The Nightmare Before Sixth Year

The Nightmare Before Sixth Year

Harry Potter, age 16, after a tiring year with a new (and utterly useless) Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, the death of his beloved godfather, the loss of Quidditch as a release, the bad news that he did not become prefect, girl problems with Ravenclaw Seeker Cho Chang, yet another near-death experience with Voldemort (white lights not included), an entire school term without Albus Dumbledore's encouraging gaze, the truth about his father and Snape, and at least a dozen other discomforts--you know, etc., etc.--knew, as he lay in his room on the second floor of the residence Number Four Privet Drive, that he had one thing he could always count on: more misery.

Harry sighed.

"I'm a sitting duck! What am I doing stuck in this house for another summer? I might as well carve a lightning bolt symbol on the door so Voldemort can just come in and be done with me! Stupid Prophesy!"

"Quiet in there, boy!" came the bellow of a cranky Uncle Vernon, Harry's uncle. He'd been working for the past few days on some important documents from Grunnings. Harry, feeling less hopeful, less cheerful, more miserable, more angst-ridden, and just downright more angry than before, had let his emotions soar to uncomfortable heights just when Vernon had finally finished his work. Unfortunately for the man with no neck, the papers spontaneously erupted into flames.

The general political system around the Dursley residence was simple; if there were any imbalance, Harry was the cause, simply because. Not only had Vernon seen fit to ground Harry for two days without food, drink, or escape from his room (this went for Hedwig as well, who hooted her displeasure at every other second, which was also grating on Harry's ears), but Harry had received several unwelcome letters from the wizarding world as well, and simultaneously, no less. The first was his usual warning--at this point the warnings were useless and only served to irritate Harry further; he knew Dumbledore would ensure his return to Hogwarts, but he still couldn't see how the Ministry could possibly be so thick when it came to his disposition at the Dursleys--saying that he had violated the Statute of Underage Magic for the fourth time in his life, and that his expulsion was now inevitable.

The second letter came from Remus Lupin, the only person Harry felt he could rely on at this time (since he'd lost confidence in his friends from the previous summer), and that soon changed:

Dear Harry,

How are things faring? I hope the Dursleys are being civil at the moment; oh, who am I kidding? You're probably scoffing right now. And now you're laughing because I read your mind and I'm not even a Legilimens. And now you're rolling your eyes... I bet you needed some humor right now. Unfortunately, that is all I can provide for you, I'm afraid. I know Moody, Tonks and I promised a quick release from that prison of a house, but Voldemort is on the move once more. Lucius has escaped with his fellow Death Eaters, and there are all sorts of Ministry officials lying motionless and soulless at Azkaban right now. We must tend to that immediately, and so I must apologize, but we cannot retrieve you this summer. You'll have to tough it out, but you usually do, and so I know that you'll be fine. As a matter of fact, that house is probably your best safe haven right now, so--

Harry didn't even bother reading the rest of the letter, one long apology note, one even longer message with nothing in it but sheer disappointment. He gripped the paper viciously in both his hands, raised it high in the air, and tore it to shreds, growling at the top of his lungs in a newly deep voice that made Hedwig stir in her cage. Vernon burst through the bedroom door moments later, snarling and completely irritated by Harry's outburst.

"W-wh-what is this, boy? I thought I told you no funny business. You've caused enough trouble and--" at that moment, Vernon stared down at the floor. "Littering all over the room we've provided, are you? You ungrateful disgrace of a nephew. I'd send you packing--"

"But you can't, can you?" retorted Harry. "Or else Dumbledore would turn you into a toad or something. I hope it's nasty too. It'd be worth it to face Voldemort and the Dementors by myself for a month."

Vernon's face was now turning beet red. Then it was purple. And if it were possible, it seemed to be getting more swollen, like a balloon. Without the help Harry gave Aunt Marge almost three years prior.

