A/N: Usual disclaimer applies. As promised, by Friday the story was updated. It might be 23:14, but it is still Friday. Enjoy.
Magical Britain was one of the few countries that operated an embassy in Ireland. Following the war with the Dark Lord Grindewald, Ireland had declared independence from Britain. British Aurors, exhausted and spent after the Great War, held no desire for another one. One of the points of Dumbledore's reformist platform was the acceptance of Irish Independence. The rest of the international community would not be so kind, and even now, many years after, the International Confederacy of Wizards did not recognize Ireland as a sovereign state.
It should come as no surprise that the Ambassadorial post to Ireland was occupied by a relatively insignificant wizard. Still, Jonah Diggory was content with his life. Of generally a kind nature, the embassy he occupied in the heart of Creidhne was filled with the simple joys in life. The joy of his life, his son Amos, had gone to the prestigious Hogwarts School as most of the well off Irish wizards.
Despite their claim to independence and their general desire that Britain was a far away place they wished little or no contact with, the Irish Magical School was not even used by the Irish themselves. With his son back in England, Jonah and his wife had little to occupy their time. Amos Diggory was currently building himself a career with the Ministry of Magic, but did not wish to join in the Diplomatic Corps as his father. No, Amos Diggory's passions lay with a different style of Diplomacy, as he was currently apprenticing with the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.
Still Jonas and his wife supported Amos in whatever action he wanted to take.
Jonas' days were rather bland, being invited but not tolerated at the sessions of the Irish Magi Council. Today's session had been rather forceful, the voices of reasons being drown out by the more boisterous individuals. Ireland needed to assert itself on the international stage they said, we need to be more visible. So far the only visibility Ireland got internationally was through the National Quidditch team. Not that Jonas would ever mention that to the council. Conflict was not in his nature, as Jonas never understood why everyone could not just get along with each other.
Opening the door to the modest house he owned in the northern quarter of Creidhne, he went to his office to write his weekly report of the situation. He would also write a letter to his son Amos. Oh, how he could barely wait until he would see his boy again. Amos had been occupied over Christmas, being in love with some girl and could not come to Creidhne to see his parents. Still, he promised he would make it up to them and come some weekend when he had the chance.
His wife seemed to have had a busy day, mused Jonas, as it was rather late and she was not there. Deciding he would surprise her, after sending the letter to England with the Ministry Owl in the diplomatic pouch, he started to make dinner. Just as he was finishing reading the ingredients list, the door opened.
'Honey is that you?' asked Jonas. No response. Deciding his wife must have gone to drop off her bags and change, he turned up the wireless, twiddling his wand at it until a faint echo of the English post could be heard. Ireland did not yet have any Wizarding Wireless networks, but if one was patient enough they could catch one of the English ones. The quality was not that great, but it was better than silence, Jonas thought.
'As the New Year has come and gone, the witches and wizards of Britain have gone back to their jobs. The Hogwarts Express has taken the children back to Hogwarts. Diagon Alley seems rather bland these days. Even the decorations have started to go down,' said the presenter, 'depressing I tell you. And now, I give you “You make my spell go wrong” by Miranda Celeste, ranked 50th in the charts.'
Jonah smiled. Miranda Celeste might be ranked 50th, but she was one of his favourite singers. His wife liked her. Not as well as she did like Lynch Craviston, but she liked her well enough.
'Dolly, Miranda Celeste is on the Wireless,' shouted Jonas at the top of his voice. He could hear steps outside the door; his wife must have heard him. Finishing the preparation for dinner, he put the tray into the oven, then cast Inferno, starting up the flames. Looking at his watch, noting the time was 7:30, in half an hour dinner would be ready.
He wanted to go and change, but oh the chorus was coming, 'Because, you make my spell go wrong, My Heart…' The door suddenly opened, and three masked people walked in. Jonas might have been kind, and generally a mediocre wizard, but he was no imbecile.
'Who are you?' asked Jonas, fingering his wand under his robes, 'what do you want?'
'Isn't it obvious?' said one of the men, his voice muffled by the mask that concealed his features.
