The morning sun filtered through smoke and sheer curtains. Holding hands, unsure if what you're hearing outside is the sound of fireworks or something worse. The looming specter of ghosts in the evergreens. The future, which once looked bright.
When they looked back upon it, it would seem almost ridiculous, the way something that changed so many lives began as it had — through a haze of smoke and chardonnay in the rundown room of one Sybill Trelawney, her traditionally eccentric manner giving way to a dark and terrible omen. In the days that would come, the echoes of her deep voice would touch many lives, and the prophecy she made would spiral beyond her control.
“The one with the power to vanquish the darkness approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and he will have power the darkness knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...”
The words that would shatter their lives were not spoken into the abyss, unheard — no, there were two people in the room with the wayward Seer, one Peter Pettigrew and one Severus Snape. In the rooms above the Hog’s Head, three lost souls stumbled and found themselves ensnared in a destiny far bigger than themselves.
Between the two men, the secret lived — Sybill could not know the truth of her powers — and, almost as if driven by something beyond their control, Peter and Severus returned their information to their masters. Peter informed Tom Riddle in secret, as his spy — and it became clear to Riddle that his destiny called for the death of James, Lily and Harry Potter. When Snape brought the same information to Gellert Grindelwald, it seemed obvious to him that Alice, Frank and Neville Longbottom must be killed in order for the reign of die Verfechter to continue unhampered.
It was cold the night they came for them, the snow falling early and soft upon Godric’s Hollow, their breath clouding the air, and the Potter home was full of light, their families and friends joined together to celebrate the holiday. Riddle had intended for his forces to simply wipe out the boy and his parents, but the family had been tipped off to rumors of an attack, and, despite the surprise, the young Potters and their companions responded to Riddle’s Knights attack with defensive magic in kind. In the fray, Lily’s nephew, visiting for Christmas, was killed, and the Potters’ lives were now forever marked by paranoia, guilt, and fear of the next attack.
Meanwhile, in Germany, a smear campaign was set into motion by Grindelwald and ally Rita Skeeter, painting the Longbottom family (already known for several high profile captures of die Verfechter spies) as enemies of the state, and loyal Snape was assigned to track down the Aurors and their son. Frank and Alice continue their secret work with Excalibur, but Snape and his allies are always on their tail, and the time is coming for them to seek further help.
In each organization — the Order, the Knights, die Verfechter — rumors of spies swirl, and suspicions are high. Pettigrew, alone with the truth of Harry’s destiny and Sybil’s powers, grows more unraveled each day. Snape, set on his mission, cannot help but imagine another woman whose child could be the boy of prophecy. Trelawny spirals further away from sanity as the reality of her powers struggle to push through and memories of a prophetic night reach her. And the Longbottoms and the Potters do what they must — they survive.
What else can one do?
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The Dragon Brigade was a blacked-out international ministry operation formed in the early 1900’s, so named for their supposed use of dragons. Unlike Excalibur, the operatives often had sordid pasts, and were offered a spot on the Brigade to atone for their crimes or to be granted clemency. This operation was led by the Soldier from the American Magical Security Bureau of New York and the Wraith from the Magical Security Bureau of Latin America, and its members included the Sniper from Egypt, the Hammer from Germany, the Cowboy from Southern North America, the Ghost from Japan, the Sleeper from France, and the Engineer from Austro-Hungary.
Each brought varied skills to the table: the Ghost, the Sleeper, and the Wraith were master infiltrators (despite the Ghost being one of the only known dragon Animagi and thus the namesake of the brigade); the Sniper, the Cowboy, and the Soldierknew everything there was to know about martial magic; the Engineer and the Hammer were incredibly good at breaking things. (Of course, that may have had something to do with the Hammer’s status as a half-giant.)
They did well, stayed behind the scenes, didn’t cause too much of a fuss anywhere in the world—until the Geneva Crisis, when everything went to hell and the Brigade failed to prevent the deaths of a number of important dignitaries engaged in peace treaties and negotiations. It also resulted in the supposed death of the Sleeper and the mortal injury of the Wraith.
The Dragon Brigade was burned, the operation terminated, the remaining surviving members going back their separate ways. For ten long years, they stayed quiet, until the Scientist approaches the Soldier, begging her to reinstate the program.
