RETURN TO SENDER
Standard Disclaimer: Don't own nuthin', not earning anythin' from this.
Author's Note: This could very well form part of Chapter 3 but I felt that it works better this way.
Enjoy (I hope) ...
Chapter Four. Gotterdammerung
Albus Dumbledore was pale - paler even than if a vampire had drained him of blood. And he was feeling deprived of all bones - it was only the fortuitous presence of a nearby chair that he'd grabbed that kept him standing.
A swarm of cylindrical objects trailing smoke appeared in the 'frame' within the 'tunnel'. For the briefest of moments, his mind's eye brought back the image of German buzz bombs from the 1940s, the memory doubtless triggered by the silver-haired gentleman in the military uniform. These objects, however, were not the crude things he remembered … they were sleeker, thinner, moving faster than he could remember …
And they were headed for Hogwarts.
'The wards!' he thought. He opened his mouth to scream but it was too late - the things exploded in mid-air, creating a maelstrom of sparks and lightning, outlining a golden dome surrounding the castle.
'YES!' he screamed in his mind as the scene cleared and he fought the urge to jump up and pump his fist in victory. 'The wards are holding -'
Alas, poor Dumbledore - he'd spoken too soon. A second wave of the flying objects struck the wards and he gaped in horror as the golden dome blinked and disappeared, in time for a third, a fourth and even a fifth wave of the flying things fly straight through and strike the castle.
He staggered as his guards released him, allowing him to grab the back of a nearby chair as he watched the objects striking the castle walls -puffs of dust, followed a moment later by huge gouts of flame, followed by more and more explosions and he had to turn away, unwilling to think of the place he'd called home for most of his life turned into a smoking hole.
"Shifting locations," a woman's voice said and Dumbledore had to look - glad, for the moment that he didn't have to watch the destruction of his castle - only to stare in wide-mouthed horror.
It was the street containing several shabby offices, a pub and an overflowing dumpster that he knew stood over the underground space occupied by the Ministry of Magic - he spotted the old red telephone box that was the disguised visitor's entrance.
The scene seemed to shimmer and Dumbledore whimpered as the whole block collapsed on itself, obscuring the scene as clouds of dust rose.
"Tactical nuke," the silver-haired, uniformed gentleman said in a detached, professional tone. "They must have placed it at the lowest level, hoping to use the wards and depth to contain the radiation."
"How did they bring it in?" Another voice - Xena, Dumbledore thought - asked. The uniformed gentleman shrugged. "Magical assets, probably. It's not as if there'd be any shortage of volunteers, given how Valhalla has been taking place."
Dumbledore shook his head violently, trying to force the horrific image and the detached commentary from his mind - well aware of the wizards and witches who worked or visited the Ministry daily. His eyes narrowed, however, as the possibility of magical infiltrators was raised.
Before he could turn the thought over, however, he froze again as the scene shifted - and realized why there were all too few Death Eaters arriving earlier on the banks of the River Styx.
He'd been surprised to see the Crabbes, Goyles and Flints arrive some distance from the others - separate from the area designated as Valhalla, he realized. But there'd been so few compared to the casualties from the light side … And he realized it was because there were too few of them who'd died or been killed.
It would seem, however, that HADES was due for another major influx of souls as he watched Diagon Alley in flames, black-robed, white-masked figures running in panic. Some were standing fast and casting spells, including the green light of the Avada Kedavra, only for the curses to shatter or bounce against the metal shields held by a phalanx of insect-like men with rounded helmets, dark goggles and bulky torsos.
These men were already in the middle of the Alley and marching inexorably forward. Behind the front ranks were many more - some with bulky tanks on their backs, hoses connected to pipes in their hands which spewed flames like dragon's breath; others had rifles in their hands, the muzzles spouting flame as shiny bits of metal flew.
People were dying - death eaters in their black robes, ordinary wizards, witches and families in their everyday robes, hags in their rags … The only structure not burning was Gringotts which was surrounded by the same golden glow that Hogwarts had before it was blown apart. Dumbledore watched in horror as people beat on the translucent shield - only for bloody holes to appear on their backs as the dark-clad soldiers shot them down …
Dumbledore's hands were digging into the chair he was using as support. There was no escape from the Alley, he knew - anti-portkey and anti-apparition wards were emplaced to stop thieves and other criminals from easily escaping. With the Ministry destroyed, floo travel was also out - the magicals in the alley were effectively trapped. Others could portkey or apparate in - but they would be slaughtered as they arrived.
He didn't hear the oddly detached voice of the soldier as he reported, "They've taken down St Mungo's like they did the MoM. We're also monitoring simultaneous assaults across Britain - isolated locations for the most part. Houses, manors and the like … they're not taking prisoners."
The blonde woman nodded. "Anywhere else?"
The soldier shook his head. "It seems to be confined to Britain; we're getting reports that the other countries have closed their borders to magical travel."
Dumbledore remembered what happened earlier and understood: Valhalla, the ancient Norse Hall of Heroes, where champions chosen by the gods are brought by the Valkyries, to be feted and honoured … Valhalla Emergency, as HADES scrambled to accommodate the wizards and witches of the Light, gathering them on the banks of the Styx where they were joined by Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, his primary and - as it turned out - his only weapon against Riddle …
But Valhalla was only the prelude to the main event - Ragnarok in ancient Norse, more popularly known as Gotterdammerung - The Twilight of the Gods …
He glanced at the 'frame' in the tunnel and shivered.
He could only guess at what transpired but he could imagine how: with him dead, Voldemort would have moved swiftly to take over Magical Britain … with Harry dead, Tom Riddle would have no compunction about taking over the muggle world. There was no way that Tom in his megalomania would go for the subtle and slow route of subversion - he'd make his move openly, blatantly, convinced of the power of his Death Eaters and allies - giants, vampires, dementors, trolls …
And the muggles would fight back - they may have no magic of their own but their machinery and efficiency in meting out death and destruction was unsurpassed. Threatened by something or someone they did not fully understand, their reaction would be to kill and burn everyone out, resulting in an unending spiral of terror and death as the threatened magicals also fought back …
His brain locked on something said earlier and he nodded to himself. Too many wizards of Light had fallen - but there were many he didn't see … Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, the muggle-raised Dean Thomas, the Irish Seamus Finnegan … some may have fled before the purge but there would be those, especially the Lions of Gryffindor, who would willingly go over to the muggles for assistance in wiping out the Dark …
And maybe even allow themselves to be immolated rather than live with the stain of so much blood on their hands - Death Eater, collaborator, innocent …
He was jerked out of his thoughts when he felt himself pushed back as an angry voice near-screamed: "You ask who I am?"
Shaking his head, he focused on the small blonde who was standing with fists on hips, blazing green eyes piercing him as she continued, "My name is Gabrielle of Potidaea - Chief Executive Officer of Destiny Repair, the entity formerly known as Second Chances Incorporated.
"Which means I AM THE ONE WHO HAS TO CLEAN UP YOUR MESS!
"DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
Albus Dumbledore stared at her for a long moment, a thousand thoughts running through his mind before he looked away.
There was no way that he would allow the horrific scenes that he'd seen to play out. He would find a way to get back, correct his mistakes, starting with finding someone else to bequeath his copy of the Tales of Beedle the Bard to, someone just as intelligent as Miss Granger, but less reckless and a higher sense of self-preservation … Ginny Weasley, perhaps. She and Harry had formed a relationship late last year and she was already besotted with the boy …
With a visible effort he stood tall, proud and determined as he turned and met Gabrielle of Potidaea's eyes squarely.
"Yes, I do. When do I go back?"
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