A/N: Responses to what few reviews there were can be found as always in my forums. Thanks for reading.

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Chapter Eight: Apostates and Dark Lords

Once through the door, Harry had no doubt they were entering a magical home. Despite the rundown, unpleasant exterior, the interior opened into a wide, elegant home with ceramic tiled floors, a massive unlit fireplace to his right, and a kitchen easily as large as the Dursleys' parlour. The back wall was comprised of glass windows, through which he could see a large swimming pool. A young, plump girl with the same colouring as the woman stood at the edge of the pool while a man was in the water, inviting her to jump with skinny, pale outreaching arms.

With a happy squeal, the girl did so, splashing wildly and laughing as she did. The wide-bodied squib woman led them through the obviously expanded living room and into the back area, which was noticeably cooler than the front. The property seemed large, with a healthy, vibrant garden of native plants, succulents and a red, volcanic stone where sod might have been in more humid regions, all surrounded by a high brick fence. On the patio between the house and pool, a pagoda provided shade for a wrought-iron table and ten comfortable looking chairs.

"Have a seat, children," the man said from the pool without looking at them. "Esmeralda, love, would you please fetch some tea for our guests? I'm afraid, dears, we only have American tea. It took five years for me to be able to drink it, but now I'm afraid I've become rather partial to it. Going native, you might say." To the girl, he said, "Do you wish to swim some more?"

"Yes, Papa!" the girl said happily.

They watched as the man climbed out of the pool while the girl, who might have been seven or eight, continued to swim. He was healthy wizard—thin and lank—but he was also ancient, easily a century or more in age. Despite that, he carried himself with a subtle grace and strength as he charmed himself dry and slipped on a white robe.

"Is she yours?" Harry asked.

Garrick Ollivander laughed as he sat. "Mine? Oh heavens no. But for all that, I've raised her. Her mum was a victim during one of the many border conflicts—this time with Central American wizards working in a coordinated strike with the Easterners. Esmeralda's husband was killed, as were her two older children. Squibs, you see. She has been my constant companion since then. So, to business. You arrived somewhat later than expected, Mr Potter."

The general sense of unease Harry had been feeling crystallized. "You knew I was coming?"

"Oh, of course," Ollivander said. "The Muggle government here has hundreds of magical moles, from both our side and from the Easterners. When an inquiry from England came in on my name, we knew you would be coming soon. You, or another from your mother's group. There is a reason I do not hide, Mr Potter. I am a lightning rod, if you will. During the last flare up, Morgan set no less than five ambushes for Eastern Hit Witches attempting to assassinate me. Given the nature of wizarding warfare, that is quite a high number of enemy kills."

"Are you going to kill us next?" Harry asked, ready in an instant to pull his wand.

Ollivander stared at him, surprised, before chuckling softly. "Kill you, Mr Potter? When I owe your mother a life debt? You look surprised."

"I am."

"It was her Order who freed me from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," the old wizard confessed. "And it was they who got me out. A lovely young witch named Dorcas Meadows and my old friend Benjy Fenwick broke me out of the prison where I was held. Benjy, poor lad, died in the attempt. Dorcas got me free of the wards and provided me with the international Portkey. I heard later she was killed in the first wave of the purges after your mum died."

"Did you know Selene Lovegood?" Luna asked softly.

"I did," Ollivander confirmed. "She was, like yourself, a truly beautiful woman."

Luna beamed.

While Harry himself believed Luna was quite pretty, when the woman who looked like an adult, Hispanic Gregoria Bulstrode walked out and Ollivander smiled adoringly at her, he suspected the older wizard had a different definition of beautiful than most people did. Surprisingly, the woman smiled back at Ollivander, touching his hand briefly before she walked back to the pool and summoned her thick-bodied daughter from the water.

"This isn't anything like I thought it would be," Harry confessed.

"Oh, this is just the eye of the storm, lad," Ollivander said. "The Dark Lord Morgan Murchison is looking forward to meeting you. He should be here in an hour or so." The old wizard seemed to take delight in pronouncing Murchison's international title.

Luna's beaming smile faded. "Is it true that he eats babies for breakfast and rapes ten witches a day?"

"On Rye bread toast, to be sure," Ollivander said with a laugh. "As for witches, your young groom here is in greater danger than you, my dear. The man has marched in as many Gay Rights parades as he has fought battles against the covens. One can get labelled a dark lord for many reasons, but primarily it is when a strong wizard refuses to bond with a woman and fights when cornered. In the meantime, you came to learn about wands, I'm assuming?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let me see yours, please."

