bill, despite his Queen's permission to stay, nonetheless averted his eyes from her near-naked figure. All that the Queen had left now were her panties, and scientist though he was—meaning he had clinical appreciation of the Queen's figure—he nonetheless was first a British citizen; looking upon the monarch's naked body was, in his mind, reserved only for whomever she chose as her husband. Whenever he had to look at her naked figure, however, he made sure to crush any male instincts he had and focus entirely on clinical, scientific considerations.

Now, if Fleur were the one stripping down…

Bill blinked, somewhat surprised by that stray thought. Was he feeling affection for his assistant? That is, affection beyond the acceptable limits of an employer-employee relationship? Such a thing could prove a nuisance, especially if he wanted to keep her around; not that he had any reason to consider this being the case, however. It could just be a typical male, hormonal response to women with nice figures.

A ruffling of clothing snapped Bill from his reverie, and he returned his gaze onto the Queen, who was now sporting a very loose hospital gown. Bill was thankful for the gown's looseness—it helped him avoid fantasizing since none of the Queen's otherwise womanly attributes would become readily apparent.

Instead of dwelling on such thoughts, Bill forced himself into his scientific mindset, and quickly materialized both a medical chart and a tray of tools beside the Queen's hospital bed, where she had daintily laid down.

"You know the drill, Your Majesty," he told her softly, even as he lifted a hypodermic syringe. "First a blood sample, then we move into the physical portions of the check-up."

From her lying position on the bed, already eyeing the needle somewhat nervously, Elizabeth nodded firmly. "I know."

With a silent nod of acknowledgement, Bill snapped his fingers and instantly, bindings sprung up at the sides of the bed, quickly fastening themselves around Elizabeth's wrists and legs to prevent her from moving, just in case.

"As always, please forgive me for using such barbaric means of restraint, Your Majesty," Bill said earnestly, even as he moved forward with the syringe, already looking for a suitable vein in her right arm.

Elizabeth smiled, despite her growing anxiousness. She really hated this part of the examinations. It reminded her too much of her time in a Death Eater jail. "And as always, you are forgiven, Mister Weasley."

With another nod, Bill tapped her arm five times at different spots before he found a suitable vein. Then, without so much as a glance towards the Queen's face, he brought down the needle and with it pierced her skin until he'd reached the vein. He quickly put aside the realization that she'd bit down on a whimper and continued his work, quietly and quickly extracting the sample he needed before then drawing out the needle—itself glistening red from the penetration. With a wave of his hand, the puncture wound magically sealed off, and Elizabeth was left breathing heavily—but to her credit, she never once cried out.

While the blood work was being done on the sample, Bill decided to continue with the tests, going over her physical measurements and superficial changes—such as growth and weight. As he did so, a nagging question that had been pestering his mind since the expedition began came to the front of his mind, and he decided this was probably as good as time as any to ask it.

"Your Majesty, may I ask you something frankly?" he asked politely, despite never stopping in his work.

Elizabeth looked at Bill silently for a moment before nodding once. "Speak your mind, Mister Weasley."

Bill accepted her permission silently, but he did not ask right away. Rather, he took a moment to formulate the question appropriately before letting it leave his mouth.

"Majesty, why did you come on this expedition?" he asked bluntly.

Glancing up at her face, Bill saw a faint smile gracing her lips. "I had a feeling that would be your question, Mister Weasley," she admitted, before answering his query. "To be honest, Mister Weasley, I don't know why I came. At first, I suppose it was a willingness to see what exactly I was sending my own men into every time I signed a formal permission to carry out a military expedition. Then, I reasoned that it was probably because I was sick and tired of palace life, and wanted to get out—breathe a little."

Bill let the Queen speak in silence, never once stopping his tests as she got everything off her chest.

"Somewhere along the way I figured maybe I just wanted to break out of the role Harry put me in when he restored the throne; rebel a little, you know?" she didn't even glance to see if Bill agreed or not. Instead, she kept going. "There's a part of me, however, that knows none of those are really true. Well, not totally true, anyway."

Elizabeth dropped her head, then, allowing a curtain of crimson hair to hide her face from Bill's scrutiny. Simultaneously, her small, soft and delicate hands curled into tight, pale fists on her lap. "The truth hit me during the siege on the Main Gate," she told him finally. "As I heard the news filter into the Airships during the assault, I realized that I had come because I felt ashamed."

Bill's only reaction to that announcement was a split-second stop in his tests before he quickly rallied himself and continued. Somehow, it seemed spur on the Queen to continue her confession.

"I realized that sitting on my throne, all the way in Harrisburg, I had never been with my people on the most dangerous of places—the front line. How many orders have I signed to send armies into combat? How many generals begged me to grant permission for some assault? How many thousands cheered my name seconds before they were cut down like animals!?"

Finally stopping his tests altogether—over 90% of them were done, anyway—he noticed a small pool of moisture on the Queen's gown over her lap and on the back of her curled fists. She was crying.

"Majesty…" he began, but failed to find the appropriate words to comfort the young monarch.

"After Panama," she continued, and Bill could now truly hear the sadness in her voice. "After Panama, I had nightmares for months. I could hear my guards' dying screams every time I closed my eyes. Then, after Harrisburg, it got worse. It wasn't just the guards now; I could hear thousands of men and women—children, too—screaming as they died."

Bill stayed silent, deciding that letting her get this out of her system was probably the most therapeutic thing he could do.

