The Black Snakes

James Wright was a police officer of the kind that made the English Bobby a world-famous figure: a policeman in whom every citizen has trust, always polite and courteous, correct and helpful even towards dubious individuals. Such as the aging but wiry man in a leather jacket who entered Wright's police station in Liverpool late that Friday afternoon, his aura strangely reminiscent of a pirate.

"What can I do for you, sir?", Wright asked the visitor.

"I need some information." He obviously didn't consider introducing himself.

"What is it about?"

The visitor took off his leather jacket and showed the officer a tattoo on his left forearm. It showed a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth like a tongue. Wright flinched a little, but kept his face straight.

"Have you ever seen this symbol anywhere?" asked the visitor.

"Indeed, sir, I did," Wright replied reservedly but politely.

"On whom?"

"Since you yourself bear this mark, you should know best, sir."

"I don't. So on whom?"

"I'm afraid, sir, I'm not entitled to give you any information about that. You understand, privacy ..."

"Imperio!" the visitor growled, causing the distant expression to disappear from Wright's face.

"It's the emblem of the Black Snakes, a gang of six rockers who turned up in Liverpool about twenty years ago and have been up to mischief ever since. The members are involved in numerous criminal activities – arms trafficking, racketeering, drugs, money counterfeiting – but we have never been able to prove anything against them. Evidence disappears without a trace, suspects seen at the scene of the crime present watertight alibis, witnesses suddenly suffer from amnesia – it is like jinxed!"

The visitor grinned and murmured: "That's exactly what it is!"

"What did you say, sir?"

"Oh nothing. I think these are the ones I'm looking for. Where do I find them?"

"I could give you the addresses, sir ..."

"Do so."

"With pleasure. But you will rarely find one of them in his private flat. They've converted an abandoned car repair shop into a kind of clubhouse where they hang around most of the time. That's where you're most likely to find them."

He gave the visitor the addresses of the rockers and their clubhouse and, as the visitor was apparently not from Liverpool, also directions.

"OK," said the visitor with satisfaction. "You are now forgetting that I was here and what I asked you about. You never saw me, understand?"

"As you please, sir," the bobby confirmed, while the visitor put his leather jacket on and pocketed the slip of paper with the addresses. The moment he left the police station, he vanished from Wright's memory.

The steel roller shutter leading to the workshop was locked, but the rough voices behind it were clearly audible, bellowing a song that was still very familiar to the visitor. He had to knock hard on the door to get the singing to stop and someone to call out:

"Who there?"

"Walden Macnair!"

The door was flung open and Macnair found himself face to face with Roger Blacksmith, whom he knew well from earlier days. His grey mane was tied back in a ponytail, and with his chunky body in a black leather biker's vest, he perfectly looked like an aging Muggle rocker.

"Macnair, I don't believe it!" droned from his mighty chest. He turned to his cronies. "Guys! Look who's here!"

Macnair was greeted with much patting on the back. The first thing they handed him was a bottle of beer.

"Tell me," Macnair demanded, "how come the Ministry hasn't caught you yet? Sure, this is Liverpool, not London, but the Dark Mark must have been noticed by someone."

Blacksmith and his mates grinned at each other. "Do you happen to see a Dark Mark anywhere around here, Macnair?"

Macnair now looked more closely: Indeed, all six of them had a skull tattooed on their left forearm, but it wasn't the Death Eater Dark Mark, for two snakes framed the skull, they did not crawl out of it. The same emblem was sewn on the backs of their jackets and on a large flag on the wall.

"I don't understand." Walden Macnair shook his head. "How did the Muggle policeman know?"

"Ever heard of a Confundus Charm, Macnair?" asked Blacksmith with a smug grin. "Since the Muggles don't know what our Dark Mark is all about, they may see it – to wizards and squibs we suggest a modified version. We do our best not to attract attention. We've seized our place here and pushed back some other groups. They're afraid of us, even the Hell's Angels give us a wide berth since" – he grinned – "strange things happened to them, melting motorbikes and things like that, but we won't allow a gang war to break out that would get us into the national newspapers. Mainly we live on tolls from the red light district and on smaller deals and have a good time. What about you, Macnair? Why haven't they caught you yet?"

"I was abroad and then I was able to return home unmolested because the two Ministries of Magic made a deal. At the moment, though, I'm back underground, that's why I'm here. It's about my son."

"Hey, you've got a son?"

