VoldeFest!

6. Pest Control

On the crisp, sunny morning of the much anticipated confrontation, not one seat was left empty in the stands of the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, which had been temporarily enlarged to accommodate the crowd. Fans rushed back from their last-minute trips to the loo, not wanting to miss a second.

The booming voice of the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, filled the pitch. "Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome once again to the twenty-fifth annual VoldeFest! This afternoon, the Ministry of Magic proudly presents face-off number thirty-two between The Boy Who Lived, The Man Who Can't Be Beaten, our hero, Harry James Potter, Order of Merlin First Class..."

The crowd burst into cheers. Shacklebolt waited patiently until it was quiet enough to continue. "...and Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, formerly known as You Know Who, most recently known as the Self-Styled Dark Lord."

Boos and hisses (of the non-Parseltongue variety) flew around the pitch. Someone in the top of the stands yelled, "Anybody got a banana handy?" Hearty laugher replaced the boos.

Seconds later a soft pop drew the crowd's attention. Harry Potter, 42-year-old bespectacled broom repair business owner, cardigan-wearing husband and father of three, author of four best-selling children's books (Owl Eye Detective Stories, Volumes I through IV), avid collector of all chocolate frog cards other than his own, apparated onto the pitch. Loud cheers, frenzied banner waving, and bobbing banana-shaped balloons erupted.

Harry nodded, acknowledging the crowd. His stunning black battle robes made a tiny effort at a billow as he strolled to the center of the pitch. Ignoring the ongoing noise, he waved his wand toward...nothing...as he waited for his enemy. Whatever was there, or not there, kept him comfortably busy for the next several minutes.

But the calm was broken as a high-pitched screech and an unbelievably annoying cackle assaulted the ears of everyone present. With a loud crack, Voldemort appeared on the pitch surrounded by a spectacle of red smoke and orange sparks. The sparks became a fanfare of blaring trumpets and French horns. Loud boos returned.

Harry looked up briefly, shook his head, then went about his business, whatever that was, as though he were puttering in his garden on an ordinary day.

Behind Voldemort stood the only two remaining Death Eaters. Actually, one stood--Wormtail, who remained because he was simply too afraid to leave. The other sort of teetered. This was Brutus, a wizard who had never made it out of the lowest rank of Death Eaters. At over 200 years of age, he had no idea he was still a Death Eater. Neither wore masks, because with only two of them, what would be the point?

Harry rolled his eyes as the last of the smoke disappeared. He couldn't help but pause and raise an eyebrow at the sight before him. With a snort, he returned to his work.

"Wormtail!" Voldemort bellowed.

"Y-y-yes, My Lord?"

"Stand at the entrance to the pitch. Make sure that brat doesn't try to escape. As you can ssssee, the poor boy is frightened out of his witssss."

"H-h-he does l-l-look t-t-terr-terrified, My Lord," Wormtail agreed.

"See to it, Wormtail!"

"Y-y-yes, My Lord." Wormtail scrambled away.

"Brutus!"

Brutus, grinning and waving at a group of small children in the lowest level of the stands, didn't hear a thing.

"BRUTUSSSS!"

Ever so slowly, with the help of a rickety cane, Brutus turned to face his master. "Your Highness?"

Voldemort sighed, or hissed, actually.

"Go into the crowd and capture my former followers. After I've dispenssssed of Potter, I shall show the world what happens to those who betray me!"

Brutus frowned and leaned closer to Voldemort. "What?"

"Find the traitors!"

"Waiters? Will we be dining out?"

"Traitors! Find the traitorsssssssss!"

Brutus cupped his withered ear and stepped closer until his nose almost touched what was left of Voldemort's. "What?"

Voldemort's crossed, red eyes narrowed. "Oh, go ssssit with Wormtail," he spat.

Brutus nodded and muttered something incoherent. Slowly, he tottered over to Wormtail, where he sat and promptly fell asleep.

Grinning at the exchange, Harry finally finished whatever he was doing and turned toward Voldemort.

