This ain't no slash fic.

This ain't no self-insert fic neither.

This is The Book of Dobby.


Love is a razor and I walked the line on that silver blade

Slept in the dust with his daughter, her eyes red with the slaughter of innocence

But I will pray for her

I will call her name out loud

I would bleed for her

if I could only see her now

Living on a razor's edge

Balancing on a ledge

Oh, balancing on a ledge

Oh balancing on a ledge

Living on a razor's edge

Balancing on a ledge

You know

You know

The evil that men do lives on and on...

- Iron Maiden, 'The Evil That Men Do', -Seventh Son of a Seventh Son-


The village of Little Hangleton in the north of Cornwall is a pretty quiet place.

Aside from the ghost stories related to Riddle Manor at the north end of town (and the assorted mysterious deaths over the years) it is one of those places where not much of anything ever seems to happen. People come and go, tourists pass through in the summer, but very little ever seems to change, and the modern era has little visible impact.

That said, Little Hangleton, despite being some middle-of-nowhere podunk villiage, plays host to a couple of frothing Games Workshop fanboys.

These fanboys are in fact brothers, named Jeffrey and Andrew Lewis. Andrew is the elder of the two; Jeffrey is the one who got into Games Workshop first.

On this particular pleasent afternoon, the two had been kicked out the house by their mother as their game of Warhammer 40,000 had got a bit too loud, and they were now sprawled in the front garden and arguing about whether the Evil Sunz were cooler than the Goffs or not.

They had just about come to blows over which Ork clan is Orkiest when they heard the distant buzz of an aero-engine. This was a very unusual thing; Little Hangleton is nearly sixty miles from the nearest airfield, and the only planes one usually sees are only visible as sun-highlighted specks at the tip of contrails. Therefore, the brothers Lewis immediately forgot their disagreement and sprang to their feet, peering into the air in an attempt to see the plane.

That's when an unearthly howl joined the engine's buzz. The sound itself started getting rapidly louder.

"Woah, what's that?" Jeffrey said. Their next-door neighbour, little old Mr Spencer, screamed something incoherent about Jerries and air-raids and Stukas, and ran for his basement.

The brothers Lewis ignored Mr Spencer, he often had flashbacks, and continued peering into the sky.

It was Andrew who spotted the dark crank-winged shape as it plunged from the skies; the Stuka dropped, dive siren wailing, like an avenging angel towards Riddle Manor.

Andrew and Jeffrey both clearly saw two black specks part company with the dive-bomber's underparts, and then it was peeling off, screaming low enough over their house that both brothers saw the double-headed eagle aquilla of the Imperium of Man on the plane's underside.

Then Riddle Manor exploded, and both brothers decided to start collecting Space Marines.


Disclaimer: This disclaimer is Classyficated Top Secret, and yous is not allowed to be reading it.


The Holy Testament of Dobby.

Per Arcana ad Astra

A Doghead13 fanfic.

Written & produced by Calum J 'Doghead13' Wallace.

Preread by the Caer Azkaban Yahoo group.

Brought to you by Hairy Scottish Git Productions, GMBH

This is not a drill.


Chapter 3: Welcome to the Human Race.

(In which the great struggle against the Arch-Heretic begins)

A few moments before, a Death Eater meeting had been in session.

"... And they will be helpless before us!" Voldemort concluded. Then he heard the wail.

Very few wizards knew it, but the being generally known as Voldemort had once been a half-blood boy raised by muggles. His first term at Hogwarts had been in 1940; his childhood was stained by air-raid drills and worrying about Jerry.

And he had heard that wail once before. He recognised it immediately; he'd never forget it. The only real friend he'd ever had was blown to bits in that air-raid. It took him straight back to Portland Harbour on the fourth of July 1940, the wail of falling dive-bombers, the thunderclap as the bomb hit - fire, flying metal, and fear.


Then he dissaparated.

Most of the Death Eaters followed suit, but half a dozen were left stood there going, 'Huh?'

That half dozen included Crabbe and Goyle Senior, Nott, MacNair, and a duo of fresh recruits.

Therefore, when the two bombs released by the dive-bomber came crashing through the ceiling into the rough area of Voldemort's throne and exploded, there were six very immediate casulties.

Likewise, a snake known as Nagini (who was curled up on one arm of Voldemort's throne) didn't stand a snowball's hope in Hell. Hit headon by two hundred kilos of steel filled with highly volatile alchemy, the unfortunate snake was torn apart and then vaporised by the blast.

And Riddle Manor burned brightly.


They'd just got the Lancaster back on her undercarriage when Dobby came in to land, the bomb racks beneath the Stuka's wings conspicuously empty.

In the Lanc, they'd found something that creeped all three of them the Hell out; a partial skeleton, still holding the tailgunner's controls. They'd taken it out the plane and buried it beneath a massive chunk of rock they'd set in the ground in front of where the control tower had once been.

It was a simple pyramid of raw bedrock, marked with a slab of metal they'd taken from a piece of wreckage, and it bore the following:

In memory of the Unknown Airman.

Never in the course of human history has so much been owed by so many to so few.

Then, quieter and more solemn, they'd turned their attention back to the Lanc. They were so tense that the roar of the approaching Stuka was definitely welcomed; as Dobby taxied the old plane into the hanger, the three humans left the bomber and watched.

"How'd it go?" Harry asked as Dobby climbed out the plane.

"Is not so bad." Dobby said. "Stuka is being juuuust right. But the very bad Mr Mouldyvorts is gets away, and so does most of thems Deaths Gobblerators. They is wizard-pops away when Dobby's bombs is still falling, Dobby is thinks that Mr Harry Potter Sir's dive sirenses is maybe makes them be scarpering."

"Must admit I'm not really surprised." Harry said. "I mean, Voldemort grew up in the muggle world during the Second World War, it's not surprising he legged it... I guess he'd heard a Stuka before."

"Oh well." Hermione said. "We'd better make some more bombs and blow up the Malfoys."

"I've got a better idea than that, but it'll be a load of work." Harry said. "We'll need to make a whole bunch of bullets for the cannons." He turned to Dobby. "Fancy strafing Malfoy Manor?"

"Oooooohh, Dobby is likes Mr Harry Potter Sir's idea very much!"

"Thought you would."


"Good Lord, Severus! Are you okay?" Dumbledore gasped.

"I'm okay, I'm okay." Snape assured, flopping into a chair.

"Do you need post-cruciatus potion?"

"No, no, it's nothing like that." Snape said, waving Dumbledore off.

"Severus, you're shaking like a leaf! What in Merlin's name happened?"

Snape gave Dumbledore a highly worried look.

