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Chapter Text

TASK #2: Do a good deed for Harry.

"Good morning, Keith!" Harry called from across the quaint, pothole-free street known as Plumtree Road. This Harry—not to be confused with Harry Potter—was thin as a rail, blonder than a Malfoy, and currently holding a garden hose. He had a wife named Allison and two ankle-biting brats named Helen and Adam.

I, the great and powerful Dark Lord Voldemort, hated him.

"Good morning," I said as I retrieved the newspaper from the doormat. 

A newspaper was deposited on my doorstep every day except for Sunday. If I did not go out every morning to fetch it, the papers would pile up. If the papers piled up, people would ask me idiotic questions such as 'Keith, why aren't you picking up your newspaper every morning?'.

So every morning except for Sunday, I fetch the paper to avoid that situation.

"Fine weather we're having," Harry Porter continued, smiling wide enough that I could see where his teeth ended and his gums began. Vividly, I imagined running him over with a vehicle and removing each of his teeth with a pair of kitchen tongs.

But alas, such an act was no longer an option. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. Not until I completed this life and moved onto the next. Not until I satisfied each of the requirements that Death had shackled me with as a condition of my reincarnation.

"Did you require any help with watering the plants?" I asked dully.

Porter's frankly deranged grin made an utterly terrifying attempt at widening. "I'm alright, Keith, but thank you for offering!"

"A cup of sugar? Use of my lawn contraption?" The callous murder of your various family members?

"Nah, we're good." Porter waved off my do-gooding with such false modesty that a nun would blush upon seeing it. "Surely you have better things to be doing!"

"I can assure you, I do not." Every two weeks, a lump sum was deposited into the Muggle bank account that belonged to Keith Adams. The funds were enough to support a modest living without the need for a job.

"Big fella like you all alone in a house like that." Porter shook his head. "So much free time on your hands. Wish I had the life you do!"

My neighbours believed me to be a man of means. I had not bothered to dissuade them.

"Yes," I said, speaking very slowly so that the meaning of my words would penetrate his skull. "So I would like something to do. To help you."

"Well..." Porter glanced over his shoulder in a furtive way that piqued my interest. Was this it? Would I at last be offered a task that did not amount to glorified House-Elf work?

"What is it?" I snapped. "What do you need?"

"Well, Allison's been awful tired lately…"

Oh, no.

"... and I was thinking that it would be nice if she could have some time to relax, you know?"

I could only stand in despair and wait for this pathetic excuse of a man to finish his sentences.

"So if it's no trouble, maybe you could watch the kids? Just for tonight," Porter finished, and yes, his deranged smile was back in full force.

‘WHY DID YOU CHOOSE TO PROCREATE IF YOU DO NOT LIKE THE RESULT?!’ is what I did not scream at him. 

Retrieving a kitchen knife from inside my home and removing his organs in alphabetical order was what I did not do to him.

What I said to him, through gritted teeth and with the beginnings of a severe migraine damaging my magnificent brain, was:

"Of course. I would love to."

TASK #5: Stop and tie your shoelaces.

"I used to be all-powerful," I said darkly. "I was the most powerful wizard alive, greater than Grindelwald, greater than Dumbledore." I clenched my left hand into a fist and shook it. "People feared my name! I had armies at my disposal and Death itself cowered before me. I was a god."

Little Helen Porter nodded. Her freakishly-large eyes were filled with awe and adoration, as was appropriate. Unlike her brother—who only cared about playing with his game device and yelling about how having a sister was the most annoying thing in the universe—Helen understood the magic and might of Lord Voldemort. She was, as far as I knew, the only person alive who understood what Lord Voldemort was capable of.

As a pitiful Muggle, I had no access to the magical world. Death had locked away my birthright and dumped me into this hellish place to serve out my punishment. I could not even be certain that magic existed in this realm at all. It seemed to me that if Death wished to punish me, a world without magic was admittedly the best way of doing so. I was suffering greatly.

"I think you're a great wiz-urd," Helen said to me.

"And you will make a fine minion once you are of age," I told her in return. Certainly she was no Bellatrix, but there were some years yet to go. There was hope. "How old are you?" I asked.

"I'm six!"

I had waited longer for worse things than a competent minion. "Once your father is dead," I said, "I shall have to find a new Harry to be nice to. You'll help me find one, won't you?"

Helen giggled. "Who's Harry?"

I sighed. "I am going to retie my shoes," I said. "Do not go anywhere."

Helen offered me her most serious expression. "Okay, Mr. Keith."

"What did I tell you to call me?" I said impatiently. "When we are the only ones in the house, what is my name?"

"V-uh-vuh—" Helen stuttered. "Vol-der-more."

Close enough. "Good. Now stay where you are. Do not leave." I did not wish to engage in another round of impromptu hide-and-go-seek.

I waited for Helen to nod, then bent over to untie my shoes. What no one told you about living as a spirit for over a dozen years and going barefoot for another three, was that if you did not practice regularly, certain motor skills would deteriorate.

Use of magic for mundane tasks meant I had not tied a knot by hand since the mid 1930s. Luckily, little Helen had shown me a neat trick for getting the job done quickly. Now the most difficult part of this pointless task that Death had set to punish me was picking open the existing knot.

Once the knot on my left shoe was undone, I drew both ends of the laces taut. Then, satisfied that the shoe was secure, I made two rabbit ears, one with each lace. Then I tied the ears together.

I examined my work. All done. Simpler and much more efficient than the 'around the tree and down the rabbit hole' idiocy that the local librarian had explained to me when I was attempting to locate a book on the subject matter.

I repeated the process with the other shoe, then glanced up to check on my minion. It seemed that she had fallen asleep.

Careful not to jostle her, I reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch. It was a hideous thing with farm animals all over it. I put the blanket on the child and tucked in the edges.

Someday, she would make a fine Death Eater. For now, she would sleep.

TASK #4: Use ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’.

An hour later, the Porters returned to resume ownership of their spawn. I bid my future minion farewell and went to make my escape. But as I headed for the door, Porter's hand caught me by my shoulder, effectively ruining my chance at freedom.

"We got you a little something," said Porter. "Some pastries from that new spot in the strip mall. Hope you don't mind almonds!" He offered a box out to me. It was pastel blue and smelled like overpriced almonds.

"Thank you," I said mechanically. I accepted the gift and tucked the box under my arm.

"Thank you for watching Helen and Adam for us," Allison chimed in. Her lipgloss was so thickly applied that I was shocked that the sun's glare reflecting off of it had yet to take her husband's eyesight out.

"You are welcome," I stated, still in the same mechanical tone.

"You know," Porter said, "if you're not busy and all, there's something else I was wondering if I could pick your brain over—"

"No," I said. "I have to leave. I have to leave right now." These greedy pieces of slug excrement were not allowed another minute of my time until tomorrow.

One good deed per day. One. Good. Deed. Not a single deed more. If deeds were stackable, I had not been informed of such a fact. Therefore, there was no reason to spend more time with the Porters than I had to.

"Er, alright. Good night, then!" Porter called as I exited through the front door as fast as my magicless body could take me.

TASK #3: Help a little old lady cross the street.

I made my way up the street to Number 3, Plumtree Road and knocked on the door.

No response. I checked my watch, waited five minutes to the dot, then pounded on the door again.

"Martha!" I called out in frustration. "It is time! Open your blasted door!"

"I'm coming!"

Exactly five minutes later, the door creaked open, revealing Martha, a small old Muggle woman. I did not know her surname as I had never asked for it. I was fairly sure she did not remember it anyway.

"It is time for our walk," I said.

Martha nodded gravely. "Time for our walk," she repeated.

I offered her my arm, which she took.

Make no mistake, this action was not borne out of a desire to be viewed as gentlemanly, or out of concern for her well being. Ever since our little accident last spring where Martha had broken her hip, I had learned my lesson. The next closest old woman was three blocks away. I would not walk there every day just to drag a different withered carcass across the street.

Martha shut the door behind her and locked it. Then she and I took off at a pace that put snails to shame. I knew, from intimate experience, every stone and crack that made up Martha's driveway.

By my side, Martha was silent. This blessed silence was the only positive part of our walks. If I had been forced to engage in genuine conversation with a woman who looked old enough to be dead and occasionally called me 'Karl' instead of 'Keith', I would have abandoned her on the crosswalk to be hit by a car instead of accidentally letting it almost happen through neglect.

After what felt like several hours, Martha and I reached the crosswalk. At this time of night, there were hardly any vehicles to pose a danger to her, but the point remained: the crosswalk was there and it existed to be crossed.

"We are short on time tonight," I said as I turned to Martha. "The hour is late and I would like to retire to bed early."

Martha sighed. "Okay."

With all the delicacy of an absent father, I hoisted Martha up by the waist and dumped her weak, decaying body over my shoulder. I crossed the street, put her down on the pavement, then hauled her up and carried her back to our starting point.

"That always makes me dizzy," Martha complained as I dropped her onto her feet and steadied her in place. "You don't have to run so fast, Karl."

"That was walking," I said. "You are an idiot old woman with no gauge of speed or distance."

When Martha narrowed her eyes at me, hundreds of new wrinkles appeared on her face. It was disgusting. Death would have to free me from this life before I succumbed to a similar fate. Lord Voldemort could not be seen weak and old and ugly. It went against the very laws of the universe.

"Have a girlfriend yet?" Martha asked. 

"If you ask that in front of the Porters again," I said menacingly, "I will burn your house down with you inside of it."

Martha lifted her arm. I took it, and we began our return journey to her house.

TASK #6: Introduce yourself to someone new.

The cashier grabbed my package of bourbon biscuits and ran it over the scanning device on the counter. The device beeped. This beep was followed by the item name appearing on the screen that listed all of my purchases.

"That'll be thirteen seventy, sir."

I withdrew my card from my pocket. "I have my card."

