Sorry for the late update ladies and gents. I hope you fine folk will forgive me for being just a little bit lazy, and ff.net was down for a bit too... So in apology I offer a reference to a very fine work of comedy:
"Me thinks a plot is afoot," Sirius announced, looking grave.
"Do you really?" James inquired.
"Yup."
"Well, that doesn't mean a thing because you always think that!" James finished, smirking. "I highly doubt that there's anything going down myself.
from the hilarious Boxers or Briefs by rysta cat, but also a warning – you be off the edge of the map now readers, here be plot devices.
Yes, this is the chapter in which some semblance of a plot begins to form, in that this was the first chapter that was written of this story, and around which others were crafted. Enjoy.
Chapter 5 – Corn on the Taxi
Muttering under his breath absentmindedly the driver of taxi 683 swung down another one of London's indistinguishable narrow roads. Apart from the words he was muttering, this taxi driver would seem perfectly ordinary, "bloody Muggles and their bloody one way bloody streets".
Unlike other London taxi drivers, this one had taken no tests (not even the ones to assess hippocampal function) and right now was hopelessly lost. Pulling over (safely and legally we might add) and surreptitiously glancing around he whipped out his wand and giving it a quick polish he whispered "Point me". He was miles from his destination, barely even in London. From his hazy recollection of the London A-Z lying on the floor of his flat, the situation was hopeless. He might as well leave London and get on the M25 before circling round for re-entry in a more suitable area of London.
He sighed and ruffled his unkempt hair, unconsciously mirroring his long dead father in a gesture of frustration.
He gently teased his car back onto the streets and was mildly surprised to find that although it was rush hour, the traffic was allowing him to move faster than 3 miles an hour. He was accelerating towards the main road when it hit him, and there was nothing but pain. He was fighting to breathe, fighting for his life. He had only ever felt this kind of blinding agony once before and that couldn't be happening again. Voldemort could never hurt anyone again. He was dead. Harry had watched him die and given up his wizarding life. The Boy-Who-Lived wanted to be free to do just that.
What was happening to him??
~*Flashback*~
"Mwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha…"
He paused for breath, not wanting the feeling of utter delight to leave him and mildly cursing his need for oxygen
"hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha"
Once more, Voldemort paused to suck sweet life giving oxygen into his relatively recently acquired body. He opened his mouth to continue, but hesitated at Harry's upraised hand
"If I could just say one thing?"
Voldemort nodded his consent, pleased at the boy's (apparently) deferential attitude
"SHUT UP! I HAVE HAD IT UP TO HERE WITH YOU AND YOUR STUPID AND INCIDENTALLY PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR AN EVIL LAUGH. YOU KILL MY FRIENDS, MY PARENTS AND RUIN MY LIFE AND THEN WHEN THE TIME COMES"
he paused, visibly restraining himself
"the final battle is here and all you can do is laugh like some kind of second rate Bond villain. Incidentally, what is *with* the location Tommy-boy? Watching Muggle films again are we?" he spat " 'Cause why else would you choose secret lairs under castles, a cemetery and a bloody clock tower for heavens sake? Why not pick me off when I'm on the bog? I would have. I hate melodrama, you know that, right? I *hate* it."
Although, he had to admit, as far as places for a fight to the death went, the airy, spacious and well lit area behind the clock face and directly under the bell Big Ben was much nicer than he was hoping for. If he had to die any where, this wouldn't be so bad…
Breaking off from his rather morbid introspection, Harry noticed something. During his tirade, Voldemort had been eyeing him warily and edging away. He was good at yelling (Book 5 giving him plenty of practice) and he knew his body language was intimidating; it was pure Snape in Longbottom-what-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are-doing-don't-touch-that-or-I'll-kill-you-reformed-character-or-no mode. Just one more step back and Voldemort would be right in the path of…
Harry looked up, an evil glint in his eyes, "Incidentally" he began, "did you know that the interior of the House of Lords was designed by A. W. N. Pugin?" A frown crossed the face of the Dark Lord as he backed further away from the Golden Wonder Boy (no, no crisps, just Harry). Severus did mention in his last report that the Boy was unhinged, but this was too much. So disturbed was he that he didn't notice the magical pendulum of the clock tower swing closer until…
CLANG
The noise of Voldemort's body hitting the far wall was something Harry would never forget. It was a noise without an associated word, but since a word must be found, the closest he could ever get was squelch.
"Time's up" said Harry, kicking the prone body (or more accurately, sliding his foot around in it) of his former nemesis. "DAMMIT!" he yelled, in frustration. The only witty comment to spring from Harry's lips unplanned, and no one was there to acknowledge it. His anger was short lived; after all, he had just saved the world and freed himself from the huge burden he had carried for most of his life. Not knowing what else to do, Harry sat on the floor in a mild state of shock, randomly mumbling slightly illegal (but not unforgivable) curses until a team of Ministry Aurors arrived, headed by none other than his recently cleared Godfather, Sirius Black, who looked worriedly in his direction before enquiring gently, but none too subtly "Who's the stiff?"
Now you, gentle reader may wonder how much stupid potion Sirius has consumed since last you saw him, but remember that it is quite hard to identify a body which doesn't seem to have much of a face left, or much blood, or in fact any internal organs in the right places and is the consistency of strawberry jam. They would have to ID it the magical way, which takes a little time.
