Title: Death Becomes Him
Rating: T
Words: 5000
Disclaimer: I do not in any way own Harry Potter or Co. That honour belongs to JKR.
Summary:Voldemort finds himself naked at the train station with only a meddling old fool for company. He is given a task that will enable him to get closer to a certain Boy-Who-Will-Live-No-Longer!
Author's Note: It was my birthday yesterday :) but I am only using that as an excuse to post this story (which should have been posted yesterday). It has been in the making since in the summer and was initially inspired by the television show Dead Like Me. The title was inspired by the movie entitled Death Becomes Her. I do hope you enjoy it- even the quick flash ending which strongly resembles a sudden and untimed death- just to let you know.
Warnings: Some language and tactless jokes. Sappy ending. No slash- oh my goodness! and, last but not least, Epilogue (somewhat) compliant.
Death Becomes Him
It was a strange sensation, standing in the middle of King's Cross Station without a stitch of clothing. It was even stranger to be staring at Albus Dumbledore.
Voldemort was fairly certain that the wizard has been deceased for a year.
"Well, Tom," the old benign fool said. "It seems life is over for you at long last."
"Dumbledore." Voldemort hissed, "How is it that life finds you here?"
The fool smiled and his left eye twinkled right before it closed in a quick wink. "Life, my dear Tom, is well over and done with for you. Harry succeeded, I'm pleased to note."
Voldemort felt the tight coil of rage at the endearment, the old man's tone and, most of all, the use of… that… name. He raised his hand and focused his will to summon the most difficult and elusive wandless magic that he had available. There was a rushing hollow in his ears and a light whooshing sound but nothing else.
Wandless magic was difficult but it was also something that Voldemort had made sure he mastered. It was, unfortunately, not very reliable, especially with the more complicated spells such as the killing curse.
Dumbledore, having felt the gathering force, merely smiled. "You no longer have that in your possession, my friend. Wizard's magic has no place here in the between."
"I am not your friend," Voldemort hissed, moving swiftly to crouch. If he couldn't attack the old man with magic, it would do just as well to attack physically.
He leapt, curling his long, serpentine fingers into claws, aiming directly for the old man's eyes.
He landed and spun, not finding his prey where he had judged. His eyes, wild and fierce, froze on the dead headmaster's form, standing serenely five feet away. Voldemort snarled, a sound as far removed from human as was possible. He leapt again, touching down directly before Dumbledore and sliding forward, taking care not to remove his eyes from the deceptive old man.
Once again, he was thwarted and once more, Voldemort leapt into action. Three more exchanges occurred, ending fruitlessly, enraging Voldemort exponentially each time his prey eluded him.
"Damn you, Dumbledore! I will kill you once and for all!" He bellowed, his high voice cracking due to the onslaught of emotion.
"You will not, Tom. I am dead and have accepted the duty I was charged with. My sweet sister was there to greet me, and forgive me." The fool's bright blue eyes rimed with liquid and Voldemort looked away in disgust.
"Senile old fool." He spat, as if the curse would help remove the sour sense of remorse.
Dumbledore nodded his head. "Perhaps, Tom. Perhaps." He suddenly moved his head and caught Voldemort's red gaze directly for the first time. "And you, Tom. Are you ready to accept your own duty?"
"Will you ever speak sense?" Voldemort questioned, his sharp rage seceding slightly.
"Tens of thousands have been murdered in your name, Tom, and their souls wonder lost because of you." Dumbledore stated sadly. "There are, unfortunately, only two choices for one such as yourself and I am here to present those choices to you."
The old man bowed his head as if such a burden was too heavy to bear. Voldemort knew that if he were so inclined, now would be the appropriate time to feel some type of sympathy. He snorted in disgust at the thought.
"Well?" Voldemort asked peevishly. "What would the powers that be demand of me?"
"No one would demand anything, only offer you a choice." Dumbledore looked up, and no trace of tears remained in his eyes. "You can, of course, choice to go on to the next life. For some, it is a paradise, for others… there is nothing but pain and torment."
Voldemort narrowed his eyes. That did not sound pleasant and he had no illusions of what would be in store for him. Even with paradise, he was absolutely positive that his insanity would twist the place into torment with the dull appeal. "And the other." He prompted, slightly curious now.
Dumbledore actually smiled. "You would be put to work, in the life you just left. No one would see you, or hear you, or touch you until they are about to die."
