A/N1: Standard disclaimer. See chapter 1 for details.
It was finally the evening of the spring equinox. Tekamthe delivered the white cotton robes after Harry, Hermione, Claire and Sirius completed the required purging.
"Why don't you look as miserable as we feel?" Sirius joked shakily as he tied a hemp belt around his waist.
"Probably because I am not taking part in the ceremony," he replied. "This magic is not of my people."
"Well, it's not of ours either," he countered.
"So you want the mini-demon to remain attached to your godson?" he asked with a superciliously raised brow.
"Bad dog!" Claire smacked the animagus on the back of his head. "A few hours of barfing and pooping is a small price to pay for Harry to be free of this…whatever it is."
"She is right," Hermione pointed out, "but what if we are so weak as to impede the ritual?"
"Not to worry," the older man smiled at her, "a refreshing draught will be given you prior to its start. How are you holding up, Harry?"
The boy firmed his jaw, face pale. "Ready to get the bastard out of me," he stated.
"And we are here for you, Harry." Hermione took his hand.
"Very well. If all of you will touch the portkey, we shall be on our way. And relax, Mr. Potter, it is a short-distance transfer."
"Still don't like 'em," he muttered.
Hermione hesitated and her eyes widened at the item he held out. "Is that a real voodoo doll?"
"Nonsense," Tek answered with a chuckle. "It's just a bit of schlock sold to tourists in our false-front store off St. Anne's. Nothing to worry about."
"Where are we?" Harry asked as he scrambled to his feet upon arrival.
"Oak Alley Plantation," was Tekamthe's terse reply as he led them towards flickering lights and the sound of drums. He stopped once dancing figures could be seen in the torchlight. "I can go no farther."
The beats increased in pace as they neared the site, only to crash to a halt after reaching maximum resonance.
"Wow," Sirius whispered.
"Yeah, it hits you like that sometimes," Claire said.
"Come forward, supplicants of the Baron." As they entered the firelight, Mme Laveaux's figure appeared even taller with the elaborate headdress she wore.
"Miss Claire," Harry whispered, "do you think we got the wrong memo on the dress code?"
"Black and white are both colours favoured by the Baron," she informed him.
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Do you suppose that the ones doing the active part of summoning want to differentiate themselves from us, who are requesting an act of mercy?"
"You have a good mind, young mademoiselle." Mme Laveaux congratulated her. "And now, we–all of us–shall partake of the invigorating nectar, so that we will be able to endure the visitation of the Baron."
Muttering about germs as an oversized copper goblet was passed around, Hermione peered inside when it was handed to her. "Is that blood?"
"Non, chérie. 'Tis a mixture of beetroot and rum. One juice from below the ground and one from above, to prove to the Baron that we truly desire his presence."
"Then, in that case…" Hermione lifted it to her lips and swallowed a small amount before handing it to Harry. She blinked at the slight burn from the alcohol.
The three from Britain tensed as the drum throbbing once more commenced, increasing in a cumulative manner after each drummer took a sip from the cup. It rose to a crescendo then abruptly ceased. Mme Laveaux beckoned to them. "Vite! Come."
She drew them into the centre, where the torchlight dimly shone. "Walk softly here," she intoned, "for this sacred circle is from the time of enslavement. The blood of many has hallowed this ground and shall give us strength."
Positioning Harry with his feet to the west, she explained to the ever curious Hermione, "For proper interment, his head should face east. However, we are not burying him…yet." She chuckled at the boy's expression before continuing, a twinkle in her eye, "It is the interloper who shall be pulled out and stare death in the face. Clarisse," she called to her granddaughter, "sit at his head, as you are his source for knowledge. M. Black, sit at his feet, as you are his support in life. Or should have been," she added when Sirius winced. "Mlle Granger, you shall sit on his left side, near his heart, to be the love which keeps him strong."
"François!" she called and a man placed a bowl of dried leaves on Harry's right before handing her a basin. "A mixture of ground coffee and rum, two offerings which please the Baron. This," she nodded, "is not the offering, but will draw his attention to what we seek." She scooped the grainy mixture and smeared it over Harry's scar. "He will see that his pleasures have been corrupted by each other and in his anger will banish them and then the parasite."
