A/N: I do not own Harry Potter. Nor any of the other characters or situations associated with Harry Potter. This story is particularly silly so it probably should not be read, by anyone at any time. Ever. Allowing your children to read this is most likely classified as child abuse in most civilized countries. In fact, the Dursleys probably made Harry read my stuff, evil bastards that they were. But then if you've ever read any of the tripe that passes for my writing, you already know that.

Whatever Happened to the Defense Association?

Chapter 1: Assignment

The Weekly Scryer

Main Offices

Diagon Alley

London, England

August 25, 2038

"Sit down Beckett."

Cameron Davis is my boss and my editor, and despite those two things that pretty much ensure that I should hate him on principle, he is a reasonably good bloke. I sat down and tried not to show my surprise when he slid three fingers of single malt in front of me. Booze? During the day in the office? What the hell?

"So, what's going on Cam?" I asked while taking the glass in my hand and regarding it suspiciously. "Am I fired? Is this your way of breaking it to me gently?"

"Fired?" He asked incredulously. "You should be so lucky. No, I want to talk to you about your next story, and you've always thought better with a drink in your hand."

I had spent most of the last thirty years cultivating the image of the hard drinking, hard living reporter. It seemed that at very least, my boss had started believing it. "So, what's up?" I asked.

"Some things have been bothering me recently," the older man said, after taking a pull at his own drink. "There was another Potter sighting yesterday."

A Potter sighting? Oh Merlin, no. "There are always Potter sightings. Whenever people somehow survive a situation that doesn't seem survivable, someone sees Potter. And someone else sees Dumbledore, and someone else sees Merlin."

"And whenever something goes wrong in a horrible way someone sees Grindelwald or Voldemort," Cam agreed, refilling his glass. "But that's not my point. My Granddaughter is visiting."

"Is she?" I asked, wondering what his granddaughter visiting had to do with some loony spotting Harry Potter.

"Yes, and she got her N.E.W.T. results yesterday. She got Os across the board, with a special award in excellence in Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Congratulations," I said hoping that he would get to the point.

"Thanks, that's exactly what I told her. Then I teased her that her score in DADA would make people think that she might have been trained by the Defense Association." Cam took another long pull at his glass. I was hoping that he got to the point soon as he was well on the way to getting very messily drunk.

"She just looked at me with those big blue eyes and said, 'Pop Pop, I'm almost eighteen now, you don't have to tell me the fairy tales about Harry Potter and the DA anymore." Cam ran his right hand through his thinning white hair. "She thinks that Potter and his cohort at Hogwarts and their fight against Voldemort are just stories we tell kids about some famous people grouping them around an imaginary hero to keep them on the straight and narrow, and she tells me that all of her friends figured that out years ago."

That was... odd. I was born only three years after the fall of Voldemort, I grew up with everyone knowing the DA and their adventures against the Dark Lord... to think that the latest crop of young adults believed that none of that ever actually happened... "Well," I said theorizing as I went, "Binns is still the only exposure to history most kids get."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I sat Therese down and showed her exactly what happened back then and she was amazed, but she still doesn't really... believe..."

I shrugged. "Kids? What are you going to do?"

"I was up all night thinking about her generation not knowing about those times, Beckett," Cam said standing up from his desk to start pacing about his office. "Between Therese's ignorance and the latest Potter sightings I knew that there is a story that needs to be told." He stopped in front of my chair. "And you're going to tell it. That's your next story, 'Whatever happened to the Defense Association?"

Merlin on a crutch! As soon as the words were out of his mouth, I realized that he was right. There was a massive story just waiting to be told there... A story that might even get me my third Lovegood award for Investigative Journalism.

"I had Research get you everything we have on the DA," Cam said sliding a three-foot high stack of paper and parchment in front of me. "Now get to work."

-oooOOOooo-

My name is Harry Thomas Beckett. Yeah, I know, an annoyingly famous given name, I have heard all the jokes.

