This ain't no slash fic.

This ain't no self-insert fic neither.

This is The Book of Dobby.

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'Kill for gain or shoot to maim

But we don't need a reason

The Golden Goose is on the loose

And never out of season

Blackened pride still burns inside

This shell of bloody treason

Here's my gun for a barrel of fun

For the love of the living dead

The killer's breed or the demon's seed

The glamour, the fortune, the pain

Go to war again, blood is freedom's stain

Don't you pray for my soul any more...'

- Iron Maiden, '2 Minutes to Midnight', -Powerslave-

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As she got off the phone, having had Harry desperately trying to placate her, Hermione was a very annoyed young lady with a very sore posterior. Harry's blatant open-mouth-before-engaging-brain remark about kissing it better really hadn't helped.

Having got a bag of frozen peas out of her parents' deep-freeze and stuffed it down the back of her tights, she put most of her collection of cushions on her chair, and gingerly seated herself.

Ow.

She stood up, glared in the direction the trio of rampaging house elves had gone, picked up her notepad and textbooks, and went and laid on her front on her bed and tried to distract herself with quantum physics.

After about half an hour, her backside was quite numb and rather damp, so she put the now not-so-frozen peas back in the freezer and started rooting around for another bag of frozen veg, and it was then that she became very distracted from thoughts of house elves with kippers by a horrible realisation.

Managing to forget the pain in her arse, she ran back up to her room and started wildly casting around.

"Dobby? Can you hear me, Dobby?"

No answer.

"Um, can any house elves hear me? Hello?"

Hermione was beginning to panic. Then she remembered some scraps of house elf rantings.

"ARP? Can any ARP hear me?"

"Miss Grangy Ma'am is calling for the Arperers?" said a gas-masked tin-hatted elf, jumping out of under her bed. Rupert the owl went and his behind her desk.

"Um, hi." Hermione said. "Um, I'm kinda worried and I need to get in touch with Harry... I just remembered, I'd written his home address on the envolopes of the letters I tried to send him, and since I guess it's baddies who're stealing his post, well, um, I don't really think Privet Drive is safe for Harry to be at any more."

The elf contemplated her for a moment with the blank glower of it's gas mask, then nodded gravely. Well, Hermione thought it was a grave sort of nod. It's rather difficult to 'read' someone who's wearing a gas mask, especially when you're an Aspie kid so body language might as well be double Dutch.

"Miss Grangy Ma'am is giving F- is giving Arper Classificated Top Secret very important message for the Great Wizard Mr Harry Potter Sir, and Arper is taking Miss Grangy Ma'am's Classificated Top Secret very important message to the Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir, and Natzerys is not ever know that Classificated Top Secret very important message is being sended, because Arperses is the Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir's Arperses, and the Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir's Arperses is not doing things that is making the Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir sad." The elf said.

"... right." Hermione said, parsing all that as 'Yes'.

She scribbled down a very abrupt note, and handed it to the elf.

It read:

'Harry.

Your home address was on each of the letters I tried to owl to you. I don't know who has them now, but I'm certain that, since they did not arrive in your hands, whoever it is cannot be friendly.

I'm frightened, Harry. You need to get out of there, and make sure there is nothing left at Privet Drive that you care about.

Hurry, Harry. There can't be much time.

(little squiggly heart)

Hermione.'

"This is being very very very very very very important communicitations!" the elf said, seeing what Hermione had written. He snatched it up. "Arper is going very quickly, Miss Grangy Ma'am!"

And then he vanished with the typical vanishing-house-elf pop.

Hermione continued fretting, then decided to write to Sirius and see if Rupert was willing to come out of behind the sofa.

She penned a quick note, then paused. How was she going to get this past those annoying house elves and not get another close encounter with kippers?

She grabbed a manilla envelope, stuffed the note into it, selected a big red pen, and scrawled, 'WAR DEPARTMENT. CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET. FOR EYES OF MR SIRIUS BLACK ONLY.' on the envelope.

"Um, Rupert, could you please take this to Sirius Orion Black?"

The owl doubtfully examined the envelope, then cautiously took it in his beak, poked his head out the window, peered around, and cannonball-jumped out.

Hermione was frankly unsurprised when Rupert vanished up with his now-trademark squawk and cloud of feathers. She selected her biggest and puffiest cushion, and stuffed it down the back of her tights.

"Oww."

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Disclaimer: Never start an ass-kicking contest with a porcupine.

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The Holy Testament of Dobby.

Per Arcana ad Astra

A Doghead13 fanfic.

Written & produced by Calum J 'Doghead13' Wallace.

Preread by the Caer Azkaban Yahoo group.

Brought to you by Hairy Scottish Git Productions, GMBH

This is not a drill.

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Chapter 2: I am the Chosen One.

(In which a plane is resurrected, and allegiance is pledged)

"What is we doing with this?"

"It is being Classificated Top Secret and is being for eyes of Mr Sirius Padfeets Black Sir only. And Mr Sirius Padfeets Black Sir is knowing about wordses of the Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir, Dobby is says so, so it is being trues. So we is takes this to Mr Sirius Padfeets Black Sir. Gi- Other Arpers is keeping watching the Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir's Miss Grangy Ma'am, yes?"

"Oh yes. Arpers is keeping careful watch of Miss Grangy Ma'am and if Natserys is being shows up, Arpers is being Commanderatoe and is making with the Tommy Guns and the Stenses and making with the Shoot Bang Fire and is making the Natserys dead, oh yes."

The pair of gas-masked tin-hatted elves, one of whom was sitting on Rupert the owl's head, nodded to each other.

"Yous is turns out those lightses!" they chorused, and the one holding the owl vanished with a pop.

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Sirius Orion Black, orphan heir, escaped convict, big bad biker, technomancer, wrongfully-convicted Not-The-Secret-Keeper and only guy ever badassed enough to escape from Azkaban without outside assistance, was chilling out with a keg of Newkie Brown, a half-Q of Afghan Gold, some ham and mustard sandwiches, and a little Thin Lizzy.