Voldemort's eyes gleamed. "I would kill them." He hissed in delight.
"No, you would harvest their souls and direct them to me."
Oh. He would, in all essence, become death. He would, he thought with a smile, become the ultimate master of death.
He would become Death.
His smile, grotesque and evil in every hidden, secret amusement, stretched wide enough to show his oddly white and sharp teeth. "I accept." He hissed.
As Death, Voldemort's first plan was to kill Harry Potter.
He was not, contrary to popular belief, the only one able to harvest a soul. But he was the one stationed to watch over the United Kingdom. Unfortunately, that was a lot of space to cover.
First, he hovered over Grimmauld Place, roaming up and down the small, deadend street. It was amazing, how easy it was to find the blasted-boy-who-just-will-not-die, considering that not even his most trusted Deatheater was able to uncover this location. Severus had his other talents, Voldemort supposed.
He narrowed in on the moving soul within the house. There was only one soul of a man and the dimmer light of an aged house elf. He swooped—
A sharp tug had Voldemort reeling through space in a matter of a fraction of a second and he found himself on the northern most pier of Scotland, stationed in a tiny, one room cabin, standing over the struggling and failing body of a man seeming to be in his nineties.
Yes, that's right. Voldemort was not only in charge of harvesting the souls of wizards and witches, but also those of muggles.
The muggle tried to breath and released a racking cough which left him even more breathless. Voldemort rolled his eyes to the ceiling and reached down the gently touch the dying man's hand. The man stilled instantly and Voldemort watched in amazement as a shimmer left the body and materialized directly in front of him.
The old man, no longer infected with the lung rot and arthritis that killed him smiled in thanks at Voldemort.
"I suspect this is it?" The man questioned. He turned his head and looked outside in which long shadows began to cover the beach. Something strange glittered there and he nodded to himself. "Best be goin', now. A merry eve to you, sir." And he stepped away, without waiting for Voldemort to respond to that strange sentiment.
Voldemort looked at where the spirit stood, at the Muggle's body, then at his hand. With great care, he wiped his hand on his robe and stamped firm on the need to shutter in disgust, just before he was pulled somewhere else.
The next time Voldemort had a moment free to himself, he hovered over the Quidditch Pitch of Hogwarts. He could see Harry flying a little too recklessly as he chased the snitch. The boy, a man by now really as he was eighteen, raised his hand in triumph and looked up, directly where Voldemort was floating. Voldemort watched in glee as Harry's eyes widened and he swooped down to just touch—
He was jerked away, in an almost deserted alley where a group of rowdy teens were in the process of kicking the life from a middle aged woman. Voldemort sighed in weariness as he waited for the kids to disperse, taking the woman's purse. He negligently swiped his foot to come in contact with the woman's body, lightly touching her throat. The spirit didn't manifest this time, as they usually didn't in the case of a violent death. It went directly to where Dumbledore would use his empathy and make all their cares and worries disappear.
Another tug pulled Voldemort away and he appeared in the NCU of a hospital. He rolled his eyes. More muggles.
The best part of Voldemort's new job was, he decided, taking the souls of wizards, especially those who served him in life. Voldemort hovered in dire anticipation in the dingy cell of Azkaban which held Lucius Malfoy. Lucius was taking advantage of the fact that a careless guard left a very unclean, very long, towel in his cell. He had strung it to the top cross piece of the cell door and was currently trying to fit the thing around his neck by balancing on a rickety piece of stool that was missing one leg.
Voldemort watched in amusement as the stool teetered and one of the three remaining legs broke, an adjacent one, leaving a wide eyed Malfoy to try and correct his balance as the round piece of wood wobbled even more. He hurried his hands, trying to slip the fashioned noose around his neck, not quite succeeding when everything went sideways.
Luckily, Voldemort supposed, Lucius's head crashed against the door, knocking him out and allowing him to feel no pain as his neck snapped when it landed on the upturned, broken stool. Voldemort laughed and nudged the body and releasing the soul.
Lucius materialized, just as Voldemort knew he would.
The imprisoned Deatheater saw his old master and his eyes grew fearful. "The muggle's are right." Lucius whispered. "There is a hell waiting for me!"
Voldemort laughed again. "No, this is no hell. Not yet, anyway. I have a task for you, my friend. If you're up to it."
