Chapter 45: First StrikeSummary:
The English Cabinet reacts. Hermione makes her move
Notes:
I AM SO SORRY FOR POSTING LATE!! Things have been rather weird lately, as I'm sure they have been for most of y'all. Hopefully I'll be able to get back to a regular posting schedule soon
Chapter Text
John Major, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Leader of the Conservatives, was not having a good year. First, all the progress that had been made in Northern Ireland, over the objections of the hard-line Tories and Orangemen, had disappeared practically overnight, replaced with renewed rebel militarism and superior weaponry. Second, he had won his leadership battle by a far thinner margin than expected. Granted, it was one he had provoked himself, tired of the constant back-biting, but he had initiated it before the Northern Ireland Peace Talks went to hell. Third, there was this new crisis in Scotland. Everything about it seemed off and wrong.
A fifteen year-old girl from nowhere claiming to be queen should have been sent to hospital. Instead she had somehow rallied an unknown amount of support amongst the elite and thousands amongst the commons. They didn't know what her support from the elite was like because the Constables had been content to talk during this would-be queen's slow, peaceful surrender. A surrender that allowed all of her supporters to escape and nearly all of them to do so without identification.
That she had surrendered so easily, without violence, while still bearing the stolen Honours of Scotland, set off further alarm bells for John. There was something they were missing. Granted, she might just be insane, but insane people usually don't muster that kind of support--not when they're fully delusional. Part of the missing element was revealed when massive protests broke out across Scotland. It was a show of support for the imprisoned queen, even if they were solely protesting the admittedly hasty and political imprisonment of a Scottish national (they thought she was a Scottish national, they couldn't be entirely sure, there was an unsettling lack of paperwork about her). Another part was revealed after soldiers fired on the crowds in Glasgow, drawing condemnation from around the globe and even amongst his government's ardent supporters. But there was something else. Something they'd missed.
"Sir!" John turned, catching the sight of his frazzled secretary. "Sir, you'll want--well, you have to see this." John inwardly groaned even as he followed his secretary. Something he had to see but wouldn't want to could only be bad news, and his scale for bad news had changed drastically since taking this job.
Entering the lobby of Number 10 Downing Street, John saw everyone looking up at the small television screen. Normally muted with captions, the volume was turned fully up. Even more shocking was the visage on the screen--that of the fifteen year-old would-be queen.
"I," she said. "Gwendolen Black, Queen of Scots and Scotland, declare the Second Great Cause."
"Martha," John said to his secretary, not taking his eyes from the screen. "Get me Secretary Portillo. In fact, get me a meeting with the whole Defense Council."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Less than two hours later, the entirety of the Defense Council was assembled in the Secure Room in Whitehall. If this were anything less than the threat of a full-on war, John would have assembled the Defense Board, which handled most of the organizational paperwork. Given the situation, however, he needed the full formal body. Michael Portillo, his Secretary of State for Defense, was normally the Chair, though today that was abdicated in favor of John, given his rank as Prime Minister. There was Nicholas Soames, the Secretary of State for the Armed Forces; Peter Inge, Chief of the Defense Staff, the professional head of the Military; John Willas, the Vice-Chief; Jock Slater, the First Sea Lord and Chief of Naval Staff, professional head of the Navy; Charles Guthrie, Chief of the General Staff, professional head of the Army; Michael Graydon, Chief of Air Staff, professional head of the Air Force; Richard Mottram, Permanent Secretary of the Ministry of Defense; and the Director General Finance. Also in attendance were his Deputy Prime Minister and First Secretary of State Michael Heseltine, and his Secretary of State for Scotland Ian Lang.
"Afternoon," John said. It wouldn't do to rush things, even if he badly wanted to.
"Afternoon," the room replied.
"Right then," he said. "How well are we prepared for an insurgency in Scotland?"
"We're half-decent," Peter replied. "Our security's tight already since the IRA tried to attack us. We'll need to tighten it up, but nothing that can't be done. Our Scottish bases tend to be more fortified than the Irish ones."
"They also haven't been fighting as long," John Willas said. "They won't be as good as the IRA, and the IRA can't match us in a real battle. Their weapons will be worse--"
"Their weapons will likely be better," Ian Lang interrupted. "From the little we know Gwendolen Black has the support of several wealthy Scots, and a handful of wealthy Norwegians."
"Even so, that won't be enough," Charles said. "They might be able to build up soon, but at least for now they'll be poorly equipped. That will likely remain true long enough for us to build up security."
"Unless people desert," Ian countered. "That happened in Ireland, after Bloody Sunday."
"And we just made another Bloody day," Michael grumbled. "That speech will only make things worse. How the hell'd they hijack our networks?"
"The Chief Superintendent said they took over BBC Scotland," Ian answered. "Must've done something from there, probably some set-up for when regional reporting hits national."
"We'll need to do something about that," John Major said. "In the meantime, start building up our fortifications. Get some aircraft to take reconaissance trips, maybe they're clumsy enough for us to spot them. We'll also need to start moving troops from England and Wales towards Scotland. We'll need them if this turns out as bad as we think."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It did not turn out as bad as they thought. It turned out much, much worse.
After escaping Glasgow with the now-outed Cell, Hermione began organizing the next series of attacks and recruitment. Dozens of volunteers, if not hundreds, were joining them each day. Granted, the British Army still badly outnumbered them, but they didn't need to win in a battle-lines fight on an open plain. War didn't work that way anymore.
The main target was also the most dangerous one, both to attempt and if they failed.
HMNB Clyde, full name Her Majesty's Naval Base, Clyde, was one of the largest military instillations in Scotland and one of only three full-blown naval bases in the British Military, some to some three thousand service members. More importantly, it was the home of the Trident Missiles, the British Military's nuclear weapons.
The plan was for a large-scale distraction near the docks that would allow Hermione and a team of wizards disguised as scientists to enter RNAD Coulport, the storage and loading facility at HMNB Clyde. They would then disable and destroy nearly all the nuclear weapons, stealing one or two as a deterrent, as some missiles were likely to be at sea or secreted elsewhere. They might need the deterrent, but nuclear missiles were too difficult and expensive to maintain to justify more than one or two. They were also largely useless once one held deterrence capabilities.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The British Military spent much of the next few days forting up. On August 10th, their due date, soldiers throughout Scotland were tense, but nothing happened. Nothing happened on the 11th, nor the 12th, nor the 13th, and people began to relax, if only slightly.
It wasn't until the night of August 14th, 1995, that things truly began. James McLewis and the Argyll and Bute cell leader were heading the distraction attack. They numbered 254 and were armed to the teeth. Hopefully it would be enough.
Hermione, Maol MacDuff, Maol's wife Sinead, Aebard MacDougall, Ciara O'Mahoney, Cinaid Ancrum, Kenneth MacDonald, and a handful of others waited anxiously outside the barbed-wire fences. They remained in position until they heard loud explosions and saw bursts of flame rising in the night air. They remained still as the alarms went off, waiting as people rushed around. Finally, the alarms still sounding as the sound of gunfire filled the air, Hermione gave the signal.
