Prologue
Cracks in The Devil's Mirror
#
"Let me go!" The young blond boy shouted while struggling against the grip of his captors. But with the body of nine year old, there was precious little he could do against three grown wizards.
"Enough!" A dark man said in broken English and pulled the boy along. "We can bring you to the Master alive and unharmed, or we can just bring you to the Master alive."
The kidnapped boy ceased resistance. The one speaking to him had already taken his emergency portkey before it could be used. The tracking and tracing charms were unraveled and dispelled with practiced ease and, within the span if eighty seconds; the likelihood of rescue had gone from slim to none.
He looked at his surroundings - a collection of huts on a misbegotten savannah in Africa. Most likely he was in one of the border towns in the disputed lands claimed by both the South African and Central African ministries, but in truth, controlled by neither.
There were five major factions on the continent. The Southern and the Eastern were the largest and loosely aligned with the intent on maintaining the status quo. Opposing them were the more ambitious Western, Central, and Northern. Collectively, those three were called the Triad Alliance.
The political landscape mattered because the boy's name was Christobal Andrews and his father was the Minister of Magic for the South African ministry. Mere minutes ago, he'd been playing a game of quid ditch within sight of his minders and chasing into the brush to retrieve an errant quaffed. The ball was just beyond the ward line, but Christobal didn't see any harm in getting it.
Only when he picked it up did he understand his folly. The quaffle turned out to be a portkey and whisked him from the protection of his bodyguards.
Under some mobile type of "Notice Me Not" field, they escorted him to the entrance of a hut where four others sat in front playing a complex game involving dice carved out bones and various objects arrayed in front of them called thrice seven.
Each wizard needed to complete the number of transfigurations they rolled before the tiny sand filled hourglass finished. The ones who did would game a point. Those who did not lost a point, while the one who rolled the highest and completed all the transfigurations gained two points.
The first one to reach thrice seven...or twenty-one without going over was the victor. Most games were somewhat boring until the final rounds when magic users started looking for a winning strategy at the expense of their opponents, but the small pile of coins in the middle gave the men all the encouragement they needed.
After the players finished the latest round, the leader of the group Cristobel was with grunted for their attention. One rose with an irritated look upon his face and the two exchanged some harsh words in the mishmash tribal dialect which the boy could only catch every fourth or fifth word.
The player reached into the pocket of his khaki shorts and pulled out a strip of parchment.
"Read!" he commanded, thrusting the strip into the boy's trembling hands.
Looking at the horrible writing, the boy complained, "I can't make it out!"
Cursing, the man took the slip back and tried a second, which produced the same results. Irritated, the man pointed at one of the other rebels, who ran inside the hut and disappeared. Minutes later, a witch, bent by age and smelling like cauldron scrapings emerged. Christobal was drawn to the odd headpiece she wore. At first glance it appeared to be a tiara made of ivory with a large gem, perhaps an opal, as the centerpiece.
His opinion changed when the "opal" opened and regarded him.
In truth, it was an eye suspended in some kind of liquid inside a crystal. The polished ivory, upon closer inspection, was actually bones.
"This one, he be trouble," she said slowly, while jabbing her wrinkled index finger at him.
"Your sight also said the kidnapping would fail, yet here we are. Tell him."
The hag glared at the man before leaning closer and grabbing the boy on the back of his neck. Christobal pulled his hands protectively to the sides of his head. Her foul breath assaulted his nostrils and made him want to retch.
"Look upon the building cloaked behind this hut. It is The Devil's Mirror," she said. "You may see it now."
The woman stepped aside and the boy's eyes opened wide to see the veritable fortress towering over the hut. The front wall appeared to be carved out of a single mass of obsidian glass. Christobal observed shadows moving just under the surface. If his eyes were to believed, this building was the infamous Devil's Mirror and the moving shapes were the cursed spirits of those killed within the walls, doomed to serve as sentinels for as long as the walls continued to stand.
His trembling grew noticeably worse and they fueled his struggles as the wizards pushed him forward in the wake of the cackling, decrepit hag.
