More Things in Heaven and Earth

Title: More Things in Heaven and Earth
Author: themolesmother
Rating: PG-13

Author's Notes: Written for omniocular's September AU challenge, prompt 106: The Muggles actually know all about the wizarding world and are keeping tabs on them. The wizards have no idea and think themselves superior until war erupts.

Summary:

Three hundred years. Three Muggle Prime Ministers. The same difficult decision.

More Things in Heaven and Earth

Kensington House

December 1697

William, by the Grace of God King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith -

The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire in the grate and the laboured breathing of the man seated behind the desk, poring over the parchment before him. Standing in front of the desk, and staring fixedly at a spot just above the Sovereign's head, His Majesty's Minister for Magic willed the King to stop dithering and just sign the damn thing. He had not been invited to sit. The implications were not lost on him.

Abruptly, the King picked up the pen and scrawled his signature. A nondescript young man in black standing behind his chair stepped forward and took the parchment, bearing it off to a table in the corner where he sprinkled the still wet ink with sand to dry it, shook it off and folded it neatly. Task accomplished, he returned and handed it to the Minister with a slight bow. The Minister dismissed him with a curt nod and bowed to the King.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

William's face was expressionless. "The decree takes effect from midnight on the 31^st day of December."

It was an order not a question. "Yes, Sire."

The King leaned back in his chair. "After the separation, I may from time to time wish to consult my Minister for Magic. How can this be accomplished?" His tone was neutral; that of someone discussing a trivial administrative detail. The Minister took due note of the very slight emphasis on the word my. Eager to do something to cover his growing awkwardness, he produced his wand.

"If Your Majesty will permit?" The King waved a hand in assent. The Minister pointed his wand at a nearby patch of blank wall. Its substance melted and coalesced into the portrait of a froglike little man with a silver wig. The portrait bowed its head to the King who, well used to wizard portraits, acknowledged its obeisance with a nod.

"This portrait will be able to find me at any time of day or night should you wish to see me, Sire."

"Very well." The King's tone conveyed the message that he found this solution barely adequate. "You may go."

With relief, the Minister bowed his way out of the royal presence. Once on the other side of the door, he cursed inwardly as he remembered that this newest royal residence, like all the others, was under a strong anti-Apparition charm. Resignedly, he set off on the long walk to the Palace gates.

As the door closed behind the Minister, William rose from the desk and walked to the window, where he stood staring out over the snow-covered park, lost in thought. The young man in black waited patiently for the King to come to himself and dismiss him. He had fallen into something of a reverie himself and came to with a start when the King spoke.

"They say that despite their withdrawal from the mundane world they are my loyal subjects and they will remain so. Do you believe them, Bartlett?"

The young man hesitated. There were two possible answers - the politic answer and the right answer. The King had turned away from the window and was studying him intently. His instincts, honed by two years at court, were telling him the politic answer was not the one that was required.

"No, Sire."

The King seated himself in an armchair by the fire and motioned the young man to a chair facing him. "Your reasons?"

This was the easy part. Although a Squib, Josiah Bartlett had been bought up in a pureblood wizard household. He knew wizard society.

"The wizard population is obsessed with magical power and blood status. They look upon ordinary mortals as less than human." He was unable to prevent a hint of bitterness from creeping into his voice. He had personal experience of wizard attitudes to non-magicals. "The separation debate has been going on for nearly a century, but in the last ten years or so those who believe that wizards should create their own enclaves and withdraw to them have had a majority in the Wizengamot. The decision of the International Confederation of Warlocks five years ago strengthened their hand, and the sad death of our sovereign lady gave them the ammunition they needed to bring the common wizard to their way of thinking. I do not believe it will end there. Eventually the magical community will begin to ask why it maintains its allegiance to a non-magical sovereign." He did not need to elaborate further. Queen Mary had been the last of her house to possess any magical talent at all, and the House of Orange had been squibs since the days of William the Silent.

