That tattoo hurt. Seriously, seriously, hurt. Hurt in a way that made it practically impossible to concentrate. And in addition to worrying about my aching b- never mind, I also began secreting honey onto everything I touched – a little problem that could doubtless be put down to Snape. He was mad at me about something. The honey thing started off relatively mildly – just my quills or wand being a little sticky at the end of a lesson. Then I began leaving great honey-scented handprints on everything I touched, even just for a second. My chairs first began turning into oversized honey buns in Transfiguration, but luckily McGonagall assumed that I had performed a brilliant if misguided bit of transfiguration and gave me twenty points. Flitwick was not so impressed.
I began to fear that soon I would start leaving a trail of honey on the floor behind me wherever I went, like a massive, blond, honey-scented snail. That was the vision that prompted me to confront Snape, a meeting that actually went more pleasantly than I had expected.
“Now I just have to worry about Potter spreading rumors about me. At least Snape had kept his word and took the spell off – I haven’t oozed any honey for over an hour now,” I said.
Violet nodded sympathetically. “I’m really glad you aren’t oozing honey anymore,” she said. “It would have gotten all over the stock, and that would have been bad. I still don’t understand why Sunshine chose honey buns, though.” I tried to decide whether or not she was serious.
“Er – I don’t know either,” I said.
“Sunshine has so many issues.” She shook her dazzling blonde head sympathetically. “I need you to unload a few crates that arrived this morning. The crates are marked to show what section they belong in. If you need help finding something, just ask anyone!”
I made my way to the back of the store to the cargo deposit area, where I assumed the crates would be. Sure enough, stacked in the grubby little room were several crates of astonishing size – they took up most of the room. I sighed and took out my wand.
“Locomotor Crates,” I said. I floated the crates ahead of me into the Men’s Casualwear department, the final destination of the contents of the top crate.
Unloading the crates was boring, but I didn’t know a spell to do it for me. Was this how Muggles felt all the time? How utterly intolerable. To pass the time, I listened to fellow employees helping the customers.
“I would venture to suggest, sir, that sir would do better with an XX large size.”
“All black is so last century. The hand-embroidered tie-dye would really suit your eyes, though.”
“Miss Violet says that I’m not to let you have any more of the velvet-lined ascots on credit.”
“Die, scum!”
“I’m afraid we don’t carry flannel shirts.”
“Cashmere is just the thing for the Dark Lord on the go!”
“Ah, Mr. Voldemort, right this way please.”
Gahhhhh! Oh Merlin, I couldn’t be found here! I crawled through a rack of silk blazers and emerged in the trouser area.
“No, fluttering white dresses are in the ladies section. I’ll send someone to go and get one,” one of Violet’s employees was saying. “Hey, you!” I realized he was addressing me.
“Yes,” I said, rather stiffly.
“You’re the new guy, right?” I nodded. “Go to the ladies formal area and bring an option one and an option four in the Sacrificial Victim dresses. Size small.” He had a pin declaring him an under-manager, so I decided to do what he said.
The Ladies section was on the other side of the floor and what interested me primarily about it was the lack of middle ground; the outfits it sold were composed of either a few cubic centimeters of material or a few cubic decameters. I was pondering whether all women aspired to dress like this or just the evil ones, when I caught sight of a familiar figure approaching me on the left.
“Honey bun!” Violet cried. I turned, gritting my teeth.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Are you done unloading the crates already?”
“No. An under-manager asked me to get some of the Sacrificial Victim dresses for a customer.”
“Which ones, honey bun?”
“Option one and Option four, in a size small.”
“I’ll get them; you go back to the crates. Where was the manager?”
“In the Men’s Casual Trousers area,” I said, scooting thankfully away back to the crate.
“All right then, honey bun.” I winced. I really wished she wouldn’t use that word.
I hovered around the line dividing the Men’s section from the Ladies. Voldemort was in there somewhere, and if he saw me here there would be hell to pay. Literally, I feared. I couldn’t go in there. But if Violet caught me lurking here, apparently dodging work, she’d be pissed, and might fire, and then I would have to ask my dad for money to pay her back, and there would definitely be hell to pay. What to do, what to do…Hesitating only slightly, I turned my back on the Men’s and walked firmly toward the Sacrificial Dress section.
