Chapter 5 Soldier Up

14 years ago, January 2000

Draco snorted and sneered as he dropped the Daily Prophet on the coffee table next to his untouched tea cup. Front line was about Potter becoming a full fledged Auror. As if that was big news. The speccy git could at least have the decency to do something delinquent, keep the papers more interesting.

"Draco, don't brood. It's unbecoming," said Narcissa. The evening sun was just above the trees and lit her worn face through the large arched casements that lined the tea room with a deep golden glow.

With a wry laugh, Draco asked, "Unbecoming of what, Mother? A terrorist? Oh, but we're posh terrorists, aren't we?"

"Don't start!" She snapped. She looked old and tired, and Draco regretted his outburst a little.

They've had arguments like this for the last couple of years since the war. It boggled Draco's mind that she truly thought she could cling to the remnants of the past and restart something resembling it with them. Draco didn't have the desire, let alone the will for it.

He wasted away without opportunities, without a wand of his own, and without any purpose. What's worse, there was nothing for him to do for the last couple of weeks other than watch the world from the glazed window that was the media. Being cooped up in the manor was driving Draco mad.

"I'm going for a walk."

"You're not. You know you cannot…not until-"

"Oh, get off it! It's been a month since the death threat, Mother."

Narcissa slammed her hands on the coffee table, rattling the chinaware. "Don't speak to me that way! It's been two weeks. And I have a bad feeling about this one. I wish those useless Aurors would do something…"

Death threats to the Malfoys were common and so the DMLE didn't take them too seriously. Neither did Draco, but as usual his mother fretted and complained about their nonchalance. Once in a while she called them to which they always assured her that everything was fine - no signs of actual threats were monitored.

This was a common dance between his mother and the Aurors. They were safe though. After all, the Ministry still surveilled them. Came with bonus protection.

After a moment in the charged silence, Narcissa stood straight, padding her long dress of creases, and said, "I'm going to talk to Dolly about dinner." She seemed to want to say something else, but thought better of it and left without another word.

Draco sat there in the twilight, watching the tea room broodingly. Half the stuff was gone but it was still opulently furnished. Made him wonder how much stuff they had. How much they really needed.

In a big, rich room, alone without purpose…watching as Potter succeeded in life while Draco wasted in it. He recently started having invasive thoughts about offing himself but they weren't serious. He'd never. Besides he couldn't leave his mother alone with that pain.

But being stuck in the empty manor for so long every time there was a death threat was making him think stupid things. And so, disregarding his mother's rules about leaving home, he grabbed his scarf and outer robes hanging near the stairs and returned to the tea room where he opened the frosted French doors that led to the garden. A winter breeze nipped at his face and he tugged his scarf closer to his cheeks as he stepped outside. He wouldn't go far. Just a stroll down to the lake near the Malfoy property to clear his head.

And that was the last thing Draco remembered before waking up in a freezing, dark cell. The moment he opened his eyes he felt confusion. Then, slowly as he blinked, he realized with growing dread that it was all real. He wasn't dreaming, but lying on a hard, cold stone floor, his hands and feet bound. Did he even make it to the lake? He couldn't recall.

Footsteps from the hall outside, then the creaking of old hinges as a metal door opened letting dim firelight flood inside. Draco squinted through the dark. He could see two silhouettes, one with long robes. The robed one approached while the other stayed by the door.

"Draco Malfoy," a witch with a low, cool voice said. "Worthless as a Death Eater but you'll fetch a high price in the Middle East with your coloring."

"What about Nigeria" asked the wizard by the door. American accent. "Muggle Zamfara has recently imposed Sharia law, many other states will follow. Anti-western sentiments are on the rise, and as long as the Christians there hold most of the wealth, anger against anything left by colonials is going to fuel Islamic extremism. Perfect conditions to birth religious militants. Many would pay well to torture and execute a young blond British male in front of a camera for propaganda."

"Yes," agreed the dark witch. "But something bigger is stirring among muggles between your country and the Middle East. It's a powder keg about to blow. Muggle wars are the most profitable. Let's wait until it ignites, then sell him to the highest bidder. Too bad the Dark Lord felt too self-important to see the benefits of dealing with muggles. Failed to see the opportunities there."

"Sure, whatever you say."

Throughout the conversation, Draco's trepidation turned to terror. He had been so sure he would never have to feel this way again with Voldemort dead, but here he was. So familiar was the fear that he couldn't even go into blessed, numb shock. He knew he was going to be tortured, could see it play out in detail. He cursed himself for not listening to his mother.