A supporter and ally to the previous Brigade, the Scientist caught sight of something they’d never thought was possible—the Wraith, who had broken into a government facility and stolen some dangerous magic. The call was sent out, and everyone answered; except the Sniper, who sent their daughter, the Sentinel, in her place. Too young to join the Brigade, the Sentinel dreamed of the day when she could join the Brigade, and regretted that her parent was too old to continue on as they had, but was happy to take their place in the field. Along with the Sentinel, the new faces included the Pilot, a dragon tamer from the Ministry; the Mourner, the Ghost’s brother and another rare dragon animagus, and ex-Knight of Walpurgis; the Machinist, a marvelously young Muggleborn witch with a great knowledge of magical machinery; the Freedom Fighter, an African-South American wix and popular musician who took a more literal interpretation of “music is resistance”; the Kelpie, a Chinese merperson; the Monk, who followed the Ghost from his long exile and reunited the dragon brothers; the Tank, a Russian recently freed from Azkaban and trying to make sense of a world at war after a decade or more alone; and the Centaur, not actually a centaur but said to be a Seer from Africa.
Together they set about the task of figuring out why the Wraith was alive, and stumbled upon the Angel, a German vampire who had found the Wraith in the wreckage and turned him. Full of regret and longing to atone, she joined this new Dragon Brigade, determined to finish what she started and bring the Wraith back to the light.
Operation Knightwatch, they called it, tracking down the Wraith and their nefarious allies, which included the Sleeper, the French operative Imperiused to assassinate members of the French government; the Shadow, the source of the Brigade’s tips, a Latina metamorphmagus double agent working for the Knights; the Gauntlet, an Igbo-English Knight of Walpurgis, who escaped from Azkaban; the Architect, a Ministry figure entirely devoted to ensuring order at the cost of goodness; the Alchemist, a paranoid potioneer and inventor pressed into service of the Knights; the Bodyguard, the half-giant protector hired by the Alchemist; the Fae, a half-Veela maleficar of note; and the She-Wolf, a Russian werewolf with business to settle.
Together they were Operation Hightower, aided the Knights of Walpurgis and the die Verfechter der Heiligen, a mercenary company determined to sow chaos and profit off of the plans of evil men and monsters. Knightwatch, then, had its purpose: to stop Hightower by any means necessary, and restore hope to a shattered people.
In the beginning, there were fourteen. The first Seven were loyal to Grindelwald, the first. He represented the power and freedom they craved, long-living in a world where they did not walk as gods among mortals, as they ought; although all fourteen had been considered die Verfecther, Grindelwald and his six were true to the cause as it rattled in their bones.
As for the final Seven? They cared less about the cause and more the effect. Six were loyal Knights, before they were known as such; they joined Grindelwald, but followed Riddle, the last. All were desirous of power, but for these seven, following was not enough—they must rule.
In the forests of Albania, they hunted, chased secrets and stories. Built their power, built Riddle's. He was jealous and secretive, convinced the other Knights that Grindelwald would strike him down if he got so much as a whiff of an idea that Riddle was amassing power, and took steps to protect it. The man feared Death, feared it so much he'd divorce himself from Life to avoid it—and so the first Horcrux was made.
Morfin Gaunt, a man too unimportant to give much thought but powerful in his own right, hid the Horcrux away and under extreme supervision, Obliviated Riddle so that even he did not remember making that first Horcrux. He was a loose end that tied up nicely, Riddle's own Death hidden away so that he may never look upon it and know it for what it was. Confident in this plan, and in his plans to come, he signalled the rest to withdraw from die Verfechter der Heiligen.
And so the Knights were born, and the war began.
Where is the country of the Tsar of Life? When the world was young the seven Tsars and Tsaritsas divided it amongst themselves. The Tsar of the Birds chose the air and the clouds and the winds. The Tsaritsa of Salt chose the cities with all their bustle and heedless hurtling. The Tsar of Water chose the seas and lakes, bays and oceans. The Tsaritsa of Night chose all the dark places and the places between, the thresholds, the shadows. The Tsaritsa of the Length of an Hour chose sorrow and misfortune as her territory, so that where anyone suffers, there is her country. This left only the Tsar of Life and the Tsar of Death to argue over what remained. For a time, they were content to quarrel over individual trees, stones, and streams, giving each other great whacks with that scythe which Death wields to cut down all that lives, and that hammer which Life wields, which builds up useful and lovely things such as fences and churches and potato distilleries. However, Life and Death are brothers, and their ambition is precisely equal.