Christobal knew there were places across the world, in other magical nations, with a similar reputation. The English had their Azkaban, the Greeks their Charon's Pit, and people talked in hushed voices about the hidden chain of islands in the Bermuda Triangle where no living being dared set foot, but all of them were far away legends that could not possibly live up to their myth.
The Devil's Mirror, on the other hand, was directly in front of him and the enemies of The Black Plague who crossed its threshold were never seen or heard from again.
#
The wait inside of Christobal's cell seemed endless. Precious little light emanated from a charmed candle placed on the crude table in the center along with the chair he sat in. The rest of the decor was similar. There was a chamber pot and some rags to clean himself in one corner and a cot with a pillow, linens, and thin blanket in the other.
Christobal feared looking behind him, the ghosts trapped in the outer walls gathered behind him. The warmth drained from the room as the congregation grew in numbers, drawn by the new life force nearby.
His light summer clothing proved woefully inadequate against the deathly chill tugging at his essence, but he did not get up to fetch the blanket. Far better to sit and shiver than to see the faces of the dammed, begging for an end to their unending torment.
Trying desperately to divert his attention, the boy exhaled and looked for shapes in the shifting mist he created. How long that went on for, the boy could not say. Finally, his need for heat overcame the fear of the unknown and he stood on trembling legs and stumbled to the cot.
In his mind, he chanted over and over to not look at them, but like anyone who has ever been on some lofty precipice and told not to look down; he disobeyed his repeated mantra and risked a glance.
The ethereal faces pressed against the dark stone mouthed words to him. He could not tell if they were pleas for help, curses that his heart still beat, or invitations to just give up and join them in servitude.
One face in particular caught his attention. She was obviously once a beautiful woman with long, flowing tresses, high cheekbones, and a statuesque bearing seen often in art museums, but rarely in life...or in her case death.
The spirit gave him a kind smile instead of the leers and pained expressions of the horde surrounding her. She raised a finger to her lips and the gestured to the empty socket where her right eye would have been. Then she nodded.
The boy gulped in genuine fear and returned her gesture before spinning away from the ghosts with the blanket hastily thrown around his shoulders.
#
More time passed before the door opened and the leader of the group who had kidnapped him entered. This time the black man wore robes adorned with the symbol of the African Liberation Army - the brutal front group for the Triad Alliance seeking to destabilize their enemies through campaigns of assassination and intimidation.
"Come," he said and gestured to the open hallway.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Our leader wishes to...formally welcome you as our honored guest. That is unless, you wish to remain here." The man's words were less broken than before, as if he was trying to adopt an air of sophistication.
The boy stood, steeling his resolve and doing his level best to behave in a manner the son of a powerful politician must. He stepped forward and went into the corridor.
There were other cells and the cries of other prisoners could be heard. The boy didn't want to think about them as his escort directed him further into the center of the building. Away from the cursed outer walls, the atmosphere was considerably better. It reminded the kidnapped boy of countless manors he'd seen complete with all the trappings of power and privilege.
Ushered into a great hall, he took in the surroundings as he doors closed behind him. Paintings, both large and small, decorated the walls and each corner of the room sported a fountain with the sculpted heads of different magical animals serving as the spigots. Draped across the rafters was the skin of a massive Nundu. Other than the table and the ornate wooden chairs, the only other object of note was a floo connection.
"It requires a pass phrase if that is what you are considering," a deep voice said. The man seemed to spring into existence where nothing had been previously.
The man exuded a presence that filled the room, making it seem suddenly smaller. His skin was as dark as the obsidian walls that contrasted sharply with his predatory and almost blindingly brilliant smile.
The double doors to the room closed leaving the boy alone with the man.
"Welcome young Christobal, to my sanctum. I assume you know who I am?"
"You," the boy started, willing the words into his reluctant mouth, "are Jean Mikhail N'Butai...the de facto leader of the Triad Alliance. To your enemies, of which my father is one, you are called The Black Plague."
The man's smile, if possible widened. "You are well informed for one so young. Sit. Dinner will be served shortly. Do you wish for something to quench your thirst?"
"What are you going to do with me?" The boy demanded as he remained standing.
