“By Merlin, I am undone!” announced Harry Potter dramatically to the heavens. Like the tortured thespian he was, his face turned away from his foe, concealing a single, salty tear that streaked down his cheek. “Kill me now, my cruel lord. I will be able to cry with my dead parents in peace now.”
The Dark Lord surveyed the Chosen One who lay on the pavement with disgust. Now it was time for him to finally rid the world of the Potter brat, hailed as the one destined to defeat him. It was time.
“I am disappointed, Harry Potter. Very disappointed. I expected the ‘Chosen One’ to be a challenge, but I will grant you your wish… AFTER I have my fun!” With explosive, maniacal laughter, the Dark Lord aimed his wand at the scrawny boy facing him from the opposite side of the street.
“CRUCIO!” he shouted gleefully. Harry Potter screamed pathetically and crumpled to the ground, unconscious. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named looked on with amusement.
“So weak. So vulnerable… but no matter. It is time for Potter to die,” the Dark Lord asserted. He pointed his wand at the lifeless boy, about to end his life“
Out of the darkness, a painfully bright light illuminated the Dark Lord, standing in the middle of the street. He blinked several times, and saw a man leaning his head out of the door window of a giant cement mixer.
“Not so fast, Voldemort!” the man said to him.
The Dark Lord’s crimson eyes widened, affronted. “You dare speak my name?” he hissed.
“I do,” the man replied, stepping out of the vehicle and standing erect beside it. “Too long have you killed wizards, witches, and Muggles alike. Too long have torn families apart, ruined futures, and destroyed all hope for those praying for better days! It has been too long!”
“Who are you… Muggle?” the Dark Lord inquired with contempt.
“My name is Benjamin Dover,” the cement mixer driver declared authoritatively. “Your reign of terror is at an end. Prepare to die!”
“Do you challenge me?”
“That I do, and I will do what I must,” Benjamin Dover replied.
“You will try,” taunted the Dark Lord.
Benjamin Dover climbed back inside and onto the driver’s seat. He could feel the throb of the engine with his hands on the steering wheel: both man and cement mixer alike were part of one whole, alive with energy. The Dark Lord took his duelling stance in the middle of the street, and there was a sound like a gunshot from his wand. The duel had begun.
“EAT TARMAC, TYRANT!” roared Benjamin Dover as he stomped on the accelerator pedal. The cement mixer’s massive tyres screeched like banshees as they spun, burning rubber and billowing smoke. The cement mixer lumbered to speed and charged at the Dark Lord.
“AVADA KEDAVRA!” he cried, hurling a Killing Curse at the incoming vehicle. Inside the cabin, Benjamin Dover flipped the switch for the windscreen wipers, and just in time. The menacing green bolt ricocheted off the swinging blade and disappeared into the night.
He-Who-Must-Be-Named stepped aside as the cement mixer roared past, dodging it with matador-like precision. Benjamin Dover slammed on the brakes and jerked the steering wheel sharply. The tyres screamed in protest as the cement mixer slid and almost flipped over, making a harrowing about-face. Once it crashed back onto all of its wheels and was reoriented toward his foe, the mighty vehicle attacked again.
The Dark Lord readied himself to cast another killing curse, but it was too late. Benjamin Dover’s yell of “SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!” was long and loud. His mighty steed, Volvo the great cement mixer, rammed into He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and the most infamous dark wizard of the ages was defeated.
The cement mixer slowed and came to a stop. Benjamin Dover dismounted and walked purposefully towards the vanquished Dark Lord: he was lying on his back, broken and bloodied and with the signature of the tyre’s track imprinted down the length of his body and face.
“You f-fiend! W-what h-have you done?” He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named croaked weakly.
“What have I done?” responded Benjamin Dover, towering over the bleeding and dying dark wizard. “I have rescued the world from a dark age of evil and tyranny. I have defeated you, and now magical and Muggle people alike can enjoy a future far brighter than any of us can imagine!”
The fire behind the Dark Lord’s eyes flickered and faded, staring gravely at the night sky. He gasped, “It is finished.” Having said this, he breathed his last.
Benjamin Dover took off his company hat, paying his last respects to the great “ terrible… but great “ wizard who lay dead before him. The Liberator then slowly turned away, entered the cabin of Volvo the cement mixer, and drove away into the rising sun.
“That was… b-b-BEAUTIFUL!” sobbed Mr Ichthys.
“Oh, get a grip on yourself,” Rita Skeeter said to her editor. However, inwardly she smiled to herself. Even if readers of Benjamin Dover: The Living Legend liked the book only half as much as Mr Ichthys did, then her career was well set.
The villagers of Hogsmeade were gathered near a grassy field adjacent to the town. The assorted adults lazily sat in lawn chairs, sipping Butterbeers (and other much stronger drinks), eagerly trying their luck with some Chocolate Frog Cards, and basically talking about nothing important. The ability to do all those things had been restored a few short months before on that glorious Christmas of 1997.
