Chapter Seventeen

…Bind Yourself to me;

in Life, in Death…

Lord Voldemort was beyond busy. There was no inch inside his private quarters bereft of maps, rolls of parchment, quills and ink bottles, all scattered around the place. There was, however, a map that would draw attention to anyone that was within a, say, ten mile radius.

Spanning a width of around twelve feet and a similar height, was the biggest map most people would ever see. The details were delightfully rich, every corner of land and every single city, town and village marked on it. A Muggle cartographer would probably shed tears over such a piece.

Around it, more than twenty quills and several ink bottles were suspended in mid air, writing frantically on unfurled rolls of parchment, as multicoloured pins flew like darts to fasten themselves on targets, changing constantly. Above all the clinking, clunking, scraping and zooming, the Dark Lord could be heard muttering to himself, which in itself was by far too weird to be allowed. Lord Voldemort was prim and proper in an evil overlord way; so to watch him muttering to himself like a deranged elf, no matter that it was those uttered words that set in motion all the displays of magic around him, the trinkets carrying out his thoughts - was just spooky.

But Lord Voldemort was alone in his chambers and did not give a hoot about anyone else. Well, truly, he wouldn't give a hoot about anyone else either even if he were surrounded by a million people, but that is beside the point.

He walked from one side to the other without pausing, making no sound other than the gentle swish of his forest green robes. He was deep in concentration, his mind miles away in the continent.

It was for such reason that Lord Voldemort was beyond displeased when a scrawny Death Eater that would've entirely passed for a scholar were it not for his swarthy face, crooked nose and bushy eyebrows, barged inside his off-limits, private rooms without permission. Were it not for the anxious look on the face of the gaunt man, whom he recognised as one of his servants in the Gringotts' division, he would have disposed of him instantly. Perhaps he would do so later, if he was severely displeased by the information the messenger carried. The fact that he would be held under several Cruciatus' was at this point incontrovertible, as it was unforgivable that such filth dared to trespass his territory without previous invitation.

'My – Lord,' panted the man, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. He skidded to a halt in front of the Dark Lord and placed his hands on his flexed knees and bent his back, regaining his breath. Lord Voldemort's slits of nostrils flared in distaste.

'My Lord,' the man repeated, fear latched onto his face at his Master's for sure oncoming and unstoppable towering rage, 'two Pureblood Disgraces have disappeared!'

'Crucio!'

As soon as the curse hit the Death Eater, he plummeted to the floor with an ear-splitting scream of agony. All previous dignity most humans have was soon forgotten in favour of thrashing about and pleading for mercy.

The Dark Lord did end the torture, he needed the names after all. It was an inconvenience, a minor hold-up. That two Pureblood Disgraces were missing didn't matter – that they were dead, depending on who it was, would matter.

Perhaps placing such restrictive curses on them had not been as brilliant an idea as he had previously thought. He knew that none of them would dare to venture outside of their established limits for they would die instantly. The magic placed on their forearms detected locations and fed off their own magical reserves, working brightly and diligently while the subject was awake and becoming dull while the subject was unconscious. If they fled, the magic would take but a couple of seconds to realise the subject was not within the permitted boundary and kill it ipso facto.

But what if they were kidnapped? If they were taken while awake, they'd die immediately. If they were unconscious, they would have twenty minutes maximum until the magic detected it and killed the person. Then, what was the use?

He had overlooked that and knew he'd have to delve into finding a solution and soon. He was almost glad this happened, as long as if it wasn't –

'Master, James Potter and Sirius Black have vanished.'

- James Potter and Sirius Black.

'Avada Kedavra!'

Lord Voldemort was severely irritated. With Black and Potter gone and by now dead, the two largest Pureblood Disgraces' vaults were sealed shut to him. The Dark Lord then remembered something – the Blacks' vault was closed to him, but not the Potters' as there would still be one Potter left alive, James's son.

The doors burst open again. The words for the Killing Curse were on the tip of his tongue when he saw that his intruder was none other than Artemis. Youth these days.

