Gone From the World

Gone from the World

Chapter Four - Mistaken Identity

Now he just wants to wake up
Yeah, just to prove it's a dream

The most esteemed Earl Huntingdon III, the son of the Earl Huntingdon II and last in his pure-blooded aristocratic line, had been having a very bad day. First, the servants managing his chateau had run out of strong black coffee (how anybody could run out of coffee, he had no idea), then his private chauffeur and limousine had been late and now he was in some godforsaken house in god-knew-where being tied and trussed up like some monkey in the circus.

"I demand to know who you are!" he said superciliously to two masked men. They were dressed in what looked like black robes. Both were also carrying sticks, or rulers. He knew they were wizards, he had read about them in files and books. He knew that they were barbarians, beneath him and he viewed them with contempt.

They did not show him the respect he deserved, instead they stood there, ignoring him and looking as if they were on guard. What they were guarding, the Earl did not know. After all, there were only three other people present in the room. They too, were tied up. The Earl could not help but snicker at their conversation. But what did he expect? They were mutants, freaks and had to be eliminated. That was what he had been taught from an early age.

"I am Napoleon," one of them had announced. The speaker was an old man, who must have looked jovial once, but in his present state was disheveled and drooling. Drool is hardly flattering.

"Who told you that?" demanded another - a plump old lady dressed in a yellowing, lacy nightgown. Out of her companions, she at least, looked a little saner.

"God did," said the old man pompously.

"I certainly did not!" replied a young boy indignantly - the third Musketeer of their trio.

Rolling his eyes, the Earl thought of the possibility that he was in a mental asylum. This made him uneasy for why would he be in a mental asylum anyway? He was definitely not insane. And if he was insane, then why was he with people he detested?

But then again, all insane people were convinced that they were sane. So, if he thought that he was sane and he was in a mental institution, then ... was he really insane? But if he was really insane, why would he know that he was in a mental institution?

Besides, he was the heir to the Huntingdon fortune. He was an important personage. He had just arrived from his own island somewhere in the Mediterranean to pay the PM of England a visit. Then he had been captured by these uncultured and backward ... well, were they classified as people?

Thinking about it all was just going to drive him even more into the depths of insanity. His thoughts were broken by a sudden movement.

For the two masked men were looking at each other wearily, as they began walking towards him. The Earl was close enough to hear their quiet chatter. Interestingly enough, they were talking about neither Napoleon nor God.

"Do you think this will work?" asked the first one anxiously.

"Shut up and stop whining Malfoy," growled the second. "Do you dare to doubt the Dark Lord, he who is omnipotent, mighty and wonderful? Complain again and I shall tell him that you are a treacherous, vile snake!"

"Why don't you do it?" the masked man asked, sounding like a rich, snooty boy, begging his father for sweets. "I'm sure you're brave enough for the job."

"Of course I'm brave enough," replied the other loftily. "My courage has been tested through waters of steel. But the Dark Lord feels that you are the inferior one; you are better suited to masquerading as the Muggle and infiltrating their quarters!"

The two figures were now so close to the Earl, they were almost touching. Instinctively, the Earl shrunk back. It would not do for his Versace dry-cleaned suit to be defiled.

He gave a cry when one of the figures bent down, and yanked out several of his hairs.

"Ouch!" he screamed. "What did you do that for?"

"If I had my way, l would lick the blood clean from your toes!" the figure whispered harshly in his ear. The Earl shivered. He had always thought that wizards had very depraved desires. Magic polluted the blood in their veins; it was their downfall.

"Now Malfoy, follow the plan and you will be rewarded with all of your heart's fruits and desires!"

The hooded man that was called Malfoy nodded, wordlessly.

"The plan has already been set in motion. For the revolution will soon come, we are the children of the future. We are the wheel within the wheel."

"Plan?" the Earl asked fearfully, pupils dilated. He had to inform his organization.

The ever-wordy hooded man sneered. "You are the mud that stains my Master's cloak. Yes, the plan is now in progress. The letter has been sent off with a nocturnal bird, a winged animal which is also a symbol of your death."

With that addendum, the other figure turned and sashayed away, robes billowing in wind.

The man called Malfoy stared down at the Earl.

"I'm sorry."

And before the Earl of Huntingdon III knew it, a flash of green light came hurtling towards him and he was gone from the world.

*

Many miles away, oblivious to everything that went bang around him, the man called Harry Potter awoke.

