Muggle Issues (After the Flaw: Oligarchy, Chapter 30)

[kanedax]

Title: Muggle Issues (After the Flaw: Oligarchy, Chapter 30)
Author: kanedax
Spoilers: Previous Chapters
Rating: R for language
Summary: Meanwhile, in the world...
Notes: This chapter took me over two weeks to write, not because of any major complications, but just because I couldn't find more than an hour at a time to sit down and write it. Hopefully I was able to keep continuity, not just within the story but within the course of the chapter.
I own these characters. The others belong to JK Rowling.

Mama Said / Previous Chapters / The Tutshill Summit

"A hunting preserve?"

"Oh, yes," said Hespera Zabini, sipping her wine. "That's the rumor, at least. News has been spotty, as you know, but the word is that a hunting preserve specifically for wizards has been created in Peru."

"No protection spells?" asked Lucius Malfoy, leaning forward over his half-eaten dinner. "No hiding?"

"Runs right through the middle of one of their Muggle national parks," said Hespera.

"Surely there aren't any magical creatures, though," asked Narcissa Malfoy. "Only Muggle-levels?"

"There are magical creatures," Hespera replied. "Quite a few that aren't natural to the region, in fact. Top me off, Bongo," she added, waving her wine glass absently to her side. Within moments, her house elf was by her side, pouring her a new drink, before clearing he and Hespera's other elves cleared the plates from her opulent dining room.

"What a marvelous idea," said Lucius, leaning back in his chair, his mind whirling. "They don't... Oh, I shouldn't even ask, it's too much to hope for... They don't have--?"

"No Muggles to hunt," said Hespera with a hint of a mischief. "At least, not yet. There could be, of course. There could be, right here in England."

"Which is why we invited you here," said her son, Blaise Zabini.

Draco Malfoy rolled his eyes. "You see?" he said to his wife, Hedda. "I told you it was foolish to think they wanted to invite us for a social call. You wouldn't have us to dinner for anything other than a business proposition, would you?"

"Of course we wouldn't," said Blaise, giving Draco a sideways glance. "Your name's dirt enough as it is, Malfoy, and that was even before the revelation that your only son's dating a Mudblood."

"Slanderous statements," Narcissa sniffed, "perpetuated by that Runcorn brat."

"I think my grandfather knew a Cullen," Lucius added.

"He's fourteen," said Hedda. "He's just going through a rebellious faze. He'll come out of it soon enough, though. Find himself a nice, respectable pureblood."

"It's so nice to hear you all have your stories straight," Hespera said dryly. "There's a property near Dean that we think would be a perfect position to open a hunting ranch for wizards. We need investors--"

"The looks just aren't killing the rich men like they used to, eh, Hespera?" Draco said.

"--and you need an opportunity to regain the respect of the wizarding community," she rallied on.

"What I'd like to know," said Narcissa, "is how giving you our money will gain us respect."

"Every little bit helps," said Hespera. "The community has been clamoring for something like this for centuries. When the new regime steps in, one which is much more wizard-friendly than the current one, you'll be right there on the ground floor."

"Invest now in the land," said Lucius, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "and when the new regime makes hunting legal we'll be a step ahead of all others, yes?"

"Exactly," said Blaise. "And you will be named as majority owners. Mother and I would, of course, put our own names front-and-center, but my career choice forces me to keep away from special interest groups. Publically, at least."

"It's going to be wonderful when this Oligarchy finally takes over," said Narcissa, holding her wine glass out for the house elf to refill. "Things had gone to hell when Shacklebolt took over, but to have a Mudblood as Minister? Preposterous."

"Oh, she deserves whatever they have in store for her, of course," said Lucius. "I only wish I could find some way to get in touch with the Oligarchy. I would love to assist them in any way possible."

"As if they'd accept our help," said Draco, downing the rest of his wine in one slug.

"We share a common goal," said Lucius. "Of course they want our help."

"They want us dead," said Draco.

"Oh, please," said Lucius, waving his hand imperiously. "Draco, we're not their enemy."

"Antaeus Carrow dropped his fag on his trousers, did he?" Draco snapped. "Accidentally set himself on fire?"

"Carrow had many enemies," said Narcissa. "There's no proof that the Oligarchy did anything to him."

"You want hunting?" Draco asked. "The Oligarchy's been hunting Death Eaters for years. You think that's going to stop when they take the Ministry?"

"Well, it's a good thing we're not Death Eaters," said Lucius. "We've been disowned, remember?"

"As if that matters to them," said Draco. "You ask me, if they take power, we're dead. They were dangerous enough before they revealed themselves. If they take the Ministry, they'll have more power and more resources behind them. And they'll have law on their side. We wouldn't stand a chance."

"I don't believe this," said Blaise, glaring at Draco with contempt. "First you turn against the Dark Lord. Then your son attaches himself to a Mudblood. And now you're talking about supporting Hermione Granger's Ministry? What's happened to you, Malfoy?"

"Yes, I'm wondering the same thing," said Lucius, staring at his son. "This is unlike you, Draco."

"I'm not supporting Granger," said Draco. "I'm simply being realistic. Pansy, Miles, and dozens of others are in Azkaban because the Ministry found them. Antaeus Carrow is dead because the Oligarchy found him. It's not complicated math."

"I'd rather be dead than live under a Muggle-born," said Hespera.

"And yet here you are, still living and breathing," said Draco. "Well, breathing, anyway."

"So what do you suggest, Draco?" asked Hedda, crossing her arms and glaring at her husband. "If we shouldn't support the Oligarchy, and we don't support the Mudblood Ministry, what else is there?"

"I don't know," said Draco, shaking his head. "I'd say it'd be a grand time to relocate. Simply pick up our stakes and move to, I don't know, Paris or Italy. But with the Oligarchy's reach, with their grand plans, I don't know if anywhere is safe for us."

---------

Meghan,

Thank you for writing and letting me know that you are safe and well at school. It was a comfort and a relief, more than you can imagine. These last few days have been beyond horrible around here.

Your father is missing. He drove to Aberdeen on Friday to help set up a new branch for the bank, but said that he'd be back by Sunday night. I haven't heard from him since he called me Saturday morning.

Meghan, if you've heard ANYTHING from your father since the attack, please tell me or the police immediately. I don't know if there's a way to get in touch with me faster than an owl flying here, but if you can find a way, please do it. It's been five days since London was attacked and I don't think he would have gone to London from Aberdeen but with all of the riots that have broken out since then I'm very worried for his safety. I've been trying to call him but his mobile phone has been turned off, and the hotel where he was staying says he checked out days ago.

