Harry Potter and the Migrant Caravan

by Jorep

Author's Note: This story will contain heavy Harry Potter spoilers from the moment this sentence ends, so if you've not read the series in its entirety and do not wish to be spoiled, the protection ward ends here. "Harry Potter and the Migrant Caravan" occurs in an alternate dimension within the greater Harry Potter universe, one caught someplace between the seven novel canon, the eight movie universe, and the strange bizarro world Rowling has built in their aftermath.

With the precedent through Time Turners previously set, the possibilities for chronological meddling and unfolding dimensions to birth from the ether are infinite. In this particular world, the year is 2018 and political tension in America has never been more biting. Our story takes place during Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts, well after the formation of Dumbledore's Army but before Snape ends the headmaster's life.

Don't sweat the details. As always, everything here belongs to its respective owners.

Chapter 1: Wherein Voldemort Reveals His Trump Card

"Cor blimey," Ron sighed as he came to a stop, wiping the sweat from his brow. "That toad's halfway through the Forbidden Forest by now. Might as well head back."
"Slughorn's gonna be pissed," Harry remarked, fiddling with his magical wand. "You know, I could try to—"
"Don't bother." Hermione placed a hand on upon Harry's, lowering the weapon. She held a beat, gingerly gripping his wrist, and the two shared an awkward glance. "I … no, I'd rather not. Not after what happened to Umbridge."

The three retraced their steps in silence; dejected though they were, finding solace in the bond they shared. Little did they know, however, their tearaway quarry was no ordinary toad. For deep within the Forbidden Forest the creature's limbs cracked, aching as they morphed in stature. What was once a croaking mass found new life as a speckled Jobberknoll, shaking free the last of its warts before taking to the sky.

In a secret location, a rather dated television flickered to life. The CRT screen found color against its drab, faded wooden panels. On it, a smartly dressed late-night personality sat behind his desk, grinning profusely beneath over-sized spectacles.

"Come on, people!" He shouted to uproarious laughter. Voldemort chuckled from his Lazy Boy recliner in the hideout, popping a fresh kernel of Orville Redenbacher's. "Funny Trump thing, am I right!?" More laughter. "I mean, it's current year. Come on, people! Orange man bad!"

"Oh, he never gets old," Voldemort snickered through a mouthful of popcorn. "Wouldn't you agree, Bellatrix?"
"Oh, yes," she replied, gleefully curling her hair. "Funny Trump thing. Where does he come up with this stuff? Fresh material every night!" She was wearing a midnight black My Chemical Romance t-shirt with an over-sized belt across her stomach, low-rise skin-tight black skinny jeans with rips at the knees not worn down from over-use, but rather carefully torn at the factory level to conform with current fashion trends, a spiked black choker around her neck, and exactly three hoop bracelets on each arm. In varying shades of black.

Voldemort suddenly turned very serious. "Those Hollywood types in America – they're the real influencers, Bellatrix. I have seen the future, and our course is fraught with sorrow. This war will end in failure."
"My lord?"

"Even were I to kill Dumbledore and storm his castle, that Potter boy would be my undoing. There is no reality in this infinite cosmos where we emerge victorious against his army, save for two. And one involves vampires at a Good Charlotte concert. We're not going there."

"The other, then?"

Voldemort motioned toward the television. "Keep watching."

It was then they heard a tapping upon the lower frame of the hideout's front door. Leaving Bellatrix to watch the show, Voldemort opened the rusted metal barrier. A jobberknoll stood at attention on the other side, gazing up toward its master.

"Precious pet," Voldemort cooed as he knelt forward. "You do not fail me."

Pleased, the jobberknoll ruffled its feathers and trotted into his hand. Voldemort produced a thin knife from his cloak, which he then lodged forcefully into the side of the bird.

"Tell me your secrets."

Dumbledore was shaken from his alcohol-laden daydreams when the ground before his desk parted. Breathing tendrils sprouted forth from the abyss, unfurling as they lashed out at their prey.

