THE RIDDLE MANOR - MAIN HALL
The sound of Vibranium claws slicing through ancient snake scales was exactly as satisfying as Harry had hoped it would be. Which, considering he'd been looking forward to this particular moment for approximately two years, seven months, and sixteen days (not that he was counting), was really saying something.
Nagini's massive head hit the dust-covered floor with a wet thud that echoed through the decrepit manor like a period at the end of a very long, very violent sentence. The kind of sentence that started with "Once upon a time there was a really stupid snake who thought she was immortal" and ended with "and then she learned better the hard way."
Her body convulsed once, twice, then went still with the kind of finality that made even hardened killers pause for a moment of professional appreciation. Harry had to admit, for a magically enhanced serpent with delusions of grandeur, she'd put up a decent fight. Decent being relative, of course, considering she was now decorating the floor in several separate pieces.
Harry stood over the corpse, breathing hard, his red-and-gold armor gleaming with sweat and snake blood in a way that definitely wasn't going to help his already legendary reputation with the ladies. His claws retracted with that soft *snikt* that had become his signature sound—better than a business card, really—and he wiped his gauntlets on what remained of a tapestry that had probably been expensive about fifty years ago.
Before it had been ruined by decades of neglect, questionable decorating choices, and what appeared to be a serious spider infestation. Seriously, how did evil overlords always end up with the worst interior designers?
"And that," he announced to the dusty air, his voice carrying the kind of satisfaction usually reserved for completing particularly difficult crossword puzzles or finally getting that one jar open that had been mocking you for weeks, "is how you kill a Horcrux."
The scream that erupted from somewhere deeper in the manor was so shrill, so filled with rage and existential horror, that several windows cracked and at least one portrait actually fainted. Which was impressive, considering portraits were technically already dead and shouldn't have been capable of losing consciousness.
Magic. Go figure.
Harry's grin was sharp enough to cut glass, and probably twice as dangerous. "Sounds like someone just realized his immortality insurance policy got canceled."
From his earpiece came Sirius's voice, crackling with barely contained glee that suggested Christmas morning and winning the lottery had decided to have a party in his vocal cords: "Harry, my boy, whatever you just did, Tom's having what can only be described as the world's most therapeutic nervous breakdown. It's beautiful. I'm getting emotional."
"Nagini's dead," Harry confirmed, stepping over the massive corpse with the casual confidence of someone who'd just checked another item off his to-do list. Right between "buy milk" and "destroy piece of evil overlord's soul." You know, Tuesday stuff. "Horcrux destroyed. How's the baby-wrangling going?"
"Funny you should ask," James's voice cut through the comm with the kind of dark amusement that suggested excellent things were happening to terrible people. Which, in Harry's experience, was the best kind of amusement. "Our friend Pete just had a bit of a tumble. Currently contemplating his life choices while staring at the business end of Laura's claws."
"Tell me she's enjoying herself," Harry said, making his way toward the staircase with the fluid grace of a predator who'd just remembered he had other prey to hunt. And considering his girlfriend collection, that was really saying something about his multitasking abilities.
"Oh, she's having the time of her life," Sirius's voice carried that particular brand of Marauder mischief that usually preceded someone having a very bad time. "Though I should warn you, Natasha's been giving Pete some very educational looks, and I think she's calculating exactly how many pieces he can be cut into before it becomes impractical."
"That's my girl," Harry said fondly, his voice warming in that way that made all his girlfriends want to drag him somewhere private and show him exactly how much they appreciated a man who could handle himself in combat. Not that he was complaining about that particular response pattern. "Practical and thorough. I do love a woman who thinks ahead."
"Your taste in women continues to be both impressive and slightly terrifying," James observed with what sounded like paternal pride mixed with mild concern for the future of international diplomacy.
"I prefer 'discerning,'" Harry replied, taking the manor stairs two at a time because honestly, evil lairs were always so unnecessarily dramatic with their architecture. "And speaking of my excellent taste, how are my other lovely ladies handling the evening's entertainment?"