Their rivalry soon encompassed whole towns, rivers (which rightly belonged to neither, but neutrality is no defense), provinces, and beachheads, until the struggle of it consumed the whole of the world. If a town managed a granary of fine brick and half a head of good cabbage to share between them, then Death arrived with white banners like bones, and withered the place with a single stomp. If a village were hollowed out by plague or war, its streets lit by skulls hoisted up on pikes and blood poisoning the well water, then still green shoots would grow wild in the offal-rich gutters, still the last woman standing would grow great in the belly. There could be no agreement between them.
At last, with every inch of earth divided and subdivided, the loam and clay themselves could bear no more. The mountains yielded up their iron and their copper, and the Tsaritsa of Salt slyly taught men her most secret mechanisms, for of all her brothers and sisters, the Tsaritsa of Salt best knew civilized things, things made and not born. Up rose looms and threshers and plows and engines, stoves and syringes and sanitation departments, trains and good shoes. And so the Tsar of Life triumphed, and children upon children were born.
But the Tsar of Death is wily. Soon the looms bit off the fingers of their minders, and smoke clotted breath, and the great engines spat out explosives and helmets and automated rifles as well as shoes. Soon folk of the city requisitioned the grain of the villages, and stored it up in great vaults, and argued over its distribution while it moldered, and wrote long books on the righteousness of this, and Death, iron-shod, copper-crowned, danced.
The rapt pupil will be forgiven for assuming the Tsar of Death to be wicked and the Tsar of Life to be virtuous. Let the truth be told: There is no virtue anywhere. Life is sly and unscrupulous, a blackguard, wolfish, severe. In service to itself, it will commit any offense. So, too, is Death possessed of infinite strategies and a gaunt nature—but also mercy, also grace and tenderness. In his own country, Death can be kind. But of an end to their argument, we shall have none, not ever, until the end of all.
So where is the country of the Tsar of Death? Where is the nation of the Tsar of Life? They are not so easy to find, yet each day you step upon both one hundred times or more. Every portion of earth is infinitely divided between them, to the smallest unit of measure, and smaller yet. Even the specks of soil war with one another. Even the atoms strangle each other in their sleep. To reach the country of the Tsar of Life, which is both impossibly near and hopelessly far, you must not wish to arrive there, but approach it stealthily, sideways. It is best to be ill, in a fever, a delirium. In the riot of sickness, when the threatened flesh rouses itself, all redness and fluid and heat, it is easiest to topple over into the country you seek.
Of course, it is just as easy, in this manner, to reach the country of the Tsar of Death. Travel is never without risk.
— EXCERPT FROM DEATHLESS, CATHERYNNE M. VALENTE
The shopfront of the Spiny Serpent is dim, dingy. Windows are dark with grime, not unusual for Knockturn Alley, and the large shapes behind the glass look like intricate vases, all manner of paint and sculpture wrought upon them, silent until you quiet your breathing, and then—just there—a reptilian sort of hiss, so soft you’re certain you’ve imagined it.
Curiosity nevertheless peaked, you’re led through the creaking door on enchanted feet, stepping expectantly into the shop. It’s a bit of a letdown, of course: dusty, sparsely stocked, and lit mostly by a tarnished old candelabra floating just above the desk. The woman behind the desk is neither interested nor, seemingly, aware of your presence in the shop, but you float along rows of shelves and displays, curiosities and trinkets. Nothing seems particularly friendly, and some items behind glass displays seep unease and ill will and oily, viscous substances—you wisely skirt by the stains of puddles on the floor.
“In the back,” the witch says, flipping through an issue of Witch Weekly, so suddenly you stutter to a stop. “What you're looking for,” she says, staring at you with two solid blue eyes—a blink, and the pupils are wrong, the color isn't blue—but they're back again, and she’s bored again, and the dazed sort of haze lingers around the floors of your mind, fogging it up as your feet turn towards the back.
There you find a door—you open it. Behind it is a room—you step in. The office is sparsely decorated, seems half storage, really; the paintings on the wall were chipped and faded, but no less sharp for their age, and the lavish parties they portray draw your eye.
The door clicks closed behind you.
You try the latch—it’s locked.
There's no other way out of the room, which is rather small, but in the silence you hear—something. The high, crystalline note of glass hitting glass. You're mesmerized, drawn towards the gatherings of paintings, which had been moving silently but now sounds begin to leak through. Come on, they cry to you, join us!
You put your hand against one of them, longingly, and then it falls through.
Colors whirl past you as you fall through space and land easily on polished black tile, in what seems to be a coatroom. “Welcome, serah,” the attendant says, and you’re pushed through the door into a world of sin.
