We know that Tom's other Horcruxes had defense mechanisms that protected them. So I thought, what if the one inside Harry triggered a sense of self-preservation that overrode Harry's 'saving people thing'? Because really, Albus risked an awful lot on the assumption that Harry would just merrily skip off to his death.
.
.
3. Jiminy Cricket's Evil Twin
(aka Albus' mistake, take two)
Having dropped the Resurrection Stone – he loved them all, really he did, but he didn't think he could take any more of their pep talk – our stalwartly hero stepped into the clearing. All talk ceased as one by one the Death Eaters took notice, and they parted like the Red Sea for Moses so their Lord could see the newest arrival. At the far end of the clearing his arch nemesis grinned, and seeing the sight innocent little birds dropped to the ground frozen in terror.
"Welcome, Harry Potter."
That voice – that condescending tone oozing with fake politeness – made him want to grab his wand after all and give it his best shot. Instead, he took a deep breath to calm himself. Then, figuring he was going to die anyway, our rebellious hero nodded his head in greeting as he cheekily replied, "Tom."
"I knew you'd come. You couldn't resist, could you? Handing yourself over for certain death in the pitiful hope that you might save your friends' lives – a boy hero such as yourself lives for moments like this." He paused for dramatic effect, then chuckled loudly as he continued, "did you really expect me to keep my word? Me? Surely you know me better than that, Harry?"
Harry didn't respond; staying calm was bound to rile the babbling idiot far more than anything he could think to say.
"Before you go ... shall I tell you my great plan, Harry? Shall I let you know what fate awaits your classmates? Those blood traitors and mudbloods you love so much? It's simple, really. But first, let me tell you how I convinced the werewolves to join me. It all started …"
With an exasperated sigh, and slight shake of his head, Harry tuned him out. He didn't care what Voldemort had promised the werewolves. And he certainly didn't need to know what Voldemort had planned for his friends, because it wasn't going to happen anyway. Once he was dead, they would kill the snake and Voldemort would be mortal again. Then someone would kill him, and they'd be the hero! Probably without the nifty scar to show for it, he bitterly thought. Then Ron and Hermione could get married and spend their lives arguing over when to have sex, and Ginny … well, she'd probably never get over him, and she'd spend the rest of her life depressed and alone.
"… giants eat trolls, as you well know, so it was laughably easy …"
What if, Ginny aside, everyone else moved on with their lives and forgot all about him? He'd be just a footnote in some history books. Not even mentioned by name, just by that hated title, The Boy Who Lived – Until He Died. He didn't have any heirs … and he'd never gotten around to writing a will … who would get all his money? Maybe the Ministry would take it – or worse, it would be given to his only relatives, the dratted Dursleys.
'Maybe this wasn't such a great idea.'
What was he thinking, the tiny voice in the back of his mind continued, letting his dead parents and their dead friends tell him how great death was? Of course they'd tell him that; they were dead. What were they going to say … 'death sucks Harry, so stay alive as long as possible'? Only an idiot wanted to die, the voice continued, especially when he has so much going for him.
Indeed he did. His vault was filled with gold just begging to be wasted on trendy clothes and expensive trinkets … he'd just renewed his subscription to Which Broomstick (buy four years and get the fifth year free!) … he planned to seduce Ginny Weasley and Susan Bones into sleeping with him – hopefully at the same time. And now, because of some totally irrational decision, one which he was starting to suspect was spell-induced – a little going away gift from Snake-Food-Snape, if you will – he wouldn't get to enjoy any of that.
"... twenty-two minutes of Cruciatus, he never repeated that 'there castle' joke in my presence again ..."
Unfortunately, a dozen or so Death Eaters and one noseless freak made it pretty difficult to back out now. So, alright, he'd agreed to die and apparently he was stuck with it; but he hadn't signed up for verbal torture first. Glancing over, he could tell the other was still rambling on ... "and only I could figure it out with my superior intellect-"
"Look," our frustrated hero cut in, in typical teenage rudeness, "can we just get on with it already?"
