Author's Note: This was inspired by "The List of Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the US Army." Also, it was my wife's idea.

The Yak-Wendigo War is the creation of John Allison, of "Bobbins," "Scary-Go-Round," and "Bad Machinery" fame.


"Corporal." Fred Weasley gave Harry a sharp salute.

Harry nodded and returned the salute. "At ease, Pilot Officer." Fred relaxed. Harry regarded him for a few moments. "Fred," he said, at last.

"Sir?" Fred asked.

"I cannot help but notice that you are standing in front of a line of oil drums."

Fred turned to look behind him. "That is true, sir. You have sharp eyes."

Harry nodded. "I also notice that there are ten of them."

"Yes, sir. Excellent counting, sir."

Harry produced a packet of cigarettes and worked one out. He placed it between his lips and lit it with a snap of his fingers. "Further thought indicates this is the number of boot privates who came in this morning as part of our cross-training program." He regarded Fred as he put the cigarettes away.

Fred nodded. "Sir, your ability to connect disparate information is truly legendary."

Harry nodded and blew smoke through his nostrils. "Thank you, Fred."

"Anytime, sir."

Harry looked up at the sky for a while. He tried to ignore the noises coming from inside the barrels. At last, he sighed and looked back at Fred. "Fred, would those barrels happen to contain said boot privates?"

Harry nodded. "What I thought. And is George off getting a stick, or some other object suitable for banging?"

Fred opened his mouth, closed it, and then shrugged. "And a truck with a lift gate, sir." He grinned. The smile was wide in his freckled face. "We were going to take the shiny new sole-jurs on a field trip to Suicide Hill, sir."

"Fred," Harry said, voice weary. He rubbed his eyes.


"Let them out."

Fred deflated. "Yes, sir."

A cargo truck drew to a halt next to the barrels and George thrust his head—and a cricket bat—out the driver's side window. "I've got 'em, Fred!" he called.

Fred shook his head. "It's off, George," he said, and made a cutting motion with his hand.

"Oh." George sagged. "Is this on the list, then?"

Fred looked at Harry, who nodded. He turned back to George. "It's on the list, George," Fred said.

"We may not force boot privates into oil drums and roll them down Suicide Hill."

#s 19 & 20:

"They're coming, Fred," George Weasley yelled, "They're coming! My God, there's so many!"

"I see them, George," Fred Weasley returned. He gritted his teeth. "The bastards got the rest of the squad, but they won't get us, brother. I… I swear it!"

George kicked over a table. Dishware, food, and drinks, flew. People screamed and dove for cover as the RAF flyer hefted his weapon. "Me and Margaret," he said, as he patted the weapon, "we'll take 'em, Fred."

"I can see them, George!" Fred pressed his back to the table. He cast a quick glance over the top. "Oh, God, I can see them coming… don't the bastards ever stop?"

"They're not human, Fred," George muttered. He spat onto the floor. His eyes were wild. "We can't waste ammunition, brother. We have to wait until we can see the whites of their eyes."

Fred aimed his own weapon over the table. "I'm ready, George." He gave his brother a firm look. "If we go down, brother, we go down together."

"So many… so many… wendigo…" George cried.

A throat was cleared behind them. They craned their heads around to look. Corporal Harry Potter stood behind them, arms crossed. Behind him was the restaurant owner, a big Italian man who told Harry, "You see? You see, Corporal? They make a mess, they frighten my customers…"

Fred and George came to attention, their loaves of crusty bread at port arms. They saluted sharply. "Corporal, sir," they said in unison.

Harry rubbed his face. "What?" he asked.

"War flashbacks?" Fred suggested.

"Which?" Harry asked.

"Yak-Wendigo?" George suggested.

"Pay," Harry snapped.

They dropped their loaves, produced billfolds, and began to hand over notes to the owner. He counted, then made a "come on" motion with his fingers. They handed over some more notes and he nodded. "You two," he said with a red-faced glare, "banned!"

"List," Harry ordered.

"We may not have flashbacks to made-up wars.

Especially in the Corporal's favorite Italian restaurant."


Hermione Granger stomped out of the mess hall. She stalked across the tarmac to the armory. In one of the bays, Harry Potter stood and watched the armorers work on his mount.

"Corporal!" Hermione roared. One of the armorers dropped his spanner. He stared wide-eyed at the woman coming toward the bay. "Corporal!"

Harry turned and gave Hermione a puzzled look. "Leftenant," he said, and saluted.

"Oh, don't give me that!" she shouted. She pointed back across the base.

"Um?" Harry asked. He offered her a half-smile, puzzled. "Can I help you with some…"

"Mess hall, your pilots, do something!"

"Oh, God." Harry rubbed his face. "What did George and Fred…"

Hermione hissed. "I am covered in holy water and garlic juice, Corporal."

Harry sighed. "You can use my shower," he offered. He started toward the mess hall. "I'll just make sure to update the list after I kill them," he said.

"Security Service officers are not vampires, and are not to be dealt with as such."


"I like your hat, Fred," George Weasley said.

"I like yours, too, George," Fred Weasley returned.

"Thank you. It's a fine hat, I feel," George said. "Yours is also very fine."

"Thank you," Fred said. "I like the feathers in yours."

"Oh, thank you. Your feathers are also very nice. And the fur brim."

"Yes," Fred said, "I feel the fur really brings the whole thing together."

"What kind of fur is it, if I may ask?" George asked.

"Why, it is giant pygmy marmosloth fur, of course!"

"The finest kind," George said.

"Of course! Only the best for an emperor, I say." Fred thrust his nose into the air.

"You are an emperor?" George asked him.

"Indeed I am," Fred said.

"Why, that's amazing! I am also an emperor!"

Fred grinned. "Well met, my fellow!"

"Well met, indeed!" They shook hands.

A throat was cleared behind them. "List," Corporal Potter ordered.

"We are not 'Emperors of the Flight-line,' no matter how fine our hats."


"Fred. George."

"Sir." The two red-heads saluted.

Harry returned the salute and said, "At ease." They relaxed their stances. "I suppose you're wondering why I called you to the armory, then," he said.

"As ever…" George said.

"We are at your pleasure…" Fred continued.

"…Sir," George finished.

"Hm." Harry clasped his hands behind his back and paced before the two men. After several moments, he paused and faced them. "I notice," Harry said, that several of the section's MAGI suits are in a bit of a heap on the floor."

The two pilots looked past him at the specified heap. "Well…" George began.

After the explanation, Harry nodded. "I… see…" He pointed at the mounts. "Clean them up. If they're damaged, it comes out of your pay. And add that to the list."

"The MAGI suits do not combine to form a giant robot, and we are not to attempt to do so."