Spoiler: show
Albus Dumbledore looked at his desk in desperation. Absolutely no one would respond to his requests for a DADA teacher! Even though it had only been a week since the end of last term, he'd always had a new DADA teacher on hand by now to give the time to aclimatize themselves to the castle, and get a syllabus together. And while Fudge had made some sort of mention about sending a "ministry approved" teacher to take the slot, he wasn't willing to let some spy for Fudge's agenda stroll into HIS castle. But if he couldn't get anyone in Britain to take the position than who...? He looked up, eyes sparkling as a somewhat maniacal grin formed on his weathered face. "Of course. Not only would it be a perfect way to appease the Americans that have been clamoring for an explanation for the Death Eater forays into their own territories, but it would also tweak Fudge's nose like nothing else!" Dumbledore laughed to himself, he was a genius! Getting to work, he quickly composed a letter and handed it to Fawkes. "Please take this to Tomahawk my friend."
A quarter of the way round the world, in a complex buried several hundred feet beneath the Potomac River, Fawkes appeared on a perch in a small burst of flame, barely avoiding the thick pointed beak of the large raven that suddenly found itself sharing its personal space with the phoenix.
"One of these days he's not gonna miss you know," a gravely voice cut in. The phoenix looked over to the owner of the voice, and the office he was in. A weathered Native American man wearing a worn plaid shirt and a pair of jeans, his semi-long salt and pepper hair caught in a tail at the nape of his neck. He was currently giving Fawkes a grateful look, as his arrival meant a distraction from paperwork. "Well, lemme see what the old coot wants this time," the man said, before holding out his hand expectantly. Fawkes bent forward and deposited the letter with a small trill, before taking off to avoid another attack from the raven. "Stop it Diablo, this is no time for play." The raven eyed his partner with a withering gaze before clacking his beak and then tucking his head under his wing, feigning sleep. The man chuckled at his partner's action (they'd known each other far too long to simply call their relationship familiar and master) before opening the sealed envelope and scanning the contents. After a moment, he looked up, straight into Fawkes' eyes as the phoenix landed on the raised edge of his desk. "He's up to something, isn't he." The phoenix seemed extremely unhappy, but nodded a little. "Would it be in the best interests of all parties concerned if I dropped a wrench in this plan of his?" A shake of the head, followed by a nod. "So his end intentions are good, but his methods stink. Would it be better if I rewrote the script for this little play he's written?" Another sad nod. "Right then. You can hang out in the post room if you'd like, chat with the other birds, or just wander a little. Come back in an hour or two and I should have everything ready for Dumbledore." Fawkes nodded, and took wing again, flying through the door that opened when the man hit a button on his desk.
The man punched a button on the intercom installed in his desk, and waited for the husky cajun tones of his secretary. "Yes boss-mon?"
"Stranglethorn, could you please dig up a copy of our Special Loan Contract. And make sure all the t's are crossed and the i's dotted before I get it?"
The female swamp troll on the other end of the line blinked for a moment, before she recognized the code phrase for what it was. "A'course boss-mon, I be gettin righ on it."
In his office, Thomas Darkhawk, codenamed Tomahawk and leader of the American Magical Investigation Bureau, or MIB, sighed as he used his desktop to go over various teams and plan out what the hell he was gonna do now, and who the hell he was going to drop into this Charlie Foxtrot that Dumbledore seemed to have brought on the English wizarding world. As he scrolled through the various teams he had under his command, a certain team name caught his eye. Opening the file he went over their field record as well as their disciplinary records. He started to murmur to himself as he went through their files, an idea forming. "Good, they're all capable of adapting and reacting to situations on the fly, and their case records are nothing to sneeze at on an individual basis either. Some issues with obeying authority, but never if the orders they're given fit within their scope of what's right and what's not and they're ultimately loyal to their friends and teammates above all others. Leader's decorated enough to gain even the Bristish Ministry's bass ackward approval, and laid back enough to connect with the kids while still teaching em which end of the wand to hold." He stopped for a moment as he looked up the team leader's specialization, before he laughed out loud. "Even better, puts every single one of em on even ground in unknown territory!" He punched the button for his secretary. "'Thorn?"
"Yes Boss-mon?"
"Get me the Maverick Team Leader please."
"Righ away boss-mon."
Ten minutes later Stranglethorn stuck her head into Tomahawk's office, sliding one lock of blood red hair behind her pointed green ear as she did so. Tomahawk looked up from a small stack of slim folders he'd filled with a few sheets of paper to each. "De Rockhound be here boss." Tomahawk nodded his thanks as he set down the file he was currently looking over.
