Summary: What do you when you're a Dark Lord who can't kill anyone? Ever since his last Avada Kedavra went so horribly wrong, Voldemort just can't bring himself to sling another one. In his long journey back to emotional health, Voldemort must battle post-traumatic stress disorder, learn about religion, and, finally, realize that love really does conquer all. Just not exactly the kind of love Dumbledore had in mind...
Categories: Humor Fics Characters: None
Warnings: Violence
Challenges: Series: None
Chapters: 4
Completed: Yes
Word count: 3358
Read: 15437
Published: 01/02/09
Updated: 02/04/09
1. Prologue by voldiexx
2. Chapter 2 by voldiexx
3. Chapter 3 by voldiexx
4. Epilogue by voldiexx
Chapter One
Lord Voldemort sat on his bed and thought about his life.
Yes, he had a bed. He didn’t get to sleep in it, of course, because there’s no rest for the wicked. But he liked to keep it around anyway, so he could sit on it at times and think about his issues.
He hadn’t expected it to be like this.
All that work! The years of research…tracking down and finding the objects that would become his Horcruxes…hiding them in extravagantly inaccessible places…even the murders hadn’t been all fun…just to come back to this miserable life in which Dumbledore ruled the world, his best Death Eaters were Wormtail and Malfoy, and he had those stupid dreams about Harry Potter every night.
Not to mention his new embarrassing problem.
People were bound to find out about that soon.
“Avada,” he muttered grimly, jabbing his wand at a fly. “Avada K”…Avada K”…”
But he couldn’t do it. He hated the fly, he wanted to kill the fly, he had killed thousands such flies without trouble before…but as soon as he tried to complete the curse, he saw the green light, heard the screaming”and felt the pain, the agony of the spirit being shredded from the body and left to flutter naked on the edges of being.
‘It can’t possibly happen again,” he told himself sternly. “It was the biggest fluke in history. A once in a lifetime thing.”
The thing was, this was his second lifetime.
He nerved himself for another effort. “Avada K””
When Wormtail came in, Voldemort was curled in a ball on the floor, softly going “K-k-k-k.”
“My Lord?”
“K-k-k-k-k,” went Voldemort.
“My Lord? Are”are you all right?”
Voldemort moaned softly and said, “Mommy.”
After a single horrified second, Wormtail wheeled around to run for help. A peremptory voice brought him up short.
“Wormtail!”
He turned slowly. The Dark Lord was getting up, dusting off his robes.
“Just practicing a new spell,” he said airily.
“Really?” stammered Wormtail. “Wh-what kind of spell?”
Voldemort found himself forced to elaborate. “Old magic,” he said. “Using love,” he added; it was the best explanation he could think of for acting extremely weird. “That’s supposed to be the kid’s best weapon, so I figure I’ll use his own weapons against him.”
Long, long years of catering to James’ and Sirius’ egos enabled Wormatil to look completely convinced and say, “That’s brilliant, my Lord.”
“Don’t mention it to anyone else,” said Voldemort casually. “I want it to be a surprise.”
Wormtail bowed deeply. “Of course, my Lord.” Dismissed, he turned and did the Sycophantic Shuffle out of there, casting worried looks over his shoulder as he went.
Somewhere beneath all his evilness, Voldemort was embarrassed. But he had given himself an idea. His conventional weapon had never really worked against the kid, plus it wasn’t, haha, really an option at the moment. So he would change his tactics. Maybe Dumbledope was right about some things.
He would learn about love.
Author's Notes:
Lord Voldemort agonizes, angsts, and begins to deal with that most fundamental of questions: What is love?
Chapter Two
Lord Voldemort was a wizard with many resources at his disposal. He had a band of loyal and talented (more or less) servants who would sacrifice themselves to his slightest whim. He had his wand and an arsenal of spells. He had a really big snake that could eat people.
But when it came to stuff like this, he pulled out the really powerful tools. He sat down at his computer (somewhere in Binghamton, a Muggle was lying in a pool of blood with a big empty space on his computer desk) and typed into Google: “What is love?”
“A strong positive emotion of regard and affection,” www.wordnet.princeton.edu told him. He knew what “strong” meant (it was when you could kill someone else and they couldn’t kill you), and he knew what “emotion” meant (it was when you got really mad and killed someone slowly), but “positive,” “regard,” and “affection” stumped him. Google told him that “positive” meant “certain,” “regard” meant “respect,” and “affection” meant “a feeling of liking.”
He plugged in the definitions. It didn’t make sense.
