Author's Notes: I extend my thanks to Lisa725 for her beta help.

I hope you enjoy the 31 flavors of Harry Potter ass-kickery in this chapter. Let me know what you think.

Chapter 8 - Sweet Irony

So where have we been? From the Dursley's to the afterlife, and back again. And what have we found out along the way? When a Muggle spends too much time alone in a basement, he starts talking funny and develops a fetish for dissecting immortal wizards. Certain Hogwarts founders like to vacation in said immortal wizard's head - without reservations or advance notice. And apparently despite an immortal wizard's want to just do what he has to and be left alone to it, the only proudly free house elf in the world wants nothing more than to play sidekick.

…and yeah, I've got a fucking temper problem.

But I'm doing my best to turn a positive light on my outlook. I prefer to think of my kinetic ill temper as Mother Nature's creative solution to global warming.

Done bitching, though, and no doubt you're exhausted hearing about it. So what say we skip to the crux of this narrative 'o mine. See that? I made a little joke - not such an ill-tempered bloke all the time, am I? The crux of my narrative, of course, is where I channel that aforementioned temper into a positive direction. Positive, if you're not a Death Eater or a bit of the Dark Lord's soul. If you are, well, I can say with confidence that this next part of the story is a decidedly negative experience for you. Me, I thought it was a bloody gas!

…that's two jokes for those of you keeping count.

So where are we now? From the philosophical diarrhea of Sal Slytherin to sharing with you the first of several times I get to kill me some Voldemort. And what's changed along the way? The funny talking Muggle managed to teach me several fascinating ways to kill a wizard. The cranially vacationing Hogwarts founder has poured a fountain of magical knowledge into my head - more often than not by way of my throat. And the proudly free house elf has with annoying exuberance taken on the position of sidekick.

…and yeah, I've still got a fucking temper problem.

xxx

“A plan you've got then?” Filmore said offhandedly.

“Can't say that's ever been my style, I usually just go with the 'show up and see what happens' tactic,” Harry responded.

“Gotten far with that, have you wizard?” The man scoffed.

“You know better than most about my knack for not dying, so I don't see a problem here.” Harry fashioned his wand against his wrist and forearm. “I'm just keeping with what works.”

“Loosely does the term 'works' apply whenever the wizard is concerned,” Filmore said as he vanished into his workshop. Harry followed, mostly because that was where the rest of his armament resided, but it gave him extra opportunity to rub Trynsington the wrong way.

“As far as I can tell it seems to work against you daily. Or have you forgotten that's why I get to use the wooden practice swords now?”

Filmore didn't offer a response since he was busy rummaging through one of the piles pushed off to a dark corner of the room.

Harry pressed on. “You remember, right? All that rot about bruises healing faster than shallow cuts.”

There was no response, and Harry lost interest. He had sheathed his sword against his back and put on his gloves. If things went right tonight, he'd have plenty of opportunity to take out his wrath on an incompliant wizard rather than poke fun at a deranged Muggle with a bad haircut.

Harry finished getting ready by throwing on a thick, black leather overcoat to cover the sword and the wand holstered against his forearm. The jacket would soften the impact of a blow, and perhaps even resist a grazing blade, but in the world of magic this sort of protection didn't amount to much. Mostly it just hid his weapons from view and looked particularly menacing, or so he thought.

He patted himself down, a final go over to be sure he had everything he needed for the evening's events. His left arm felt naked compared to the right without the company of a wand against it. Harry decided it was time to take a closer look at the bookcase shelf full of wands across the room. Turns out the wands had been “collected” from the wizards Filmore had killed or captured over the years.

One wand was good, but considering that the “show up and see” plan didn't have a back-up, it would at the very least be prudent that his wand did.

Harry began the process of picking up each wand and measuring the reaction it had with him when he suddenly felt his sword pulled from the sheath on his back and the point of a second blade shoved directly under his chin.

Harry went rigid for a moment, and then he went right on checking the next wand.

“Remember wizard,” Filmore said, using his menacing voice, “what works, works only because you use your immortality as a crutch in battle. Without it - pedestrian at best are your skills.”

Harry hadn't heard or felt the man sneaking up on him. That Filmore had simultaneously disarmed him and put him at sword point in a single, silent move was all the proof needed to show Harry how lacking his skills were by comparison. But since he wasn't going to let Filmore onto that realization, he'd made the decision to keep on checking wands.

Crutch or no, unless Voldemort was holding the opposite end of that sword, it represented an inconvenience at the most - even if a sword through the head is a pretty fucking big inconvenience.

Filmore finally lowered the sword and released Harry.

Harry turned to look at the weapon that had just threatened him. It was a straight blade, maybe three feet in length, and longer than any he had trained with. Wider at the bottom and top, three inches or so for each, the blade's edges curved inward to narrow at the center and came to a point at the tip. But most prominent was that it was entirely black. And it had not been painted or stained; the medal that constructed the blade was black, as evident by the improbable shine gleaming off of it. The hilt looked like a hard plastic wrapped in a rubber grip. It cheapened the look of the sword, making it appear unfinished.

