The Fulfillment of Prophecy

                      by Robert M. Schroeck


Harry Potter stood in a pool of Voldemort's cooling blood, 
staring intently at the Minister of Magic.  In his left hand he 
still held his broomstick like a scepter, a faint haze of golden 
energy still wafting from the upraised bristles.  Over his open 
right hand a quaffle floated, cloaked in a faint white glow.  A 
golden snitch and a pair of bludgers obediently orbited his body.

At his feet lay the twisted, broken corpse of the so-called Dark 
Lord.  Its eyes were still wide with the terror Tom Riddle had 
felt as death finally took him.  To the side, Severus Snape lay 
on the floor curled into a foetal ball, gibbering mindlessly.  

Behind Harry stood the forces of Potter's Army, a hundred and 
more young witches and wizards in their invisibility cloaks, all 
taught by him, all wielding magicks the like of which none had 
ever seen before.  Each one was blooded in battle.  Each one was 
a fanatic.  At their head stood the most fanatic of all, Harry's 
five lieutenants -- Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Ginny Weasley, 
Neville Longbottom, and Luna Lovegood -- their eyes all aglow 
with the devotion they held for the man who now faced the 
government of Wizarding England with a confidence and power that 
was palpable.

In the moment of silence, one could hear the roars of the great 
wyrms that had carried them to battle and which now circled the 
building.

"Now, see here, Potter..." the Minister began, his blustering
tone at odds with the half-cower his body kept trying to slip
into.

"No," Harry interrupted, and his voice held the force of a 
stunning charm, all but knocking the Minister off his feet. 
"*You* will see."  He turned slowly in place, his implacable gaze 
sweeping the gathered members of the Wizangamot, the few 
surviving Death Eaters, and those of the press who had forced 
their way in to the scene of his final triumph.  "You will *all* 
see."

He turned back to the Minister, and raised the broomstick to 
point at him with its bristles.  "I am taking control now.  You 
will cede all governance to me."

*So this is what it has come to,* Minerva McGonagall thought 
despondently as Potter's Army began a chant of "Boy-Who-Lived! 
Boy-Who-Lived!"  *Fifty generations and more we have guided the 
Wizarding World, urging the strong to breed with the strong, 
culling and training them with the Game, in the hopes of creating 
the ultimate wizard.  But all our seers agreed -- he was not to 
be born for another century!  Damn Lily Evans for her 
disobedience!*  

Minerva was snapped back to awareness of the events around her by 
a sudden silence, and upbraided herself for woolgathering.  She 
must have missed something critical in her distraction -- the 
Minister and the assembled members of the Wizengamot were now 
kneeling to Harry, who stood unharmed in a pillar of golden fire.

Outrage filled her, and for a moment she forgot the danger as
old reflexes took hold.  "Mister Potter!" she snapped before
she regained control of herself.

He turned his eyes, themselves blazing with golden light, upon 
her.  "You object, Professor?  He who can destroy a thing, 
controls a thing.  And with one word, I can destroy all of 
England's magic.  Who better to rule these sheep and 
incompetents?"  She tore her eyes away from his, and he smiled, 
shifting his attention again to the room at large. "I am tired of 
the petty conflicts that wrack our world, and I say, No more!  No 
more pureblood, no more half-blood, no more muggle-born!  We are 
all *wizards,* no more, no less.  The prejudices of the old days 
will be dispensed with.  This I decree, this I *will* make so." 
His blazing eyes narrowed as he smiled slyly.  "Starting with 
those who supported the corpse at my feet."

He raised the broom, then slammed the end of its handle upon the 
stone floor.  A ripple of crimson light erupted from the point 
where it struck and expanded to race outward across the room and 
through the walls.  Minerva flinched and cringed, humiliated and 
angry at herself for her reaction, as it flowed over and through 
her.

Where the red light passed, witches and wizards died.  The 
surviving Death Eaters screamed and burst into flame to a man, as 
did Snape and far more members of the Wizengamot and the press 
than Minerva had expected.  *The Arcane Mother will be furious to 
learn how poor our intelligence was after all,* she mused 
absently as she felt the beginnings of a compulsion spell 
creeping over her.  *We had thought that we controlled the... 
the...* 

To her sudden horror, she realized that there was something 
there, some concept that she had been familiar with, had 
discussed and mused over on a daily basis, that she could no 
longer even *think*.  She desperately wracked her brains, for she 
knew in her bones that it was important to the Sisterhood, this 
concept which eluded her.  What was it about those who had died? 
The only thing that they had in common was that they had all been 
members of families of long standing in the Wizarding World, 
families who had produced continuous lines of wizards for 
centuries.  But there was nothing special about that...

"And so it is done," Potter announced imperiously.  "The old
prejudices are gone."

*What *is* he babbling about?* Minerva thought angrily as she 
grasped vainly for a concept she was certain she had known only 
minutes before, but whose very *existence* had been purged from 
her mind and the mind of every witch and wizard in England.

So distracted was she that Minerva barely noticed as Ginny 
Weasley stepped forward from the rank of Lieutenants.

"And how can he do this?" Ginny asked rhetorically, her clear 
soprano voice echoing throughout the Great Hall and somehow 
overwhelming the panicked murmurs of the onlookers.  "Because he 
*is* the Quidditch Haderach!"

FIN

My apologies to J.K. Rowling and the estate of Frank Herbert.

Happy April Fool's Day 2007!
   

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