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Curse of the Reapers by deanine

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Chapter 9 – Domestic Bliss

History of the World Volume XXIV Chapter 7 The Rule of Turpin – The Rise and Fall of the Four

The only rebellion to ever reclaim any portion of Europe from imperial control was lead by a council of wizards and witches: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Huffelepuff, Salazar Slytherin, and Rowena Ravenclaw. Their limited victories were short-lived. After a successful campaign that liberated Britain, France, and Sweden, their progress was halted. The emperor left his capital and led the force that stormed the rebel leader's headquarters in a move he has not repeated in the intervening centuries.

Of the four only one rebel survived. Rumors abounded that the survivor betrayed his companions. Many consider that betrayal fact as Salazar was eventually elevated to the third tier, but no complicity was ever officially recorded.





Brandishing her trowel, Melinda Potter knelt in her flower garden and dug for bulbs. She’d been putting this chore off for weeks now, but if she waited much later in the season the ground would freeze, and she would have a lot more trouble reviving her flowers in the spring. Of course she could just wave her wand over the earth after the thaw and put the bulbs where she wanted them, but Melinda enjoyed doing this work the Muggle way. Her mother had gardened manually, and she’d taught Melinda the peace that could be found from digging in the earth with your own hands.

The tradition would probably die with her as Melinda had never conceived a daughter, and James wasn’t the gardening type. Looking over her autumn-faded flowers, Melinda could practically see her son zooming around the rose bushes on his starter broom. She and Bartholomew had all but given up on ever having children when James made his appearance. What a gift her son had been. Melinda swiped at her eyes with her clean sleeve and smiled sadly. How long had it been since James had managed to visit? More than a year...too long.

A windowpane-rattling snore broke Melinda’s introspective mood, and she turned an indulgent eye on her husband. His white hair was dancing in the breeze as he dozed lazily in a deck chair. Like his son, Bartholomew had never had patience for gardening the slow way, but he liked to keep her company. He would read her excerpts from the Imperial Press while she worked. Today’s issue must have been pretty boring to actually put him to sleep.

“Bartholomew Potter, wake up. If you turn into an old man on me at this late stage I will have to divorce you,” Melinda said. When she was sure that Bart was awake enough understand her, she continued. “Read me Doherty’s column instead of scaring the pigeons with your snoring.”

“I don’t snore,” Bartholomew said. He yawned once for good measure, and resettled his bifocals. “Ehem, let’s see...funding for Hippogriff racing...reinstate Veela trapping and pleasure houses...loosen dragon breeding guidelines…Sorry dear, still no mention of the curse in the woods.”

Melinda dug at the ground harder. “It’s been weeks. Doherty usually manages to slip a mention of the big things in past the censors eventually. You would think I was the only person who noticed the curse that killed three hundred Muggles and two dozen wizards who happened to be in the Misty Forest when it was cast.” Melinda had long been a voice of the people, pointing out the empire’s flaws and more egregious atrocities. She was tolerated as an eccentric with no real power, a voice they could point at when the regime wanted to appear tolerant of its critics. Melinda knew that her vocal political leanings could easily have caused her or her family to be killed. She’d even toned her criticisms down and backed off while James was young and living under their roof. Now that she had an empty nest again, Melinda had returned to her old ways, spitting venom and telling the un-garnished truth in her privately published position papers. “Do you realize that the only thing stopping that curse at London’s borders was the five-hundred-year-old magic barrier? Does anyone care that a curse sanctioned by the empire was cast that recklessly?”

“The only way you can prove that it wasn’t cast by the rebellion is through your illicit connection to that organization, our boy. Are you ready to out him as a rebel? They’d hang a wanted portrait right next to Sirius’ on the corner. He’d never be able to visit, assuming they let us live.”