“What, is that like a prototype or something?” Harry scoffed, nodding towards the hilt of the sword.

Trynsington's face soured from its adoring glare at the weapon, and he turned on Harry. “Incompetent wizard knows nothing of greatness, of that which is a tool superior to his knowledge.”

“Don't get testy. It just looks out of sorts with that handle on it.” Harry held out his hand for the weapon. “What sort of metal is that anyways? I've never seen anything like it.”

Filmore pulled the weapon away from Harry and crossed to the opposite end of the room. “A mixture of alloys and composites beyond the simple technology of wizard kind. The question, however, is what the metal does. Fire your curses at me wizard.”

Harry didn't argue. He picked up the wand that had felt best to him and fired a summoning charm directly at the weapon. Nothing happened. Well, something happened, but it wasn't any sort of reaction Harry was expecting. It appeared as if the blade had absorbed the spell. Filmore smiled menacingly and pointed the sword back at Harry. Suddenly, the back-up wand he'd just used was flying out of his hands and towards Filmore.

“How remarkable,” Slytherin marveled.

“Holy Shit!” Harry barked.

“Not so infallible are the tenants of magic, eh wizard? Did not I tell you as much during our first encounter?”

“That's terrific; you're a bloody mad genius and all that. Now what the hell was that?” Harry pressed.

“I believe the Muggle term is, technology.”

“Really Sal?” Harry mockingly questioned. “Shut up.”

“Remarkable I may be, wizard, but surely you do not believe a mere Muggle could best so many wizards with only a dominant intellect as his sole advantage?” He pointed with the sword tip at the numerous wands on the shelf behind Harry. ”

“So that sword catches spells? But then, how does it…err, shoot them?”

“A sword is merely the aggregate of it parts. Certain alloys within are remarkable conductors for magic, others completely resistant, but only for me to know how they work in concert.” Filmore's eyes twinkled as he spoke, Harry was shocked to notice. It was a more manic, I-think-I-might-kill-someone-with-this twinkle, but a twinkle nonetheless.

“That's a very nice sword Filmore,” Harry said in a slow soothing manner.

It wiped the twinkle from the man's eye and earned another sneer. Filmore steered past Harry and retrieved a sheath for the sword from the bookcase behind Harry. As he sheathed the sword Filmore said, “Patronize not wizard. Save your life this sword will.” He handed it to Harry. “Note the button beneath the sword's grip. It will release whatever magic has been trapped within. Only one spell at a time, but block as many curses as you are able to get it in the way of it will. Those are the rules. Treat her well.”

Harry took the sword and felt the slight raised button in the hilt. He removed his jacket and the empty sheath on his back and replaced it with the new one. “Thank you Filmore.”

Filmore went back to his dark corner and began rummaging again. “One last thing.” He came back with a vest. “Fit well this may not, but useful it remains. Woven in the vest are the same metals as those in the sword that resist magic. Blocks all but the green death curse, a lesson learned in a most unpleasant manner.”

The vest was obviously tailored for the short fat man, making the fit on Harry awkward at best.

“It will have to do until another can be made for you, or until they cut you into smaller pieces on your upcoming mission,” Filmore said. He looked at the wand in his hand and scoffed, “Primitive wizards, it is a wonder you've managed through the years with polished tree branches as your best weapons.” He looked at Harry curiously. “Promise, Harry, that you'll put an end to your silly antics in our training and engineer for you a set of wands far superior to this.”

“And what silly antics would those be?” Harry retorted.

“No more popping behind me when we spar. No more relying on your immortality as a crutch. If cannot you manage to battle honestly, then no interest have I in teaching you properly.”

“It's called Apparating. House elves pop,” Harry admonished flatly.

Filmore fixed him with an unimpressed glare.

“Fine,” Harry relented. “No more popping. But, does that mean you'll stop trying to dissect me like a frog then?”

“Nope.”

“Of course you won't.”

“Fresh cores you will have to retrieve if you wish for new wands, Harry,” Filmore said as he left the room.

“But these wands have cores. Why can't you use them?”

“Fresh cores, don't question me,” he yelled back from the other room.

“Barmy old man,” Harry said to himself.

xxx

“The smelly wizard is trying to hide again, Harry sir,” Dobby squeaked excitedly. “It is most curious that he is thinking to hide but not thinking to try and smell a little less,” he added with a noticeable chuckle in his voice.

Despite Harry's reluctance to accept Dobby's help, he had to admit that the house elf had an impressive level of determination when given a task. Thinking to get the elf out of his hair for a while, Harry had asked Dobby to track down Mundungus Fletcher. Within a day, Dobby had not only located the wizard but somehow also managed to maintain a constant awareness of his whereabouts. They'd been tracking him for more than a week trying to decipher a pattern to his movements. Aside from regular visits to the few bars that would still serve him, there had been none.

“Harry sir is sure that he is wanting to have his meeting with the smelly wizard at the pub? Dobby is thinking it is a difficult place for Harry sir to remove the wizard without the other wizards noticing, sir.”

“I'm certain, Dobby. It's the only place we know for sure he'll be at for any length of time.”

