"Squeak!" Flitwick squeaked, falling off Merlin in his shock. "But the weapon- it won't be ready for another two days!"
Jacob swore and punched one balled fist into his palm. "We can't let them get away with this." He exclaimed, scowling.
"But Voldemort and the Night King together are so powerful," sighed Beric. "What-"
"Screw the Night King!" Screamed Jacob, angry spittle flying from his open mouth. "It's these Nor-folk I'm worried about-" He gestured wildly at the moaning figures on the wall. "They have to suffer!"
"If Voldemort takes over the school," Beric frowned. "Who knows what he'll do with the Nor-folk? He might set them free and press-gang them into his army."
"You're right!" Jacob exclaimed. "It's too big a risk, we can't allow these swine back into the world, we just can't!" He kicked one of the Nor-folk as hard as he could, a child of perhaps three, or four years old. Its skull smashed back against the cold, hard stone of the wall, making a sound like eggshells cracking. The body twitched and juddered for a few seconds before the sound of rattling chains stopped suddenly, as the head lolled forward; dead. Brain juice dribbled out of one ear like errant thoughts on the lam.
The Hound looked thoughtful for a moment, then opened his mouth to speak. "I have an idea." He said, nodding his head. "Yes... It's so crazy, it might just work."
Ten minutes later Jacob rushed into the Gryffindor common room, panting from the exertion of running all the way from Flitwick's dungeon.
"I need a volunteer!" He cried. "I need someone to help me infiltrate the army of the dead!"
Seamus jumped up and raised his hand in the air. "Count me in, I was born ter do this." He shouted.
Jacob frowned and looked a bit embarrassed. "Have we got anyone a bit less... Irish?" He asked the room.
Silence answered him.
"I need someone who can conceivably pass for one of the army of the dead." Jacob continued. "There's no time for fancy spells or makeup, we'll just have to rip our clothes a bit and hope for the best."
"You need someone who looks like a corpse?" Asked Ginny Weasley thoughtfully. "Have you, er- seen Neville lately?"
Just then Neville appeared at the top of the stairs to the dormitories. He looked ghastly; his cheeks were sunken hollows of depravity and he'd discarded his school robes in favour of black skinny jeans and an electric-pink fishnet wife-beater.
"Has anyone got any tampons?" He looked around the room with dead eyes.
Jacob frowned. "Edith's long past the menopause," he said suspiciously. "You better not be cheating on her."
Neville cast his haunted eyes to the ground and muttered, "they're for me."
Jacob laughed, "Edith's introduced you to 'Long-Tall Sally', has she?"
Neville nodded his head slightly, without raising his downcast eyes from the patterned carpet. "We tried using Edith's anti-fungal foot ointment as lubrication, but I'm still pretty torn up. I think I might be bleeding on the inside."
"There's no time to worry about that now!" Said Jacob quickly. "Neville I need you to come with me into great peril, and I can't guarantee we'll both make it back."
Neville finally looked Jacob in the eye. "I'm in," he said. "And if I don't come back... all the better."
The wind howled around the castle walls as Jacob and Neville snuck into the secret passage that led to Honeydukes, guarded by the one-eyed witch. Jacob had put on some concealer that'd he'd borrowed from Lavender Brown, and in his newly-tattered clothes he made a passable imitation of a dead warrior. They'd had to put some blusher on Neville and a small amount of lipstick, as in his natural condition he had looked far too ghoulish even for the army of the dead. He shuffled through the secret passage moaning.
"The army of the dead are generally silent." Jacob advised Neville. "So you don't need to do that impression."
"Impression?" Asked Neville, as he shuffled along wincing.
They went in silence the rest of the way, before emerging into the basement of Honeydukes. It was mercifully empty and they had no problem quietly getting up the wooden staircase and into the shop beyond. There they saw Bellatrix Lestrange noisily pleasuring herself with a sticky candy-cane the size of a baby's arm. She was hissing.
"Yes Draco! Yes Draco! No Draco! Oh no Draco! Not that way Draco! Oh go on then Draco! My... What are you doing here Lucius? Oh yes Draco- and Lucius!"