He went back to his results page. “What is love?” said www.love-sessions.com. “It is one of the most difficult questions for the mankind. Centuries have passed by, relationships have bloomed and so has love. But no one can give you the proper definition of love. To some, ‘Love is friendship set on fire.’ For others, ‘Maybe love is like luck. You have to go all the way to find it.’ No matter how you define it or feel it, love is the eternal truth in the history of mankind.”
At this point, Voldemort had to excuse himself to go throw up.
Energetically swishing Listerine around his gums, he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. Split Your Soul in Seven Easy Steps had said that your soul was like your spleen: no one could figure out what it was for, and the only thing it seemed to do was get in the way at inconvenient moments. There had been footnotes and everything, and testimonials from tens of wizards who said they hadn’t even noticed their souls were torn, except for the ones whose skin had miraculously cleared up after the procedure.
What if that’s what the soul was for? For loving? Maybe that was why he found the whole concept inexplicable and slightly revolting.
He went out into the hall, feeling strangely lonely. Bellatrix was passing by.
“What is love, Bellatrix?” he asked her.
“You’re asking the wrong person, my Lord,” she said.
“I thought you might know,” he explained, “because you’re married””
He waited politely for a while, but when, ten minutes later, she was still in paroxysms of laughter on the floor, he got bored and moved on.
“What is love?” he asked Crabbe and Goyle, who were in the kitchen.
“Love?” said Goyle.
“Can you spell that, my Lord?” asked Crabbe.
“Sorry, Your Evilness,” apologized Goyle, “but it’s been a while since sixth grade vocabulary.”
“At least ten years,” agreed Crabbe.
“Never mind,” mumbled Voldemort, and proceeded onwards, shaken by the revelation that two of his Death Eaters a) thought that “love” was sixth-grade-level vocabulary, and b) did not, apparently, know any numbers higher than ten.
Even Google had failed him.
******************************
When Wormtail peeked in the next day, he found Lord Voldemort lying on his bed with the shades drawn, moodily throwing darts at a giant picture of the Boy Who Lived. A particularly vicious throw hit the scar dead on just as Wormtail opened the door.
“Fifty points,’ muttered Voldemort. “Hurray for me.”
Wormtail hesitated. It was always tricky to know what to do in situations like this. If he asked what was wrong, he would get Cruciatus for daring to suggest that anything was other than idyllic in the wonderful life of Lord Voldemort, and if he said nothing, he would get Cruciatus for not showing empathy when his Lord was so obviously in a bad mood, and if he tried to unobtrusively close the door and pretend he had never looked in, he would get Cruciatus for thinking Voldemort was stupid. (Oh, and if he tried to betray his Lord, his own right hand would strangle him, but he didn’t know that yet. Hee hee.)
Wormtail took a deep breath, conjured a teapot, and entered with trepidation.
“Tea, my Lord?” he croaked.
Voldemort sighed, a deep sigh that came from his stomach and fluttered the curtains above him.
“Oy,” he said deeply.
“Mmm,” said Wormtail sympathetically, and began to busily pour out tea.
Voldemort passively accepted a cup, but left it resting on his chest as he stared bleakly at the ceiling.
“Nobody loves me,” he said.
Wormtail was silent. This was clearly a situation that called for an “I love you, my Lord,” but he didn’t think he could pull it off. “Nagini loves you,” he managed.
Voldemort glared at him. Clearly not the response he’d been looking for. “If you could understand what she says, Wormtail, you would know that that is rot. Nagini wants to eat me. If she caught me unawares, she would tear out my throat.”
“Women, eh?” said Wormtail weakly.
“Don’t tell me,” said Voldemort, falling limply back on his pillows. “I only ever had one real girlfriend.”
Wormtail couldn’t help himself. “What happened to her?”
“I don’t know, I think I fed her to a chimaera, that’s not the point,” said Voldemort irritably. “The point is, she didn’t love me either. Neither did the women at the orphanage.”
The Dark Lord was still staring at the ceiling, but a tear was leaking down to the thin pillow.
“No one even thought I was a cute baby.”
“I’m sure you were, my Lord,” said Wormtail loyally. He was seriously worried. Voldemort was clearly cracking up, and soon people were going to notice. How long before Lucius or someone tried to take a crack at the cackle? And a world without Voldemort to protect him would not be a sunshine place for Wormtail.
He considered and rejected the idea of a discreet Cheering Charm. (Good thing too, because that would have been using magic against the Dark Lord, and his own right had would have strangled him.)
“Leave me now,” Voldemort said heavily. Wormtail bowed and scuttled backwards.
“Oh,” said the Dark Lord as he reached the door, “thanks for the tea.”
Wormtail fell back against the corridor wall, chewing his tongue in shock. Thanks for the tea? Thanks for the tea?!
Something had to be done fast.
End Notes:
Hope you enjoyed! The websites are real, and the quotes are what they really say.