"H-how... dare you? I want you clean this mess up--no, as a matter of fact, I'd like to see what's gotten you so riled up," Vernon said with a smirk. He knelt down and began picking up the pieces of paper, clutching them in his pudgy, sweaty palms, and Harry rushed him, but Vernon's massive size was more than enough to shove Harry aside. Harry bounced onto the bed and immediately drew his wand from his pocket. Vernon froze. "Threatening me now, boy? I always knew you were a common crim--"

"Get out," hissed Harry. "I burned your papers before. At this point, I'm considering burning you and that fat pig of a son you have. Get out."

Not even looking at Harry, Vernon tacitly strode out the room. But the damage had been done. Vernon must have taped the letter together, because his level of mirth had actually increased after that encounter, rather than decreased. Not surprisingly, the force of yin and yang came into play, and Vernon stared once again at papers that spontaneously combusted before his eyes. The next five letters Harry received--one from Remus, one from the Ministry, one from Hermione, and two Howlers from Molly Weasley--didn't even take away from his cynically joyful mood that night, and he drifted off to sleep, bitterly content.

That night, he dreamt...

"Harry, son, happy birthday!" came a soft, vaguely familiar voice. Harry stirred in his sleep for a moment. "Wake up, dear. You've got a whole load of presents from your friends."

"Yes, Mum," he groaned. That voice had been in his nightmares during his third year at Hogwarts, and it had guided him through his fourth-year encounter with Lord Voldemort under the Priori Incantatem effect. "I'm getting up right no--huh?"

Harry opened his eyes and stared face-to-face with none other than... Dolores Umbridge. He screamed and Umbridge laughed, her multiple chins jiggling before him.

"Glad to see you're so excited," said Umbridge, laughing, only she still had Lily Potter's voice. Mixing poisoned honey with his mother's loving voice had a strange effect on Harry. He had an urge to cast an Unforgiveable Curse on anyone in his near vicinity, since this was, to him or anyone else, absolutely unforgivable. He didn't even care if it were Sirius; wrong place, wrong time, as far as he was now concerned. And so, he obediently climbed out of bed under his "mother's" hideous gaze and made his way to the stairs, not finding any humor in this sick joke that was being played on him. Umbridge? His mother? Never in his bloody life...

"Umb... er, Mum," he corrected himself, "are, er... any of my friends downstairs, yet?"

Umbridge smiled again and Harry grimaced. She clasped her hands together excitedly.

"Yes!" she chirped. It was strange. Her voice was clearly Lily's, but Harry could not distinguish it from Umbridge's voice at all. He knew then; this was without a doubt a nightmare. One that he would see for the rest of his life whenever a Dementor came near him. "Hermione and Ron came by early to see you. They've been downstairs all morning! Well, don't just stand there! You're keeping them waiting, silly!"

Harry gulped and descended the staircase. He would be glad to see Hermione and Ron after waking up to Umbridge's face in the morning. Unfortunately, Harry Potter must by logic always take in a dangerously high amount of misery, and so when he descended the stairs and saw his friends, he went numb, and crashed down the stairs in surprise. He passed out.

Is he all right...?

Yes, Hermione, I think he'll be fine.

I think the poor chap's gone mad, Miss Potter.

Oh, Ron! Stop flattering me! You always do that! You know I'm married.

You don't look like a married woman.

Oh, stop! I'm blushing...

Yes, Ron. Stop.

Ow! Why'd you elbow me in the ribs, Hermione?

Because you're always acting so immature! Act more like a Prefect, like--like Percy!

Hermione, if you ever say that again, I'll have to jinx you.

Oh, please! I know every counter-jinx there is!

Not how to reverse a Permanent Baldness Potion! I'm proud to say Fred taught me that over the summer.

You wouldn't dare! And besides, you'll never get me as long as I'm awake!

Then I'll just have to sneak into the girl's dorms while you're sleeping, now won't I?

Of all the ignorant, perverted, immature things to say-- GROW UP RON!!!

Temper, temper!

Oooooh, you haven't seen my temper yet, do you hear me, Ronald Weasley--

Now, now, children. Kiss and make up.

