Chapter 85: Undercurrent
By the end of 1933, the worst of the Great Depression had begun to recede. Signs of stabilization emerged across key industries. With the backing of President Roosevelt and a well-timed gold payment, George had finally secured a seat on the Federal Reserve Board — a position long kept behind closed doors by century-old families. Now, sitting at the same table as the Rockefellers and Morgans, George was no longer just the outlier with money. He was a player they couldn't ignore.
But his rise hadn't been without its shadows. There were scores to settle — some from years ago, buried under polite handshakes and hushed conversations. George hadn't forgotten. And now, he had the leverage to act.
He was in the sunroom that morning, tea steaming at his side, as he reviewed the files. A sharp knock sounded at the door, followed by Fred's familiar voice.
"Master Orwell, everything's been set in motion," the younger Fred said, entering with his usual calm. His father, the elder Fred, had officially handed over household duties, and the son had taken to the role with a quiet seriousness that George respected.
"Tomorrow morning's papers will lead with the Delaware Senator," Fred continued. "The first in a series. The follow-ups will point directly to the DuPonts. We've already placed cooperative editors at the Times and the Post."
George didn't respond immediately. He simply stirred his tea once, watching the steam curl up and vanish into the air.
"Good," he said finally, setting the spoon down. "No loose ends. Not this time."
Fred gave a small nod. "None. We've got people in every office, they'll try to lean on."
The next day, the story hit every major front page.
"The Nation's Greatest Scandal."
Headlines outlined illegal lobbying, behind-the-scenes manipulation of Delaware's legislative process, and a trail of bribes that led straight to the DuPont family's inner circle. And while most Americans were too busy rebuilding their lives to care much about political corruption, the timing was perfect.
The country was still raw from economic ruin. And the idea that a powerful family had gotten richer while millions went hungry? That was enough to keep the fire burning.
More reports followed, each one more damning than the last. Leaked documents, anonymous witnesses, and even a senator's handwritten note implicating the DuPonts. It wasn't just a scandal. It was a collapse.
By late October, the phone in George's study rang. It was Rockefeller.
They hadn't spoken directly in years, but George answered with the same calm tone as always.
The conversation was long. Formal, measured. Rockefeller tried to feel him out. George kept his cards close, offering no hint of satisfaction.
When the call ended, arrangements were made. The DuPont family relinquished control of their patents and handed over the lion's share of their General Motors shares at a valuation that bordered on insulting. Their top lab personnel, once untouchable, had been quietly poached and now worked inside Orwell Research under very generous contracts.
Three members of the DuPont family were handed over — publicly scapegoated for the entire affair. As far as George was concerned, that chapter was closed.
What people didn't see, what never made it into the papers, was the long trail of misfortune that followed the DuPonts in the years after. Car accidents. Mysterious illnesses. Sons who enlisted and never returned. Even illegitimate children hidden away were eventually found. George hadn't ordered all of it — not directly. But when you shake a tree that size, things fall.
Meanwhile, Hitler had taken complete control in Germany. As Chancellor, he gave John Schmidt even greater authority. HYDRA was no longer a secret, at least not behind closed doors. Dr. Zola had joined Schmidt's inner circle, and the two had begun serious research into weaponized exosuits and human enhancement. Erskine's experiments, long held in secret, were finally making progress.
And in the background, quiet but growing, was a young Howard Stark.
Just seventeen, Stark had already landed several major contracts. George, having divested from military manufacturing post-DuPont, had left a vacuum, and Stark Industries rushed in. With George's indirect blessing, the boy was climbing fast.
Back on Hogwarts Island, everything had changed again.
From the outside, the island looked mostly the same — a misty silhouette off the coast, with its bridge and iron gates and the quiet hum of life beyond. But inside, it had grown. Literally. With the help of new runic spell formations George had brought back from Kamar-Taj, the island's interior space had expanded by threefold.
There were now new residential wings, vast training halls, underground garages, and rows of modular housing where Hagrid's old hut used to be. These units weren't for guests — they were for soldiers.
The Iron Order. That was what they were called now.
The name had been Ryan's idea, actually. One night, over a late dinner and a bottle of wine, they'd been discussing the structure of George's private security forces. Ryan said it should be something that sounded old, like it had existed for centuries. Something that implied discipline, strength, and permanence.
George agreed. "The Iron Order," he repeated then, and it stuck.
It had started with only a few dozen men. Now, over 500 fully trained operatives made up the core. They weren't mercenaries. They were handpicked. Some were former soldiers, others ex-detectives, athletes, or martial artists. Each had sworn loyalty through spell and oath.
They were divided into tiers. Operators for external missions, Guardians for internal security, and Sentinels who worked directly under George's command.
