Chapter 188. Charles.
Ten Minutes Earlier. London.
The small office was oppressively bleak. Charles, the current commander of the Steel Division and perhaps already its former commander, sat at his desk in silence, staring at a fixed point on the wall. His face was unnaturally pale. Periodically, as though turning something over in his mind, he pressed his lips together, bit his nail, or exhaled heavily.
This had gone on for three days now, not just one. His brother had not contacted him since the operation's failure, but Charles was sure Vitold already knew. What Charles feared most was that Vitold might simply come to him. He had no idea how he would face his brother after such a humiliating defeat.
The fault lay with his own arrogance, overconfidence, and stupidity. Instead of setting aside his personal feud with Laur to complete the assignment, he had chosen to settle a ten-year-old score, to repay the contempt and humiliation Laur had heaped on him all this time.
If he had sent Laur to the Minister of Magic and taken on the noseless bastard himself, Charles was certain the mission would have succeeded.
And now he simply did not know what to do. The losses had been catastrophic. Laur's squad had simply walked away, leaving a note promising to return for his head. That note had kept Charles from sleeping for days. Besides them, fifty well-trained wizards had been lost, along with Eugene, one of his captains. Eugene had engaged Alastor Moody and was then killed by Albus Dumbledore.
So Charles was waiting. Waiting for someone from headquarters to contact him and tell him what came next. He understood that the mission to take the country had failed, unless headquarters sent three or four subunits of the Diamond Division to pull them out, a prospect he strongly doubted, since the rest were far too tied up.
He picked up a small glass of amber liquid from the desk, drained it in one gulp, set it down without blinking, and sighed again. Then, a moment later, Charles stirred and rose on unsteady legs. With a heavy breath, he crossed to the painting on the wall, which immediately slid aside to reveal a mirror. Vitold's figure appeared in it, looking entirely indifferent.
Anyone who didn't know Vitold would have been relieved to see no anger or visible emotion. Charles had known him since birth and understood this was only a mask, that his brother was furious.
He had expected as much. His expression barely changed. Charles looked into his older brother's eyes with a sad smile.
"Do you understand why I only contacted you now?" Vitold asked, his voice cold.
"So you didn't come here to kill me on the spot."
"I've already read your report and Laur's." At the mention of the name, Charles's face twisted, but Vitold ignored it and continued to watch his brother in silence. "What do you plan to do next?"
"Retreat. This battle is lost. There's nothing I can do with what remains of the Steel Division, and any further attempts to continue the mission will only cost more lives."
"At least you understand the situation you're in. Orders from the leader: return to headquarters immediately with what's left of the Steel Division. The mission to take Britain has been abandoned."
"Yes." Charles lowered his head, no longer able to meet Vitold's eyes. He had destroyed everything his brother had spent so long building. The Division might be dissolved entirely upon their return. Only about 142 wizards remained, along with one captain and him. "I'm sorry."
All Charles heard in reply was a heavy exhale, and at that moment, he flinched, jerking his gaze upward. Vitold, watching him, frowned.
"What is..." Before he could finish, Vitold saw the ceiling turn transparent. Above it was an unnaturally vivid blue sky, nothing but an enormous dome.
"This is my punishment for my mistakes." A wand appeared in Charles's hand. He swept it upward, but nothing happened. His already strained smile grew even more forced as sadness filled his eyes. "There's no way out of here."
A few seconds later, someone began hammering frantically on the office door. The alarmed voice of Robert, the last remaining captain and Division chief analyst, came through the door.
"Commander! The building is completely surrounded! We can't give an exact count, but by a rough estimate, no fewer than five hundred wizards, both Aurors and Death Eaters! What should we do? Apparition is impossible through the barrier! There's no way to retreat!"
"Activate Protocol Thirty-Two. Prepare defensive positions. I'll be out in a moment." A tired, ironic smile crossed Charles's grim face, but his eyes hardened with certainty. *So this is the ending an incompetent commander deserves. I'm not going down without a fight.*
"You've made your peace with it, I see," Vitold said quietly. A flicker of genuine, if restrained, surprise crossed his face. He had never seen his brother look so truly resolved before. And no matter how much he tried to appear otherwise, losing the only person he could rely on, even imperfectly and with reservations, wasn't easy.
"Forgive me for being such a fool."
"So you've already made your peace. Just as I always expected of you. You always gave up too quickly. Foolish little brother."
"Come on! You could at least have said something decent before I die! Not once, not a single kind word from you, ever!"
"And you hold me responsible for that?" Vitold raised an eyebrow with the same unhurried indifference. Charles's eye twitched. Then Vitold's voice grew more serious. "If you can hold out for thirty minutes to an hour, three sub-units of the Diamond Division will reach you. I sent them to Britain from Switzerland yesterday to help your remaining people leave the country safely. I trust I don't need to explain what that cost me."
"Brother." This gesture of care from a man who had always been distant and outwardly indifferent, who had always kept a wall between them and treated him no differently from anyone else, genuinely moved Charles. That distant behavior had angered Charles for years, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. But now, to help him, Vitold was prepared to risk his reputation and three Diamond Division sub-units. *What a blind fool I've been.* *I've acted like an absolute idiot.* *Memory after memory surfaced: every moment I felt overlooked, doubted, and treated as dead weight.* *I had been criticized often, yes, but thinking about it now, I realize it was almost always deserved.* *Vitold had never tried to diminish my accomplishments, only to point me in the right direction, to keep me from getting lost in my own pride.* *He had always looked after me.* *He had simply never shown it.* "Brother. If I survive today, I'll ask your forgiveness. For everything. For all the trouble I've put you through."
"Be at headquarters the day after tomorrow at sixteen hundred hours, standing in my office. Don't you dare be late. That's all I have to say." The mirror rippled and showed only his own reflection.
"They say that near the end, a person comes to understand many things," Charles murmured with a quiet, peaceful smile, sniffling a little. "But if I survive, I'll make sure to ask for forgiveness properly, for all the grief I've caused you." A staff materialized in his hand. He slammed it on the floor, sending a shockwave that shattered the mirror into splinters.
The moment he left the room, Robert was waiting to brief him on their situation and how dire things had become.
Outside, the last group of wizards, twenty-five in total, arrived and took up their prearranged positions on the criminals' side, stationed between the Death Eaters and the Black Brooms to make sure no one was hit by a stray curse.
Harold Minchum watched it all with a complicated expression. He had never imagined fighting shoulder to shoulder with actual criminals, let alone a dark wizard of Voldemort's caliber. Dumbledore, standing beside him, felt exactly the same, his eyes fixed on Riddle.
Riddle himself met their gazes with cool mockery, as did the other Death Eaters and gang members. This alliance proved beyond doubt the inadequacy and incompetence of Magical Britain's government, which had been reduced to begging its enemies for help against a threat looming over all of England. That thought lifted everyone's mood, if only slightly, after the events of recent weeks.
The arrival of the last group marked the formal beginning of the operation. Harold drew his wand and made a circular motion in front of his face. A blue mote of light appeared at its tip. He coughed twice, clutching his wand, and his voice echoed through the dome.
"I, Harold Minchum, thirtieth Minister of Magic of Great Britain, order the organization known as Black Star to surrender. Put down your wands and come out of the building one at a time with your hands behind your head. If you do not comply, a full assault will begin in ten seconds, and every hostile wizard inside will be eliminated. Ten. Nine." The wizards listening, especially those on the gang's side, tightened their grip on their wands in anticipation. "Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two." A barrier erupted around the building. "One. Begin the assault!"
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