Currently, between that, searching for assets for Harry's idea, and perusing the (horribly turgid) shelf-full of books of wizarding law within the library of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, this was his most frequent pastime. Seriously. Possibly even Siriusly. He'd toked so much resin, chugged so much brew, and listened to so much rock-and-roll, in the last couple months he was no longer quite sure which end of his body his head belonged upon.

(He was pretty sure it belonged atop his neck. But he had his niggling doubts. After all, Severus Mercurio Snape's head was atop Severus Mercurio Snape's neck, and it most assuredly did not belong there.)

Thus it was that Sirius's reaction on having a gas-masked tin-hatted khaki-clad Sten-toting house elf fling a rather ruffled barn owl through the window was casual to say the least.

"Woah." he said. "Haven't seen anything like that since Lily got her first underage magic warning... oh man I've got the munchies. OI! KREACHER! MORE SANDWICHES, I'M STARVING!"

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Hermione J Granger, age a couple of months short of sixteen, was one very freaked-out young lady.

For once in her life, she wasn't only freaked out about the insanity her best friend in the whole world (one Mr Harry J Potter) habitually got himself involved in through no discernible fault of his own.

Rather, she was currently freaking out both about the fact that said best friend's home address was now in the hands of parties unknown, and that she had very recently been firmly spanked with wet kippers by a trio of gibbering insane house elves and was expecting to be on the receiving end of an unwanted encore very soon.

Thus she was quite surprised when Dobby appeared on top of her desk, accompanied by a very upset Rupert the Owl coming careering through the window.

"Dobby is bringing Miss Grangy Ma'am another Classificated Top Secret very important message from Mr Harry Potter Sir! And Dobby is thinking Mr Rupert Owl is having Classificated Top Secret very important message for Miss Grangy Ma'am from Mr Sirius Padfeets Black Sir too." the maniac flying-hatted elf said.

"Thankyou, Dobby." Hermione said, glad not to see any kippers. Having accepted the elf's note, she turned and relieved the rather ruffled owl of the message that was strapped to his leg.

It took her a moment to decide which to look at first. Eventually, after a lot of internal worrying, she settled on Harry's.

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Hermione.

Thanks for the heads-up. I've sent Dobby to take a message to Sirius before he drops this off; hopefully Sirius knows someplace I can hole up until I get this ball rolling.

Dobby says there's some of what he calls 'Arperses' keeping an eye out for you, and he says they've got 'Tommy Gunses' and 'Stenses' and are ready to 'Be Commanderatoes'. I've got bugger all idea what that means, but Dobby reckons V's thugs will become dead if they try anything stupid. But all the same, I want you to promise me something.

With V. back, being my friend is a dangerous place to be. Especially for you since your parents are muggles. I don't want to see you get hurt, Hermione, so if anything happens, grab your parents and scream for the Arpers to evacuate you. (Dobby says that's the pre-arranged signal, and I guess he knows what he's talking about. He usually does)

Don't die, Hermione. And trust the elves, they're batshit insane but I'm starting to get the feeling they mean business.

Love ya,

Harry.

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As Hermione was reading Harry's letter, at the Murphy Brothers junkyard in Hull, bewilderment was reigning.

It had all begun when Tony Hammond, one of the guys who sorted out the good parts that they'd sell as used spares, had come hurrying into the site office with a highly confused look on his face.

"Jim," he said to one of the bosses, James 'Don't call me James' Murphy, "Someone's taken off with the entire pile of exhaust pipes."

"You what?" Jim asked, getting to his feet and ditching his issue of Playboy.

"Seriously, Jim." Tony said. "They've left all the mufflers, but they've grabbed every last downpipe. Darndest thing I ever saw."

Further investigation found that a remarkable quantity of scrap had been stolen overnight. Hundreds of yards of pipe. Sheet after sheet of salvaged steel. Miles upon miles of wire and rodding. And, oddly enough, every bedspring from the pile of knackered spring mattresses.

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Likewise, bewilderment was reigning in Hogwarts, certainly if your name was Albus P W B Dumbledore or Minerva K McGonagall. The suits of armour had all been vandalised. Every last one, the same way.

Dumbledore and McGonagall bemusedly contemplated the suit of armour. It (like all the rest) had a large circular hole in it's cuiraisse.

"Darndest thing I ever saw." McGonagall said.

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Meanwhile, in the house elf quarters of Hogwarts, several elves were cackling gleefully over their crafstmenship.

"Now we is having Stenses." Said Dobby.

"Is Dobby being sure elfses is not doing naughty things?" asked Twix.

"No, no, it is being for War Effortses." Dobby assured, looking in satisfaction at the huge pile of Sten guns and the even bigger pile of freshly-loaded magazines full of freshly-made hollowpoints. "Is being big big pile of stuff what muggleses is throwed away. Muggleses is being such wasteful peoples, they is throws away makingses of the Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir's Stenses. Why, Dobby is finding stuff what corditeses is made of poured in river."

"But is Dobby being sure that it is being okay that we is taking bitses of suitses of metalses and turns into tin hatses?"

"Dimmy is stopping being silly. It is being for War Effortses! Is Dimmy not knowing about Recycelerating? Yous is makes sure they is being sunk - yous is brings in yous junk! Wes is not steals, wes is REQUESTITION! It is being for War Effortses! Metalses is being very very very very very very very very important! What is Dimmy thinks gunses and bombses and bulletses and tin hatses and even the Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir's planeses is being made out of? It is all being metal, and it is being very important."

"Dimmy is now knows what Dobby is meanses." Dimmy the elf said, standing up a bit straighter.

"Good. You is keeps building lots of bulletses and boxes what bulletses is goes in until you is not has enough scrap."

"You is turns out them lightses." The elves reverentially chorused. "Is you not knowing there is being a war on?"

Then they got back to doing what house elves (and Marauders) do best.

Plotting mayhem.

Apart from Winky. She rose to her feet, swaying slightly, slugged a load from her bottle, swayed a bit more, and went swaying over to where Dobby was critically surveying the scene.

"Is this being things for boy elfses only?" she asked. "Or is girl elfses being allowed to join in?"

