The Raid

The intelligence file summarized the reports as follows: weekly gatherings, hooded figures, ritual chanting, and a symbol on the door resembling a modified Dark Mark.

They were in the Auror Department bullpen. The room was full of muted activity, memos zooming around overhead and dotted with quiet discussions. In a back corner by the window, Harry Potter sat at his desk. Ron Weasley was perched beside him, their heads together as they reviewed materials for an upcoming raid, their first as Aurors.

“Modified how?” Harry asked.

“Dunno,” Ron said, reading over his shoulder. “The surveillance sketch is rubbish. Looks kind of like a lightning bolt.”

That should have been the first clue.

Later that week, on muggy overcast Thursday, Harry and Ron crouched behind a hedgerow in the Yorkshire Dales, watching a village hall with foggy windows. Chanting drifted across the car park. It was rhythmic, many-voiced, and set — Harry slowly registered — to the tune of a song he’d once heard at Hogwarts.

“That’s Odo the Hero,” Harry whispered.

Ron gave him a curious look. “How do you know that?”

“Hagrid,” Harry explained, his mind drifting back to that evening in sixth year when he had taken Felix Felicis and followed Slughorn to retrieve a memory. There was a twinge of pain as he thought of what else had occurred that night, but he shut the thought down.

“Huh,” Ron answered, and they turned back to watch the village hall with interest.

Nearly a year into their careers in the Auror Office, their assignments so far had included a Kneazle smuggling ring, a man who enchanted parking meters to insult motorists, and six weeks guarding a Wizengamot member’s post box. This was their first proper raid, and Ron had been excited about it all week.

When thirty minutes had passed without anyone going in or out, it was time to make their move. They stood up from behind the hedgerow and started walking towards the building. As they approached the doors, Harry could see a jagged line carved into the wood, surrounded by what looked like a crude skull. He paused, a feeling of foreboding creeping up on him.

Ron continued a few steps before realizing Harry was no longer beside him. He turned back with a frown.

“You coming, mate?”

Harry blinked. “Yeah, sorry.”

He hurried forward.

“Standard entry. I go left, you go right. On three.”

“On three. One, two, three!”

Ron kicked the doors open with a bang.

“AUROR OFFICE! NOBODY MOVE! WANDS ON THE—”

He stopped.

They had entered a large, cavernous space. Thirty-odd people sat on folding chairs, facing a small stage. Most of them were witches about Mrs Weasley’s age, holding songbooks on their laps. One witch stood off to the side, holding a plate of flapjack. Beside her, a tea urn steamed along the back wall beneath a hand-lettered banner that read in gold:

THE CONGREGATION OF THE BOY WHO LIVED

For several seconds, nobody moved.

Then the woman holding the flapjack lowered it slowly, and frowns started appearing on the onlookers’ faces. They had stopped mid-song at the intrusion.

Harry looked at Ron, and saw his own confusion reflected in his partner’s face. He looked back and started surveying the room.

Rain cloaks hung from a row of hooks beside the door. Most of them were black, with one lone dark green cloak.

A large gold lightning bolt protruding from the face of a black skull had been painted across the wall behind the stage, giving it an air that was equal parts comical and eerie. In front of it, a lace-covered table stood with a collection of objects arranged around a framed photograph of Harry at seventeen, scowling at a cluster of reporters.

There were Chocolate Frog cards bearing his image. A pair of round spectacles. A small knitted doll with black wool hair and a jagged red scar. A jar of greyish water labelled LAKE WATER, SECOND TASK, 1994 (UNVERIFIED). A broken broomstick. A feather. Copies of Witch Weekly and the Daily Prophet, all featuring stories about the Chosen One.

At first glance, it was a nonsensical mismatch of trinkets.

Then, slowly, realization dawned. Beside him, Ron made a strangled noise.

Harry turned towards his best friend and found him grinning in open delight.

“No,” Harry whispered, horrified.

“Yes!”

Ron's gaze swept around the room in awe, taking in the shrine, the posters, and the little banners that floated around, welcoming new members. There was even a library in one corner, presumably loaded with texts for the congregation.

He grinned harder. “Mate—”

“Don’t,” Harry said, sounding pained.

