Chapter One: The Headache We All Chose to Ignore

         As it was prophesied, Harry the son of Potter, must kill the evil, murderous, ugly, sure-of-himself malevolent Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort (cringe) – or else perish in the attempt. I mean, this was prophesied – if Potter doesn't kill the Dark Lord, then the Dark Lord kills Potter. It's written in the stars somewhere, or something, so it must be true. Sure, we are all pretty much positive poor, young, noble Harry who has his heart in the right place and wears those cute little round glasses will surely stand triumphant over the murderer of his parents, that's how most adventure stories end – the evil, ugly antagonist would never prevail – good triumphant over evil. However, there is one small glitch for our hero, growing ever hotter, Harry James Potter – The man he has to kill is immortal.

         Damn overlooked detail. 

         No, he can't be! Voldemort (cringe) must be able to die, or else what is the point of heroes? What is the point of this brilliant, hopeful tale? Let's review the definition of immortal, shall we – CANNOT DIE. Hmm… sucks to be Harry then.

         However, as in most proper legends, there is an exception – the prophesy. Oh, I thought you said – blah blah blah. I didn't say anything. I said there was a prophesy saying that only one of the two may live and that Voldemort (cringe) cannot die… but, how did the story of the Dark Lord's disappearance go – oh yeah. Voldemort (cringe) kills James, kills Lily, tries to kill one-year-old Harry, but fails. He transfers, most unwilling, let me tell you, his powers into the unharmed save for a scar baby. What makes us Death Eaters kick ourselves in our pants is that at the time of Voldemort's "death", (forgot to cringe) is that he was, in fact, immortal. So where does all this rambling have to do with anything… Let me say this slower… If – Voldemort – transfers – his – powers – to –baby – Potter – and – He – was – immortal – at – the –time – where – does – that – leave – the – kid? Ah, catching on… immortal. And what does immortal mean, my young scholars? Right-o – CANNOT DIE.

         Now great! Two bloody predestined to have an ill fated life damn it immortals have to battle it out to the death, and none of them can die! Unless, of course, we go by brilliant historian's T.R.R Tolkien's definition of immortal – CANNOT DIE unless you get killed by an orc or your girlfriend dumps you. However, times are different now – now children our running about in mini-robes, saggy pants, smoking dope, and creating babies in the back of their fathers' pick-up brooms. Orcs are extinct, and who cares if your girlfriend dumps you – you just continue with the fling you've been having with your teacher all that time. To the point – Harry and Voldemort (cringe) cannot die.

         And that's where I come in.

         You've probably been wondering who has been rambling all of this time, creating that headache your young minds have been desperate to head off. So let me introduce myself – my name is Will. William Whisp. You may have heard of me, or you may just want to stuff my living annoying wits out, but if you are anything of a Quidditch fan, you would know that my great-great uncle on my father's step-father's side wrote the ever so popular Quidditch Through the Ages, written by Kennilworthy Whisp. (Kennilworthy – hmm… his mother must have hated him.) I, however, am pretty much on the other end of the spectrum. I don't write Quidditch How-To books. I am a Death Eater. I write the history of my master's days, I record every brilliant thing He does, I hand out suggestions whenever that brilliant mind of his goes into a rampage because all of his brilliant ideas are being thwarted by that "brilliant" Dumbledore… and sometimes the "Brat" as Voldemort (I'm getting tired of cringing, so I'll wince) likes to refer to Potter… in other words, I'm the one in the Death Eater Order who does all of the thinking. I'm thirty-five-years old, my sign in Aquarius, I enjoy long, thoughtful strolls through ravishing woodlands, and my favorite color is green.

         Lately, my master has been in an intense heat because Potter still lives and breathes. How can the Brat defy the most power, most evil, most ugly Dark Lord ever to walk the face of the earth so many times?! (At this, I would cough, and remind him quietly exactly what happened the day he disappeared, and the whole both of them being immortal thing, yet again. His temper has been at a peak lately, so I've been holding off reminiscing as of late.) I was called into another entirely secret, black jacket club member only meeting. I don't do anything too grand – just stand in a corner and record all the brilliant ideas that come out of the Dark Lord's mouth and comment on how completely ravishing he looks in his new, pre-wind blown robes. The Dark Lord wants to make sure everything he does is recorded so in the future people can look back to them and stroke their chins and exclaim; "Now he was particularly malevolent, wasn't he. Why can't life today be as exciting as back then? Oh, wait – he still lives… oh wait – I'm dead because he's already killed me. Damn." However, I personally think he wants me to write down everything because somewhere very deep within his bony bosom he fears the dreadful protagonist will defeat him, so my words will be his last chance of making him immortal. Oh, yeah – that damn overlooked detail again – he IS immortal.

         So, anyway, it was a Friday and I was crammed into a corner again, ready to take notes at another strictly secret Death Eater meeting. I remember it was a Friday, because on Fridays Chef makes a particularly mean lasagna, and I was still picking the spinach out of my teeth. Death Eaters were already sitting around a long, rectangular table with a plate of biscuits set in the middle. The Dark Lord was pacing in the front. It was pretty hard to see, actually. The Dark Lord has fair skin and sensitive eyes, and even candle light hurts his possessed, snake-like eyeballs, so only three candles were lit, and they were on the other end of the table. I could tell he was pacing, but I couldn't tell if he was wearing his new robes Crabbe got him for his birthday. It was driving me mad.