"Natasha's currently explaining to Peter why betraying friends is bad for one's health," Sirius reported with obvious glee. "Her teaching methods are very... hands-on."
---
**OUTSIDE THE RIDDLE MANOR**
While Harry was busy redecorating the manor's interior with snake parts and having what could charitably be called a productive evening, the exterior was experiencing its own dramatic transformation. The kind that usually involved special effects budgets and very attractive people doing impossible things while looking impossibly good doing them.
Jean Grey floated about six feet off the ground, her red hair whipping in the wind she was generating with pure telekinetic force, creating what could only be described as the most attractive natural disaster in recorded history. Her green eyes glowed with enough psychic energy to power a small city, and she was magnificent in that 'I could level mountains with my eyebrows and look absolutely stunning while doing it' way that made Harry want to write poetry and also maybe find somewhere private to discuss exactly how attractive power looked on her.
Which was really saying something, considering Harry's usual approach to poetry involved rhyming "fight" with "night" and calling it artistic expression.
"Quinjet inbound," she announced, her telepathic voice broadcasting to the entire team with crystal clarity and just a hint of that smoky undertone that made Harry think very impure thoughts at very inappropriate times. "ETA approximately three minutes. Nick's bringing friends."
*And Harry, if you don't stop thinking about what you want to do to me when this is over, I'm going to project those thoughts to everyone on the team,* came her mental voice, carrying enough amused heat to make his armor feel suddenly restrictive.
Harry's mental response was approximately seventy percent inappropriate suggestions and thirty percent promises that would have made romance novelists blush and take notes.
Jean's laugh echoed both out loud and in his mind, and the psychic equivalent of a very promising rain check followed immediately after.
Ororo Monroe stood beside her, white hair crackling with static electricity as she reached up and casually rearranged the weather to accommodate their incoming aircraft. Storm clouds parted like curtains, wind patterns shifted to create perfect landing conditions, and thunder rumbled overhead in what sounded suspiciously like applause.
Because apparently, even the weather wanted to show off when Ororo was around.
"The sky is cooperating beautifully tonight," she observed with the kind of casual elegance that made meteorology sound like performance art and made Harry think things that definitely weren't appropriate for mixed company. "I do so love it when nature follows directions."
Her accent carried that perfect combination of regal authority and subtle sensuality that suggested she could command hurricanes and hearts with equal ease. Which, knowing Ororo, was probably exactly accurate.
"Show off," Tonks called out cheerfully, bouncing on her toes with the kind of manic energy that suggested someone had given her too much caffeine and access to dangerous magical implements. Her hair cycled through colors like a mood ring having an identity crisis before settling on a pleased shade of electric blue that matched her eyes and made her look like a punk rock fairy who'd decided to dabble in law enforcement.
Her wand was out, weaving ward patterns in the air with the kind of casual precision that suggested she'd been doing this since before she could properly pronounce "incantation." Which, knowing Tonks, had probably been sometime around last Tuesday.
"Landing area secured," she announced with the kind of manic cheerfulness that suggested she was having way too much fun with the whole 'international incident in progress' situation. "No unwanted surprises, no booby traps, and I've added a nice little 'notice-me-not' charm so the locals don't come investigating all the dramatic aircraft noises."
She paused, grinning in that way that made Harry remember exactly why he'd fallen for the chaos incarnate that was Nymphadora Tonks.
"Though honestly, with the amount of noise we've been making, I'm surprised half of Yorkshire hasn't shown up with torches and pitchforks by now. Very traditional, that."
The Quinjet descended through Ororo's carefully arranged atmospheric conditions with the kind of smooth precision that would have made commercial pilots weep with envy and possibly consider career changes. Its engines hummed with that particular SHIELD efficiency that suggested someone had spent a lot of money making sure their aircraft could land anywhere, under any conditions, while looking absolutely magnificent doing it.
Which was really the SHIELD way, when you thought about it. If you're going to save the world, you might as well look good doing it.
