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gettothestabbing · 1 year

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“Upon receipt of unevaluated intelligence information from Australia, the FBI swiftly opened the Crossfire Hurricane investigation. In particular, at the direction of Deputy Director Andrew McCabe, Deputy Assistant Director for Counterintelligence Peter Strzok opened Crossfire Hurricane immediately. Strzok, at a minimum, had pronounced hostile feelings toward Trump.”

“The matter was opened as a full investigation without ever having spoken to the persons who provided the information. Further, the FBI did so without (i) any significant review of its own intelligence databases, (ii) collection and examination of any relevant intelligence from other U.S. intelligence entities, (iii) interviews of witnesses essential to understand the raw information it had received or (iv) using any of the standard analytical tools typicallv employed by the FBI in evaluating raw intelligence,” the report concluded.

“Had it done so … the FBI would have learned that their own experienced Russia analysts had no information about Trump being involved with Russian leadership officials, nor were others in sensitive positions at the CIA, the NSA, and the Department of State aware of such evidence concerning the subject. In addition, FBI records prepared by Strzok in February and March 2017 show that at the time of the opening of Crossfire Hurricane, the FBI had no information in its holdings indicating that at any time during the campaign anyone in the Trump campaign had been in contact with any Russian intelligence officials,” it said.

“In the eighteen months leading up to the 2016 election, the FBI was required to deal with a number of proposed investigations that had the potential of affecting the election. In each of those instances, the FBI moved with considerable caution. In one such matter… FBI Headquarters and Department officials required defensive briefings to be provided to Clinton and other officials or candidates who appeared to be the targets of foreign interference,” it said. “In another, the FBI elected to end an investigation after one of its longtime and valuable CHSs went beyond what was authorized and made an improper and possibly illegal financial contribution to the Clinton campaign on behalf of a foreign entity as a precursor to a much larger donation being contemplated.”

“And in a third, the Clinton Foundation matter, both senior FBI and Department officials placed restrictions on how those matters were to be handled such that essentially no investigative activities occurred for months leading up to the election. These examples are also markedly different from the FBI’s actions with respect to other highly significant intelligence it received from a trusted foreign source pointing to a Clinton campaign plan to vilify Trump by tying him to Vladimir Putin so as to divert attention from her own concerns relating to her use of a private email server,” it said.

“Within days after opening Crossfire Hurricane, the FBI opened full investigations on four members of the Trump campaign team: George Papadopoulos, Carter Page, Paul Manafort, and Michael Flynn. No defensive briefing was provided to Trump or anyone in the campaign concerning the information received from Australia that suggested there might be some type of collusion between the Trump campaign and the Russians, either prior to or after these investigations were opened. Instead, the FBI began working on requests for the use of FISA authorities against Page and Papadopoulos.”

“Our investigation determined that the Crossfire Hurricane investigators did not and could not corroborate any of the substantive allegations contained in the Steele reporting. Nor was Steele able to produce corroboration for any of the reported allegations, even after being offered $1 million or more by the FBI for such corroboration.

“The FBI learned that Steele relied primarily on a U.S.-based Russian national, Igor Danchenko, to collect information that ultimately formed the core allegations found in the reports. Specifically, our investigation discovered that Danchenko himself had told another person that he (Danchenko) was responsible for 80% of the ‘intel’ and 50% of the analysis contained in the Steele Dossier.”

“In December 2016, the FBI identified Danchenko as Steele’s primary sub-source. Danchenko agreed to meet with the FBI and, under the protection of an immunity letter… the FBI conducted multiple interviews of Danchenko regarding, among other things, the information he provided to Steele,” it said. “Danchenko was unable to provide any corroborating evidence to support the Steele allegations, and further, described his interactions with his sub-sources as ‘rumor and speculation’ and conversations of a casual nature. Significant parts of what Danchenko told the FBI were inconsistent with what Steele told the FBI during his prior interviews in October 2016 and September 2017. At no time, however, was the FISC informed of these inconsistencies. Moreover, notwithstanding the repeated assertions in the Page FISA applications that Steele’s primary sub-source was based in Russia, Danchenko for many years had lived in the Washington, D.C. area.”

