Turncoat(Draco Malfoy SI) Chapter 21

"I'm not going… I don't need the hospital wing… I don’t want—”
Harry was rambling now, his words tumbling over each other in a desperate rush as he tried to wriggle free from Professor Tofty’s surprisingly firm grip. The elderly wizard, his brow creased with concern, was guiding Harry through the crowd of curious students now filtering out of the Great Hall, all of them staring and whispering.

“I’m fine, sir,” Harry insisted, blinking rapidly and swiping at the cold sweat beading his forehead. “Honestly. I just—just dozed off for a second. Had a nightmare, that’s all…”

“Ah, the strain of examinations,” Professor Tofty said sympathetically, nodding with the grave understanding of someone who’d seen hundreds of students collapse under pressure. He patted Harry’s shoulder with a tremulous hand. “Quite common, quite common! Nothing to be ashamed of, young man. Now, a drink of water, perhaps? Cool your head, collect yourself. Then, if you’re up for it, you might even return to the Great Hall and finish off your final answer?”

Harry’s head bobbed with feigned enthusiasm. “Yes—no—I mean, I think I’ve done all I can, really… I’m probably finished anyway…”

“Of course, of course,” Tofty said gently, adjusting his spectacles. “I’ll go retrieve your paper. You go and rest. A brief lie-down can do wonders after a shock.”

“Right. Brilliant. Thank you, sir,” Harry said, forcing a grateful smile and nodding a bit too energetically.

He stood motionless, barely breathing, until Professor Tofty vanished back into the Great Hall, his heels clicking against the stone. Then, without a second’s hesitation, Harry bolted.

He flew down the marble staircase two steps at a time, his robes whipping behind him as he sped through the corridors. He didn't care that portraits hissed in disapproval as he rushed past or that Peeves nearly swooped down on him for the fun of it. There was only one thought in his mind, loud and insistent, drowning out all else:

I need to find Professor Dumbledore.

He didn’t understand everything that had happened in his dream—or why he was still having those dreams, considering he’d thought reactivating his mother’s protection would stop them—but he understood the basics well enough: Voldemort had unleashed some kind of giant fire monster in Britain, using it as a distraction so that the Death Eaters could sneak into the Department of Mysteries and steal the weapon.

Whatever that weapon was, it had to be important. And the fire creature? That was meant to pull as many Ministry workers out of the building as possible. Harry doubted that most Aurors were trained to deal with a giant fire golem stomping through the countryside. Which meant the Ministry would be thinned out—and Voldemort would have a clear shot at whatever he was after.

There was only one person Harry trusted to even have a chance at stopping him.

Dumbledore.

Panting, he skidded to a stop in front of the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore’s office. He didn't hesitate.

“Fizzing Whizzbee!” he snapped.

Nothing.

“Cockroach Cluster!”

Still nothing.

“Acid Pops! Mars Bars! Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans—”

“Look, kid, that’s not gonna work,” the gargoyle said, voice rough and carrying a strong Cornish accent.

Harry recoiled. “You can talk?”

The gargoyle rolled its stone eyes. “Seriously? 'Course I can talk. Part of Hogwarts, ain't I?”

“But the password—”

“Wrong password,” the gargoyle interrupted flatly. “Besides, even if you had the right one, the Headmaster ain't in.”

“What? Why? Where’s he gone?” Harry demanded.

The gargoyle gave a lazy shrug, bits of dust flaking off its shoulders. “Blast if I know. Just know the greasy one, the old witch, the tiny bloke, and the big fella went with him.”

Harry felt his stomach drop.

Snape. McGonagall. Flitwick. Hagrid.

All gone.

Shit.

Where the hell was Dumbledore when Harry needed him here at Hogwarts, now?

_________________________________________________________________

“HOLD FAST!” Scrimgeour bellowed, his voice raw against the howling winds. “DON’T LET THE DAMN THING ADVANCE! AGUAMENTI!”

“GLACIUS!”

“AQUA ERECTO!”

“AGUAMENTI MAXIMA!”

A barrage of spells erupted from every wand present—jets of water thick as columns, sharp streams no wider than a quill, gusts of ice-cold wind strong enough to knock a man off his feet. Overhead, storm clouds conjured by desperate charms unleashed hail, snow, and frigid rain in a relentless deluge, doing everything they could to suffocate the raging inferno.