Separately, within the underground world — the former High Table George had absorbed — there were another 300 operatives trained for more covert work. These weren't the ones in uniforms. These were the quiet ones. The ones who moved through cities like shadows.
But George didn't stop there. Since 1932, he had ordered Ryan to start recruiting orphans and homeless teenagers. The Depression had left tens of thousands on the streets. George took in a thousand of them.
They were now in training. Not just with weapons or magic. They studied languages, history, navigation, survival tactics, urban operations, and magical theory.
They were called Iron Cubs.
Boys and girls, ages eight to sixteen, were raised on the island. Trained like cadets. They'd be the next generation. And when they were ready, they'd serve.
On November 1st, George stood once again in the chamber hidden beneath the castle.
The spell circle in the Chaos Space glowed steadily.
Two years of accumulated energy shimmered like a halo above the platform. George didn't waste time. After running multiple small-scale tests, he'd selected the World he would cross into next.
The Suicide Squad Universe.
It wasn't the most stable place, and certainly not the safest, but George wasn't interested in fighting or fame. He was after information.
Weapons. Ballistics. Energy tech. Civilian infrastructure. This World had a lot to offer, especially in the fields of applied technology and black-market innovation.
The plan was simple. George would send a Clone through first. They'd operate quietly, gain access to libraries, labs, and local networks, and send back everything useful.
After arriving, George's Clone didn't waste time. He raided a criminal hideout, found an identity that wouldn't raise eyebrows, and assumed it. He cleared out enough cash from their stash to fund himself without needing another theft.
He used subtle illusions and low-key spells to stay out of the spotlight.
Over the next thirty days, he copied every book worth reading. From engineering manuals to criminal syndicate ledgers. The trick was the Mirror Dimension — it let him bypass cameras and guards — and the "Geminio" charm, which let him copy pages without needing to steal originals.
By the time his energy shield ran out, George had amassed two satchels full of knowledge.
But not everything went according to plan.
He'd attempted to bring out two small birds — live specimens — to test the boundary of biological transport. When he returned, the birds were dead. Perfectly preserved, but lifeless.
That told him one thing: clones might be able to cross, but live cargo was still unstable.
He didn't call it a failure. Just one more step toward understanding the system. One day, perhaps the real body — not a Clone — would be able to travel safely. But not yet.
As George sorted through the copied material, he did the math in his head. The Cross itself cost ten units of energy. Every day he stayed in the other World cost one. Meaning his thirty-day operation had burned forty energy points.
The Chaos Pearl could only absorb one energy point per day under current conditions.
It was going to be a slow process.
Still, he wasn't in a rush. The pieces were in place. America had stabilized. His economic influence reached every major institution. Hogwarts Island had become its own ecosystem. The Iron Order was growing in both strength and number.
And George?
George was still patient.
Because power wasn't just about holding a sword.
It was about knowing when not to draw it.
_____________________________________________________________________________
PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS
Part II: The Waiting Days
The first thing Gardner noticed was the warmth.
It hit him like a wall when the doors opened — dry, clean air carrying the smell of bread, bleach, and boiled cabbage. After days on the street, it was overwhelming. It took his breath before he stepped in.
The boy had stopped shivering. Still asleep, his tiny face pressed into Gardner's chest. A nurse with copper-red hair and soft eyes motioned toward a bench.
"Sit," she said gently. "I'll get someone."
He nodded, unable to speak.
He sat with the baby still wrapped tight in his coat, feet aching, spine stiff from the long walk. But the silence in that front room — save for the ticking clock and the quiet shuffle of boots — was enough to bring tears to his eyes.
He blinked them away.
He hadn't cried in front of the boy yet. He wasn't about to start now.
They took him to the third floor — "New Families and Medicals," the sign read.
The room was plain but clean. A row of cots. Thick wool blankets were folded at the foot. Steam hissed softly from a nearby radiator.
Two men helped him lift the baby out of the coat. One of them — a lean, older nurse with weathered hands — pressed the boy's forehead gently, then gave a long look.
"Fever's high," he said. "Looks like an infection. Let's get him on fluids."
Gardner didn't ask what that meant. He just nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
They promised to bring him food. And someone brought it — real food. Not broth, not scraps, but a hot plate with potatoes, beans, and a slice of buttered bread.
He stared at it.
"You're allowed to eat," the woman said, amused.
He looked up.
"I... I don't have money," he muttered.
She tilted her head. "This is Orwell shelter, Mr. Gardner. We don't charge for food. Or heat. Or kindness."
He whispered thank you three times before touching the plate.
By morning, he had slept for nearly twelve hours.
He woke with a sore neck and a crick in his back, but the warmth from the radiator made it feel like waking up in his own home, back before everything broke.
