The Source of Magic

His Satanic Majesty

Chapter 14 ~ His Satanic Majesty

“Look at this!” said Hermione urgently to Harry and Ron, pushing a copy of the Daily Prophet across the breakfast table towards them a week after her adventures in the Future of Darkness.

“What could you possibly find of interest in that pathetic rag?” asked Ron disparagingly. “You know it's just a Ministry of Magic mouthpiece these days — you can't believe a word it says. I don't understand why you still bother getting it; there hasn't been any real news in the Prophet since Fudge took over and put that git Percy in charge of censorship and lies, the bloody —”

“I know all that Ron!” interrupted Hermione in exasperation. “I know it's all Ministry misinformation and tripe, but listen to this!” she said, grabbing the paper back. “After due consideration, the Minister of Magic, the Honourable Cornelius Fudge, has decided that the good offices of the Ministry are not an appropriate vehicle for the dissemination of religious beliefs. The Ministry, he says, wishes to make it clear that this decision should not be taken in any way as a denial, rejection, or indeed doubt, regarding the veracity of the messianic claims currently being made in certain circles regarding The Immortal One. However, the Ministry is bound by statute to uphold the time-honoured principles of the separation of religion and state, and to remain independent and neutral in matters of faith and religious belief. The Minister humbly hopes that in so doing he gives no offence. The rest of the article is just Fudge grovelling to Voldemort, but —”

“What? Voldemort? What's he got to do with all this gobbledygook? And what the hell is it all about?” demanded Ron.

“Isn't it obvious?” asked Hermione snappily.

“No,” said Ron blankly.

“Well, who do you think The Immortal One might possibly be?” she asked.

“Voldemort, obviously,” answered Harry. “But what the hell's he up to now? I can't make head or tail of what it says in the Prophet.”

“Well, reading between the lines,” answered Hermione, “Voldemort is making his move to take over — starting with the Ministry of Magic — and Fudge has realised that he will be nothing more than Voldemort's puppet. So he's finally putting up some resistance.”

“Yeah, but what do you think all that stuff about messianic claims and faith and religious belief is all about?” asked Harry, puzzled.

“I've no idea,” said Hermione shaking her head. “It all sounds rather weird.”

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

The Prime Minister was not having a good day. It was even worse than the time when the President had labelled the European Union part of the Axis of Evil and threatened to bomb the living daylights out of the atheistic bunch of commies. What an unbelievable fiasco that had been. First, he'd attempted to explain at the hastily convened press conference that the President had been misquoted. But some snarky reporter from the Guardian pointed out that the comment had been made on prime time television and offered to replay the speech for him. Then he tried spinning it as a minor misunderstanding — a mere a slip of the tongue. The President meant Soviet Union, not European Union, and had given him his personal assurances that there was — and never had been — any intention of bombing Britain, or any other member state of the EU, for that matter … not even France. But it didn't wash, and some smart-arsed reporter suggested that he inform the President that the Soviet Union had ceased to exist several years ago and recommended sending him a new atlas for Christmas, instead of the usual comic books.

But this was worse … far worse! This had happened right here in Britain, and the Prime Minister had a horrible suspicion he knew who was behind it. “Tell the press I am far too busy to make a statement,” he snapped at his brow-beaten press secretary, Berty Bottoms. “Give them the usual guff about all hands to the deck, manning the guns, no stone unturned, or whatever you think they might swallow. Say the State of Emergency will be lifted just as soon as it possibly can, and, err … there is absolutely no need for panic, and everyone should stay calm, and err … the government advises people in the south of England — particularly those living in and around Wiltshire — to stay at home and … err, have a nice cup of tea, and watch the television for news of further developments.”

As the Prime Minister paused to take a breath, there was the distinct sound of someone coughing softly from the other side of the room. “Who was that?” asked the surprised press secretary, spinning around in his chair. “Did you hear that cough, Prime Minister?”

“Nonsense, you are imagining things, Bottoms. Too much stress, I imagine,” said the Prime Minister, leaping from his chair and almost dragging his bewildered press secretary to the door. “Well, no point in delaying your appointment with the rat pack. Off you go then, Bottoms,” he said, pushing Berty out of his office and slamming the door behind him, before turning to glare at the froglike little man in the dirty painting hanging in the corner of his office.

“To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly respond immediately. Sincerely, Minister of Magic,” said the froggy little fellow.