And it was doing nothing.

Seven hundred and fifty wizards—all of them a Ministry worker from every department, from Aurors to janitors, Unspeakables to the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office—stood shoulder to shoulder, flinging every water-based spell they knew. The air was thick with steam, shrouding them in clouds of scalding mist. Against any normal fire, their combined force would have been an overwhelming tidal wave of raw magical power.

But this was no ordinary fire.

It was Fiendfyre. Living flame. A cursed inferno that fed on magic and willpower alike.

And it was winning.

The creature towered almost a hundred feet high—a massive, swirling vortex of fire howling with a hundred screeching voices and leering through fifty snarling faces. Dragons, lions, nundus, serpents, chimeras—the shapes of nightmare beasts twisted in the roaring blaze, each tethered to the whirling pillar by writhing chains of fire. Whenever they clawed or lashed out, tendrils of flame erupted toward the buildings around them, setting anything flammable alight, growing bigger, hotter, deadlier.

Behind it, the smoldering wreckage of the London Bridge collapsed into the Thames with a groaning wail, sending up great gouts of steam as the river boiled.

The Fiendfyre wasn’t just attacking.

It was trying to consume all of London.

And at the rate they were slowing it—which was barely at all—it would succeed within the hour.

The remaining seven hundred Ministry personnel who weren't fighting the construct were frantically working to evacuate the Muggles. Portkey’s, Apparition, even the damn Knight bus—whatever they could do to move them out. Apparently, several high-ranking Muggles were caught in the chaos: the Prime Minister himself, and key members of their Parliament, whatever that was worth.

Not for the first time in that hellish hour, Scrimgeour cursed Cornelius Fudge with every ounce of his soul. That damned, shortsighted, cowardly oaf. If Fudge had listened to Dumbledore a year ago—if he had reinforced the Auror Corps instead of gutting the department just to spite the old man—they might actually have stood a fighting chance today.

Instead, they were staring down the end of London itself.

If this monster wasn’t stopped soon, there would be nothing left to save—no Diagon Alley, no St. Mungo’s, no Muggle London. All of it would be swallowed in fire.

“This isn’t working!” Amelia Bones shouted, her voice raw against the roaring wind and the deafening crackle of the flames. Her face, usually composed and calm, was red with exertion and streaked with soot. “We have to find another way to extinguish the Fiendfyre!”

“And how the bloody hell do you suggest we do that?!” he roared back, his arms aching from spellcasting, his robes soaked through with sweat and ash. “This—this is all we can do!”

“It’s not enough!” she shouted, desperation bleeding through her iron composure. “We might as well be feeding it for all the good we’re doing! We... we may have to evacuate. We may have to leave.”

The words hit him harder than any spell he’d ever been hit with. His wand faltered mid-cast, and he turned to stare at her, heart hammering in disbelief.

“What?” he croaked.

Around them, nearly eight hundred witches and wizards battled the inferno, but in that moment, it felt as if he and Amelia were alone on that burning street.

Amelia Bones met his gaze, grim and unflinching. Her monocle glinted ominously in the firelight. “The Unspeakables... they said it’s ancient magic. Dark magic so old and potent that even they’ve only seen it whispered about in records. This... this is Fiendfyre beyond modern comprehension. We can’t stop it. We can’t contain it. We have no countermeasure. No spell strong enough.”

Her voice cracked, but she pressed on. “We must focus on preserving life. Evacuate who we can. Mitigate the losses. We... we may have to abandon London. And possibly Britain itself.”

Britain. Abandoned. Lost.

The words echoed in his mind, absurd and monstrous. He almost laughed, a hysterical bubble rising in his chest. 

Was this how it ended?

Britain—an empire that had endured for centuries, rivaling dynasties like Japan’s and Uganda’s in age and tradition. Now facing obliteration not from war, not from internal strife—but from fire, of all things. Yes, cursed fire from a time before wands but still, fire.

He clenched his fists, fighting the rising tide of helplessness.

Merlin, please, he thought desperately. We cannot fall here. We cannot.

There had to be someone. 

Anyone. 

Some miracle—

And then, as if summoned by the collective prayers of a dying city, he saw it.