As the boarding ramp lowered with a soft pneumatic hiss that somehow managed to sound both official and vaguely threatening, Nick Fury stepped out like he owned the place and was considering charging rent. His trademark leather coat billowed behind him in the artificially perfect wind Ororo had provided, and his one good eye swept the assembled scene with the kind of professional assessment that missed absolutely nothing and catalogued everything for future blackmail material.
"Well, well," he said, his voice carrying that particular brand of dry authority that made hardened agents stand straighter without realizing it and made smart people reconsider their recent life choices. "Looks like Potter's been having himself a productive evening. Anyone care to give me a status report that doesn't involve me having to file seventeen different incident reports?"
He paused, his eye tracking over the assembled collection of superpowered individuals, reformed Dark Lords, and women who could probably level city blocks without breaking a sweat.
"And please tell me someone remembered to bring coffee, because I have a feeling this is going to be a long night."
Behind him stepped a figure that made everyone present do a bit of a double-take, because honestly, when you'd been in the superhero business as long as they had, you learned to expect the unexpected, but this was pushing it even by their standards.
Gideon Adler looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine shoot titled "European Intellectual Monthly: How to Look Devastatingly Handsome While Contemplating the Mysteries of the Universe." His platinum hair was perfectly styled in that effortless way that probably took an hour and several expensive products, his ice-blue eyes held the kind of sharp intelligence that made people reconsider their life choices and possibly their tax returns, and his perfectly tailored gray suit made him look like he could bankrupt someone with a smile and then take them out to dinner afterward.
He was, in short, exactly what you'd expect if someone had taken Gellert Grindelwald—legendary Dark Lord, master manipulator, and general menace to society—and convinced him to get therapy, join the good guys, and invest in a really excellent skincare routine.
"Nicholas," he said, his German accent curling around the words like smoke around fine whiskey, "you failed to mention how... atmospheric this place would be. Very Gothic. Very 'I'm a Dark Lord and I have abandonment issues stemming from my difficult childhood.'"
His eyes tracked over the manor's crumbling facade with the kind of professional assessment that suggested he'd seen his share of dramatic villain lairs and found this one lacking in both creativity and basic maintenance.
"Though I must say, the structural integrity leaves something to be desired. Really, Tom, if you're going to have a secret base, at least invest in proper roofing."
"Wait until you see the interior," Jean called down from her floating position, her voice carrying that particular brand of amused contempt that suggested she'd been taking a psychic tour of the manor's emotional residue and finding it wanting. "The decorating choices really committed to the whole 'evil overlord with daddy issues' aesthetic. Very 'my childhood was traumatic so now I'm going to make it everyone else's problem.'"
Her telepathic voice added, for Harry's benefit alone, *The psychic impressions in there are absolutely revolting. Centuries of fear, pain, and really questionable interior design choices. It's like someone decided to weaponize bad feng shui.*
The next person off the Quinjet made everyone present smile in that particular way that suggested family reunions were about to get very interesting indeed, and probably involve significantly more violence than the average holiday gathering.
Lily Potter stepped onto the tarmac like she owned the place and was personally offended by its current management. Her emerald eyes—the exact same shade as Harry's, because genetics were apparently very literal in the Potter family—blazed with the kind of maternal fury that had once made Dark Lords reconsider their career choices and still made smart people check their insurance policies.
She was wearing what could generously be called "combat casual"—jeans that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, boots that were definitely not purchased from the mall, and a leather jacket that somehow managed to look both approachable and absolutely lethal. It was the kind of outfit that said 'I'm a loving mother who will absolutely destroy you if you threaten my family.'
Her wand was tucked casually behind her ear like a particularly dangerous hair accessory, and her smile promised the kind of justice that made vengeful goddesses take notes and update their LinkedIn profiles.
"Where is he?" she asked without preamble, her voice carrying that perfect combination of motherly concern and barely contained violence that suggested someone was about to have a very educational conversation about the consequences of their actions.