"About how long until the boys in Legal get done with the contract 'Thorn?"
"Penspike said it'd be 'bout a half hour boss."
"Thanks 'Thorn." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Go take a break hun, I can handle Rockhound on my lonesome." She smiled at him, displaying her tusks more than usual in the grin, before slipping off to grab a cup of coffee and see if that cute new transfer from the West Coast was free. As she left the leader for the Maverick team, codename Rockhound walked in. He was of decent height, almost six feet, with a powerful but still somewhat slim frame. Thick brown hair was tucked out of sight beneath a worn ball cap, while amber eyes that were usually alight with mischief studied his commander with a deep intensity, a pair of oakleys dangling from his grip. Bluejeans, steel-toed boots and a battered brown bomber jacket over a bright green shirt that read "Fight me, I'm Irish" completed the picture. "Siddown O'Reilly."
Shawn O'Reilly sat, his posture relaxed as he shot a grin at Tomahawk. "What can the Mavericks do for you boss?"
"I just received a request from an old acquaintance of mine, one Albus Dumbledore. You're familiar with the current situation in England?" Shawn grimaced. It was part and parcel of a Team Leader's job to be aware of all major goings on in the magical world, one never knew where their team might be dispatched next. And quite frankly the immense FUBAR in England was something of a professional insult to most of the MIB as enforcers of the law, especially considering how most of the British Aurors looked down their noses at their cousins across the pond. "Good, because your team is heading there on special assignment. The only thing is is that Dumbledore thinks he's only getting one of you, to act as their Defense Against Dark Arts teacher and provide "a measure of extra security for Hogwarts"." Shawn's ears seemed to perk up like a dog's as he leaned forward, his grin reappearing.
"Special Loan contract?"
"Special Loan contract. And I'm including all the clauses in this one. I'm also authorizing your team to kit themselves out for prolonged heavy combat without chances of resupply, as well as allowing you to take three separate Insta-portals for immediate backup. I'll leave it to you to decide who your allies will be, just have the information on Agent Becerra's desk before you leave so he can put them on notice and re-supply the armory. Now remember not to tip your hand too fast, Dumbledore has to sign the contract first, and after that there are ways to get around the clauses, if he's given the time and incentive." 'And a dozen teams of crack lawyers,' he smugly thought to himself. "One issue I'd like you to look into before his signature is even dry is a specific group of students, namely a boy named Harry Potter and his friends." Tomahawk passed the files on his desk to O'Reilly, who flipped through each one briefly, before setting them aside to read later. "Intel we've gathered shows that they're targets for this Lord Moldwart or whatever his damn name is, big ones. Last word was that he was forced into mortal combat and witnessed the death of a fellow student at the end of the year and then packed off to his relatives' place, no form of counseling or anything. And from what I've pieced together from the reports we've got on his blood relations, living with them is hardly a picnic at the best of times. Latest word is that all communications to him from his friends and the outside magical world in general have been cut off as well."
Shawn sat back in his chair, a gimlet sharp glint in his eyes. "And you're telling me that Dumbledore condoned all this?"
"He arranged for it himself, at least as far as having the boy forced into running silent. The rest... well it appears the old idiot finally slipped off the deep end into senility."
"As soon as Dumbledore signs the contract I'll put two of my men on it sir, most likely Doc Holiday and Firestorm. Between the two of them there's not much that can't be handled on the fly and still keep the 'danes out of the loop, and Firestorm has family across the pond he visits, so he can help Doc get acclimated faster." Neither man made mention of the particular philosophies of these men concerning child abuse and those that participated in or condoned it. "Anything else boss?"
Tomahawk shook his head. "I'm leaving it up to you to evaluate the situation and decide what needs to be done. Should you or one of your tacticians feel that you're in over your head, call for backup. I don't care if it's us or an ally you trust, but get someone over there to watch your six triple-time. You already know the terms defining the situations you're allowed to activate the 'port's in."
Shawn nodded and rose fluidly, assuming a parade-rest stance as he stood in front of his superior's desk. Gone was the rather laid back devil-may-care man, and instead there was an experienced soldier. "Understood sir. I'll brief my team on the situation ASAP. How soon will it be before you need me to leave?"
