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The sands of time blew softly over an abandoned crumbling Muggle house in the village of Little Hangleton. Far away an owl softly hooted while leaves fluttered with the swirling wind. There was a sudden screeching sound of bats and thick dark smoke issuing from the chimney. To add to this eerie picture, two Dementors flanked the dilapidated wooden door, occasionally issuing their decayed, scabbed hands to display a threatening gesture or to scratch when it itched.



An ethereal music, composed by John Williams played softly in the background while a tarnished WB logo zoomed out towards the reader.



There was a sudden chugging sound from the chimney.



'Swear it wasn’t me,' said one of the Dementors quickly.



There was a loud, anguished melodramatic 'NOOOOOOOO…' from inside the house.



As a lighting bolt struck suddenly, a monstrous sight met the eyes: a certain Dark Lord seated atop a high chair with a perturbed expression on his face and a pair of sycophant buttocks peeping from the fireplace



'Wormtail, You have completely ruined it!' shouted Voldemort.



'I’m trying master, I’m trying!' came a muffled sound from inside the fireplace where a five foot tall, pot-bellied bedraggled-robed buck-toothed servant was stuck, his wand groping aimlessly through the ashes and his silver hand, itching to reach a temporarily unavailable body part.



'For a whole month, I, Lord ‘Better-than-Grindel’ Voldemort, have been trying to make ghostly green mist emanate from this chimney to scare the hell out of the Muggles who live in this village, and all that comes out is smoke?' shrieked the Lord



'Well, at least it’s ‘Dark’?' stammered Wormtail.



'Cruc off, Wormtail!' swore the Lord, showing a rude hand gesture, 'You are no use to me; in fact, Snape…'



Wormtail turned around and straightened himself.



'Snape, Snape, Snape!' he said, 'don’t I mean anything to you master? I gave you a new life in book 4! I stood by you even though other Death Eaters (clever ones, them!) fled, got carted off to Azkaban and a variety of other stuff. I, abandoned my old family, my rat friends (Cheesballs, Big Ears Little Paw, Wickey Mouse I miss you!) and came all the way to Albania, helped you with Dark spells, large stone cauldrons, milked Nagini while avoiding her bite, lured Bertha Jorkins…'



Voldemort listened with a bored expression on his face.



'See Wormtail, it’s not that you’ve not been use to me, it’s just that…'



'That?'



'That you are kind of …dumpy,'



'Dumpy?' The rat like eyes turned into watery reservoirs.



'I mean look at you! 4 feet 11 inches tall, 180 pounds in weight and so lackluster when it comes to style, I mean look at you,' he said as though trying to make him see reason, 'Even after I become the Greatest Darkest Sorcerer of All Time in The History of Wizardkind, Thank You Very Much; I still would look like a joke walking around with you. Think of it, a tall, green, handsome…'



'..bald…'



'Do not interrupt me, Wormtail!' bellowed Voldemort and pointed his wand at him. Wormtail prepared himself to dance in pain but only got a sharp poke with it in his eye.



'…A tall, green, handsome Dark Lord walking around with a Semi-Squib, Three Quarters-Mudblood, Animagus-Rat Jiggling Jar of Jell-O!' continued our Lord as though nothing had happened, 'Think of it Wormtail, the negative impression it would give! Even Mudbloods would laugh at us!'



There was another bolt of thunder which illuminated the bewildered face of Wormtail.



The truth had come out at last, why Voldemort preferred Severus ‘Greasy-Hair-Spray’ Snape and Lucius ‘Azkaban-Without-Dementors-is-like-a-Hotel’ Malfoy over him, Peter ‘I-Love-Cheese’ Pettigrew: it was because they were thin, sophisticated and stylish…and he was round, dumb and well dumb!



He looked at his reflection in the mirror behind him.



But there was still something, something, he thought, which I have and the other Death Eaters don’t… my charming personality, my chick-magnetism and…and…information, information which even the Dark Lord knows not…!



But this information would give Voldemort an upper hand in the coming war. Voldemort didn’t yet know that Snape had killed Dumbledore, neither did he know that all the Death Eaters and Muggles knew about the Horcruxes and the full contents of the prophecy. The release of ‘Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince’ had changed everything…



But could he really tell him everything? Deep down inside he didn’t want Voldemort to win; not because he had a life debt to Harry Potter but because he couldn’t live on Basilisk milk all day.



'What is it Wormtail?' suddenly said Voldemort, making the Ratman jump, 'Is there something you want to tell me?'



'Master how did you…but of course, Legilimency,'



'No, you dolt, I saw your dimwitted expression in the mirror…so what is it that you want to give me? Snivelling apologies? Futile information? Or stories of deep regret?'



Wormtail fidgeted with his robes.



'Actually I er..I have some very useful information for you..' he muttered.



There, he’d said it, now there was no turning back. Either he cough up, or be Kedavra’ed.



'I’ve read the sixth book,' he said finally, his eyes tightly closed.



'You have?' said Voldemort almost standing up, 'tell me what happened? Did Draco succeed? Did Potter die? And most important of all, did Harry Potter get a girlfriend? TELL ME!'



Wormtail began. He told everything, about how Potter now knew about the Horcruxes, about how he was now going to find them, and about how Dumbledore had died.



But all that came out of his mouth was the sounds of agonized constipated cattle and fifty musical saws.



'Mermish! But of course!' screamed Voldemort, 'The blonde Mudblood has put an Infidelius Charm on the book!'



'What’s an Infidelius Charm?' Wormtail asked innocently



Voldemort stared at him



'Wormtail, don’t you know?'



'I do, but the readers don’t. You’ll have to tell them.'



Voldemort paced the room in a dramatic manner, sat down in an armchair near the fire and made up a somber expression on his face with a deep voice.



'The Infedilius Charm,' he said mysteriously, 'can be placed on a secret so that it can not reveal itself to a single soul known as the Infidel. J K Rowling has put this Charm against meeeee!' he bawled, 'A-And so I can’t read book 6! Nor can anyone dictate it to me, it all comes out in Mermishhh!' and he began to cry adamantly.



Wormtail didn’t know what to do.



'I don’t know what to do, my Lord' he said



'I know! It’s written up there! Don’t repeat it!'



So Wormtail began his usual flattering, about how Voldemort was the greatest Dark Lord who ever lived and how he scared people with his unflinching, unfathomable face, void of any tear-stricken, emotion-driven and disgustingly humane facial expressions.



Voldemort lifted up his head, sniffled, wiped his puffy eyes, put on a crinkly Hagrid-like smile and said innocently, 'Really?'



'Really,'



'And…And I’m the greatest Dark Lord? Better than Grindelwald?'



'Yes, yes better'



'And even better than Salazar Slytherin?'



'Ummm….'



'COME ON WORMTAIL, SAY YES!'



'Of..of course! But he knew 119 spells to create serpents, you know,' said Wormtail blatantly unaware what such a statement would cost him.



'But I know 120, HA!' gloated Voldemort, standing up suddenly, 'Any one can do those baby spells like Serpensortia, Vapori Viperi, Pythonio Producio, Come-on Cobra, Arrivuluss Annacondiss…but I can so the King of them all!'



'Lemme guess,' said Wormtail boredly, 'Accio Nagini,'



There was a moment’s silence, only to filled in a second by Wormtail’s strickened shrieks.





Next day, early morning as the first rays of the sun (the Dementors fled) touched the Dark crumbling remains of Tom Riddle’s house in Little Hangleton, Voldemort himself could be seen reclining on the couch in boxer shorts, reading the last few pages of ‘Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban’ (which had thankfully been saved by the Infedilus Charm), his servant Wormtail was snuggled on a mat near the fireplace while Nagini was coiled up on Voldemort’s bed, snoozing peacefully.



‘HA!’ said Voldemort snapping the book shut, which made Wormtail jump, ‘I have done it at last! After two months hard work…’



Wormtail forgot his sleep.



‘Am I now going to hear that Evilly-Dark-cum-Darkly-Evil Plan which you’ve been Plotting for months to get Harry Potter killed, wipe off the wizard race and be crowned as the Darkest Sorcerer Who Ever Existed?’ he demanded anxiously.



‘No silly,’ said Voldemort, ‘I finished this goddamn book!’



‘I’ve still not decided my next move,’ he continued, pulling a chart where a seven-point-agenda was written.





The Dark Lord’s Seven-Point Agenda



1991: Try to get the Philological Stone

1992: Do nothing; avoid being blown off by hi-speed Albanian winds

1993: Wait for a Death Eater/Trusted Servant to find me; possess animals for the heck of it!

1994: Brew up that Quidditch Cup/Goblet of Fire thing, get Potter to me, regain body, kill boy

1995: Retrieve prophecy, kill the Potter boy

1996: Give Draco Malfoy job to kill Dumbledore (and imagine what fruitless attempts he makes)

1997: …



Success Rate: 9% (could resist the Albanian winds)





Voldemort stared thoughtfully at this parchment.



'What do I do next?' Voldemort pondered, 'when I don't even know whether my last plan has succeeded or not?'



Wormtail could not tell Voldemort that Dumbledore was dead and even Snape or any of the other Death Eaters had not given Voldemort the details.



But Wormtail, thanks to his keen eye and Harry Potter fansites knew where Potter would be going this summer…



'Umm, I know what we could do next…master,’ said Wormtail cautiously, ‘how about we go to the Burrow?’



Incredible! No mermish words!



'The Burrow, eh?' said Voldemort turning to him, 'Wormtail, just because you are a rat and I snake, doesn't mean we start cracking jokes about burrows, ok?'



'No, my Lord,' said Wormtail exasperatedly, 'The Burrow! The blood traitors' home, don't you remember Books 2 and 4?'



Voldemort consided for a moment.



'But why should we go there?'



Wormtail said, 'Potter's going to be there!' quickly, but the Charm was strong and mermish came out.



'Why should we go there?' repeated Voldemort, 'you are saying as though Potter and his party are going to be there, celebrating, despite these troubled times, the wedding of…of…a part Veela with a part Werewolf!'