"Potter! I ssssssee you've decided to be a brave little boy and face me once again. How very nice."

"Another year, another battle, Tom. So I see you had to scramble to fashion a last minute body. Pity, that." Harry couldn't hide a smirk.

"There is nothing wrong with this body!" Voldemort whipped out his wand. "Crucio!"

But Harry simply sidestepped the curse. "Typical. Those ruby red eyes of yours don't focus like they used to, do they?"

"Mind your mouth, boy! That was just a...a warning shot."

"Yes, I'm sure." Harry looked him up and down. "Did you not glance in the mirror before stepping outside? Honestly, Tom, you really are looking rather..." Harry waved his hand back and forth, trying to find just the right words. "...pieced together these days. A bit thin and leathery, wouldn't you say? What happened to your left ear, by the way? It's just dangling upside down by a thread."

Startled, Voldemort grabbed the ear and pushed it back into place.

"And I'm surprised you can form words with that crevice you call a mouth," Harry continued.

"Sssssssilence! We are here to do battle, you stupid brat. And stop calling me Tom. I am the great, the all-powerful, Lord Voldemort!"

"Right. Has no one told you, Tom, that a combover simply will not work when you only have a grand total of six hairs on your head? Personally, I'd blame Wormtail for not speaking up. You ought to go Crucio him on the spot. Go ahead. I'll wait."

"Ssssstalling, Potter? Yes. I know you're frightened. You've always been frightened of me. And rightfully so. The only intelligent thing you ever did was fear me!"

"And what is that thing on your upper lip? Wait...is that a mustache? A mustache! Tom! Why you rakish devil, you!"

"Why, yes, I...No! I will tolerate your stalling no longer! Forget about my appearance..."

"Gladly."

"...and let's get on with thissss. I have a world to conquer once I'm through with you, you Muggle-loving traitor to the Wizarding world."

Harry sighed and rolled his eyes again. "Whatever you say, Tom, whatever you say."

"Never call me that! How many times must I remind you!"

"Still can't embrace your inner Muggle, eh, Tom?"

"You will regret those words, Potter! What I have planned for you today will not ssssoon be forgotten..."

As Voldemort babbled on, Harry turned away and pulled an Invisibility Cloak from a large crate with "ACME" stenciled in large black letters on each side. Working at a leisurely pace, he pointed his wand at each corner, loosening the nails with a ping, one by one.

"...and your mercilessly painful death will go down in history as my greatest victory..."

Harry all but ignored Voldemort's incessant droning, throwing in an occasional and random "uh huh" or "mm hmm" so as not to appear completely rude. In between, he quietly hummed something that sounded vaguely like the old Beatles tune, "From Me to You." Appropriate. It was a gift he was preparing, after all.

"...your sniveling little fans will wallow in the deepest grief..."

The last nail gone, the sides of the crate fell away, revealing an old, beat up, oversized trunk with "ACME Insta-Boggart" stenciled on the side. The crowd stirred with anticipation.

"...join your parents' rotted corpses..."

Harry levitated the trunk so that it landed in a spot between himself and Voldemort. Only then did the Self-Styled Dark Lord shut his cavernous mouth and raise what once may have been an eyebrow.

"A boggart, Potter? A boggart?" His cackle snaked its way through the pitch to the top of the stands, drawing a collective groan out of the crowd. "Decades of clever warfare between us, and the best you can do is a boggart?"

Blank-faced, Harry merely shrugged.

"Growing weary, child? Well, we can end this, you know. Stop fighting, boy! Clearly I have worn you down. Just as I planned all those many years ago! Yes, it's all as I planned!" Another hideous cackle ripped through the air.

The crowd murmured, trying to guess what form Voldemort's boggart could possibly take. Murmurs of "Dumbledore?" and "soap and water?" wound around the stands.

"Yes, Potter, your efforts are useless against me. They always have been. I've humored you for too long..."

