Damien Samael, servant of Emperor Voldemort, ruler of all the magical world, breathed in the salty sea air as he walked up to the edge of the White cliffs of Dover. These last few days had been glorious. Harry Potter, the accursed one, was dead. Hogwarts had been seized. The ministry of magic was a nonentity. The Muggles were under suppression. Now they could forward to a new age of just and firm rule.
As he stepped up to the cliff edge, he immediately became aware of something that wasn't right. He took a step back. In formation, spread across the sea, were what looked like big grey buildings on the waters, lined with aircraft. Muggle ships. Very large ones. But weren't the Muggles supposed to be defeated?
He took a look up. The sky wasn't right either. It was filled with v-formations of Muggle flying machines, screaming overhead, drowning out even the roar of the waves. What were they called again? Aeroplanes, that was it. But where was all this coming from?
He noted smaller boats beside the big larger ones, heading towards the sure. These were open-roofed, and he could see large armored things and armed Muggles in them. This couldn't be right. Lord Voldemort had assured him that the Muggles were no longer an issue.
Then, he became aware of something approaching him very fast. A missile. He found himself frozen to the ground. Seconds before it hit, he became aware of some writing on its tip, which he realized summed up just what was to happen:
SUCK ON THIS, GANDALF.