Lucius's soul began to shake and Voldemort grinned. "Anything, my Lord."
"Excellent," said Death. "I was hoping you would say that."
It is, of course, common knowledge that as Death, Voldemort can hire reapers to take on his less desirable tasks. Unfortunately for him, his choices are dictated by some higher power and they are only allowed to relieve him of half his task. This way, his might get a better opportunity to kill that bloody menace once and for all.
"Come, my new grim reaper and let us reap!"
Voldemort chose to ignore the incredulous expression on Lucius's face.
Harry was walking a dog. It was ridiculously simple, really. He was so close to that little pond which was quite beautiful and deceptively so because Voldemort knew that its depth was great indeed and the water frigid.
The boy finished school without Voldemort truly noticing and he had sometime during then and now, acquired a pet. The dog was young and foolish and overly large, the straining leash betraying how much effort it was actually taking the rather slight wizard to control it. All it needed was a push…
Voldemort 'stepped' on the tail of a cat and watched gleefully as the thing yowled and bolted directly in line of the dog. The dog froze, its ears pricked and like a shot, took off after the cat. Harry was dragged along behind it until he crashed into the short metal fence surrounding the perimeter of the pond. He teetered on the edge of a moment and Voldemort held his non-existent breath and started to reach out his hand when Harry's balance suddenly rightened and a voice called out, "Harry!"
Harry turned and grinned. "Hey, Hermione. Thanks for the save!"
Voldemort snarled as he was pulled away.
"This is a rather boring existence, isn't it?" Lucius asked mildly.
Voldemort grunted, his eyes not straying from their place.
"People to kill, souls to harvest. I never thought I would say this, but killing is rather boring. I always preferred torturing the best."
Voldemort shrugged.
"I took another relative of mine. A great uncle, I think. I didn't even know he was still alive. Pity Draco never knew him. He was a moderate wizard but had knowledge of the dark arts which would have caused you some envy, my Lord, at one time." The 'my Lord' was sneered, more of a joke than a form of respect.
"He was working on a potion which would instantly dissolve the stomach and internal organs when the cauldron exploded. I didn't have the heart to tell him that there was a spell which did so instantly without worrying about unstable potion ingredients. Severus would have liked him, I think."
Voldemort ignored him.
"Voldemort?" Lucius asked. "Why are we staring at Harry Potter in the shower?"
"My Lord?"
"Avery."
"What are you doing here? I thought you were dead!"
Voldemort looked pointedly at the crumpled body next to a rather poisonous spider.
Avery followed his gaze and nodded. "Oh."
Voldemort straightened. "I ask you to join me once more."
The now dead man brightened. "Are we killing more muggles?"
Voldemort smiled. "As a matter of fact, we are."
The next time Voldemort managed to spy on Harry was only a few short months later. Harry had just started training in the Auror program at the Ministry and was currently running a rather complex practise course. He was finished dodging bright green streaks of light that left smears of colour on the training robes whenever they hit and was making his way to three consecutive rings of fire.
It was a fairly new course, not yet safety tested in all its components and what no one realized was that the residue from the green light beams was extremely flammable.
Voldemort knew, however.
Harry leapt through the first ring without incident and was sprinting to the next. Voldemort drifted closer, prepared to knock the ring off center by a single inch. He nudged the ring just as Harry prepared to jump…
Harry's shoe lace came undone and he stepped on it with his left foot, just as he lifted his right to leap. He stumbled then landed, unharmed on the other side, sprinting to the last and final ring before landing victoriously on the finishing line.
Voldemort blinked and stared at the ring of fire.
If he hadn't knocked it off course, Harry would have hit the other side with his shoulder.
His eye twitched.
He had just saved Harry Potter's life.
He looked at the boy once more and a pair of bright green eyes stared at him. It must have been a trick of the light because there is no way in all the seven hells that Harry had just winked at Voldemort.
"Do we have to go through this every year?" Voldemort lounged in a chair which appeared to be made entirely of light. It tingled rather unpleasantly where his back and behind met the surface.
Dumbledore was seated in a rather obnoxious confection of flowers and white fluffy things that Voldemort suspected were actual clouds.
"I had assumed you would enjoy a little company." Dumbledore mused.
Voldemort scoffed and looked away. Truth be told, he was rather lonely. His minions took care of the reaping and all his failed attempts on Harry Potter's life were starting to depress him. If only there was someone else to talk to besides this over pompous, fuddleheaded windbag.