Dobby considered her. Butterbeeraholic. Run-down. Depressed. No self- worth. All the things the Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir hated to see in an elf. The Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir wanted all elves to be happy. He'd rather that the elves and Biggers he loved be happy than that the war be won. He'd said so, back in one of his bleaker moments, and Dobby was absolutely certain that the Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir loved all elves equally. He'd been visibly upset when he saw the state Winky was in. Not upset that a house elf dared get ratarsed, upset that Winky couldn't handle her life without strong drink.

"Winky is comes with Dobby." Dobby said. "Dobby is showing Winky aaaalll about Way of Pilotses." He gave her a very serious look. "But Winky is remembering that pilotses is not allowed to be flying planeses when pilotses is being drunk."

Winky looked shocked for a moment, then glanced at her bottle. She glanced from bottle to the industrious armament-construction elves to Dobby and back at the bottle.

Then she threw the bottle across the room; it landed with a crash amid the pile of useless stuff the elves had stripped from the raw materials they were now making into Sten guns and ammunition.

"Winky is not drinking on duty no more." she declared. "Only naughty elfses is being drunk when there is being works needs doing."

She was surprised, but touched, when every elf in the room shot to his or her feet in a standing ovation.

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The Harley-Davidson motorcycle makes a very distinctive noise.

Japanese bikes, in general, either buzz or yowl. British bikes have a habit of chugging. Italian bikes purr.

American bikes grunt and snort, which may or may not explain exactly why they are referred to as 'hogs'.

Sirius Orion Black's knucklehead mongrel streetfighter/cafe racer/chop/thing had an exceptionally recognisable engine note, due in large part to the absolute lack of any form of silencing or noise- dampening upon it's exhausts. They were two pieces of metal tubing that had at one time been scaffolding poles. When he didn't have the spells required to be stealthy switched on, the big black brute of a bike roared like a dragon, and tended to spit fire from it's exhaust pipes.

This unrestrained bellow matched the bike's appearance quite nicely. Although it lacked the absurdly long forks of the classic outlaw-biker machine, it posessed the handlebars that reached somewhere into the stratosphere, the acres of chrome, and the flame paint on the fuel tank. It also had possibly the widest tyres ever fitted to a motorcycle; great steamroller-like 240-section monsters that Sirius had made himself by magically widening a somewhat more mundane tyre. Between that, it's twin headlamps, it's low-laying stance, and those insanely tall apehanger bars, it definitely looked the part. Apart from the sidecar. This was an oddity (for an outlaw-biker type of bike) that Sirius had fitted as it allowed him to transport more than one girl at a time.

Harry had never (in his conscious memory) heard that thundering roar before; however, he'd heard it a few times in his very early childhood, with each but for the last being a harbinger of good things, because that engine had always announced the arrival of his 'Unca Pafoo'.

Two hours ago, Harry had received a note from Sirius, via Dobby. Sirius was very concerned by the missing mail, and had instructed Harry to have everything packed up and ready to leave in one and a half hours.

Thus it was that Harry was sitting on the doorstep of Number 4 Privet Drive, with one arm draped on his Hogwarts trunk, holding Hedwig's cage in his other hand, and wandering why the Order hadn't butted in yet, when he heard the rumble.

You could hear Sirius's bike coming from nearly two miles away.

The rumble grew to a roar, and that grew to a near-solid wall of sound as the massive bike came rolling towards the house, fire blasting from it's exhausts, and the deep throbbing bass-beat of an industrial metal rock band pelting from the stereo Sirius had (only a couple days before) finished fitting into the sidecar. Harry saw the curtains being closed in sequence all down Privet Drive as the bike rolled past each house, and laughed so hard he would have fallen over if he hadn't already been sitting down.

"Prek!" Hedwig complained as the throbbing monster drew to a halt.

"Wow! Awesome bike!" Dudley yelled; Sirius caught that, grinned, and cut the engine.

"Thanks. Better get yer gear in the sidecar pronto, Harry. We've got a long way to go, and a short time to get there."

"Right." Harry said, scrambling to his feet; Dudley gave him a hand heaving his trunk into the sidecar, and then Harry put Hedwig's cage down behind the trunk and scrambled onto the back of the bike.

"How come the fried chicken club haven't popped up?" Harry asked.

"Dung's on watch, and I spiked his booze." Sirius said with a grin and wink. "Arabella'll probably be popping up pretty soon. Or rather, she would be if she hadn't been bonked on the head by a house elf with a cricket bat."

"Oh right."

"Well, guess this is goodbye, hey cuz?" Dudley asked.

Harry nodded. "Yeah - for now. Look, if anything happens, grab your parents and scream for 'the Arpers' to evacuate you, right?"

"Right, I gotcha cuz. You take care, OK? I just found out I've got a cousin I kinda like and I don't want him getting messed up."

Harry laughed.

"Thanks, Duds. OK, Sirius - let's get outta here."

"Roger that, Harry." Sirius said, and booted the kickstart. The bike exploded into life, Hedwig made a definitely unamused noise, Sirius threw his machine into gear, and they were off.

Harry got the significance of this, exactly why Sirius had decided to do this. Harry had arrived at Privet Drive back in '81 onboard that very same Harley - and now he was leaving for good aboard the same bike.

"Where are we going?" He yelled.

"I found an abandoned airbase in Kent." Sirius shouted back. "I've got it all prepped for a Fidelus, we just need to drop some of your blood on the ward core. Oh, and I've tracked down a couple planes. Lancaster bomber, and a Stuka. One of my old biker buddies - Dutch guy, he's great - well, his work crew found 'em when they were draining a new polder, and I may have mentioned I was looking for wartime planes. They're in a hell of a state, but I reckon we can fix 'em - once we've got your new wand made."

"Awesome. Let's get this show on the road."

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As the mutant hog rolled to a halt, Harry was already looking around, taking in what Sirius claimed was going to be their new home.

It wasn't much of a sight.

The abandoned airbase was just that. Abandoned. And it looked to have been abandoned since the late Forties. It was wildly overgrown, most of the buildings had rotted to skeletons, and those that remained in more-or-less one piece were so rotten they looked like one could knock them down with a feather.

However, there were a few signs of recent activity. The undergrowth had been cleared from the access road, down which they had just finished riding, and an area near to the ruins of the control tower had been cleared, providing access to the least rotted hanger. Three elderly caravans had been parked beside the control tower, along with a rather dilapitated Land-Rover, at a guess the vehicle that had been used to bring the caravans in.

