Doot. Doot.
A shaky few notes sounded from the mouth of Tom's trumpet. Though he surely had filthy mudbloods to kill, he knew this would be his last opportunity to play his worries away for a while. In a few moments, he would begin his assault on Hogwarts-the scale of which hadn't been seen before in the history of wizard-kind. The Forbidden Forest swayed in beat to his puffs, as if the trees themselves knew of his musical power.
He pushed the buttons and blew into the reed, playing his favorite song-"Careless Whisper." For those moments, he felt as if Harry Potter was already dead, and he was merely celebrating his victory in the shade of the forest. Nobody could tell him to stop, only he was to blame for his shortcomings. Since he was reborn, he had difficulty teaching himself the trumpet. The slits that were now his nose didn't provide for much quality breathing, and his lungs hadn't been the same since his stint with death and fog machines. Because of this, he had resorted to finding the lead jazz instructor at a muggle school named Julliard. He took his memories and spent a month in the pensieve, absorbing as many memories as he could. Now, he was sure to be the best wizard trumpeteer alive.
He sighed. This time tomorrow, he would be dead, victorious, or entombed in the walls of Azkaban, surrounded by the dementors he had once played for at the Dementor's Kiss-a bar for the mangly, old creatures. It was hard to imagine their hearty-though rattling-laughs now turned to the grunts of a warden. But that was why it couldn't come to that. Tom didn't care about Harry Potter, ruling the world, or extinguishing Mudbloods. He thought of his childhood idol, Adolf, who only ever wanted to paint. In a battle between means and ends, both would do anything to feel free to express themselves. He wouldn't tell his soldiers that, of course.
With another sigh, he played one last note and stowed his trumpet deep within his robes. Soon, he whispered to his friend. Soon.
It had been an hour since Voldemort called Harry to the Forbidden Forest, and he had yet to show. Hagrid was tied to a tree, poked and prodded by a few of his less intellectual followers. Resisting the temptation to retrieve his trumpet and blow their minds with his musical genius, Tom stroked the rim of his trumpet horn. It was almost as if it commanded him; a horcrux made to imprison him. A twig snapped.
Harry Potter had entered the clearing.
"Harry Potter," Voldemort whispered. It was almost over. All it took was one spell…
"Bombarda Maxima." Instantly, Voldemort felt a shockwave explode from his wand. The very air seemed to shimmer through a cloud of red mist, particles floating in slow motion. All his life, Voldemort had been doing it wrong. This was much more satisfying. Harry Potter was dead. There was no coming back from that.
"Stupefy!" A burly voice howled, the blast of light casting shadows across the meadow. As his body flew across the pine needles, Voldemort saw the hulking figure of Hagrid standing over him. "It's naht ah' umbrellah," he boomed. The shreds of ropes still hung on his leather jacket. Hagrid picked Voldemort up by the leg, stepping on the Elder Wand and snapping it in half. He didn't care about the wand, all he wanted to protect was…
"Oi," the tear-stricken Hagrid exclaimed. "Whut's 'at?" A shimmering shape sat in the grass.
"No-"
"Quiet, you… Or ah'll give yeh a lip piercin'." Hagrid bent over and picked up the trumpet, a shaky laugh escaping his lungs. "Is that… Ah trumpet?" He pressed his dirty, half-breed lips to the reed and blew a quivering note. He laughed some more.
"Azkaban's too good for you," he said. It's Jazzkaban you'll die in."
The End.