Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any association with its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction. I do it because I must. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman.
Some more info: This is part 4 in a series. Read 1-3, unless you enjoy confusion.
A spark of lightning in the distance sent a flash across the sea and over Azkaban island, illuminating the pale grey skin of the mountain troll as it stomped down the black front steps of Azkaban prison.
Shuffling down the stairs in front of the troll, emitting a clanging of shackles and chains with each step, was a short, scruffy man with a mat of ginger hair and patches of stubble on his chin. He wore a white jumpsuit that was lined from collar to ankle in horizontal black stripes.
The mountain troll guided the prisoner down the stairs by prodding his lower back repeatedly with its heavy wooden club. At the bottom of the stone steps, the troll pushed the man further along towards the shore of the island and onto a patch of grass marked Apparition Area by a crooked wooden sign protruding from the damp dirt.
Just as the ginger-haired prisoner stepped out of the boundary of the anti-Apparition barrier of Azkaban prison, his heavy iron shackles vanished. With a relieved sigh, he began to rub his sore wrists and turned to see the security troll stomping back up the steps whence it came. When he turned back to face the shore, his eyes widened.
The prisoner was unable to hear it approach with his weakened hearing borne of months behind bars at Azkaban prison, which guarded its cold stone walls with the shrieks of seven banshees, one for each floor. Standing before him on the patch of grass that had been empty moments prior was a black mass, the features of which were indistinguishable in the darkness.
Another lash of lightning cracked on the horizon across the sea; a shimmer of purple swept over the massive shadow, and, for a moment, the outline of a slender man was revealed. With more bolts of lightning, the prisoner glimpsed the slender man's purple cap, gaunt acne-scarred face, and smirking mouth.
"'Ello, Dung," said the man.
"'Ello, Stan," replied Mundungus. "Why your lights off?"
Stan patted the giant purple bus behind him, and said, "She always needs to take a spell to recharge wheneva we've bin' crossin' too much water."
After a moment, the lights of the triple-decker bus flickered on, shining out through the many windows of its three floors.
"Come on, then. Move it!" insisted Stan as Mundungus stepped aboard, casting nervous glances to the towering prison nearby. "I 'ate comin' back to this godforsaken place."
"Evenin', Dung," said the driver of the bus, a young man with sandy brown hair and an Irish accent.
"Seamus," said Mundungus, nodding, as he walked to the nearest bed and took a seat as Stan closed the doors of the bus and followed him inside.
"All set," said Stan. "Take 'er away, Sham, n' the rest of you'd best 'old onto your bums!" he added in a loud enough voice to address the entire bus.
Mundungus gripped his bedpost and braced himself just as Seamus yanked a lever by the steering wheel. With a loud BANG, the bus shot forward off the shore and began skidding over the sea, splashing water high into the air in its wake.
"Blimey," mumbled Mundungus, panting slightly. Stan began whistling, appearing rather bored by the ride.
"So, Dung, I 'eard they putchoo on ice," said Stan, his lips twitching in amusement. "Wot'd you go n' do?"
"Just somethin' a long time ago," said Mundungus. "Our beloved Minister sure can hold a grudge—they snapped me wand, n' I'm not allowed a new one."
"You're lucky that's all they done wiv you," said Stan. "Wiv your record, tha' is. Oi, Sham, 'ow 'bout the radio?" he added, speaking over his shoulder in the direction of the drivers seat.
Seamus nodded and turned a knob near the dashboard; the voice of Lee Jordan, the host of Potterwatch, sounded throughout the bus. He was in mid-sentence.
"And that's why today's lesson is: Girls come and go, but friends are forever, and, if you're going to be shallow, you should expect the same treatment in return. Isn't that right, Dagger?"
A second voice, that of George Weasley, spoke: "You're right, Riv. I was brokenhearted—even got a cat, Hercules, who was a complete nightmare, may he rest in peace—but I shouldn't have been, because it's about more than just looks, and I wasn't as interested in the head she had so much as the head she gave. I paid the price."
