Chapter 14 Potter vs. Riddle
Disclaimer “ The dating service idea was inspired from Full House. I know, I’m obsessed with that show, but I’ve added some twists. Oh, and the characters all belong to J.K. Rowling.
It was a humid, rainy Saturday afternoon, and Draco sat on his bed in the dark bedroom, fingering a piece of spare yarn idly. Now that his wand had been destroyed in the unfortunate car accident, he had no entertainment whatsoever and was reduced to crawling under the beds, looking for interestingly-shaped dust bunnies to play house with. He had written to the Ministry of Magic and to Ollivander’s requesting a new wand, but received responses from both correspondents offering their apologies but suggesting that since he was living in the muggle world, it did not matter very much whether he had a wand or not, and that he would receive a new wand as soon as he completed the exchange session and returned to Hogwarts.
Vince and Greg provided little comfort for Draco’s loss; their goofy laughter and dim jokes only irritated him, and that was why he had stayed home while the rest of the occupants of the house went to a local hillbilly gathering named the Mountain Moonshine Festival. He was only giving way to more boredom, he knew; but he desired some quiet around the house, and this was the only way peace could be obtained.
He was about to fashion the yarn into a Monkey’s fist knot when the door burst open. Red-faced and excited, Vince and Greg rushed in, seizing Draco by the arm and dragging him out of the room despite his protests. “Wh-wh- ” Draco sputtered, trying to break free as he skidded across the hardwood floor on his bottom uncomfortably. “Where are you two taking me?”
“You’ll see!” Vince answered breathlessly as they hauled him up to the attic.
When they arrived at the attic, Vince pushed Draco into a chair while Greg and a grinning Nerd turned on the television. Despite how much Draco despised Muggle contraptions, he was curious. “What are you doing?” he inquired again, staring at the screen, which was turning blue.
Vince, Greg and Nerd looked at each other. “I reckon we should explain now,” Greg said, and Nerd nodded.
“Well, you see, Draco “ ” Greg began. “Since you broke your “ er “ ” he glanced at Nerd quickly. “ - stick - that “ er “ belonged to “ erm “ your grandmother, you’ve been feeling real down. So we decided to cheer you up, and Nerd here had the perfect idea.”
“It’s called a dating service,” Nerd explained excitedly. “I don’t know whether you have it in Britain, but what you do is that you send in a video or pictures of yourself, and they find a match for you.”
“What?” Draco was dumbfounded.
Nerd sighed impatiently. “Here, just watch.” He pressed the PLAY button, and Draco was horrified to see what was on the screen. He was asleep in his bed, snoring and drooling unpleasantly.
“What the heck is this?” he demanded.
“It’s the video we took of you,” Vince said, smirking. “We couldn’t do it while you were awake, of course “ you would never let us. Anyway, we sent the video in, and you got quite a lot of responses.”
“From whom?” Draco asked suspiciously.
“From some lovely ladies, of course!” Nerd laughed. He pushed PLAY again, and as the image of Draco chomping at the pillow faded from the screen, he, Vince, Greg and Heathcliff replaced it, all four beaming stupidly. Draco realised that Lizbeth was probably the one who had filmed the video.
“Hello, ladies,” began Nerd, still beaming widely. “Are you tired of your boyfriend always being late for dates? Do you wish he would crack some occasional jokes? Are you looking for someone who’s trustworthy, gentle, kind and sweet?”
“I know I am,” Vince said unintelligently as though he was a TV show host for three-year-olds.
“If your answer is yes, then we’ve found the right guy for you. He’s everything you could want in your ideal man: tall, muscular, rich, funny, loving, and charming. And most importantly, he’s not blonde.”
Draco’s jaw fell in horror when he saw the camera focus downward. Apparently Vince, Greg, Nerd and Heathcliff had been standing by a bed, for the lens now showed himself asleep in his bed, his hair dyed a jet black with some very unpleasant purple dashes in between.
“He’s got great oral hygiene,” Nerd said, yanking Draco’s jaws open to reveal his teeth and poke at his tongue. “See? Believe it or not, it’s a man who flosses.” He let go of the jaw, which fell back together limply.
“He’s got a whole bank of vocabulary, too,” Greg said as the camera focused up close on Draco’s face. Draco stirred slightly and muttered, “Must…defeat…”
Everyone in the video waited silently for Draco to finish talking in his sleep. His mouth opened slightly, and his head rolled around before he finally uttered, “…Canadians.”
“Sense of competitiveness, too,” Vince added.
They all turned back to the camera, smiling broadly. “Well, if you’re interested, give Draco here a call at “ ” Greg supplied the phone number, and the screen faded. It was soon replaced by a figure with a black shawl wrapped around her head.