'My Lord – Black, Potter father and son and Apollo are all missing!'

-oOoOoOoOo-

Harry, while quick and nimble, had never been particularly gifted at the fine art of landing gracefully after taking a magical means of transportation. Watching him make a fool of himself after coming out of the Floo network, all sooty, sprawled and flat-faced against the floor had been, in fact, one of Ron Weasley's favourite pastimes.

Usually, Harry had no problem when it came to flaming in and out of places. The image of his destination popped inside his mind and he would just will himself to materialise somewhere else. A ball of flames would engulf him and he would have arrived at the place of his choosing. No hitches, no pesky wards could hold him back as there was no known magic that could stop a phoenix from doing whatever it wanted.

However, Harry had flamed out of the Forbidden Forest with seven other bodies attached to his own, and as soon as he had flamed home, he had tumbled down and hit the floor quite unceremoniously. Six, unconscious or worse, bodies were atop his own the weight constricting his breathing painfully.

Dobby had by chance perched himself on the top of the pile of bodies, the Sock of Freedom on his head.

The pile of bodies had Harry completely paralysed. Except for his head, neck and a bit of his chest, no part of his body was visible. He could neither reach his wand nor disentangle himself from the small mountain. Dobby, for all that he was loyal and brave, and a tad cunning, had yet made no move to free Harry. His newly found freedom still had him boggled. So when the sound of rushing feet hit his ears, he sighed in relief.

In just a few seconds' time, all the weight was lifted off him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, he did not stop inhaling until his lungs could carry no more air and he felt them strain. With a herculean effort and no small amount of groaning and soreness, Harry pulled himself up to his feet.

Neville's eyes were wide and in shock, a half-eaten apple slithered out of his hand and his jaw fell. His face had gone from extremely confused to anxious and stricken. But it was Dumbledore's expression that instilled some uncomfortable, foreign emotion in Harry's body – guilt, he realised. It had been Dumbledore who had lifted the bodies off him. He had simultaneously been conjuring up beds and placed one by one gently on them.

Seeing the lifeless, bloodied and broken forms of his brother and nearly life-long friend had made something inside the elderly professor snap, and once again Harry could see why Dumbledore had been the only one Voldemort had ever feared. There was steel and blood raging through his normally unflappable eyes, even as he placed the body of Aberforth with utmost care on one of the beds. Behind him, all the curtains erupted into flames.

Neville sprang into action silently and put out the fire quickly and wordlessly. Harry did not dare send Dumbledore an apologetic look or offer words of condolence. He thought it disrespectful to break the rage and grief inside the Headmaster's eyes. Although he had liked the quirky Aberforth, Harry bore no filial bonds towards him and had no old, deep, soul-consuming regrets woven within him. As gently as he could, he placed a tentative hand on Dumbledore's wrist to lower his wand. He gave him a swift nod and took over the task.

He closed the seemingly ever-flowing tap of feelings inside him and warded himself as he sorted his family's body. Kreacher and Dobby, after an awkward assessment of each others' strength and rank devoted themselves to bringing the still living patients back to health. Harry lingered beside his erstwhile Head of House's bed and brought his left hand up to lower her eyelids. He sighed, and extinguished as best as he could the prickly sensation that tugged at his eyes.

He knew he couldn't lower his barriers and let go. He had to keep going and perhaps when all this was over, if by any chance he beat the odds and managed to pull off another Potter miracle, he might go to a Healer of the Mind and follow a treatment. At least, that's what Hermione would ask him to do. Harry would just probably Obliviate himself and be happy with it.

Harry switched on autopilot mode and went to check on Sirius, skirting around a very energetic and on-the-go Dobby. Kreacher hovered over his godfather's body, pouring vials of foul-looking potions into his throat and massaging the flesh where the lower orolarynx was. Sirius's chest was frightfully pale and a true mosaic of very old and angry scars, but thankfully there were no bloody wounds there. Anger flitted through Harry, thinking about the torture he must've gone through all those years.