'There's nothing of value here,' said Jonas, trying to stall for time. Sadly, since the economic situation in Ireland was not that great, there had been an increase in theft lately. Irish Aurors, were not that efficient or numerous enough to contain them.
'It's not value we're looking for, you English bastard', said one man, advancing with his wand drawn.
'I'm warning you, I was top of my class in Defence Against the Dark Arts,' said Jonas, now shaking slightly.
'May the worms eat you, English, Crucio!' said the wizard who had taken the lead. As the red light hit Jonas, his body began to shake uncontrollably, while his yells could have raised the dead from the grave.
'So the piggy squeals doesn't it?' said the second man. The Cruciatus curse was ended, but the shakes did not. It was hard to say if he was now shaking from fright or from the after effects of the curse, but the result was the same. Jonas dropped his wand, causing much amusement to the three criminals that had broken into his house. Jonas was now defenceless, not that he had had much of a chance before.
'Diffindo!' Jonas' torturer slashed his wand diagonally, amputating his left arm with one clean stroke. Suffering from an instant loss in equilibrium, Jonas fell, dragged down by his surviving right arm. Deciding that spell work was no longer satisfactory enough, the three proceeded to kick him, breaking his ribs and disfiguring his jovial face.
'Crucio!' The repeated Cruciatus curse caused even more pain if that were possible, as he flayed around on the floor, one of his broken ribs puncturing his lung. Soon, his breath came in weak rasps, and every scream splashed blood on the white tiles.
'I'll be damned if I'll let this English bastard die by himself,' said one of the accompanying wizards, 'Diffindo!' he whispered almost lovingly, slashing his wand through the air, gently. The low powered cutting curse hit Jonas' in the neck, ripping his jugular to shreds. Even more blood came out, if that were possible, and soon the entire floor of the previously spotless small kitchen was covered in Jonas' precious life fluid. Soon, Jonas died, even now not understanding what he had done to the three men to have deserved this. Still, in his defence the Cruciatus had addled his mind slightly.
Not content to lay his body in rest even in death, the Irish wizards proceeded to carve “Stay out of Ireland English!” on Jonas' misshapen chest. One last glance at their work, they left a Leprechaun flag on the kitchen counter.
As they exited the chamber, pushing themselves around, joking and praising themselves about how they made the English scream, the three went to the Pub, intent on drinking themselves into a stupor. A shady character met them there, his face obscured by his hood. In fact, at the first glance, he looked similar to all the other patrons of the dingy pub. A trained eye could see significant differences, however. While all the patrons of the pub were hunched, exhausted from a day's work, the man, for it appeared to be a man, stood a tad straighter, seeming almost arrogant in the run down pub. His drink was still half full, which was a rare occurrence in this Pub, where the alcohol disappeared mere seconds after it was received, used to drown away the miseries of life.
Sadly it also drowned away the precious galleons. Ireland had tried to introduce their own currency, trying hard to get one of the Goblin clans to establish a bank, even going as far as offering unprecedented rights to the goblins, but even now, decades after, the British Galleon, Sickle and Knut was the only accepted currency. The Irish Leprech was only written on Government balance scrolls.
The three wizards walked into the pub, still praising themselves about their deed, although their voices had gone down a bit, not wishing to attract any undue attention. Seeing the hooded man in the corner, they bolted straight for him. The man did not wait for them to speak, but invited them to sit down.
'Is it done?' asked the man.
'Yea, it's done,' replied the lead Irish Wizard.
'Noble sons of Ireland,' exclaimed the man, 'noble heroes. I don't wish to soil your act with galleons, but you deserve a drink after this.' The three Irish wizards hurried to accept the money, ignoring the barb. The man seemed unaffected as he passed a bulging sack of galleons.
'Come on, we're not going to drink, here,' said the leader of the small gang. 'Let's go to the fortress and drink there.' He shook the money pouch up and down. His two friends followed him, now walking full with self importance, heading towards the fortified central area of the city.
Leaving a sickle for his unfinished drink, the man walked out of the pub. Once outside, he removed a white mask from his robes. He had caught on with the three only two streets away. Putting the white mask on his face, he followed the three until they reached a darker, filthy but deserted alley.
