"Scrimgeour is dead. The ministry has fallen. They are coming," the patronus said before evaporating into the night air.
An icy silence replaced the previous jollity of the evening. Then, from the back of the tent, a man's voice spoke up.
"Well, shit."
Pops echoed through the night air as dozens of skull-masked figures descended on the Weasley residence. Spells struck down friend and foe alike, as wedding guests dove to the ground to avoid the crossfire.
Under the bride and groom's table, four heads met up with a crack. "Ow, fuck!"
"Sorry, Ron," Hermione pulled out her wand and used it to pull aside the tablecloth for a glimpse of the chaos.
"Where's mum and dad?" Ginny asked.
"They're fighting the Carrow's, by the looks of it. They're winning."
The table was flung over. Four wands jammed into the stomach of Remus Lupin. "Why are you still here?" he hissed, oblivious to the killing curses flying overhead. "Apparate immediately!"
"We need to get to the house," Hermione said.
"Why?" Remus asked. "Oh, Him. Be quick about it. Tonks and I will provide covering fire."
The four students dashed across the lawn, dodging the occasional explosion that threw up dirt and surprised lawn gnomes in their path. They crashed through thee kitchen door and saw the Weasley family clock, which had grown a new danger rating: Sphincters clenched!
"Who knew mum had a sense of humor," Ron muttered, right before a stray curse blew out a window in the room and destroyed the clock in an explosion of red sparks.
Hermione ran over to the broom closet and threw the door open. "C'mon, you!" she barked, pulling aside broomsticks and mops to get at the closet's occupant. "Get out of there!"
A headless figure staggered out of the closet and immediately tripped over the pile of broomsticks.
They'd found it soon after the battle of Hogwarts, crawling around the hallways on all fours in search of its head. Unfortunately, no one had been able to find Vassago's smiling face. The Death Eaters had apparently taken it with them. Despite almost everyone in the castle wanting nothing more to do with the demon, Hermione had felt sorry for it and had convinced Molly Weasley to make space for the body in her home.
The demon pushed itself up and swiveled its headless neck in all directions. Hermione rolled her eyes. "Grab my hand," she said. The demon complied. "That is not my hand," she hissed, slapping Vassago's hand away from her chest. The headless body shrugged unapologetically before obeying. A second later, the party vanished with a whiplash.
Ron staggered as he landed and nearly fell headfirst in front of a honking car. "London?" he asked, looking around.
"Surrey," Hermione corrected.
"Why are we in Surrey?" Ginny asked.
"I just thought of the last place the Death Eaters would look for us."
"Wait," Ron said, turning in a circle. "I recognize this street." His eye settled on a perfectly unimpressive terrace house, its front door flanked by the occupants' prize rose bushes. "You can't be serious."
A furious knock caused Vernon Dursley to startle out of his beef nap. "Love, someone's at the door," he mumbled, trying and failing to rise up out of the deep cushions of the living room sofa.
Petunia emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. "I'll get it." The hammering on the door grew more insistent. "Alright, alright!" she shouted, throwing the bolt and opening the front door. "What do you want-oh, it's you."
A young ginger girl shoved Petunia inside and stormed in, running several security spells. "All clear!" she called behind her. She was followed by a bushy-haired brunette, an impossibly gangly ginger boy and a headless corpse in a black three-piece suit.
Vernon staggered out of his chair, his gout forgotten in his fury. "What the actual fu-" he didn't get to finish the statement as Hermione transfigured him into a particularly lumpy ottoman. Before Petunia had a chance to scream, Hermione turned the wand on her, transfiguring the woman into a coat rack.
"Mum?" Dudley stomped down the stairs and froze on the landing at the sight of the intruders. "Oh," he could only say. "I'll put the kettle on."
"Harry is dead?" Dudley asked, face ashen.
Hermione nodded. "You didn't know?"
"Well, mum and dad seemed much happier. They've been ballroom dancing, going to smooth jazz concerts, taking baths in matching claw-foot tubs in front of scenic lakes. I just thought dad had finally treated his erectile dysfunction." He shook his head. "But, Harry is supposed to be the Chosen One, or something, right?" Dudley asked. "He's supposed to kill that black guy."
"Black guy?"
"Yeah, the Dark Lord."
"Ignoring the gravity of your stupidity, you're right, he's supposed to kill Voldemort. Unfortunately, he can't do that when he's dead."
Dudley glanced around the table. "You four seem to be taking it awfully well."
"Four?" Ron asked, counting heads. "Oh, yeah. I forgot Neville was here."
"Thanks, Ron," the worst Gryffindor said, stirring his tea morosely.
"Sorry, Neville. By the way, and not to sound out of place, but you got ridiculously handsome over the summer," Ginny said.
"Thanks. The actor went through a tough physical programme to get into shape."
"...You've been hanging out with Luna too much as well, I see."
Dudley coughed. "As I said, you four are taking Harry's death oddly well."
A second later, the Muggle was on the floor, a wand jammed up his nose. "How dare you say that you motherfucker! Who are you to judge how I mourn? You blame me, don't you? You all do, I can smell it! I'll rip your minuscule Muggle brain out through your ear and eat it in front of your dull, dead eyes!"
"Hermione!" In took the other three several minutes to pull the girl off of Dudley. "Sorry, mate," Ron said, after giving Hermione a strong sedative spell. "What she meant to say is we're all coping in different ways. Hermione's gone slightly mad with guilt, Neville's a gym freak, Ginny's made a Potter sex doll—"
"It's an effigy, Ron!" Ginny hissed.