“Too bloody right it's urgent. Send him right in!” snapped the Prime Minister, feeling a little foolish for barking orders at a picture. He attempted to regain his composure and look a little more Prime Ministerial as he turned apprehensively towards the empty fireplace. Bright green flames appeared from nowhere, and a portly man came spinning out, clutching a lime-green bowler hat in one hand and absentmindedly brushing ash from his long, pin-striped cloak with the other. He looked beleaguered and fraught. The Prime Minister would have felt sorry for him, but he was far too busy feeling sorry for himself. Without even bothering with the niceties of shaking hands and offering his visitor a chair, he immediately lashed out at him, “Alright, so what have you lot done with Stonehenge, then, Sludge?”

“Err … Fudge,” said the Minister of Magic, making an obsequious bow before collapsing wearily into the visitor's chair in front of the Prime Minister's large oak desk.

“What are you talking about?” demanded the Prime Minister, standing belligerently over the exhausted Minister of Magic. “You fudged Stonehenge? What on earth are you on about, man?”

“No, no. You misunderstand me, Prime Minister. It's my name.”

“What the devil?”

“My name is Fudge, Cornelius Fudge — not Sludge.”

“Oh, I see. Yes of course, quite, quite. Well anyway, Fudge, I demand to know what you, err … people have done with Stonehenge. Two nights ago, about ten miles of motorway around Stonehenge disappeared! Great segments of the A303, the A344, and the B360 are all simply gone — along with dozens of vehicles and their occupants! Sixty-six people vanished into thin air! Had it happened during the daytime, it might have been hundreds or even thousands. Where the hell are they all?”

Fudge looked at the floor contritely, shaking his head silently.

“All access roads to Stonehenge have also disappeared. We sent in the army with their tanks and hovercraft and what-not, but they couldn't find it. Then the air force flew helicopters overhead, but they couldn't see it anywhere. Finally, I ordered in the SAS — they're our crack troops, you know — they insist that it's not there! What have you done with it? Have your lot somehow spirited it away? Where have you taken it? I demand that you put it back! Immediately! It's classified as a national treasure and listed by UNESCO as a World Heritage Site. It's priceless! Do you have any idea how many millions in tourist pounds it generates every year? You can't just waltz off with it, man!”

“No one has taken it,” mumbled Fudge defensively.

“Then where the hell is it?”

“Where it always was, Prime Minister, it's just that —”

“Don't talk rubbish, man! If the SAS say it's not there, then it's not there!”

“Oh, it's there alright. It's just that it's been made unplottable —”

“Un-what-able? For god's sake, man, talk sense!”

“If you would only calm down and listen, to me, Prime Minister, I can explain everything.”

The Prime Minister took a deep breath, trying to bring his temper under control. “Whisky?” he asked, picking up a crystal decanter from his desk. Fudge shook his head, but the Prime Minister poured himself a generous shot before sinking wearily into the chair behind his desk. “Well then, explain!” he said, glaring at Fudge across his desk.

“All those big streets … err, what did you call them?”

“Motorways.”

“Well, all the motorways in proximity to the henge have been magically destroyed along with the access roads to the henge. It is with the greatest regret I must inform you, Prime Minister, that the unfortunate Muggles — err, people, that is — who were travelling on the roads at the time will sadly have, err … perished. However, I can assure you that the henge itself is still there, in exactly the same place where it has always been.”

“Then why can no one find it?”

“Because it has been subjected to a variety of magical spells that make it impossible for Muggles — err, non-magical folk — to find.”

“And would you care to tell me why?”

“Why?”

“Yes! Who did it … and why!” screamed the red-faced Prime Minister.

“Well, it wasn't me, Prime Minister — or the Ministry of Magic, so there is no need to yell at me. My situation is already very, very grim, and my nerves are on edge.”

“Pull yourself together man! And don't talk to me about your situation! How about mine?” exclaimed the Prime Minister furiously. “How the deuce am I supposed to explain ten miles of motorway disappearing and sixty-six missing persons?”

“You could say it was one of those exploding thingies you Muggles drop on each other. What do you call them?”

“Bombs!” said the Prime Minister shaking his head in exasperation. “Which is, of course, precisely the story we trotted out to the media. Stonehenge has been declared a disaster area. All traffic is diverted for miles around. The army has set up a huge cordon and sealed off the whole area. ‘Testing for radioactivity', we're saying. For the moment, no one can get in to find out that Stonehenge has gone missing.”

“But it hasn't, I keep telling you; it's just been magically concealed.”