“But…if Harry sir is just allowing Dobby, Dobby could pop the smelly wizard here at a time when he is being alone.” Dobby's voice faltered as he tried again to make his argument.

“I told you no, Dobby, shortly before I mentioned that my decision was final. And I swear if you beat yourself with that candlestick, I'll send you back to Hogwarts.”

Dobby dropped the candlestick in mid stroke to his forehead; it landed squarely on his foot. He had to bite back a show of satisfaction with the accidental self-punishment. “Very well, Harry Potter sir,” he gritted out.

xxx

The bar where Mundungus Fletcher was next expected was on the outskirts of Hogsmeade Village. Of course, it would be a day when the village was overrun with summer visitors, making it all the more difficult to go undetected.

Harry Apparated to a spot behind the Shrieking Shack where nobody would notice him. From there, he kept to the shadows and out-of-the-way places, unhappily noting just how many of his schoolmates were visiting the shops.

The closer he got to the pub, the shadier Hogsmeade Village looked. This worked to his advantage as it only took the gesture of pulling up the collar on his jacket and a determinately fixed gaze to avoid detection.

People in and around this sort of establishment stayed alive by keeping to themselves. Harry was happy to exploit that tendency and even more willing to help encourage it should someone force the issue. He wanted to get the job done, but more than a little piece of him was hoping a Death Eater, or someone who might be a Death Eater, or even someone who might be thinking about doing something a Death Eater-ish, would cause a stir.

He entered the pub, and the door shut behind him quietly. For such a sunny day outside, the pub had the sort of dim lighting and hazy air that gave the impression it could be the middle of the night. It smelled like a mixture of tobacco and liquor, and the occupants were so subdued he felt like he was walking into the library.

The only person who actively noticed his entrance was the bartender who looked up at him standing in the doorway, and even his glance was cursory at best. Harry scanned the room as he made his way to a booth in the corner of the establishment. He didn't see Dung, and he didn't want to make it obvious he was looking.

“What do you think Slytherin?” Harry asked in a tone that was all business.

Slytherin expected as much and replied in kind. “Everything seems quite ordinary, considering the location.”

“Yeah, too ordinary maybe? Is it me, or does it seem like everyone's doing a little too much of nothing? No seedy conversations, no business transactions, even the standard slobbering drunk is sitting quietly at the bar. Feels off.”

There was a long silence, something that Harry was growing unaccustomed to in his own head. “Possibly you're right. It does seem a bit forced. Still, that doesn't change the plan; if anything, it should encourage you to get a move on with it. Either you get your man, or you find out if something truly is awry…and in that case you get that fight you're so craving.”

The bartender interrupted the intracranial conversation. “What'll it be?”

Harry turned only his gaze up to the bartender and made solid eye contact with the gruff man. He needed to make eye contact so that Slytherin could use his magic for Legilimency, but he wanted to make sure not to reveal his face or scar. Slytherin told Harry what to order, what to pay, and that the bartender knew nothing useful to them.

“Whiskey. Single malt. No ice. Cragammore if you've got it,” Harry said and discretely placed a neat stack of gold galleons on the table next to the barkeep's hand. “Leave the bottle.”

The man noticeably twitched at the request and amount of gold proffered, although he tried to hide it. Still he took the money from the table as discretely as it had been placed there and made his way back to the bar with more expediency than he'd left it.

“That should keep the help out of the equation for as long as we want, and anyone who frequents a location such as this will know better than to bother a man with a single glass and a fine aged whiskey.”

Harry took him for his word. “I don't see Dung.”

The barkeep returned with the requested bottle and a single glass, “There'll be anything else, sir?” The formality sounded grossly out of place from the man's lips. Harry didn't look up and waved him away. “Very good, sir.”

“And what do you feel with your magic?” Slytherin asked.

“The force!” Harry mocked even though the reference would be lost on Slytherin. His head went silent again, and Harry was beginning to worry that he could actually feel when Slytherin was making a point of giving him the disapproving silent treatment. “Nothing out of order.” His tone was back to business. “There's tension and an obvious sense of distrust. But like I said, nothing out of order.”

Slytherin had been pressing Harry to better understand his magic. Part of that was realizing that certain magic, such as Legilimency and Occlumency were no more than extensions of his will. When he paid close enough attention, that will could be strengthened and used like an appendage - manifested and manipulated as simply as one controls a muscle.

“I agree. There's nothing else to it then. Enjoy your whiskey, and wait for your man.”

A painful first shot and two glasses sipped properly later, Harry finally started to understand the appeal of the spirit. Mundungus Fletcher banged through the door just as he finished pouring a third. The jolt of excitement he felt was tempered by the disappointment of having to waste the glass of liquor. Either way he outwardly maintained his calm.

Dung looked ragged as hell, and his smell announced his presence to anyone within ten feet. The alcoholic wizard surveyed the bar, taking an extra long stare at the unfamiliar figure seated in the corner, before his dedication to inebriation beckoned him to the bar.

“Dung you smell,” The barkeep barked.

He nearly missed the barstool as he made to sit on it and tried to play it off by settling only one ass cheek on the seat. “Firewhiskey,” Dung replied and scattered a handful of change on top of the bar.

