Harry Potter and the Purple Abyss

Chapter 3: In-laws and outlaws.

Kyle Soko leaned back in his chair at his office, smoking a cigar. He was feeling particularly good and mean today. He had yelled at three people already and fired his personal lackey. Bean was quiet, and his master had seen to it that if Bean was to cause trouble again, he would be...silenced. Soko shivered at how much that silencing would hurt.

Soko brought his seat into the upright position and opened the top left hand drawer of his desk. He pulled out a Warhead, a sour candy of which he was fond. He had his head down, fiddling with the cellophane wrapper, so he did not notice the wizard who suddenly appeared in his office.

The wizard was short, dark, and lean. He had a olive complexion and black, curly hair. His name was Mark Farrell, nicknamed "The Mexican" by his co-workers. He was a Hit Wizard for the English Ministry of Magic, and he was here looking for the man who still sat in the chair in front of him, fiddling with the wrapper as if it were the only thing in the world. Farrell stood there silently, his green eyes fixed piercingly on Soko.

Soko had finished unwrapping his confection and had just popped it in his mouth when he looked up into the eyes of Farrell.

If anyone had been watching Soko's face while unaware of the wizard leaning against the wall, wand in right hand, legs crossed, he would have thought the expression on Soko's face was merely puckering at the extreme sourness of the Warhead. Or maybe it looked more like he had just downed thirty hits of Cool Mint Binaca. Whatever his expression was, it was not that of the contented, careless man it had been not five minutes ago.

Farrell watched Soko as he, with some difficulty, spit out the candy and stood.

"What do you want, scumbag?" spat Soko.

"Why do you ask?" said Farrell coolly. "Can't a man drop in for a hi?"

"Not you, you can't, wizard" growled Soko, using the word "wizard" like a disgusting swear.

"Uh uh uh," said Farrell, shaking his head from side to side. "Weren't you ever taught to respect your betters?"

Soko started toward Farrell, arms clenched to strangle the shorter man.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you" stated Farrell.

"Why the fuck not?" snarled Soko.

"Because I'll have to do this" said Farrell, and with that, he conjured ropes from nowhere and bound Soko tightly to his leather chair.

Soko stared up at Farrell radiating hatred.

"Tell me, why do you hate me so, Kyle?" asked Farrell as though he already knew the answer.

"You know damn well why, Farrell," spat Soko.

"Come now, Kyle, can't we be on a first name basis?" asked Farrell soothingly. "After all, we are brothers-in-law"

"And that's why I hate you so, dammit!" screamed Soko, flecks of spit flying from his mouth. "If you hadnÂ’t magicked her into loving you..."

"Now Kyle, dear brother-in-law" said Farrell, "We both know it was my Latin looks and suave nature that wooed your sister Kacy to marry me."

"Shut up!" screamed Soko. "Good looks, my ass. Your about as good looking as a shit covered goblin."

"Language, Kyle" said Farrell. "And if a 'feces covered goblin' is as pretty as me, I would like to meet one and compare notes. But I did not come here to banter with you about our family feud, dearest Kyle. I came to talk to you about your association with Lord Voldemort."

At this, Soko clammed up immediately.

"Come, Kyle. You must know what I'm talking about," said Farrell smoothly. "The 'secret' conversations with Lord Voldemort, using the tepym powder to talk to him in your fireplace..." he trailed off, looking expectant. Soko's face showed some surprise that he had been found out. Farrell smiled inwardly. Now if he could just get him to talk without torturing him...not that he cared about Kyle...it was just for Kacy's sake.

"Come, Kyle" said Farrell, looking at Soko as if he was his best friend in the world.

"We can do this the easy way, or..." he took off his belt, looped it in his hands, and cracked it. "The hard way" he finished. He loved the expression it made on all of his prisoners faces, Kyle's included. But s! till Kyle wouldn't talk.

"I guess it's the hard way, then" he said, making a mental note to apologize to Kacy tonight. He grabbed the back of Kyle's chair, and with a small pop, both vanished.

*****

"Ahhhhhh!" screamed Soko.

"Bwa ha ha ha ha mwa ha ha ha" laughed Farrell demonically.

"Mercy, please, mercy!" cried Soko.

"Not until you give me the answers I need" said Farrell icily. "Now, TALK!"

For answer, Soko stared at him mutely.

