Hey guys,
First of all, thank you so much for all the well wishes, both privately and in the comments.
My daughter has been discharged and is doing well now. Her diagnosis was bronchopneumonia, apparently caused by the coughing that followed after she recovered from hand, foot, and mouth disease. Thankfully, she's recovering well, and the worst is over.
I'll still be busy for a while until she's completely better, but now that I'm back home, I'll be able to spend more time writing. I've also taken a few days of leave from work, so that should give me some extra time as well.
Thank you again for all the support and patience.
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Whitehall District, London.
In a way, this was the political heart of London, a district where grand historic buildings stood shoulder to shoulder, their imposing architecture carrying an unmistakable air of authority. Some served as the nation's most important institutions, while others functioned as administrative and operational centers behind the scenes.
Among them was also the Ministry of Defence, one of the most significant pillars of the British government. Large and pale-stoned, it had always been a place where critical decisions were made, but on this particular day, the weight of the entire city seemed to rest within its walls more heavily than usual.
Urgency was evident even outside, where vehicles arrived and departed in quick succession while uniformed personnel moved briskly through the entrances.
Inside, the sense of pressure only grew stronger. The main hall, once meant for formal assemblies, had undergone a complete transformation, now seen serving as a temporary command center for emergency operations across the city.
Officials in various uniforms were seen crowded around desks strewn with maps and screens, working side by side with intense focus while orders, updates, and urgent reports flew back and forth without pause.
At the same time, overlooking all of this from the raised stage at the far end of the hall were several figures seated at a long table, their calm, composed expressions a stark contrast to the storm below, though no less serious.
Some wore uniforms heavy with ribbons and decorations layered across the chest and shoulders, while others wore comparatively simple attire, dressed in formal suits and long coats.
All together, they represented the highest levels of England's law enforcement authorities, from senior military officials and border security commanders to police commissioners. Likewise, seated among them were figures of equally high standing—the Crown Prince himself, the Prime Minister, and the Director of National Intelligence.
And since this operation was being conducted jointly by both magical and non-magical authorities, it was only natural for representatives of the magical side to be present as well.
The Minister of Magic was accompanied by his Senior Undersecretary, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, and finally, the Head of the Auror Office.
"Any developments at the borders?"
One of them, perhaps the most decorated figure in the room, turned toward a middle-aged man just as he put down the phone.
"Only minor disputes, General." The middle-aged man leaned back slightly in his chair, shaking his head. "Nothing beyond what we anticipated."
The General gave a slow nod, his gaze returning to the bank of television screens arranged along the wall. "Don't let anyone cause a scene," he said, with the measured calm of someone issuing an instruction they expected to be followed without elaboration. "The last thing we want right now is a riot."
Seated nearby, Prince Charles, who had been watching the live broadcast, also gave a small nod in agreement. On either side of him sat the head of government and the Director of National Intelligence, while military and police officials filled the remaining seats. Directly across from him sat the representatives of the magical side.
His attention soon turned from the news to Jameson Greengrass, "It would seem they've finished restoring the southern region. Can we assume the capital will be their next destination?"
Jameson gave a small shake of his head. "There is very little left in the capital that requires the Speakers' direct involvement at this stage." His expression turned briefly thoughtful. "With the ICW assembly being held at dusk, I would expect their attention is already directed toward that."
"Won't you be attending the congress as well?" Michael asked, accepting a fresh stack of papers from a woman who had appeared at his elbow from somewhere on the command floor below.
"I will, of course, be attending as the representative of the British magical community," Jameson told him, pausing briefly to accept the same document as the woman made her way around the table distributing copies to everyone seated there. "Thank you," he added softly as she reached him.
Everyone at the table received a copy, and for a moment the room settled into the particular quiet of people reading.
"I was wondering, Minister," the Crown Prince said without raising his head from the papers, "whether it is true that those who reach a certain level of magical ability are granted a seat on that council as a matter of course."
The non-magical officials around the table became noticeably more attentive at the question, several glancing up from their own copies.