Meghan, if you know anything, again, please tell me. I'm especially worried about him after the newspaper article. Have you seen it? There was a wizard from Thurso interviewed, and he said that he had a daughter at Hogwarts. I think

I'm sorry, I had to leave in the middle of writing. I'm sorry, but I'm having such a hard time with things here. Do you know of any other girls at Hogwarts that are from Thurso? If not, it makes me think that your father used to be a wizard. Can you STOP being a wizard? Has he been lying to us all of these

I left again. This is too much for me. Meghan, please, if you hear ANYTHING, if he writes to you or uses the fireplace thing or whatever, please tell me. And I know you think you're safe and secure there, but if you have any doubts, please come home. Aunt Renee is coming to stay with me, and the neighbors have been beyond lovely and supportive, but, if you want to come home, or if you want to stay there, know that I won't think badly of you for leaving Hogwarts. None of the family, or the neighbors, know that you're a witch, if that helps. At least, they don't know for now. If my thoughts about this article are true, they'll put the pieces together soon.

Stay safe.

I love you,

Mum

"Bloody hell..."

"I know," Meghan Cullen whispered, wiping a tear from her eye and sniffing. "It's..." she trailed off, unsure of how to put just how she was feeling into words.

"Well, the good news," said Scorpius quietly, holding his Lumosed wand over the stationary as he re-read the letter, "is that my parents won't be as angry at me for dating a half-blood as they would a Muggle-born."

"That's not funny," said Meghan shortly, but, despite her anger at the comment, tightened her grip around his waist and tried to snuggle her head a little closer into her boyfriend's chest. It was eight pm and the two were sitting on the floor in a dark corner of one of Hogwarts unused classroom. Before last weekend they wouldn't have to be hiding, as the old curfew was still an hour away.

However, from the moment they had been Portkeyed directly from the Hogwarts Express to the front entryway on Saturday afternoon, things had changed. In light of the attacks at Puddlemere, Tower Bridge, and the Ministry, and also thanks to the still-unclear motives of the so-called Oligarchy, Professor Ogden had instituted a twenty-four hour curfew on the school.

"While I don't think that the school is in any danger," he had explained the morning after the students had returned, "history tells us that now is not the time to assume the best. As we all know from the visions, they say they have respect for the wizarding community. But their actions at Puddlemere speak otherwise. Until we can say for certain that they aren't a threat to the school, our restrictions will remain."

According to Professor Longbottom, the restrictions were similar to those instituted after the Chamber of Secrets had been opened in 1993. Twenty-four hour curfew. Time not spent in class and at meals were spent in their common rooms. Students were chaperoned between classes by their professors, and the halls were constantly patrolled by teachers, ghosts, and portraits. Rumor was that Minister Weasley (which still sounded weird to Meghan: Rose's mother was Minister?) would be sending spare MLE agents to help protect the grounds, but so far none had been seen. Meghan assumed that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had enough on their plates without worrying about protecting Hogwarts.

Because of the new rules, Meghan's time with Scorpius had fizzled away to nothing. Ravenclaw and Slytherin didn't have any classes in common. Time spent between classes amounted to a quick passing in the hall, a brief hello, a quick transfer of a note or a fast squeeze of the hand before following the rest of their herd to the next class.

And mealtimes were tense affairs thanks to the Purebloods, who had regained, and surpassed, their pre-Quidditch showdown levels of arrogance following the attack on London. Meghan had overheard numerous conversation in the hall between Purebloods discussing the horrifying exploits of their families outside of Hogwarts, now freed from the restraints of the Statute of Secrecy. A few of them even openly discussed plans for Muggle-hunting over Easter holiday. Detentions were handed out left and right, but that didn't seem to stop the conversations and, worse, the insults and abuses hurled at the Muggle-borns of the school. On more than one occasion professors had to break up impromptu duels in their own classrooms: Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors, and even Blood Traitor Slytherins coming to the defense of their suddenly-targeted Muggleborn classmates, as well as anyone else who happened to earn their disfavor.

"It's horrible," Rose had whispered distressingly to Meghan and Kayla Macmillan in Arithmancy. "Albus got detention in Potions because Holden Harkiss was having a go at Phil McCormack. Little Albus, getting into a fight! And Phil wasn't even there! He hasn't been here since his dad was killed at Puddlemere!"

"It's getting bad," Kayla had whispered. "You know there's going to be a fight in the Great Hall. It's just a matter of when, not if."

Meghan could see it happening. Both prime targets for Pureblood action, if Scorpius visited the Ravenclaws it would only lead to trouble for him in the Slytherin common room later. If Meghan even tried to speak to Scorpius at the Slytherin table she could easily see insults and cheap shots quickly escalating into inter-House brawls. Better to keep their distance.

At least until the letter arrived that morning.

Meghan needed to be with Scorpius after her father's disappearance. She wrote a note to Scorpius asking him to meet tonight, which Rose took from Meghan in Arithmancy and slipped to Scorpius in Potions later in the afternoon. They were both risking major detention time in this meeting, especially coming from opposite ends of the school, but they had made it anyway. After five minutes of kissing and holding each other for the first time in what felt like months, they got down to business.

"So your dad's a wizard," Scorpius said quietly, his eyes glued to the letter.

"I don't know," she said with a shaky sigh. "I don't think there's another girl from Thurso here, is there?"

"One of the sixth year Slytherin girls," said Scorpius. "But she's a pureblood, and her father's in Azkaban. You haven't seen the article, have you? I don't remember reading about it in the Prophet."

"It's here," she said, reluctantly removing herself from his arms and digging through her bookbag. "Kayla has a subscription to the Telegraph. It... um... It sounds like its him. He says some things in there that... um..."

She pulled out the newspaper, folded to the article, and handed it to him. "It's... It's pretty bad," she said as he read it.

The two sat in silence as he read through the interview, originally from the Caithness Dispatch and reprinted in every newspaper in the United Kingdom, and probably more than a few newspapers and websites across the globe. Meghan tensely watched the first boy she had ever fallen for, her first boyfriend, waiting for him to react to the secrets of her life, secrets that she herself didn't know before this morning.

"You burned your house down?" he gasped, looking at her with wide eyes.

