A/N: This is Chaser 1 of the Chudley Cannons checking in for Season 9 Round 11 of QLFC.

CHASER 1: Cleric - Write about a character who believes in a higher power.

Optional prompts: 1. three-headed dog; 11. sword; and 14. chair

Word count (before A/N): 2,643 words


"Whatta we got?"

Ron looked up from the file in front of him just in time to see Harry slide into the seat opposite. He closed the file and pushed it across the desk.

Harry took it, opening it back up to read. Ron could have told him the case, surely, but he thought this was one better off read in detail. It was… something, alright.

Kingsley had been by earlier that morning to drop off the details. Ron, to much begrudging, had been stuck at the Auror office overnight filing paperwork on his latest mission. He'd been the only officer available, and as such, Kingsley promptly plopped the new orders on his desk with a knowing smirk.

"Is this real?"

Ron blinked, his eyes refocusing on Harry's across from him. "What?"

"Is this real?" Harry repeated, his brows knit so tight, they disappeared behind the rim of his glasses.

"Apparently," Ron said. "The group's been growing over the last five years since the war, but it really didn't bother anyone until this weekend. And that's only because they got too big."

He was watching Harry study the file now, waiting for him to ask the same question Ron had gone over several times himself already. It was on the tip of Harry's tongue, Ron could see it, but before the other man could say anything, a small parchment fell from the file and onto Harry's lap.

"Fluffy?" he asked, picking it back up.

"No," Ron said, "the group's emblem." The parchment showed the sketch of a three-headed dog encased in a wreath of golden leaves. The group in question had chosen it as their symbol, because Cerberus, the guard dog of the underworld, would, and Ron was quoting the file, "protect their souls from going where they should not."

Harry locked eyes with Ron once again. "A three-headed dog is their emblem?"

Ron could only nod his head.

As Harry slid the dog back into its place, he finally asked the question Ron had been waiting for: "Is this a cult? Do wizards even have cults?"

Ron smirked. "Interestingly enough, yeah. Most covens and clans you read about on the Muggle side are wizards. Still doesn't make them any less batty."

"No kidding." Harry was eyeing up the file again. "So… why are we involved?"

"Like I said, they're not really doing anything or hurting anyone. They just got too big. The amount of concealment charms they cast on their last meeting was enough to disturb three local Muggle villages. People were wandering the streets in a daze. So, Kingsley wants the Aurors to jump in." Ron shrugged. "I was still here from last night, so it looks like it's you and me."

Harry laughed. "We're gonna infiltrate a cult?"

"Worse." Ron grimaced. "We're gonna attend their next meeting as guests."


Ron pulled at his collar. Five years had passed since the war ended, but he still wasn't used to all the stares he'd often get when in a crowd. Sure, he'd seen Harry struggle throughout the years with the undivided attention of awestruck wizards, but since his own involvement in the war, Ron had found he'd filled his life's quota of gawking strangers.

He tugged at the collar again.

"Will you relax?" Harry admonished. He too was in his best robes, his hair slicked down—with Ginny's help, no doubt—and he walked with his head held high. Ron felt an odd pang in his chest looking at his best friend. Harry had gone through so much in such a short time, experienced so much loss and mayhem and pain. Whenever Ron saw him like this—calm, collected, so sure of himself—he couldn't help but feel joy.

(Hermione would cry tears of joy herself if he ever told her, which is why he kept his admiration to himself.)

Ron shook his head, instead turning to follow Harry through the crowd. For all intents and purposes, these people were harmless; wizards and witches of all ages simply looking for an answer after the war. The file mentioned several times that the group had only organized as a means to cope with the devastation of war. Looking around and ignoring the stares, Ron briefly wondered if perhaps they'd read the situation wrong all along.

Maybe it was just a way to cope.

He and Harry made their way through the crowd. The meeting was in a large, open field—flat for as far as their eyes could see. In the center of it all stood a large tent. One big enough to house the extended Weasley family four times over by the looks of it, and still have room to spare. Ron tried not to gape as they entered through the entrance flaps, each muddy brown panel emblazoned with the three-headed dog emblem.

"Where should we sit?" Harry leaned in, his voice just audible over the noise of greetings inside. Ron quickly surveyed the area, noting there were two sections of fold out chairs set up on either side of a large aisle leading to a wooden stage. Fourteen rows lined each side, with ten seats across. Little floating lanterns hovered around the edges of the circular tent all the way up to the tapered off middle. There were snacks piled on a table to their right, coffee and teas brewing to the left.

