Azkaban Prison, "The Rocks"
The North Sea
The Howler dropped from thin air, fluttering until it came to rest in the Hallway of the Women's Barracks. The Committee Member on duty did not waste time gaping, snatching it up and taking off at a dead run.
She burst into the Inside Rec Room, placed the envelope in Debbie's hands, and started back for her post.
"Arrête," said Debbie calmly. The young woman halted and faced about. Debbie flipped the envelope to the address side.
La Sorcière Rousse
I must get a look at this Fawksey, she thought idly. He seems to be clued in to the wider world. Before she could do anything else, the Howler went off...
...with a faint pop! Debbie pointedly did not notice the majority of women who had flinched. Fawksey's voice was at conversational level, if a little breathless.
"Chére Madame, I apologize for omitting the niceties. One of the other watchstanders, a slug named Johnson, noticed your Witches donning Harnesses. He scurried off, no doubt to the Common Room where many of the new arrivals congregate. I fear his motivations. I surmise that he will attempt to use the Harnesses to immobilise your ladies and gain access through the Locked and Blocked Barracks Door. I, however, have the Master Controls, and will immediately reverse his actions, restore your Harnesses to Attack Mode, and lock his station out. In fact, I will lock all stations. There will be an unfortunate pulse of pain. You mentioned having contingency plans, so I rest assured that matters will proceed suitably from that point."
Yours,
Fawksey
To the Committee Member still standing at the door, "Step out and alert Bunk Room Door Guard. Pulse of pain, collapse and twitch. Don't overdo. At signal, implement Scenario HB-5, that is Hector-Bravo Fife. Go. No, hold."
The Committee Member looked back, curious.
"Lethal Force Authorised. No." Debbie took a deep breath. "Encouraged."
She looked to her Vice-Chairwoman, standing at her shoulder. She was a tall, Valkyrie-looking woman with copper-gold hair. She loomed a bit, but that was unavoidable.
Debbie said, "Whistle check this morning." It was more of a statement than a question.
The Second nodded. "Loud unt proud."
Debbie inclined her head as well. "Now we wait.
***
Tuesday, July 29th, 2014. 5:37 PM.
Shamir looked about the Barracks Three Rec Room. They were as ready as possible. Harnesses were donned, and had even been tested. Against Jo-Jo. He said they tickled, so they would probably knock a normal man flat.
Shamir had taken charge in Barracks Three, since Whisky John was absent. Everybody was showing nervousness in one way or another. Standing by him were 'George' Primus and Daniel Weston. "George' was grinning maniacally and quivering like a racehorse at the gate. Weston was regarding the state of his manicure dubiously.
Suddenly, a panicked Fawksey-sounding voice blared from the Public Address system.
"ALERT! ALERT! ALL ZABINIS, ALERT!"
Shamir and Daniel exchanged glances. This was not part of the plan. Someone shouted from the Hallway.
"The Big Door is opening!"
Daniel looked puzzled. "Feels early." He checked his D&W Jewelers Magic-Proof Pocket Watch, (which Shamir envied inexpressibly). "It is early."
"THE INMATES ARE RIOTING! THE INMATES ARE RIOTING!"
Most of this Barracks' Red Division were in the Rec Room with Shamir. They were all looking at him.
"Well," he said. "You heard the man." He made a shooing gesture with both hands. "Go riot."
They burst into the Hallway in a rush of roaring, swearing humanity, each wearing a Harness glowing in the color of their Division. As they passed each Bunk Room Entrance the inhabitants threw themselves into the back of the pack. First, the rest of the Reds, then the more numerous Blues, then the most numerous Greens. The PA kept blaring, audible even over the sound of the rioters. Shamir and Daniel halted to listen as the inmates swept by them.
"Fawkesworthy, what's this nonsense?" It was a harsh male voice.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
"My Lord Vicomte, many of your men have opened the Women's Barracks and entered!"
"They did WHAT!" shouted Marrissa, who must have arrived on her father's heels.
"So?" drawled the male voice. "Marrissa, dear, don't grudge them a little recrea..."
'My Lord, I apologise for interrupting, but that cretin Johnson somehow managed to open ALL THE DOORS!"
"Well, CLOSE THEM!"
"My Lord, I can not! All the monitoring stations are sealed! He must have thought someone would try to stop them!"
"By The Dark Lord's Immortal Memory! Marrissa, go rouse my second, I know he was sleeping. Tell him to rally the men, and Cast to Kill! If you see Sabino, send him to me, at once."
"Sì, papà!"
After a pause, probably just enough to let the girl get out of earshot, Fawksey spoke again.
"My Lord, it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that the Young Master... is in the Women's Barracks."
There was another pause.
"Fawkesworthy, have I ever struck you?"
"No, My Lord Vicomte. At most, I have been pushed aside when my clumsiness put me in your way."
"Well, never have you come closer. But I cannot punish you for the idiocy of my son."
"Many thanks, My Lord."
"My daughter has told me of the resource and cunning you have recently exhibited in her service. I want you at her side during this... affair. Knowing you of old, I am sure you have a bolt hole prepared. Shall I detail a few bravis for her protection?"
"My Lord, the worth of your Fedelissimi is well known. But I believe Her Ladyship might be better served by stealth. Perhaps one or both of the tribesmen? Have they relinquished their Vendetta against her?"
"Yes, they are obedient little drones now. That is a good thought. Make it so. Wait. 'Her Ladyship,' you said?"
