Book I: Reign - FTGG [IC/OPEN/Harry Potter AU]

[The V O I D]

FOR THE GREATER GOOD

Out of Character

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Albus Dumbledore lost his duel against the Dark Lord Grindelwald in 1945, who maintained his Mastery over the Elder Wand. As a result, Grindelwald's forces - both Magical and their Muggle puppets - won the war for Europe. Dumbledore did not die, and indeed was rescued from Nurmengard, but this bitter defeat forced the man into hiding.

In 1946, the Statute of Secrecy was destroyed rather permanently as the Dark Lord personally oversaw the destruction of Muggle governments, and the various Magical Ministries of Europe unite under his organization into the First Magical Empire. Grindelwald's Empire eventually stormed the British Isles, and with the assistance of the local blood purists united under the leadership of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, the Empire was victorious.

The International Confederation of Wizards sued the Empire for peace, even as they forged tentative alliances with their Muggle governments because of the Statute's breaking. Grindelwald instead forced the ICW into agreeing that any Magical Ministry who wished to join his Empire could do so freely - and many did, whether out of fear or out of genuine desire to be free from their Muggle governments and be open about their Magic.

By 1950, the First Magical Empire came to cover most of the eastern hemisphere - with the Dark Lord Grindelwald at its head. Under the Empire, there has come to be a certain hierarchy in society: Muggles at the lowest rung, and Purebloods at the top.

Meanwhile, Albus Dumbledore and his Order of the Phoenix have begun sponsoring various Magical and Muggle resistance groups within the Empire's territory - they are known about by both the ICW, United Free Nations (their Muggle counterpart for the Americas), and the First Magical Empire.

Gellert Grindelwald believes that this society will eventually achieve humanity's greatest feats, and so for the Greater Good, he waits for the day his Empire reigns over the Earth - supreme and whole.

But, for Albus Dumbledore, his greatest failure has cost most of the world its freedom - and so it is for the Greater Good that he and his Order continue to help those oppressed peoples' fight against Grindelwald's regime...

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Book I: Reign

Gellert Grindelwald
Nurmengard Castle, Austrian Magical State, Deutscher Zauberund (“German Magical Alliance”)
Capital of the First Magical Empire

January 1, 1981

It had been many years since Gellert's final victory. The German Magical Alliance was, effectively, the leadership and capital state of his Empire. While Nurmengard was not the “official” capital of the German state, it was the true capital - just as Nurmengard acted as the nerve center of the Empire when Gellert called forth his inner circle.

In thinking of his inner circle, Gellert decided that - as it was now the first day of the new year - it was time to summon them to discuss the happenings of the last month, as well as a review of the year. It would also be prudent to inform some of them of what he had Seen, considering the fact that he had formed a Prophecy - one which he guarded, here, at Nurmengard. The Prophecy, on his review of it, had to do with him and the Empire at large.

Namely, it spoke of the Final Confrontation - that much, Gellert knew for certain. It did not reveal who the victor would be, or the conditions under which it would occur - just that the Final Confrontation was approaching. At a more liberal guess, Gellert supposed his Sight could be suggesting it would occur at the end of the decade. But, the more conservative and paranoid part of the Dark Lord felt that it was entirely possible that it could mean within the next year, if not the one after.

Regardless, that and many other things had to be discussed. And so:

“Expecto Patronum,” the Dark Lord murmured. His Patronus was fuelled by the memory of his victory. One of his happiest moments, it had changed his Patronus from when it had been fuelled by memories of his time with Albus. Gellert's Patronus was once a Phoenix, like Albus' familiar. But now, it was an Augurey. The silver animal split into many as he gave his order: “Go to my people, and deliver this to them: You are summoned to Nurmengard. The yearly review is to commence soon. Use your Portkey, as it is tuned into the wards of the Castle. The password for today is Victoria.”

With that, the many Patroni set off to deliver the messages - vanishing as they did so. Gellert turned and went to his dining room, where his friends and allies would arrive for the meeting upon being Portkeyed. The House Elves knew what to do, and he had the Elder Wand prepared in case of someone managing to intrude.

Gellert smiled as he sat at the head of the table, waiting for the arrival of his fellow heads.

[Deutschess Kaiserreich]

Gilderoy Lockhart
UFN/ICW Magical Law Enforcement Officer
New York, downtown Manhattan
December 31, 1981



Gilderoy Lockhart felt the punches of the rainfall falling on his umbrella as he dashed through the darkening streets of New York. The many street lights that dotted the street began to flicker, casting the street with much-needed light. Almost as if on cue the many building that made up the mountains for the valley that was first Buckingham Street had their window be lit by light from within. They looked warm from where Lockhart was standing and he wished for such warmth. Not much further, just at the corner of the street and he would achieve much-needed warmth.

Then it seemed like luck was against me as a huge firestorm of air slammed into Lockhart ripping his black umbrella away from his hands. Lockhart looked behind him and saw hi umbrella disappear into the night. Lockhart swore loudly as he now moved to a sprint. Only a few meters away. Thank god, his trench coat was taking some of the brunt of the rain but he still felt the cold slimy water seep into his insides. His location was a small green door. At last, he reached the door. He reached deep into his pockets to search for his key to what now seemed like paradise. He ripped his hand out of his pockets and for a moment stared at the silver yale key. A loud crack of thunder ripped through the air, startling Lockhart, making him drop the precious key. To make it all worse the downpour had somehow gained strength and turned into a torrent that nearly forced Lockhart to his knees from its onslaught. He let out such a line of swears towards the sky so scalding that a sailor would cover their own ears in shock. "Accio key!" Lockhart yelled, barely heard over the rain.

The silver key flew into his hand and Lockhart ran in not a moment too soon. Lockhart burst through the door and slammed the door behind him. The light within was warm. Oh, so warm. No matter how long Lockhart had lived in the big apple he had never gotten worse to the terrible weather Lockhart practically crawled up three flight stairs until he reached his red door with the number A302 emboldened on a bronze plate. He looked behind him and saw that he had dripped a trail of water. The landlady would almost be certainly knocking on his door tonight. He should clean it up but he was just too exhausted...