The twelve wixen, all disillusioned, snuck onto the grounds. A simple Severing Charm sliced open the fence, letting them climb through. They paused briefly on the other side, Hermione turning towards the group.
"Remember," she said in a low voice. "Piercing curses, knives, and firearms only." The others nodded in understanding and Hermione turned back.
There were twelve soldiers guarding the outside of the building, eight at the front door and four at the back. Of course, leaving the front door guarded could prove problematic if someone decided to move. Gunshots would be far too loud, drawing the attention of the whole group before they could thin them out. As one the group of wixen raised their wands. Some whispered the words of the spell, some mouthed them, others said nothing. The end result was the same. The first volley of spells killed the four guards at the back, the second killed all but one at the front. The one was quickly finished off by Hermione with a second spell.
Still undetected the group made their way down the hill and through the small trees. Gently tapping her wand on the doorknob Hermione magically picked the lock.
Inside the compound there were more soldiers. Quickly drawing Excalibur, Hermione swung it, slitting the throat of the soldier in front of her. She moved quickly, dodging one blow and stabbing another soldier. The enemy regained their balance and aimed their weapons, and Hermione ducked behind a wall. Her allies then entered, a volley of piercing spells followed by gunshots. Hermione ducked back around the wall, throwing a knife into a soldier's eye. She pushed up off the ground, moving into a lunge, stabbing another soldier in the chest. Excalibur's blade, forged by High Elves before they disappeared along with their knowledge, easily cut through the protective armor and broke the man's ribs to pierce his heart.
With the soldiers dead and out of the way, the wixen started on the missiles. They had studied taking the missiles apart for weeks, the Trident Missiles long one of Hermione's top priorities. Wands out, they moved them carefully as they unscrewed bolts, took off plates, snipped wires, and piled up nuclear material. Normally dismantling a nuclear weapon could be an hour or hours-long process. With the help of magic it took only ten minutes.
Unfortunately, as much of an improvement that was, it wasn't likely to be good enough. There were as many as two hundred missiles in the storage facility, and they were unlikely to have three hours.
As time progressed the wixen moved faster, used to the movements. They slowed again after a careless mistake nearly set off one of the weapons, but were close to finding a happy medium when Hermione's mobile began ringing. Continuing the process, Hermione answered with her other hand.
"Hello?"
"It's James. We had to leave. Base on fire, destroyed a few ships. Even stole a patrol vessel."
"Good work. Head back, we can handle extraction."
"Copy. Good luck."
"Same to you." Hermione then hung up, her mobile slipping back into her pocket. The missile in front of her dismantled, she turned towards the others.
"The muggles had to leave," Hermione said. "The base has been heavily damaged, along with some of their ships. We're handling our own extraction."
"We are?" Maol asked. "How are we going to transport the missile then?"
"We aren't," Hermione replied. "Unfortunately, that's no longer in the cards. We'll just have to make do with knowing it isn't for them. That and costing them billions."
"I'll take it," Kenneth said. "Come on, let's get back at it. Each missile dismantled is another coronary for the poms!"
Chapter 46: The Other MinisterSummary:
John Major meets with an intensely frustrating man
Chapter Text
While the largest attack, the raid on HMNB Clyde was not the only one that took place on August 14th and 15th. The Cameron Barracks near Inverness were hit with mortar shells between 3:38 and 3:52 in the morning, the attackers managing to get away before the garrison could catch them. The Redford Barracks in Edinburgh were victim to a lorry-bomb that exploded around 7:25 am. Walcheren Barracks in Glasgow were bombed, as were the Rosyth Shipyards in Fife. Two pipe bombs went off in the Scapa Flow Naval Base. The worst were the attacks on the Air Force. The attack on the busy airfield at RAF Lossiemouth in Moray saw dozens of rocket-propelled grenades and anti-tank rounds fired at the largely empty aircraft while some forty men provided small-arms coverfire. The bombings of RAF Aird Uig in the Hebredies and RRH Buchan, both radar stations, were placed at the most essential and costly parts but saw no deaths, suggesting inside assistance. Four other barracks were attacked as well, a quick long-distance mortar shelling leaving no answers for the British, only questions and frustration.
John Major, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, had been alerted when the attack on HMNB Clyde began, at 11:46 pm on the 14th of August. He assembled his augmented Defense Council at Whitehall. They stood and sat in grim-faced surprise as information came in after the attackers left, around 1:14 am.
"Sir," Commodore Brian Perowne said over the phone. It was now 2:06. "We have finished examining the base. The full report will not be ready for some time. I can give a preliminary one now, however."
"We would appreciate that," John replied. There was a brief pause, as if the man was sighing away from the phone.
"The main attack involved an estimated two-hundred fifty people," Commodore Perowne said. "They attacked with mortar shells from a range before closing with small-arms fire. They targeted expensive equipment and buildings at first, some of them targeting ships as they came closer to the shore. The alarms went off almost immediately, triggering our response-force. While we outnumbered the insurgents, we were not expecting their numbers, nor for them to be as well-armed as they were. I personally led the counter-assault. Some of the guns we found were the newest Swedish models. We captured one mortar. It's the same as our army's standard-issue.
"Combat continued for more than an hour, largely a running fight as the insurgents tried to delay us and cause the maximum amount of damage. The death counts are rough, but we believe we killed six of theirs in that confrontation, while we lost twenty, counting the shelling. There are dozens more injured."
"Hold up," John Major said, lifting up a hand in instinctual response. "You said that confrontation."
"Yes sir," Commodore Perowne replied. "We didn't discover it until the grounds check."
"I have a bad feeling about this," Peter Inge said. Taking in a deep breath, he let it out slowly. "What did they do to the Tridents?" The room turned towards the Chief of Defense Staff with widened eyes, shock overriding their natural English reticence to show emotion.
"They dismantled them," Commodore Perowne said, unable to see the shock and horror. "There were two hundred seven Trident missiles in the storage facility, guarded by twenty-two men, none of whom were able to radio for assistance."
"Did they take any?" John asked, unable to hide his fear.
"No," Commodore Perowne said, and the room breathed a sigh of relief. "But all the missiles are disabled. The uranium was tampered with and is believed to be unsalvageable. It's possible we could repair some of the missile bodies, as there was little damage to them other than cut wires, but it would likely take time."
"How did they get in?" Jock Slater demanded, having recovered enough to speak. "A team of scientists large enough to dismantle that many--"
"A fifteen-meter section of the fence was found cut out," Commodore Perowne answered.
"How were they able to get in without someone radioing in for help?" Charles asked.
"We don't know. Whatever footage there was was destroyed by the insurgents."