"Precisely." William's tone was dry. "I had better hope my late wife's supposed half brother shows no signs of magic." He stood up, suddenly brisk. "I have been watching you closely since you entered my service, young man, and I have been pleased with what I have seen. I have a task for you." He unlocked a drawer in the desk and withdrew another parchment, already signed and sealed. He handed it to Bartlett. "I wish you to become my eyes and ears among the wizards, to recruit others like you, and should the worst happen - "

Josiah Bartlett stared at the King in shock. In his wildest dreams he had never expected this. Ambition and the desire for revenge on those who had made his childhood a misery warred with unease at the magnitude of the task before him.

" - ensure we are in a position to deal with the problem ... effectively."

Bartlett bowed. "I will endeavour to serve your Majesty to the best of my ability."

For the first time that morning, the King smiled. "I am sure you will. I chose you very carefully. Now leave me. We will speak again when you have had time to consider what resources you will need."

Bartlett bowed, and began to back out but halted as the King spoke.

"Keep an eye on them for me, Bartlett. Keep an eye on them."

***

The Cabinet War Rooms

8^th May 1945

It was close to midnight and the forty-first Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland was still hard at work.

Ten feet above him the streets of London were thronged with over a million people celebrating the German surrender and the imminent end of a war that had left Britain exhausted and penniless but unbroken and free. Earlier that day he had joined their Majesties on the balcony at Buckingham Palace to greet the ecstatic crowds. To the surprise of his entourage he had decided to return here rather than to his office at 10 Downing Street. He had sent the bevy of typists and secretaries off to join the celebrations, and dismissed his private detective to the little room next to the typing pool. He was expecting a visitor.

As he scribbled furiously, pausing from time to time to puff on one of his favourite Cuban cigars, the Right Honourable Winston Spencer Churchill reflected wryly that he would rather go ten rounds with that bugger Joseph Stalin than face tonight's meeting. He was used to dissimulation. He was, after all, a career politician. He just didn't like it much.

As he had expected, he was interrupted in mid-flow five minutes later by a discreet cough. He turned to face the grubby little portrait lurking in a shadowed corner. Wherever he went the thing followed him. It was a constant reminder of a responsibility he would far rather forget.

"To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent. Requesting a meeting. Kindly respond -"

"Yes, yes," Churchill growled. "No need to go through the whole rigmarole. Tell the Minister I'll see him now."

The portrait's eyes went unfocussed. "He'll be with you in ten minutes."

As he waited, Churchill recalled a remark made by Benjamin Disraeli, the first Prime Minister to have the dubious honour of keeping in touch with his wizard counterpart thrust upon him by Queen Victoria's withdrawal into permanent mourning. "Of course, in these days of constitutional monarchy it is only right that the Queen's first minister should be responsible for the affairs of all the Queen's subjects. I have to say, however, that my dealings with her wizard subjects have almost convinced me that there is something to be said for the Divine Right of Kings."

There was a sound like a whip cracking, and a portly man in his early sixties, dressed in a garish robe and pointy hat materialised in the middle of the room opposite Churchill's desk. Churchill rose to meet him. The Minister for Magic was in full flow the moment he grasped the Prime Minister's outstretched hand.

"Had to Apparate in, I'm afraid. No fireplace to hook up a Floo connection. Decided to come at once. Got some good news for you, Prime Minister."

Churchill motioned him to a seat. The Minister removed his hat and sat down, still talking. "Grindelwald's gone. Pfft! Dead as a doornail. Didn't believe it myself until I saw the body. Albus Dumbledore got him. Always said if anyone could do it Dumbledore could. Extraordinary young man. Wouldn't be surprised if he's Minister for Magic one day."

It was a day that couldn't come too soon for Churchill. Five long years of dealing with this narrow minded buffoon had him grinding his teeth in a desperate attempt to bite back the words he must not say but desperately wished he could. He contented himself with a noncommittal, "Congratulations Minister. It must come as a great relief to you all."

"I'll say it does," the Minister boomed. "Dare say it'll come as a relief to the Muggles too. You must have noticed a difference, surely?"

