Day of Reckoning

Day of Reckoning

by Calvin Potterson

Prelude

There we go. Had to get that Sonorus Charm to work correctly.

Oh, erm, ah, yes, they can hear me now.

Anyways, welcome back to the Wizarding Wireless Network, I'm Augustus Weatherby and I'll be your commentator today for Minister of Magic Arthur Weasley's motorcade down Hogsmeade. Minister Weasley is preparing for what many expect to be a difficult re-election cycle, with his Phoenix party having lost four seats in the mid-terms and opposition forces beginning to speak of a new electoral alliance to allow them to seize the majority. The Minister is expected to continue through Hogsmeade all the way to Hogwarts, where he'll meet with the school's Headmaster, Harry James Potter, who is the only British citizen in Wizarding history to be awarded three Orders of Merlin, First Class.

As expected, the Weasley faithful are out in full force, waving their magical placards and chanting political fight songs as the Minister's thestral-drawn carriage meanders its way through the winding streets of the Wizarding community's greatest little village. It must be heartening to the Minister, oh look, there he is waving enthusiastically to the crowd, sounds like they're singing the Minister's old campaign song “Weasley Is Our King”, bless their hearts.

And of course, the opposition is out as well, all set to dethrone this Minister just as surely as Cornelius Fudge and Rufus Scrimgeour were sacked by the people. You know, I really wish some of them wouldn't wear those long black cloaks, reminds me too much of the second war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and all of his ilk swishing around. You'd think that those folks, the uh, Order of Magical Union, would have some focus groups telling them that.

In any event, the carriage is passing by Madam Puddifoot's now, it'll be approaching the castle gates in a few minutes, so now the pro and anti-Ministry forces are redoubling their shouting. I can't even make out the lyrics of “Weasley Is Our King” anymore, everything's just a dull roar-

What was that?

Dear Merlin! Romulus, quick, pan the televised apparition cameras up there! Oh my God! Oh my dear merciful God!

For those listening only on the wireless, oh Merlin, people are really scattering now. For those who can't get a televised apparition image from their set, somebody just, Merlin! There was a flash of light, and somebody's put the damn Dark Mark in the air! Oh Merlin!

Oh dear heavens above-witches and wizards-there's, dear God, so many flashes of green light right now! It seems to be coming from all directions. Oh dear Merlin! No! The Ministry carriage has been hit! I repeat, the Ministry carriage has been hit! It's toppled over, oh my God, dear Merlin, I've never seen that much fire around it-oh Merlin! Dear God!

Witches and wizards, this is a horrible tragedy, Aurors are now Apparating in, hoping to catch the assassin-or, should I say, assassins…dear Merlin, all that green light! Witches and wizards, this is Augustus Weatherby reporting from Hogsmeade. Dear Merlin! The fire's spreading, the crowd's trying to avoid it-oh my God-witches and wizards, Minister of Magic Arthur Weasley and his wife Molly are, dear Merlin, unless they're able to-oh God, they must be dead. Oh God, oh Merlin, they must be dead.

A/N: Just like to suggest that y'all visit: http://www.xs4all.nl/~myranya/help4free.html, where you can (no strings attached) help charity with a single mouse click, and also my web site, an essay on faith and science: http://www.geocities.com/cal4hobbes. If you have any comments about either, please feel free to e-mail me at RadHobbes@aol.com. Thanks.

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Chapter One: No Such Thing

Welcome to the real world, she said to me,

Condescendingly,

Take a seat,

Take your life,

Plot it out in black and white.

(John Mayer, Room For Squares, “No Such Thing”

A quill scratched on parchment.

“Case law clearly states…ill treatment, lack of education, inferior sense of being caused by upbringing, forced the current situation…previous precedent marred by an appalling prejudice…”

Mumbled wisdom spewed from her mouth as she wrote.

She tucked back a rogue bit of bushy brown hair and bit her lower lip in concentration. Years of effort, of sheer rallying against the powers that be, of freedom rides and picketed protests, of organizing a grassroots effort to assault the Wizarding establishment in the aftermath of the second war, were about to pay off. Now, with one well-written majority opinion, she could liberate an entire magical race.

The petitioner, a certain Dimwiddle the House-Elf, had sued the Wizengamot for freedom based on inalienable natural rights of freedom granted to all magical beings. A decade ago, the court would have declared Dimwiddle ineligible to bring suit, a lack of standing, and unceremoniously chucked the case out. Of course, that would have been ten years ago, well before Hermione Potter became the youngest Chief Witch in history to preside over the Wizarding world's supreme court.

At that point in my life, I think my lips were glued to Ron's and Harry was out looking for that sixth Horcrux, Hermione reminisced silently, all while continuing to put forward her judicial wisdom on the parchment.

The sunlight reflected off the diamond ring enclosed around Hermione's finger and she smiled confidently.

At least I got it all sorted out in the end.

A door opened and slammed.

Hermione looked upward in mild annoyance, before she discerned the frightened expression on the weathered face of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“Kingsley, what's wrong?”

“Madam Chief, it's the Minister. He's dead and the Dark Mark's in the air. We need to get you to a secure location.”

Without warning, Shacklebolt quickly pinned Hermione to him and begin hustling her out of the room. Hermione struggled helplessly against the surprising strength of the old Auror, who was managing to keep her feet dangling a few inches above the ground no matter how much of a fuss she put up.