"Albus, have you ever heard the term, 'Air raid' before?"

"I confess I can't say I have."

"I hadn't either, Albus. I hadn't either." Snape shuddered. "As you know, I was at a meeting of my... other organisation. You-know-who had just completed a speech, when we heard the most terrible shriek - it put a banshee to shame! The Dark Lord yelled something about 'air raid', and commanded us to flee." He shuddered again. "Albus, I apparated only a half mile, and mere moments after I departed, I swear that the Dark Lord's headquarters exploded! The whole building was left an inferno - it was terrifying! And the sound, sweet Merlin the sound! I swear I saw a muggle flying machine of some kind departing the area moments afterwards, and I am certain that terrible howl was coming from it."

"This is most vexing, Severus. Was anyone unable to get out in time?"

"I beleive Mr Crabbe and Mr Goyle to have been consumed by the inferno. Likewise, it is my belief that at least three others failed to escape. And... Albus, Nagini was perched upon one arm of the Dark Lord's throne."

"I see." Dumbledore frowned. Then his thoughts drifted off onto a subject mainly involving wombles.

"Lemon drop?" he offered.


Voldemort slowly settled himself into Lucius Malfoy's finest armchair.

His hands were shaking.

"My Lord, if I may be so bold... what in Merlin's name happened back there?" Lucius nervously asked.

For a moment, Voldemort considered snapping that they'd obviously been attacked by mad Muggles, Then he considered lying and claiming it was something left over from Grindlewald.

Then he decided to tell the truth.

"That, Lucius, is a part of why I loathe muggles." He said.

"... my Lord?" Lucius asked, bewildered.

"As you are aware, I am an orphan." Voldemort stated. "As you are likely unaware, I was abandoned and raised in the muggle world during the era of Grindlewald's war."

"Indeed?" Lucius asked, surprised.

"Indeed. Muggles are vicious brutes, Lucius. And their appetite for destruction is truly alarming. Their history is merely a resume of one senseless war after another; their excuses to destroy are without count. What we heard today is a muggle machine known as a 'Stuka'. It's purpose is simple; to destroy. It flies, high and fast, and carries a number of explosive devices known as 'bombs'. When these 'bombs' are dropped, that which they fall upon is likely to be utterly destroyed, and anyone caught within the blast will die."

He sat forwards.

"Lucius, I have heard that terrible scream before. On that day, the only woman I have ever loved was blasted apart by those foul creatures we call muggles, for the simple crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That, Lucius, is when I realised what a horrific threat the muggles pose to the Wizarding World. In the time of Grindlewald's war, over fifty MILLION of them died, and that was barely enough to put a dent in their masses. Each and every one is a barely-civilised murderous idiot, just seeking for another moronic reason to kill. That damn fool Dumbledore and his ilk are unable to see the threat the muggles pose; they regard those unashamed killers as silly little pet-like beings to be protected. You and I know that the muggles are the enemy of all we hold dear, Lucius; and today you have seen why."

Lucius nodded thoughtfully.

"Indeed." he said.

"And that," Voldemort said, "Is why we must eradicate those vermin before they destroy us all."


At two in the afternoon, they had the Stuka's ammunition compartments full; the tailgunner's double-barreled MG 81Z machine gun, and the gigantic forwards-facing 37mm cannons they had mounted in the wings where the original plane's MG-17 wing guns had originally been. Harry had remarked that they'd managed to come up with a new variant of the Ju-87, as it was essentially a B with the anti-tank weapons from the G fitted into it's wings, with a pair of bomb hardpoints tacked on beneath as opposed to the single bomb slung under the cockpit; after a lot of joking about, they'd decided to call it a Ju-87 H. Then they discovered that the 'H' appelation had at one time been applied to a wartime variant of Ju-87, so they renamed it a Ju-87 I, all of this to-and-fro happening to ease the boredom of manufacturing ammunition.

Then, the Stuka being fully-laden with a good compliment of bullets and bombs (and a good few spare rounds being stashed in the back of the Land-Rover, and a little bomb painted on each side of the Stuka's cockpit) Hermione and Sirius turned their attention back to the Lancaster while Harry finished assembling the blueprints of a Spitfire Mark IX, put together from their extensive examinations and note-taking at the museums and, of course, RAF Conningsby. He really wanted to get the blueprints for the late-war Griffon-engined Spitfire Mark XII, but that would have to wait. He was absolutely certain they'd be facing opposition in the air, sooner or later, either from the Death Eaters or the Royal Air Force, and when they did, he wanted to be prepared.

For now, they were ahead in this game. Their tests had shown that anything coated in dragon-hide was invisible to radar (Hermione had come out with a spiel involving words like 'acting as a black-body at radio frequencies' and things like that) so, for now, they had the advantage of tactical invisibility - but Harry was sure that wouldn't last. Someone of the RAF persuasion was bound to notice nutters in old planes blowing things up, and when they did he intended to be ready.

The double-headed eagle was good, he thought. It was highly visible, and just as distinctive, without screaming 'Baddie!' like Voldemort's rotten skull logo. The house elves were keeping tabs on the movements of Death Eaters - he wasn't sure how, but Dobby had assured him it was so - and, sooner or later, the Death Eaters were bound to start attacking muggles again.

And when they did, they'd be in for an unpleasent surprise in the form of house elf commandos with Sten guns and wearing that eagle - and those elves would be treating the Ministry's Obliviators as enemy combatants. If you asked Harry, messing with people's minds was distinctly not on. You mess with their mind, you mess with who they are; destroy someone's past and you destroy the person.

Heh. Nothing says 'Good guys here!' like saving innocent civillian lives.

"Hey Harry, give us a hand here. We need your fine touch."

"Sure." he said, setting the blueprint (actually a tiny, 1:32nd scale, model of a Spitfire, perfectly detailed in every way - give it petrol and the miniature Rolls-Royce Merlin would run) down on the table and heading over to the battered Lanc. The old warhorse had been missing her port outboard engine when they started, so Hermione and Sirius had been busying themselves constructing a replacement. That morning, they'd got the Lanc's other three engines to run (leading to much hooting and hollering as they heard the purr) and they thus had a template.

However, neither Hermione nor Sirius had quite been able to get the superchargers right - so that much was up to Harry.

Two saluting house elves chose that moment to pop up; Harry recognised both, though he'd never seen Winky dressed like that before. She was wearing a flightsuit matching Dobby's, with one minor detail difference; Dobby now bore a small cloth badge on his left breast, in the form of a double-headed eagle clutching a bomb in each talon.