'Avada Kedavra!' he spoke softly, the twisted green light hitting the Leader in the back, propelling him forward, making him land on his face. If the Killing Curse hadn't killed him, the cobblestone he had cracked his head on would have done the job. The two others, tried to run, but subtlety was abandoned in favour of speed. 'Avada Kedavra!', 'Avada Kedavra!' The two spells, cast with an almost inhuman speed ended the life of the two surviving gang members instantly, their bodies sprawling onto the wet cobblestone.
The man proceeded to grab back the sack of galleons, then looked at it suspiciously. 'Scourgify!' The spell hit the sack, refreshing it slightly, although it still looked suspicious. Galleons were hard to come by, and he could not be pretentious. Sighing, the man put the sack back into his robes, took off his white mask, then 'Incendio!' the magical fire devoured the three bodies quickly, leaving behind fine ash that was blown away by the next gust of wind.
The man looked around one more time in disgust. By Salazar, how he hated Creidhne. His job here finished, he Disapparated for fairer shores.
'My lord, you have returned,' said Igor, 'I was contacted by several more worthy candidates.'
'Excellent, Igor,' said Lord Voldemort, 'we shall have great need of them, very soon.'
Mrs. Diggory had just returned from the town. She had precious friends here, most people being rather hostile to her, for being the Ambassador's wife, but the Chief Healer's wife was one of them. They had stayed up chatting until late, and it appeared Jonas' had burned the dinner again. The man meant well, and Mrs. Diggory thought it very thoughtful of him to cook dinner, even though he was the busy Ambassador and she was the housewife, but he could not cook even if it cost him his life. It seemed he had also left the wireless on.
'Jonas?' said Mrs. Diggory, as she was removing her cloak and hat. No response. 'Jonas dear, are you upstairs?' Deciding she might as well get started on throwing away Jonas' burned dinner and preparing the actual one, she made her way to the kitchen. Merlin, how she wished for a house elf some days. She opened the door to the kitchen, noticing something amiss. An Irish Leprechaun flag was lying haphazardly over the counter. Maybe it was a gift from the Irish Magi Council. As she advanced, she noticed the floor seemed slippery and stickier than usual. Damn it, she had just cleaned it this morning. Couldn't Jonas be more careful when trying to cook dinner?
Looking down to see what he actually spilled, she began to scream. A trail of red led to behind the corner, where her husband was sitting, bloody, naked from the waist up, and the words “Stay out of Ireland English!” carved on his chest. Panicking, she did the first thing she thought of-she Disapparated to England.
Mere second later she had appeared on Government Alley, in front of one of the entrances to the Ministry. She ran inside, grabbing onto the first person she saw. Unluckily for him, it was Barty Crouch.
'Sir, please you have to help me,' screamed the woman.
'Madam, please calm yourself,' said Barty, making a sign for the Auror that guarded the door to come. 'What happened?'
'The Irish,' wailed the woman, 'they'll kill us all, you have to help me. Jonas.' She broke down and cried. Just then Evan Rosier came out of the elevator.
'Have a good weekend, Barty,' said Evan, ignoring the woman in his arms. It was not his place to question what Bartemius Crouch did with women late at the Ministry.
'Come help me,' Barty Crouch asked Evan, 'let's carry her to my office.' Evan was surprised, but he did as he was told. A few negotiated stairs later, Mrs. Diggory laid on the couch in Barty's office, Evan bringing her a glass of water, as Barty and he listened to her tale. Evan was outraged, but Barty had turned on his investigator persona.
'Madam, do you have anyone here in England,' said Barty. Mrs. Diggory managed to respond in between sobs.
'My son Amos, he works at the Ministry.'
'Evan, I need to ask you a favour. Can you escort Mrs. Diggory to her son's house?' said Barty. 'Madam, I need you to remain calm. No one is going to assault you. I will send an Auror to keep watch over you and your son.'
'Of course Mr.Crouch, I am glad I can be of any help,' said Evan, escorting the woman to the Apparition point then Apparating to her son's apartment. Leaving her a sobbing mess in the arms of her son, Evan Disapparated to the Dark Lord's house as fast as he could. Igor was the first person he saw.