“The FBI knew in January 2017 that Danchenko had been the subject of an FBI counterintelligence investigation from 2009 to 2011. In late 2008, while Danchenko was employed by the Brookings Institution, he engaged two fellow employees about whether one of the employees might be willing or able in the future to provide classified information in exchange for money. According to one employee, Danchenko believed that he (the employee might be following a mentor into the incoming Obama administration and have access to classified information. During this exchange, Danchenko informed the employee that he had access to people who were willing to pay for classified information.”

“The FBI converted its investigation into a full investigation after learning that Danchenko (i) had been identified as an associate of two FBI counterintelligence subjects and (ii) had previous contact with the Russian Embassy and known Russian intelligence officers… at that earlier time, Agents had interviewed several former colleagues of Danchenko who raised concerns about Danchenko’s potential involvement with Russian intelligence. For example, one such colleague, who had interned at a U.S. intelligence agency, informed the Office that Danchenko frequently inquired about that person’s knowledge of a specific Russian military matter.”

You can read the report here.

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bloodoftigers · 2 years

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Magician’s Secret

The Phantom of the Opera x Harry Potter magic crossover story. (FFN / AO3)

Worlds collide as the Opera Ghost gains an unexpected accomplice in the form of a witch from Hogwarts. In this twisting iteration, dark wizards descend upon the Paris Opera House in search of the Elixir of Life and the Elder Wand.

Chapter 01 - (4,570 words) Dreams of a Witches’ Sabbath

❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖

A ravaging rip echoed over the lake.

His fingers paused, hovering over the ivory keys. Despite the power of his pipe organ, the distant rumblings tore his mind away from composing. He rose and curiously walked towards the water's edge. Rounding a corner of the underground cavern an odd breeze blew past. It was too strong to be the usual drafty chill. Flickering candlelight cast twisted shadows over the room but his eyes saw through it to the middle of the lake. Something was amiss.

Standing from the shoreline he felt the wind picking up until a large gust blew all the candles out. He fastened a cloak around his shoulders before stepping onto his gondola and began paddling to the disturbance. As he neared the center the wind stopped altogether and the choppy waves calmed. The black water reflected only darkness. He started to suspect some rare weather anomaly had to be thrashing the exterior of the opera house to feel it so far down below. A winter storm was plausible, he expected a great deal of snow to fall in the evening.

Just as he was about to turn back he noticed a sickly green light emanating from beneath the surface. The ripples obscured a clear view. Leaning forward he peered into the deep lake and wondered what trick of the light would cause it. This area was too many stories removed from the streets of Paris to receive direct sunlight. Perhaps a stroke of good fortune would lead him to discover a cluster of emeralds. While maintaining his balance in the gondola he leaned downwards to inspect the rising bubbles. They grew from one or two to a whole fountain and with it, the green light shone brighter.

Before he could decide how to proceed a column of water erupted. Recoiling from the blast he was stung by icy droplets. The rising water sprouted high and in the resulting waves, his fingers dug into the steering oar to steady himself. Green hues danced over the surface as he began to worry about flooding. Suddenly, the reverse waterfall dissipated and the light vanished.

He dropped his tensed shoulders and exhaled sharply. Some extremely rare weather indeed, he summed it up to trapped air pockets in the lake's depths being released matched with exposed toxins in the air to create the illuminating display. He resolved to return to his affairs as if nothing had happened until he saw the body floating toward him. It was a female, young, with long hair and luckily orientated faceup. He reached out to grab her to check if she was dead. He could not tell for certain from looks alone as she had not yet started to decay.

Pulling her onto his gondola he was surprised to find her completely dry. She was cold to the touch with a faint pulse, her eyes remained closed. She appeared as if in deep sleep or otherwise unconscious. She wore some type of student uniform, whether it was from a boarding school or university he could not decide. Her age was eluding him. She appeared to be around the ages of the chorus girls and ballet dancers, but he did not recognize her from anywhere. Her clothes were not of the latest fashion and they were too unusual to be some new costume idea. She wore a heavy black cloak but he could see underneath there was an odd green robe.

A thud sounded against the boat's hull, he turned and saw a broom floating in the water with a small bag wrapped around its handle. He suspected that his lack of sleep and food was contributing to this mystifying dream. Regardless he plucked both items up and stowed them on board.