“And what is that Dung? Ya' know I don't take Muggle money. It's not Gringotts you ruddy sod,” the barkeep yelled, but left the glass of firewhiskey.

Dung tried to shift his hanging ass cheek onto the barstool; instead the whole seat swung off kilter. Just as the stool was about to completely fall sideways a gloved hand firmly landed on Dung's shoulder, righting him and the stool before they crashed to the floor.

Whether out of embarrassment or learned behavior Dung didn't look beyond the hand on his shoulder and to the face of the person who helped him. This worked to Harry's advantage as he left his hand firmly on Dung's shoulder and seated himself in the stool next to the man. Dung opened his mouth to say something but was silenced at the sight of the whiskey bottle set before him. Harry held two fingers up on his free hand, and the barkeep obliged by bringing two glasses, one filled with ice.

“This one likes ice,” the man said condescendingly. “Bloody animal.”

Harry nodded, dropped another couple galleons on the table, and waved the barkeep away. “So Mundungus Fletcher, sold any fancy lockets lately?”

Dung's body language made it plain that he was nervous, but that wasn't going to stop a drinking man from getting a free shot out of whatever trouble he was facing. He drank down the first glass greedily and refilled it before saying a word. “Dat's a fine year, dat is.”

Harry turned his head in repulsion. Dung's breath was potent enough to add another 10 proof and two years to the age of the whiskey. “It's yours if you've got what I'm looking for,” Harry responded.

“Wha' sort o' locket ya lookin far? Mustn't be too valuable, if yer only lookin to offer a bottle o whiskey in her place,” Dung replied, still staring fixedly at the glass in front of him.

“Oh, I'm sure you'll remember this one,” Harry said.

“Lot o jewelry been fenced over da years. I can't be certain I'll have what yer lookin' for, sir.”

“You got it a year ago.”

“A year? Hah, it'll be long gone by now then.”

“Then you'll have to tell me where it's gone to,” Harry sneered.

Dung whipped his head towards Harry, and his eyes shot wide as recognition set in. “Are you taking a piss!” he said in an excited whisper. “What d'ya think yer doin' in a place of this sort?”

“Where's the locket you stole from Grimmauld Place, Fletcher,” Harry said, ignoring the man's reaction.

“I'm telling ya, I don't know what you're talking about.” Dung made to get up, but Harry tightened his grip on the man's shoulder and forced him back into his seat.

“Think on it, Dung. It's very important to me. And I know that us not making a scene in here is important to you. I don't think you can afford to be banished from yet another bar.”

“Why ya little shite! Who d'ya think ya are, threat'ning me?” Dung's hand slid off of the bar and down to his pocket. His wand was snapped in half before he even had a chance to take aim with it.

Harry snatched the broken piece of wood out of the wizard's hand and showed it to him. “You're not thinking, Dung. I strongly suggest you try.” He shoved the wand into the glass of whiskey so that it looked like a bent straw sticking out of it.

“What've ya done to me wand? Damnit boy, that's not somethin' easily replaced for a man like me.”

Harry's temper flared when he realized the man was still treating his circumstance without any sense of urgency. The cold wave of his anger pushed forward, and he focused it through the hand firmly gripping Dung's shoulder. The response was immediate, and there was no longer any doubt that Mundungus Fletcher clearly understood the severity of his situation.

“Think hard - like your life depends on it,” Harry said. Dung's body trembled beneath the stress of pain and cold. Harry could feel it as much as he could see it in the erratic jiggle of the drunkard's neck fat. “You understand that I won't ask you again.”

“What sort o locket, 'arry?”

“A gold one, on a gold chain. Wouldn't open. You would have stolen it from Grimmauld Place.”

Realization flashed across the man's features. He tried to conceal the tell, but Harry saw through it. “It was worthless. I got rid of it,” Dung lied.

“Apparently the value of your life is even less if you're willing to lie to me over such an invaluable trinket,” Harry replied. “This is not a game, Dung. You can be paid for this item, or you can be punished for not relinquishing it. Those are your choices.”

“I don't have it!” Dung nearly sobbed. “I sold it…to…”

“Spit it out, Dung!”

“…to…one of them.” He did sob this time. “Don't kill me?” At least he truly did understand the severity of his situation.

A chill shot down Harry's spine, and it wasn't a side effect from his temper. “One of them?” he questioned in a manner that dared Fletcher to confirm the obvious answer to his question. Dung couldn't voice a response; he just nodded his head.

Harry wanted to kill the man on the spot, but not as much as he wanted to kill a piece of Voldemort. It was the only thing that afforded him the restraint not to act. “When?”

“J-just now. Here! In Hogsmeade,” The man said hopefully.

“To who?” Harry barked between them.

“To…Malfoy.”

“Lucius?” Harry scoffed.

“No, his son, Draco.”

Another chill shot down Harry's spine, and this time it was due to the affect of his temper. “Where?” Harry snarled.

“O-outside, in the alleyway. Not long before I came here. There were many o them though, ya certainly don't want to be goin' after them now.”