A nice warm shower and last nights Dinner later, Lockhart found himself eyeing his bottle of Gigglewater that sat on a tray right next to three shot glasses and one wine glass. Tonight was terrible, perhaps some spirts would cheer him up? Nah, tommorow was a work day and the worse thing that could happen was a hangover. But, most of them came to work hungover after a long night at the bar. Still no, he had to be the best enforcer that was. That's what his father would want. Lockhart ripped his eyes away from the decanter and walked over to his desk snugly tucked away in the corner of his room and lit in warm golden light from a desk lamp. He let his fingers run on it's superbly polished ashen wood cover. This was the same table his father had used to work on his cases. He remembered finding his father hard at work in the late hours of the day. His father would sometimes notice and tuck him back into bed, wiping away Lockhart's golden hair kissing him on his forehead. It reminded them both of Lockhart's mother and how she would always do it. At least, until that dark day. Lockhart smiled at the memory of the warm touch of his mother and the supporting words of his muggle father. He pulled out the desk's bottom drawer and took out a sheaf of papers. He pulled out the chair and began to pour over the papers in front of him. They detailed the many cases that Lockhart had worked on. Be it Fwooper smuggled from southern Africa or magical gangs that held control over the docks.

Lockhart rubbed his eyes and placed his papers back in his drawers. Despite it being many hours since he had returned the rain was still as heavy as ever. It pittered and pattered on his window. He couldn't help but look out the window and into the street. There was something so peaceful about it. Then his thoughts began to float very far away. To a land where he had once lived. Where his mother had fallen defending them. Where he and his father were to flee. Lockhart couldn't help but think of the people suffering under Lord Blacks rule. They never deserved it. He would do something. One day. Lockhart found himself clenching his teeth and bitting the walls of his mouth. He tasted blood. He swore under his breath and drew his wand, pointing it into his mouth. Episkey, he whispered. There was a brief light and Lockhart no longer tasted blood. He stared at the clock above the kitchen counter.

It was getting late. Time for bed.

[The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile]

Bartemius Crouch, Sr.
Palace of Justice, London, Great Britain
January 1, 1981

---

The hour was ticking late in Britain. As always, the Chief Justice of the First Magical Empire was still in his office.

Working in the dimness of lamplight, entertained only by the splatter of raindrops on the windowpanes, Bartemius Crouch signed off on yet another Imperial Decree with a flourish of his quill. Dipping the nib of the handsome eagle-feathered instrument into his inkwell, the wizard turned to the next document. It was a proclamation restricting the English curfew from eleven to ten o'clock, a measure designed to alleviate the workload of the witches and wizards who had to patrol the streets of London at night, preventing Muggle hoodlums from causing trouble.
Crouch signed it without hesitation.

Sensing something instinctually, the man gently placed down his quill and looked up. His dark, hooded eyes, still alert despite the time, fixed on the window- and through it, a shining figure emerged.

Incandescent, mesmerizing, and stately, Grindelwald's Patronus flew seamlessly through solid wall and hovered before Crouch. The wizard heard the words of his master ring through the room.

"You are summoned to Nurmengard. The yearly review is to commence soon. Use your Portkey, as it is tuned into the wards of the Castle. The password for today is Victoria."

Without a word, Barty Crouch picked his bowler hat up from his desk, and settled it on his head. His left hand reached into his waistcoat, and removed a fine silver pocketwatch. Winding the watch, Crouch guided the hands to the correct position, and then in a flash, was sucked into a void.

The wizard emerged, slightly frayed, in the dining hall of Nurmengard Castle. Before him was the long, dark table, at the head of which sat his master. Taking a few long strides forward, the Chief Justice removed his hat and bowed before Grindelwald.

"For the Greater Good," he said, and with that, took his place near the head of the table.

[Ormata]

King Paul 1st
Versailles Palace, Versailles, Gallia

"You are summoned to Nurmengard. The yearly review is to commence soon. Use your Portkey, as it is tuned into the wards of the Castle. The password for today is Victoria."

An audible sigh echoed throughout the room. On the oak table in the center lay a small feast, a chunk of roast meat laying on a platter here, a glass of red wine nearby, another plate with good bread and melted butter, a dissected and murdered salad off to the side. The King himself sat in his chair, his clothing not at all befitting a person of his own stature. A white shirt and pants, loose on his thin frame, that’s really all the man was wearing at the time. It was most annoying to be interrupted at such a time, but then again it wasn’t as though the Emperor of the East could care much as far as when his subjects were notified and in what state they were in. If he was on the toilet Paul doubted it’d wait. He sighed nevertheless, mostly for the fact that his late dinner had not yet been finished in total.

In any case though he wasn’t dressed well enough for a visit to Noremgard at that precise moment. Paul doubted the man would wait for him to eat the rest of his dinner, though, and in any case it was entirely likely the man would provide for some food at Nurmengard. Of course, that said, he hated going there to begin with. Life wasn’t quite the same in that strange little fortress the man held, not quite the same at all. Things just didn’t feel right, not with all the magic in the air, in the lungs of every person speaking, and besides that fact it was a prison secondly. It was where every poor bastard who chose the wrong side went. Paul didn’t like that. He didn’t like that at all.

Setting his fork down and rising, one hand snatched the wine glass up to his lips. A long sip, more like a slurp in all honesty, and the empty wine glass sat back down. Sighing, the man took just a few steps over to the door. It was nice, feeling the bare marble under his toes; they’d put heating underneath, giving the stone a lovely little feeling that just made the whole palace more comfy. Opening the door, the King found a butler standing there.

“Mon roi?”

“Garde la nourriture au chaud, Jacques. J'ai besoin d'aller dehors; une autre réunion. Ne le dis pas à la reine, elle n'a pas à s'inquiéter.”

“Bien sur, mon roi.”

With that, the man bowed, entering the room as the King exited. Up a flight of stairs and first door on the right, the man entered. The room was rather plain, as Versailles standards went, with rich rugs covering most of the floor and a series of wardrobes along one wall, dark fine oak contrasting well with the white walls. Opening one up, the man got rather quickly changed for a more appropriate outfit. A finer white robe of burgundy trim, red pantaloons, and a pair of boots was all that the King wore; he was not an extravagant man. Of course, a simple iron crown was worn along with a series of similarly plain iron rings. He always had his protection, the amulet included. All set, the man took out from another closet a very specific hangar.

