The Fourth Unforgivable

Chapter 3:

Voldemort's Trophies

"Bad news, folks," Dumbledore said cheerfully at dinner-time a week later. He was interrupted by thumps and the scraping of chairs as half of the students either fainted dead away or ran screaming from the Great Hall.

"Hmm," Dumbledore considered. "Seems the therapy has not been as effective as we thought."

His hand twitched toward his wand. "It certainly was more peaceful when everyone was a bratwurst."

McGonagall glared beadily at the Headmaster. "Don't even think about it, buddy."

Dumbledore shrugged and tucked his wand away. "Eh, of course you are right, Minerva. They squeak just the same."

McGonagall rolled her eyes.

Dumbledore turned to the remainder of the students, who were looking awfully edgy for some reason. "Hey, relax. This stressful outlook is what got you all into trouble in the first place. You guys are simply too tight."

Lots of squirmy fidgeting.

"It has come to my attention that someone has accidentally left Voldemort in the trophy room. This, of course, can not be allowed to stand. We are barely hanging on for Wizarding School of the Year, and this sort of scandal could lose us the award, though God knows the Beauxbatons kids spend all their time playing spin-le-beer-a-la-butter-bottle with their house-elves, and the Durmstrangers are personally running a black market in contraceptives. Hogwarts just has the Dark Lord in its trophy room, that's all, but hell, let's tell the whole damn world, why don't we? Never mind that that American excuse for a wizarding school has just made 'Practical Applications of Sado-Masochism in Defense Against the Dark Arts' into a major. I cannot believe their ancestors came from this country; we had that class centuries ago."

McGonagall coughed loudly. "Focus, please!"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at her and stuck out his tongue. He then turned to face the students. "As I was saying. Someone left the Dark Lord in the trophy room. We need two volunteers to go and get him out. Yes, Mr. Finch-Fletchley, are you volunteering?"

Justin dropped his arm so fast he knocked over the first year sitting to his right. "Hell, no. I just want to know what whoever volunteers is supposed to do with him. We're only students. Where are we supposed to put him when we get him out of the trophy room? ...and that's not to say that I will be participating. That's just the general We the People.

Dumbledore sighed and waved dismissively. "Finch-Fletchley, you can put him wherever you damn well please, just so long as he is not mussing up our trophies. But actually it won't be your responsibility. I have had the good fortune to hear of two very able, very willing volunteers. The two students who will go entice Voldemort to detach himself from the Quidditch cups are... Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy!"

Two simultaneous yells echoed from either side of the room. Draco jumped to his feet. "I most certainly will NOT be enticing Voldemort to detach himself from anything! I am a Malfoy! We do not entice, we wave our hands around and people do the enticing for us. We just look pretty, we don't do anything, especially nothing that involves Voldemort and differently sized Quidditch cups. Potter can go by himself."

Harry crossed his arms. "Oh, please. The only thing I want less is to be present the day you figure out the difference between the House Cup and the World Cup, Malfoy. But we all know both of those are too big for you."

"Potter, I am going to shove this wand right up your--"

"Boys, boys!" Dumbledore waved his hands at the two of them like he was signaling a Harrier jet. "Come on, now, be good sports. It's already been decided. Only you, Harry, and you, Draco, can do it."

"Why?" they both demanded. Dumbledore chewed his lip and thought for a moment.

"Because we need... the... bestiality of a Gryffindor lion and the... ha! the utter flexibility of a Slytherin snake."

"You pulled that right out of your ass," muttered Snape, glowering from his chair.

Dumbledore frowned at the Potions master. "Hush, you. Besides, as far as pulling things out of that orifice goes, you--"

"Headmaster! I must insist you halt this line of thought immediately!" McGonagall shouted. Several students had turned pale and hollow-eyed.

Dumbledore smiled sweetly at her, then turned and pointed at Snape. "You. My office. Midnight. We shall continue this discussion in private."

Snape's face went even sourer. He rose and, crossing his arms in front of him, exited the hall. On his way out, he paused at the Gryffindor table. "Potter. Detention for the rest of your life."