From the chairs overlooking the field was a spectacular view of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. There had been a very turbulent change of staff in the days following He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s defeat: the Carrows and a few mindless cronies had barricaded themselves inside the Slytherin Common Room, and the siege lasted for a week. Only after the Aurors threatened to summon Benjamin Dover himself did the Death Eaters finally surrender to be welcomed with open arms at Azkaban.
With the Carrows in prison and vile Headmaster Snape lovingly Kissed by his Dementor bride, Hogwarts had been purged of the evil regime and had returned to its previous grace and majesty. After a short period being closed for reorganisation and refurbishment, the school was once again serving its intended purpose.
But the inhabitants of Hogsmeade paid no notice of the castle’s lofty towers or regal roofs. All attention was focused on the children too young for Hogwarts playing a very energetic game in the grassy field.
The adults were trying to decipher the rules to the match, but little did they know that there were none. No game of U2 was ever played the same way twice, and this particular wild brawl was no exception. The only thing consistent in the sport of U2 happened to be its rather unique ball.
The gaggle of little lads and lasses were playing with a large ball shaped much like a lemon or lime. When the children threw it, the ball tumbled end over end. When it was kicked, the points made it dance across the grass in the most unpredictable patterns. Yet the Muggle eccentricity of the U2 ball was what made the game so appealing: it seemed that the ball itself had a mind of its own (even without magic!), contributing to the random nature of the sport.
In this particular incarnation of U2, the Chasers on each side (which appeared to be girls versus boys) tried to kick the ball into the opposing team’s goals “ a difficult feat, considering that the U2 lemon ball tended to go backwards or sideways quite often. A Chaser on the girl’s team kicked the ball… which was intercepted by a boy Beater. The boy picked up the ball and ran around chasing some girls, and once in range, he threw it at one fleeing backside.
“Ha! You’re out!” the boy shouted in triumph.
And so the ball went on, back and forth, from Chasers trying to score goals to Beaters picking it up and throwing it at each other. Some children who declared themselves Seekers looked a bit confused and didn’t know what they were supposed to do. Eventually, the game metamorphosed into something like spin the bottle, but with a ball instead. The children ran around, terrified of being kissed by the ball’s wielder.
But one boy wasn’t. He let himself get hit by the bizarre lemon-shaped ball and graciously accepted a peck on the cheek.
“Ewwww!” chorused the pack of youngsters, horrified at the sight of a girl kissing a boy. “That’s so… weird and grown-up!”
The parents and other adults of Hogsmeade had a healthy laugh at the amusing spectacle before them. And so the villagers enjoyed another peaceful day with pretty clouds, trees, birds, etcetera, watching the youngsters play a very imaginative game of U2.
But there was one man who paid no attention at all to the exciting match. He was much more interested in rummaging through the villager’s rubbish bins, actually. The scavenger rummaging through the refuse was a dishevelled sort, with unkempt hair and stubble on his chin and cheeks. He wore a tattered travelling cloak that he kept wrapped around himself, and the odd lumps in his outfit suggested that everything he owned was contained in its plethora of pockets.
A crumpled Daily Prophet lay forgotten in one rubbish bin, browning and curling at the edges from exposure to the sun. It had served dutifully along side the coffee that morning, and once it had served its purpose, it had been discarded.
But it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
The man found the weathered Daily Prophet and hastily stuffed it into one of his many pockets. He furtively glanced up and down the sleepy, sunny street, checking for onlookers. Once satisfied that he was alone, he Disapparated to where he could read the newspaper in peace.
Has the Boy-Who-Lived become the Boy-Who-Hid? It appears so, seeing that the former “Chosen One” of Wizarding Britain has been conspicuously absent for more than half a year. Harry Potter was last seen on 27th December at the Burrow (the Weasley family residence) by Ginevra Molly Weasley, age sixteen, two days after Benjamin Dover’s historic defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
“He dropped by for five minutes to say ‘Hello,’ and then he was gone,” Miss Weasley reports concerning Harry Potter’s brief and mysterious visit. When asked about anything else he might have said and the motives for his disappearance, she wouldn’t comment.
So why has Harry Potter vanished in his self-imposed isolation? “That’s easy,” states Rita Skeeter during an interview for her upcoming Benjamin Dover biography. “He feels inadequate because he had been bested by a Muggle cement mixer driver; I mean, who wouldn’t? He’s desperate for attention, and he thinks the only way he can get it now is by playing hide-and-seek.”
Though Mr Potter may or may not be craving attention, many experts agree that his disappearance is attributed to the voiding of his “Chosen One” status in favour of Mr Benjamin Dover, certainly a serious blow to his self esteem. Others say that he is simply enjoying the freedom of not having the fate of the Wizarding World resting on his shoulders, and is taking an extended holiday.
“Personally, I think he’s forgotten that the war ended more than three months ago, and still believes he’s ‘Undesirable Number One’,” comments Mr Lucius Malfoy from his Azkaban cell. “He’s still out there, playing the hero.”
But whatever his motive, the fact remains that Harry Potter has been missing for three months, and there is still no sign of him. Where is he now? Nobody knows, but you can help. Please send news of any sightings of Mr Potter by owl promptly to The Daily Prophet, Diagon Alley, London.