Sirius's face, on the other hand, was another matter. Malfoy had certainly been more than extravagant with his curses. Deep gashes that appeared to be made by hand with a knife, interconnected themselves on his skin like a bloody roadmap. Harry was instantly reminded of Bill Weasley. Hopefully, there would be no lasting effects this time.

Weary, so as to give Sirius a subconscious sign of comfort, he placed a hand gingerly on his sleeved forearm. He had to draw it back almost instantaneously, as if burnt.

He had felt some sort of magic on Sirius arm, tainted, foul, fetid magic that seemed to be bleeding Sirius's own magical reserves. Edgy and anxious, he tore open the sleeve. Two words glared at him.

Pureblood Disgrace.

Harry lowered his head to stare at it. He could sense waves of pungent, sinister magic billowing inside and above his godfather's forearm. He looked around and nearly called for Dumbledore, but the professor was almost lost to the world, a chair drawn by his brother's bed, two wizened fingers interlaced. Neville had kept a respectful distance, and was sorting out the various medicinal roots, seeds and leaves he had in his arsenal just next to Owl's body on the table. Merlin, he had forgotten about her.

Suddenly, he was hit by a very gut-sinking, heart-wrenching thought. What if -? What if -? And Harry knew perfectly that Voldemort more than petty, vindictive and malevolent enough to carry it out. Wandlessly, he tore open the sleeves on his brother's and father's arm.

There they were; same and different words but exactly the same magic behind it. And then he remembered a crucial detail: the marks on their arms were tracking spells that trigger death if the subject were to be out of the permitted boundaries.

Harry took a step back, horror etched on his face. He was just realising that in his haste, he had forgotten about their restrictions and had thus condemned three people to their deaths. And not just any three people: his father, brother and godfather.

Fawkes materialised in front of him in a blur of blaze and fluttered agitatedly around him, effectively pulling him out of his sinister ruminations and catching the attention of the other conscious inhabitants of the house. Fawkes chirped and tweeted frantically, unaware that any winged entities that flapped about Harry Potter's face bore the risk of getting swallowed. There was a Snitch somewhere to prove it. Or a Ginny Weasley.

Almost as if in slow motion, Dumbledore's face shifted from darkly guarded to startlingly alarmed. In a swift motion, robes slashing the air, he turned to face Harry with an expression that, Harry well knew, bore no good news.

'Intruders,' whispered Dumbledore.

Harry blinked and rebuffed it. That was impossible. The house was under every sort of protection wards imaginable – and then some unimaginable, the latter courtesy of a very servile and overzealous House-Elf. To even consider for the most passing of moments that they could have been infringed upon was beyond ludicrous, it was –

'WEEEE-OOOOH WEEE-OOOHH! WEEEE-OOOOH WEEE-OOOHH!'

Harry jolted, startled at the ear-splitting noise. His heart skipped a beat as adrenaline began coursing through his veins.

'WARNING: PERIMETER BREACH. SECURITY COMPROMISED.'

Nimble and agile, Harry hastily sprang into action: without a moment's hesitation, he summoned his trunk with a wandless Accio as he motioned the House-Elves over the deafening sound to start moving the bodies into it.

'WARNING: PERIMETER BREACH. SECURITY COMPROMISED. IMPENDING INTRUSION IN TWENTY -'

Heart beating wildly inside his chest, Harry did not waste any time on wondering how his wards could have failed. He would ponder on that when they were safe again, somewhere within the boundaries of Hogsmeade.

'FIFTEEN -'

Senses flaring wildly, Harry motioned Neville and Dumbledore to retrieve and send to the trunk anything they either considered invaluable or anything that might give them away. Plants, parchments, other objects and a true array of indescribable things flew wildly around the house and into the flat-like crate. Harry only hoped that Dobby and Kreacher wouldn't be mauled to their deaths by the wild assortment of rocketing entities.