"My house burned down when I was nine," she said. "Kind of easy to narrow down, a wizard from Thurso with a daughter at Hogwarts and a torched house?"

"But you didn't..." Scorpius trailed off.

"I don't know!" she cried. "I don't... They said it was an electrical fire, and that's all Mum and Dad told me, and and I was having a nightmare about our old neighbor dog attacking me and biting me and I woke up and my room was on fire!"

"It had to have been an eclectic fire," said Scorpius haltingly. "There's no way a nine-year-old could do something like that. When I was nine the worst that happened to me was my vegetables turned into marshmallows at every dinner for a week."

"I don't know," Meghan repeated. "Scorpius, do you know what this means? My dad knew. He knew about magic and me and all of that and he'd been hiding it from us all these years. And now he's gone!"

"You don't think the Ministry got him, do you?" Scorpius asked. "For talking to the press?"

Meghan couldn't respond. Each thought was more horrible than the next. Her father, happy little Patrick Cullen, chased down a dark alley by Aurors or hitwizards. Sitting in Azkaban. Or in St. Mungo's, his memory completely wiped like Luna, the friend of Rose and Al's parents that wandered around the school with the Longbottoms. Or maybe worse. Maybe dead. Dead by the Ministry's hand, or the Oligarchy's, or by some bloodthirsty mob or under the tentacle by that thing...

"I didn't mean that," said Scorpius quickly, crawling over to Meghan and putting his arm around her. "He might not be... I mean, maybe he just went into hiding, or something."

"But that's not much better!" Meghan cried. "If he went into hiding, that means that he left without telling Mum! He left without... warning her, or even pulling her aside and explaining everything, anything about what he was! He's been lying to me for my whole life, but he's been lying to her for even longer, and now he's putting her through hell because of it."

And here she was, crying again, her face pressed against Scorpius's chest, soaking his shirt with her tears. And he wasn't shying away from her, which was more of a relief than she could imagine. But she needed to be sure...

"You're not freaked out?" she asked hesitantly.

"About what?"

"About me?"

"What about you?"

"About me being dangerous," she said. "Because I burned down my house..."

"Of course not!" he replied. "Meg, you're a powerful witch, I've known that from the moment I met you. You were young, you didn't know what you were or what you were doing."

"But that's just the thing!" she cried. "Half of the time I don't know what I'm doing! And I keep ending up in the hospital wing because I can't... control myself. What if I do it again?"

Scorpius kissed her. Warmth spread through her as their lips touched, love spread through her. The knowledge that he would stay with her through thick and thin wrapped around her like a warm scarf.

But there was no relief. Relief, she knew, would be a long time coming.

"If it happens again," he breathed after they separated, "then we'll deal with it. It's all we can do, right?"

"Thank you," she said, kissing him quickly again. "Thank you for being with me."

"What else could I do?" he asked gently, running a few fingers through her hair.

"He had a brother," she said, laying her head against his chest again. "He had a brother, and he never told us. He ran away from his family. He told us that his parents died in an auto accident when he was eighteen. But this whole time, it was a lie. I had another uncle, I have another set of grandparents, and he lied to us about them all. And now I don't know where he is, I don't know how to ask about them, no one--"

She cut off, her mind suddenly jumping back to the first day, the day she discovered that she was a witch. The way he acted, the way that they acted...

"Professor Longbottom knew him," she breathed. "He knew Dad when he was here. So did Mr. Thomas. They sent me and Mum to the kitchen and talked to him about... something. If they're about the same age, he would have known them. Scorp, he might have been in Dumbledore's Army, might have known Kayla's parents, or Rose's or Al's..."

"I thought I saw him twitch when you introduced me at New Year's Eve," said Scorpius. "If he was here during the Second War, he'd have known about the Malfoys. You could ask him. Professor Longbottom, I mean. He might be able to tell you more. Might be able to tell you your dad's real name, at least."

"My dad's real name..." she sighed. "God, I hate this."

"We should leave soon," said Scorpius, looking at the clock hanging in the corner of the classroom. "We're pushing things as is, I don't want you to get detention."

"I'd rather be given detention," she said, squeezing him protectively. "I don't want to leave you. Ever. These restrictions don't make cross-House dating very easy."

"We'll find a way," he said. "Professor Tonks is giving permission to use the library if we get a signature. Maybe Professor Bosh is doing that, too."

"He is," she said with a small smile. "But snogging's a lot harder when Madam Dobb's around the next corner."

"We'll be able to see each other, at least," he said, kissing the top of her head. "And I saw a two-way journal at Wheezes over the summer, I might be able to order us a set."

"Really?" she said, sitting up. "We could write to each other?"

"As long as we don't run out of pages."

"It'll do for now," said Meghan, kissing him again. "I just hope things get better soon."

"They will," said Scorpius. "I know there are a lot of wizards out there who think that the Oligarchy have the right idea, but I don't think they'll find a lot of support. They'll be stopped soon enough."

---------

Dean Thomas expected California to be warmer than this.

As he gazed out the window of the taxi, studying the dreary, foggy day, a shudder ran through him. Was this normal? He had expected sun and heat, and was grateful that he had decided to keep his jacket with him when he Portkeyed across the pond that morning. But this....

He'd have to ask Tanaka if this was a common Modesto winter. The other option was unthinkable, yet horribly familiar. Dean couldn't help keeping his eyes open for black hooded figures floating overhead. None so far, thankfully.

From the dashboard wireless Dean heard the quiet mumbling of a news broadcast. One part of him welcomed the silence that the plastic shielding between himself and the driver provided. The last few days had been a constant stream of terror and worry and anxiety and anger, and it was nice, for even a moment, to get away from the news, the meetings, and the confrontations that just kept getting worse and worse as the hours progressed.

But the other part of him, the part that was equal parts consummate professional and consummate masochist, knocked on the bulletproof window as the car reached a traffic light. The driver, a broad-shouldered man (Joseph Sanchez, his license read behind him), turned around in his seat and pulled aside the small hatch.

"What's up?" he asked Dean.

"Can you turn up your wireless?"

"What, the radio?" he asked. "Yeah, sure. I usually turn it down when I have fares," he said, turning the knob. "Too many people freaked out, you know? Bad tippers."