The shirt came off, a deep blue linen affair with white bordering and a symbol stitched in the center, a strange symbol of a thousand lines at differing angles, each one across the front, in black wool. Laying it on the bed, the old man folded it several times over, each time not at all in the ordinary manner, each time calculated and practiced. The use of a Portkey such as this required a key of sorts, one Paul intended to not be broken. With the last fold, he was transported away to Nurmengard, the shirt whipped about the room with the force and laying there on the ground, unfolded.

It was recommended that the elderly not use a Portkey. It was also recommended that the elderly not do a lot of the things Paul tended to do. When he emerged from the adventure that was traveling by such a damnably annoying way, the man did so with the grace and care that should always be expected for a man of his age. Walking out from it without missing a beat, the King bowed to Grindelwald as he took his usual place at the other end of the table. It was far away from the head of it as one might be, turning the chair around with a mere flick of his finger as the man approached before taking his seat.

The other man present, of course, was Crouch. To give him his full title, the man was Bartemius Crouch, Sr., one of the more annoying men across the channel. The man was always watching, always wanting to kill and to instill what he thought was order, like a rabid beast. It was most definitely annoying. In any case, King Paul the 1st of Gallia had his seat, staying still there despite the company present with his back rigid, his posture good.

[The Fascist Waffle Empire]

Lucjusz Jablonski
Nurmengard Prison
January 1st, 1981

Jabłonski is snapped awake by the sound of metal banging in metal. He gives himself a moment to look around his bleak surroundings. A small, dirty sink, a toilet, a tiny, bar covered window. And his thin and scratchy cot, which is all he has seen these last 5 years. He could vaguely understand the guards speaking down the hall. Because all he could do in his 5 years of imprisonment was eavesdrop. This had also helped him learn English somewhat.

“I’ve gotta ask, why are we guarding the man up the halls like we are, he seems so... unassuming?”

“Do not let his look betray his nature, I assume you’re one of the new guys, well. He is, or WAS the leader of what they called the Arma Krajowa, which has been around since the Nazis took over his country in 39.”

“Okay, well what has he done specifically?”

“Well, lets just say he has killed a lot of people, also. Please don’t speak german around him, last guy who did was put on medical leave for getting one of his eyes ripped out.”

The two guards make their way to jabłonski’s cell. And the newer one slides a tray of what they called food. “Here’s today’s meal prisoner.”

“I see you told the newbie here about my one simple request James, hows that other guard doing. His eye healed yet?” Jabłonski says with a very sarcastic tone

“He probably won’t be coming back to work here, no thanks to you. And your not the one who asks questions I am.”

jabłonski finishes the meal, and gives the tray back to the newer guard

“You do understand that the sooner you tell us where your group is held up, the better it is gonna be on your par-“

The guard is cut off by a loud and booming laugh coming from jabłonski

“You really think I would sell out the freedom of my people to save my own skin? You obviously don’t know me, we have been fighting for 40 years against you foreign oppressors, first the damned Nazis, now you magical folk. The only answer you will EVER get out of me is Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła! And I will gladly die before I give any other answer than that.”

The older guard enters his cell, and uses his baton to bring jabłoski, then proceeds to knock the man out, all while the younger one watches, eyes wide in surprise, and a bit of fear. The older guard leaves the cell, and both guards continue on their patrol.

Several minutes later, Jabłoski gets up, but now he has a plan on how to escape.

FYI: Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła means “Poland is not yet lost”

[Khasinkonia]

Libna Mra Judith bat Thurein McIlhoyle
“Viceroy Judy of the Magical Raj”
Lāl Qila, Asian Ministry of Magic Headquarters, Minister’s Office
January 1, 1981

The Red Fort truly made for the perfect seat of government of a united magic and muggle state. Although I personally had always loved the idea of placing the seat in Kolkata or perhaps in the glorious golden Shwedagon Pagoda in Yangon, but the Red Fort not only hosted to the ministry at the time of my ascension, but was also simply the best place to keep the seat of government. Although I disagreed with a great deal of Grindelwald’s policies on a moral level, under my leadership, I liked to think the good outweighed the bad. Although wizards still held relative political dominance, given that I was one, I was certain to draw upon the best muggles had to offer when the opportunity arose. Although my superiors disapproved, I still stood by my decision to have the first, and perhaps only muggle advisor in the Magical Empire’s history—Mohandas Gandhi. It was difficult to swing, but the prospect of taking one of the great men of history in my own cabinet was too good to pass up.

Although I’d initially scheduled a visit to Lhasa for a meet and greet at Lhasa City Interdisciplinary School—a delightfully progressive institution sponsored by the city’s former mayor that educated both muggles and wizards in a shared environment, teaching not only fine arts, language, and history, but also both the conceptual aspects of muggle studies such as maths and science and magical subjects, with muggle and squib students receiving more free blocks in their schedule for additional conceptual courses, while wizarding students were expected to complete conceptual applications of the material. It was truly amazing, and quite a shame the morning ceremony had to compete with sleep that was quickly disappearing, but Nurmengard patronus summons were not the sort of thing one could usually reschedule. More advanced notice would have been appreciated, especially considering the fact that I’d been hoping to get to bed early so I wouldn’t run slow in the morning.

After a quick touch-up on my hair, I sighed and grabbed the portkey. One could only hope I’d return to squeeze a precious few hours of sleep out upon my return. I’d already had a quite tiresome day, with deliberations on the succession of the current Head of Muggle Affairs only being interrupted by meals and my visit to Sittwe for tea with the mayor. It was time to listen carefully, and keep myself on track for another few hours, it seemed.

“Good evening,” I said as I materialised, then taking my assigned seat at the far end of the table. Already present were Crouch, and the King of France. My, after all these years, it was still odd to imagine a king reigning over France once more. It was one thing that wizards had taken over—how it happened was easy to understand, particularly considering the fact that I had now been involved in the whole affair for a number of decades—but a French king? I never thought I’d see the day.

