Lion’s Initiative

July 5, 1993, 7:00 PM, Ten Downing Street, London

UK Prime Minister

Prime Minister Edward Sinclair trudged toward his office, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floors of Downing Street. It had been a grueling day, compounded by the relentless weight of international crises, and he longed for nothing more than a quiet evening to collect his thoughts. His tie felt too tight, his suit too stiff, and the ever-present pressure of leadership settled on his shoulders like a leaden cloak.

His fingers drummed absently against the polished surface of his desk as he stared at the papers before him, their words blurring together. Economic downturn. Civil unrest. Diplomatic tensions. The ongoing weather crisis in the United States and how it’s affected weather across the pond. If that wasn’t enough, there was yet another scandal in Parliament, involving a member of his party.

It wasn’t anyone close to him, politically speaking, but the change had been severe, casting a terrible light on everything they all did.

The problems just kept piling up.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his graying hair. The weight of it all pressed against his skull, a dull, unrelenting ache that no amount of paracetamol or fine scotch could dull. Somehow, despite the relentless pressure, he had managed to stay afloat. His approval ratings were somehow still holding, but his opponents smelled the eventual blood. It was so bad that he knew that his own party murmured about replacements behind closed doors— but still, he held on.

His gaze drifted toward the window, where the lights of London flickered in the night. The city moved on, oblivious to the burden he carried. A part of him envied the people outside— ordinary men and women who could go about their lives without the knowledge of how close things were to spiraling out of control.

The United States was still reeling from its recent disaster, and it was only a matter of time before the consequences of that catastrophe reached Britain. His ministers had tried to reassure him— damage control, carefully worded statements, promises of stability— but he knew better.

He had seen the intelligence reports, the classified briefings, the frantic letters from their allies abroad. Things were rapidly deteriorating, and it was all he could do to keep his own government afloat.

A sharp knock at the door startled him. He blinked and straightened, his expression hardening. “Yes?”

The door cracked open, and his adviser, Andrew, poked his head in. “Sir, if I could just have a moment—”

Edward waved him off. “Not now, Andrew.”

“Sir, I really think we should—”

“I said not now.” He snapped, sharper than intended.

Andrew hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line, but he knew better than to argue.

“Of course, Prime Minister.” He withdrew, shutting the door behind him.

Silence settled over the office once more. The Prime Minister exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. He wasn’t being fair to Andrew, but he didn’t have the patience to be handled like some fragile figurehead, at the moment. He needed a moment to think, to breathe, to process.

If I don’t, then I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this act up.

Edward leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose as he allowed the silence of the room to settle around him. The tension in his shoulders refused to ease, but at least, for the moment, he was alone.

Then, from the far corner of the room, he heard a soft, deliberate cough.

He froze. His eyes darted toward the source of the sound, his breath caught in his throat.

There was nothing.

The office was empty, just as it had been a moment ago. Edward frowned.

Slowly, cautiously, he pushed his chair back and stood, his gaze sweeping across the room. The door remained closed. The windows were latched. He reached for the phone on his desk, fingers brushing against the receiver as his eyes roved over the corner— 

“Hello.”

The voice was nasal, reedy, yet strangely cheerful. It came from the far end of the room, a bit higher from the ground than he was looking.

He saw it; a painting.

Tucked away in the corner, small and easily overlooked, was a grimy, dust-covered oil painting of a rather squat little man with bulging eyes and a long silver wig. His skin was an odd shade of sallow green, giving him an almost amphibian appearance.

The Prime Minister’s mouth went dry as he walked over to it. He was tired, overworked, but not hallucinating. The painted man was staring straight at him.

“You— ” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat, trying again. “Can I help you?”

“Meeting required with the Prime Minister. Urgent.” The man in the portrait straightened his wig with exaggerated care, then folded his stubby hands over his stomach. “Much to discuss. Urgent business. Please respond.”