Ron’s shoulders began to shake.

“It’s a cult," he whispered gleefully. "For you!”

His words seemed to bring the congregation out of its stupor. At the front of the hall, an elderly witch rose shakily to her feet. She stared at the pair of intruders for a long moment before her eyes widened in recognition.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Harry felt a cold sensation spread through his stomach.

“It is you,” she whispered. "Harry Potter."

Every head in the room turned.

Someone gasped.

The plate of flapjack hit the floor.

Then all thirty-odd members of the congregation stood at once.

Harry took a step backwards and stumbled into Ron, who let out a sharp bark of laughter, which he disguised badly as a cough.

“Sorry,” he said. “Dust.”

A witch in purple robes approached them, the rest of the group tailing behind her. Harry saw with alarm that she had tears in her eyes. Soon, they were surrounded by a sea of eager, delighted faces who looked at him like they were seeing a God.

“We knew you would find us,” she said, bowing forward to grasp his hands and bringing them to her chest.

Harry squirmed, gently wrestling himself free. “I was sent here by the Auror Office.”

“Yes,” she said reverently. “To save us. We have been chosen.”

“No. I mean, I don’t know…” He glanced around the surprisingly cozy room again. There appeared to be no signs of discord or Dark magic. "Do you need saving?"

A murmur passed through the room.

“It’s really him.”

“He’s here.”

“The Great Leader was right!”

The word leader snagged in Harry’s brain, and he closed his eyes briefly.

“We have received reports of suspicious activity,” he said. “Hooded gatherings. Ritual chanting. Unregistered magical objects.”

The purple-robed witch looked confused. “Hooded? Do you mean… our rain cloaks?”

Harry glanced at the hooks. “And the chanting?”

“Our opening hymn.”

“Odo the Hero?”

Her delight returned. She nodded vigorously, and went back to staring at him in awe.

Ron cleared his throat. “There was a mention of a leader,” he said seriously. “Is he here? Can we meet him?”

The witch turned to him. “Who are you?”

“Ron Weasley,” he replied, waiting for a flicker of recognition.

It did not come.

He scowled. “Harry’s mate from school? War hero?”

When she continued to stare at him blankly, his scowl deepened.

“I’m an Auror, and this is official business. Now, I ask you again, where is your leader?”

Sensing trouble, Harry interjected. “What is your name?”

“Matilda,” the witch replied.

“Matilda,” he said in a placating tone, “it is very important that my partner and I speak to your leader. Do you think you could get him for me?”

She nodded, eager to please.

“Yes, yes, of course. I will fetch him right away. He’s going to be so delighted!” she muttered as she backed away and disappeared through a door beside the stage.

The rest of the group continued to surround him, the weight of their fervent, adoring gazes oppressive.

“Do you think they’ve been affected by some sort of Memory Charm?” Ron muttered, observing them suspiciously.

Harry frowned. “Why a Memory Charm?”

“She had no idea who I was!”

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes. “That’s not a symptom of memory modification.”

“But think about it! These people are obviously obsessed with you” — they both shuddered — “so who would know you and not me or Hermione? I’m not being big-headed," he pressed on, expecting a rebuttal, "but it was everywhere after the war.”

Harry frowned. Now that he thought about it, Ron had a point. The press coverage after the war had focused on all three of them. He had insisted upon it, refusing to do any solo interviews. Anyone who had read about him would have been forced to read about his friends. So how did Matilda not recognize Ron?

Just then, the door beside the stage opened.

Matilda returned, followed by a man in ceremonial lilac robes. His hair was silver, sculpted into artificial waves, each strand positioned just so. He carried a thick scrapbook underneath one arm, and his eyes crinkled with new wrinkles as he smiled.

It was a self-satisfied smile, all blinding white teeth and practised charm, the same one he had once deployed so heavily for the press. Harry wondered if he was expecting to be greeted by cameras.

But then the man drew closer, and all thoughts escaped him. Behind him, Ron inhaled sharply.

The years seemed to fall away as recognition struck them both at once. It was a man who had once tried to kill them. A man they had cursed, and had not seen for years, and never expected to see again.

“Lockhart!”