Author's Notes:
Voldemort talks out his childhood, and received a lesson on love from the most unexpected of sources.
Chapter Three
Voldemort lay on a psychologist’s couch, talking about his mother. There wasn’t a whole lot to say, as she hadn’t really done anything except die the day he was born, but he was pretty into it, and was really annoyed when the psychologist made him stop.
“I’m a psychologist, not a manicurist,” said the man. “I don’t want your life story. You’re here for me to tell you what’s wrong with you, so I suggest you let me do the talking, because that’s what you’re paying $500 an hour for.”
Voldemort glared at him. “I had an unhappy childhood,” he said.
The psychologist snorted. “I used to be a school psychologist,” he said. “I quit because I was sick of hearing kids whine about their lives. Now you show up! Next you’ll be telling me your mummy was always pressuring you to lose weight and it made you feel bad about yourself.”
He was black. Voldemort hated blacks. Voldemort hated everyone who looked different from him”i.e. bald, noseless, and red-eyed”which pretty much ruled out everyone except Chemo Barbie in novelty contacts. And his name was Harry Tom. Can you believe it? Harry Tom! The two names Voldemort hated most in the world, combined in this horrible man who was making fun of his feelings. It was a miracle his last name wasn’t Dumbledore. (It was McGonagall.)
“You said you had a problem?” hinted Harry Tom McGonagall.
Voldemort pulled himself together. This was what he had come for. “Yes. A couple of years ago I was in a traumatic accident””
“How long ago?” interrupted Dr. Harry Tom, scribbling on a clipboard.
“Fourteen years.”
“How traumatic?”
“I died.”
“I’ll put that down as ‘very’,” said Dr. Harry Tom. “Go on.”
“Anyway, like I said, it was very traumatic, and lately I’ve been having flashbacks, seeing the light, hearing the screaming, etc., and what it boils down to is”” he took a deep breath “”I can’t kill people anymore.”
The psychologist looked up from the clipboard. “Puts a crimp in your social life, does it?”
“It’s making it very hard for me to earn a living,” said Voldemort sourly.
“Mm-hmm,” said Harry Tom, scribbling. “Any idea what may have brought it on recently?”
“Well, the kid I tried to kill fourteen years ago turned up again””
“What kid?”
“You didn’t let me tell it my way,” said Voldemort accusingly.
“My mistake, carry on.”
“And I tried to kill him again, and it all went haywire again.”
“How old is he now?” asked the psychologist.
“Almost fifteen.”
“I’ve got a kid that age,” said the psychologist, shaking his head. “Annoying as heck.”
“So I thought I might have post-traumatic stress””
“Don’t try to use technical terms, you’ll just embarrass yourself,” said the psychologist, not looking up. “I diagnose melodrama, psychopathic tendencies, and obsession. What you need is a good dose of reality shock, but I can prescribe you some stupendously expensive medication if you want.”
“It’s okay,” said Voldemort. He was a bit hurt. “Those are pretty mean things to say, you know.”
Harry Tom grinned widely. “And the best part is, you can’t even kill me for it.”
Voldemort knew he’d been very tolerant lately, but that was going too far. He drew himself up to his full height and proceeded to cast a few simple household spells. Then he turned on his heel and Disapparated, leaving the psychologist all over the office: peeled, grated, and stewed.
***************************
“I’m home,” called Wormtail hopefully, but absolutely no one came running to help him with his packages. This was Death Eater Headquarters, after all, not the Lend-a-Hand Sunshine Center. Mulciber passed by, said, “Looks heavy,” and continued into the kitchen. Wormtail sighed.
The bags were heavy. And twelve years as a rat had done nothing for his muscle tone. Still, Wormtail couldn’t help feeling cheerful as his elbows popped out of their sockets and small veins burst behind his eyeballs. His day out shopping had been exhausting, but it had also been productive. One of the bags contained something he hoped would end this little problem for once and for all.
***************************
“A Pygmy Puff?” said Lord Voldemort incredulously.
Wormtail groveled. He had never, he knew, been closer to death than at that moment. “Something to love you, my Lord,” he said tremulously.
The Dark Lord considered. Wormtail felt his right hand starting to twitch for some reason.
Then the thing leapt from the bag into the Dark Lord’s arms. Its long, thin tongue flicked up to his face. If it was disappointed to find that Voldemort had no nose, it gave no sign of this whatsoever. It was nothing but a vibrating pink ball of fur, but it managed to look blissful.
“Oh,” whispered Voldemort. “Oh.”
Wormtail began to think that he might survive this after all.
“I think,” said Voldemort, but there was a catch in his voice, and he had to start over. “I think I will call him Chudley.”