"Manners, Harry," Voldemort scolded. "How disappointed Albus would be. He groomed you to face death like a man. Real men respect their elders, Harry, and your elder is speaking, so hush up and pay attention. Now, where was I? Oh yes … with my superior intellect … "
Closing his eyes, our exasperated hero leaned back against the nearest tree, his mind continuing to spin. How long had Dumbledore known? Had the man been plotting Harry's death since he'd so kindly visited the Dursleys before Sixth Year? Since he'd given Harry the prophecy? Since the tournament? 'Perhaps he'd always known.'
And now, no thanks to the meddling old fool, he was stuck here waiting to be killed. That's right … waiting. Snape might have been willing to end Dumbledore's misery, but Voldemort didn't have a compassionate bone in his body. Except maybe the one he'd stolen from his father, but that probably didn't count.
"… could a werewolf mate with a nundu, I wondered? Fenrir, it turns out, was disturbingly eager to test that theory …"
Dumbledore, he concluded, had died too easily. He deserved to have still been alive when he went over that turret. Mauled while hand feeding lemon sherberts to nestling dragons; that would have been a fitting death for Albus Dumbledore. Getting his eyes gouged out by an angry Mrs. Norris as they danced under the mistletoe - if the ensuing infection didn't kill him, Filch no doubt would have. Forced to drink 18 cups of Turkish coffee then sit through an all-weekend History of Magic class; the old man would've killed himself just to escape that torture. Or how about Dumbledore, one of Dobby's knitted hats, and a plastic spoon against a basilisk …
Unnoticed by either our heroic hero or Soliloquy Sam, the Death Eaters had also long since stopped listening to the speech. They'd also stopped pointing their wands menacingly at Harry. If our hero's eyes had been open, he might have realized he could, in fact, make a run for it. Or a walk for it. For terrorists, their current actions were rather light in the terror department.
Across from Harry's tree a few of the younger men were debating the appropriateness of hiring Muggle strippers for tonight's after-party. Father Crabbe was sitting on the ground watching Narcissa Malfoy's every move with his hands deep in his robes in a most suspicious manner. For her part, the lady Malfoy had joined a group that was playing strip gobstones. She was winning, much to everyone's disappointment; and she was a sore winner, questioning the manhood of her opponents every time she took a round. Oddly, her own husband, who was now shoeless and naked from the waist up, was the recipient of her most vicious comments.
Bellatrix Lestrange wasn't playing; most doubted she could handle the math involved. She was probably the only one in the clearing still listening to Voldemort. Currently, she was sitting at her Master's feet, staring up at him with a look that was half 'that's the most fascinating thing I've ever heard and I don't even understand what you're saying', half 'I love you', and half 'did I remember to put on clean knickers this morning?'
A loud noise, which our dozing hero mistook for the mating grunt of the graphorn, captured everyone's attention. Harry's eyes slit open, the gobstone players hastily dropped their cards (and in some cases, tried to hide their state of undress), Bellatrix drooled on Voldemort's sandal, and Crabbe moaned.
The Dark Lord cleared his throat again, louder this time. Seeing Harry's eyes open, he called out, "I said … this is goodbye, Harry Potter." To emphasize his point, he aimed his wand at Harry's head.
"Oh, right …right," Harry replied as he stifled a yawn. Then, in an exaggerated move, he pushed himself away from the tree and stepped toward the middle of the clearing. Thus positioned, he gave his last words. "My only regret is that I won't live to see your death … well, that and I'm still a virgin … and I'd've kinda liked to visit Sweden, it just sounds like such a cheerful place, ya know … and I've never tried firewhisky, which is odd when you think about it. I mean, what teenager doesn't sneak alcohol? And I wish that time Hermione and I—"
Green light impacted with his forehead, leaving everyone to wonder what he and Hermione had once done as his body fell backwards. Perhaps it was the fact that they'd all expected Potter to die … perhaps it was that they believed their lord invincible … perhaps they just didn't like to look at his creepy face … whatever the reason, only one of his followers had been paying attention to him, so only she noticed when their master toppled along with the boy. And that was mainly because he fell on top of her.