Hell, there were four Harrys in my year at Hogwarts (and two Rons, four Lunas, two Lavenders, two different sets of twin girls named Parvati and Padma despite neither set being of Indian descent, and three Hermiones). When I was five and Hermione Granger's book on the Voldemort Wars came out, my mother was truly appalled to discover that my middle name was an almost tribute to the Dark Lord as well. Moreover, in my 4th year, a Muggleborn Ravenclaw informed me that my middle and surnames came from a famous Muggle priest of some kind.

Once I left Hogwarts, I set out to follow a dream. I was going to be a reporter. I was going to peel back the darkness and improve the world by showing everyone the truth.

That dream almost died when I landed a job at the Daily Prophet and was assigned to the circulation department where everyone around me laughed at my dreams of actually writing for the paper long and hard.

I lasted all of 23 days at the Daily Prophet.

I crossed the street to the Quibbler where I begged for a position as an intern. Old Xeno Lovegood looked me up and down a few times before barking out, "Luna!"

A blonde woman stuck her head in the door to Xeno's office. "Yeah Chief?"

"Don't call me Chief you slacker. If you want to take a holiday, you've got two days to teach Beckett here how to write copy so that I can spare you."

"Right Chief. Come on Beckett." she said.

I followed her out to a small cube farm. "This desk is yours, at least until the Chief or I fire you," she said pointing to the empty desk across from hers. "Here's the notes for an attempted robbery at Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, let's see what you come up with for copy. No more than 500 words."

I spent an hour on that piece and presented it certain that I would dazzle her. She picked up a red pencil and read my story.

"Crap," she said lining out most of the first paragraph, "wordy crap," she said redacting all of the second. "You've got your lead buried halfway through the third paragraph." The blond woman looked up at me. "Your spelling isn't bad, and your grammar is pretty good. You don't seem to like to use a single word when five or six will do, but I suppose I can beat that out of you over the next couple of days. Are you really sure you want to be a writer?"

I fought against my first impulse to argue for the wording of my story by reminding myself that she was a professional and I wanted to join her profession. "Yes. I want to write."

"Ok, we can work with that Harry Beckett," she said with a small smile. "If you want to write you're going to have to get used to editors. An editor lives to take your carefully worded prose and hack at it with a blunt axe until it fits in the column inches he needs to fill, and the Chief is the most unforgiving hard arse you will ever meet when it comes to the signature style of the Quibbler. It will be years before you have to rewrite a story fewer than three times to please him, assuming you last that long." She handed my story back to me. "Try again. When you're done, we'll compare it to mine."

It was not until she had been gone for two days on her month long vacation that I realized that the 'Luna' who had taught me to write in the Quibbler style was the famous Luna Lovegood.

Xeno actually printed my third story, and I still have it framed and on display on my 'I love me' wall at home, though in all honesty, reading it now, the Quibbler must have been hurting for filler. I really cannot believe I ever wrote that badly. Evidently, the old man saw something in me because after the third week, he started paying me. I was with the Quibbler for five years before Xeno called me into his office and fired me.

I must have looked quite the fool standing there with my mouth hanging open. I really had not expected that.

"Look kid," he growled. "I'm doing you the biggest favor of your life. You're too good for the Quibbler, and have been for a while. You need to move on so that you can become what you are going to be."

"But Chief," I pleaded, "I love it here, we do good work. Besides, Luna is a far better writer than I am."

"Don't call me Chief!" he thundered before softening. "Pull your head out of your arse Beckett. You do love it here, and we do good work, that's granted. But, that's also the problem, you aren't growing. You've become too comfortable. You're never going to achieve all you can by staying here. And yes, Luna does write better than you, but I can't fire her."

"Because she's your daughter..." I whined.

"NO!" he shouted again before he continued. "Luna being my daughter has nothing to do with it. She owns fifty-one percent of the company. I can't count the number of times I've tried to fire her to force her to grow beyond the Quibbler. Every time I try, she fires me and then rehires herself. You, on the other hand, don't own any of the Quibbler stock, and you can't fire me, so you're fired. Clean out your desk!"

So I did. I got a gig in the States for two years writing for the Magical Edition of Time magazine, which led to five years at the Sydney Herald. Xeno Lovegood died when I was at the Herald. As soon as I heard, I quit and caught the first flight home. I arrived in time to hold Luna's hand as they laid the old man to rest, and then to hold her as she cried that night.

