“Wormtail!” he shouted over the band’s blasting music. “Answer the door, will you? The standard deal: if it’s a salesman, kill him; if it’s the mail carrier, get the mail and Crucio him because he’s six and a half minutes late; and if it’s a Girl Scout, take a box or two of cookies ” Thin Mints if at all possible ” and close the door without paying her.” As he listened to Wormtail rush to the door, he chuckled to himself. “I’m so deliciously diabolical sometimes I scare myself.”
Voldemort listened intently for a moment. In the hall that led from his cluttered parlor to the front door, he could hear Wormtail muttering to himself. “Girl Scout: Avada Ke ” no! Mail carrier: Thin Mints... No money for the mail carrier...” Voldemort could almost hear him shake his head in confusion. The Dark Lord didn’t know what it was about his commands that were so difficult to understand; he had been doing the same thing for only the past seven months, two weeks, one day, fourteen hours, eighteen minutes, and thirty-nine seconds... make that forty...
The Dark Lord rolled his eyes and cranked up the music as he began flicking through the latest Witch Weekly, for he was on the lookout for a good deal on green toenail polish. Voldemort never told anyone, but he had recently developed a toenail fetish. He didn’t know what on earth could have brought it about... but then again, he had always been rather jealous of Lucius’s ever-colorful feet, which he showed off at every available opportunity.
After a few minutes, Voldemort semiconsciously began to sing along with his favorite song, which had just started. When he didn’t know the lyrics, he improvised, filling in the blanks with “la-la-las” and humming sounds.
“I didn’t la-la-la, why you had to go... Soul was torn in two ” hehe, I got seven, sucker! ” but I just played my rock ‘n’ roll... Hmmmmhmmhmm...” Voldemort sang in his extremely high-pitched voice. He jumped out of his chair, spun in a circle, and furiously played air guitar. He stopped abruptly stopped as he noticed someone standing in the doorway to the room.
A girl, sixteen or seventeen at most, was watching the Dark Lord in amusement. She had long brown hair, and her thick glasses seemed to make her eyes bug out. She wore a clean suit, and under her navy blue cotton-clad arm she held a small clipboard, which made her look very professional in spite of her age.
“Hello,” she said politely.
Voldemort snapped his jaw shut quickly, as he woke from his shocked stupor and lunged to turn off the stereo. The girl watched all this with a look of vague amusement ” or was it tolerance? ” in her magnified eyes.
The amusement made Voldemort angry, and, scowling at her, he stuffed another piece of toast into his mouth whole instead of acting on his first impulse to curse the girl straight to the fiery pits of Hades. He didn't feel in the mood to kill any women today, no matter how well dressed. A salesman would have done nicely, though...
Wormtail suddenly appeared next to the girl and hurried toward his furious master. “I’m so sorry, my lord,” he stammered in an undertone, “she insisted on coming in, I tried to stop her, but ””
“What’s she selling? I told you to kill her!” Voldemort hissed wrathfully.
Wormtail wrung his hands nervously. “I wasn’t sure what to do with her... She ” she’s not a saleswoman, my lord... and she isn’t a Girl Scout.”
“I can see that, you idiot,” Voldemort said sarcastically. “Well, then? What does she want?”
“She ” she claims to be your psycrets... Cypress... Nightdress...” Wormtail tried, stumbling over the word. He looked up at his master anxiously.
“Psychiatrist,” the girl explained firmly, saving Wormtail the trouble. “I’m his psychiatrist.”
“PSYCHIATRIST?” Voldemort roared. He pulled out his wand and blasted a few good, anger-venting holes in the ceiling. “I don’t need a bloody THERAPIST!”
The girl looked on impassively. She eventually lifted her right hand and held it out to Voldemort, like a peace offering. Her long fingers were curled around a steaming Styrofoam coffee cup. "Latte?" she offered. “It’s French vanilla.”
Pocketing his wand, Voldemort snatched the cup and sniffed it, all the while peering suspiciously at the girl.
She stuck out her now-empty hand and smiled innocently. “Hello, Lord Voldemort. My name is Alanna Black; I believe you called for a therapist?”
Voldemort didn’t shake her hand, instead glowering venomously at her. “I’ve never heard of any ‘Alanna Black,’” he spat rudely. “Do you mean Andromeda Black? Who, I might add, has been dead for several years after marrying that Muggle ””
“I never said Andromeda Black!” the girl said. She almost seemed to laugh at his ignorant ramble, and he bristled defensively as she continued, “No, I’m not Andromeda Black. I’m Alanna, Sirius Black’s daughter. I’m not surprised you’ve never heard about me... After his death, I got into psychiatry, mostly for the ‘bad guys,’ if you'll excuse me, and I’ve yet to work with Bellatrix, but I plan to move on to her soon... Anyway, here I am!”
Voldemort glared at Wormtail and muttered, “I hate therapists! Did you call her over here? How am I supposed to work with this girl here? She'll be analyzing my every move!”