This last remark was too much for the Prime Minister. "I'm afraid not Minister. As you may or may not recall we do have a war on ourselves."

The Minister had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed. "Ah, yes of course. Completely forgot. How are things? Seem to remember it was going quite well when I last dropped in." Before Churchill could bring himself to answer the Minister had bounced to his feet and rammed his hat back on his head. "Ah, well, can't hang around chatting all night, I'm afraid. Things to do. Hope you don't mind me saying so, but I hope we'll be seeing a lot less of each other in the future. Goodnight Prime Minister." He vanished with another crack.

Churchill sighed, sat down behind his desk, took a large swig of brandy from the glass at his elbow, and lit another cigar. He stole a glance at the portrait in the corner, which seemed to have fallen asleep. Moving quietly so as not to disturb it he opened the connecting door to the empty Map Room, closing it softly behind him. The two men waiting for him snapped to attention as he entered. Churchill addressed the younger of the two, a fair-haired rangy fellow with the faint air of privilege that goes with a public school background.

"Did you get all that Finch-Fletchley?"

"Loud and clear, Sir. The new listening device the ISRB johnnies whipped up works a treat."

The older man, heavily built, with dark eyes and a crooked nose, met the Prime Minister's eye with a questioning look. "What do you think, Sir?"

The Prime Minister's answer was a snort of exasperation. "Cadwallader, the man is either a brilliant actor or incredibly stupid."

"Our agent in the Ministry says there's no clear evidence he had any idea about Grindelwald's Nazi connections but you can never tell with these wizards, Sir. Tricky blighters," the current head of the Wizard Intelligence Services replied. He turned to his assistant, who was busy packing up the Heath Robinson contraption. "You can go home now, Finch-Fletchley. I want a full transcript on my desk first thing in the morning."

As the young man gathered up his things and took his leave, Churchill studied the Head of WIS. He knew the question Cadwallader was going to ask him, and he knew he would be disappointed with the answer. The Prime Minister did not much like the WIS. Their whole set up, from the disaffected squibs and muggle-born wizards they recruited to their motto, "More Things in Heaven and Earth", an abbreviation of that famous quote from Hamlet, made him deeply uneasy. It spoke of an arrogance as overwhelming as that of the people they had been set to watch. Above all, he did not like Ewan Cadwallader. The man was a fanatic and, God knows, the current war was proof enough that fanatics were always dangerous.

As the door closed behind Finch-Fletchley Churchill spoke. "The answer's no, Cadwallader."

"If I may speak freely, Sir, I believe you are making a mistake. A pre-emptive strike now would -"

Churchill fixed Cadwallader with his bulldog glare. "For five long years this country has been at war, and just as we have defeated one enemy and the end is in sight you ask me to start another. The worst kind of war, a civil war, waged against our own people. These wizards are his Majesty's subjects, Cadwallader. I will not make war on our own without clear evidence of sedition. You have just admitted yourself you have none."

"And if I can find evidence?" There was a gleam in Cadwallader's eye that the Prime Minister did not like at all.

"If you do I may be forced to reconsider. But understand this, Cadwallader. It will have to be proof of such magnitude that no jury in the land would fail to convict on the strength of it. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes Sir, perfectly clear, Sir."

"That is all. Dismissed."

"Sir." Cadwallader marched stiffly out of the room, closing the door slightly too hard behind him.

The Prime Minister remained still looking at the closed door for a couple of minutes. Then he returned slowly to his office, sat down behind the desk and lit another cigar.

"I had better keep an eye on him. A close eye," he murmured.

***

10 Downing Street

July 1996

The fiftieth Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland waited until the green flames burning in the wake of Scrimgeour and Fudge had subsided to their normal amber glow. Trembling slightly, he staggered to the cabinet in the corner, took out a whisky bottle and a glass, poured himself a generous measure and downed it in one. He glanced cautiously at the dingy portrait of the froglike little man in the corner. It seemed to be dozing. Moving quietly so as not to disturb it he opened a concealed door in the paneling and slipped into the room that did not exist on any published floor plan of No 10. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

The two men in the room stood to attention as the Prime Minister entered. The PM waved a hand and collapsed into a chair. The older of the two, a thin little weasel of a man with horn-rimmed glasses and an air of 'done that, been there, bought the T-shirt', seated himself opposite the Prime Minister. The younger man, a tall dark haired fellow with a handsome face marred by a nasty scar running from temple to upper lip on the left-hand side, returned to the sophisticated array of listening devices that dominated the tiny room.