Mr. Potter! You're just in time.

Harry's eyes were now slightly taking in light, but they still remained for the most part closed, and his vision was quite blurry. He could hear the voice of his father, the man for whom he'd lost a great deal of respect, James Potter. He could not move, and he still strained to see more than constant moving blurs. Of course, he'd rather go blind than confirm the appearance of his two friends in this hellish nightmare. He'd sworn that he'd seen Crabbe with red hair and freckles and Goyle with long, bushy brown hair and... and in the area where a flat chest should have been... oh, no....

"What happened?" asked Harry's father.

"Oh, I don't know," said Umbridge or Lily (Harry was hoping his eyesight would be fixed when he fully came to). "He must have been so glad to see his friends that he tripped and went comatose. Is he breathing, James?"

Harry was, in fact, breathing at the moment. Unfortunately, it was so faint, that...

"Nope. Doesn't look like it. Step aside. I'll have to do mouth-to-mouth." Harry couldn't manage the words to protest, let alone provide a stronger sign of breathing. Perhaps his nightmare would not allow him to do so. Nothing good could come from this; of that he was certain. Under safe circumstances, he'd rather be revived by his father than Umbridge, Crabbe, or Goyle. But now that he knew it must not be his father, he could only imagine who it could be about to put their lips to his own.

A pound on his chest. His eyes popped open. He saw Snape taking in air and didn't have enough time to scream or move. The lips came down on his, and he tasted sour, mucky breath and saliva in his mouth, the result of many years of potion-sampling. He sat up abruptly and gagged, half-choking himself and forcing up anything that might have gone down his throat.

"Oh, you're alive, son! It's a good thing your mother had me take those CPR lessons. Useful skills they have, these Muggles..." said Snape. For a few seconds after Harry had registered shock, he stared, utterly dumbfounded, at the relieved expressions of Dolores Umbridge, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Severus Snape. Their smiles only registered hilarity at his disposition since he could not actually picture those four faces filled with concern for his wellbeing. Snape's twisted smile; Crabbe's dumb gaping mouth with freckles no less; Goyle with way too much estrogen in him, giggling; Dolores giggling like Lily but still sounding like nothing more than Umbridge to Harry; nothing would ever be right again if he did not get out of this nightmare, and fast.

"Are you okay, now?" asked Goyle. Harry responded by running into the kitchen and pouring Soapy Solution into his mouth.

"I told you, mad. Utterly raving," said Crabbe, staring at Harry much like Ron had done. This only made Harry turn on the sink faucet, take in water, gurgle the Soapy Solution so that foam overflowed from his mouth, and swallow. He belched several times and saw purplish bubbles floating all around him. The others laughed. Harry grimaced, seeing Snape's twisted smirk turn into an even more twisted laugh, his taut face stretched to the fullest in utmost amusement.

"If you keep that up," joked Umbridge--Harry couldn't picture Umbridge saying a joke that wasn't mean or crude in delivery--"you won't have any room for your birthday cake."

"Who made it, you?" asked Harry, wondering what poisoned honey tasted like.

"Oh, heavens, no! I did," said his dear, old dad. Harry went pale and gulped.

"Shoulda known," he muttered.

Great. My Potions teacher made my cake. I'll probably sprout wings out my nose or something.

"All right there, Harry?" asked Snape, worried, oddly enough. He put his hand to Harry's forehead. Harry didn't like being touched by that bony, sallow skin. He gulped. "You're looking a little ill, there."

"I-I'm fine," said Harry shakily.

"Well, you might want to perk up and look your best. Your aunt's family is coming," said Snape, the disdain in his tone quite apparent.

""Now, now," said Umbridge, "that's my sister you're talking about."

"So?" challenged Snape playfully. If Harry didn't know any better--which he didn't--he'd say Snape was flirting with Umbridge. He felt a violent lurch in his stomach.