[Plzen]

Norðurstjarna "Járnsíða" Sigurðsdóttir, kona Norðurlands

---

I saw myself in the mirror. I must admit, I looked good in this dress. The grays and purples complemented everything perfectly, and while not really regimented there was just a hint of a ceremonial military cut. The kind of dress that accentuates my status and power, and take the focus away from my more womanlike features. Perhaps it's because I take the effort to truly make myself presentable so rarely - after all, not many occasions truly deserve my best effort - but despite the fact that I do not consider myself a person overly concerned with appearances I'm impressed with my designer every time I put my attire on.

I permitted myself a small sigh. With my attire looking presentable, the last item on the agenda before my departure was finished. No more excuses I could give myself to delay. Time to step out into the fanfare and music. Drawing my seiðstafr, a foot of somewhat rough Svealand birch with the business end spun in Sussex flax in my youth so many years ago, I put my self-distraction and doubt aside and drew forth the power inherent in all practitioners of the supernatural arts.

With a nauseating whirl and snap, I found myself outside Nurmengard Castle. It was a bit of a walk from the moat up to the upper chambers where Lord Grindelwald liked to hold his conferences, but time was not something that I had a particularly painful shortage of. Gold, skill, and servants with actual intelligence, yes. Time, no. Being able to avoid the even more nauseating whirl of being squeezed through a portkey was well worth the time spent walking into the apparition-restricted sections of the Castle.

Running through my mind were many things. I of course had my research to consider, with the search for the North English ley intersection hitting a snag with the ambient magical energies in British soil - somewhat higher than in Scandinavia - causing me no end of problems with equipment malfunctions. Then, of course, were the situation at home. Although frankly speaking, the duties of a kona were boring in the extreme - I had trusted subjects to take care of all that stuff - it would not do at all for me to remain ignorant of the affairs in my own realm. I made an effort to catch up... if only before meetings with the other lords and ladies of the Empire.

Not even I could guess how Grindelwald's mind worked, or what aspect of my realm's affairs his curiosities might drift towards on any given day. From the magical population of Uppsala at the latest census (stable and increasing) to the latest negotiations with the Nordryggen trolls (violent and tenuous), his role was to question and mine, often enough, to answer.

With all that in mind I stepped into the chamber to face the day's hardships.

[Reverend Norv]

St. Paul's Cathedral
London

I didn't want to do it from here.

It will seem too deliberate. Too poetic. It will give the wrong impression: religious, nationalist, what-have-you. It will be seen as the soul of Britain retaliating against Nurmengard.

I'm not here for any of those reasons. I'm here because I need the elevation.

The Palace of Justice - the nerve center for the Dark Lord's direct administration in Britain, as opposed to Arcturus Black's quisling government - used to be the Old Bailey. So it's built on a winding road, not a long thoroughfare. So there's no clear sight line from anywhere else in the city. So I need the elevation: to look straight down over the rooftops, rather than between the buildings down an existing aperture. It's about visibility.

You don't get better visibility than from the top of Saint Paul's.

I spent three months planning this operation. I know that the night shift of muggle security at the cathedral leaves at midnight, replaced by the graveyard shift. I know that two graveyard-shift guards stand watch by the Canon Alley side door. I know that one of them always drinks a thermos of coffee and then uses the WC at about two in the morning. I know that while he does this, his mate feels exposed and jumpy.

I know that magical patrols pass every ten minutes, but do not usually overlap with Guard Number One's piss break. I know, however, that Guard Number Two keeps an eye on their movements. I know that he will run to get the warlocks if anything spooks him.

I wait in the crawlspace of the nineteenth-century building along Canon Alley, directly opposite the cathedral's side door just twenty yards away. I have been here for nine hours; above me, the once-fancy office - now used to store paper products - has long since fallen silent. I have sawed through the barred sub-basement windows here. I will be able to squirm out into the bushes opposite the cathedral's side door, when the moment comes.

The night silence calms me. I listen to my breathing. I watch the guards through the window, through the bushes outside the window. Guard Number One finishes his coffee. He walks toward the WC in Paternoster Square. He disappears from sight.

I take a piece of paper from my pocket. I roll it up tightly. I stick a pebble into it. I put one end of the roll of paper to my lips, and aim carefully through the window, and blow.

The pebble smacks Guard Number Two right in the forehead. He yelps, looks around wildly, and then takes off at a run, calling for the patrolling wizards.

I writhe through the sub-basement window. I pull my backpack through after me. I cover the distance to the door in seven steps, a ghost in shabby brown clothes and threadbare gloves, and I slip into the cathedral.

Inside, it is cold and silent. The vault is almost invisible in the darkness above. I find the staircase to the dome, and pick the lock. Outside the Canon Alley door, I can hear Guard Number Two talking to the warlocks. Their voices are incredulous, impatient. This is not the first false alarm he has raised, and little rocks fall from old buildings all the time.

I get the lock open, and slip into the staircase, and pause to relock the door behind me, so that there will be no sign of forced entry. I don't climb all the way up to the dome, though. I stop halfway up, near the Whispering Gallery, where there is a service closet off the stairs. Ordinarily, the sexton would use this place, but he is going to be sick. Cate Larkin will put a laxative in his coffee four hours from now. So I get inside the closet, and sit down among the mops and the dank smell, and close my eyes.

The actual killing will happen tomorrow, you see, at the end of the day: still eighteen hours from now. In the meantime, from nine to five, there will be a few tourists or pilgrims up in the dome. So I have to spend the day out of sight. In order not to be identified, it was necessary to get into the cathedral at night. Now I am in, though, I have to wait out the crowd.

So I doze. Six, maybe seven hours. Voices in the staircase outside the closet door wake me around nine, and I spend the next eight hours listening to snippets of occasional conversation. You can tell who is a muggle and who is a wizard; the cadence, the volume. Fear seeps into your voice when you learn it with your mother's milk. So does power.

The voices stop coming eventually. Five o'clock: the dome is now closed to tourists. Down below, the staircase door will be locked again. I wait another twenty minutes, just to be sure. Then I leave the service closet and climb the rest of the way to the top of the dome, more than three hundred feet above the street below.

I have entirely missed the day: sunup to sundown, I spent January 1st in the service closet. When I emerge from the staircase into what they call the Golden Gallery, the sky all around me is already dark, with pinprick stars beginning to show. England in winter: nightfall comes early. The ordinary staff at the Palace of Justice will be going home now. The higher-ups will work late. Barty Crouch insists. They will leave in about three hours. That leaves me plenty of time to prepare.