"Ah straight to business is it? Since you know so much child, what do you believe I will do with you?"
"If you planned to kill me," the boy said, stuttering slightly over the word kill. "You'd have done it already, so I'm going to be a prisoner here. You know my father won't surrender just because you have me?"
"True, very true," The Black Plague answered in a condescending tone. "However, holding you will make your father reluctant to act as I attack his allies. You see, dear child, battles are best won by forcing your enemies to do what you want them to do. It is a secret that you will hopefully live long enough to employ. Now, please sit. After we eat, you will be taken to your new quarters."
Christobal said nothing, but sat as he'd been instructed. He looked over the shoulder at the closed entryway.
Continuing, the man said, "It will not be one of the spirit cells, but I assure you that should you attempt a foolish escape, you will spend the rest of your stay in one of them. Do you understand?"
"Yes," the boy replied. "But you aren't going to win."
The man's deep, throaty, baritone laughter echoed off of the walls. He pounded the table with the bottom of his fist and said, "I do so love the certainty of youth! In my first communication with your father, I shall ensure that he knows of you unshakeable loyalty. Do you truly believe he can stop me?"
"Maybe not," the boy said. "But the ICW won't let you take over an entire continent. They'll send the Dark Arts Defense League after you!"
"Little wizard," N'Butai began as the jocular expression faded away. "Perhaps I overestimated your political acumen. The ICW is bogged down with major problems in the Americas, violent regime changes on the Indian subcontinent, questionable elections in two other ministries, and the short sighted fools in England saw fit to make my job easier by removing the Supreme Mugwump leaving a power vacuum in the wake of his departure. Right now, I believe the ICW is barely able to conduct a proper meeting, much less interfere in my destiny."
Christobal looked away, unwilling to meet the man's eyes. "Father says you have much to do with the problems in the Pan American Ministry.
"Your father is correct. The next lesson I can teach you is to keep your enemies on the defensive. If they are always reacting, they cannot act against you. As for the Dark Arts Defense League, the myth and the reality are two very different things. Yes there are some extremely capable individuals in their ranks. However twice in the past decade, they have attempted to deliver their writ of impending death to me, but my heart still beats, and I expect it will continue for a long, long time. I would not put your faith in the League. History shows that I am beyond their reach."
There was a pause interrupted by two plates appearing. The food looked tempting, but Christobal just stared at it.
"Boy the food is not poisoned," N'Butai said using his wand to cast a slow carving charm on the roast pheasant. "You are a pawn in all of this, why would I invite you into my presence otherwise?"
Instead of eating, the boy watched the results of the spell the man had cast. Thinly sliced breast meat peeled away and collected in a pile.
"You like the spell? It works wonders when used on a living being. Magic. It is a strange and beautiful thing. Take this simple culinary spell, taught to second year students at Beauxbatons in their etiquette classes, if used on a prisoner will loosen the tongue as easily as most torture curses."
An expression of horror crossed the boy's face as he yet again looked away from the dark wizard in front of him.
"I apologize if I have crushed your hopes so soon. We are beyond your father's ability to rescue and hidden with the most powerful charm known."
"The Fidelius charm didn't protect that English boy from that Dark Wizard," the boy said quietly. "Or the Dark Wizard from the English boy."
"True, but I have no intention of making you into my own Harry Potter."
The urge to chuckle died in the boy's throat. "No, you are no Voldemort. You are more like Napoleon."
N'Butai smiled and said, "You are too kind, young man. I thank you for the comparison."
Another pause, this one lasting for at least two minutes ensued. The man ate while the boy watched the flames of the nearby fire.
"Are you certain you do not wish to partake?"
Christobal shook his head, scratched at his left wrist and said, "It does look delicious, but portkey travel, especially when I was unprepared, upsets my stomach."
"You seem pensive, young one. Do not fear. You will be able to write to your parents. We shall even pose for a picture to include in the package."
Whatever the boy was about to say was interrupted by a tremor passing through the building. Christobal's silverware dropped to the floor and he bent to retrieve it.
As he did, the floo came to life and a voice screamed, "Master! We are under a..."
