Harry Potter and the Occidental Ranger

Harry Potter and the Occidental Ranger


Disclaimer: This story is based on characters created and owned by JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Warner Brothers, Inc. among others. No money is being made from this writing and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Rating: NC-17 (Graphic sex and violence)

Synopsis: Argus Filch, Hogwarts caretaker and resident squib, is tuning up his whips, stocks and torture racks to teach \"the nasty little creatures a bit uh discipline, see\". The mudblood Granger is about to get hers from Lucius Malfoy. In fact, he\'s already installed new straps on his personal torture rack in the dungeon at Malfoy Manor. The Dark Lord is salivating in anticipation of annihilating Harry Potter. Dolores Umbridge and Cornelius Fudge will soon be kicking the old headmaster Dumbledore out on his duff. The wicked associates of the One-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named have been aroused to a frenzy at the Supreme Lord\'s promises of unrestrained loot, rape and plunder. The world of good witches and wizards is about to be upended.

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Before we begin, you might first want to look around for your Rememberall . . .

Recollect, if you will, Chapter Twenty-Seven in J.K. Rowling’s \"Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix\". The delightfully magnanimous Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor, is just hours away from replacing Albus Dumbledore as Head of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry by order of the Ministry of Magic. Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle are soon to be appointed to lofty positions within the newly formed Inquisitorial Squad, a select group of students supportive of the new regime. Of course, Headmistress Umbridge will order the newly formed squad to pay very close attention to the maniacally hysterical and delusional Potter boy. Umbridge is firmly committed to setting the school right after years of misdirection and criminal neglect at the hands of Professor Dumbledore.

All the while, an unobserved and uninvited guest is dispassionately making an assessment. Unbiased and nonjudgmental, the undetectable visitor awaits his orders.

[Prologue]

The night before . . .

Professor Minerva McGonagall patted the brooch nervously at her neck as she quickly passed through the door leading into the headmaster’s office. Impatiently she waited for Professor Albus Dumbledore to seal it and whisper out a silencing charm. Although it was now almost midnight, the old wizard was never one to be careless but, by all means, especially not now. For some days there had been a restless, forbidding aura hanging heavily along every corridor of the ancient school. Evil was afoot.

“Please, Minerva,” the old wizard quietly uttered, lifting his right arm and pointing at a chair in front of his desk. “We\'ve much to discuss and very little time I dare say.”

“That woman will be the death of me. I can’t stand it another minute,” she said indignantly, shaking her head and clinching her lips into a flat, thin line. As the witch collapsed into the chair, she worriedly watched the tired old headmaster move slowly around his desk. “What are we to do, Albus? Haven’t you yet had communications with Martin?”

Martin Dumbledore, a younger brother to Albus, was the headmaster at the British Columbia School of Magic and a well-respected Minister Emeritus of the North American Ministry of Magic, often referred to as NAM. Martin had always maintained an ongoing, intimate liaison with influential ministers throughout the Americas. For many years, he had consistently been asked to take part in a NAM think-tank for the advancement of magic, a two-month retreat attended each year by the most respected ministers and educators in the Western Hemisphere.

The British Columbia School of Magic has been considered to be the paradigmatic example of what a school of magic should be in the modern era. Focusing not only on the major disciplines of the magical world, it also incorporates the technological know-how of the non-magical world. Magic wedded with high technology. A by-product of this educational process was what Albus Dumbledore desperately hopes will somehow to be sent to their aid.

Unlike their European counterparts, most schools of magic in North America begin advanced educational regimens as soon as a child exhibiting any magical inclination is identified. Albus Dumbledore had once urged the Ministry of Magic to embrace the same educational model, during a full assembly of the Ministry. Although a number of forward-looking ministers agreed, Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge laughed him off for grandstanding. Lucius Malfoy loudly declared Dumbledore should be held in contempt for suggesting such lunacy. “The Americans are nothing but a sordid swelling of mudbloods. If anything, we should destroy the lot for their wretched creation of such filth.” The man’s evil associates straightaway squealed in fiendish delight.

