Draco's left hand snapped out as it grabbed an incoming silver gloved hand, lifting it up as his right hand performed a close range 'Immoblus', which was barely blocked by a chantless and wand-less protego as the attacker withdrew his wand.
However, just as he raised his wand. A sudden spell sent him flying him, though neither Draco nor anyone else cast a spell, surprising the silver-gloved man and any spectators. The result of Draco's own spell, Bombarda Temporalis, a spell with a delayed effect- but nevertheless, Draco continued right up with an Incarcerus Cordis- the binding charm and a rope slithered around his body, locking him on the ground. Stomach first.
Draco then raised his wand once more, uttering the words Flux Interruptus. Though he continued to aim the spell at the man, as the viking failed to launch any counter attacks. Flux Interruptus was a spell that Draco had recently learned; the whole spell relied on a relatively stable unmoving target and constant concentration. With the result of it permitting one to interrupt magical flow and prevent spells.
Which is was why it was not widely used, as a simple Petrificus Totalus or Avada Kedavra did the same job, but better. Though that kind of depends on the scenario.
"I yield." Came from the gloved man named Ragnar. He was the strongest War-Captain of the Berserkers. And the second-strongest man after Vagnar.
Loud clapping then came from the sides, as Vagnar walked in. A massive and broad man with long hair and beard, a pair of short-axes on his waist, alongside an unusually long wand that seemed extra thick. He also sported the 'silver gloved hand'
It was a simple item, a single touch by the hand would disrupt your magical flow for the duration of the touch. And although it seemed powerful, it had it's disadvantages.
You had to get re-used to wielding magic after recieving the glove, as it also disrupts your magic to an extent. And maybe the worst, you'd have to remove your hand to place the new one.
Ignoring these downsides, the entirety of the Berserkers had this silver hand- though the quality of it was different, as you could improve the silver hand the richer you were, and you only gained riches through strength in the Berserkers.
"I guess you ain't all that bad, even though you hide behind the skirt of money and influence." Vagnar spoke as he walked forward, and Draco turned around to face him. "I care little for your respect, Vagnar- I only ask that you comply with your contractor."
"You don't pay me, nor do you command me."
"I can ensure that you don't get paid, and I will make you pay dearly if you cross me. I am sure you've heard of Lord Voldemort? Are you confident your 'backers' will stand against the Dark Lord for you?" Draco asked, as Vagnars expression remained the same, but Draco could feel his will tremble through occlumency. Something he had been recently getting better at.
"That's what I thought, now follow me and we will discuss an attack plan." Draco spoke as he turned around and began walking back towards the house, and Vagnar reluctantly followed.
.....
*Coldfront Prison*
Torstein Galte sat in his cell, the magically reinforced glass that keeping him away from the other prisoners at the Highly Dangerous Section, though he knew that both his sons and wife sat here as well.
Torstein Galte regretted many things in life, but what he regretted the most was not why, it was how he did what he did. And even if given another chance, he would do it again. But this time differently.
He was young, 35 years old. Not yet at his peak, but he was still the second strongest wizard in all of Norway, with two sons- at 18 and 17. He was 16 when he had his first, but even then he had ambitions to become the new King of Norway.
His sons had immense potential, and perhaps had he waited another 8 years he could have succeeded, but he was manipulated into launching the coup.
False information, traitor houses and fake support. It was all a massive game played on him by the Norwegian King- to pluck out the rotten houses.
Norway was all about hierarchy- the 10 Great Houses from the Viking Age suppressed the remaining 32 lesser houses, and every other wizard. They had access to ancient Norwegian techniques- wand styles and spells easily available in other countries- but not in Norway.
Every spell was a struggle to learn, and every talent was poached instantly by the great houses- all so they could control Norway with an iron fist. And Torstein had been lucky, he had found a teacher willing to teach him a style.
A sacrifice that ended with his teachers death, but through it he had risen as the second greatest mage in all of Norway. After Lord Galtung, and equal to King Haakon. But it had all been futile; ambushed during the night, taken alongside his entire family and all his supporters.
'My time has not come, it has just began' he thought, he had been recieving dreams of late- prophesies. Of a young man with white hair, who would once again bring house Galte to prominence, and Torstein had long since decided to put all his faith in this young man, if he ever appeared.
.....
Arthur Weasley had been living on edge constantly for months, and though his personal safety was not currently at risk- the pressure he was facing was immense.
He was currently before the French Government in Paris, where most their magical government could be found. Dozens of french representative sat in an almost gladiator-like arena looking down on him, very much like the one he had sent Harry into two years ago.