The Prime Minister didn’t move for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. He inhaled deeply, steeling himself. “What… business? I’m a little busy right now; I’m waiting for a call from President Jean-Claude—”

The painted man’s expression stayed the same as he interrupted Edward. “That can be rearranged.”

“Now, see here—” Edward said, but controlled himself. “I’ve been expecting this call all week. I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

“There is no cause for concern.” The man in the painting said. “The President of France will conveniently be tied up for the next hour, and you will receive a call with apologies.”

The Prime Minister stared at the talking portrait, his mind struggling to catch up with what was happening. He had faced political betrayals, diplomatic crises, and public outrage— but rarely had he encountered something quite as bizarre as this.

His fingers twitched at his side, instinctively wanting to call for security. But what would he say? That he needed his guards to remove a painting? No. He needed to stay composed. Whatever this was, panicking wouldn’t help.

With deliberate care, he took one step back.

“Go on, then.” He said, his voice even. “Send him in.”

The little man in the painting grinned, apparently pleased with the reaction.

“That’s the spirit! You’re handling this far better than some of your predecessors.” He gave a dramatic sigh. “One of them actually tried to throw a lamp at me. A lamp, Prime Minister! Can you believe it?”

The Prime Minister simply stared, waiting.

The portrait coughed, as if clearing his throat. “Right, well. The Minister of Magic will be coming very shortly.”

Edward nodded, and was about to ask a question when the fireplace behind him roared to life with emerald-green flames. The temperature in the room didn’t change, but the air seemed to hum with some unseen force.

The Prime Minister swallowed hard and forced himself not to react as he turned toward the source. Through the swirling flames, a figure stepped forward— one he recognized from their previous, and only, meeting.

Cornelius Fudge.

The Minister for Magic dusted off his lime-green bowler hat as he strode into the room, looking as flustered as ever. His round face was already slightly red, either from the journey or from stress. Possibly both.

“Prime Minister Sinclair!” Fudge said, forcing a smile as he adjusted his cloak, dropping soot all over his expensive carpet— a gift from the Queen, herself. “I do apologize for the intrusion, but I’m afraid we have a rather dire situation to discuss.”

The Prime Minister recovered quickly, smoothing down his suit as he approached his counterpart. He had met Cornelius Fudge before— years ago, under far less stressful circumstances— but the man standing before him now was almost unrecognizable.

“Minister Fudge.” He greeted, extending a hand with a practiced politician’s smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Fudge barely reacted. He took the offered handshake, but his smile and nod were still tight, his grip perfunctory. The Prime Minister recalled him as a jovial, even smug man, prone to dodging serious discussions with forced laughter and blustering reassurances. But now? That air of self-satisfaction was gone, replaced with something colder, heavier.

This was not the Fudge he remembered, but a man who had been ground down by something.

The Prime Minister studied him carefully. The stress lines on his forehead were deeper than before. His hair— once merely graying— now had streaks of pure white. His once-rosy complexion had paled, his eyes shadowed from sleepless nights.

The silence stretched between them, turning uncomfortable and long.

For all the times he had wished that the wizards would simply handle their own affairs, the sight of Cornelius Fudge standing before him in such a state unsettled the Prime Minister far more than he cared to admit.

Fudge exhaled heavily, stepping away from the fireplace. He didn’t bother with pleasantries, didn’t offer some dismissive assurance that everything was under control. Instead, he spoke plainly.

“There have been… developments.” Fudge began, voice low and weary. “Disturbances across the country— the world, even. Incidents you may have assumed were— shall we say— of non-magical origin.”

The Prime Minister folded his arms. “Go on.”

Fudge reached into his coat and pulled out a stack of parchment, flipping through them with the precision of a man who had recited bad news one too many times.

“The terrible tidal waves sweeping up the west coast. The train derailment outside of Bristol. The power station failure in Leeds. The explosion in Manchester. And just three days ago, the attack on Buckingham Palace.” He paused, letting the names sink in. “All of them, Prime Minister, were orchestrated by wizards.”

