[Sept 6] [James Bond] "Do You Believe in Magic?"

[tortillafactory.livejournal.com]

Title: Do You Believe in Magic?
Day/Theme: Sept. 6 - Hogwarts, a life
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond
Rating: PG

James Bond had never been one to make hasty moral judgments. Not unless he had to. But this; this was different.

These people were sick.

Generally speaking, he disliked the dehumanization of one's enemies. (In principle, at least. In practice, he did it almost constantly.) He hated it when people spouted off about how all of "those people" were insane, genocidal, because he couldn't help but think that they'd all been told the same thing about him. It was all a matter of perspective.

He was no relativist, but under his veneer of intolerance, Bond was an understanding man.

But these people were the enemy. They truly were evil, if such a term could ever be appled to any human.

When M had first caught wind of the plot, she thought it was a particularly unfunny joke. Surely, no one could be so needlessly cruel.

"Terrorists," Bond had said to her at the time, feeling very philosophical, "don't fight wars against militaries. They fight against the culture."

"And killing children helps?" M had snapped back, but she knew he was right.

It was unnerving, to be up against such relentless cruelty. Bond felt a cold fear trembling through him, even though he knew exactly what move the terrorists were going to make, exactly where their man's footsteps would fall, he was afraid.

For himself?

Well, maybe not.

Maybe he was afraid for the children.

It was a dangerous thing, to care about one's wards in an operation like this. The entire building of them, 500 strong, was under his sole protection for the next few hours or so, and the worst thing he could do was care whether they lived or died. He had to focus on carrying out his mission with precision and skill, and then everything would be all right.

The celebrity of the hour was arriving. From his perch on an adjacent rooftop, Bond saw only a head of golden hair surrounded by black-suited security officers. She entered through a hidden back-door. She was just one of the victims who would die if Bond failed.

He shook off the thought. There were more important things to worry about.

Bond pressed his eye to the scope of his rifle and scanned the windows. There they were: the eager children, everywhere from three to seventeen, all pressed together and chattering excitedly. Some of them were dressed in makeshift robes and pointed hats, and all clutched the same hardback book to themselves like a treasure. A few parents were thrown into the mix, trying in vain to keep a hold onto their offspring as all chaos broke loose.

If only they knew, Bond thought. The only way to protect them is to run away and never come back.

The celebrity had entered the room.

Bond had a few good hours to wait, so he kept his eyes trained on the streets and alleys, waiting for the man he'd recognize from the grainy photographs. Time dragged. He let his mind wander, but kept his gaze sharp.

As the end of the event neared, Bond began to wonder if the man was coming at all. Things indoors seemed to be coming to a sort of close, refreshments were being discarded, jackets were being slipped back on...

And somewhere down in the alley, there was movement.

Bond's heartbeat quickened. He refocused his scope and steadied himself.

Luckily, their man this time was not a suicide bomber. His plan was to get in and get out, which meant that killing him would end the plot forever. And if that intelligence were faulty, well...

Bond would just have to go on for the rest of his life with the blood of five hundred children of his hands.

C'est la vie.

Suddenly the man came into sight. He was kneeling.

This was it.

Taking a deep breath, Bond pulled the trigger.

It was silenced, and the only noise the bullet made was on impact. As soon as the terrorist slumped to the concrete, Bond was running down the fire escape. Sweat poured down the sides of his face as he dragged the warm body to the blue dumpster down the alley and threw it in, knowing that a few more of MI6's drones would be by in a minute or two to take care of it for him.

And just like that, the job was done. Bond wiped his hands on his trousers and walked towards the front of the building, partially because it was on his way home, and partially because he wanted to see some of the faces he'd saved.

It was an unforgivable sort of sentimentality, but who cared?

The children were flushed, excited, babbling to each other and clutching their books even tighter. One little dark-haired girl in glasses with a lightning bolt scar painted on her forehead brushed right past Bond, and as she did, something slipped from her grasp. Reflexively, Bond reached out and grabbed it.

It was a notebook. No, he realized, it was a book: illustrated and written in crayon, of the sort that children liked to make. A mother had lovingly stapled it together and had the pags laminated. The cover said, simply:

Hogwarts: A Life.

"Excuse me, miss," Bond said. The girl turned.

"You dropped this." He smiled.

"Oh -" the girl went red. "Thank you!" She snatched the book and ran.

The world's next great author? Perhaps.

And for the first time in a while, Bond felt he had done a good day's work.