Harry Potter and the Three Point Plan

"Look over there", said Ron. "Do you think Malfoy's up to something?"
The others looked. Draco Malfoy was on the lawn, with his evil (but stupid) henchmen; and his other evil (but intelligent) henchmen. They were surrounded by parchment, the wizarding version of paper.

"I bet he is up to something," said Harry. "That would be so like him".
"But what could he possibly be up to, if he was up to something?" wondered Hermione. "And how could we find out?"
"Well, the same way we find out everything," replied Harry confidently. "I'll go under the invisibility cloak and take a look at that parchment."

Harry slipped out through the castle, taking care to only smash into the people he didn't like. Outside the sun was shining down; and students were messing around in various magical ways. Some of them were playing magical catch: a game a bit like boring muggle catch, but with a magical ball that squirted acid on anyone who dropped it.
Harry could see lots of students revising for their wizarding exams. He thought about the change from a muggle school to a magical one. What a relief it was to get rid of the rubbish subjects that no one liked: maths; English language and literature; any kind of science; geography; art; music; PE; foreign languages.... At least wizards didn't need any of that stuff, they could just magic their way through life!

Harry realised that he was getting closer to Malfoy and his friends, and slowed down. The last thing he needed was for Malfoy to realise he was there and go completely nuts on him like that other time on the train.

Stealthily, he crept along until he could hear what all the Slytherins were saying. But they were just talking about the new classes Malfoy was running, to teach any student how to have haughty mannerisms.  Harry bent down and looked at the parchment surrounding the group instead. One of the sheets had a huge title scrawled across it: "Malfoy's plan for gaining student confidence". Harry scanned the scene. None of the Slytherins were looking his way. He quickly grabbed the parchment and ran back through the castle, all the way up to the Gryffindor common room. It took him about an hour because most of the staircases moved while he was on them.

"What did you find out", asked Ron eagerly, when Harry got back.

"Just this: it looks some kind of three-point plan," said Harry. "Step one: be seen to be protecting the students. Step two: show that there are scary things out there which you probably can protect the students from. Step three: the students will appreciate you more."

"I think I know what this is about," said Hermione. "Do you remember the other day, when Draco Malfoy put all those death-eater-seeking-magic-missiles on the roof of Hogwarts? And we all thought it was really weird that he's publicise it so much? Well, maybe he was doing it on purpose, so that everyone would think he was out to protect them!"

"Oh right," said Ron. "And I think I know what step 2 was as well. Do you remember when Draco Malfoy said he and some mysterious American wizard had foiled a death eater plot to blow up Hogwarts? Maybe there wasn't a plot: maybe it was just a ruse to get us to feel nervous about the outside world and protected by Malfoy!"

"Well," said Harry. "At least he's trying to look after the students instead of destroy them. I mean, once Hogwarts is completely under his control everything'll probably be great! Come on, let's go play wizard catch."

Harry Potter and the Coalition Government Chapter Six: The Royal Wedding

Harry Potter was working at his new magical job when Ron Weasley burst in, looking outraged.

            “Hello Ron,” said Harry. “Why do you look so outraged?”

            “Well,” said Ron, slumping into one of Harry’s comfortable wizarding chairs. “I went to Diagon Alley today because I needed some shopping and, as you know, this is one of only two streets in Britain that we can use our wizarding currency in.”

            “Yes, I know all this,” said Harry. “So?”

            “Well,” said Ron. “Well. First of all it took me three hours to apparate to London, because of all the text messages flying around. Once I finally got to Greater London I decided to use muggle transport, because I thought it might be quicker than the magical infrastructure. But once I worked out how to get on one of their crazy non-magical trains it took me a further two hours to travel to the next station! So I decided to fly there on my retractable broomstick I carry around. I thought everyone would be working inside. But they were all outside! Having street parties! With bunting! In the rain!”

            “What’s all this?” said Hermione, who had just come in.

            “The royal wedding’s tomorrow,” said Harry, looking up from his paper. “Apparently it’s having a big effect on wizarding-born as well as muggles. It’s stupid anyway.”

            “You’re just saying that because Malfoy scored tickets and you didn’t,” said Hermione knowingly.

            “Oh shut up, Hermione,” shouted Harry, throwing his paper to the floor. “It’s not my fault that the muggle prime minister ranks wizarding aristocracy rank higher than the Chosen One. I don’t even care about the stupid wedding anyway. It’s not like they have magic, just a large amount of stupid muggle money from the stupid muggle taxpayers. I can’t even understand why we’re talking about this, to be honest.”

There was a silence, then Hermione turned to Ron.

            “I didn’t know that Malfoy had scored tickets,” she said. “Suddenly he’s a lot more attractive...And apparently Lee Jordan has been hired as a representative from the wizarding press. I saw him buying wizarding dress robes the other day and he told me.”

            “WHAT?” exclaimed Harry in outrage. “That is just so ridiculous. Everyone knows that my relationship with the press has a long and exciting history. I’m a face! A wizarding face! I’ve achieved SO MUCH!”