"Dobby and Winky is reportses for duty, Mr Harry Potter Sir!" Dobby said. "We is being ready to be strafes the Bad Masters Malfoyses when Mr Harry Potter Sir is gives order!"

"Good to hear it." Harry said, returning the salute, much to the very visible delight of both elves. "It's been a while, Winky. How're you holding up?"

"Winky is being does okay now, Mr Harry Potter Sir." Winky said, repeatedly saluting. "Winky is not has earning wings yet, Winky is crashed mebbe some times, but Winky is learning very quick, Mr Harry Potter Sir!"

"Well, everyone's gotta start somewhere, eh? So, how do you fancy flying tail-gunner with Dobby?"

"Ooooh, Winky is likes this idea very very very much Mr Harry Potter Sir!"

Harry squatted down to bring himself to eye level with the little elf.

"Winky, you realise this is going to involve killing people, don't you?" he asked.

"Winky is knows this, Mr Harry Potter Sir." Winky gravely said, nodding repeatedly. "Winky is not really likes idea, but Winky is knows that sometimes elfses is has to be doing very difficult things, or there is being Swastickers on the Bukkyking Ham Pallers place. It is bees wartime, Mr Harry Potter Sir, and in wartime someone is has to be doing bad things or everyone is being in big big big big big big trouble." She took a deep breath, sounding slightly tremulous. "Winky is not knowing if Winky is being ready, but there is only being one way that Winky is being able to be finding out, Mr Harry Potter Sir."

Harry nodded thoughtfully.

"I want you to know how much I appreciate this, Winky." He said.

Winky's lower lip trembled a bit, but she remained at sharp attention.

"Winky is knowing this thing, Mr Harry Potter Sir." she said. "Mr Harry Potter Sir is being a good and great and noble and wonderful wizard, and if elfses is fights the enemies of Mr Harry Potter Sir, elfses is fights the enemies of all that is being good and great and noble and wonderful, and maybe if elfses is fights hard enough the world is being it's right and proper shape again." She saluted. "Winky is doing everything Winky and Dobby is being able to think of to be preparing, and Winky is being ready to try."

"Thankyouy. Winky. I owe you. The same goes for you, Dobby. I owe both of you, and Sirius and Hermione, a hell of a lot, because you beleive in me when so many people don't." Harry said.

"It is being honour, Mr Harry Potter Sir." Winky solemnly told him. "For long time, Winky is not being happy elf. Winky is not having thing to be live elf for. Then Dobby is shows Winky about be pilot, and Winky is has thing to be live elf for again." She smiled, and looked at the Stuka. "And anyways, when Winky's hand is being on the stick, Winky is feels very very very much alive. Winky is now being certain that Mr Harry Potter Sir is not knows what a great and noble thing he is being does for elfses. Since time not there, elfses has dreamed of flying... and Mr Harry Potter Sir is shows elfses how to fly. Mr Harry Potter Sir's Stuka, it is not being pretty, but it is being mighty, and it is being one of most tremendous and incredible things that a wizard is ever trusts elfses with." She looked back at Harry, her expression most solemn. "Mr Harry Potter Sir is doing incredible thing for elfses - so it is only being right and proper that elfses is doing incredible thing for Mr Harry Potter Sir."

"Is being so." Dobby said with a nod. "Mr Harry Potter Sir is loves elfses, elfses is being able to know because of things that Mr Harry Potter Sir is says and does for elfses. Miss Grangy Ma'am is loves elfses too, but Miss Grangy Ma'am is not understanding elfses. Mr Harry Potter Sir IS understanding elfses, and Mr Harry Potter Sir is gives elfses things that elfses need. And that is why when elfses is talks about Mr Harry Potter Sir they is talks about The Great Wizard Mr Harry Potter Sir." He smiled happily. "Now, we is needs to be scrambling. The Bad Masters Malfoyses house is not bombs itself."

With that, the two elves saluted and ran off for the Stuka, leaving a very bemused Harry to gawp at their backs.

"... but I didn't do anything special." he said.

"You did, Harry." Hermione told him, hugging him from behind. "You're special just by being who you are."


There were, on August Twelfth 1995, less than two dozen people in the world who knew where Malfoy Manor actually was.

The building was covered by an unplottability ward; the best that can be said (by anyone not possessing the second sight of the Fey) s that it was about twenty miles due north of Carlisle, somewhere on the border between Scotland and England.

However, like all house elves, the two-elf crew of the Ju-87-I Stuka 'Lily Potter's Revenge' possessed the second sight of the Fey.

To a house elf (like all Fey creatures) what humans call visible-range light is a secondary sensory source. Minor Fey of the Seelie they might be - but the second sight they had. Their primary sense was the ability to see magic itself; being minor Fey, there hadn't historically been a hell of a lot they could do about it.

Until a pair of boys called Harry Potter and Dudley Dursley, a man called Sirius Black, and a girl called Hermione Granger, had granted them wings, that they might fly. Wings that came with a V12 engine, a pair of 37mm-calibre cannons, and a couple of nice fat bombs.

Then the second sight became very important, though neither Dobby nor Winky had realised it. It allowed them to locate Malfoy Manor at a glance; thanks to hours of practise within the Room of Requirements, and their innate sense of where magical people were, they zeroed in on the manor like a laser-guided missile, flying low and fast, the Junkers' throttle pasted to the firewall, air speed hovering around the mark of three hundred miles per hour and altitude just shy of five thousand feet.


It was over North Yorkshire that it happened.

An RAF Panavia Tornado F3 fighter of 25 Squadron, out of RAF Leeming, was heading north-northeast at an altitude of roughly ten thousand feet when the pilot, Flight Lieutenant Tim McDonald, spotted something.

"Control, this is Alpha Flight. I'm seeing an unidentified aircraft below me, altitude approximately five thousand feet, approximate speed roughly two hundred sixty knots, heading approximately ten degrees. Do you have anything on radar? Over."

"Ah, negative on that Alpha Flight, you're the only activity for nearly a hundred kays. Can you get me a range on that contact? Over."

"That's a negative, Control. I've got nothing on the scope, but we're both seeing it. Over."

"... ah, roger that Alpha Flight. I'm sending this upstairs; maintain visual on the contact. Over."

"Roger, willco. Over."

A couple minutes passed in silence as the Tornado orbited the unidentified aircraft at a good fifteen kilometers range.

"Alpha Flight, this is Control. Close to point blank with the unidentified contact, and identify. Repeat, close to point blank and identify. Try to get a visual on the unidentified contact's serial number, and if you cannot, do your best to get guncamera footage. Over."

"Roger that, Control. Closing on the contact. Over."