A cyclone of golden flame tore through the sky with a sound like a god's roar. In its center, descending like a deity of war, was Albus Dumbledore, Fawkes perched regally on his shoulder.

Dumbledore’s eyes were hard, grim, unshakable. Beside him stood professors of Hogwarts—Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, Filius Flitwick—and even, impossibly, Hagrid, towering among them, brandishing a crossbow that was absolutely massive..

In any other situation, he would have questioned why Dumbledore thought it wise to bring a man who could barely cast third-year spells to a battlefield like this. But right now?

He didn’t give a damn.

The Headmaster was here.

Across the broken and burning square, cries rose up from the battered defenders.

“Dumbledore!”

 “The Headmaster!”

 “We’re saved!”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, hope surged back into him—fierce and bright and almost painful.

Dumbledore was here.

And that meant they now had a fighting chance.

Albus Dumbledore was not merely respected; he was revered. The modern-day Merlin, the only wizard known to have defeated Gellert Grindelwald and held his ground against Voldemort himself. When people spoke of magical strength, it was Dumbledore they measured it by. His very name was synonymous with power and wisdom. Part of why You-Know-Who had become so infamous was precisely because he had dared to challenge Dumbledore and survived the encounter.

If anyone could save them now, it was him.

 Whatever slander Fudge had spread over the past year, no one was calling for the Minister of Magic in this crisis.

 No—when the world teetered on the edge, it was Dumbledore they turned to.

“Dumbledore!” Amelia Bones shouted, forcing her way to the front of the panicked crowd. Scrimgeour was right behind her, shoving aside a junior Auror.  “Headmaster Dumbledore—oh, for Merlin’s sake, move—Dumbledore!”

Amid the chaos, he stood as if untouched by it, serene and steady but his blue eyes gleamed like chips of polished ice behind his half-moon spectacles.

“Amelia,” Dumbledore said warmly, inclining his head. “How long has this been happening?”

“Damn near half an hour,” Amelia said sharply, her voice taut with urgency. “We’ve tried everything—extinguishing it, Vanishing it, Finite Incantatem—nothing works!”

Dumbledore only nodded gravely.

 “Of course it wouldn’t,” he said, his voice low and solemn. “This is not the Fiendfyre most wizards fear—wild and untamed, capable of lashing back upon its summoner. No... This is the Olde Fiendfyre. The true conjuration, summoned the way the Indian Mantrics once called it forth in 1775, when the British first set foot on their shores. This is magic at its rawest and purest, a magic from the time before wands.”

There was something almost reverent in Dumbledore’s tone, and for a moment, Scrimgeour felt a chill that had nothing to do with the burning inferno before them.

“How do we stop it?” Amelia demanded, stepping closer, her hands clenched into fists. “There must be something—a spell, a countercurse—”

“We cannot stop it,” Dumbledore said simply.

And Scrimgeour felt his heart plummet.

If Dumbledore himself was saying it could not be stopped...then surely, they were finished.

Wiped from existence by a fire that no magic could douse.

“This Fiendfyre,” Dumbledore continued, “is not a mere accident of reckless spellwork. It has been given a purpose. A directive. And it will not cease until that purpose has been fulfilled. To halt it now would be as impossible as asking the tides to turn back, or the sun to stop rising.”

For a moment, the only sounds were the roar of the unnatural flames and the terrified murmuring of the gathered witches and wizards.

Then Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, sharp and mischievous even in the face of disaster.

“But,” he said lightly, “we can seal it.”

Scrimgeour latched onto the words like a drowning man spotting a lifeline.

 “Seal it?” he rasped. “Seal it—how?”

“The Indian Mantrics would have used a prepared vessel,” Dumbledore said, voice calm despite the roaring firestorm nearby. “A container, imbued with purification charms over the course of a full year, designed to trap an entity such as this. That way, they would only have to conjure it once or twice, and could release it when they wished before recapturing it. A fire-and-forget technique, so to speak. Unfortunately,” he added with a grimace, “we have no such vessels in Britain, and sourcing one from India would take months—time we do not have.”

Scrimgeour opened his mouth to argue, but Dumbledore was already moving.

“So we will have to improvise. Minerva, if you would—a pane of glass, here.”

Professor McGonagall, understanding instantly, pointed her wand at a smoking, cracked patch of street. With a precise flick, she transfigured it into smooth, shimmering glass, wide enough to reflect the entire sky of writhing fire above them.