"Yeah, I founded a family abroad."

"And your son is in trouble?"

"He's in Azkaban."

The group noted it with visible satisfaction.

"Congratulations, Macnair, the apple didn't fall far from the tree, did it?"

"You could say that, he brings me honour. I will get him out. Are you in?"

"Sure," Blacksmith agreed, "if you have a reasonable plan."

"Yes, I have."

"How did your offspring get to Azkaban?" asked Greg Miles, who was the only one of the Black Snakes with a relatively normal body, at least he didn't look as if he had been lifting weights for the last twenty years.

"He plotted with his friends to free Harry Potter from Azkaban."

The Black Snakes looked as if they had just been showered with buckets of ice water.

"Harry Potter?" asked Miles, aghast.

"Harry Potter!" confirmed Macnair.

"Well, I admit we get very little of what's going on in the wizarding world," Blacksmith now said. "Hence two questions. Firstly: How did Potter get into prison since his Mudblood friend is the Minister for Magic? Secondly: Why the hell did your son plan to free Potter, of all people?"

Macnair took a sip of beer to wait and see if one of Hermione's Ministry men Apparated, since the word "Mudblood" had been mentioned. Since nothing of the sort was happening, he concluded that the Black Snakes had set up powerful protection spells; he answered his old mate's question:

"The Mudblood is pushing things to such extremes that she's turning her best friends against her. Potter has formed an alliance with Slytherin's hard core. He tried to depose the Mudblood in a coup d'état and was arrested in the attempt ..."

"He's got balls, I'll give him that," one of the Black Snakes grunted in acknowledgement.

"Now the Slytherins were planning to free Potter – more precisely, the group of the 'Incorruptibles', to which my son Ares belongs, did so, together with the Weasley clan, by the way ..."

"With the Weasleys? It's getting more and more crazy ..." Miles grumbled.

"Almost all the Weasleys are now under arrest, my son and three of his friends are in Azkaban like Potter."

"That means we're not just to rescue out your son and his Slytherins, but Potter too?"

"Yep."

"On one condition only ..."

"I know. We'll get the old comrades out too," Macnair said, taking the word out of Miles' mouth. "The others have already accepted it."

"Who are the others?"

"Draco Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange ..."

"Lestrange?" asked Blacksmith. "I thought he was dead!"

"We all did, but he was underground in the Muggle world, just like you."

"Very good, who else?"

"A mixed kindergarten of Gryffindors and Slytherins, most of them quite gifted wizards though, including Potter's sons and nieces."

"Who's in command?", asked Blacksmith. "You, Lestrange or Malfoy?"

"None of us," Macnair replied calmly. "Leader is MacAllister, Prefect of Slytherin."

"A student?" asked Blacksmith, as if he thought he had misheard. "You want us to attack Azkaban led by a kid?"

"Don't worry," Macnair reassured him. "The kid is smarter than all of us put together and has energy for three. I've confidence in him."

The Black Snakes stared at him for another moment, then Blacksmith gave in:

"All right, Macnair, if you say so, we trust your judgement. When is the party supposed to start?"

"March. The exact date hasn't yet been set. But it's a military operation, that is: We use the time to train and drill. A lot of sweat, no beer, understand?"

"Come on," Miles replied indignantly. "Do you think all we can do is booze?"

Macnair cast a pointed glance at the corner of the room where there were about two hundred empty beer bottles.

"They've been piling up for weeks, Macnair," Blacksmith grumbled apologetically. "We were just too lazy to clean up."

Macnair grinned. "It's OK. But we have no time to lose. We should leave for Rockwood Castle as soon as possible."

"So let's go. We need the dark."

"To Apparate?" asked Macnair, confused.

"We don't Apparate. Wherever we go – never without our engines!"

With a flick of his wand, Blacksmith made a wall disappear, revealing six heavy Harleys behind it.

"Can you find your way?" asked Macnair doubtfully. "I'm not familiar with the Muggle road network."

"We don't need roads," said Blacksmith, waving him off nonchalantly. "As soon as we've left Liverpool, we are flying."

"Without headlights, I hope."

"Of course! One time we left them on, remember guys?"

Roaring laughter answered him.

"A UFO panic broke out among the Muggles! For a week they saw nothing but Aliens everywhere. What fun we had ..." He laughed tears. "Of course, that's something you can do only once. No," he said and became earnest again. "We're flying without light."