Jameson considered the question for a moment. Indeed, all sitting Ministers for Magic held seats in the assembly that shaped the international laws of the magical world. It was only natural they should have a voice, as each represented an entire magical community.
However, those seats were temporary, whereas the Great Magi held permanent voting rights. As the Prince correctly pointed out, once a witch or wizard ascended beyond the rank of Magus, they were automatically granted the right to vote.
"Your assumption isn't entirely wrong, Your Highness," Jameson said at last, "but it is not quite that simple either. There are conditions." He paused briefly. "If a witch or wizard is convicted of criminal conduct, for instance, that privilege is revoked indefinitely, regardless of whether they happen to be a Great Magus or an Archmage."
Amelia Bones set down the report after reading through it with a quick, practiced eye, a faint smile touching her lips. "The principle is rather straightforward, Your Highness," she said. "In the wizarding world, political influence carries weight, but personal strength carries considerably more."
"So you're saying anyone with a bit of muscle gets a say in your world's politics?" one of the uniformed officials asked, with the blunt directness of a man who had not spent his career choosing words carefully.
"That particular bit of muscle is not something just anyone can achieve, sir," Rufus Scrimgeour answered, his tone carrying the quiet edge of someone correcting a misunderstanding they found mildly irritating. "There are approximately a hundred registered Great Magi among hundreds of millions in the wizarding world."
"Most intriguing..." The Crown Prince set the papers down as well, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "It's not quite a dictatorship, yet not entirely a democracy either."
"Frankly," the old general remarked, in the dry, unhurried tone of a man who had stopped being impressed by most things several decades ago, "that sounds considerably more sensible than the arrangements in most of our so-called civilised nations." The comment earned more than a few reluctant smiles from around the table, though nobody rushed to disagree with it openly.
It was Amelia Bones who eventually broke the brief, almost companionable silence that followed, glancing toward the Minister of Magic with the expression of someone moving efficiently from one matter to the next. "Speaking of which, Minister, perhaps you ought to take a break and go prepare properly for your address tonight. Leave things here to us."
Her hand settled on the documents in front of her, her smile widening slightly. "Now that every local police station across Greater London has confirmed zero casualties from last night, our greatest concern is behind us. We can safely declare this phase of the operation a complete success."
Jameson allowed himself a small smile too, deeply pleased. Last night's operation, after all, was not solely about Maverick confronting the Dark Lord before the eyes of the world.
Behind the scenes, one of its most crucial objectives had been ensuring that no civilian came to harm while everything unfolded, and he had just read the latest summary from all major stations across Greater London.
The casualty count was zero. Although he had expected as much, it still felt nothing short of miraculous that not a single civilian had found themselves caught in the aftermath, controlled as the destruction had been or otherwise.
And tonight, at the assembly, he felt considerably more confident about the speech he was to give than he had even an hour ago. History. Yes, tonight would be a defining moment in this world's history, and he was about to become part of it.
At the thought, the corner of his lips twitched ever so slightly, barely managing to suppress what would have been, under the circumstances, a rather undignified grin.
"Thank you," he told Amelia after a moment. "I'm quite alright, there'll be plenty of time for breaks—" his words cut off mid-sentence when suddenly, something at the far right end of the long table caught the corner of his eye.
The others also turned at the same moment, their attention drawn toward the disturbance which was not being particularly discreet about itself.
It was a tiny black point at first, suspended in midair, appearing from nowhere before twisting into a slow, swirling vortex.
The scene was deeply unsettling, especially for the non-magicals, more so within the closed confines of one of the most secure places in the country, currently housing the Crown Prince and the Prime Minister.
In the breaths that followed, the black point rapidly expanded, spiraling outward and upward until it formed the outline of a human figure, as if someone were folding into reality from somewhere else entirely.
When Maverick's figure fully manifested, he stepped onto the stage with one foot first, then slowly lowered the other until he stood in the now-silent hall.
The bustling movement below had also ceased entirely at the bizarre way he appeared, some even having their guns already raised and pointed. Thankfully, the people here were all professionals, and no triggers were pulled accidentally.
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Author's Note,
I've posted an auxiliary chapter about the rewrite, so do check it out if you haven't already.
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