The next morning, she was in the office as usual, but I found her standing in Xeno's office, looking a bit lost. I knocked on the door and was not at all surprised to see fresh tears in her eyes.

"You're not coming back here Harry," she said. "Daddy was right; you're too good to spend your talent here."

"I can stay and help Luna." I said feeling like leaving would be betraying Xeno. Nevertheless, I could tell that Luna had her mind made up, so I tried the 'I've got no other options' ploy, "I quit the Herald."

"I said no, you hack!" she shouted trying to look fierce, before her face softened again. "Look Harry, I've called Cameron Davis at the Scryer, and he's willing to give you a chance," seeing the look on my face she smiled thinly and continued. "Don't worry Harry, you'll fit in just fine at the Scryer, they'll love your wordy crap."

And they did. The Scryer was the first Glossy News magazine in Magical Britain, becoming very popular in very short order, and modesty prevents me from claiming any kind of credit for that, but I like to think I helped.

The year after Xeno's death Luna established the Lovegood Awards for Journalism, and I won the first year. No, it was not a payoff for my friendship with the Lovegood family as some have suggested, as the selection committee was specifically set up to be independent. I was quite justifiably proud of that award, and even more so for its twin that I picked up a decade later.

Now there was every possibility that yet another story concerning the Lovegoods would win me a triplet.

I jotted out a short note to Luna requesting an interview and handed it to a messenger Elf, with my thanks for the service.

While waiting for her response, I started working on what questions I wanted to ask.

-oooOOOooo-

The messenger Elf returned with a note from Luna's assistant telling me that the publisher of the Quibbler was unavailable until further notice.

That told me that my favorite blonde was on the latest of her cryptobiology hunts. When I still worked for Xeno, I went along on two of those hunts. We never found a damned thing, but Merlin's beard, they were fun. It was while feeling a bit of envy that I never seemed to have that much fun anymore I redirected the Elf to the next three members of the old DA on my list.

In less than five minutes, the Elf had returned. There was a reason that Dobby's Messenger service had replaced Owls for most business correspondence throughout Europe. The small being held three responses to my request for an interview. Two of the notes were requests for more information about what I wanted to speak to them about. The third simply had a phone number and the words 'Call me.'

-oooOOOooo-

"First Interview with Dennis Creevy," I said into my Weasley Tech recorder. "Today is August 19th 2048, it is 4:15 pm. This interview is being held in the Mr. Creevy's office in the Corporate Office Building for First Gen International."

I carefully placed the recorder on the desk between us and picked up my fountain pen. I smiled to myself. A First Gen product, how appropriate.

"Thank you for agreeing to the interview Mr. Creevy."

"Normally I'd have suggested you approach my PR department," the big man rumbled. "But you wanted to talk about the DA. I looked up your record Beckett, you do good work and the Scryer is a reputable magazine, but let me be very clear, if you are planning a hatchet piece I will destroy you."

I blinked. That was most specifically not the response I expected. Dennis Creevy was famous worldwide for his easygoing nature.

"Excuse me?"

"Time and again, both before and after the Battle of Hogwarts, the DA has been attacked by the press and those bastards at the Ministry. Your compatriots have maligned Harry Potter, the DA, and even those who died in that war. My brother died protecting Hogwarts and I've made it my business to make sure those who make that mistake don't make another working for any newspaper in the English speaking world."

Well that was surprising, and he had waited until I had my recorder running too. "Bravo," I said offering the man a small golf clap. "I've been a reporter for three decades Mr. Creevy. I have been threatened with everything from having my taxes audited to death, and I've never hesitated to write the story I intended to. For the record, I do not intend to write a negative story Mr. Creevy. Whatever I write will be the truth. My editor specifically assigned this story to me because he discovered that the current crop of Hogwarts graduates believes the recorded experiences of the DA to by little more than myth."

Creevy sat back in his chair with a wry smile. "Sorry Beckett, long bitter experience. I have learned the hard way to suspect the worst from reporters and government people. I know you worked with the Lovegoods, but a man has to be sure, you know?"

