Thessaloniki, Thermaic Gulf, Northern Aegean Sea, Northern Greece
[Cursed Energy Response Team (CERT): Thirteen,
Designated Commander: Senior IDMH Operative, Lt. Quirinus Quirrel,
Mission Log #7:
Approximately twenty-five hours shipbound since our departure from Piraeus. Thessaloniki came into view a few hours ago, albeit barely. The forecast turned sour. Misting rain is now limiting visibility.]
Quirrel hunkered down over the edge of the ship's rail, watching the churning black water folding against the hull, thick as spent oil. The hovering quill stalled with him, nib resting against a suspended scroll.
[Cursed Asset and/or DMH Ward accounted for and operating at full capacity, no noticeable development of curse mark since previous observation.]
Quirrel's dark, beady eyes shifted to the side. They fell upon a lean, young male perched on the bow of the small ICW transport ship. The boy's green eyes fixed on the book without turning a page. His jaw flexed at measured intervals as they closed on the mainland.
The officer did not notice the quill shivering. Ink bled into the page as the sharp tip scratched a little too deep.
[Asset's unique sensitivity to curse signatures remains highly effective. Reports appear credible. The water feels wrong. The air is wors-]
"We're dockin' soon, mate."
[We're dockin' soon, mat-]
Quirrel clicked his tongue in irritation. "Scratch that last," he snapped at the quill. He turned to the shorter figure approaching him, levelling a baleful glare at the Australian wizard. "Your greatest operational liability is your voice, Macleary. Has anyone ever told you that?"
The square-faced operative grinned easily at his team lead. "All the time," he chirped, tapping Quirrel's shoulder with a meaty hand. "Squad's on deck, Greek MoM fellas are waiting for us on the docks. Magic hell-guard, something or the other."
"Hellenic Magical Coastguard," Quirrel corrected, rubbing his temple as he pushed off the ship railing and made for the fore. He folded up the scroll, tucking it away into a pouch. The quill zipped back to his hand.
And speared into the skin of his palm. Quirrel hissed, wrenching the thing free and staring at it.
The enchanted tool struggled in his fingers. Scarlet was seeping into the veins of the feather, muddling with the ink.
He shared a look with Macleary, who was watching silently. Snapping it in half, he let the pieces fall overboard as he gestured for the man to lead on.
They passed by the crew, skirting the box-shaped office where the helm was situated. Quirrel's eyes stayed on the boy the entire time, watching him carefully. Whether it was the movement that caught his attention or that uncanny prickle of being watched, the lad took notice and closed his book with a soft thud.
Two other operatives were gathered around the boy, garbed in the same dark slate and navy attire that seemed to be the small team's standard.
The first was a kind-looking woman in her early thirties, though the wear of the job had carved some harsh lines into what was still a comely face. She sat on a crate, drying her gloves in front of a small gas heater.
There were spells for that, but field operatives were taught not to waste output on comfort.
The other was a thin-faced male closer to Macleary's maturity… in age only, perhaps. He leant against the railing next to the asset, drawing idle lines in the air with his wand and watching as the spitting rain parted accordingly.
"Miss Day, Mister Kilber," Quirrel greeted, sweeping his cloak out of the way to take a seat next to the woman. "Everything in order for when we disembark?"
The thinner man, Kilber, nodded and flicked his wand. A shimmer sealed around them, then thinned. The rain continued to dome overhead, keeping the team dry. "Suitcases are packed, lieutenant. Anna's run a diagnostic on Harry, by the way. He's fine, so just ignore his complaining."
Macleary barked a laugh as Harry gave him a dry look in response. Meeting Quirrel's eye, the boy shook his head to his unspoken question. "Grandma here made me drink something that tasted like a drain left alone in summer. I suppose that's a good thing." He smirked as the witch smacked his leg reproachfully. "I'm fine, sir. The potion's working. My head barely aches."
Quirrel hummed thoughtfully, lifting his cap to run a hand over his glassy-smooth scalp. He did not meet the boy's eyes.
A bell dinged as the crew came alive around them, all working together to guide the small ship into port. Thick, tarred ropes were levitated over to the port workers, who expertly began to bind the ship to the wharf. Inflated fenders were thrown over the sides to protect the hull as the vessel struck concrete with a muted shudder.
A walkway slammed into place between the railing and the dock. Quirrel stood, dusting off his slacks. "Move, Thirteen."
His team followed suit. Harry shrugged off his coat and donned some equipment from his pack. A slim vest, not unlike those used by mundane law enforcement. Unlike modern police vests, this one was lined with scales finer than silk.
Anna watched him carefully, before reaching over to adjust the fitment for the young man as he pulled his jacket over himself once more. "This is ridiculous, hauling a minor into another live site," she muttered, brushing some ash away from a pockmark in Harry's armour, a souvenir from their last deployment. "
It had cost them blood.
"I prefer the fresh air over ICW bars, Anna," Harry said quietly.