"Prep your team to leave in 72 hours Rockhound, you yourself leave in 48. Dismissed." Rockhound snapped off a crisp salute and turned on his heel, cocking his head to one side as he opened the door to let Fawkes back through. The phoenix gave a musical chirp as he lighted on the perch, prompting Diablo to reply with a muffled but still clearly derisive croak from under his wing. Tomahawk just shook his head as he finished writing something out on a sheet of paper, signing it with a flourish and plunking one of the cheap pens he preffered back into the other mug on his desk. "Here's my reply for Dumbledore." The phoenix gave a soft trill as he took the crisply folded letter in his beak before he vanished in a burst of flame. Tomahawk sat back in his chair, and met Diablo's fierce gaze. "Now we just sit back and see what's what ol' buddy." Diablo gave a harsh croak of agreement.
A quarter of the way round the world, in a complex buried several hundred feet beneath the Potomac River, Fawkes appeared on a perch in a small burst of flame, barely avoiding the thick pointed beak of the large raven that suddenly found itself sharing its personal space with the phoenix.
"One of these days he's not gonna miss you know," a gravely voice cut in. The phoenix looked over to the owner of the voice, and the office he was in. A weathered Native American man wearing a worn plaid shirt and a pair of jeans, his semi-long salt and pepper hair caught in a tail at the nape of his neck. He was currently giving Fawkes a grateful look, as his arrival meant a distraction from paperwork. "Well, lemme see what the old coot wants this time," the man said, before holding out his hand expectantly. Fawkes bent forward and deposited the letter with a small trill, before taking off to avoid another attack from the raven. "Stop it Diablo, this is no time for play." The raven eyed his partner with a withering gaze before clacking his beak and then tucking his head under his wing, feigning sleep. The man chuckled at his partner's action (they'd known each other far too long to simply call their relationship familiar and master) before opening the sealed envelope and scanning the contents. After a moment, he looked up, straight into Fawkes' eyes as the phoenix landed on the raised edge of his desk. "He's up to something, isn't he." The phoenix seemed extremely unhappy, but nodded a little. "Would it be in the best interests of all parties concerned if I dropped a wrench in this plan of his?" A shake of the head, followed by a nod. "So his end intentions are good, but his methods stink. Would it be better if I rewrote the script for this little play he's written?" Another sad nod. "Right then. You can hang out in the post room if you'd like, chat with the other birds, or just wander a little. Come back in an hour or two and I should have everything ready for Dumbledore." Fawkes nodded, and took wing again, flying through the door that opened when the man hit a button on his desk.
The man punched a button on the intercom installed in his desk, and waited for the husky cajun tones of his secretary. "Yes boss-mon?"
"Stranglethorn, could you please dig up a copy of our Special Loan Contract. And make sure all the t's are crossed and the i's dotted before I get it?"
The female swamp troll on the other end of the line blinked for a moment, before she recognized the code phrase for what it was. "A'course boss-mon, I be gettin righ on it."
In his office, Thomas Darkhawk, codenamed Tomahawk and leader of the American Magical Investigation Bureau, or MIB, sighed as he used his desktop to go over various teams and plan out what the hell he was gonna do now, and who the hell he was going to drop into this Charlie Foxtrot that Dumbledore seemed to have brought on the English wizarding world. As he scrolled through the various teams he had under his command, a certain team name caught his eye. Opening the file he went over their field record as well as their disciplinary records. He started to murmur to himself as he went through their files, an idea forming. "Good, they're all capable of adapting and reacting to situations on the fly, and their case records are nothing to sneeze at on an individual basis either. Some issues with obeying authority, but never if the orders they're given fit within their scope of what's right and what's not and they're ultimately loyal to their friends and teammates above all others. Leader's decorated enough to gain even the Bristish Ministry's bass ackward approval, and laid back enough to connect with the kids while still teaching em which end of the wand to hold." He stopped for a moment as he looked up the team leader's specialization, before he laughed out loud. "Even better, puts every single one of em on even ground in unknown territory!" He punched the button for his secretary. "'Thorn?"
"Yes Boss-mon?"
"Get me the Maverick Team Leader please."
"Righ away boss-mon."
Ten minutes later Stranglethorn stuck her head into Tomahawk's office, sliding one lock of blood red hair behind her pointed green ear as she did so. Tomahawk looked up from a small stack of slim folders he'd filled with a few sheets of paper to each. "De Rockhound be here boss." Tomahawk nodded his thanks as he set down the file he was currently looking over.
"About how long until the boys in Legal get done with the contract 'Thorn?"
"Penspike said it'd be 'bout a half hour boss."