"Oh, shut it, will you?" Harry finally spoke up. Without another word, he gave his wand a swish, and the trunk popped open. A man in drab Muggle clothing climbed out. An average, paunchy man with a pleasant smile, in fact. The man looked at Voldemort and began to chuckle.

"A Muggle?" That damned cackle again, this time louder and much more grating. "It seems your boggart is defective, Potter. As you can see, it's turned itself into a lowly...pudgy...thing...obviously addicted to carbohydrates. Serves you right for scrounging about in bargain basement boggart shops. Low on Galleons, are we?"

Harry frowned and scratched his head. "Oh, please forgive me. I can't for the life of me figure out what went wrong. Hmm. Let's see...oh...well let's just wait, shall we?"

As he spoke, the boggart Muggle split in two, leaving the first Muggle intact and forming a second, a frail little woman with big hair, matching shiny pink bustier and capri pants, and a leopard skin purse. She too looked at Voldemort and giggled.

"Another Muggle? Oh, Potter, I'm afraid this is the end for you. I will miss out little games, I must admit..."

The two boggart Muggles each split in two again, and now four Muggles stood openly laughing at the Self-Styled Dark Lord. Harry grinned and sat down, lounging in the grass as Voldemort's confidence began to slip.

"What is the meaning of this, Potter? Are...are you trying to tell me that you're...er...ready to die? What..."

The four Muggles became eight, then sixteen, then thirty-two. Before long, the Self-Styled Dark Lord was surrounded by a mass of average, everyday, unambitious Muggles all pointing and laughing at him until tears streamed down their little boggart cheeks.

Harry conjured an overstuffed recliner and made himself comfortable.

Voldemort suddenly screamed. "No! Get back you...you...pathetic...useless Muggles!" Suddenly realizing that he had a wand, he raised it and hurled every hex and curse he knew their way, completely forgetting the only one that would easily dispel a boggart.

Harry conjured the latest issue of Quidditch Quarterly (spokeswitch edition) and began to scan the pictures, turning the magazine a full ninety degrees when he reached the centerfold.

As the boggart Muggles closed in on their prey, bursts of "Oooooh!" and "Aaaaah!" erupted from the delighted crowd in the stands between the screams of "You dare to laugh at the Dark Lord! I will not tolerate your laughter, foolish Muggles!"

Harry pulled a small bag of Every Flavor Beans from his robe and popped two in his mouth, wincing a bit at the school paste flavor he suddenly recalled from early childhood. Those new Muggle-based flavors were always a surprise.

"Crucio! Avada Kedavra! I SAID...Avada! Kedavra! No! Stop that laughter at once! Crucio!"

Harry transfigured a television out of a piece of the crate and found a Benny Hill rerun.

"I summon my Death Eaters to my side! Wormtail! Brutus! I summon...Avada...Cru...I...MUGGLLLLLES!"

Silence.

The crowd hushed.

Harry sat up, turned off the television, tilted his head to the side and listened.

Silence.

As he stood, the boggart mob turned in his direction. Transforming into a horde of rabid reporters waving cameras and quills, they rushed at him. But with a quick, "Riddikulus!" he forced them back into the trunk and, with the most effort he'd expended all day, sat on the lid and locked it.

The crowd let out a long, thunderous cheer. No one noticed a dejected Wormtail slinking away, leaving a slumbering Brutus snoring in his chair.

As two festival Aurors approached, Harry strolled to the body sprawled on the ground. Its deep red eyes stared at nothing, and its misshapen mouth hung open. The dangling ear had finally fallen off and lay in the grass. The fake mustache had come partially loose and looked as though it were desperately trying to crawl into the open mouth. Harry pulled a face normally reserved for the most vile potion Snape could concoct.

