Lord Voldemort's Last

Lord Voldemort's Last

"This is worse than death. Please, I beg you to kill me. Kill me now, Potter."

He who was once the most feared wizard in the world sat with feet and hands chained to a bench. He had been bound to it for the last four days. Each day the Dark Lord had pleaded for a simple, quick death from the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Potter. As your mother once pleaded for me to spare your life, I plead with you now to take mine."

He spoke with true conviction. He had brushed off the first hour of torture as laughable. However, by the end of the day, he sank into an unbelievable silence. By the middle of the second day, his resolve completely shattered and his cries for mercy made the front page of the Daily Prophet.

"Please, Potter. I beseech you to end it now. Destroy me - as it was foretold."

It was amazing that Lord Voldemort could even pronounce the word "beseech" in a dignified manner. On the third day of his imprisonment, he had bitten off a sizable portion of his own tongue in an attempt to bleed himself to death. His house-elf keepers had discovered his feeble suicide attempt and had healed him without comment. Thereafter, they had painlessly removed his teeth so he would not harm himself again. They were feeding him soups and nutrient-rich milkshakes to keep him adequately alive and alert. It would not do well to have him unconscious when visitors arrived. And, he had many visitors.

Some came to taunt and harass him where he sat on public display. Others just quietly stared at him as if he was a circus sideshow freak. "Come look at the snake-man with pale, flakey skin, beady red eyes and dark slits for pupils," he could hear the hawkers cry.

None showed any hint of pity for him - least of all the Boy-Who-Lived. By petition, the Ministry had granted Harry Potter complete control of Voldemort's keeping. The triumphant Potter had visited Voldemort each day since his capture. Harry's young green eyes carried no sympathy for the Dark Lord. Sometimes Harry would casually brush away the dark locks from his forehead so his archrival could see again the scar he so ruthlessly burned into his soul.

"You slimy git," said Harry. "You put me through seven years of living hell. Not to mention all the years you terrorized the entire Wizarding world before I was even born. No, no, dear Tom, your suffering has barely begun."

Harry flipped a switch and the little black mechanical car that contained the broken man glided forward on its rails. The once supreme Dark Lord screamed, twisted and pulled at the enchanted chains that kept him permanently attached to the bench inside the car.

"Noooooo!" cried Voldemort. "You bastard. You cold, heartless, unmerciful, little shit! Please stop it! Aarrrgh!"

As the car coasted along its prescribed track and disappeared into a black tunnel, a chorus of children singing drowned out Voldemort's miserable cries.

It's a small world after all.

It's a small world after all.

It's a small world after all.

It's a small, small world.

Harry waved a plastic goodbye to Voldemort's back, then turned to the house-elves waiting patiently nearby. "Keep him circulating through the chamber the rest of the day," he instructed. "Tomorrow, we'll force him to watch 12 hours of Bay Watch re-runs. He'll like that I'm sure."