A black-eyed bartender serves drinks to a girl dancing and tossing her silver hair like a flash of light; color-dappled scales of mercreatures in glass tanks swirl seductively, dripping with jewels that sway in the water, while a selkie with a serving tray stares longingly at the water as she passes it. A siren croons on an RCA microphone that emits golden, shimmering smoke, and the whole thing is cast in bright pinks and vivid blues, as neon light shows flash on the ceiling, reflected on every polished surface, wall, floor, and table.
Idling on a nearby couch is a Veela with a three-headed snake, and not far from that, a vampire tasting a werewolf. Both drowning in different types of luxury, although most are penniless. Ministry officials are occasionally present, though clearly off the clock, and usually having more than the usual amount of fun for someone of status.
Guests and creatures roam the many rooms and levels of this lavish hall, people of all walks; but it would be remiss to say that with time and patience, a keen eye would observe the usual seediness of such establishments has given way to something far more sinister.
The creatures here are dangerous, no doubt, but it’s the people you should be afraid of.
THERE IS NO TIME FOR GAMES WHEN WE HAVE A CRISIS ON OUR HANDS. FROM THIS MOMENT FORWARD ALL LEAGUE QUIDDITCH AND RELATED EVENTS ARE PROHIBITED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. ANY LEAGUE QUIDDITCH PLAYERS ARE ALLOWED TO REPORT THE MINISTRY FOR COMPENSATION AND TEMPORARY EMPLOYMENT.
— From the Desk of the Minister for Magic
In 1914 The Magical Countries in Europe decided to suspend Quidditch games and any related events as war broke out. Other countries followed suit in 1915 and soon Quidditch was disbanded throughout the Wizarding World. This caused an uproar among not only Quidditch players, but also fans as they felt robbed of the sport that brought joy in a time of sorrow. But the Ministries of the world agreed—playing Quidditch was too dangerous with new muggle technology causing havoc across the land. It was a risk they weren’t willing to take.
In November 1915, key members of the International Quidditch League started an underground movement, one that brought together Quidditch players that didn’t want to just sit around and wait for an war to end. They wanted to play—no matter the odds. Word was passed along by an snitch that was charmed to open when one found where the movement base was located. From there entrance was only granted upon performing an Unbreakable Vow to never speak of the Underground Quidditch nor show its locations to authorities. Once inside, records were kept of upcoming games and locations, as well as ways to get there without being followed.
Players and fans from all over are crossing borders uniting for their right to partake in the sport they love, driven by the ideal of brooms without borders.
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Fingertips stained black with ink. The smell of old coffee from the night before. Whispered words that you just miss hearing, no matter how you strain your ears. Chicken-scratch truths written on scraps in stolen moments. Bold print. Quiet hands. Stories that will live, with or without you.
There’s a war going on out there -- no, not just the Muggle War, and not the conflicts between The Order, die Verfechter, The Helm of Hades, The Knights, and more. A war of words wages on, and the winner gets to decide what’s true; yes, for the generations that come after, the winner will get to tell the story.
Wizarding institution The Daily Prophet faces pressure from the Ministries of Magic to report positively on the fight against Grindelwald’s extremism, but the obituaries multiply by the day and a war without end seems to loom on the horizon. Editor in chief Barnabus Cuffe and his staff struggle with infighting, inconsistency and infiltration as the truth gets even stranger than fiction out there.
Removing himself from the oppressive censorship of the UK, Xenophilius Lovegood’s Quibbler operation has relocated recently to Lille, France, where they operate with one goal in mind: to tell the truth, whatever that may be. The eccentricity of the editor in chief has made it easy for the Wixen to dismiss the facts presented in The Quibbler, but with the aid of the staff, the truth will be out there -- it's up to you whether you believe it or not.
In the shadows, a movement is stirring and the printing presses are whirring. The people of the Wizarding World awake to pamphlets at their doorsteps, covering their lawns, running through their chimneys, extolling the virtues of the Pureblood cause. Editor in Chief and Voldemort loyalist Avery and their small band of wordsmiths work day and night to get out the message of Pureblood supremacy from their workshop in Germany, spreading the news of The Serpent’s Coils right under the nose of Gellert Grindelwald.
“All is well under die Verfechter,” the headlines exclaim, with grinning portraits of key member of die Verfechter der Heilige waving from the cover, glowing quotations from Muggles in servitude, happy and open Wixen writing letters to Editor in Chief Rita Skeeter, the queen of spin. The reality is a lot less bright, but hey! Whoever said the truth will set you free never tried lying this well.