"Gracious me!" Dumbledore shouted, tumbling off the side of his chair. He hit the ground hard, cursing while his fingers grabbed at the wand taped to the underside of his desk. With a magic chant he was on the move, strafing the room as he assaulted the invaders with magical shotgun blasts. They recoiled from the might of an expert spellslinger, but for each tentacle banished to the void, two more appeared in its wake. Before long the room had been completely overrun, the walls dripping with otherwordly goop. As though the room itself were alive, pulsating rhythmically and twisting at the very footing he struggled to find balance upon.

The incursion proved too fierce, and despite his best efforts Dumbledore found himself wrapped within the lubricated arms of an unspeakable force. Unable to break free, he struggled violently for a period no longer than thirty seconds before the center of the floor once more dissipated.

As dark shadows rose from the gaping maw, an apparition was made whole. The visage of Voldemort faced him now, flickering as the final pores of his cheeks were filled in with wisps of pale light.

"Hello, Albus."
Dumbledore's eyes grew wide. "Voldemort!"

"Have I caught you at a bad time? You seem rather … tied up at present." Voldemort chuckled. "Perhaps I should call again when the office is a little quieter. Though by my estimation, these lurking night terrors will have squeezed the life from your body in, oh, an hour at most?" His eyes narrowed. "Thrust me – it's excruciatingly painful as you near the end. Once the bones begin to pop."

"What do you want?" The headmaster spat, surprised but unfazed. "If you've come to kill me, get on with it."

Another smug chuckle. "Were it that simple, old friend." With a snap of Voldemort's fingers, the tendrils surrounding Dumbledore began to sizzle. Within seconds they had started to glow red and finally burst, reducing the captive inside to ash.

"But rather it is I," Voldemort said as he turned from the smoldering remains, "who finds himself at your mercy, isn't it?"
As the living nightmare faded, Dumbledore's office returned to normal. And it was none other than Albus Dumbledore, alive and well, who sat leaning forward against his desk.

"Your body never left that seat, Albus. A clever hex, though your mind faced the full horror of a death by crushing immolation. Tell me, how did it feel?"

Dumbledore ignored the question, though his head still violently ached. A droplet of blood fell from his left nostril. "Voldemort, why have you come here? If you wish to do battle, neither of us will leave this place alive."
"Quite right," he returned. "In fact, perhaps this is what you'd call a-" he paused, rubbing his chin. "A Mexican Standoff."

Voldemort raised a flattened palm, and suddenly they were upside down. But despite their place on the relative ceiling, gravity too had shifted in form. They remained affixed.

"The Muggle world stirs. Are you apprised on news from across the pond?"

"I've heard rumblings," Dumbledore replied, straightening his right arm toward the floor and curling it at the elbow. The room shifted once more, and the two stared vertically upon each other. "But I've little time for American politics. I leave that to our sister branch."

"I expected as much. You have not, then, heard about this Honduran Migrant Caravan barreling toward the States?" Voldemort did not pause for response. He knew the answer already, speaking as he moved his body into Crane Pose. The room began to spin now; slowly at first, the revolutions increasing with each full turn on its axis.

"Nearly 4,000 refugees flee a violent country," he continued, "desperately seeking new life in the free world. But they are halted at every turn, pushed back by the Mexican Army, maligned by the American people. Their journey is long and perilous, and, ultimately, likely to end in failure. Children, Albus. Women – many of them pregnant. Boys as young as 15 who you'd swear look 32. This is their cold reality."

Dumbledore folded his arms. "Steady on to your point, Voldemort. What has any of this got to go to do with us?"

Voldemort smiled viciously. Suddenly the room stopped, and the two opponents locked eyes. "Don't see you, Dumbledore? Hogwarts is going to accept the Migrant Caravan."

END OF CHAPTER 1

Author's Note: Well, that's chapter one! I really hope you guys enjoyed it, and I certainly welcome any feedback, positive or otherwise. Let me know what you think, and I'll definitely try to get chapter two written up in a timely manner. I've a basic story outline written up, but as this is a passion project I'm constructing in my spare time, my thanks in advance for your patience and continued support.