The dark witch leaned over him, a large knife in her hand. An unconventional tool for a witch but she didn't seem like the typical Death Eater.

A single pale moon beam infiltrated from a crack between the stone wall and ceiling. It created a sliver of light in which Draco could see the witch grin in the dark, eyes completely in shadow. She looked like a demon.

The knife drew closer to his face. Draco's breath spiked. Then: "Tessa! You'll lower his value. Control yourself, woman."

Tessa laughed, padded him on the cheek with the cold blade, before straightening up and walking off. "Give him the drug," she told the wizard. "We start the ritual soon."

The dark wizard approached him, his steps heavy sounding, booted. Panic set in. Draco tried to scramble back but his legs were tied together and all he managed to do was squirm. The man drew his wand and a syringe with a green liquid inside, the wizard placed his knee on Draco's chest to make him stop squirming. It hurt, his arms crushed between his body and the floor, his chest, his lungs. He gasped.

"Know what I like about muggles? They're efficient, innovative," he said holding up the syringe with some kind of potion.

"Please," Draco could barley whisper, his voice shook so much. "Please don't."

"Shhh, it's okay, kid." Voice deep, gravely and sickly sweet in tone. "You'll be happy to cooperate before the ritual. Imperio!"

Once again, Draco came to tied up and in a strange place: a large, damaged flag stone chamber of what looked like a medieval great hall. He lay at the center, symbols written all around him inside a circle of candles lit with flames the same shade of pale green as the drug. Around him stood former Death Eaters in their black robes. The only light came from the full moon at their zenith, the ceiling having completely crumbled centuries ago.

He could remember everything that happened while under Imperio. He remembered the needle's sting. The group of ex Death Eaters jeering, as he was brought in to the great hall. Their hands as they stripped him of his clothes. Their laughter as they made him do and say humiliating things. Tessa and the man from before, both seeming to be the ones in charge, had simply stood back watching. Even in the shadows, Draco could sense their contempt of the other Death Eaters.

Draco wanted to ask what was the ritual for; wanted to cry. But he gritted his teeth and held back. Death Eaters reveled in suffering. Tears would only motivate them to do worse. The best Draco could do for himself is to keep his fear in check. Don't beg, don't insult, don't cry, answer questions with simple answers and don't talk more than you have to.

"Let's begin," said Tessa. By her voice, Draco pinpointed her standing at his head. "Bring in the Squib."

A pair of Death Eaters left momentarily and returned dragging a badly beaten middle aged man. Physical as well as magical torture…rare for Death Eaters. That type of physical violence was seen as a muggle thing, a weakness.

Sure enough as a wizard in the circle said, "Tessa, your boy is a little too happy with the muggle way of going about things. The inferior way. You sure he isn't a mudblood?"

From the shadows of the dim green firelight, the man in question suddenly shouted, "Petrificus Totalus!"

A wizard to Draco's right grunted in surprise before the spell hit. The man in the shadows stepped forward into the light of the candles around. Draco could see in the green glow a bit more of him. To his surprise, the wizard wore a tight muggle t-shirt and combat pants and boots.

He said coldly, as he harshly pressed his brass knuckles against the Death Eater's face, "Keep running your mouth like that and you'll see just how inferior a little physical contact can feel."

"Enough," cried Tessa. "Let's get this done. Aurors watch the Malfoys. Don't forget this brat was one of us. The minute the Aurors realize they lost track of him they'll come looking for him."

Tessa's colleague waved his hand casually, despite holding his wand in the other, and broke the spell on the Death Eater wordlessly. Another Death Eater whistled. Tessa laughed and muttered "Typical."

The pair of Death Eaters holding the Squib dragged him into the circle and laid him beside Draco. His breath hitched, he started to panic, pulled desperately on his magical bonds. Whatever logic he previously held regarding how to behave in front of Death Eaters went out the window.

Someone in the circle laughed. "Scared Malfoy?" He taunted. "You should be."

Tessa kneeled down, holding her knife to his wrist and began to chant. At first, Draco felt nothing, the blade was so sharp. Then a dull burn at his wrist that instantly grew into sharp pain. He hissed, gritted his teeth. Tears finally escaped, rolling down the side of his eyes into his hair.

The Death Eaters in the circle chanted with her. The Squib screamed next to him. The green fire from the candles grew brighter. The other victim's wrist was placed on top of his own.

Suddenly Draco felt strange, could almost feel his blood, every drop, rushing through his pulsing veins. Sounds grew distant though his vision grew sharper. Was it the drug?

