FicWad

Chapter 20 - To shoo the chickens from the porch

Wednesday, January 15th, 1997

He stood at the end of an anonymous stone pier; a dark, unnamed and angry sea at his back. Before him over rough sooty stone floated a vision to raise the gorge of the most hardy. He swallowed to contain the bile that sought egress, tasting his own revulsion at the horrific apparition. In appearance, it was a vague simulacrum of Voldemort.

But it was only a vague one, and this one was larger than life. It stood at a height of ten feet, and was surrounded by an aura rivaled for repulsiveness only by the stench. The smell of a thousand corpses surrounded them, as Harry's unflinching gaze took in the scene. The figure spake.

"The boy stood on the burning deck

Whence all but he had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck

Shone round him o'er the dead."

Turning as if noticing for the first time, Harry affected abored tone. "Oh, it's the little psychopath. What do you want now, Tom? You didn't visit me to quote poetry at me."

"I am not happy with you, Potter," spake the ghoulish one.

"That's a shame, really," Harry said. He conjured a comfortable armchair and sat in it. "It's a shame, because Iwas just thinking the other day... 'I wonder what ol' Tom is doing. I sure hope he's happy.' "

"Enough of this insolence! I will not be--"

"Yeah, yeah, blah blah..." Harry chanted in asing-song cadence. "Blah, blah, Iam Oz the great and terrible, respect my authority, I'm gonna kill everybody, filthy blood traitors, yada yada yada. You'd play really well in Sri Lanka, shitbox. The LTTE just loves people who talk like you."

Sputtering in his rage, Voldemort shouted, "You will learn, brat! And then you will die! Crucio!" The most powerful torture spell known to wizard kind was flung with harsh power and precision directly at Harry, only to be absorbed by one of the buttons on his pajamas.

Harry scratched himself absently beneath the button, muttering, "Did you say something, ugly? Speak up."

Voldemort went into a slobbering frenzy. " Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!" In response, Harry danced a little jig in time to the curses.

"Pathetic whelp, you cannot possibly imagine the power I have! I can--"

"YOU CAN DO NOTHING, you pathetic cry-baby. Right now, I can see the eight Shite-Eaters feeding you so your little pyrotechnic dream tantrum can even reach me through the castle wards."

"AVADA KED--"

"Oh, do shut up," said Harry. He'd made a pinching motion in front of him, and Voldemort's mouth clapped shut. Not from force, but from utter shock. The Dark Lord's face reflected his puzzlement. He was beginning to doubt. How could this whelp possibly know about true power? True control?

Harry spoke quietly. "I am living a nice life and attending school. You are on the run and hiding. So which one of us is the weakling? Which of us is the true coward, puss-boy?"

Voldemort tried again, "AVADA KEDAVRA!" This time Harry let him finish. Riddle's face started a smirk as the green bolt traveled in slow motion towards the Boy Who Lived. But the smirk was short-lived. Harry's new mental processing, combined with his knowledge of the composition and physics of magic, gave him the complete upper hand. Without moving, he transfigured the killing curse into something else, and then re-routed it right back at old Snake-Bait.

"What--" said the confused face of the simulacrum. "What is - aah, aaaaagh, Aaaagh!!" The screaming got louder and louder, as the apparition dropped its wand and began tearing at its clothing.

"Easy," said Harry, calm on the pier in his pajamas. "I diluted your spell. So instead of a second or two of utter destruction, it's now an hour of near-death and pain. You see," he began nodding, as if giving a class. "You see, it's still your curse. It's still unforgivable, and it's still unblockable, and there's still no counter curse. But now you get to feel it spread out over an hour of torture, instead of a second of death."

Harry sensed that the eight Death Eaters supporting their Lord with their magic were also suffering, screaming, unable to move. "I'll just leave you to your thoughts, then... shall I?"

And with that, Harry ended the dream and the intrusion. He carefully stored the entire memory into his pensieve, before smiling and laying back down for some rest.

***

Saturday, January 18th, 1997

It was a Hogsmeade day. Although quite cold, the day was sunny and bright and promised fun in the town. The students milled all around, picking up bits of candy, jokes, drinks, school supplies, and even jewelry for some of them.

Harry was in a private room at the Hog's Head. Flanked by Hermione and Luna, he sat on one side of a long table. On the other side were five members of the wizarding world's media establishment.

"Thanks for coming, everybody," he said. "Please help yourselves to whatever refreshments you wish; I'll keep 'em coming." One thing he had learned after the Triwizard Tournament was that the easiest way to get the press on your side was to keep them lubed up with food and drink. Reporters could drink a lot; but if you could keep up with the bar tab, you could ask them for nearly anything.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," said a tall, muscular man with short dark hair. "My name is Hercules Gilderdale, Daily Prophet. If it's all right with you, the group has agreed that I should lead off--"

"No, Mr. Gilderdale," Harry said to cut him off.

"--with the questions and the discussion." The reporter carried on as if nothing had been said. "All in order? Shall I begin? Good. Mr. Potter, when--"

"Shut up and get out," Harry said in a quiet calm voice.

"I hardly think so, young man. You are the Boy Who Lived, and the public has a right to--"

"The public has a right to nothing of mine." The older man froze, literally petrified by Harry's will. His Quick Quotes Quill, however, continued scratching madly away on aparchment in front of him. Harry pointed a finger, and both quill and parchment burst into rapid flame, then ash. Throwing a handful of powder into the floo, he said into the green flame, "Barnabas Cuffe, Editor, The Daily Prophet".