“The fact that the Regime’s writers haven’t been filling every article in the world with reports of the Rebellion’s terrorist action speaks for itself. They want everyone to know who cast that curse even though they aren’t taking official credit. It’s sickening.” Melinda pulled a bundle of bulbs from the ground and tossed them toward her husband. Panting, she continued digging and talking. “No. One. Cares.”

“Keep breathing, love.” Bartholomew tucked his paper under his arm and rocked to his feet. “I’ll make us some tea while you finish up there.”

Really getting into her work now, Melinda had an impressive pile of flower bulbs ready for storage when her husband returned with the tea service. Instead of carrying the heavy silver he levitated it gently onto a wrought iron table. Sighing, Melinda set her trowel aside and quickly cleaned the dirt away from her hands and clothes with a wave of her wand. She sent the bulbs to the storage shed in a neat line floating across the yard.

"Well, how many lumps today?" Bartholomew asked whilst shovelling a half a dozen sugar cubes into his cup. Melinda varied her sugar intake with her mood, and he knew better than to try guessing her requirement on a gardening day.

"Three," Melinda said. Sipping at her beverage, she smiled at her husband. "Maybe we should join the Rebellion. Then maybe we'd get to see our son from time to time?"

Bartholomew grunted and shook his head. "If we were going to cross that line we should have done so a few decades ago. I'm too old to crawl around in the shrubs wearing invisibility knickers. And you can divorce me over it if you must."

A series of melodic chimes saved Melinda from having to respond. The enchantment on the front door announced arrivals with various tunes depending on who was knocking. Men were a lower octave, while women were tinkling notes. Regular visitors like the charm peddler were a consistent mundane bong, while strangers received more intricate announcements. But the special chimes like the one playing now; well they were a warning. "The door doesn't know who it is, and it's worried," Melinda said.

"Stay put," Bartholomew ordered. Gripping his wand surreptitiously in his pocket, he headed through the house and peered out of the spy hole. The dotty-looking grey bearded man on his front step hadn't visited in several years, not since James almost got himself declassified in his fifth year at school. Bartholomew pulled the door open and smiled uncertainly. "Governor Dumbledore, please come in." High placed governors didn't, as a rule, visit. It was political suicide to come calling at the Potters without a very good, very defensible reason.

"Why, thank you." Albus strolled forward into the entryway, shook Bartholomew's hand and gazed lazily about the room and its portraits. He waved at the portrait of a wild-haired wizard who was grinning out of a windy landscape. "Reynold Potter, he taught me Potions."

"Yes, I'm sure he did," Bartholomew said. There were rumours that Albus wasn't dealing with a full deck anymore, that he had slipped over the line from eccentric to senile. "What can I do for you? We were just having some tea. Would you like to join us?"

"Tea would be lovely," Albus said. He let Bartholomew lead him to the garden where he made a polite bow to Melinda. He gestured to the orderly line of floating bulbs making their way into the storage shed. "Doing a little gardening, I see."

Tea shooting into her nose, Melinda sputtered and coughed disgracefully. Of all the people she had thought might be at the door, Albus Dumbledore hadn't even crossed her mind. At least it wasn't the Legion come to cart her off to a prison province like the Sahara or Siberia. She'd been half expecting them for most of her life. "Good afternoon, Governor Dumbledore," Melinda said. "Please sit and have some tea. Do you take sugar or milk?"

"Both, thank you, and please call me Albus." Settling onto one of their deck chairs, he managed to look at home and comfortable, despite his voluminous, intricately-embroidered yellow silk educator’s robes. The three of them sat together in slightly uncomfortable silence, as Albus sipped his tea. "I should apologize for dropping by unannounced, but serendipity, in the form of a faulty broom brought me to your street. I find that when serendipity is playing her games it's best to follow along and let her have her fun."

"Serendipity brought you here? Did she have a good reason? You're an important man; there could be political repercussions for having tea here," Melinda said.

"Politics?" Albus asked, feigning confusion. "I stopped worrying about politics a long time ago. We old folks are supposed to leave the political struggles to the children, or hadn't you heard?"