The cashier waved a hand. "You can tap or insert when you're ready."

I held my card against the smaller scanning device and waited for the beep. Muggles were such failures that there were no instructions posted anywhere for any of these machines. Even after I had pointed this out to them, they had not changed their ways. Frankly, it sickened me.

While I waited for the beep, I decided to cross off another one of my daily tasks.

"What is your name?" I demanded of the cashier.

The cashier blinked at me. "My name?"

"Yes," I said. "I am asking you, you imbecile."

"My manager isn't in right now," said the waste of oxygen who was supposed to be bagging my items in my environmentally-friendly cloth bag.

"I am not asking for your manager's name," I said impatiently. "I am asking for yours. It is a simple question that requires a simple answer. What. Is. Your. Name."

The cashier half-glanced down at their own shirt, then said, "My name is Jeremy."

"There." I smiled pleasantly. "Was that so difficult? I am Lord Voldemort and I—" I paused and squinted down at the little scanning device. "Why hasn't this beeped yet? What is wrong with your machine?"

"Um, sir, you're holding it over the wrong spot. You see down there? Put it there."

This made no sense. "But the other machines have it at the top."

"... Yes. But on this machine, you have to tap it at the bottom."

"This is ridiculous," I said. This could not possibly be allowed. "I'd like to speak to your manager."

TASK #1: ? ? ? ? ?

The moment I returned home, my hard-won groceries in hand, I knew something was very wrong.

First of all, someone had cleared all the mail out of my mailbox. Second of all, the front porch light was off. I had not yet figured out how to do that.

I gently placed my bag on the pavement, far away from the house in case I needed to burn the building down to escape, and approached the door. Part of me hoped that there was a vicious intruder inside. If I was tragically murdered, perhaps Death would take pity and restore Lord Voldemort to his former glory.

I unlocked the front door and quietly pushed my way inside. I could hear voices coming from the kitchen. Thieves raiding my pantry? Eating my bourbon biscuits? Opening my jars of Nutella?

"That had to be several months' worth of mail crammed in there," someone was saying. "If it wasn't for the fact that there were damp dishes on the rack and fresh milk in the fridge, I'd have thought this place was abandoned."

"What are these for?" asked a second voice, a softer, feminine one.

"They're bills. See, this one's credit, this one's electric. And this one... this one's just about EI, I think?" There was a brief pause before the voice spoke up again. "Christ, Voldemort's collecting EI."

My heart sped up. They knew my name. Whoever these people were, they knew me. They knew Lord Voldemort. That was reason enough to reveal myself. If they knew me, they would either adore me or fear me. Depending on their response, I would decide on a further course of action.

Here at last was my chance to recoup a fraction of the glory I had once known. Instead of helping frail Muggle Martha across the street, I could find a shrivelled old witch to take her place.

I retrieved a poker from the fireplace and crept over to the opening that led to my kitchen. If they were my enemies, I would bludgeon them to death.

I knew it was morally acceptable to bludgeon intruders to death because Martha had once attempted to do so to me. She had let me into her house, gone to make me tea, and then forgotten about me. Then she had come back into the sitting room and assaulted me with her table lamp.

As I leapt into view of my home invaders, I began to shout, 'Who dares enter the fearsome home of Lord Voldemort without permission!', as one does when intruders are afoot. However, my threatening proclamation was thoroughly ruined as I laid eyes upon the first home invader seated at my dining table.

"Hello," said Harry Potter, my dearly detested mortal nemesis.

Potter looked older. Had many years passed since we had last battled? I could not recall the year of my cruel, unjust demise. There had been more important matters to deal with, then. Running a magical government while trying to find and murder a teenager took up a great deal of brain power.

"You probably don't know who I am," Potter continued in an innocent tone that could only be meant to distract me from his forthcoming attempt on my life, "and I'm sorry to be barging in on you like this, but you're in terrible danger and you need to come with me."

"Harry Potter," I said in a deep, ominous voice. Because of the horrid body that Death had shoved me into, my words emerged with a very mild tone, which was immensely irritating.

Potter's mouth dropped open, no doubt to cast the sickly green spell that would shatter my existence once and for all. But I would not let him kill me. Not again.

"You will never take me alive, Harry Potter!" I declared, increasing the volume of my voice to make up for my lack of dark mystique.

"Voldemort?" Potter blurted, green eyes wide with astonishment at my bold proclamation.

That was when I threw the poker at him and made a break for the backdoor.

“Did Voldemort just leap over his own backyard fence and take off running?” Harry asked.

“I think so, Harry,” said Luna. “Seeing you must have really upset him. You did murder him and all.”

“... Right.”

TASK #3: Help a little old lady cross the street.

I slammed my fist against the front door of Number 3, Plumtree Road.

“Martha,” I shouted, “open the door! It’s an emergency!”

Five minutes later, the door opened. Martha was dressed in a violet sweater that I had purchased for her Christmas present. 

“What is it?” she asked suspiciously.

“It is an emergency,” I told her. “I do not have time to find another dying old woman before the day is over. We must walk.”

“Well, alright.” Martha sighed. “I don’t suppose I can finish my tea first?”

“No,” I said, picking her up. “You may not.”

We had just completed the first half of our condensed crosswalk journey when Potter and his companion came running towards us. I could not abandon my task and lose my only hope of re-achieving greatness, but I also could not permit Harry Potter to destroy me. Martha would now be used as a human shield or a hostage to ensure my success.

“Martha,” I told her, “you are now my human shield.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Potter had his wand pointed at me as he came to a halt. “Are you…” Potter’s brow furrowed. “Are you kidnapping this lady?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I told him. “We are going on a walk. We do this daily.”

“This is our daily walk,” Martha confirmed from her horizontal position tucked under my dominant arm. “We’re doing it the fast way today since Karl is in such a goddamn hurry.”

“Shut up,” I said.

“I think it’s nice you’re taking her on a walk,” said the blonde girl by Potter’s side. She turned to Martha. “I’m guessing it’s very difficult for you to leave the house on your own, isn’t it?”

“It takes her five minutes to answer the door,” I said.

“It used to be fifteen, didn’t it?” Martha groused. “But you kept yamming on about waiting and then you moved all my furniture into the entrance hall.”

“Yammering,” I corrected. “The word is yammering.”

“That…” Potter trailed off and gave his head a shake. “Whatever. We don’t have the time for this. Luna, can you please help her home? We’ve got to go.”

“Of course, Harry.” Luna smiled and held out her hand. “Voldemort, would you mind putting her down?”

I put Martha down. Reluctantly. 

Then I picked her back up. “We have to finish our walk first.”

Martha patted my arm. “Be a dear and try not to jostle.”

Potter and Luna watched as I marched Martha across the street and back. Once my task was done, I set her down next to Potter. “All done,” I said to her. “Now you may return home. If I do not walk you tomorrow, it will be because these two children have brutally murdered me.”

“Be nice to Keith,” Martha said to Potter. “He needs walks daily and doesn’t know how to use the dishwasher.”

“Shut up, Martha,” I said. “No one wants your outdated opinions. Take them to your grave, as all elderly should.”

“Aren’t you like, eighty?” Potter asked me. He had that confused look about him again. How such an idiot had ever managed to defeat me, I had no idea.

Luna took Martha by the hand. “What is your name?”

“Martha Davies.”

“No one needs to know that,” I said. “She’s minutes away from death at any given moment.”

“Let’s get you home,” said Luna. “It’s a nice day for a walk.”

As the two women walked off, Potter lowered his wand. “So you remember,” he said to me. “How much do you remember?”

“I remember everything,” I said darkly. “Lord Voldemort never forgets.”

Potter sighed. “Well, other people have figured out that you’re here. We need to get you out of here and somewhere safe.”

“I still have five more tasks to complete.”

Potter opened his mouth again, then closed it. “We’ll sort that out once we get to the safehouse.” He held out his hand. “Let’s go.”

I had no idea what was happening. I was not about to ask why we needed to leave, but I also felt obligated to put forth an argument. Lord Voldemort would not be ordered about. “Why should I trust you?”

“I’m trying to help you,” Potter said. “Death told me that you were some Muggle named Keith Adams. People have found out that you’re here and they want to kill you. I thought that you wouldn’t have any of your memories but clearly I was wrong about that, so.” Potter ran a hand through his disastrous hair. “I’m just going to stick to the plan and hope it works out. Death wouldn’t explain how you got this body. I don’t want everyone to kill some innocent person by mistake.”

“Who is coming to kill me?” It would be embarrassing if Potter killed me again, but I was willing to settle for someone else. “Is it Mad-Eye?”

Potter stared at me. “You killed Mad-Eye.”

Had I? I suppose I might have killed him and forgotten about it. “Is there anyone competent on this team? Any familiar names?”

“Just take my hand so we can get out of here,” Potter insisted.

“Not until I know who wants me dead.”

Potter’s outstretched hand clenched into a fist, then straightened back out. “Pretty much everyone. Not a lot of people like you. But if you’re asking who specifically is coming to murder you, the answer is most of the Ministry, most of the Order, and various bounty hunters.”

It was pleasant to know that the threat of Lord Voldemort still required such a monumental response. “I see,” I said. “Now I will go with you. Was that very diffi—” 

Potter seized my arm and Disapparated us both.

Chapter Text

TASK #2: Do a good deed for Harry.

TASK #6: Introduce yourself to someone new.

“This is not a safehouse, you wretch,” I wheezed. I was doubled over after having thrown up on Walburga’s atrocious troll’s foot doorstop. Apparition was different when you were trapped in a frail Muggle body. “This is Grimmauld Place. This is not safe!” 

Nothing about this house suggested safety. The elf heads mounted on the wall were warning enough that its inhabitants were absolutely insane, or else would be soon driven there via the natural process of osmosis.

“You won’t be staying here permanently,” Potter said, “so don’t worry about it.” He shed his cloak and handed it off to an old, wrinkly elf. I wondered, idly, if the elf qualified as a senior citizen and could be persuaded to cross the street. 