The questions continued, but John Major listened to them with only half an ear. There were several things about this attack that should have been impossible. Cutting out fifteen meters of fencing in under an hour? Impossible. Killing twenty-two men before they could radio for assistance? Impossible. Sneaking into the most vital military facility in Britain completely unnoticed? Impossible. Dismantling two hundred Trident nuclear missiles in two hours? Impossible. Mysteriously turning uranium unusable at the same time? Impossible. Sneaking out of the most vital military facility in Britain completely unnoticed? Impossible.
Yet it had all happened. John's mind went back to the night he was sworn in, when he had been introduced, albeit briefly, to a world full of things that were impossible. A world of talking portraits, transporting fires, and special sticks. A world of magic.
Much as he might not wish to, John would be forced to contact the Other Minister, and soon.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Cornelius Fudge was not a man who appreciated surprises, unexpected events, or anything out of the wizarding ordinary, thank you very much. He enjoyed the finer things in life, and if some of his pleased constituents wanted to share their wealth with him, who was he to object? His tenure as Minister of Magic had, for the first several years, seen none of that of the former and much of the latter. It had been, by Cornelius' standards, a perfect existance.
It had changed, Cornelius now knew, when Harry Potter came into his world. Like much, if not all, the wizarding world, Cornelius had been excited at the Potter heir's return, hoping to welcome him with open arms. But instead of a warm embrace, Potter's return had heralded the dawn of a new, troubling era. One with Potter at the center of increasingly disturbing events. Potter had been involved in whatever hell caused that Hogwarts Professor--Squirrel?--to die. Potter had been deeply involved in the Chamber of Secrets fiasco. Potter had been at the center of not one but two dementor swarms, at the escape of Sirius Black, and at the escape of a man-eating hippogriff.
Disturbing as those events had been, however, it was the last year's that were the worst. Potter had been found at the Quidditch World Cup, his wand the one to cast the Dark Mark. Potter had, despite his age, somehow entered the Triwizard Tournament, turning it into a Quadwizard Tournament. He had exhibited atrocious behaviour at the Yule Ball. He had been at the center of Barty Crouch (Senior)'s deranged re-appearance and re-disappearance. In the final event he had disappeared, then reappeared, screaming about You-Know-Who's return. He had been escorted away by someone pretending to be Alastor Moody--who had gotten the drop on the notoriously paranoid auror was unknown, though Dumbledore claimed it had to be a Death Eater, but there were plenty of others with grudges to bear. Said person then had to be blasted out of a window by Cedric Diggory, the defeated Hogwarts Triwizard Champion, and some girl from Slytherin.
In retrospect, it all made sense. It had taken something truly audacious--namely the claims of You-Know-Who's return--for Cornelius to see it, but now he could. Potter lived for the limelight. Which, considering his circumstances (living with muggles of all people) was understandable. No doubt Dumbledore was manipulating Potter into gaining attention by damaging Cornelius' regime. Dumbledore had been trying to manipulate him, Cornelius Fudge, elected Minister of Magic, since his first day. Now that Cornelius had shown he couldn't be manipulated, Dumbledore was no doubt trying to oust him, using Potter.
Fortunately, he had ways of getting back at Dumbledore. The bearded menace had severely overestimated his hand. The Ministry and its employees--bar some malcontents in the DMLE--were loyal to him. The Wizengamot, displeased by Dumbledore's blatant manipulations, followed his lead as well. The Daily Prophet , as it always had been, was loyal to the Ministry and its pursuit of truth and justice. They ran stories they'd held off on for years, exposing Dumbledore as a power-grabbing menace and Potter as a fame-obsessed troubled youth. The Wizengamot had deposed Dumbledore as Chief Warlock, a post he'd held since 1948. Even the International Confederation of Warlocks had smelled blood in the water. A few days after the Wizengamot acted, the ICW had deposed Dumbledore from his post as Supreme Mugwump, another position he'd held for decades. The world was finally coming to its senses, and with the new educational decrees soon to pass, Hogwarts would accompany them into this brave new world.
Cornelius looked at his calendar and sighed. He had an appointment he very much did not want to go to. If there was anything he hated more than Dumbledore, it was interacting with muggles. They knew nothing about anything, and insisted in talking about fictional inventions. He had met with the previous Muggle Minister once, after his election. She had suggested planning for something called "Nurecal Armageddon," or maybe "Numbchoir Armageddon." As if muggles could ever threaten the Wizarding World.
Still, Cornelius had a duty to meet with the Muggle Minister when requested, and much to his displeasure he had been requested. With a sigh Cornelius grabbed his coat and hat and walked towards the fireplace. Dropping a pinch of floo powder he called out;
"Ten Downing Street!"
Cornelius stepped out of the fireplace brushing off soot. Looking around, the office was much the same as it had been last year, when he was forced to brief the Muggle Minister about Sirius Black's escape. Having already explained Black's situation, Fudge had sent a letter when Bellatrix Black, Rookwood, and Dolohov escaped. No need to do things face-to-face.
"Don't you wizards know how to knock?" the Muggle Minister asked. Cornelius scowled at the impudent man, but didn't respond.
"What's this about?" Cornelius asked. He wanted out of here soon as possible. The frozen portraits and distinct lack of magical fields were unwelcome, unnatural.
"Is the woman in Scotland one of yours?" the Muggle Minister asked.
"What woman?"
John Major bit back a sigh. Thatcher had told him how shockingly ignorant and isolated wizards were, but he had hoped she'd been exaggerating.
"The one claiming to be a queen."
"Sounds like a muggle problem," the Other Minister shrugged.
"Then explain to me how two hundred Trident Nuclear Missiles were disarmed in two hours!"
Ah, Cornelius thought. Nuclear. That was the word the last Muggle Minister had used. Though what tridents had to do with fiction technology was beyond him.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Cornelius said. "The only tridents we have are used by the merfolk."
"Merfolk?" the Muggle Minister asked, then shook his head. "Nevermind. Doesn't matter. You're sure your kind have nothing to do with this?" Cornelius bristled at the phrasing, straightening himself up.
"There are no wizards or witches involved in your petty conflicts," Cornelius spat. "If you'll excuse me." Cornelius then turned on his heel, leaving with the loudest CRACK he could manage.
John Major winced as the Other Minister disappeared. The sound was still ringing in his ears when he sat back behind his desk. Still, unpleasant as that meeting had been (as meeting with wizards always was) at least it had confirmed there weren't any wizards involved in Scotland. Truth be told, John wasn't sure if that was good or bad news. On one hand, it meant they wouldn't have to deal with any impossibilities or magic, just normal technology and weaponry. On the other hand, it meant this wasn't something he could blame on wizards, and what a comfort that would have been. It also meant he wouldn't be getting any magical help, not that John would have counted on it even if wizards had already been involved.
Overall it was probably a positive. One less possible complication. And John certainly didn't need more complications with that situation. Sighing deeply, John Major turned back to his paperwork for his Secretary of State for Scotland. Ian wanted John's signature on the warrants as well as the magister's, given how high-profile some of these arrests were.