It was the kind of tone that made grown wizards remember why they'd been afraid of their mothers' disappointed voice, and made Harry feel simultaneously proud and slightly concerned for Peter Pettigrew's continued existence.
"Inside, having what appears to be a very thorough discussion with his former friends about the importance of loyalty," Ororo replied, floating down to ground level because apparently even weather goddesses knew when to show proper respect to Harry Potter's mother. "And by discussion, I mean Laura is explaining the concept with her claws."
"Excellent," Lily said, her smile sharp enough to cut diamond and probably twice as dangerous. "I've been wanting to have a conversation with Peter Pettigrew for approximately thirteen years. And now that I know he's alive..."
She cracked her knuckles with the kind of casual precision that suggested she'd been practicing that particular gesture for quite some time, probably while fantasizing about exactly this moment.
"Well, let's just say I have some thoughts about his recent career choices."
The last person off the Quinjet was Clint Barton, who looked like he'd rather be literally anywhere else on the planet but was trying to be professional about it because that's what SHIELD agents did when faced with situations that defied both logic and standard operating procedures.
His bow was slung across his shoulder, and his expression suggested he was mentally calculating how many different ways this evening could go spectacularly wrong while simultaneously wondering if his insurance covered 'death by angry witch mother.'
"So," he said, glancing around at the assembled collection of superpowered individuals, reformed Dark Lords, and very attractive women who could probably kill him without breaking a sweat, "anyone want to give me the short version of why we're raiding a haunted house in the middle of nowhere?"
He paused, looking at the manor's imposing facade with the kind of resignation that suggested he'd done this before and knew it never ended well.
"And please tell me someone brought backup, because I'm getting serious 'this is where horror movies happen' vibes from this place."
"Peter Pettigrew betrayed Harry's parents to Voldemort, got Sirius thrown in prison for crimes he didn't commit, and has been playing nursemaid to a reborn Dark Lord for the past several months," Tonks summarized cheerfully, her hair shifting to a pleased purple that somehow made the whole situation sound like a particularly entertaining television drama. "Also, he's been helping Barty Crouch Jr. impersonate Mad-Eye Moody at Hogwarts, which is just poor form all around."
She bounced once on her toes, clearly enjoying the opportunity to catch someone up on what she obviously considered to be excellent gossip.
"Oh, and the Dark Lord in question is currently a magically sustained infant, which honestly makes the whole thing significantly more entertaining from a dramatic irony perspective."
Clint blinked slowly, processing this information with the kind of resigned acceptance that came from years of dealing with situations that would make normal people question their career choices and possibly their sanity.
"And we're here to...?"
"Arrest him, interrogate him, and possibly let Harry's parents and godfather have a very therapeutic conversation about the importance of not betraying your friends to homicidal maniacs," Jean explained with the kind of clinical precision that made violence sound like a public service announcement.
Her mental voice added, with obvious amusement, *Also, Harry's been looking forward to having some very pointed conversations with people who've been causing problems for his family. It's going to be educational.*
"Right," Clint said slowly, nodding like this made perfect sense in the context of his increasingly surreal professional life. "And the haunted house factor?"
"That's where they were hiding," Fury explained, his voice carrying that particular brand of SHIELD efficiency that suggested this was all perfectly normal Tuesday evening activities and anyone who had problems with that could file a complaint with HR. "Along with what I'm told is a magically resurrected Dark Lord who's currently having the supernatural equivalent of a temper tantrum."
"Because his immortality plan had some significant design flaws," Gideon added helpfully, his voice carrying the kind of professional critique that suggested he'd reviewed the technical specifications and found them wanting. "Really quite amateur, all things considered. Very 'first-year Dark Arts student' in its approach."
"Ah," Clint said, nodding like this made perfect sense. "Just checking. Wouldn't want to accidentally shoot the wrong evil overlord."
From inside the manor came the sound of something large and extremely unhappy hitting what might have been a wall. Or possibly a floor. It was hard to tell, but it was definitely the sound of someone having a very bad time, probably involving expensive furniture and questionable architectural choices.