On stage sat a single chair directly in the center. Nothing special, Ron thought, just a regular fold out chair facing its growing audience. But, he reminded himself, it was still seated above the rest.

"Let's stay in the back," Ron finally said. "Try to take in the people."

Harry nodded and moved toward a set of empty chairs toward the end of the row.

They didn't necessarily have a plan other than to watch and learn. It was up to them to decide if these people, this meeting, was dangerous to the wizarding world. And, after all was said and done today, they were to meet with the leader—someone named Morpheus Jones—to discuss better managing the group's spellwork and Muggle disturbances.

As they waited, Ron found himself looking around again, taking in as much as he could. He'd been trained to spot anything out of the ordinary, but try as he might, he kept coming back to the same conclusion: these were merely people.

They hung in clusters, wizards old and young, smiling, laughing, enjoying each other's company as well as a free coffee or pasty. Everyone seemed to be dressed much more casually than he or Harry, some even in Muggle jeans and t-shirts.

He turned to Harry. "Is it just me, or does it seem odd for us to be here?"

Harry glanced at him from the corner of his eye. He didn't turn right away, and Ron knew that meant to lower his voice. He did, clarifying in a more subtle whisper, "If the biggest complaint was disturbing the local Muggles, why isn't the Muggle Liaison Office here instead of us?"

Harry shook his head slightly. He wasn't going to answer Ron, not in a crowd like this, and Ron knew better than to push the topic. Instead, he sat back in his chair and continued to observe.

It wasn't long until the lantern lights began to dim, prompting the crowd to quickly find their seats. Ron grew warm as more and more people sat in the chairs around him, and even once the chairs were filled, more and more people lined the outside of the circle, squeezing in like packed sardines.

Beside him, Harry leaned forward ever so slightly, eyes trained on the solitary chair on stage.

The room fell quiet, save for the sounds of breathing. Ron felt like he was in the center of one of his mother's bone-crushing hugs. It was so warm inside the tent, making it slightly uncomfortable. But he could still feel the excitement buzzing around him, could feel the energy of the crowd running through his own veins.

With a definitive pop, a tall, somewhat attractive man with long blond hair pulled back into a pony-tail appeared on stage. He had a fuzzy blond beard neatly shaped around his chin and Adam's apple. Ron placed his age at no more than thirty-five, his face free of wrinkles and worry lines, and he wore a deep green cloak over navy robes.

The crowd cheered. The man raised his hands, motioning for the room to settle down. When he succeeded, he pulled off his cloak with a flourish and draped it over the single chair. The crowd cheered again, but this time Ron was too distracted by a golden glint shining from the man's hip to notice how he quieted them.

From the hook of his brown belt hung the hilt of a sword sheathed in black leather and decorated with brown lace.

Ron turned to Harry just as the other man did the same. "Not something you see every day," Harry mumbled.

"Not unless you're entering a jousting tournament."

They both looked back on stage as the crowd erupted in cheers again. This time, the man had produced his wand and was holding it up to his throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Wizards, witches, and magical beings. I welcome you." The man's voice boomed throughout the tent, his Sonorous charm powerful enough to make the tent's burlap walls vibrate. More cheers rang out.

"This'll be interesting," Ron said, sitting back in his chair. How they'd learn anything over the enthusiasm of the crowd was a mystery. But, unlike before, Ron started to feel ill at ease. The excitement dripped from the people around him, thick enough to fit a lump in his throat. Nothing had even happened, but the amount of adoration pouring out of the crowd was enough to make him question what the hell had been going on for five years before the Ministry stepped in.

Harry, however, still seemed calm. Calm enough, at least, to sit and watch. Ron looked back at the stage, hoping to do the same.

"For those who don't know me, my name is Morpheus Jones. I'm here, because I saw how much pain our kind was in. I knew I had to help." This was interrupted with more cheering than before. "The Ministry failed us when You-Know-Who came back. And when You-Know-Who was in power, he all but destroyed us, dividing us. Tearing us apart. Killing our loved ones over ridiculous means.

"We needed to rebuild, my friends. And that is what we've done. That is why we're here, together, tonight, to rebuild our trust in each other. To gain friendships and look toward the future."

More cheers, these ones so loud, Ron almost cupped his ears.