"Completely inappropriate, as always," chuckled Lee. "But true. This concludes this week's Birdwatch. Now, back to the hard news: Willy Widdershins has been arrested for Muggle-baiting right in the heart of London—you hate to see that..."
"Always thought he was a wanker," said George "Whatever he did was probably comical, but don't forget that Muggle-baiting itself is the result of a vicious attitude towards Muggles."
"Yes, and the Minister's really stamping out any anti-Muggle leanings the Ministry may have had. Here with more on that is a new member of the Potterwatch team, Dumbledore's Army Dueling Tournament Champion, Ministry Official, member of the Golden Trio—"
"On with it, or we'll be here all day," said George.
"Hermione?" said Seamus, glancing towards the radio.
"Oi, concentrate on the roa—er—water!" warned Mundungus.
"There's nothin' to hit out here," said Seamus, listening intently to the radio speakers as Lee's voice continued.
"Yes, well, Gryffindor's own Hermione Granger, who will be known on Potterwatch by the codename 'Bramble.'"
"Bramble?" echoed Hermione Granger's voice throughout the bus in a laughing tone. "Is that a shot at my hair, River?"
"Can't get one past you, Bramble," replied Lee.
"And might I add that this 'Birdwatch' business is utterly—"
"Chauvinistic, immature, I know," scoffed George. "We're giving people good advice. Besides, we didn't bring you on for that."
The passengers of the Knight Bus sniggered as Hermione emitted a defiant 'hmph.'
"So," continued Lee. "Do tell us about the Ministry's new stance on anti-Muggle crimes, won't you?"
"It isn't merely a new stance, it's total Ministry reform. The Second War divided the Wizarding world more specifically than just 'good' and 'Death Eaters.' There were those who fought, those who hid, and those who sat by and did nothing. Despite the Ministry's strict, longstanding regulations, it appears to be a case of to the victor go the spoils. Many members of the now-defunct Order of the Phoenix have now taken control, and Minister Shacklebolt's decisions since taking office have been bold and heavily opposed by some of the more old-fashioned officials in his cabinet."
"The Pureblood Death Eater sympathizers, you mean?" said George. "What's going to happen to Widdershins, then?"
"It is difficult," said Hermione thoughtfully. "Because the motive for a crime should not affect the sentencing. I know of a particular case long ago in which a wizard cursed multiple Muggles for revenge, and he was accused of being anti-Muggle. Of course, victimizing Muggles constitutes a significant threat to the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, and is a crime in itself."
"Sounds like opportunism," said Lee. "As Muggles are unaware of magic, many find amusement in the pranks one can pull on a Muggle."
"In Willy's case, however, he has a long history of Muggle-baiting and other anti-Muggle crimes. He'll be getting a cell in Azkaban, perhaps for years."
"Not effing around, are you?" said Lee. "I'll tell you who else isn't effing around: Teal Team Six, the Auror trainee squad that made the arrest."
"Ah, yes, the mavericks of the Auror Department," said George, his wicked grin evident in his tone. "They're just a band of renegades, aren't they, Bramble?"
"A band of fools, you mean," corrected Hermione sternly. "Several Muggles had to be Obliviated in the aftermath of the arrest, and Harry Potter has been put on probation for Transfiguring the culprit into a tree frog."
"That's brilliant," remarked Seamus.
"On top of that, they nearly destroyed half of a city block just to make one silly arrest!"
"And how are you going to punish Ron for this one?" asked George. "Silent treatment? Dish duty? Chocolate Frog embargo?"
"None of your business," said Hermione briskly.
"Ouch," said Lee. "That doesn't sound good. Try not to look so amused, Dag, honestly..."
"Joke's on her," said Seamus. "She's the brains of the operation."
"Good ol' 'Arry," said Stan, shaking his head. "Makin' a name fr'imself out there. I saved 'is life, y'know, when 'e was only firteen. Taught 'im 'bout Sirius Black... Yeah, wiffout me, 'Arry Potter would prolly be dead."
In the youth of the night, the brick road of Diagon Alley was lit with a haze of gold by flickering lanterns that dangled from every storefront. Some of the shops were dark and dormant at nightfall, but there remained several witches and wizards scattered about the street. Patrons of Flourish and Blotts were filing out of the shop at closing, hugging stacks of books to their chests.