The shaken wizard was obviously trying to seem helpful, though it didn't strike a cheery chord in Harry. The opposite in fact, as Harry grabbed him with his other hand and forcefully Apparated them both out of the bar and into the alleyway outside. When they reappeared, Harry let all of the momentum he learned to carry through his Apparitions pass onto Fletcher. It sent the man sliding violently across the ground and into the piled trash at the end of the alley.

The resulting ruckus it caused in no way contributed to further gaining the attention of every Death Eater currently located there, of which there were more than a few.

Harry's mouth hung open dumbly as he took in the scene. “So…is this like an invitation only type thing?” he deadpanned. A wave of alarming comprehension rolled over the group, and they snapped their wands into place.

“Looks like.” Slytherin responded just before a hail of curses flew in Harry's direction.

Harry's mind filled instantly with reactions; the problem was, he couldn't decide which one to take first. In the instant it took him to settle on drawing his sword, he only had enough time to block the first curse sent his way.

“That probably isn't the direction I would have gone,” Slytherin remarked.

There was no time for a witty comeback. The deluge of spells lit him up like a Christmas tree and sent his body spinning through the air. Pieces of his jacket went flying in every different direction, showering the alleyway in burnt leather and cloth. It all culminated with an unceremonious thud that left Harry flat on his back.

Like every previous mangled moment in his life, he waited for his body to start filling him in on the damage. And like the many times before - nothing. Dumb, deaf, and blind. He'd certainly been here before. Eventually his senses came back to him, as they always did. And what they had to report wasn't pleasant, as it never was.

The group of Death Eaters all gathered over Harry's body with their wands trained on him. “I think we killed him!” said the Death Eater stupid enough to bend over and take a closer look.

Harry's eyes flashed open at the dumb Death Eater's declaration. “Ouch,” he replied.

It wasn't possible to say for sure that a look of shock fell over their faces - the masks made it difficult to be certain. But the gargling sound that came out of the Death Eater's mouth as Harry stuck his sword through him was a dead giveaway that his face was contorted into an expression of pain.

Pushing himself off the ground, Harry kept the sword planted firmly in the Death Eater. The rest of the group quickly backed away, and Harry used the opportunity to place the shish-kabobbed Death Eater between him and them.

Nobody moved.

There were six left, and Harry knew they easily had the advantage on him in this narrow alleyway - well, as much of an advantage as they could have on someone they couldn't kill. He had been fortunate it wasn't in a Death Eater's nature to think of incapacitating an enemy as their primary choice of attack. But they weren't overly stupid, and after what they'd just witnessed they'd have to figure that physical attack spells wouldn't get it done.

“Spread them out. Use your apparition to your advantage. And for magic's sake, stop standing there like an idiot,” Slytherin told him.

A sinister smile grew over Harry's face. “I was hoping to kill some Death Eaters today, wasn't I?” he responded.

“Yes, cake and ice cream for everyone I guess.”

Harry sized up the Death Eater directly in front of him, by far the largest of the group, and felt for the button on the hilt of the sword. He had no way of knowing what spell the sword had captured. All he could do was press the button and hope for the best. It turned out the spell was some sort of reductor curse, and it certainly didn't disappoint. What had once been a very large and whole man was instantly reduced to many large chunks of flesh and bone.

“Ouch,” Harry repeated.

A mix of confusion and fear spread through the Death Eaters. It didn't slow them from firing off spells, but it did eliminate any chance they had at coordinating their attack. As a result, most of the spells missed Harry and hit the man he had hanging off the end of his sword. It saved him from having to suffer another acrobatic jaunt through the air and had the added upside of putting an end to the very unpleasant gurgling sound his skewered victim had persisted on making.

The dead wizard fell limply off of Harry's sword and left him exposed to an unrelenting barrage of curses. He was barely able to block a curse aimed at his head with the blade while stumbling out of the way of several others. It was plain that the spell fire would overwhelm him if he didn't react. This fact was confirmed by the growing confidence the Death Eaters started to show in their spell casting.

But he did react, and in a manner that wouldn't disappoint those who'd come to expect the highest form of recklessness from Harry Potter.

He ran straight at the group of wizards until he was in the very middle of their ranks. Just before the spells shot at him were about to hit, he jumped up and over the group. This left the five remaining Death Eaters dodging spells they had unintentionally shot at each other. Further, it gave Harry the distraction he needed to begin working toward spreading them out.

His momentum carried him over the group and against the back of building at the end of the alleyway. He planted firmly against the brick wall, spun, and fired the newly captured spell in his sword at the nearest Death Eater. The purple curse struck the man soundly in the back and sent him flying into the middle of the street at the head of the alley.

Harry fell nimbly to the ground just past the trash pile where Dung currently resided. Without pause he Flash Apparated past the Death Eaters and onto the main street next to the wizard he'd just sent flying out there. It took a second, but spells began pouring out of the alley and at him once again. Harry looked down at the struggling Death Eater with a sneer. “They're making this too easy.”

The Death Eater choked out a laugh. “You're going to die, Potter.” He shoved his wand upward and yelled, “Morsemordre!” The Dark Mark shot past Harry's head and filled the sky above Hogsmeade.