Chapter 47: RiotsSummary:
The identification of Hermione's prominent supporters has unexpected consequences
Notes:
Hi everyone! I'm so sorry I haven't been posting lately, the pandemic has wrecked havoc on my sense of time and general peace of mind. I hope tonight's double-post will make up for my absence somewhat.
Hope all of you are well,
Sab
Chapter Text
Of the few thousand attendees of Gwendolen Black's coronation, only eight hundred had fit inside the cathedral. Of those eight hundred, an estimated four hundred were prominent members of society, either politicians, government figures, clan chiefs, peers, church leaders, and miscellaneous people of import. Of those estimated four hundred, ninety-six had been identified, and seventy-four found.
It started with a pre-dawn no-knock raid on August 22nd. Throughout the day the raids continued, prominent members of society hauled from their abodes and offices by overeager or reluctant constables. Many had broken bones, a handful escaped, but most were arrested with relative calm.
Norman Irons was not one of those. Lord Provost of the relatively Unionist Edinburgh and a member of the Scottish National Party, Irons had been on the list of suspects even before the Scottish Office could confirm his attendance. Once they had, he jumped to third-in-line. A man with his connection could easily and two and two if they gave him time.
The raid was led by Chief Inspector Jonathan Potts. Chief Inspector Potts' brother had been killed during the August 15th attack on the Redford Barracks. The funeral had taken place two days before, with Potts mostly standing still as his brother's wife cried on him.
The no-knock raid began by breaking through the door, the Chief Inspector first through the breech. Moving through the Lord Provost's house, he rushed through the corridor, looking for the bedroom. According to his men, a loud bang then sounded. The Chief Inspector flinched and pivoted, shooting as he turned. After the Chief Inspector fired the first bullet, the others in his squad began shooting.
The bang, it was later discovered, was caused by a crashing vase. Chief Inspector Potts' bullet hit the wall, which stopped its path. The subsequent shots had a different fate.
When the shooting finally stopped, the door was partially opened. It took two men to force it all the way open. Looking down, the Chief Inspector found out why.
Norman Irons, Lord Provost of Edinburgh, CBE, had been shot eleven times--four in the chest, six in the limbs, one through his neck. His wife, Anne Irons, was shot four times: two in her chest, one in her legs, one in her back. Chief Inspector Potts on seeing the Ironses, is reported to have said; "Shit."
The police quickly called an ambulance, but it was too late for the Lord Provost, who died en route to the hospital. Lady Provost Anne Irons was in intensive surgery for eighteen hours. She wasn't released for another four days, one of those spent being interrogated by the Chief Superintendent of Edinburgh. She told him nothing, saying that if he wanted her cooperation he shouldn't have killed her husband.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The funeral for Norman Irons, CBE, Lord Provost of Edinburgh, was held on August 30th. There had been no militant activity for a week, as the Queen had proclaimed a week-long period of mourning. Hermione had privately expressed her condolences to Anne, Elizabeth, and Kenneth, Norman's surviving family.
The funeral procession began at the Irons House, where Norman had been killed. Led by his still-recovering widow, the procession traced a route through the city to Old Calton Burial Ground. People flooded into the street as they walked past, tens of thousands joining the massive crowd. People had arrived from throughout Scotland, numbered nearly two hundred thousand in total by the time they arrived at the cemetery.
"Let us remember the man who has passed," the minister said. "Let us remember his life, his joys and his sorrows." The first person they heard from was Anne. She told of how they met, of the parties they had attended, of the love they'd shared, of their happy moments raising their children. Kenneth was next, speaking on how his father had raised him, taught him what it meant not just to be a man, but to be a good man. How he had taught him the importance of education and of kindness.
Then it was Elizabeth's turn. She had flown back from Hong Kong to help her mother and to attend the funeral. She walked to the front of the crowd with determination, her steps longer than they normally were. Forcing open her clenched hand, Elizabeth took the microphone.
"My father was a good man," Elizabeth said. "He was a good father. He taught me many lessons. I learned how to read, how to add and multiply, how to write and how to speak. The most important lesson he taught me was to stand up for what you believe in. To stand up, regardless of the price, because it was the right thing to do."
"My father," Elizabeth said, her voice cracking slightly. "Was murdered. My father was murdered by the Police Force of Edinburgh. He was murdered by Ian Lang. He was murdered by John Major."
"My father believed in an independent Scotland," Elizabeth said, her voice growing stronger, carrying over the silent crowd. "My father believed in self-determination. My father believed that freedom mattered. He believed that the restrictions put on his people, on our people were unjust. He believed," Elizabeth said. "In a free and independent Scotland. He was murdered for those beliefs."
"My father will be buried here next to his fellow political martyrs," Elizabeth said. "Like those men, he campaigned for equality, for freedom, and for liberty. He fought for a better future, not just for a few, but for all. It is a fight we cannot allow to die. His fight cannot end with him.
"By killing my father, the English State has shown its brutality. They have shown their true nature. Scotland shall never be free so long as we continue bowing to a foreign power. Together, we can beat them. Together, we can throw off our chains. My father has started this work, and I will continue it. They can't kill us all."
"They can't kill us all!" someone in the crowd shouted. The cheer was picked up by others in the crowd. "They can't kill us all! They can't kill us all!"
Norman Irons, CBE, Lord Provost of Edinburgh, husband of Anne Irons, father of Elizabeth and Kenneth Irons, was buried next to the Political Martyrs' Monument. After his burial, the crowd that had assembled did not disperse, at least not in its entirety. The majority moved from the burial grounds to the Police Headquarters, still in mourning clothes. They carried signs protesting police brutality and calling for the resignations of Chief Inspector Potts, the Chief Superintendent, Ian Lang, Secretary of State for Scotland; and John Major.
A line of police were present in front of the building, expecting some protesters. They had not expected a crowd this large, and knew for a fact they didn't have a permit.
"Disperse immediately!" the Sergeant said through a megaphone. "You are in violation of the law! Disperse immediately!" The crowd ignored him, and the sergeant lowered the megaphone. "Fire the tear gas," he said. The men nodded and raised their guns. A series of pops went off, sending the cannisters through the air before they landed amongst the crowd. Shouts went up from the crowd, and some began to disperse. The sergeant nodded, and another volley was fired.
In the crowd, a man named Aiden Hale picked up one of the canisters. Ignoring the burning in his eyes, he shouted;
"They can't kill us all!" Aiden threw the cannister back at the wall of police.
"They can't kill us all!" someone else yelled, and another cannister was thrown. More people began repeating the phrase as dozens of cannisters were hurled at the police.
"They can't kill us all!" Aiden yelled again, moving forwards.
"They can't kill us all!" more yelled, following him. The crowd surged forwards, shouting at the top of their lungs. As one their march turned into a sprint as they rushed the police line. The police fired rubber bullets from behind riot shields. Protestors yelled and attacked with metal poles, tear gas cannisters, their fists, anything they could grab. Soon the sheer weight of the crowd began pressing against the police's line. Unlike in Glasgow, the bullets didn't force them away. Instead they seemed only to anger the crowd.