A minute of silence, then:

"Control, you're not going to believe this. I have ID on the mark of the contact. Repeat, I have ID on the mark of the contact. It's a goddamned Stuka! Negative on a serial number, and negative on identification of the paint scheme, but it's definitely a Stuka. Over."

"Are you certain of that ID, Alpha Flight? Over."

"Positive on that, Control. Or can you think of any other two-seaters with an inverted gull-wing and fixed undercarriage? Over."

".... ah, that's a negative, Alpha Flight. Are your scopes still clear? Over."

"That's a positive, Control. He's not putting an inky hiccup on my radar, and... BLOODY HELL! Control, I don't beleive what I'm seeing, and I won't until I'm looking at the guncamera tapes. Permission to withdraw? Over."

"Ah, that's a negative, Alpha Flight. Maintain contact, we've got backup on the way, and they're packing. Repeat, maintain contact. Over."

"... shit."


Dobby was starting to get concerned, but he was doing a good job of hiding it from Winky.

After the RAF jet's close pass, he'd dropped four thousand feet of altitude; he was tearing across the north of England with the wheels only a thousand feet from the dirt, one eye on the engine's temprature gauge and the other on the view ahead, his magical senses extended - he could clearly see the cooling charms on radiator, engine block and exhausts leeching heat away from the redlining V12. Everything magical outside the plane was somewhat fuzzy thanks to the thin film of dragon-hide - actually paper-thin sheddings, almost as transparent to the eye as glass - that clad the Junkers' exterior.

Another two RAF jets joined the first one. Dobby peered over his shoulder, sitting up half out of his seat, and concern became worry as he saw the heat-seeking missiles beneath the wings of the newcomers.

He dropped another three hundred feet of altitude.


"Yeah, he's running, he's running. Over."

"Weapons free, Gamma Flight. Repeat, weapons free. Splash Gorgon. Over."

"Damn thing! The fuckhead's not giving off enough heat for a lock... DAMNIT! Over."

"Language, Gamma Two. Over."

"Groundloop's right, Control. I swear a freaking seagull produces more heat than this bas- bugger. Over."

"Pass him as close as you can, Gamma Flight. See if you can shake him up with a sonic boom or two. Over."

"Ah, roger that Control, we're kicking her in the guts. Over."


"Yowch!" Dobby complained, fighting with the stick and rattling his head around.

"Owie." Winky agreed. "Is thems being Natserys?"

"No, no, thems is being silly buggers." Dobby assured her. "Winky is holds onto hat - we is takes scenic route."

And he ditched another six hundred feet of altitude.

The Junkers was now tearing along with her wheels only a hundred feet from the dirt, telegraph poles flicking past only fifty or sixty feet from the port wingtip as they followed the route of a muggle motorway; Dobby felt as if his eyes were going to burn holes in the cockpit canopy, and he was certain the stick was deforming a bit in his grip.

He was perfectly aware of the trail of shat pants and burnt rubber he was leaving behind him as they raced north, scaring the pants off a whole load of rather unfortunate motorists.


"He's insane! Over."

"Control, whoever our bogey is, he's really got her in the dirt. I figure his altitude to be around a hundred feet even, and he's right on top of a bleeding motorway. Over."

"Understood, Gamma Flight. Keep shadowing him. Stay as close as you can, and maintain visual at all times. Over."

"Roger that, Control. Complying. Over."


Finally, Carlisle having fallen behind them, the two elves hit paydirt as Malfoy Manor appeared from among the trees.

Dobby didn't even need to drop the Stuka's nose. He just had to thumb the trigger for a couple seconds, then pull back on the stick, sending the old plane zooming up away from the manor. He was awarded by a squeaky war-whoop from Winky followed by the chatter of the MG-81Z as she sprayed the roof.


"Jesus Christ, he's opened fire! That damn thing is packing. Repeat, Gorgon has opened fire. Over."

"Understood, Gamma Flight. Any damage? Over."

"He hasn't so much as glanced at us since he went NOE, but he's sure blown the shit out of a civvie building. Oh holy Hell, he's going in again - I still can't get a lock on the bastard! Over."


Dobby turned the Stuka, and went in again, another hail of 37mm shells streaking towards Malfoy Manor.

As they streaked over, less than thirty feet from the manor's roof, he let go both bombs for good measures, and then they were tearing away to the south and home, Winky holding down the tail guns until she couldn't get an angle any more.


The Tornadoes stayed on them the whole way south. Dobby kept the Stuka as low as he dared the whole way, following muggle roads right through the centre of London, weaving between buildings and doing everything he could to throw the jets off - a goal he acheived when he flew under Tower Bridge and turned hard north, incidentally ending up buzzing Buckingham Palace on his way as he and the Tornados radically disrupted air traffic in and out of Heathrow.

He didn't fully relax until the Stuka's wheels were back on the grass outside the hanger, and he'd made his report to Harry, concluding with, "Dobby is thinks we is needs ways for to be seeing muggle planses coming before they is seeing us, Mr Harry Potter Sir."

"Congratulations, Harry." Hermione said with a grin. "It's your first UFO incident."

Harry gave her the do-you-work-here look.

"We need something like radar that isn't actually radar." Hermione continued. "You see, when a radar set is running it puts out a radio signal all the time, right? So it's a bit like trying to hide when you're waving a floodlight around."

"Aren't there like radars and stuff at airports and such-like?" Harry asked. "Would we be able to use their radio signals?"

"It'd be difficult." Hermione told him.

"When isn't it?" Sirius asked with a laugh. "Come on, let's go gut that old radar set."

"Hang on." Hermione said. "We couldn't detect the Junkers with that radar set, right? It just cast a radar shadow on more distant traces when it came between us and them. I figure that it's acting as a black-body on radar - so, the dragon-hide absorbs any radio-wavelength light that falls on the plane. And the cooling charms you guys put on the engine, radiator and exhausts ought to reduce it's thermal signature enough that a heat-seeking missile won't lock onto it. I theorize that, until we get some sort of magical radar-analogue worked out, we can evade muggle aircraft very easily."

"Okay, but how?" Harry asked.

"By flying low, keeping away from commercial aviation flight-paths, and only operating at night." Hermione explained.

"So we is being night bombers, yes?" Dobby asked, nodding thoughtfully. "We is needs to be putting flame maskerses on the Stuka."

"Listen, my uncle Timothy's in the Royal Air Force, he flies Tornadoes, and he likes to talk about his work." Hermione continued, nodding. "Well, the stuff he's allowed to talk about, that is - and if I'm not asking about classified stuff, he's always answered as best as he can. That's why I actually know the basics about aircraft. There's got to be a way the RAF can distinguish between one plane and another when they're in the air, and I'm pretty sure they can do it without the plane's radar being switched on."