The Prime Minister stiffened. He had received intelligence briefings on every single one of those events. The official reports had been inconclusive— freak mechanical failures, unexplained electrical surges, suspected terrorist activity. Now, however, Fudge was telling him otherwise.

“Buckingham Palace… That was a group of men who unleashed a pack of dogs in the midst of a crowd— what does that have to do with wizards?”

“Ah, that is the story which was disseminated by our people, after the fact.” Fudge said, shaking his head as he placed his hat on his lap. “The perpetrators had employed the use of werewolves.”

“Werewolves!?” Edward nearly shot up in his chair at the mention. “I… Please, a moment.”

“Of course.”

Edward nodded as his jaw tightened. “What exactly has your government been doing to stop this?”

Fudge’s expression darkened. He snapped the folder closed, eyes flashing with uncharacteristic anger.

“You think we’ve been sitting on our hands?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “We have arrested dozens of them. Captured key operatives. Interrogated those we could. Just last week, we foiled a plan to take St. Mungo’s, our largest wizarding hospital, hostage.”

He leaned forward, voice sharp. “You have no idea what we’ve been dealing with, Prime Minister. The man responsible for all of this isn’t some common terrorist. He’s one of the most dangerous wizards in history. And make no mistake— a war has begun.”

The Prime Minister felt a cold weight settle in his chest.

A war. He thought, his stomach twisting. He’d been an enlisted soldier in the past. He knew war better than most.

More than that, he’d spent the past several months wrestling with crisis after crisis— diplomatic spats, economic instability, the fallout from military withdrawals— but now Fudge was standing in his office, telling him that an entirely different war had already begun.

Edward gritted his teeth.

“We’ve just pulled our troops out of the Persian Gulf, for God’s sake.” He muttered, more to himself than to Fudge. His voice grew sharper as he turned his gaze back to the wizard. “And now you’re telling me we’re at war again?”

Fudge straightened, his expression turning more rigid. “Not you, Prime Minister. Not your people. This is a war within our world. I came here to inform you because, like it or not, there will be consequences that spill over.”

The Prime Minister gave a bitter laugh.

“Oh, so we’re just collateral damage now?” He gestured sharply toward the reports on his desk. “For God’s sake, man! You’re telling me those incidents were side effects of your war?”

Fudge’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “Yes.”

Edward inhaled deeply through his nose, forcing himself to keep his composure. He wasn’t sure what was worse— the knowledge that his country had been unknowingly caught in the crossfire of a war, or the fact that he had been powerless to do anything about it.

He pressed his fingers against his temple, trying to push back the headache forming there. “So what exactly do you expect me to do with this information?”

Fudge sighed.

“Nothing.” At the Prime Minister’s incredulous look, he added. “At least, not yet. I came to warn you about what’s coming. The next few years will not be easy.”

The words settled heavily between them. The Prime Minister sat back down, his hands clasped tightly together as he stared at his desk, unseeing.

The silence in the room deepened as the Prime Minister processed Fudge’s words. The weight of the situation hung heavily in the air— there was nothing to be done right now, only a grim realization that the world he thought he controlled was spiraling out of his grasp.

Finally, he spoke, his voice tight. “So there’s another war… and you’re telling me that there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it?”

Fudge shook his head slowly.

“Not much for you, no. As I said, this is a war between wizards. The Ministry’s resources are stretched thin, and the threats we face… Well, they’re not exactly things you can combat with tanks or soldiers.” His eyes locked with the Prime Minister’s, but Edward could see that the man’s expression had softened.

The Prime Minister’s mind raced, the words swirling in a dizzying blur. War. Magic. The attacks. It all seemed impossible, but here was Fudge— looking more like a man who’d seen the world burn than the bumbling, loud official he remembered.

“How long have you known about this?” The Prime Minister’s voice trembled slightly, and he cursed himself for showing weakness.