His head throbbed with confusion and surprise. It was a perfectly normal response as he had just had a pleasant dream. This was quite a novel experience for him, as his dreams were usually about people with amputated limbs in the throes of dying agony, screaming and crying out for help that was never going to come. He dreamed about mindless bloodshed and Lord Voldemort's cold, high-pitched, and surprisingly girly laugh.

This dream had been ... nice. He had dreamed about sitting at a bonfire with Ginny snuggled, asleep underneath the crook of his arm, and Ron who was toasting marshmallows and scoffing them down by the dozen.

He let out a groan. What was happening to him? He felt somehow cheated that he hadn't dreamed about anybody's death.

"He's woken up."

Harry made a movement to brush his hair back from his face. Then he realized that it was an impossible feat, as his hands were tied up. He was not in his lonely bed either.

It all started coming back to him.

Oh God.

Liam.

"Liam's dead isn't he?" Harry asked hollowly. Kill the spare.

Now where had he heard that before?

"He probably is," said a voice, and Harry squinted groggily at the fuzzy shape. He groaned again when he saw the outline of a hat.

"Why?" Harry asked. He seemed to be asking that a lot. Why this? Why that?

And he was sick of not receiving any answers.

"I'll answer all your questions, Harry Potter," said the man's grating voice. "I think we owe you that, at least. Well, we will, because you're going to help us."

"How?" Harry asked. That, at least, was an improvement from 'why'.

Deer-Stalker man sighed.

"My name is Jonathon Douglas," he began. "I am leader of Delta Six, a military organization. Our patriot is the Earl Hungtindon III, from Mediterranean. He is the one who funds us generously, and unfortunately, he went missing72 hours ago.

"We believe that the Earl's disappearance is tied to your magical community. Evidently, magic is to blame for his sudden abduction."

Harry did not see where Deer-Stalker was getting at. He gave him a look which meant "and how did you get to such a brilliant conclusion?"

"Tell him about the ransom note!" hissed Deer-Stalker's accomplice. "That note which was signed from somebody entitled 'Lord Voldemort'!" he added, pronouncing 'Voldemort' 'Vold-ee-mort'.

Immediately Harry's blood ran cold. He started becoming agitated again, his hands starting to tremble. Harry did not fear Voldemort but the name could send him into tremors. He was a very complicated man.

"I was getting there." Deer-Stalker glared at his accomplice. "Yes, anyway, what Mickey says, is true. We received a ransom note, just yesterday. Delivered by an um, an owl. Apparently, this uh, Lord Voldemort does not want money. He wants you in exchange for the Earl."

Understanding dawned upon Harry, who felt as if he should have predicted this very move. Trust Voldemort to barter him in exchange for an Earl. "And you trust Lord Voldemort?" he asked coldly. "Have you even met him? What makes you so sure that he will do what you ask?"

"We don't. We're not stupid," said Jonathan Douglas (aka Deer-Stalker) quickly. "We plan to go back in our agreement, and kill this Lord ... Thingy, but we need you to do the job."

Harry stared at the Muggles. Were they serious? How could they be so arrogant to think they could kill the most evil wizard of the century? With what, were they going to kill him? Samurai swords?

"We plan to use a bomb," continued Deer-Stalker, grimly.

Oh.

"Your job is to enter and distract the ... Lord Voldemort's Organization, while our men work. When we get the Earl, you are to wait for the signal. Then you make a run for it, whilst the bomb sets. That is what we ask of you."

Before Harry could blink and demand for more information in the politest way possible, Mickey the Accomplice, rushed in again, carrying a map. He was followed by somebody Harry knew all too well.

"Hello, Harry Potter," said Dennis Creevey, Colin's younger brother gravely. "I hope that you are well."

Harry nodded mutely. Dennis Creevey had disappeared five months ago. He was on that expedition with Ron.

"Ron..." Harry began nervously. "Is he...."

Dennis shrugged. "I'm sorry, Potter. He fought well."

"Dennis has been working for us for the past few years," said Jonathan, lighting up a cigarette and blowing smoke in Harry's face. "He had heard of us, and thought our cause worthy. Since then he has been invaluable, he spies for the other side."

"We exist, Mr Potter, to destroy magic. Magic is associated with Satan and devil worship. I understand that the modern witch does not dance around fires naked and goat sacrifice is now redundant, but that does not change the fact that magic is undoubtedly evil.

"I have read reports of your magical community, Mr Potter. It sounds far from ideal to me. I read of prejudice not unlike racism, of continuous and easy bloodshed, and of an unhealthy dose of power in unsavory individuals. There are classes and divisions within your magical society. Those of the lower classes are worth nothing while the rich feed on the fat of the land.

