This story was originally a comic chapter in my other story, It's Just Me, until it was pointed out to me that it somewhat disrupted the flow of the story. Therefore, I have deleted that chapter and uploaded this as a one-shot. It was inspired by a review from Riniko22.

IF YOU HAVEN'T READ IT'S JUST ME, I SUGGEST YOU DO SO TO GET BACKGROUND.

Reviews- encourage me to write as I feel as though other people are enjoying this and I'm not just writing for my own twisted amusement. Also, if you add this to your story or author alerts or favourites, please review. It's just polite.

Flames- If you flame me I will send you a pitying email sympathizing with the fact you have no life. If you need one, I can also help you find a therapist to help you get over the fact that you have nothing else to do than bitch at others because you read their story and didn't like it. If you're not depressed, you have no excuse. Until you are named the official Ruler of the Cyber World you are unable to tell me how to write my stories. BTW, if you have such a stolid idea of how a story should be written, why don't you go write your own story instead of moaning about mine.
The exception of this is if you are JKR. If you are JKR, you own HP and are therefore allowed to bitch at me for mucking your story up. Whether or not I'll listen to you is another matter entirely.

Disclaimer: Haven't you ever wondered whether JKR has her own FFN account where she mucks around with HP because when she read it again after it was published she hated the plot? I know that if I ever wrote a story, I'd get a FFN account and laugh at how everyone else butchered my story. But the point of the matter is that I am not JKR, but a 13yrold who reads more fanfiction than is healthy.

Now, to begin...


The Dark Lord Voldemort, Master of all that is Evil, was in a dilemma. The Brat had somehow managed to destroy all but one of his seven Horcruxes! He had no idea how this was possible. The Brat was just thirteen, for Satan's sake! It shouldn't be possible for a teenager to kill the greatest Dark Lord in a century!

And that was the crux of the problem. He was –or at least should be- dead. Of course, being the great evil mastermind that he was, Voldemort had a back up plan for instances like this. Actually, he had seven. Unfortunately, six of those seven were destroyed. The Cup, the Locket, the Diadem, the Diary, the Ring and his Nagini! Gone! It was a tragedy! A catastrophe!

Of course, there was still one left. Alas, he had no idea where it was. You might think this rather strange- how could he possibly forget the whereabouts of his own soul? Well, the answer to that question is simple. He had no idea he had made a Horcrux! It was a complete mistake.

That just goes to show that no matter what he was the awesomest Dark Lord ever. I mean, come on! He makes a mistake and gets a safe guard for his immortality! He should make mistakes more often. Maybe then he would stop dying all the time.

Resolute in his decision, Voldie set out after his Horcrux. If he focused, he could feel a faint bond tying his soul together. So he followed it. He could feel it thickening the closer he got to his soul.

Arriving at the bleak fortress prison of Askaban, he halted in confusion. Not that he'd ever admit it. Dark Lords didn't do confused. Yet how could he not be when his senses were telling him that his last Horcrux was on this very island? That was not possible. You had to kill to make a Horcrux, and the AHorcrux would stay within a mile of the place it was made unless moved by the maker or a being made of pure magic- Fey, House Elves, Dementors, retarded Boy Wonders…

Alright, that last one didn't fit the list, but somehow Potter the Prat was still able to move his Horcruxes!

Anyway, that leaves the question of how in Dante's nine levels of Hell did his soul get here? After all, he hasn't killed anyone on Askaban. Okay, maybe that was a lie- he did murder a couple of people in the raid. But it was just a few weak aurors and minor ministry pansies. No one important.

Sure, his Horcrux could have been made using one of those deaths- at least, that's what the book says. But it wouldn't happen in reality. Those weaklings weren't good enough to create one of his Horcruxes- it would just be so uncool!

Still, he'd rather use a dumbass Horcrux to revieve himself that to stay hovering around like fluff in summer. Dark Lords should never be fluff like. It was just wrong.

So Voldemort floated – sorry, glided (Dark Lords don't do floating either) – down to the Fortress. He could feel his Horcrux- just to the side, a bit forward – There!

Hang on…

That was a bloody Dementor!

Letting out a manly scream of terror (Dark Lords did not shriek- that was for girls) Voldemort made a tactical retreat. In other words, he ran away. Hiding behind –nay, observing from- a rather convienient rock, the genius sat down to contemplate.

It would appear that part of his soul was held within a heartless, emotionally cold monster.

Actually, both parts of his soul were stuck in a heartless, emotionally cold monster. It was just a different monster for each portion.

That was beside the point- even his unconscious thoughts were avoiding the problem. The problem being that he couldn't create himself a new body if his Horcrux was held within a living being.

Fucking Hellish Shit.

In this case, the only option was merging the two bits of soul together and possessing the creature that held it.

Actually- that was not such a bad idea. His enemies would cower in terror! Potter would be helpless at his feet! The Brats abnormally strong reaction to the beasts was notorious. Granted, Potter had only encountered one once before the ministry quickly banned a Dementor from going anywhere near the boy who lived. But off course, when the Dark Lord controlled the monster it would be easy to approach the boy- and suck his soul out.

Yes, it would be very profitable to possess the Dementor.

The Dark Lord floated –sorry, glided- along to his Horcrux. He could feel the intoxicating power the creature gave off- the entrancing fear, terror and pain. Voldemort was in love.

The monster pulled it's hood off –no doubt in deference to him. After all, He was the Great Lord Voldemort, Master of Darkness, King of England, Emperor of the Universe…

Or at least, he would be. Just as soon as his plans of world domination finally came to fruitation.

Yet even now, when he was nowhere near his full strength, the beasts bowed to him.

Or at least, they should be…

Yet, for some reason, instead of showing the proper reverence, the Dementor simply glided towards him. Voldemort couldn't help but feel slightly jealous. He was the one who was supposed to glide, in a proper, awe inspiring show of his amazing power. But this –this pretender- outclassed him at the magnificent art of Gliding! Not only did one of his minions – a traitorous minion at that – have to be better than him at the Fine Art of Sneering, but an inhuman thing could move smoothly better than him!

He would outlaw this when he ruled the world. No one would be allowed to best him.

For now, though, he would have to make do with teaching this upstart it's place. See how it felt when its will was bent to his!

Voldemort approached the soul sucking demon.

The Dementor, sensitive to cosmic souls rather than physical reality, simply bent its head.

Voldemort was kissed.

And so the self-proclaimed greatest Dark Lord in history met his fairly anticlimactic fall.

The history books would remember him as nothing more than 'An egotistical, vicious literal bastard who let his head become so swollen he was defeated by a thirteen-year-old'.

Harry, the 'Potter Prat', was the only one who knew the truth of what happened.

He laughed.