He steered them both back across the lake to his home. In his mind, he considered all of the places to return her to, assuming she was a member of the opera company in some way. Dropping her off in the dormitories could suffice but he liked the spectacle of leaving her on the stage for someone to find later in the morning. That was if she survived long enough to be discovered.

The gondola curled up the gravel banks of the lake. Checking her heartbeat again he felt it growing weaker. He leaned in close to her, his head hovering above her chest as he listened intently for any signs of breath. Just as with her pulse, her breathing was almost inaudible. Solemnly he moved his featherweight touch from her neck to her head. His fingers laced through her hair searching for any signs of injury. After finding nothing to indicate any damage he turned his attention to her face. She was still unconscious and looked rather plain.

Her complexion was fair enough, though, at the moment she looked disturbingly pale. Her hair was dark brown and fell past her elbows. Her mouth was mismatched with a thin upper lip and a full lower. Her bone structure was average with no prominent features in her cheeks, nose, or jawline. He cupped the side of her face, so gently as if she were to crack at any moment and looked at her still closed eyes. Delicately he lifted one lid open, it was dull and unfocused. He opened the other and felt once more for a pulse, he sensed none. With silent regret, his hands fell away as he sat back on the bench. He mulled over what could have caused her death and how she could have ended up in his lake unannounced.

With a sigh, he grabbed the broom and bag to bring into his house. He tied the gondola to its post and carried the peculiar things inside to inspect before taking her body upstairs. There seemed to be nothing of great intrigue regarding the broom, aside from its rigidly warped build and inability to sweep properly. Two pegs were sticking out of it on either side that appeared to be a type of self-holding stand. The small bag wrapped around its handle did interest him and he proceeded to spill the contents onto his drawing-room table. Only, nothing fell out of the bag, and when he reached his hand in to check he was shocked to find his whole arm would fit inside. There was a multitude of things in that bag of impossible size.

His fingers brushed over something wooden and narrow, he pulled out a stick with ornate details carved into it. It was longer than his forearm and caused his mind to spin with how it could be done to trick concealment of a long stick in a bag that was a fraction of its length. He looked over it in great interest and could not find anything pointing to it being bendable or otherwise collapsible to break down in size. Not to mention any of the other objects he felt that were of various sizes.

Resigning to properly examine his newfound discoveries later he stowed away the broom, bag, and stick. Leaving his house for a second time that night he locked the door behind him and very nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight before him. Had he been anyone but himself he would have surely flinched and maybe even screamed.

The girl was standing on the shore, facing the lake. He did not hear her stir and returned to the land of the living, though with him 'living' may have been better exchanged for the dead. He was certain that he had felt her heartbeat fade away into nothing and her last breath a mere wisp of mist. Yet, there she was standing before him.

"What part of the castle is this?" She asked, her voice unexpectedly calm.

"My dear this is an opera house, not a castle."

She turned to face him. "You're lying..." She spoke with obvious hesitation.

"I may be many foul things but a liar is not one of them."

"Well where are we then, and who are you?" Her northern English accent became more apparent.

"We are beneath the Palais Garnier," he began to inform her, watching closely as her expression grew more concerned. "I am known by many names and it would seem your fellow ballet brats have failed to enlighten you with tales of the most exaggerated kind regarding me."

"I'm not in any ballet." She said, her brows furring together. He was already suspecting a great many things about her identity if this was not some lavish dream of his sleep-deprived mind. "The Paris Opera House?" She asked, having trouble believing him.

"Yes, that one." He confirmed. Her face fell and he wished to hear her thoughts at that apparent revelation. "Now, will you tell me who you are and why you have entered my domain?"

"I don't know how I got here…" she replied trailing off. He had yet to see anyone lose their senses in this way. The manner of her addled state was wearing thin on his patience. She appeared to be undisturbed by his masked presence.

"What is your name?" He asked, putting all of his talents of persuasion into his voice.

"My name is-" She cut herself off, she opened her mouth again as if to speak but resisted his honeyed tones.

"Go on."

She turned wary now, her guard had come up and maybe it was something in his yellow eyes, or perhaps as she became more aware a veil was removed on her observations of his unnatural being.

"Is this some kind of test?" She spoke with a hint of dread.

"More so for me than it is for you, as you have yet to truthfully answer any of my questions."