Voldemort huffed rather wistfully.
"You can, of course, talk to anyone who has already died." Dumbledore said, as if lost in thought.
"What?" Voldemort sat up straighter. "I can talk to those already passed on?" Read: I can bring Severus back to entertain me with his droll ways?
Dumbledore smiled sadly, as if following the exact same thought. Preposterous! "You can be seen by those who have already died and yet live once more." he explained gently. "There are a number of muggles and one or two wizards who can offer you company."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "You want me to converse with muggles?"
The answering grin was just a little too smug for his tastes. "Well, it's not like it will kill you."
"Ginny, your mum called again." Voldemort rolled his eyes as Harry stuck his head out the back window. Just for fun, with just a small amount of malicious intent, Voldemort caused the window to come crashing down, right where, only seconds before, Harry's neck had been. The glass shattered and he heard Harry curse.
"Bloody house!" he shouted then turned around and faced Voldemort dead on. "And bloody Voldemort!"
Voldemort blinked. What?
"Just— Why can't you leave me alone! Blasted hallucinations." Harry muttered, going back into the bathroom and grinding a palm into one eye.
Hallucinations, hmmm? Voldemort thought, grinning to himself as a plan filled with promise began to formulate in his mind.
Harry screamed. Voldemort smirked. He stood there, right at the foot of Harry's bed, just standing there with a gentle, mocking glint in his eyes and a rather sharp curve to his lipless mouth.
"Harry! What is it?" The young red headed woman asked in concern as she sat up, not caring an ounce for her modesty as the sheets pooled around her naked waist.
He didn't answer as he stared at Voldemort. The staring was getting a little creepy but Voldemort held firm. He wasn't the Dark Lord for nothing, and one little creepy look wasn't going to scare him away.
Luckily- er… unfortunately, that tingle deep in his bones began and he sighed, vanishing with a single thought directed to the witch who lay dying in St. Mungo's.
Voldemort smiled rather serenely as he touched her hand, rending her soul from her dying flesh, as he thought about Harry. If he can't kill the annoyance, then perhaps he can drive him to suicide.
The plan did have merits.
Harry was in a park, just a ways apart from a muggle school building. He was pushing a little boy on a swing, going higher for each of the child's ecstatic cries of "Higher Harry! Go higher!"
Voldemort came to stand just beyond Harry's direct line of sight, carefully staying on the very edge of his field of vision. To accomplish the Plan, he would need to work slowly and steadily to a point. If he jumped right in there now, fully in front of Harry and shouting "boo!" the only reactions he would get would be a hex sent his way. So he had to convince Harry that what he was seeing was in no way fightable and absolutely damnable.
Voldemort enjoyed the slight twitch of Harry's head as his eyes kept darting to the side, trying to capture the image of the once-Dark-Lord. He grinned. It was enough for now.
Voldemort idly plucked at the leaves of a rose. Each single leaf was separated from the main flower quick enough to ensure that the rest of it would not die from prolonged exposure from the hand of death. He let the rotting leaf drift from sightless fingers and onto the table, quickly stepping back out of sight as Harry entered the room. He saw the shadow cast by the overhead light freeze then shutter almost imperceptivity before quickly backing out of the room again.
Well, Voldemort thought with glee. That was easy.
Voldemort smiled serenely at Dumbledore and sipped his tea.
"Well Tom, I assume this existence is beginning to agree with you?" Dumbledore asked obtusely, as if he could see the finer, inner workings of Voldemort's mind- which, honestly, if he could and still smile pleasantly like that, looking Voldemort in the eye, then perhaps the man would be slightly more bearable- Sadly, that was not the case.
"Well enough, I suppose."Voldemort agreed mildly.
Dumbledore nodded, and looked off to the side, studying a column of marble with great interest. Sometimes their talks petered out before the second breath could even be reached. Voldemort settled in, allowing his mind to formulate more ways in which to torment the Blasted Boy Who Lived.
Voldemort followed closely on Harry's heels, dogging him step for step. Harry twitched violently and turned around quickly, unable to catch a glimpse of the man- uh death- following him for Voldemort was always at his back.
Voldemort sniggered to himself and then leaned forward, brushing Harry's ear with his lipless mouth. "I always have your back, Potter." He promptly vanished as Harry whipped around, wand in hand and a curse on his lips.