Harry's mouth fell open. "What? Why?"

"For not leaving me as a bratwurst." Snape flounced out.

"But... but... that wasn't even me," Harry stuttered to Ron. "That was Malfoy's job."

"Well," said Hermione matter-of-factly, "He's certainly not going to give Malfoy eternal detention, is he?"

"Because he's his favorite?"

Hermione looked at Harry like he was crazy. "Because Malfoy's a horny prat. Let me tell you, things are making a whole lot more sense now that I know Malfoy is a virgin. Who'd want to be around that for the rest of your life? Like an unneutered hippogriff constantly hump--"

Harry plugged his ears and watched Ron's face go green in silence.

* * *

"Did I ever tell you how much I hate you, Malfoy?"

They were heading up to the trophy room with their wands to deal with Voldemort. Dumbledore had opted to remain downstairs, saying it wasn't fitting plot-wise to come with them.

"Only seventeen times in this one hallway."

"Make it eighteen. I hate you."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Duh. But why, pray tell, do I get the joy of an extra reassertion of your hatred at this moment?"

"Because Snape blamed me for changing him back into a human and gave me detention, and you know you were the one."

Malfoy shrugged and smiled disarmingly. "Can I help it if I am Slytherin's favorite playboy and you are just the Boy-Who-Lived-But-Who-Sometimes-Works-After-Hours-As-The-Slytherin's-Favorite-Playboy's-Scapegoat-To-Pay-Tuition?"

Harry glared. "Nips for nuts."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "Trouser tatties."

"House-elf's closet toy."

"Squid tentacle sucker."

"Cornish Pixie fancier."

"Gryffindor wand-fondler."

"Slytherin Snitch bi--"

"Hey, now, Potter, that's hitting a bit below the belt."

"Oh, does Malfoy like it below the belt?"

They were interrupted by Peeves rocketing down the hallway for the first time in this fanfic. "Ha haaaa! Measly Malfoy and Pottie Wee Potter are flirting in the Charms corridor! Wait till Filch hears about this, he'll chain you both to the wall and teach you about real punishment..."

His voice faded away as he rounded the opposite corner. Harry and Draco glared at each other.

"So you were flirting with me, Potter?"

"In your dreams, Malfoy. And they had better be G-rated."

"Hungarian Horntail egg-sucker."

"Flobberworm dominatrix."

"Oh, Potter, that was unnecessary."

* * *

When they got to the trophy room, they were stopped by the sounds of metal clanging against stone. Crash after crash after crash echoed through the wooden door. The two boys looked at each other.

"Huh," said Malfoy, "I'm sure as hell not going in there. You take care of it, he likes you."

"How do you figure?"

"Well, you've met before... and you aren't dead." Malfoy shrugged. "Seems pretty cut and dry to me."

Harry pointed his wand at Malfoy. "You are coming in there with me, or I'll tell the entire school you're a virgin."

"Entire school already knows, Potter."

"A virgin who just happens to be a eunuch."

Malfoy growled out something unintelligible and pulled out his wand. Muttering to himself, he pushed open the door. "After you, Potter."

The sounds grew immediately louder, and now they could hear a snarling, grumbling voice in the midst of some sort of self-reflection.

"...and how the hell was I supposed to know he didn't want a relationship? Seems to be the next logical step to me. Damn, I knew this one wouldn't fit! Don't give me the cups from the eighties, they're too small... Well, maybe they fit last time we were here, but I happen to have grown a bit since then. Who does he think he is, keeping me waiting up here? I fly two-hundred miles overnight to spend quality time with him and all he can do is fiddle around downstairs with his students! There's gratitude for you. He wouldn't even have those students if I hadn't compromised about the curse. I was just trying to make this dump into a quiet romantic place, but nooooooo - Who the hell are you??"

The Dark Lord turned and faced the two boys, a giant House Quidditch cup in either hand. Malfoy let out a choked gasp.

"Those are the ones that don't fit? Bloody hell..."