         Finally, the Dark Lord stopped pacing and gripped the back of his chair. I wrote in my account that his knuckles were white with rage, even though the poor lighting prohibited me from that fascinating detail. However, even the few candles that were lit made his red eyes glisten angrily and threateningly. I quickly wrote that down.

         "I have called this meeting," began the Dark Lord, the ever-so-fearful Voldemort (cringe – I'm getting tired of that damn rule stating you must cringe at the very sound of his name. That rule wasn't the best of my ideas.), because –" he went on about how much alive the boy still is, and my mind wondered off on the many theories I created why he insists on forgetting he passed his powers onto Harry those fifteen years ago, making Harry just as immortal as he is. I didn't need to bother with paying attention to Lord Voldemort's (that's it, I forbid myself to cringe) prologues, because they are all the same – a lot of whining about his thwarted plans. I was happy when the candle light finally picked up what robes he was wearing, and I gleefully scribbled down that they were the ones Crabbe bought him for his birthday. I should not have let myself get carried away with my obsession on robes, for he had, to my dismay, changed his opening speech. Voldemort chose to reunite himself with that brilliant mind he lost the day he disappeared, and created one of his most genius ideas – he thought it was genius at any rate. I, however, wasn't as enthusiastic as the rest of them were. I must have been daydreaming and picking the spinach out of my teeth for about fifteen minutes (Voldemort's prologues usually lasted for about a half-an-hour), and I was suddenly shaken from my reverie by the shouts of laughter and sucking-up praise from the Death Eaters with the "exciting" jobs. My eyes snapped forward, and my quill was instantly at my paper, because I noticed all of their mean, beady eyes were bearing into me. I looked to my master, and he too, was staring at my shadowy figure with a slight smirk on his wickedly chiseled, pale face. I gulped.

         "What – " I cleared my throat, "what was that last part, your wickedness?"

         Voldemort's sneer was more pronounced. "I was just telling my followers how brilliant it would be to have a child on the staff, to get me closer to Potter. A child who would be enrolled into Hogwarts and become best friends with the Brat – a child who could lure him out of that protective castle and bring him to me – a child who would finally lead to Potter's death. Do you have any idea where I could find such a child?"

         Oh! I was almost forming droplets of sweat on my upper lip for a second. He was merely asking for the Historian's help yet again was all. I thought hard of where we could find a child who would be faithful to the ultimately scary dark wizard, and a few names popped to my mind.

         "What about Crabbe and Goyle's sons?" I suggested. "They're already in Hogwarts, and they could get close to the boy."

         Crabbe and Goyle chuckled. "They hate each other," they said. "They've already been plotting his death for years, but are too slow to catch him. My boy…" I frowned. I hated when they went all synchronized like that. It was as if they planned it that way, and it can become very annoying.

         "Then what about –"

         "Whisp, I do not want to hire a student at Hogwarts," Voldemort interrupted, I fell silent instantly. "A student at Hogwarts could serve as a traitor as they have been under Albus Dumbledore's care for many years, and he could have rubbed his foolish ideas into their minds. I want another child – one who will not turn on me – one that already knows…"

         I frowned. One that already knows…? Like a child already a Death Eater? We didn't have any children like that. I shifted nervously on my feet – I did not like how they all were still staring at me.

         Voldemort smiled. It was hideous. Smiling wasn't a practice the Dark Lord was accustomed too; it stretched his thin skin across his bony cheekbones, and I could make out red veins splintering out all over his face. I suddenly grew very scared.

         I swallowed. "Then what, your evil lordship, do you plan on doing?" I braced myself… anytime Voldemort was asked this dreaded question, one of us dies.

         Voldemort's face lit up frighteningly. "I have an idea."

         Brilliant. I take my consciousness away from him for two seconds, and already his twisted mind was forming ideas he should not be dreaming up. I bit the inside of my mouth and tried to puff myself out to look manlier… I'm rather thin and have weak ankles. That's why when I tried out to be a Death Eater, I was shoved into a corner and handed a quill. Obviously, I would be better off not to get my chicken legs into any one's way.

         "You have been loyal to me since you were young," Voldemort continued. "It's time to test exactly how loyal you truly are."

         "Master, I am very loyal to you," I insisted, almost desperately.

         "Exactly the time to prove yourself then. I want you to do something for me… you can refuse, of course… exactly the same way you can die."

         I gulped. The Death Eaters with strong ankles laughed.

         I so wished I could have stopped this. If only I had paid attention to that damned prologue!

         "And – and what do you wish for me to do – Your Evilness."

         Voldemort smiled again.

         So here I am – sixteen again. Voldemort had actually planned ahead of that meeting, and had one of his spies concoct a de-aging potion. However, going back nineteen years wasn't the worst of it.

         My master, my savior, thought it would be easier to get closer to Harry and get him to trust me if I was enrolled into Hogwarts as a sixteen-year-old girl.

         I hate that spy.

         So here, I am, sixteen and female, in a platform, preparing to board the Hogwarts Express. I was extremely depressed. Sure, I may have been more connected to my feminine side then most Death Eaters, but I still had pride, darn it! I'm a man, I'm a historian… and I had to make sure Harry Potter fell in love with me long enough to lure him out of the castle and in front of Voldemort's wand, or else I would die.

         I am writing this account as it happens. I want to slit my wrists. I want to cry. I want explode. I want to rip off this c-cup bra I now have to wear and burn it in a trashcan. I want to go home.

         Why me? O why o why o why o me?

          P.S. Keep in mind… Harry Potter – he's immortal.