And then, out of no where, excruciating pain. Worse than the Cruciatus which he knew well. Draco screamed, arching his back and scrunching his eyes shut. His surroundings seemed to disappear and he was left with nothing but agony in the dark - even his voice went quiet in his ears though he could feel it ripping through his throat.

An eternity seemed to go by - perhaps it was minutes, or even seconds. Then, something inside him snapped, severed, and started to ebb away. Draco didn't know why but he wept like a baby at its loss. The pain started to recede along with it.

Suddenly he was grabbed from under his arms and lifted to his knees. He slumped barely able to hold his head up - it felt as heavy as lead. Still, he managed to peer up and saw the middle aged man kneeling in front of him, his eyes wide as he stared into his hands. A pale green glow was about him.

The group of Death Eaters laughed. "Now you know what it feels like, Squib," said one.

"Too bad you won't enjoy it for long," said another.

Draco could barely understand what they were talking about for a second. Then, by primitive instinct, he understood. He felt it. Saw it in the glow of the other victim even as he felt duller, weaker.

Just then, the middle aged man groaned and bent over his legs.

"Malfoy's magic is trying to return to him," said Tessa. "Enough playing. Cut it down."

The American wizard came up to the Squib, pointed his wand, and said with a terrifying casual softness, "Avada Kedavra."

The Squib died. Along with a big part of Draco. He screamed, "No!" And wept harder than he ever did in his life. He felt the word "no" come out of him repeatedly, barely accepting what had just happened.

"Beautiful," said someone.

"Well deserved," said another.

The mysterious American knelt in front of Draco, who was beside himself with grief, and pulled him up by the waist, dragging him away from the great hall into a dark corridor. Tessa followed close behind after barking some orders to the others.

"So much anti-muggle sentiment here," said the American. "It's a wonder they follow your orders considering your stance."

"They know I'm their only ticket out of this cursed island. They have no choice."

"Little do they know…" He muttered teasingly.

Tessa chuckled and said, "I'll meet you upstairs. The first part of your payment is ready."

Once down below, in the dregs of an ancient dungeon, the wizard opened the metal door - a more recent installation. He dragged Draco inside and dumped him by some straw. Then he knelt over him and said, almost empathetically, "Listen kid, soldier up. Because it's about to get worse. Only way to survive the coming storm is to become harder than your enemy."

In the haze of his recent trauma, Draco could barely register those words. All he felt, aside from the pain of losing his magic, was rage and hatred. A pure, consuming animosity for all Death Eaters. He wished he had the power to kill them all.

He screamed, this time in fury. The wizard said, "Good. Keep that emotion. You might make it out alive."

Present day, June 2014, Syria

Harry reached the street Aryan had engaged ISIS. By the time they got there however, the YPG had won. Dead insurgents along with a few fallen Kurdish rebels littered the broken asphalt road. Hateful terrorists and honorable heroes defending their home, lying together. Like Hogwarts…Harry shook those thoughts away.

Aryan's fighters stood in front of a large compound keeping vigil, barriers of sacks were lined on the pavement in front of it. One of the fighters motioned at Harry to go inside.

Havoc team and the YPJ joined up on the pavement in front of the building and walked through the wide double doors. Inside was a high-ceiling lobby, furnished with couches and tables. Looked like a hotel. V stood beside Aryan, their guns held across their bodies.

The sniper looked up as Harry walked and, with a grin, tilted his head towards the wall behind them. "Got you a present, Queen's boy."

There, slumped against the wall, was an unconscious insurgent. Seyda stood next to him and sent Harry a wink. "They don't fear death, but they do fear hell," she said, grinning.

"Alright," cried Bill in victory. "You, ma'am, get a beer on us."

"Non of that fancy micro-brew shit," she answered. "And don't call me ma'am."

Aryan ordered something to his fighters, who grabbed the terrorist and hauled him away. Then he turned to Harry and said, "Thank you for your help today. It will not be forgotten."

"It was nothing. Glad I could help. Where are you taking him?"

"A room we prepared for your interrogation. A show of gratitude. V is good at getting answers out of people. Take him with you."

Nodding, Harry ordered his men to stay here and help the YPG, then followed the men carrying the terrorist, V walking beside him. The narrow, empty room was a former storage room in which the YPG had dragged in a chair for their captive. They sat him on it, and tied him up.

Harry stood in front of the terrorist as V came up next to him, leaned over to pull the terrorist's cloth from his face and roused him by waving a small bag of smelling salts under his nose. With a groan, the terrorist came to, and looked around, immediately sneering and spitting curses at them.