"So you'd better be civil with them," said Umbridge, flirting back. Now Harry was feeling quite queasy and had to clutch his abdomen. He was feeling a little dizzy, too.

Dumbledore should have killed me and Voldemort back then. This isn't right, this isn't right, this is so bloody wrong...

"Or else what?" countered Snape. Harry chanced a glance at Hermione and Ron, er--Crabbe and Goyle. They were smiling, entertained, of all things by this grotesque display. Was he the only one who thought this was a heinous crime quite deserving of Azkaban and Dementors and Crucios and such? Oh, if he never woke up again, he would most likely kill himself, if such a thing were at all possible.

"Oh, stop it," said Umbridge, and she and Snape kissed. Now Harry had gone a pale, sallow color--like father, like son--and when he thought he saw tongue, he rushed over to the sink, vomited, rinsed his mouth out once more with Soapy Solution, swallowed again, and rushed up to his bedroom, banging the memory out his head repeatedly, as if he were Dobby, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

He lay in his bed, head throbbing and heart broken--all that pain and still the memory remained--and looked up at the ceiling miserably.

"This cannot get any worse, this cannot be any worse."

But it did. The doorbell rang. Harry knew who it was: Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley. His heart actually leapt with joy. The people he hated most during his summertime ventures were the most welcome in this nightmare. They couldn't be any worse than they were in real life, unless they could cast magic. But all the same, Harry loved the idea that he could depend on hating neck-less Vernon, horse-like Petunia, and piggish Dudley. If that were all his birthday amounted to, he would be most grateful for that as a gift.

He rushed down the stairs with the speed of a new Firebolt... and skidded right in front of a fat... Draco.

No... it's even worse than the Dursleys casting magic! Why me...?

But Dudley, er... Draco, still with blonde hair, only sleek now, and a long, pointy nose, was quite overjoyed to see his favorite cousin. Harry let out a soundless sob. Draco clasped a pudgy hand on Harry's back and Harry jolted forward, his heart almost bursting out of his chest--compliments of Draco's boxing. Draco pulled Harry in for a loving, one-armed bear hug. Snape tried to keep the corners of his twisted, smiling lips from twitching. Harry had to admit that it was rather amusing to see a time where Snape was not thrilled to see Draco. Through that door stepped Bellatrix Lestrange (Petunia) and... Wormtail? Surely Peter Pettigrew would not be taking on the role of Vernon Dursley?

It did get worse! It really did! I hate my life...

Then Harry remembered. I have Crabbe and Goyle as friends! They'll keep me safe!

"Mrng," grunted Wormtail. Lestrange said nothing, not until she looked at her Ickle Drackykins embracing Harry like a brother, and she squealed with mirth.

"Oh, Duddykins! You're such a good boy! Showing your nephew how much you care on his birthday!"

Snape coughed and Umbridge looked the other way, embarrassed by the blatant pretense her sister had put on for this day. Then Lestrange leaned in close to Harry's face and smiled, still looking as insane as she did in real life, only much skinnier, and with a great deal of neck and teeth. But those eyes, they terrified Harry, and to make matters worse...

"Potty! Wee Potter! Turning a good sixteen on your birthday, are we? Potty Potter promotes his potty person! Mwahahahahahaha!" The combination of Lestrange's insane, taunting words and Petunia's voice was overwhelming for Harry. His head was spinning; he could pass out again at any second.

"Good to see you're so, er... excited for our boy on the day of his surprise birthday party..." said Umbridge.

"Surprise? But I already know there's a party!" exclaimed Harry, confused and weak. Draco stepped forward, cracking his knuckles menacingly, quite like Dudley, and now that he took on Dudley's form, very much like Crabbe and Goyle.

"Oh, but there is a surprise party," said Draco, voice the same as Dudley's dumb one, but with an unmistakable drawl to it. Harry felt weak in the knees.

"I... don't understand...."

"You will. Get him, Crabbe."

"Crabbe? I thought you were Ron?"