“Which means pretty much the same bloody thing — except to your barmy bunch. And the bomb story has turned out to be a total disaster as well,” said the Prime Minister shaking his head hopelessly.

“Why?”

“Because everyone wants to know who bombed us! We could hardly say it was one of our own bombs, dropped by mistake, now could we? There'd be a god-almighty uproar about how incompetent we are … not a fit and proper bunch to be put in charge of a popgun, and all of that. The press would have a field day! So we had to say we didn't know who dropped it. Now the whole country is baying for blood, and they're demanding we bomb them back.”

“Bomb who?”

“Anyone — the Russians, the Chinese, the French … even the Australians.”

“But aren't the Australians on your side?”

“Well, they are, but a lot of people are pretty annoyed about the way they keep beating us at cricket; so some of the sports fans are claiming it was the Aussies, hoping we'll really hit them for six this time. The radio talkback shows have been running polls to see who people think we should bomb.”

“Really?”

“The French are winning, of course, but a lot of callers want us to bomb the Americans. Everyone's fed-up with the way they push us around — along with everyone else — and act like it's their god-given right to rule the world. I think a lot of older people really miss the old empire and the days when we used to run the show. But bombing the Yanks is going a bit far, I think … just one little bomb on the White House, perhaps … err, just wishful thinking … ha, ha. No, of course we're not going to bomb anyone! Because no one bombed us, did they? It was your bloody lot! I knew it immediately when the first reports came in; but what can I do? I can't tell anyone the truth, not even my own cabinet. If I start going on about witches and wizards and magic, they'll think I've gone loopy and roll me. What the hell am I supposed to do?” he whined pitifully.

Fudge tried to look sympathetic, but really, he was more concerned with his own problems.

“I suppose this was the work of He-Who-Done-It?”

“You mean He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

“Yes him! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Blamed, more like it. You're dead scared of him, as I remember. It was him, wasn't it?”

“Err, yes, it was You-Know-Who.”

“Yes, I do know who, but what I want to know is why?”

“He has decided to turn Stonehenge into a temple, Prime Minister. It was originally built as a place of worship, you know,” he added weakly.

“What the devil has that got to do with it? And who, exactly, does he intend to worship there?”

“You misunderstand me, Prime Minister. He has anointed himself Dark Emperor, and he claims to be the saviour of the wizarding world. He also calls himself the Immortal One and the Dark Messiah. He is demanding that we — the wizarding world — worship him. He has proclaimed Stonehenge to be his temple, where he is to be worshiped.”

“Singular! How utterly extraordinary! Commandeered Stonehenge for his own personal temple? Wants people to worship him? He must be barking mad! Well, I certainly don't intend to worship him, and I doubt very much that the Archbishop of Canterbury, or the Pope for that matter, will be making a pilgrimage to Stonehenge anytime soon.”

“No, they wouldn't be able to find it,” replied Fudge. “In any case, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would not want to be worshipped by Muggles; in fact, he is planning to —” Fudge stopped in mid-sentence; he did not want to alarm the Prime Minister further.

“Yes, I'm listening. What exactly is he planning?” demanded The Prime Minister suspiciously.

Fudge was not going to answer that question; the Prime Minister was already upset enough. Instead, he turned the conversation to the true purpose of his visit. “What I meant, Prime Minister, is that he has been making threats.”

“What kind of threats? Is he planning to add Westminster Abby and the Basilica to his religious franchise?”

“I doubt he would be interested in Christian cathedrals; the Avebury Henge would be more his style — not that there have been any specific threats in that regard, Prime Minister. The threats, to date, have been quite non-specific; but I must warn you: There is reason to believe he may target Muggles, as well as magical folk, if we do not accede to his demands.”

“Which are?”

Fudge sighed deeply. “He is demanding that the Ministry of Magic recognise him as the divine ruler of the wizarding world. He wants to turn the Ministry of Magic into his personal administrative instrument. Amongst other things, we would be required to act as a religious police force.”

“Doing what?”

Fudge sighed again. “Ensuring that all members of the Wizarding community worship him. Surveillance of religious dissenters, non-believers, apostates, and the like … and their elimination.”

“Good god, it sounds like the Spanish Inquisition all over again. Has he been taking lessons from the Ayatollahs in Iran?”

“I don't see how we can possibly comply. To start with, he is demanding the immediate introduction of a new subject at the Wizarding school — to nurture and cultivate faith in him amongst our children. Of course, the Headmistress won't have a bar of it. She has already forbidden members of the Ministry to set foot inside the school. It's an impossible situation.”