"Fine, then" sighed Farrell theatrically. "The tickle torture continues." With this, he continued tickling the bottom of Soko's foot with the feather end of his quill.

"Stop, stop!" came a voice.

"Decided you've had enough, huh?" said Farrell, stopping the torturing.

"I...didn't...say...anything..." gasped Soko.

"No, but I did" came the voice again. Soko and Farrell looked at the newcomer standing behind Far! rell.

She was a tall, black haired woman with dark eyes and a strong build. She towered over the short Farrell. She was a psychologist for the Ministry, one of their best. Her name was Jing Paquin.

"I said stop," said Jing, "because I have some important information on the Muggle and I need to go over it with you, Mark." She tossed her hair impatiently.

Farrell sighed. He was a sucker for the ladies. Just when it was getting good, though he thought sadly.

He followed her over to a soundproof booth at one side of the interrogation room. Inside was two chairs. He took one and Paquin the other.

"What is it that is so drastic it has to interrupt me in my most fun time of the day?" he asked Paquin impatiently.

"Oh nothing...unless you count having done all of that torturing in vain..." said Paquin airily.

"WHAT?" Farrell sat bolt upright and gaped at Paquin. "In vain? You're kidding me, right?"

She shook her head. "Do you really think a Muggle...a cowardly Muggle at that...could really resist being tickled so viciously? Why, if I know Muggles, he would have spilled the beans when you first tied him to his chair in the office. No, you could have given him a worse Cruciatus curse then Voldemort himself and still he would've clammed up until he was in with the Longbottoms in St. Mungo's."

Farrell stared at her. "Damn" he muttered.

She gave him a look. "What's the matter?" she asked.

"You've ruined my fun, Jing" he said, face screwing up in a mock-pout. "I was just beginning to have fun torturing him and you had to go and spoil it for me."

Paquin couldn't resist it; she thought Farrell looked so cute with that expression. She leaned forward and kissed him on his forehead. "Cheer up" she said. "We'll find you someone else to torture."

Farrell's face brightened immediately.

****! *

"So," said Farrell, his eyes shut as he leaned back in a chair across the table from Paquin, "we are no closer to finding out Voldemort's plans with Soko then we are to finding a way to implant knowledge into people's heads and skipping the drudgeries of school?"

"No" said Paquin, eyes scanning a bio sheet headed by the name "Soko, Kyle Olsen". "And what to you mean, the drudgeries of school? DidnÂ’t you like Hogwarts?"

"Hell no" said Farrell, opening his eyes enough to squint across the table at Paquin. "I dropped out in sixth year. Was in Gryffindor. McGonagall hated me. Couldn't figure out why I'd rather kick around one of those Muggle balls...what do you call 'em...oh yeah, soccer balls, then go to one of her lessons. Pissed her off royally, I can tell you."

Paquin fingered the paper absentmindedly. "I loved Hogwarts. I was in Ravenclaw."

Farrell nodded knowingly. "Ahhh, the dorks house."

Paqui! n looked ruffled. "It was not!" she reconsidered. "All right, so maybe it was. But not all of the dorks are in Ravenclaw."

Farrell nodded again. "Yeah, isn't Hermione Granger in Gryffindor?"

"Who?"

"You know, Harry Potter's friend, Hermione Granger, the Head Girl."

***

A/N: I don't know whether to go H/H or R/H, so I will leave it a mystery...for now.

***

"Oh yes, that Hermione. Is she going out with Harry?"

"Dunno" (ha ha, I'm evil) "Maybe".

Paquin looked wistful. "Oh, to be sixteen again..."

"Why?"

"Well...Harry is so handsome...and I don't care if Draco from all reports takes after his father, who is a complete ass, but he is so hot!"

"Ewww" Farrell said, making a face. "Unpleasant mental image 507 since Thursday."

"What was 506?" asked Paquin, interested.

"Soko in a leather catsuit."

"Ewww, now I'm sick too."

They both went back to studying the bio and career sheets on Soko.

"What's 'Barney the Dinosaur'?" asked Paquin absently.

"Barney?" replied Farrell. "He's a Muggle children's idol, a character on a...whatchamacallit...television. He's really big all over the world, but biggest in the U.S. and U.K."

Paquin smiled. "For a seasoned Hit Wizard, you sure know a lot about Muggle television."

