Harry Potter was not a happy wizard.
Perhaps He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was right after all, he thought. Lord Voldemort had loathed Muggles, had wanted to create a world in which the magical and non-magical were forever separate. His way of realizing that world was fraught with evil and darkness, but Harry had begun to understand what drove him.
There were aspects of Muggle culture that were downright horrifying, and they were beginning to have an impact on the wizarding world.
The House Elves, for example. Servitude had been their lot, an unfortunate situation that was beginning to change with the end of the Voldemort era. But change was not fast enough or radical enough for a growing minority of elves. Muggle influence had forever altered their relationship with humans. They had become violent, resorting to suicide bombings and constant rocket attacks in lieu of negotiations.
It was said that their leader had been inspired by Yasir Arafat and Osama bin Laden, Muggles of the Islamist school. He had taken an Arabic-influenced nom de guerre, replacing his humble one-word name. And just as they had done, he became adept at sending others to their deaths, adding to the growing list of martyrs who had gone on to Paradise on the wings of bombs, bullets, and the dreaded Avada Kedavra spell. A Paradise, thought Harry, where seventy-two gnomish virgins awaited. Ecch.
Guilt and doubt gnawed at Harry’s insides. Was it something he had done? Had it been a mistake to show kindness so many years ago, kindness that was repaid at first with groveling thanks, later with hatred and death? A tear coursed down his cheek as he thought of Ginny...his dear, sweet Ginny, who had been blown to little pieces by an Elvish suicide bomber three years ago. All of his powers, all of his spells...all useless for putting her back together and breathing life back into her.
Eyes narrowed, Harry bent to his task: planning the offensive that would decisively put an end to the Elvish intifada...and that would cut short the bloodthirsty career...
Perhaps He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was right after all, he thought. Lord Voldemort had loathed Muggles, had wanted to create a world in which the magical and non-magical were forever separate. His way of realizing that world was fraught with evil and darkness, but Harry had begun to understand what drove him.
There were aspects of Muggle culture that were downright horrifying, and they were beginning to have an impact on the wizarding world.
The House Elves, for example. Servitude had been their lot, an unfortunate situation that was beginning to change with the end of the Voldemort era. But change was not fast enough or radical enough for a growing minority of elves. Muggle influence had forever altered their relationship with humans. They had become violent, resorting to suicide bombings and constant rocket attacks in lieu of negotiations.
It was said that their leader had been inspired by Yasir Arafat and Osama bin Laden, Muggles of the Islamist school. He had taken an Arabic-influenced nom de guerre, replacing his humble one-word name. And just as they had done, he became adept at sending others to their deaths, adding to the growing list of martyrs who had gone on to Paradise on the wings of bombs, bullets, and the dreaded Avada Kedavra spell. A Paradise, thought Harry, where seventy-two gnomish virgins awaited. Ecch.
Guilt and doubt gnawed at Harry’s insides. Was it something he had done? Had it been a mistake to show kindness so many years ago, kindness that was repaid at first with groveling thanks, later with hatred and death? A tear coursed down his cheek as he thought of Ginny...his dear, sweet Ginny, who had been blown to little pieces by an Elvish suicide bomber three years ago. All of his powers, all of his spells...all useless for putting her back together and breathing life back into her.
Eyes narrowed, Harry bent to his task: planning the offensive that would decisively put an end to the Elvish intifada...and that would cut short the bloodthirsty career...
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