'Igor, I need to see the Master,' said Evan, 'something monstrous has happened. He needs to know.' Igor seemed to consider the matter for a few seconds, but then led Evan through the maze of corridors into the Dark Lord's study.
'Yes Evan, what is the matter?' asked Lord Voldemort.
'My lord, the Irish have slaughtered the British Ambassador in cold blood. His wife came into the Ministry a mess. Barty Crouch was assembling a team and going there to investigate.'
'The Irish?' asked Voldemort, 'It cannot be.'
'My lord, I saw Mrs. Diggory with my own eyes,' said Evan, 'she was a mess. Her husband had not only been killed, but his body desecrated.'
'You did good to tell me,' said Lord Voldemort, 'I am afraid the Ministry will not be capable to handle this. We may have to take matters into our hands.'
'I would strike back at them instantly if you wish, my Lord,' proclaimed Evan, 'I always thought that we made a mistake in abandoning Ireland. And how have they repaid us for freedom?'
'Patience, Evan, we must be cautious,' said Lord Voldemort, 'for now, Igor summon everyone tomorrow evening, just in case.'
'Will do my lord,' said Igor, withdrawing with Evan from the study.
Lord Voldemort seemed to consider matters for a moment before writing a letter, sending it by owl and then retiring for the night. All was going according to plan.
It was a white night for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The press had somehow gotten wind of the story and had showed up at the scene. The murder itself was appalling in its brutality. Still Barty Crouch had seen murders after murders and was not easily shocked. The murder of a British Diplomat by a foreign group, perhaps with the support of the Irish government itself was what worried him. It worried him enough that a battalion of Aurors had accompanied him to the British Embassy in Creidhne and set up a perimeter around the building. The action had not gone unnoticed and soon, their Irish equivalents had arrived at the scene. The arguments could be heard from the inside of the house itself.
'What are British forces doing on Irish soil?' snapped the Irish Commander, a surly looking individual, easily towering over Barty Crouch.
'This is not Irish soil, this is the British Embassy,' snapped Barty, 'and I would be more concerned about other things if I were you than our presence. You might be seeing a lot more of British Aurors than you would like very soon.'
'Is that a threat English?' roared the Irish Commander.
'Take it as you will,' said Barty, 'now you are prohibited to take another step. This is the British embassy, and as such not subject to your customary laws.'
'The council will hear of this,' threatened the Irish Commander, but calling his forces off. Barty finished his investigation then ordered the withdrawal from Ireland. The body of the late Ambassador, with all the documents and essential goods had been taken out of the house and back to England.
The next morning the papers roared in outrage. Even normally peaceful and left wing papers called for blood. The population was out for blood. The Nobilitas was out for blood. The Commons was split and the Minister was out for blood because the population and the Nobilitas were out for blood. The Irish students at Hogwarts had been subject to violence from their classmates. In the interests of their safety, they were sent home.
Lord Voldemort's followers were gathered as summoned, filling the small house of the Dark Lord. Soon a more adequate solution had to be found. For now, however, Lord Voldemort had to focus on the task at hand. The morning's letter had soured his mood. His request for reinforcements had been denied, the Grandmaster of the Knights mentioning that they were occupied elsewhere. His initial plan for a glorious attack on Creidhne itself would have to wait for another time. For now a symbolic strike must be done.
'Fellow friends,' said Lord Voldemort, speaking to the assembled witches and wizards. 'Last night, a heinous attack on our Ambassador in Ireland left me pondering. Evan was kind enough to report it to me, so I may have time to prepare our response.' Evan Rosier puffed up, being showered with praise, some looking with admiration at him, while others with envy.
'Yes, Evan's example is one to be followed,' continued Lord Voldemort undisturbed, 'and he will be rewarded for his service.' Evan Rosier's grin stretched even more, posing a danger to disfigure his face.
'However, it will have to wait,' said Lord Voldemort. 'We are the guardians of our society. We lie in the dark and protect our magical brethren. The Irish have dared to strike at the British Ambassador. The Ambassador! Is nothing left sacred in this world? Is this how we are repaid for allowing them their freedom?' The audience was beginning to turn violent, some calling for revenge.