There was silence between us for a few moments and until it was broken by Creevy.

"I was all of 14 years old when Voldemort came for us."

"So young?" I asked. Despite having read Granger's history of the event, the ages of the defenders of Hogwarts had never really sunk in.

"I was far from the youngest," Creevy laughed. "But I was the same age Harry was when he won the Triwizard Tournament so I knew I was ready to do my bit. My brother Colin was all of 16, the seventh years were at very most 18. We were all so young."

"So, tell me what you saw," I probed.

"Remember I didn't see all that much," His smile dimmed a bit as the memories came back. "I had something of an over protective brother." He gestured to a large framed photo on the wall. The photo showed two young boys mobbing a third. The boy in the center was none other than Harry Potter. "Ron Weasley nicked Colin's camera and took that picture. I always told him that he should have taken up photography professionally."

I tried not to smile as the taller of the two Creevys reached over to ruffle his younger brother's hair, while an extremely uncomfortable Harry Potter squirmed under the attention.

"The day of the attack, Colin put me in a body bind when I had my back turned, and stuck me disillusioned to the underside of his bed," Creevey said, his eyes seeing the events of so long ago. "That was the last time I ever saw him alive. He told me that I had to live so that our folks wouldn't lose both of us. The berk was actually crying. By the time I got free, it was over, my brother was dead, and so was Voldemort."

"And Potter." I added.

"I don't know about that," Creevy said with a shake of his head. "Everyone told me he was gone, but I never saw his body. I don't think anyone did."

"So," I said trying to think of what to ask him next. He had actually been there in the minutes after the final battle between the DA and Voldemort's Death Eaters. Did the old man really believe that Potter might still be out there somewhere? "What do you think happened with Potter?"

"Harry was the most private person I've ever known in my life," Creevy said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Mostly he just wanted to be left alone. If he survived, I am sure he's somewhere quiet and peaceful. I hope he is, and I hope he found someone to spend his life with."

"Do you have any likely candidates for that position?" I asked.

"Several," Creevy laughed, before his face clouded, the humor fleeing his eyes. "And that is where my happy vision breaks down. There were several women who would have crawled over broken glass for Harry back then," the man sighed. "And they're all still around."

-oooOOOooo-

"First Interview with Ronald and Lavender Weasley," I said, setting the scene for my recorder. "Today is August 25th 2048, it is 4:15 pm. This interview is being held in the Weasley home in Dorsett." I placed the recorder on the table between us.

"Thank you for agreeing to the interview," I said.

"You can thank my wife. Lavender thought speaking to you was a good idea," Weasley said brushing his trademark red mop from his eyes. "If you've done your research on me, you'll know why I don't hold your profession in very high regard."

"Ron," his wife chided. "This interview is about the DA for a retrospective on the membership. It is not a story about Harry, and it is not another 'he should have retired five years before he did' stories either."

"I personally, would never write one of those stories, Mr. Weasley," I interjected to lighten the move. "You and your Cannons won me so much money back in the day I could hardly believe I'm in the same room as you. Bets on you winning financed my first broom."

That easy smile that an entire generation of Cannons fans knew spread across his face. "Sweet talker."

"Unlike most of the DA, your lives after Hogwarts and the fall of Voldemort are well known to the public. Your tryout for Chudley was one of most covered events in magical sport of the day, and your time as a model made you just as famous Mrs. Weasley."

"Lavender, please," she said with a smile.

"And I'm Ron." Weasley said. "When I hear someone say 'Mr. Weasley' I think I should be looking for my dad… Or maybe my brother Bill…"

"Thank you," I said before nodding toward my recorder. "This article was inspired by my Editor discovering that his granddaughter and her friends all believe that Harry Potter and by extension his Defense Association to be stories told to inspire children to behave."

Weasley sat up straight in his chair. "I knew that about the DA, but Harry too?" he asked incredulously.

