Chapter 4

Masked Man Terrifies Valentine's Day Crowd!

Lt. Twombley of Tehrik-i-Taliban slammed the Quibbler onto the table in front of The Director. A picture of "The Terrifying Masked Man" gesticulated and silently shouted to a shocked tea-shop.

"I thought you said discretion is how we must succeed... You never said anything about plastering your bloody face across all of England, now did you?"

The Director leaned back in his plush-leather chair (he'd searched all over the school and eventually just had Parvati transfigure one for him. She didn't ask why, and he didn't tell) and sighed. He really wished he could take up smoking a pipe, if only for moments such as this. He searched his brains for a suitably inspirational yet mysterious response.

"Lt. Twombley, I respect your opinion on this matter. Yet I found it to be the best possible situation in which to reveal our existence. You must understand, terrorism without terror is a fool's game."

"I don't think you know what that phrase means."

"Thank you, Lt. Twombley. It doesn't matter either way. If all we do is sit around and be mysterious, what's the point? People are now quaking in their beds as to what our next action will be. Will we blow up an embassy? Will we-"

"Wait what?"

"I was speaking hypothetically." Ziad leaned forward and placed his elbows on the unfortunately not-quite mahogany table. "Please don't worry yourself over such petty matters. The point I'm trying to make is that planned and well-executed exposure is a necessary element of our organization, whether you like it or not."

The students... er.. soldiers sat and contemplated this for a bit. A few nodded, a few looked confused. Ziad idly pumped smoke out of the end of his wand to achieve a more filmesque atmosphere. Lt. Twombley coughed.

"Now... I hope I made myself clear. I've been planning some missions. Soon I will begin delegating them, but only after Tehrik-i-Taliban Hogwarts makes an appearance at the school itself. Be prepared."

A few of the soldiers grinned maliciously.

"Yes, Director."

One Monday morning, Ziad came to breakfast late. A number of people were whispering and muttering about a magazine article. As soon as Ziad saw the title on the cover of The Quibbler he jumped up, knocking over his juice onto his neighbor's plate. After hurried apologies, he jogged around the Great Hall gathering a number of first years. The group formed up and left the Hall.

"What was all that about?" asked Harry.

"Hell if I know. This article is brilliant!" answered Ron.

"What is going on here?" said a falsely sweet, girlish voice.

Harry looked up with his hands full of envelopes. Professor Umbridge was standing behind Fred and Luna, her bulging toad's eyes scanning the mess of owls and letters on the table in front of Harry. Behind her he saw many of the students watching them avidly.

"Why have you got all these letters, Mr. Potter?" she asked slowly.

"Is that a crime now?" said Fred loudly, "Getting mail?"

George snickered meanly.

"Careful, Mr. Weasley, or I shall have you put in detention. Well, Mr. Potter?"

Harry hesitated, and glanced at Ravenclaw table. Cho gestured at the copy of The Quibbler that she was reading and gave Harry a smile and a thumbs-up.

"People are writing to me because I gave an interview. About what happened to me last June."

Umbridge's cheeks reddened and she puffed up in righteous indignation as Harry threw a copy of The Quibbler at her. She caught it and stared down at the cover. Her pale, doughy face turned an ugly shade of violet.

"When did you do this?" she shrilled.

"Last Hogsmeade weekend," said Harry.

"There will be no more-" she glanced around at the sudden noise near the entrance of the Great Hall.

A dozen masked and camouflage-jacketed figures strode into the Hall, with as much swagger as their small bodies could handle. They shorter ones formed a V-formation behind the tallest one who stood with his arms outstretched as he stared around the Great Hall.

At the staff table, Dumbledore leaned forward with interest. Now here was a development he had not expected.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen." began the obvious leader of the masked intruders. "We are this morning's entertainment. I only have one question: Where's Harry Potter?"

He walked among the silent crowd, staring into the gaping student's faces. When he passed Ravenclaw table, he winked at Padma Patil, whose faced dawned in recognition. He wandered over to Gryffindor table, where he stopped theatrically in front of Professor Umbridge.

"You know where I can find Harry? I need to talk to him about a little something. Just something, a little."

Umbridge stared at the masked man for a good ten seconds before she visibly shook herself and attempted to show that she had regained her composure.

"Who the bloody hell are you?"

The masked man gave a fake cutesy laugh that sounded disturbingly like Umbridge's.

"I am..." he gestured at his followers, who remained rooted in place, arms crossed in the most intimidating way possible. For eleven and twelve year-olds, at least.

"I am your worst nightmare."

He turned towards Harry. "I'm guessing you're Harry Potter, if this witch is on your case."

Umbridge pulled out her wand. "I'm going to ask you again, Mr. Mask. Who. Are. You?"

"I am The Director, and these..." he gestured at his followers again, "these are my students. We are Tehrik-i-Taliban Hogwarts, and I'm here to thank Mr. Potter for his interview in The Quibbler. That's all. Have a nice day!"

The masked man pulled a perfect about-face and marched out of the hall.

"Come." he waved his followers to, you know, follow. They did, because otherwise the necessary ominously mysterious exit wouldn't happen.

Harry cleared his throat. "Soo... What were you saying before, about Hogsmeade weekends?"

Umbridge was still staring out the now closed doors of the Hall. Harry could hear the gears turning and clanking in her head from a a good five feet away. He gave a significant glance to his neighbors and they gingerly extricated themselves from breakfast and left the Hall.

"Bloody close call." whispered Ron in awe.

"Too right, mate," responded Harry. "That's the second time that bloke has saved my ass from potential embarrassment.

Tehrik-i-Taliban gathered in a smoky, poorly lit room with a mahogany table (it had taken some work, but they'd finally gotten one). The Director peered around the table at his followers. The Director noted the need to adjust the lighting so that everyone's faces were in shadow. They'd got the smoke, the dim lighting, and the bloody table. Just one more step.

"Now the world shall feel our wrath."

The Director gave his best-guess as to what maniacal should sound like.

The followers did too. If a total stranger had walked in at that moment, he probably would have called the British Zoological Society to come capture an escaped howler monkey.

Author's Note:

Don't worry, Ziad isn't going to become a terrorist. Doesn't mean he can't be influenced by his Dad, though.