***************************
That night, the Dark Lord stormed into Wormtail’s cubbyhole, eyes burning (more than usual). Chudley chirped in on his heels.
Wormtail stood hurriedly. “My Lord?”
“This miserable tweeting clump of fuzz”” Voldemort aimed a kick at Chudley, who skipped aside “”will not stop wrapping its scabrous tongue around my ankle!”
“Why don’t you kill it?” suggested Wormtail hopefully.
“I still can’t! And he’s too cute!” raged Voldemort. “And I still haven’t learned anything about love!”
Wormtail’s heart sank. He’d been so sure this would work.
Well, at least he could train the stinking creature.
“Bad Chudley!” he snarled as the thing’s tongue snaked once more towards the Evil Ankle. He picked it up and gave it two good whacks. “Very bad.”
He put it back down right next to Voldemort’s ankle. He leaned in and looked it right in the stupid eye. “You touch, you die.”
Chudley buzzed endearingly and took two nonchalant steps away.
“Amazing,” said Lord Voldemort. “I didn’t know you were good with animals.”
“Just a bit of tough love,” said Wormtail modestly.
The Dark Lord’s jaw dropped. “A bit of what?”
“Tough love,” said Wormtail. “Haven’t you heard of it?”
“That was love?”
“Oh yeah,” said Wormtail. “It’s for his own good. Cuz if he doesn’t learn how to behave we’ll skin him and leave him outside for the rats to eat.”
“And that counts as love?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Tough love…” mused Voldemort. A smile played around the lipless mouth. “I think I can get the hang of that.”
Author's Notes:
The End.
The violence warning is pretty much for this chapter. You know, in case the triumph of evil and innocent people dying left and right bothers you in any way.
Chapter Five
The next day, Voldemort attacked Hogwarts. He got in by going to King’s Cross as the Hogwarts Express was leaving, killing a boy’s toad (the delicious tingle of power as he did it!) and taking its place. He then quietly bided his time until the middle of the welcoming feast, when he burst out of the chocolate gateau like a girl out of a cake, though there was not a single person in the entire world brave enough to make the comparison.
The very first thing he did was stride to the front of the room, where Dumbledore was sitting.
“This is for your own good,” he said sincerely, and the old fool fell from a green jet right in the stupid broken nose. Voldemort giggled insanely and kicked the body aside. Now for the Boy Who Lived.
Ah, yes. There he was, at the Gryffindor table, looking determined and heroic, struggling with his friends. He shook them off, vaulted the table, and”Voldemort’s jaw dropped, and he almost wept at the deliciousness of it. The kid was actually coming to him.
“You killed Dumbledore!” yelled the kid. Thank you, Captain Obvious.
“No, Potter,” answered Voldemort. “I am Dumbledore.” That would give the kid something to think about in the last few minutes of his life.
The kid’s lips moved for a minute, and then he apparently decided to ignore this and move on, because the next thing that came out was “Expelliarmus!”
Voldemort nearly laughed. Did he really think that one would work again?
“You’ll thank me for this one day!” he bellowed, effortlessly dodging Harry’s spell and retaliating with a well-aimed Avada Kedavra. Well-aimed, but the kid exhibited irritatingly swift reflexes and rolled out of the way. Bloody Quidditch training. The sport should really be banned.
“This”is”hurting”me”more”than it”hurts”you!” he snarled, punctuated by blasts. Potter ducked, twisted, leaped, and slid”like a flipping ballerina, Voldemort thought sourly”and managed to dodge them all, though one did hit that annoying Granger kid, which warmed the Dark Lord’s heart just a bit.
But that had been about eight deadly curses, and the kid was as perky as ever, blast him. The cold fingers of despair began to touch the Dark Lord’s seventh of a soul. Could it be that the runt would defeat him again?
But then he thought of Chudley, and felt engulfed by a warm wave of tough love, and he knew he could do this. He took a deep breath, dodged another Expelliarmus”the kid dueled like a broken record”and looked the Boy Who Lived straight in the eye. “I’m doing this because I love you,” he said.
That got him. And that split second of shock was all Voldemort needed. “Avada Kedavra!” he cried, and the Boy Lived no more.
That wasn’t the end, of course. It’s never enough just to kill the hero; afterwards you have to squash all the little sidekicks as well. But that was all in a day’s work, and Voldemort allowed his thoughts to wander as he methodically blasted, slashed, and burned. His life until now had been like a fantastic beach party that you can’t enjoy because there’s a mosquito whining in your ear. Well, now he’d swatted the mosquito. his life from now on was going to be nothing but a party.
As soon as he got home he was going to drink six bottles of Firewhiskey. Then he was going to take Chudley and drop-kick him through a plate-glass window. For his own good, of course.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.