Lily's smile turned positively predatory, the kind of expression that made smart people update their wills and stupid people reconsider their entire approach to life.
"That'll be my son, making a point about the consequences of threatening his family."
"Kid's got your flair for the dramatic, Lily," Fury observed with what might charitably be called approval and what definitely suggested he was already planning how to recruit Harry for increasingly complicated SHIELD operations.
"He gets that from his father," Lily replied, then paused, considering. "Well, and possibly from me. I may have had some influence on his approach to conflict resolution."
She glanced toward the manor where another crash suggested someone was having an increasingly educational conversation about property damage and personal boundaries.
"Some influence?" Gideon repeated, his eyebrows climbing toward his perfectly styled hairline in a way that suggested amusement and possibly professional admiration. "My dear Lily, the boy makes entrance portals like other people make dinner reservations. I suspect your influence was rather more significant than 'some.'"
Before Lily could respond to that particular observation—which was probably for the best, considering her opinions on people who analyzed her parenting techniques without being asked—the manor's front door opened with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested someone had been taking lessons in Theatrical Entrances 101 and had graduated with honors.
James Potter stepped out first, looking like he'd just won the lottery and solved world hunger simultaneously while also getting a personal endorsement from his favorite sports team. His Vibranium armor gleamed in the artificial lighting Ororo had thoughtfully provided, and his grin was sharp enough to cut glass and probably twice as dangerous.
Behind him, Sirius Black followed with the kind of swagger that suggested he'd just had the most therapeutic conversation of his entire life and was considering writing a book about the experience titled "How to Confront Your Betrayers: A Guide to Emotional Catharsis Through Applied Justice."
Between them, they were levitating what could charitably be called the evening's entertainment, and what could more accurately be called "Exhibit A in the case for why betraying your friends is a really stupid life choice."
Peter Pettigrew looked like he'd been having the worst day of his life, which, considering his life choices over the past decade and a half, was really saying something. His robes were torn, his rat-like features were streaked with what might have been tears or possibly just sweat, and his wrists were bound with the kind of magical restraints that suggested escaping would require either divine intervention or a very expensive lawyer.
Possibly both, considering the legal implications of magically binding someone while they were in the process of committing treason against the wizarding government.
Beside him—and this was the part that made everyone present do a bit of a double-take—floated what appeared to be an extremely angry, extremely naked baby.
If babies were typically pale as parchment, had glowing red eyes that suggested someone had been making very poor life choices involving dark magic, and radiated the sort of malevolent energy that made flowers wilt and small animals reconsider their entire approach to existence.
Voldemort—because of course it was Voldemort, even if he currently looked like something that should be in a diaper rather than terrorizing the wizarding world—was bound, gagged, and apparently having what could only be described as the supernatural equivalent of a complete nervous breakdown.
His tiny fists were clenched, his face was red with rage that suggested someone had just told him his favorite television show had been canceled, and the muffled sounds coming from behind his gag suggested he was trying to deliver what was probably a very impressive villain monologue and was extremely frustrated by his current inability to do so.
It was, Harry had to admit, probably the most anticlimactic capture of a Dark Lord in wizarding history. Though also possibly the most satisfying, considering the circumstances.
"Evening, everyone," James announced cheerfully, like he was introducing guests at a dinner party rather than presenting war criminals for inspection. "I'd like you all to meet Peter Pettigrew—traitor, murderer, and generally unpleasant human being—and his employer, Tom Marvolo Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, currently experiencing some technical difficulties with his whole 'immortal Dark Lord' brand."
He gestured at the floating infant with obvious satisfaction.
"Turns out that when you split your soul into multiple pieces and then someone systematically destroys most of those pieces, your magical resurrection doesn't work quite as advertised. Who could have predicted that?"
Lily stepped forward, and the temperature around her seemed to drop by several degrees in that way that suggested someone was about to have a very educational conversation about the consequences of their actions. Her emerald eyes fixed on Peter with the kind of intensity usually reserved for particularly persistent stains, and when she spoke, her voice carried the kind of maternal fury that made grown men reconsider their entire existence.