After a few seconds, a woman's voice responded. "Pauline Jagger, Assistant to the Editor. How may I help you?"

Harry's posture, quite relaxed in his chair at the table, was deceptively calm. "You may not. I didn't call you. Get him."

"I'm afraid Mr. Cuffe is a very busy man, and doesn't like to be disturbed. Perhaps if you could make--"

"Gentlemen, if you would excuse me for a moment. I'll return directly." Harry stood, still not raising his voice. He vanished without a sound.

Suddenly, the remaining four members of the press -- along with Luna and Hermione --could hear quite clearly through the floo a disturbance taking place at the offices of The Daily Prophet. "What are you doing?" "Get out of--" "Hey, get your hands off my--" "What's going on?" "Oh, Merlin! That's--"

Just as abruptly, the rotund body of Mr. Barnabas Cuffe came tumbling out of the floo and onto the floor, great clouds of sooty dust settling around him. His appearance was that of someone who had just been thrown bodily through the floo -- which he had. Harry appeared once more, silently and out of nowhere. He bent and picked up the editor by his collar, much like grabbing a dog by the scruff of his neck. He kept lifting until the man was hanging by his collar, trembling, his feet dangling above the floor.

Supporting a full-grown wizard in one hand, at arm's length, didn't seem to discommode Harry in the least. He asked the old man, "Mr. Cuffe, can you vanquish Voldemort?"

The old man cringed as if struck, shaking his head.

"No? Hmm... then, I suppose you would like me, the Boy Who Lived, to defeat the current Dork Lord for you?"

Cuffe started wheezing and nodding. He clearly wanted the famous Harry Potter to take out Voldemort. "Please..." before he tapered off.

"Please what, Mr. Cuffe? Please make bad old Voldemort go away? Please be strong and brave and powerful and victorious?"

The editor began nodding his head, to the degree that his awkward collar-based suspension made it possible.

"Hmm... I'm confused, Mr. Editor. Help me understand something." Without getting louder, Harry's voice got much... /colder/. "If you are afraid of Voldemort, and wouldn't dream of doing anything to make him angry... just exactly how do you reckon it is safe to offend /me/, the only human being on Earth who can kick his arse?"

The dangling editor stopped kicking and went limp, his complexion going pasty.

Harry spoke again. "Didn't think of that, did you?" Cuffe's head shook slowly from side to side. "Well, that makes you too dumb to be in charge of a major wizarding newspaper. You're fired." He dropped the cowering man unceremoniously to the floor. Releasing Gilderdale from his spell, he said, "You, too."

Harry turned to the fireplace. "Miss Jagger, are you listening?"

"Y-y-yes, Mr. Potter," came the hesitant reply.

"Mr. Jenkins, are you there?"

"Yes sir," came a much more firm reply from the same floo.

"Mr. Jenkins," continued Harry, "Cuffe, Gilderdale and Jagger are discharged from my service effective immediately. Make sure Jagger doesn't take anything belonging to me when she leaves the building. Gilderdale and Cuffe are not to be allowed re-entry into my building under any circumstances."

"Right you are, gov."

"Good. Make it happen." Harry waved his hand and closed the floo connection.

Turning to the remaining journalists in the room, he said, "I bought the Prophet this morning. I will announce my choice for the new editor when I have decided. Please let your colleagues and editors of your respective publications know that these three are not to be re-hired at any level above janitor, by any publication -- wizard or muggle -- in Great Britain. If I discover they are working in journalism in any form, my reaction will be much like what you just saw."

He glowered at the two ex-Propheteers until they started, looking up to see agreen-eyed menace, with two competent witches pointing wands at them. They stumbled for the door, whimpering.

"Thank you, ladies," he said, bowing to each in turn. "Now, to continue. I called this press conference because I have some things that I think you should know..."

Harry spent another hour speaking, while his guests ate and drank, and their quills scratched away with everything he said. He told them of the Death Eaters on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, of Dumbledore's crimes and subsequent arrest, and of his intent to do away with Voldemort.

"Therefore, gentlemen, I'm giving rather a 'come-and-get-it' sort of message to old Pus-face. I would appreciate it if each of you would print the following: I challenge Tom Riddle, also known as Voldemort, to a Wizard's End Duel. April 1st, 1997, at 8 am, at Hogwarts' front gate, to be fought until one or both of us is dead. He may bring as many 'seconds', sycophants and bully-boys as he wishes; it won't matter. This ends on April 1st. In accordance with the ancient du Hiquee code -- which is still in force of law -- if he does not respond in thirty-six hours, his answer will be recorded as refusal; all of his properties, lands, chattels become automatically awarded to the House of Potter, and his wand shall be forfeit. Personally, I think he's too much of a coward to show up."

"Mr. Potter," said one of the reporters. "I don't know if my editor will print this, even if you do aGilderdale on 'im." The group laughed. "He'll be afraid that we'll be vulnerable to a Dark Lord attack."

"Voldemort will know this for what it is; a formal challenge under Canly. He will not follow the rules, but he will pretend to, because he will think it will leave us unprepared. You can quote me on this: If he attacks the newspapers posting this, then he proves himself to be a craven, petty child, and a mental midget. That counts for him and his chicken-shit followers. There, that should do it."

Harry took some more questions before the reporters took their leave. He settled the bill and took his girls in hand before transporting them back to the castle.