"Don't be silly," said Crabbe, looking more and more like his old self with each passing second--in fact, they all were. "Don't you know? I don't have freckles. Now who's the idiot?"

"M-mum...?" stuttered Harry, falling to his knees, head feeling feverish and light. Umbridge laughed, now back to her original form, bow and all (although she and Snape hadn't changed much like the others).

"You thought I was your mother, dear? Me--oh, no. Not at all," said Umbridge, her voice unmistakably poison honey now. "Don't you remember?"

"Your parents are dead," Snape finished, his twisted smile on full throttle evil.

"This cannot be..." said Harry.

"Oh, it can," said Goyle, no longer androgynous and with his usual, dumb voice. He punched Harry in the face. Potter passed out.

When he came to again, he was surrounded by the laughing faces of unwelcome people in his life, and he was too shocked to be afraid. Snape stepped forward.

"Awake yet, Potter? We wouldn't want our favorite... celebrity, to miss out on the festivities... now would we?" He smirked.

"Sod off," warned Harry, though he was still too shocked to put the necessary oomph behind his insult. Lestrange cackled.

"Doesn't look like Potty Potter's completely gone nutty nutter, does it?"

"No..." drawled Draco. "Still don't know what's going on, Potter? Well, let's bring you back to reality, shall we?"

Crabbe. Goyle, and Draco each stepped forward. Draco had a box the size of an adult's head, Goyle had a small box, and Crabbe dragged a box twelve feet tall.

"Let me be the first to wish you a... happy, birthday," said Draco, stepping forward and holding his present in front of Harry. Harry tried to back away, but he couldn't; he was tied to a chair by the same ropes Snape had used on Remus three years prior. Draco unwrapped the present carefully, mirthfully, almost as if he were savoring the act of opening the present itself. He reached in, and pulled out a bloody human head--Sirius's head. Harry coughed and fought back vomit, but to no avail. He didn't waste it however; it splattered all over Draco's robes. The snob was now frowning, but that changed back to a smile soon enough.

"Liked my present did, you? Made you so happy it made your stomach leap with joy, did it? Good. I only hope it's your favorite."

"You're dead, Malfoy," said Potter through gritted teeth. Draco yawned and stretched, turning to the side and giving Harry a sideways glance, the usual boredom apparent in his expression. He raised his eyebrows.

"Funny," said Malfoy mockingly, "you'd think I'd have stopped walking around...."

Harry was livid, now, and tried to lunge at Draco despite his constraints. The chair toppled over, and he fell to the ground face-first. Draco backed away, and they all laughed. Umbridge and Lestrange straightened Harry's chair back up, and Goyle stepped forward, grinning stupidly.

"Not fancying me or anything, are you?" snapped Harry. Goyle tried to figure out what Harry meant, shrugged, and proceeded to open his present. The box opened, but Goyle didn't reach into it; in fact, he seemed to be trying not to touch the box's contents. He shoved it at Harry's face, and powder immediately covered Harry. Harry sputtered and struggled, but he knew it was pointless.

"Not a good gift-giver, are you, Goyle?" cried Harry, trying to make his way towards the boy who could pound his face into the ground if he so chose.

"Whatever do you mean?" asked Goyle with false confusion. It sounded so intelligent Harry was convinced Draco had fed Goyle lines so that he might sound competent and sinister for a change. "I merely thought you would like a brother."

"What are you talking about?" screamed Harry, blinded by rage. "I--"

But just then, he felt a strange pain in his left shoulder. A lump was forming. As the pain increased, so did his reaction to it. It started out as a grunt, then he was screaming, and now he was flailing in agony as the lump grew. His screams drowned out the laughter of his enemies. When the hurting stopped, he was covered in sweat... and more jet-black hair. He looked to his left and screamed.

"Hello... brother," said teen-aged Tom Riddle, sharing a body with Harry, red eyes of the young Dark Lord fixed hungrily on The Boy Who Now Lived With Two Heads. Harry screamed and moved away from Riddle, as though trying to separate his head from his body, but Riddle was there to stay. He laughed, the same high, cold laugh he would develop in the future. "Is that any way to treat your long lost twin? I told you we looked alike, did I not?"