"I realized then that I had never seen what I sent my people into," she continued after taking in a deep breath. "To me, the places; the battles—they were all scribbles on some piece of embossed paper. The casualties were all numbers to me—the suffering mere abstracts and tangents in some regular military report."

'So she's suffering from the dehumanization of warfare…' analyzed Bill. 'At her age, it's not surprising that it would drive her insane.'

"I wanted to see," she said suddenly after having paused for bit. "I wanted to see exactly what I was making my people fight against. I wanted to see the battlefields, maybe even earn my place in the hearts of my people."

Bill had an uneasy feeling now. "Majesty, surely you are not suggesting you actually go down there?" he asked, making sure that he hadn't concluded wrong.

Not for the first time, Bill hated being right. "I do," she confirmed with a curt nod.

Bill said nothing. What could he possibly say to detract her? Furthermore, anything he suggested had little weight, politically speaking. He was, despite offers to change that, still a commoner. If he really wanted to change her mind, he would have spoken to Harry about convincing her otherwise. Unfortunately, Harry was in something like a coma, so there was no way to reach him.

In fact, did the Queen even know about Harry?

Bill considered asking her, but decided against it. Bill had his suspicions that the Queen had unresolved issues with Harry, and informing her (if he was) of his present state could have severe repercussions. Instead, he wordlessly got back up on his feet and continued his tests in silence.

After a dozen or so minutes of such testing, he was finally finished. Walking over to the variety of machinery that was analyzing Elizabeth's blood sample, he snatched the computer readout as it was finishing printing and read the results. Exactly within his expectations. Truly, the Queen was his most magnificent test subject.

"Perfect results, Your Majesty," he announced out loud with a smile. He had the expression of a scientist that had just made a major breakthrough—though nowhere near as expressive about it.

Elizabeth simply nodded at the announcement, clearly noticing his lack of response to her desire to join the battlefield. She didn't have to be a mind reader to know that Bill would never support such a move. She wondered if Harry would. Oddly enough, she had not seen him—apparently, the bridge had been sealed off to anyone not immediately participating in the battle planning. Out of respect for him, she had decided not to press the issue. Countermanding his orders before his subordinates would undoubtedly anger Harry, and that was something she never wanted to go through.

As the thought of an angry Harry infested her mind, she quietly got off the hospital bed and began the long and arduous procedure of dressing up again. Bill was kind enough to assist once again, though the whole process was carried out in full silence. She knew that Bill was miffed at her desire to join the battlefield, so she didn't call him out on that. After all, the reason that Bill was not part of her new aristocracy was because he had personally refused the honour every single time, citing that he had no wish to become a victim of political intrigue, which he had no doubt the aristocracy would eventually become embroiled in. Still, the very fact that he was constantly considered a perfect candidate for promotion to aristocratic status meant that she had a very high opinion of him.

Getting dressed took considerable more time than getting undressed. So many accessories had to be put on her and then tied to the main dress that Bill and her were at it for about half an hour before she finally had the crimson mantle of her Imperial position hefted onto her shoulders, the golden cord that held it together hanging just over her breasts. Her hair was another matter entirely. Having loosened it so as to more comfortably lie on the hospital bed, it now either hung straight down her back or cascaded over her shoulders and onto her front. It was then that Bill noticed just how long her hair was.

The intricate hairstyle she had been sporting had covered up the fact that her hair now reached her buttocks. Comparatively, when she had been recovered from the Death Eater jail, her hair had been cut down to nape length. Bill wondered how to broach the topic of doing her hair—he was no hair stylist, after all, and he doubted she could comb it by herself.

"Majesty," he started, "about your hair style…"

Elizabeth cast an amused look at Bill before snapping her fingers—just like he had previously—and instantly, her hair contorted and flew every which way until it had resettled into the intricate hair design she had previously sported. Bill was suitably impressed.

"Such control," he breathed, honestly amazed. He had never expected her ability to progress this fast. "Majesty…you are without doubt the testament to the success of our project! Our very own goddess of victory, our very first!"

Elizabeth smiled, acknowledging the compliment, but Bill wasn't done.

"Our glorious Empire's first Valkyrie."

HMS Invincible, Prison Level, Mess Hall…

A loud crash rang in the room as a ceramic plate crashed against the metallic walls of the Mess Hall.

"GOD DAMNIT!"

Former Auror Frank Longbottom scoffed as he lazily watched Ron Weasley vent his anger by throwing what eating utensils the Imperials had given them at the wall. The boy—for he would always see the young man as a boy until he got a grip on his emotions and matured—was on his fifth plate already, and there were only four left—including his own. Now that one the boy would not get.

Not that he didn't sympathize with the redheaded child of Arthur and Molly Weasley. He was quite miffed himself at the fact that he had been kidnapped from his home in the middle of the night. Still, that didn't mean he'd lose his head over it. Instead, he had calmly observed his surroundings as they changed over and over again, until they had finally settled with this mess hall. It didn't take a genius to figure out that it was originally meant for prisoners—the dull lack of colour and uniformity of all the metallic furniture in the room made that readily apparent.

Still, he wondered why they had been taken from their homes and kept in this room. They didn't have cells, either; they were simply confined to this one room. It was curious, and he noted that several of the more level-headed people among them had also noticed, such as Hermione Granger-Weasley, Arthur Weasley, and Alastor Moody. Notably, those were also people who still had a plate.