Harry handed it over after only a moment's hesitation. Ollivander smiled when he held it. "Ahh, the Lloyd battle wand. Quite an honour to wield this one—thirteen inches, Hawthorn and dragon heartstring, with a delimiter threshold much higher than today's wands."

He handed the wand back to Harry and sipped at the foul-tasting, cold tea. "Well, the secret to wands is really quite simple. In fact, it is so simple that most are astounded. Disgusted as well, but astounded. The answer is this: pee."

"Excuse me?" Harry said, blinking.

"Urine, Mr Potter. Among other things, of course. You of course know about our elemental leanings of magic—earth, water, air and fire. But what many do not realize is that these leanings also play a role in magical foci. The four humours, to be precise. Yellow Bile, Black Bile, Blood and Phlegm as the ancient philosophers described them. Of course, a lot has been lost in translation since Galen and Hippocrates, and we use the terms in a slightly different fashion. But, to be clear, the four humours as we know them today are urine, faeces, blood and spit. For a wand to properly channel magic it must have two elements—an appropriate core of a magical property, such as dragon heartstrings, phoenix feathers, a unicorn hair, etcetera; and it must be housed within a length of wood that has been given magical properties by the humours of a witch or wizard. Think of your Herbology class—magical flora is magic because our intent makes it so. Of course, the most important aspect of this secret is that the humours are gender specific."

Ollivander pointed at the wood. "That battle wand was made for Gryffindors, and so was soaked in the urine of a Gryffindor witch. But because it was meant to be used in war by a wizard, her urine was mixed with a wizard's—probably the very one the wand was first intended for. And so it works better for a man than most."

"Mum said that wands were causing wizards not to be fertile," Harry said.

"Well, yes, of course," Ollivander said. "Wands are not just conduits of magic, Mr Potter, they are magic themselves. They will feed magic back into the user. Feminine and masculine magic are significantly different. While they depend on each other, they are also opposites, much as fire and water are elemental opposites. Over the centuries, as the feminine magic has forcibly fed back into the masculine, it has weakened our magic. And as our magic is thoroughly mixed with our physiology, it has had an impact on our very genetic structure. It has made male foetuses more fragile. For instance, Merlin was not born of a witch—he was born of a Muggle woman."

"That's impossible," Harry said.

"No, that's evolution, Mr Potter. Merlin was one of the last great Romano-Celtic wizards born before the Norse-trained witch Rowena brought a wand with her to Vortigern's bed. In those days, while rare, it was not unheard of for wizards to be born of Muggle women. There were more wizards born all around, to be sure. Granted, constant warfare made the ratio not much different now, but there you have it."

"So why keep this secret?" Luna asked.

"Fear and power, would be my guess," a new voice said.

Harry scrambled to his feet and stared at the Dark Lord Morgan Murchison.

When Ollivander hinted that Murchison was homosexual, Harry's mind started producing wild, stereotypical images of an effeminate, flamboyant figure in pink robes and pinkie rings. Catching his first look at the dictator of the Western American Confederation, he chastised himself for being foolish. Cedric was not flamboyant at all, and in fact was one of the most masculine people he'd ever met.

Until, he amended, he saw Morgan Murchison.

The Dark Lord, as the Covens named him, was tall for a wizard, standing easily over six and a half feet tall. He had dark blond hair cut so short his scalp was visible, with wide, powerful shoulders and a broad chest that tapered down to a thin, athletic waist. Rather than robes, he wore faded, comfortable-looking blue jeans and a plain white, long-sleeved button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow. Topping it off was the only even slightly stereotypical feature of the man—a broad-rimmed, leather cowboy hat with a turkey feather sticking out.

"Harry," Luna said, eyes-wide. "Could you look like him, please?"

Harry gaped at his new wife. "Luna!"

"But he's so pretty!" she said. "Look at his magic. It's so strong!"

Indeed, Murchison's magic was strong, with vibrant browns and reds of the earth. Which, given his new understanding of wandlore, meant… "You made his wand?" Harry asked Ollivander.

The other wizard was staring at Harry, as if waiting for him to make the connection, and burst out laughing. Murchison himself shook his head. "Disgusting, was what it was. But it worked." Without waiting for an invitation, Murchison walked to the table. Harry watched, astounded, as the man casually moved a chair with wandless magic before sitting. "So you're Harry Potter. My people are 'bout fit tied trying to find you. That showdown in Dallas was a fuck-up if ever there was one, no doubt 'bout it. Frankly you're lucky you got out alive."

