“How the hell did they get in?” Tonks asked. “The outer wards couldn’t have fallen this quickly.” Her wand spat an array of hexes and jinxes, forcing the intruders to retreat around the corner momentarily.
“I don’t think the outer wards were ever triggered,” Remus answered. He had noticed what she must have missed. Though clothed in dark robes, with hoods disguising their features, the intruders did not fight like Death Eaters. Their spells were on the darker side of grey, but compared to Voldemort’s servants, they were snowy white. Besides no Death Eater would ever be caught sporting a Phoenix symbol, such as the small ones etched above the intruders’ right breasts. “They’re not Death Eaters,” he called to Tonks. They had rallied and were approaching in an almost textbook Auror formation. The one in the center shrugged off an Impedimenta Curse with little effort. His hood fell back exposing achingly familiar features. Remus stared in shock.
“Sirius,” he breathed softly, half in despair, half in desperate hope. The man did not hesitate. His wand spewed forth purple flames. With a cry, Tonks threw herself in the flames path. Her hastily constructed shield nearly buckled under the heat of the fire.
“Pay attention, old man,” she said sharply. Remus blinked. The concern in her voice called him back to reality. It wasn’t Sirius, couldn’t be Sirius. The beard was to neat, the nose too long.
“Fall back. We’ve been flanked,” he ordered, and indeed they had. The intruders had executed a nearly perfect pincer move. Remus glanced over his shoulder as he and Tonks raced down the corridor. Remus knew that face. Not Sirius then, but a Black nonetheless, from beyond the grave. “Regulus,” Remus snarled.
“I can’t hold it much longer,” Charlie said through gritted teeth.
“Just a few more seconds,” George whispered, as he and Shackbolt sent a bevy of curses under cover of his brother’s shield. It had only been 15 minutes since they’d made contact with the enemy, but they’d already been forced to retreat up the stairs. Shackbolt had been one of the premier Aurors, and Charlie and George were no slouches, but however fast they cast their jinxes and hexes, the enemy fired that much faster. The constant stream of blasting charms was uncanny. No witch or wizard could possibly cast that quickly.. Charlie’s shield finally collapsed under the onslaught, and before either of his companions could take his place, 10 curses were already upon them.
“Down!” Shackbolt ordered. The wall behind them shuddered at the impact and exploded in a cascade of plaster and brick. Charlie coughed and peered up through the shower of debris. The enemy was taking advantage of the lull to advance quietly and take up firing positions. More importantly, they weren’t carrying wands. None of them were. Charlie’s mouth gaped in shock as one of them snapped a new magazine into place. He silently thanked his father for being so interested in Muggles. Guns! That was the word. They were all holding guns, guns that fired curses, but that should have been impossible. Another blasting curse exploded to his left, as if in answer to his unspoken disbelief.
“Kingsley,” he called as he crawled for cover. “They’re Muggles!”
“I know,” Shackbolt replied grimly. “Piertotum Locomotor,” he cried. Chunks of brick and concrete rose slowly and hung menacingly in the air. Then at a gesture, the debris was sent hurling towards the Muggles.
Hermione rubbed the sleep from her eyes. It had been a long, fitful night. The other Potter’s apparent hostility had been unexpected, though she wasn’t entirely sure what exactly she had been expecting. Bringing the alternate Potter to this dimension had taken all her considerable knowledge and talents. It was an incredible feat. Perhaps even the magical achievement of the century, and in an era, which had seen Grindelwald, Voldemort and Dumbledore at the height of their powers, that was saying something. To have achieved so much and find Harold Potter seemingly unwilling to help them was not a recipe for a restful nights sleep. She shook her head to clear the alarms still ringing in her ears. She would personally Crucio whichever idiot had dared to mock Murphy, or she might just set Ginny onto them. The Unforgivable was probably more merciful.
“Report,” Hermione said bursting into the Map Room. It had once been a Muggle science lab, but the Order had painstakingly converted it into the most heavily warded and secure room in the compound. Dominated by a huge map of the school, the room could be used to coordinate attacks or monitor the situation. In the years since his injury, Ron had claimed the room as his domain. He grimaced at Hermione in greeting and waved her over.
“There’s ten of them,” he said as she joined him in front of the map. “And they all originated from room 121.”
She glanced at him sharply. “Where we brought Harold through?”
“Exactly.” Ron nodded. With a gesture of his wand the Map shimmered focusing in on the first floor. Three dots sat in defensive positions outside room 121. “The others seem to be heading towards the cafeteria.”
“What’s in the cafeteria?”
“Both Potters,” Ron answered. Hermione swore. In other circumstances, he would have teased her for her language. “There’s more. The surge of magic in there hasn’t dropped. It’s holding steady. Flitwick thinks they’ve opened a stable gateway, and it’s leaking magic. Not enough to be noticeable yet, but I sent Bill to strengthen the wards. We must contain the magic at all costs. The last thing we need is for Voldemort to pinpoint our location.”
“It’s leaking that much?”
“Flitwick wasn’t sure. He’s gone to close the breach.”
“This is a rescue mission,” Hermione said after studying the map for a moment.