A low growl caught Frank's attention, and he instantly knew it to come from Moody. No one else could pull off such a guttural growl. Obviously, it was also a sign of significant irritation when dealing with the man. Frank wasn't in the mood to hear the man's imminent tirade, however, and so silenced any coming reprimand by laying a rough hand on the ex-Auror's gnarled shoulders.

"Not now, Alastor," he said softly, his gesture immediately forcing the older man to harrumph and yet stay quiet. Instead, the retired Auror turned to the boy's father and glared.

"That boy is getting on my nerves, Weasley," growled Moody to the redhead's father, who was, with his daughter-in-law, sitting with Frank and Moody. The others were simply too hot-headed for their patience.

Arthur sighed in resignation. "There's nothing I can do or say to stop him right now, Alastor," he said resignedly. "He's never liked the Empire, and getting put on probation, then expelled from its military for the Empire's Helm fiasco merely fuelled that dislike."

Hermione nodded sadly. "Ron hates that he's lost," she added, catching the attention of the three senior men she was sitting with. "He's on Dumbledore's side, remember? I think we can admit by now that in the fight between the Empire and us, we lost," she concluded seriously.

The three men nodded slowly, making sure that the other, more volatile members of their little group couldn't hear them. Any such admission could set them off.

Seeing her companions agreeing with her, she continued. "The end result is that Ron has to live in a world not of his own choosing, one that rejects everything he believes in. In our world, he was special because of his ancestry and ability to use magic. In the Empire's world, he's a common man, or less."

All four descended into silence as that last thought penetrated their conscious. All of them were probationary citizens of the Empire, meaning they were still subject to an enormous amount of limitations. They were not denied justice or protection from the law, but they were also not protected from summary arrests, as their current predicament demonstrated.

"To be fair, we kind of deserve it," mumbled Arthur. "We're lucky enough that our contribution in the fight in Harrisburg earned us probationary citizen status. If we hadn't helped…" the Weasley patriarch let the sentence hang, but all four individuals immediately seized the implied meaning.

If they hadn't helped, it would have been an excellent excuse to exterminate the last remnants of the old Magocentric order.

Not willing to dwell on that particular what-if, Hermione turned her attention to two other silent individuals in the room with the group. They hadn't bothered to resist Ron's snatching and destroying of their plates, but had not gone on angry rants, either.

"I'm a bit surprised that Severus and Draco were brought along, though," she commented. "I mean, why not Tonks? Why not Minerva?"

Moody scoffed irritably. "Hadn't you heard, Granger?" he used her maiden name to avoid confusion between her and her father-in-law. "Minerva completely submitted to the Imperial Government, underwent a battery of tests, and finally got her license to teach at one of Harrisburg's less renowned academies. Tonks had her soundness vouched by Lupin. As far as the Empire's concerned, they're both as sound Imperial citizens as one can be."

"And Flitwick?" asked Arthur, genuinely curious and willing to pick Moody's brain since the man seemed to know the fate of some of their comrades.

Moody shrugged. "Same as Minerva, last I heard—same school, too. Shacklebolt's the real surprise, though," he admitted. "After Harrisburg, he willingly underwent every test the Ministry of War was willing to enforce on him in order to get a pioneering license. Last I heard, he's helping the reconstruction efforts in…Sydney, I think it was."

Frank goggled. "Kingsley? An Imperial pioneer?" he asked incredulously. "Who'd have thought?"

Moody nodded. "I know. I was surprised too. Word has it that if he's on his best behaviour in Australia, he'll have a license to lead a charter group to establish a new town somewhere in England, once all this dodgy business is over with."

Hermione smiled. "I guess he was tired of the fighting and wanted to go home," she reasoned, feeling sympathetic for her former comrade. From the looks on the others' faces, she could tell they all felt the same way.

Moody nudged his head in the direction of the ranting redhead that was Hermione's husband. "Do you seriously think they'd see it that way?" he asked archly.

Sadly, Hermione shook her head. She loved her husband, but she could also admit that he wasn't the easiest person to get along with, and his temper issues had merely worsened over the years as the end of the Magical World became ever more apparent as the Empire marched on triumphantly.

Just then, even as she was about to speak, a soft, dual-toned ring sounded throughout the room three times, which she assumed was a predetermined signal to notify its audience of impending communications. Thus, she wisely shut her mouth and kept her ears open, eager to see if the communiqué held any information as to why she and her fellow ex-Order members were all in this mess hall.

Sure enough, the speakers, strategically placed on every wall of the room to maximize the attention given by the audience, soon enough sprung to life as the ring ended after going off for the third time.

"Attention, attention," spoke a soft-sounding voice that seemed familiar to Hermione. Where had she heard it before? "Please be aware of an impending message from Her Majesty the Queen, Elizabeth the Third, to be transmitted via monitor. Attention, attention…" the message then began to repeat itself.

Instantly, all nine ex-Order members turned as a big, black screen at the front of the room suddenly flickered on to life, showing a bare stage holding only an exquisitely sculpted golden podium at the centre, its very design made to replicate an eagle in mid-flight. Hermione suspected that the wingspan was used to set any documents down. Only barely could they see the shadows of a throng of people at the base of the stage, making her wonder where exactly this event was taking place. Did the ship they were in even have such a room?