“Longer than I’d like to admit.” Fudge ran a hand through his hair, disheveled and tired-looking. “This has been brewing for at least a year, and it’s only now that we’re starting to see the full picture. And now the worst of it will soon be upon us.”

The Prime Minister’s mind screamed at him to dismiss the words— to pretend it was all just madness. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t. He had seen the reports. This wasn’t something he could ignore.

“I don’t like this.” Edward muttered, running his hand over his face. “This is all too much. You’re telling me that I’m expected to figure this mess out on my end while you run damage control? My party’s already speaking of replacing me with someone else.”

“Indeed?” Fudge said, and his smile this time was mirthless. “We’ll see to that. Your position in the government will not be threatened at this time.”

Edward stared at him for a moment. “I see. I presume there’s a catch.” 

“Too right.” Fudge straightened, and his tone turned sharp. “I have authorized one of our best wizards to work for you, as a secretary.”

“A secretary?” Edward, tilting his head in confusion. “I quite like my recent hire— a fellow by the name of Dawlish. It would be a bit of a hassle explaining why I would let that man go, considering he does nearly double the workload of my previous hire.”

Fudge let out the first laugh he had since the meeting began. Shaking his head, he explained. “There’s no need to let him go— Dawlish is our man.”

The Prime Minister recoiled in shock. “Dawlish? I— that’s… He’s one of yours? Is he even qualified?”

“He most certainly is. How else do you think he completed his work in such little time?” Fudge said before giving the man a nod. “I don’t expect you to like this arrangement, but we must ensure you do not get compromised by the enemy.”

The Prime Minister’s mouth went dry. The implications were obvious. What Fudge was saying, no matter how casually, was that he had no real choice in the matter.

“This doesn’t sit well with me, Minister Fudge.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Fudge’s smile softened for a moment— almost pitying. “Of course it doesn’t, and I apologize that it has to be this way. But you will come to understand why. You have no idea what the other side is capable of, Prime Minister.”

The Prime Minister blinked, struggling to find words. This whole conversation, this entire evening, had torn apart his sense of control. He’d once believed that, despite the madness of the magical world, his own affairs— his own government— remained his to manage. Now? It seemed like nothing was his anymore.

No, it’s more than that. I never had control to begin with.

Fudge stood up, smoothing his coat with a finality that made it clear their discussion was nearing its end. “Well, I believe it’s time for me to depart. By your leave, Prime Minister.”

The Prime Minister swallowed, his throat tight with a mixture of anger, confusion, and helplessness. He opened his mouth to protest, but closed it almost immediately.

Instead, he leveled the Minister with a calm look. “Of course; good evening, Minister Fudge.”

Fudge didn’t look back as he stepped toward the fireplace, but he did pause before stepping into the green flames. “And a good evening to you, Prime Minister Edward.”

The last whisper of Fudge’s presence faded with the crackling flames, leaving the Prime Minister alone in his office, trapped in a storm he hadn’t even seen coming.

The flames in the fireplace had barely faded to their normal hue when the Prime Minister lurched from his chair, his legs carrying him with desperate purpose toward the mahogany cabinet in the corner. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the crystal decanter of whisky— a thirty-year-old Macallan he’d been saving for special occasions. This, he decided grimly, qualified as special enough.

The liquid amber caught the dim lamplight as he poured, splashing more generously than he typically allowed himself. The first sip burned, but he welcomed it, letting the warmth spread through his chest as he tried to process the madness of the last hour. A magical war. Attacks disguised as accidents. And now, a wizard assigned to watch over him like he was some helpless child.

He moved back to his desk, the whisky glass cool against his palm, and stared at the spot where Fudge had stood. The man’s transformation had shocked him— from pompous bureaucrat to haunted messenger. The weight of unspoken trials and tribulations had been evident in every line of Fudge’s face.