"I'm not lying to you!" She insisted. "I don't know what happened before I woke up on this boat."

"This is a poor attempt of yours to convince me otherwise." His voice turned cold. "Tell me, are you here to murder me? You should know that many have tried over the years and I don't see why you would be successful when all others have failed." He finished darkly, dripping with sardonicism.

"Why would anyone want to kill you?" She asked softly.

With unexpected glee, he let out a high hair-raising laugh. He was beside himself cackling at the betrayal of her innocence. He knew she was no assassin for she had no means to kill him aside from her bare hands which could never hope to outmatch his own.

She was unnerved by his outburst and desperately wished to wake from this ensuing daze. Her thoughts ran rampant with the possibility of having accidentally consumed a potion of sorts that had culminated in this budding nightmare. She refused to believe what he had told her.

"You must forgive me for it has been so very long since I have heard such humorous words."

She said nothing. His insanity was worrying her about what he was capable of. Feeling afraid of the unknown she reached for her wand… but it was not in her robe's pocket. Alarm rushed through her, spurred on by his seemingly all-knowing gaze as if he could hear her crying out in despair of having lost it.

"Where is my wand?" She demanded, not caring who this man was.

"Ah, that magic word! If you refer to that gaudy stick then it is properly hidden away, along with other curious items."

"Give me back my things! My wand, you can't use it, it won't work for you, just return-"

"That funny little bag of yours works wondrously for me." He interjected, reveling in her flailings. "What trick do you use to give the illusion of being larger on the inside?"

"Please," she begged. "Please give them back to me."

"Interesting, you seem to have forgotten a certain broomstick that looks poorly adept for sweeping."

She froze and said nothing.

"You know, you could still be burned for having something like that."

She remained silent, her fists were balled in rage and her face was hard pressed to not react further. Overwhelming feelings of gloom and danger washed over her. His efforts to rattle her had worked in his favor and she was not skilled enough with wandless magic to do anything to him. His threat nearly made her tremble and it took all of her remaining resolve not to.

"Now," he started to carefully walk towards her. "Why don't you come with me inside where you can tell me all about these magical possessions of yours." He reached out to grab her arm and with a cracking sound she was gone. The noise reverberated over the cavern as he stared at her absentee space, tremendously impressed. Faster than he could react she had completely disappeared from before him. So, there was something special about her after all!

With a wicked grin, he turned on his heels to enter his house in search of paper and ink. He would not let her escape with all that knowledge concealed from him. He had once been referred to, among other things, as the prince of conjurers but she was unlike anything he had ever seen.

Hastily he whipped out his quill and began scratching away his grand design. He wrote details for a pact he schemed for her to enter into with him. As of the last several years, he had been preoccupied with composing his opera and planned to sleep forever after it was complete but now he was all too interested in the higher mysteries of the world. In due time he would finish his magnum opus, though along the way he sought to squeeze every last drop of knowledge from her.

He was not concerned with her sudden departure for he knew the items in his possession were too precious for her to leave for good. People had such interesting weaknesses. He hid her broomstick and bag away so that only he could retrieve them, though he imagined that with magic one could do anything. Magic was real! He could scarcely believe it was true and yet there was no other way to describe her actions. He relished in the sensation of having her at his disposal to show him how to wield this force to be used for his every whim and wish.

Upon finishing his contract he capped his ink jar and placed it in his coat beside the feather quill. Taking one last glance over his writing he blew on the parchment to be certain it was dry before rolling it up. He slid her wand up his sleeve for safekeeping. Before leaving he put on a pair of gloves and his brimmed hat.

Letting his mind wander he considered all the places she could have disappeared to. He settled on the rooftops, deducing that she would not believe they were truly in a foreign land to her without seeing it for herself. She seemed to know something about Paris in recognizing the opera house's alternative name. He expected that she would try to remain alone and sort out the situation on her own rather than running rampant in the streets for the nearest sign of life. She seemed to have some wits about her and would notice the late evening hour. Not to mention, most of everyone would be blissfully asleep tonight anyways.

He set out for the roof with an unusual jaunt in his step. He had not felt this energized in years. The prospect of this magical prize had elevated him from his recent boredom slump of dealing with the opera house managers. In his ascent to the highest point of the building, he pondered over why she would come here, to begin with. It must be a gift of the season to have an opportunity such as this in his grasp.