V punched him in the face. "Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit." He continued something in Arabic, then turned to Harry and motioned him to ask his questions.

Harry opened a velcro patch on his forearm, revealing the picture of Tessa in a burka that the Unspeakable had previously shown them. Immediately V's face changed dramatically. He went pale, eyes widening. Harry watched him closely, his own heart hammering at V's reaction. V looked up, noticed Harry's stare and neutralized his expression.

That little exchange went right into Harry's mental files.

Clearing his throat, he directed his question to the terrorist. First, he had to confirm the intel: Tessa's "name" and her husband's name. Then he needed to know where exactly in the female camp she resided in and any other information that would help lure her out.

The interrogation was long. Tough. The ISIS member was a young recruit, his radicalism fresh and dominating all logic and reason. But V was brutal. Harry reserved judgment but it was hard to witness. After a few hours of softening up the young insurgent, stripping him naked and subjecting him to beatings and water boarding, V finally brought in one of the young YPJ soldiers, the girl named Fatima.

She raised her assault rifle and screamed threats in Arabic.

V seemed to order her to execute him and turned around to walk out of the room, when the terrified terrorist finally caved in. Exhausted, shaking, he whispered, "Ramlah…Ramlah…"

That must be Tessa' ISIS name, Harry thought. "Is she your leader's wife?"

V translated the question. The terrorist nodded. The rest of the information came out easily with Fatima pointing her weapon threateningly at his head in point blank range. The terrorist knew Tessa's location in the camp but nothing else.

Then, the terrorist added something that made V frown and Fatima look between V and the terrorist with slight confusion.

"He says," said V, "That Samir Muhammad is not the leader he thought he was. One day he is vigorously planning attacks against the West, and the next he is like a doll being played, and doing business with Turkish mafia and Iran, more concerned with making money."

The terrorist kept talking, spewing words like they were poison in his mouth.

V said, "He says even he felt strange today. Like he was watching himself fight rather than doing the actual fighting. If we kill the witch, we will be doing ISIS a great favor and they will return to focusing their efforts to destroying us."

"Why did they attack this city today?"

V translated to the terrorist who snorted in derision and spat at V's feet. Fatima pressed her barrel to his head and whispered a threat calmly. Staring at the floor, the terrorist said something through gritted teeth.

"Slaves," answered V quietly.

"The Kurds," asked Harry.

"Westerners," answered V. "Among the YPG."

Harry cursed inside his head. Tessa was using magic to control the muggle terrorists around her. Probably Imperio. She probably had wards up around her camp as well.

Dreading the answer, Harry asked, "Are recruits required to get a tattoo?"

V licked his lips and translated. Then looked up at Harry and said, "No. To mar their skin with ink like an infidel is an insult to God." For a moment, Harry felt relief, until V added, "Samir cuts them on the wrist with a knife. It was drugged. Gave him visions for days. Then he woke up and his jihad was clear and he no longer felt fear in battle. It is the blessing of God from the hand of his prophet to his holy warriors. Death to the West and Sharia law upon the world."

So Tessa was doing some kind of ritual on them to keep them under her control, similar to Voldemort's Dark Mark.

"That's enough." Harry said, and walked out of the room, heart hammering. He stood in the hallway outside for a moment, contemplating the information he got. Dealing with that young terrorist was bringing back a lot of memories about his own war against hateful extremists trying to take over the world. He thought he had buried those memories but now they surged back, like an attack from a determined enemy.

Behind him, he heard footsteps. It was V. They were in the hall leading to the lobby.

"Ordered Fatima and a few of the guys to find a good place to lock him up. They are willing to hand him over to the British government in exchange for weapons and supplies."

Harry nodded. "Yeah…good."

V looked at him closely before asking, "You okay?"

Looking up to meet V's eyes, Harry smiled crookedly. "Yeah. Just haven't seen an enhanced interrogation in a while."

"Yeah, well, we're not beholden to the politics of soft civvies that feel empathy towards evil men who want to watch the world burn. But you must've seen worse than that. Soldier up."

Harry stared, stepping towards V, who took a step back but meeting his eyes full on.

"You recognized Tessa when I showed that jihadist her picture."

V frowned. "Who?"

"Tessa…Ramlah."

V only stared back, looking as if he did not understand Harry's question. Harry sighed in defeat. There was no point in confronting V. If he was Malfoy, he wasn't going to talk. Harry would have to find another means of unmasking the mercenary sniper.