Perhaps Harry Potter shouldn't have had worried so much near the end.

Had he looked to the West, he would have seen a growing shadow along the horizon - the worst nightmare of a racist, megalomanical dark wizard out for world domination - was approaching...

The wizards and witches of the West – ignored and overlooked by those in England and the rest of Europe for generations, heard news of a genocidal psycho with large numbers of followers on the loose, and made a decision...

...they were coming.

Wizards and witches, brujas and shamans, dowsers, granny women and snake handlers – armed with joyous outrage and spells, charms, wands and weapons nobody had even heard of in in the Old World – passed from mother to daughter, father to son, in secret and open, in basement taverns, across the handlebars of a Harley Davidson broomstick or the pew of a backwoods church, leading to...

...Cholo brujas packed into the back seats of grunting low-riders driven by their sons, grandsons, husbands and lovers, hot sparks roaring out gleaming chrome exhausts, neck and neck with wizards from Wall Street, tailored robes by Brooks Brothers and Hickey Freeman, loaded fountain pens in one hand at the ready, holding the strained leashes of rabid, muzzled lawyers carrying brief cases full of injunction orders made ready for hostile takeovers as flights of Thunderbirds heralded the way for Navajo medicine men with backpacks full of sage, corn pollen and sacred sand striding across the wind, tribal elders riding the drum they played upon for rhythm of the dancing march as grannies and wives sat crosslegged upon the rug still stretched on the frames of traditional upright looms, designs rippling with lightning, best turquoise and silver jewelry blinding bright, large baskets of fry bread, and buckets of black coffee and mutton stew for the trip beside them as they rolled their spindles along their thighs, snatching raw magic out of the air and spinning it, coiling it, ready for the oncoming fight, sons, daughters and grandchildren in war paint riding escort on appaloosa Pegasai with the wings of golden eagles with Coyote, fangs bared, running ahead on the storm of Sioux, Apache, Ute, Potawatamie – Blue Jay, Raven and Cardinal, Mouse Woman and the Manitou in the lead...

...as roaring, snorting broomsticks stamped with Indian Chief and Harley Davidson ridden by wildly tattooed Hell's Angels thundered ahead, head and taillights blazing, tattooed fat chicks and bad mommas holding on for dear life behind, sidecars groaning with loads of ominous chains and bottles with fuses in them, armed with sizzling pool cues and leaded baseball bats– gears clashing, a flotilla of old school busses painted with charms and prayers, marked, "South Georgia African Methodist Conference" grinding along on their own, loaded down with grim-faced ladies in magnificent hats and men in fine suits of many colors and choir robes and a blanket supper or six packed away...

...while rabbis with pointed yarmulkes and silken prayer shawls with rainbow sparkling strips, Torahs hoisted to their shoulders and Hassadim, black coats, beards and sidelocks flying in the wind, pointed, broad brimmed hats tied down with string, motorcycle goggles glittering, tefillins bound tight to their forehead rode escort astride everything from barber poles to park benches and Bab Yaga's great grand daughters grind along on designer millstones and chicken-legged double-wides...

...gossiping Ozark Granny-women in porch rockers and big, black Cadillacs, fire engines, snakehandlers, dowsers, snake doctors and rednecks in battered mud trucks loaded down with weapons as carried by Muggle relatives in Mossy Oak and Hunter's Orange who'd heard there was a fight coming and hey family is family and why pass up a good fight even if you aren't invited? – sharing rice wine with a group of Buddhist monks and sage as Baron Sunday dance-marches to war ahead of the column, white bone face blazing like the moon while the retrofitted "borrowed" battleship Missouri steams along the waves below escorted by Cajun yelling merfolk, just in case something needs to be signed in the end - loaded for bear as back up above...

...stealth nuns in black flight suits, radio headsets and polarized goggles, delta-shaped headdresses turned into wind, leaded roasaries and sizzling prayer books at the ready practice combat formations, Mother Superior in the lead, followed by...

...more than one surplus tank, pulled by teams of winged mules, drivers relaxed and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes in the open hatch-ways, main guns, wrapped with strings of chicken's feet and witch hazel branches jutting forward as...

...a lumbering B-17 with a squadron of shave-headed bull-dyke witches on broomsticks riding escort rumbles past? Wait, make that SIX – their armor reinforced with spells, and bomb bays loaded with long, dark objects, ready to go. Good lord, the lead plane's pilot must be over 100; so is the wizard in the blood-red flight suit stuffed in the ball turret below, double wands mounted where the guns used to be. He gives you a dentured thumbs up grin, swiveling the turret so he can get a better look at you, his flight helmet is pointed, by the way and his son and daughter-in-law are standing by in the waist, wands mounted and ready, the tail-gunner his wife, only you're distracted by an entire football team you've never heard of on a billowing piece of astro-turf, bellowing united spells, jogging in place ready to charge forward the second they hit the beach...

...a hippie bus trailing psychedelic waves, pinto centaurs armed with fiberglass bows hitch a ride on the roof and pass a keg, griffins and hippogriffs with cowboys on their backs, old ladies in rocking chairs armed with golden shotguns, Cajuns partying even as they sharpen fish spears with a wave of pointy hat and bonneted Amish, who won't fight but have no problem acting as ambulance and supply drivers bring up the rear: buggies and farm wagons clattering along the backwash of the host, dark draft Pegasai, with the broad, heavy wings of condors pulling them along, loaded down with food and relief supplies for those left standing...

(Yes...)

...had Harry not been so busy, had he looked, he would have seen such marvels and more... but he didn't... and when Voldemort was no more, they had gone, instead holding a big party over the mid-Atlantic which was mistaken for a stalled hurricane, before going home and getting back to business.

(...perhaps it's just as well that Harry hadn't looked.)