"Did you get all that Lockley?" the Prime Minister enquired of the older man.

"Loud and clear, Sir," the current head of the WIS assured him. "They're telling you the truth. Well, most of it, anyway."

The PM stiffened. "What do you mean, most of it?"

"Oh, Scrimgeour's very gung-ho in public but in private he's a worried man. There's no way he can stop the attacks unless he discovers how to off Voldemort, and seeing as the bugger's already risen from the dead once there's no way that's going to happen. His only hope is Dumbledore and Dumbledore won't play ball. He hasn't got a clue and he's running scared."

The Prime Minister shuddered. He thought of a dozen drivers who would not be returning to their families, a junior minister facing a lifetime in a mental institution and all the dead and homeless in the West Country.

"This is only the beginning, Sir," Lockley was saying. "We've got to stop it before it goes any further." He straightened slightly, and his voice took on a more formal tone. "Sir, I want your permission to initiate the first stages of Project Gryphon."

Project Gryphon. In his mind's eye the PM could picture the innocuous buff folder marked, Top Secret. For your eyes only. The contents had filled him with horror. Mass arrests. Detention without trial. Concentration camps. A war against an enemy with abilities beyond imagination. It would make Northern Ireland look like a vicarage tea party by comparison.

"No."

For the first time Lockley's mask of world-weary cynicism slipped, revealing the fanaticism beneath. "Sir, you can't be serious. These wizards pose a danger to our society. It's time we took care of it for good."

The PM had opened his mouth to reply when the young man in the corner burst into speech.

"You must reconsider, Sir. You're making a big mistake. These people are barbarians. They give eleven-year-old children deadly weapons and let them fight it out while their so-called teachers stand back and do nothing. I went to Hogwarts, Sir. I know what it's like. This," he gestured to his scar, "is what one of my classmates did to me. We've got to stop it."

"I said no!" The PM realised he sounded hysterical but he was beyond caring. "Now get out, both of you."

Lockley opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. He reined in the younger man with a look, and rose. "Yes, Sir. Goodnight, Sir."

After they had gone, the Prime Minister returned to his office and poured himself another large whisky. He sat by the fire, staring into the depths of his glass. Was he making a mistake? Perhaps but he was damned if he was going to go down in history as the first Prime Minister to start a civil war on English soil. He had less than a year left in office. Hopefully it would all sort itself out.

If it didn't he did not envy his successor.

In the meantime? "I had better keep a close eye on Lockley and his people," he whispered to himself. "A very close eye indeed."

***

No 10 Downing Street

June 1997

The fifty-first Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland sighed and flipped open yet another report. Was it barely six weeks since he had walked in triumph through the door of 10 Downing Street? It had all seemed so simple when they were in opposition. He had found out very quickly that things were a lot more complicated when you were actually this side of that famous black door.

A discreet cough sounded from behind him. He swung round eyes widening in amazement as he noticed that nasty little portrait in the corner was moving. As he got up and walked towards it, it actually spoke.

"To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet -"

***

On the other side of London a phone rang. Waking suddenly from a deep sleep, its owner cursed, and fumbled for the light switch.

"Lockley."

"Sorry to wake you, Sir. We have a situation. It seems our current PM is just about to find out that there are more things in heaven and earth, Sir."

All traces of sleep fled. "Oh, really? Suppose we'd better go and introduce ourselves."

***

It was well past midnight but the Prime Minister could not bring himself to go to bed yet. He sat beside the fire, staring into the flames. On the table beside him sat an innocuous-looking buff folder marked, Project Gryphon. Top Secret. For your eyes only.

He had a difficult decision to make.

***