'TEN -'

Not for the first time, Harry cursed his stupidity. He had become so sure of himself and his prowess; he had thought his methods infallible. He had become, to some extent, as arrogant and therefore as slipshod as Voldemort at the height of his power. He had grown confident and comfortable, and made that house his home instead of the refuge it was supposed to be.

'FIVE -'

Harry gave up and decided to destroy anything that was left. Silently, he signalled Dumbledore and Neville to run to the trunk.

'FOUR -'

'Incendio!' Shelf after shelf, book after book and room after room, Harry set everything he saw ablaze.

'THREE -'

'Bombarda!' he cried over the mass of flames. He didn't have time, so he pulled the big guns.

'TWO -'

Harry rushed towards his trunk, unwittingly sending curses everywhere without a fixed target.

'ONE -'

Harry's chest constricted painfully as his hand clasped firmly on the trunk's left hook.

'INCOMING.'

For a fleeting instant before he flamed away, he saw amidst the blazing devastation the murderous face of Lord Voldemort.

-oOoOoOoOo-

Lord Voldemort glided with unequalled grace through the scorching living room, impervious to the unfading, ravenous flames that licked at the defeated and silent wooden beams and walls. Like unsightly fawning and sycophantic little demons, they parted reverently to allow their master Lucifer to pass. Behind Voldemort, two women dressed in red and purple robes worked on extinguishing the fire by producing copious amounts of water, their wands in a permanent entrancing dance. In the background, by the threshold, huddled, oddly pusillanimous and coughing, was an amorphous cluster of several semi-still Death Eaters, out of which only one stood out.

Bereft of his mask, Lucius Malfoy did not look like himself as he cautiously approached Lord Voldemort. Twitchy and jumpy, he made himself even smaller as he bowed before his Master, his eerily unkempt and matted platinum mane making Lord Voldemort sneer in repulsion. Lord Voldemort knew perfectly what the Malfoy patriarch was about to ask of him.

'What do you think, Lucius?' he asked in silky sibilance, unconcerned with the elder Malfoy's daddy complex. Preserving blood as pure as young Draco's was indeed a goal not to be kept out of sight, and so was the well-being of his five Innominabiles, regardless of Apollo being the most ineffectual of the lot. Lord Voldemort did not approve of Lucius's haggard appearance. Everything from the haunted eyes to the oleaginous hair repulsed him. He reeked of overabundant and superfluous paternal love.

Senior Malfoy jerked and looked around with wild eyes. 'M-my Lord, I do not know. But please, my Lord, my son – your Apollo -'

'Quiet, Lucius,' Voldemort hissed in distaste. Elegantly, he turned his face to his second-in-command. 'It seems this new player is far more skilled than I previously thought,' he said silkily. Suddenly, his eyes blazed in unforgiving fury, 'Bring him to me!'

Under her hood, Artemis smirked. She had a new prey to hunt.

-oOoOoOoOo-

The beast brimmed with gentleness, still in the obscurity of the most recondite depths of the sea. The maw had a tiny diameter but wasn't for it any less frightening. The upper teeth were crammed unevenly, long, pointy, jagged and filthy. The lower teeth were small and greyish. The hard palate was amorphous, with malformed folds and no ridges, only arbitrary bumps from lace to place. Beyond the throat there was only darkness and billowing stench.

The tongue was soft and spongy, clay-like and with tiny grooves. And on it, stood Harry Potter, soaked in sweat and with the hook of a magical trunk firmly clasped within his hand.

The cave remained as inconspicuous, gritty and shady as ever. It seemed like a life-time ago, or perhaps a memory from someone else's mind, when he had been standing in the same spot with Ron, Hermione and Sirius, all of them worried about his inclusion as a participant in the Triwizard Tournament.

Harry drew his wand and he mentally pushed away his fatigue. Like Fred had said once before in Potterwatch, security first.

'Salvio Hexia! Repello Magi! Muffilato! Celare Sanus!' Relentlessly, he threw up every protection short of the Fidelius Charm he could think of in his exhausted state, set to keep their new bastion as safe as possible. Introspectively, he thought Hermione would be proud of him if she could see him. Thinking of his friends produced a constricting veil over Harry's heart. Melancholically, he rolled up his left sleeve and touched his tattoo with the tip of his index finger, wishing futilely that the magic imbued in the ink would be powerful enough to rip through the cloth of the universe and bring his friends to him.

