Fanfiction: So You've Decided to Be Evil
Mar. 2nd, 2006 09:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
evadne_noelOkay, first chapter with the new title, but not technically the first chapter of the story. Features the Slytherin Moped Gang, back together for one night only!
Lord Voldemort Insists Everyone Get Along
“The Dark Lord says that I have the makings of a first class sycophant,” said Draco, meditatively pressing his fingers together in a way that made him look as if he was about to play “Here’s the Church, Here’s the Steeple.” Around the immaculately set table, all eyes were turned to him, drinking in his every word, relishing the brush of glory he brought into their lives. All right, so Zabini was rolling his eyes, but he was just jealous because he’d never been in the presence of Lord Voldemort before.
“My father is currently the Dark Lord’s second-in-command. I hope to prove myself to the Dark Lord, so that when the day comes, I may topple my father and take his place.” Draco took a moment to savor a vision of his future at the Dark Lord’s side. Wealth, women, power unimaginable. And no more inane truffle talk from his father.
“Don’t think I shan’t be telling your father that,” said a casually cruel voice from the shadow of one of the room’s many doors.
“My Lord!” cried Draco and his Slytherin brethren, rising quickly from their chairs and dropping to their knees in reverent fear. Draco kept his eyes on the floor and Lord Voldemort’s shoes as if he cared for nothing more than to gaze in wonderment at the crud flaking off of the Dark Lord’s boots. It took a moment to register with Draco that Lord Voldemort’s boots were accompanied by a second set of footwear. A pair of imitation Adidas to be exact.
Draco blinked at this extra set of shoes, and looked up to find himself staring into the disgusted countenance of someone he definitely did not expect to see. Someone he had rather hoped was dead and rotting (or rotting and dead; either was fine) in a dungeon somewhere.
Voldemort had a tight grip on the hair of this very familiar looking companion. He also had an expression that, if vocalized, would have translated into a sing-songy, “Look what I’ve got!” Luckily, Voldemort was not inclined to talk that way.
Draco’s mouth dropped open as he clambered to his feet. He would have liked to have been able to help it, but he simply couldn’t. “That’s…”
“Yes,” interrupted Voldemort. “This is Merak Black.”
“Okay,” said Draco, “that wasn’t what I was going to say at all.”
Harry Potter (known to delusional sociopaths and their cowering flunkies as Merak Black) gave Draco a withering glance as he attempted not to fidget too much in Voldemort’s (He-Who-Has-No-Concept-Of-Personal-Space) grasp. Draco attempted to return the look, but being directly under the gaze of the Dark Lord stunted his ability to retaliate without getting cursed for his troubles.
Voldemort either ignored or did not notice the scathing looks as he plowed on. “He is my newest apprentice and designated heir. His addition to the Black family has been sponsored by Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy, who will be providing the necessary documentation of his childhood and early education.”
“My mother?” cried Draco. “What does my mother have to do with it?"
“Your mother agrees that a rule-flaunting troublemaker such as Merak has a natural place in the Black family. He has also turned out to be quite good at the Dark Arts,” continued Voldemort with a pleased smirk that made Harry’s blood boil.
“Yes,” said Draco sullenly, “I’d noticed.”
“Anyways, I’m quite glad you are all familiar with each other. But in the interest of etiquette, allow me to make proper introductions. Merak, please give your regards to Misters Malfoy, Zabini, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle and…that young man next to Malfoy who’s name I don’t recall.”
“Hello,” said Harry, attempting to squeeze as much contempt as humanly possible into a two-syllable word.
“Wonderful. Now take a seat and socialize with your peers like a good boy.” This however, was quite impossible since Voldemort seemed in no hurry to release his death grip on Harry’s perpetually messy ‘do.
“Are…are you going to let him go, My Lord?” asked a very nervous Theodore Nott.
It was Harry’s turn to smirk. “He’s just jealous that I have hair and he doesnARRRRGH!”
“Try to remember where your head is, boy,” said Voldemort, relaxing his grip in Harry’s hair. He turned his gaze to the children of his followers and smiled grimly. “I want you all to have a nice quiet tea. Get to know each other. Talk about Quidditch. Plot to conquer the world. Whatever it is boys your age do these days. I’ll be nearby to collect my apprentice when you’re done.” Voldemort released Harry’s hair and shoved him forward, then strode away laughing his high, cruel laugh.
“I can’t believe they’re keeping you alive, Potter,” snarled Draco, the moment he thought Voldemort was out of earshot.
“You probably shouldn’t call me that anymore,” said Harry flatly, slumping in his seat and taking a steady bead on the ceiling.
“I refuse to call you by any name that implies we’re related!”
“I really don’t care one way or another,” said Harry, steadfastedly refusing to look anywhere but the stucco, “but I’ve seen enough people offed over my name in the past week. Voldemort (oh, don’t flinch, you idiots) has apparently lost his mind. Snape told me I used to be called ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-In-He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s-Presence,’ but I suppose that didn’t fit on the name change form.”
“Our Master isn’t here right now, Potter, so I can call you whatever I like!”
“He’s standing in the doorway behind you,” said Blaise, taking an affectedly dainty sip of his drink. Draco started and unconsciously tried to look over his shoulder.
“Don’t look!” snapped Harry and Blaise simultaneously. Draco stopped himself and swept up his teacup in attempt to convince the unseen Dark Lord that that was what he intended to do all along. “There is an excess of doors in this room,” he remarked.
“Kind of drafty too,” added Theo.
“Look,” said Harry, “everyone shut up. Let’s all just sit here in silence and pretend this isn’t the most awkward thing that’s happened all year.”