The crowd surged again. They leapt onto police, tackling them to the ground and wrestling guns away from them. Fists rained down on the riot police as they were stripped of protective helmets and shields. Finally the line broke. The crowd rushed the police station door. Some, having somehow gotten alcohol or gasoline, hurled molotov cocktails through the building's windows. Others simply threw the tear gas, or shot them open with the stolen shotguns.
Hundreds poured into the building itself, stolen guns and clubs wielded with the anger of a mob. Some constables tried to stop them, grabbing weapons from the riot locker and evidence room, but they were too late. The mob destroyed equipment, they beat officers and constables. File cabinets were thrown through windows. Clubs smashed computers and hands hurled monitors, shattering them on the ground. The evidence room and the weapons locker were raided. Handcuffs were thrown from the building's roof, raining on the crowd below.
The gas in the building was thrown on the fire as they left. The flames, gathering strength, tore through the empty building, destroying much of what little had escaped the mob's wrath. Outside the building, someone had torn down the Union Jack and replaced it with the Scottish flag.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Daughter," the Dark Lord hissed. Despite regaining his handsome visage, the sibilant, snake-like tone of his voice hadn't faded. His skin was too tight. He blamed these flaws on Wormtail, the pissant unlikely to be the truly Willing Servant the ritual called for. If his daughter hadn't adjusted things, he'd likely have come out looking like some half-naga monstrosity.
"Father," Hermione replied calmly, taking a seat across from him. Unlike the Dark Lord, who was dressed in traditional robes of pitch-black, Hermione was wearing a more modern set. A more militant one too. While her father's robes were made of acromantula silk, an expensive and traditional material, Hermione's were made of dragonhide, though it was masked by a thin layer of silk on top. Her inner robe ended above her knees, though she was wearing a set of trousers as well. She had on combat boots as well. A red sash cut across her chest, Excalibur hanging from it. The sleeves on her inner robe were loose, her wand hidden beneath her left sleeve.
"You have gained quite a following," the Dark Lord said, placing a copy of The Guardian on the coffee table. "Most impressive. Yet you seem to have attracted no Ministry attention," he added, placing a copy of the Daily Prophet next to The Guardian . The contrast couldn't have been clearer. " Irons Killing Fuels Outrage ," The Guardian exclaimed. " Koldovstoretz Student Wins Wizard's Chess Tournament, " the Prophet remarked. Below the fold, another article criticized Dumbledore's fearmongering. Hermione fingered through the papers.
"This wasn't the plan," the Dark Lord hissed.
"No, it wasn't," Hermione said, putting down the papers. She looked up at her father. "I thought our stunt with the Trident Missiles would start them thinking of us."
"They did." The Dark Lord sighed, though he would deny doing so. "Their Prime Minister called Fudge. According to Lucius the fool's been complaining about it ever since. After meeting with Fudge, who still doesn't think nuclear missiles exist--"
"You're kidding me," Hermione said.
"Have I ever joked?" the Dark Lord asked.
"Probably," Hermione said. "You've lived a long time." The Dark Lord's eyes flashed red as he glared. Hermione moved on.
"I'm guessing Major decided wizards are too ignorant to have messed with nuclear weapons?"
"Correct," the Dark Lord drawled. His glare, it seemed, hadn't faded in the least, even if some of his support had. "Dumbledore and his Order remain fixated on me. The plan hasn't worked." Hermione bit back a response. The plan was working, at least from her perspective. Helping her father, while part of this, had never been the main focus. "We need something new."
"What did you have in mind?" Hermione asked.
"The auror's office in Glasgow," the Dark Lord said. Hermione paused.
"Why not go bigger?" she asked.
"What are you thinking?" he asked. Hermione smirked.
"There are seven people imprisoned for speaking Celtic Languages," she said. The Dark Lord stared at her.
"You want to break into Azkaban," he said flatly.
"I've done it before," Hermione replied. "I'd just be showier this time. I can even try to cause enough damage your Death Eaters escape too." The Dark Lord sat there for a moment, contemplating. It was a dangerous mission, yes, but not something unthinkable. Loathe as he was to risk his heir, she had done it before. And she'd have Bellatrix, Augustus, and Antonin with her this time. Possibly others too.
The Dark Lord looked at his daughter, staring into her eyes. The amethyst flecks made up a little less than half her irises now. She'd been practicing something. Something big, something dark . Given her confidence, something to do with Azkaban.
"Go," the Dark Lord said. "Be careful."
"I will," Hermione replied with a smile. "Thank you, father."
Chapter 48: Azkaban (Reprise)Summary:
Hermione enters Azkaban of her own will, again
Chapter Text
"Everyone have their wands?" Hermione asked.
"Yes," the group of wixen replied.
"Portkeys?"
"Yes."
"Protective gear?"
" Yes ."
"We all remember the spell, correct?"
"Darling," her mother said. "We're ready." Hermione nodded, biting her lip. She was nervous. Not so much for herself, she knew she was ready, but for everyone else. One slip and they could die, or have their soul could be sucked out.
"On three," Hermione said. Everyone gripped the carved wooden bracelets. They worked slightly different from most portkeys. Rather than a codeword, one pushed magic into the bracelet, which took them to their destination. Each bracelet was keyed to one location. On the current mission, everyone had two; one to Azkaban, and one back.
"One," Hermione said, gripping her own bracelet. "Two. Thr--" Her voice was cut off as she activated her bracelet, spinning through a tunnel and popping out the other side, hundreds of miles away. Three of the wixen had arrived before her. The others came afterwards, each one slipping neatly through Azkaban's wards.
The group fully assembled, Hermione set off, wand clutched tightly in her grip. Even knowing she was fine, she couldn't shake the feeling of doom and decay that clung to the island. Her mum, Gus, and Anton no doubt had it worse.
They strode forward as a group, walking down the empty corridors. Everyone was twitchy. There was something wrong about Azkaban. Something had bleed into the island over the centuries, the dementor's presence affecting the very land beneath them.
The Celtic-Speakers were held in the medium-security area, across the island from the maximum-security area, in a tower of its own. The minimum security prisoners had a tower of their own too.
They managed to reach the courtyard in front of the tower before being noticed. The aurors weren't the ones who'd caught them. The dementors had noticed the large group of souls wandering around. There were no patronii guarding them, no aurors to protect them. The dementors, hungry, insatiable, soul-sucking demons that they were, had gathered near the tower, waiting for them.
Hermione moved instantly as they reached the courtyard. Her wand carved through the air in two movements, symbolically cutting through the veil between realms. " Atar peake kerdn, " she intoned. She'd been practicing this spell for weeks, ever since she'd found it in a well-hidden book in the Chamber of Secrets. It was in a secret drawer in the hidden study of Slytherin's secret rooms in his secret chamber. It was half-stubbornness, part luck, and rest was the approval of a portrait, which later revealed itself to be the great Merlin Emrys, ancestor of Salazar Slytherin's student, Merlin the Younger.