"I tell her that everyday," Bartholomew said. "Does she listen? Retirement is about the garden and the grandchildren..."

"How many grandchildren do you have then?" Albus asked. "I don't remember an announcement in the Imperial Press, but I don't always notice those things."

Two.

None.

With a loud clink, Melinda settled her cup on the table too forcefully, and its delicate handle snapped off. She could fix the family china with a wave of her wand, but some things were frustratingly unfixable. Because of their life choices James and Lily had lost her grandchildren. Harry and Isobel were born in the woods and killed in a fire without any record of their existence ever being officially recorded. As far as society and virtually everyone she knew were concerned, she'd never had any grandchildren. She couldn't have a service for them or mourn them openly. "Actually, we only had the one son and he's been rather slow about providing those grandchildren. So, until he does, I have too much extra time in my retirement to completely forget about the politics." Melinda didn't acknowledge her husband's apologetic smile. He knew better than to bring up anything as painful as Harry and Isobel casually in mixed company.

"I see," Albus said. Seemingly oblivious to the sudden tension between his hosts, he took another long sip of tea and settled his cup much more gently onto the table. "I suppose it's time I got to the point of my visit. Melinda, I've been a fan of yours for several years now. You write with great flair. I particularly enjoyed an article you wrote a few years back, something about the local Druids, there was an impressive string of alliteration, very catchy."

"You need something alliterative written?" Melinda asked. "I don't really take commissions these days."

"This isn't a commission. It's a proper position," Albus said. "I'd like you to write a column for the Educator's Newsletter. It's a monthly publication with very a small readership, and there would be almost no salary."

"Be careful. He's trying to lure you in with empty promises," Bartholomew said. Was the man really senile or was this a complicated game? Was the empire finally trying to give Melinda enough rope to hang herself or was Dumbledore just trying to be kind in an oblivious befuddled way?

"You would let me write a column with topics of my choosing in your weekly publication?" Melinda couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. It was one thing to write and privately publish her position papers, but a weekly column in an accredited paper, however low the circulation, would be a hundred times better. There had to be a catch to this generous offer.

"You can pick the topic as long as it's sports related. Most of the articles have been on Quidditch in the past, but I was hoping you'd be able to find a fresh angle to the column. No one seems to care about the classic sports like Synchronized Team Flying or Underwater Gillyball." Albus sighed as though the neglect of such sports was a tragedy. "Are you interested in the position?"

"A sports column? I'm really not a sports writer," Melinda said. "I don't even follow Quidditch."

"She really doesn't," Bartholomew said. "What is the purpose of a Bludger, dear?"

"Bludgeon is what I'd like to do to you at times." she answered quickly. "So I imagine there is some beating involved."

"I thought you said she didn't follow the game?" Albus asked, his eyes twinkling merrily. "Please, don't answer now. Think about it. Send me an owl when you've decided."

Senile? Bartholomew stared at Albus suspiciously. The man had an agenda. He'd bet his last galleon on it. People with unspoken agendas bothered him. They weren't trustworthy. "Well, retired people don't generally take positions, do they?"

"I'll think about it," Melinda interjected. She lifted the pot of tea and gestured to Albus's cup. "Would you like some more?"




Whilst an enchanted basin of steaming water floated across the washroom, Remus soaked his aching bones in a spacious copper bathtub. The basin’s fresh hot water washed another wave of warm relief through him. Brooms weren’t ideal for activities that involved travelling thousands of miles. A few hours straddling an unpadded broom handle, and Remus was ready to fork out the extra galleons for a nice Indian-weave deluxe carpet. If he had the extra galleons, he’d fork them out. Or maybe he would just have to work on his Cushioning Charms? Surveying the tidy guest bathroom of Lily and James’s home, Remus tried not to feel jealous that he couldn’t hope to own property or a home or even hold a proper job.