I take off my backpack, and reach into it. Inside, my hand is lost in a formless void for a moment, a space much larger than the backpack itself; a friend in the Order put an undetectable expansion charm on the bag, back in New York. Then my fingers touch cloth, and I set to work.

First, I hang the curtains: drab black cloth that enfolds one of the apertures in the arcade around the gallery. My rifle will sit between and behind the curtains, and they will conceal much of the muzzle flash. Once I've got the curtains taped up, I pull out a sledgehammer, and then I set up the tripod: lightweight aluminum, expandable, spring-stabilized: a more stable firing position than any bipod. I spend a few minutes fiddling with the length of the tripod legs on the ancient flagstones. I have time yet.

Then the rifle. Still strange to see the whole length of it drawn from a ruck far too small to hold it. It's an American rifle, a Remington 700 in .300 Winchester Magnum. From the top of St. Paul's, I am just under a kilometer from the street in front of the Old Bailey. There's no need for the .50-caliber. The rifle goes atop the tripod, with an old dish towel in the vice to provide another level of stabilizing padding. Then I go back to the backpack and pull out my binoculars, and the Box: a homemade contraption covered in lightswitches, with a spindly radio antenna extending upward.

I look through my binoculars. I check my watch. I wait.

At 8:03, they walk out of the Bailey's main door in a group. Quinctillius Ruperts, the Chief Judiciary's lead prosecutor for political cases. Harald Connifer, head of magical law enforcement for the city of London. Dietrich Schwarz, the head of the Bureau of Prisons, an old Grindelwald loyalist from the thirties. All report directly to Crouch. All leave at this time every day.

Crouch is usually with them. He should be with them. He is not. He must be working later still.

Rule number one: do not improvise. I crush my frustration into the pit of my stomach and shift from my binoculars to my rifle. There's been too much invested into the plan to abort now. The loss of these three will cripple the Palace of Justice's senior administration. They are good enough.

The three men finish their conversation. Ruperts whistles, and a horseless coach moves toward him down the street, soundless with distance in my crosshairs. Connifer takes his broom from the bodyguard next to him and dusts it off. He fancies himself a flyboy. Schwartz reaches into his briefcase for his portkey.

I put my crosshairs over Schwartz's head, and fire. In my scope, blood flashes black in the night, and he crumples. I cycle the rifle's bolt.

The bodyguards are fast. Rupert's man shoves him down and hauls him toward the Old Bailey's door. I wait just long enough, and then take my hand off my rifle and flip the first switch on the Box.

The mailbox of the building next to the Bailey explodes. Four hundred ball-bearings spray out in an expanding cone at waist-height. The bodyguard's whole torso disappears in a spray of gore. Rupert is lower. He loses his head and most of his shoulders. One of his arms, severed, rolls into the gutter.

Connifer's man has dragged him down too. They have their wands out now. Connifer flicks his, and the spray of shrapnel parts and moves around the two of them like the Red Sea around Moses. He scrambles upright and reaches for his broom.

Now I have a clean shot. I take it, and Connifer drops. His bodyguard realizes roughly where I have to be, and red blasts from his wand fly in my direction. I have a telescopic scope, and he does not. I cycle the bolt again, and shoot him in the chest, and he folds.

The alarm at the Old Bailey is howling now. I wait. I tripped it once before, three months ago, to assess their response.

Reinforced doors open. Warlocks flood into the street, wands raised, forming a cordon around the area where their leaders lie dead. In the dim glare of streetlamps, a shimmering haze attests to the magical shields that they fling up: a dome of power cast by two dozen wands. Medics begin to drag the corpses indoors. Soon, the broom patrols will be here, and the game will be up.

Soon, but not yet. I flip every remaining switch on the Box.

The magical shields block bullets, but not radio waves. And the bombs are all hidden inside the dome of protective power. Manhole covers, parked cars, mailboxes, bushes, even an entire tree - all detonate at the same time. Thousands of ball-bearings, nails, nuts, bolts, and the splinters of plants and vehicles - all fill the air with death. For a moment, the shields hold the detonation in: a perfect dome of fire blooms in the street in front of the Old Bailey. Then the shields fail, and the explosion rips the entire front wall off the Palace of Justice in a hundred-foot-tall shower of flame and masonry.

I put my rifle and tripod and the Box back in my rucksack. I raise my binoculars and look back through the smoke. The road in front of the Old Bailey is choked with dozens of bodies in imperial robes. I can see the blood on the ground, and know it must be a half-inch deep.

I drop the binoculars into the backpack too, and pick up the sledgehammer.

British history: Christopher Wren built St. Paul's dome - the tallest in the world at the time - using a casemate design. To take the strain, he made two domes: one inside the other, with a narrow space in between.

The hammer crunches through the old stone beneath my feet in under a minute. I anchor the rope that I have worn around my waist since I infiltrated the cathedral almost twenty-four hours ago. Below me, dank with the dust of ages, is the space between the domes. It goes all the way down to the crypt.

I have four hundred feet of thin, synthetic climbing rope. It takes me three minutes to rappel down. Far below the dome and the broom patrols, among the tombs of Britain's great and good, Cate Larkin is waiting for me. She grins fiercely in the dark. "Big feckin' boom."

I nod. My voice sounds strange to me: rusty with two days of disuse, flavored with the Welsh accent that Cate believes is my native one. "Big feckin' boom indeed."

Then exfiltration: a hidden exit from the crypt to the sewer, a boat waiting by the outflow point to the Thames. As we move silently downriver, I can see the fire of the Old Bailey still reflected from the clouds of the black sky.

I think of my sister: of the fear in her dead eyes. They will be afraid when they hear of this, I think. They will all be afraid, until I come and kill them too.