Merlin Emrys, it turned out, had been a Zorastrian Magi. He had fled his home when the Byzantines re-conquered part of Asia Minor (as he called it). His wife and children had died in the purges of magic-users and non-Christians. In Britain he had started a new house, a new life, and served as Arthur Pendragon's advisor and a mentor to Morgan le Fey, ancestor of Morgana le Fey and Morrigan Sayre.
Merlin the Younger, during his struggle with Morgana, had hidden Merlin Emrys' tome of knowledge with his mentor. Slytherin, recognizing the potential and danger of the tome, had secreted it away, behind a basilisk, concealment charms, and an extremely cantankerous portrait.
A bright white flame poured from Hermione's wand. Another flame moved from where she'd pierced the veil. The two flames combined, mixing together as they moved towards solid form. A loud neigh emerged from the finished shape as it reared in mid-air. It snorted as it lowered its hooves. It lowered its horn, pointed toward the dementors, and charged.
The unicorn charged the dementors, who tried to move out of the way. Their dark coaks caught fire as it neared. It pierced through one's 'face' as it charged. The dementor let forth a wailing shriek before imploding, leaving nothing behind.
" Atar peake kerdn, " her mother said. Weakened by the first tear, the veil split easily, and soon a panther rushed to join her unicorn. More animals soon joined the fray, pure white flames destroying the foul beasts, the casting easier with each successive opening. Hermione smiled as the dementors fled. She moved towards the tower, gesturing for them to follow her. They did, though many watched their creation burning away the soul-suckers.
Her mother's panther stuck with them, clearing the way, while Hermione's unicorn continued routing the dementors, Rookwood and Dolohov following in its wake. The others moved quickly up the stairs, ignoring the largely empty cells at the bottom. After a brief while they reached the right floor, and Hermione drew her sword.
"Alan Guinness?" Hermione asked as she walked toward the first door.
"Aye," the man replied, his voice raspy with disuse.
"Nice place." The man glared.
"Come to mock me?" he spat.
"No," Hermione said. "Come to free you." The man looked at her in deep confusion. His confusion turned to shock when Hermione swung Excalibur, cleaving through the cell's lock. One by one she cut the locks, the prisoners shocked for a moment before scrambling to their feet.
"Right," Hermione exclaimed. "Escapees, grab hold of someone. We're portkey--"
"Your grace!" Saoirse shouted. "Aurors!"
"Perfect timing!" Hermione said, striding towards the back of the group. "On my mark."
"What's the--"
" FIENDFYRE! " As cursed flames flew from Hermione's wand the group popped away. Hermione waited a moment before jerking her wand to end the spout of flame and portkeying herself.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
AZKABAN DESTROYED!
Fiendfyre, Unknown Spells Destroy Ancient Prison
Inmates Whereabouts Unknown
Azkaban has been the Ministry's most famous, or infamous, prison since 1718. The island has long been thought of as inescapable, until the infamous madman Sirius Black escaped two years ago. While the recent triple-escape of Bellatrix Black, Augustus Rookwood, and Antonin Dolohov further damaged Azkaban's reputation, it was still a terrifying, intimidating fortress.
That is no longer the case. According to an auror, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, the Medium-Security Tower has been reduced to rubble. Several buildings are severely damaged, and the Maximum-Security Tower was destroyed when its inmates rioted. The Minimum-Security Tower has been damaged as well.
How could so much damage be done to such an impregnable fortress? How could the attackers get past the Dementors? Who even were the attackers?
"We're not sure how they got in," a different auror said, also speaking on the condition of anonymity. "They just appeared. It was like they portkeyed or apparated in, but the wards are too strong for that." When asked why the aurors did not immediately interfere, the auror replied, "We decided to let the dementors handle them."
But instead of handling the threat, the feared guardians of Azkaban were sent running by an unknown spell, described as, "A patronus, but made of white flames." This spell, cast by multiple invaders, not only pushed back the dementors, but destroyed them. This is when the aurors decided to involve themselves.
The aurors traced the group to the Medium-Security Tower, but instead of finding Azkaban's attackers, they found a raging case of cursed flames, which took more than an hour to put out. While they were struggling to put out the flames, the Death Eaters in the Maximum-Security Tower had somehow gotten wands and had begun taking apart the fortress. Some of them even broke into Azkaban's central building and destroyed the heavily-guarded central wardstone, allowing them to apparate away.
Despite the obvious failings of Azkaban's aurors and protocols, it is unclear whether they could have stopped this mass-escape. Nearly twenty wizards and witches appeared suddenly and without warning, somehow getting through Azkaban's wards. With the dementors taken out with this new mystery spell, Azkaban's aurors were outnumbered more than two-to-one.
"We will obviously be re-evaluating our procedures when it comes to Azkaban," Amelia Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, said. "For the moment, any prisoners will be held in our other facilities."
For more on the escaped prisoners, see page 4
For Minister Fudge's plan for improved security, see page 3
For information on dementors and Azkaban, see page 10
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Irish, Scottish, Welsh Wizards, Witches Declare Independence
Is the Union Breaking?
A statement was delivered by unknown means to the editor's office of the Daily Prophet, following our article on the most recent Azkaban escape. The statement, written by several prominent Irish, Scottish, and Welsh wizards and witches, is below.
"Despite recent efforts and public condemnation, neither the Wizengamot nor the Ministry have moved to repeal the laws banning Celtic languages, religion, rituals, spells, dress, and overall culture. Instead they have moved to further restrict our people, in effect committing genocide by cultural erasure. There are muggles who know more of our culture than many of us. This is an unacceptable state of affairs.
"We, the Alliance of Celtic Wixen, declare the independent Wizarding Republic of Ireland, the independent Wizarding Kingdoms of Scotland and Wales. We fight not for power, not for ourselves, but for our people and our children. We fight that our children might be free to speak the tongues of their ancestors--languages Helga Hufflepuff and Rowen Ravenclaw both spoke. We fight that they might practice their ancestor's religions and rituals--both of which all four Hogwarts founders are known to have participated in, as did Merlin Emrys, Merlin the Younger, and Morgan le Fey.
"We name ourselves free, independent, and at peace with all nations. No longer shall we follow the oppressive laws of the Wizengamot, nor do we recognize its authority. We offer the English Ministry a chance to accept this peacefully. Do not mistake this mercy for weakness, however. Should the English Ministry decide to reject our peaceful freedom, we are unafraid to fight for our liberation."
The document was signed by, amongst others, Lord Aebard MacDougall of the Wizengamot (Scottish, Light), Aeden MacDavie of the Wizengamot (Elected, Irish, Unaffiliated), Ciara O'Mahoney of the Wizengamot (Elected, Irish, Unaffiliated), Kenneth MacDonald of the Wizengamot (Elected, Scottish, Unaffiliated), Llewlyn Pritchard of the Wizengamot (Elected, Welsh, Unaffiliated), and Lady Gwendolen 'Hermione' Morgana Athena Slytherin Black, the Lady Black-Slytherin-Peverell-Rosier-Ravenclaw-Gaunt (Scottish, Dark).
