Harry watched as the long pole of the Multi-Passenger Portkey appeared, gave its riders mere seconds to disengage, and disappeared to pick up another load. At least this time, no laggard had made the return trip with it. Harry tsked to himself. The Aurors needed more drill on that evolution. He wasn't going to ding anyone for it, though. He figured making three Portkey trips in quick succession was punishment enough. The new arrivals double-timed up the beach to the flag marking the rally point. That cleared the area for the Portkey Master's next run.

  Out to sea, another batch of flyers were being led in by Nienna, with Brother Knife pick-a-back, and both Belisarius and Ath?na flying high cover, marking the top and sides of the required flight path. One flyer wasn't watching their height carefully enough, and Ath?na let out a screech that hurt Harry's ears from over a half-mile away. The entire formation seemed to flinch. From the shaken fists Harry could see through his SpectreScope, the errant aviator was being roundly abused until they resumed their station.

  Turning back to the cliff, Harry was in time to see John Talisker being levitated through the gap and down to the beach by Hannah Abbott-Longbottom. He was flanked by Daniel Weston and Ginny, who were using Shields to provide lateral stability on the treacherous path.

  Harry's scouting operation had become a full-fledged assault element after Nienna had returned with Kingsley's orders. He now had three aides, Apprentices like Nienna, one was a Selwyn girl, and the others twin MacMillan boys, some sort of cousins to Ernie. He dispatched one of the lads to round up Kingsley.

  He started toward where the shelter had been set up, partially as a Headquarters, and partly as an infirmary. It had no walls, but once under the awnings, the wind dropped away to nothing, the rain was excluded, and the ambient temperature rose. He doubted it was over 17° C, but it felt a lot higher.

  Talisker seemed to agree. "Who scheduled a meetin' in a bloody kiln?" Despite the sour words, he seemed to relax a little, once out of the weather. He was deposited upon a divan shape, conjured up out of sand. It allowed him to sit partially erect, and even had the cushioning feel of real furniture. Sand ottomans rose for the others to sit upon.

  Kingsley entered, followed by the MacMillan boy, and Nienna with Brother Knife at her side. The Minister took an ottoman, while the two youths went to take station with the other aides. Brother Knife ignored the hassock that rose invitingly, and hunkered down beside Harry. He produced a clay pipe, which seemed to be preloaded and self-igniting. Harry prepared himself to not wince at the smell, but there was no need. A long, thin whirlwind formed at the mouth of the pipe, whisking the smoke away and outside the shelter. The only trace of its passage was a pale scent, faintly reminiscent of tobacco, but more like incense.

  Talisker's eyes widened. "A Puk, by The Gods! And is that meant to be tobacco?"

  Nienna stepped forward from her place. "Auror John Talisker, permit me to introduce My Brother, 'He Whose Knife Cuts the Wicked.' " She stepped back to her position.

  "I Greet You, Brother Knife."

  "I Greet You, Auror Talisker. And it is Tobacco. The Sacred Leaf, not the Poison the Humans took so long ago. Would My Sister's Elder care to try?"

  Talisker gave Hannah a wary look. Brother Knife smiled at her. "Holy Healer, on my word, there is no harm in this Leaf. It is neither Toxic nor Habit-Forming, unlike the noxious weed grown outside our Sacred Acres."

  Hannah's mouth quirked. "You gave humans a poisonous, addictive plant?"

  Brother Knife looked slightly offended, "Did I say 'gave'? I think not. The Sacred Acres are always hidden. The wily humans came in the dead of night, and stole whole plants from the breeding plots of the Women's Lodge. What could poor savages do?" He shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Ah, the wailings and lamentations from The Women Who Own The Crops, when their work was stolen. They had to start from scratch, to make the Poison for the Rats who raid our Granaries."

  Nienna tried to look stern, but it was a poor effort. "My Brother, that was not very nice."

  He shrugged. "Your Shaman, Hagrid, it was? I am quite certain that he never told you that the Folk of the Woods were nice." He produced another pipe, and rose to hand it to Talisker.

  John drew on it experimentally, and watched the smoke whirl away. He took another draw, and puffed a smoke ring, to see what would happen. It was captured, whole, and moved out of the shelter. He took the pipe out of his mouth, looked at it, and glanced at the Puk. The little creature gestured with his thumb. John laid his thumb over the bowl, and the smoke stopped. Offering it back to the Puk only drew a casual wave of denial. The Auror tucked it in the pocket of his threadbare shirt.