“Elf,” I said to the wrinkled creature. “What is your name?”

“Filthy Muggle is speaking to Kreacher,” muttered the elf. They glared at me with their creepy little elf eyes, then stomped off to put the cloak away.

“I am Lord Voldemort,” I called after them. There. Task completed. 

Potter shot me a strange look. “I just need to gather some things. Then we’ll be moving you to Australia. I’m hoping that no one will recognize you there.”

“Australia?” I repeated. “Why would I move to Australia?”

“Because no one will recognize you there,” Potter repeated in a flat voice. “I’m doing you a favour.” Then he spun about and began walking towards the kitchen.

But what about my tasks? What about Martha? And Helen? “I do not wish to move to Australia,” I said as I followed him.

Potter took a deep breath and turned around to look at me. “Listen. This is for your own good. If you stay here in Britain, someone is going to try and kill you. I know you don’t have magic anymore, and I know Death did something to prevent you from murdering people, which is the only reason why I’m helping you. You are going to move to Australia and live the rest of your life there where you can’t hurt anyone.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “Lord Voldemort will not move to Australia,” I said. “You will find a way for me to continue living my life here in Britain or else.” Or else what, I had not yet decided. If Potter asked for clarification, I would then come up with an idea.

Potter’s brows pulled together. Why was he always so confused? Had no one ever taught him how to think for himself? I have always said that education at Hogwarts took a turn for the worse when Dumbledore became Headmaster. 

“Why do you want to stay here?” Potter asked.

“My house is here,” I said. “My things are here.”

“I’ll get you new things,” Potter said. “And a new house.”

“I prefer the ones that are mine.”

Potter’s confusion had multiplied, if the number of wrinkles on his forehead was anything to go by. “They’re going to kill you! You can’t stay here.”

I wracked my brain for a proper threat. It was difficult to make threats when I had no magic and was bound by Death to behave. “You will find a way to make this happen or I will tell everyone that you tried to save me.”

“I don’t understand,” Potter said after a moment.

“You are still young,” I told him sympathetically. “There is time for you to grow more intelligent.”

Potter made a frustrated noise, then walked over to a dining chair and collapsed into it. “You want to stay here in Britain?” 

“Yes.” And I would not accept any other answer.

Potter pinched the bridge of his nose. “What if I move your house to Australia? Would that be alright?”

“No. I wish to stay here.”

“What is this?” Potter asked, voice reeking with desperation. “Why won’t you leave?”

“Contrary to what you seem to believe,” I said, “not everyone wishes to move to Australia.”

Potter slumped back in his chair. “There has to be something. What can I do to convince you to move there?”

It was a generous, open-ended offer. I would have been a fool not to exploit it. “Convince Death to give me back my original life.”

“Yeah, not happening.” Potter shook his head. “Anything else?”

I thought about it. “Martha and Helen must move with me.”

“Martha?” Potter repeated owlishly. “And who is Helen?”

“Helen is a Death Eater in training,” I informed him. “When she is of age, she will replace Bellatrix.”

“Of age? How old is she?”

“She is six.”

“Oh my god.” Potter dropped his head to the dinner table with a satisfying thud. “I’m going to go to Azkaban for this, and I won’t be able to explain anything. They’re going to call me a child predator.”

Success! Potter was willing to help. I smiled. I was not worried about Azkaban. If we were caught and tried, I would feign ignorance. They could not prove that I was Lord Voldemort, and so long as Potter’s moral compass remained intact, he would not expose me. “Don’t be crude, Potter. The only child I have ever grievously harmed was you.”

Potter shot me a suspicious look. “What about Cedric?”

This death I did remember. “Wormtail killed him.”

Potter jabbed his finger at me. “But you told him to do it.” 

“The law would not hold me accountable,” I said easily. Just like they would not hold ‘Keith’ accountable should they locate and arrest him for Lord Voldemort’s crimes. Magical Britain's law system was woefully wrought with inconsistencies and loopholes. I would use those to ensure my freedom.

“I need to think about this,” Potter said. He sounded exhausted. “We’ll… just have to spend the night here.”

That might prove troublesome. I had three tasks left to complete. “If I agreed to stay the night here,” I said carefully, “would you consider that as a favour?”

“What?”

“Would my consent to remain here in this ridiculous excuse for a house be considered a favour extended to you on my part?”

“Yes? I guess so?”

Excellent. Two tasks left to go. “Then I agree.” 

TASK #4: Use ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’.

Potter and I took lunch in the dingy dining room. His ancient House-Elf presented us with the food it had made. I thanked the elf and was rewarded with more disparaging remarks about my blood and lack of heritage.

“So,” Potter said as he dragged his spoon through his bowl, which was full of onion soup. “Why are you on EI?”

I did not know what EI was. “It is none of your business.”

“I suppose you haven’t had a proper job since you graduated Hogwarts,” Potter said, as if I hadn’t spoken.

This conversation was annoying. “Being a Dark Lord is a full-time occupation,” I said. “I am above requiring a ‘proper’ job.”

Potter did not respond to my excellent point. Instead, he swallowed more of his soup and alternated between staring at his bowl and staring at me.

After a few minutes of silence, Potter spoke again. "Why do you want to take Martha and a little girl with you to Australia?"

I reminded myself that Potter did not know of my predicament. I could not allow him to uncover my weakness. "They are an integral part of my plans."

"Your plans for what?"

"My plans, which are none of your business."

Potter narrowed his eyes. "I won't help you if you don't tell me why you want them. You expect me to help you kidnap an old woman and a six-year-old girl for no reason?"

Yes, I did.

"Yes, I do," I said.

"Well, I'm not going to do it.” Potter drained the rest of his soup, dropped his spoon into the bowl, and stood up. "I don't trust you, even if you don't have any magic. We're not kidnapping anyone, and I don't care if you tell people I'm helping you or not!" Potter shot me a final irritated look before he strode out of the dining room. As he walked off, I heard him mutter, "Everyone thought I was insane for wanting to, anyway."

I drank the rest of my soup by myself. If I had been at home, I might have gone to see if the Porters needed my help. Or I might have gone to Martha's for tea. Or I might have gone out for groceries and begun a new argument with the shop manager.

Though I had never considered myself a creature of habit, I found that I missed the habits I had been forced to form. Was this Death's way of changing me? Forcing my mind to grow used to kindness and complacency? The mere idea was horrifying. I could not succumb to such ploys.

If Potter would not assist me with kidnapping, then there was no reason for me to stay here. I would return home and await my fate like a man, surrounded by the people whose company I had been coerced into accepting.

I set my soup bowl and spoon aside, then called out the name of Potter's elf.

"Kreacher?"

No elf appeared. Was this because I lacked magic? I found that difficult to believe. Elves were known for their attentiveness. Even an elf as old as Potter's could not ignore a waiting guest.

"Kreacher," I repeated. "I would like to inform you that I will be departing shortly."

The elf appeared in the doorway with a resounding CRACK. They swayed to and fro, an ugly grin marring their face. "Scum of the Earth Muggle is leaving? Oh, happy day... blessed day... Kreacher does not want to serve the nasty Muggle man, no..."

"Yes," I snapped, "I am leaving."

"Thank you," the elf croaked, "thank the dirty Muggle for no longer sullying the halls of my mistress with his filth and muck..."

I grimaced. I knew what I had to say and I did not want to say it. "You... are... welcome." The words tasted like sewage in my mouth. If there was a way to kill Death, I would find it. I would find it and I would do it. And then I would use their death to create the ultimate Horcrux of planet Earth, and then I would never die.

The elf sneered at me, their rows of rotted teeth assaulting my eyes with their awfulness. "Good bye, foul Muggle." They made a shooing motion with their hands.

I vowed to myself that Lord Voldemort would someday return and obliterate this elf for their unbelievable insolence. Thus empowered, I strode out of the dining room, through the entrance hall, and out the door. Once on the pavement outside the house, I set off in search of a cab to take me home.

TASK #5: Stop and tie your shoelaces.

The cab ride was long and boring. I hated taking the cab. It was slower than Apparition and the interior of the vehicle always smelled strange. Life was easier when I did not have to pay minions for their subpar services.

I finally arrived at my home on Plumtree Road, paid and tipped the cabbie, then exited the vehicle. 

Only to find Harry Potter standing in my driveway.

"What do you think you're doing?" Potter asked angrily. 

That stupid elf must have told on me. "What do you think you are doing?" I threw back at him. "This is my property."

"You can't stay here," Potter said, marching up to me and reaching for my arm. I leapt backward, unwilling to let him any closer than I had to. "You're exposed out here," Potter continued, swiping at me again. "People will see you!"

"Then let them," I responded as I dodged his wandering hands. I would either murder them all or let them murder me. I had yet to decide which one I wanted.

There was a list of acceptable people who could potentially murder me. To die by any other hand or wand would be a blemish upon my honour and my legacy. Imagine admitting that some nameless nobody had caught you unawares. After all the second-hand embarrassment had ended, your impressive feats of villainy would be long forgotten.

Lord Voldemort would not suffer such a fate. Lord Voldemort would live forever.

"Don't be stupid," Potter said. "This is serious." He attempted to grab me a third time, and I had to wonder why he simply did not use magic instead. Being Dumbledore's little hero apprentice certainly had its drawbacks in the form of severe mental deficiency.

"I am perfectly serious," I said as I side-stepped another kidnapping attempt. Oh. Hmm. That was a good point. This was a kidnapping attempt. Potter was attempting to kidnap me. "Why is it fair for you to kidnap me against my will," I asked, "but not for us to kidnap Martha and Helen?"

Potter gaped. I hope he did not expect me to close his mouth for him. "That's not—that's not the same thing! No one wants to kill them. People want to kill you!" Potter scrunched his face up. "This is for your own good."