Warrants have been issued for all the signatories, and they have been censured by the Wizengamot. All six Wizengamot members assigned proxies before releasing the statement, however, and the motion to strip them of their seats failed 20-21, with four abstentions, in a vote that saw many crossing party lines.
For the Ministry's response, see page 4
For more about the signatories, see page 6
For more about the Wizengamot vote, see page 10
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Dumbledore," Fudge called. The Wizengamot had just voted on stripping the traitorous members of their status. A vote that had narrowly failed, despite seeing both Dumbledore and Fudge on the same side. "This is a serious problem."
"Yes, Cornelius," the older man said. "It is. Voldemort has made his opening move. He hopes to divide the Light--"
"You're still on that?" Cornelius asked incredulously. "Things are bad enough without your fearmongering!"
"Cornelius!" Dumbledore thundered. "Voldemort has returned! How far will you let this country go before you see the truth?!" Fudge flinched but summoned what little courage he had.
"You're turning into Mad-Eye Moody!" he replied. "Even when faced with a clear problem you see eighteen shadows and think they're all You-Know-Who!" Dumbledore closed his eyes, taking a moment to breathe and center himself. He hadn't had this kind of an outburst since Grindelwald's War. Knowing he'd say something rude, possibly image-destroying, Dumbledore simply turned on his heel, summoning Fawkes. They disappeared in a burst of flame, leaving only a hint of soot behind.
Chapter 49: EscalationSummary:
Hermione returns to muggle Edinburgh where she must quickly react to rapid changes during her absence.
Notes:
Sorry for being gone so long! I'll try and update more regularly.
Chapter Text
The rioting in Edinburgh had been a completely unexpected turn of events for Hermione Slytherin, aka Gwendolen Black Queen of Scots and of Scotland. While she had been relatively isolated in the Wizarding World, planning and executing the Attack on Azkaban, Norman Irons' spitfire daughter had galvanized the crowds at her father's funeral into a mob and destroyed the Police Headquarters. While Hermione was writing and editing the public letter for the Daily Prophet James McLewis, her outed supporter, had returned to his hometown Edinburgh and led an attack on the Redford Barracks. Helped by secret allies inside the ranks and unhindered by the many disgusted by the civilian shootings he had managed to capture the Barracks after a brief but fierce firefight.
All this had happened in the three days following the funeral. Hermione hadn't expect any serious territorial holdings for quite some time, let alone one so far south as Edinburgh. Which was why she had come herself. That her arrival coincided with the attack from the Dreghorn Barracks was an unfortunate coincidence.
The attack had been heralded by the rumbling of tank treads on civilian streets. It had begun with an almighty explosion as an explosive round blasted through their makeshift barricade on the A702. Hermione had been called while she was meeting with James.
Standing on the roof of a building and looking through binoculars, Hermione let out a low whistle.
"How bad?" James asked, leg jiggling as he stood next to her.
"Bad," Hermione answered. "They're taking us seriously. Twenty tanks, followed by IFVs. Probably a pack of humvees hiding behind them." Taking in a deep breath she turned to her companion. "If we back down here we'll never be able to face them in pitched battle," Hermione said. "We'll be fighting a long, drawn-out guerilla war that will leave our home and people devastated. I'm not willing to risk that. I want people on roofs with mortars and anti-tank guns and RPGs shooting from as far away as they can manage. I want every building cleared of civilians and machine gunners put in the windows."
"And you?" James asked. Hermione gave him a sharp-toothed grin.
"I'll be buying you time."
"Your majesty!" James tried to object, but Hermione was already stepping past him, numbers dialing into her phone.
"Sinead," the woman answered.
"Sinead, this is Gwen," Hermione stated. "Are you ready?"
"Ready enough," she answered. "What do you need us for?"
"Poms are invading Edinburgh," Hermione stated. "We need to distract them long enough for our forces to get organized."
"Understood," Sinead said. "Where are we meeting?"
"Location Six," Hermione answered.
"Be there in three." Hermione nodded. Checking to make sure James was gone, she twisted on her heel.
Hermione appeared with a crack, standing in the middle of a dusty upper-story flat. Muttering a spell beneath her breath the illusion cleared. The dust disappeared, replaced by clean tile flooring. The walls pulled back, revealing well-stocked lockers, chests, and cabinets. Opening one herself, Hermione pulled out an assault rifle. Checking it over, she grabbed another couple magazines before moving to a second locker. Strapping the gun to herself, Hermione unlocked the second locker and pulled out an RPG-29 and claimed a small box of anti-ERA HEAT rounds.
A crack behind her had Hermione turning sharply, wand outstretched and pointing. Sinead MacDuff cocked an eyebrow, and Hermione lowered her wand, sheathing it as well. Moving towards the window, she glanced out it.
"We should get started," she said softly. Behind her Sinead hummed in agreement. Unlatching the window, Hermione closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She exhaled, inhaled again, and began pulling from her magical core. She spread it through her body as she breathed. She felt lighter than a fairy, stronger than a dragon. Her senses flew through the roof. She could hear the tank treads, the wheels of the humvees behind them, the orders being given by the pom army and her own. She could smell the burning fuel, the nervous sweat, the oiled gears. Opening her eyes the entire world felt bright and so, so big. She could see every tread on the approaching tanks, the narrowed pupils of the soldiers behind them. She breathed in and out, in and out, and slowly her sense came to heel, focusing on what and where she wanted them to.
Hermione moved swiftly, as if it was born to her. The RPG was placed neatly over her shoulder, round sliding into its breech. Narrowing her eyes, she focused on the lead tank and fired. The round flew from the launcher on her shoulder, her magic-strengthened body unaffected by the recoil. The round flew through the air, stabilizing fins deployed. It seemed to almost curve as it came closer, finally hitting the tank on its side, near the engine block. The small front charge took the brunt of the Explosive Reactive Armor, allowing the main charge to detonate. The explosion was powerful, tearing into the armor with enough force the massive tank stuttered. A second round was fired with ease, flying directly into the breech begun by the first. Already damaged, the tank's armor broke under the second explosion. The flames and metal tore into the engine block, further fueling the explosion. The tank seemed to jump on the road before falling, covered in fire. The hatch was forced open as the crew struggled to crawl out, by Hermione was already moving on. One, two, three grenades were in the air before the first landed, tearing through the next tank in the line. Two more were fired from Sinead's launcher, breaking through a third. The air cracked behind them as more of Sinead's group appeared, grabbing guns and launchers before making their way to the windows.