“Most definitely, and Harold knew they were coming. He practically warned us.”
“Right, then.” Hermione’s face was the picture of determination. She turned and marched towards the door.
“Where are you going?”
“The cafeteria,” she called over her shoulder. “Maybe I can stop this before it becomes a blood bath.”
Flitwick studied his opponent with a practiced eye. Dawlish and Fred were holding their own against the other two intruders, but the third was a far more tricky opponent. He moved with the confidence and grace born from experience. In his youth, Flitwick had been a champion dueler, who owed his success both to skill and his unassuming height. His adversary, on first glance, seemed no less experienced. The man‘s stance was not that of a dueler, but a fighter. His wand grip was an almost perfect balance between offense and defense. A curse and a shield were both a swish and flick away. He was cautious, then, and not overpowering, but capable. This would be a contest of skill and Flitwick welcomed it. There was no silly flourishing of wands, nor a puerile exchange of insults. They were both too old for that, too respectful. No one was sure who cast the first spell, but suddenly the air was alive with magic. The two opponents ducked and weaved about each other with an agility that belied their age.
Dawlish glanced up from his own duel to observe the two battling masters. His loyalty to the Ministry early in the war had not endeared him to many in the Order, but no one could deny his knowledge, or competence. Even he had difficulty recognizing half the spells the two old pros were casting. A sudden sharp pain pulled his attention back to his own adversary. As blood trickled down his face, Dawlish berated himself for becoming distracted. He had his own battle to fight.
Mist erupted from Regulus’ wand in the shape of a silvery hand and enveloped Remus’ throat, squeezing the life out of him. Remus brushed the hand away with a slash of his wand.
“You’ve been dead for years,” he said.
“Funny Lupin,” Regulus answered sidestepping a bludgeoning hex. “I was going to say the same thing about you.”
“You’re from the other side,” Lupin said. It wasn’t a question.
“Quick as ever.” Regulus gave a mocking bow. Remus frowned. He had hoped to stall Regulus long enough for reinforcements to arrive, but Tonks couldn’t hold off two wizards indefinitely, and no help seemed to be coming. Remus conjured a flock of birds and set them upon the other man. For a moment Regulus disappeared in a mass of flapping wings and pecking beaks, before a shockwave sent them careening into the walls and ceiling. A few birds managed to caw feebly and then were still. Regulus rose to his feet looking slightly worse for wear. His face was scratched and bloody and he coughed up feathers.
A series of cutting hexes forced Remus onto the defensive. His shield absorbed the first two, and he evaded the third, but the fourth caught him in the shoulder. He spun, biting back a cry of pain. He could feel the hex tear through muscle and ligament right down to the bone. His nerve endings were alive with fire. Remus grimaced channeling that pain and fire into his magic. Deep within something primal stirred. Not beaten yet. Not by a long shot.
Remus unleashed a great gust of wind. The blast sent Regulus careening through the air. He hit the far wall with a sickening crunch, and collapsed to the ground in a pile of rubble. Remus sagged. His knees felt weak and exhausted. Conjuring weather inside was risky and draining. He looked up at Tonks’ shout of triumph. One of her foes was down. Remus felt himself smile. Perhaps they could win.
A chill went through him. Regulus was climbing out of the wreckage. He was covered in dust. His battle robes were torn. His face was bruised and bloody, but he was standing, albeit unsteadily, and he was angry. Remus swore under his breath. Where was the rest of the Order?
Corporal Rayne frowned grimly. His protective amulet was almost depleted. A quick glance at his team confirmed that theirs were likewise expended. Not that the amulet was any guarantee of safety. They merely rendered him and his team impervious to any form of Muggle-repelling, and diluted the effects of most minor hexes and jinxes. A direct hit still did a world of damage as Private Harris had discovered earlier. The young man’s arm hung by his side at an uncomfortable angle, the victim of a bone-shredding curse, but he could still fire a gun. Rayne nodded to himself. He was proud of his team. They had proved once again the viability of the Muggle Legions. Even the most liberal of Wizards had scoffed at the idea. ‘Granger’s Folly’ they’d called it, but the unit had proven devastatingly effective during the campaign against Voldemort.
Rayne peered around the corner and fired. As the cartridges exited the barrel the containment dissolved and the curse activated. The Corporal saw the older black man duck for cover as the blasting curse passed over his head. It was an ingenious idea, though time consuming. Each cartridge had to be prepared individually, but they had made a surplus during the War, so Rayne had ammunition to burn.
“Report,” ordered a voice behind him. Rayne whirled quickly to assess the threat. He relaxed immediately and saluted.
“One injury Ma’am,” he said.
“And the enemy?” Granger asked.
“They’re retreating in an organized fashion. Whoever’s in charge over there is good.”
“We’re going to have to press the attack. Black has been stalled and Gavrilov is under attack. We’re going to have to rescue the Premier ourselves.”
“Yes Ma’am.” Rayne smiled at his team. If they could pull this off, if Muggles could rescue the Premier when a team of Wizards failed, then no one could ever again belittle the Legion. No other justification or proof would be needed. By Dumbledore, they would not fail! “Ready suppression fire on my mark,” he said. “Prepare to move out.” They didn’t need protection amulets anymore. They had a witch.