Screams cut short the man's report. On the boy's calf, skin rippled and unfolded, like an enveloped being unsealed. From this fleshy seam, a piece of wood, just over eight inches, slipped free and into the waiting hand. A nonverbal piercing curse cast the instant he had the wand in hand. The bolt of energy traveled under the table hidden from view.
Perhaps it was a sixth sense, blind luck, or the hand of providence, but The Black Plague started to rise and the spell which would have punctured a hole in his stomach only managed to rip a divot of flesh from the man's thigh.
N'Butai yelled out in pain, and managed to stagger under the cutting curse before shielding the bonebreaker.
The boy watched disbelief register on The Black Plague's face. The waif sidestepped a bolt of energy the wizard cast and sent and explosive curse into the floo. The detonation sent a shockwave through the room. The spell was designed to destroy the floo and knock out nearby connections.
The boy's body shimmered, growing, and changing. The voice changed and grew deeper as the imposter of Christobal said, "I did not mean the Napoleon comment to be a compliment. Your Waterloo has arrived."
The two faced each other wands at the ready. N'Butai spoke, "So, the League sends the illustrious metamorphic, Eric Fox to face me. I am honored."
"What is your choice? Elba or Saint Helena?" Eric asked referring to the island Napoleon was imprisoned on and the one he died on.
The bleeding man tested his injured leg and said, "Before we do this, I must know how you beat the Fidelius."
"A charmed stone embedded in my wrist that caught every spoken word. Your secret keeper told everyone in Strike Team Rasputin where the Devil's Mirror was located. Satisfied? Or would you like to continue our conversation? You're the one bleeding right now."
Eric considered the man's dark eyes. Would he try to go out with or without a fight? N'Butai's personal guard was probably a match for South African aurors, but they were facing a dozen of the League's finest complete with aerial support.
A flurry of direct fire spells were exchanged and shielded or dodged as the two men fought to eliminate each other as quickly as possible. There was little style used. The fight was far too even for either's liking. The older possessed more skill and expertise, but the younger's power and precision negated that advantage.
They circled wands twitching, waiting to see who would make the next move and attempt to break the stalemate.
"You know it's over. Give up now," Eric said. "It's like you said, battles are won by making your enemy do what you want them to."
"My reinforcements could come in at any moment," N'Butai replied.
"They're too busy being overrun," Eric said as another vibration shook The Devil's Mirror. "You've got maybe a dozen guards here. There are fifteen league members outside supported by twice that number of South African aurors. You're outnumbered and trapped."
The briefest hint of a smile was all the warning Fox received before all hell broke loose.
"Never! Animate and defend!" The Black Plague shouted in French. The chairs changed into a pack of Jackals and the table broke in two. Both halves stood up on their inside table legs as a pair of small stone golems joined the group.
Eric summoned the closest jackal and used it to block the first two spells sent. A length of chain shot from Eric's wand and wrapped around the legs of the nearest golem. It stumbled and fell, hands grasping to reach him. The fall squashed a pair of the howling pack of jackals and impeding the progress of the second golem. He was in the middle of the fray.
"Things turned ugly fast," Eric thought and sprayed a wave of fire to drive the closing jackals back. One leapt over the flames and almost made it to him before he banished it. The twin six foot tall golems ignored the heat and continued on. It somewhat worked to his favor because keeping the golems between him and N'Butai kept the two from casting spells directly at each other.
Eric cycled quickly through the next series of spells, which were mostly defensive. N'Butai had closed the wound on his leg and was pressing his advantage. A blasting curse was reflected into the chained golem crawling toward the meatmorph. Eric cast a fog wall and shrunk down as fast as the size changing charms on his garments allowed.
His smallest size was close to that of a goblin. A tiny target profile was important when fighting in close quarters with limited visibility.
The dossier the League had on N'Butai showed an odd sort of Dark Wizard. He rarely used the Unforgivables. There were certainly enough dark curses out there and The Black Plague had a vast inventory at his disposal and used them for great effect. Perhaps it was ego and a way to set himself apart from the other despots across the world, Eric couldn't be sure. His followers, naturally, did not hold themselves to that lofty standard.
