"Fuckin' Iraq," declared Lieutenant Harry Potter, to the cloudy sunrise. He kicked a torched skull out of restlessness more than anger and thought about how this job would drop a few coins into what he owed Hogwarts.
He flicked his broom over and stuck it in his back holster while the Intelligence Muggles pawed through the debris. Harry scanned the horizon until he saw the desired speck of black and red. Weasely was coming in fast. Like Harry, he used a Nimbus XB-23, a rugged little combat broom powered by alchemically wedded straw and telluractive copper. Soon Ron's broom was holstered and he was getting his land-legs. He greeted Harry with a tired "Mugglefuck," and glanced at the remnants of the bunker.
"Oi, Ron. This here's a strictly economic job, like they could have ordered a 50 million pound plane or us, so they chose us, right? They're just checking if one of these lot is some sort of important resistence leader. They look at the teeth, I hear."
"Right, Harry. Listen, have you heard from Hermoine?"
"Bloody hell, Ron, did you fly all the way from Basra to interrogate me about her again?"
"Harry . . ."
"You know as well as I do she paid her debt off. She's the Queen's Alchemist now, right? So shove it." Harry winced. Hermoine had been picked for the prestigious Dee school, and that went one way: a job keeping Queen Elizabeth alive. Not the Muggle one; Elizabeth I had, it was said, secured longevity-witchcraft by offering Dee a certain pleasurable recreation that would nevertheless allow her to retain her apparent virginity. It was somehow key to the whole process, along with several tonnes of gold and at one point, the Opium War.
Harry suddenly wished he'd studied harder when Snapey was on about longevity potions and that he'd learned his history, too. Instead, as he recalled, he's been wrestling perks from Oxford to prop up their shitty Quidditch team. Back then, he'd been more concerned with getting the Cup back from the bloody Arkham Tentacles than studying his potions or, for that matter, the fine print on his scholarship.
"Enh, Harry, it's not that," said Ron. "I just thought a bit of a reunion might be possible. We're scheduled to meet Colonel Malfoy" -- a crumpled order sheet appeared in his hand just then -- "So it's something of an opportunity, eh?"
"Really Ron, do you want to relive the days of pig Latin and bullshit? Petrificus totalus, incestuous cunnilingus and all that?"
"Come now, Harry, Hogwarts --"
"Aye. I know. That kept our potential nicely slowed so we wouldn't accidentally bump off the PM or give Kylie Minogue random orgasms when we watched the telly in a state. Anyway, what's Malfoy want?"
"He says there are some Persian carpet-jockeys scaring the Yanks and Kurds. It's leaked to Pat Robertson or one of those other Yank preachers, and he's talking about biblical prophecy, demons out of Hell, that kind of rot. Liable to be a situation, Mugglewise, unless we reestablish occult air superiority in the northeast."
"Demons from Hell. Right." Harry and Ron chuckled. Everyone important knew that US witchtroops conquered Hell back in '45. Along with some elf-serf agriculture, the place now served as the manufacturing base for the entire magical world. The fact was that the Nazis has established a beachhead there in '38 and the Malfoys had sold the whole secret, South Polar entrance and all, to Allied intelligence. Thus, Draco was a high ranking officer and his father's indiscretions with the SS were actively forgotten.
Harry remembered that since Citigroup took over management, you could get done to Hell for missing credit card payments. He made a mental note about his Visa bill.
"Anyway," said Ron, "Voldy said he'd drop by before you left HQ. Wanted to know how you were getting on. Hop to, eh?"
Actually, this is dedicated to digitalraven, so it doesn't interrupt the love. This is a creative recognition of his coolness, in light of some of his recent fiction.