And then there was the pair of rusty monsters that stood on their bent and battered undercarriages in the hanger. The bigger one was difficult to identify due to lacking most of it's skin, but the smaller was clearly a Stuka dive-bomber. Looking closer, Harry saw that someone had patched the roof of the battered hanger with several sheets of corrugated iron, and the assorted piles of junk near the pair of wrecked aircraft proved to be further rusty old aircraft parts, probably the wrecks of another three or four planes, though he couldn't for the life of him tell what.

"Man, this is a mess." he said, climbing off the bike.

Sirius laughed. "Aw, c'mon Harry. We've got to start somewhere. It's gonna be a lot of work, but I reckon it'll be worth it. C'mon, let's go get that Fidelius set up, then we can grab a bite to eat and get to work on one of the planes."

"So, who's been helping you set all this up?" Harry asked, following Sirius over towards the ruined control tower.

"Nobody." Sirius said. "Well, I, uh, 'borrowed' a tractor to cut out the undergrowth, bought the caravans from some gyppos, bought the Landy off a local farmer, and scrounged the tin out a junkyard. I got the wrecks here in my pocket - I shrank 'em."

Within what had at one time been the room at the base of the control tower, there was now a large chunk of rock that looked vaguely like an outsized tombstone, mostly covered in intricate little engraved runes.

"Here it is. The ward core." Sirius said.

"Wow, where'd you get this?" Harry asked.

"Godric's Hollow." Sirius quietly told him.

"... oh."

"I hope you don't mind."

"No, no. Nothing like that." Harry scratched his head, contemplating the stone. "I think... I think Mum and Dad would've wanted me to use it if there was any way it'd do me any good."

"That's what I figured." Sirius agreed. "C'mon, let's get this thing activated."

And so they did. Having cut his finger, Harry let a few drops of his blood fall into the recess at the top of the stone; the recess flashed red, and the glow spread rapidly down the stone until every rune was illuminated. A brief chant later, and Sirius indicated they were done.

"That's it. The whole airfield's now protected." He said.

Harry frowned. "I don't feel any different."

"Not surprised. You wanna tell me where the airbase is so I can actually find the fucking place again next time I head out?" Sirius requested, and Harry burst out laughing.

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"Dobby is saying hello, Mr Dudsey Sir."

Dudley looked up from his porno. Over the last week, he'd got quite used to the nutty elf popping up.

"Heya, Dobby. How's it?" he asked.

"It is being business as usual, Mr Dudsey Sir." Dobby said. "Mr Dudsey Sir, this is being Winky. Winky is being Dobby's friend, and Dobby is needs to show Winky The Dambusters."

Dudley burst out laughing. "Whaaat? Aw man, Harry took off and I'm STILL ending up watching that movie every few hours... Tell ya what, how about we watch something a bit different but the same sort of stuff?" He retreived a videotape and handed it to Dobby."This is called 'Memphis Belle'. I think you'll dig it."

Dobby nodded thoughtfully. The first time he'd encountered the Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir's cousin, he hadn't been impressed. But something had changed after the Ministry peoples had betrayed the Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir, and Dudley Dursley had turned into a decent human being, seemingly overnight. Dobby figured that when bad things happened they changed Biggers just as much as they changed elfses, and stopped worrying about it as Dudley loaded the video.

(And lo, the cousin of the Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir did gladly share a further vision with the prophet Dobby, and the prophet Dobby did share the vision with Winky the Elf, and thus did Winky take her first steps on the road to Enlightenment.)

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Having had lunch, Sirius and Harry cobbled together a basic but functional wand for Harry. It was assembled from a length of stray holly wood with the core drilled out, the phoenix feather that Fawkes had deposited on his bed, and a load of electrical tape. Using it was markedly more of an effort than using his Ollivander wand; the jury-rigged home-made wand had an immense recoil when you cast, and you had to hold it in a vice-tight grip to keep control of a spell, otherwise the kick would throw it out your hand so hard that by two in the afternoon Harry sported a bandage round his left bicep where the butt of his wand had embedded itself into him.

Despite the hammer-blow imparted by casting through the home-made wand, the spells themselves felt somehow less damped; it was almost as if whatever Ollivander did to absorb the recoil likewise reduced the power of the wand. Sirius confirmed this, explaining that wand design was a trade-off between controllability and what he called 'throughput', and Harry rapidly found himself thoroughly enjoying the feel of this bare-bones shoulder-jolting ride. It made him feel somehow closer to his magic. Using an Ollivander wand had been a refined and genteel experience, that could, if anything, be likened to taking a ride in a limousine; this was like taking the helm of a Top Fuel dragster, all raw power and no manners. a bare-knuckled ride on the razor-edge of destruction.

And then there were the ideas he was getting about mounting a wand in a rifle stock. The solid butt-plate of a rifle ought to help absorb the kickback.

Once he'd got the hang of the way the wand gave him a smack in the arm to make sure he was paying attention, they started in on the Junkers. When they stopped for dinner, they'd got the wreck cleaned up, and inventoried what parts were missing. The plane was largely intact, but the prop was a total loss, as were the guns; fortunately these numbered among the pile of random bits of Stuka Sirius had picked up in Holland.

They'd managed to get the undercarriage straightened out, though the plane was currently sitting on it's wheel rims as the tyres had completely rotted away; shelving worrying about that for the moment (Sirius reckoned they could easily transfigure some car tyres) they turned their attention to the engine.

By the time they knocked off for the night and staggered, exhausted, to the caravans, the engine looked like new. It sat, a great hunk of gleaming metal, within the Junkers battered frame; in the morning, they'd see if they could get it to turn over, then start in on restoring the corroded airframe.

All in all, the work was going a lot faster than Harry had expected.

As he and Sirius settled themselves in the bedroom caravan, the gas heater rumbling away and casting it's orange glow across the glorified tin can, Harry wasn't sure how he'd get to sleep. Although he'd been having trouble keeping his eyes open, now that he didn't have electric lights making him squint he was too fired-up to go to sleep.