"Arthur Weasley, representative of the Order of the Phoenix. You are now in the presence of the French High Council, you will now be permitted to speak your case." One of them spoke, from what Arthur knew he was the Chief of the Bureau des Affairs Magiques Internationales.
"Monsieur Minister, esteemed members of the French Ministry," he spoke, as he stood up and placed a hand on his chest.
"I am not a politician, and I am not a great diplomat. Most of you know me as a man who works in a small office in London, fascinated by Muggle plugs and batteries. I am just a father, a husband, and a wizard who has seen what happens when good people stay quiet for too long." He let his hand down and took a step forward, his eyes meeting many of the french ministers.
"I know what many of you are thinking when you look across the English Channel right now. You think the terror in Britain is a British problem. You think Voldemort is our mistake to fix, and that your borders will keep you safe."
"But it is not, a little over fifty years ago, a shadow fell over Europe and it spread to France, he stood 400 metres from where we now stand. It started with whispers, then secret meetings, and then Gellert Grindelwald was standing in the heart of Paris, preaching about a new world order. He told pure-bloods that they were born to rule. He told you that Muggles were nothing but cattle." He spoke as he walked through the room.
He had been given a crash course on how to speak to these politicians, and had spent a lot of time on this speech. This was no fantasy where a speech from the hearth saves a day, diplomacy is cruel and hardwon preperation is the only way to get what you want.
"Your grandparents fought that war. They watched their beautiful streets turn into battlefields. They buried their children because they believed Grindelwald's lies couldn't cross the water or pierce their wards. You know exactly how much blood it took to stop him."
"Voldemort is not different. He is the second coming of that exact same hatred—only he is much, much worse.
"Grindelwald wanted power and glory, but he still had a twisted sense of a 'greater good.' Voldemort has no good in him. He wants to break the world until everyone is either bleeding at his feet or dead, his terror will not end with Britain. He lives for battle, and he will turn to France next, then Spain, then the rest of the world- until only purebloods and their 'slaves' exist."
"Right now, my family is hiding. My youngest son is on the run. My oldest son's face was torn apart by a werewolf fighting for the Dark Lord. We are fighting with everything we have. But we cannot do it alone." He spoke, a single tear falling from his cheeks- not magic but a more simpler way to force a tear.
"I am not asking you for your gold or your beautiful words. I am asking you to wake up. Do not wait until the Dark Mark is burning over the Eiffel Tower to realize that this is your war too. Stand with us now, before there is nothing left of our world to save." And with that, his speech ended and he sat down again under the conflicted yet undeniably curious gaze.
"An emotional speach, Mr Weasley. One I am sure none of us truly prepared for. You may now leave, and we shall convene on further actions. But we see your peril and rest assured, some form of support shall be dispatched." The Minister for Magic; Antoine Layfaette spoke.
Arthur nodded as he left the room- his mind filled with thoughts or hopes for eventual support.
The French Ministry was strong, the two governments had almost always been equal in terms of general strength. Only recent super-talents through Britains history had changed the balance somehow, and sadly France could not match Voldemort in single combat.
However their Auror Division was far more vast, as instead of the British 16-man limit- the French Auror Division had near 200 operatives. Though general strength was visibly lower, but they had a much higher scale of professional soliders.
That is not to say they had weaker men, their Head of the Aurors Office was named Etienne Moreau; and he led a team often named after the 'Three Musketeers', though often just referred to the Musketeers.
Lucien Moreau, known for his own adaption of Madeye's light style. The pair had met once and neither could win, though Lucien apparently held a slight advantage. And Jack had once mentioned Lucien could kill Death Eaters of higher skill than him, though Jack would win in a duel. He was also the Ministers younger brother.
Armand Lefevre, legendary for his water manipulation. Capable of forming water out of moisture of the air, creating an extremely unpredictable attack strategy as well as potential for large scale attacks.
Renard Rochefort, the weakest of the two but not weak- known for his lightning magic- unlike Davis most his magic was direct, utilizing magical energy to form it rather than Davis's usual nature transformation and Renard almost always works with Armand, supporting him with lightning. Multiplying their power levels.
From Jack's observations he suspected the three musketeers could definitly hold off Voldemort, and with support from Etienne or Jack, attempt a kill shot. But otherwise each musketeer could fight a core lieutenant under Voldemort's, disregarding maybe Bellatrix or Travers. But both Lucien and Etienne could take her.
The French were also well established in the international magical comittee, and their support could do wonders to convince remaining states to support their efforts, in any way or form.
And they were rich both in resources and intelligence, the Phoenix Order was struggling to gain proper intelligence regarding Voldemorts rule and actions within central Britain, severely limiting their ability to counter-attack.
But for now, they just had to hope.
----
påetron: Pondsfyre
+6 chapters
6 additional books.