"You won't have to worry about that with me," said Dean, leaning against the open slot. The driver turned back to the windscreen as the light turned green. As he pulled through the intersection, Dean focused on the newsreader:

"--continue to clash in downtown San Francisco. Meanwhile, disturbing eyewitness accounts are streaming out of San Jose, where a bus carrying roughly thirty passengers was attacked by two broom-riding assailants, imploding the vehicle in the middle of rush-hour traffic, killing everyone aboard. News is still sketchy, but early photos show the bus reduced to a twisted ball of steel no bigger than five feet in diameter.

"In Missouri, dozens were injured as a creature described as an elephant-sized three-headed dog rampaged through the campus of St. Louis University. Thankfully, SWAT teams were able to subdue the animal before anyone was killed, and the animal's corpse has reportedly been seized by Homeland Security for further testing.

"Meanwhile, with these items being just a fraction of the incidents occurring throughout the nation in the wake of what some are calling The Great Vision, and with the presidential inauguration only days away, Washington insiders are urging President-Elect Peterson to forgo the usual inaugural festivities for the safety and security of both Peterson and the general public. Instead, the Secret Service is weighing the option of an oath of office in an undisclosed, secure area, with only required officials and recording equipment present. If this occurs, it would be the first time since Gerald Ford that a president was sworn into office away from the US Capitol building, and perhaps the most secure inauguration in US history. For his part, Peterson shrugged off the idea, vowing that he will not bend to what he calls 'the terroristic acts of our new enemy.'

"Across the globe, now, where battles continue to rage in Cairo between wizards and the Egyptian military over control of that country's government. And fighting continues in Oslo, Cape Town, and Sydney as those governments try to maintain control in the face of an opponent that many consider unstoppable. Even worse, word is now coming from Beijing that the Chinese government is mobilizing the largest force in that country's history to fight back against a growing insurgency--"

"Hell of a thing," said the driver. "Whole world's going to pot, isn't it?"

"It really is," said Dean.

"You're from Britain, right?" the driver asked. "You got the accent and the wireless and whatever going for ya."

"Yes, I am from England."

"Damn shame about what happened over there," the driver said, turning his car into a side street. "You don't know anybody that bit it, do you?"

"I did," Dean said quietly. More than you'll know, Joseph.

"Oh, man, sorry," said the driver. "I didn't mean nothin' by it."

"It's alright," said Dean, trying to force his mind away from thoughts of Kingsley Shacklebolt, Percy Weasley, and Ginny Potter, not to mention the unfounded guilt that had been riding him for leaving Caroline and Teddy to fend for themselves right before the typhon tore through their neighborhood. "So what has it been like around here?" he asked instead. "In Modesto, I mean? It seems calm compared to other places."

"Well, we've had our share," the driver explained. "I mean, if it weren't for everything else happening in the world, it'd be enough for front-page news, you know? But cuz of everything else, we're damn calm by comparison. We've had a ton of protests at the churches and mosques, and those Scientology whackjobs have been screaming about Xena, or whatever. There's been a couple tussles in front of City Hall, too, cuz I figure people are pissed they've been hiding those magic freaks for so long. Not like, you know, not like the City Council'd have anything to do with that, you know? No way there's actually any wizards around here, you know?"

"It'd be hard to imagine," said Dean vaguely. He wasn't sure how Joseph Sanchez would react to any positive opinion of wizards, or to any information that might lead him to think that Dean was more than your average English Muggle. Now more than ever, Dean felt it was best to keep his head down, to keep a low profile, at least until things started to calm again. If things started to calm again.

"Here you go," said the driver, pulling up to a small Italian restaurant. "Total's forty-one dollars."

"Is fifty going to be an insult?" said Dean with his most charming smile. His supply of Muggle American currency was slim, and the last thing he wanted to do was Confund the driver out of a tip, as he seemed a decent chap.

"Not at all," the driver responded, reaching over his shoulder to take two twenties and a ten from Dean. Dean then grabbed his briefcase from the seat beside him (he carried no other luggage; he hailed the taxi from the front of a random hotel near the Floo station, with the explanation of "meeting a friend for lunch" percolating in the back of his mind should he be questioned about his intentions) and pulled himself from the automobile.

"Thanks for the ride," Dean said after he walked around to the driver's window.

"It's a living," said the Joseph Sanchez with a shrug. "Good luck with everything you head back to London, alright?"

"Keep safe," said Dean, and, unable to stop himself: "Try to keep away from any of the protests. They're convenient targets for dark wizards."

"Oh, trust me, I ain't going nowhere near those whackjobs," said the driver with a chuckle. "Magicians and right-wing kooks, they're all the same kind of scary in my book."

"I hear you," said Dean. "Take care." He rapped his knuckles on the taxi's roof in the universal code of farewell and, as Joseph Sanchez drove away, Dean turned back to face the restaurant. He had forgotten the name of it the moment after he had given the driver his directions. It wasn't his final destination, anyway. Dean glanced back to make sure that the taxi cab had turned the corner. He reached into his pocket and inconspicuously slipped his wand up into his jacket sleeve, prepped to slide into attack position in his palm should the need arise. Then he began to walk.

Two miles later, Dean walked down a street lined with pre-fabricated tract housing. While still nicer than his old neighborhood in West Ham, it was far from the opulent, sun-drenched strip of secluded where Dean had pictured someone with Simon Tanaka's income level to live. Even ignoring the complete lack of drenching sun, they looked quite ordinary by what Dean had come to know as the American standard.

Except for the peach-painted houses. That was odd.

Grateful that no one had approached him, wondering what a strange man was doing in their neighborhood (Dean had tried to dress as Muggle-ordinary as possible; even his usual suit would have drawn attention in these times), Dean scaled Simon's front stoop and rang the doorbell. Instantly, he heard the sound of nails rattling on tile, the deep woofing, and the scratching of paws on door.

"Get back 'ere, ye great oaf!" Dean heard Simon yell from the other side of the house, and couldn't help smiling. Just how many of his characters' mannerisms had he picked up, either subconsciously or ironically, during his years working on the series? Did he know just how much he sounded like Hagrid even as he put on that obviously fake West Country accent?

"Who is it?" Simon yelled from the other side of the door as Dean heard him struggling with his dog. There was an edge to the animator's voice. A wariness.

"A friend from OmegaCon," Dean called back.

There was a pause from behind the door. Or, well, as much of a pause as there could be with the sound of struggling hound pretty much constant. "Damn it," Dean heard Simon mutter. "I didn't expect you to be so damn punctual with Armageddon going on."