So he was glad when Sirius suddenly spoke.

"So what's the big plan, Harry? This shit is damn cool, but what's the big plan?"

Harry grinned at the ceiling.

"I'm not totally sure." he said. "From what I've been reading in the Daily Prophet, either Voldemort's laying low or the Ministry's suppressing all news about the Dark Wanker's crap." His grin became positively evil. "I'm sick of reacting, Sirius. I want to be the guy people are reacting to. I say as soon as we get the Stuka running and our pilot's had some practise, we announce our joining this game by blasting Riddle Manor and Malfoy Manor into fucking great piles of rubble."

"You realise the government's probably gonna start going on about whoever's controlling these planes being a Dork Lord?" Sirius asked.

"Yeah, I figure that much." Harry confirmed. "What we need is a logo nobody's ever going to forget, but it doesn't say 'Hey, bad guy here' like a snake violating a skull. Then we start announcing our strikes by sending messages to the Prophet at the same time as the bombs are falling... saying something like, 'Such-and-such has been determined to be an Enemy of Civilisation. His den of iniquity has ceased to exist'. We need adresses for the places we need to hit."

"We can get adresses. Your mad elf mate can get them for you."

"Right. Heh, this is going to be fucking awesome - once we've got those old birds back in the air."

"Yeah, fucking awesome. Tell you what, in the morning you keep work on the Junkers and I'll see if I can track down more birds."

"Um, Sirius, you realise that once we've got one of a plane running, we can transfigure copies out of raw materials?"

"... why the Hell didn't I think of that? Right! Tomorrow we're gonna go check out a whole load of museums!"

"... why the Hell didn't I think of that?"

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Dobby and Winky (who was now dressed in what they had been able to discern to be an Air Training Cadet's uniform) were sloping through the halls of Hogwarts. They'd been trying to work out how to get Winky flight training (and Dobby solo time) without upsetting any muggleses, when Dimmy (who wasn't very bright, but sometimes had interesting ideas) had suggested something that had Dobby wanting to iron his ears because of how silly it made him feel.

The slightly retarded elf had asked if they thought the Come-And-Go Room would be able to do planeses. Dobby had opened his mouth to tell Dimmy not to be silly, then remembered something he'd heard about a marvellous machine called - as far as Dobby could work out - a 'flight simlyurateror'.

So now they were headed for what Biggers called the Room of Requirements, concentratedly requiring a flight simulator.

As they didn't have much idea what a flight simulator looked like, the sight that met their eyes when they entered the room was most definitely not of the 'cockpit on hydraulic rams' persuasion.

Instead, there was a fully-armed fully-fuelled Lancaster bomber waiting for them, parked at the end of a runway.

The two elves stared up at the majestic machine (simulation though it might be) for a few moments, then nodded gravely to each other.

"You is turns out those lightses." they reverentially chorused. "Is you not knowing there is being a war on?"

Then they boarded the simulated Lanc, and began working through the pre-flight checklists.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

"Well, that should be it." Sirius said.

It was three days since they'd done their vanishing act from Privet Drive. They'd spent the day after Harry took off trawling through museums, in particular the branch of the Imperial War Museum at Duxford; although it lacked a Stuka, there was a lot of beautifuly preserved aircraft. Then they'd used Harry's invisibility cloak to sneak into RAF Conningsway and spend several hours drooling over the machines of the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight, painstakingly making magical recordings of each and every part of the beautiful old ladies of the air.

Then a visit to the RAF Museum's Hendon branch in London hit paydirt; one of only two intact Ju-87 Stuka's left in the world, a plane captured by British troops in Germany in 1945. After spending several hours painstakingly examining the ugly old brute, and asking some highly amused museum staff about a billion questions (they claimed Harry was doing a dissertation on the Stuka for a school project that was due at the end of summer) and in the process having their ears bent for a couple hours by a charming little old man who happened to have flown Hurricanes during the Second World War, they returned to 'their' airfield, heads buzzing with ideas.

"Yeah. Looks good." Harry said, running some checks on the fuel lines.

"Shall we give her a try?" Sirius asked, grinning. Harry grinned back, checked the wheels were chocked, climbed into the cockpit, checked Sirius was clear of the prop, and gave the button a push.

The plane spluttered, coughed, and the engine failed to catch.

"Try it again, I'm sure we've got it right this time." Sirius shouted.

Harry tried it again. Once again, the engine coughed; this time, the exhausts spat black smoke.

"Third time lucky?" Sirius shouted.

Harry gave it a third go. The plane choked, coughed, spluttered, then ROARED. Smoke and fire blasted from the exhausts as the nigh-on sixty-year-old aero-engine caught and held; Sirius whooped and yodelled, dancing around like a chimp, and Harry couldn't help but yell too. He experimentally gunned the engine, thrilling in the unbridled roar.

"Yes!" Sirius shouted "YES! IT'S ALIVE! WOOHOOHOOHOOHOO!"

"Our creation LIVES!" Harry yelled back. "THE BEAST IS ALIVE!

After enjoying himself for a few minutes, revving the massive Junkers Jumo V-12, thrilling at the way the airframe shuddered in time to his enthusiastic shoves at the battered throttle, he shut the old dog down, unable to restrain the maniac grin on his face.

"This," Sirius declared, "Calls for some celebratory beer."

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Dear Hermione.

Well, things are a bit calmer now. Sorry I haven't been in touch the last couple of days; it's all been a bit hectic, what with cobbling some new tools together, working on The Beast, and checking out the aircraft museum at Duxford (You ever been? It's AWESOME!) and the RAF Museum at Hendon (Just as AWESOME!) oh, and sneaking into RAF Conningsby to check out the planes from the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight, which was AWESOME TIMES TEN.

Right now, I'm sitting out the front of the hanger at my airbase (Location Classified by power of Fidelus) downing a few with Padfoot in celebration - we just got The Beast's engine to turn over. The Ju-87's an ugly brute of a thing, but oh god does it sound good after all the work we've put in! And it'll sound even better when it's blowing Death Eaters to small blobs.