As the auditory transmissions began to filter in, the group began to hear what seemed to be an unfamiliar, English-chanted song, full of imperious and patriotic fervour. At the end of nearly every stanza, they could all distinctly hear the male chorus singing, "All hail Britannia!"

Hermione leaned forward towards Frank so that her mouth was close to his ear. "Another patriotic song?" she whispered.

Frank nodded slightly. "Sounds like it."

Hermione nodded back and withdrew, feeling a bit shaken at this new song. Every day she had spent in Harrisburg after the failed Death Eater attack, she had noticed the gradual descent (or ascent, depending on one's point of view, she supposed) of the populace into fanaticism. While freedom of expression was legally protected and enforced by the Imperial Provosts, it was now pretty much common sense that dissent would effectively end your social life, as well as ruin you economically.

Furthermore, the rising icons of mass worship in the Empire were consistently the Duke of Halifax and the Queen herself. The Queen, Hermione had noticed, had been elevated to near-godlike status, and through subtle questioning, she came to learn that many saw the Queen as the protective mother of her people. On a similar vein, they saw the Duke of Halifax, Harry James Potter, as the mighty knight of the Queen—her wingless angel of Death and Retribution.

Frankly, Hermione feared for the future of the human race if such fanaticism was allowed to prosper. She could understand where they were coming from, naturally. The people who adored the Crown were those who had lost everything to the Death Eaters, and the return of the Crown had been like a godsend, in more than one way. Indeed, it seemed to many like divine intervention on their behalf, and they were just as content to allow it to rule over them, as long as it meant that the Death Eaters and their kind could no longer hurt them.

The crowd on the screen began to stir, and Hermione's eyes focused on the image once again just as the red-and-black robed Elizabeth III walked onto the stage, to the deafening cheers of the crowd. Without noticing it herself, Hermione had inched forward on her seat, almost eager to hear what the young (younger even than her!) monarch had to say.

She watched as the Queen, somewhat flustered by the intense cheering, nonetheless smiled softly at her subjects and lifted a hand in a calming gesture. Between the expression on the Queen's face and her vestments, it wasn't difficult to imagine for Hermione why the crowd almost immediately silenced themselves. Where there had only been a frail young teen now stood a veritable pillar of authority. The months between Harrisburg and the present must have been of great help to the young Queen, seeing how well she was acting her part as supreme ruler of more than 1/3 of the planet's surface.

"My…" she began and, for a split-second, seemed to stop as she considered her next word. "…people," she settled, surprising Hermione even as the crowd burst into cheers. She had assumed that the speech writers would have made her refer her audience as her "children," given the popular image of the Queen at this point. Nonetheless, Hermione thought this was the wisest course, given the teen's young age. Much less conflicting.

"My people," the Queen repeated, waving down the cheers. "I humbly thank you for your patience with me as you are asked to stand there and listen to these poor words of mine," she spoke with grace. "As you all know, the Imperial Army, under the able direction of General of the Imperial Armies John Sulu, has been constantly laying siege to the enemy citadel of Hogwarts. Recently, we received confirmation that the main gate itself was taken."

The mess hall Hermione was in exploded in sound as Ron, his mother, and his brother Percy all got to their feet and shouted denials. They had all gone to Hogwarts as schoolchildren, and it was hard for them to believe that their alma mater was now under siege by the very forces they dearly wished would cease to exist.

Despite the noise they did, however, the others in the room were intent on watching the transmission, so Snape subtly raised the volume a deal higher, completely drowning out the vocal protests of the minority.

"…the fine leadership of our officers," the Queen had kept going, and Hermione couldn't help but feel irritated at having missed some of the speech. "However, on the heels of this wonderful news, word was shortly thereafter received that the main gate was then buried under a sudden avalanche, though none of our people were apparently harmed, thanks be to the Creator."

A mumble could be heard going through the audience—probably repetitions of the Queen's thanks. Nonetheless, she pressed on.

"Our brave soldiers are now cut off and alone in the face of the enemy's forces, my dear people," she told them sombrely. "And yet, we will not abandon them. Not while a single scrap of metal remains in the sky. Not while a single breath lies within our lungs. Not even if all but an arm, a leg, and our heads is all that remains of our bodies will we ever abandon our brave brothers and sisters! Before we do such a thing, I swear to you, I will have Hogwarts razed to the very ground!"

Cheers swept through the crowd once again, and Hermione could hear some of them chanting out "Long live the Queen!" already. Even so, the speech was not over, and Hermione kept her attention solely focused on the Queen, on whose head the camera had slowly centred on, until it occupied most of the screen.

"My dear people, I give you the great news that our best and brightest have finally managed to bring down the damnable wards that kept our ships from aiding our soldiers on the ground. Soon, the entire might of the British Empire will descend on our final enemy and grind him into dust! Soon, the war will be over, and we shall finally, after more than a decade of war, have peace!"

Her fist in the air, Elizabeth shouted out, "Long live our glorious Empire!"

"Long live the Empire! Long live the Queen!" chanted back the audience, over and over again.

Back in the mess hall, all was quiet in the room, even amongst the loudest of the group of imprisoned magicians.

"Turn it off," growled Moody as the chanting kept going for a full minute. He wasn't mad—far from it—but he was concerned, and anyone who knew him well could have determined that from the tone of his growl. Within seconds, Hermione had gotten up and turned off the screen manually before returning to her seat by Frank, Moody, and Arthur.

