Disclaimer: the Harry Potter universe belongs to JK Rowling, despite the fact that Book 6 was less than perfect.
The first in the 'Tomorrow' universe: the Muggle Prime Minister of Great Britain has told the world about magic as a result of more than 7,000 Muggle deaths due to Death Eater activity. A persecution of magic in general begins, effectively making the small remnants of the Order of the Phoenix fight two fronts in the war while trying not to hurt any Muggles. It is 2019 and almost all hope seems lost for the wizarding world 'good': will British wizarding society, which has lasted for more than two millennia, be overcome by the Muggle tide?
Tomorrow
Whispers in the suffocating darkness: "There has to be a way…"
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It was a smallish circular lobby, perhaps only 50 feet by 50 feet, although it was circular. A plush burgundy rug covered the floor, but it was square, and so some areas showed old, pitted stones that looked as if they had been there for centuries. The walls were of the same stone, each cunningly fitting together without, it seemed to experts, any mortar. Expensive couches, red velvet monstrosities, were scattered about randomly, as were small palm trees in black lacquered pots that looked as if they hadn't been watered for some months. A glass chandelier, the sole source of light, hung from the vaulted ceiling on a brass chain, mirrored facets glinting and casting ever-changing shadows on the wall. Doors lined the circular space, old wooden pieces that had suspicious burn marks on them. A few doorways were free of their doors and showed the rooms inside, which were as aged as the lobby.
A man, perhaps 30 or 35, was seated on a couch with his back ramrod straight, looking around. His eyes, ensconced behind glasses, flitted about from feature to feature until they looking into a secondary room, again circular, with seats lining the sides in the style of a Roman amphitheatre. For a second it was as if the man's eyes were windows into his soul, reflecting an inexpressible sorrow. One of the numerous doors then opened with a creak of its hinges, and the emotion in the man's eyes was hidden at the sight of a woman entering. She was one of those middle-aged women who seemed to have a boundless supply of energy and consequently looked down on all those who had less joy than she. Dressed in a magenta blouse and black pants that emphasized her fat legs, she exuded an air of annoyance. Her gaze lit about the room until it rested on the seated man. She immediately changed her facial expression into one that looked of a disapproving mother and opened her mouth.
"There you are! What are you doing in here? Didn't you hear me say that these rooms were off limits? Not to mention that you should have stayed with the tour in the first place. You should know that we're still renovating this area; there're signs everywhere. Didn't you see them?"
To her apparent dismay the man merely shrugged. As she continued her tirade, he noticed that her lipstick had gotten smeared on her chin, which was wobbling as she gesticulated. After a few moments the man cut her off in a strangely quiet and hoarse voice. "I'm sorry, but would you be able to tell me some of the history of this area?"
The guide looked surprised for a second and then slipped into her instructional mode. "As you know, when we got them out of England we made their top guy tell us where they had been hiding. The Prime Minister confiscated the complex and we're in the process of turning it into a luxury shelter in case of an attack. The part that we're in now used to be used for some illegal experiments. The Department of Histories or something like that."
The man turned his expressionless eyes to the stone amphitheatre room again, as if compelled by some reason.
"Oh, that room's given us nothing but trouble. For some reason all the workers are too cowardly to work in this area, and whenever we tell them to go fix, or at least clean that room up, they say that it's haunted." At this, the man lifted an eyebrow and gave a half-smirk. Catching his change in demeanor, the woman gave a nervous laugh in return. Recovering and looking mortified, she said, "Well, of course it's not true, can't be. But sometimes, when I go in there, I hear voices. And there's one door that won't even open. Have to remember to call maintenance—I keep forgetting."
She gave a half-giggle. "There's an ugly grey monument stone in there to one of them. Said that he 'fell through the veil'. Some more bunk underneath that about him being a loving godfather and a good person overall, exonerated for some murders. Since when were any of them loving? You know the current death toll? Just in the paper today—37 more deaths up in Aberdeen? Brings the total up to 7,064. Those bastards, almost twice as much as the IRA…"
She trailed off when she saw the man's gaze close again, reveling flat green eyes as cold as winter.
"Um, yes. And did you hear that new info the MMR released about that Potter fellow? Killed 21 poor blokes in a Scottish boarding school back in the 90's with his bare hands. Wouldn't want to meet him in an alley."
The man still sat there, unmoving. A wisp of black hair crept out from under his sweatshirt hood and rested on the soft burgundy velvet of the couch he rested on.
"You sure look like him, don't you? Bet you get harassed a lot on the streets… they said that he killed his girlfriend the same night that he killed those other kids. What was her name? It was pretty, Shakespearean. Oh, yes: Hermione."
The name hung in the dank air until the silence was broken by the sound of a body hitting the floor. An Obliviate later the man stepped through a doorway that was without a door. He didn't look into the adjoining rooms but kept straight ahead, as if he knew what was in them. The first few to the right, filled with to the top with broken wands. A meeting room crammed with various Potions ingredients. Then he came to a great room filled with dark wooden shelves. An image swam before the man's eyes of a dusty glass sphere and pearly fog being released into the darkness… The shelves, however, were now filled with confiscated books and parchment. The man pulled out a sack from his pocket, waved a wand, and swept random books into it. Golden titles flew in and out of view; the "Concise History of Numerology: The Phoenicians to the Mycenaeans, Volume Three" hit him on the head. Cursing quietly, he brushed aside his hair to rub his forehead and winced slightly when his hand ran across his scar, the color of just-hardened lava: black on the surface but seething red hidden underneath.
Unknown to him, the guards watching the security cameras were in a state of panic at seeing their most wanted man, spilling their cups of coffee and knocking over equipment in order to reach the phone quickly. But Harry Potter, supposed mass murderer, had just apparated out to an unknown location with his cache of rescued books.
In Grimmauld Place the news in the paper that the killer Potter had evaded guards once again would be quietly laughed over by weary faces saddened by burdens. Then the tidings that 200 more wizards had regrettably died in the re-education camps during the past week would sober the survivors and make them redouble their efforts to rescue the incarcerated, trapped behind barbed wires and guarded by both Muggle guns and, unbeknownst to the Muggles, Death Eater wards. Because even though they had been working on a shield to block bullets for ten months without any progress, there had to be a way. And so they sat there, huddled around the long wooden table surrounding by mostly empty seats whose inhabitants would most likely never return and poured over book after book and worked revising on the Arithmantic equation to protect the flesh. For what else were they to do with chances of survival, both theirs and the prisoners', dropping every day? So they searched, hoping that someone would life his head and give a joyful shout of affirmation; that they had found a solution. Because there had to be a way.
There just had to.
Fin