Wormtail brightened, 'Yes! Something like that!'



'Soooo…... Potter's going to be there, eh?' said Voldemort fiddling with the strap of his boxers.



Wormtial nodded, what a stroke of luck!



'Well, I should change into something fitting then!' and he threw open his wardrobe to reveal seven identical faded black robes.



'Help me choose, Wormtail!'



Wormtail sighed.



After an hour's scrambling and several Cruciatus curses, Voldmort finally selected the suitable robes and threw away his boxers in the corner of his bed.



'So, Wormtail,' he announced confidently, 'time to move!'



'B-but sir,' squeaked Wormtail (literally), 'won't we need a disguise?'



Voldemort crucio'ed him and said, 'Fair point, Wormy'



He disappeared under his bed and after some rummaging, emerged with a box marked, 'Effectively Secret Dark Lord and His Minion Disguises That Can Fool Even Dumbledore'



He opened them excitedly.



All Wormtail saw was a blonde wig, a black handlebar moustache and Wendy Witch's #5 Acid-Green Full-Gloss Wet-Shine Lipstick.



'Here's your disguise,' said Voldemort, roughly propping the wig on Wormtail's head and giving his lips the Wet-Shine look, 'and here's mine...' he hoisted the moustache on his upper lip, 'so how do I look? Mysterious, eh?'



'Hardly discernable,' sighed Wormtail, 'you'd pass as a Ministry official.'



'Perfect,' said Voldemort, 'now, we need to decide the mode of transportation…'



Wormtail sighed again.



'Appartition?' he suggested, 'Broomsticks? Portkeys? Floo Powder?'



There was a burst of light from Voldemort's wand and a wince of pain after every suggestion.



'I mean, something different, yet nostalgic!' Voldemort explained irritated, 'Broomsticks and Apparitions are boring and already mentioned in the books. How about….trains?' his eyes gleamed



'But my Lord, would a train take us to the Burrow, it's not like there are a lot of wizard trains running around the country? In fact, apart from Hogwarts Express…'



But Voldemort unearthed a list of trains and their timings.





1. The Godric's Hollow Express

2. The Grimmauld Place Express

3. The Voldemort's Scary Horcrux Cave Express

4. The Ministry of Magic Express

.

.

10. The Burrow Express





'Aha! All places mentioned in the book!' exclaimed Voldemort, 'fill the ticket order form today and send it Wormtail; I need the tickets by tomorrow!'



Then he turned around, facing the readers and wearing an unforgiving expression.



'This time, Harry Potter will be mine…..', he said in a creepy, cold fashion, 'I will tear his body from limb to limb and make him pay for all the agony he's caused me…'



He swiveled to turn slowly towards Wormtail, who cowered.



'TO THE BURROW!' Voldemort screamed suddenly, joyously



'TO THE BURROW!' Wormtail followed suit, feeling stupid.



'TO THE BURROW!' Nagini bellowed, Voldemort's boxer shorts stuck in her head.



'And while we are happily anticipating tomorrow's events,' said Voldemort, 'and the fall of Harry Potter, there is…' he turned to Wormtail, giving the copy of 'Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban a fleeting look, '…there is one last thing left to do…'



He moved dangerously towards Wormtail, wand drawn…




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Stick around for the next episode…





Chapter Two: Of Scars, Families and Unbreakable Vows…





And I assure you it gets funnier as it goes…!

Chapter Two: Of Scars, Families and Unbreakable Vows



"Argh! My scar is burning!" screamed Harry and Ron in unison just as dawn cracked in their end-of-year disheveled dormitory.



"What is it now?" demanded an equally disheveled Hermione, materializing on the scene as usual, hair rigid and unidirectional, her hands on hips.



"My scar, it's my scar!" bellowed Harry, clutching at a crack in his forehead, prancing around the rug.



"Okay, as usual." She turned to Ron. "And you?"



"My scar, my other scar!" he wailed in reply, face split in a permanent scream.



"What scar?"



"The scar that everyone has!" Ron replied unabashedly, being rather unabashed, "I sit on it most of the time-"



"Ew!" said Hermione understandingly, being rather understanding.



"-It was that sandwich, I tell you," Ron continued, prancing around, clutching his bottom, "No more sandwiches from now on. At least not when I've made them…" Hermione remembered Ron's expression yesterday morning, the fact that the pepper mill on the Gryffindor table was suddenly half-empty and put two-and-two together.



"Argh!" screamed Harry.



"Argh!" screamed Ron.



"Urgh!" said Hermione, as any bushy-haired girl in the company of screaming boys would have done. She closed her eyes as though praying for patience and opened them, turning to Harry.



"Harry, you sit down quietly and wait for the pain to stop.” Harry did what he was told while Hermione turned sideways.



"Ron, as for you, go to Madam Pomfrey and -”



"Argh!" Ron bellowed loudly, "I can't! She's too close a friend to Madam Rosmerta! I don't want her guffawing at the wrong joke in the Three Broomsticks!"



"Okay, fine!" said Hermione, losing her patience. "Go to St. Mungo's then but please stop bothering me!"



"Great idea," Ron replied, considering her suggestion. He made a determined face and closed his eyes tightly. Muttering something, he half-turned around the spot.



"No, NO - Ron!" Hermione screeched, knowing what he was about to do. "Don't Apparate! You can't do it from-"



Ron cut in, "What do you mean 'can't'? Look at this!" he thrusted a fake Apparition License at Hermione's face, which had an unconvincing photo of him (with freckles, a fourteen-year-old fluff of a moustache and waist-length red hair) while the name read 'Resmond Worque'. "This is proof that I can Apparate, Okay?"



Hermione stared at him, mouth open, at a loss of words for something which she had re-elaborated sufficiently throughout the series.



"No, I meant than in Hogwarts…" she began, but suddenly changed her mind. “Fine, go Apparate!" she cried, her twelve-thousand-tome-nourished conscience overpowering her concern for her so-called boyfriend's welfare and intellect. "But don't blame me later if you splinch a leg or a gall bladder or something!"



"Gall bladder?" retorted Ron, "I'm a man, not a steam engine!" and with this enigmatic note, he Apparated.



Or so, he thought.



For in the next minute his whole body levitated comically upward, his limbs gesticulating, finally making him fall face-first with a resounding crash on the unforgiving common room floor. A parchment floated down to him. It had the picture of Dumbledore.



Ha Ha Ha! read the cautionary, sensitive and worldly-wise note on it.



"Ow!" said Ron, out of pain.



"Voldemort!" said Harry, out of habit.



"Vicky, where are you!" said Hermione, biting her tongue.



* * *



Miles away in London a marginally-hygienic serpentine Shack was bustling with hope and elation, numerous anticipations for the upcoming marriage. But it wasn't the same in every corner of the house, at least not in Chamber of Scowls, a lesser known room in Grimmauld Place which was privy to the most historically concealed Order-moping and florid-handkerchief blowing.



On a straight-backed chair, a woman was seated, hunch-backed and sniffling. Within a few moments she began to whimper and finally cry.



Feeling rather humane at the moment, Remus Lupin stepped into the room (in the process of searching for an empty space where he could accommodate his full-moon rendezvous) and stopped at the foot of the door.



The woman dressed in tartan suddenly looked upwards and Lupin, who was shocked to see the normal strict and stony face of Minerva "never-cross-me" McGonagall covered with silver tears. Lupin thought he knew what the reason was.



"Thinking about Albus, Minerva?" he asked softly.



"N-no…Remus," she whimpered, swallowing breath in gallons, "It's about the Potter boy!”



Lupin looked confused, "What about him?"



McGonagall glowered at Lupin as though he had sworn. "What about him? Look at what he's facing! He's losing so much every year!"



There was a pause.



"Weight?" Lupin suggested.



McGonagall peered at him cat-like and decided that any other Order member would have grasped without a hint. To her surprise, as though for assistance, four Order members Apparated around her: two of them allegedly as tearful as she was.



"Molly, Arthur, Moody, Niagara!" McGonagall exclaimed, wiping her nose in a tartan handkerchief, "What a pleasure to see you all!"



"Nymphadora," corrected a slightly younger woman, her hair a shock of champagne beige and robes a shocker of fuchsia pink, "but I prefer you call me Tonks!"



"Okay, whatever…" said McGonagall uninterestedly, "I wanted to talk to Mol-"



"-about Harry?" assisted Molly, her own face drenched with tears, "I know! I haven't slept for days thinking about how much he's lost!"



"Hair?" suggested Arthur.



Molly glared at him saber-toothed-tiger-like and resumed what she was saying.



"The poor dear who loved my cooking had no parents to start with, then he lost Sirius, his technical godfather and figurative mixture of father and brother." she sniffled, her tears forming a messy puddle on the floor.



"And this year…" McGonagall started, her face as frightened as it would be if the whole of Gryffindor house started picnicking at midnight.



"Scars?" Moody suggested.



Tonks glanced at him tyrannosaurus-like and decided that men in the world were born to be insensitive.



"What's a tyranno-?" began Arthur interestedly but Tonks cut in, weeping, "This year…h-he lost P-professor Dumbledore who he u-used to address without his title n-near his friends! Dumbledore, who was a technical Headmaster b-but figurative mixture of-of…" she grasped around for words, looking at the Transfiguration godmother for hints.



"O-of a grandfather and a mentor," said McGonagall helpfully, "or maybe ‘of a wise old man and an over-partial principal’ o-or maybe ‘a maverick wizard and a 150 year old style statement…’" she bit her lip and was lost in thought.



"What he needs," Molly advised, "is-"



"Wolfclaw clippers?"



"Screwdrivers?"



"Magical Creature Fingerprint Detectors?"



"NO!" shrieked McGonagall ferociously, breathing fire, "he needs a FAMILY! Something which he has been deprived of till date…"



The Weasley's made indistinct noises in their throats.



"We all need to represent family members for him," McGonagall continued, refraining from offering cough drops. "Yes, that's it! Each of us needs to act like we are his family member!" she brightened. Everyone stared at McGonagall dumbfounded as though she was suggesting them to play hopscotch.