Slipping through his numerous secret passageways he emerged out into the cold night air amidst the Parisian skyline. Fresh snow had fallen and snowflakes continued to drift in the air. Off in the distance, to the southwest, the Eiffel Tower stood as a tall beacon in the dark. Around the opera house, various buildings glowed in the gentle flickering light. He did not have far to look before spotting her lying in a heap of snow.

Quietly he made his way down from near Apollo's Lyre to where she was. As his approach drew near he heard faint noises emanating from her and realized she was crying. He also smelled something sour and noticed a nearby puddle of wretchedness. For a moment he paused, pitying her in that sorry state. To somewhat respectfully alert her to his presence he made no effort to soften his remaining steps.

Hearing the snow crunch underfoot she managed to stand but she looked more unsteady than she had been in his lair. She stood near the edge of the rooftop and for the first time looked down at the street and noticed holly and evergreen decorations. Her hair and robe were littered with snowflakes. She said nothing to him, though he could see she was troubled with reddened eyes and a sniffling nose.

"Will you tell me what you are called now?" He asked mildly.

"Lindsey Durham." She said dejectedly. The light snowfall was growing.

"Splendid mademoiselle," he said, trying to allure her. "I have a contract here for us."

Slowly he retrieved the paper from his breast pocket and outstretched his hand to her. Her glistening eyes looked down at his offer. When she reached out to touch the parchment it floated loose from his glove to hover in the air. It unfurled itself, displaying the red ink.

"In short, Miss Durham, I seek for you to enter my service for as long as I deem necessary to utilize your abilities. Henceforth, you will be bound to me completely and wholly without fault to carry out any task I might ask of you. Upon entering this deal you will not seek out any means to bring me to harm or undermine my instructions in any capacity. Furthermore, you will not partake in anything relating to an attempt to break this agreement. If you do any of these prohibited actions or try to flee from my commands I will detonate the explosives hidden around the opera house. In return for your faithful obedience, I will provide you with suitable accommodations here within the opera house and I will save you from certain death by not revealing your true nature to anyone."

"And what is my true nature?" Lindsey sounded hollow, reading over his many detailed words.

"You are a magic user, a magician, a sorceress, a witch, or whatever other titles."

Snowflakes swirled around them. He pulled out his feather quill and ink jar for her. She took the quill, resigning to his will. With a rough swallow, she dipped into the scarlet well. Spinning the quill between her fingers she hesitantly looked at him.

"What day is it?" A plain question she asked him, and their eyes met.

"It is the 24th of December." He answered. It was almost midnight.

"Year?"

He almost scoffed at her, thinking she sought to stall him. "1880."

She stifled a cry and closed her eyes as another tear spilled out onto her stained face. Her hand shook slightly over the contract.

"Is there a problem?" He questioned her hesitation.

"I am not from this century."

Before he could ask what she meant exactly by that Lindsey signed her name and date, agreeing to his terms. Greed flooded through him, and finally, he would learn the greatest forms of illusion. He imagined a great many ways to use magic to heighten his skills and-

A nearby clock chimed out the new hour and with it came heavier snowfall.

"Come." He instructed her, gesturing to where he had entered from. "I will show you to your room for the evening, lest you freeze out here in this wasteland."

"Is it back down by the lake?" She asked.

"Yes." That was all he managed to say before she took his arm and suddenly he felt like he was being pulled through a pipe. His vision went black and he feared that she had unleashed horrors on him. Just as quickly as it started it was over. His shoes landed on the familiar ground standing outside his front door. He braced his arm against it to steady himself. The weight was lifted from his body and he began to breathe again. She stood beside him as if nothing had happened.

"What was that?" He demanded of her.

"Apparition," she started explaining. "One of the forms of transportation where we appeared here instantly without traversing any of the space in-between."

"Next time, warn me." His insides were churning from the experience. "Better yet, alert me before you do any magic."

"As you wish." Lindsey's face was dry now but she still looked pale.

She followed him inside to the drawing room and was taken back to see such opulent furniture and decorum. There was a grand piano, a harp, a couch, chairs, a coffee table, rugs, and a wide assortment of candles. It was quite the sophisticated abode for its dungeon-like location.