If it weren't for the fact that N'Butai kidnapped and often murdered children for political gain, Eric could have had a measure of respect for the man.
He ducked under what would have been a waist level cutting curse were he at his normal size along with twin bolts of black electricity. Folding his ears inward, the act momentarily rendered him deaf as he released an audible charm known as the Banshee Wail. It would hurt the Jackal constructs as well and hopefully deafen N'Butai.
With a gust of wind the wizard from the jungles of the Congo dispersed the fog; Eric grinned and fed that wind with his own, pushing power into it and generating a vortex of rushing wind in the room. At the same time he swelled, adding mass to his frame and casting a stone repelling charm on his body.
Knowing this was going to be messy as hell, he sent a steady stream of gravel into the air. The howling tornado at the center of the room would turn it into a diabolically painful experience...for both of them. Still at his maximum size of nearly ten foot and fifty stone along with the charm, it was akin to a nasty stinging hex instead of having skin and flesh sandblasted away. He would heal, N'Butai would likely not.
The anchors in the rafters holding the Nundu hide broke free and the massive piece dropped like a smothering carpet. Eric had just enough time to cast a bubblehead charm before it hit. The creature's skin is about the most magically inert material on the planet. Cutting curses that would slice through both sides of a dragon hide vest, along with the flesh and bone in between would barely rip the exterior.
He recast the bubblehead as the Nundu hide sapped the power from the charm.
Unfortunately the magic dampening properties make it useless for making wizard armor, but Eric knew of a fanatical sect of Vatican warriors who wore such protection and had a reputation they had earned in magical blood. Usually, that sect and the Dark Arts Defense League operated on the same side...at least most of the time.
Using his enhanced strength, he shifted the heavy mass and worked his way back to the nearest wall. Eric "uncorked" his ears again as The Devil's Mirror trembled under the assault from outside. There was an irritation in his left wrist where the listening stone was embedded. His superiors wanted him to check in.
They were also probably annoyed about the Banshee Wail he cast. Those listening in on his fight must be cursing his name right now.
They could wait. He needed to get out from under the layers of animal skin and either finish N'Butai or confirm the kill.
He pushed his way back as the bubblehead charm shrank from his enlarged head. Two massive lumps were still moving. With enough time even their enchantments would be nullified.
Eric scanned the room looking for where N'Butai was. He cast a pulse of magic designed to spot disillusioned and otherwise invisible opponents.
Nothing.
He used a pair of cutting charms to cut a six foot section of wood from the rafters and moved it along the hide like a baker using a rolling pin over dough. His search for a N'Butai shaped lump was interrupted by the door bursting open and the man who had kidnapped "Christobal" entered.
"My Lord we must..."
The wizard's words were cut short by the charmed rafter fragment, slamming into the man's stomach. Fox followed with a stunner, a body bind, and charmed ropes all in short order. Eric knew he man was high enough in the pecking order to know important and damaging material concerning the ALA and the Triad Alliance. No tears would be shed if he died from his injuries, but Eric preferred the man live long enough to tell he aurors what he knew.
Sealing the doors and casting a locking charm on it, the Dark Arts Defense League member resumed his search. Two minutes later he was peeling back he layers of Nundu skin. He cautiously pulled the last bit away only to stare into the eyes of a dead man.
He double checked to be certain. The Dark Wizard's flesh was pock marked with rips and tears from the gravel storm. A wand, with the top third broken clutched in a death grip. There were black marks on the Nundu skin where N'Butai tried to cut his way out before succumbing to the lack of breathable air.
Fox yanked the broken wand from the corpse's hands and watched as a white mist stirred around the body. It took the shape of his opponent.
"No!" The spirit screamed. "Not in here! Not in the Mirror! You've doomed me."
An ethereal claw appeared behind N'Butai's ghost. The castle was collecting its due. The metamorph raised his wand uncertain of what kind of spell could protect him against such eldritch magics, but the claw was only interested in the dead.
Watching the despot's struggling ghost dragged out of the room left the hardened League member shaken. Shaking his head he tried to banish what he'd just seen from his mind. There was still fighting going on and he needed to get out of this hellhole alive or not at all.