Enhanced as they were in speed and precision, it was only after the eighth tank was destroyed that the British Army began firing back. The machine guns from the tanks lit into the side of their building. A heavy IFV sped towards them, only to be halted when Alec Guiness fired a grenade into its engine block. Jeeps and humvees moved towards them as well, meeting with similar ends. After one of her soldiers was injured, Sinead shifted her aim, taking out the machine gunners while Hermione focused on the tanks themselves. The others continued firing at the horde of vehicles arraying themselves against them, armored carriers and IFVs trying to get closer, or at least close enough to kill. Their bullets were met with grenades, their vehicles exploding beneath them. Thanks to the enchanted lockers they had hundreds of anti-tank rounds in the building and were more than willing to exhaust their supply one at a time.
The British Army, however, was less willing to engage in such a drawn-out process. A heavy armored carrier bolted towards them, a pair of grenades destroying it. The poms remained undeterred, instead driving forward. Dozens broke formation to rush at their building, and despite their heightened physical abilities the wizards and witches were unable to destroy them all.
"Keep firing," Hermione ordered, dropping her RPG after a final shot towards yet another tank. Grabbing her gun, she braced it against her shoulder. Below her she could hear the stomping footsteps of the soldiers as they charged up the stairs. Stepping next to the doorway, Hermione waited for them to reach the landing. As the first step landed on the last bit of stair, Hermione pivoted from the doorframe. Her gun leveled as she moved, two bursts leaving the muzzle at each soldier's face. They were dead instantly. More were coming up the stairs, and Hermione moved to meet them. Standing on the landing, she greeted their arrival with another series of bursts and continued making her way down the stairs, stepping over the blood, bodies, and brains that now littered the wooden steps.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Lieutenant-Colonel Jason Taylor was not having a good day. Any day he was ordered to go into combat was not a good day, but this was an exceptionally ill one. Ordered by his commanding officer, Major-General Jonathan Hall, to reclaim Edinburgh from the insurgents, Jason had known the day would not go smoothly. The attack on HMNB Clyde proved that well enough, and the insurgent's support in Edinburgh had been nearly fanatical as of late. Still, commanding twelve hundred active-duty soldiers and bolstered by a few hundred reservists, Jason had expected to defeat the outnumbered insurgents.
Things had gone wrong from the moment the first tank was destroyed. Two grenades, fired swiftly and succinctly with supernatural precision had torn through the Challenger's armor. That had been but the beginning. The seemingly endless wave of precise rocket-propelled grenades had torn through his tanks, killing and injuring dozens. The destruction only increased when Jason ordered his men to focus on their attackers. Still, Captain Andrews had reported that some of his men managed to get into the building.
"Lieutenant-Colonel?" In a swift motion Jason grabbed the walkie-talkie, pressing the button to answer.
"Captain Andrews? Over."
"This is Captain Andrews," the Captain reported. "We're in the building, over."
"Have you found your men? Over."
"Nega--Gary, repeat that." Jason stood stock still as he waited, mustache quivering. "We've found them," Captain Andrews said, his voice sounding pained. Biting his lip, Jason forced himself to ask the question he didn't want to know the answer to.
"How did you find them? Over."
"Dead," Captain Andrews stated. "Burst the face. We're pushing up--" The Captain's voice was drowned out by a series of explosions, far closer than before. Jason watched in horror, voice silent as mortar shells landed amongst his convoy. Halted as they were by the first group of insurgents, they were sitting ducks for the volley. Shrapnel and flames covered the convoy, smoke rising high in the sky.
"Lieutenant-Colonel?" They could still manage a victory. They could push on past the first group, take out the rooftop insurgents. But that would expose the more vulnerable jeeps and other unarmored vehicles to the destructive precision of the first group. They could win, but not without dozens dead and hundreds injured.
"Captain Andrews, pull back," Jason ordered. "Get your men out of there." There was a pause before the walkie-talking crackled back on, and Jason feared he was being ignored.
"Understood," Captain Andrews said. "Over." Nodding to himself, Jason turned towards his second-in-command.
"Get to the back, have them start retreating," Jason ordered. "I'll organize the front ranks."
"Understood, sir," his Major replied. Jason nodded, again more to himself than anything else, and his Major headed off, hand-radio gripped tightly. Turning to his own, Jason pushed in the frequency.
"Captains," he stated. "Begin withdrawing your men."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hermione sighed in relief as she heard the Army forces were retreating. She hadn't looked forward to fighting off a full company. Moving up the stairs she let her gun hang from the strap around her body. The magic enhancing every inch of her body faded, flowing back to her much-depleted core. Hermione slumped under the sudden weight of reality, pausing for a moment to readjust before standing upright and making her way back up the stairs. Her muscles strained as she climbed. Brief though the battle had been--only fifteen minutes before the retreat began--it had taken much out of her. The ceaseless use of magic weighed heavily on her core, even more than when she used Merlin's spell.
A sharp crack sounded from the stairs above her. Hermione assumed it was one of Sinead's group heading out. At least until the bright red light caught her attention. Her eyes flew wide as she took in the spell. Flinging herself to the side of the stairwell, the spell only caught her in a grazing blow. A sense of sleepiness seeped into her bones. Gritting her teeth, Hermione pushed through it, forcing her head upright as her wand fell into place.
"Lady Hermione Slytherin, you are under arrest," the auror declared. Hermione glared up at him.
"Not yet," she replied through gritted teeth. Another spell flew towards her, and Hermione just managed to block it, her shield knocking the stunner into the wall. A cutting curse bouncing against her shield as well before Hermione managed to snap off a spell of her own, one easily dodged by the auror. Another crack sounded behind her and Hermione ducked, a jet of light flying over her head. More cracks sounded as the rest of the auror team arrived. Glaring at them, Hermione turned on her foot, only to slam into a harsh wall, bouncing off the anti-apparation wards.
"Falbh a-mach!" Hermione shouted. Grabbing her knife she slit her palm, blood pouring forth as she began to chant. " Bidh fuil an stiùiriche, air a thoirt seachad gu deònach, a 'tionndadh ballachan gu drochaid ." Blood of the leader, willingly given, turn walls to bridge. Hermione's blood floated up from her palm, curving into an intricate pattern of Ogham. The aurors stumbled from the sudden wave of Dark magic. They recovered swiftly, but Hermione's allies were already gone in a series of sharp cracks. Deprived of the rest, they focused on their main prize, but Hermione seemed gone as well.
Dawlish cried out in pain, hand flying to his neck as a pair of fangs dug into him. The snake evaded his hand, coiling and pressing off, leaping to her next victim, fangs ripping into his skin as well. Dawlish looked at his hand, the venom-tainted blood on his fingers, and stumbled. The other aurors aimed at the snake, firing spells at the horned serpent as it moved through them, ducking between legs and biting with ease. A volley of curses flew towards the serpent as it hung on a light post. The snake dropped, shifting as it did. In place of the snake stood a young woman, a vicious grin on her face. A powerful blast from her wand knocked the aurors backwards, giving her enough time to leap down the stairwell. Rolling with her fall, Hermione pushed off the ground, sprinting across the street and into the building opposite. Once inside she twisted on her foot and with a faint crack disappeared.