  "Brother Knife, that was... remarkable. I gave up the noxious weed over twenty years ago, but not a day goes by that I don't crave it. But now, those cravings are gone. I do not even crave more of this. It feels more like something I should save, something I should treasure, like... like..."

  "A Sacrament." The Puk pressed his thumb to the bowl of his pipe as well. "And that is what it is, what it has always been. I, we, have cleared the Dark Energy of this place for a time. We have Plans to Make. War to Wage." He flashed an Evil Grin worthy of any Weasley. "Asses to Kick."

  ***

  First Report, Verbal, by Senior Auror John Talisker, Continued

  Given to Head Auror Harry Potter & Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt

  ***

  Seven Days Ago.

  Tuesday, July 22nd, 2014. Mid-Afternoon

  Azkaban Prison, "The Rocks"

  The North Sea

  TOP SECRET - DO NOT RELEASE TO M.O.M. FILE!

  (NOTE: Language has been converted to English from Whatever It Is that Talisker Speaks - Demelli).

  ***

  The Consolidation Wars? Yeah, it's time I get to that...

  ***

  About three days after we had installed Shamir as Barracks Boss, one of the Trainee 'Georges' came running into the Indoor Recreation Area. That was where Shamir was using as Headquarters. He rarely slept there, preferring to rotate between the various bunk rooms. Despite my dire threats at the Barracks Meeting, everybody was discovering what Bunk Room Three had already known. Shamir was just a good leader. He didn't try to order anyone around, nor did he dispatch a 'best lad' to fetch people for him. If he had a question, he went. If he saw a problem, he would send the 'Georges' and/or me to investigate, but when time came to deal with it, he dealt with it. He wasn't anybody's buddy. He was The Boss. But a good Boss can be spoken to, can be listened to.

  This day, he was kibbutzing on a regular chess game, (not Wizard Chess), between two of the best players in the barracks. The Wizard Chess sets only worked when the suppressing magic was lifted from an area, but regular chess could be played anytime. Shamir's purpose was two-fold. He was a good player, but he wanted to be better. These two were from different Bunk Rooms, though, and neither of them were the easiest to get along with. And if it were just that, no problem.

  What was the problem, is that some hotheads from each Room had started 'supporting' their Home Boy. Which usually ended up in a fight. And, while it was flattering to be a Home Boy, the actual games were getting shorter and shorter, as the hotheads were anxious to get to the real entertainment.

  That day, though, Shamir had shown up, with a 'George' and a homemade contraption.

  I should explain that. See, the Outdoor Recreation Area has a Shield, of course, but it is Cast to keep people from getting out. Stuff could still be blown in. Wood, feathers, leaves, earth, sand and such would often be found in the walled enclosure. If left overnight, they would be magically cleared by morning.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  But they never were. Left overnight that is. The inmates would snap up anything, just for the pleasure of having something. Leaves were saved till they fell apart, for the texture and the fact that they had once been part of the living world. Earth was saved, and seeds from over the wall, and even from our dessert, fruits would be encouraged to germinate into tiny short-lived plants.

  And wood. Oh, wood is precious. As long as it isn't used to make weapons, the guards will usually ignore it. Just one shiv or shank, or even a poke with a sharp stick, though, and everyone would be herded into the Rec Room, and would emerge to find nothing but the sleeping surfaces and one thin blanket each. The large majority of the prisoners take that possibility very, very seriously. As in, 'Wake up to find yourself tied with your own clothes, laying on The Grate' seriously.

  And that was the first and only warning.

  But, back to Shamir. Wood and sand could be had. Shapes could be carved, teeth and nails and other wood, if nothing else. Sand could be sifted, but don't ask me how. Shamir had made, (or had made), a sand timer.

  Bullet chess allows less than three minutes per player, and, in the world of chess, that is fast. This timer could only be stopped by turning it on its side, and it had to be reset by removing the simple cup shape on the bottom, then pouring the sand back into the more ornately carved top. The device was capacious enough that, eventually, the time could be raised to ten minutes, as more sand was collected.

  The 'Home Boys' were thrilled. Just having Shamir take an interest was amazing. He also asked to be allowed to, very occasionally, stop the time so that he could ask questions. He also had a frame covered with cloth that could be set over the board, so that no one would gain an advantage.