"Good bye," I said, echoing the rude tone that his elf had used. I stepped around him and headed for the front door of my house.

"Wait," Potter said. He hurried to catch up with me, but kept an oddly respectable distance as I unlocked the door. "You really can't stay here."

"You keep saying this," I said calmly as I pushed my way inside. "But no one has come for me. I am starting to believe you've made this up for attention."

"For attention?" Potter spluttered with indignance. "Whose attention could I possibly be trying to get?"

"Mine, of course."

Potter followed me into my house. I would have offered him tea if he was not so annoying. "If you are so concerned about my well-being," I told him, "you can stay here. This is much safer than that rat hovel you call a house." And I had my favourite biscuits here, not that Potter would be getting any.

"If you stay here," Potter said slowly, "there is a very high chance that your neighbours will be in danger. These people who are looking for you, a lot of them don't care about Muggles. If a house gets blown up or someone gets hurt, the Ministry will just wipe their memories and leave the Muggles to pick up the pieces."

That got my attention. I did not like that. This was the neighbourhood I lived in, with the people I had carefully chosen to aid me in completing my assigned tasks. If a bunch of bumbling wizards came knocking about and ruining everything, I would be forced to take drastic action.

So Potter may have had a point. A point I highly disliked, but a point nonetheless. However, I could not tell him that I agreed with his point without weakening my position.

"They are Muggles," I said.

Potter seemed to be waiting for me to say more, but that was the beauty of my response. It did not require more.

My phone rang. "I must answer this," I said, turning away. I picked up the phone and held it to my ear. "Hello?"

"Karl? Is that you? I saw you and that young man standing in your driveway. Is he your girlfriend?"

"No," I said, "he is not."

"Are you coming over for our walk?"

"We already had our walk today, Martha."

"I don't remember that," she said after a moment.

"Of course you don't," I told her patiently. "You would forget your legs if they weren't attached to your gradually shrivelling body."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Potter shoot me an offended look. Didn't he know it was rude to eavesdrop? I scowled at him to let him know the visual input of his face was not welcome.

"I think you should get a girlfriend," Martha said.

"Good bye," I said. "And do not open the door for strangers. They may try to erase your memories." I paused. "Nevermind," I amended. "Go ahead and open the door for everyone." Maybe she would forget about the girlfriend bit.

I hung up the phone. Potter was still glaring at me.

"What?" I demanded. "Did your dead parents never teach you not to listen in on other people's private conversations?"

Potter's wand snapped into his hand. He aimed it directly at my throat. "Say that again," he said dangerously. "I dare you."

Potter no longer frightened me. There was nothing he could do that would harm Lord Voldemort. "I am going to put the kettle on," I said. Then I walked away.

My kitchen was blissfully Potter-free. I put the kettle on and browsed through my cupboards for something to eat. The elf's soup had tasted off. I would not be surprised if the ugly creature had attempted to poison me.

I selected a package of crisps from the topmost cupboard and opened it up. The fragrant scent of salt and vinegar wafted to my nostrils. This was a crisps moment, so I would eat crisps.

I popped a crisp into my mouth. The taste was salty, as promised, with a hint of vinegar.

Then Potter came into the kitchen, thoroughly ruining my good moment.

He stopped dead in the doorway to stare at me. "You're eating crisps," he said in a disoriented sort of way. He was very talented at stating the obvious.

"Yes," I said. "Well done."

Potter scowled at me. I put another crisp in my mouth and resumed eating.

"Is this what you do now?" he asked, taking a step closer. "Make tea and eat crisps? Carry old ladies across the street and convert children into Death Eaters?"

"And what are you doing that is so brave and noble?" I asked sardonically. "Kidnapping Dark Lords to protect them from imaginary enemies?"

"I'm an Auror," Potter said. He puffed his chest out a bit. All it did was make him look stupid.

"That is the worst job you could have chosen," I told him. "You would have done better somewhere else."

Potter's face twisted with offense. I set my package of crisps on the counter and bent over to tie my shoes. I did not want to forget and be forced to do it before bed. It was terribly inconvenient to put shoes on, tie them, then untie them again so I could take them off and change into my pyjamas.

"I've done great as an Auror," Potter said. "I've caught loads of dark wizards!"

"No one cares," I said. My brow furrowed as I picked at the knot on my left shoe. "You defeated Lord Voldemort. Anything you achieve after that no longer matters. If you succeed, it is expected of you. If you fail, they will think lesser of you." The knot at last came loose. I formed two rabbit ears and tied them together.

"That's not true," Potter argued.

I lifted my head so I could raise a mocking eyebrow at him. "Isn't it?"

What epic act of heroism could possibly compare to defeating me? It was laughable. No such act existed. I was the most interesting part of Harry Potter's life, and I always would be.

"I wanted to be an Auror! I wanted to since my fifth year."

I adjusted the position of my feet and began to pick at the knot on my other shoe. "And why did you wish to become an Auror?"

Potter’s cheeks had gone pink. "Because of—because—because of you!"

Silence followed his proclamation. It had taken Potter a depressing amount of time to come to the conclusion that I had known all along, but not everyone could see things as clearly as I.

"Then you have your answer," I said as I finished with the knot on my right foot. "And that answer is that I am correct."

I straightened to find that Potter still appeared to be at a loss for words. His wand was nowhere in sight and his face was more confused than ever.

"Do you..." Potter swallowed, his eyes flickering guiltily from place to place all around the room before they settled on me. "Do you not know how to tie shoelaces?"

Next to me, the kettle came to a boil and started shrieking.

TASK #2: Do an actual good deed for Harry.

I made Potter a cup of tea. He did need it for the shock. The last thing I wanted was for him to pass out in my kitchen.

We sat in the sitting room so I could sip my tea and eat my crisps at the same time. Potter kept crossing and uncrossing his legs like a nervous schoolgirl.

"I am not going to murder you," I said, just in case Death had not informed him of that fact.

Potter's eyes jumped to me. "I know that," he said quickly.

"Then stop acting like you do not," I advised him.

Potter fell silent again. Somehow, silent Potter was equally as annoying as talkative Potter.

"Why are you so insistent on saving me?" I asked to fill the dead air.

Potter watched me with his befuddled, owlish expression. "Why do you care?"

"It is my life," I said pointedly.

"I..." Potter trailed off. He picked up his cup of tea and sipped from it to occupy himself. "I tried to save you. Before. Do you remember? I asked you about remorse. I asked you to try and feel remorse."

I did remember that. I remember he had called me Tom.

"Do you?" Potter said out of nowhere, his gaze snapping to me with sudden intensity. "Do you regret what you did?"

Did I regret it? If I had the choice to relive my life, to right the mistakes of my past, would I choose the same path?

I did not like all these questions. I did not want to answer them. "I have to tie my shoes again," I said, placing my teacup on its saucer and setting it down on the side table.

As I bent over to undo my previous hard work, the sound of glass shattering reached my ears. My instincts took over; I rolled out of my seat and onto the floor, reaching for a wand that I no longer had.

A bolt of spellfire sailed over my head, slamming into the chair where I had been sitting only seconds ago.

"Shit," Potter cried. He dropped to the floor by my side and cast a powerful Protego to cover us. "We have to go," he said urgently. "We have to go now!"

A second spell rammed against his shield, showering us in sparks. I remembered what Potter had said about Obliviating the Muggles.

"No," I said. "No, I have a plan."

"What plan?" Potter asked despairingly. "You don't even have magic!"

I did not need magic. I had what most other wizards did not. I had a brain.

Potter attempted to stop me as I pulled to my feet, but he could not drop the Protego shield, and I was too far away for him to physically halt my escape. I broke free of the shimmering bubble and ran for the door.

TASK #6: Introduce yourself to someone new.

"Help!" I cried as I ran out into my driveway. "Help me! Help!" I waved my arms around the way children did when they were trying to run faster.

The dozen wizards in the middle of the street stopped their spellcasting and turned their wands to me.

"Help!" I repeated. "You have to help me! There is a monster in my house calling himself Lord Voldemort." I did my best to look frightened, to act as I imagined someone would act when they were frightened of me. It was difficult. I had no idea what being afraid was supposed to feel like from an internal perspective. My experience of fear was limited to the visuals expressed by others, and it was difficult to mimic that when I could not see my reflection.

One of the wizards frowned. "Who are you?"

I came to a breathless halt and braced my hands on my knees. Muggles were weak and tired easily, I reminded myself. They could not speak and be frightened at the same time. 

"Help," I said again. "Help me!" A realistic portrayal was pivotal. To succeed, I had to pretend to be stupid and useless, which meant this was the most difficult thing I had ever done aside from making Horcruxes.

"Who are you?" the wizard repeated, sounding irritated.

"My name," I said, "is Keith Adams."

Once again, their wands were in my face. It was very uncalled for.

"There is a monster in my house!" I pointed at the house in case they had forgotten which one it was. "He is frankly quite terrifying and I think someone should do something about him!"

The wizards exchanged a glance. "I think this one's just a Muggle now," said one. "If You-Know-Who is in that house..."

From inside the house, a spell shot up and into the sky. It was the Dark Mark. I was admittedly impressed that Potter had thought to cast my spell as a distraction, and that he had managed to cast it at all.

"There!" One of the wizards pointed. "That's his Mark! Let's get him!"

Several wizards took off, leaving me behind.

"But what about this one?" one asked.

"The Obliviators'll handle it, come on!"

I watched the rest vanish into the house. I listened to the flash-bang noises of spells tossed about my living room. My house would be in ruins for the foreseeable future. I sighed and checked my watch. The day was not yet over and I had no more tasks to complete. 

What to do? I had not even gotten to finish my bag of crisps. 

Potter owed me a house, a cup of tea, and a bag of crisps. I would come back to collect once the wizards were gone.  With this in mind, I set off for Martha's house. She typically had a decent supply of tea and biscuits in her pantry, and she would not remember if I was the one who consumed it all.