"Magic destroys the natural order of things. Tell me, how will necromancy lead to good things? Even simple things like a Summoning Charm disrupt the fragile balance. Where does that power come from? How do you know whether that power comes from the expense of others? Does that power take away pieces of your soul?

"Magic is merely an illusion, Mr Potter. Will a Transfigured apple be as sweet as a real apple fresh from the tree? Will love induced by some sort of Potion be as beautiful as real love?

"This is why we seek to end magic once and for all."

"Dennis Creevey is magic," Harry pointed out. "He went to magic school with me."

"We need to make allowances," bristled Jonathan Douglas. "Dennis is insignificant. First priority is the cause."

"So what's your plan?"

"See here," Dennis pointed to a drawing of the Death Eater stronghold. "We had several men spying with Muggle technology. I have drawn here the dimensions of each of the rooms here. You will be taken to there." He indicated the position by scribbling a small neat 'X'.

"You will be swapped with the Earl. Then you are on your own, Potter. I would advise you to run. Run to the East side via these shortcuts. A small group of men, including myself, will be there to escort you away and then the bomb will detonate, killing You-Know-Who and all the other Death Eaters. It's a very simple plan, You-Know-Who will never see it coming."

"So you guys will sic a bomb on Lord Voldemort?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Not any bomb," proclaimed Dennis Creevey proudly, showing Harry a picture. "The latest, hand-sized, nuclear bomb, that will blast every other bomb's arse into smithereens. The result of years of experiments in the lab. The combination of both Muggle and Wizarding technology. The result of my blood, sweat, and life."

Harry looked at the picture, secretly impressed.

To tell the truth, it wasn't that bad of a plan.

*

"They will bring Harry Potter right here," said Rabastan Lestrange, in a bored voice. He couldn't help it, his fourteen year stint in Azkaban had cost him the ability to act excited.

Draco was nervous enough for the both of them. He kept running his hands though the Earl's mousey-brown hair, unused to it. He was also dressed in the Earl's Versace. Usually, he would have objected to wearing a dead man's clothes, but he was too busy fretting over what was going to happen, to complain.

"Harry Potter will be taken away to the Dark Lord," Rabastan droned. "You will be lead away by the Muggles. You will reach their office. You will then kill everybody in sight, save for yourself."

Even sheer nervousness could not stop Draco from rolling his eyes.

"You will then return and the Dark Lord will reward you, your heart's fruits and desires. Capeesh?"

Draco nodded solemnly, running another trembling hand over alien hair.

"Good. Now go stand in these bonds, and be a good little prisoner." Rabastan yawned, covering his mouth with a hand, which was missing two stubby fingers.

Draco had a feeling that something bad was going to happen. It was a knot in his gut that would not go away. The knot was getting more and more tangled by the second.

*

As Harry buckled up his seat belt, he had a bad feeling. Something bad was going to happen. There was a knot in his gut that was annoying him with its persistence. The knot was getting more and more tangled by the second.

He allowed himself to be tied up, Deer-Stalker Dude nodding approvingly at him, whilst Dennis Creevey looped rope over his hands.

Then he watched as Deer-Stalker made a sign and the helicopter containing him, Dennis Creevey, and a few other men flew away. Harry watched as Deer-Stalker (who, of course, was not going to come) became smaller and smaller, until he was no more than a little speck far, far away.

*

Walden Macnair looped the rope over and over Draco's hands. Draco winced at the other man's show of brutal strength.

"I don't like you Malfoy," he whispered in his ear, his tongue tickling the lobe. "You are so gay."

Draco was too disturbed by the other man doing unspeakable things to his ear, to say anything. And just whom was Macnair calling gay?

"Fail and I'll kill you."

*

He looked back at Dennis Creevey, aware that the man had changed much since he had last seen him. Dennis looked like what Harry felt, tired and weary, and just wanting everything to be over.

"I'm sorry about Colin," Harry said sincerely.

Dennis nodded back, coldly. "They told me that judging from the amount of blood there was, he died bravely."

"Yes, there was a lot of blood," Harry said, wanting to console the grieving brother.

"Remember the bombs will be off in six hundred seconds," interrupted one of the men. "You're on your own, once you're in there."

Harry swallowed and he entered the building, a feeling of doom still heavy in his stomach.

*

He was greeted by the sight of many men in black robes, leering at him. Harry wondered whether some of them were his past schoolmates. He had a vague, fond memory, that in his graduation ball, Draco had won the award of 'most Likely to be a Death Eater". Perhaps, Draco was looking at him now, thinking of the very same thing.