  The response was, 'Yeah. Sure. Why not?'

  The game had not been going ten minutes when a hothead made a mildly snarky comment about a move. Before the player could react, Shamir caught his eye, held up a finger, stopped the time and covered the board. He then looked up and caught the hothead's eye.

  The man flushed. He looked like he was about to compound his error, when he found a hand on his shoulder. A big hand. A big, big hand. The man tried to shrug it off. It came up, yes, but only to transfer the grip to his neck. The man was suddenly aware that the hand only lacked about four inches of completely encircling his neck. There was pressure upward. The man rose to his tip-toes. There was pressure to turn. The man pirouetted awkwardly, until he was looking into Rosey's usually smiling face.

  Rosey was not smiling now.

  Did I mention Rosey is big? Oh, good.

  It turned out one of the Home Boys was from Bunk Room Two. Rosey's Bunk Room. As was the hothead, surprisingly enough. In too much of a hurry to get to the fun, he had insulted his own guy.

  "You," said Rosey. "...look tired. Take a nap."

  "I'm not tired," the man husked. "I don't need a nap."

  Rosey looked sadly at him, then sighed, and straightened his arm.

  The man did a frantic jeté to get his toes back under his new location.

  "Jimmy?" said Rosey.

  "Yeah, Boss?"

  "Make him tired."

  ***

  Jimmy took custody, and at Rosey's directive, 'Not in here. There's a game going on,' removed himself and his charge to a nice sound-proofed bunk room.

  Shamir watched them go, then turned back to the game. "So," he said. "Was that a valid criticism, or was he just trying to get your goat?"

  The Home Boy thus referenced found himself kind of defending the criticism, though completely deploring the attitude. The other Home Boy spoke up, saying that he had believed the Hothead was just not thinking far enough ahead in the game. While the move, as a move, was not ideal, it did preserve options for later. The two took turns laying out some of said options to Shamir.

  The audience around the game game started building. People who usually avoided the almost assured violence were gathering around, politely asking follow-up questions. The Hotheads, at a loss, and almost completely cowed, either moved away, or started participating seriously.

  After about fifteen minutes, Shamir raised a finger, and people quietened.

  "After all this, I really want to see how this goes."

  The game took off from that point. The players rarely used their full three minutes. After one move, the Home Boy from Rosey's room smiled, and told the 'George' not to bother cycling the timer. When the 'George' gestured toward the cover, the man waved him off.

  "I'm about to capitulate. But before I do, I want to make sure you all see what he did, and why. And how everything does go back to that one move we discussed."

  ***

  After the lively discussion was done, the afternoon was about spent. Shamir sent the 'George' off to stow the timer, and watched as the men packed away the board.

  Shamir spoke slowly, obviously thinking deeply. "How many chess sets do we have?"

  "Full chess sets? Four, not including this one. Two are missing pieces, though."

  "But that's not a problem," said the other. "You can substitute anything for a chess piece, as long as both people agree what it is. And, heck, we have twice that many checkers boards. All it takes to make checkers into chess is a quill and some indelible ink. Oh, and four extra checkers for each side. Again, they could be any small object."

  "True." The other shrugged. "You can make a board out of anything, Floor and chalk, parchment and quill..."

  "Pieces can be any old tat. Acorns, or pine cones, cloth or buttons, or, again, scraps of parchment."

  Shamir brooded for a bit. The two players exchanged puzzled glances.

  "I would like," Shamir finally said. "...to have games and such the guards don't control. Would you two be willing to help start a league? Not just playing, but teaching, and running it?"

  "Well?" One was scratching his head. "Yeah. Sure. Honestly, I'm tired of just playing him."

  "Right? Me, too! Really, about the only reason I do it is the guys keep pushing me..."

  "And half the time we can't finish the games..."

  "And they make fun of me, and don't care about playing themselves..."

  "Yeah!"

  Shamir stood up. "Think about it. We'll talk again." He started to walk away, then stopped. "Hey. Would it help or hurt if you two were in the same bunk room?"

  They looked wide-eyed at each other, then back at him, speaking simultaneously.

  "Help." "Help!"

  "Talk to Rosey."

  ***

  Shamir was almost to the door when the Trainee 'George' came barreling in. Shamir did a very credible imitation of a Verónica Pass, pivoting on his feet while guiding the youth by him.