Chapter Text

TASK #4: Use ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’.

"Here is your tea," Martha said, pushing a tea cup in my direction.

I was the one who had boiled the kettle and prepared the teapot. All she had done was pour the cups and tell me to drink up.

"Thank you," I said, because Death had given me no other choice.

"You're welcome," she replied.

That was the extent of our conversation for the rest of the day. Then, at some hour close to supper time, there came an ominous knock at the door.

"Are you going to get that?" Martha asked me. "It might be your girlfriend."

"Must I do everything around here?" I said to her. But I got to my feet because I was concerned about the Obliviators. They would not affect Martha and her terrible memory, but I did not want to have half of my today erased because Potter was too incompetent to cover our tracks.

The door opened to reveal Potter. His hair looked worse than usual and there were dirt smudges all over his face and clothes.

"Have you heard of a Cleaning Charm?" I asked him in greeting.

Potter shoved me aside and stepped into the house. "Hello, Martha," he said. "Has Keith been calling you names again?"

"Are you his girlfriend?" Martha asked, squinting at him. "He keeps saying you aren't. You should really get him straightened out."

"Martha made tea," I said loudly. "It would be rude not to drink it."

Potter sat down in my seat and poured himself a cup of tea. "The hit-wizards are gone," he said. "I shook them off after a pretty long goose chase."

Potter raised his cup to his mouth. I watched his expression carefully. I wished to see if there was a difference between his reaction to the tea he knew I had made compared to the tea he thought Martha had made. 

Potter sipped his tea. No change in expression. As far as I could tell, either Potter did not care about how his tea was made, or he thought that our skill levels were the same. I was unsure which outcome offended me more.

"It might interest you to know that there are now Dark Marks hovering all over Britain," Potter said, frowning. "Lord Voldemort has officially returned from the dead for the second time."

It did more than interest me. It greatly pleased me to know that people all over Britain were once again living in fear of my name. "That is excellent news," I told him.

Potter glared at me. "No," he said. "It isn't."

"We disagree," I said primly, and sipped my own tea.

Martha tugged on my shirtsleeve. "Are we going for our walk soon?"

"We already had our walk today, Martha," I said automatically. Really, it should not be possible for an old woman, even a dying one, to forget twice in one day. There had to be some kind of Muggle fix for that.

Martha harrumphed and shifted back in her seat. "You should take him for a walk," she said to Potter.

"Er, I think there's been enough walking for one day," Potter said. He glanced back at me. "It should be safe for you to go home now. I don't think they'll come back for you. The Obliviators made their sweep, and I may have Confunded them a little so they would skip this house."

It was nice to know that Potter was good for something. "Did you repair my house?" I asked him.

Potter winced in a very guilty way. He was not a good actor. He would not have been able to convince a group of hit-wizards that he was a Muggle named Keith Adams.

"I see that you did not," I said flatly. "You ruined my house and you don't even have the courtesy to repair it?"

"It's not like I had the time!" Potter retorted. "I was busy running around pretending to be you! And I can't fix the outside now because the Muggles will see it. It'll cause problems all over again."

I retracted my previous mental statement. Potter was not good for anything. He was a good-for-nothing.

In response to my stone-faced expression, Potter continued, "But I can help you repair the inside! And clean up the mess. And I'll hire some people to come fix the outside."

I folded my arms over my chest.

"It's the best I can do," Potter insisted. "Besides, isn't this what you wanted? Now you can stay here in Britain."

"No thanks to you," I pointed out.

Potter fixed me with a glare. "Everyone thinks Voldemort is back and is going to kill them in their sleep. I think we're pretty even, actually."

"You decided to become an Auror on your own," I reminded him. "I did not force you to choose a career path that would lead to dealing with terrified idiots."

"They are terrified because of you!"

"Because of both of us," I corrected. "Because you cast the Dark Mark."

Potter took his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes. "I can't deal with this right now," he said to the ceiling. "I need to go home and forget that today ever happened."

"If you're quick about it, there may be some Obliviators hanging about that can assist you with that endeavour."

"Karl," said Martha, "did you want some more tea?"

"No, thank you," I told her. Then, for good measure, I added, "And we already had our walk today. Do not ask me again."

Potter got to his feet. "I am going to clean up your house, and then I am going home. You can come with me right now or you can stay here."

I looked at Martha. We had already had our tea, our walk, and our companionable silence. "I am finished here," I said briskly. "Let us depart."

Potter offered me his arm. He did not seem concerned that Martha was watching us, which meant he had correctly learned that to take her seriously was a complete and utter waste of time.

I took Potter's arm and allowed him to Apparate us home.

TASK #1: ?????

The floor of my living room was clear. Not only was the floor clear, but the front of my house was in pristine condition. Everything was almost exactly as I had left it.

“You are not amusing,” I said to Potter as I wrenched my curtains shut.

"I didn't do this!" Potter said defensively, folding his arms across his chest. "The Obliviators must have come in to fix everything. Which makes sense, I suppose. They couldn’t just leave the street blown to pieces."

Trust Potter to use other people as his excuse. "You still owe me a clean house," I said, gesturing around myself with a free hand. "You'd best get started."

Potter’s jaw was tense, like he was grinding his teeth. He ought to have that looked at by a Healer. A nose, one could live without. But teeth? Those were a necessity.

"Alright," Potter said after a long, drawn-out moment. He took out his wand and got to work.

I sat down on my couch to watch him. To my dismay, my packet of crisps was nowhere in sight. "You owe me a packet of crisps," I told him. "And tea."

Potter shot me a funny look. "No," he said.

I should have known better than to expect manners from an orphan brat like Potter. "Fine," I said, narrowing my eyes at him. I would simply wait to take my revenge. As a Muggle, my options were limited, but I had picked up a few new tricks from the Muggles I had interacted with. Someday, somehow, Potter would pay.

Potter continued to putter about the house like an aged caretaker, vanishing the dust and tidying my shelves. Occasionally he would say things to me, most of which I ignored.

"Why do you have six boxes of hand soap?"

Ridiculous question.

"Why are there rubber bands in this salt shaker?"

Stupid question.

"Is this a top hat?"

One had to wonder if Potter's eyes actually functioned at all, or if they had been placed in his skull for decoration purposes only.

"All done," Potter said, some time later. His wand was stashed in its holster, but I remained wary. If Potter wished to kidnap me again, it would be difficult for me to stop him.

"Good," I said.

"So... I’ll be going then,” Potter added, rubbing at the back of his neck.

I looked him over. Potter’s hair was closer to a rat's nest than anything else. His glasses were still large and round, his eyes big and empty and guileless. His clothes were covered with dirt and grass stains, and his cloak was torn along the edges in some places. 

Potter was no longer a child. No longer a teenager. He was a man, an adult with a life that I was no longer a part of. He would go home to his wife and children or whoever else it was that he spent his time with.

"Good bye," I said. Then, because he was still standing there like the unwanted guest he was, I added, "Thank you for cleaning my house."

"You're welcome," Potter said, and there was a hint of surprise in his tone, as if he, too, had been punished by Death to undertake unnecessary niceties.

“Good bye,” I repeated.

Potter left.

I sat there for a few more minutes, then got up and re-opened the curtains. There was still some light left outside, and I would have been a fool not to take advantage of it.

TASK #2: Do a good deed for Harry.

Several weeks later, I was once again babysitting for the Porters as a favour. This time, Helen’s brother had consented to sit with us on the couch while a movie played on the large television screen.

Previously, I had considered the benefits of abducting him in addition to his sister. Not all minions could be as valuable as Helen. There was room in my ranks for the Crabbes and Goyles of the world.

What mostly stopped me from adding Adam to the list was the fact that, were I to abduct Adam Porter and take him under my wing, his name would then be changed to Adam Adams.

"Never name people after other people," I said to Helen. "It never ends well."

Helen nodded in the solemn way she had that I greatly appreciated. It assured me that my wisdom had been imparted with accuracy.

"Also," I added, "make sure you decide on your arch-nemesis early in life lest you be saddled with a one-year-old child against your will."

Helen nodded a second time.

Comforted by the thought that my future lieutenant was thus protected from fantastical prophecies and meddlesome green-eyed boys, I turned my attention back to the television.

Helen tugged on my sleeve. "Mr Keith?"

"Yes?" I asked.

"Did you want some more tea?"

"Yes," I said. "That would be very nice, thank you."

Helen lifted her fake teapot full of fake tea and poured more fake tea into my teacup, which was, by my best estimate, currently two thirds full. I counted four full seconds as she held the teapot aloft.

"You've overfilled it," I told her. "you've spilled tea all over the ground."

Helen frowned. "Did I? I don't think I did."

"Be quiet," Adam complained, narrowing his eyes at his sister. "I'm trying to watch the film!"

This was why the boy was not on the list of Muggles to be abducted and kept around when I resumed my reign as Lord Voldemort. "Watch the film and be quiet," I told him.

"You be quiet," Adam retorted with a scowl. "You're not in charge of me! You're only here to watch Helen."

"That is quite correct," I said. "I do not care what happens to you. If someone came into this house to murder us, I would let the murderer kill you, and then, once I was sure that you were dead, I would kill the murderer."

Adam's face scrunched up. It looked nothing like when Helen scrunched her face up. His face made me want to throw a tomato at it.

"I'm telling my mum and dad you said that," Adam said, pointing at me. "You're going to be in so much trouble!"

"No, he won't!" Helen shouted. "He won't get in any trouble! I'll tell mum and dad you made it up."

"You're a little liar," Adam shouted back. "I'm going to tell them you're a liar!"

I regretted permitting the boy to sit with us on the couch. I should have taken inspiration from Potter's relatives and locked Adam Porter away until his self-esteem regressed and he developed crippling myopia.

"We will go and visit Martha," I said to Helen. "Go put your shoes on."

