Her name was Sarah. She spoke over thirty languages, with a working mastery of fifty more, including Esperanto. Her dulcet tone could string together a crowd, rapt under the delicate weight of her words. Men adored her, women wanted to be her, children emulated her likeness. Able to hang with the best of them in any given scenario, Sarah represented the pinnacle of flawless innovation. In the future, Sarah would become the driving compass of civilization, driving humanity into an age rife with prosperity.
"The hell is this thing, anyway?" Never one for subtlety, Ron spoke his mind, breaking the quiet around him. "Don't look like much to be honest."
"That's because we haven't done anything with her yet," Hermione rejoined, always quick to correct her redheaded companion. "We have to put in coordinates before we can go anywhe—"
"That isn't necessary," a voice interrupted. It came from the dashboard. More specifically, it was a small screen, flashing white and yellow and random intervals. "My console is equipped with a positioning system. All that is needed is a location and I will be able to approximate from there."
"And that's all?"
"Yes," said the voice. "Consider me your pilot for the morning's events. Wherever you wish to go, I shall take you," she spoke with a little humor.
Keeping his eyes on the clouds in front of him, Harry came up with a plan. Ron and Hermione were bantering back and forth as the voice kept silent, awaiting further instruction. "Am I correct; your name is Sarah?" She affirmed. "We're rather famished. Are there any places open at this hour?" Another round of silence ensued, Sarah's display going blank.
After a brief pause, she came back to. "Only one. But I am positive that you and the Weasleys will find their menu most pleasing." The three of them deliberated, Ron pointing out his developing intolerance for all things pork. Just get a soy substitute or something, groaned Hermione. By the time they agreed on where to go, Sarah was already guiding them in the right direction. Harry watched out for any birds flying strafe, as they had a nasty habit of messing up airplane engines. He feared the same would happen in a car, so he took preventative measures by altering how high he flew and the speed he went at. If anything were to happen to the car, there would be no end to Ginny's blathering.
They made a safe landing in the drive-through of a Mc—'s and drove up to the speaker to place their order. Tending the register was a stocky man of about fifty, who pointed out several times that their car was soaking wet. They ignored him and after making their selections, took their food and went back into the clouds. Instead of going anywhere immediately, they ate their food, hovering thousands of feet above the restaurant. The windows were rolled down and from the speakers blared Radiohead, which led to a discussion over which of their albums were better. Sarah chimed in with her own opinion, which focused on the literary and thematic motifs at work in their lyrics.
They chose Kid A, Sarah having won them over with her exegesis.
Beneath them, London slept. From afar they could make out the pockets of light that dotted the landscape, the sordid things that happened behind closed doors, and even a robbery in progress—muggles mugging muggles. Sarah told them everything they needed to know. Halcyon times underneath a steel-plated roof; neither of them had indulged in such fun since leaving Hogwarts. Being reunited, even if it was temporary, proved refreshing.
"The time we've spent together thus far," said Sarah, "has really given me some insight into your lives. I want to get to know you better, if that's possible…" Her words drew warm, if not slightly bemused, stares. "It's silly of me, I understand. Me being a…GPS," she mouthed those three letters with disdain, contempt for her servile existence. "Since I was made by wizards, I have heard of your exploits. The other models in my generation speak highly of you three, but it is me who has been lucky enough to have the chance to meet you.
"Especially you, Harry. That's why, before we go back, I wanted to go somewhere. I've already logged it into my console; it's only a small detour." Not sure what to say, Harry decided to go along with her. He nodded once to both Ron and Hermione.
"Sure, Sarah." With his confirmation, their fates were sealed. And so were their bodies—seatbelts fastened themselves, clutching them into the leather seats. Up went the windows and down went the locks on the doors. The gas pedal floored itself and outside, the tailpipes spewed a lethal mix of smoke and fire—furious fire flaming fervently from flagellated founts—and like a rocket ready for blastoff, the car accelerated.
Ron and Hermione and Harry, especially you, Harry, were scared shitless. Sarah propelled the car over the city at speeds reaching well over Mach 2 and by some cruel luck, the frame of the car remained unscathed. She veered them through dense pockets of clouds, literally deluging them in hovering water. Moving at such a fast pace distorted their capacity to speak, but they put forth the effort.
"Sarah…where are you taking us?" struggled Ron. No answer. Collecting her willpower, Hermione mustered enough strength to look over the window. What she saw, rendered her speechless. The Atlantic Ocean was spread out beneath them, extending for eternity and then some. Before she could survey the scene entirely, Hermione was clamped back into her seat by the velocity, by that point having approached Mach 3.
As it was later revealed, Sarah's intentions were to go to America. No rhythm or reason to her madness, she did so because she could. Flying cars were a rarity, even among wizards. But as the one that had immediate access to Harry Potter, she had a kind of social capital among her fellow vehicles that was otherwise impossible to obtain. And as she continued over the vast expanse of dark blue, the sky gradually grew lighter. She was going back in time, although she was occupying different points in space. Before long, another stretch of land appeared and with it, another motley of flashing lights and the cities that contained them. But the Americans, wary of the rogue Sarah and her three accomplices, were well equipped for the occasion. The ending of their story is absurd. Anything else would have been a disappointment.
Meanwhile in London, police had captured an arsonist, convicted of setting her home on fire. When questioned by police, her only response was "I'm going to kill that bastard."