After that, Morpheus Jones introduced several audience members to the stage. They were asked to describe their pasts. To detail all the horrors they faced in the war. The first man recounted being on the run from Death Eaters after the Ministry had fallen. As a Muggle-born, he was terrified for his life. His wife, luckily, was half-blooded, and his kids were able to remain at Hogwarts.

"But was that any better?" he pleaded with the audience. They rang out in a resoundful "No!"

Ron gulped.

Several more stories followed, some talking about the death of their loved ones, some recounting being tortured themselves. Many showed outward disdain for how the Ministry handled everything—from Fudge to Scrimgeour to even Kingsley today.

Every story ended the same though. They'd found themselves again through Morpheus Jones, through this group, through their belief in doing better, through finding people like their friends here who understood how terrible things had been, still were in their eyes.

Sweat stained through Ron's robes. He could feel eyes all around him, penetrating the back of his skull. Harry seemed much more composed, but then again, Harry was used to being at the receiving end of public disdain just as much as he was used to being on the receiving end of public admiration.

There was no doubt the crowd knew who they were and what they stood for.

Ron felt for the tip of his wand tucked inside his sleeve. At least he had a means of escape if it came down to it.

Finally, a familiar face appeared on stage. Harry sucked in his breath before turning to Ron. When their eyes met, Ron saw the fear inside his best friend growing.

Reg Cattermole.

Ron hadn't seen him since the day he, Hermione, and Harry infiltrated the Ministry to get Slytherin's locket. He'd thought about him, though. Him and his wife and the kids. How he'd hoped they'd made it through.

He leaned forward in his seat.

"Reg," Morpheus crooned, his dazzlingly white smile just as shiny as the sword on his hip. "Tell the crowd your story."

Reg wiped at his brow, then in a familiar voice, he began talking about that day. "Confunded, knocked out. I-I was supposed to be there for my wife's questioning, but—" his eyes started to fill. Even all the way in the back, Ron could see Reg's eyes filling.

"Ron," Harry whispered, the other's hand closing lightly around Ron's wrist. He ignored it.

"But that damned Harry Potter and his friends took that from me. Made an awful day much worse. Mary, she, my wife you see—"

"Ron."

He was transfixed though, waiting for the finale. But before Reg could utter another word, Ron was being sucked into nothingness, his body squeezed compact in a swirling mess. When he landed, he immediately shot Harry a dirty look.

"What was that for?"

"Didn't you see the crowd?" Harry asked, eyes wide.

"No…" He rubbed at the back of his neck, a blush starting to heat the creases of his ears. "I was focused on the Cattermoles' story."

"I noticed. Clearly, this is bigger than 'some cult.' We have to alert Kingsley. And Robards." The latter, Ron knew, would have a field day with this. As head of the Auror department, Robards was itching for new assignments that didn't include Death Eaters or accidental magic.

Harry was already walking away. Ron took a beat to see that Harry had Apparated them back to the Ministry atrium, where the hustle and bustle of Ministry life continued as if there wasn't a group of like-minded wizards and witches growing under their noses.

He ran to catch up to Harry.

"I get it though," Ron finally said. "I don't agree with it, but I get it."

Harry gave him a quizzical look as they entered the lifts. Ron made sure they were the only two on board before clarifying.

"The war was brutal, and it wasn't just one battle or one run-in with You-Know-Who. It was decades of uncertainty, right? People were afraid to walk out their doors. Muggle-borns were tortured, kidnapped. Killed." He shuddered. "And the Ministry did nothing. You remember how frustrated we were when he came back and Fudge ignored you. Imagine being lied to and having false hope. Then it all went away overnight and all hell's breaking loose."

"You're saying they have a point?" Harry tried.

Ron shook his head. "No. But they have a reason to mistrust, don't they? I'd like to think we're doing better, of course."

"But there was a period of peace before, when everyone thought Voldemort was dead," Harry concluded. "Yeah, sure. I can see it, wanting to find a group of people who understand. Have something to believe in again. That's kinda how I felt when I came to Hogwarts."

Ron nodded, letting that sink in for a bit.

This was going to be messy, he knew. Messy and probably something that would take the Ministry years to get a grip on. At least they had enough information to start.


A/N2: Full disclosure, this was not the prompt for me. "Higher power" means a lot of different things, and I wanted to avoid misrepresenting anyone's belief systems. This was my best idea to do that, but it's definitely not something I'd normally write either. Hopefully it still works!