There’s a rumor in St. Petersburg and soon the truth will be out there -- only if anyone takes the time to listen to English Muggle transplant and Editor in Chief of Plamen Prava, Meadowes, who, alongside their staff, write tirelessly to warn their fellow Muggles of the dangers of Wixen. Of course, who believes in witches?
New footsteps in the clean white snow. Sunlight glinting on the frozen Neva. The coppery taste of blood in your mouth. Redacted lines in the literature that you can almost make out when you hold it to the light. A full moon cut by clouds in the dark of the night sky.
The Wizarding Duma of Russia has run Wizarding Russia for years, the Glava and Chairman of the State operating closely with the Ministries of Magic in Europe and Asia to keep order in the vastness of Russia. And order is what they long for -- but order is not within the grasp of the current Duma. Led by wunderkind and grandson of the recently deceased previous Glava, Volkov, the Boyars of the Senate are growing restless in reaction to their leader’s perceived inaction against the murmurs of rebellion and his focus on the War of the Muggles abroad. The Pureblood elite Boyars of Russian magic see no purpose to stopping the issues in the West. Chairman of the State and leader of the senate body Ivanov struggles to keep the young Glava in check and hopes to organize a response to the rumors of rebellion in Petrograd, where a rebel group led by the Poliakoff twins has broken the Statutes of Secrecy and created a new government composed of Muggle and Wixen leaders.
Mama Poliakoff used to tell the story of the day her twins were born like it had been magic, the snow falling early that year upon the earth, the frost claiming the sunflowers as the moon hung heavy in the sky. Years later, the youngest twin Poliakoff (2) would wonder if their mother had known the way a magic they’d never dream of would claim their lives. It became clear early in the twins’ life that the younger was not like other people -- the snow would melt on their hands, the waters of the river would part before them -- and, when the time came, an answer was found at Koldovstoretz. Leaving Poliakoff (1) behind, Poliakoff (2) discovered a world of magic, but also a world of inequality and hatred. After years of suffering in the face of their secret, attempting to change the governments of the Wixen and the Muggles from the inside, the Poliakoff twins gathered their followers and set forth a dream.
After a struggle, the rebel government led by the Poliakoffs took Petrograd, and have begun movements to establish a utopia where magical and non-magical alike can live in harmony. The Petrograd Soviet Collective of the Magical and the Non-magical operates with one mission: to create a world of peace. Of course, it’s not as easy as it sounds. Infighting in the Soviet, Muggle rejection of magic, magical superiority beliefs that do not die easily, and more plague the Petrograd government. Poliakoff (2) has begun to direct the magical leaders of the Soviet to persuade the Muggles by any means necessary, against the wishes of Poliakoff (1). Rumors of spies sent by Ivanov and the Duma create paranoia in the rebel government. The anti-magic publications of expatriate Meadowes stoke the fears of the non-magical. Already, the twins can see their dream falling apart -- but they won’t let it.
Not without a fight.
Toward the inner sanctums of the Ministry, something quietly stirs. While the world wages war outside its very doors, it sits, and waits, and judges.
The Order of Merlin, set forth by a Minister long since forgotten, decrees that in a time of real strife a group of the finest Aurors and best agents must be assembled to form a coalition. They called it Excalibur.
It’s been working in the shadows for the best part of three years, slowly gathering intelligence on every prong and faction of the muggle and wizarding war. The first, the Worthies, denoted by their highest clearance levels, are the spies. Buried deep in their covers, not a soul knows who they are but their link to the Ministry and the man or woman who gives them orders. They feed back intelligence to the Valiants, the code breakers, who sit at desks in small, darkly lit rooms and filter through pages and pages of numbers and letters from enemy to enemy, friend to friend. The final set is the Virtues, those with brilliant minds using whatever they can to enhance the Worthies struggle. Occasionally, even, their technologies and magics transcend and are introduced into the general Auror population; but, Excalibur doesn’t really want their brethren upstairs messing up their careful operation.
Their canon precedes them, only whiffs and whispers flutter around the echoey halls of the Ministry; their codenames tethered to Arthurian legend. Each vetted, and tested, and put through hell before they are allowed to proudly call themselves Excalibur worthy. Every typist, every secretary, every person to step foot in their lair is subject to the exposing gaze of the beast of a man who rules them.