After lunch, we'll be putting the finishing touches to the fuselage and mounting the new cannons, then we'll start in on clearing the flat patch - right now it's really not that flat as it's covered in scrub. Not surprising really, it's been abandoned since like 1946. Once we've got the runway useable (this used to be a Bomber Command airbase back in the war, far as I know the Yanks flew from here) we're going to start in on The Old Lady, which'll be a much bigger job than the Stuka - shit, we had enough trouble restoring the one engine, and it's not like playing with a Junkers Juno 211 is quite the same as bringing four Rolls-Royce Merlins back to life.

Well, I better finish this thing and get Dobby to take it over. I'm now absolutely certain Hedwig's been being intercepted, because she just looks sad when I get an elf to take you letters, rather than trying to bash my head in. Remember, if anything happens, grab your parents and shout for the Arpers to evacuate you.

Love ya,

Harry.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Dear Harry.

Look, just what are you getting up to? Airbase? Blowing up Death Eaters? A Stuka? You're talking about a Junkers Ju-87 dive bomber, right? Four Rolls-Royce Merlins? The only plane I can think of that has four Rolls-Royce Merlins is a Lancaster bomber. My grandpa used to be an RAF mechanic in the war, and if you let him he goes on and on and on and on about the planes. It's really rather fascinating.

Am I right that you've decided to make like it's 1944 on the Death Eaters, and that Dobby has decided this is a brilliant game, and a whole load of other house elves agree with him? You realize that Second World War planes are quite difficult to fly, and that each one is a bit different? Have you got any way for whoever's going to do the flying to practice without risking splattering themselves all over the scenery?

I'm sure there's something I could do to help - I've finished my summers' correspondence courses and I've read all next term's books, so I haven't got much to do for the last month before it's time to go back to Hogwarts. I want in on this, Harry.

Love,

Hermione.

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"Wow." Sirius said. "She's sharp."

"Really sharp." Harry agreed with a nod. "She's brilliant. Hey, Dobby?"

"Mr Harry Potter Sir is calling for Dobby?"

"Yeah, good to see ya Dobby." Harry rose to his feet and turned to face the hanger; the little elf was peering fascinatedly around, getting the lay of the land so to speak.

"Check this out." Harry said, slapping the nearly-finished Stuka on the nosecone. "Whatcha think?"

Dobby thoughtfully contemplated the plane for a few moments, then leapt onto it's nose and proceeded to scramble all over it, most

thoroughly checking it out.

"This is being Stuka, Mr Harry Potter Sir?" he asked, examining where Harry and Sirius had just started mounting the new guns.

"Yup. She's an ugly brute, but she'll fly, and oh boy can she precision-bomb." Harry said, nodding. "Look, Dobby. Hermione just wrote me, and she raised a couple good points. How are you going to get practice before we actually put a plane in the air?"

"Dobby is already thinking of thats, Mr Harry Potter Sir." Dobby said, beaming proudly. "Dobby is uses the Come-And-Go-Room to make Simlyuraterator. Dobby is having fifty hours on Lancaster now! And Dobby isn't crashing even once!"

"Good on ya, Dobby! Nice going!" Harry said, deciphering what the hyperactive elf was talking about.

Dobby beamed.

"Mr Harry Potter Sir is wanting Dobby to be practising with Stuka, yes?" he asked.

"Got it in one." Harry said with a nod. "And... look, Dobby. We need a way for Hermione to get here and home."

"Oh, that is being easy, Mr Harry Potter Sir. Arperses is being able to be bringing Miss Grangy Ma'am here, and Arperses is being able to be taking Miss Grangy Ma'am back to Miss Grangy Ma'am's house... Is Dobby being allowed to be asking Mr Harry Potter very important thing?"

"Dobby, any time you've got a question, ask." Harry said.

"Oh, Mr Harry Potter Sir is such a great and noble and wonderful wizard!" the elf wailed, bursting into tears and hugging Harry's legs. Then he calmed down just as abruptly, leaped to attention, and saluted. "Dobby is wonders if Mr Harry Potter Sir is has roundel?"

"... what? Oh, like a logo for our planes... Tell you what, Dobby. You and the other elves come up with some ideas, and show them to me, and I'll pick out the one I like. OK?"

"Dobby is gets right on it, Mr Harry Potter Sir! And Arperses is brings Miss Grangy Ma'am to Mr Harry Potter Sir when Miss Grangy Ma'am is saying she is being ready!" Dobby assured, saluting repeatedly.

And he vanished.

"Merlin I love that little guy!" Sirius chortled.

"You and me both, Padfoot. You and me both." Harry said, sitting down to compose a short note to Hermione.

Having sent it off, he turned his attention back to helping Sirius put the finishing touches to the Stuka.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Hermione -

We'd be glad for any help you can give us. When you're ready to come over, ask the Arpers to bring you, Dobby's arranged it.

See you soon,

Harry.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Hermione delayed but a few seconds. She grabbed her wand and a couple of bits, then asked for an Arper to take her to Harry.

A tin-hatted gas-masked elf appeared, saluted, and took hold of her hand.

And then they were someplace else.

The first thing she saw was the Stuka, looming over her. It's skin was bare metal, and several panels were missing on the left wing, where Harry and Sirius were busily mounting an absurdly large gun. The odd panel was missing here and there, but it looked like it would very soon be airworthy. Glancing around, she saw a rusting hulk that looked like it might have once been a Lancaster, and great piles of parts and scrap metal.

"Arper is brings The Great Wizard Mr Harry Potter Sir his Miss Grangy Ma'am! SIR!" the elf loudly declared.

"Thanks." Harry said, not moving. He grinned at Hermione. "Hang on, I'm just holding this up."

"Got it." Sirius said. "You can let go now."

Harry let go, nodded at the fact the gun was staying in place, and vaulted down off the wing.

"Heya, Hermione." he said.

Hermione hugged him, noting how he had grease smeared on his nose.

"I won't hug you back, I've got oil on my hands." he said with one of his disarming lop-sided grins. "Oi Padfoot, what say we break for lunch?"

"OK, I'll be with you in a mo - I'm just getting this ammo feed hooked up."