'I can not call myself a Wizard and allow this to happen,' said Lord Voldemort, 'Who is with me?' The Audience finally broke out in shouts. Evan Rosier was raising his wand up high, shouting “Death”. Many followed behind him. Lord Voldemort raised his hand and silence ensued.
'We strike tonight,' said Lord Voldemort dramatically. 'Igor has your portkeys. To honour his deeds, Evan has command of the first circle. Maltius shall command the second circle, while I will lead the third circle. Don the masks!' ordered Lord Voldemort.
As on parade, the white masks obscured their figures, a slight sticking charm applied, so as to be removed only by the magical signature of the wielder. Lord Voldemort himself, as well as Maltius Mulciber and Evan Rosier had golden masks to be able to be easily identified by their subordinates in battle.
As the bells in a muggle cathedral not far from there began to sound the entrance into the witching hour, Lord Voldemort and his followers disappeared, the portkeys leading them quickly towards Ireland.
The village of Nechtan Scéne was the destination of the illegal portkeys. Unknown to most of the assembled wizards and witches, it was chosen by Lord Voldemort after the attack on Creidhne had become unfeasible.
The Irish wizards and witches were largely unaware of the small army gathering in the woods outside the village. They had returned to their homes, had dinner with their families and went to sleep. The next day they would have to wake early to go to work in the factories around Creidhne. The village had once been an important centre in Magical Britain, its craftsmen renowned throughout the realm. Now, since the separation, the demand for the goods they once provided plummeted. The fortunate ones found work in Creidhne, while the others went back to their origins, growing food and raising cattle.
Lord Voldemort signalled them to advance. Suddenly, a host of wizards and witches, clad in black robes, with hoods and white masks obscuring their features made their way silently down towards the village. None noticed them, preoccupied with their families and their sleep.
The wizards had made their way down to the edge of the village, the inhabitants completely unaware. 'For Britain,' roared Lord Voldemort, drawing first blood.
'Fiendfyre,' chanted Lord Voldemort, at the first house he had encountered. Manoeuvring his wand he caused the fire to spread through the entire house. Screams could be heard from within, as the flames devoured the family inside. The others had been quickly moved into position and caused destructions. Collapsed houses and burning ruins appeared where once stood a village. The scandal had caused some of them to rise from their sleep, a crowd gathering in the central plaza, around the Mayor's house.
The three circles had become separated in the confusion, although order was being maintained by each of the respective commanders. A systematic destruction of the houses was going on, none being spared. A small dog began to bark at the invaders, before being silenced by a Killing curse.
The Mayor was caught completely unprepared by the assault. Still he had been an Auror in the Great War. Hiding his daughters and wife in the cellar, he had made his way outside. A small number of wizards, dressed in their bed clothes awaited.
'Mayor, the village is under attack,' screamed one wizard, 'what can we do?'
'Calm yourselves,' said the mayor, 'who is attacking us?'
'We don't know, sir,' said the wizard, 'wizards in black cloaks, their faces covered.'
'We shall beat them back,' said the mayor, taking the lead, 'to me.'
Unknown to Lord Voldemort's followers, the Mayor was currently rising the yet unaffected houses, sending the children and wives to his house and calling the wizards to fight. The systematic destruction of the southern end of the village now complete, Lord Voldemort was directing his followers to the centre of the village. On the main street the two groups met, face to face.
'What is the meaning of this?' asked the Mayor, 'who are you?'
'Avada Kedavra!' the green light twisted towards the Mayor, ending his life before he had a chance to cast a spell or find out the identity of his attackers. The assembled Irish crowd looked shocked. Most of them were farmers or workers, not a single Auror amongst them. Their morale already shaken, they were beginning to be unsure. Some in the rear ranks were currently running away to join their families and escape to Creidhne.
'I don't explain myself to traitorous filth,' said Lord Voldemort, 'Kill them all!'