Bellatrix didn't open her eyes for the entire half-hour they masturbated each other all over her face, although she did sneak a few peeks when she thought no one was looking.
Tying the cords on his supple - but now tragically ripped - leather trousers, Jacob left the shop and shambled out into the dark Hogsmeade street to mingle among the army of the dead. A rotting, blank face stared at him, forlorn of any dignity or residual humanity. It was Neville. Jacob inclined his head slightly to indicate that the miserable deviant should follow him up the street, as he moved off in the direction of the Three Broomsticks, trying not to think too much about all the silent, dead faces surrounding them on all sides.
"What's going on at the school?" Neville hissed through clenched buttocks. "What are those large boxes on the walls? Who are all those people-"
But he was cut off by a sudden flurry of movement, as the doors to the Three Broomsticks flew open and out into the damp night air stepped Voldemort!
The Dark Lord was dressed in a pinstripe maroon zoot suit topped with an acid green trilby / open-scarf combination. In his right hand he held a shiny black cane, adorned with a gleaming silver metal skull. He seemed to have grown a beard since last Jacob had seen him, but it was threadbare and exclusively on his lower neck.
"They never learn." Voldmort said to Fenrir Greyback, as he studied the preparations furiously underway on the Hogwarts battlements. "They will join us, or die."
Greyback licked his slavering chops and definitely didn't have a wand.
Just then a deafening peal of feedback rent the night air and enormous spotlights began beaming out pools of brilliant, white light from the school walls. They lit up an impromptu stage that had been quickly erected on the parapet, enormous stacked speakers towered majestically on either side. Dumbledore moonwalked onto the stage in his hi-tops (a trick he had learned from Gandalf in return for giving out sexual favours to Frodo,) and raised the squealing microphone to his lips.
"Are you ready to rock?" He asked the assembled corpses, but no one spoke a word.
"It's your boy Dr-D, and repping for the potions crew tonight is Snape Dogg y'all!"
A few boos went up as Snape skipped on stage in his oversize dungarees and began body popping.
"I want to introduce y'all to a very special friend of ours, all the way from Casterly Rock, WEST-ER-OS!"
Jacob turned to Neville and winked. "Lets see how long they can stand this." He whispered, just audibly. "I give it half an hour before they turn tail and run."
Neville trembled and managed a weak smile through his thin, blue lips.
"It's Tiny-T!" Blasted Dumbledore. "With his jazz-reggae fusion, give it up y'all! Yo-yo-yo!" He pumped his fist.
Everyone was silent, but then a whoop went up nearby. Jacob looked around frantically, 'please God no' he thought as his eyes sought out the source of the sound. Tyrion began strumming his Strat up on the stage, a staccato rhythm with the emphasis on the upstroke.
"Whoop-whoop!" Cried the voice again. "Brrrrrap!"
This time there was no mistaking the source, it was Voldemort; And he was loving it!
"Wake up in de morning, lick-ing de bacon..." Tyrion warbled in a Jamaican patois, which made the word bacon came out sounding like 'beer-can'.
Jacob put his head in his hands and tried to fight off a rising despair. Tyrion's music was the shittest thing he had ever heard, his ears felt violated, he wanted to scrub his soul with lye and wire wool. Just a few feet away, Voldemort nodded along appreciatively, stroking his neckbeard in time to the rhythm. Midway through the song, Voldemort began clapping politely at a particularly fruity chord change.
"The Jazz clap!" Hissed Jacob to Neville. "He's a bloody jazz-twat. We're doomed."
Just then the power went out with a pop. A large cheer went up from inside the school walls. Dumbledore rushed on stage looking flustered and placed his wand to his wrinkly old neck.
"Sonorous!" He bellowed. "It appears one of the students has sabotaged the electrics by throwing themselves headfirst into the generator from a great height; may Bem rest in peace."
Another cheer.
"In the meantime, while we wait for it to be fixed, please enjoy the comedy stylings of Mr Draco Malfoy!"
An audible groan went up from behind the battlements, but Voldemort was practically hopping from foot-to-foot, rubbing his hands together with glee.
Draco came on stage with his long shorts and tank-top flapping in the wind. His pale hair streaked out from his forehead like vigorous seaweed in a rip-tide.