"Right, seeya in a minute." Harry said, wiping his hands on a dirty towel as he headed out the hanger.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Harry settled himself on the step of their kitchen caravan, idly lighting up a cigarette with one hand as he passed Hermione a plate of freshly-fried 'greasy spoon' with the other. Sirius had got done hooking up the ammo feed by the time Harry had finished frying lunch, and now they were all seated on either the caravan step or old machinery parts (Hermione on a rusty engine block, Sirius on a pile of wheels) with plates of food on their laps.

If, that is, you can call an English fried lunch food. Bacon, eggs, sausages, chips, black pudding, and baked beans.

"So yeah." Harry said. "I guess you've got a whole load of questions, right Hermione?"

Hermione nodded, doubtfully contemplating her plateful of artery-clogging greasy things.

"Well, first off, what's with the smoking?" she asked. "Aren't you worried about getting lung cancer or something?"

Harry shook his head.

"Just one of the things I've discovered the Wizarding World's been keeping to itself." he said. "It takes a competent mediwitch about ten seconds to cure cancer. They just vanish the tumor."

"... oh. So, uh, what's the plan? What can I help with?"

"The plan is," Harry said, "We are going to take the Death Eaters apart - one piece at a time. They can run, but they can't hide; wards can't conceal anything from house elves. We are going to pound them, and we are going to keep pounding them. We'll kick over every ant pile, turn over every stone, smash open every dark corner - we are going to teach them the meaning of fear. We will strike them in ways they refuse to understand; they are going to learn a hard lesson."

He paused and took a deep breath.

"Don't piss off the Marauders. You will NOT come out on top."

"We are going to teach them to fear that name." Sirius said with a grave nod. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the hanger, the gesture taking in the nearly-completed Stuka. "We've already come up with a name for that plane. Harry's mother did the groundwork we're building on. She's who taught me what I needed to know to build my bike. And that's why we've named the Stuka 'Lily Potter's Revenge'."

"I've been being screwed with all my life." Harry cut in. "And I've had it to the back teeth with that crap. They're probably gonna start calling me a dark lord - well, if sorting this place out means I'm a dark lord, then a dark lord I'll be. The Wizarding World allows people to be sent to Hell without trial. The government enacts kangaroo courts, and executes people without question. The only work a muggle-born such as yourself, or most of us half-bloods, can hope to get is menial labor with a rate of pay so low you'll likely spend your entire life heavily in debt - and it is illegal for a witch or wizard to work in the muggle world. It's classed as 'endangering the Statue of Secrecy'. Then there's this whole 'expulsion equals no more magic for life' thing. That's the equivalent of punishing child delinquency by amputating their arms. That's what we're up against, Hermione. Voldemort is just a symptom."

"Shouldn't we talk to Dumbledore about all this?" Hermione asked.

Sirius shook his head.

"I noticed something a couple weeks back." he said. "Dumbledore always gets his lemon drops from Snivellus. I was worried, for obvious reasons, so the next time Dumbledore offered me a lemon drop I took it, palmed it, and analyzed it later on." He shook his head. "It was packed full of potions designed to fight the onset of senile dementia... and I can remember him popping lemon drops like there was no tomorrow when I was in Hogwarts over twenty years ago."

"ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?" Harry bellowed, on his feet. An Arper popped up and caught his plate, neatly scooping the spilt food back on before it could hit the ground.

"Yeah." Sirius glumly said, nodding. "Sorry, but it's true. I got Tonks to check his medical records, and it turns out Dumbledore started going senile nearly thirty years back... and no known potion can halt it. They can just slow it down."

"... oh." Hermione and Harry both mumbled. Harry sat back down, and the Arper plunked the plate back onto his lap before popping off.

"Yeah. Damn, huh?" Sirius gloomily agreed. "The rest of the Order, apart from maybe Mad-Eye and Tonks, well, they're totally overawed by Dumbledore. I'm not sure about Moony, but Molly Weasely screamed at me for ten minutes straight when I 'dared to suggest' that Dumbledore was losing his marbles. As for Snivellus... I wouldn't trust him to piss on a burning orphan. The Ministry? They're part of the problem. No, Hermione. It's all up to us now. We're the only people who can both see what's wrong and actually do something about it... and believe me, the Ministry will be calling Harry worse things than 'Dark Lord' before we're done."

Hermione heaved a sigh, her head drooping.

"Shit." she said. "Shit, shit, shit... But why does it all have to be down to Harry?"

"Hasn't it always?" Harry asked. "Think about it. The day Mum and Dad died. Quirrel. The Chamber. Pettigrew. Last year when poor bloody Cedric went South." He shook his head. "Every time, it's always ended up with me and the baddies facing off. Shit, the only person who's been with me in at the end and not died is you."

"And you saved my life from oh God knows how many Dementors." Hermione told him. "That's twice you've saved my life, isn't it?"

Harry nodded gloomily. "Don't feel like you owe me anything, Hermione. You're the best friend I've ever had. I mean, Ron is fun and all, he's a great guy to just, you know, hang out with, but he's thick as two short planks. And anyway, things changed with me and Ron last year. He's known me for years and I've got his dumb arse out of trouble plenty times - he should've known he could trust me."

"I thought you and Ron were best mates."

"We are." Harry said. "But being best mates isn't like being partners. Me and Ron, we're best mates. We always have a real hoot when we're hanging out. Me and you, we're partners. It's different." He shook his head. "Out of you and Ron, I sure know which of you I'd rather have covering my back in a fight, and it's not Ron."

Hermione stared at him for several long moments.

"You're right, Harry." she said, carefully setting her plate aside before standing up. "I want you to know, Harry. I will ALWAYS be here for you. You've... you've been my hero since you shoved your wand up a troll's nose for me four years ago, and I think you always will be. I'd follow you anywhere. If you decide Hell needs to be bombed, I'll be the one asking, 'Give me some bombs, and where is it?'. I'll be with you all the way, Harry. I promise."

Harry stared at her, a pole-axed look on his face, then set his plate aside, stood up, and hugged her. It took her a moment to realize that, as well as grinning like a loon, he was crying.

"You've got no idea how much that means to me, 'Mione." he said. "No idea at all."

"Actually," she said, "I think I do. Now c'mon, let's eat our grub and see if we can get that plane ready to blow things up."