  The boy spun, but stayed on his feet. "Boss! Sorry, Boss! But this came out of the Howler slot but it ain't Howling and it's got stuff written on it and..."

  "Shush," Shamir's tone was mild, but the boy shushed, standing at quivering attention. Shamir glanced down at the envelope, then said, "Go find Whiskey John and have him meet me in the Dining Area."

  ***

  I entered the Dining Hall to find Shamir sitting backwards on a stool. Since it wasn't anyone's meal time, the cubicles wouldn't manifest. He handed me the envelope.

  It looked like a Howler envelope, but it was actually addressed. Usually they just said something like 'Toohoomit,' and went off as soon as they hit the floor. And the message was usually along the lines of, "GET YOUR LAZY BUTTS OUT HERE!"

  This one read, in beautiful calligraphy:

  To the Irritable Old Scotsperson, Or the Delightfully Swarthy Chap with the Raven Locks.

  I looked at Shamir.

  "Raven Locks?" I asked

  "Irritable," he replied.

  "Fair enough," I admitted. "You ready?"

  He glanced to make sure the door was sealed, and nodded. I quickly ripped the flap open and stuffed my fingers in my ears.

  Instead of the sound of a Super Sonorous, what emerged was a light mezzo-soprano:

  Hello! My Honey

  Hello! My Baby,

  Hello! My Witchey Gal!

  Send me a Kiss by Owl

  I'm Hot as A Werewolf's Howl!

  If you refuse me, Honey, you'll lose me

  Then you'll be all alone

  Baby, BeSpell me and tell me I'm your own!

  This was followed by Fawkesworthy's 'normal' voice:

  "Hello, Chaps! Did you know you can set the volume on these Howler thingies! I did NOT! Something new every day! Oh, I'm probably watching you now, barring any long delays in reaching you. Wave at the ceiling! (I did, feeling foolish, but we needed this... person to stay cooperative). I'm not really worried about it, this young ragamuffin watching the end of the hall may look a bit of a scamp, but he has an air of confidence that can not be denied. He quite reminds me of an urchin in Beneventano that relieved me of a purse full of Galeones! Oh, how I laughed! He didn't even bother to run, seeing how, ah, stocky I am. In fact, he turned and gave me a very polite bow as he walked away backwards. Our Miss Marrissa is quite right, I do need to do something..."

  "Never mind! I do waffle on. Waffles! There's a thought! No, Fawkesworthy, be strong! I'm sure you noticed that the food situation is much better." There was a pause.

  I tilted my head back and called, "Thank you!"

  The pause continued a moment longer, then, "Oh, I'm sure you're quite welcome!"

  "Our young Miss got it in her head that someone, (naming no names), was terrorising the kitchen staff for no good reason. Of course, it wasn't until her rations were mysteriously and adversely affected, that she lowered the boom. My word, just between Me and Thee, she cut down the whole mast! She was deeply wrapped up in her, ah, research, and the corned beef sandwiches came at exactly the wrong time. Still, a vacancy is a vacancy, and yours truly is basically in charge as long as I keep the food flowing and keep, let us be polite and say, 'you lot,' off her elegant slipper-clad toes."

  "So, I chivvied the poor dears back into the kitchen, gave them the keys so they could lock themselves in, and promised no drastic measures if they just keep the cornucopia overflowing. Your Residence Hall, or whatever you call it, seems to be in good order. The ladies are quite comfortable as well, though there were mixed emotions about the ration restoration. One or two of the odder ones wanted to petition to keep the calories stopped until they reached their target weight. The other men on your level are not doing too well. Quite a bit of infighting there. But the men on the lower level are just..., well, it's evil what is going on down there. And I am quite afraid that it might spread."

  "Since you appear to have your trading vessels in a well-guarded convoy, I was wondering if you could suggest something? Please think about it overnight, and come down to the end of the hall about this time tomorrow. She is usually wrapped up in her research this time of day. Chaps, I know she's Barmy as a Bellwether, but there is a first-class mind in there somewhere. The theories she has! Ta-ta for now! Talk to you tomorrow!"

  The envelope burst into flame.

  "We'll be there." Shamir spoke to the ceiling solemnly, looking as if he didn't feel at all like a knobhead. I don't know how he does it.

  have to be considered as well.