"This case is still important," said Dean. "Maybe now more than ever. Are you going to let me in? Longer I stand here on your porch yelling at you the more attention I'm going to draw on us both."

"Yeah, hang on," Simon said grudgingly. "Get back, Manny!"

The door swung open, and as Dean entered he saw Simon Tanaka, the famous animator, yanking hard on the collar of a large, black dog covered in dreadlocks. Dean chuckled at the appropriate name. "Ramirez?" he asked.

"Manny being Manny," Simon grunted, doing his best to keep the booming dog from leaping onto Dean.

"Go ahead," said Dean. "I'm a dog person."

"Alright," said Simon. "But advance warning: he will destroy you. Go on, you lousy..." He let go of Manny's collar and, sure enough, the huge dog ran towards Dean and nearly toppled him as he planted his paws firmly on his chest. But his tongue was flopping out, and his tail was wagging. Dean wasn't a threat.

"I didn't think you'd be a baseball guy," said Simon. "Or, like, any Muggle sports."

"Muggle-born," said Dean, scratching Manny's head. "I grab an issue of Sporting News or Sport whenever I get a chance. Have to keep up with the Irons, right?"

"I'm assuming that's either a golf thing or a soccer thing," said Simon with a shrug.

"Football thing," said Dean as Manny the dog dropped down and started sniffing around his feet. "Soccer, whatever you Americans call it."

"I bleed Dodger blue, and I like the Lakers and the Raiders when the don't suck. Never paid much attention to the niche sports, though. This isn't a social call, is it?"

"'Niche sport?'" Dean snorted. "Whatever. No, this isn't a social call."

"Well, I'm making it one," said Simon, waving him further into the house. "I'm giving you a beer, and you're going to tell me every damn thing that's happened since you all disappeared on me in London."

"Tsunami hasn't sent you anything?" asked Dean as he followed Simon through the living room. It was definitely the room of a bachelor cartoonist: framed movie posters and original art covered the walls, Blu-rays and graphic novels filled the shelves, and the entertainment system, larger and more expensive than Dean could have hoped for with three years salary, was covered with an array of computer game controllers and action figures.

"No, Tsunami hasn't sent me anything," said Simon, opening the refrigerator and pulling out two bottles of urine-colored liquid that passed for ale in this country and handing one to Dean. "I know an owl showed up while you all were interrogating me. Harry freaks out and leaves, Hermione freaks out and leaves, you don't freak out quite so much and leave. A few minutes later I have some guy straight out of a B-movie cult in my head telling me that magic is real. Then all hell breaks loose, and it's a miracle that I was even able to get a flight back here. So, Mr. Thomas, dude, you gotta tell me what's going on."

Dean studied Tanaka's earnest face over the kitchen table. His instinct still told him that this man knew too much already, and the best thing to do, as a wizard to a Muggle, was to keep his mouth shut. But he also knew that Simon Tanaka had been a part of the wizarding world for almost five years. More importantly, he knew that Simon had offered his help, and that that help could be useful. But he'd have to trust Dean in order to help. So Dean would have to trust him, too.

"We lost forty-three witches and wizards at Puddlemere," Dean explained. "Minister Shacklebolt, Percy Weasley and his wife--"

"Ron's brother?" asked Simon. "The prefect?"

"Yeah," said Dean. "He's dead. All three of them, and forty others."

"Damn," Simon breathed, falling into one of the kitchen chairs, his beer clasped in his hand.

"Yeah, it wasn't pretty," said Dean. "And it happened at exactly the wrong time. London happened because our attention was on Puddlemere, and because we were running around with our heads cut off. They planned it that way from the beginning."

"What about Gwen? Um, Ginny?"

"Paralyzed," Dean said quietly. "Waist down."

"Fuck," Simon asked groaned. "But you can fix it, right? I mean, you... you can do magic. You can fix her!"

"Not that easy," said Dean. "Never that easy." In order to wash the bad taste out of his mouth, he took a slug from his bottle, and regretted it almost immediately. "Is this... lime-flavored beer?" he asked, his face twisted in disgust.

"Goes down easier when you need it to," said Simon, taking his own bottle in one draught and shuddering. "Fuck. I need something stronger. So Sal... Hermione's Minister now? You called her that back at OmegaCon."

"She is."

"I bet people aren't too happy with that."

"It's not helping the cause," said Dean. "It's bad enough that the Oligarchy's given rebellious wizards the go-ahead to get payback on the Muggle world. As it is now there are too many wizards with axes to grind and too few Aurors, Men in Black, whoever trying to stop them. A Muggle-born Minister just discredits the Ministry's authority in the minds of a lot of English purebloods."

"Damn," Simon said yet again. He sat silently, for a few moments, studying his empty beer bottle like it was some religious text. "Am I fucked?" he asked finally. "Now that Sally Guildenstern's, like, in charge of England, is she going to create some new law to shut me down? Is that why you're here?"

"Hardly," said Dean, scratching Manny's head as he set his great muzzle on his lap. "You said it yourself, it's Armageddon out there. Hermione's aged five years in six days. The last thing she's going to worry about is a Muggle cartoon."

"But it's not the last thing you're worrying about," said Simon. "Or else you wouldn't be here."

"I just think it's a little more than coincidence that someone with wizard connections tries to reveal our history to the Muggle world just months before the Oligarchy come around and do it for real."

"You think Tsunami's one of them?" asked Simon, sitting up. "One of the Oligarchy?"

"I don't know what to think," said Dean. "Unfortunately, I'm not an Auror. I don't have the powers of deduction that come naturally to a lot of my friends. Nor do I have the authority to investigate as deeply as they do."

"Not going to stop you from trying, though."

"Hermione's now the busiest woman in England," said Dean. "Harry and Ron have joined up with Seamus and the other Aurors--"

"They're Aurors now? Wicked."

"--which leaves me to make sure that this path isn't a dead end," said Dean, opening his briefcase and pulling out a very Muggle notepad and ballpoint pen. "You said Tsunami hasn't updated you on anything that's been happening in the wizard world the last week."

"He hasn't," said Simon, standing up. "You don't mind if I make myself a drink, do you? That beer wasn't enough. I need a bigger fucking buzz."

"As long as you can still answer coherently," said Dean. "Have you heard from Tsunami at all since OmegaCon?"

"I haven't heard a damn thing from him," said Simon, opening one of his cupboards and pulling down a selection of bottles.

