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Two weeks after Harry and Dumbledore had completed their written pieces and sent them to Voldemort (Harry had refused to enter the building, on the grounds that Voldemort was trying to kill him) Voldemort invited Dumbledore back to his office.
“Are you back then?” asked the secretary, seeing him sitting on the chair, reading The Quibbler again, this time an article on The Gentle Giant Known as “Yeti”.
“I presumed you knew I was coming, as your employer requested my company,” replied Dumbledore.
“Well, quite “ but I am never told the purpose of his visitors’ appointments. He’s my master, not my employer.”
“I’m here writing an epic,” said Dumbledore. This was not entirely true, it has to be said, and Albus was aware of it.
It was Voldemort’s autobiography, he had written a forward comprising of a mere two hundred and one words (not including title) and there was no indication it would ever amount to becoming an epic.
However, Dumbledore was leaning back in his chair to examine the top half of the secretary and was attempting to engage in some sort of “ what’s the word? “ flirting “ with this young woman.
“Wasn’t that what The Dark Lord was doing?” she asked.
She’s quick on the uptake,noted Dumbledore. This was going on the secretary’s list of good points, along with chest size (he estimated 38D, but he was practically a novice to this particular field of expertise) leg size, elegant braided hair and a waist to be compared with the width of his wand.
“Well, I suppose one could indeed say that he was intending to do that, yes. But he has a bad case of writer’s block, and I’m giving him a little advice in the area.”
That was sort of true, thought Dumbledore.
The secretary raised one thinly-shaped eyebrow at Dumbledore.
She appeared to realize he was attempting to flirt with her, and had an expression that said quite plainly, I-am-not-a-woman-to-be-trifled-with.
“Just spreading the knowledge “ the usual,” he continued, getting into this new flirting business, and trying not to look at her chest, though it wasn’t helping, “it isn’t what I do everyday as my objective. I have to organize things with the Ministry and all that “ important stuff, you see.”
The secretary inspected her manicured nails.
“I just hope Voldemort “” Dumbledore said the name consciously, so that she would look at him; however, she just winced and continued inspecting her perfect hands, “doesn’t take up too much of my precious time. I’m a busy man, you see.”
“Quite frankly, Professor, I don’t give a damn about your social calendar. I do know that you know where the Dark Lord’s office is, so why don’t you find him on your own?”
Dumbledore nodded and obeyed her command, fuming inside at the fact that they could not continue their discussion (which had actually been a boastful monologue) as he had believed it to be going remarkably well.
Instead of knocking twice, as the secretary had been most particular about, he strode right into Voldemort’s office.
What he found inside was both disturbing and shocking.
(Readers of a nervous disposition: look away.)
Voldemort was crying.
Not out of rage, but hot, scared tears of a child. They were the sort of tears that really ought to be wiped away by a mother. But as Voldemort’s mother was somewhat…dead…Dumbledore felt that the most evil wizard in the world should toughen up a bit.
Dumbledore coughed.
Voldemort spun around and hastily wiped his eyes.
Throwing the numerous tissues away, without making eye contact, Voldemort attempted to regain his composure.
“Dumbledore, the way things usually work in my workplace is that one knocks before one enters. You interrupted me.”
“I interrupted you crying.! The most obnoxious wizard in the world does not “believe in emotions” as you said in your last interview. And crying is a most definite sign of emotion,” said Dumbledore, very much shocked by the disconcerting scene he had just witnessed.
Voldemort sank into his chair consisting entirely of Muggle skins, and sighed. Finally, he looked the headmaster in the eye ruefully.
“I was crying,” he admitted.
“But, Tom, I don’t understand. You hate emotions, and everything about them and to do with them!”
“I was crying because I got a bit of onion skin in my eye and my body was going about the usual way of flushing it out,” Voldemort continued further.
“Tom Marvolo Riddle, you were crying and I know it! And another thing! There is no trace of onion in your office!”
The troubled emperor leapt to his feet, and the cat fell on the floor. “I ate the onion just before you came in. There was an onion. I was not, and I repeat, was not crying because my editor said that my first two chapters were terrible!”
After 10.469046 seconds, Dumbledore realized that Voldemort meant that he wascrying because his editor had said that his first two chapters were terrible.
“Why don’t you talk to your editor about improving your story from there?” suggested Dumbledore.
Voldemort sniffled.
“I was so upset I used the last reserves of the Muggle shipment of dynamite my Death Eaters intercepted and blew him up! I only had an inkling of what dynamite was, I swear. But now he’s gone!”
“Well, I’ll be your editor then.” Dumbledore wasn’t entirely sure why he was offering to do this. It was more work.
But, on the other hand, Editor-in-chiefis a fancy title.
Voldemort nodded. They had broken down an enormous barrier and he took a few minutes to regain his composure.
“So: these chapters you and Harry sent me.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, Harry is clearly angry and hates me. His words are, I believe and I quote, “Voldemort in a nutshell? Evil, sadistic and mental.””
Dumbledore didn’t quite know what to make of this. Was Voldemort unhappy that Harry had insulted him so? Was the business deal off, and he would never see “The Secretary” again?
“Dumbledore, this stuff is dynamite. Just the right amount of inattentive influence and antagonism that readers love.”
The headmaster drew a greedy breath. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it “ but thank Merlin Harry hadn’t screwed up his chapter.
“You, on the other hand…Dumbledore, you waffle. I want imprudence and incontrollable hate to come across “ not a balanced opinion! For Merlin’s sake, is that too hard to understand? I’m evil! There is no weighing of pros and cons to be done! Completely and utterly evil with no strings attached.”
Dumbledore was confused. Surely Voldemort wasn’t intent on writing a book without emotions. No free book-buyer would want to purchase one without climaxes.
“But that’s…that’s…just…stupid,” said Dumbledore lamely.
How long did it take to drill it into Voldemort’s head? Readers don’t like that kind of stuff!
“Is it? I’ve been reading a book. A Muggle comic strip, in actual fact, but there you have it. Anyway, it’s by a man by the name of Jim Davis. What a foolish name “ but he writes good stuff, Garfield the name is. It’s about a completely sadistic cat that is lazy, fat, selfish and arrogant. If that can sell millions, so can I! I am more evil than any cat. That’s got to come across in the foreword. And to be quite honest, if you can’t cut it, I need someone else.”
Dumbledore was quiet. It was true; Voldemort had the potential to be even more evil than Garfield.
However, it was going to take futility, astuteness and a hardcore irresponsibility usually associates with Fire Whiskey to get this thing on the road.
“I know just the guy,” Dumbledore assured him.
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“What d’you mean I gotta write summin’ for that mad old codger?” said Mundungus Fletcher indignantly.
Dumbledore nearly rolled his eyes. This was beginning to follow the pattern that Harry had taken in the first proposition.
“Dung, do it for a friend. Remember that tight spot I got you out of?”
Mundungus frowned. He did remember nearly being taken off the streets and slammed into Azkaban, and Dumbledore had stepped in.
“I remember, Dumbledore. I’ll do it, but,” Mundungus pointed a filthy finger at him, “I ain’t gonna like it and it’s prob’ly gonna show on the final result.”
“You sound remarkably analogous to a scholar that attends my school,” commented Dumbledore.
“And none of that clever talk’ll be in my piece either. I wheel and deal in goods, not words and the like,” reprimanded Mundungus, who was wondering what Figgy was going to say about all the shenanigans.
He also wondered if she’d cook him beef casserole again, seeing as it wasn’t his fault.