“What is it, honey bun?”
“It’s just – Voldemort’s here, in the Men’s section.”
“Voldemort?”
“Yes. Client of yours. Absurdly tall, red eyes, face like a snake with constipation?”
“Oh, of course, Voldemort. I call him Sweetie-pie. I forgot he had a fitting scheduled for today, I should probably go check on him. Is he a problem?”
“Well,” I said. “I guess. It’s just that if he sees me here, he’ll probably kill me.”
“He can’t, honey bun. The tattoo repels all that,” she said.
“Well, still. It’ll cause problems. And it’ll totally ruin my surprise attack thing. Does the tattoo repel dementor attacks?”
“What attacks?”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Well, I guess I see your point. You can tidy up the fitting room – Mr. S just left and he always makes such a mess. That’ll keep you out of the way.”
“But I thought Voldemort came here to have a fitting!” I protested. “Won’t he need the fitting room?”
“Different rooms, honey bun. I have several that I keep in z-space on rotation so I don’t have to clean them between every customer. Come on.” She grabbed my robes and strode swiftly across the floor, dragging my behind her.
“What’s z-space?” I asked, trying not to trip over my robes.
“It’s a theoretical space. All the space that could be there but isn’t, because it’s somewhere else. Zharkie make them for me as payment for designing his wardrobe. Now there’s a man who understands the importance of clothes! Nothing but the best for him, and lots of it, too. Here we are.” She opened the door of the fitting room, threw me in, and slammed the door, so I never did get a chance to ask her who Zharkie was. I didn’t mind cleaning the fitting room really, because while I was in there, I thought of the perfect way to get revenge on Sunshine.
My shift ended at nine that night, and I returned to the bathroom near my dorm, which was where I had been when the portkey took me to the shop in the first place, not thinking it would be a good idea to vanish and reappear five hours later in the middle of the Slytherin common room. I stayed in the bathroom to take a shower because, unlike Snape, I think hygiene is important and showering every day is a must.
When I got out of the shower, I stood in front of the mirror to brush my hair. Maybe dyeing it black wasn’t such a good idea, I thought. It looked good this way.
“Malfoy,” a voice drawled. “What the hell is that?”
“What?” I jumped. It was Blaise Zabini and a few of his cronies
“That thing on what for politeness’ sake I shall call your lower back,” he said. I repressed a screech of utter horror. I had forgotten about Violet’s tattoo.
“Er – it’s nothing,” I said. “Wart got out of control.”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen a purple wart,” Zabini said, leading me to remember how much I disliked him and always had, ever since we were 1st years.
“It’s none of your business,” I said, edging carefully towards the rack where I had left my towel, keeping my backside well out of sight. “So just – oooph!” I had slipped in a puddle and landed face first on the tile floor. I felt like I had broken my jaw.
“It’s a flower!” Zabini yelled. “Merlin, it’s a pansy!”
“No, it isn’t, it’s a violet,” I said, or tried to. It came out sounding like “niisinvertel” and Zabini ignored me completely.
“It’s a symbol of his undying love for Pansy!” he yelled, his voice reverberating around the room. “Someone should tell her!” I was so alarmed by this that I actually picked myself up off the floor and said “Nooofff! Don’tf tellf herf! Pleaffsef!” At least it was intelligible, though there were quite a number of extraneous f’s.
It was too late. Zabini’s cronies had left the bathroom at a sprint, leaving the door open, and I could hear them announcing to everyone in the common room “Draco Malfoy’s got a tattoo of a pansy on his BUTT!” Girls were laughing and screaming. This, I knew would probably be the end of my life, or at least my social life. I cursed Zabini heartily, pulled a towel around myself, and collapsed onto the floor.
Becoming a Dark Lord by FinalCow
Chapter Notes: I don't own Emperor Zhark but I do own his outfitter.