"Those were your people, sir?" Harry asked.

"Half were. The other half were a group of EastCons. We got word through one of our moles that you were coming in—they did too. We haven't managed to trace it back to the source yet, which means whoever was helping you was pretty good. If your helper is found out, though, they're in trouble."

Harry winced at the thought of wizards coming after Sir Marcus. "What are you doing to do with us, sir?"

"Not sure yet," Murchison admitted. "I haven't had much luck working with the English."

"You mean Voldemort?"

"I mean Tom Riddle. Albus isn't a bad sort—had a nice romp with him a good century or so ago, but he's so hemmed in he can barely breathe. His and your mum's mail had to go East through Asia to reach us, and it was just too much trouble. Not surprising, since England was the root of it all."

Esmeralda brought out a large tray filled with eggs cooked with peppers, onion and cilantro, and a basket of steaming tortillas. "Gracias, babe," Murchison said with a wink at the large woman.

She laughed and waived away the wink before walking back into the house.

"Help yourselves," Morgan said, as if it were his house. He did as he said, piling some of the eggs into a tortilla and folding it cleverly to eat as a burrito while leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed. Harry saw with a start that the man wore dragon-hide boots.

"Thank you!" Luna gushed. Harry, still full from their meal an hour ago, merely studied the older man.

"This isn't like anything I read about," he finally said. "I feel like I just discovered the devil is a saint."

Murchison snorted, while Ollivander laughed. "Make no mistake, boy, I'm no saint," Murchison said flatly. "I killed the two witches they forced on me, same way your Tom Riddle did his. Had one of my boys shoot them dead right in front of Salem. I've blown up buildings and tortured people for information. I've used all three of the Unforgivable Curses at least once, and fuck me if I didn't like it at least a little. And if I had sufficient cause, I wouldn't hesitate to torture and kill either one of you."

Luna started choking on her breakfast taco. Harry carefully slapped her back while Ollivander poured her some tea.

"All right there, missy?" Murchison said.

"One would think I'd be used to death threats by now," she said breathlessly. "Everyone seems to want to kill us."

"They're both actuating aethers, Murchison," Ollivander said.

Murchison's eyes narrowed. "I know the Potter boy was. How'd you know about this other one?"

"Why else would the covens want her so badly?" Ollivander asked.

"Well, to be fair, my family was proscribed at the end of the purges, right before they killed my mum," Luna said.

"Yes, there is that," Ollivander said sadly. "So, children, tell me your story."

Hesitantly at first, Harry and Luna told their story, starting with their mutual visions of each other, the Sabbat's orders, and finally of their mutual mothers' encoded messages. When they were done, Murchison had his square jaw in his large hands, eying them both. "Now that's an interesting approach," he finally said.

"Not surprising, really," Ollivander said. "Lily was never one to attack from the front if she could kill you from behind."

"You make her sound Slytherin," Harry said.

"He makes her sound smart," Murchison disagreed. "Honour has no place in real war, boy. Honour gets you killed. If it comes down to you or someone trying to kill you, you do whatever you have to do to survive. And it's always safer to kill them before they can get a spell off. Still, it's naïve to think the Brits are just going to sit there and let the boy form a coven. They've killed covens before."

"But Morgan, think of the beauty of Lily's plan," Ollivander said. "A full quarter of the magical population is Muggleborn, with another fifth of it being half-blood despite the stigma of it. If they knew beforehand, do you really think the Covens would order the mass slaughter of so many? Even if they did, the fact the Sabbats did so would be just the catalyst we need!"

"Could we do without the slaughtering part?" Harry asked.

"You think the covens are just going to let go of a fifteen hundred years of control because you ask nicely?" Murchison said. "You'd get some sympathizers—hell, we have sympathizers in the Eastern covens ourselves. We have hundreds of witches who fight for us, and bond with us even though our new wands don't weaken us. They bond with men they love, and the old system of force-bonding doesn't happen on our side. If a bloke is willing to take a second or even a third wife, more power to 'em. But it's not something we force."

"And yet somehow we haven't been outbred yet," Ollivander noted with a smile. "We're proof that the coven's methods simply don't work, and are certainly not sufficient to justify the forcible raping of young boys."

"Or girls, sometimes," Luna said.