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

New York City
Grand Trade Tower
285 Fulton Street
1st of January 1981
Thursday

The Grand Trade Tower was the highest building in New York, built as the economic centre for the new United Free Nations. It was finished just two years prior, and stood as a testament to the resilience and fighting spirit of the nations that still remained free. It’s architecture resembled a mix of the Chrysler and Empire State buildings, with a good mix of neo-classicism thrown in for good measure. Classicism and neo-Gothic architecture had both seen a rebirth in the United Free Nations, as some kind of celebration of all Muggles were capable of. The ground floor of the tower was abuzz with. Suited businessmen and stock traders were running to and fro, visiting rich patrons that resided in the building or heading to their work places. Various flows of people moved through one another, an organic whole that looked like an anthill from up above.

Through this whole, a single figure moved against the current, sliding silently across the marbled floors. His long robes stood out starkly when compared to the black and grey business suits of the other occupants of the ground floor. He figure was not bothered moving against the current in the manner he did, and his strange apparel made it so that others were afraid to bump into him. The light of giant gilded chandeliers was reflected in his half-moon spectacles, which mixed with the twinkle in his eyes to form a happy dance of lights. His hand stroked through his long beard as he walked, his eyes staring a thousand yards into the empty distance.

The man arrived at the seven elevators that facilitated upward travel through the building. For a moment, he stood still in front of them, counting them right-to-left while muttering under his breath.

“Monday… Tuesday… Wednesday… Thursday…” after which he moved to the fourth lift counted from the right. Instead of pushing the button, he took from sleeve of his robe a wooden stick, with which he touched the call button.

“Peach rings” he muttered, again under his breath, and instead of the traditional orange the light began to burn in a bright teal. Within seconds, the lift doors opened, allowing the bearded man to enter, and closing just as quickly before others could join them. This lift was decorated entirely differently from the other ones. Where the others were made from steel and looked modern, this one was decked out with golden ornaments and red velvet, with a chandelier hanging from the top. As the man put his wand back in his sleeve, the lift boy greeted him.

“Good morning, Master Dumbledore. How can I assist you today?”

“Good morning, Peter. Could you take me to five plus the square root of two divided by i, please?”

“One square root of two coming up, sir!” the boy replied, pushing a few buttons on his control panel. The panel, unlike that of a normal lift, was a wild mix of numbers, letters and mathematical symbols. As soon as all the correct numbers lit up, the lift boy pulled a handle, bracing himself for movement of the lift. It did not move an inch, however. The lift boy gained a puzzled look, to the bemusement of Dumbledore.

“Order of operations, Peter” Dumbledore said. “Additions come…”

“… Last, yes. Thank you, Master” Peter said, pushing the C button on the dashboard and filling in the numbers in the right order. As soon as he pulled the handle, the lift rocked into motion, shooting horizontally backwards. While their soles remained stuck to the bottom of the lift, they could feel the room spin and hurtle around its axis. Dumbledore’s beard spun around, pointing south as if it were a gyroscope. After a few seconds of hurtling, the lift came to a screeching halt, the doors opening with a ding.

“Thank you so much, Peter” Dumbledore said, patting the lad on the shoulder as he walked out the lift. He entered into what looked like an abandoned storage space. It was a mess of wooden boxes, suitcases, filled shelves and cleaning equipment, with a mouldy, dusty air to complement the look. Light was provided by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, with a pair of moths quaintly darting around it. As the lift doors closed, there was a sudden moment of silence. Only the fluttering of the moths was audible. After a few seconds, one of the suitcases opened, and two brown eyes peered out into the room.

“Master Dumbledore!” a voice from the suitcase exclaimed. The lid almost flew off, and out came crawling a dark-skinned wizard in bright blue robes.

“Shacklebolt, so nice to see you again” Dumbledore replied, kindly receiving the man’s hands for a firm handshake.

“I thought you were in Europe!” Shacklebolt said, half asking, half stating as a matter of fact.

“That’s what I thought!” a third voice said, as Minerva McGonagall came climbing out of her own case. The different offices of the Order of the Phoenix headquarters were all portable suitcases, bigger on the inside than the outside. It made the headquarters highly mobile, something they had learned was useful from their time in Europe. Where Grindelwald enjoyed monumental architecture, the Order always kept things simple and practical.

“I’m just back for a moment” Dumbledore said, pushing his half-moon spectacles further onto his nose. “I’ll be back in Europe in a few days. There is an old friend I would quite like to meet, and he’s in New York at the moment.”

“Any news from there?” McGonagall inquired, sitting down on one of the boxes. Dumbledore let out an audible sigh. A crate moved itself behind him, allowing him to sit down. As he did so, he removed his half-moon spectacles. His eyes looked tired without his spectacles on. His old, wrinkled hand pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I just received word from a contact in London. Ruperts, Connifer and Schwarz will no longer bother us” He said, staring at the floor boards between his feet.

“How much did it take to convince them?” Shacklebolt asked, not immediately catching the atmosphere.

“Around 500 pounds of high explosives, as far as I’ve heard” Dumbledore answered. The smile immediately disappeared from Shacklebolt’s face. McGonagall stood up from her crate, her hand covering her mouth.

“Is that Quint Ruperts? He was…”

“Yes, Ravenclaw boy. Sat behind you in first year transfiguration” Dumbledore cut her off. “Bright lad with an incredible sweet tooth” he continued, a wry smile appearing on his face.

“Oh, Dumbledore, if you’d just allowed me to talk to him, we might…” McGonagall tried, but Dumbledore waved her comments aside.

“I’m sorry, Minerva. The Muggle operative in question works mainly independently of the Order, there is little I can do to stop him…”

“Sure there is, Dumbledore. Sure there is…” McGonagall answered. She stood up, turned around and descended into her portable office again. Shacklebolt seemed a bit more jubilant, but as Dumbledore just started into the middle-distance, he also quickly returned to his office. Dumbledore sat there for almost half an hour, staring into the void. Only the flutter of the moths gave any indication that he was not entirely alone in a lifeless universe.

[Deutschess Kaiserreich]

Gilderoy Lockhart
UFN/ICW Magical Law Enforcement Officer
New York, downtown Manhattan
January 1, 1981

Lockhart found himself looking at the whitewashed ceiling above. He sighed loudly as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. He looked out the window and saw the first glimmers of light breach the brown brick buildings of the street below. Lockhart walked up to the window. The rain and thunder had stopped but huge puddles, almost like mini lakes, filled the streets.

