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.”