“The Ohela Llama will give Draco the blessings of the Great Pilamaka,” she said in a surprisingly deep voice. “Draco must shave his head and serve the Great Pilamaka.”
“Let’s skip ahead to the next one,” Nerd said, looking frightened.
***
On the day of the big match of Slytherin against Gryffindor, Voldemort was awakened by the sound of birds chirping outside the window. He opened his eyes sleepily and, with a sudden jolt, realised what day it was. Groaning, he climbed out of bed to dress, butterflies flapping their wings madly in his stomach.
By the time he had gotten down to breakfast, the Great Hall was filled with masses of chattering students, eagerly awaiting the match, which had promised to be a very exciting one. The rival between the two Houses had been even greater over the past few weeks; Miles Bletchley, the Slytherin team captain, was sent to the hospital wing after a Gryffindor chaser charmed his nose hairs to talk and utter rude comments and swearwords in class in his voice. Another Gryffindor beater had hexed a Slytherin chaser so that at least twenty extra arms grew on his back and slapped his Captain’s quarters twenty-four hours a day.
Several students looked at Voldemort with interest as he passed by them, heading for the Slytherin table. He could hear their hushed conversations.
“Reckon he’ll use some sort of evil Egyptian technique?”
“Wonder if his pants’ll fall off again…hey, I dare you to charm them off when he’s flying “ ”
“Guy doesn’t stand a chance against Gryffindor. Just look at the size of his forearm muscles! They’re pixie-sized “ only smaller…”
Voldemort gritted his teeth in irritation as he approached the table and sat down between Lucius and Bellatrix. “How are you feeling?” Bellatrix asked with concern.
“Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Voldemort, being the pompous, dignified evil lord that he was, would have died before he’d admitted that he was practically terrified.
“Good,” Bellatrix smiled. She seized a plate and began vigorously piling food onto it. “You should eat,” she urged, pushing the plate, which was now laden with food, before him. “Come on, master, eat!”
Voldemort stirred his breakfast unappetizingly. “I don’t think I will,” he said finally, pushing it away. “I’ll throw up.”
Lucius gave him a quizzical look. “Throw up? That’s new,” he added in an undertone.
“Come on, Hunu!” called Bletchley, jumping to his feet. “Let’s get ready for the big match!”
“Coming!” Voldemort joined him as they walked down to the dressing room, grateful for an excuse to get away from Bellatrix’s profuse breakfast and Lucius’ curiosity at his uneasiness.
By the time he had changed into his Quidditch robes, which were two sizes too big, Voldemort felt some of the anxiety die away. He was calmer now that his Firebolt was in his hand, and everyone else in the team was slapping each other on the back and offering optimistic words. But he felt his stomach slowly tie into a monkey knot as he walked onto the stadium to the cheering crowd. Wait “ cheering? Voldemort’s neck almost snapped as he looked around him. Everyone was roaring, stomping their feet, waving “ he felt a wave of content wash over him. Yes, that’d be what everyone would do on the day that he became supreme ruler of the universe “ cheer, applause, scream with delight “ it was so good that he closed his eyes and bumped instantly into Bletchley. The taller Slytherin scowled at him. “Watch it, Hunu.”
Voldemort scowled back. “Shut it, Miles. Everyone’s cheering for me. Why don’t you be wise and join in?”
Bletchley laughed harshly. “Cheering for you? They’re all rooting for Potter!”
Voldemort’s eyes widened when he saw a wave of scarlet wash over the field. It was the Gryffindor team, Potter leading them, waving and smiling at the crowd, which was screaming itself hoarse. His eyes narrowed angrily when he saw something glinting on Potter’s chest “ a bronze captain’s badge. “Potter,” he hissed venomously, clenching his fist around his Firebolt.
“That’s the spirit,” Bletchley said approvingly.
“Quiet down!” roared McGonagall’s voice. The crowd grew quieter, watching the two teams with interest. McGonagall handed the megaphone to a sixth year Gryffindor named Dean Thomas, who was apparently commentating the match.
Madam Hooch had appeared on the field. “Mount your brooms!” she commanded, and as they did so, she looked around her before blowing her whistle. Voldemort kicked off into the air, his eyes narrowed to scout the whereabouts of the Snitch. Several feet away, Potter was doing the same thing. Voldemort felt hatred swarm over him as he saw Potter. You won’t thwart me much longer now, he thought contemptuously. He was going to win, he knew it.
***
“Hello, handsome!”