"Revenge is sweet!" Voldemort crowed. The ancient wizen old wizard stared at him funnily.
"Okay there sonny?" the old man asked.
Voldemort glared and curled a hand around the man's wrist. "Shut up and die." He muttered, watching the soul fade from sight.
Voldemort slowly upped his tactics. Harry was standing in the hall of St Mungo's, walking with exaggeratedly careful steps, up and down in front of a tightly closed door. His arms were held awkwardly in front of his chest and he was muttering.
He's finally broken, Voldemort thought with a grin, standing close enough to hear the inane mutterings.
"Shhh, please go to sleep. Mommy needs to you sleep- and so does Daddy. Come on James, you can sleep. It's okay, please go to sleep." It was then Voldemort took stock of which level of the hospital they were on.
Voldemort felt a tick twitch his eye.
The was a tiny little thing in Harry's arms. No bigger than the length of his forearm, minus his hand. A thin, smattering of dark fuzz covered its head and big wide eyes stared up, almost mockingly at his father.
Voldemort hovered closer, taking in that expression, absolutely calm, though obviously wide awake. He felt a flash of camaraderie for the tiny little imp. He seemed to have his own plans for driving Harry Potter to suicide through sleep deprivation. Those clear, blue eyes shifted, staring at Voldemort full in the face.
Harry noticed the shift of his son's eyes and followed, jumping back and cursing.
Voldemort didn't disappear as he usually does. He stood stock still, slightly shocked at the almost warm... fuzzy feeling evoked by the baby.
Harry closed his eyes. "If my kid can see you, then that means you are real- really real."
"If you say so." Voldemort drawled, favouring a stance and tone normally adopted by Lucius Malfoy without realizing it. Harry, of course, realized it.
He snorted. "So two of the super villains come together in my hallucinations, then? Who's next? Can you cackle like that crazy Bitch Lestrange?"
Voldemort felt vaguely insulted but also a light thrill creep up his spine. I'm talking to someone who isn't dying, dead or Dumbledore!
When he didn't respond, Harry shuffled nervously. "You are dead right? You're not going to torture my family, are you?"
The chuckle that escaped him was dry, humourless. "No, I won't touch your family... yet. But I have no promises about you."
Harry took another, quick step back. "W-what are you?"
Voldemort grinned, displaying yellowed teeth and blackened gums. The pull of an impending death made him lean forward and hiss, "Death," before vanishing to the far reaching, northern tip of Ireland.
That was entirely too satisfying!
The next time Voldemort saw fit to stalk Harry, his child was toddling and his wife's over extended belly betrayed the fact that Potters produce too sodding fast! He waited for a moment when the red haired witch stepped out of the house with an exclaimed "Be right back, honey!" before stepping out into plain sight.
The boy, James, was standing in front of Harry, holding a ball, which he dropped with a clatter when he looked in Voldemort's general direction.
His eyes grew round. "Daddy, Daddy! Look!" he pointed an important finger at Voldemort who could only roll his eyes. "Bad man! Very bad man!" his face pinched together and he narrowed his eyes. "Go 'Way!" he shouted.
Harry sighed but didn't turn around.
"Didn't you miss me, Potter?"
"No Voldemort, I really didn't."
"Are you not... scared?"
Harry turned then, tired lines drawn around his eyes made him look thirty something rather than twenty something. Voldemort frowned. Time truly didn't hold still for him.
"Last time we spoke you said you were Death, as in the Grim Reaper type of Death." He shrugged and pointed to a bookshelf with rather old texts lining the shelves. "I looked it up." You can only touch someone about to die. You have to follow the rules."
Voldemort arched forward and hissed. "I follow no rules- I make rules! I rule death!"
Harry shrugged and stood, his joints creaking audibly. "Whatever." He muttered, then picked up James. "Come on, let's go for a nap, James."
"No!" James started to wiggle. He looked at Voldemort over Harry's shoulder. "Bad man! Bad, bad man! You leave Daddy alone! Daddy, Daddy! No nap. Nonononono nap!"
Harry was on the threshold of leaving the room.
"Potter. One thing." Voldemort said, uncharacteristically soft, "Why can the child see me?"
Harry did not turn around. "Didn't you know, being Death and all? James was stillborn, revived only because I threatened the healers with pain greater than you if they stopped trying."
