Larry Potter and the fire of London

This is a P i ss take of what's going on in London right now. Feel free to collaborate.

All wasn't well.  It hadn't been for the past few weeks.  Something had been brewing beneath the pile of lies which made up our mundane living and the people of London had grown tired; tired mostly from the hopelessness.  There was no jobs and those who had jobs had no life.  So there was either the choice of life or money and most chose money for you couldn't survive without it.  This lack of hope for those without money translated into pain and the pain was felt more predominately from Larry Potter whose scar was especially sensitive to coming danger and it was throbbing that night; the night of the shooting.  It only took a clap of a gun to awaken and bring to the surface the suffering of millions made redundant and those who were never given the chance of a job in the first place.   

He couldn't sleep that night.  He rubbed his scar and even whispered to it but nothing could calm it down.  This was serious. 

"Are you alright?" Asked Ginny, she was half asleep but with her sleepy eyes she could make out the crouching silhouette of Larry on the bed next to her."Larry, what is it?!"

It wasn't Boldermort this time, it was the muggles.  They were destroying the place where Hagrid first took him when he was young, where he discovered the Yogwarts Express.  He loved London and he wasn't going to let some vulgar little muggles destroy it.

"Send an owl to Hermione and Ron.  We need to help the innocent, this is serious!"

                                                                             *

David Spameron, in his office, cradled the morning paper in his hands.  The staff had gone for coffee and he was all by himself.  Just as well as he was lost for words so he divulged deeper into his thoughts, florid faced at the unprecedented attacks.  He swallowed the printed words with his saliva and each sentence went through him like a heated knife.  "London's Burning." "London's Burning."

He then placed the newspaper on his polished table.  The office was uncomfortably silent perhaps he should not have been left on his own, he thought.  His hand reached for the phone and raised it to his ear.  It was almost done subconciously. 

Speed dial 7.  It rung once and was quickly picked up as if the receiver had longingly awaited his call. 

"Kingsley Shacklebolt."

David Spameron uttered a sighed of relief.   

"Yes, Shacklebolt...Call the Minister for Magic, we need the auras' help.  The city of London is in turmoil-"

"Yes Sir, I will do so right away."

Click.

 

 

The End

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