For eighteen seconds, everyone in the clearing appeared frozen – but to be fair, our horizontal hero only did so because he was mostly dead.
As Voldemort stood and shook the dirt off his robes, Purgatory Harry was busy tuning out the voice of his former Headmaster (who he really did not want to talk to just now) so he could concentrate on the hypnotic hissing coming from somewhere on the ground ... As Lucius Malfoy crossed his arms over his bare chest in an attempt to stay warm, Nearly Lifeless Harry listened – and couldn't help but agree – as the voice explained that Dumbledore didn't have his best interests in mind ... As Bellatrix used the excuse of cleaning her master's sandals to lick his toes, Waking Harry struggled to rouse himself, noticing neither Dumbledore's shouted warnings nor the cute little monster that grabbed onto his leg as he did so.
Blinking, our revived hero woke just as Voldemort commanded, "Check him Narcissa. Make certain he lives no longer."
Narcissa began to bend down to check for a pulse when Harry's coughing saved her the trouble. As she backed away, he slowly climbed to his feet.
Voldemort watched in disbelief. He looked at the wand hanging limply in his hand, and gave it a shake. Randomly choosing a target, he hissed, "Sectumsempra," and Crabbe Senior joined his son in the great Death Eater afterlife (known to all others as hell) as his head rolled away from his body. Confident his wand was working properly, he took aim at our wobbly hero and shouted "Avada Kedavra" while flourishing his wand extravagantly.
This time, Comatose Harry arrived at an empty King's Cross, Dumbledore having left after their last encounter. There was a red muppet-like creature hugging his leg and hissing at him to wake up.
"Ow," he groaned as he once again climbed to his feet.
"Impossible," Voldemort muttered to himself. Pointing his wand at Lucius Malfoy, who he'd just noticed wasn't wearing a robe or a shirt – did the man have no respect? "Avada Kedavra," he yelled again, but this time, he paid close attention to make certain his wand movement was correct.
Narcissa Malfoy gasped as her husband fell to the ground, most obviously dead, before sending a private smile to Yaxley.
Slowly and precisely, he aimed at the boy who was now swaying slightly, and he carefully pronounced, "Avada Kedavra."
After a fleeting glimpse of King's Cross Station, where he'd happily embraced the hissing little muppet-monster, Harry opened his eyes to find himself lying on the forest floor again. He got up slowly, muttering something about barmy headmasters whose brains were rotted by too much candy.
"How are you doing that?" Voldemort shrieked, sounding remarkable like Molly Weasley, not that Harry would be pointing that out.
Standing with his hands on his knees, clearly out of breath from resurrecting too many times without rest in between, our worn-out hero whined, "well, I certainly don't know. You think I'd have strolled in here and surrendered myself if I'd known this was going to happen? Maybe it has something to do with the weird voice that keeps telling me to come back. Maybe when you used my blood to make your new body, you somehow tied our life forces together so that I can't die as long as you're still alive. Or maybe neither can live while the other survives –no wait … scratch that last one. I've got it … maybe when gave me this scar you gave me a bit more than just a scar, if you get my meaning. That's what Dumbledore thought, anyway … 'course he also thought shoes that buckle were a good fashion choice."
Wide eyed – for he'd never considered any of those possibilities – Voldemort cleared his throat. "Right. Good to know. Soooo … now that I've proved that there's no point in trying to kill each other –"
"Oh, is that what he was doing? I thought he was just failing at killing the kid," mumbled a young Death Eater who was wearing an 'I love mudbloods, they taste like chicken' t-shirt instead of robes. Unfortunately for him, Voldemort's snake-like sense of hearing, er, sensing allowed him to catch the remark, and he proved he still mastered the killing curse.
Pointing at the dead body, he announced, "Let that be a lesson to never question me. Now, Potter … Harry … what do you say? Care to reconsider my offer from years ago and join me?