Harry gave out a weary exhalation. It was no use; he had tried time and time again when he arrived in that unholy land and to no avail.

He sank to the squishy ground, using the trunk's left side as backrest. He bent his legs and placed his skinny elbows on his knees, burying his face in the crook where the arm joined the forearm. His long fingers fluctuated in their strength tugging at the end of Harry's messy locks.

Exhausted would be a mild way of putting Harry's current mental state. He did not feel eighteen; he did not even feel eighty. He could not understand how everything had gone so pear-shaped. Everything seemed so bleak and so far out of his reach he did not know how to keep his footing. His hands were stained with blood, and he could feel the pit of darkness stirring and reaching out from the bottom of his stomach. The only sliver of happiness was to see Dobby alive again, and another Horcrux soon to be within his grasp…

'Harry!' cried Neville, making Harry jump. 'Harry, we need you - now!' he said as he struggled to climb out of the trunk, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.

Harry clambered to his feet instantaneously, 'What happened?' asked Harry as a sharp sting hit him somewhere below the navel.

Neville shook his head, frantically, his oily hair stuck to his frontal area. 'Really, I don't know! It just happened suddenly!' He gulped, out of breath, as he guided Harry inside his trunk, climbing down the wrought-iron ladder. 'Owl, Hermione - I don't know which - bleeding resuscitated. Sn -'

'What?' asked Harry, his head turning so sharply towards Neville he might've got a whiplash.

Neville nodded so frantically he might have broken all seven of his cervical vertebrae, his eyes about to pop out of his sockets in exophthalmia. 'I don't know! She just started blinking and breathing and everything!' Neville's eyes went round like saucers as a sudden realisation hit him. 'She can't be an Inferius, can she?'

Harry forwent his answer as he skipped down the last steps, his face grim under his hood. Inside the trunk, the magically-expanded, frippery-inexistent, previously almost bare living room was cluttered with stretchers upon which bodies were laid. Around them two House-Elves and a very weary Headmaster worked with resolute indefatigability.

Harry blinked under his hood when he saw Owl sitting on her improvised stretcher being handed a potion by a very fawning Kreacher, who looked simply ecstatic and very subservient as Owl thanked him for his care. That image was so bizarre on so many levels.

Suddenly, Owl noticed his presence in the room and a blinding smile spread over her lips. 'Harry!'

She tried to move, as if to give him a hug, but ended up wincing because her body was too sore. Well, that wasn't surprising, she had been dead after all.

'Don't move,' whispered Harry as he went to stand by her bedside. He raised his wand at her and started muttering under his breath, checking for anything abnormal. Well, at least something even more outlandish than Owl coming back from the dead.

Owl looked at him with a semi-scared expression on her drained face. 'Harry, what are you doing?'

Harry clicked his tongue. 'Owl, please don't say my name out loud. There are people in this room who don't know my true identity. You know this better than I do: security reasons,' he pronounced, furrowing his brows as a yellow aura took over Owl. 'And to answer your question, I'm trying to figure out how you are here when you died in my arms.'

He knew a bit about what resurrecting was about, being the Boy Whom Avada Kedavras Only Took Him To King's Cross In His Birthday Suit and all that, but he could not fathom how Owl could be back. Not even the darkest and foulest of Dark Arts could explain it.

She looked at him with a puzzled face, her curiosity illuminated by the modest chandelier above. 'Why are you calling me "Owl"?'

Harry quit his wand-waving and stared into her eyes. 'Memory loss?'

Owl shook her head, alarmed. 'No. It's me, it's Hermione.'

Harry took a step backwards. 'But that's impossible.'