Staggering to his feet, he walked to the other body. His kidnapper was alive, but bleeding internally.
Fox found his voice and croaked into his left wrist, "Main hall secured. Primary target eliminated. One high value prisoner in need of healing."
Tactical command would be working to relay that message to the front lines, but he'd rather play it safe then die in a friendly fire incident. So, he conjured a patronus and watched as it took shape. The ghostly shape bent closer so he could whisper, "Go to Ravi and tell him the Great Hall is secured, N'Butai is dead, and I have a prisoner. Ask him for an extraction path."
The form nodded and sprinted off. His eyes lingered on his patronus and he frowned.
Minutes later Ravi's tiger patronus bounded into the hall and told him to wait where he was. Eric returned to Christobal's form, not wanting to be mistaken for and unfriendly by the aurors augmenting the Strike team. Of course, if one did come into this hall and saw the Minister's nine year son standing triumphant over a high ranking ALA member and the body of The Black Plague, it would probably start a whole bunch of rumors and unrealistic expectations about the boy...something akin to the legend that had been built up around the English child mentioned earlier.
#
"Good work," Ravi said as Eric approached the commander's magic carpet. The man was older with penetrating blue eyes and hair more white than black. Both his legs were gone, but Eric knew that as long as he could hold a wand, his superior would be in the thick of things.
"Thanks. I'm done playing kids for a while. I swore after those eight weeks in New Salem that I'd never do it again."
"Yet here we are," Ravi answered and then laughed. "I heard the council is detaching you to go to England after all this. You? Teaching?"
"There's supposedly a curse on the position. This mission went long and I've already missed half the year. They have some useless bureaucrat keeping my seat warm right now. It's almost tempting to see if the curse would get her too, but I promised Albus Dumbledore that I'd try and break the curse. Plus, you know why the council really wants me there."
The older League commander nodded, "You're being given enough rope to hang yourself, Eric. If the English Dark Lord has not returned, you'll damage the League's reputation more than Gilderoy ever did."
Fox shrugged and answered the man's challenge, "There's no love lost between myself and Lockhart. Still, the man was a supremely gifted obliviator. In truth, I'd rather be wrong as well, but I trust my sources and everything the Fudge administration is doing makes it look like a desperate cover up is taking place."
"And considering one of your sources is my sister and her husband," Ravi said with a sigh. "I reluctantly agree with the council's decision. At the very least, I must ask you to look after my nieces and give the two a friendly reminder that their uncle would enjoy an occasional letter."
With a wolfish grin, Eric said, "Rest assured, I will find the proper method of encouraging them. Perhaps they will find themselves joining my morning training regimen."
"Very few would enjoy what you put yourself through. I'm not as worried for them as I am for you, my young friend. The word driven is the first thing everyone says about you and that word has defined you from the moment we met. Do not let the path you've set upon consume you."
It wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation. Eric nodded. "I will try."
"Of that I am certain. I must confess that I wonder how you are going to adjust to grading papers and teaching these children you dismiss about the perils of rabid garden gnomes?"
Eric worried about that as well, but refused to acknowledge that it might be a problem. "It won't be all boring. Out of the last four to hold the position, only a werewolf managed to last the full year and escape with his life and mind completely intact. One is dead. One was held prisoner in a trunk for the bulk of a year by a criminal imposter. And of course our good friend, Gilderoy, though I did keep the crayon Solstice greeting card he sent last year as a memento."
"And what will you say to their boy hero, this Harry Potter?"
"Putting your faith in children works when it comes to families, but not when it comes to wars."
"When do you leave?"
"As soon as you say you no longer need me here."
The two men grasped hands. "In that case Eric, let me wish you a safe journey. May your light chase the darkness back into the abyss."
"…and may your's follow it down and destroy it for all times. Safe journeys, my friend."
Eric walked beyond the ward lines and picked up a rock to make a portkey and considered the myth that had grown around the Potter boy. The boy's luck was close to running out and his time in the sun was near an end. His loss had the potential to send that corner of the world spiraling into anarchy.
As the portkey activated, Eric confessed that he was almost looking forward to exactly that.