Murchison stared at her a moment before nodding. "That is true. Doesn't happen often, but I have heard of cases where troublesome witches are bonded off to older wizards as a second or third wife, and brow-beaten into line by the other wives; or worse yet, sold to Goblins. That doesn't happen here at all. Not even the EastCon people were stupid enough to let Goblins get a foothold in America."

"So, sir, what's going to happen now?" Harry asked.

Murchison studied the two teens for the longest time in silence, before he finally said, "I'll have to take this to the foreign affairs committee. Despite what you might think I don't work in a vacuum here. Your whole plan is based on you two getting back to England, but they won't let you back without wiping your minds to kingdom come, if they don't kill you outright."

"And in the meantime," Ollivander said, "I'm going to teach both of you how to make wands. It is, after all, why you're here."

~~Firebird~~

~~Firebird~~

Gertrude Appleby stared blankly up at the harsh chemical lights, her jaw hanging open with one last grimace of horrified pain. The back of her head, neck, and in fact entire body was already starting to darken as the blood settled. The researchers did not wait, and already her chest was cut open in a large Y-shape, with her ribs sawed off for easier access to her internal organs.

Around her, three researchers in full body biohazard suits conducted the autopsy with professional detachment, while outside Sir Marcus Fletchley and his top aide Samuel Watterson watched while speaking in low tones.

"…civilians and two police officers were killed," Watterson finished his report. "Local police are spinning it as a case of domestic terrorism, but the Feds know it was Tricksters trying to intercept our package. They told me confidentially that all their agencies are compromised."

"Any word on Nicky?"

"Sprained neck, two broken ribs. She's back home in Washington on medical leave."

Sir Marcus nodded darkly. "That black ops flub she was involved in a few years ago involved the Yanks experimenting with Trickster squibs. They found that with mental conditioning techniques, the squibs made astonishingly effective special operations agents. They shut down and liquidated the program when one broke his conditioning."

Watterson shuddered. "I hate to think of it. They ever put the rogue down?"

"No, he put them down, hard, and then disappeared. The subject in there proved beyond a doubt how hard they are to kill."

Watterson pulled out a notepad. "Immune to most standard poisons and weaponized bacterial agents. Showed some susceptibility to viruses but was able to recover in a matter of hours from what would kill most humans. Not to mention their physical durability and accelerated healing." He whistled. "You really had them hit her with a cricket bat?"

"In the head." Sir Marcus confirmed it without blinking an eye. "The blow would have cracked our skulls—it gave her a mild concussion."

"So what finally killed her, sir?"

"Ballistics tests."

"And?"

"We're resupplying all of our men with Desert Eagles. Nothing below 12 mm had the stopping-power we're looking, so we're switching to the 12.7 mm."

"That's a big gun."

"She took a .35 to the chest and kept coming when she realized we were going to finish her off," Sir Justin said. "With those damned magic shields of theirs, we need something that will put them down with a single shot when an opening comes up. I'm also ordering shotguns as a back-up. Automatic weapons have not proven as satisfactory as we hoped."

Watterson made a note. "So, what next?"

"Sandra Shatley of Nantwhich, Cheshire East," Sir Marcus said. "Age 23. She showed up at a sixth form at age 17 to get her A-levels. She enrolled in Reaseheath College but dropped out after a year. Currently working at a bookseller. She's single, young, estranged from her parents, and has no record of ever requiring health services."

"I'll get the team ready with the new equipment."

Sir Marcus nodded dismissal and didn't bother to watch as Watterson left. He continued to watch the autopsy, looking away only when his lead researcher stepped out of the clean room, freshly divested of his biohazard suit. "That was remarkable," the tall, balding man said with a gleam of excitement in his eyes. "The blood work and genetic sampling alone with keep us busy for years to come. There were actual divergences in the placement of organs, and evidence that her organs actually changed as she aged. For instance, her liver appears to have actually shrunken given surrounding tissue, and her lymphatic system is just completely different from anything I've seen before."

"We'll have a new subject for you soon enough," Sir Marcus said.

"Excellent," the man said. "Another female, I presume?"

"Yes."

"Good. I've harvested several eggs from this subject. I'll do the same for the next to study fertility rates. Simply amazing."

The man walked out of the room to make some notes on his computer while Sir Marcus watched intently. With the next subject, they would start looking at what did make them sick.

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Author's Note: Very special thanks as always to Teufel1987, JR and Miles for beta reading. If there are any major faux-pas, they are entirely of my own doing.