'Avada Kedavra!' the front ranks chanted, the killing curse rushing towards the villagers. The ones at the front died instantly, but the ones at the back were enraged. Pushing over the dead bodies of their neighbours they began trading whatever spells they remembered from their Defence Against the Dark Arts classes. A braver soul dared strike at Lord Voldemort himself, standing up to his full height, taking aim and shouting at the top of his lungs, 'Stupefy!' The blue light rushed towards the Dark Lord. Catching the spell on his wand, he rebounded it back towards a balcony on the edge of the street. The stunner hit the wooden support, breaking it, causing the heavy beams to fall down unto unsuspecting wizard, crushing their skulls.
'You insult me with your childish spells,' said Lord Voldemort, 'Crucio,' he whispered lovingly, as the Irish began to scream, feeling pain he had not thought possible. His screams seemed to shake the morale of the few surviving villagers, being the breaking point. Some of the braver ones turned tail and ran to collect their families, while the most cowardly tried to Disapparate, abandoning their loved ones to their fate. Seeing the enemy flee, Maltius and Evan directed their subordinates forward, casting Killing curses as fast as they could.
The ones who tried to Disapparate struck a ward they had not known existed, being rebounded back towards the ground, slightly shaken from the unnatural experience. The wizards in the back, who had not had a chance to fight, eager to prove themselves slaughtered them on their way to the Central Plaza.
In the main square the resistance was finally defeated, as they were attempting to enter the Mayor's House. Lord Voldemort paused his spell work, looking around. Maltius and Evan came to join him.
'My lord, we are triumphant,' said Evan, 'looking up to the master.'
'We are, indeed, but the work is not finished,' said Lord Voldemort, 'go out and destroy every single house. Leave nothing standing. Dolohov, you are leading the Third Circle. I await your success.'
'Yes my lord,' said Antonin, 'to me.'
What was once one of the more prosperous villages in Magical Ireland was now a smouldering ruin. Only two structures were left standing, the Mayor's slightly better off townhouse, and the Independence monument, showing a Witch, a Leprechaun flag on a lance in her right hand, breaking her chains. Evan, Maltius and Antonin had returned victorious. The assembled followers eagerly awaited praise from the master.
'Is everyone dead,' asked Lord Voldemort.
'Not a single Irish traitor is left alive, master,' said Evan. 'they are off to meet whatever they worship.' Lord Voldemort seemed to not pay attention, his eyes squinting in the distance. Although it was the middle of the night, distinctive Green and Gold Cloaks could be seen. Irish Aurors had arrived at the scene in force. Too many for his untrained rabble to handle.
'If no one escaped, then who has warned Creidhne?' snapped Lord Voldemort, pointing towards the Irish Aurors who were currently running as fast as their legs could carry them.
'Maybe someone was outside the village,' said Maltius, 'outside the ward.'
'Perhaps,' said Lord Voldemort, 'gather round and grab the Portkeys, we are leaving for England.'
'My lord we can take them,' said one of the rear ranks.
'We did what we came to do,' said Lord Voldemort, 'you did well, but there is room for improvement. Go to your homes tonight, tomorrow I will teach you how to fight together.'
The assembled witches and wizards took the two-way portkeys they had used and disappeared. Once they arrived on the lawn in front of Lord Voldemort's house, they cheered with joy. The adrenaline running high in their veins, none could go home and simply sleep after tonight. Those who held the inclination filled the brothels in Knockturn Alley, while the pubs in Diagon Alley were filled to the brim tonight.
Lord Voldemort, followed by his ever faithful servant was the last to leave Irish shores. He had waited until the Irish Aurors were in plain sight. Igor was beginning to squirm.
'My lord, shouldn't we go, we are severely outnumbered,' whined Igor.
'Not yet,' said Lord Voldemort. The Irish increased their speed, seeing two of the enemy. As soon as the first ranks began to throw spells, which flew off the mark due to the distance, Lord Voldemort cast a blasting curse at the “Ireland breaking its chains”. The Statue was broken into thousands of pebbles the size of a Galleon, nothing remaining of it. It was in no way a masterpiece, but the identical piece was littered across Ireland as a proud proclamation of independence. It meant something to the Irish.