“But surely you would not contemplate giving in to him? This fellow is obviously a megalomaniac. You have to wipe him out, along with his followers. There is no other alternative with fanatics like that.”

Fudge shook his head sadly. “As I told you several months ago, Prime Minister, he is too powerful to be defeated. And he has been rapidly gaining in strength since then.”

“I warned you that détente and appeasement would not work. Well, he has to be stopped. I suppose you've come to ask me for help, then?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Look, Fudge, there's no point in being sentimental and squeamish in matters of national security — heads need to be broken. These people are terrorists. I'll get the SAS and our special, secret, anti-terrorist squad to finish him off, along with his followers.”

“How?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said before that these SAS chaps of yours cannot find Stonehenge — even though they know exactly where it's supposed to be. How are they going to attack You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters if they can't find them?”

“Death Eaters?” asked the Prime Minister, warily.

“Yes, it's what he calls his followers. You saw what they did to your motorways. Do you want them to make your army and air force and SAS and secret anti-terrorist squad, and whatever else, disappear, too — along with your Houses of Parliament and the rest of Westminster?”

“No! Definitely not! On second thoughts I think we — what's the word? Muggles? — should stay out of this dispute and let you people sort it out amongst yourselves. After all, it's really none of our damn business, is it?”

“Unfortunately, I don't think this problem can be contained within the wizarding world for very much longer,” insisted Fudge.

“Why not?” asked the Prime Minister warily.

“Well, that's actually why I came to see you today, Prime Minister — to warn you. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is threatening catastrophic consequences if his demands are not met. There has already been one attack, which luckily, was thwarted by a group who have remained steadfastly opposed to him. But he has threatened to up the ante with each attack until we give in to his demands. It is only a matter of time before the attacks move out of the wizarding world and he begins going for larger targets — which means Muggles.”

“Yes, I see what you mean, Fudge. It's tricky, very tricky,” said the Prime Minister, looking rather sheepish. “Err, have you considered giving in to him, then? Ultimately it might be your only option. I mean you know what they say about discretion being the better part of valour….”

Fudge was tired of beating about the bush. “Look, you remember that chap, Hitler? Well, if You-Know-Who takes over, he'll make your Hitler chappie look like a Boy Scout. He'll start with the wizarding world, exterminating everyone whose blood is not pure enough for his liking, and then he'll start on the Muggles — you!”

“What do you mean by not pure enough?” asked the Prime Minister, fearfully.

“Pure, as in magically pure.”

“But we Muggles don't have any magical blood, do we? Does that mean he'll….”

“No one knows for sure, Prime Minister,” replied Fudge, shrugging his shoulders. “He may not exterminate all of you; he may decide to keep some Muggles as slaves.”

“Then you have to stop him! You have to stand up and be counted — no matter what the cost! There must be lots of your people who don't want to live under a fascist, religious regime like that. You have to rally the opposition, stand shoulder-to-shoulder, and all that. You have to fight him! My god, you have to do something!” said the Prime Minister, shaking with fear.

Fudge just sat slumped in the visitor's chair, mumbling meaninglessly to himself.

“Of course, I don't mean you, personally,” said the Prime Minister. “But surely there are people in your world who are prepared to fight for their freedom? Is there no one powerful enough to take on this monster?”

Fudge looked up. “Well, there is a prophecy, Prime Minister, about a wizard who will have the power to fight him, although it is by no means clear that he will succeed.”

“Then what are you doing about it? Do you know who it is? Have you found him, yet?”

“Yes, we know who it is. He is a seventeen-year-old school boy. The previous Headmaster of the Wizarding school had been grooming him, preparing him, I believe, for the day he would fight You-Know-Who. Unfortunately, the Headmaster was killed last year; and as far as I know, the boy is no longer receiving training. As I told you, the present Headmistress is preventing all access to the school — and the boy. I do not know if he is ready yet; I can only hope so. He is our only hope — and yours as well.”

“What is the boy's name?”

“Harry Potter.”

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

“You're doing extremely well, Harry,” said Jason as they flopped down into their bean bags after an intensive training session. It was Saturday afternoon, and Jason had spent the whole day with Harry, teaching him more advanced magic. “Your magical power is stronger every week. I think you'll be ready soon.”

“With the way things are going, I don't have much time, do I?”