"I didn't know you had an uncle." Harry said.

"Oh, I've got - well, I had three. Dad's got a twin brother and two elder sisters, and Mum has - had - two brothers, one older and one younger. Uncle Timothy's Mum's elder brother." Hermione explained. "Their little brother Stanley died in the Falklands, though."


When Danielle Crabbe (currently in mourning) heard the banging on the door, she was annoyed.

Annoyance became shock when she found three bloodied Malfoys on her doorstep.

Shock became horror when she saw that Narcissa was holding Lucius up with one arm, while holding a torniquet tight round the stub that had been Draco's left arm with the other.

"Oh sweet Merlin, get inside quickly!"


(Scene by Chris Hill, with a few small additions & alterations)

The country of France has had it's detractors over the years.

One of the most common stereotypes utilised by these detractors is that the French will roll over to anyone who invades their country, as if they are the whores of Europe.

However, that stereotype is based on selective ignorance of history. France has indeed been occupied more than once, but the French did not allow the enemy in without a fight - especially not the last time. Outgunned and overpowered by the Nazi regeime, they had turned to guerilla warfare, and in this they had become experts.

There were more ways to fight than straight ahead, and the French had proven this time after time.

The most famous example would be the French Resistance, or the Maquis. For the freedom-loving people of France, more than willing to accept people without prejudice, such evil as Hitler could not be born - and it was clear to any rational being that such evil was once more rearing it's ugly head.

And it went by the name of Voldemort. France had seen his like before; all too many Frenchmen had perished to Hitler's madness, and they would not stand idle and allow a repeat. Yet they couldn't just charge in and fight Voldemort straight on; the hidebound, complacent government of Wizarding Britain would pitch a kitten-fit.

Since the French Ministry - Le Department Magique - paid attention to all happenings in the nations around them, unlike the British Ministry of Magic, they were in fact aware of the unusual Stuka flight. Some checking of records showed that the plane's first target was a supposedly abandoned muggle manor in the villiage that one Mr Harry Potter had claimed to have played host to the ressurection of the self-titled 'Lord Voldemort'. When the Stuka took to the air again, the French were aware of it earlier even than the Royal Air Force. They watched it's progress with guarded interest; the plane was of a type that had caused horrenduous damage to France and her allies early in the Second World War. When they saw exactly what the Stuka was doing, a tentative suggestion was raised that the owners and operators of this aircraft might in fact be the good guys. Questions were asked; who had put that old plane in the air, who had decided to give Voldemort's lapdogs a bloody nose?

It was a small quarter-Veela girl by the name of Gabrielle DeLacour who, listening to her parents discussing the Stuka, first raised a possibility that was, in hindsight, rather obvious.

Who among the wizards of Britain had tried to warn the world of that evil madman's return, had frequent contact with the muggle world, and had been treated badly for his attempts at a warning? And who, among the tiny number of people this described, was known to actively despise the English branch of the Malfoys to such a degree as to bomb them?

Hogwarts had recently played host to many magical chidreren of France, who had been considered 'weak pansies' by several uninformed individuals.

Those children, however, had learned from their parents; they had learned the hard-won lessons from a hard-fought guerilla war.

To properly fight a war with little damage to yourself, appear to be something you are not.

Enterprising individuals, armed with the now-rampant speculation and some (surprisingly accurate) guesswork, realised that a new war was being fought, utilising whatever could be got a hold of. And some of them had children, who had almost universally been quite impressed with Mr Potter. There was no question of not supporting the young man - if he was, indeed, responsible for this yet-young offensive against the forces of evil.

Besides, now they could go and save Britain, and rub the Brit's noses in it, just like the British had done to France in the Second World War. The fact that a Nazi aircraft was being used by the apparent 'good guys' this time around simply added a layer of delicious irony. The French have always liked a good laugh.

New letters were drawn up, and old family weapons from a supposedly-byegone age were polished and made as new again.

The motto: 'Be ingenious so that you return home at night with a tranquil conscience because you have done your daily sabotage' rang forth once more.

La Resistance was back in business.


"I understand you have a message for me, young man?"

Vinnie Crabbe shuffled nervously. From what he'd heard, the Dark Lord's response to this news was liable to be... painful.

"Yer, melord." he said. "S' about Draco an' Mr Malfoy. Them's 'ome were attacked an' them's urt bad. Melord, Draco's arm's off an' is' dad's unconscious. Ma sez it's gotta be bad cuz we can't revive Mr Malfoy."

"... I see." Voldemort quietly stated, closing his eyes for a moment. "Damn, damn, damn... Severus!"

"Yes, My Lord?"

"You will accompany young Mr Crabbe, and see what may be done for Lucius and his son. Go now, both of you."

"At once, My Lord." the two - man and boy - chorused, and scarpered, glad to be getting let off without a Crucio or two.

Inside the deeply-buried cave Voldemort was now using as a temporary headquarters, the Dark Lord bowed his head in contemplation.


"Yes, My Lord?"

"Take a camera, and photograph the damage to Malfoy Manor. And at least try to have some subtlety? Utilise an invisibility cloak; there are likely to be Ministry idiots on the scene, and if the ward-stone has been disturbed it is liable to be heaving in muggles."

"At once, My Lord."

Mulciber too left in a great hurry.

"Are you well, My Lord?" Bellatrix asked. Ah, yes. Having his loyal Death Eaters within the Aurors remove her from Azkaban had been quite worthwhile. She was looking a bit beat-up, as one would expect from someone who'd spent over a decade in that pit, but there were still signs of her former beauty. He dismissed the others, then beckoned her over to him; she relaxed into his grip as he seated her against his side.

The Dark Lord sighed heavily. Bellatrix - poor dear fanatical Bellatrix - was the only one of his Death Eaters he could show any sign of weakness to. In the good old days, she'd been his favourite concubine. Perhaps those days could come again.

"No, Bellatrix." he said. "I am not okay." He glanced at the ceiling. "This stone may seem impentrable... but the muggles have devices that could destroy it, utterly. We need broom-riders at the very least. We must have constant air cover." He sighed again. "DAMNIT! Why did those accursed vermin have to interfere NOW?"


"OK, so that's two trial runs." Harry said. It was getting pretty late, and Hermione would have to head home soon, but they'd just got all four of the Lanc's engines running and were relaxing round a camp fire with some celebratory beers.