Gliding across the street was a man shrouded in a black cloak that whipped around in his wake. His short black hair was slicked back, and his face was lined with shadows in the dim streetlight. It was cool for a summer night, and, as the man passed Fortescue Junior's Ice Cream Shop, he saw only one customer sitting at the tables outside, Dean Thomas, whose slender body was hunched over a sketch of a dragon in flight.
Occasionally casting shifty glances through the windows of nearby shops, the man in the black cloak continued down the alley, past a woman tugging her child along by the wrist. A gust of wind blew a scrapped Daily Prophet newspaper across the street like a tumbleweed; its front page featured a picture of Ludo Bagman, who had been recently released from St. Mungo's Hospital.
The man turned left at the stoop of Gringotts Bank, keeping a suspecting eye on a gray-robed wizard who was loitering on the bank's white steps. As he neared the Leaky Cauldron, the man stopped before a solid brick wall that blocked his path. He slid a pale hand into his cloak and withdrew a magic wand, then tapped its tip against several of the bricks of the obstructive wall.
The wall began to shift as its bricks rearranged of their own accord, leaving an opening in the middle wide enough for the man to pass through. As the gate of Diagon Alley opened, a pink-cheeked woman with blonde hair was revealed; she was holding her wand out to the wall and looking startled.
"Neville!" she said. "I was just about to open the gate."
"Oh, h-hello Hannah," said Neville shakily. He exhaled a bracing sigh, then said, "Ready to go?"
"I think so—but what have you done to your hair? Should I call you 'Count Longbottom?'"
"Thought I'd dress nice." Neville shrugged defensively, eliciting a smile from Hannah.
"Right then, let me make sure I've got everything," said Hannah as she began rummaging through her bag. Neville took this time to screw up his hair.
"All sorted," concluded Hannah. "Where are we going?"
"A Muggle restaurant called Berramacha," said Neville as he walked past Hannah.
"Oh, I've been there," she replied, following Neville through the Leaky Cauldron and out of Diagon Alley.
At the other end of Diagon Alley, through the front window of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes Joke Shop, two people observed Hannah and Neville from the front counter. One was a ginger-haired man with one ear missing, and the other was a black woman with braided hair and an amused smile.
"God speed, fair wizard," whispered George, clenching his fist intensely.
"He's not marching out to war," mused Angelina. "He'll come back alive."
"I hope so," replied George as he hopped up onto the counter to sit next to Angelina. "Though, knowing Neville, something as simple as having dinner with a girl can go wrong. Verily."
Another voice spoke from a nearby aisle of the shop: "Hm?"
"No, Verity, I said 'verily,' the word."
"Oh," said Verity as she stepped into sight. "Inventory's done, so I'm going to head off."
"Goodnight then," said George.
Verity nodded and retrieved her bag from behind the counter, then strode to the front door. Angelina shifted her eyes from Verity to George several times while waiting for Verity to leave.
"Have you ever fooled around with her?" she finally asked as the door closed.
"Absolutely not," said George blankly.
"Not at all?" continued Angelina. "Not even when you were out chatting up every girl in sight?"
"That's how I deal with grief, Angie," said George. "And hunger, and apathy, and—"
"So how come you've never tried me?"
George paused for a moment, staring silently at her, then said: "I've also had to cancel our line of Honeyjuice beverages..."
"Don't change the—hang on, why?"
"People aren't buying them."
"They're so good!"
"Yeah, but they're frothy and yellow." Angelina tensed her eyebrows, clearly not following, and George sighed. "They look like piss, Angie."
"Oh, nonsense," scoffed Angelina. "So does Butterbeer."
There was another pause where George merely stared thoughtfully.
"What?" Angelina finally asked.
"You've ruined Butterbeer for me."
"I think you'll be fine."
"Well, speaking of 'piss,' I think I'll go take one." George hopped down off the counter and made for the stairs.
"Wait, answer me first," said Angelina. George turned around.
"Mother Nature ill needs your interference," he said, puffing out his chest.