            “Look Harry,” said Hermione, kindly. “It seems to me that the whole thing isn’t really about talents. I know you’re the Chosen One and really good at quidditch, but you know that royalty isn’t about that, not if you’re not descended from the right people.”

            “I suppose it’s like being pure blood,” said Ron thoughtfully.

            “That’s exactly right,” said Hermione. “Only in a situation where pure bloods get more advantages than anyone else and everyone secretly wants to be pure blood.”

            “Well I think it’s stupid,” said Harry, and stormed off to bed.

The next day was overcast, which put Harry in a slightly better mood than he had been.

            “Morning,” he said to Ron and Hermione, who were eating wizarding croissants and listening to a magical radio.

            “Good morning,” said Hermione breezily. “We’re listening to Lee Jordan’s commentary. He’s just said what type of toothpaste Wills and Kate are using this morning! We’re awaiting news following a rumour of what her hairstyle will be and whether her jewellery will be first or second hand. It’s so exciting!”

            “Not this AGAIN!” stormed Harry. “Sometimes I wish that Voldemort hadn’t been defeated, just so this kind of nonsense wouldn’t take place anymore. It’s just so ridiculous how sensible people like you-”

            “Harry, this just came through the door,” said Hermione, holding out a shiny envelope. “The problem with living in a magical house is that the postman can’t find it. I think it might be an invitation to the wedding.”

            “Oh right,” said Harry, slowly moving towards the door. “Right. I see. Right.”

The door slammed behind him.

            “Well,” said Hermione. “Let’s just hope he never finds out about the coronation.”

The Adventures of Sherlock Cameron: Chapter the Fourth

It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever record the singular lack of gifts by which my friend Mr. Sherlock Cameron was distinguished. It lies with me to tell for the first time what really took place between Boris Moriarty and Sherlock Cameron.

It was with some surprise that I saw Sherlock Cameron walk unto my constituency consulting-room upon the evening of February 24^th. It struck me that he was looking even blander than usual.

             “Have you come down from London?” I asked.

            “From Devon,” replied Cameron, and seeing the surprise on my face, he went on; “I have just been engaged in a dispute with on of Boris Moriarty’s many agents.

            “I was summoned, anonymously, to Baskerville Hall last week. You know, of course, that the Baskerville family founded one of Britain’s largest and most affluent banks. It was my suspicions that after the warning of Moriarty’s agent Anthony Browne; Baskerville Banking Ltd. was going to move overseas, in order to avoid the high taxation imposed on them, thus losing £14 to £16 billion in employment taxes.”

            “That would be bad, of course,” I agreed. “But I fail to see what Moriarty would have to gain from it. He is Mayor of London, after all.”

            “I’m coming to that,” said Cameron, pacing around the room. “There was, unfortunately, a great deal of confusion at Baskerville Hall when I arrived. Some nonsense about a giant ghost dog or something, I wasn’t really paying attention. But that was where my luck really came in, and my detective talents were not needed.”

            I was tempted to point out that any detective talents he had had yet to show themselves, but I kept my peace and Cameron spoke on.

            “Sir Charles Baskerville, Chairman of the bank, was frightened to death by this so-called ghost dog. Lestrade discovered, however, that the dog was actually real, covered with phosphorescence.”

            “That seems unlikely.”

            “Yes, well. It was all part of a plot to inherit the Baskerville estate. But fortunately for us, the last Baskerville is now imprisoned. Baskerville Bank will be run by a council of London bankers who have no wish to move abroad. The Pounds of the Baskervilles will stay in London and be taxed accordingly. Thus, Moriarty’s plan has been foiled again!”

            “You still haven’t explained why you believe it to be Moriarty’s plan,” said I.

            “Aha!” said Cameron. “This is where the intrigue lies. It is my belief that Boris Moriarty is trying to make himself more popular whilst undermining me. In a nation that has become increasingly more cynical, people will do anything for a laugh. Consequently I have asked Boris to meet with me near here, so that I can have it out with him.”

            I sighed. “All right, but I will come with you. Someone has to make sure the paparazzi don’t get wind of this.”

We set off, and shortly arrived at the place where Moriarty and Cameron were to meet, at the Falls of Doncaster. It was, indeed, a fearful place, and looking down into it was none other than Boris Moriarty, his bicycle leaning against the rocks.

            “Moriarty,” shouted Cameron. “Is what I believe true? Are you come to take my place as Prime Minister? You must know I am not afraid of danger.”

            “This is not danger,” said Boris. “It is inevitable destruction. You stand in the way not merely of an individual, but of an upcoming mighty Facebook campaign. You must stand clear, Mr Cameron, or be trodden under foot.”

            “You are both ridiculous,” said I. “Sort it out between yourselves. It is not my political party, and I want no part in it.”

            I left, and what followed no one will ever truly know. A few words may suffice to tell the little that remains. An examination by experts leaves little doubt that a personal contest between the two men ended in their reeling over, locked in each others arms. Any attempt at recovering the bodies was absolutely hopeless, and there, deep down in that dreadful cauldron of swirling water and seething foam, will lie for all time the most buffoonish Mayor and the blandest Prime Minister of their generation.