"Hello, Peter," she said, her tone perfectly polite and absolutely terrifying in that uniquely maternal way that suggested someone was about to learn some very important lessons about friendship, loyalty, and why you should never betray people who care about you.
Peter tried to shrink into himself, which was quite an achievement considering he was already bound and floating and generally having the worst evening of his life. His eyes darted around the assembled group like he was looking for an escape route and finding nothing but very attractive, very dangerous people who all seemed to have personal grievances against him.
Which was really quite accurate, when you thought about it.
Gideon stepped forward, his ice-blue eyes fixed on the floating infant with the kind of clinical interest that suggested he was already planning a very educational conversation involving advanced interrogation techniques and possibly some creative applications of magic that weren't covered in standard textbooks.
When he smiled, it was the kind of expression that made smart people update their life insurance policies and made stupid people suddenly remember urgent appointments elsewhere.
"And you, mein kleiner Lord," he said, his German accent somehow making the endearment sound like a threat wrapped in silk and delivered with a side of impending doom, "you and I are going to have a very long, very thorough discussion about where exactly you've hidden the Ravenclaw Diadem."
The muffled screaming from behind Voldemort's gag reached new octaves of rage and indignation, suggesting that someone was having opinions about their current situation and those opinions were not positive.
Harry emerged from the manor at that moment, looking like he'd just completed a very satisfying workout at a gym that specialized in extremely violent cardio involving large magical snakes. His armor was splattered with what was definitely snake blood, his emerald eyes were bright with satisfaction, and his grin suggested he'd just crossed several items off his to-do list.
Including some items that had been on there for quite a while and had been marked "high priority" and "extremely satisfying when completed."
"Evening, everyone," he announced cheerfully, stepping over to where his parents stood like he hadn't just single-handedly destroyed a twenty-foot magical snake and a piece of the darkest soul in wizarding history. "Sorry about the mess inside. There was a bit of a disagreement about interior decorating, and Nagini had some very strong opinions about it."
He paused, looking at the assembled group with obvious pleasure and the kind of satisfaction that came from having very attractive girlfriends who appreciated competence in combat situations.
"Though I have to say, this is turning out to be quite the family reunion. Very therapeutic. I should do this more often."
Natasha appeared out of the shadows with that casual grace that suggested she'd been there the whole time and was just now choosing to be noticed, probably because she'd been busy doing something useful and possibly lethal. Her red hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, her tactical gear was perfectly arranged, and her smile suggested she'd been having a very educational evening.
"The interior decorating has definitely improved," she observed, moving to stand beside Harry with the kind of fluid grace that made even simple walking look like performance art. "Though I think you may have gotten a bit enthusiastic with the renovations."
Her voice carried that particular combination of dry humor and subtle heat that made Harry remember exactly why he'd fallen for the Black Widow, and why she continued to be absolutely devastating to his ability to think clearly in tactical situations.
"I was thorough," Harry replied, reaching out to pull her against his side in a way that made several people present remember they had somewhere else to be. "You taught me that."
"Among other things," Natasha murmured, her voice carrying enough promise to make Harry's armor feel suddenly restrictive and make everyone else present suddenly very interested in the manor's architectural details.
Laura appeared beside them with that casual stealth that suggested she'd been lurking nearby and waiting for the optimal moment to make an entrance. Her claws were retracted, but her smile suggested she'd been having a very productive conversation with someone about the importance of loyalty and the consequences of betrayal.
"Peter was very cooperative once I explained the situation," she announced with obvious satisfaction. "Very eager to share everything he knows about their operation."
Her voice carried that particular edge that suggested the conversation had involved some very pointed questions and some very sharp answers.
"He's surprisingly talkative when properly motivated," she added, glancing at the bound traitor with obvious contempt. "Though his voice got a bit squeaky toward the end."