"So what should we do?" Tonks asked innocently.



"Good question, Nephridia," McGonagall pondered, "I…I'm going to be his grandmother!" She got up from her seat determinedly and stuck out her arm, her palm facing downward.



"Who all are with me?" she demanded impatiently.



"I'm going to be his elder sister," said Tonks dramatically leaping and placing her palm on McGonagall's.



"I'll be his grandfather!" Moody growled, ignoring McGonagall's bewildered expression and slashing his gnarled hand on Tonks'.



"I'll be the Minister of - I mean, his father!" said Arthur, correcting himself as his wife coughed.



"I'll, um…be his…um…" Lupin began, ignoring Tonks who coughed something like ‘brother-in-law’. "Um…his UNCLE!" and delivered his slightly furry palm on the stack. Tonks groaned.



"Which leaves…" McGonagall turned to Molly.



The latter, at the far end of the room, prepared herself, swiveled dramatically on the spot (sharp intake of breath from Tonks), focused on their palms like an angry bull and sprinted forwards resolutely, finally depositing her pudgy hand on top, emphasizing the finality of relationships and announced,



"I will be his mother-cum-favourite-cook!"



McGonagall pointed a wand beneath her palm and stars shot out in all direction as though sealing something. Faint superhero music played from a gramophone somewhere. The palms retreated to their owners. There was an odd feeling among the group as though they had signed a sort of contract.



"We should have a name," decided McGonagall.



"Hear, hear!" Moody growled inconsequentially.



"How about the Family Squad or the F.S. for short?" suggested Molly, her domestic-level creativity offering her the best she could think of.



"Yes the F.S. sounds fine. But let's keep it to stand for Fiery Spiders because that's Ron's greatest fear, isn't it?" chirped Tonks.



Molly hem-hem’ed.



"Done!" asserted McGonagall fervently, her glasses askew. "Although I see no connection. So…all in favour of the Fiery Spiders?"



Four hands shot up, and finally Molly's did too as she saw a glimpse of past Transfiguration teacher, future Hogwarts Headmistress and daunting student dictator behind the square spectacles.



"Our agenda this summer," continued McGonagall, sounding business-like, "will be decided later, but the first initiative would be to keep close watch on Potter…"



Molly gargled conspicuously.



"I mean my ickle grandson Harriekins…" McGonagall rectified awkwardly, which apparently her oral muscles were inappropriate for. "The aim of this wedding party will not just be debauched merriment and callous enjoyment but also to monitor Harry, assess what his existing state of mind is and assist him psychologically. We need to elaborately motivate him, aid him identify his ongoing Dark diminishing goals, hone his grit to perfection and be a precedent to what he should turn out to be - a gallant warrior of light and an example to the young Phoenix successors, as opposed to an athletically-inclined, logically-lamentable and unusually-annoying oddball of a sightseer that he currently is."



Five pairs of eyes blinked.



"So, enjoy the party, Molly, Remus, Nirvana!" Saying so, she vanished.



* * *



The Riddle House, perennially shrouded in thick black smoke, was Darker than usual. Even heaven refused to witness what macabre episode the dilapidated dwelling was going to present this time. Outside the bungalow too, the Dementors were fearful of anticipating the diabolical chain of events to happen inside and hence were huddled into each other, shivering with fear.



Harry's non-admirer and Nagini's godfather, Lord Voldemort, advanced towards his plagued servant Wormtail, his wand drawn.



"My L-lord…?" stammered the latter, "Why are you l-looking at me like that? I swear I'll book the tickets…I-I…"



"Wormtail, you haven't been loyal to me…" the Dark Lord hissed.



"L-loyal? Why of c-course I…I have a-always been…" Wormtail stumbled, his extra large robes affording a huge domain for him to do so.



"Then why does that old man say that you have a life debt with Harry Potter? That now you have a wizarding bond with the boy?"



"L-life debt? Bond?" Wormtail laughed hollowly.



"That book said so…"



Wormtail muttered something like "not my fault" and "being framed".



"W-what are you going to d-do to me?" Wormtail cowered, while adjusting his blonde hairpiece.



Voldemort turned away from his trembling figure and walked to the centre of the room.



"Fortunately, there's a simple solution!" Voldemort informed, his moustache twitching as a bug escaped its folds, almost choking to death, "You'll have to make the bow to me…"



"Certainly, my Lord!" simpered Wormtail, sighing with relief, and curtseying as much as he could without doubling up.



"Not that bow!" Voldemort snapped, non-verbally making Wormtail snap straight, "The other bow! The one that involves fiery barbed wires and arm-wrestling! Make an Unbreakable Bow to me that you are never going to do…oh, I'll keep the mystery at the time of bowing, shall I?" chuckled Voldemort.



"Oh that bow!" said Wormtail, feeling slightly stupid. "Why sure, I'm willing to do a million v- I mean bows for you! But wouldn't we need a bonder for that?"



"No!" cried Voldemort, haunted. "Not a third person requirement! It takes too long and requires the Hogwarts academic calendar and examinations to pass by safely!"



"No, my Lord!" explained Wormtail, "This time we can do it without Harry Potter; we only need a person with advanced Charming abilities..."



Voldemort pondered for a moment, "Aaah...But where can we get someone like that?" There was silence for a minute as he ticked off the names of Death Eaters on his fingers, tongue between his teeth.



"Got it!" Wormtail exclaimed, "How about that hostage? The one you had kidnapped last year?"



"What hostage? No no, the pink Power Ranger is as pure a Mudblood as this fanfic writer."



"No, my Lord," said Wormtail, almost gritting his teeth, "I mean that wandmaker!" Wormatail waited as Voldemort registered this, "Hmmm…but there's a snag; I Confunded him by mistake so he may have lost all his magical power…"



"But sir, Confundus Charms do not destroy magical abilities; he might be a bit deluded but powerful all the same," Wormtail explained.



"But he can't recognize his name!" said Voldemort petulantly, "He won't come if simply called!"



"Then Summon him."



"Fair point." Voldemort turned to face the doorway, lifted his wand at arms length and said, "I summon thee…Oh perpetrator of Magical talent, whose slender wooden wonders have taught few very much… "



Wormtail groaned loud enough for the bimbos at the Hangleton bar to hear and accioed Ollivander non-verbally, whose portly form bounced towards the duo and slumped at the rug near the fireplace.



Mr Ollivander was a sight to see; rumpled hair (now dyed a wacky blue), bedraggled robes and an overpowering scent that seemed to suggest that he had overindulged with Voldemort's Eau De Toilette. The strangest part was the gibberish he was cackling, with a bit of a dance routine:



"Blibbery, Blibbery, Blibbery, Boo,

Harry Potter, I love you,

Voldy will be killed by you.

Then Dementors will eat Voldy poo!

Ha, Ha, Ha…"



"Now-now, old man," growled Voldemort, alarmingly tolerant, "let's talk business."



"Business?" repeated Ollivander, moony-eyed and he suddenly caught a saleswizard like tone. "You want a wand? I'll give you one with one free - perfect for Death Eater destroying, Pensieve stirring and witch wangling, what say?"



A sentinel Dementor outside the house sniffled slightly.



"I mean I want you to do a Charm for me. A very, very secret Charm…" began Voldemort.



"Secret?" repeated Ollivander intrigued, while picking his nose.



"Yess…" murmured Voldemort, almost in a whisper, building theatrical effect. "You have to be our bonder…"



"Bondahhh…" said Ollivander, turned on by the offer.



"For our Unbreak-"



"But if you make me Bondahh, I will need a wandaahhh," Ollivander cut in.



Voldemort signaled Wormtail to pass on his wand and handed it over to the wizened wandmaker.



"Aaah," he sighed, fondling the wand between his veined fingers, "I remember this one.” (Voldemort slapped his forehead) “Nine-and-a-half inches, celery, and core containing the appendix of a Fire Crab…bought by a child with a big bottom…"



Wormtail blushed.



"Curiously enough," Ollivander continued, "The Fire Crab also donated its bile duct as a core for a similar brother wand, currently owned by a girl with a big head…some Gorkins or something…"



"Bertha Jorkins…" Wormtail commented, suddenly mesmerized, his eyes having the look a Harry Potter fan has on spotting a revelation. "I remember that rendezvous in the woods…how I had meticulously operated my boyish charms on her and brought her to the Dark-"



"Wormtail, you'll find that it were your Charms and not your charms that worked that day," Voldemort interjected soullessly. "So, should we get on with the bonding, Mr Ollivander?"



"Of course," answered the latter as the Dark Lord and his faithful minion interlocked their fists.



"Please begin," he hoisted his sleeves and placed his wand at the tip of their fists.



"Peter Pettigrew, do you promise to always support me, your Lord, who you always owe your loyalties to?" the Dark Lord pronounced as his bewigged servant listened.



"Y-yes, I do."



A thick white fluid shot out from Ollivander's wand and formed a ring around their fists, coiling tightly.



"Eh, what's this?!" Voldemort exclaimed, as the gluey liquid snapped their palms shut against each other and disappeared innocently, immaculately.



Voldemort immediately tried to retract his hand, but it stood fruitlessly stuck with Wormtail's and he yelled, "Stop it, Ollivy! What are you doing?"



"You want the Unbreakable Bondahh?" chortled Ollivander, "You want more of it? You will never separate now! You have both been bonded! Happy New Year! Ha, ha, ha! Blibbery, Blibbery…" and he began humming it, throwing in a bit of Shakira movements too.



"Not this bond, you dolt!" Voldemort bellowed, "Undo it, now!" Ollivander stopped doing what looked like tap-dancing on fire to simply stare at the wand with awe. "Hey, I can do magic?"



"Yes, so?" Voldemort said absent-mindedly trying to separate his palm from Wormtail's.



"So I can Apparate too." and saying so, he Disapparated for good, leaving the duo behind to struggle.