Dumbledore slashed his wand through the air. A fine mist of water droplets arced from his wandtip—so delicate, so seemingly futile that Scrimgeour’s heart sank.

What is he playing at? he thought bitterly. Does he believe this mist will succeed where damn near every water-based spell has failed?

“Speculum Exitus,” Dumbledore murmured, barely audible over the roaring inferno. He flicked a single droplet toward the glass.

The droplet struck—and the effect was immediate.

One of the flaming heads of the Fiendfyre—a howling beast of twisted fire—saw its reflection in the pane of glass and lunged greedily. But instead of striking the surface, it was pulled in.

The entire crowd froze. Wands, once raised and casting frantically, lowered in stunned awe as the living firestorm was siphoned into the glistening glass pane, in a steady stream, even as it tried to claw its way out.

This…this was magic, Scrimgeour thought numbly. True magic. The kind of spellwork sung of in ancient tales, mentioned only in dusty textbooks—power so refined and so absolute that it defied ordinary comprehension.

“Minerva, Filius,” Dumbledore said gravely, his eyes never leaving the glass as it drank down the last towering tendrils of flame. “Be on your guard. He is near.”

What? Who was near?

“He would not have created such devastation and simply fled. He is watching—studying the results.”

Dumbledore’s face hardened.

 “Even with your numbers, even with your magic—you will not be enough to stop him. I am sorry to leave you in this position, but I alone have the tools to end this, and I cannot defeat this being if I have to worry about the rest of you.”

He gave them no further opportunity to argue.

As the final wisps of Fiendfyre vanished, Dumbledore placed his hand firmly against the glass—and was pulled inside as well.

With a flick of her wand, Professor McGonagall whispered, “Evanesco,” and the pane of glass disappeared with a sharp pop.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Arthur Weasley’s voice broke the silence, thin and confused.

 “What…what just happened?”

Severus Snape’s voice came from the edge of the crowd, dark and cutting.

 “The Mirror World spell,” he said. “One of the Headmaster’s more recent innovations, a spell that projects the caster and their target into an exact replica of the surrounding world—an alternate plane where destruction has no consequences for reality.”

Several Aurors and Ministry wizards stiffened at that. That kind of power, to create an entirely different realm of existence so you could fight without consequence—

Well, everyone had always known that the difference between Dumbledore and the average wizard was vast. But seeing it shoved in your face like this…

“But there is a risk,” Snape continued, his black eyes glittering. “If the Fiendfyre—or whatever abomination he sealed—finds another reflective surface, it can breach back into our world. So I suggest,” he said with a sharp glance around, “that all puddles, all shards of glass, and all polished and reflective surfaces be Vanished immediately. Unless, of course, you would prefer to start round two.”

Several dozen wands shot up instantly as witches and wizards scrambled across the ruined street, desperately searching for anything that might serve as a mirror.

That snapped everyone else into action. Spells began flying as people frantically Vanished every reflective surface they could find—windows, car mirrors, and broken glass in the rubble. As they worked, the thick haze of fear and despair that had blanketed the street began to lift, ever so slightly. And with it, conversation stirred to life.

"That Dumbledore, eh? Now that’s real magic! None of that kiddie rubbish they were teaching us at Hogwarts!"

"Can you imagine what would've happened if he hadn't shown up? That thing could've wiped out London... maybe all of Britain! I don't even know how we would've stopped it."

"You know, after everything the Minister’s been saying, I’m starting to think Dumbledore’s the good sort. He can't be all bad—not if he risked his neck to come here."

"Now that’s a proper Englishman!" another wizard cried, puffing up with pride. "That's the kind of magic that made us kings of the world once! Good old Dumbledore—a good man, and an even better English wizard!"

There was a buzz of near-celebration in the air now. The Fiendfyre Golem, that nightmare of fire and destruction, was finally gone. As terrible as the damage was, it could be fixed. London Bridge was obliterated, sure, and a decent portion of South London was shrouded in ash and smoke—but nothing a few hundred Reparos couldn't patch up in an afternoon. As for the dead Muggles caught in the blast… well, there wasn’t much they could do about that. Perhaps the Obliviators could spin a story about a gas explosion? That usually worked for disasters of this scale.