“No, my lord, I didn’t call her,” Wormtail mumbled, casting a nervous look over at Alanna, who was now examining a pile of blackened crusts of bread with a critical eye. “But perhaps it would be best if you listened to her ” I'm not saying that you need a therapist!” he added hastily. “Just to show her that you don’t want her, and then maybe she’ll go a ””
“Um... What is this?” the young therapist said suddenly, holding up a long necklace of garlic and horseradish that Voldemort had hidden under his overstuffed couch. The girl’s nose wrinkled. “It looks almost like a ””
“My Lord Bunnymort ward!” Voldemort yelled before he could stop himself. He lunged at the girl and grabbed the necklace from her, carefully placing it back under his bed after making sure it was unharmed. He glared at Alanna.
“Hmm,” was all she said. One eyebrow lifted in a humorous expression that made Voldemort seethe. “I think I’ve come to just the right place, Lord Voldemort. I suppose it would be best if I came to see you once a week.” She clicked open her briefcase and pulled out a small planner. At the same time, she slid a pen out of her pocket and poised it above the planner thoughtfully. “How does... every Thursday at five o’clock sound?”
“No, wait!” Voldemort shouted, trying to come up with a good excuse to make this girl leave. “That's during my ” my ” my violin lessons!” It sounded pathetic even in his own head. Violin lessons? Wormtail looked confused, as if he were struggling to remember his master having ever said anything about taking music lessons.
Alanna Black, unfortunately, was not moved by his excuses. “That’s the only time I’m available; the rest of my schedule is full. I’m afraid your” ” she smirked to herself ” “violin lessons will have to wait. You need me, whether you think so or not. Five o’clock?”
“Now ” now wait just a minute!” Voldemort said loudly, panicking, realizing that she seemed quite serious. “I don’t need a therapist, I’m not a head case or anything ””
“Thursdays at five it is,” Alanna Black concluded, completely ignoring Voldemort’s protests. She wrote something down in her planner, and then put it back inside the briefcase, which she shut with a snap. “Take my card. I’ll be seeing you, my Lord Fruitcake. Have a nice day!”
Lord Fruitcake? Voldemort shuddered at the nickname. “I hope you don’t,” he spat in reply.
Alanna only smiled pleasantly at him and held out a card. Voldemort took it, feeling rather bewildered by this sudden turn of events, and watched as the teenage girl picked up her briefcase and walked out the door. Wormtail hurried after her, looking almost as confused as Voldemort felt.
The door slammed shut. Voldemort was left alone, standing in the middle of the room, holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a business card in the other. He took a cautious sip of the French vanilla latte and, to his surprise, found it tasted very good. The strong flavor suddenly reminded him of something, though, and he collapsed into his suede armchair. “Mr. Tibbins!” he cried, remembering his old rabbit whom he had killed with an overdose of caffeine. His sobs became more hysterical as Wormtail shuffled into the room.
Taking care not to show his face, Wormtail slipped back out of the room to give Voldemort some privacy, shaking his head. His master had always had a soft spot for that poor rabbit. Now, he was always careful not to feed Nagini, his snake, anything that contained caffeine. This had been quite a blow to Nagini, who rather enjoyed drinking Coca-Cola.
In the parlor, Voldemort’s sobs subsided, and he looked into his cup in concern. He didn’t want to get his latte all salty. After a few more cautious sips, he muttered to himself, “Therapist...?” He turned over the card and looked at it, feeling dazed.
It read, in a flowing script that made him want to vomit:
Specializing in Dark Lords and Evil Geniuses
Alanna Black, Psychiatrist
(The number found on this card is the first stage of your therapy.)
Below the words was a phone number. Voldemort quickly found his portable Muggle phone. He had given himself one for Christmas because, even though cell phones were a Muggle creation, they were just so handy! He had even managed to find a black one with a green skull etched on the back.
After admiring the skull for the ninetieth time, he shook his head and dialed the number, never taking his eyes off the card. The phone rang once... twice... three times... Voldemort waited impatiently...
The next second he flung the phone away in outrage and disgust. Instead of an answering machine, he heard the Barney theme song begin to play. Even from all the way across the room, he could hear the demonic strains of “I love you, you love me, we’re best friends as friends should be, with a ””
With a cry of fury, Voldemort snatched up the phone and punched the power button. “What kind of a sick person would be somebody through that!” he burst. He threw the business card into the rubbish bin and turned “The Best of the Weird Brothers: Evil Never Looked So Good” back on. For the rest of the day he refused to think about that Thursday at five o’clock, when Alanna Black would come and begin his weekly torture.
“Well, she’s not about to get her way as easily as she might think,” Voldemort said to himself a few hours later. “If she thinks she can get me onto her stupid psychiatrist’s couch, let alone confess anything, she’s got another think coming... I’m going to make her visits so miserable, she’ll regret ever having rung my doorbell... with or without the French vanilla latte...”
He soon fell asleep, not giving another thought to the business card that lay in the bin in the corner, the card that shivered ominously, the card whose words could still be read among the rubbish surrounding it...
...Villain Therapy...
A/N: It was unanimously agreed upon by the members of Cosforums that Voldemort's favorite flavor of coffee is French vanilla. So if you have anything against France or vanilla beans, then... I have no idea where I'm going with this.
Anyway, if you like this story so far and have any ideas about a topic that should be covered in a session of Villain Therapy, then please give me a review and tell me all about it! If it's good, I may use it (and credit you, of course...)! Chapter 2 will be coming soon!