"What is Mr Harry Potter Sir means, trial runses?" Dobby asked. They'd invited him and Winky to join him, but both elves had turned down beer. When Hermione managed to translate the resultant Dobby-ese, it transpired that house elves (primarily due to their significantly lower body mass) have an instant and spectacular reaction to even the slightest amounts of alcohol. Butterbeer was slightly alcoholic, to the tune of about half a percent, and this was enough to get a house elf drunk. Even a cheap piss-strength lager would be strong enough that a house elf would pass out within half a pint, and a really strong beer could kill a house elf. One shot of spirits? Dead.

"I mean our raids today and yesterday. Trial runs." Harry said. "Oh, don't look at me like that, I know they went off okat, though it's not like we got anyone imporant - not your fault, it's not like dive-bombers are Voldemort-Bunghole-Seeking - but it proved one thing."

"What's that?" Sirius asked.

"It works." Harry stated. "It all works. The planes work, with an aircrew of house elves they can find even securely warded things - hell, come to think of it I didn't have to tell any of the elves where this airbase is - and a wizard hit by a bomb or a bullet is just as dead as a muggle hit with the same bomb or bullet. We've got a lot of flaws to iron out, we've got things we need to add to the planes... but it all works. We're in the game with a head start. You heard Dobby's after-action reports, Sirius. That's six Death Eaters who won't hurt anyone ever again. Draco's not got a left arm any more. Lucius is in a bad way. The Death Eaters are FRIGHTENED. Of US. We're in the game, guys, and when we come for them those fuckers are going to seriously regret it for a very short time."

"We haven't got very long before I'll have to head back to Hogwarts." Hermione remarked. "What's the plan then?"

"How many house elves do we have so far, Dobby?" Harry asked.

"We is has twenty-two elfses, Mr Harry Potter Sir." Dobby said. "Dobby is being only Pilot elf so far, but we is has five elfses who is being trains as pilotses, and Dobby is thinking two is being qualifies for wingses very soon. Nine elfses is works in muniterons productyration, and seven elfses is being Aperers and is trains to be Commanderatoes. Mr Harry Potter Sir's Aperers is being takes care of Miss Grangy Ma'am when Miss Grangy Ma'am is not being at Mr Harry Potter Sir's airbase, and Dobby is stations two Aperers to be takes care of Mr Dudsey Sir, they is takes rotatering shiftses." He scratched his chin. "Dobby is being recruitering whenever Dobby is has time. There is being many, many elfses who is not has place, and for elfses, not has place is being very bad thing." He nodded to Hermione. "Dobby knows that Miss Grangy Ma'am is not understands what Dobby is means. Dobby is asking Miss Grangy Ma'am to be taking Dobby's word for it; Dobby is being a house elf, so Dobby is knowing what it is being like to be being a house elf."

"I still don't like the way you guys are treated." Hermione said.

Dobby nodded. "Dobby is knows that, Miss Grangy Ma'am. All elfses is knows that. All elfses who is not being very stupid elfses like Mr Sirius Padfeets Black Sir's Kreacher is loving Miss Grangy Ma'am because Miss Grangy Ma'am is loves elfses." Dobby turned his attention back to Harry. "We is recruits elfses as quickly as we is bees able. Many elfses is being very nervous about takes places, because old places is being treats elfses badly, but Dobby is thinking elfses is comes round soon, and when Mr Harry Potter Sir's bombses is makes the very bad Mr Mackynare go splat there is being four elfses who is gets away from bad place like Mr Harry Potter Sir helped Dobby get away from bad place, and Dobby is thinking they is joins up very soon."

"They is talks to Winky this morning, Mr Harry Potter Sir." Winky said. "They is says they is needs to be thinks about it, but Winky is recognising way they is saying it and Winky is knowing they is already decided they is going to be joins Mr Harry Potter Sir's elfses."

Harry nodded thoughtfully.

"I see." he said. "I reckon it'd be worthwhile getting someone on finding out what elves are in bad situations, then coming up with plans for getting them out of there. If they're owned by Death Eater families, we'll shoot to kill. If not, we'll use trickery, like I did when I tricked Lucius into freeing you, Dobby."

Dobby nodded solemly.

"Dobby is making sure that it is gets done, Mr Harry Potter Sir." he said. "Four Aperers is being almost ready to be being Commanderatoes, and Dobby is thinking they is needs test run. Hmm... the very bad Mr Mulcyber is has two elfses who is very unhappy elfses; is Mr Harry Potter Sir thinking that maybe Commanderatoes should be shoots Mr Mulcyber full of holeses?"

Harry nodded. "Write up a mission plan, have them do some practise runs the same way as you're doing flight training, then let me know as soon as you think they're ready and we'll launch the mission." he said.

"Dobby is making sure it is gets done, Mr Harry Potter Sir." Dobby said, with another solemn nod.


"Had a good day, sweetie?" Hermione's father, Jeff Granger, asked as soon as he saw his daughter enter the living room. From the sodden state of her hair, she'd washed as soon as she'd got home - just like she'd been doing for days. He'd seen the state of her (smeared with grease and oil) when she got in at one point, and understood why she'd immediately had a bath.

"Yeah, it went pretty well today, Dad." Hermione said, sprawling on the sofa. "We got the Lancaster's engines running at last. Harry reckons we'll be ready to put her new skin on by the day after tomorrow... Mum, Dad, when will Uncle Timothy be around next?"

"He's got leave coming up next week." Her mother - Alice Granger - told her. "He said he'd drop past."

"Cool." Hermione said. "Dobby had a bit of a scare with some RAF planes earlier today, and we need to know how to spot other aircraft before they're in visible range."

"Hermione, just what have you and your friends been getting up to?" Jeff asked, putting his newspaper down. "You've been talking about old-school aircraft all week... what's going on?"

"I told you about the Dark Lord." Hermione said. "That's what's going on. My friend Harry decided to introduce the Dark Lord to air power."

"I'm listening." Jeff said. In Jeff-ese, that meant, 'Carry on so I can decide whether you're in trouble'.

"The Dark Lord makes Hitler look like the Easter bunny." Hermione said with a sigh. "The government are refusing to even try to do anything about the bastard. Headmaster Dumbledore's going senile. We're the only people who can or will fight back."

"I really wish you weren't involved in this stuff." Alice said, shaking her head.

"I'm involved because of the way I was born." Hermione told her mother. "Mum, the Dark Lord and his fanatics want to kill me because I'm not part of some inbred thousand-year-old family line. They want to kill me because my parents aren't magical. There's only one way to make sure they never come for me, and... well, I guess you can figure out what that is."

"Get them before they get you, huh?" Jeff asked.