The Australian just grunted at that. "Come on little man, it's not like they had you in lockup. Unlike the Brits that parked you with muggles and called it 'good 'nuff'."
Harry didn't have a reply for that, but they could all see the distaste written on his brow.
"Enough." Quirrel's nasal voice cut across the chatter. "The mark will develop regardless. In the field, we control it." He gripped Harry's shoulder and gently urged him towards the walkway. "Whilst doing some good." His hand lingered on the boy's shoulder, like a stain that he wasn't sure would wipe off or not.
Kilber chuckled. "Not to mention the fact that it would be… problematic for word to get out about our child-prisoner. Where did we put the manacles again?"
Harry rolled his eyes at the jibe. To his chagrin, he had to admit that he'd been a bit overzealous with his comment.
They stepped onto Greek concrete under a dead sky.
Hard-shod boots struck stone in tight cadence, closing fast. Quirrel cocked a brow at the ensemble that strode towards them through the murky grey.
Obsidian black gear and robes, trimmed with gold. Each was clad in spelled armour and combat gear that bore signs of frequent wear. Rated for mundane firearms and spellfire from dark mages alike.
Macleary squinted curiously at the group, leaning in towards Harry. "Not your typical border patrol, mate."
"I figured that much on my own, thanks," Harry quipped. "Mate."
Quirrel clicked his tongue. "Indeed, that's not the Greek Ministry, gentlemen. That's ICW, same as us."
He stepped forward, clasping hands with the apparent leader of the capable-looking force across from them. "Lieutenant Quirrel, sir, Department of Magical Hazards." He nodded behind him. "Operatives Kilber, Day, Macleary, and DMH Ward Potter."
The ICW officer nodded and released Quirrel's hand. His glance over the group seemed to linger a little while on Harry, before he turned back to Quirrel. The features on his ballistic mask were black porcelain, betraying nothing.
"Captain Finlay, Department of Arcane Response, Response Unit: Five," he stated, his voice firm but not quite rough. The lilt of a Scottish accent could barely be detected on his tongue, but it was there. "May I request your field orders, lieutenant?"
Quirrel reached into one of the pouches on his waistbelt and pulled out a thin sheaf of rolled paper. The scroll's length was twice that of the pouch it came from. He watched carefully as the higher-ranking officer removed his glove and pressed his thumb against the inscription on the scroll.
It flashed red.
A rush of wind came hurtling past both officers, sending their cloaks whipping in its wake.
Quirrel moved first. Fast. One hand raised a glowing wandtip under Finlay's chin whilst the other plucked the wand out from the holster on the captain's waist.
Bodies hit stone in unison as the armed sorcerers behind the DAR captain collapsed in a frozen heap. Macleary, wand still raised and held ready, tapped Harry on the shoulder. Nodding, the young man flicked his own wand and each soldier watched helplessly as their wands tore free from their holsters and rolled out of arm's reach.
The other two operatives fanned out, wands drawn and eyes open as they scanned their surroundings.
The two ICW officers stared at each other silently. Quirrel opened his mouth to speak before the tap of something wickedly sharp poked through the fabric of his robes. He didn't need to look down. Light reflected by steel splashed his eye.
"Bad connection, lieutenant. The seal was wet from the rain," Finlay said slowly, deliberately. He gestured with his head to the scroll still in his hand.
Quirrel clicked his tongue. "I sure hope so, my good man." The wandtip changed colour from a glowing blue to a warm auburn as the temperature around them spiked. Steam hissed from their clothing as the moisture in the air rapidly evaporated. "Do try it again, if you please."
Wiping his thumb on his now-dry clothes, Finlay pressed it against the seal.
Green.
The wand came away from his throat, and the captain stepped back reflexively. Macleary lowered his wand, and almost immediately the sounds of men and women gasping for breath could be heard as control over their bodies came back to them.
"Stand down, Cell Five," Finlay ordered as his men reached for their wands. "Small misunderstanding, we're all friendlies." Rubbing at his throat, he gave Quirrel a long look before accepting his proffered wand back. Pointedly, he made no further comment and pulled open the scroll. After a moment, he grunted. "Department of Magical Hazards, Cursed Energy Response Command, Unit: Thirteen."
"That's us, captain."
Finlay closed the scroll and offered it back to Quirrel. "We've been tasked to assist in your exploration and catalogue of the XXXX-class cursed energy signature in the Rhodope Mountains."
Kilber walked back, having offered a hand to one of the downed soldiers and hauling him up to his feet. "XXXX? Regional lethal?" he asked incredulously. "Umm, no, no, this assignment was delegated three-X at best."
Finlay shook his head. "The Greeks dispatched a team of senior Aurors to scout the location for us." He sheathed the slick-looking knife still in his hand. "You're aware cursed energy destroys magical communications and trackers, but they've failed to exfil. They're seventy-two hours overdue. ICW brass has raised the threat level and sent us to watch your six." The captain looked back to his squad, beckoning a witch over. "My second will fill you in. I need to clear your arrival with the port authorities, if you'll excuse me."