Farrell shrugged. "Well, sometimes we need to occupy Joey while Kacy and I...er...entertain ourselves. So we put this on. Works pretty well too."

"What, not having Joey in the room while you two are entertaining yourselves?"

"Oh, shut up. I mean Barney." Farrell leaned back in his chair, stretching. "I mean, you should see the adoration in the lives of these little kids. They sit there, singing songs of sharing and friendship and brotherly love, and they feel like they are on! e of Barney's 'Special Friends'." He sighed. "It's really corny, but it's uncanny how well it works."

"Oh, thank you, I must check out Barney for my niece Amy to see how well it works on her" said Paquin sarcastically.

"Hey, you brought it up, not me" said Farrell irritably. "Why did you bring it up, anyway?"

"Well, it says here" said Paquin, pointing to the career sheet titled "Soko, Kyle Olsen", "that he is a high ranking employee at the Muggle television company PBS; head of their Barney division."

"Wonder why Voldemort wants to converse with someone involved with Barney, and not someone with guns, ammo, or intelligence." asked Farrell rhetorically.

"Yeah...wonder why" said Paquin thoughtfully. Is there some connection? She wondered. No, there can't be...but still... she shook off the thought and went back to studying the paper, trying to find why the most powerful dark wizard in centuries would! be conversing with the boss of a muggle television character. There had to be some parallel...some reason. They just didnÂ’t know it yet...but they would. Soon.

*****

"Nixon in, heÂ’s under it...HEÂ’S GOT THE BALL! And the Red Sox have swept the Yankees in the 2003 ALCS, proving that God has finally wised up, exorcised The Curse, and hates the capitalist bastards who play in the Bronx."

"Well said, Joe. Damn the Yankees to hell."

"Now, now, Jerry, donÂ’t get too carried away. This is an G rated station anyway."

"I suppose youÂ’re right, Joe."

"But enough with the inane banter we are so famous for. The Red Sox will pack up and head back home to Fenway for the first four games of this years World Series against the Arizona Diamondbacks. For Jerry Trupiano and WEEI Boston Red Sox radio network, I am Joe Castiglione. Goodnight."

John Burks, night-watchmen at PBS headquarters, felt a r! ise in his spirits. He was getting older and hoped to see the Sox win sometime in his life. Now, with the best team they had fielded in years, maybe this would be possible.

But as the minutes lengthened into hours, and he had called every Yankee fan he knew and had gloated at them, he became more and more bored. He turned back to the old night-watchmen standby- counting stars.

315, 316, 317, 319, 317...wait...damn! I lost count again! he thought, cursing himself. God, this is boring. Why did I forget my CD player.

But his thoughts were soon interrupted by the sound of crunching gravel. One...no, two men were walking toward him. One was tall and cut an intimidating profile against the sky. The other was short, cringing...like some sort of lackey.

Burks grabbed his flashlight and slipped his gun into his holster, then went outside. He shined the flashlight toward the taller figure, but the figure had a hood on that! masked his face.

Damn it, not another wacko trying to sneak in thinking he's Tom Cruise on MI:3. thought Burks. They got a lot of wackos here, insane adults thinking they were Barney or that they were the most special of the "Special Friends."

"Show yourself" barked Burks.

"Lord Voldemort does not need to show himself to you, muggle." said the figure imperiously.

Yep, another wacko all right thought Burks.

"Well, clear off." said Burks. "Barney has enough Special Special friends for today."

"Let me through, muggle." said the figure once more.

"Look, guy, I ain't gonna tell you again. Clear off or I'll call the cops." said Burks angrily.

For answer, the hooded figure dropped his hood.

His face had slits for a nose, his face was flat, and his eyes were dark and gleaming with malice.

What the... thought Burks.

But that was a far as he got, because the now de-hooded figure drew from a hidden pocket a thin stick the length of a ruler, and shouted two words.

"Avarda Kedavra!"

There was a rushing sound, a flash of green light, and Burks hit the gravel, dead.

Lord Voldemort strode past the corpse, closely followed by Wormtail, into PBS.

He walked down the halls, and stopped by one office. Inside it was Shawn Reynolds, gagged and bound. Voldemort walked inside and, conjuring a knife, cut off a wide swathe of Reynolds' hair. He pocketed it carefully, and went back to Wormtail, who was crouching in the hallway.

"My lord, I am afraid..."