Draco’s attention snapped back to the television. Four old ladies in flowery dresses and missing teeth were ogling at the camera and giggling. “I’m Norma,” gibbered the first one. “I’m eighty-seven years old, and I love to dance…”
“Oh, Norma, you bad girl!” simpered the second one, and all four burst into uncontrollable girlish giggles.
“I specialise in the Mango,” continued Norma, rising from her chair. She was holding two mangos and a melon in her hand, and she began to move back and forth slowly, a vain attempt at appearing the least bit seductive. “Mango bango wango, mango bango sango, mango bango dango, mango bango pango…mango mango, mango mango…” she sang tunelessly and listlessly while the other three women giggled hysterically; one of them even dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
The video finally ended, and Nerd switched the TV off. “So which one was better, the alien from Uranus or the untamed possum?” he asked.
“The possum,” they all said in unison.
Draco sighed and stood up. “Thanks for trying to cheer me up, guys, but this has been about the most gruesome night of my life.” He screwed up his eyes painfully and walked away, muttering, “Mango wango, mango nango…URGH!”
***
Voldemort glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes into the game, and he had had no luck with catching the Snitch so far. The only satisfaction he had was knowing that neither did Potter. The crowd was cheering wildly for Katie Bell, who was darting through several players to reach the hoop and score. Voldemort watched her idly for a moment, then a shock ricocheted through his brain when he suddenly saw a glimmer of gold bobbling near her ponytail. Without thinking, he zoomed toward her, his hand oustretched, ready to close around the Snitch. He was getting there “ nearer “nearer “ just a bit more “
Katie’s head suddenly turned around and saw Voldemort lunging straight for her. “Aaaaahhhhh!” she screamed, terrified that he was going to crash into her. Without hesitating, she had raised her hand in defense and “ WHAM “ smacked Voldemort’s face as hard as she could.
“Oomph!” Voldemort, who had never been hit by a girl before (and clearly wasn’t up to it), smacked headlong into the Quidditch stand near them as she sent him cartwheeling in another direction. “Ohhhh!” sighed the Slytherin crowd, but most of the students craned their necks eagerly to spot Voldemort, who was wearing an entire stand on his neck, meaning that he had made a hole in the wood with his abnormally thick head and caught his neck in it like some sort of old-times criminal awaiting persecution. His face burning in the dark, he could hear a noisy crowd gathering around the rest of his body, laughing, talking, and (he imagined) poking fun at his captain’s quarters.
Soon he heard sharp footsteps and knew that McGonagall had approached him. She was clucking her tongue and remarking upon something that he couldn’t make out. As he shook his head and emptied some weeds out from his ears, Voldemort could hear the conversations more clearly.
“It’d come apart with a good Reducto blow…”
There were some murmurs at this, but then someone spoke up.
“No, too dangerous…see how the wood is almost fastened around his neck? That’ll hurt him…”
Some more murmurs. Then,
“We could try shrinking him…”
“No!” Voldemort cried in alarm, but no one seemed to have heard him. “Stand back,” said a girl’s voice, and Voldemort heard a muttered incantation before he experienced a very strange sensation.
“Oh my goodness!” shrieked a girl.
“That’s revolting!”
“UGH!”
“What? What’s happened?” Voldemort shouted, fearful that he had been turned into half a slug. Finally Lucius’ voice came.
“Erm…Hunu…the shrinking spell…only shrunk your…body, not your head.”
***
“What? That can’t be tr- ”
Voldemort stopped midsentence. He wriggled his fingers and kicked with his feet, and he realised, with a horrible, sinking feeling, that his feet could not reach the ground. And they were in shoes that fit like boats. His robes were draped over him like a blanket. So he had shrunk.
“Hold on, I’ll reverse it…” came the girl’s voice again.
Voldemort almost swooned with relief when he felt his feet growing back into his shoes and his robes slowly ebbing toward his ankles. There was some scattered applause, followed by more murmurs.
“Where’s the Snitch?”
Voldemort’s ears perked up. Where was the Snitch?
The reply sent an electrical shock through him.
“Oh, Potter’s caught it. Gryffindor won.”
Voldemort could feel his blood pressure rising to the altitude of Mount Everest as his heart slowly gained speed, and his face turned steadily redder and brighter. His body was shaking, and his eyes burned with flames.
“Po…tter…caught…the…SNITCH?!”
There was one second of complete silence before Voldemort erupted. His eruption blasted the entire stand to pieces, and there was so much blood boiling and other inexplicable scientific things in Voldemort’s body that it sent him ricocheting into the sky like an angry rocket, his entire body on fire.
A/N: Thank you for reading, reviews would be much appreciated. :-)