"Nooo!" Voldemort bellowed, gesticulating one-armed, "Why do people around me escape so quickly?!"



Wormtail now grew genuinely concerned; not only was his wand gone but he was also stuck physically to his master, judging by whose solely satanically-oriented magical expertise, he could never disconnect, unless -



"My Lord, please hand me your wand for a moment."



The bats sitting on the Riddle House roof fled at the bawl of fury that followed.



* * *



The next morning rose for half of the world, while the Riddle House still was plunged into darkness due to a miscalculated thicket of chimney smoke. Miles away in London, a train was waiting to depart.



But the commuters at Platform Pi in the King's Cross station were in for a shock as a massive man in a moleskin overcoat approached them, his silhouette overlooking a brilliantly blue puffing metal dragon known as The Burrow Express.



The more dumbfounding fact was the presence of a moustached, serpentine green face bobbing at the shoulders of the furry coat and a strangled "Mmphf!" from its veritable inner folds…

[a/n]: Sorry for too many author notes last time (cause for rejection). The thing is, my grammar beta did not understand a few of the jokes and grammatically corrected them, that's why I felt I needed to include them for the mods. Anyways, THIS IS THE ONLY [a/n] IN THE FIC. THERE ARE NO [a/n]'s IN THE MIDDLE

------

It was a usual sight nowadays to find unusual acts of wizardry in Muggle habitats close to magical ones. During the Dark Days, wizards cared less about mundane issues such as the Statute of Secrecy and more about covering your head and scurrying in case You-Know-Who turned up. But because now was a festive season - the Bill Weasley wedding was extensively gossiped about owing to the fact that he was a canon character - there was a more pre-Yule Ball kind of environment within the magical community far and wide.

The Burrow Express dumped our serpentine-Satan and his henchman (bewigged, perspiring and strapped at the former's back) at the Ottery St. Catchpole village, which was essentially a fearful and superstitious one, owing to the fact that Hangleton immigrants had warned them against large, unconventional dwellings and their unusual, forgetful inhabitants.

The Dark Lord walked with difficulty owing to the load he was carrying. His wand hand was free but the other, bonded to his servant, was stuck in his overcoat. He panted after finally reaching the Burrow and halted.

"OPEN THE DOOR!" Voldemort yelled, pounding on the modest frame of oak, "We've come for the - puff - wedding! Potter…huff…kill…puff…Firewhiskey …OPEN!"

No one answered. Voldemort wiped the smog that the un-seasonal mist had pressed on the window and peered in. The house was desolate. Instead, there was a note attached to the door.


Dearest Guest,

Excited as you are about the marriage, you should be commonsensical enough to assimilate that Christian weddings are held in Churches.

The venue of the wedding is St. Windell's church in Buddleigh Babberton.

So why, in the name of Merlin, are you still reading this? Get a move on.

Regards
The Weasleys.

PS: I don't want a wedding gift - Bill Weasley.
PS2: But I defineetly does! - Fleur Delacour.


"Buddleigh Babberton!" Voldemort cried, "That’s four-hundred miles from here! Why did they choose such a location?"

Because it's a canon village, a footnote on the sign read.

"Mmphf!" Wormtail extricated himself with difficulty and cocked his head out. "My Lord, I think we should Apparate to the location this time…"

"Don't instruct me, Wormtail," Voldemort flared. "I think we should Apparate, not you, understand?"

Saying so, he pressed hard and in a second's moment, they materialized in the small countryside of Buddleigh Babberton, whose landscape and houses were essentially nondescript.

"There's the Church," Voldemort pointed out and trudged forward, deciding that Harry-hunting was getting to be more trouble than it was worth.

* * *

The marquee was set with every cubic feet of its interiors loaded with celebration and pomp. The Weasleys had pulled all stops to make and let make merry on this last Golden Day after which they would be involved with the rather procrastinated, but urgent issues of Hogwarts decisions, Order wand-polishing and Dark force extermination.

Now that Arthur Weasley was rich and had eleven people reporting to him in office (including his wife Molly who flooed in occasionally to give domestic updates such as security, the tattle-tale Grandfather clock's status and things like "Bill's grown new canine teeth!" etc.) he had arranged a fabulous lunch party for the guests before the priest took over. The plan was to celebrate in all good spirit in a huge tent next to the church where the guests would be hurried over later during the "I do!" ceremony. There was happy gabbling amidst the spectacular decorations, platters and platters of home-cooked food, fun, games, music and a floating rumour that the Hairy Cousins would be performing in their midst.

Harry was found to be seated in a comfortable chintz armchair in a corner where for some reason, Mrs Weasley would materialise to give him continual motherly hugs. Professor McGonagall would incessantly pass morale-boosting snippets, leaving heavy hints of assuring a premature passing certificate from Hogwarts (if he promised to save the wizarding community) in her wake. Occasionally two cloaked figures (one with a furry hidden hand and the other with a funny wooden leg) would be seen aimlessly ambling across the chair, making it painfully obvious that they were guarding him.

Mr Weasley was pretending to sketch out honeymoon plans with the nervous groom, his son, and laughing artificially while throwing fervent glances in Harry's direction. Tonks was cackling with youngsters, turning her nose one by one into a cup, locket, snake and something-of-Ravenclaw-or-Gryffindor for their entertainment. The rest of the characters, who have no use in this chapter except existing, were roving about randomly, making inconspicuous movements.

Ron and Hermione, on the contrary, were busy stationed at the entrance, making sure that only canon characters were permitted entry.

"Kevin!" cried Hermione, irritated to a gate-crashing young wizard of nine, "What kind of name is that? No alliteration, no Latin roots, no description-of-personality, no canon-"

"Excuse me!" burst his mother, "But if you read the fourth book carefully, Kevin is definitely mentioned!" She showed her a bit of dead slug sticking from her shoe-sole and was permitted entry.

"Horrible business!" Hermione exclaimed after the gleeful mother and son entered, as she added another character name in a lengthy list, "I mean, why allow such dubious characters? Walk-ins should definitely be charged…are you even listening to me?" she enquired suspiciously.

"Huh?" Ron looked around thickly. "No, thank you."

"How was it at the hospital?" asked Hermione, trying to get him to talk to a subject he could relate to.

"Not bad," Ron replied, "except that my bed was close to my Great Aunt Muriel's who's been there for three-hundred and fifty years due to her face getting displaced to the back of her head and a miscalculated dose of the Elixir of Life…"

"Mmm…that's bad." Hermione condoled, not paying attention, "What could be worse?"

"Worse? Worse?" Ron cried, his eyes widening, "The operating healer was absent and Madam Pomfrey had filled in to substitute! It was horrible! She had a good look up my…"

"Someone's trying to enter," Hermione snapped, turning to the doorway.

Too rightly, a huge form appeared at the doorway and Hermione's ordinarily condescending figure was drenched in its shadow.

"Er…excuse me?" Hermione interrupted as Lord Voldemort tried to cross the threshold, "But who are you?"

Voldemort stared at her, his menacing red eyes fixed at her distracting hedge of a hairdo while his flat nose was wrinkling at the overwhelming stench of Mudblood.

"Lord Voldemort!" he replied. "Now let me in, will you."

Hermione, who had only gone as far as pronouncing his name unflinchingly, now fully realised how Harry felt when encountered by him bodily and her hair began to go rigid.

"Mmphf!" reminded Wormtail's constricted voice.

"I mean…" Voldemort reconsidered, wearing an unconvincing smile, "Bob…er…Baldy-sort! Yes that's it, Bob Baldysort!"

"Baldysort!" Ron chuckled, "Well, name says all!"

Voldemort had a strong urge to do something to Ron, which the moderators here would never permit me to mention.

"I'll let you in," said Hermione, in an unnaturally high voice, "despite the fact that you are un-canon. But this is only because your name's interesting and alliterated."

Voldemort heaved a sigh of relief and was about to enter when Harry leaped forward from his armchair in slow motion and skidded in front of the doorway. "NOOOOOOOOOO!" he bawled.

"Hey mate, prat, git, chum! What are you doing?" Ron blurted out.

"Harry!" Hermione began, irritated, "Aren't you supposed to be relax - I mean supervising the subordinate task distribution and management issues?"

Harry ignored her. "This man is no Baldy-Shmaldy but a person who canon or otherwise, should be the last addition to this marriage!"

A silver bead of perspiration conceived itself at Voldemort's temple.

"No Harry, wait…" began Hermione.

"No, you wait!" Harry turned to her ferociously. "This man is none other than my universal tormentor Severus Snape but in a not-so-clever disguise!"

"Actually, if you look at him from this angle-" Ron began shutting an eye and squinting. "-he looks more like R.A.B."

"Whatever be the case, he is definitely not a part of this wedding!"

"Harry wait, listen!" Hermione snubbed, her self-proclaimed logical-reasoning and intellectual smugness almost overpowering the boys in front of her. "He - tuh - can't be - tuh - Voldemort! Because if he - tuh - was, he would - tuh - think of a - tuh - better disguise than - tuh - a handlebar moustache…"

Hermione was gulping breath faster than a Boggart in maternity.

"…anyways, don't you realise how what you decide is always wrong and leads to disastrous results where people instead of appreciating my logically accurate word of caution support your mistake covering gallantry and stroke of luck…tuh tuh tuh tuh tuh?!"

"So what do you suggest?" Harry asked her while in the lengthy explanation, the Dark Lord conveniently slunk into the commotion.

"Well," explained Hermione, piping down, "Voldemort wouldn't want his game to be up so easily. Evil though he may be, he is intelligent, calculative and meticulous ("Mmphf!" said Wormtail). He could have sent one of his look-alike giant henchmen to go first and then make a sinister entry later in a disguise so indiscernible, so ethereal and so climactically-shocking (Ron peed) that it would…um…shock the climax! So, I believe - if I can comprehend his psychology roughly well - he is actually there!" she pointed dramatically to the doorway where a frail and pitiable figure of Arabella Figg was making its way in baby steps.