"As Mistress of this outpost, that is how she has been styling herself, My Lord."
"An amusing conceit, but she best not let my Mother hear of it. Perhaps a word of warning?"
"The Young Mistress has a keen sense of self-preservation, My Lord. I do not foresee a problem."
"There is that. Now to whip these curs back to their cages. Every one dead is one less to deal with when we leave."
"Certainly, My Lord. I will be on my way. After you?"
Another pause.
"Oh, Dear. I forgot to mention to him that everyone could hear us. Oh, well. Water under the bridge. Best to expedite my plans." A quiet moment, then, "Good luck, chaps."
***
Tuesday, July 29th, 2014. 6:00 PM.
The door to the second Solitary cell on the right did not open. It Vanished, revealing a dozen figures, all ready to Cast. They stood, silent, waiting for something, anything, a trap to spring, whatever. Harry was front and center, the Holly and Phoenix Feather wand out of his sleeve for a change. He spent the quiet moments considering the strengths and weaknesses of his Strike Team.
? Kingsley (Curse him for pulling rank) Shacklebolt.
? Ginny (Don't TRY to stop me from protecting Daniel) Weasley Potter.
? Hermione (No complaints THERE) Grainger Weasley.
? Ron (We're too far North for Spiders, right?) Weasley.
? Nienna (I wish Demelza had been MY Mother) Robins. Oh, and;
? Dennis (Got Milk?) Creevy, (of all people).
The other six were more like. Proudfoot, Kyinté, Demelza Robins, Dara O'Briain, Riya Patel, and Cerberus Langarm, (who was showing good signs of getting his head out of his posterior fundament, and back on his shoulders, where it belonged).
"Deploy," Harry said quietly. Proudfoot and Kyinté took double-point, with Langarm as central cover. The double doors at the end of the corridor were open back against the corridor wall, showing the darker hall beyond.
A voice came out of the darkness. " 'Alt! Oident'foiy, Friend er' Foe.!"
Harry stepped up just past the hyper-alert Langarm. He said, "Well, if that's a Brummie accent, probably 'Friend'?"
"Cheeky sod," grumbled the voice. "Roight, oi'll give th' Sign, and you give th' Countersign."
"What will you do if we don't?" Harry was truly curious.
"Run loike me mam frum a mouse," the voice admitted. "Oi don' fancy the look of' eider of them froat-cutters up front. But, loike Boss sez, moight's well do it roight, an' y' do it atall."
"Fair enough," Harry said. "Trot out the sign."
"An' John cannae hae gud Scots..." Harry winced. He had never heard a Brummie attempt a Scots' accent before, and he did not feel enriched by the experience.
He didn't even give it a go. "...Whisky John will have naught."
"Roight y' are. Wands up, lads, oi'm comin' in."
A figure dropped from above the door, twisting like a cat to catch the top edge of the jamb. He did a backward flip, and landed in a crouch. From the slight crease between Proudfoot's brows, the other had ended up a bit closer to him than was optimal.
"Oi'm 'George' Octāvus. Oi wuz tol' t' take ye around th' ruckus t' th' Admin, loike?"
Dennis Creevey had broken out of the pack behind Harry and scurried forward, as Octāvus was speaking. The lad wasn't tall at all, but was still taller than Dennis. Octāvus eyed him curiously. Creevy was pulling sticks out of a dimensional satchel by the handsful, peering through each bundle as he twisted it back and forth. He was muttering to himself.
"No, not willow, but still a softwood. Cedar? No." He stuffed one handful back in the satchel as he repeated his actions with the other. "There? What's that? Oh, of course. Poplar. Should have known. Obvious, really."
He somehow contorted his hand and fingers, so one stick protruded from the mass. "Take that and swipe it about a bit."
Looking at Creevey as if he were mad, the 'George' took the stick and wiggled it feebly.
"No, lad, by the big end. Have you never held a wand before?"
Eyes snapped down to the 'stick.' He changed his grip and gave it a good strong wave. There was a sharp line of light drawn in the air, and the 'George' gasped as it gradually faded.
"Is... is this an Ollivander wand?"
"Oh, no, no, no!" Dennis beamed. "It's a Creevey wand, and it'll do you until you can get better. Might be a bit finicky."
The 'George' was gaping. "Oi... oi can't pay yeh."
"Apprentice wand, bucko! I'm an Apprentice. Couldn't charge for 'em if I wanted!" He got serious. "But I need help. Take this lot to Admin, but I need to get to where the punch-up is going on. Anything you can do for me?"
Octāvus tore his eyes from the wand. The words caught up to his brain. "Uh, yeh. Yeh. Oi, Tertius!" he called over his shoulder. Another, skinnier lad appeared out of the darkness.
"Tek this'un t' th' scrap, and..." he finished fiercely. "Y' tek GOOD care of 'im! Tell t'others."
"Auxiliary Auror Creevy?" Dennis turned as Harry spoke. "Remember your training, and stay safe!"
"Will do, sir!" He broke out in another grin. "Besides, people don't look down here for trouble. I've got 'em right where I want 'em!"
"Let's go, Tertius!" Dennis patted him on the shoulder with a fistful of wands. One of them sparked. "There, did you see that? Which one was it?" He held the bases of the bundle to the 'George's' shoulder. "There it is! Dogwood, as I live and breathe! Only Dogwood I've made so far..." The voice faded as they disappeared down the corridor. A trick of echo brought a final snatch of speech.
"...Dogwood! Bit of a jester, are... ...warn you, pulls to the..."