“No, you don't; events are overtaking us,” said Jason with a sigh. “But we must not let Voldemort force our hand, no matter what happens. There is no point taking him on until you are ready — completely ready. And anyway, there is still one more Horcrux to destroy before Voldemort can be completely annihilated.”

They sat in subdued silence for a while, before Jason continued. “Unfortunately, it looks like Voldemort is finally making his move. There was a large attack in Diagon Alley, last Monday. Luckily, the Order was ready for it.”

“How did they know?”

“Severus tipped them off, I believe. The Death Eaters weren't expecting any resistance; they were not expecting a fight. The Order had them outnumbered. According to Remus, most of the Death Eaters Apparated away, including Lucius Malfoy, who led the attack — yet another black mark against him with Voldemort. And there has been a further attack since. It wasn't really an attack, but a lot of Muggles were killed.”

“Where? What happened?” asked Harry apprehensively.

“Voldemort has taken over Stonehenge. He's decided to turn it into a temple for his devoted Death Eaters to worship him.”

“What happened to the Muggles?”

“There are three motorways very close to Stonehenge that form a sort of triangle around it — or at least they used to. Several nights ago, Death Eaters, using some kind of wide-area blasting curses, destroyed parts of the motorways — about ten miles in all. The curses also destroyed the cars and trucks travelling along them at the time, killing the sixty or seventy Muggles who were inside. They have made Stonehenge unplottable and used various disillusionment charms, including a variant of the Fidelius Charm, to prevent the Muggles from finding it. To the Muggles, it seems like it just vanished. Their government is using the army to keep everyone away; they're pretending it was hit by a bomb.”

Harry shook his head in disbelief. “Gosh! So this is really it, then!”

“It looks that way,” said Jason, nodding sombrely.

Harry sighed. “Why is Voldemort setting himself up as some kind of saviour? I don't get it. From what Hermione said about the Future of Darkness reality she visited, he didn't do it there. He just called himself the Dark Emperor, but he didn't make everyone worship him.”

“An interesting difference,” said Jason. “My guess is that he's discovered something fairly recently, at least since the Future of Darkness reality diverged, which he did not discover in that reality.”

“Like what?”

“The power of belief,” said Jason.

“You think he's found out about the Source?”

Jason smiled and shook his head. “Voldemort is the last person who would ever discover the Source. He is a true believer in his dark magic and esoteric rituals. No, I think he must have come across some dark, blind-faith magic.”

“Blind-faith magic?”

“Yes, I came across it in Africa. Some charismatic leader convinces his followers that he is a god, or god-like, perhaps a great prophet or saint. He claims to be blessed with supernatural powers, such as immortality or the ability to perform miracles — usually the sort that will make his followers prosperous and wealthy. By worshipping and believing in him, his followers greatly enhance his power. The more followers he can gather, and the stronger and more unconditional their faith, the more powerful he becomes. Essentially, he is using their connection to the Source, forged by their faith in him, to increase his own power.”

“Voldemort will become unstoppable,” said Harry.

Jason smiled, and shook his head. “No matter how many followers he has, his magic will never be as strong as yours — once you are completely connected to the Source. Although I am ambivalent about Trelawney's prophecy, there is one part that strikes a deep cord with me: The bit about he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. I think that power is your ability to connect to the Source. That is something Voldemort would never comprehend.”

“I always thought it meant Love, my ability to love — that's what Dumbledore said.”

“Well, when you connect to the Source, that's exactly what it feels like — Love. Keep working on the meditation, Harry, it's the key to everything. You have mastered the basic exercise of concentrating on the breathing, but you need to put more work into the advanced technique I taught you, of silencing the mind. Do it as much as possible; not just when you are lying down or sitting, but also when you are walking about or involved in mundane activities. Remember: Just observe the thoughts as they arise and let them go, without becoming attached to them or getting involved in them. It will lead you to the Source. When you can connect deeply, at will, then you will be ready to face Voldemort.”

“Jason, there's something that's been bothering me. Why do you always assume that it's me who has to kill Voldemort? I know that's what Trelawney's prophecy says … and my mother's too — but that doesn't stop you from killing him, does it? I remember Dumbledore saying that prophecies are not always right — didn't he say something like that to my mother, as well?”

“Yes, he did, and he was right. In fact, most prophecies do not come true.”

“So you could kill Voldemort, then. It doesn't have to be me, like it says in the prophecies. You're much more powerful than I'll ever be. So why can't you kill him?