"One million, seven-hundred and thirty five…Aha!" the old woman exclaimed, panting. "Finally made it! Nice of Molly to inform me five weeks beforeha…Aaargh!" she yelled as two young boys leaped over her and pinned her to the floor.

"So, Voldemort!" Harry cried angrily, his hand at the poor cat-lover's throat, "you thought you could fool me this time?!"

Figg almost choked, screaming things like "Anti-Squib" and "my nephew".

"You thought you could fool me this time?" Harry screamed unoriginally.

"Harry, what are you doing!" a cloaked figure barked, throwing its hood up to reveal the perturbed face of Alastor “me-not-imposter” Moody. "Get back to your chair!"

Moody forced the scar-bearing screamaholic back to his chintz armchair which actually had a cushion with a Shield Cover to help deflect minor jinxes and illegitimate bodily intrusions. He then strapped him tight with a length of rope and stuck a Legilimency sensor on his head.

"…And stay there!" Moody growled in finality. Saying so, Moody tumbled back to the doorway to assist Figg on her feet again.

‘Hey!’ he thought to himself while helping her up, ‘This act isn't relevant to the fic!’ and let go of her hand as she roughly thudded back to the floor and moaned.

* * *

It had been an understatement to say that the Weasleys had pulled all stops for the pre-wedding lunch party as the Hairy Cousins arrived, setting the tent on fire with their music (mostly rip-offs of earlier Weird Sisters numbers). For a moment, even our lovably hated Pythonic Nemesis was forgetting his plan and tapping a foot (or two, or four) with the beats.

Hell broke lose when little Kevin, who some how yet again came in possession of his father's wand, began an uncontrolled spelling spree in his vicinity. Wizards, witches and weirdos shrieked as they tried to escape the wrath of his wooden weapon and wriggled free of his way.

"Adhesio Relapsis!" the boy shrieked, pointing his wand mysteriously and accurately at Voldemort. A silver beam issued from his wand.

The latter felt his hand freeing from his sidekick's and the tension in his forearms relaxed. But the spell came as a shock for Wormtail, whose legs were hitherto asleep and he haphazardly tumbled, impacting on the hard floor. His limbs hopelessly scraped the insides of the moleskin overcoat to prevent himself from depositing in an embarrassing heap, and consequently causing the cloak to tighten its grip on his masters' neck.

"Gack!" choked Voldemort, attracting an undecided amount of audience attention.

But it wasn’t over. In fear of his mistake, Wormtail hastened to face Voldemort's neck by rotating within the robes and leaped around the latter, his limbs wrapping around Voldemort tightly as he made sure that no bit of his body was seen outside the cloak.

"Argh! Wormtail, your foot just hit my - Ladies and Gentlemen." Voldemort stealthily changed tone, simpering, as the staring people around were getting too hard to disregard, "On this happy, happy occasion, atmosphere of joy, merriment…and…er…music, despite my weight, I simply cannot stop myself from joining in. So watch as I…I…traipse across the floor in my own unique s-style of…er…" Wormtail couldn't hang on any more and slipped, his legs now clearly visible under the coat, "The Four-legged Tap-dance !" announced Voldemort, grasping at the first thing he could think of.

"Hear, hear!" cheered Fred and George Weasley from somewhere as people whistled and joined in to clap.

Nose flat, breath objectionable and sidekick strapped safely, Voldemort braced himself to dance. As the guests cleared a way for him on the floor, he began a supposed tap-dance, kicking Wormtail on the shins to begin doing it too. So his minion began, aimlessly tapping while his sweaty and fearful face was concealed behind a thicket of moleskin. Voldemort steered across the floor with some difficulty. He tried to maintain a smile on his face even though his quickstep soon changed to salsa and for an unknown reason caused Figg to rush forward to the stage and indulge in a bit of hip-hop with him.

‘Cruc off, you bag of a Squib!’ Voldemort thought relentlessly, as Figg's mock rapping right in front of him obstructed him from moving forward. "Oh, thank your stars today I'm enjoying myself…or else…" he gritted his teeth.

But Figg, who couldn't tell Legilimency from bonsai gardening, continued to dance, causing Moody to wolf-whistle and clunk a bit of wood on the floor. Diligently, Vodemort waded through and stopped, panting, only when he reached the end of the great tent. The audience, thanks to euphoric amnesty and Firewhiskey affected brain ability, applauded hard when Voldemort finished.

"Phew!" said the Dark Lord to himself, wiping perspiration from his dome of a head and wriggling a bit to oust his servant from his hiding place. Wormtail tumbled out unceremoniously and formed a heap on the floor.

"My Lord, forgive me…I…" he began, while Voldemort checked to see that every guest was engaged in dancing.

"Quiet … huff … let me … puff … will Crucio you later…" he panted, "Quick, hide under the table while I think of a better way to accommodate you!" Wormtail tentatively hid under a dining table nearby while his master hoisted up his right sleeve, ready to perform a spell at him.

"Master … what exactly…?"

"Don't worry!" Voldemort assured him, "Dumbledore thinks I can do only Dark stuff. Well he'll think different soon … Where is he, by the way?"

Wormtail couldn't say so, and hence didn't try.

"Ah, never mind," Voldemort began as Wormtail shut his eyes tight. "Attirio Feminiscine!"

A pink glitter issued from his wand towards his servant. Wormtail's clothes metamorphosed smoothly to a banana-yellow Cinderella costume. The skirt was huge, balloon-like, the straps spangled and an elaborate opal pendant suspended from his hirsute neckline. His immaculate blonde wig merged perfectly with his feminine appearance. Save for his dental overload and grizzly sideburns, he looked like a perfect harebrained lass. When he resurfaced from the table, Voldemort couldn't help but admire his own magical prowess.

"Ah!" he sighed, "I knew that my Halloween special Charms still had it in them!"

This was humiliating for Wormtail, even more that the snubbing he faced from the Death Eaters during the Death-Eaters United Morale-Boosting (D.U.M.B.) sessions that took place in Voldemort’s rebirth graveyard. Feeling a strong urge to hide his face, especially from Remus Lupin, who being a marauder might recognise him, Wormtail tentatively looked at his reflection on a nearby silver plate and gasped.

“No time for last-minute preening, Wormy,” Voldemort said sternly. “Come here and sit still with me.”

Wormtail turned around and was horrified to see Voldemort cosily assembling himself in a two-seater sofa. He couldn’t take any more of all this and intended to escape as fast as possible without being noticed.

“Er…master,” he mumbled, while seating himself next to Voldemort, “do we really need to rush up on things? I mean…”

“These are Dark times, Wormtail,” Voldemort said gravely, “I don’t think anyone should have an issue if urgent things are rushed into doing, because the fear of death and destruction lurks…”

“But sir, you are the one spreading the �“ ”

“Silence, Wormtail.”

Wormtail groped around for another excuse, "Aurors!" he said, "Th-there are Ministry Aurors in here..." he pointed frantically at two pot-bellied bearded men, one snoring while the other dipping a dough-newt in coffee. "We could get in tr-"

"Silence, Wormtail."

“Ah, yes…” Voldemort whispered, as his eyes fell upon the image of Harry Potter sitting lazily on a chintz armchair, an antenna sticking out of his head, “There he is…Now we must think, plan and act…carefully.” Hating himself, Wormtail cursed his luck while mustering every bit of Occlumency he could think off, into his useless head.

* * *

“Yesterday, when I was logging into the Crystal Ball to check if its Omniscient Portents had left any Message for me, I was quite Mystified by something seemingly Mundane lying in the room. And because I knew Destiny had preferred it, I walked towards it as if in a Trance and picked it up…”

This wasn’t the first time that afternoon that Professor Sybill “Pathetic-Powers” Trelawney had been talking about her orb-gazing. She had recited five different fraudulent anecdotes to five different members of the audience pertaining to what happened to her yesterday morning. This time, the victim was Nymphadora Tonks.

“Okay, let me guess,” she said boredly, “you saw a weirdo symbolic death omen of some sort or a Seeing Eye or something…”

“If you ask my opinion,” Trelawney snapped, “I don’t much trust people with detachable eyes!” She turned to scowl at the figure of Moody who was flamboyantly engaged in a boogie-woogie with Figg.

“Then what did distract your attention?” Tonks asked, yawning.

“My Sweet Sixteen Diary!” Trelawney exclaimed, making Tonks wake up in shock. “And when I turned its pages, I was shocked to find that all my sixth year, I had done nothing more interesting than swigging tea and staring into glass balls!”

“I’ll bet that,” said Tonks, smiling twistedly, softly playing her fingers with the Butterbeer glass she was holding.

“So I decided,” the Divination teacher continued, “to promote the importance of my �“ er �“ love life over other Mundane matters.”

“So…” Tonks mocked, “Who is your dream man? Mundungus Fletcher?”

Trelawney ignored Tonks’ jibe, stared into space dreamily, a soft expression alighting on her face. “I won’t tell you,” she said childishly.

“Oh, come on!” Tonks became petulant. “At least give me a hint! For example, is he canon?”

Professor Trelawney nodded, enjoying the sudden attention bestowed on her.

“And I may give you a hint,” she said mischievously, “considering you are my best friend!”

She was surely out of her mind. Tonks would rather fly a broomstick the wrong end front than make Trelawney her best pal. But she still kept a mockingly eager face, just to humour her quickly and escape from the scene.

“Well, he was a teacher at Hogwarts,” she chirped, “Good-looking and an excellent wizard! Ah, since yesterday, whenever I look at anything, I see his face smiling at me…Ah…he was on my dinner plate, my radio and even my toilet seat…Ah… why even a werewolf like that…Ah…” she was lost in a trance.

Tonks expression sharply changed from eagerness to a stern frown and her brows furrowed in doubt.

“Do you mean to say, Remus Lupin?” she enquired.

But this simply washed over the almost mesmerised Professor Trelawney who was looking in another direction, dreaming, in love…

Tonks meant to shake her and demand an explanation, but bit her lip at the prospect of creating a scene in the middle of a party. She backed off from the latter and slipped into the ladies’ loo.