Harry looked at the glyph unimpressed. “So I keep hearing,” he said back to the man. “You'll have to let them know I'm on my way then.” He shoved his sword through the man's head.

Spells continued to fly out of the alleyway as the Death Eaters charged toward Harry. Shooting on the run never was an exact science, and judging by their aim, these guys were in desperate need of some practice.

“Time to play to your advantages,” Slytherin said.

Harry was thinking that exact thing. “It's a pretty wide open street. Gonna be difficult to work the angles with so much space in between.”

“As long as the streets remain clear, the distance between your targets should not be a concern.”

Suddenly a scream pierced the air, snapping Harry's attention away from the oncoming Death Eaters. A witch came storming out of the building across the street panic stricken and fleeing for her life. She looked directly at Harry and then was struck dead by a killing curse.

Then like an orchestrated symphony, one scream after the next rang out through Hogsmeade. Doors flew open, and people ran senselessly into the streets. Behind them Death Eaters gave chase, firing killing curses and other sinister spells. Harry watched in shock as it all seemed to happen instantaneously like someone had kicked an anthill.

“Well, I guess that changes things a bit,” Slytherin remarked.

Harry snapped out of his gaze in time to be struck soundly by a curse sent at him from the original group of Death Eaters he'd faced. It tossed him into the air and blew another hole in his clothes. He recovered to a kneel quickly, but the streets had grown so chaotic Harry couldn't discern the Death Eaters that were after him from those that were busy attacking the villagers.

Panic struck for the first time since he'd had his soul removed. Unarmed witches, wizards, and children were being attacked mercilessly by the hording Death Eaters. He felt helpless to put a stop to it.

Then everything seemed to slow.

“What should I do, Slytherin?” Harry begged.

“Gryffindor would say at times like this all you can do is fight. I'm inclined to agree; kill every one of the bastards you can, Harry.” Slytherin growled the last, for the first time letting Harry hear him genuinely enraged.

Harry didn't wait a moment longer. Several of his attackers were within a few steps, and his own temper was in full effect. He fFlash apparated Apparated straight at the group, through the crowd of people running between them, and appeared a step in front of the nearest Death Eater. His sword was through the man's guts before he had time to recognize Harry in front of his face.

The others stopped dead, and Harry made sure that they would fall just as dead in the place they stood. . He pulled his sword free and removed the head from the Death Eater standing next to him in a single movement. Using the momentum from the decapitating blow, he swung full circle, drawing his wand and firing a cutting curse for the neck of the Death Eater standing on the opposite side. Three dead, but the other two were threatening to move, and that just wouldn't be acceptable.

They fired simultaneously from each side of Harry, but he used his sword to block one and conjured a Protego spell to stop the other. Before they could fire again, Harry threw his sword through the chest of the Death Eater on the left and Apparated behind the Death Eater on the right. He focused all of his rage as he wrapped his hands around the throat of the final Death Eater. The man's skin froze instantly beneath his fingers, becoming so brittle that it crumbled like ash. From afar, it looked like the Death Eater's neck crushed explosively between Harry's hands. Both Death Eaters did, in fact, fall dead in the spots where they stood.

Harry looked back to the chaos around him. It felt like he wasn't a part of what was going but rather witnessing it like a show on the telly. His emotions were a maelstrom of chaos, an unmanageable mixture of pain, confusion, hate, and sorrow. Ultimately it focused, and all he felt was pure sense of retribution. He watched this theater of terror, and it drove home a clear sense of purpose. This wasn't a show. His purpose was before him.

“Harry,” Slytherin said in a cautious tone. “Harry, I know what you're thinking. I don't think that is the way to go about this.”

It wasn't a time for discussion. Voldemort wanted them to know terror, wanted innocent people to be consumed with a fear of him. Yet he was too much of a coward to invoke those emotions himself. There would be a price paid now and every other time that bastard lacked the conviction to see to his own dirty work. A price Harry would make him pay until all that was left of him was a soulless husk of a destroyed man.

“Just remember, Harry. In the end, only you have to live with your atrocities,” Slytherin said.

“I don't think that'll be a very long time,” Harry replied.

He extended his empty hand and summoned the sword from the fallen Death Eater's body. Red blood looked less gory falling from the tip of a black blade. Behind him another women fell dead, her eyes were wide with the shock and horror a killing curse sent you off with. Harry found the Death Eater standing ten feet behind the women still admiring his work. He Apparated. When he reappeared, his momentum and the swing of the sword carried a ferocity that left the Death Eater neatly sliced in bi-lateral segments. The mask, split down the middle, fell off each half of his face. One eye was closed, the other wide with shock - the sort of look being cut in half sent you off with.

There's a certain level of chaos where cutting a man in equal right and left halves goes unnoticed. Usually it's when there's a singular distracting event drawing the undivided attention of the crowd - a Quiddich match or cricket maybe. This was not such an event.

Everyone didn't stop what he or she was doing, but most at least paused, and the rest caught on soon enough. Knowing the attention of both villain and victim was on him, Harry looked to the sky and pointed his wand at the Dark Mark. “Finite Incantatum!” he yelled. The mark disappeared in a green and black mist.