"You can't just leave," Adam protested. "You can't just leave like that!"

I ignored him and followed Helen to the door. "Are you very certain he is your brother?" I asked her. "He's very stupid."

Helen shrugged. "I asked my mummy where Adam came from," she said as she tugged on her boots. "Mummy said he was here before I was born."

"I see." So there were no reliable witnesses to attest to the boy's parentage. Or Helen's parentage, for that matter. Not that such facts would deter me from removing Helen from her home should the opportunity present itself.

Helen shoved her right boot on and straightened up. "All done! Let's go see Mrs Martha. Do you think she has biscuits?

"Maybe." If she did not, I would order her to bake some.

Helen shoved open the door and flung her arms wide. "Let's go!"

I made sure to shut and lock the door behind me. It would not do for Adam Porter to be callously murdered if I was not around to witness it.

TASK #5: Stop and tie your shoelaces.

When Helen and I arrived at Number 3, Plumtree Road, I knocked on the door and rang the doorbell for good measure. While we waited the requisite five minutes for Martha to answer the door, I knelt down to tie my shoelaces.

Helen paid close attention as I made my rabbit ears. "Those are good ears," she said.

"Thank you," I replied. I was getting faster and better as time went on. Perhaps I could consider re-attempting the tree and rabbit hole nonsense at some point in the future.

Above me, the door creaked open. It would take Martha an entire minute to back away from the door after opening it, so I was in no rush to complete my final knot.

That was, I was in no rush until I heard Helen say:

"Hello, mister. What's your name? My name is Helen. I like your glasses. Are you why Mr Keith says glasses are for stupid people?"

With a crippling sense of dread lodged in the pit of my stomach, I secured the rabbit ears on my right foot and looked up.

Harry Potter looked back at me.

"She is six," I said to him. "She has no idea what she's saying."

Potter wrinkled his brow, then looked at Helen. He bent over slightly, bracing his hands on his knees, and smiled. "Hello, Helen," Potter said. "My name is Harry. Why don't you come inside? Martha's just made a fresh batch of biscuits."

"Biscuits!" Helen exclaimed, shoving her way past Potter and into the house. I silently applauded her for her sensible priorities. Biscuits were clearly preferred to Harry Potter's company.

Speaking of Potter…

"What are you doing here?" I asked him crossly. "This is not your house, in case you forgot."

"I came to visit Martha," Potter said with a false air of innocence. He backed away from the door and gestured for me to come in.

I did not want to go in if he was the one welcoming me, but I could also smell the chocolate chip biscuits that must have emerged from the oven only minutes prior to my and Helen's arrival.

"Martha did not tell me you were visiting," I said, keeping my feet firmly in place.

"Well, she doesn't have to tell you everything she does," Potter said. He made another flapping gesture towards the inside of the house.

"Helen?" I called out.

"Yes?" Helen called back. Her voice was muffled. I could not tell if it was because of the distance, or because her mouth was crammed with biscuits.

"Always make sure to murder those you want dead," I said loudly, "so they do not turn up again later and surprise you with their unwanted company."

"Okay!" Helen shouted. "Come have biscuits!"

Potter rubbed at his face. "Just come in, alright?"

"Not until you tell me why you are here."

Potter examined my face for a moment. Was he gauging how serious I was? Or deciding upon what lie to tell? Perhaps he intended to distract me with the vibrant colour of his irises so he could slaughter me on Martha Davies' doorstep.

"Your eyesight is not good enough for whatever you are attempting to do," I said.

Potter scowled so deeply that lines popped up all over his face. It would have been impressive if not for the fact that he could not have been older than thirty.

"There is nothing wrong with my eyesight," Potter snapped at me.

Maybe thirty was pushing it. Anyone that stupid could not be close to thirty.

"Please get your eyes checked," I told him. "This is embarrassing for the both of us."

Potter rubbed his eyes. That would not fix the problem, but I decided to let him have his delusions.

"If you will not tell me why you are here," I said, "I will take Helen and leave." Then I remembered biscuits, so I added, "And the biscuits. We'll be taking those as well."

Potter sighed. "Okay, fine," he said. "I came here because I wanted to see how you were doing, alright? I wanted to—to make sure you weren't murdering people."

"Everyone is alive," I said suspiciously. "As far as I am aware. Unless you are here to blame me for Carl Montgomery's heart failure. That was last week, and I was told that it was not my fault."

"I—" Potter spluttered. "Who is Carl Montgomery?"

"We used to go to the same shop for groceries," I said. "I introduced myself to him two weeks ago." Keeping track of the people I met was important. Eventually I would run out of locals and then I would have to seek extracurricular activities. Or dating websites.

Potter scrunched his face up. I could admit that the sight of it was not as off-putting as Adam's was. "Well, okay, good," Potter said. "Great. You haven't murdered anyone. That's great news."

"Is that all?" I asked him.

"Karl? Is that you? You're letting in a draft!"

Stupid Martha. "If a gust of wind knocks you over and kills you, then you deserve to die!" I shouted.

Potter seized me by the elbow and dragged me inside before I could protest. "Go have a biscuit," he said, shoving me towards the kitchen. "They're fresh from the oven."

I did want a biscuit. I would not let Potter telling me to eat a biscuit, stop me from eating a biscuit.

"Give me a biscuit," I demanded as I entered the kitchen.

"Magic word," Helen said, frowning. She was sitting on top of the counter. I had no idea how she had managed to climb up there on her own. It was not as if Martha's arms could support anything heavier than a paperclip.

"May I have a biscuit," I said. "Please."

Helen handed me a biscuit. It was chocolate chip, as predicted.

"Your girlfriend helped me bake these," Martha said to me. "He's much nicer than you are."

This was why Potter had to go. He was ruining everything. I swung to face him. "Stop being nice to her!" I snapped. "You are raising her expectations in an unrealistic manner. If she believes everyone will tolerate her idiocy then she has no reason to improve!"

"You're awful," Potter said. His face was red. "Would it kill you to say one nice thing about her?"

I looked at Martha. The sight of her was offensive to my eyes, but I would bear it. "I prefer your company to Potter's," I said, which was true.

"That isn't very nice," Martha said. Her sad wrinkled face was making a sad expression. "You shouldn't say such things about your girlfriend, Keith."

"You cannot have it both ways!" I exclaimed, fuming. "Pick one! I cannot maintain so many lies at once!"

"Mr Keith thinks his girlfriend is stupid," Helen said. She picked up a fresh biscuit and began nibbling on the edge of it. "Because he wears glasses."

"I wear glasses," said Martha.

"You are proving my point," I told them. "None of this disproves my point."

The redness had faded from Potter's face, but the side of his mouth was twitching up, like the muscles there were slowly dying. "Is that why you hated Dumbledore so much?" Potter asked. "Because he wore glasses?"

"I have a new rule," I said, ignoring him. "None of you are allowed to be in the same room together. One of you can stay but the rest must go."

"But why?" Helen asked.

"Because I said so."

"Well," said Martha, "I suppose it's only fair if we leave you here with your girlfriend. Come on, Helen. Let's take our tea in the sitting room."

That... left me alone with Potter. Perhaps I should not have been so hasty. I should have made the new rule dictate that Potter definitely had to go.

Potter had a biscuit in his hand. He crammed half of it into his mouth before chomping down.

"Don't you have a job?" I asked him irritably. "Dark wizards to catch? An adoring public to enjoy?"

"I took your advice," Potter said between mouthfuls of biscuit. "Quit my job."

I could not believe it. I could not believe that Potter had listened to me and given up his little hero job. "Lord Voldemort has returned from the dead," I said. "And you have quit your job?"

Potter’s face reddened again. It made him look more youthful, like the blustering child he had once been. "Everyone's under the impression I've gone off looking for you," Potter said sheepishly. "And, well, they're not wrong. What they don't know is that I've already found you."

"Yes," I said, "you have found me. Well done. Now go find another job—preferably one far, far away—and leave me alone."

Potter’s mouth twisted, then untwisted. “I have… questions.”

“Then take them elsewhere. I am sure there are plenty of others willing to aid you with your lack of intelligence.” 

The Mudblood girl or the ginger boy. Potter’s precious friends. Perhaps he had even married one of them.

I glanced down at his hands, but they were half-hidden by the sleeves of his jumper. Had no one ever shown him how to dress properly? No one at all? Maybe Potter was less adored than I had previously assumed if people let him walk about while dressed like a penniless tramp.

“What deal did you make with Death?” Potter asked. It seemed he would be ignoring my generous advice.

“It is none of y—”

“None of my business, yeah. But humour me.”

I refused to tell Potter about my tasks. He would only use them against me. “If I live this life as Death has instructed, they will release my magic and return me to my original form.”

“As a—” Potter gestured at his nose, then at his head. “Or, you know—”

“As myself,” I said flatly. “Is that all you wished to know?”

Potter cleared his throat. “What are these instructions?”

“No murder.” That was safe enough to divulge.

Potter squinted his damaged eyes in an attempt to see me more clearly. “Not even in self-defense?”

“If a burglar breaks into my home and threatens my life, am I permitted to murder them?”

Death cracked their long, skeletal fingers. “No.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “Why not.”

“Consider it a challenge.”

I refused to be deterred. I would find a situation that proved murder was not as evil as everyone believed it to be. “If a burglar breaks into my home and threatens someone else’s life, am I permitted to murder them?”

“No.”

“This is ridiculous.” Even Potter would have allowed that one.

“You are ridiculous,” Death said in a voice so deep and ominous that surrounding walls flickered in and out of existence. “If there exists a situation in which you genuinely desire the preservation of another’s life over your own unending bloodlust, I will permit it. But that will never happen because you, Voldemort, are an idiot.”

“Death was very clear that no lives were to be ended by my hand,” I said.

“That’s good.” Potter’s nose wrinkled. “But don’t think I won’t go checking myself,” he added. “I’m not just going to take your word for it.”