“What has Trelawney got to do with Remus?” she thought. “And does he too…? No, no, that’s impossible!”

But quashing this uncomfortable truth was difficult for her. She looked into the mirror and paused for a stretch of time.

And then she decided.

I know what you are going to do, ol’ Sybill. I’ve got my eyes on to you today…Take one wrong step…

And then she stepped out, doubly determined to face the marriage, and all that it had in store for her.

One very interesting addition in the pre-wedding lunch party was that of an innovative game prepared by Fred and George. This alleged game, responsible for most of the hysterical laughter in the marquee, was called Tail the Squib. In this, three blindfolded wizards had to fix a donkey-tail on a Squib's buttocks via magic. Fred, George and Lee were the blindfolded 'Seekers' while Argus Filch was the Snitch - I mean, Squib.



"C'mere, c'mere… Flichy!" Fred cackled, his wands shooting body-binding spells in all directions. "I have you now...!"



Argus Filch, all corporal punishment forgotten, was sprinting around the tent and running for his life, emphasising his appeal by a blood-curdling scream.



"Aaaaaaaarrgghh!"





Meanwhile, our slippery-slithery-Snakeman was huddled in a comfy two-seater, waiting for the right opportunity to strike Potter and for the fruit punch which his mousey gofer had gone to get him.



Five minutes…ten minutes…fifteen minutes… Lord Voldemort was sick of singing the National Anthem under his breath for the fifth time, waiting for his punch.



‘This place is…’ thought Voldemort, his eyes hovering away from the raucous Hairy Cousins, who were setting the stage on fire to the Tail the Squib game, to people munching on pre-lunch appetisers with apparent relish to Moody and Figg doing a lambada. ‘…completely boring!”



Then his sight caught a far, unimpressive crook of the tent, where a sign read Ron's Fun Corner. Ron Weasley was standing on a makeshift stage amidst a clutter of empty audience chairs. He was unflinchingly cracking joke after joke, witnessed singly by his girlfriend Hermione who was yawning and saying 'Lol' after every punch-line of his.



‘Hmmm…that looks interesting,’ Voldemort decided and shifted from his cozy sofa to the straight-backed plastic chairs assorted in Ron's Fun Corner, depositing himself behind Hermione.



He began to actually enjoy Ron's wisecracks, which no one in the vicinity seemed to pay any attention to and clapped loud when Ron completed. Bad joke after bad joke, it seemed to go on. Suddenly Voldemort's attention was rudely invaded when Molly "Jumper-factory" Weasley slid next to him, as though appearing from thin air.



"That was fantabulous!" She crooned rapturously, without precursory greeting. "How did you do it?"



Voldemort was perplexed for a moment. Then, deciding that his irresistible Dark demeanor had finally rewarded him with an interested lady friend, he began pompously, "You see it all started in Hogwarts itself. Do you know anything about Horc - ?"



"No, no," Molly said, irritated. "I mean, how did you lose so much weight in a matter of half an hour?"



"Weight?" he spluttered, nonplussed.



"I mean…you were fat when you came and now…" she sighed admiringly. "It's almost like you were carrying an animal on your back and have now set him free or something!Oh Bob…don’t I really crack myself?" Molly laughed dimwittedly.



"Oh…oh, that!" Voldemort said, flexing his fake moustache, "Um…it's…just that I…it's that tap-dance, you see! You must try it…burned my fat in a matter of minutes!"



"Really?" said Molly, eyes wide. She seemed not to believe him. Nonetheless, the pseudo J.K. Rowling (seven babies, right?) pinched his hollow cheek mischievously and waddled away, flaming red hair tossing around as she did so.



Voldemort returned his attention to the stage, his mind not relieving him of the daydream he had just witnessed. Another five minutes passed without anything interesting happening except Ron cracking a corny joke about a Thestral, a Pygmy Puff and Professor Snape, who all enter a bar. For some strange reason, Voldemort was suddenly put out.



‘Boring…this place is boring to the hilt,’ he decided tastelessly.



But, wait! Was that the wind or unexpected magic or a predictable plot twist? For now Voldemort suddenly felt something eerie and unusual. He could sense that something new, something startling, was waiting to occur, like a sort of explosion. He glanced sideways to lay his eyes upon the third audience member who had joined to watch Ron's foolery with an interesting expression on her face - Sybill "Pur-leaseee" Trelawney.



* * *



"Excuse me, please! Make way, I need to go!" Nymphadora ‘Recognize-me-now’ Tonks was briskly paving her way through a thicket of chatty guests, her keen eyes trying to spot Trelawney to keep a sharp watch on her during the wedding day. After at least a minute of trying to separate overexcited children, Firewhiskey-obsessed wizards and obese witches, she realised that the pre-action, Melodramatic Effect in the Ladies' was harming her cause rather than strengthening it.



"Please, make way!" she appealed, "This is important, Okay?"



And as though the guests were under the influence of a Disagreement Charm, they kept bumping into her and gossiping about various trivialities of the world.



"Namibia, here you are!" McGonagall said, intercepting Tonks' path and clutching her by the shoulders. "Why haven't you been keeping a watch on Potter? I see that you are very negligent!" she shook her hard.



"Please, Professor!" Tonks begged, extricating herself from the latter's Scottish grip. But her peeves were not over yet.



"Tonks, wait!" An easily forgettable Gabrielle Delacour rushed forward and stopped her. "I want to talk to you!"



Praying hard, Tonks stood there, keeping respect for the inquisitiveness of children and Anglo-French relations.



"What is it?" She couldn't dispel irritation in her voice. "And make it quick!"



"I can't take ‘zis! First of all, ‘zis wedding ‘ees compleetly bogus, conseedering ‘zat it lacks our headmistress' honorable presence! Moreover, people here are ‘eeting, dreenking and playing but no one cares ‘zat my seester ‘ees missing! Also, ‘zees dress made by Madam Malkins doesn't feet me! It ‘ees too loose, conseedering I'm (supposedly) theen and sexy! And Ginneey ‘ees not cooperating as bridesmaid; shee keeps avoiding me! Shee says ‘zat if I look into ‘ze mirror, point my wand, and say Stupeefy! all my Chreestmas weeshes will come true! Does shee theenk I'm stupeed? Ha, ha! Just tell her ‘zat I very well know ‘zat ‘zis spell is meant for nose-jobs and not for fulfeeling Chreestmas weeshes. You'll tell her ‘zat, won't you Tonks, won't you? Won't -"



"Silencio," whispered Tonks softly, kicking herself for not thinking of this earlier. Gabrielle continued to move her lips but no sound came out.



Tonks walked on, fearing another 'guest-ly ' intervention, only to find her path being cleanly cut by Molly Weasley, who on Voldemort's advice, was sincerely tap-dancing across and intermittently looking down at her paunch to observe whether it reduced or not.



"Get out…huff…of the… way …puff… Tonks!" Molly cried, panting as she tap-danced. "This is serious business..."



"Molly, please! Move out of the way!" Tonks pleaded, "I need to go!"



To her dejection, Professor "Photosynthetic-boyfriend" Sprout stopped Molly in her exercise and began chit-chatting with her.



"Molly!" She exclaimed, Firewhiskey sloshing around in her wine-glass. "I was - like - looking for you all around and wanted to - like - tell you that the decorations-" she surveyed the hall enviably. "Oh my god, oh my god! It was - like - so different and everything - like - I know, not as good as my niece's wedding, but it's a start, Molly, a start. You are - like - a learner; - like - six more kids to be married off! You must practice, Molly, practice!" She smirked, patting her on the arm. "Incidentally…" she began, in a different tone, apparently waiting to ask this, loaded with sarcasm, "Where is – like – our bride? Fleur?"



This caught the smiling and panting Molly off-guard. She almost stumbled and responded tersely, "She…um…she's…er…relaxing…a bit, I mean, you know how it's like…pre-wedding…um…thingies?" She looked at Sprout pleadingly.



"Relaxing?" Sprout leered, acting unconvincingly curious. "I saw her in the kitchens, cooking!"



"Yes, I mean…" Molly began, seeing no hope, "She felt like cooking…um…" Sprout nodded, unhelpfully. "On her own accord!" Molly added unnecessarily, suddenly gripping her wand firmly as she said so.



"Ah, I see…" Sprout raised her eyebrows.



"Ladies!" Demanded Tonks from the background, "As much as I'm enjoying this conversation, can you please let me go across?" She deftly tried to separate the two women, but failed, just like a Lexus does when trying to slide between two trucks. So she simply walked past them (Drat! Why didn't I think of this earlier?) and her eyes finally caught Trelawney's. She was sitting at the far and inconspicuous end, impatiently listening to Ron's jokes and laughing, her cackles as false as her predictions.



* * *



"What in the name of Rowena is she doing?" Tonks spluttered, seated comfortably as an audience member in Ron's Fun Corner at a convenient distance from Trelawney, shocked by the fact that the latter had unearthed a grimy toenail from her handbag and was inspecting it. Tonks felt like retching, but this wasn't the worst part.



Then, Trelawney dug out a small heart-shaped bottle with Fred and George's faces on it, dropped the toenail into the bottle and shook it hard. When she was satisfied that it had dissolved, she smugly deposited the potion back in her handbag and turned to watch Ron with an innocent expression on her face.



"That slimy Seer!" Tonks muttered under her breath. "She's using a Love Potion on Remus!" She decided that Ron hadn't talked to his brothers about their joke shop selling wrong things to wrong people. Selling Amortentia to Professor Trelawney was a potentially dangerous business transaction.



Tonks expected Trelawney to leave her place and tail Remus to somehow spike his Gillywater, but contrary to this, she walked to Ron Weasley's stage and started her usual sightseer's vision thing.