“Kingsley! My opinion!”

Shacklebolt's voice dropped another octave, to a moral primeal growl, “Madam Chief, your opinion won't be worth a damn Knut if you're dead. We need to keep moving.”

Hermione gulped as Kingsley stormed out of the well-lit, spacious room and turned left down a darker, danker corridor. Other Aurors immediately were alongside them, whether they'd been waiting by the door or not, Hermione wasn't quite sure. She looked around at all their faces…grim, yes. A phalanx of grim, determined Aurors. That generally was a sign that something very serious was up.

Suddenly, the implications of what Shacklebolt had said rammed themselves down her mouth, burned across her tongue, traversed down her windpipe, electrocuted her lungs and shorted out the axons across her spine. Dear God…Arthur was dead? And, oh sweet Merlin, what about Molly? And, oh God, oh God, they were visiting Harry. Oh God, no, please, God, no. Please, please…oh God.

“Kingsley?” she said, more tentatively.

“Yes, Madam Chief?”

“What about Harry?”

Kingsley gave her a small, reassuring smile, the first sign of warm humanity Hermione had seen on his face since he invaded her study. “He's fine Madam Chief, he's fine.”

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Harry Potter, Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, thrice-winner of the Order of Merlin, First Class, Supreme Mugwump, husband to the Chief Witch of the Wizengamot, and founder of the Phoenix party of Great Britain and Northern Ireland certainly would not have described himself as “fine”.

Harry had just witnessed the brutal murder of his best mate's father; on live televised apparition, no less, and instead of being out in the crowd searching for the killer, he was stuck in a very comfortable room at the Ministry of Magic building speaking with people he had no real desire to be speaking with.

Like, say, Godric “The Lion” Scrimgoeur (Wizarding Member of Parliament, Phoenix party, Scotland), the son of the former Minister of Magic that Harry had detested and had ended up being forced to resign by his Cabinet.

“Harry-”

“No. Not just no, but hell no. Not just hell no, but no goddammed way in hell no. And not just no goddamned way in hell no, but something else no that I can't say because Hermione doesn't favor swearing.”

“Harry-”

Harry was exasperated. Every inch of his skin seethed. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be talking to this man, well-meaning though he was. “Can't you just let me go out and find the sonuva-”

“I thought Hermione didn't favor swearing?” an amused Scrimgoeur interjected, running a hand through his mane of tawny blond hair that had earned him his political nickname.

“Look, for Merlin's sake, I'm not a WMP,” Harry rushed the pronunciation of “dubya-em-pee”, “I'm not a Cabinet official, I'm not even a Department Head! Every previous Minister has at least had that much experience to their name-”

“Your name,” Scrimgoeur noted, with a touch of irony, “Is all the experience you need.”

That did it. Harry leapt to his feet and grabbed Scrimgoeur by the collar, his face emanating hatred and outright rage.

“You lousy little sonuvabitch! I remember when your dad came around to Arthur Weasley's house and wanted me to start doing public relations for the goddammed Ministry! Do you think, for one damn second, that I'm going to want to become exactly what it is that I hate?”

A lesser man would have at least flinched. But, to his credit, Godric Scrimgoeur was made of sterner stuff than most. He leveled his blue eyes on Harry and coolly stared him down.

“If you think for one minute that you can win points by throwing my damned dad's name into this, Harry, you're dead wrong.”

Harry sighed and collapsed back onto his couch.

“I don't want this,” he said tiredly.

“Why not? The people need a leader they can trust right now Harry.”

Harry snorted and looked over at the dark, unlit fireplace by the couch. “Right.”

Scrimgoeur's eyebrows moved closer to the center of his forehead and his face scrunched up in frustration. “Harry, you honestly think I'm doing this for political benefit, don't you?”

“Why shouldn't I?” Harry retorted, still refusing to look Scrimgoeur in the eye, “I founded the Phoenix party as a way for old Order members to get involved politically and remake our political system. But that didn't happen. Now it's just another establishment party in a reestablished establishment world. Even the people have picked it up. The other parties are moving towards a common agenda, and they'll beat you in the next election.”

“Well, then maybe you ought to restore my party to its original intentions.” Scrimgoeur said, shrugging.

Harry sighed and shook his head again.

Frustrated, Scrimgoeur reached over and flicked on the Wizarding wireless. Voices emanated every few seconds as the Wizarding Member of Parliament flicked the dial to different channels.

“…we need a strong leader…”

“…I want the new Minister to stand up, look these <bleep>s in the eye and say `You're going to Hell now, you <bleep>…”

“...[sniff]…I just…oh Merlin…why?”

“…the Ministry had better select a Minister who's willing to crack down on this terrorism and wage war on these…uh…wizards-”

The voices shut off.

“Those are our people Harry. And they want you.”

Before Harry could respond, the door swung open, and a young, dark wizard rushed in.

“Godric, we got him! We got the wandman! But…er…there's a problem.”

“What's that?”

“We can't move him from the holding cell to Azkaban until we have a Minister of Magic. He can only be sent there, without a trial, with full Ministry approval.”

Harry clasped his hands together and bowed his head for a second.

He sighed.

He stood up.

He knew he was going to regret this.

“That would be me. Consider the order given.”

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A/N: Kudos to Quickdraw for picking up my not-so-subtle allusion. :)

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