Though… someone really needed to do something about those black, buzzing giant flying things still circling overhead. One of them swooped low, and Arthur Weasley, grinning like a child on Christmas, pointed up and shouted, "Fellycopters!"—as if naming them made them less ominous.

Scrimgeour almost allowed himself a moment to relax.

Until he noticed it.

The Hogwarts contingent—Flitwick, McGonagall, Snape, and Hagrid—hadn't joined the relief efforts. Their wands remained tight in their fists. Hagrid had both hands gripping his massive crossbow, with a wicked-looking axe slung across his back. All four of them were scanning the skies and the surrounding wreckage with grim, predatory focus, as if expecting something much worse to come.

Scrimgeour stiffened as he heard Snape’s low, cold voice:

"Be on your guard. He's here. I can feel it."

And as if Snape’s words had summoned it, a brilliant flash of green light shot into the air, cutting through the smoke and between the "fellycopters."

It twisted into a shape that froze Scrimgeour's heart.

A skull.

A skull with a serpent writhing from its mouth.

The Dark Mark.

Oh, Merlin. No. Not this. Not now. Not here—

"Morsmordre!" came a voice from the end of the ruined road.

Scrimgeour turned, his heart plummeting into his stomach.

A man was approaching, striding slowly through the wreckage and ash. His features were unmistakable—pale, snakelike skin, high, aristocratic cheekbones, slitted red eyes that gleamed even as the setting sun bled across the horizon. His black robes fluttered around him, untouched by the soot and grime that clung to the ruins. Every step he took was deliberate, casual, as though he were strolling through a garden rather than the aftermath of carnage.

Scrimgeour had seen that face countless times. 

On incident reports. 

On newspaper front pages. 

On grimy, half-torn wanted posters pinned in the Auror offices during the dark days of the first war.

It was a face seared into the memories of anyone who had survived that time.

A face that had haunted Britain’s nightmares for decades.

And now it was real, walking toward them.

All around him, five hundred witches and wizards, Ministry officials fell into a paralyzed, horrified silence. No one moved. No one breathed. Only the slow, inevitable crunch of his boots against the charred stone filled the air.

The man—no, the monster—smiled as he drew closer. His gaze swept across the crowd with idle curiosity until it settled on the Hogwarts contingent, who now found themselves unintentionally at the forefront. Everyone else had subconsciously taken cautious steps backward, leaving them dangerously exposed.

He stopped a few feet away, and his voice—silken and mocking—cut through the deathly stillness.

"Well, would you look at that?" he murmured, his voice deceptively soft but cutting through the charged silence like a blade. The faint amusement in his tone was somehow more chilling than outright rage. "Even after all these years, he still manages to surprise me. I would have expected him to stamp it out—perhaps send his pet phoenix to tidy up the mess. But no. Showing off an original spell, mere weeks after I so generously unveiled one of my newest creations? Why, it almost feels deliberate. As though he were... trying to one-up me."

He gave a low, bitter chuckle. His blood-red eyes swept across the assembled group, lingering for a heartbeat too long on Severus Snape before moving on.

"An alternate dimension," the Dark Lord mused, savoring the words like wine. "That man is a menace. Imagine if he ever used that brilliance for something greater than defending the filth of this society."

Scrimgeour stiffened. The Dark Lord’s gaze was imperious, the weight of it oppressive. It was only for a moment, but when his eyes paused on Snape, a cold wind seemed to blow.

Right. Severus Snape—one of theirs, once. A turncoat who had fled back to Dumbledore's skirts before the end of the war. Whatever the Dark Lord had planned for him would be… unpleasant.

Scrimgeour almost pitied him.

Almost.

"And the rest of you," the Dark Lord said, his voice sharp and disdainful. "Risking your lives to protect Muggles? How... disgraceful."

From beside him, Hagrid snorted, raising his massive crossbow and aiming it squarely at the Dark Lord’s chest. His expression was full of open contempt.

 "Yer actin' like ya didn’t know damn well that thing woulda wiped us all out," Hagrid rumbled.

"Oh, come now, Hagrid," the Dark Lord said lightly, as if chiding a wayward child. "I would never have let it reach wizarding settlements. Or the innocent of our community. What do you take me for? A Muggle?"