Hermione nodded. "I know it sounds horrible, Dad." she said. "But it's the only way we can think of." She stood up. "I'm sorry, Dad. But I can't let you stop me. Without Harry, I don't have any future worth speaking of."

Jeff smiled grimly.

"You've got me dead wrong, Hermione." he said. "You told me about that Dark Mark thingy, and... my mum had a tattoo on her arm. She didn't get it from joining some race-hate murder club... she got it in 1943 in a place called Belsen."

"... oh." Hermione whispered.

Jeff sighed.

"Mum was Jewish. That meant, in Europe during the Second World War, she was in the same place as you are today. Dad was one of the guys who found that hellhole." He shook his head. "Mum remembered seeing Dad come driving into the camp until the day she died. When I asked her about how she ended up marrying Dad, she... well, she said that as soon as she saw him she knew she had to stick close to him, because she knew that as long as she was near that man, nothing and nobody would ever be able to hurt her again."

"I didn't know that." Hermione said, sounding very quiet.

Jeff nodded. "I know, honey. I... didn't want to burden you with it."

The small family shared a quiet, contemplative moment, then Jeff sighed again.

"So you'll understand why I'm saying... Hermione, if there's anything I or your mother can do to help you and you friends stop those bastards, just ask, and it's done."


"This is..." The Wing Commander murmured, shaking his head.

"Sir?" Flight Leutenant Tim McDonald queried. He, his partner, the comms officer who'd been on duty, and the crews of the other two Tornadoes were standing, somewhat uncomfortable, in Wing Commander Ian Sheppard's office, having just finished reviewing the three aircraft's guncamera footage of the indicent with the radar-invisible Stuka.

The Wing Commander had insisted on reviewing the segment from McDonald's close pass on the Stuka six times straight; there was now a freeze-frame from that sequence up on the projector.

"Creepy." Sheppard said. "Creepy as Hell... you're all absolutely certain you couldn't see our bandit's target building until after the two bombs had detonated?"

There was a round of nodding and confirmation.

Sheppard nodded back.

"I hope you all realise... hang on." he cut off as his phone started ringing.

"Sheppard here... WHAT? I see... No... No... Definitely not, we've been through the tapes... They did? Well, that's one thing... I see. Very well, I'd appreciate it if you'd keep me posted, Colonel." After exchanging a few pleaseantaries, he put the phone back on the hook and sat back with a sigh.

"That was the fellow who's troops were examining the target while you lads were asleep." he said. "That damned manor looks like it crawled straight out of the Victorian era. Not a single piece of electronics in the whole place. And shortly after they'd established a perimeter and completed the preliminary checks, it vanished again. There's men from the Special Air Service combing the whole area, and the only sign they've found that the damn manor ever existed is some wreckage they've managed to dig out the woods." He leant forwards. "I hope you realise how classified all this is, boys."

"Yessir." the airmen all chorused.



"Morning, Harry." Hermione called, ambling into the hanger.

"Morning, Hermione. Slept well?" Harry answered. He and Sirius were over at Harry's workbench; Harry was fiddling with some electronics while Sirius carefully assembled something composed of brass, wood, and crystal.

"Yeah, I slept okay - once I got to bed." she said, taking a look at what Harry was doing. The electronics proved to be the guts of a civil aviation radar set; the associated engineer's manual was laying open on the workbench. "Whatcha doing, guys?"

"I'm working out what makes this thing tick." Harry said.

"This is a copy of what I put together to turn my bike invisible." Sirius put in with a boyish grin. "Only about ten times the size and power - I figure once I'm finished it'll be enough to turn the whole Stuka invisible. Problem is, I've got no idea what to use to power it. The bike's invisibility field gets it's 'juice' from the wizard doing the riding, just the same as a broom or an invisibility cloak. To give enough oomph for this, we'd need to cram like five wizards into a plane the size of the Stuka. For the Lanc, it'd be more like thirty. I'm thinking about trying a ward-stone, if we can get hold of one or make one. Goddamnit, we need Moony - he's always been better at runes than me."

"Can we trust him though?" Harry asked.

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Sirius asked, looking up from his gizmo. "He's loyal to Dumbledore, though I'm not sure how much so. I'm sure Dumbledore's figured out I took off with you, and I must admit I've got absolutely no idea how he's going to react. Though, well, once he works out where the planes are coming from, I'm pretty sure it won't be a good kind of reaction."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Get one of the house elves to take a note to Professor Lupin; I'm pretty sure we're stumped for now. I'm gonna write to Fred and George."

"The Weasely twins?" Sirius asked. At Harry's nod, he looked puzzled. "Um, why?"

"Sirius, there aren't a hell of a lot of magical humans I trust any more, in fact I can literally count 'em on the fingers of one hand." Harry said, putting the radar set's printed circuit board down. "You're one. Hermione's the second. The third and fourth are Gred and Forge Weasely. And anyway, we need them - they are geniuses, and plotting mayhem is their favourite hobby."

Selecting an available blank sheet of paper, Harry scrawled a brief note, called for a house elf (getting one of the ones in ARP helmets) and asked the Arper to take the letter to Fred and George Weasely once they were somewhere private, and if they asked, bring them to see Harry. The elf departed with a salute. Sirius then did much the same, only sending his note to Remus Lupin.


(Scene altered from a rough by Rorsch)

The poster slipped from house to house. From attic to basement to the space under the stairs. The house elves passed it from one to the other in secret and stared at it behind locked doors, treating it with near-religious reverence. Across the length and breadth of the Wizarding World, the message burned it's way like wildfire through the servant's meagre quarters.

It featured a young man with intense eyes, staring out with an extended finger, a great golden double-headed heraldic eagle behind him and, despite the lack of an enchantment, the eyes and finger seemed to follow one around the room. The small caption below prodived the oppressed masses with something they'd been without for centuries; hope.

It read:

'Harry Potter Needs You'.


'Hey guys, Harry here.

I've got a couple of problems (practical problems) and I think your devious minds might be able to solve them. The solution will help make a whole load of Death Eaters very dead; the Ministry and Dumbledore aren't doing anything, so sod it, I'm doing something.

If you're up for giving it a go, ask the house elf who brought you this note to bring you to me.

See you soon,


"So whatcha think, Forge?" Said Fred.

"Most ominous, Gred." Said George. They looked at each other, each with the same question in his eyes, then nodded at each other and started packing all their mayhem-makings into their portable lab.

With that done (and the lab collapsed and stuffed in Fred's back pocket) they turned to the tin-hatted gas-masked house elf, who was still stood in that slightly awkward stiff upright board-like stance.

"Please oh please take us to visit Harry, Mr Elf Sir!" they chorused.