Gavrilov spat blood. The little man was good. Gavrilov had always known that, of course. Filius Flitwick’s exploits were infamous back home. Grindelwald himself had been impressed, and Gavrilov knew from experience how hard it was to impress him. He leaned against the wall drawing strength from its solidarity. He was getting too old for this. Though Flitwick didn’t look any better. The little man looked like he could barely stand let alone cast another spell. Gavrilov tilted his head listening. He could hear the sounds of battle around the corner. They were holding. He took a deep breath. They had to hold at all costs. The portal could not fall into enemy hands. That was his purpose.
Gavrilov straightened. He stood proud and erect. He would not fail. Anisim Gavrilov had been with Grindelwald since the beginning. He had fought in the Unification Wars, seen the first stone placed at Nurmengard. He was the last, the most faithful. He was the Ehrengarde. Gavrilov looked down into Flitwick’s eyes. At this point in a duel, when both combatants were exhausted, it was vitally important to seize the initiative. Lightning crackled forth from Gavrilov’s wand. He gathered it up in his hand fashioning it into a ball, and hurled it at Flitwick. The diminutive Wizard braced himself. The lightning struck his shield with a roar of thunder. The floor seemed to quiver, but when the lightning faded, Flitwick was still there, just as determined.
Remus staggered under Tonks’ weight. She could barely walk. The bones in he right leg had been shattered, and she was bleeding from various cuts. Remus, himself, was in only slightly better shape. He had managed to staunch his bleeding shoulder, but he could feel his magic reserves ebbing. He turned slightly, trying not to wince, and cast a pair of Reductor curses. His pursuers fell back out of sight, but only for a moment. Regulus had beaten him. He’d been just a little faster, just a little stronger. His style puzzled Remus. He had not fought merely as a son of the Ancient and Noble House of Black, but there had been hints of something else, something familiar. A fondness for transfiguration that Remus had seen in no other Black. Tonks moaned softly.
“Stay with me,” Remus urged, but her eyes closed. “Nymphadora,” he said sharply.
“Don’t call me that,” she muttered sleepily. Remus smiled in relief.
“Sorry,” he said. “Try and stay awake. We’re not safe yet.” With effort Tonks forced her eyes open and nodded at him blearily.
“Oh my God!” They looked up to see Hermione running toward them. “Tonks, Professor! Let’s get you out of here.” She took Tonks’ other arm. “We have to hurry. They’re after Harold.” Remus nodded bleakly. He and Hermione half dragged, half carried Tonks down the hall. Turning right they headed for the cafeteria. As they got closer, the sounds of battle got louder and louder. They turned the corner and found Charlie propped against the wall, breathing heavily. They set Tonks down gently next to him.
“How are we doing?” Hermione asked. Charlie just stared at her blankly. “Charlie?” He didn’t respond. Hermione frowned at Remus, and peered around the next corner. Kingsley and George were fighting a rearguard action against what appeared to be a pair of Muggle soldiers and a witch. Hermione blinked. The Witch! Dear Merlin, the witch! Her hair was tied back in a tight braid. She wore dark battle robes with a rosette pinned to her chest, and her eyes were hard as flint, but her face…Hermione saw that face in the mirror every morning. She walked forward as if in a dream, and they stood facing each other. For a moment time stood still. The fighters on both sides stared. Glancing from one to the other, almost comically.
The Hermiones were the first to recover. They raised their wands practically in unison and cast the first spell to come into their minds. They had reacted on instinct. For if they had contemplated for but a moment, then they would not have been surprised by the result. For the first time in the history of the greater omniverse, a wand met itself in battle, not its twin, or brother, but the self-same wand. The spells collided in a burst of light, and when the glare had faded, a golden thread pulsed angrily between the tips of the two wands.
“Priori Incantatem,” breathed Lupin. Both Hermiones stared in shock. This was different. The thread writhed this way and that, as if it were alive. They clasped their wands in both hands. This was not a contest of wills or power. The two witches were immaterial. The realities were struggling for dominance on a raw, primordial level. The great vastness of the entire universe, all the wonder and power was being channeled into one young woman and her wand. Through the portal poured forth an answering power, and the young woman’s counterpart was its vessel.
While everyone’s attention was riveted on the battling wands, another complimentary pair approached. Harry stared in utter shock. For the first time the concept of an entire alternate reality crystilized in his mind. Not just individuals but an entire world of doppelgangers. He stood rooted to the spot. The sheer amount of magic emanating from the golden thread was overwhelming. Behind him Harold watched though hooded eyes, his face a blank mask. Finally he strode forward, without the slightest hint of awe or hesitation.
“You know,” Harold said. “I think someone should break this up.” He snatched the holly wand from Harry’s unresisting hand, and with a sharp flick, broke the connection. The gold thread faded like mist, and the magic in the air evaporated. Both Hermiones collapsed to the floor, breathing heavily. Harold waded calmly through the crowd. He reached down and pulled his Hermione to her feet.
“So,” Harold said at length. “What took you so long?”