Voldemort tossed both cups aside and put his hands on his hips. "Excuse me, I believe I asked you a question."

Harry lifted his hair off of his forehead and pointed to his scar. "I'm Harry Potter. This is Draco Malfoy."

"And what are you doing up here?"

"Came to get you out of the trophy room."

"Oh." Voldemort sighed and rubbed his temples. "Sorry, I was expecting someone else. Well, its nice to meet you both, how are you, good, fine thanks, lovely weather, you can go away now. In fact, go down and tell the git that runs this school that I am not ready to see him yet, and if he feels the inclination to apologize, he can come up here and prostrate himself--"

"He can what?" Malfoy cut in.

"Prostrate himself."

Malfoy frowned. "Sorry. Thought you said something else."

Harry poked Malfoy in the arm.

Voldemort picked up yet another gigantic Quidditch cup, appraised it, then chucked it over his shoulder. "Well? Where are you, Malfoy, you useless sack of... Get me more cups!"

Harry and Malfoy were very confused until they heard a voice that was in complete defiance of plot continuity interrupt from behind a large pile of discarded trophies. "Coming, my Lord. Got a nice big one here for you. Good year, Slytherin victory over Hufflepuff, 1974... shortest game in the history of Quidditch, is what it says."

A wizard came out from behind the pile, holding a very elongated golden cup.

"Dad!!" Malfoy stuttered.

"Malfoy, what is your dad doing here?" Harry asked.

Lucius Malfoy frowned at Harry. "My dad is not here, Potter."

Voldemort looked up interestedly. "Who's your daddy, Malfoy?"

"Certainly not you," the younger Malfoy sniffed.

"Malfoy, don't talk to him like that, you'll get us killed!" Harry cried.

Lucius snorted. "I didn't say anything, Potter."

"He wasn't talking to you, Malfoy," Voldemort said.

Draco put his hands on his hips. "He was too talking to me!"

"Shut up, Malfoy!" Harry hissed.

Lucius glared at Harry. "Of all the nerve... I said I didn't say anything!"

Voldemort sighed, exasperated. "Oh, stuff a sock in it, Malfoy."

Draco's face went purple and he opened his mouth to respond. Then he stopped, blinked, and nudged Harry. "Hey, Potter, maybe you'd better call me Draco from now on."

Harry winked and nudged Draco back. "Oh, so you were flirting with me, Malfoy!"

Lucius stomped his feet and began to screech. "I never ever in my life flirted with you!"

Draco conked Harry over the head with his fist.

Voldemort clapped his hands twice. "Okee, so you are now Malfoy" -pointing at Lucius--"and you are Draco," - pointing at Draco--"though Trollops Number One and Two would suffice. Thank goodness for small favors. Alrighty then, let's get this show on the road. I promised Bellatrix I'd be at the arena at ten."

"Arena?" Harry asked.

"Mud-wrestling. The Lestranges own an arena. Very hush-hush, only pure-bloods allowed, but I can tell you that tonight's show will be worth your money, and then some. Malfoy, give them a flier."

Harry took the outstretched pamphlet. On the front in big, bold, seizure-causing-orange letters were the words "Wormtail the One-Armed Walloper", and a picture of a scared-looking bald rat. Harry opened to the first page, and an audio commentary started up, coming from a picture of Bellatrix Lestrange wearing a Lestrange's Fun-in-the-Muck shirt.

"I can tell you," the picture chattered, "I've looked forward to this match for the whole year. I mean, Bubba's got his strong points, but I can personally vouch for Wormy's prowess in the ring. He scuttles, he fits in tight places, and... well, let's just say he's not called Wormtail for nothing!"

Harry's eyes bugged out as he looked at the moving pictures of some of the Walloper's best moves. "Oh, good Lord."

Draco snatched at the pamphlet. "Gimme that, I want to see!"

"This is not for virgin eunuch eyes, Mal - Draco."

"Oh, shut up, Potter, and give over the damn pamphlet!"

"No chance, Mandrake licker!"