Everybody was heavily disguised with phantom-like white masks. Draco Malfoy could have been standing in front of Harry, and he wouldn't have recognized him.

He saw the figure of the Earl, a brown-haired man in a designer suit. The Earl was bound, ropes held by a masked figure. Harry gritted his teeth. All he needed to do was to get the Earl into the hands of the Muggles, and then escape the Death Eater stronghold, all before the bombs went off. He wished that he had his wand with him, but Jonathan Douglas had refused point blank.

"I have Harry Potter," said the Muggle who was holding Harry by the scruff of his neck. Several other Muggles stood behind him, pointing their rifles at the Death Eaters standing in a semi-circle. The Death Eaters pointed their wands in retaliation.

"And I have your Earl," said a masked man, pushing him forwards. Harry eyed him. The Earl was thin and very watery-looking.

Harry felt somebody push him and two burly Death Eaters came to drag him away.

Being wandless, he was practically defenseless. He wondered how he had agreed to this crazy plan in the first place. How was he going to escape Lord Voldemort?

The Muggles shuffled away. Harry was surrounded by Death Eaters.

He waited for the signal.

Somebody screamed, and there was the sound of gunfire. Harry stood still, shocked, before jerking to motion.

He did what the others wouldn't have expected Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, to do. He did what he happened to be incredibly good at.

He ran.

When he was a kid, Harry used to run from Dudley Dursley. Now he was being chased by a group of homicidal maniacs. Things had really changed.

They backed him into a dead-end. He was surrounded.

"Stop!" Harry yelled, and to his immense dread, there came a sudden shrill cackle.

"But we have stopped."

Like magic, Lord Voldemort stepped out of the shadows. "Potter," he whispered coldly. "We meet again."

"I'm armed!" yelled Harry in desperation. He was not prepared for this.

"Really, now? Where's your wand?" sneered Voldemort. "Or have you changed with the rest of the world, and you now use one of those metal wands Muggles use?"

Harry felt in his pocket. There was nothing there, except for half a bar of melted chocolate and ... a Muggle pen.

One of those Muggle pens with a clickable base. A crazy, insane idea started brewing inside Harry's mind.

He drew the pen out with a flourish. "I have this."

Immediately, all the Death Eaters surrounding him took a step back, leaving Lord Voldemort standing in the front, like an idiot.

"And what do you intend to do with that?" Voldemort asked in what could be described, a wary tone, Voldemort-style.

"I've set a bomb." Harry's heart was beating so loudly, he was sure that everybody in the room could hear. "I've set a bomb, and if I press this button here." He motioned to the clicking base. "The bomb will go off and everybody here will blow up, and possibly die." He started laughing hysterically, which ironically enough, added to his credibility as it gave him a maniacal look.

"He's lying!" shrieked a woman's voice.

"What is a bomb?" asked another Death Eater, and this triggered a volley of noises, gasps and loud whispers.

"You are lying, Potter." Lord Voldemort flared his nostrils. However, he had gone even paler than he usually was. There was a sickly, gray sheen on his face.

"Do you really want to find out?" Harry asked, grimly.

"Do you really think we believe that?"

Harry thought for a moment. "Well, yeah."

The entire back row of Death Eaters backed away nervously. Harry couldn't believe that his plan was actually working.

"Back away, Voldemort," he said braver than he really felt. "Let me go."

He slipped away quietly, panting with his heart in his throat. He heard some of the Death Eaters protesting and Voldemort's words ringing in his ears. "Let him run. He won't go far. Lestrange, look into this matter of a bomb. When you find it, immediately dismantle it with some sort of spell. Do not let Goyle find it, he may consume it, and the results will not be up to my standards."

For the first time in many years, Harry felt that things were going his way.

*

He arrived at the top level. On the granite clearing, there was a small private jet parked there. Harry, unsure of what to do, stood there hesitantly.

He waited for what seemed like an eternity, antsy, as he was aware of an eminent bomb. Huffing with impatience, he yanked the door open and froze in tracks.

Of all things, he hadn't expected to see the dead bodies - Dennis Creevey's among them - sprawled across the plush leather seats.

Blood stains flecked the walls of the aircraft. Harry's eyes searched in vain for some sign of life.

The Earl was oddly alive, legs swinging and perched comfortably. "Hallo, I was told that you'd come soon."

Harry didn't reply. He was too busy staring at the seat next to the Earl.

For, sitting snug inside a plastic container, was something Harry had only seen in a picture.

A small nuclear bomb with a timer - a red digital clock, which told that him that he had only four minutes left.