The house elf's resulting stance looked a bit taken aback.

"Yes, Mr Gred Sir and Mr Forge Sir." he said, taking their hands.

And then they were somewhere else.

The airbase had changed a bit since Hermione first saw it, though Fred and George of course did not know that. Much of the undergrowth had been hacked back away from the ruined hangers, and a team of four house elves were rebuilding a hanger while another three were listening attentively as Dobby paced around in front of the Stuka and wildly monologuing in suitably convoluted elf-ese. There was an enormous pile of scrap metal (mostly old smashed-up cars) beside the hanger, and great rolls of dragon-hide stacked up beside the now somewhat less dilapitated but still skeletal Lancaster. Harry was in the bomber's cockpit, testing the restored flight controls.

And the sound, oh god the SOUND. The noise made by four idling Rolls-Royce Merlins is unforgettable; the twins jaws dropped, and they hurried over towards the hanger, stopping about thirty feet from the Lanc's wingtip as the thunder of the aero-engines became a bit uncomfortable. They then stood there and gawked; they'd never heard anything like it. They figured this was a muggle engine, but they'd had no idea that the muggles had engines that sounded like THAT. Nothing they'd ever heard could even begin to compare to it.

Having got a full round of thumbs-ups from Sirius and Hermione, Harry shut the engines down and climbed out of the Lanc. That was when he saw Fred and George, who were just being joined by Remus.

"Hey guys." he said, slouching over and cleaning the worst of the grease and oil off his hands with a rag that had at one time been one of Dudley's handed-down shirts. "Good to see you all turning out."

"Harry!" Remus gasped. "Merlin, everyone's been really worried since you took off! Why - PADFOOT! I should have known."

"What in Merlin's name," George began, pointing at the Lanc,

"- is that thing?" Fred cut in. "Because,"

"Whatever it is," George provided,

"It's AWESOME!" they chorused.

"That's an Avro Lancaster bomber." Harry said, glancing over his shoulder at the Lanc. "She's not finished yet, she hasn't got her skin on yet and we haven't so much as started on the bomb racks or the machine gun positions, and it's probably gonna be a right bugger getting the windows right. And we haven't got any of her enchantments on yet, or started working out what we'll do to up-arm her."

"Okay," George said,

"But what's it FOR?" Fred asked.

Harry grinned, picked up that morning's copy of the Daily Prophet, and tossed it to Fred.

"Read the article about what happened to Malfoy Manor yesterday." he said.

They did so, joined by Remus. It was in the Prophet's typical superior tones, and went on about a horrific assault on an upstanding member of the community.

"Holy crap," Fred said, peering at the photos of the damage.

"Someone must have decided they," George said,

"Really didn't like," Fred added,

"Malfoy Manor." they chorused.

"Well, it isn't so much that I don't like Malfoy Manor, there's nothing much wrong with it that not being owned by the Malfoys wouldn't solve." Harry said. "It's more that I decided to send Voldemort," he waited while people gasped, "And his goons a very clear message. Heh, nothing says 'Fuck You' like a strafing run."

"Are you saying you're behind the destruction of Malfoy Manor?" Remus asked, sounding taken aback, while the twins gawped; this was probably about the first time in their lives they'd been at a loss for words.

"And Riddle Manor." Harry said. "Voldemort - oh for fuck sake, it's just an anagram - was using Riddle Manor as his headquarters, at least we think so. He's now using a cave complex in Sutherland that's too deep for any of our bombs to get through to. Yet."

"I heard Snape's report, Harry." Remus said, looking shocked. "Six people died at Riddle Manor."

"No, six DEATH EATERS died at Riddle Manor." Harry riposted. "Oh, and I hear my bombs splattered Tommy's pet snake too. Good. That's six homicidal maniacs and a big brute of a snake that won't ever hurt anyone again. Dumbledore and the Ministry aren't DOING ANYTHING about that bastard. I am. Look, Professor. After that joke of a trial I decided I needed to sort my personal life out, and getting rid of Mouldyvorts is a good start."

"You realise the Ministry will likely start calling you a dark wizard when they find out about this?"

"No shit?" Harry complained. "Look, Professor. They're probably going to be calling me a dark lord before this is out. You know what I say? Screw them. They're a bunch of corrupt arrogant incompetents who couldn't find their own arses with a map. If I've got to be called a Dork Lord to sort this half-arsed ZOO we call the Wizarding World out, then so be it. Curses and hexes may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. The Ministry made an enemy the day they shitcanned me for defending myself. I had my doubts about them before that, but when they snapped my wand, that was the final straw. They want me, they can come and get me and we'll see how many of the morons it takes to pull me down. You wanna spend the rest of your life living in a world that thinks you're a monster because you've got an incurable disease? Go ahead, but don't expect me to just curl up and take the shit they've given me. I'm done with that game. I'm sick of reacting; I'm starting being the guy people react to. Fuck the Ministry, apart from the remarkably small number of decent people they've got working for 'em we're better off without them."

"So this is the revolution, right?" Remus asked.

"Damn straight." Harry said with a nod. "I didn't want it this way, but they left me with no choice."

"You could have stayed safe at home."

"Voldemort murdered my parents. Bang goes that idea. Get this straight, Professor. Privet Drive is NOT my home. It has never BEEN my home. I don't know why Dumbledore keeps shoving me back there, but sod it - there's only one person there I give a damn about, and it is NOT MY HOME. For a while, Hogwarts was my home. The Ministry took it away. Now this airbase is my home."


At that moment, in his office at Hogwarts where he had been doing pre-term prep work, Dumbledore was abruptly awoken from a nap by several of the gizmos on his desk producing horrible wailing noises.

The wards over Number 4 Privet Drive had collapsed.


AN - Well, that's chapter 3 'in the can', so to speak. I'll be continuing posting each scene as I get 'em written in the thread for this post until such a time as I've got enough for another chapter.

The Panavia Tornado jet fighter was certainly the mainstay of the RAF in the 90's, though I understand it's now being phased out in favour of the Eurofighter. The squadron named were flying from the airbase named at the time of the story.

I'm unsure if the Lanc's flight controls were actually hydraulic. Um, poetic license?

(Addition to AN's on 15/12/2008) In response to some comments, there are UFO incidents on the record where the intercepting fighters have been ordered to shoot the unidentified flying object down without it having fired anything, and not just in Soviet Russia - on at least one, the guys who got the order were driving RAF Tornadoes. If it's weird enough, an aircraft's failure to respond to comms will be taken as a sign of hostility - and in the mid-90's, I think a strangely-painted radar-transparent Stuka crewed by 'gremlins' would be regarded as weird enough.