"Thank you - Thank you!" Cried Malfoy. "Thank you all for coming out tonight." He raised a hand to his brow and surveyed the army of the dead with an exaggerated interest. "Lord," he said. "I haven't seen so many horrors all in one place since the last time Snape went speed dating."
A rimshot rang out from the side of the stage, as a visibly shaken Snape played a small drumkit, weeping.
"Though being fair-" continued Malfoy. "You smell nicer, and most of you have better teeth."
Voldemort guffawed and clapped his hand together with delight. "It's funny because it's true." He chortled.
"Seriously though- seriously," Malfoy went on. "Snape will be delighted to see so many familiar faces here tonight. As most of you know, he's a very considerate man."
Snape looked up hopefully, drying his nose on his greasy boob tube.
"Yes, Snape's a very considerate man." Draco repeated. "A very considerate lover. I happen to know that he makes sure all his partners have fresh flowers on their first date."
Snape smiled weakly, it was the happiest Jacob had ever seen him look.
"That's how he knows which of the graves are recent." Malfoy made a shooting motion with forefinger and thumb, winking.
Snape wailed anew as he beat out a 'BA-DUM-TIS' on the drumkit.
"Look, I'm not saying Snape is shady." Said Malfoy. "But his idea of foreplay is prising the lid off a coffin with a crowbar."
Voldemort shook his head from side to side with glee. "That's so Snape!" He giggled.
Malfoy paused a moment. "They don't just call him maggot dick because he's hung like an acorn, if you know what I mean."
Dumbledore's magically enhanced voice boomed bone-rattling laughter for miles around.
"Now I'm not saying Snape's filthy-" Malfoy went on with relish, warming to his task. "But his dick cheese is veinier than an old stilton- and what about that Dumbledore eh?"
Malfoy didn't notice Dumbledore's face turn cloudy over on the side of the stage; he continued unabashed.
"Now I'm not saying Dumbledore's a slut-"
"Draco..." Whispered Dumbledore, but only Malfoy out of everyone assembled seemed not to hear.
"Yeah, I'm not saying Dumbledore's a slut-" Malfoy repeated. "But we all know that isn't Stilton he's picking out of his teeth when he's doing the walk of shame back from the potions lab at 5 o'clock on a Sunday morning. And has anyone been to his office recently?" Malfoy snorted. "The new password's meat lollipop, he named it after his favourite flavour."
He did a little dance on the stage, obviously feeling pleased with himself. "Now I'm not saying Dumbledore's been around," he went on. "But his idea of a trusting relationship is going bareback with the entire Durmstrang Quidditch team in the alley behind the Hog's Hea-"
A dazzling explosion blew Malfoy off the stage; his faint cry of surprise could just be heard as he sailed off into the distance, growing smaller with each passing second. Dumbledore slipped his wand back up his sleeve as Snape hit one last rimshot.
"And now-" Dumbledore boomed. "Professor McGonagall will entertain us with a wondrous feat of derring-do."
McGonagall slipped onstage wearing a Lycra catsuit, carrying six enormous, brutal-looking throwing knives. Snape was dragged from his drumkit kicking and screaming and tied by the hands and wrists to a revolving wooden wheel, that spun him on the stage like a fleshy sped-up clock with too many hands. He bawled and sobbed to be let go so fiercely that in the end Flitwick had to tie a ball-gag into his mouth, to muffle him.
"I can barely watch!" Hissed Voldemort, taking in the scene with a greedy, open-eyed leer.
There was a drumroll, which was odd because there was no one sitting at the drums.
McGonagall threw one knife- two- three- four- five- six! Six knives. They embedded themselves in the revolving wood around Snape's arms, legs and head.
"Boo!" Jeered Voldermort. "Hiss!" He looked outraged. "She had six tries, and she missed with every one! Boo! Get off! Rubbish!" He hectored.
The rest of the crowd joined in. "Boo!" They cried. "Rubbish!"
A silent tear rolled down Snape's greasy cheek.
Just then, some movement from the Three Broomsticks caught Jacob's attention. The doors swung open and out stepped The Night King; and he was arm in arm with Hermione!