'No, it's really me, Hermione. I was at the Burrow when I started bleeding out from a wound in my stomach and then – then, I,' her face blanched and she shivered, 'Then I was trapped into nothingness until shortly ago, when I felt being pulled out of it by the forearm.' Painstakingly, she rolled up her sleeve, where a very familiar ink drawing was. 'See? It's really me!'

A gentle voice belonging to the Headmaster of Hogwarts cut in. 'I avow, Gryffindor, that within this body is none other than the soul of Hermione Granger,' said Dumbledore as he helped Owl – Hermione – to lie down again and regain her strength. 'Dormiens.' He enchanted gently, pulling Hermione into a restful sleep. 'But we have more pressing matters as Sirius, James and Michael are in an unconscious state from which I cannot bear any hope they will escape.'

Harry felt as he had been hit with a bat in his stomach. He rushed and stood between his father's and godfather's bedsides. 'But there must be something we can do!' exclaimed Harry, fear bubbling inside him.

Neville threw him a pitying look as he held Michael's hand. 'I'm sorry, Harry. I -'

Harry glared at him. You couldn't have told me this before, could you?' Harry spat scathingly. Neville flinched.

They looked so fragile and pasty, not a tinge of pinkness on their skin. It was as if their visages were fading, every bit that kept them alive vanishing. The rise and drop of their chests was shallow and constricted, the laboured breathing acute, wheezy sounds coming out of their mouths.

Harry's fury rose from the pit in his belly. All-encompassing, all-blinding murderous ire fuelled his veins. His mind and senses became translucent as if the fog surrounding them had been completely extinguished in a matter of seconds.

The floor started shaking and objects vibrated, little clinking noises filling the tense atmosphere.

'If your desire is to see them die,' a silky, unmistakable voice spoke behind him, 'For which I could not fault you as I have wished for it one too many times, then do keep standing there like a dunderhead. If by some sort of misguided heroic reason you wish to save them, then the only way to bypass their marks is to have them swear eternal fealty to you.'

Harry spun on his feet to see a weak yet still as unpleasant as always Severus Snape. The sallow skin looked even more sickly yellow than it had while Snape had been his teacher. His hair, however, was as oily and filthy as ever, staining the sheets of the pillows upon which his head was plopped.

Harry arched an eyebrow. 'Explain.'

Snape's face turned into an ugly sneer, which was probably just a born reflex, as it was guarded and cautious instead of derisive. Harry had not yet dispelled that which kept his face hidden, so Snape's attitude was not because of his Potter legacy. Most likely, he had looked extremely dim to Snape. Or perhaps Snape did not wish to be ordered about. In any case, he didn't care about Snape's displeasure, as he was by far not concerned with his family's impending death.

'The marks on their arms are tracking spells that trigger death if the subject is out of the permitted boundaries. If your house is under protection – Fidelius, unplottable and so forth – then the magic will become confused, but only briefly. In the end, the magic will overthrow any concealment charms that you might've placed, rendering you and your entourage at risk, and the subject dead.

'These marks work so because the Dark Lord wanted them so. There is no way to bring them down, but you can manipulate and circumvent them. The marks would still be there, and the magic would still be there, but a new master could mould the conditions how he saw fit.'

Dumbledore walked towards them, a sombre expression on his face. 'Severus -'

Snape shook his head as vigorously as he could. 'There is no time, Dumbledore. The death trap has already been triggered.' The Headmaster sighed in weariness but gave him a swift nod and marched toward the unconscious form of James Potter, quickly muttering things and prodding lightly on the marked flesh.

Harry looked upon the exchange in utter confusion. Snape had not seemed surprised to see Dumbledore – hadn't the Headmaster just told him there was no hope? He spent several moments in a daze of bemusement, blissfully oblivious to the incredulous looks he was receiving from his erstwhile Potions teacher, until, at last, Snape's words sunk in.

'What!' Harry sprang into action and ran towards his father and Headmaster. 'What do I do?' He asked, his hand unwittingly grasping that of his father's.

Dumbledore kept silent for a brief instant, as his hand swept over the mark on James Potter's extremely pale forearm, keen concentration on his face. Turning to Harry he said, 'Unfortunately, I cannot think of any method less crude to save their lives, Gryffindor.'