“You are very close to forging a permanent link with the Source, Harry. Once you do it, you will be every bit as powerful as me. I may know more magic than you, but I have taught you the most important part of what I know — everything you will need when the time comes to face Voldemort.”

“But why do you keep on insisting that it's me who needs to face him? Why can't it be you?”

“I am not a superstitious person and I've never given much credence to Divination and all of that. But I believe deeply in your mother's gift of the Sight and the truth of her visions. Those visions have marked my life indelibly. At times they seemed to me, personally, like an enormous curse. But I have seen too much of her visions come true to doubt them, now. Even the Future of Darkness, which Hermione visited, transpired just as your mother foresaw it.”

“Yes,” agreed Harry. “I understand all that. But still, if you kill Voldemort he'll be dead — right?

“It's difficult to explain. I feel somehow bound to let the Future of Hope play itself out the way your mother foresaw it. My part in it, my destiny is to teach you what I learned in my travels — not to kill Voldemort. That, according to Lily's vision, is your destiny. If I tried to kill him, I would be somehow going against my destiny — and against Lily's vision. Perhaps I would fail to kill him … maybe I would succeed, but it would not be permanent — and he would come back.

“Your mother's gift of the Sight was a form of magic — a manifestation of the Source. If I went against her visions, I would be denying the Source. I know it doesn't seem rational, but there is far more in this universe than we humans are able to perceive and understand with out limited mental faculties. Deep inside, I feel certain, somehow, that if we let your mother's vision play itself out, then it will end exactly as she foresaw it — with Voldemort's permanent destruction. Trust me on this one, Harry.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a flash of green flames in the fireplace. The Headmistress' head appeared. She looked extremely distressed, and spoke urgently. “There you are, Professor Trolove. Thank goodness I've found you. An owl has just arrived from Madam Rosmerta: A large contingent of Death Eaters are attacking Hogsmeade. They are making their way through the village, causing havoc. They are heading for Hogwarts! I have already sent a message to the Order, but it will take time for them to mobilise. Professors Lupin and Tonks have gone to the main school gates in case the wards are breached. Please go and join them immediately. I will have the other Professors secure the castle from within.”

“Remus and Tonks will be fine at the gates by themselves,” replied Jason. “I think I'll head straight for Hogsmeade and make sure they don't get anywhere near the school. Coming, Harry?”

The Headmistress turned her head towards Harry, whom she hadn't noticed. “Potter? Do you think it's a good idea to take Potter with you? It will be very dangerous. The Death Eaters will immediately target him.”

“Harry can take care of himself, Headmistress. In any case, they will not recognise him — or me. Please get a message to the Order: Tell them not to attack Lucius or Draco Malfoy if they are wearing white gloves!”

“White gloves? Whatever do you mean?”

“Trust me, Headmistress. Sorry, we have to go.”

“Good luck!” she said before her anxious head disappeared. It was obvious she did not understand what Jason intended; and she was clearly uneasy about him involving Harry. But there was no time to debate the wisdom of it now.

“Right, Harry, Tonks tells me you are a master morph-er, so let's see you do Draco Malfoy,” said Jason, turning into a passable imitation of his father, Lucius. “Not bad, Harry, you could have fooled me. Now I'll just transfigure our clothes into Death Eater robes and add some white gloves. We don't want the Order to mistake us for the real thing, now do we?”

“What about masks?”

“No, let's not bother with masks. We do want the Death Eaters to recognise us, after all. Remember to use your wand. Are you ready?” Harry nodded nervously. “Boomerang Shield up the moment we materialise into Hogsmeade, right? I think you are powerful enough to hold it for as long as it will take to deal with this raiding party. If you feel like you can't hold it much longer, send up some white sparks from your wand, and I'll dematerialise you out of there. OK, let's go play Confuse-a-Death Eater,” he said with a wicked grin, grabbing Harry's hand.

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

They materialised outside the Shrieking Shack, which was a little way off the main road through Hogsmeade. It was late afternoon, and the grey wintry sky was beginning to darken. “I've got my shield up,” said Harry. “It looks like most of them are between Zonkos and Honeydukes. How shall we play this?”

“You shoot up to the main road and head towards them, wand blazing, and I'll materialise behind them and start picking them off from the rear. There are no side streets there for them to escape up, so we'll have them trapped. Jump about a bit to make them think you are dodging their curses, OK?” Harry nodded, and Jason disappeared.

Harry ran up to the main road, his heart pounding, the adrenalin surging. After all the months of preparation, he was finally taking the fight to the enemy. As he rounded the corner heading towards the Post Office, he saw the Death Eaters. There were forty or fifty of them, all dressed in their black capes and wearing the traditional Death Eater masks.

