Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!

Interlude: The Liberator's Fifth Letter

October 10th, 1996

Dear Minister Scrimgeour:

May I congratulate you on your new and much bolder move? I think the wizarding world will be happier after this, though at first we may have to endure a period of chaos. But that is always the truth. When any storm comes, at first people complain how hard the rain is, and then they accept, when it is done, that the storm watered the grass and made the air clearer and more beautiful.

My family's fortunes are declining, and they are inclined to blame you and Harry vates. I cannot tell you how much this gratifies me. They still speak of Falco Parkinson as a savior, but their voices when they do so are tentative, questioning. They will, before long, abandon him as a bad joke. They must.

Do you know what he has done, Minister? Of course not, because he keeps to the shadows. But my parents have a glass that links them to him, now. This is a treasure of the Order of the Phoenix, passed among the various families and members, and always moved hastily when they think that someone who is not part of the Order might have seen it. That is the reason it was taken from its last hiding place and passed so swiftly to us.

I risked a beating to catch a glimpse of the glass while my mother prattled on and on to my elder sister, but it was worth it. It is indeed what I suspected. It shows the view of the leader of the Order, but they must make a special effort to communicate with him. My parents have not made that effort. They claim that they don't want to disturb Falco in his important work, but I think now that they were always less connected to him than they said they were. He may not even know they exist.

…Forgive the stain on these first words, Minister. My father came into the room to lecture me on duty and threaten again to confine me to a coffin, and I had to fold the letter hastily so that he would not see what I had written. I nodded meekly and tamely long enough, and he went away.

The glass showed Falco in a misty gray place, weaving images between his fingers. The images were small, but they appeared to me to be werewolves and the full moon. Then he waved his fingers, and the images flew through the air, with Falco flying beside them in his sea eagle form, as if escorting them. He landed at the windows of sleeping wizards and witches. The images slipped into their heads, through their ears.

He is sending dreams, I think. What does it mean that he makes people dream of werewolves? Nothing good.

Please do not be surprised if the resistance to your reforms is stronger than you ever expected it to be. It is not your fault, nor the fault of your reforms' language. Parkinson is inflaming people against you and your plans. Speak about strange dreams, Minister. Work it into a speech, if you can. That might persuade people to listen more to the world outside their heads and less to the one inside it.

My mother will search my room soon, and she may find this letter. I send it to you as-is, sir, and ask for no response, as always.

May we all be unbound.

Yours,

The Liberator.