Lockhart proceeded with his morning routine he had been accustomed to for over ten years. Brush your teeth, take a shower in a tub that constantly leaked no matter how many spells he used, put on your work clothes, and either make breakfast or get one from the convenience shop down the street. He was now reading the days news that had been left by the landlady outside his door. Lockhart swore that she fancied him. For a moment Lockhart thought about it. Maybe it was time to actually spread his wings. No, it just wouldn't work. The last time he even dipped his toes he got kicked out of his last apartment. Apparently, Muggles don't like finding out that their partners are wizards. The sun had now begun to properly rise as Lockhart polished off his toasted plain bread. The small electronic clock in the corner of the room beeped a few times before stopping. The time had come. Lockhart put on his classic yellow vest and was about to walk out the door when he decided to open his living room window. He stuck his head out finding freezing January wind sting his eyes. He grabbed his blue great coat with yellow cuffs and walked out the door still reading the newspaper. He was far from done.

Lockhart walked down the freezing windy streets of New York, newspaper tucked under his arm until he reached a red booth at the corner of the street. It was a tall metal cylinder painted red with the symbol of an old boot was engraved in stone just above it's sliding door. Right next to the sliding door was a small light that right now flashed bright green signaling that the booth was empty. It was a Portkey station. In order to monitor the movement magical individuals and not scare muggles when people disappeared in a great flash the muggle section of the government encouraged wizards to use these stations. A tax was given to all wizards that apparated without using that, in all honesty, was a bit too high. But what could you do about it? Lockhart opened the sliding door and stepped within. It was featureless save for a small wooden cabinet door and a small metal box with a dozen and a half red button, right next to these buttons were labels with names on them. Lockhart habitually pressed the second bottom button, Fulton Street police station. There was a loud ding behind the wooden cabinet door. Lockhart opened it and within it was a small yellow number two pencil whose tip was broken. Lockhart touched it and vanished from the cylinder.

Gilderoy Lockhart
UFN/ICW Magical Law Enforcement Officer
New York, Fulton street, 84th precinct Magical law enforcement station
January 1, 1981

Most first time users of Portkeys often feel seasick on their first journeys. Lockhart felt nothing more than rushing wind on his face and the impact of his boots on the cold marble. He opened his eyes to find a very busy entrance hall. A small desk in the center of the room was right now being swarmed by individuals who clearly had not made the best choices in lives. They were haggard and dirty. Their teeth could only be counted in single digits. Their arms were red from tourniquets too tight and many spots were green and infected from broken needles and other fluid transmitted diseases. The clash with muggle and magic worlds had its downsides. While muggles had great advancements in technology they also brought upon wizards their many flaws. Mixed in with the haggard sods were a group of brightly colored robed witches holding signs over their head. Protesters. The gang war between the Wizard and goblin gangs that occupied the docks had escalated. A recent raid the day before had practically decapitated the wizard's leadership and a lot of gangbangers as well. Now, their worried mothers had gathered to pay bail. Lockhart walked across the marble floor while he searched in his pocket for his badge. At last, he found it, the badge was silver with the words "New York Magical Enforcement Department" though it was shorthanded to NYMED. For its central symbol, two silver wands were crossed below a Judge's raised platform, a bench they called it. Lockhart pinned it to his greatcoat as he shouldered his way into the throng.

"Coming through," he grunted. "Police business." Lockhart regretted putting his badge on as they were on him like flies on a flobberworm.

"My Andy is innocent!"

"Police brutality!"

"Ya fockin police scum!"

"Officer, could you take my baby in his blanky? He can't sleep without it."

Lockart ignored him the best he could, not making eye contact with them. Once upon a time, the badge of enforcement would have earned you some respect. Not any more. Now you were a target. Only recently three Aurors were massacred in an ambushed. They couldn't even identify who they were from the remains and had to use records to find who was missing. Lockart forced his way through the crowd, pushing and shoving everyone in a while. He finally broke through and found that Mitch was manning the front desk today. Mitch was a small and diminutive man who wore wire glasses. He noticed Lockhart and shifted the toupee that covered up his bald spot a bit. He said in a bored voice, years of manning the front desk does this to you, "Ah, Lockhart. Good morning. If there was anything good about this morning."

"I wouldn't say that. I had a decent-" Lockhart now had to yell over the crowd who were now gaining volume now that a scrape goat had approached. He felt a high heel smash into his shin. It was pathetic and the only sign Lockhart showed was a clenching of his fists. "Actually scratch that. Any message for me?"

"None." Mitch looked back down to the stack of papers that littered his desk. But, just as Lockhart was about to leave, Mitch's head sprung up, his right hand waving a brown file. "Wait! I just remembered. A new case for you."

"Really" Lockhart turned back, his face now weary. "That's the fifth one I had to take today."

"Yeah, sorry." Mitch leaned over the desk handing Lockhart the file. "Budget cuts mean layoffs. Layoffs mean Aurors out the job. You know the rest."

"Yup, they either go private or go corrupt," Lockhart muttered. Lockhart turned around and opened a small wooden door off to the side of the reception desk. He closed it behind, hearing the footsteps of the witches coming closer. He was now surrounded by a massive field of cubicles with sleepy over caffeinated Aurors manning their stations, pouring over dozens of files. Many people thought Aurors were all about duels and adventure. Young people often joined seeking a good duel and bragging rights at the bar but only found an eternal stack of papers work. These days you were lucky to even go out on a patrol. Lockhart passed by the night shift as he walked to his corner office. Their eyes had bags under them and even though many were in their early thirties their hair had begun to go white and their skin wrinkle. Lockhart ducked into his office, a dedicated full furnished room. He was lucky. He had rapidly climbed up the ranks but not too far. High enough to get good pay and advanced cases but low enough so that he wouldn't get the killing curse on the way home. He looked at his desk. Despite it being neatly organized waves of papers had now begun to form a small mountain. Lockhart sighed as he hung up his coat and sat down.

Just another day of work it seemed. But as Lockhart poured over his papers and the clock in the corner of his room inched ever closer to midday he began to be wary. Not physically weary but certain exhaustion. Was this his life? To pour over mountains of papers, doing nothing to actually help people. Lockhart leaned back on his muggle made swivel chair as these thoughts engulfed him.

What would he do with his life?