"It's weird, is what it is."
"What about you?" Dudley asked.
"I'm pretending it never happened," Ron said. He paused, seemed to space out, then refocused and looked around the room. "Where's Harry?"
"Out!" Ginny said quickly, clapping a hand over Dudley's mouth.
"Oh, ok."
Hermione jolted awake, gasping. "Oh, sorry, I must've nodded off. What were we talking about?"
"Sports," the three men said in unison.
"Ugh, no wonder. Now, back to Harry."
"So, if Harry is…out," Dudley said, treading carefully. "Then how are you lot going to defeat Voldemort?"
"That's the big problem," Ginny said. "Without Harry, we're effectively fucked."
"You have the demon."
There was a loud crash from the living room, followed by the sound of shattering china.
"Yeah, we're missing the most important part of Vassago, unfortunately," Ginny said.
"So what are you going to do?"
Ginny leaned back in her chair and sighed. "We don't know."
"Well, whatever the plan is, count me in," Dudley said. "I need to complete my 180-degree heel turn, and this'll do nicely."
Ron smiled. "Great, we need all the help we can get."
"What we need is a miracle," Ginny muttered, laying her head on the table and shutting her eyes. A second later she sat bolt upright, eyes wide. "Oh fuck, I forgot the sex doll!"
A hundred miles north, deep in the Forbidden Forest, a half-giant followed his footprints back to a small hollow, its entrance surrounded by webbing and desiccated corpses. In the center of the clearing a small camp had been set up, and young man sat morosely gazing into the campfire.
"I got some food!" Hagrid said, tossing a parcel to the boy.
"Great," Malfoy said, tearing open the butcher paper. "I'm getting sick of the spider's offerings."
As if on cue a massive creature descended from above carrying something in one of its eight legs. "I bring food for the masters," Aragog said, depositing the blood-drained corpse of a thestral at Draco's feet.
"Gross," Malfoy said.
"Draco, it's rude t'refuse his offerins," Hagrid whispered.
"I am not eating that."
Twenty minutes after the meal, Malfoy was still vomiting. "It wasn't that bad," Hagrid said, picking something from his teeth with a toothpick the size of a vampire stake.
"This is just fan-fucking-tastic," Malfoy said, wiping his mouth. "I'm stuck in the woods with a half-breed, surviving off of spider leftovers, wanted by the most dangerous wizard in Britain, and the only two people who could possibly solve this problem are dead and/or disposed."
"Yeah, but that's just the negatives of the situation," Hagrid said.
"What are the fucking positives, Hagrid?"
The half-giant thought for a moment. "Well, at least it's not raining.
A second later, he was struck by lightning.
Malfoy walked over to the smoking groundskeeper, then glanced up at the cloudless night sky. "Well, other than the freak lightning, you're right about that."
London, West End, somewhere after midnight. The theatres and bars had just let out, and the sidewalks and streets were full of well-dressed inebriates and fat American families in CATS t-shirts. A blue, mud-smeared Ford Anglia weaved through the crowds, laying on its horn impatiently. "Get the fuck out of my way!" the driver yelled at a shadowy, tailed figure frozen in the car's cracked headlights. There was a thump and a sickening crunch, followed by a piercing yowl.
"Who did we just hit?" the passenger asked, turning to look out the back window.
"Mr. Mephistopheles."
"Ah." The old man turned back. "How much farther?"
"In two hundred feet, turn right onto Bedford Street."
The driver grimaced. "Yes, I know that, thank you."
"She can't hear you."
"I know that, Aberforth."
"In one hundred feet, turn right onto Bedford Street."
"Why aren't you signalling?"
"Bedford's jammed, I'm not going through that mess."
"Recalculating: at your next opportunity, make a u-turn and turn left onto Bedford Street."
"I will not! Pick a different route, you dumb bitch!"
"Look, asshole, I'm just an app, I don't need to be spoken to this way. Now make the fucking u-turn."
The driver pulled out his wand and blasted the sat nav to smithereens. "Fucking Garmins. I don't need a robot telling me how to get there."
Two hours later.
"We're lost, admit it."
"Aberforth, do not fucking test me right now." Harry punched the dashboard and grinned. "Aha! There it is, right up ahead!" He pointed ahead and made to park the car.
It was a bookshop. The perfect bookshop, if you loved the smell of slowly moldering paper and a hundred years of dust and dead skin particles. If that wasn't a cup of tea, then there's a sports bar two shops down, you fucking uncultured swine. The shop's window displays were stocked with rare signed first editions of Dickens and Thackaray and dozens of other authors no one can be bothered to read anymore. Not a Tom Clancy or 50 Shades in sight.
Harry slipped the Anglia into a parking space behind a black vintage Bentley. "You sure this is wise?" Aberforth.
"They can help us," the young man said. "They're on the list."
"Do you really want to be tangling with these people again?"
"They can't be any worse than Him, can they?"
The two wizards approached the front door and knocked on the glass. A few moments later the bolt was pulled and the door opened. "We're closed," the man at the door growled.
"Nice sunglasses," Harry said. "Not very useful with the sun down, are they?"
"They're for your benefit, not mine." The man removed the glasses and revealed yellow, slitted eyes. "Who the Hell are you?"
Harry smiled. "You must be Crowley. My name is Harry Potter. You and I have a mutual friend."
Woah, here it comes.