'Now,' shouted Lord Voldemort, as he was forced to dispel a bone breaking charm that hit to close to the mark. The portkeys engaged, the two disappeared, spinning towards Ireland, leaving furious Irish Aurors with nothing to kill for fury.
The second day there was outrage in Ireland. Nechtan Scéne had been vanquished, some women and children in a cellar the only survivors. The country's sole important paper, the Free Ireland, accused the English for the slaughter without any shame. It encouraged the Irish Magi Council to declare war, calling the English cowards that would attack women and children. The editor in chief claimed the English were weak, decadent and claimed this “horrible tragedy a chance for Ireland to assert itself as a nation through war.” The Irish Magi Council had been in closed session the entire day, the usual British observer absent due to his demise. The session ended late at night, an Auror being ordered to take the missive to the House of Lords first thing in the morning.
The House of Lords was in session, debating the situation in Ireland, as well as the decision to name another ambassador or not.
'The only way we can achieve any peaceful resolution to this conflict is by dialogue,' said Lord Potter, 'we need to have another ambassador straight away. Perhaps someone more prepared than the late one.' The remark earned the scorn of the Nobilitas, Lord Malfoy standing up from his seat, not bothering to walk to the podium.
'Our ambassador is not even buried yet, and Lord Potter insults him,' said Abraxas, causing many to applaud. 'Shall we send another Ambassador so that he can be killed the next morning? Do we wish to create another widow? Perhaps we should send Lord Potter if he is so sure of the need for dialogue.' Laughter ran towards the chamber, one of the younger Nobilitas Lord shouting “seconded”. Abraxas smiled, but raised his hands asking for silence, as Dumbledore was shouting for order.
'Lord Malfoy, this is not the way to go,' chided Dumbledore, 'I find Lord Potter's suggestion to have merit. And you have spoken out of turn.'
'The only dialogue I want to see from Ireland is their surrender declaration after our Aurors have defeated them,' said Abraxas.
The Nobilitas, and even some of the Aliquanta stood up, applauding. One chanted “War”, the shout quickly picking up, “War, war war!” the audience screamed, drowning out Lord Potter's voice as he tried to calm them down from the speaker dais.
'This is not the way to go!' snapped Lord Potter, 'has it been so long since the last war that we forgot its horrors? This is no cause for war!' He was interrupted by Cygnus standing up as well.
'Not a cause for war!' said Lord Black, 'pray do tell Lord Potter, would you have thought the same if it was one of your family members dieing out there. Your son for example?' Lord Potter flushed red, but refused to respond, being shouted down.
As the usual calm discussion and arguments were being replaced by shouts, no order whatsoever, The Novus Veneficus screaming at the Nobilitas, the Nobilitas calling Lord Potter a weakling, the Aliquanta split, some even fighting with their neighbours, an Auror entered the chamber, looked shocked at the Lords fighting, then made his way up to Dumbledore, whispering in his ear. Dumbledore stood up in all his glory, reminding everyone why he was appointed as chair, drawing his wand, casting 'Sonorus'. His voice boomed, sounding painful for those who were to near to the podium.
'There is a representative of the Irish Magi Council outside these doors,' said Dumbledore, 'you shall have your answer. Finite Incantatem!' At a sign from his hand, the Aurors opened the door, allowing an Irish Auror dressed in green and gold parade robes to enter. He was being booed, threatened, but he continued unabashed.
'May I read the proclamation of my government to the Lords, Headmaster?' said the Auror.
'He will read the proclamation of his government out to the chamber,' said Dumbledore, 'and we shall listen to him in silence until he is finished. If he is not allowed to speak, the Aurors will remove the perpetrators out of the chamber.'
The Aurors looked rather ill. If they removed a Lord of the Realm from the chamber there was bound to be retribution later on, while if they did not obey Dumbledore there was bound to be instant retribution and perhaps demotion for not obeying a direct order. Abraxas Malfoy and Cygnus Black calmed the audience down, taking their seats symbolically. The House was deceitfully quiet as the Irish Auror opened a scroll of parchment.
'The Irish Magi Council proclaims:
The village of Nechtan Scéne has been the subject of an unprovoked attack the night before. The survivors have identified the attackers as English.