Just as quickly, the hushed discussions began. Draco and Snape had their heads together and were quickly exchanging whispers, both of them more calculating than fearful. Predictably, Ron, Percy, and their mother were all three up in arms over the announced intention to destroy Hogwarts if it became absolutely necessary. As far as Hermione and her three colleagues were concerned, on the other hand, the question was their own usefulness, given the fact that the war seemed on the brink of ending. Why were they still here? What possible use did the Empire have for them, since they seemed to be doing so well on their own?

It was Moody who broke the foursome's silence first. "We're all thinking it, I'm saying it—why are we still here?" he growled. "The Empire seems to be doing mighty fine on its own, so why bring us along for the ride?"

His three colleagues nodded. "It seems to me they wish to intimidate us," opined Arthur before he elaborated further. "Everyone else that we knew from the Order has already submitted publicly to the Empire. Minerva and Filius are both teachers; Kingsley is a pilgrim, and the rest have scattered. We're the only ones who've not said anything one way or the other."

Frank scowled. "I was enjoying life as a retiree," he pointed out.

Arthur shrugged. "I suppose they found that a flimsy excuse. When Minerva, Filius, and Kingsley retire, I have no doubts they'll have no problems doing so, but we haven't done anything productive, so to speak," he riposted, before glancing to his remaining family members. "And we're all connected to people who have been vocally dissenting towards the Empire."

Hermione bowed her head. "Sometimes, I really wish I hadn't told them that the Empire's constitution allowed for freedom of speech," she admitted. "It was the right thing to do, though."

Arthur nodded, while Moody and Frank stayed silent.

"Still, I can't help but wonder why Dumbledore wasn't picked up like the rest of us," Frank brought up the matter for the umpteenth time. To the foursome, it was the perennial question—why wasn't Dumbledore with them? Why hadn't the Imperial forces imprisoned him, given the fact that he was the rallying icon of the Magocentric order?

Just like the other countless times the question had been brought up, though, the group had no answers for it. They had deliberated on it for hours, and had come up with every possible explanation they could think of—including the idea that Dumbledore was holed up in Hogwarts and they were brought along to watch the aged ex-Headmaster be defeated once and for all. The odds of that particular explanation were so incredibly ludicrous to them that they immediately dismissed it out of hand.

The group's musings were suddenly brought to a halt, however, as the door that led out of the mess hall suddenly hissed loudly and slid open—something they had not seen happen since they were first incarcerated in the room.

Immediately, ten Imperial Army soldiers filtered in the room, their khaki uniforms clean and ironed, telling the group that they were not veterans from the current engagement down on the ground. Still, that didn't detract from the sense of overwhelming authority that they emitted. The rifles in their hands helped in that sense, too.

The ten soldiers quickly formed a half circle around the doorway, their eyes trained on the ten mages inside and their trigger fingers twitching every so often as they caught movement from the group of incarcerated magic users. Finally, one of them, probably the leader of the group, took one step forward and opened his mouth to speak.

"On your feet!" he barked out, and the forcefulness of the shouted order made the group jump. "My name is Sergeant Avery, and if you magic-using stick users don't want to see the inside of our lovely five-by-five accommodations one level down, you'll be listening to my every instruction as though it were the Word of God. Understand? Good."

Sergeant Avery hadn't even let the group say anything during that entire speech. Hell, he'd even acknowledged their assent to his instructions before they had even processed what he'd said. Nonetheless, the sheer sense of authority Avery emitted pretty much compelled the group to follow his instructions, so they slowly got to their feet.

Avery nodded. "I see you're all able to use your brainpans—that's a start," he said acerbically. "Now then, I am to take you jolly, stick-waving butts to the ship's bridge," the way Avery said this told the group how unhappy he was with that particular idea. "So get your asses in line and get ready to move out!"

Outraged at the man's coarse language as the women were, no one made any protest, however; the look on the sergeant's face had all the implications of a promise for future pain if they disregarded his orders, and none of them were particularly looking to go toe-to-toe with an Imperial soldier, much less ten. Reluctantly, the group got to their feet and, very slowly, got into a makeshift line—Hermione abandoning her group to stand by her husband, although they guessed it was also to ensure he didn't do anything that could jeopardize his personal safety. Disappointed with Ron though she was, Hermione still loved him dearly and saw the best in him when no one else would, and that earned her the respect of her otherwise more reticent colleagues.

Silently, the group was escorted out of the mess hall and down a myriad of corridors, all of them metallic grey and unwelcoming to the magicians. Every new door that slid open, every new piece of enclosed steel and bolts was a stark reminder that they were remnants of a dead age, and that these people, the Empire and its allies, were the present. They were outdated, unwanted, and cast out. They were here, they realized, in order to understand the consequences of refusing to adapt, to integrate. They had been given lots of time to make up their minds and come into the fold of their own free will, but they, the last ex-Order members who were, to a degree, still loyal to Dumbledore, had spurned the time granted to them.

Frank glanced at Snape, who was silently walking alongside him. Well, perhaps not all of them had spurned the time granted to them. He knew for a fact, via the other, dispersed Order members, that Snape had been given a position as a researcher in Weasley & Weasley, which had surprised the Longbottom patriarch. He had always assumed that the acerbic Potions professor had detested the legendary twin terrors of Hogwarts. Yet, without a doubt, Snape had taken the job and, from what little Frank heard, he had been somewhat instrumental in developing new potions within the company's commercial purview.