"Have you tried communicating with him?"

"Oh, hell yes," said Simon. "I've tried emailing him five times a day. Wanted to get his opinion on what we should do."

"For next series?"

"As if that's the worst of my worries," said Simon, taking a large glass down from another shelf and filling it with random pours of alcohol. "I don't know if you've noticed, Dean, but we've been doing the whole magic thing for the last few months."

"I've gathered that much," said Dean, watching with amazement as Simon took a sip of his potent concoction.

"Hmm," Simon said, smacking his lips. "It passed the first test. I didn't go blind. Wizards aren't popular among the Muggles anymore, Dean. There's something about mass murder that sits badly in our stomachs."

"You're worried for the programme?"

"I'm worried for my life!" Simon yelled suddenly. "Have you read the fucking Porter message boards in the last few days? People are starting to put the pieces together. They're talking about seeing spells that we used on the show. Animals we used on the show. Wizards are suddenly flying around in the same type of costumes, the same models of broomsticks, that were in the show. Hell, people have seen Beastials!"

Dean nodded. Amongst the piles and piles of violations and crimes that had piled up in the last few days, there had been more than a few instances of wizards using their Patronuses, either to protect their Muggle neighbors or to protect themselves from those same neighbors.

"People don't like wizards, Dean," said Simon. "And they really don't like the people who they associate with wizards. You try to fight back against a wizard, and the next thing you know, you're a gerbil. But someone like me?" He shrugged hopelessly, taking another drag of his drink. "I'm just a guy. All it's going to take is one lunatic with a gun and a grudge who puts the pieces together and says 'Hey, that guy knew about them and didn't do anything! That guy's helping them! I'll teach him to turn against the human race!' You heard about the guy in Vegas who got lynched for doing card tricks on the street? The woman in Seattle whose house was torched because she wrote a letter to the newspaper defending her witch brother?

"I love you guys, dude," he said, flopping back into his kitchen chair. "I do. You spend five years reading about you and Harry and Dumbledore, studying the photographs and drawing your lives, and you can't help but grow an attachment. But I'm paying for it right now. Big time. I've barely left my house since I got back from London. It's not so bad here in Modesto, but it's still pretty bad out there. Thank God I never got that famous, where someone would recognize me on the street for who I am. But, damn it, I have three seasons worth of evidence out there that connects me with you guys. I might as well be Bin Laden's big gay lover in the eyes of some of these people. One guy with enough motivation to turn on a computer and find my unlisted address and I'm fucked."

"So what opinion would you hope Tsunami would give you?" asked Dean. "He's in the same situation."

"No, he's not," said Simon. "Dude knows how to hide. And, hey, he has a connection to the wizarding world. He might even be a wizard himself. Either way, he can protect himself a lot better than I can."

"You were hoping that Tsunami would help you? Hide you, protect you?"

"Maybe?" Simon said. "I don't know. I... I don't know. I'm scared, man. Really, really scared. There's a part of me that wants to invest in ammo and buy a cabin in Wyoming. Or ask you to turn that wand of yours on me and just wipe me clean. But... I already said it. I love you guys. You're like... distant cousins, or something. When I heard that the Quidditch game was attacked, and that Ginny was in trouble.... Dean, I've stayed up nights just wondering if she's okay. I haven't just been emailing Tsunami to get myself help. I've been emailing him so I could find out about you guys. To make sure that everyone was safe. And, well..."

Simon trailed off, studying the alcohol in the glass, now half empty. He seemed to be fighting a mental battle as he stared into the murky liquid, some important decision. As if to steel himself for it, he opened his mouth, lifted the glass, and took the rest of the drink in one pull. It took him a few moments, his eyes closed, tears of pain touching the corners of his eyes, as he let it burn down his throat.

"Simon?" said Dean, learning forward. "You alright?"

"Just making it easier to say," Simon said, his voice rasping from the alcohol burn. "I want to help you. I already know that my neck's on the block because of what we've been doing the last few years, and there's a part of me that just says 'Fuck it, you've had a good run, and they're going to get you either way.'"

"What are you suggesting?"

Simon sighed. "I'm suggesting that we use Jimmy Porter as a mouthpiece for the anti-Oligarchy movement, Muggle and wizard. You and Harry and Hermione and all of them. Just, I don't know, come out on an episode. This is real, we've known them for years, they're decent people who've saved the world tons of times, and what's happening right now is happening because a few terroristic douchebags want to cause trouble. It would give the grudge-bearers the reason it wants--"

"--and it would make you a target for those, um, terroristic douchebags--"

"But don't you get it, man?" Simon said, his voice slurring only slightly despite that potent brew. "I don't care! If I'm going to get my ass kicked, I'd rather I get it kicked for something tangible, something worthwhile, than for nothing."

"I don't know," Dean said carefully. "I know you're feeling frustrated right now. And if I were in your position, I would completely think that coming out would be a good idea."

"But since you're not in my position..."

"I would ask that you not do it," said Dean. "I know I don't have any say in what you and Tsunami ultimately decide, but don't. You've been skirting wizarding laws for the last few months. International wizarding laws, since you're an American writing and broadcasting in how many countries?"

"Twelve."

"In twelve countries. Things are bad now, yes, but that doesn't mean that there aren't some wizard governments that still want their Secrecy laws to be upheld no matter what. If you come out and talk about us, you might be held accountable under wizarding law in any one of those twelve countries, or in International court.

"If you get lucky," he continued, "and you're not held accountable by wizards, you're going to be held accountable by Muggles. Yes, some might believe you. Some might change their minds about us because of what you say. But I'd wager that most will think that you're just trying to take financial advantage of a tragic event, making you even more enemies than before."

"But if it will turn some people's minds, then isn't it worth it?"

"Okay, let me put it this way," Dean said, glaring at Simon. "You come out, say you know us and that Jimmy Porter is based on true events. The Muggles believe you. More questions will be asked, and more answers will be given that shouldn't be answered. They will want names, they will want histories, they will want proof. You give them that proof, and you give the Muggle opposition not only more ammunition for their fight, but more targets.

"You mentioned the woman in Seattle whose house was burned down because of her wizard brother," said Dean. "But what if that's my Mum's house? What if it's Petunia Dursley's? What if it's Hermione's parents, or her sister? You said it yourself: Muggles can't hurt wizards, but they can hurt those who aren't yet can still take some of the 'blame' for what's happening. Muggle families that can't defend themselves like my kind can. They can't put out a fire with a wave of a wand or magically shield themselves from bullets like we can. If you come out, you put them in danger. Do you want that on your hands?"