Things could always be worse. He could be in an imperial dungeon awaiting the next full moon and the monthly werewolf hunt. If it weren’t for his friends, people like James and Lily, he would have already lived that horror at the ripe old age of sixteen. Besides, it wasn’t like they were enjoying the comforts that the empire afforded them. Were James and Lily basking around in their lovely home working at imperial jobs? No, they lived out there like vagabonds, fighting the good fight. He had no right or reason to envy them.

Yet he couldn’t quite stamp out the green glimmer of emotion.

The now empty basin hovered at the ready awaiting his orders. Did he want more hot water? With a sigh, Remus waved the bit of pottery away. He couldn’t lounge about in the bath for the rest of the day, as much as his tired bones would enjoy it. Remus stepped out onto the cool slate tiles and folded himself into a large woolly bathrobe.

He stared at his haphazardly darned excuse for clothes and decided to attempt a few more repairs before getting dressed.

“Lily, do you have a decently enchanted sewing kit?” Remus called. He headed out into the hall. “Lily?” Pausing to cinch his robe tighter, Remus started downstairs. “If I were a sewing kit, where would I hide?”

“Third drawer on the right in the kitchen,” Lily said. She headed across room and took Remus’s clothes from him. “Oh, just let me. You’re obviously not very good at this. There’s a difference between looking like a Muggle and looking like a homeless Muggle.”

Remus surrendered his clothes and followed Lily to the kitchen. While she settled down with his mending, he started putting together some simple fare for dinner. With the smell of stew filling the house and Lily curled on a chaise longue sewing, Remus could almost pretend that the scene of domestic bliss was his, that this was his home, his wife, his life. He could almost pretend that there wasn’t a full moon in eight days.

“So, what do we do now?” Lily asked. “I mean we know that Oscasia is a child stealing villain, but we don’t know anything else.”

“Well, now that we’re back in Britain we’ll have to get down to the grit of this mission.” Remus set the stew to simmer over the fire and joined Lily. “Oscasia has most likely already started assembling kids. We need to figure out who and why.”

“I wonder why she came to Europe after spending more than a century in South America. I wonder what she wants.” Lily shivered and looked up into the fire. “If she’s already assembling children, you would think there would have been some outcry. Can you imagine someone not saying anything when their child is taken away?”

“It happens every day. The empire takes children from Muggles at will, and no one even cares. It’s all about what you’re used to, and what you expect.” Remus flourished his hands and produced a flower. “That’s a Muggle trick, sleight of hand, no magic involved. What you see isn’t always what you get.”

Lily took Remus’ flower and sniffed it briefly. “The conscription of the Muggle children has been going on forever, but it couldn’t happen to wizarding families. The Muggles can’t do anything about wizards taking their children, and they know better than to complain. Wizard parents will notice when their children are kidnapped by a malevolent third tier witch, and there will be an outcry when Oscasia starts her games in earnest here.”

“You may be right,” Remus said. “I just seems that she’s been here a long time. Why hasn’t she started?”




The Headmistress’s office wasn’t an unfamiliar place to George. It was a warm room, despite its size. Floor to ceiling tapestries buffered the cold stone walls, and a bright fire perpetually burned in the room’s large fireplace. He and his brother had managed to receive at least one talking-to a term since they started school. Headmistress McGonagall had threatened to declassify them on more than one occasion but they never quite crossed the line that would force her hand.

“Well, Mr. Weasley, what do you have to say for yourself?” McGonagall asked. “Three days you were wandering the streets of London. What did you think you were doing?”

George shrugged and stared at the headmistress’s desk rather than the woman behind it. “My brother was in London. I was looking for him.”

“Your brother is being trained in the Legion, from what I understand. Why would you think he was in London?” When George didn’t answer, Minerva sighed deeply. The boy was obviously exhausted, dark smudges under his eyes and a defeated slump to his shoulders. “After everything we’ve been through, all the trouble you and your brother have got yourselves into over the years, I hate to declassify you over this. Considering the extenuating circumstances, I’ve petitioned for a milder punishment, but you can’t afford to step another toe out of line, Mr. Weasley. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” George said.