So why was he here? For that matter, what about Draco? The blonde haired ex-aristocrat was, last he'd heard, a cadet in the Imperial Provost Academy. It was a surprise, but Draco did indeed seem to want to become one of the very men who'd, barely two days ago, arrested him at his home. Or, at least, that's what he thought happened. He honestly had no proof one way or the other.

They were up to their twentieth (he counted) corridor now. They had, per his count, gone up at least four levels, through twenty section doors, and past maybe three dozen ship crew. None of them had spared the group of escorted magicians a sympathetic glance.

It was past their twenty-fourth section door that they finally had something happen that broke the monotony of their silent march. Just as they were midway through the corridor, a very fancy and ornate wooden door to the side of the hall suddenly opened, and two figures could be heard talking heatedly as they walked out.

"…I'm telling you: the reason the damn stabilizers aren't working is because the weight-to-suspension ratio was miscalculated!" said a familiar male voice.

"And I'm saying that it's the stabilizers that are faulty!" shot back a female voice as the two figures finally broke through the door's threshold and walked out into the group's view. "I went over the design blueprints five times already, and I'm telling you, the—oh!"

The woman's male counterpart came to a jerking stop as his colleague suddenly halted herself, having caught sight of the group of magicians being escorted under armed guard. When the man finally turned around to face the group, curious as to what had stopped his colleague, everyone's eyes widened in recognition, though the man's own response was to raise a curious eyebrow.

Molly Weasley was the first to speak, which Frank found unsurprising. "Bill?"

Bill gave the group a casual wave, even as Sergeant Avery turned to glare at his charges. "Hello everyone," he greeted rather monotonously. "Fancy seeing you all here," he added before turning his full attention to Avery. "Sergeant," he greeted respectfully.

The sergeant returned the courtesy by giving a crisp salute. "Doctor Weasley, sir."

Bill gave the group a calculating glance before returning his eyes to the black Sergeant's face. "I'm guessing Admiral Wolf called for them?" he asked politely.

Sergeant Avery nodded. "Yes, sir. All of them. Didn't ask why."

Bill nodded, taking a step back and cupping his chin pensively while Fleur stood at his side, her body language returning to that of a meek lab assistant. In public, after all, that was all she was, even if Bill took her seriously when in private. They had an image to keep up with, after all.

"Well, I'm due to make my rounds up there anyway, so why don't I take them off your hands, Sergeant?" he offered after a moment of consideration. "I'm sure you and your men have more pressing issues at hand, no? Like, say, getting ready for the drop?"

The way Bill had phrased that last part was interestingly vague, in the opinions of the calmer of the group; as though Bill was privy to something secret that he knew the Sergeant and his men were also in on. Thus, expectedly, the Sergeant nodded gratefully, though he remained doubtful.

"I don't know, sir…" Avery said somewhat reluctantly. "I mean, I have my orders, and these are orders from the Admiral…"

Bill waved away the older man's concerns. "Sergeant, as I'm sure you're well aware, my own post is not within the military hierarchy, but it does carry with it a decent amount of influence. If you'd like, I could bring in Her Majesty in on this…" Avery's eyes bugged out at that thought, "…but I'm sure she's got other, more pressing worries than escorting detail to consider."

With just that, Avery was practically falling over himself as he tried to agree quickly enough to reassure Bill that he was okay with handing over authority over the prisoners and that there was no reason to involve the Imperial monarch in this matter. Then, with a movement of his left hand, the soldiers quickly shouldered their weapons and marched the opposite way from the group, only too eager to leave the area.

The soldiers now gone, Bill gave an emotionless smile at the group. "Now then, please follow me," he said pleasantly before turning his head towards Fleur and adding, "And Fleur, up front with me. Don't think I've forgotten what we were talking about."

Despite her attempts at keeping her image of dutiful research assistant intact, Fleur couldn't help the indignant glare that she shot Bill that moment. She knew she was right, and her boss/crush was just being bull-headed about it. Not that he didn't have his reasons, though—he had practically invented the part she was so stubbornly insisting was faulty.

"You know I'm right," she hissed as she fell into step beside him, glaring at him from the corner of her eyes.

Bill glanced down at her with a stubborn look. "I know no such thing," he disagreed. "I'm telling you, the calibrations were all off. If we increased the weight allowances for the suspenders, then the LMLV wouldn't have stabilizer issues!"

Fleur closed her eyes in frustration as Bill consistently kept shooting down her theory. The vehicle in question was a fast, land-based four-man capacity jeep that was typically retrofitted with a two-manned quad-cannon machine gun. It was basically an agile, deadly anti-infantry weapon, but it had one flaw: make a turn at anything more than seventy miles per hour, and the whole thing flipped like a coin mid-air. The last two tests had basically ended up with the crash dummies signalling 100% passenger death.

"Bi—Mister Weasley," she amended, remembering that they were trailing a group of magicians that had been, until seconds ago, under armed guard, "the suspension system is perfect. I went over the diagrams myself. They should be fully able to support the weight shift—it's the stabilizers, sir. There's no other explanation. Even the engineers agree with me!"

Bill was silent now, though she could still see the stubbornness on his face. Bill was a proud man, but he was not arrogant, and that was why she knew she'd won when he looked away from her. It was typically a sign of his giving up.