He led her past a dining table and into a marble-floored hallway. In a fluid motion, he grabbed one of the smaller candelabras. They walked by one dimly lit room before arriving at a second. Lindsey wondered how many rooms there were and why he would need them. From his dress clothes and cape, she had first thought he was a wizard, though he seemed to not recognize magic and thus would be unlikely to know Hogwarts or Beauxbatons.

"You will stay here for now," he detailed to her. "Once the company has returned from the holiday break I will move you upstairs to the ladies' dormitories." He placed the candle holder on the table.

This little room was simply furnished by comparison. There was a wooden bedstead, a sofa, and a large dresser among other things. Off in the far wall, she noticed another door, peering inside further it led to a modest bathroom. Lindsey turned back to face him and hoped when she woke she would remember this dream. Her wild creativeness was unexpected to this degree of lucid detail. He watched her look about the bedroom.

"Earlier, you said you were known by 'many names', what should I refer to you as?"

"You may call me Erik."

"Do I get to keep my wand now?" Lindsey asked as she brandished her wand from her robe sleeve. His lip curled at her deception. As soon as she spoke he realized the stick was no longer tucked away on him and that she must have retaken it when they went through the magic portal down here.

She muttered something unintelligible to him and from her wand tip sprouted tiny flames that fanned around the room to all the unlit candles. Bathed in the soft light she had a slightly smug expression. His eyes narrowed in irritation and he had half a mind to drop her back in the lake. The price of her magical madness would be his patience.

Seeking to enthrall him she cast another spell and this time the flames poured into her outstretched hand. She was holding fire, soft crackling fire, in her bare hand. The shivering light raised many questions in his head. He wanted to know if it was warm yet unburning if it would grow like normal fires if it would last forever, and how long would it take to learn this spell of hers along with all her other secrets.

Her hand was held out to him as if she meant for him to take the flame. He stepped closer to her with his eyes fixated on the magic. He reached out gingerly, some small part of him concerned with singeing part of his gloves.

Quick as a snake his hands lashed out, one grabbed her fiery wrist and the other closed around her wand in hand.

"I thought I told you to warn me before doing any magic, girl." He leered at her. The fleeting delight she may have felt was gone now and the fire faded away into nothing. He ripped the wand away from her hand and turned to lock her in the room. Leaving her behind in a daze he planned to check in on her in the morning.

"If I am allowed my wand I can heal your facial wounds."

Her voice was soft, with a hint of trepidation. She had not moved from her previous conjuration. He twisted to face her, slowly, hardly daring to believe the words spoken. He stalked towards her. She was unflinching. He stopped directly in front of her with no room for light between them, glaring down at her.

"And what is so wrong with my face that begets your need of fixing?" He asked harshly, fueled by mocking naivety.

"Why else would you wear such a mask?" She spat back. "You can't be that stupid in concealing your identity to only cover half of your face so there must be something wrong with the other side. Besides, it's apparently Christmas Day and you are down here all alone so you must not have any family or friends or anyone who cares about-"

He silenced her by seizing her shoulders. Gripping her tightly he regained a hold of his anger. Hearing her speak touched a nerve and he would not listen to it from anyone. Usually, he was not bothered with things like this, for some reason she had gotten under his skin. He would not let her see how accurate her assumptions were, not now, not ever. He needed her magic and would see it through to completion. After that, he could always drop her off at the asylum for scrambled minds and be done with it.

"In the future, I trust you will not mention my face again, for if you do I will break this wand of yours in half and burn the pieces." With a forceful shake, he released her and walked towards the door. She said nothing in return and watched him leave. Just before closing the door, he threw his voice out to sound just behind her:

"You forget I am not alone, you are down here with me too."

He locked it behind him and headed back for the drawing room. Leaving her to waste away the remaining hours of the night he cared not if she cried herself to sleep. He did not trust her and she was far too emboldened for his liking. The reality of her situation would dawn soon enough and then they might make some accomplishments. Customarily everyone feared him to varying extents, just mere suggestions of his presence sent the opera house into a panicked frenzy, never mind actual glimpses.

In his frustrations, he unburdened himself by playing away on the piano. After a few hours, he grew tired and retired to his room. He paused outside her door and listened intently, hearing nothing. Hoping she had gone to sleep he entered his room to at last collapse in an exhaustive slump.

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