"Then what do you want me to do?" Simon asked, clearly frustrated. "I can't sit here and do nothing! But I can't go back to the way things were before! I'm fucked if I do, fucked if I don't."

"You hold your ground, is what you're going to do," said Dean. "Keep going with the programme as you normally unless your studio says otherwise. If they decide wizards aren't good business, then that's that. But either way, your job now is to keep trying to contact Tsunami. E-mail, call, write letters, send carrier pigeons, whatever you need to do. Try to get as much information from him as you can: Where are you, what's happening, what should we do now? Don't let on that you've talked to the Ministry, and especially don't let on that we think he's connected to the Oligarchy."

"But what good would that do?"

"It might not do any good," Dean shrugged. "But it might be a lead to the Oligarchy, which means it might be a lead to stopping everything that's been happening. The world might not be able to go back to where it was before last weekend, but stopping the Oligarchy will at least allow some sort of new balance."

"Okay..." Simon said, trying to talk himself into doing so little. "Okay, I can... Okay. Fine."

"I'm going to give you my telephone number at home," said Dean, scribbling on a corner of his notepad.

"You have a phone?" Simon asked. "I thought you wizards were Floo and owl people only."

"When you have a Muggle mother, you make concessions," said Dean, handing Simon the scrap. "When you're in charge of Muggle Relations, you make even more. If you hear anything, anything from Tsunami, call that number. If you think you're in any danger, call that number. Since you don't have a Muggle Charm, we can't Portkey or Apparate you anywhere, but we'll do what we can as fast as we can. I have friends in the American Department, so I should be able to convince them to get to you."

"Damn," said Simon, staring at the phone number. "I never thought having a hot black guy give me his phone number would fill me with so much terror."

"Well, you're our star informant," said Dean. "We can't let you die, can we?"

"Thank the maker for that," said Simon, his hand shaking slightly as he copied the number into his mobile phone.

"I want to see as much Tsunami correspondence as you can dig up," said Dean. "Letters, e-mails, and anything that he's sent you from the last five years. There might be some evidence there about his identity that you didn't recognize."

"I kept most of his emails on an encrypted hard drive," Simon explained. "Make sure hackers can't get to them. And his letters are in the safe with the newspaper articles and pictures."

"Take me to them," said Dean.

Simon nodded. Stood up. Fell back down again. "In a minute," he said, suddenly slurring. "I didn't know the alcohol was working until I stood up."

"Alright," said Dean, leaning back and crossing his arms. "I'll give you a few minutes. You can remember the combination for the safe, right?"

"DNA coding," Simon chuckled. "You haven't been around the Muggle world as much as you'd think, buckaroo."

"I suppose not."

"This sucks," Simon sighed, his head falling to the table. "What's the point of being rich and famous and having your own TV show if you can't do anything important with it?"

"Well, look at this way," said Dean. "You're an artist. You're telling a story. If you come out and tell everyone the truth, then what happens to your show?

"It's a brilliant tale, Simon. You really wouldn't want to spoil the ending."

---------

Things were getting out of hand. And Gungnir, Mask of Trondheim, protector of Scandinavia and the Baltic Sea, of the Circle of Thirteen, was not in a pleasant mood.

"It was to be expected," said the Mask of Osaka, torchlight glinting off her red fox fur as she, Gungnir, and Manbo walked through the halls of black stone carved beneath Louisiana. "Magic has been revealed. Are you surprised that a few would wish to take their frustrations out on the world?"

"Yes, it was expected," Gungnir growled, his gold beard fluttering as the he walked, his spear's rhythms echoing along the polished rock. "Which is what makes it worse. We expect to take this world. But how can we do that if we can't exert any sense of authority? Or even promote a positive influence on our fellow wizards?"

"That time will come soon," said Kitsune. "You know it as well as we, Gungnir. It is all a part of the plan."

"Plans can be changed," Manbo, Mask of New Orleans, interjected.

"But to what ends?" Kitsune asked. "Among the other members of the Circle, all has gone smoothly so far. We revealed a fraction of our capabilities. Now we return to the shadows and allow fear and anger to tear apart Muggle society. We give them a reason to doubt their own leaders, and to turn against their own neighbors and their own gods. It weakens them from within, and makes it easier for them to simply buckle when we strike again."

"Yes, and that part of the plan is going as well as could be expected," said Gungnir. "But to turn a blind eye to what some of our brethren have chosen to do with their newly-found freedom..."

"We vowed allegiance to the Circle to create a new world," Manbo said with a nod. "But this is not a new world. This is anarchy, pure and simple. Anarchy that we not only ignore, but support. So much death already. More than I ever thought."

Some of it was needed, of course, Gungnir understood that. For the greater good, as Gellert Grindelwald always said. Puddlemere was for the greater good. The deaths of Kingsley Shacklebolt and the others were necessary in order to distract the Ministry long enough for the Oligarchy to make their move. Their sacrifice would be honored in the years to come.

The attack on Tower Bridge was for the greater good, as well, in order to show the Muggles the power they hoped to face should they rebel against their new leaders. But...

"Dola," he growled. "Dola and Atrytone. What were those kveithau thinking? They did not think that an average typhon was enough? They did not think that it would not cause enough chaos? They had to cast their sverget Forstorre spells on it? They had to kill so many more?"

"I agree, they went beyond what was expected of them," said Kitsune. "Unfortunately, I don't think that many of our colleagues would disagree with their tactics."

"Which is why I wish to speak to you both," said Gungnir. "There are too many who consider Muggles as nothing more than kveget, including those in the Circle. I'm beginning to wonder--"

"Wait."

Gungnir and Kitsune stopped and turned around to see Manbo staring at a blank patch of stone wall. The runes of her white cloth mask were shifting around her eyes, as if focusing on a point.

"What do you want, Jason?" she asked the air.

"Sorry, ma'am," an uncomfortable voice responded, and within moments the air was filled with a young American man, his black bandana covering the upper half of his face. "I wanted to ask you something, but when I heard that you weren't alone, I decided to... um..."

"Hide?" asked Kitsune, her vulpine eyebrow arched skeptically.

"An effective Skrømt," said Gungnir. "I did not not notice you."

