"Everyone's doing it." There's no better call to arms. It makes you think of Lord Kitchener and Uncle Sam. Your country needs you, gentlemen. All the others have risen to the challenge. Watch yourself or you'll get left behind. They're marching in sequence – not a trot, boys, a proper heroic procession – right to the edge of the cliff. And one drops, and another drops, and they all drop down eventually. But they're not alone, at least. They're doing what everyone's doing, and they're doing it with pride. They can't see ahead; someone's face is blocking the view, someone's neck is reaching ahead. Everywhere you look, arms are waving in sequence, perfect sequence. You think, this is it. The power of the masses starts to weave its way into your head until everything's made of wicker and barbed wire. Lines joining to make something; fabricated thorns stopped skin from jumping over walls. And this is this, and that is that, and you'll live with it. They all do. What makes you special? Nothing but your refusal to march. Come on. Supplies are running out. It's now or never – if you don't get your move on, the war might be over. Every generation has its 'where were you?' moment, and this is yours, and we're telling you exactly where you'll want to have been. Right here, doing this, fighting them. 'Them' changes across the border lines, but the basic meaning is people who think differently. So now you know. Is that enough? Everyone else has gone off to kill them at dawn based on that simple fact. Join your bloody hands with other bloody hands, and the colours will melt into a collective red, and then it'll all make sense. Do it now. Who you are, that doesn't matter. You can be a pureblood fighting for your race, with your wife at home scrubbing the stains off your clothes and wondering when you'll be back, and you can think, this is right. You can be a muggleborn defending your life, and you can also think, this is right. You're both right, but only because 'right' is impossible to measure. And you're not the only confused ones. With broken glass at their feet, muggle scientists dragged a wizard out his front window, sedated him and tried to measure the carbon in his body. In the name of knowledge, they said, which is the same as being right, really. How can you doubt them and their immaculate coats? And their squeaky clean science has produced some distinct fuck-ups. See, wizards don't react well to radiation, and now people's physical ages have fluctuated insanely. Fascinating, the muggles say, mostly because it's not happening to them. They mutter among themselves about what this could achieve. A revolution in the anti-aging industry, maybe, or a way to live forever. And then they grind their teeth, because they're under strict orders not to tell anyone about the most important discovery of their lives. What the Ministry hasn't let them in on is that the Dark Lord's looking for them. In fact, everyone is, in between slitting each other's throats. This isn't a time to think long and carefully, so a brief answer, if you please: will you or won't you? And you will, because let's face it: you're no different from everyone else, and EVERYONE ELSE IS DOING IT. BLEEDING, THAT IS.