Tonks bounced up to the group, her hair now a pleased shade of golden yellow that matched her obvious satisfaction with the evening's proceedings. Her wand was still out, but she was twirling it between her fingers with the kind of casual skill that suggested she was ready for anything and enjoying the anticipation.
"This is brilliant," she announced cheerfully, looking around at the assembled collection of family, friends, and bound prisoners like she was attending a particularly entertaining party. "Really, Harry, you know how to show a girl a good time."
Her voice carried that particular combination of manic enthusiasm and subtle flirtation that made Harry remember exactly why chaos incarnate was so attractive when it came in Tonks-shaped packages.
Jean and Ororo approached with the kind of coordinated grace that suggested they'd been having their own conversation about the evening's proceedings and had reached some very satisfactory conclusions about the outcome.
"The perimeter is secure," Jean announced, her telepathic voice carrying undertones of satisfaction and something that suggested she'd been enjoying her psychic tour of the evening's events. "No unexpected visitors, no backup plans, no escape routes."
Her mental voice added, for Harry's benefit alone, *And no interruptions for whatever we decide to do to celebrate this victory.*
"The weather is cooperating beautifully," Ororo added, her accent carrying that perfect combination of regal authority and subtle amusement that suggested she was very pleased with how the evening had developed. "Clear skies, perfect temperature, and absolutely no chance of rain to spoil our conversation."
The way she said "conversation" suggested that the upcoming discussion was going to be anything but casual small talk.
Lily reached up and pulled a bit of snake scale out of Harry's hair with the kind of casual maternal efficiency that suggested she'd been cleaning up after her son's adventures for quite some time and had developed very effective techniques for dealing with the aftermath.
"Did you remember to destroy the Horcrux properly?" she asked, like she was asking if he'd remembered to take out the trash or do his laundry, rather than asking about the destruction of one of the darkest magical artifacts in wizarding history.
"Completely obliterated," Harry confirmed, his voice carrying that particular satisfaction that came from a job well done and possibly from having five incredibly attractive girlfriends who were all looking at him like he'd just accomplished something impressive. "Whatever piece of Tom's soul was in that snake is now decorating the afterlife. Along with the diary, the ring, the locket, and the cup."
He paused, grinning at the increasingly frantic muffled sounds coming from the gagged Dark Lord.
"I have to say, Tom's taking the news about as well as expected."
The muffled screaming behind Voldemort's gag reached new levels of incoherent rage, suggesting that someone was having very strong opinions about the evening's developments and those opinions involved a lot of creative profanity.
Gideon's smile turned positively wicked, the kind of expression that suggested he was about to enjoy himself immensely at someone else's expense.
"Ah, excellent. That leaves only the diadem unaccounted for. Which brings us back to our little conversation, doesn't it, Tom?"
He gestured casually, and Voldemort's gag vanished with a soft pop that somehow managed to sound both anticlimactic and ominous.
The tirade of profanity that followed was so creative, so varied, and so absolutely inappropriate that several people present made mental notes to use some of those combinations later, possibly in situations involving traffic jams or tax returns.
When he finally ran out of breath—and creative insults involving people's ancestry, personal hygiene, and questionable life choices—Voldemort glared at the assembled group with all the malevolent fury of someone who'd just realized their immortality plan had some significant flaws.
"You think this changes anything?" he spat, his voice carrying that particular brand of aristocratic rage that suggested he'd gone to a very expensive school and learned to be condescending as an extracurricular activity. "You think destroying a few trinkets makes you victorious? I am Lord Voldemort! I am—"
"Currently a magically sustained infant having a temper tantrum," Harry interrupted cheerfully, stepping closer until he was looking down at the floating Dark Lord with obvious amusement and the kind of casual confidence that suggested he'd been looking forward to this conversation for quite some time.
"Also, you appear to be having some wardrobe malfunctions. That's really not helping your whole 'fear me' vibe, Tom."