Harry gave a nervous laugh. "As long as it's the Voldemort part that goes bye-bye and not me."
Hermione gasped sharply, but Mme Laveaux shook her head as if in amusement at a child's prattle. "Nonsense, chér. The Baron is well able to discern subtleties. Now," she straightened and stepped back; from somewhere she drew a staff of the same whorled wood as her wand and struck it on the ground, "begin!"
The sound of the drums mingled with the stomping of feet and made Harry's whole body throb. He did not know if it was the hypnotic rhythm of the instruments and dancers or the smoke from the leaves, which had ignited as soon as Mme Laveaux's staff made contact with the earth, which caused him to feel woozy. He was relieved to feel Claire's cool palms on each temple, Sirius's grip on his ankles, and Hermione's hand in his.
After a bit, a column of smoke whooshed into existence, and he saw the vague figure of a man emerge, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. "Ah, Marie," he purred, "it has been some time since you have requested my presence. Your beauty," he bowed, "remains as untouched as the first morning's dew."
"And you, my dear Baron," she genuflected in return, "are as dramatic and flattering as ever."
"But what is this?" His body posed in an exaggerated form of shock. "The coffee! The rum! You have ruined it!" His expression was hidden in the darkness, and the surrounding air thickened in menace. "What insult do you offer?"
"No insult, my lord. I am shocked that you would so defame me." With a gesture, a woman, glistening from the dance exertions, approached the loa; her body prostrated, she lifted a woven basket. "I believe you prefer the Cuban variety?"
"Ah!" He chucked the woman under the chin, ignoring Mme Laveaux's tongue click of disapproval and her whispered, "Beware Maman Brigitte's temper." Picking up a cigar, he inhaled its aroma before setting it alight with a finger snap. "You know me so well," he said smoothly before his attention returned to the tableau of people on the ground, "But what is this? This child is from across the waters and not one of ours."
"Not now, Baron, but soon. He has asked for sanctuary, and I have offered it."
"Sanctuary, Marie? His skin bears the pallor of those who enslaved us."
"I have the approval of the Fa. Look for yourself: his heart is pure, and he is one of mine. As such, I beseech you to right a great wrong done to him."
"A hefty favour for but a few cigars, chérie."
"Indeed," she lowered her head, "but it is my belief, Lord Baron, that there is a person who has made efforts to elude Death, even renaming himself Vol-de-mort. He has split his âme and placed a portion in this young man. The Morrígan and Hel have been too busy sniping over territory to deal with him properly. I have brought him to your jurisdiction so that you may free the child from this evil." She hesitated then sank to her knees. "I also beg of you to take only what is yours and leave the innocent until his appointed time."
"Well, well, well, Marie," he chuckled as he lifted her to her feet. "You are a perennial delight. Why, I don't know how long it has been since I have been so amused." Harry lay paralyzed while the man bent down, joints cracking as if his body consisted of nothing but bones, and with a swipe of a finger, cleared the now dried mixture from his forehead. "Ah, the lâche seeks to hide in plain sight. Fear not, mon fils," he patted Harry's cheek, "I will soon unburden you of this poseur. Regarde."
A long fingernail traced the lines of the famous scar. In the flickering light; Harry thought only a black mist hid the phalanges of the being. Although he felt no pain, he saw the man's hand lift a squirming mass of something and pull it towards him. His head would have lifted if not for Claire's grip. When the object pulled free with a slurping snap, he felt lighter, as if one of Pomfrey's unpalatable potions had suddenly banished a migraine. He was content to lie still and watch the remainder of the ritual, now that his part–hopefully–was done.
And so it seemed, for the Baron peered at the amorphous translucent ectoplasm, stretching it almost in glee, white teeth glistening in his dark face. "But this is so amusant! The fool thought to divide his soul and avoid my touch. My, my, what impudence has this little wizard, M. Flees-From-Death. And what a simpleton to link himself with someone whose family members have long been acquaintances of my compatriots."