The old wizard now tiredly adjusted himself in his chair, lastly removing his glasses and lowering them to the top of his desk. “No word’s yet come,” Dumbledore related to his deputy headmistress. “Perhaps the dear ministers across the pond do not fully comprehend the great danger we now face.”

“But . . .”

Dumbledore raised both hands in a halting motion. “I know, I know. And Martin has agreed with us, too, Minerva. My greatest fear is that the evil ones will no doubt make quick work of the Ministry here and will then turn their eyes westward, as all Europe will straightaway collapse under Voldemort’s wickedness,” Dumbledore replied.

“Damn the Ministry!” McGonagall shouted out; her fingernails digging into the arms of the chair with the ferocity and reflexive speed of a cat.

Dumbledore slowly and tiredly moved his right hand to his long, silver beard and began stroking it. His eyes focused on his glasses laying on the desk before him while his mind concentrated on the few options left to him. He was being backed into the proverbial corner. If Cornelius Fudge and Dolores Umbridge had their way, that corner would not be a very hospitable place to be backed into.

McGonagall straightened herself, moving her hands to her lap so as to prevent further disfigurement to the chair’s arms. “It’s been weeks since you’ve spoken with Martin, Albus. They would certainly want to investigate, at the very least, wouldn’t they?”

The old wizard nodded his head. “I’m inclined to believe they would, but I’ve received no word of it. Nonetheless, there may well be another reason Martin hasn’t yet responded to my last query. He may rightfully be reasoning the Dark Lords are intercepting or listening in on our communications. And he would most assuredly not want to have his presence announced at Hogwarts or any other location on this side of the pond. That would certainly put too many of the wrong sort on alert.”

“They wouldn’t be sending one of their rangers, would you think?” McGonagall hopefully raised her eyebrows; her facial expression plainly pleading for the response she so hoped to hear.

“It would be the logical thing to do. But the rangers are used very selectively. I’m afraid NAM would first have to sense great peril against the Americas before a ranger would be allowed to intervene on our behalf,” the old headmaster gloomily replied.

Very few witches or wizards knew much about those called Rangers, who were said to work for the Department of Criminal Investigations at the North American Ministry of Magic. And the magical worlds lack of knowledge about them made the rangers even more mysterious. Some declared the rangers worked in a department known only as Occultus. No one, however, seemed to know where it was located. Nor was there any proof it even existed at all. Others ridiculed those who believed in such powerful magical beings saying it was nothing but so much bunk. Oddly, few ever connected the dots when mention was made of evil beings strangely disappearing without a trace.

Albus Dumbledore was one of the believers. Martin had informed him many years earlier of NAM’s successful attempts at producing the next incremental step along the evolutionary chain of magical beings, though only a small number of these individuals were to ever become rangers. The selection and training process were very discriminating and exceptionally grueling.

“Aren’t you afraid of bringing into being others like Tom Riddle?” Dumbledore had once asked of his brother. “Surely such powerful beings could be an even greater danger to our magical world.”

“We\'ve found the contrary to be true, Albus,” his brother had told him. “They are extraordinarily sensitive and compassionate. It\'s as if they have a burning desire to work for the welfare of good witches and wizards of our world. But God help the evil beings aspiring in any way to harm the innocent. They are totally hardhearted and indifferent to the suffering and death of those they strike out against. The only kindness they show is in the swiftness of their terminations.”

Since that meeting, Dumbledore had often thought about the rangers and longed to one day share a visit with such an individual. For most of his life he had been fascinated with what the human race, and especially magical beings, were to ultimately become.

The old wizard lifted his glasses back up to his face and positioned them carefully across the bridge of his nose. He then tilted his head back and looked into Professor McGonagall’s eyes through the half-moon lenses. “Minerva, I fear the end is drawing near for me here within these hallowed halls. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, the grand old toad will be throwing me out on my duff within hours. I trust you have the strength to carry on.”