"Thanks 'Thorn." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Go take a break hun, I can handle Rockhound on my lonesome." She smiled at him, displaying her tusks more than usual in the grin, before slipping off to grab a cup of coffee and see if that cute new transfer from the West Coast was free. As she left the leader for the Maverick team, codename Rockhound walked in. He was of decent height, almost six feet, with a powerful but still somewhat slim frame. Thick brown hair was tucked out of sight beneath a worn ball cap, while amber eyes that were usually alight with mischief studied his commander with a deep intensity, a pair of oakleys dangling from his grip. Bluejeans, steel-toed boots and a battered brown bomber jacket over a bright green shirt that read "Fight me, I'm Irish" completed the picture. "Siddown O'Reilly."
Shawn O'Reilly sat, his posture relaxed as he shot a grin at Tomahawk. "What can the Mavericks do for you boss?"
"I just received a request from an old acquaintance of mine, one Albus Dumbledore. You're familiar with the current situation in England?" Shawn grimaced. It was part and parcel of a Team Leader's job to be aware of all major goings on in the magical world, one never knew where their team might be dispatched next. And quite frankly the immense FUBAR in England was something of a professional insult to most of the MIB as enforcers of the law, especially considering how most of the British Aurors looked down their noses at their cousins across the pond. "Good, because your team is heading there on special assignment. The only thing is is that Dumbledore thinks he's only getting one of you, to act as their Defense Against Dark Arts teacher and provide "a measure of extra security for Hogwarts"." Shawn's ears seemed to perk up like a dog's as he leaned forward, his grin reappearing.
"Special Loan contract?"
"Special Loan contract. And I'm including all the clauses in this one. I'm also authorizing your team to kit themselves out for prolonged heavy combat without chances of resupply, as well as allowing you to take three separate Insta-portals for immediate backup. I'll leave it to you to decide who your allies will be, just have the information on Agent Becerra's desk before you leave so he can put them on notice and re-supply the armory. Now remember not to tip your hand too fast, Dumbledore has to sign the contract first, and after that there are ways to get around the clauses, if he's given the time and incentive." 'And a dozen teams of crack lawyers,' he smugly thought to himself. "One issue I'd like you to look into before his signature is even dry is a specific group of students, namely a boy named Harry Potter and his friends." Tomahawk passed the files on his desk to O'Reilly, who flipped through each one briefly, before setting them aside to read later. "Intel we've gathered shows that they're targets for this Lord Moldwart or whatever his damn name is, big ones. Last word was that he was forced into mortal combat and witnessed the death of a fellow student at the end of the year and then packed off to his relatives' place, no form of counseling or anything. And from what I've pieced together from the reports we've got on his blood relations, living with them is hardly a picnic at the best of times. Latest word is that all communications to him from his friends and the outside magical world in general have been cut off as well."
Shawn sat back in his chair, a gimlet sharp glint in his eyes. "And you're telling me that Dumbledore condoned all this?"
"He arranged for it himself, at least as far as having the boy forced into running silent. The rest... well it appears the old idiot finally slipped off the deep end into senility."
"As soon as Dumbledore signs the contract I'll put two of my men on it sir, most likely Doc Holiday and Firestorm. Between the two of them there's not much that can't be handled on the fly and still keep the 'danes out of the loop, and Firestorm has family across the pond he visits, so he can help Doc get acclimated faster." Neither man made mention of the particular philosophies of these men concerning child abuse and those that participated in or condoned it. "Anything else boss?"
Tomahawk shook his head. "I'm leaving it up to you to evaluate the situation and decide what needs to be done. Should you or one of your tacticians feel that you're in over your head, call for backup. I don't care if it's us or an ally you trust, but get someone over there to watch your six triple-time. You already know the terms defining the situations you're allowed to activate the 'port's in."
Shawn nodded and rose fluidly, assuming a parade-rest stance as he stood in front of his superior's desk. Gone was the rather laid back devil-may-care man, and instead there was an experienced soldier. "Understood sir. I'll brief my team on the situation ASAP. How soon will it be before you need me to leave?"
"Prep your team to leave in 72 hours Rockhound, you yourself leave in 48. Dismissed." Rockhound snapped off a crisp salute and turned on his heel, cocking his head to one side as he opened the door to let Fawkes back through. The phoenix gave a musical chirp as he lighted on the perch, prompting Diablo to reply with a muffled but still clearly derisive croak from under his wing. Tomahawk just shook his head as he finished writing something out on a sheet of paper, signing it with a flourish and plunking one of the cheap pens he preffered back into the other mug on his desk. "Here's my reply for Dumbledore." The phoenix gave a soft trill as he took the crisply folded letter in his beak before he vanished in a burst of flame. Tomahawk sat back in his chair, and met Diablo's fierce gaze. "Now we just sit back and see what's what ol' buddy." Diablo gave a harsh croak of agreement.