Trelawney quickly unearthed a pack of cards, shuffled them vigorously, picked out one and announced dramatically to no one in particular, "King of Spades! Conflict! All red-haired boys cracking dull jokes should evacuate their stage at once, otherwise the chances of a second war is high!" Ron jumped off the stage with a panicky expression. "Also…" Trelawney pulled out another card, "Five of Diamonds! Destiny! All red-haired boys with bad sense of humour should turn to their past Divination Professor and be ready to answer anything she asks, otherwise they may not get an Apparition license!" Ron shuffled around the spot vigorously, deciding where to go, when Trelawney roughly pulled him next to her by his shoulder.



In annoyance and superiority, Hermione wound her left ear; when she released it, she turned into a steam engine which released monosyllabic "tuh"s.



"Aaah…" said the Divination Mama in misty tones. "Ronald Weasley, is it true that you have been hospitalised recently?"



"Y-yes…"



"St. Mungo's?"



"Y-yes…Don't ask…"



To his surprise, Trelawney clapped her hands rapturously like a girl, swiveled on the spot and blurted excitedly, "Who was next to you in the ward?"



"Oh, my Aunt Muriel, who's been hospitalised due to her face displaced at the back of her head and an overdose - " he said over Hermione's sounds of "Tuh- tuh- tuh- tuh, tuh…"



"No, no!" Trelawney interjected, irritated, "On the other side…don't you remember, a man, blonde, blue eyes, tall, cute…" she stared dreamily into space again, forgetting the people in her vicinity.



"You mean that Lockhart?" Ron asked.



"Yes, him, him!" Sybill clapped again. "D-did he receive m-my invitation? Is he c-coming?"



Ron went into thought before saying, "Invitation? I don't know about yours…but he was opening a letter from some 'Pariah' who was inviting him to this wedding. It had a photo of a wacky bespectacled woman in a Hula costume…"



"Yes, that's me! Pariah is my middle name!" Trelawney was almost bouncing. "So he is coming, isn't he? Coming? Coming? Coming?"



"I don't know…" Ron pondered, "But I remember him autographing the card and going to sleep. He would probably come…" he added hastily after observing the Divination teacher's put-out expression.



"Whoopee!"



"You horrid woman!" Tonks leaped up from behind and demanded of Trelawney's out-of-ordinary silhouette. "Two men at once! First Remus, then Lockhart!"



"Remus?" Trelawney enquired curiously. "Remus Boardman, the lead bass player of…"



Tonks gritted her teeth. "Don't pretend, you vicious, scheming scorpion! I'm talking about Remus Lupin! MyRemus Lupin!"



Trelawney stared into space, but this time with doubt and curiosity. "That Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher? Ah yes, I remember him. Why, both of us were introduced in the same book! Classes in consecutive chapters…of course I remember him…" she chuckled, slapping her forehead delicately.



"So…" Tonks said bitterly. "You said to me that he's your dream-man-” (Hermione mimicked retching) “-Now what's wrong? Why Lockhart?"



"My dear fairy princess," Trelawney started, hands on hips and voice as harsh as when she made predictions, "I always meant Gilderoy from the start! Did I ever mention to you that it's Lupin who I'm after?"



Tonks racked her brains for the exact words which Trelawney had used… “Good-looking and an excellent wizard! Ah, since yesterday, whenever I look at anything, I see his face smiling at me…Ah…he was on my dinner plate, my radio and even my toilet seat…Ah… why even a werewolf like that…Ahhh…”



True, she hadn't said anything about Remus. "But the werewolf thing?" Tonks demanded. "Lockhart isn't a werewolf!" she added testily.



"Oh that? I meant 'Why even a werewolf like that Wagga Wagga Werewolf is thankful to Gilderoy, simply because he taught the guy some hair-curling tips…' Isn't he wonderful?" Trelawney twittered fondly.



There was a pregnant pause to be filled by Tonks working her brain and realising her folly.



"Oh-kay…" she heaved a sigh of relief. "I thought…you like…anyways, carry on…Love Potion thing…excellent…" and she began to walk away, embarrassed.



Trelawney finally caught the meaning of Tonks' suspicion and laughed, "You didn't think…Remus Lupin and me!" She guffawed. "Now, really! Is my taste that bad? I mean look at me - curvy, svelte, illustrious, and intelligent and him! Furry, weird, mustached, paunchy – ha, ha, ha!"



* * *



Looking weather-beaten, child-like curious and fairly handsome, Gilderoy “Tragical Me” Lockhart finally arrived, dressed in pale mauve and looking around the place as though it were a great carnival.



"I have arrived!" he proclaimed royally as everyone ignored him. "Order of Merlin, Third Class…Author of several bestsellers...Honorary Member of the Dark Force…"



"Yes, yes, we know all that," Molly Weasley cut in and ushered him into the tent.



"Oh, Gilderrroy!" A voice chimed pathetically from somewhere. Lockhart turned to the source of sound, expecting a squealing girl of seventeen but was put-out to see a screaming woman of forty.



"Hi!" Trelawney vigorously waved, her bangles clinking and shawls tossing to the floor. Searching for an excuse to escape the scene, Lockhart started to move towards the dining table, but Trelawney sprinted forward to meet him, thus blocking his path.



"Forgot me?" She demanded mischievously. "I had sent you the invitation! Come, come with me!"



"Oh, so it was you in the Hula costume?" Lockhart asked innocently.



"Of course!" She said, almost dragging him by the arm to the assortment of chairs in Ron's Fun Corner.



"Sit!" She directed him to a seat next to Lord Voldemort. "And don't move!" She vanished to get some drinks, glad that her plan was working so smoothly.



Voldemort sniffed Lockhart and wrinkled his nose. "Mudblood?"



"Celebrity!" Lockhart beamed, showing off his brilliant teeth.



"Will do," Voldemort cocked his head uninterestedly to look for Wormtail, who hadn't arrived with the drinks for an hour. "Where is that BEEEEP! Stuck in a mousey-hole, is he? I'm thirsty!"



"You look frustrated," Lockhart said cheerfully to Voldemort. "What's the matter?"



"If you like your mama - oops - mater a lot, don't ask questions," snarled the latter. Instead of being intimidated, Lockhart broke into a cheery song.



"When I went to Wagga Wagga,

In the bar I met this hagga-hagga,

Who was wearing a balaclava,

And wasn't very cleva-cleva…"



"And only then too soon,

Rose the great full moon…" Trelawney joined in, arriving from nowhere, carrying two sherry-filled glasses, the contents of one looking paler than the other.



"Oh, I simply love the poem about your defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf!" Trelawney swooned, ecstatically. "Whenever you used to get drunk, you would turn outside the Divination classroom, singing this very song with this beautiful baritone of yours…" She sighed, thinking into space.



"Really?" Lockhart quipped, with mild interest. "I don't remember."



"That's the point, darling," Trelawney said, handing him a sherry glass. "You lost your memory!"



"No thank you," said Lockhart, refusing the drink. "I don't much care for beverages."



"Drink up, dear!" Trelawney coaxed, "It's the sherry you always liked! Tasty, tasty sherry!" She lied.



"Cherry!" Lockhart misheard and clapped his hands delightedly. "And when we finish it, we'll fling its seeds into that bushy-haired girl's hair! Ha, ha, ha!" he chortled. Hermione, who until now, had been gazing admiringly at Lockhart, snapped out of her trance.



"No, no, not cherry!" Trelawney was beginning to get irritated, "Sherry! Sherry! The one you always liked!"



"I don't care much for sherry," Lockhart refused formally.



"But I do!" Voldemort, who was panting with thirst, leaped at the goblet without invitation and before anyone could say anything, dunked its contents in a single gulp.



"Wasn't-meant…for-you…Love Potion…" Trelawney spluttered incoherently, but all damage was done.



"Aaaah…" the Dark Lord sighed with relief and closed his eyes with pleasure. "Finally…"



Trelawney was still glaring at Voldemort, shocked, trying to assimilate the consequences of her mistake. Before the effects of the potion began to take place, she escaped from the scene, running as fast as her legs could carry her, because it didn't need a Seer, not even a phony one, to guess what was going to happen next…



* * *

Tonks was back in the Ladies’ bathroom. She was pacing, thinking, pacing…

'Everyone around me is getting married, paired up or something of the kind. What about me?' She stared at herself in the mirror. 'Remus is too stupid to take a hint and he just doesn't understand. In fact, he’s refused already… Is he..gay? Oh my god, I hope not!' At any rate, she needed a plan.



'I have to get married today…It’s either now or never…'





* * *



"Who are you?" It was unimaginable that a sixty-six-year-old Dark Lord who had committed hundreds of murders, manufactured several Horcruxes and petted a lethal teenage basilisk, was using such a baby-like tone to talk to his servant. But, ah...the power of "love", it can make a Spongebob out of Dracula.

"M-my Lord?" Wormtail was nonplussed, what with having to wear female attire, a sleek but precariously positioned blonde wig, not to mention having his hands full with two full tankards of Ye Old McWarlock, now had to bear the brunt of a lovelorn master.

"Where is she?" he asked delicately, the way someone batters an eyelash while making a wish.

"W-who, my Lord?"

"Pariahhh..." sighed Voldemort, his eyes closed in pleasure as though he was bathing in sunlight on a wintry day.

"S-she's g-gone..." Wormtail mumbled, sweat coalescing with the axle grease he used for taming his rodent hair.

Voldemort stared like he had done sixty years ago when Happy-the-clown had not turned up for his birthday.



"You are lying," Voldemort muttered petulantly.

"No, I swear, I..."

"No no, you are lying," maintained the Dark Lord. "Haven't you always been such a bad bad liar, my naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty Pariahh..." Wormtail shook his head slowly, fearfully.



"No, no, no, no...I'm not her! I'm not Pariah! My Lord, this-this is a costume, remember? The whole thing! Wig, the Cinderella gown! My Lord, I'm not Pariah! No, no, NOOOOO!" What with having had a dangerous concoction of sherry and Amortentia, Voldemort couldn't catch a word of what Wormtail said. His sweetest dreams had come true and were standing just two feet away from him. All he had to do was stretch his arms.

"Come to me, Pariahhh...."