With that, the captain strode off, cloak whipping in his wake as a lithe-looking witch approached and bowed her head in a salute. "One hell of a welcome there, operative," she said, eyeing Macleary.
The rough wizard shrugged. "Sorry 'bout that, love. Your greasy-fingered boss should stop snacking on the job."
Anna shoved past him, muttering an admonishment under her breath as she approached the rival ICW contingent. "Stand by for diagnostics, please, Thirteen. If you have any concerns or aches, let me know immediately."
Both teams moved down the wharf. Quirrel felt Harry fall into step beside him. He didn't blame the boy; every single operative from Finlay's squad was eyeing him, wondering what a teenager was doing on a dangerous assignment like this. Quirrel adjusted his cap, trying to rid himself of similar notions.
I'll have Anna escort him back to Prague HQ via floo when we reach the Ministry. This situation has escalated drastically. His eyes slid to Harry. The boy stood silently off to the side, eyes darting between people, things, equipment. However, it wasn't out of any sense of fear or anxiety. It was clinical analysis, instilled into him over years of training and ICW custody. Asset conditioning has costs.
Daisies put to canvas with charcoal, regardless of how evocative, would always be grey and lifeless.
Utility does not absolve authorship. The ink is still on his hands from when he signed the deployment paper.
Dumbledore and the Ministry will find a way to take him back soon. That may prove to be a mistake.
He turned back to Finlay's second. "Miss…"
"Operative Monroe."
"Miss Monroe, I'm assuming the rating change is why apparition and portkey travel is blocked?"
The witch nodded, leading them towards the port authority's office where Finlay was emerging from. It seemed he had already sorted the paperwork with the foreign ministry. "Exactly why we had to enter the country via the water," she confirmed. "All means of magical travel have been restricted. This entire region is a hotspot of dark witch/wizard activity."
"All means?" Harry asked, frowning.
Monroe glanced over at the young man. Her blue eyes peered at him through her faceplate, dressing him down from head to toe before she eventually nodded. "All, including broom flight."
Quirrel slowed to a stop. "Then how exactly do you propose we locate the source of the cursed energy signature? The Rhodopes are not small."
"That could take months on foot…," agreed Anna.
Finlay, now back at their side, shrugged indifferently. He gestured towards Harry. "We have been instructed that you have a cursed asset in your possession to aid us in this."
"Hold the fuck on there, champ." Macleary put a hand on Harry's shoulder, brow furrowing in anger. "He's not just a fucking asset, yeah? It's a fifteen-year-old kid too, you cunt."
Quirrel raised a hand, silencing his man. "This has escalated to a regional-level threat, and the ICW gave you clearance to drag Mister Potter into this?"
Turning back to Quirrel, Finlay again shrugged dispassionately. "Orders are orders, lieutenant." With that he turned and gestured towards a line of trucks parked on the main road off the side of the loading bays. "We'll be driving through the night en route to the mountains, best get settled in."
As Cell Five moved off in the wake of their commander, Cell Thirteen lingered behind.
All eyes were on Harry.
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AN:
To keep this succinct, this very clearly an AU rendition of JKR's work. I don't claim any intellectual property of the original authors.
This prologue has been posted to timestamp this story and prevent theft. This story in full is posted on FFnet, Spacebattles, and AO3 under the username [A/The.Black.Stag]. If you are reading this anywhere else, it was posted without my permission.
Ground Rules:
- Hogwarts enrolment starts at thirteen in this verse. Harry is fifteen in this prologue, roughly a third-year age equivalent, but he has not attended Hogwarts yet.
- The International Confederation structure here is not canon. You do not need to memorise acronyms, the story will show who does what. For your reference however, I will define them clearly in the section below.
- "Cursed energy" is the fallout of dark magic, negative emotion, and rituals that warp places, objects, and people. It is a nightmarish thing that can manifest unspeakable horrors.
- Tone wise, expect a darker, more procedural take on the setting: Competent factions, Mythos, ICW politics, and a Harry who knows he is a tool on someone's leash. Romance, if it appears, will be secondary to the main plot.
Terms/Definitions:
- ICW, International Confederation of Wizards. Overarching magical world leaders, comprised of many magical nations. Akin to NATO.
- DMH, Department of Magical Hazards. A department delegated to handling natural and unnatural magical threats to life. Including but not limited to, cursed energy and cursed sites.
- CERC, Cursed Energy Response Command. A subdirectory of the DMH, highly capable operatives and cursebreakers assembled into strike teams to handle cursed energy.
- DAR, Department of Arcane Response. A department of dedicated elite mages assembled into strike teams, dispatched to handle magical threats of all manners.
Italic/Apostrophes: Emphasis on text
Italic first-person: Inner dialogue
Bold: Big stuff