Harry Potter & The Voice Of God

Harry Potter & The Voice Of God

Chapter One - Flaming Hell!

"Right," Ron rolled up his sleeves and clapped his hands. "Let´s get started."

"Ron, this is ridiculous," Harry couldn´t help smiling as his friend whipped out a scroll of scribbled-on parchment and a quill, then surveyed Harry with an expression copied from Rita Skeeter.

Or a psychiatrist in a muggle film.

"Ridiculous or not, we´re not going to wait for bad and mad thing to come to us this time and catch us by surprise!"

The two boys were sitting in the common room, their second day back at Hogwarts for their fifth year, and they were occupying the round table that stood beside one of the high windows that lined the curved wall.

The rest of the room was empty.

Most of the other Gryffindors were down at the Great Hall, but Harry had already felt a bit put off by the stares that he continued to get, the incidents of the Tri-Wizard Tournament still fresh in many minds.

Which was why he and Ron were in the Common Room. If they were to take bets on the whereabouts of Hermione, it was clearly going to be somewhere beginning with `L´ and filled from floor to ceiling with books.

It was also why Ron was interviewing him.

"Ron, we knew they were coming last year and that didn´t stop them..."

"Will you shut up and let me do my job?" Sighing, Ron shook his head. "Bloody amateurs, the lot of you...well, one of you anyway." He cleared his throat. "Have you, Mr. Potter, experienced any scar-pains this summer not caused by being whacked on the head by one of Hermione´s books, knocked out by one of Fred and/or George´s `fun´ bludgers or being caught in one of Ginny's patented Harry-Potter traps?"

"Ron..." he couldn´t help laughing.

"Mr Potter," A green quill was practically shoved up his nose. "Answer the question if you please..."

"All right, all right," Swatting the quill from his nose, Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes, I have had pain in my scar," he paused, then added with a grin. "I´ve also had a rather nasty tickly cough, if you think that´ll be important..."

Ron huffed something else about immature amateurs, while scribbling something on his sheet of parchment.

"Question two," he said. "Do you agree that I´m better-looking that Seamus?"

"What does that have to do with You-Know-Who?"

Ron grinned. "Nothing. I was just curious."

"And you wondered why I wasn´t interested in this interview over the summer..."

"You´re loving it really," His friend´s head bowed over his sheet.

Harry couldn´t help smiling a little.

Yes, it was true.

He liked the fact that Ron was cheerfully taking the mickey out of what everyone else around him kept doing. He was getting tired of the questions about the Dark Lord and what had really really happened on the night that Cedric Diggory had died.

"Have you," Ron asked, his tone dead serious. "Met, seen or been approached by any shifty-looking characters in robes and masks, who have asked you if you would be interested in meeting their Dark-Lord-employer so he can try to kill you again?"

Harry started to laugh in earnest.

"What?" Ron tried to look hurt, shrugging. "They might be that stupid."

Shaking his head, still chuckling, Harry managed to deadpan. "No, Ron, I haven´t seen anyone like that."

"Right, that settles it," Ron decided with finality, laying his question sheet down.

Harry hid a grin. "And what do you think?"

"As usual," he replied, with the air of someone talking about the weather. "We´re going to have a bloody awful year in which we almost get killed by a mad Dark Lord and his minions in masks and robes, have Hermione lecturing us about everything, fall asleep several times in divination, get points taken in potions and kick Slytherin´s arse at Quidditch."

"And you got all that from three questions?"

Ron grinned. "Nah. I´m bored, so I got that from every other year we´ve been here."

"Fair enough," Harry got to his feet. "At least it´s starting quietly this year."

"Like it did, oh, say last year and the year before and the year before that..."

Harry shrugged. "I suppose..."

"You´re saying second year was a quiet start?"

"Er..."

"Flying car, whomping willow...ringing any bells?"

The dark-haired boy suddenly caught up. "Ah..."

Ron made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "And that was nothing. What about third year? You blowing up your aunt and Sirius on the loose?"

"All right, all right!" Harry laughed. "I get the point! But nothing has happened so far this year..."

He spoke to soon.

"BEHOLD THE METATRON!" a thunderous voice seemed to shake the very walls of the Common Room.

A surge of flame exploded out of thin air, forming a flaming pillar about six feet tall on the rug in front of the table. Ron yelled in fright and fell backwards on his chair, Harry leaping back.

"BEHOLD THE METATRON! THE VOICE OF GOD!"

Yanking his wand out, Harry pointed it at the flaming...thing.

"Aquatis!" he yelled, spraying a gush of water from the tip of his wand at the fire, a hiss sounding, as steam and smoke billowed around them.

"Ack! Stop it! Stop it!" A less-thunderous voice cried indignantly, a figure becoming visible as the smoke and steam dispersed. He was waving his hand in front of his face, coughing. "Bloody hell! Doesn´t anyone stand and stare in awe anymore?"

Scrambling to his feet on the other side the table, his own wand out, Ron gaped at the man. "Who are you?"

"Hello?" A sarcastic, bored voice drawled back, making both boys think of Snape for some odd reason. "Weren´t you listening or are you stone deaf? I´m the Metatron, like I said."

"The what?"

The figure stopped flapping a hand in front of his face and looked at Harry. Both of the boys gasped and Ron looked like he was about to drop his wand in shock.

"The Metatron, one of the highest of the choirs of angels and voice of God," the man replied, brushing a hand down his dripping trousers. "And you don´t have a towel, do you? I´m bloody soaked."

"Harry...?" Ron whispered.

"I-I know..."

The man rolled his eyes. "Right...now, you start staring. Column of fire to get everyone´s attention and people spray you with stuff. Dripping and getting pneumonia and people stare at you like no one´s business..."

The boys kept staring.

It was impossible.

It had to be impossible.

It was...Snape.

Or, at least it was what Snape would look like with short, spiky hair, a purple top, black trousers - which, as he had pointed out, were currently dripping - and a black leather jacket that hung down to his thighs...

"Wh-who did you say you were again?" Harry asked.

"The Metatron," the man said, clearly getting frustrated at a rapid rate. "What are you? Thick in the head? I´ve said it four times already and now, I´m freezing my arse off while you two gawp at me..."

"But you look like Snape," Ron said, still staring.

"Yeah, whatever, can I please get a bloody towel?" Hastily summoning a towel, Harry thrust it towards the very strange man, who took it and started dabbing at the ends of his trousers. "It never ends..." he muttered.

"Ex-cuse me," Harry started to ask carefully. "But what is the Metatron?"

"I am. I´m the voice of God," the man answered. "And before you ask, I´m not a random insane wizard. I´m an angel."

"Right..." Harry had the strange urge to back away, nodding politely.

His hands on his hips, the man raised his eyes towards the ceiling.

"You´re as bad as she was," he grumbled. "I hate doing the visuals in public like this, but if it convinces you..." he spread his hands at the level of his hips and said in a deep and majestic voice. "I am the Metatron."

Music that sounded like it came from a Cathedral rippled around the room, a strange ethereal glow emanating around the man, but that wasn´t what got the attention of the two Gryffindor boys.

"Aaaaaaaaaaargh!"

Harry agreed with Ron´s sentiments, as a pair of large, white, feathery wings spread out from behind the man´s shoulders.

The smirk on the man´s face was vintage Snape, his hands coming back to his hips.

"Wings!" Ron´s grip on his wrist was cutting off the circulation to his left hand, but Harry couldn´t form coherent words to tell his friend that a) his hand was going to drop off and b) he could see what Ron could see. "Harry! He has wings! He has bleeding wings!"

"Like I said," the man drawled, still smirking at them. "I´m an angel. Now, do I have your attention?"