"We've heard that about the DA from our own grandchildren and their friends," Lavender Weasley confided. "'Oh come on Gran, you're going to try to claim that you fought off an Alpha Werewolf?' is an exact quote from one of our grandsons." She smiled sadly, "I almost showed him my scars. But on reflection, if truth be told, I'm not sure if I really mind that children see us as grandparents rather than people who fought in a war."

"What concerned my Editor, and what concerns me, is that there are young adults who have decided that your story is a myth," I explained. "And ignoring history is the first step toward repeating it."

"I'm not sure I'd go that far," Weasley said, relaxing into his chair once again. "I doubt the kiddies thinking the horrors we went through would cause a new Dark Lord to come to power, but I take your larger point. Harry deserves to be remembered. The DA… Well, we've all just gone about living our lives."

"Who have you spoken with so far?" his wife asked.

"So for," I replied, "Dennis Creevy and yourselves."

"You got Dennis to give you an interview?" Lavender asked incredulously. "He hates reporters with a burning passion."

"He threatened my livelihood first," I assured her. "It was only my association with the Lovegood family that got me through the door."

"The same reason we're speaking with you," Ron Weasley nodded. "Is Luna on your list?"

"First on my list," I admitted. "The only reason I didn't go to her first is that she's unavailable. I spent enough time with her and Xeno to know that means she's on one of her cryptid hunts. I'd also like to speak with the Patil sisters, but with them living in India, I'm not sure the Scryer's budget will allow that trip."

Lavender smiled. "They are far too busy being grandmothers to bother with us anymore. Well, I'm sure you've reached out to Hermione and was told she was busy, what about the other Weasleys, Sue Bones, the Longbottoms, the Thomas' or Seamus Finnegan?"

"Finnegan?" I asked, the surprise on my side this time. "Should I approach him? About the DA? And do you really think the head of the DMLE would actually speak with me?"

"Seamus wasn't a fan of Harry a lot of the time," Weasley laughed as his wife pulled out a piece of parchment and began writing, "the short-sighted twat, but when it came time to fight, he was there with the rest of us. And as far as Sue Bones goes, you'll never get her on the record about most things, but about the DA and the War? She'll be your best source."

"The full membership of the DA was never made public," Lavender admitted, handing me a hand-written note. "Some were a bit publicity shy, others didn't want the attention. Most of them will speak with you. I'll put out a word."

I glanced at the list.

Hannah Abbott, Lavender Brown, Katie Bell, Susan Bones, Terry Boot, Cho Chang, Michael Corner, Colin Creevey, Dennis Creevey, Marietta Edgecombe, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Seamus Finnigan, Anthony Goldstein, Hermione Granger, Angelina Johnson, Lee Jordan, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Ernie Macmillan, Padma Patil, Parvarti Patil, Harry Potter, Zacharias Smith, Alicia Spinnet, Dean Thomas, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Ginny Weasley, and Ron Weasley. My mouth went dry. The full list of the DA Membership, those still alive and those who didn't survive the war.

There were some important people I'd never known were members on this list. This story just kept getting bigger and bigger.

"She put Edgecombe on that damned list, didn't she?" Weasley growled. "Damned traitor."

"Marietta was 16 years old and was being threatened by the entire government and her parents," Lavender sniffed at her husband. "I said then, and I say now that Hermione went overboard with her protections and punishments for violating the DA's charter. Don't forget that just like Seamus, when the fighting started, she was there with the rest of us. Talk to her Mr. Beckett, she may well be the last of us to see Harry."

"Thank you," I said, meaning it. "We had best get to the interview before I waste any more of your time. But before we get to the origins of the DA, it might make things easier to start off talking about 'that day'."

"That day," Weasley said, closing his eyes and sighing. "It always comes down to 'that day' doesn't it."

"Ron?" Lavender asked, reaching to take her husband's hand.

"No, it's okay, it's only when we actually talk about it that it becomes real to me that it's been more than 50 years since I last saw my best mate."

A/N: I still pull this one out and play with it from time to time. The problem with it is trying to come up with ways to pull the membership into it without all of them telling the same story over and over.

I know my ending, and it's very sad, but I've not dared write it down for fear of depressing myself. If I ever manage to do a few more interviews, I'll get to my ending.