It was, however, what Fudge hadn’t said that troubled the Prime Minister most. The careful omissions, the sideways glances, the suggestion that the magical world’s problems would inevitably become his problems. His fingers tightened around the glass. He had spent a long time building walls between their worlds, maintaining the fragile fiction that magic and reality could coexist without interference.

Now those walls were crumbling, and he was expected to simply accept it.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips as he took another drink. Accept it? No. He had not risen to this office by accepting the unacceptable. If Fudge thought he would simply sit idle while both worlds burned, then perhaps the wizard hadn’t researched him very well.

Though it makes sense for them to dismiss us so easily. Edward set his glass down with deliberate care. There were contingencies in place— preparations made long ago for precisely this kind of situation. Fudge’s magical war might be beyond his control, but he was far from powerless.

His gaze drifted to his desk drawer, and the ghost of a smile touched his lips.

The drawer opened with a soft whisper of well-oiled wood against wood. Inside, nestled among mundane office supplies and official papers, sat an unremarkable laptop computer— the kind any mid-level civil servant might carry. But this particular machine had never been used by him, save on two occasions; the first one was when he had been shown how to use it by his predecessor.

His fingers traced the edge of the device as he lifted it from its resting place, muscle memory taking over as he positioned it on his desk. The screen flickered to life at his touch, casting a pale blue glow across his features. The security protocols took a bit of remembering— a series of rapid keystrokes, each character disappearing into the void as soon as it was typed. Then came the retinal scan, the soft red light washing over his eye as the machine confirmed his identity.

His second use of this system was during a crisis in the South China Sea, early on in his career. He’d almost used it during the terrorism scare in Brussels a few years ago, but local authorities had headed it off before the need became necessary.

This time felt different than back then— more desperate. The irony wasn’t lost on him that he was about to use a highly sophisticated piece of technology to respond to a threat from a world that seemed to reject technology entirely.

The black program opened with the same understated efficiency that characterized everything about the machine. No fancy graphics, no unnecessary flourishes— just a simple command prompt waiting for input. The Prime Minister took another sip of his whisky, letting the warm confidence it provided steady his resolve. The wizarding world had its secrets, its hidden powers, its ancient magics and no small number of terrifying creatures.

But the Muggle world, as they so dismissively called it, had powers of its own.

It was time to use them.

After a moment’s hesitation, his fingers found the keyboard. Each keystroke echoed in the quiet office as he typed out the carefully memorized phrase: “The lion stands alone.”

The words hung there on the screen, their simple appearance belying their tremendous significance. This wasn’t just a message— it was a match being struck in darkness. Once he pressed Enter, there would be no going back.

His finger hovered over the Enter key.

Fudge’s words echoed in his mind: “This isn’t your fight.“

Hasn’t it become my fight the moment magical attacks started claiming the lives of British citizens? When train derailments, floods of countless homes and power station failures were revealed as overt acts of warfare?

The Prime Minister took another long drink, emptying his glass. The whisky’s warmth spread through him, but it did nothing to quiet the doubt gnawing at his conscience. If he pressed this key, he would be deliberately violating the long-standing separation between magical and non-magical governance. He would be bringing other world leaders into a conflict they didn’t fully understand.

And yet, he knew that his people needed to be ready, no matter what. His jaw set with determination. His fellows had a right to know. More than that— they had a right to defend themselves. Before doubt could paralyze him further, he pressed Enter.

The message disappeared instantly, swallowed by the black void of the screen. There was no confirmation, no indication that anything had happened at all. Just silence, and the weight of what he had just set in motion.

Would you like me to continue with the fourth prompt?

The Prime Minister rose from his chair, the empty whisky glass forgotten on his desk. His heart pounded against his ribs as he began to pace, each step measuring the distance between his desk and the window. The lights continued to twinkle beyond the window, oblivious to the momentous decision that had just been made in this quiet office.

The silence was deafening. He checked his watch; only three minutes had passed since he’d sent the message, though it felt like hours. His mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last. Had the system been compromised, or worse— had they been discovered?