"Well, cowardly Wormtail, that is no surprise." Voldemort smiled. "You are always scared about something. What is it this time, hmm? Monsters? Scorpions? Or...god forbid...clowns?" Wormtail shivered. "Milord, I am afraid for your safety. Going out all of the time in the crowds...surrounded b! y people." Wormtail still cringed. "What if you were to be caught?"

"Dear, Wormtail. Dear, kindly Wormtail, worried for his master's safety." said Voldemort softly. Wormtail brightened at this compliment. "Dear stupid, dull witted Wormtail." snarled Voldemort. Wormtail cringed again. "No one could find me wearing this disguise, and no one is looking for me. Now, let's give this disguise a test, shall we?"

He took a vial of unfinished Polyjuice Potion from his pocket, and dropped a hair of Reynolds into it. The potion turned crap-brown. Voldemort swirled it, then drank it down.

He felt the pain coursing through his body, but he had experienced it before, and would not stoop to the level of showing pain in front of his inferiors.

Wormtail watched as the head of Voldemort enlarged, his trim body became chubby, and his nose huge.

Finally, the potion had stopped its terrible transformation. Voldemort felt the body, fl! abby and unmuscular, not at all like his own magically enhanced self.

There was only one phase left in the transformation, a spell of his own making that he was quite proud of.

The Imperius curse was not only good for putting people under your control. It was also good for making people who couldn't do such things do them (A/N: Remember Neville's gymnastics in HP4?). Mostly, dark wizards used this for their physical entertainment, making their subjects do several backflips off of a huge house, go into amazingly painful looking Yoga postiions, etc. Many people only needed physical adjustments.

But for the part Voldemort was playing, he needed emotional ones. It was simply not imaginable for the greatest Dark Wizard of the century to masquerade as a special friend among a room full of children without blasting them into oblivion. He could use the Imperius curse for this.

But alas, he could not trust Wormtail with complete cont! rol over him, nor put the Imperius curse apon himself.

Or could he?

Voldemort drew out his wand and pointed it at himself. "ImperioMeus!" he shouted.

It was not like experiencing the unaltered Imperius curse, at least superficially. His vision was not obscured, he did not feel a dreamy peace -with-the-world feeling. Instead he felt himself slip into a mode where his choices were more clarified, where he could see each choice and it's consequences more clearly. He did not have a free will in the sense that his actions were directed by another free will- his own. Even he did not know how his spell worked in its entirety, suffice to say that it was closest to having two personalities and when you slipped into one, even though you were yourself, you were a different person also.

It's a wonderful creation, really, thought Voldemort as the curse settled on him. Many people would like to be under it all the time so they c! ould forecast the consequences of their actions and be perfect angels. But I am trying to be the perfect devil, and I never make fully spontaneous actions. Except... he thought except for that night when Harry Potter...

He shook his head, not wanting to relive what he considered to be the only mistake of his life. He had to practice.

He made himself walk over to the Barney suit and put it on. He adjusted the mask, and willed himself to speak words that his real consciousness dreading to hear, was retching when he said it, yet he could still do it and not break out into maniacal laughter or an "Avarda Kedavra" tantrum.

"Why hello kids!" he chuckled in a chuckle that was as far from his real laugh as Raman noodles to a Ferrari. "Will you all be my special friends?".

He could see by the expression on Wormtail's face that he was enraptured and amazed at his lords transformation from an utterly demonic wizard to a lova! ble children's show character.

He let himself realize then, for sure, that his disguise was perfect and his plan was unstoppable.

He muttered "Finite Incantatum"

Out from the ImperioMeus curse, he took off the suit and found Wormtail crouching, singing softly to himself "I love you, you love me".

Voldemort smiled, his patented, cliched, cold, mirthless smile. He bent down to Wormtail's level.

"Wormtail" he called softly.

Wormtail looked up at his master, happy thoughts glinting in his eyes.. "Yes, milord?"

Voldemort smiled again. "Wormtail, if I ever catch you singing that song again you will be under the Cruciatus curse so fast that your pointed head will spin. Death Eaters do not love. Death Eaters hate." He brought his face down closer to Wormtails and, speaking even colder then before, snarled, "Now, get out of my sight."

As Wormtail scrambled away, Voldemort called, "And don't c! ome back until you have a hot cup of coffee!". Then, he allowed himself one of those cold, cruel, evil laughs that he loved so much.