"But seriously—"
"This is serious. A man must do what a man must do, and so must a woman. The fate of the world—"
"Stop messing around—"
"Fine then! May the heavens twist, and universe implode because you 'messed around' with the balance of nature!" bellowed George, his booming voice echoing throughout the shop. As Angelina merely stood tapping her foot, George grinned, turned around, and marched off. "And now, the pissing lamp shall be lit."
"He's so... twat," grumbled Angelina.
Then, the front door of the shop banged open, chiming a jingle from the bell above it. Angelina gripped her wand and turned to see a figure hobbling through the doorway. After a few moments, Angelina recognized the man as Neville, though his face was blackened with soot and his hair was standing on end. Bits of his clothes were shredded and every step he took made a wet, slippery squeak.
"Bad weather out there?" joked Angelina. Neville limped past her towards the stairs.
"Don't wanna talk about it," he mumbled.
Over the fields of England, the night sky was deep and bright, and the moon a gleaming white crescent high overhead. The sky was such a vivid blue that it rendered the hills and farms below a black silhouette, with grass, brush, and trees that shivered in the wind. The soundscape was that of swooshing breeze and the quiet chatter of talk-radio emanating from somewhere near the storage shed of one such farm.
From a window on the second floor of the farmhouse, a young boy with short brown hair and large front teeth gazed out at the grounds below, invisible in the darkness but for his glasses, the lenses of which shone like silver coins in the moonlight. The shining spectacles followed the paths of two figures in the yard below as they approached the house, speaking in whispers.
"I'm just saying you can't count them out just yet," said one of them, with the voice of a young male. The eavesdropping boy leaned closer to the window to listen.
"I already have," said the other, a woman.
"So did the Harpies, and we all know how that turned out," shot the man.
"What was that, the Cannons' single win of the season?"
"One of two, and they were robbed out of many more! It's just the referees, you know—can't tell you how many times Madame Hooch let a Slytherin get away with playing dirty."
"Says the man who drank liquid luck to win..."
"I did not!"
The two figures walked onto the front porch; the boy was no longer able to see them from his window, so he stepped down from the sill and shuffled out of his room. He crept onto the second floor landing and peered down at the living room.
Upon seeing the living room, he furrowed his eyebrows in frustration; his mother and father were shouting back and forth in a heated argument, and four of his father's friends, whom the boy considered to be gentlemen of ill repute, were standing behind his father and sniggering at his misfortune.
"There's nothing left to do but quit," said his mother, a woman with a stern sort of expression aided by her thick black eyebrows and tight ponytail. "And, for the record, I never approved of any of it."
"I don't need your approval," said his father, who was slightly overweight and balding. "'Sides, I've made most of me money from Snatchin' and I can't quit now."
"There's nobody left to snatch!" shouted the boy's mother with a wild chuckle. "How daft can you be? It's been outlawed!"
"Then I'm an outlaw—n' I know there are no Snatchers anymore, don't be stupid."
"That's rich, coming from a criminal who robbed a Muggle grocery. What are we supposed to do with these slips of paper?"
The father glanced around at his sniggering friends, growling, then set his eyes back on his wife, who was now ripping bits of Muggle money apart. The father's eyes twitched with a sort of desperation, and, with a wrathful snarl, he raised his arm and struck her with an open hand.
The boy at the top of the stairs did not wince or gasp, but merely sat down at the top step of the staircase, looking interested. From there, he watched his mother retaliate by whipping her leg forward in a soccer-style kick that connected with the father's shin. The boy smirked as his father yelped and lifted the struck leg up, urgently rubbing the point of impact and hopping around on one leg to maintain his balance.
When the man regained his composure, poised to strike back, there was a knock at the door. He stomped across the room, huffing along the way, and stumbled over a baby blue armchair. He stopped for a moment, eyeing the chair with confusion, until another knock sounded from the door. The man walked to the door and glanced through the door's peephole, barking: "What d'you want?"
When the man put his eye to the hole, he saw nothing but a flash of blinding red light and the door was blasted in, bowling him over. Two more jets of ruby shot into the house, exploding against the floor and ricocheting sparks through the air.