Two Aurors neared, and Harry beamed as he recognized Tonks accompanied by none other than an ecstatic Dobby. He had been promoted to Auror two years after the stunning success of Hermione's S.P.E.W. campaign had led to the Heartfelt Equal Rights for Magical Creatures Act and Retraining and Education Scholarships (H.E.R.M.C.A.R.E.S.) of 2017. Proud of his new status, Dobby had decided he needed a surname. On the day he became an Auror, he also became Dobby Harris, in honor of his favorite human.

"Wotcher, Harry!" Tonks grinned, her paisley-patterned hair bobbing as she walked.

As for Dobby, well he was beside himself. "Harry Potter! Harry Potter has saved the world again! Dobby Harris is honored..." With a sharp poke from Tonks and kind wink from Harry, Dobby pulled himself together. "Er...yes...er...so sorry...fine job, Harry Potter, fine job."

Harry knelt and slowly waved his wand over the body from head to toe. "Heart attack."

"That spare-parts-for-a-body bastard had a heart?" Tonks asked, earning a quiet chuckle from Harry.

"I suppose you could call it that," Harry said as he pulled a vial of murky liquid from his robe.

"And what might that be, Harry Potter?" Dobby enunciated each word carefully, his bulging eyes flashing with more excitement than decorum allowed.

"Oh, Mr. Self-Styled here is not quite finished yet." He turned back to the body. "It's been ever so much fun, Tommy. Do keep in touch. See you next year." Harry poured the contents of the vial into the gaping mouth. "Might want to stand back a bit," he told the Aurors. They did.

The crowd held its collective breath. They knew this was going to be good, and they weren't disappointed. Swirls of pea-green smoke rushed from the mouth with a disembodied scream. The body disintegrated until there was nothing left but a small pile of dust as the swirls whooshed through the pitch, wailing, "Mugglllllllles!" before eventually dissipating with a weak whine.

The crowd roared. Dobby squealed with delight while Tonks gasped.

"Bloody hell! What was that?"

Harry grinned. "That was the soul of Mr. Self-Styled being chased about by his worst fear. It'll keep chasing him until he figures out how to bring his sorry arse back to life in time for next year's festival."

Both Aurors looked doubtful.

Harry shrugged. "Acme's Boggart-in-a-Bottle Potion. Who knew generics could be so useful?"

"Brilliant!" Tonks clapped Harry on the back a little too hard, making him nearly choke on the banana-flavored bean he had just put in his mouth. "Er, sorry, Harry," she blushed as he spat the horrid thing onto the ground.

Dobby gave Harry's arm a pat as he recovered his dignity.

"Right. Let's get on with it, then." Tonks cleared her throat and turned to address the crowd. "As Aurors of the twenty-fifth annual VoldeFest and as representatives of the Ministry of Magic, having examined the...er...body...in question, we officially declare that Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, formerly known as You Know Who, most recently known as the Self-Styled Dark Lord, is indeed..." She paused for dramatic effect. "...really most sincerely dead!"

For some strange reason, that last part gave Harry the vague feeling that somewhere deep in the Forbidden Forest, a house had just landed on Bellatrix Lestrange.

Tonks continued, "Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived and The Man Who Can't Be Beaten, has triumphed once again!"

The crowd rose to its feet and whooped and hollered until the entire pitch vibrated with joy. A modest smile graced Harry's face as he gave a quick nod and swept his hand through his dark mop of hair. Embarrassed at the din of the crowd, he waved, mouthing his thanks.

"Well, just a bit of cleaning up to do, and I'll be on my way," Harry said, looking around the pitch.

"See you at the Weasleys' party, Harry Potter?" Dobby asked as if each word were a work of art.

"Naturally, Mr. Harris. I have a feeling Fred and George have a few surprises in store."

"Merlin help us," Tonks said as she and Dobby headed for the Ministry VIP viewing booth.

As the noise finally began to die down, Harry banished the crate pieces, trunk, recliner, and television. He tucked the magazine into his robe and neatly folded his Invisibility Cloak. He nodded politely to the crowd one last time. Then with a barely audible pop, he was gone. The crowd cheered again, clearly pleased as always with their hero. Their tickets had been well worth the price.