“You know it doesn't really work like that,” Slytherin said. His calm tone clashed with the rage flowing through Harry's head.

“I give a fuck,” Harry growled in return.

The reduced commotion on the street gave Harry a brief opportunity to make what little sense of the situation he could. Death Eater masks were the average wizard's greatest nightmare; to Harry, they were just an easy way to distinguish the targets. Hordes of curses were cast in his general direction. The gift of Flash Apparition made it so that he was long gone before they arrived.

He was a blur, a raven-haired, black sword wielding, phantom of death. Just as quickly as he appeared would another white masked villain fall, and no longer than the time it took a dead body to hit the ground was he gone again. Five Death Eaters fell before they had the good sense to start Apparating out of the village.

That was until they couldn't any longer. Harry felt it, too - a force pressing down on him as he tried to Apparate. It wasn't a certainty he couldn't push through it, but since the blood potion, Apparating had become as simple an exercise as breathing. Now something was restricting his Apparating lungs, and he wasn't sure it was best to test that.

Harry heard shouts from every direction. Not screams, these voices had purpose, a cadence of sense to them. He looked in every direction until he found the source. Aurors.

“Aww, the authorities have come to rain on his parade?” Slytherin mocked, sensing Harry's apprehension.

Harry sheathed his sword as he watched one Death Eater after another portkey from the Village. It struck him at that moment the benefit of wearing a mask when you went out with the intent of mischief on your mind. But that was a coward's thought, and he dismissed it just as quickly.

He found that his last bit of carnage had left him only a few steps outside the alley where the fighting began. He ducked quickly into it and cast a repairing charm on the destroyed jacket and clothing that laid in pieces on the ground. The final result wasn't the look of a tailored ensemble, but it was enough that he didn't look as if he'd just run through the fourth circle of hell.

He concentrated on how he was going to get out of Hogsmeade without ending up in Azkaban when a commotion from the pile of trash at the end of the alley distracted him. Harry snorted. Mundungus Fletcher was probably only now mustering the courage to come out from his camouflage of refuse.

“If only everything else in life acted so plainly according to form,” Harry said noting the irony.

When Harry saw the platinum blond individual who actually appeared from the trash, he had to wonder if the powers that be were listening. He watched Malfoy kick the unconscious Dung, retrieve something from the man's pocket, and then glamour his Death Eater garb into common black wizarding robes.

“Looks like fate's thrown you a bone, Harry,” Slytherin remarked.

“Doesn't make her any less of a bitch in my book,” Harry returned sharply.

Malfoy scurried through the back door of the bar Harry and Dung had been in earlier. Harry didn't waste another moment. Following through the same door, Harry slid a wand down the sleeve of his repaired jacket.

Inside, the behavior of everyone in the bar offered no indication that there'd just been a massacre right outside the premises. The same patrons held the same positions they had prior to the Death Eater attack.

“At least you know where everyone stands here,” Slytherin said. “Still, I'd wager you haven't much time. The Aurors will undoubtedly know just as much, and they'll be on this place as soon as they get control outside.”

Harry took a deep breath realizing the calamity of his situation, told you she was a bitch.

Harry caught Malfoy hurriedly walking toward a hallway past the bar. “Going somewhere Malfoy!” he yelled out.

The young wizard stopped but didn't turn. “You just don't know when to quit do you, Potter?”

“You've got something that I want. Give it to me.”

“Potter, if we were to cover everything I have that you want, our children would have to finish the conversation. So you'll have to be more specific I'm afraid.”

“The locket,” Harry answered. “Give it to me now.”

“Or what, you'll kill me?” Malfoy snapped. Not getting a rise out of Potter irritated him, but seeing the stone cold manner he was being regarded with shook him more than he wanted to admit.

“No. I'm going to kill you regardless of what you do. But at least if you give it to me now I won't have to go through the trouble of cleaning what's left of you off of it when I'm done.”

Malfoy spun around so he could show Harry a disinterested glare. “Take a look around Potter, this isn't exactly a friendly place for you. The Auror's anti-apparition wards mean you can't show off your house elf impersonation. All you've got is a wand and an annoying case of overconfidence.” Malfoy pulled the locket from his pocket and dangled it in front of Harry. “Have a last look.”

Harry flicked the wand in his sleeve forward and took aim at Malfoy. Sectumsempra seemed a fitting curse to throw, and he shot it directly at the arm holding out the locket. It missed, but the unseen spell that struck Harry from behind didn't. For a change he found himself face first on the ground.

“That's a right shame too. Good taste in spirits, even better tipper,” the bar tender behind the wand that cursed Harry said.

The rest of the bar's patrons began to stir, but Malfoy ordered them back. “He's mine!”

“Take the help, Malfoy. You're fucking dead without it.”

“You're unbelievable, Potter! Are you so used to not losing that you can't tell when you're beat? Let me help. Crucio!”

The spell struck and sent Harry into convulsions. Still he didn't make a sound. Malfoy released the spell, “You getting a better grasp on things yet?” Harry didn't answer, and Malfoy struck him with another dose of the torture curse for it. Harry still didn't scream. Malfoy stormed toward Harry driving his wand down at him as if he were trying to force the hatred of the spell deeper.