As he drowned in thought his red phone on the corner of the desk rang loudly, almost making Lockhart fall out of his chair. He picked it up on the third ring after recovering from the shock. He put the earpiece to his ear and only heard faint voices. He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose before talking, "You're using the wrong ends."

The person on the other end seemed to have heard him and did as Lockhart asked. A smooth female voice came through. It was Maria, that captains assistant and who Lockhart swore was eying him. Either that or it was his own ego. He couldn't tell which. "The captain wishes to speak with you. You've been given a new case."

"What?" Lockhart breathed out as he stared at the mountain of papers gathering on his oak furnished desk. He took a moment to rub his chest as if he was having a heart attack. "More? Maria, I've got a hill of papers on my desk that's about to be classified as a mountain if I take another case."

"Well, all your cases are now void," Maria said. Lockhart literally fist pumped the air. "They'll be distributed to the others. The captain wants to talk with you before he gives you the case."

"The captain wants to take time off his day for me? This must be a big catch. What is it?"

"I'm not allowed to talk about it over insecure communication lines but all I can tell you right now it that it's something to do with the Order of the Phoenix."

"Wait, what?" The line went silent and Lockhart felt his spirits rise. At last, a proper adventure or at the very least a break from this eternal hell of mediocrity.

[Rupudska]

Donna Mae O'Regan
UFN INTELCOM A Certain Organization Special Agent
New York, South Brooklyn
January 1, 1981

The storm had long since passed by this point on the fine first morning of nineteen hundred and eighty-one in New York City. The sky cover - rain, unusual so deep in winter this far north, what with a good chunk of the Old World's industry being forcibly ground to a standstill - was finally breaking up to let in the bleary Yankee winter sun. Bach played from a radio, leaking from an open window somewhere above. Donna walked down the street, eating a slice of pepperoni pizza folded in half from a paper plate Charmed to keep itself at mouth level and keep any crumbs from falling to the ground. In one hand, a bottle of Coca-Cola, in another, a muggle newspaper.

You never knew what those muggles were up to, after all - odd as it was for her to call them muggles. Must have been her largely English parentage; here in the good ol' (former) United States of A, they were referred to on paper as No-Majs. Doesn't really plural well, does it? Oh well. Wizards and logic and all.

What was she doing in New York City again?

Wasn't any research projects; there hadn't been anything big in New York since the Manhattan Project. They got something out of that, yes, but it was a little difficult to drop a bomb on Nurmengard capable of leveling a mountain if you couldn't get the bomber there safely. And magical projects were mostly out-of-town- the mayor didn't like paying for all the damage big military projects caused, nor all the paperwork the secrecy needed for big military projects caused.

Friends? They had Floo for every house in New York, and you hardly needed magic to use a Floo call. Donna wasn't about to go as far as New York from her Oklahoma home just for a visit. She traveled the world for work, yes, but unless she was seeing new sights she ironically didn't like to travel much.

Dumbledore? He was in town yes, she knew that much as did many of the ACO agents in the city, but that could wait for later.

Her wondering as she wandered as she roamed took her into a large warehouse, past several checkpoints, down to the basement, and into a dark room lit by a single oil lantern. Illuminated by the lamp, four people stood - one woman, three men, two in suits and two in robes, though only one lacked for a wand, and it wasn't the woman.

There was also a man of clear Germanic descent, scarred, bruised, and tied to a barrel. He had what appeared to be a neckerchief stuffed in his mouth. With an almost lazy (but exact) wand motion, Donna conjured a relatively comfortable-looking recliner for herself and sat down before the man, then yanked the neckerchief out of his mouth.

Right, interrogation. That's what she was doing.

"Now, don't pay these folks any mind... long as you start cooperatin' real soon, I'm sure we can have you back to the Empire and whatever family you've got over there. Sans whatever you picked up listenin' in on that trade exposition on the night of the twenty-first, that is. You understand, right?"

[The V O I D]

Gellert Grindelwald
Nurmengard Castle, Austrian Magical State, Deutscher Zauberund (“German Magical Alliance”)
Capital of the First Magical Empire

January 1, 1981

Gellert looked around the table as his inner circle arrived, nodding and replying in kind to those who greeted him. As everyone arrived, the Castle's House Elves made the food and other accommodations appear on the table.

“Welcome, my friends,” the Dark Lord began, “and I wish you all a rather happy new year. Today, we shall - as is a tradition - begin to review last year's goings-on and make decisions on how best to handle the future.”

Gellert paused, for a moment as he allowed his eyes to briefly scan the room. Anyone who met his eyes, he did a passive Legilimency scan to see if there was anything urgent they desired to bring up. For the moment, it seemed, all was well.

“A matter of import, first and foremost,” the Dark Lord declared: “I have Seen something. Or, more accurately, I have Prophesized something. This Prophecy shall remain hidden, for now, and its exact wording a secret. What I will say about what I have Prophesized is this: the Final Confrontation is upon us. I do not know the victor - not yet, I have yet to See that. But it is coming. At most, though I find it unlikely, we have mayhaps a decade before it comes. Truly, though my Sight has not shown me the true date and the Prophecy only implied it, I feel that it is more likely we have a year, or less than two years.”

Gellert stopped, as this was all he intended to reveal to this larger inner circle. Perhaps, he could reveal more to those who were closer members of the inner circle - but he had yet to decide such. Suddenly, he felt his magic tremor as his Sight showed him something. Gellert raised his hand and wandlessly, silently, Summoned the letter that a guard brought in from the direction of the Owlery. A glance at the letter's contents had him frowning sharply as he turned to Bartemius.

“It seems you are fortunate to have immediately come as you were summoned, Bartemius,” the Dark Lord told his Chief Justice, “as there has apparently been a Muggle terrorist attack upon the Palace of Justice. Several of your fellows were assassinated, and then Muggle bombs were set off causing massive destruction. The death tally, as well as repair costs, are still being calculated. I suppose that the discussion of the Final Confrontation can wait, as we now must discuss what we are going to do about this situation.”

The Dark Lord stopped speaking, and then said, “Bartemius, please, you speak first. You, after all, are headquartered in Britain. Do you have any suspects among the Muggles or resistance cells that could be responsible for this incident?”

And then, he waited for Bartemius' reply.