"Sir" squeaked a young and keen looking Auror fresh out of school (who we won't bother to name, since he's the expendable one of the team, you know, the nameless faceless one that gets eaten/murdered first or just plain forgotten) "It's Voldemort!"
"You can't be serious!" cried another Auror who Harry recognised as Kingsley Shacklebolt.
"No" came the immediate and automatic reply from his superior "I am"
"It was funny when we were eleven Padfoot, but do shut up" came a soft voice from the other Auror whose face Harry hadn't seen. What was Remus doing there? It suddenly hit him. He had been in trouble, and the first people on the scene were exactly those he needed to see. People who cared about Harry, not the Boy-who-lived. This smacked of Dumbledore, but right now he was just relieved they were there. His musing was cut short by a loud whoop and two over excited Marauders leaping on him, ruffling his hair and grinning wildly, before realising that they were supposed to be the responsible adults.
Harry trembled slightly, the enormity of the situation hitting him. He had hoped no one would notice, but Remus didn't have a reputation as the sensitive one for nothing. His heightened werewolf senses meant he could practically taste Harry going into shock. Leaving his emotionally retarded best friend to deal with the mess on the floor formerly known as Voldemort he knelt by Harry and pulled him into a hug. He was stunned by the fierceness with which Harry responded, and was grateful for his lycanthropy for the first time. Had it been anyone else, the broken ribs he felt would have taken lots of explaining and a week or two to heal. He let the young man he regarded as a son sob onto his shoulder wincing slightly. When Sirius finally wandered over he joined in the group hug, but everyone else seemed a little reluctant to approach the Boy-Who-Whupped-Voldie's-Ass. This little titbit didn't go unnoticed, and Harry suddenly realised that as long as he was a wizard he would never be truly free. It was in this moment, amidst the celebration, that Harry decided to leave, and despite all prior evidence to the contrary indicating a second fight to the death, Sirius just smiled and let him go.
~*End Flashback*~
Harry still couldn't breath. In fact, the flashback had taken up so much time that his lungs were burning. For his seventeenth birthday Sirius gave Harry "How To Not Die In Three Easy Steps" by Nicholas Flamel and a lifetime subscription to Stayin' Alive magazine (a Bee Gees fanzine. The mangy mutt's mind works in mysterious ways). The first at least offered plenty of surviving without oxygen spells, but ironically enough, these required lengthy incantations, and, therefore a certain amount of breath, to work. As he passed out, his last thought was "wsmsmmmw…"
He awoke, a few seconds later with a throbbing head to find he had crashed straight into the obligatory fire hydrant, in accordance with the laws of car crashes. This in itself would not be all that strange, except there aren't any fire hydrants in England.
Nevertheless the anomalous fire hydrant was gushing water and the front of his taxi was knackered, but on the plus side Harry could breathe. A wave of his wand mended the fire hydrant and he was about to do the same to the front of his taxi when a crazy drunk Russian stumbled up to him, reeking of Vodka and slurred "Excusing me, but your nose light has chasm"
"Thanks Tonks" he replied calmly, laughing slightly when the Russian sprouted bubblegum pink hair and yelled "DAMMIT". With a pop, the witch vanished. Harry's head hurt too much to laugh, but he contented himself with smirking at the Metamorphamage's terrible Russian accent. Thanking the fates that there was no one else around, he repaired the battered bonnet, and since there's no point being half-arsed about this kind of thing, gave his car a hot wax treatment at the same time.
Admiring his own wand work, Harry got quite a shock when something landed on his head and tried to take out his eyes. Myopia has its advantages, and his glasses warded off the attacking ball of feathers until Harry could get a purchase on what had to be Finius, Ron's psychotic owl of doom. A hurried scrawl simply read (no, not the band)
Harry,
Don't *ever* do that again. I fell face first into a pile of dragon dung. It appears we found out what that curse Avery used on me actually does. If you go further than ten miles from me I die. The medi-witch reckons you might make it though.
Incidentally, did you know that the interior of the House of Lords was designed by A. W. N. Pugin?
Manly love,
Ron
In the middle of the letter there was a huge area of blottings and crossings out where Ron had begun to explain the situation more fully to Harry and had thought better of it (if he wasn't a Gryffindor, we'd say chickened out). Since Harry had no idea of this, his immediate concern was Ron's newfound dependence and manly love. The combination had the potential to be worse than marriage.
He climbed back into the taxi and drove away, unaware of the other (and this time legitimate) quasi-drunk watching from the shadows. This man had been quite happy sitting on a mildly uncomfortable doorstep, with no larger worry than whether his mother was right about getting piles from sitting on cold stone. Harry's amazing display had driven away the last vestiges of inebriation and his attention was solely focused on what he had just seen. David Blaine was as yet unheard of (A/N: oh, blissful ignorance) and this kind of street magic was hot. Right then and right there, the man, a casting agent, no less, vowed that when he saw the taxi driver again, he would sign him up.
Next week, Chapter 6: In which we learn Severus' true opinion of PVC.
References
Terry Pratchett, Soul Music
Shanghai Knights
Austin Powers – for the maniacal laughter think Dr Evil
Many (Marauder) fics have a "you can't be serious" moment in them. If someone actually owns this concept, tell us and we'll tell everyone to read your fic. It's hilarious.