He rolled the substance into a ball and tucked it inside his immaculate handkerchief. With a wave of one arm, the cigars in the basket rose and tucked themselves into his hat band. He gave a flourishing bow and kissed the air above Mme Laveaux's knuckles. "Merci beaucoup for providing me such a strong night for assembling a–comment dit-on?–jigsaw puzzle. As for you, young warrior, your appointment is many years hence. Au revoir until the next time." Then with a swirl of wind, he was gone and the torches blew dark.
Mme Laveaux wearily waved her staff and relit the fires.
"Great Merlin's bollocks!" Sirius attempted to regain his feet. "What the hell just happened?"
"The Baron happened, Siri," Claire informed him, and she and Hermione helped Harry rise. "And I do believe this young man's luck has turned. Is that not so, Grand-mère?"
"Oui, and while normally I would say that he owes the Baron a great debt, I do believe the entirety of Angleterre should foot the bill. As I am certain they will, whenever the Baron decides that it is time to pay the piper. Now, back through the wards and return to the school; leave it to us to close the circle and purify the soil once more."
Upon their return to Britain, the group immediately jumped into advanced training. Harry easily mastered the compiled list of spells, finding that his comprehension and power had notably improved. This spurred Hermione into competition mode, and they regularly duelled as a team against Claire. By mid-May the tutor proclaimed that their casting speed and variety put them at past OWL level and almost to NEWT in the practicals. Indeed, their attacks had been so fierce that Sirius had transformed into his canine persona when one hex headed his way, not trusting the power of Claire's duelling shield.
While relaxing after one such bout, Harry commented, "I wonder what the Baron meant about a jigsaw puzzle."
"Well," Hermione mused, "that diary in second year seemed to have also a portion of his soul. Maybe he made more."
Sirius shivered. "Even the Blacks were not as dark as that."
"Huh," Harry grunted, "so if he puts the pieces back together and takes him to the afterlife, does that mean I won't have to fight him again?"
"That's negative proof, but it's likely the only way to tell." Claire whipped out a tempus charm and chivvied them towards the door. "Grand-mère has complete faith in the Baron, so even if we never get the details, you can probably relax."
"You forget that I still have the Tournament to get through," he pointed out.
"Yes, but without the degree of difficulty which Voldemort would have added to the situation."
"Still, I'd love to know what happened," Hermione declared.
Britain, Spring Equinox:
Goblins raced toward the bellowing Ukrainian Ironbelly deep within the Gringotts caverns. It took over an hour to calm the great beast, and during that time they searched the area. Besides a small heap of tobacco ash near one of the vaults, nothing appeared amiss.
In a Central London dilapidated townhouse an ancient house elf gibbered hysterically, half in fright and half in jubilation while a charmed painting shouted at him, demanding to know what was going on.
On her weekly trek to deposit empty sherry bottles, an unexpected cloud of cigar smoke made the Divination teacher cough when she opened the hidden door of the seventh floor closet.
The Little Hangleton Fire Department responded to a blaze near the old Riddle mansion, but by the time they arrived, all they found was a smoking ruin of what appeared to have once been a shack. Having never recalled seeing a building there, they shook themselves out of shock and proceeded to spray water over the smouldering ashes.
Little did they know, but an even more dramatic scene was enacted in the house upon the hill. A rodent-faced man passed out and soiled himself when a snake exploded, showering guts and a not-completely digested rabbit on him and an extremely ugly baby. In his unconscious state, he missed a nightmarish figure picking up the repulsive child and dancing about with it, cackling in glee. "Just wait until I show old Morry and Hel how it's done!"
Lord Voldemort barely had time to think, Damn, I should've chucked this overly elaborate plan to kill Potter and just had Barty kidnap him, before his last corporeal body disappeared into the ether.
A/N2: I tweaked the mythology of death deities to have certain 'areas' of influence. The Morrígan is responsible for Ireland and other Celtic areas, while Hel covers Scandinavia. Due to the Viking invasions, those two argue over the island of Britain.
A/N3: I am awed and humbled by the number of readers who are following and/or have favorited the story. Thank you so much!