"Nah," Hagrid said with a slow shake of his head. "Ya ain't no Muggle. Not even half as humble. But you an' me both know—you don't give a damn whose lives you wreck, so long as it gets you what you want, Tom."

Tom.

The greatest Dark Lord Britain had seen in a hundred years… was called Tom?

Scrimgeour felt the thought flicker across his mind, unbidden. No wonder he changed it. Who would fear the Dark Lord Tom? Still, considering the hundreds dead during the last war…

Yeah. Tom or not, the bastard was terrifying.

Focus. He shoved the errant thought aside.

Fudge had lied for nearly two years.

The Statute of Secrecy had just been torn to shreds.

And Wizarding Britain’s greatest nightmare had returned with a smirk.

The Dark Lord’s expression darkened. His blood-red gaze gleamed ominously.

"I no longer go by that name," he said coldly.

Hagrid merely shrugged, utterly unfazed.

"Well, to me, you’ll always be Tom Riddle—the selfish little bastard who lied to get what he wanted and didn’t give a damn who got hurt along the way."

For a single, breathless moment, Scrimgeour thought he was about to witness Hagrid struck down where he stood.

But instead… the Dark Lord smiled.

A slow, deliberate, terrifying smirk that made Scrimgeour’s blood run cold, as if the air itself had frozen around them.

"True," Voldemort said, his voice carrying easily across the ruin, almost conversational. "And yes, I probably would have let the fires rage. Let Diagon Alley and St. Mungo’s burn to ash as well—small sacrifices to cleanse this broken world." His tone was almost cheerful, and that made it worse. “But once again, Dumbledore swooped in to save the day.”

The smile widened, stretching impossibly thin lips.

"…But," Voldemort murmured, his red eyes gleaming, "Dumbledore isn’t here to stop me this time, is he?"

He lazily pointed his wand downward.

"Draconifors."

The effect was immediate—and horrifying.

The burnt, ashen ground beneath Voldemort's feet groaned and shifted. Scrimgeour's eyes widened in horror as he watched the ruined landscape obey. The soot thickened and clumped into glistening, black scales. Broken bricks fused into wickedly sharp claws. Splintered wood shards twisted together to form jagged fangs. Even the cracked, steaming tarmac shifted, fusing into two massive, smoldering yellow eyes.

Gasps of terror and screams of pure fear tore through the gathered wizards as the true form of Voldemort’s conjuration was revealed.

Where moments ago the Dark Lord had stood on solid, scorched earth, now he stood atop the broad back of a Hungarian Horntail—a monstrous, life-sized replica, but no less deadly for it. The creature roared, a sound so deep and powerful it vibrated through Scrimgeour's chest and scattered birds from the blackened sky.

A few witches and wizards stumbled backward, barely restraining themselves from fleeing outright.

Honestly, Scrimgeour was surprised none of them had broken ranks yet.

He was even more surprised that he hadn't.

And then Voldemort spoke again, his voice as cold and cutting as a winter blade, somehow clear as a bell despite the roar still echoing.

"So," the Dark Lord said, smirking down at them from his draconic perch, "how do you intend to defeat me now—without your precious Dumbledore to shield you?"

____________________________________________________________________

Oh, blast it all. Once again, it was up to him to save the day. As usual.

Honestly, as much as Harry admired Dumbledore, it seemed like the man had an unfortunate habit of vanishing right when the real dangers to the wizarding world came knocking. With McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Hagrid all gone from the castle at the moment, that meant there were no active Order members left at Hogwarts—no one but him to step up and try to fix things before it spiraled completely out of control.

Wonderful.

He'd have to track down Hermione, Ron, and Malfoy, explain the situation as quickly as possible, and figure out a way to get to the Ministry of Magic before Voldemort used this Fiendfyre thing to completely destroy the London Bridge. Harry could only hope it wouldn't take too long—and that Dumbledore would return in time to realize what Voldemort's real plan was.

Hopefully.

He didn’t know much about Fiendfyre—only that it sounded bad enough just from the name—but if anyone would know exactly what it was and how dangerous it could be, it would be Hermione. She could fill them in while they tried to come up with a plan to steal the weapon (or whatever it was) before the Death Eaters got their hands on it.

Honestly, at this point, they might as well make him an official member of the Order of the Phoenix. With all the heavy lifting he kept doing, he figured he'd already earned it ten times over.