"Fine," he ground out, his tone defeated. "Have the engineers look at the stabilizers themselves. If there's a flaw with the device, have them fix the parts ASAP. We need those vehicles on the ground along with the rest of the dropped supplies."

On an impulse, Bill glanced behind him as he gave his instructions to Fleur. He supposed he'd instinctively known, but at least three people in the group behind him and his assistant were trying to be subtle about their interest in his conversation with Fleur. The three were, to his amusement, Hermione, Draco, and Severus Snape. He already knew about the circumstances of all his charges, but he knew he had little to worry about from the latter two mostly. Hermione's soundness was more theoretical to him. She might not be a threat—but that wasn't reason enough for him to drop his guard and lift the supervision spell he'd silently had Fleur cast while their attention had been on him and Sergeant Avery.

Just for fun, he decided to amuse himself by interacting with the group of non-compliant magicians behind him.

"Did you know, Fleur, that the Empire keeps track of all members, both former and current, of any dissident organizations dating even before the coup?" he asked rhetorically and loudly enough that everyone in the ten-man group behind him could hear him without any trouble. Instantly, they had all perked up.

Fleur, for her part, was not privy to his intentions, so she looked at her boss confusedly and shook her head. "No, sir, I did not," she confessed. "Why is that important?"

Bill visibly grinned at his beautiful assistant. "Oh, it's just that it's such an unknown fact. It's true, though. The Imperial Provosts have, alongside Imperial Special Operations, kept tabs of anyone and everyone with any connections to groups that had been virulently anti-government before the coup. You should see the storage facilities for their paper files—it's quite impressive," he said admiringly. "You should also see the kind of information that they keep there. Home addresses, minutes from conversations, personal likes and dislikes…the whole nine yards, to be concise," he informed his assistant as he started to count down mentally from 3.

2.

1.

"E-Everything?"

Bill grinned internally. Hermione had taken the bait just as he'd expected her to. Bill cast an amused glance back at her as he confirmed, "Everything."

Unconsciously, he began to move his arms as he elaborated on his statement. "Both the Provosts and the Special Operations Headquarters have been mandated to ensure internal soundness, so it's natural that they would take a huge interest in persons who might have, at one point or another, taken part in anti-government groups. It so happens that the Order of the Phoenix is listed as such an organization."

"Names, home addresses, meeting places, minutes of conversations between members and between members and non-affiliated peoples, likes and dislikes, body measurements and characteristics, criminal and health records, employment history—everything is dutifully recorded by teams of agents assigned to keeping tabs on selected individuals," he told the group, despite the look of consternation on Fleur's face. "It is truly a wonder of the bureaucratic state!"

He heard Ron—or so he assumed anyway—snort and Bill had to grin at the opening that provided. "Don't believe me?" he asked rhetorically. "I'll have you know that, given my position in the Imperial hierarchy, I've been granted access to these files, even though there's one on me, too."

"There's one on you?" asked Fleur incredulously.

Bill nodded. "I was a member, however shortly, of the Order of Phoenix back before dear old Harry gave me the opportunity of a lifetime," he informed his colleague. "But that's not important. You all want proof that I'm not making this up?" he asked the group behind him, though he never stopped his strides as he led them further around the ship.

Picking at random, he settled on Moody, who he knew would have been the most paranoid of the stalked subjects. "Alastor Moody, also known as Mad-Eye due to his infamous magical eye prosthetic," he recited from memory. "Born on June 6th, 1944, otherwise known as D-Day. About five-foot five in height, weight average for adult of his height. Attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry from 1954 to 1961, earning seven OWLS and six NEWTS, then joined the Auror Corps upon graduation. Had a long and distinguished career in said Corps until his retirement following the end of Riddle's reign of terror in 1981."

Bill took a deep breath before he continued, though he was fully aware that everyone behind him was staring at him in shock—none more so than Moody himself. "Following his retirement, he reactivated himself onto active duty as an Auror instructor from 1994 until the coup, presumably as a result of the resurgence of Death Eater activity," he continued to recite off the top of his memory. "Up to the events of 1997, he served as an advisor to Albus Dumbledore, then-Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as well as then-Head of the Order of the Phoenix. After 1997, he went on to serve for the Magical Resistance based in Hogwarts, which lasted until 1998 when the castle was finally conquered by the Death Eaters and the Resistance was forced to flee the Isles—first to France, then to Spain, then finally to Gibraltar and from there, to Panama in 2000."

Bill glanced back. "I can keep going, if you want; go into personal details and the like?" he suggested before raising a challenging eyebrow. "Or have I proven that we've kept close tabs on all of you?"

By now, the group behind him had come to a complete halt, leaving Bill and Fleur a good two meters in front of them. They were all staring at the redhead in varying degrees of shock, ranging from subtle (Draco and Snape) to outright (Percy and Ron). None of them had expected this level of external intrusion into their lives, but there it was, laid out for all to see and hear, and worst of all—about the most paranoid member of their group.

Hermione, in particular, was torn between horror and shock. Or rather, she was a perfect combination of both. She was an avid bookworm and she knew it—she lived for the accumulation of knowledge, but this was something else entirely. This was a clear-cut invasion of privacy, and it stung at her more harshly than anything else she'd gone through—this was a corruption of everything she loved.

"How could you?" she asked, horrified.