"Give it here, Three-Headed-Dog trainer!"

"Centaur's fungal podiatrist!"

"Boggart brothel madam!"

"Venomous Tentacular's bondage expert!"

"House elf's naughty-box stock-holder!"

"Gilderoy Lockhart's Obliviated love-slave!"

"Why you - no wonder you are Dumbledore's favorite student, and I do mean favorite."

"Huh, well I can't help it if you are unworthy, Drake-the-Flake-With-the-Very-Fake-Snake!"

"Oh, don't even get me started on the multitudinous connotations of YOUR name, Harry!"

They were interrupted by a gurgling, gasping sound in front of them. Voldemort was slumped on the floor, his head between his knees, hands over his face. "St...st... stop... pleeeaaase, make them hush, Malfoy, for the love of all that is evil, make them hush..."

Lucius Malfoy leaped to the Dark Lord's side. "Now see what you've done! He's very sensitive!"

"But..." Harry and Draco looked at each other. "We didn't do anything to him."

"Stop the name-calling! Can't you at least have the decency to consider his feelings? He's had a very hard life."

Voldemort rocked back and forth, singing to himself in an off-tune voice. "S'okay, s'okay, just breathe, one, two, three... breeeaaathe..."

Malfoy the elder shook his head sadly, patting Voldemort on the back. "It's this school. Being here and hearing you two going at it brings back too many horrible memories. He was teased, I dare say flirted with, mercilessly when he was here as a student."

"What?" Draco asked. "Flirted?"

"Well, honestly! You two think you have it bad? Try going through seven years here with a name like Tom Riddle. Too easy. Like asking to be verbally assaulted. And you two are sitting here rubbing it in! Almost as bad as that little jingle Dumbledore used to sing."

Voldemort's hoarse voice floated up from between his fingers.

"Riddle me this, Tom,

Riddle me that...

What do you think's under

My Sorting Hat?"

Draco and Harry shuddered convulsively.

"That's it," Draco muttered. "I've lost all remaining respect for our Headmaster."

Voldemort glanced up, fingers tangled in his hair, and sniffled. "Well, you can go and tell your Headmaster that I am not ready to speak to him just yet. He's being a prick and when he's ready to apologize--"

"He's not going to apologize," Harry broke in.

"Oh? Well... when he's ready to bring me flowers--"

"He's not going to bring any flowers," Draco offered.

"Well, when he's ready to send up a peace offering or a gift--"

"He sent us."

Voldemort eyed the two boys for a long moment, then threw up his hands and collapsed onto the floor with a wail. "He hates me!"

Lucius Malfoy tried to comfort the Dark Lord by rubbing his back. "I'm sure he doesn't hate you. Perhaps you should look into a bit of relationship counseling."

Voldemort sniffled again. "If it's not dark, dastardly, and extremely conducive to my plans to rule the world, I don't want to hear it."

"Maybe it's time to take a break for a bit. Go on sabbatical. Visit the holy isle of Avalon and rediscover yourself."

"All right, that's it, Malfoy. Seventeen hours of reading tacky Draco/Harry smut for acting like a complete unevil nincompoop."

"That's not right," Draco muttered to Harry, frowning.

"Damn straight. We should be getting part of the profits."

Draco looked at Harry sideways, turned away, glanced back, opened his mouth, closed it, and finally shook his head, rubbing his temples as if he had a headache.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Don't-talk-to-me," Draco ground out.

Harry shrugged.

Voldemort glared at the two of them hatefully. "And this is the best Dumbledore can come up with. Well then."

He took out his wand. "I'll show him what I think of his presents."

Harry was still stuck on the horrendous idea of what it would mean to be a make-up present from Dumbledore to Voldemort, when Draco squeaked out, "Omigodhesgonnakillus!"

"You better believe it," Voldemort cackled. But before he could cast the killing curse, Lucius Malfoy tapped his shoulder. "WHAT??"

Malfoy tugged the Dark Lord down and whispered into his ear.

Voldemort frowned. "What do you mean I can't?"