It was ghastly. The Dark Lord pressed his serpentine body awfully tight to his servant's. He was panting yet again, cobra breath all over Wormtail's face. Then he clutched the latter's face sensuously close to his own and cemented his lips to his.

It was gruesome. A thin, green, vile tongue was flapping aimlessly inside Wormtail's rodent mouth. Every standing hair on his neck was reminding him to detach, while the steely grip on his wig was doing the latter. After Voldemort seemed to have decided that either his quota was complete or that rat saliva was infectious in snake mouth, he separated himself from his servant.

Everyone's eyes were on them. There was a minute of complete silence, only to be broken by Wormtail spewing ("It's S-P-E-W!" screamed Hermione from somewhere, to everyone's alarm) on the carpet.

Only one person, only one freaky-haired Metamorphmagus person, seemed to hit upon the truth. The fact that she hadn't touched a drink and wasn't listening to Ron's jokes and wasn't having sherry with Love Potion while listening to Ron's jokes, had helped her retain her sanity. At any rate, Voldemort's lopsided moustache and Wormtail's blonde wig askew, seemed to say more than their kiss had.

"He...He's the..Dark Lord?" Tonks murmured to herself.

Her eyes turned to Wormtail's beautiful blonde wig.

'Nice wig there,' she thought to herself. 'Sleek, straight, shiny...perfect!' And for a reason only known to herself and the procrastinating fanfiction author (procrastinating fanfic author gives toothy thumbs-up from his computer chair), she muttered the Summoning Charm as softly as possible. It was a wonder no one noticed a bundle of fake hair float cleanly across the room towards Tonks.

* * *

"Did you - hic - know that I - hic - married 't least eight times?" asked a drunk, dishevelled old man to one of the skimpily-clad bronze-bodied pussycat-doll-like Veela sitting on his lap.



"No, Horace, I didn't," she replied boredly.



"Only - hic - ONLY because," went on Slughorn, his body shivering with excitement, "I knew that -hic- there was someone much -hic- better than the wife I had!"



"And, you are sure it had nothing to do with the fact that you were living with a man?" she yawned.



Slughorn turned impatient. "I wasn't -hic- living with a man! I had to live -hic- with Aberforth because of -hic- need for..."



"Ye Old McWarlock?" the Veela suggested, pointing to his finished tankard of the same.



"Why don't you...?" he began.



"PROFESSOR, I need your help!" In slow deliberate motion, Horace "I-ate-Spongebob's-house" Slughorn, turned sideways. He took a triple-take, unwilling to believe his eyes. Wormtail was standing there, in a ridiculous banana-coloured gown with no wig to match and the Dark Lord fallen in his arms, the kiss apparently having bowled him over.



"I don't believe my -hic- eyes!" Slughorn said.



"The Dark Lord and his sevant in the tent?" the Veela cried.



"No! Transgender romance in the tent!" Slughorn shouted. "Hideous! What is the wizarding world coming to?" he spat, while digging his Homosexuals Anonymous newsletter deeper into his pocket.



"No Professor!" Wormtail said, irritated. "I need your help. Someone spiked the Dark Lord's drink with Acromantula...er..no..Arizona...er, Love Potion!" There was a pause.



"So?" said Slughorn.



"I need you to make him normal!



"Normal?" Slughorn enquired, looking at Voldemort who was lying limp in Wormtail's arms, caressing his tummy and kissing his neck. "OK, I -hic- get your point!"



As the minutes passed on and the procrastinating fanfiction author started getting lazy, miraculously Horace Slughorn discovered a tiny bottle in his pocket. Marvellously enough, it was labelled "Antidote for Acromantula".



"Oh look," Slughorn squealed like a child, wielding the bottle from his pocket, "Miraculously I had this bottle with me all along. And marvellously enough, it's labelled 'Antidote for Acromantula'!"



"Acromantula?" Wormtail said doubtfully.



"Oh, I know it's not the same as Amortentia, but the words sound similar!" Slughorn reassured, being caring and understanding and also impatient to get the man off his back. "Go on! I don't think it would harm him!"



"Here you go, my Lord," Wormtail said, passing the medicine to Voldemort, "Pariah's gift to you."



"Pariahhh..." answered the latter and drank the contents of the bottle, as though smooching it. Instantly his body stiffened, his nerves come back to order and he fell out of Wormtail's arms, adjusting himself on ground.



"OH NO!" he shrieked, lifting his robes high and staring down. "Hairy legs!"



"Umm...that's one side-effect of the potion," Slughorn apologised.



"My life is...ruined!" Voldemort wailed, loud enough for the tent to hear him.



"It's Okay, my Lord," Wormtail reassured him. "Anyways, the waxed look doesn't go too well with a Lord!" This was another challenge the servant had to deal with. Heaven knew he was having a stressful day.



"Heaven knows I need a higher pay," Wormtail sighed.



* * *



She looked at herself in the mirror of the Ladies' bathroom.

"Do I look good?" she tilted her head smartly, the sleek blonde wig she had just stolen lolling to one side, "Or do I look good?" She laughed. Tonks had always wanted to say this to herself. But her endless turf of zits and mammoth thighs had restricted her from saying so. Today was different of course. Today, she would be wed. Today she would be bed. (Okay, okay, erase that last part). She only needed one more ingredient for the wedding.

A groom.

* * *

Voldemort was seated quietly in a cane chair at a far end of the marquee-hall, a folded version of Buddleigh Babberton Daily cradled in his veined arms while his servant had yet again wandered off to fetch him drinks.

"This is boring," he mumbled, to no one in particular, after reading a mildly interesting article about How to Differentiate Between Squibs, Muggles and Wizards Only By Identifying Their Favourite Ice-Cream Flavours. He turned to look at the person to the left of him. 'Bag of dung', he thought. For it really was a lone nylon bag filled with gooey Jell-O like muck. He turned to his right. This one was figuratively a bag of dung - Mundungus Fletcher, snoozing over what seemed to be a sort of outpost for dirty clothes. Voldemort poked him awake with his wand.

"Hey...um...bozo," he muttered, in the name of saying something witty. "Wake up, will you?" There was shuffle and Mundungus jerked awake.

"Tell me a knock-knock joke, will you?" The Dark Lord demanded. "I'm bored."

"Huh..." Mundungus looked around, with the sort of confused expression Ron always had every morning while wondering where on his body the socks should go.

"Oh, in the name of Salazar, I'll start one! Knock knock!"

"Whozere?"

"Avada"

"Avada who?"

"Avada Kedavra!" There was a flash of green light and Mundungus fell back, dead.

"Oh my goodness, my Lord!" The newly arrived Wormtail screeched, dropping the drinks. "What in the blazes....?"

Voldemort fumbled for excuses. "I had no idea...just an innocent knock-knock joke..."

"Why this is HORRIFYING!" Wormtail wailed, pulling the newspaper from Voldemort's hands, "All Squibs love pistachio!?" he slowly turned to look at the readers with a pained expression on his face. "But I love pistachio too!" Then he turned to look where Mundungus was sitting.

"Oh my goodness, yet again!" he cried, "What in the name of names!"

"It was a tiny mis..." Voldemort began.

"No my Lord, look!" Wormtail pointed fervently at a silvery slithery serpent-y locket proudly slung across Mundungus' neck. "It's your thingy, the one which we are not supposed to know about yet!"

* * *

"Why in the world have you brought me to this Ladies Lavatory, Tonks?" Bill gibbered, nonplussed. He was rather non-minussed too and that wasn't helping either.

"Look Bill, forget the place," Tonks said, trying to wave off pink toilet paper, stray lipsticks and feminine potty relief sounds away from his perverted werewolf mind. "The important thing is that...your marriage...is in danger! Today is not a safe day!"

"What? Why? Full-moon?"

"No."

"French Revolution?"

"No."

"The Great Annual Buddleigh Babberton Bring-and-Fly Sale?"

"NO Bill!" Tonks said, irritated. "Look there?" she twisted his head outside the loo towards where Voldemort, Mundungus and Wormtail were sitting.

"That woman wants to tempt me out of my marriage?" Bill said, rather off-handedly, trying to melt the situation with a George Clooney like grin but failing miserably due to his gnashing jaws.

"No silly, it's not a woman," she said, clenching her teeth, "It's Wormtail, Peter Pettigrew, You-Know-Who's servant!"

"So?" Bill said blankly.

"So? Even the Dark Lord's there! And he's planning to destroy your marriage by possessing Harry, creating havoc and extending the procrastinating fanfiction author's weak plot!"

"Oh no!" Bill said worriedly, not understanding the words but getting worked up by the rushing urgency of its sound. "In the name of Heiroglyphics! I must stop this marriage, I must save Fleur's delicate heart from breaking, I must speak with mother!!"

"N-no! Not that far! Just do what a werewolf is supposed to do on encountering a two-headed drunk Hippogriff on a rampage - flee, with the tail between the legs!"

"Seriously? You mean it?" Bill said softly while adjusting his tail between his legs. "Oh Tonks, you are such a well-wisher...say...why are you wearing this beautiful blonde wig?"

"H-huh?" Tonks stuttered, getting caught off-guard. "T-this is j-just for th-the...um...Bill and Fleur ...um... Marriage Life Parody Lupin and I would be performing for guest entertainment tonight, before the marriage!" She said quickly and unwittingly.

"Cool, who were you going to play?" Bill said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

"I was going to...heyyyy!"

"And why do you need a wig? You are a Mental-morgue-octopus aren't you?"

"It's a Meta....heyyy again!" She stared stupidly in the mirror, then turned straight around to the computer screen to look at the fanfiction author. "Great work, smart-arse! How could you forget I'm a Metamorphmagus? Made me take all the trouble of stealing a wig! Some Biggest-Harry-Potter-Fan-The-World-Has-Ever-Known you are, hmph!" She said sardonically, mimicking the author.

"So....?" she turned to look at Bill.

"Thank You."

"No, I mean, when are you going to leave?"

"Oh, oh yeah," he said and bounded from the room as fast as his paws could carry him, out of the tent, out of Tonks’ problems…