"My turn!" said Crabbe, not wanting to be left out but sounding stupid unlike Goyle--either Draco hadn't fed him lines, or he'd been too stupid to remember them. He stepped forward. Harry glanced frantically behind him, seeing the anticipant faces of Snape, Wormtail, Lestrange, and Umbridge. He looked back at the box. He could only wonder what was inside. And then there was a chill, rattling sound. The lights were going out all around him.

Oh, no... it can't be... not that...

Harry screamed and started trying to break his constraints. Snape stepped forward, gripped Harry by the chin, and held him in place, laughing; Harry would never be used to Snape actually laughing.

"Draco!" said Snape, clearly enjoying the moment. "Be a good boy and go get a camera! I want to remember this forever."

"Yes, Professor." As Draco disappeared out of view, the box began shaking. Whatever was inside--and Harry was certain he knew what it was--was eager to get out and most likely devour his soul. Harry couldn't move. All he could do was stare at the box defiantly and try to hide his fear. The side commentary from Riddle didn't help matters, either.

"That's right," said Riddle. "Face the inevitable head-on. It will all be over soon..."

"Shut... up..." said Harry through gritted teeth.

Lockhart burst through the door, his pearly whites blinding Harry--and everyone else in the room for that matter.

"Close your mouth before I shatter those teeth!" demanded Snape.

"Yes, yes. Of course..." said Lockhart, still smiling nonetheless. "So sorry to intrude--ah, yes! Harry! Good to see you again! And I'm just in time!"

"In time for what?" asked Snape, revolted by the sight of Lockhart.

"I heard pictures were being taken! I wanted to give the famous Harry Potter an autograph to remember!"

"Absolutely not!" spat Snape... at first that is, until he considered the idea and smirked. "On second thought... yes, I think young Potter would like a souvenir...."

"Drop dead, Snape!"

"That's Professor Snape to you, Potter," hissed Snape.

"Yes, yes..." said Lockhart, clueless about things as always. "Always show the same respect to your elders that you show to me. I know they're nowhere in my league, but hey! Who is--"

"Will you shut up?" cried Snape. "Just get the pen out!"

"Y-ye-yes, of course!" said Lockhart, fumbling for his favorite writing utensil.

"Hem, hem!" chirped Umbridge. "I have just the thing!" She reached into her bag and pulled out her favorite pen. Harry shivered. He could only imagine what Umbridge planned to do with that. Draco reappeared with an instant camera. "Young Malfoy, would you be so kind as to pull out a blank photo?"

"Yes..." replied Draco, as confused as Harry. He handed it to Umbridge, who smiled darkly.

"Yes... now here's where you come in, Gilderoy. Put your hand on Harry's."

Umbridge jammed the pen in Harry's hand. Harry couldn't even move it away. Gilderoy clutched Harry's hand, so in control of its motions that he could write in his own handwriting with Harry's hand.

"Why this approach, Dolores?" asked Lockhart. Umbridge was so delighted about being called by her first name--by Lockhart--that she became quite giddy and took a moment to recollect her composure.

"Quite simple, really. Harry would like you to immortalize your signature in his blood."

"You don't say..." said Lockhart skeptically. "It won't hurt, will it?"

"Oh, no! Not at all!" lied Umbridge. Harry tried to protest, but Snape outstretched his fingers and clamped them around Harry's mouth. "It actually tickles. Harry won't even know it happened!"

"If you say so," said Lockhart. And so, the painful process of signing began, Lockhart humming merrily, oblivious to Harry's winces and cries. When it was done, they loaded the signed photo into the camera. Umbridge and Lestrange stood on either side of Harry, and he shivered.

There is definitely nothing good about this...