The dishevelled man crumpled the newspaper into a ball. He threw it into his tent’s rubbish bin “ exactly where it belonged. However, the rubbish bin was actually more like a pile of rubbish, since the bin had overflowed a long time ago and was now buried underneath a small mountain of junk.
The man took notice of that, and decided to do some cleaning. He pointed a vinewood and dragon heartstring wand at the overflowing pile (which was mostly newspapers) and lit it on fire.
With a nice, crackling fire inside the corner of his magical concrete and plaster tent, he roasted a dead squirrel he had found the day before. The squirrel was skewered on the end of something long and pointy, but it wasn’t a stick.
It just happened to be a sword “ a spectacular weapon with gleaming crimson rubies encrusted in the hilt and the name Godric Gryffindor inscribed on the blade. The scruffy hermit came to possess the sword in the most unspectacular fashion: he simply found it lying on his tent’s doorstep along with a cryptic note that said, “For your mother.” That was odd, needless to say, but the man didn’t dwell on from who and where the sword came from.
So far, the most useful purpose the sword had served was cutting and skewering meat, not to mention smashing a priceless silver and emerald locket to tiny pieces. Its wielder could think of other expensive things to annihilate (a small golden cup came to mind) with it, but he had no real idea where they could be or even what some of them were.
It looks like he’ll just be skewering dead squirrels for the time being.
For the next few days, he stayed close to Hogsmeade, foraging for food and stealing discarded newspapers. He found another newspaper and dead squirrel and headed back to the cave in the hills where his tent was hidden. He Apparated close to its mouth and walked the rest of the short distance with his hands tucked into his voluminous pockets and panting slightly.
“Harry?” a familiar voice said.
Quick as lightening, his hand whipped out the vinewood wand and aimed automatically at the source of the voice. “EXPELLIARMUS!” he roared.
He knew the spell had struck, because barely a moment later there was a yell and a wand somersaulted into his free hand. The wand looked very familiar…
Confirming his suspicions, a freckled Hogwarts student with flaming red hair stood up from behind his ineffectual protective rock. “H-Harry,” he stammered slightly, “is that you? It’s me “ Ron!”
Harry Potter’s face was unreadable. He simply stared at Ron Weasley for a few unusually lengthy seconds… and then walked away.
“Harry “ wait! I want to talk to you!” Harry heard the voice yell as he walked purposefully towards his tent.
Suddenly his view was blocked by Ron’s face: he was now standing in front of Harry, blocking him. “Harry, please lis“”
“What do you want, Ronald?”
Ron was taken aback, momentarily stunned. “Since when did you call me ‘Ronald,’ Harry?” he asked, wounded.
“Just now,” retorted Harry acidly. “Now go away, Ronald. I have a job to do.” He moved to get to his (invisible) tent’s door, but Ron got in the way again “ when in the right mind, he was frustratingly good Keeper.
“Please, Harry “ listen to me. Everybody’s worried sick about you. Nobody except Ginny has seen you since Bill’s wedding, and… we want you back with us. Please come back.”
“I can’t. Sorry,” Harry answered bluntly, searching for a way around Ron and not actually looking at him face-to-face. “I have some Horcruxes to destroy, so if you’ll excuse me…”
“Just forget about the Horcruxes for the moment, Harry. We all miss you! My family, the Lupins, the rest of the Order, Ginny“”
“Stop it, Ronald!” Harry snapped as he shoved Ron Weasley aside. “I have a job to do, and I’m going to finish it!”
But Ron Weasley was annoyingly persistent. Without pausing to brush off the dust and dirt on his Hogwarts robes, he got right back up and followed Harry Potter’s retreating form yet again.
“I can help you, then!” Ron pleaded, desperate for Harry to agree to something “ anything. “Please let me help. We were in this together“”
Then Harry cracked. He abruptly turned around and Ron for the first time saw the man Harry had become. He looked terrible, evil “ evil as Severus Snape. He even looked something like him: Harry’s hair was long and filthy, but it was the expression of purest loathing that made the connection.
“OH REALLY?” Harry Potter spat in disgust. “Go tell that to Hermione! I’m sure she would have understood PERFECTLY!”
He had done it. Harry had struck Ron where it hurt the most, and it showed. The tall, lanky, freckled redhead stood quivering slightly, but his mind was writhing in the utmost agony. Ron then collapsed to his knees, sobbing. He tried embracing Harry’s legs, but he wrenched them out of the wreck’s grasp.
“H-Harry! I’m sorry!” the quivering lump bawled, unleashing a deluge of woe. “I’m so s-sorry! I shouldn’t have left “ I shouldn’t have run! I should have b-been there! It’s all my fault Hermione died…”
On that ominous note, Ron’s voice died too. He lost all capability of speech and simply broke down, crushed by his guilt. Harry Potter had destroyed him.
Disdainfully, Harry dropped the captured wand, letting it fall onto the rocky ground with a clatter. Without looking back, Harry Potter packed his tent and prepared to Disapparate, wanting nothing more than to leave the wretched man that was Ron Weasley sobbing where he was.
“You’re a pathetic, cowardly git, Ronald. I almost feel sorry for you,” Harry Potter said in farewell before vanishing with a pop.