Categories > Books > Harry Potter > The End4 Reviews
One-shot. What if wizards and Muggles couldn't get along as well as they do in the books?
A.N. Dedicated to Anna (xXx_A_xXx), as it's her birthday.
It was a dark night; the type of night on which dark deeds are done and foul schemes plotted. Shrouded by the cover of darkness, no one could have seen a man creeping down an empty cobbled street, Victorian houses looming high overhead, their grey stone walls providing the perfect cover for any doer of ill-deeds. Even had one of the elderly residents of the street looked out and happened to see the man, they would not have learnt much; like the street he was walking on, the man was clothed in black, the only features visible were those of his face. He had a sharp look about him, a long nose, and keen eyes that seemed to look everywhere. No doubt anybody who did see him would not let their gaze linger; this man was dangerous.
His steps mysteriously making no sound, the man took a sharp turn and melted into an alley of the typical London kind: narrow and shadowed by the high walls of the buildings either side. This particular alley was quite short though, and the man emerged from the other side not five seconds later, emerging onto a wider, considerably more modern road. Tall street lamps lit the length of the street with a dirty orange glow and despite the lateness of the hour the pavements were still filled with people. This did not concern the man; people off the street had a way of not seeing him unless they really /looked/. The man walked straight through the milling night life and, without even looking, crossed the road onto the other side, where a high metal gate and several policemen guarded a driveway leading off of the main road. The gate declared to drive to be called /Downing Street/.
The man did not even give the policemen a glance as he walked towards the gate; surprisingly he did so unchallenged. Pausing for a moment, the man gave the gate a long look, before with a flick of his wrist a polished length of wood slid into his hand, faster than the eye could see. The stick was waved in a complicated gesture before he took a confidant step forwards, passing through the bars of the gate as if they were only illusions. Another flick of the wrist and the stick was gone.
The man brushed himself down in a rather satisfied and unnecessary way before moving on down the completely silent Downing Street, the only light to guide his way that which slipped out of those few windows still glowing with light from within. He stopped at the black door of a rather unimpressive Number Ten, gazing at the door that so many dreamed to cross. He was unable to stop a snort escaping him before the piece of wood was in his hand once more. He took the stick and tapped the doorknob, the sound of wood on metal drifting down the empty street; then tapped himself on the head to no visible effect, before putting the stick away again and passing through the well-oiled door silently.
A well-furnished entrance hall met his eyes, large and white and airy, with a staircase on the left heading upstairs. Portraits of former Prime Ministers adorned the walls and the right side of the room was dominated by a large, yet unused, fireplace. Shutting the door behind him, the man walked over to the staircase and began to ascend, talking time to admire the fine wooden carving of the banister. As he reached the next floor the man stepped into shadow: upstairs all the lights were out; the family must have gone to bed. /Good/.
The corridor that the man now found himself in was long and eerie, thickly carpeted and bathed in the darkness of night; the only light crept out from underneath the door at the very end of the corridor, a door that declared itself to be the /Office of the Prime Minister/. With his usual care the man walked down the corridor towards this door, his hands trailing along the walls as he went, as if he wished to remember the experience with all of his senses. When he reached the end of the corridor, he opened the door and entered the office, light briefly filling the dark corridor before the door clicked shut behind him.
The Prime Minister had been having a good day. He had thoroughly trounced his opponent in the Commons earlier, and he was very pleased indeed with the redecoration of his once-gloomy office, which was now splashed with a regal combination of red and gold. That awful portrait of the frog had gone too, the Prime Minister finally having the wall behind it removed to escape the bad memories that the portrait brought up. Now, thought the Prime Minister, he was free of all that rubbish: they had said that they had everything sorted out, and that was good enough for the Minister. He was just finishing off writing a letter to the American ambassador when he thought he heard the door open, it must have been his wife. But no, when he looked up into his brightly lit office, the door was firmly shut and no one had entered the room. Must have been the wind, he thought, turning back to his letter.
He did not get very far before he was interrupted once more: a small, light cough echoed about the room; the Minister froze in his seat. Funny little coughs that came from nowhere were never good in the Prime Minister's experience. Determined to not look up, he hunched over the letter and went back to writing, now keen to get it finished so that he could go to bed. Again, not much progress was made before a cough met the Minister's ears, this time a little more forceful.
Resigned, the Minister put his pen down and looked up at the room. Had he not been expecting something like it, he may have fallen off of his chair in shock; there, not two meters away, sitting in one of his armchairs, was a youngish man, dressed in black with bright green eyes and messy black hair.
"Good evening, Prime Minister," the man said softly, yet with an air of authority.
"Good - good evening to you," replied the Minister nervously, almost falling into a nervous stutter. Gathering himself,
"Scrimgeour sent you, I presume?" the Minister asked, feeling proud at taking the upper hand.
"No. Scrimgeour-" the man's voice was filled with distaste as he said the name "-Scrimgeour knows nothing of my little visit."
The urge to stutter was returning. If Scrimgeour did not send this man, then he could be dangerous, thought the Minister, his hand drifting to the hidden draw under his desk, where he kept a loaded pistol.
"Then, who are you? And why are you here?" said the Minister, dreading the answer; wizards never brought good news. His hand was now fumbling with the release mechanism of the draw.
"You may call me Mr. Potter, Prime Minister." Said the man, "And I am here to ask a few...favours of you."
The Minister now had his hand gripping the handle of the pistol underneath the desk, and he prepared himself to have to use it. The way this Mr. Potter - a name he recognised, which did not bode well - said "favours" did not sound good.
"Favours?" asked the Minister, emboldened by the feel of the gun, "And what makes you think I owe you any favours?"
"Ah. Yes, perhaps I should have been more clear," said the man in a voice that spoke of pain to come; he unfolded himself from his relaxed position on the armchair, standing up and moving - advancing - towards the Minister's desk, "The favours which I ask of you are not going to be entirely voluntary."
That was it - the wizard was too close and he had as good as issued a direct threat. The Minister raised his pistol quickly and pulled the trigger over and over again, emptying the clip right at the Potter man, the sound of each piercing shot ringing in the Minister's ears. Every single shot missed, the bullets instead smashing into his new furniture, ripping apart chairs, smashing desks, putting holes in the walls. Yet the man was just standing there, unharmed. The Minister's heart sank.
"That," said the man, "Was rude." He sounded more amused than offended. "Now, I simply must get down to business."
Harry flicked his wrist and his wand was in his hand instantly, pointing at the minister, who was still frozen by shock and fear to his seat.
The next day the world watched on in horror as the Prime Minister of Great Britain ordered and executed nuclear strikes on every major power in the world, each power responding in kind. By the end of the day, no one was sure who was on whose side - the world had collapsed into chaos, governments had collapsed, militaries were attacking countries everywhere and anywhere in an attempt to retaliate against the offensives taken against their country's. Within four days not a single civilised nation remained civilised, anarchy and violence ruling. Within fourteen days the world's population had dropped by a half from the nuclear fallout and subsequent violence; many more were dying. After a year, a whole magical world was revealed to the Muggles of the globe, a magical world that quickly rose to power in the chaos that every nation was in, the only resistance the occasional guerrilla force who attempted to take down the wizards, before they either gave up after not being able to find their targets, or they were found out and killed. And through it all, one man dressed in black with bright green eyes stood in the background, smiling a small smile, directing people's thoughts and rising to power amid the confusion.