They knelt by his side, and then Draco stepped back, making sure everyone was in the picture. The box opened, and the Dementor burst out, rushing straight for Harry's face. He felt cold and weak, like he would never be able to find joy or hope in anything ever again. Not even chocolate would cure him, not after all the painful images he'd seen in that nightmare. Umbridge kissed his one cheek, Lestrange the other, and the Dementor planted a firm one on the lips. Harry screamed, there was a flash of light...

"ARG!" cried Harry, back in his bed, gasping and sweating from the nightmare. He took a moment to catch his breath. "Only a dream... huh?"

He looked down, and his face once again lost all color. There it was, before him, the photograph with him being kissed by Umbridge, Lestrange, and a very unpleasant Dementor. And in his blood was Lockhart's signature:

Happy birthday, Harry! And I wish you many many more happy ones like this,

Gilderoy Lockhart, The Greatest Wizard Who Ever Lived

Harry screamed so loud that the neighbors were turning on their lights two blocks down. He looked down at his hand, and there it was, the very same signature etched in his palm. But there was one thing different. Rather than the word 'Birthday', his hand had the word, 'Halloween.' Then his hand began to sear with extreme pain in combination with his scar. He screamed even louder. The door burst open. Rather than Vernon Dursley coming in, Lucius Malfoy stood there, looking evil and sinister and smiling, no less.

"What's the meaning of all this racket, boy?" He let out a bloodcurdling laugh....

In real life, as Harry tossed and turned, violently in his four-poster at Hogwarts on Halloween night, mumbling in his sleep, miles away people were celebrating the arrival of Halloween in their own way... seven of the most unwelcome people to ever set foot in Harry's life.

"Pour me some more blood wine," said Voldemort, cheery for the first time since his defeat at the Ministry. Lucius obediently poured his master more drink, and then tended to his own beverage.

"Potty Potter's having fun, yes?" asked Lestrange, curious as to how Voldemort's mind games were faring. She was dancing all over the place like a ballerina... a maniacal ballerina, but a ballerina all the same; she even had a tutu to match, as though she were a little Muggle girl trick-or-treating. Voldemort looked at her with his snake-like eyes and smiled.

"Oh, yes. There's no shortage of excitement where young Potter is," said Voldemort. "He's so overjoyed, he has to shout to the heavens to show it!"

Voldemort laughed, cold and high as always.

"My Lord," said Lucius, kneeling before Voldemort and kissing the back of his wrist. "I bet Dumbledore didn't think we'd reach Harry this way, did he?"
"Of course not. That fool is no one to fear. We may not be able to kill Potter just yet, but we can wish him a Happy Halloween. It's so easy to see the faces of everyone he hates in his mind right now.... He should have taken that Occlumency thing more seriously."

"Perhaps we should toast to his disposition?" suggested Wormtail meekly. Voldemort turned to him and looked down his nose at the sniveling servant, who cringed under that cold gaze. After a long moment of silence--which consequently convinced all in the room that Voldemort was most displeased--the Dark Lord smiled.

"What a splendid idea!" exclaimed Voldemort. "Glad I thought of it, if I do say so myself."
"Y-yes, m'lord," said Wormtail, backing away and feeling stupid.

"May I get in on this, father?" asked Draco, accompanied by his two flunkies who were stuffing their face with all sorts of Hogsmeade goodies. Lucius smiled at his son, something Draco was not used to seeing.

"Yes, yes... of course. You should be celebrating with us. You are about to embark on your initiation into the Death Eaters, after all."

Draco smiled.

"I propose this toast to the best of times with Mr. Potter," he said. The glasses clanged as they touched. "And I hope he's having as much fun as we are!"

They all laughed.

"Well said, Draco!" complimented Lucius, and his son blushed.

"It is true. You'd best be careful, Lucius, or else your boy may indeed take your place in the Inner Circle," said Voldemort. Everyone laughed--everyone except Lucius, who actually seemed to be considering if Voldemort were actually serious--and their echoes spread all across the countryside that night, reminding all wizards and witches, but particularly Harry Potter, that the Dark Lord always knows....

THE END