Whisper whisper whisper.

"Of course I've been to my therapist this week. What does she have to do with anything?" Voldemort seethed.

Whisper whisper whisper.

"I am not displacing my anger. This has nothing to do with Dumbledore!"

Whisper whisper whisper.

"Well, so what? It's his fault for sending them. I just wanted an apology."

Whisper whisper.

"Of course I deserve it. He's the bad guy here!"

Whisper whisper whisper.

"Oh please, he's long since forgotten about that little embarrassment."

Whisper whisper whisper whisper.

Voldemort chewed a fingernail. "You think so? Well, I didn't mean anything by it. Besides, it wasn't me who suggested the orgy. That was the Longbottoms' idea."

Harry blinked. Draco gaped. Lucius whispered. Voldemort snorted.

"I've already discussed this with my therapist, and I wasn't the one who wanted to use the killing curse. It's not my fault the Potters were dirty S-and-M lechers."

There was a clunk as Harry fainted. Draco stared stupidly down at him until a fluttering sound at the window distracted us all. "Hey, what's that?"

Voldemort glanced out the window, did a double-take, and checked his watch. "Oh cripes, it's Bubba! He should have been at the arena for warm ups an hour ago!"

He grabbed Lucius and shoved him out the window. "Let's go, Bellatrix will kill me if he doesn't show."

Draco wandered over to the window and did a double-take of his own. "That's Wormtail's opponent? Oh, bloody hell, I might just pay to see that."

Lucius' voice floated in against the heavy sound of beating wings. "No need, Draco, I got the entire family VIP passes."

Voldemort stuck his head back into the room. "Boys, we've got to fly. Will you take a rain check?"

Harry, having conveniently woken up in time to provide some expository reaction for the story as a whole, joined Draco at the window. He gawped at Bubba. "Whoa."

"Ciao!" Voldemort sang out as his mount winged its way over the grounds.

Draco tapped his chin and frowned. "There's something different about Bubba..."

"Seems pretty normal for that species to me," Harry commented, shrugging.

"Oh please, Potter, you've only seen a total of four Hippogriffs in your life."

"Yes, well..."

"I've got it!" Draco snapped his fingers and grinned. "He's unneutered!... Potter, stop that laughing."

"Good job, boys," piped a voice from behind them. They turned around--well, Draco turned, Harry did a sort of sideways shuffle from his place where he was again sprawled on the floor--and saw Dumbledore and his ever present appendage of Bertie Botts.

"What do you mean, Professor? He got away."

"Eh... you win some, you lose some." Dumbledore adjusted his hat. "Besides, this means you get to go to the wrestling match."

"WHAAAAAT??"

Harry got up off the floor again and crossed his arms. "I don't want to go to any mud-wrestling match! Especially not to see Wormtail go up against an unneutered Hippogriff."

Draco nodded his agreement. "Yeah, even with the VIP passes, that's a bit much to take. No wonder Voldemort needs therapy if he is constantly subjecting himself to that."

"By the way, Professor," Harry said, "you knew him way back when. Is his therapy helping him at all? Any chance he will wake up one day and decide that the birds are singing, the sun is shining, and he is not going to take over the world?"

"No chance. His therapist sucks."

"Who is his therapist anyway?"

Dumbledore popped a bean. "Rita Skeeter."

There was a snicker and a third clunk. Draco frowned down at Harry. "Potter, I said stop that ridiculous laughing. You sound like a hyena."

"No hyenas in the ring tonight, boys. But it ought to be pretty enjoyable anyway. I hear Wormtail is a sight to see."

Draco grimaced, staring back out the window at Voldemort's retreating mount. "Aw, why do we have to go to that wrestling match, Headmaster? Can't we just leave Voldemort alone? He seems pretty unhinged."

Dumbledore waggled a finger at him. "Ask not what your fanfic writer can do for you, but what you can do for your fanfic writer."

Someone fell down again with a resounding clunk. If you haven't guessed who, then you obviously haven't been paying attention.