No, impossible. Wizards barely understood how their old technology worked, let alone anything relatively new.

He paused at the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. The initiative had been tested, of course; there were many simulations, and redundancies built upon redundancies. This was different. This was real, and the stakes were higher than they’d ever been.

His reflection stared back at him, looking older than he remembered. The weight of his decision pressed down on his shoulders like a physical thing. If he was wrong about this, if the system had been compromised… He could already imagine the headlines. The scandal. The collapse of not just his government, but of carefully maintained power structures across the globe.

A sudden, horrible thought struck him: what if Dawlish— his soon-to-be magical minder— could somehow sense what he’d done? Were wizards capable of such things? His knowledge of their capabilities was frustratingly limited, and Fudge had never been forthcoming with details.

He turned back to the laptop, its screen still stubbornly blank. The urge to try again, to send another message, was almost overwhelming. But he knew better. The protocols were clear: one message, one chance. Anything more would risk exposure.

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He reached for the whisky glass, remembered it was empty, but couldn’t bring himself to walk to the cabinet for a refill. He couldn’t take his eyes off that screen.

Then it happened— a soft ping that seemed to echo through the silence of his office. The Prime Minister nearly fell out of his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the polished wood as he leaned forward to stare at the screen.

A single check mark had appeared.

He exhaled sharply, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. One response. One ally acknowledged the call. But who? The system’s security protocols meant he would never know which leader had responded first, just as they would never know it was him who had initiated the contact. As far as they were concerned, they’d received a notification, and a general call to arms. His passphrase was specific to his own computer.

Another ping. Another check mark.

Then another.

The Prime Minister sank into his chair, watching as the confirmations continued to appear. Each checkmark represented a leader like himself— someone who had been entrusted with knowledge of the magical world, someone who had agreed to be part of this silent network of mutual defense.

Ping. Check mark.

Ping. Check mark.

His lips curved into a slight smile as the responses continued to accumulate. The initiative was working exactly as designed. In offices across the globe, other leaders were receiving the message, understanding its significance, and acknowledging their readiness to act.

Each confirmation strengthened his resolve. He wasn’t alone in this anymore. Whatever was coming— whatever horror had transformed Fudge from a pompous bureaucrat into a haunted messenger— they would face it together.

The magical world might have its wands, werewolves and spells, but the non-magical world had something perhaps even more powerful: unity.

The pings slowed, then stopped. The final tally of checkmarks exceeded his expectations.

More allies than I’d dared hope for.

The Prime Minister leaned back in his chair, allowing himself a moment to absorb the magnitude of what had just transpired. The laptop’s screen still glowed with its array of checkmarks— each one a silent promise of support, each one a potential lifeline in the dark times ahead.

He finally got up and grabbed his whisky bottle, pouring himself another measure. This time, the amber liquid seemed less like a crutch and more like a quiet celebration.

Was it the right decision?

The question nagged at him as he swirled the whisky in his glass. In a few keystrokes, Edward had just shattered supposed centuries of careful separation between the magical and non-magical worlds. The initiative would mobilize resources, share intelligence, coordinate defenses— all without the knowledge or consent of the magical authorities.

Fudge and all other officials would be furious if they ever discovered it.

And yet… The Prime Minister took a thoughtful sip, remembering the dismissal in Fudge’s voice, as well as the fear. The magical world was already at war, whether they wanted to admit it or not. That war was spilling over into his world, claiming innocent lives under the guise of accidents and mishaps.

No. He had made the right choice— the only choice, really. His people deserved protection, and if the magical world couldn’t— or wouldn’t— provide it, then they would protect themselves. It was their duty.

He closed the laptop with a soft click, returning it to its drawer. Tomorrow, the real work would begin. Quiet preparations would be made, resources would be shifted, plans would be set in motion. All beneath the surface, all deniable, all necessary.

He raised his glass to the city lights, a silent promise to the millions who slept unknowing beneath them. Whatever was coming, they would be ready.

Edward hoped.