Bill raised three fingers. "There are three categories that the Imperial Intelligence Service uses to categorize the mental states of those there are placing under observation: weak, average, strong," he told them in what seemed to be a non-sequitur. "The weak minded are those that need the least amount of proof to change their outlooks, the average minded are those who need to see some proof, and the strong minded require careful, constant, and lengthy procedures to make them change their minds—but it is, in the end, possible to change anyone's minds."

Hermione blinked, confused by this total deviation from the topic she'd been demanding answers on. "What's that got to do with anything?" she asked.

Bill smiled. "After about a month of deliberation, the majority of the Order of the Phoenix was declared by the IIS to be composed of weak to average minded individuals. As a direct result, efforts were launched to have these individuals…shall we say…convinced of the necessity for them to abandon any and all affiliation with the Order and its constituent members."

"Divide and conquer," Moody summed up gruffly, still a bit shaken that so much of his life had been uncovered by the Empire.

Bill nodded. "Indeed. If we could remove the weak and average minded members of the Order from Dumbledore's grasp, we could virtually strip the Order's remnant power bare. Even dissolved, we were under no illusions that Dumbledore would not keep contact with his former members, and we were right. Each one of you has had constant contact with him since the organization's dissolution," he reminded them before suddenly pausing and then reassessing his words. "Well, all of you besides Draco and Severus," he retracted.

"Regardless," Bill went on, even as the group moved to stare at Draco and Snape, who were busy keeping their eyes on Bill and listening to his every word with narrowed eyes. "The IIS succeeded in stripping away those it set out to strip away from the Order. McGonagall, Flitwick, and Shacklebolt were by far the hardest of them, however, but they too eventually caved in. The others were far easier."

Hermione quickly put two and two together and somehow felt a little flattered by her conclusion. "So everyone presently here are those considered to be the strong minded members of the Order?" she asked, hoping for confirmation, which quickly came.

"Indeed," agreed Bill. "Every one of you was categorized as strong minded, which is why the IIS had you all brought here after I suggested it to Harry, who suggested it to Ginny, who suggested it to the IIS," he elaborated. "We are here, dear family and former colleagues, to destroy the last vestiges of your trust in the old order."

"Like hell we are!" growled out Ron, who balled his hands into fists and took an aggressive step forward, despite the fact that the man he was threatening was his own brother. "We're not that easy!"

Bill raised an eyebrow at Ron's bravado but made no other outward signs of effect. "Are you sure that's quite wise, Ron?" he asked neutrally. "You've seen Imperial agents and soldiers fight before. Do you really think that I, being so high in the Imperial hierarchy, would not have received similar training?"

Fleur, however, seemed to want none of the idea of Bill fighting and quickly interposed herself between her boss and his youngest brother. "Please leave this to me, Mister Weasley," she requested. "You have work to do, and this is far beneath your level."

Fleur's words, though entirely true, nonetheless served to merely infuriate the youngest of the Weasley brothers. What really got to him, however, was the dismissive look in his oldest brother's eyes. As though he was regarding a pest.

"Very well," granted Bill. "If anything happens, you have ten seconds to finish it. The rest of you," he addressed the group. "I would suggest that you follow me. We still have to get you all to the ship's bridge. They will want you all up there in time to watch the Airfleet offensive from the very beginning."

Hermione, now completely certain that her husband would end up hospitalized by the ice-cold look on Fleur's face as she glared like a harpy at Ron, decided to end the confrontation before it could escalate to that level by grabbing her husband's right arm in a tight hold. "Don't!" she hissed in his ear.

Ron's head snapped back to look at her. "'Mione! You don't think I can take her?!" he asked in outrage at this seeming betrayal.

Hermione glared at her husband. "Don't be an idiot, Ron!" she hissed back. "Look at her!" He did; she was still glaring a hole into his head. "Can't you feel it from her very posture and that oppressive feeling she's been lashing out since you challenged Bill? She's way above our level!"

Ron glared at his wife, but she would have none of it. "Don't look at me like that!" she snapped. "Consider if you did fight her, what do you think will happen if you win?" she asked angrily. "That you'll get away scot-free? No! If not Bill, then the thousands of soldiers on board this ship will hunt you down and either arrest you or worse!" she reminded him.

"Listen to her, boy," added in Frank as he put a restraining hand on the redhead's left shoulder. The battle-scarred ex-Auror was glaring down at him as well. "I've been in more fights than you have years twice over, and I can tell she'd wipe the floor with everyone here bar maybe Moody, Snape, and myself."

Bill, on the other hand, looked bored by the proceedings, even though he kept a constant eye on his battle-ready assistant, who had a delicate arm in front of her that, to his eyes, was practically glowing and pulsating with waves of blue and silver energy. It wasn't lethal energy, but it would cause his little brother a world of hurt.

He found it interesting that so many in the group had accurately guessed Fleur's strength, despite her completely non-threatening looks, however. Perhaps he had misjudged them. Personally, he'd thought of them as being all average-minded people, but now he wasn't as sure. Perhaps it really was a good idea to bring them along for this trip, despite the fact that he'd made the suggestion in jest.

Eventually, Ron backed down, he noticed, and Bill gave them a bored smile. "Good. Since we're all going to be civil about this, I suppose we should get going, then," he said pleasantly while Fleur slid back into a normal posture at her boss' side. "After all, we can't exactly keep the guests of honour from the event of the year."

Post-AN: As always, please review. Not obligatory, or a requisite for more chapters, but always nice.