The Order had not yet arrived, and the residents of Hogsmeade were not coming out to confront the attackers. They had barricaded themselves in their cellars. Since their main object was Hogwarts, rather than attacking terrified villagers, the Death Eaters contented themselves with blasting things apart and setting fire to anything that would burn as they made their way up the street in an ugly mob.

Harry first tried the spell he used at Ginny's tribunal to incinerate their wands, but it didn't work. Obviously word had gotten out about it, and their wands were magically protected against fire. So he flung an Expelliarmus at the nearest Death Eater, sending him flying forty feet through the air. Fortunately for the Death Eater, he landed on a bunch of his mates, breaking his fall and scattering them like ninepins. Harry decided to use the Impediment Jinx instead; in the heat of battle, it was difficult to regulate his magical energy, and a really powerful Expelliarmus could prove lethal. Before the Death Eaters even realised they were being attacked, Harry had immobilised another five of them.

“Draco! What the hell are you doing here?” snarled a large, hulking Death Eater, advancing on Harry. It was Fenrir Greyback. Harry would have recognised the ugly brute anywhere, even with a mask. He had obviously not seen Draco attacking the Death Eaters. “You and Lucius are supposed to be organising the Dementor attack at Twickenham, tomorrow. What are you doing here?”

“This!” said Harry, hitting the horrid werewolf with an inversion charm, just as Ginny had done while escaping from Voldemort's castle. Greyback suddenly felt like he was hanging upside from the road; he began screaming, as he staggered about, desperately trying to grab hold of something to stop himself from ‘falling'.

Now for some fun, thought Harry. He had just mastered dematerialising and re-materialising. So far, he'd only done it over short distances where he could see his destination, but he was fast and accurate. He began appearing and disappearing rapidly all around the Death Eaters, taking one out each time with either an Impediment Jinx or a Stupefy Charm. He could see Jason on the other side of the Death Eater mob, using his favourite Confundus Charm. They were pairing off and starting to dance briskly up and down the street.

The Death Eaters who were still standing, looked utterly befuddled as they tried to figure out who to blast, while their colleagues waltzed all around them. Why were Lucius and Draco Malfoy here? Why were they attacking them? They didn't dare use the Killing Curse or anything lethal against them: They were rich and powerful, and close to the Master. Of course, they could be Polyjuiced impostors, but then again, maybe not. They might even be under the Imperius Curse or something like that. Still, the Death Eaters attacked them with some very nasty hexes. Those who were unlucky enough to hit their target — or their Boomerang Shield at least — lay writhing or stunned in the street, while Harry and Jason picked off the remaining Death Eaters. They had just taken care of the last of them, when dozens of witches and wizards appeared outside the Three Broomsticks.

“The Order's arrived, whispered Jason. Let's leave them to deal with this lot. I'd rather not hang about to find out whether they got the message about the white gloves. Shall we away?” he asked, taking hold of Harry's hand.

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

The following afternoon, Harry went down to Jason's office after lunch. Jason had asked him to dress warmly in Muggle clothes. “What did the Order do with all those Death Eaters in Hogsmeade yesterday?” asked Harry. “Did they hand them over to the Ministry of Magic? Now Fudge has finally woken up to Voldemort's game and stopped kissing his backside, the Ministry might be some use.”

“Not likely,” scoffed Jason. “Fudge is even more terrified than ever. He and all his departmental heads have taken to sleeping at the Ministry, along with all the Aurors, who are providing a twenty-four hour guard. They're all frightened out of their wits that Voldemort will turn on them because they baulked at trying to force the whole wizarding world to worship him. They certainly won't want to do anything to provoke him further, like openly opposing him or incarcerating Death Eaters, even if they were caught on their way to attack a school.”

“The gutless slug,” spat Harry. “But the Order won't have let them go, will they?”

“No way,” said Jason. “They have been slowly building up their numbers and expanding their operation. They have a number of secret locations where they can interrogate and imprison them. No, we needn't worry about them; we have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Like what?” asked Harry.

“Twickenham.”

“Isn't that a football stadium?”