Voldemort frowned. No he did not know that. He vanished before Harry had fully left the room.
"Am I not Death?"
"You are." Dumbledore agreed, steepling his finger together.
"Why, then, was I not aware of the death of a child."
Dumbledore frowned. "There is no death that would be hidden to you."
Voldemort fumed. "Then why was Harry Potter's son born dead without my knowing."
"Harry Potter?" Dumbledore spoke sharply. "Out of anyone else you could communicate with, you chose Harry Potter?"
Voldemort narrowed his eyes, refusing to shift like a guilty teenager. "I did not choose to communicate with anyone."
"Tom, you must let Harry Potter be." Dumbledore leaned forward, placing two hands flat on the table in a plea. "You no longer exist in a life where you have to destroy each other."
Voldemort glared at the old man, saying nothing on the subject, instead asking his previous question, "Why was the child born dead without my knowledge?"
Dumbledore stared with his clear blue eyes and sighed. "If you do not leave him alone, bad things will happen, Tom."
"I will not ask again." Voldemort glared at the wizen ex-wizard and the man shook his head sadly.
"I do not know why, Tom." Dumbledore admitted. "There are things in this universe that even I do not know."
The next time Voldemort came upon Potter, the man, in his late thirties, was crying over the dead body of his wife. Of course, this time Voldemort was aware of this death. Lucius was only too please when he was given the call, taking a perverse pleasure in taking the life of the girl who once thorwted his plans. His three children stood around him, the girl and oldest boy willowy and tall while the middle child was stocky and only middle height, a hair shorted than his younger sister.
The oldest, James, looked around. His eyes creased as they fell on Voldemort and the grim reaper had an unsettling sensation in the pit of his dead stomach.
James touched Lily and Albus' shoulders. He whispered something and they nodded, leaving the area with a curious look around, unable to see anyone present. James then spoke to his father in a short, quiet sentence.
Potter looked up. Grief aged his face by ten years, the lines deeply etched around mouth and eyes. Potter watched, mouth set in a firm line as his oldest son left his side to follow his other children. Voldemort stepped nearer.
"You son of a Bitch." This was spoken quietly, with such pent up emotion that Voldemort almost took a step back.
"You killed my wife." Volume was added now and Potter took an assertive step forward. "You kill everyone I love- what? Only because you can't have me!"
Voldemort frowned, indignant for some strange reason. Everything Potter said was more than true. He had spent the last however many decades trying to kill the brat, but something in the way he spoke, with complete and utter conviction, made Voldemort re-evaluate his supposed purpose.
Potter's face crumpled and he staggered backwards to lean against the coffin of his late wife. The absolute devastation was clear in his eyes and Voldemort felt some corner of his being, stilled and frozen over nearly a century before, throb in response. A memory, in that dingy room of that crowded orphanage with those judgemental, pious so-called care-givers who never hesitated to 'beat the devil' out of him whenever accidental magic occurred. Voldemort's hatred of Muggles had abated during the time he was forced to take their living souls, touching them so intimately in the very depth of their being. Though he didn't love them- Voldemort was and always will be incapable of that fleeting, disgusting emotion- he no longer hated them for he no longer feared them.
Potter's movements- his conviction and hate of Voldemort- woke this memory and understanding. By the time it was finally acknowledged, Voldemort realized that he didn't care. He was healed from all things mortal and his resentment melted away like ice in the spring. His back straightened and his expression cleared, shifting into something the likes of Potter has never seen.
"I do not kill." Death said.
"Yeah right you—" Potter looked up and met the black liquid stare.
"I take when the time is right. I take and guide them into the spirit world where they are given a choice- if such is available."
"Dumbledore." It was a whisper and Death inclined his head.
"But why you, Voldemort? Why are you given immortality and not suffering in hell?" Bitterness. Scorn.
"No longer." Death whispered.
A pause, thick and tactile, broke into pops with Potter's quiet sobs.
Death shook his head, his desire to see this man broken no longer present. Death turned away. "Rest Harry, for your wife will be at peace once her choice is made."
Death vanished, pulled away from the living room in which the red-haired woman lay in state. He found himself at the side of a wounded man, crying in torment as his body was trapped in the twisted metal frame of a VW Rabbit. Death reached through the window to grab hold of his hand and pull his soul free from the wreckage.