"That's his specialty," said Manbo, her impatience edged with a touch of pride. "If it weren't for my runes... What did you want to talk to me about, Jason?"

"Uh..." Jason Madsen glanced back and forth between the two other (rather intimidating) members of the Circle. "It's not a big deal, but... um... my folks. In Duluth. See, they're, um, well, my dad's a Muggle, and I've heard that things are getting pretty shitty around there, so I was wondering if I could, I don't know, go visit them or something?"

"Soon, perhaps," said Manbo. "After your next assignment is completed."

"My next assignment?" Jason asked, his voice rising slightly. "But you said I... could..." he trailed off, his sharp comment wilting under the presence of the other Masks.

"Yes, I know I said that you could return to them in time," said Manbo gently. "But now is not that time. Now, in fact, you are needed more than ever. All members of the Oligarchy will be needed."

"Okay?"

"In the next few days," Manbo explained, "you and others will be assigned to Dola for a very important project."

"Dola?" Jason said, his voice cracking despite himself. Behind the holes in his bandana mask, his eyes widened. "You're assigning me to Dola? Even after--" This time he cut off completely, his head whipping back and forth between the three Masks, and especially to Gungnir's well-honed spear.

He heard us talking about her, Gungnir thought. Heard us criticize her methods, her and Atrytone both. That was sloppy on our part, questioning the chain of command in front of a subordinate. Sloppy yet again.

"Perhaps we should continue our conversation in your quarters, Manbo," he said, his golden eyes studying Jason Madsen warily.

"Agreed," said Kitsune.

"I will speak to you about your duties at a later time," said Manbo, resting her hand on Jason's shoulder. "Until then, it is nearly dinner time. Jambalaya night. Your favorite, if I recall?"

"Uh, yeah, good stuff," said Jason, probably wondering if he was going to be turned into a squirrel as soon as he turned his back. Manbo nodded reassuringly, and Jason backed away a few steps before turning and continuing down the hall.

"Come," said Manbo, suddenly curt as she motioned Gungnir and Kitsune in the opposite direction. The three walked on, their silence broken only by the clack clack clack of Gungnir's spear on the floor. They soon reached the end of the hall, where a simple oak door stood, bracketed by two torches. Manbo touched her wand to the latch, muttered a few words that sounded Creole to Gungnir's ear, then pulled open the now-unlocked door, stepping aside to let them in.

"I apologize for the lack of light," she said as Gungnir entered the room. "It is an unnecessary requirement for me."

"Understood," said Kitsune, raising her wand. "Hokage." As she spoke, a ball of flame erupted from her wand, floating into the air and lighting the bedroom with a yellow-orange glow.

Gungnir rarely visited the other members of the Circle. As Manbo was one of the newest members, this was his first time in her personal quarters. It was sparse, quite sparse. A narrow bed, a small table with one plain wooden chair, and a single warddrobe, each tucked as far into the rooms corners as possible. There were no portraits, no photographs. Not even much color to speak of, the sheets on the bed a drab white. It made sense, he supposed. With her mask over her face, Manbo had better vision than any wizard (short, perhaps, of the former English Auror, Alastor Moody). Without it, she was completely blind. If there was one place that you should be able to walk without a mask, shouldn't it be your own room?

"Sit wherever you can," said Manbo, motioning to the chair and the bed. "I usually take my visitors elsewhere."

"I will stand," said Kitsune as Gungnir swung the chair out from the table and seated himself. "So we agree that things may be getting out of control."

"I do not think that they have gotten out of control," said Gungnir. "Not yet, at least. I simply believe that we should be doing more to rein in those wizards that are flaunting our superiority over Muggles."

"I agree," said Manbo. "What would you suggest? Because I, for one, think that the Oligarchy should make a concerted effort to stop those wizards who think of Muggles as nothing more than clay pigeons with legs."

"That is exactly my thought," said Gungnir. "We have stepped out of the spotlight for the time being, yes. But perhaps that may not be the best method in the end. Already there have been dozens of wizards casting curses on Muggles for fun, killing them for no other reason than their own amusement. In fact, I have heard rumors of wizards planning areas where they can hunt Muggles for sport. We need to make it clear that this cannot stand."

"We can use Oligarchy to police other wizards," said Kitsune. "You do know, of course, that this will not sit well with others in the Circle, ones who believe that limiting a wizard's power will only set things back to where they were before."

"But that's crazy!" said Manbo. "Hiding magic from Muggles is completely different than telling them that they can't commit murder! It's an obvious distinction!"

"To others such as us," said Gungnir. "The three of us, we are all of Muggle blood, Manbo as a half-blood, Kitsune and I both as Muggle-borns. We see Muggles differently than purebloods like Atrytrone and Dola. If there is one fault that I have seen in the Circle since day one, it is that. Many of us recognize Muggles as family, simply a step down in the chain of nature. Others see them as nothing more than rottene, a plague on the planet. To them, it isn't murder, but extermination."

"As horrible as it is to think," said Kitsune, "it may be difficult to find a united front when it comes to wizard-on-Muggle violence. Prospero is a Muggle-born, as is Enki. In addition, Ya-O-Gah is a half-blood. Past them, we should be able to find a majority among the Circle, but would it be smart to take such a step without its total support?"

"United or not," said Manbo, "it is important, vital, that we do this. If we don't put our foot down before we take power, then what happens to the Muggles when we do?"

"I have heard ideas," said Gungnir. "Frightening ideas. Nightmare scenarios. This is something that I wish we should have dealt with earlier, and something we could have dealt with had Prospero not suggested the advancement of Project Beta--"

"Like my mother said," said Manbo, "'If wishes were horses, than beggars would ride.'"

"--But it must be dealt with now," said Gungnir. "Before we lose our grip on both worlds."

"And before The Next is found," said Kitsune. "Once that happens, those members of the Circle who hate Muggles may decide that they don't need to tread lightly any longer."

Gungnir sighed, rubbing his golden nose with his fingers in weariness. The Circle of Thirteen should stand together, as they had for decades. The first to leave shall be the first to die. Now that the move had been made, he knew that the time should be past to question each other's methods and motivations.

You shouldn't, he mentally scolded himself. To doubt your fellow Masks is suicide.

But the thought still chewed on him. Chewed on all three of them. Would the Circle hold now that they have gained all they could ever imagine?

One imagination is different than another, he thought bitterly. And that's the problem...

Mama Said / Previous Chapters The Tutshill Summit