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

At Hermione's suggestion, they clad the Stuka's skin in dragonhide (uplifted by some gleeful Arpers from a warehouse in Diagon Alley) due to the radar-absorbing and magic-resistant properties of that particular remarkably tough material. After all, as Hermione pointed out, radar doesn't pick dragons up and it might avoid their planes getting shot up by the Royal Air Force.

Round about four in the afternoon, Dobby dropped past with a huge armload of pieces of paper, each containing a different elf's suggestion for a logo to paint on their planes. They ranged from downright absurd (a big smiley face) to wildly intricate and back.

Harry and Hermione spent a bemused hour going through them while Sirius put the final finishing touches to the reconstruction of the Junkers and started making some bombs - being a Marauder, he knew several diabolical concoctions that would explode if hit very hard, and then it was a simple expedient of making a bomb-shaped metal cannister and filling it with potentially deadly potion.

Right as Sirius was completing the first bomb, Hermione let out an excited squeak and stuffed a particular drawing into Harry's hands.

It was a stylized double-headed eagle, in gold, with wings spread.

"It's perfect!" she said.

"Yeah. It is." Harry said, completely unaware that Winky had copied it off the front of a Games Workshop shop.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

The following morning when Dobby dropped Hermione off at the airbase, he was met by a sight that stopped him dead in his tracks.

The Stuka had been taxied out of the hanger, onto the base of the runway, which was now clear. It's upper parts were painted drab green, it's underparts steel gray, and it's nosecone a bright yellow.

And, painted across both top and bottom, so large it reached the old plane's wingtips, was the double-headed eagle of the Imperium of Man.

Looking closer, he couldn't help but giggle madly when he saw the bombs slung under the Stuka's wings and the nose art (the traditional burlesque image found on bombers everywhere) which showed a scantily-clad and wickedly grinning Lily Potter with a Sten gun in one hand, over ornate scrollwork reading:

LILY POTTER'S REVENGE.

"...!!..." Dobby said, or rather made an inarticulate noise that sounded a bit like that.

"Morning, 'Mione. Morning, Dobby. Whatcha think?"

"Wow... it looks even better in daylight." Hermione murmured.

"It is being PERFECT, Mr Harry Potter Sir!" Dobby squeaked.

Harry grinned and gave the Stuka an affectionate slap on the nosecone.

"How soon do you reckon you'll be ready to take her up?"

"Dobby is being ready right now, Mr Harry Potter Sir!" Dobby squeaked, bouncing up and down. "Dobby is being ready to be scramble on Mr Harry Potter Sir's word! Mr Harry Potter Sir is tells Dobby where target is being, and Dobby is bombs target!"

"Do you know where Voldemort is?"

"Yes, Mr Harry Potter Sir. The very bad Mr Mouldyvorts is being in place what is being called Little Hanglyton, at the house what was being owned by the very bad Mr Moldyvorts father."

Harry nodded.

"If you feel up for it, I'd like to send a message to Voldemort."

"What is message being, Mr Harry Potter Sir?"

"See those bombs slung under the Stuka's wings? Those."

"YES Mr Harry Potter Sir! AT ONCE Mr Harry Potter Sir!" Dobby cheered, saluting wildly. "Dobby is scrambles at once!"

And then he was running for the Stuka, loudly (and exceedingly badly) singing snatches of Iron Maiden's 'Aces High' as he ran.

(And the prophet Dobby did sing the sacred hymns of Dickinson and Harris, and the prophet Dobby did observe the rituals of Ignition and Conact, yae, and the prophet Dobby's checklist it was completed.)

A few moments passed after Dobby's backside hit the seat, and then the engine coughed, choked, spat black smoke, and roared into life.

(And lo, the great Crow of Death did speak, and thunder was in it's voice:)

('Quail, thou fools. Too long hast thou ignored thine ARP; thou hast not Searchlight nor Flak, thy lights they burn brightly at night, and thy Air Raid Siren doth rust. Quail, thou fools, for thy doom is upon thee, born aloft upon great wings of steel and dragon-hide, and before the day is done thou shalt know fear, for the bombers of The Great Wizard Harry Potter Sir are upon thee!')

"Dobby is being ready for takeoff, Mr Harry Potter Sir!" the elf bellowed, just audible over the thunder of the engine.

Harry fired a quick Sonorous at himself.

"Dobby, you are cleared for takeoff! Good luck, and Godspeed!"

Dobby didn't answer; instead he ran the Stuka up to full throttle, a maniacal grin on his face as the plane bounced down the runway, waited until his speed was high enough, and pulled smoothly back on the stick; and the old warbird took to the air for the first time since 1942.

(And thus did the great struggle begin.)

"Harry, are you sure about letting Dobby fly?" Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head.

"No, Hermione. I'm not. In fact, I'm shit-scared he's going to crash and kill himself - but it's his choice. Someone has to be the first to take one of our planes up, and he REALLY wanted it. I like Dobby. I like Dobby a lot - hell, he spent the best part of a year doing his damndest to save my life, so in a funny way I figure I owe him." He shook his head. "So I figure, the best I can do for him is let him live the dream - and maybe let him strike back at Voldemort."

Hermione nodded slowly.

"Then I guess we'll have to just wait and hope."

"Yeah... Good luck and Godspeed, Dobby. Good luck and Godspeed."

Harry had absolutely no idea of how much that meant, and not just in a metaphorical way. He was now being worshiped as a god by thirty-seven house elves and one extremely disturbed red-headed teenage girl, and when magically powerful creatures (such as house elves and Weaselys) do some worshipping, it means a lot.

Thus, when he wished Dobby (his most fanatical worshipper) luck, it was about as effective as if the elf had chugged a pint of the potion known as 'liquid luck' - without the chance of toxic shock.

The blessed Stuka raced away from the airbase, engine thundering, airframe thrumming, and house-elven pilot cackling gleefully as it carried it's cargo of death towards the unsuspecting village of Little Hangleton.

The Death Eaters weren't going to know what had hit them.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

AN - And the insanity continues. This is the second out of the three chapters I posted on Rorsarchs Blot's Yahoo group, and I've just got done cleaning up and formatting, so here we go.

Cheers,

Cal.