A/N: My rule is that I have to connect the original book to the next in some way without giving away too much. Only one scene will be written per book. Intentional comedy will be minimal, you want to see a baby whomping willow dancing, check out the first end credits scene in Guardians of The Galaxy Vol. 1. Additionally, Deathly Hallows already has a scene at the end that ties things up already via the epilogue, therefore it will not be featured, so I'm going from Sorcerer's Stone to Half-Blood Prince. Enjoy!

You are the camera. You awake from a deep sleep, dress yourself, and exit your room, eager to start the day.

You stride powerfully throughout your home, passing many statues and portraits as you do. Your home is luxurious and decadent; a testament to your considerable riches and status. Some may question your decision to fill it with seemingly meaningless trinkets, your house is already a piece of art. You are reminded unpleasantly of your father-in-law, the bloody hypocrite. As if every action he himself took somehow became reprehensible when you performed the selfsame action. It boils your blood.

You catch a glimpse of yourself scowling and instinctively compose yourself, thinking of what your own father would say if he saw you like this; petulant and obsessed with the opinions of men far too stupid to comprehend, far too callous to care, or both.

You can practically hear him groan audibly as you express your frustrations and exclaim loudly; Thank goodness your mother isn't around to hear this! My son, thirty-eight years old and still so much like a child. "Here's a little tip, son: you want the approval of this girl, start with a pair of clippers. Your girlfriend is going to get jealous; that hair is getting longer than hers every day!" This was usually followed up by a hearty guffaw and slap on the back.

You didn't hate your father exactly, on the contrary he had been a great teacher in the way the world truly worked behind the scenes, provided for excellent and witty repartee, and was decent enough to put a fair amount of father-son time aside whenever his schedule allowed for it, so all in all he proved to be a more than adequate father. But you do wish at times he had decided to settle on someone to act as a true mother figure. Since quite a few of his dates were around your age (if not lower), that made the idea of asking them for advice on how to ask a girl out or how to maintain a healthy relationship kind of moot.

Your mother and he were married until you were about six, before she left due to negligence. He went through his girlfriends like a starving man goes through a buffet, stopping here and there to enjoy a dish before moving on, enticed by a new flavor, and move on, his old meal quickly forgotten.

Perhaps this is why you value your wife so much; she is the - as the Chinese say - "yin to your yang." Even if you don't say it as much as others might, you DO love her dearly. It's not as if you don't show her it, if you had it your way your son would be taught the value of the galleon by hand and earn more rewards based on his actions, but she insists upon spoiling him. At least he has a good handle on how a little sweet-talking can close business transactions, you suppose.

Speak of the devil, you see your son out of a window, catching a brief glimpse of him walking down the path in the garden with one of his school friends (Nott's son, perhaps? Lord, if so Nott isn't feeding his boy much if at all, is he…?). You suddenly recall your son telling you something about a sleepover with a friend last night, it must have slipped your mind. As they chat, a new batch of white peacocks you personally breeded not too long ago mill about, picking at the ground for food and displaying their tail feathers in the hope of impressing a mate.

You pick up a bit of the boys' conversation as you pass by. Something about a broomstick, and how he's going to try out for The Slytherin Quidditch Team once he returns to school. You smile; ever since your wife told him about her old days on the pitch the boy had wanted nothing more but to learn how to fly a broom properly in order to impress her. Perhaps once his marks come back, you'll see about getting him that broom he wants so badly.

You continue on to the dinner table as your cooks are busy preparing you an omelet, absentmindedly retrieving your copy of The Daily Prophet from your House-Elf as you do. Snorting dismissively at an article about Ministry raids (no doubt caused by that doddering twit, Arthur Weasley), you flip through the pages and are surprised to find an article that actually mourns for the recent death of your father-in-law. What happened to objective presentation of information in the news, anyway?

That can't be right! You check and yes, the article is actually filed under "Obituaries" and not "Humor." Those idiots at The Daily Prophet clearly have no idea what they're doing, that newspaper clearly needs a firmer hand to steady it. You order your House-Elf to remind him to draft a letter asking if it would be legal for your company to purchase The Prophet, or if you would have to give up Witch Weekly in order to do so. After you've had caffeine, of course. You usually do your best thinking after caffeine.