Considering everything he'd been through since Snape's timely death, our peeved hero realized he had two options. One: follow Dumbledore's plan and sacrifice himself for the greater good by suggesting Voldemort cut off his head – that always worked on zombies, right?; or two, he could listen to what that tiny voice in the back of his mind has been screaming for the last twenty minutes, and screw everyone else and save himself. If he chooses the former, his friends can live long happy lives … without him. But if he chooses the latter, he might get that chance with Ginny and Susan … "Alright … I'll do it. I'll join you."
A tiny presence in the back of his brain purred. It had succeeded in protecting itself. And while the boy wasted his time trying to seduce school girls, it would be plotting to overthrow that overgrown soul donor and take over for itself.
Voldemort, unaware of the twinkle that was starting to form in Harry's eyes, pressed on. "You'll be my right hand man, then? I seem to find myself short one." As he said this he casually pointed toward the beautiful but oh-so-dead corpse of Lucius Malfoy.
"Yeah … whatever," Harry agreed distractedly. He'd just noticed the Widow Malfoy and Yaxley seemed to be playing Name That Body Part.
"Master," whined a voice from behind Voldemort, and both looked to see Bellatrix kneeling with her hands clasped together as if in prayer.
"Ah yes … and take Bella here as your mate, and give her children to be raised in my image?"
"And make me his sex slave, Master," she reminded.
"Yes, yes … and the whole sex slave thing," Voldemort added in a bored voice.
Harry had the impression they'd had that discussion a time or two before. "Look," he sighed, "if it gets you to stop killing me, I'll do it. And when I find the bastard that said the Killing Curse was painless, I'm gonna kick his scrawny arse," he added as he rotated his left arm.
"And tie me up? You have to be willing to tie me up," Bellatrix eagerly shouted, looking like Ron on Christmas morning.
"Oh, don't worry, I was never opposed to that."
.
Several weeks later, in his opulent chambers formerly known as the Headmaster's Chambers – which technically was still true, as Voldemort had generously named him Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Magic and Mayhem – Harry returned to his bedroom to find a scantily clad Bella waiting in his bed.
"Want to play Dungeons and Dragons," she coyly asked.
"I think you mean Mudblood and Master … Dungeons and Dragons is a Muggle game," Harry corrected, trying his best to ignore the hag.
"Yes, Master. Tie me up?" Without waiting for a response, she leaned back and reached for the bedposts.
Happy to oblige, Harry flicked his wand and thick polyester ropes wound themselves around her wrists. He watched as she checked the tightness of the knots, and when he was certain she wasn't getting away, he turned away from her and checked himself in a mirror. Happy with what he saw, he wrapped a scarf around his neck and tussled his hair. "Looking spiffy," the mirror quipped, his reflected self giving him a thumbs-up.
Satisfied, he went to the door, but paused before leaving. "Make yourself comfy," he said, chuckling at his own joke, "I'm going out, and I'll probably be gone for a while. Narcissa just informed me that Tonks' weekly interrogation is finished, so we thought we'd pop in and see if she's up for a game of strip gobstones. It's never the same game twice with her, if you know what I mean."
"But – but, " Bella sputtered, "you just tied me up. You promised our lord you would tie me up and have sex with me."
"No," he corrected her, "I promised to have sex with you and tie you up, I never said I would do them at the same time. I'll get around to the other eventually."
Closing the door on the cursing witch, he made a mental note to invite Ginny to next weeks game. And Susan Bones. And maybe even Daphne Greengrass.
Deep in our tainted hero's mind, his inner snake was content.
** end chapter **
Notes: Is it just me, or could that have really happened? Not the strip gobstones; the part where the horcrux hitched a ride back to the land of the living. I mean, the diary was purposely draining Ginny's life so it could survive ... shouldn't the one in Harry have put up some sort of fight, instead of sitting around crying. And why did 'it' look like a freaky muppet, when the one from the diary looked human? Hmm...