Snape snorted. 'To overthrow the Dark Mark, you need consanguinity. Nothing but similar blood will overcome the Dark Lord's curse.' Snape took a moment to regain his breath and then turned to the Headmaster. 'Dumbledore, you have Potter blood residing within your veins. You can save father and son. As for Black,' he spat venomously, 'Unless someone in this room has Black blood diluted by no less than one eighth, I'm sure he will be most sorely missed.'

Harry wished he could give him the old one-two. 'My Potter blood is stronger than Dumbledore's. And I have Black blood.'

Snape looked startled and highly disgusted at him being so closely related to both James Potter and Sirius Black, as if it were a cardinal sin, before he schooled his features and gave him a very shrewd and calculating look. 'Very well. Then to overpower the Dark Lord's Dark Mark, you must enslave them to you.' The bitter professor gave him a very cruel smirk, vindictively pleased at his input. 'Bind them in life, in death - to you.'

'What!'

-oOoOoOoOo-

DISCLAIMER: Remember the song "Right Here Waiting", by Richard Marx? I suggest that if you don't you go check it on YouTube right now. Anyway, if Harry Potter were mine, the Battle of Hogwarts would have gone very differently…

Lord Voldemort, frustrated at his time and time again foiled plans, chose to take another course of action, decided to do something radical, something completely unexpected of him that would catch his enemies unaware.

On the day of the Battle, leading his dastardly, deadly and doombringer troops, Lord Voldemort invaded Hogwarts. Insert dramatic, ecstatic, Voldematic, terrific, horrific, Slytherinic entrance.

There was his nemesis!

Harry of course rose to his feet, ready to strike, wand at the ready. That is – until he saw what exactly he was facing.

Lord Voldemort was clad in leather clothes à la Scary Spice. Behind him, twenty Death Eaters were wearing pink tutus, their wands alight in synch.

Lord Voldemort opened his mouth before a very confused audience:

Thwarted plans,

AK after AK,

And I slowly go insane,

I dream about you,

At night

Yet it doesn't come true.

Harry, if you keep on living,

Then how can I be the King?

Wherever you go,

Whatever you do,

I'll be right here trying to kill you

Whatever it takes,

Even if my wand breaks,

I'll be right here trying to kill you.

I took for granted,

Your Mudblood mother,

So suicidal,

Dumbles laughs

Bella's tears

And I'm as airy as a pesky fart

Oh can't you see it, Harry?

You've got me going barmy

Wherever you go,

Whatever you do,

I'll be right here trying to kill you

Whatever it takes,

Even if my wand breaks,

I'll be right here trying to kill you.

I wonder how I can make you die,

Once and for all,

And when I do,

The world will be mine - mwahaHA!

Oh can't you see it, Harry?

You've got me going barmy

Wherever you go,

Whatever you do,

I'll be right here trying to kill you

Whatever it takes,

Even if my wand breaks,

I'll be right here trying to kill you.

Harry did not know what to do, flummoxed as he was, wand raised up high in the air –

Lord Voldemort smirked in triumph when the Knight Bus ran over his nemesis.

-oOoOoOoOo-

A/N: Yes, I split this chapter in two. I was getting frustrated with it and decided to oh just bite the bullet and divide it in two. And I'll do the A/N later because right now I'm hungry. And I have chocolate.

(One month and a half later) I have decided to post this chapter because quite frankly I've no idea when I'll be back online. I'm in the middle of my examination period at med school and afterwards I'm off to Norway and then Strasbourg (France), so free time is as scarce as hair on Voldemort's head. I know it hasn't been beta-read yet, but the lovely Apbarium will go through it whenever she can. Fear not, chapter eighteen already has nine-thousand words written to it as this chapter, number seventeen, was finished on December the thirteenth.

Special thanks go to Lija, whose insightful comments were invaluable.

Until next time,

Vermouth

Member of the Siriusan Order