"DO NOT CALL ME THAT NAME!" Voldemort shrieked, his voice cracking in a way that completely undermined his attempted intimidation and made him sound like a particularly upset toddler who'd been told he couldn't have ice cream for dinner.
"Why?" Harry asked with genuine curiosity, tilting his head in a way that suggested he was honestly interested in the answer and also possibly considering writing a paper on the psychology of Dark Lords and their naming conventions. "It's your name. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Very ordinary. Very mundane. Very... forgettable."
He paused, his grin turning sharp enough to cut diamond.
"Though I suppose that's the point, isn't it? Can't have people remembering that the terrifying Dark Lord was actually just a scared little boy with abandonment issues and a really unhealthy obsession with immortality."
"I am LORD VOLDEMORT!"
"You're a naked baby having a tantrum," Natasha observed with the kind of clinical detachment that made even the most basic observations sound like devastating psychological analysis. "It's really quite pathetic."
Her voice carried that particular combination of professional assessment and personal contempt that suggested she'd dealt with megalomaniacs before and found this one particularly lacking in both competence and basic dignity.
"I mean, I've seen some pretty spectacular villain breakdowns in my career," she continued, examining her nails with obvious boredom, "but this is really something special. Usually, they at least manage to keep their clothes on during the dramatic reveals."
Sirius burst out laughing, the kind of delighted sound that suggested he was having the time of his life and possibly the most therapeutic experience of his entire adult existence.
"Oh, that's brilliant, Natasha," he managed between laughs. "Really, absolutely brilliant. Thirteen years in Azkaban, and this is what I get to come back to. A naked Dark Lord having a tantrum like a toddler who's been told he can't have a pony."
"To be fair," James added with obvious satisfaction, "he never really matured past the toddler stage emotionally. This is actually quite consistent with his psychological profile."
"I will kill you all!" Voldemort screamed, his face turning an alarming shade of red that suggested someone needed to work on their anger management techniques. "I will—"
"You'll what?" Laura asked with genuine curiosity, her claws extending just enough to catch the light in a way that made several people present remember why small, angry women with sharp implements were not to be underestimated. "Cry us to death? Have a really impressive tantrum until we feel sorry for you?"
She paused, tilting her head in that particular way that suggested she was considering something and finding it entertaining.
"Because honestly, Tom, the whole 'terrifying Dark Lord' thing works a lot better when you're not floating around naked and bound like someone's really disturbing party decoration."
Gideon stepped forward, his perfectly tailored suit somehow making him look even more imposing by contrast to the bound, naked, and increasingly hysterical Dark Lord.
"Now then, Tom," he said, his voice carrying the kind of silk-wrapped authority that had once convinced half of Europe to follow him into very poor life choices and was now being used for significantly more constructive purposes, "let's discuss the Ravenclaw Diadem. I know you have it. I know you've made it into a Horcrux. And I know you've hidden it somewhere you consider significant."
His ice-blue eyes glittered with dangerous amusement. "The question is: are you going to tell me where it is willingly, or am I going to have to be... creative in my interrogation techniques?"
Voldemort's glare could have melted steel. "I will tell you nothing, Grindelwald!"
"Adler," Gideon corrected mildly. "Gellert Grindelwald was a different person entirely. Someone much less... reformed. Much more inclined toward dramatic villain monologues and unnecessary violence."
He paused, his smile turning sharp as broken glass.
"Though I suspect you're about to meet him anyway, if you continue to be uncooperative."
The silence that followed was the kind that usually preceded either violence or surrender.
Sometimes both.
Harry looked around at the assembled collection of family, friends, reformed Dark Lords, and bound prisoners, and felt that particular satisfaction that came from a plan coming together perfectly.
"Right then," he announced cheerfully, clapping his hands together in a way that made his armor ring like bells. "I think it's time we all had a nice, long conversation about the consequences of poor life choices, the importance of family loyalty, and where exactly Tom has been hiding his jewelry collection."
His grin was sharp enough to cut diamond. "This is going to be fun."
In the distance, thunder rumbled with what sounded suspiciously like agreement.
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!