“Rugby,” replied Jason. “Remember, you told me how Fenrir Greyback said that the Malfoys were supposed to be organising a Dementor attack at Twickenham today?” Harry nodded. “Well, there's a Rugby Test on between England and Ireland this afternoon. The stadium will be packed with fifty or sixty thousand fans. This is what Voldemort has been breeding his Dementors for, a mass attack on Muggles. They'll have the feast of their lives. Just imagine it: hundreds, maybe even thousands of Muggles wandering around soul-less, like zombies. Fudge will have to cave in to Voldemort after that.”

“So are we going to use the Angelus Charm to destroy the Dementors?”

“Exactly, the diners will become the dinner! You're dressed fine for a rugby match; maybe I'll just transform your scarf to look more the part.”

“Hey!” protested Harry, as his yellow and gold Gryffindor scarf turned green, very much like a Slytherin one.

“Relax, patriot,” laughed Jason, unfurling his own scarf to show Harry. “It's just the standard Irish rugby scarf.” It was dark green at the ends, lighter green in the middle, and emblazoned with the word IRELAND. “The Irish fans like to get into their Guinness; so hopefully, they won't notice a couple more fans suddenly appearing amongst them. Obviously, we will not be using our wands. Ready?” he asked, grabbing Harry's hand.

Harry nodded, and the next moment found himself pressed on all sides by a bunch of boozy, Irish rugby fans, cheering vociferously as the Irish team ran out onto the ground. They were soon followed by the English team who were greeted by the Irish fans with jeers, barbs, and boos. When the noise died down, a burly Irishman with a broad, red face turned towards Harry and prodded him with his beer can. “Oi, and where might you be comin' from, laddie? Yer weren't there a minute ago?”

“Yeah, I just got here, I'm a bit late,” mumbled Harry, unsuccessfully attempting to disguise his English accent.

“Hey, yer English, ya bastard. What the fookin' hell you think yer doin' in our stand? Oi, lads! We got ourselves a Brit infiltrator here —” but his words were drowned out by the roar of the crowd as the Irish half-back was passed the ball from the opening scrum and began running forward. Jason, who was the only one who understood what the brawny Irish fan was saying to Harry, quickly Obliviated him. The Irishman blinked, looked at Harry, looked back at his can of Guinness, took a long swig, and turned his attention to the game.

Harry had played a bit of football at his Muggle school, but he had never played rugby or been to a match before. Dudley and Uncle Vernon sometimes watched it on television, but Harry was never allowed to join them. He had no idea what was going on; they hardly ever kicked the ball, like in football, but threw it to each other instead. It seemed like the idea was to wait until someone on the other team had the ball and then pounce on them; it all seemed pretty pointless. Give me Quidditch any day, thought Harry.

The Dementors arrived about fifteen minutes into the game. Harry saw them before he felt them this time. There were so many that they darkened the sky as they swarmed above the ground. The Muggles could not see them, but they noticed the sky darken suddenly on the clear, sunny, winter's afternoon — and they could certainly feel them. The rugby players stopped running and lost interest in the ball. They looked around, bewildered and frightened. Soon the fans stopped puzzling about what had happened to the game and began shaking in fear. The Dementors had not yet attacked; they were simply swooping above the panicking players and over the fearful fans huddling in the grandstands.

Jason nudged Harry. He was ready; he'd been doing the advanced meditation exercise, standing. He focussed his mind and his heart completely on Ginny and bellowed: “Emanio Angelus,” waving his arm towards the Dementors. Hundreds of tiny angels erupted from his hand and rushed towards the Dementors, joining Jason's. “Keep going,” said Jason, before unleashing another volley of angels; so Harry did the same. The fans around Harry and Jason moved back a few paces and stared at them open-mouthed. It seemed that while Muggles could not see Dementors, they could definitely see the tiny angels bursting from Harry and Jason's hands. The angels flew up into the air, and then spread out around the stadium to create a protective layer between the Dementors and the rugby players on the ground and the fans in the stands. The Muggles could see the tiny translucent angels flying just above their heads, but they couldn't see the angels devouring the Dementors.

Many of the Irish fans were devout Catholics. They began fervently crossing themselves and muttering, “A miracle, a miracle,” and the like. The angels made short work of the Dementors, who made no attempt to escape. In less than five minutes, they had devoured every last one of Voldemort's evil creatures.

Jason nodded to Harry. Together they did a silent Finite Incantatum spell, and the angels vanished. An exclamation of astonishment and disappointment arose from around the ground at the angels' sudden disappearance. Jason turned in a circle, Obliviating everyone near enough to have seen him and Harry producing the angels. Then he reached for Harry's hand and they disappeared right before the eyes of the already bewildered Irish fans.