“Where would you go, Albus?” McGonagall all but cried out. “Hogwarts is all you’ve known for years.”

Dumbledore winked and grinned. “I’ve fortunately made preparations, but not knowing the length our dear Minister of Magic might take in ascertaining my whereabouts, I must regretfully keep that information only to myself. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Professor McGonagall replied, raising a hand to scour away the tears dripping steadily from her eyes.


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In the dungeon common room of Slyterin, three fifth-year students had been whispering excitedly over the top of a table near one of the room\'s back walls. Orders had been given and plans made - - - deliciously wicked ideas and predictions, keeping the three up well past their normal bedtime.

“Remember, there’ll be hell to pay if that fuckin’ Potty-Head dies before the Master gets his hands on him. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days now. In the meantime, Umbridge will let us torment him and his warty, mudblood friends all we want. I can’t wait,” Draco Malfoy cackled, squirming in his chair.

Crabbe looked quickly over his shoulder to see if anyone was about before he asked what was on his mind. “What was that you said earlier about Granger?”

“Don’t worry about her. My dad’s going to take the ugly, mudblood bitch to our dungeon. She’ll soon wish she’d never been born. He’s recently put new straps on the torture rack so you can imagine what’s in store for that bitch,” he flashed his two companions his most devious grin.

Goyle and Crabbe squealed in fiendish delight.

Standing quietly against the dungeon’s back wall was an invisible and uninvited guest. For over two weeks, the unobserved caller from distant lands had followed the dialogue and actions of a great number of unknowing wizards and witches. His activities and findings were being relayed in a constant stream of digital transmissions, which were beyond the capacity of any living being within the magical world to intercept or sense. Until he was commanded to act, he would take no actions betraying his presence.

Far removed from his current location, ministry officials constantly monitored and discussed the illuminating data as it was received. Even though he was thousands of miles distant from the decision and policy makers, he sensed a definite finality to the current state of affairs was in the wind. Soon he would be issued his charging document; soon the bloodletting would begin.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In an underground keep deep with the bowels of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in a forbidden and long forgotten storage room, one Argus Filch, caretaker and squib, happily danced about novel apparatus never meant to be seen in the light of day. As he reached down to lift a heavy chain of manacles, he yelped out gleefully.

“They’ll be pissin’ their pants, they will. Wait till these be slapped on their teensy little wrists. Ah!” he cried out, upon jabbing the toe of his boot into the frame of a stocks. “Oh! An’ the nasty little necks to be a puttin’ in this. Eeeh!”

Filch lifted the flickering flame of his torch a bit higher and squinted his eyes, peering towards the back wall of the room. It was there, after all, where he knew he’d soon find what he’d come for. He passed a medieval torture rack, rubbing a hand lovingly along it’s heavy wooden frame and slowly wound his way to the back wall.

“Ah! Yes! There they be!” he squealed out. All along the rock wall were racks of whips, canes, crops, cats-o’-nine-tails, belts, straps and switches. He pulled down a frightfully heavy whip and gave the torture rack behind him a vicious slap, relishing the tingling in his fingers as the leather made contact and the deliciously loud smack of the report. After excitedly putting his torch in a holder along the wall, he bent and stretched heavheavy leather, inspecting the soundness of it and rubbing it lovingly along his filthy face. “Make funs of ol’ Filch now, will they. Not bein’ respectful, hey! Just wait, you nasty little creatures. I’ll be showin’ them little shits a bit uh discipline, I will.”

Filch then quietly walked back into a dark corner of the room and rubbed at his aroused flesh. The excitement stirred him beyond anything he had n inn in years. He fantasized Umbridge would soon be letting him bring those deserving punishment below in mass. Filch had enouenough of endlessly walking the hallowed halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He was eager and itching to assume the new position he’d been promised, as the head of Hogwarts Office of Corporal Punishment. That was where he belonged and what he was destined to do. After some minutes, his whole body shook with his release. Hticiticipated many such days of carnal pleasure would certainly be a regular occurrence.