Minerva stared at her student with no small amount of pity. He was a shadow of the vibrant troublemaker she was used to scolding. They were twins, yes, but a little separation shouldn’t be so devastating. “George, what can I do to help you? You know that Fred is all right, don’t you?”

George finally met her eyes. He leaned forward in his chair, and gripped her desk’s edge. “Fred is not all right. You let them take my brother, but you don’t even know what they’re doing to him, do you?” George stood and shook his head disgustedly. “Can I go back to my dorm now?”

“You can go,” Minerva said. Her voice was steady but she was shaken. It was true, she let Oscasia and her priestesses take Fred Weasley, but it wasn’t something she could have stopped. She had no power to defy third tier witches. George’s accusing stare said otherwise. She was the adult, the one with the power, and she was supposed to protect her students. “Mr. Weasley, I’ll try to find out where your brother is.”

“You don’t have to do me any favours. I’ll find my own brother,” George said.

Minerva watched her door swing slowly shut after George’s surprisingly quiet exit. No slammed doors, no screaming, he was showing more maturity than she would have expected given his age and his apparent anger. He was serious about locating his brother, but it wasn’t safe. She couldn’t protect Fred, but she could keep George from diving off a cliff after him. They would have to tighten security. She would have to close the passage to London that was traditionally left open through benign neglect. The passage to London normally served as a pop off valve, allowing frustrated and exhausted students to escape from their school from time to time.

Well the students would just have to find other ways to let off steam.

Minerva walked across the office and scribbled a message onto a tarnished oval mirror. Requesting a conversation with Albus Dumbledore. Available? After several moments, a reply appeared. Available. Normally, when Albus’s face appeared in the mirror, it was accompanied be a warm greeting or smile. Today, loud girlish shrieking was apparent in the background. “Good evening, Minerva. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Minerva caught snatches of the shrieker’s complaints. “Political suicide...might consider his subordinates...completely senile...”

“Perhaps there would be a better time to talk. When you don’t have so much company?” Minerva asked.

“That’s just Percy, my executive assistant. He isn’t very pleased with an appointment I made today, seems to think I might have tarnished my reputation. He was just leaving, weren’t you, Percival?”

“Sign The Papers On The Desk,” Percy said. He accented every word as though he were communicating with a toddler. “I Am Going Home Now...before I completely lose my sanity.”

Dumbledore smiled and nodded absently. Though he could be annoying and condescending, Percy was the perfect assistant. He wasn’t overly perceptive of others, but he was painfully conscious of his own position and things that affected his position. Albus could count on Percy to keep the entire staff up to date on exactly how senile he wanted to be perceived. It was convenient having a narrow-minded superficial gossip at hand. “What can I do for you, Minerva? We should be alone now.”

Minerva could feel her eyebrows rising, but she refrained from commenting on his choice in executive assistants. “I lost a student for three days, as you know. George Weasley was out looking for his brother Fred. By any chance do you have an update on him? I think some solid information or, better yet, some contact might help George’s peace of mind.”

His smile fading a degree, Albus shook his head. “I’m afraid there’s nothing for me to report. The witch Oscasia took him as she has every right to do. She needn’t report to you or me or anyone about her use of Fred Weasley.”

“I’m aware of our rights. You’re telling me that you don’t know anything about it. I have to take care of these children, and I’m afraid George is going to do something drastic,” Minerva said. “Can’t we find a way for him to talk with his brother?”

Sighing deeply, Albus abandoned his smile altogether. “If you have any more trouble out of George, send him to talk with me, and I’ll try to help.”




Author’s Note:

He may not be a Weasley, but Percy has a cameo. I couldn’t resist. As for the next chapter, we’ll be heading back to school to check in with the kids. It’s time to celebrate the winter holidays.