The trampled man's four friends shoved their grimy hands into their patchy robes and drew their wands, taking aim at the two people that had just burst in. One of the intruders, a tall man with bright ginger hair, was shooting rapid-fire scarlet lightning bolts at the ex-Snatchers and yelling "Stupefy," while the other, a short woman with black hair that surrounded her face, was holding her wand up high to produce a shield charm to deflect the incoming attacks.
One of the ex-Snatchers fell to the ground, stunned, while the other three produced their own shield charms and blocked the remaining blasts. As the duelists flourished their wands about, the nearby baby blue armchair sprang to life; it stood up straight, and morphed comically into a young man with jet black hair and circular glasses, who then joined the fray.
The boy at the top of the stairs looked on with wide eyes as rogue curses and destructive hexes dismantled the living room. Holes were being punched into the walls, glass windows were shattering from force, and several objects had been Transfigured into small animals.
The boy stood up as he saw his mother crawling behind a couch for cover and started walking down the stairs towards her, but was yanked back by his shirt. The boy scrambled to his feet and looked up to see that he had been grabbed by a man with wavy blonde hair and a gaunt, slightly twisted face.
"Stay here," said Ernie Macmillan. "I'm an Auror."
"Wingardium Leviosa!" shouted Harry Potter, levitating a nearby chair and launching it at one of the ex-Snatchers; it missed and shattered over Ron Weasley's back. "Sorry!"
When Ernie joined the fight, the tide tipped in favor of the Aurors. Before long, each of the ex-Snatchers were properly bound, Stunned, and disarmed. Clarinda turned to the mother, who had stepped out from her cover behind the couch.
"Are there any more?" she asked.
"No," the woman replied distractedly as she surveyed her ravaged living room.
"No need to thank us, ma'm," panted Harry, who was leaning over a chair, breathing heavily.
"Thank you?" shouted the woman. Harry jolted upright. "Look at what you've done to my house!"
"He was going to hit you!" said Ron indignantly while rubbing his pained back.
"I can take care of myself! Who's going to fix my living room?"
"Just run a quick Reparo over it," suggested Ernie.
"REPARO? HALF OF MY FURNITURE HAS SPROUTED LEGS AND HEADED FOR THE HILLS!"
"Sorry about that," said Harry. "But we've got to take these criminals back to the Ministry. We can fix what's left, though."
"Get to it then, and I don't want you lot coming back—"
There was a creaking at the top of the stairs. Everyone's eyes shot to the young boy that stood on the second floor landing. He merely stared at them through the shiny lenses of his glasses, until finally he spoke.
"Cool," was all he said.
"I like this kid," declared Ron.
"Oh, honey, are you alright?" questioned the mother, her tone suddenly soft, as she shuffled up the stairs.
"Who throws a chair?" mumbled Ron as they began rounding up the ex-Snatchers. Harry shrugged.
"Reparo!" echoed through the house repeatedly as the four Auror trainees swept the room with their wands. Shards of glass melted together to form the windows, chair and table legs snapped back into place, and rips in the couch cushions sewed themselves shut.
"That should do it," said Harry after mending the hinges of the front door. "Quite an entrance, by the way."
"Nothing to yours," said Clarinda.
"A Slughorn specialty." Harry opened the reattached door and flicked his wand at one of the subdued ex-Snatchers, levitating him into the air. "Just a bit lucky this one was too thick to notice that a new armchair had appeared in his house."
"Good thing he didn't sit on you," added Ron.
A few footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs; alarmed, the Auror trainees immediately hurried for the exit.
"Let's get the hell out of here," whispered Clarinda. "Before she comes back."
"Clarinda," said Harry as he led the way out through the front door.
"Yes, Harry?"
"How would you like a man to propose to you?"
"Ooh," she gushed. "Let's see..."
"Bit of a can of worms there, mate," said Ron.
"Probably over a romantic dinner, perhaps one he'd cooked himself—he'd have to be a good cook, because I'm just dreadful—or, if he were a famous Quidditch star—"
"Romantic dinner," said Harry quickly, cutting her off. "Got it."