“I am willing to swear an Unbreakable Vow.”

“You—” Potter made a strange gesture at me. “You what? Why?”

If Potter spoke with Death, all sorts of terrible things would happen. This I was sure of. Worse things than Helen, Martha, and Potter inflicting their opinions on me, thus forcing me to exile them from the kitchen.

“To prove to you that my intentions are sincere,” I told him.

Potter frowned. “But what happens if you do die?”

That was the problem. I did not know. I was trapped in a weak, magicless body and my only hope for redemption was by living in this detestable neighbourhood until Keith Adams aged into doddering cadaver like Martha.

But this was Potter asking. I could not show weakness to Potter.

“If I die,” I said darkly, “and Death does not free me, I will haunt you for the rest of your days. You will never know peace and your children’s children will curse the day you were born.”

Potter made a choking sound. I did not realize it was a laugh until his eyes crinkled on the sides, his lips spreading into a half-cocked grin. “Yeah,” he said, green eyes bright and lively. “That’s more like it.” 

Then Potter came towards me. He must have done something, some wandless magic, because I failed to react. My usual instincts were nowhere to be found, my limbs frozen in place.

Potter reached over and snatched up a biscuit from the cooling tray. He waved it around in front of me. “Best eat that one you’re holding before it gets cold,” he said as he shuffled backwards and hopped onto the counter behind him. His legs dangled over the floor, the cuffs of his trousers riding up just enough to expose his socks. They were maroon with golden snitches. 

How sentimental of him. It was enough to make anyone sick. To dampen the taste of bile rising in my throat, I took the biscuit in my hand and raised it to my mouth. I took a bite. The biscuit was warm, chewy, and tasted excellent.

“Good, right?” Potter asked me. He was watching my reaction to see if I liked the biscuits he had prepared.

“They taste terrible,” I said. I polished off the one I was holding and reached for another. “I best eat all these before you poison the Muggle child with them.”

Potter grinned again. He looked like an absolute lunatic. I ignored him and continued to eat until Helen returned demanding sustenance and insisted on climbing on top of me to get it.

Chapter Text

TASK #1: ?????

Potter continued to make regular appearances at Number 3, Plumtree Road. Accusing him of various unsavoury motives did little to dissuade these visits.

Apparently, Potter was content for the entire neighbourhood to labour under the impression that he was Martha’s inappropriately-aged younger lover. It was yet another reason why I would never understand him.

One evening, I had prepared a nice cup of chamomile tea to drink before bed when Potter came banging on my door in his usual obnoxious way.

Irritated that my night time routine had been disturbed, I made my way downstairs in a huff, prepared to give Potter a piece of my mind.

“Potter,” I said after I wrenched the door open. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Potter looked at me for a moment. Then he checked the watch strapped to his wrist—an ancient, battered thing that looked as if it had been stolen from some old man’s corpse. I hoped it was Dumbledore's.

“It’s seven in the evening,” Potter said. Then he added, “Why are you wearing pajamas?”

“That is none of your business.”

Potter rudely snatched the cup of tea out of my hand and sniffed it. “This is chamomile.” He looked me over a second time. “Were you about to go to sleep?”

“Who comes visiting at this hour?” I asked him irritably. “Mature, adult men are preparing for slumber, Potter. Not paying house calls. If evening activities are what you seek, you should be visiting Martha.”

Potter scowled. “No one in this neighbourhood thinks I’m sleeping with her except for you! People have been asking if I’m her grandson, actually.”

I did not like that. People frequently asked if I was Martha’s son. If they were now bringing Potter into the equation, that would complicate matters.

“They are only clinging to their politeness out of disgust,” I remarked, yanking my tea away from him. “And if that is all you came to say, you may leave.” The worst part about having no magic was being unable to Crucio people out of my personal space.

“I thought we could have some drinks,” Potter said. He looked at my cup for a moment, then retrieved a suspiciously labelless bottle of wine from the tiny pouch hanging from his neck. “Don’t you get lonely by yourself?”

“No. And I feel it prudent to inform you that only idiots adorn themselves with neck accessories.” An obvious choking hazard that any attacker would use against him, myself included.

Potter sighed. “It’s a mokeskin pouch.”

“Then put it in your pocket.”

Potter left the pouch around his neck like the fool he was and shoved his way into my house. “Let’s have wine.”

“Do you not have friends to enjoy this wine with?” I asked him irritably as I followed him into the sitting room. “Or other hated enemies to annoy with your presence?”

Potter avoided my gaze as he said, “Ron and Hermione are busy with stuff.”

So Potter was now a sad, friendless loser. I supposed I could take pity on him for once. Death would undoubtedly expect me to, and I would not discard the opportunity to claim an easy completed task if Potter stayed past midnight.

“What did you bring?” I asked to fill the silence as Potter conjured two glasses and vanished the cork on his label-free wine. 

Potter filled a glass and floated it to me. “I dunno. Something from the cellar at Grimmauld. I asked Kreacher to get me the oldest bottle.” 

That was not reassuring. I did not trust the elf not to poison us. I lifted my glass to nose level and wafted some of its aroma towards myself. There was, surprisingly, a hint of chamomile buried underneath the stronger fruit-derived scents. Orion did have good taste in alcohol, if poor taste in nearly everything else. Perhaps this was one of his personal brews.

“Vintage wine,” Potter said in a disgusted tone as he sampled his own glass. “Doesn’t taste any different.”

“To those with undiscerning flavour palettes, certainly.” I smiled at him and took a sip to prove my point. That smile froze as the liquid made its way through my mouth and down my throat.

Potter raised a brow at me. “Does it really taste any better?”

There was a very real possibility his House-Elf had mixed chamomile tea with grape juice and vodka to produce the swill sitting in my glass. 

But I kept smiling. “Of course it does.”

Potter scoffed at me, then drank from his glass again. He made a face. “Seriously. Why would anyone drink this?”

I was beginning to form a hypothesis. “Are you a lightweight, Potter?”

“No,” Potter said, too quickly to be honest. “I just think this tastes bad.”

“It is expensive wine,” I told him crossly, settling back in my chair and crossing one leg over the other. “Do not let it go to waste.”

TASK #2: Do a good deed for Harry.

Some time after midnight, Potter fell asleep in his chair. His face was flush from the alcohol despite having barely consumed three glasses of his House-Elf’s tragic homebrew. 

A free-willed Muggle enemy would have strangled him to death with his stupid pouch, or slit his neck with a blade and left him to bleed on the upholstery.

I put away the empty wine glasses, covered him with a blanket, then went up to bed.

TASK #4: Use ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’.

The next day, Potter once again intruded on my life by making himself at home in Martha’s living room. He even had the audacity to eat the scones I had demanded she bake for me. It was appalling how rude and entitled this younger generation insisted on being.

"So… you said I owe you crisps.”

I studiously ignored Potter in favour of staring at Martha. The sight of Martha was not at all appealing, but it did offer the plausible excuse of being so horribly traumatic that I was rendered unable to respond.

"So we should go to the grocer's," Potter continued, "and buy you some food that isn't biscuits and tea."

If Potter was going to continue speaking anyway, there was no point in letting my eyes suffer. I did not want to end up blind. With an irritated grunt, I turned away from Martha and glared at him.

"Tea is an essential staple of any proper British household," I said.

"Eating nothing but biscuits will kill you," Potter countered.

"Correction: eating nothing but biscuits will kill you if you are mortal and pathetic." I crossed one leg over the other. "If you are Lord Voldemort, then you have nothing to fear."

Eating unlimited biscuits was merely one of the many, many perks of being Lord Voldemort. Did Potter think I would let something as ridiculous as dietary restrictions prevent me from eating whatever I wanted?

"The grocer's is half a block from your house," Potter said. "I'll walk with you and get you those crisps I owe you."

Why was Potter suddenly so interested in repaying what I was rightfully owed? Was this another misguided attempt to send me to Australia? I would not be so easily fooled.

"I've heard Australia has delicious crisps," I said, smiling widely, calling his bluff.

Potter stared at me for a moment. His brows had pulled together, which signalled the sharp decline of his mental acuity, which meant my plan to foil his plan had worked. "Are you... smiling?"

"I like crisps," I said slowly.

Potter pinched the bridge of his nose. "Then let's go to the grocer's and get some."

Damn it all. Potter had trapped me with my own false admission. I had forgotten that lying could have its downsides and accidentally given Potter the upper hand.

Not that I would ever let Potter realize this. The trick to being the smartest person in the room was to only ever admit to being the smartest person in the room.

"If you do not accompany me to the grocer's, I will kill Martha," I decided.

Potter spluttered unattractively. He looked like an idiot. I had won.

"I don't think you understand how this works," Potter said, once he had recovered from being stupid.

"I understand that she is worthless," I told him. "But I was under the impression that her life had value to you." If that was not the case, then a change of plans would be necessary. "Do I need to find and threaten someone else?" I asked. "Someone with more utility value? I would not blame you if you felt that way."

Who else was there? Helen was too valuable to sacrifice. Maybe I could delude Potter into believing the Porter parents were valuable, contributing members of society.

"I thought Death forbid you from killing people," Potter said, sounding distinctly unbothered by my cold, murderous urges.

"There are exceptions to every rule," I lied in a pleasant voice. "Martha might as well be dead. I would be doing Death a favour by hurrying the process along."

Potter had that pinched look on his face again. I had already explained to him that attempts to think above his natural level of intelligence would only cause pain, but it seemed he was determined to ignore me.

"People aren't worth less just because they're old."

"Martha shares the same level of intelligence as a child," I explained impatiently. "However, she is closer to death, which lowers her overall value."

Potter shook his head.

"I really do not understand what is so difficult about this concept," I told him.

Helen had gotten it right away. The older one got, the less value one had. Most people ended up like Martha: decaying corpses who needed immortal Dark Lords to carry them on daily walks.