Finding the daily comic strip detailing the (mis)adventures of Martin Miggs, The Mad Muggle insipid as usual yet still amusing enough to make you snort your goblet of refined pumpkin juice through your nose, a headline suddenly catches your eye: "Hans Santino, Isabella Zabini's Latest Beau Found Dead In Liverpool, Muggle Involvement Suspected."

The discovery that Isabella Zabini's boyfriend had been found dead wasn't much of a surprise; that gold-digging black widow scared the hell out of you. But it couldn't have been her, these kind of "accidents" only happened to men with more money than sense, and only when the prenup had been signed; what the hell did Zabini have to gain by killing some adult entertainer who survived off tips? While she could have framed a Muggle for it there was the small fact that Madam Zabini had been in Cairo with her son at the time Hans Santino was last seen so by all indications a Muggle had killed a Wizard with something called a "gun" and got away with it scot-free!

Merlin's beard, this was a big deal! This was a call to arms! Your Death Eaters must be contacted immediately, proceeds should be arranged to be given to the family, a press conference should be made, Fudge should get his Aurors on the case immediately and chuck this cowardly assassin into Azkaban post-haste, as for you, you should… should… this isn't on the front page.

You flip back to the cover story desperately, you had barely glanced at it before amid a huge yawn; apparently the editors of The Daily Prophet found the story of an unflattering autobiography written by some muckraker more important the muggles killing wizards in the dead of the night. And this biography is about… Oh, no. Not her. Anyone but her. Not… not…

"Princess Di Gets Slammed In Tell-All Book - How's She Taking It?"

Oh, this is the last straw. This is too much. Being proud of one's country is one thing, but THIS!? Supporting the royal family is stupid, they're a bunch of stupid muggles with no real power other than smiling and waving! Interest being piqued by The Muggles going crazy is one thing, but to continue to follow any scrap of news about them is nothing short of insane! No self-respecting witch or wizard should do that, and yet here it is, staring you in the front page! This is madness!

The fluctuating state of the economy, current relations between The United Kingdom and every other country in the world, the political and economic ramifications of The Muggle Protection Act on the upper and lower classes, a pure-blood wizard being killed in broad daylight for all to see, even Martin Miggs' fruitless quest to prove magic is real to his nosy neighbors all have to be pushed out of the way because some ditzy Muggle school-teacher are more relevant?! AUUUUUGGGGHHHHHH!

You angrily tear the newspaper to shreds, using every angry curse word, every foul declaration you know within your vocabulary, and storm off angrily. This is easily one of the most nonsensical, idiotic, pointless, INSULTING things you have ever seen in your life, and that includes Rodolphus Lestrange!

But as you stride back to your bedroom in order to go back to bed and wake up a few hours later in the vain hope that this was all just a bad dream, you stop in your tracks and realize that there really is no excuse for being so angry. Tapping your foot and scowling, you realize that you should have really seen this coming. Muggles are getting more and more powerful through the government's inactivity all the time and their progressive sophistication of weapon-based violence. They need weapons in order to take down your kind; the brutes. Won't let them go, they only make more and more to prepare for a war that isn't coming! As if we'd fire back with such primitive weapons, you have no need of a - a "gun," you are the gun.

You scoff. What happened ever since The Dark Lord fell? Muggle governments are developing weapons of mass destruction known as "nukes" that can level an entire city with one bomb, but we care more about if the patterns of the pillows we pass out to muggles are pleasing! Although, that being said, I'd very much enjoy them trying to kill us all in one fell swoop with the push of a button, only to see their precious nuclear weapons be sent back to them like a paper aeroplane.

And that blood traitor, Weasley wants to protect them with laws, and the world seems to agree with him nowadays… Ironic, better protecting a people full of weapons with a law rather than these nuclear I suppose it is true what my father told me, the pen truly is mightier than the sword...

Suddenly, it hits you! A beautiful idea - a wonderful idea! One that'll kill two birds with one stone! Hopefully more if all goes to plan. As you reach the secret staircase and crawl deep into your cellar, only one thought reverberates around your head.

Ok, you insignificant muggles, blood traitors, mudbloods and the like, you wanna go "nuclear?"

And finally, you reach the decades-old diary belonging to one T.M. Riddle you've been saving for years and years.

Let's go nuclear.

Thanks For Reading! Five More Chapters Are On Their Way. Be Sure To Let Me Know What You Guys Think About This Story. Love You Guys! :-)