The boy was still there.
Now on a cot near the window, tucked under blankets, cheeks flushed but breathing evenly.
Gardner got up slowly, wincing at the soreness in his knees. A nurse appeared at the door.
"You're awake. How are you feeling?"
"Like I fell off a truck," he said, then stopped. "Sorry. That wasn't polite."
She smiled. "It was honest. Come. There's a clinic downstairs — we'll have a look at you."
He followed her.
The checkup was brief but thorough.
"You're underweight," the doctor said, scribbling notes. "Malnourished. Mild dehydration. And you've got a cracked rib that's healing funny — from a fall?"
Gardner shrugged. "I don't remember."
The doctor paused. "That's what worries me."
They gave him vitamin pills, soft bread rolls, and a schedule: rest, light meals, no heavy lifting. The nurse handed him a bag of clean clothes and told him where the showers were.
By the end of that second day, Gardner had eaten three full meals, bathed twice, shaved, and stood looking at his own reflection in the mirror like a stranger.
His face looked older. But cleaner. Sharper.
He didn't recognize himself. Not in a bad way. Just... different.
The third day, he asked for help.
He found one of the shelter workers, a middle-aged woman with wire glasses and a clipboard.
"Ma'am? I was wondering if there's anything I can do. Not heavy, I know. Just something. Anything."
She raised an eyebrow.
"You're not cleared for lifting."
"I can wash dishes. I can sort things. I did inventory for shipping once, back when I had a job. I'd like to be useful."
She made a note.
"What's your name again?"
"Gardner. Gardner Senior."
She nodded. "Let me see what's open. Check the kitchen back hall tomorrow at ten. Ask for Freddie. They might need help unpacking donations."
That night, the baby coughed again.
Gardner sat beside the cot, one hand lightly on his son's chest. The rhythm of the breath. The way his little fingers curled.
He thought of Maria.
She used to sit like this. When the boy was a newborn, she'd hum to him until both their eyes closed. He could still hear the soft Spanish tune if he tried.
"Maria," he whispered into the dark. "He's safe now. I think... we're both safe now."
A nurse walked by, nodded once. She didn't stop, just offered a kind glance.
He stayed there the rest of the night.
The job with Freddie turned out to be sorting donated clothes.
Jackets, boots, scarves, mittens — all bundled in crates with tags from Boston, Philadelphia, even some from as far as Georgia.
Freddie was a tall man with a wide back and a face that never stopped sweating. He didn't say much, just pointed to the boxes and said, "Sort by size, by type, then by gender. That's it."
Gardner nodded.
"Don't lift anything heavy. I see you bend wrong, I'll kick you back upstairs," Freddie warned.
The work was quiet. Calming.
The old habit of inventory came back to him. He folded sweaters neatly. Sorted gloves into bins. Even wrote up a tracking sheet to help the staff know what they had in stock.
By lunch, Freddie looked over the paper, whistled.
"Didn't ask for all that."
"Sorry. I just thought it might help."
Freddie grunted.
Then he grinned. "It does. Good job, son."
Gardner didn't remember the last time anyone said that to him.
The next few days passed like that.
He helped in the mornings. Sorted clothes, refilled pantry bins, and scrubbed the kitchen floor.
In the afternoons, he sat beside the boy. Sometimes the baby was awake and gurgling, his fever almost gone now, cheeks starting to plump up again. Other times, Gardner would read aloud from old newspapers or worn children's books that the shelter provided.
He didn't need much.
He needed this.
On the sixth day, the clipboard woman found him in the pantry.
"Mr. Gardner."
He turned, hands still holding a crate of canned beans.
"We've scheduled you for an interview next week. Thursday morning. Nothing formal — just sit with the head steward and talk about what you can do."
Gardner blinked. "Interview... for what?"
"For work. On one of Mr. Orwell's operations. It could be logistics, inventory, accounting — they'll see where you fit. But you'll need to be cleared by the clinic. Make sure your health's up for it."
He nodded slowly.
"Thank you," he said, and meant it.
After she left, he put the crate down and stood still for a while.
Then he whispered to himself, "All right. Okay."
That night, Gardner didn't sit by the cot.
He lay down beside his son, not on the cot, just close enough that the boy could hear him breathing.
He whispered something quietly.
"I'm not there yet. But I see the door."
The baby, still half-asleep, rolled over and curled into the blanket.
Gardner watched him until the dark felt soft.
And for the first time in months, maybe years, he didn't feel like a burden.
He felt like a father.
A man again.
And something else too.
Like hope had finally pulled up a chair beside him — and wasn't in any hurry to leave.
End of Part II: "The Waiting Days"
(Next: Part III – The Interview)