Potter shook his head a second time.

I sighed. "Martha, explain to Potter why you have virtually no value, and how your natural defectiveness is associated with age."

"I'm busy," said Martha.

I looked over at her. She wasn’t doing anything. This type of negligent, disobedient behaviour was why I had taught myself how to cast Unforgivables.

"Let's go to the grocer's," Potter said, getting to his feet. "So you don't have to kill Martha."

"I see you are finally taking my threats seriously," I said, pleased.

"Uh huh."

Potter held the door open for me on our way out. When I thanked him, he smiled at me. It made him look younger. I supposed that was his way of showing me he had learned something from the conversation. Perhaps Potter could be redeemed after all.

TASK #6: Introduce yourself to someone new.

Potter entered the shop first. I trailed behind him, moving at my usual regal pace. I held my head high and kept my shoulders back. In my youth, I had practiced and perfected what I now referred to as my walk of conquest.

The walk served multiple important purposes. First, to intimidate my enemies with my impressive self-confidence. Second, to ensure my robes billowed in a mysterious yet menacing way. Third, to make my bottom look particularly enticing. Feedback on all three counts had been excellent.

I spotted Jeremy the cashier at the frontmost register. He paled immediately, as was appropriate, then spoke into his headset, alerting his fellow coworkers of my presence.

Potter analyzed this typical occurrence with a frown on his face. He slowed his pace until I caught up with him, then said to me, "Did that cashier just whisper into his headset that 'the Dark Lord has arrived'?"

"I have a reputation," I said, smug.

"A reputation as a Dark Lord," said Potter, "around Muggles?"

"Some of these Muggles are perceptive enough to comprehend my magnificence," I conceded. "They may be permitted to live when my reign over Britain resumes."

Potter took me by the arm and dragged me towards one of the shop aisles. "Let's find you some food that isn't biscuits or a half-eaten jar of pickles."

"You must buy me crisps," I agreed. "Or Martha will die."

Potter kept walking.

"I also accept cake," I added, just to make clear that alternatives were acceptable. "Or ginger ale."

"We'll get you some cake, old man."

I stopped dead in my tracks. Potter, who had been holding onto my arm, tripped over his own feet and nearly fell face-first onto the floor.

"You take that back," I said, affronted.

Potter blinked at me. "You're, what, eighty years old? Ninety?"

"My Muggle driving licence states I am a man in my mid-forties," I said, folding my arms across my chest.

"Death gave you a driving licence," Potter said in disbelief, missing my point entirely. "Do you even have a car?"

"If I did," I said slowly, like I would if I were speaking to Martha, "why would I have walked here?"

"Because you have no idea how to drive?" 

I did not like his tone. "I have yet to hear an apology," I said. I would refuse to move from this spot until I heard one.

"I'm not apologizing for calling you an old man when you are an old man." Potter folded his own arms across his own chest. It was such a poor attempt at copying me that I could not even be flattered by it.

If Potter was not going to apologize, then drastic action had to be taken.

"Then I think someone will have to die," I said firmly.

Before Potter could respond, I turned on my heel and strode away.

After a few seconds, Potter was on my heels, as I knew he would be. He might have quit his lousy job, but he still possessed that insufferable urge to save people for no good reason.

"You can't kill anyone," he hissed at me.

I ignored him. I made my way to the front register and waited patiently for the queue to clear so I could speak to Jeremy.

"Sir," Jeremy greeted me nervously. "Noah's not here at the moment, so if you want to speak to him, you'll have to wait—"

"I do not want to speak to your manager," I said. "I want you to choose someone for me to kill."

Jeremy said, "Um."

Potter tugged on my sleeve. I jabbed my elbow into his side and continued, "This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Choose wisely."

I did not make it a habit to offer my assassination services to just anyone, let alone to Muggles, but Jeremy had displayed enough sensible fear in my presence that he had the potential to become a decent follower.

"He's kidding," Potter said to him. "He does that sometimes. A lot of the time." Then he released the most atrocious sound, like he was dying.

"Are you dying?" I asked.

"I'm—" Potter coughed. "That was me laughing."

"You should visit a healer." It wouldn't do for Potter to die before he apologized to me.

"Thank you for the offer," Jeremy said, interrupting, "but there isn't anyone I want dead at the moment."

"Rubbish," I said. "Surely there must be someone."

Jeremy glanced over my shoulder. Some of the people in the queue were glaring at him. I had no idea why they were so angry. It wasn't as though he'd asked for me to kill them. Yet.

"What about me?" Jeremy said after a moment. "Does that work?"

As I opened my mouth to respond, Potter tugged on my arm again. I did not know what he sought to gain from all this touching, but once I figured it out, I would use it against him.

"I'm sorry I said you were old," Potter said. "Can we go back to our shopping now?"

"No," I said. Then, after thinking on it some more, I added, "Not unless you buy me pudding. And another jar of pickles." Never let it be said that Lord Voldemort could not negotiate a good deal.

"Fine."

By the time my shopping was done, Jeremy was no longer at his post. Another gangly, acne-riddled teenage boy had taken his place.

"Hello," I said as Potter placed my three jars of dill pickles onto the conveyor belt. "I am the Dark Lord Voldemort."

"Don't listen to him," Potter said absently. He unravelled my environmentally-friendly reusable bag and handed it to the cashier. "If it doesn't all fit, we'll just take the plastic ones."

"We will do no such thing," I snarled. "I am not paying ten pence for a plastic bag."

"It's just some bags," Potter said with a roll of his eyes. "I'll pay for it."

Unbelievable. "You may be too young to remember this," I informed him in an acidic tone, "but grocery bags were once free."

TASK #5: Stop and tie your shoelaces.

"Where are your bags?" Martha asked. "Did Keith get into an argument with the store manager again?"

"We don't have any bags," Potter said, dumping my hard-won, bag-free groceries onto Martha's couch. "Keith decided that instead of letting the cashier bag everything in plastic bags, he would scoop everything he could carry into his arms and run out of the store like a criminal."

"It was not theft," I argued. "You agreed to pay for everything."

"We lost an entire jar of pickles when he stopped to tie his shoelaces," Potter continued, choosing to remain ignorant of my ironclad logic.

It was not my fault that Potter felt it acceptable to yell at people who were trying to tie their shoelaces.

"Time for our walk," I said to Martha. Suffering Potter's company was not worth the trouble.

"I don't think I should be involved with your fight," Martha said. "I have always said the most important thing is to talk it out."

"We still have to get your groceries home," Potter said to me. "Your bagless groceries?"

I snatched up a jar of pickles from the couch. "This is all I need," I said. Then my eyes caught on a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, so I snatched that up as well. "And these," I added quickly.

"You’re going to starve to death in that stupid house of yours," Potter said angrily. "I'm just trying to help!"

Then he grabbed at the corner of my crisps package and tugged it out of my hands, which was the final disrespect. I would not stand here and let Potter take my crisps from me for the second time.

“If you wanted to help people, you should have stayed at your useless job,” I told him. “It is not my fault that you are so obsessed with trying to ruin my life that you have ruined your own in the process.”

Potter’s mouth fell open. “I am not obsessed with you! All I’ve done is try to be nice to you!”

“From where I stand, you have all but moved into this neighbourhood simply because I am here.” I waved a dismissive hand. “It’s clear that without me in your life, you are hopelessly lost and confused.”

“I’m the one keeping everyone from finding out that you’re not really dead,” Potter said, jabbing a finger at me. “You owe me! Without me, they’d hunt you down and throw you into Azkaban!”

"Isn't that what you want?" I sneered. "With me gone, you would be their precious Chosen One once again. Defeating me is the only reason anyone ever pays you any attention, anyway."

Potter's face reddened and his hands balled into fists. But I was reasonably confident that he would not draw his wand on me. Noble hero that Potter was, he would never wound an unarmed opponent, and I had no magic to fight back with.

“Your presence here is unwanted,” I said sharply, and though I had said these words before, many times, this time I would only accept his compliance. “If you refuse to leave, then I will.”

“Then leave,” Potter said, folding his arms over his chest.

“Do not expect to find me again,” I told him. “I will not make the same mistake of allowing you near me a second time.”

This time, when I turned on my heel and strode away, Potter did not follow me.

TASK #3: Help a little old lady cross the street.

Several hours later, I had the essentials packed—my top hat, my salt shaker full of rubber bands, and six boxes of hand soap—and a plan made. Muggle options for moving were very limited, but thankfully, I had idiotic neighbours who were perfectly happy to lend me the use of their vehicle.

As I backed over the Porters’ garden decor with their car, I recalled my previous conversation with Potter. He did not believe I could drive. What a fine surprise would await him when he inevitably returned, only to find my home empty of belongings.

This pleasant thought was interrupted when I arrived home to find Martha standing in my driveway. Infuriated, I exited the car, stalked past her, and began shouting for Potter.

“Potter! I know you’re here somewhere! Show yourself!” Idiot boy could not even wait for me to leave before he came crawling back to beg for my company.

I searched my entire house, including the yard, but Potter was nowhere to be found. So I returned to the driveway, where Martha was currently decaying.

“Where is he?” I demanded. “Where is Potter?”

“Your boyfriend went home,” Martha said, patting me on the arm.

I did not understand. “If Potter did not bring you here, then how did you get here?”

“I walked here, silly.”

That did explain why it had taken hours for her to show up. “Then walk back,” I informed her with a sneer.

Martha took my arm in hers, ignoring the subtle-but-obvious threat of my sneer, and said, “Let’s go for our walk.”

I glanced at the sky, which was streaked in lazy hues of red and gold. It had gotten rather late. It would be difficult for me to complete my task without her.

“Fine,” I told her. One more walk. Afterwards, I would leave.

We began the return journey to Martha’s house. I hoped the Porters did not need their car back until tomorrow. This was going to take a while.