As Harry lay writhing on the floor, the bar's front doors suddenly slammed open. A bright stream of sunlight blazed through the room and in it stood the silhouette of a short, round man and an even shorter, big eared, skinny house elf. The snap of a finger rang out over the sudden silence, and every person not Harry Potter was sent hurtling backwards and into the nearest wall.

“All Steven King outside it is,” Filmore remarked. “The work of Harry, I'd say.”

“Harry Potter sir is making quite a mess when he is cleaning bad wizards,” Dobby added.

Several of the bar's patrons tried to stand and attack the newcomers, but Dobby snapped his fingers once more, and they stopped moving entirely. The doors shut slowly behind them, allowing the low lit, smoke-filled room to return to its former gloomy state.

Filmore walked casually into the bar with his hands held casually behind his back. Dobby followed, just after giving the frozen wizards his best evil eye glare. Only one of the bar's patrons had made as far as the aisle way between Filmore and Harry. Filmore didn't even look down at the frozen man as he brought forward a silenced pistol he held behind his back and shot him in the head.

Both Malfoy and Harry's eyes stared wide with shock.

“Helps clear up the situation for anybody with untoward thoughts,” Filmore's threatening voice was back in effect.

Dobby quickly went to Harry's side. “Is Harry Potter sir well?”

The effects of the curse were short lived. “I'm fine Dobby.”

“Dobby?” Malfoy said with a tone of disbelief. “A bloody house elf, Potter? Even Weasley is above relying on a house elf to save his ass. You truly are path…”

The clicking sound of the pistol hammer in Trynsington's hand cut Malfoy's rant short.

“No!” Harry said. Filmore lowered his gun.

“…and a Muggle too no less.” Malfoy added with a tisk. “You really are an embarrassment.”

Harry was done with pleasantries. Voldemort's horcrux was only a few steps away, and there was no use in acknowledging insults from a corpse. But no sooner did he take a step towards Malfoy than did another beam of light fill the room through the opened front doors. All eyes again turned to the entrance.

“Harry?” Hermione's voice called out. “I told you I saw Dobby, Ron.”

The door shut behind the Gryffindor duo bringing them clearly into view. “Harry, what have you done?” Ron asked an accusing tone in his voice. “And who the hell is this bloke?”

Harry clinched his fists and cursed fate once more under his breath. He didn't bother responding and instead turned back toward Malfoy only to see a wand pointed between his eyes. A look of pure hate and intent flashed through Draco's eyes, and Harry knew what was coming next.

“Avada Kedavra!” Malfoy's words filled the silent air in the bar. But Harry was ready for it. He ducked his head and body to the left at the same time he swept his hand across Draco's wand arm. The resulting spell missed Harry considerably but did manage to bulls eye the bartender, which saved Harry the time of having to kill the man later for cursing him in the back.

Harry flicked his phoenix wand into his hand and thrust it as hard as he could toward Malfoy. The wand pierced the wizard at the throat with such force that it drove through the front of his throat, out the back of his neck, and lodged into the wall behind Malfoy. Draco's body gave only a single violent lurch in response, before the paralysis set it. After that, he simply hung limp and pinned to the wall, choking for air that wouldn't reach his lungs and gagging on the blood that did.

Harry let go of the base of the wand that still stuck out of Draco's neck. Slowly he leaned in close to the wizard, so that his lips were next to Malfoy's ear.

“Scream for me, Draco.”

The gagging and choking sounds continued. Harry leaned back again and fished Slytherin's locket out of the dying wizard's robes.

“Guess I won't have to clean what's left of you off of this after all,” Harry added.

Dobby looked on his former master with wide eyes that described the lingering conflict his many years of servitude engrained in him. Filmore looked as if he'd just gained another level of respect for Harry - for the record, the proud, glint in the eye look of a crazy, bald, Muggle, wielding a silenced pistol isn't one soon forgotten or mistaken. The only remaining red color on Ron Weasley sat atop his head, and even that looked paler due to the ghost face he stared dumbly at Harry with. Hermione simply stood rigid; her mouth was open and covered by both of her hands. Aside from the ever-lessening sounds of Malfoy dying, the room was completely silent.

Then something cracked. It came from Malfoy's direction, but it definitely wasn't a sound made by him. Everybody looked on with uncertainty, and the sound happened again. Like the sound of wood splitting. It was the wand, and Harry watched as the holly wood split in several places outward from Malfoy's neck.

Ollivander's words ran through Harry's head, “Eleven inches, holly wood, supple, with a single phoenix tail feather core.”

For a brief moment Harry saw the stem of the feather, and then it burst into flames. The blaze was intense as it completely covered Malfoy's head and neck. At first it was the common orange and red color of any flame, but as it continued to burn the fire turned blue, and then white.

It extinguished just as suddenly and left nothing behind of Draco Malfoy's head or neck but ash. His body slid limply down the wall.

“Master Malfoy always was looking in the mirrors at himself,” Dobby said.

The fucking irony today is just too much! Harry thought.