This unprovoked attack is a threat to Irish Sovereignty and an insult; As such the Irish Magi Council, speaking with one voice for all the witches and wizards demands reparations from the British Ministry of Magic, as detailed below:
- The sum of 20,000,000 Galleons is to be paid to the Irish Magi Council, sum which is to be used to repair the damage caused and to help the survivors;
- The creation of three seats on Hogwarts' Governors Board so that the school may be better suited to Irish students needs';
- The heads of those responsible;
- The three northern constituencies of Scotland are to be ceded to Ireland;
If these demands are not fulfilled, the Irish Magi Council has no option but to declare war.
Signed by the Irish Archmage, acting on behalf of his people, and with full support of the Magi Council.'
The Lords held true to their word, not a single shout being heard as the Auror spoke. The presumptuous declaration blanched even Lord Potter and Dumbledore. The first demand could be fulfilled. The second would be highly unpopular with the Nobilitas but it would fall under the House of Commons and as such would pass. The Ministry held authority over the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and the Minister could be convinced. But the fourth point was impossible to be argued even to the House of Commons. They may be left wingers, but even they would not give away land in the interest of maintaining peace. Lord Potter wanted to ask for the floor, to argue about giving them some room to move, but he was getting slow in his old age. Abraxas Malfoy had already obtained the floor, walking down to the podium, staring at the Irish Auror, his wand in his hand, until he backed down and allowed him to take the speaker dais.
'There can be but one response to the presumptuous demands of rebels,' said Abraxas, 'first they slaughter the Ambassador, desecrate his body, and then make claims to British soil. I forward the motion that the House of Lords issue a declaration of war on Ireland.'
'Seconded,' said Cygnus, raising his wand.
'Thirded,' said Dimitry, causing some to laugh. Abraxas continued gravely.
'Have we become so low that pariah states such as Ireland can order us around like house elves? We need to reassert ourselves or we invite disaster.' Dumbledore looked as if he wanted to say a few words, but Abraxas interrupted him.
'Honoured chair, there is a motion, and it has been seconded. Should we not move to voting on it? I would also like to point out that this is an External Affair, falling under the jurisdiction of the House of Lords according to the reforms of 1945, and since it is a standard motion requires simple majority.' Abraxas then moved in closer to whisper to Dumbledore. 'There are no procedural tricks left, Dumbledore.' The headmaster looked calm, maintaining his grandfatherly attitude, although he was seething inside.
'Very well, the motion will be voted upon,' said Albus. 'All those in favour?'
The Nobilitas faction stood up, casting their spells at the voting globes, joined by a dozen of the more belligerent Aliquanta.
'All those against?'
The entire presence of Novus Veneficus stood up, joined by four Aliquanta, Lord Macmillan not included. Lord Potter looked disappointed at his friend, but Lord Macmillan shook his head.
'Abstentions?'
The remaining Aliquanta, as predicted, cast their neutral vote. The central globe under the podium added the votes up and displayed them in golden letters above.
'The motion is carried forward, by one hundred forty-two to fourteen votes with forty-four abstentions,' said Dumbledore bitterly, 'we are now at war. May you remember what you did today.'
The declaration was being written on parchment, awaiting the signatures of Dumbledore, as chair and the signatures of the leaders of the three factions. The Irish Auror waited, being thrown suspicious looks by his British counterparts, to take it to the Irish Magi Council.
As Abraxas descended to sign the parchment, he looked at the Irish Auror.
'Your status as a messenger protects you,' said Abraxas, 'but the next time you are on British soil you won't make it out alive.'
'Anytime, my lord,' said the Auror, 'anytime you wish.'
Abraxas signed the paper, and then moved back up to his seat. The Irish Auror left rather hurriedly, before the population found out, since they were likely to have less restraint than the Lords and took a Portkey to Ireland.
It would be the last free casual journey in between the two countries, as the ancient ward stones under the Ministry of Magic were being engaged, the massive quantity of magic they held unleashed. The air shimmered slightly, a muggle fisherman off the coast of Britain feeling ill for a few seconds. Britain became an Island fortress once more, even for magic.