“You’ve been the Dark Lord’s prisoner for weeks and this is the most awkward thing that’s happened to you?” asked a disbelieving Blaise.
Harry took his eyes off the ceiling and leveled them at Blaise. “It’s been mostly surreal,” he said. “I mean, have you ever been in a room with Draco’s father for more than ten minutes? Bizarre.”
“Don’t talk about Draco’s father like that!” snapped the young man seated on Draco’s right. Harry hadn’t paid him much mind until then, other than briefly wondering why Crabbe and/or Goyle the Lessers didn’t flank Draco as per usual. The young man looked like a badly made up model of Draco’s third year. His hair was obviously bleached blond (little brown roots and all), and was slicked back in a way that guaranteed top marks in the wind tunnel. His nose was turned up at an almost unnatural angle; Harry thought he might spend up to an hour a day in front of the mirror practicing his disdain.
“And who are you?” asked Harry. “His redundantly evil twin?”
“This is Graham Pritchard, my personal assistant,” interjected Draco over any response Graham might have made. “He’ll be taking notes about this encounter, won’t you, Pritchard?”
“Yessir!” cried Graham, pulling a tattered scroll, a quill and some ink out of his robes.
Harry sighed and pointed to the secretarial equipment, “This is why wizards need pens. Though I suppose there’s something about magic that makes ball bearings and gravity not work.” Harry shrugged in a mock helpless sort of way.
Draco rolled his eyes. “What are you talking about, Potter-” Blaise coughed. “-Black?”
Lord Voldemort Insists Everyone Get Along
“The Dark Lord says that I have the makings of a first class sycophant,” said Draco, meditatively pressing his fingers together in a way that made him look as if he was about to play “Here’s the Church, Here’s the Steeple.” Around the immaculately set table, all eyes were turned to him, drinking in his every word, relishing the brush of glory he brought into their lives. All right, so Zabini was rolling his eyes, but he was just jealous because he’d never been in the presence of Lord Voldemort before.
“My father is currently the Dark Lord’s second-in-command. I hope to prove myself to the Dark Lord, so that when the day comes, I may topple my father and take his place.” Draco took a moment to savor a vision of his future at the Dark Lord’s side. Wealth, women, power unimaginable. And no more inane truffle talk from his father.
“Don’t think I shan’t be telling your father that,” said a casually cruel voice from the shadow of one of the room’s many doors.
“My Lord!” cried Draco and his Slytherin brethren, rising quickly from their chairs and dropping to their knees in reverent fear. Draco kept his eyes on the floor and Lord Voldemort’s shoes as if he cared for nothing more than to gaze in wonderment at the crud flaking off of the Dark Lord’s boots. It took a moment to register with Draco that Lord Voldemort’s boots were accompanied by a second set of footwear. A pair of imitation Adidas to be exact.
Draco blinked at this extra set of shoes, and looked up to find himself staring into the disgusted countenance of someone he definitely did not expect to see. Someone he had rather hoped was dead and rotting (or rotting and dead; either was fine) in a dungeon somewhere.
Voldemort had a tight grip on the hair of this very familiar looking companion. He also had an expression that, if vocalized, would have translated into a sing-songy, “Look what I’ve got!” Luckily, Voldemort was not inclined to talk that way.
Draco’s mouth dropped open as he clambered to his feet. He would have liked to have been able to help it, but he simply couldn’t. “That’s…”
“Yes,” interrupted Voldemort. “This is Merak Black.”
“Okay,” said Draco, “that wasn’t what I was going to say at all.”
Harry Potter (known to delusional sociopaths and their cowering flunkies as Merak Black) gave Draco a withering glance as he attempted not to fidget too much in Voldemort’s (He-Who-Has-No-Concept-Of-Personal-Space) grasp. Draco attempted to return the look, but being directly under the gaze of the Dark Lord stunted his ability to retaliate without getting cursed for his troubles.
Voldemort either ignored or did not notice the scathing looks as he plowed on. “He is my newest apprentice and designated heir. His addition to the Black family has been sponsored by Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy, who will be providing the necessary documentation of his childhood and early education.”
“My mother?” cried Draco. “What does my mother have to do with it?"
“Your mother agrees that a rule-flaunting troublemaker such as Merak has a natural place in the Black family. He has also turned out to be quite good at the Dark Arts,” continued Voldemort with a pleased smirk that made Harry’s blood boil.
“Yes,” said Draco sullenly, “I’d noticed.”
“Anyways, I’m quite glad you are all familiar with each other. But in the interest of etiquette, allow me to make proper introductions. Merak, please give your regards to Misters Malfoy, Zabini, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle and…that young man next to Malfoy who’s name I don’t recall.”
“Hello,” said Harry, attempting to squeeze as much contempt as humanly possible into a two-syllable word.
“Wonderful. Now take a seat and socialize with your peers like a good boy.” This however, was quite impossible since Voldemort seemed in no hurry to release his death grip on Harry’s perpetually messy ‘do.
“Are…are you going to let him go, My Lord?” asked a very nervous Theodore Nott.
It was Harry’s turn to smirk. “He’s just jealous that I have hair and he doesnARRRRGH!”
“Try to remember where your head is, boy,” said Voldemort, relaxing his grip in Harry’s hair. He turned his gaze to the children of his followers and smiled grimly. “I want you all to have a nice quiet tea. Get to know each other. Talk about Quidditch. Plot to conquer the world. Whatever it is boys your age do these days. I’ll be nearby to collect my apprentice when you’re done.” Voldemort released Harry’s hair and shoved him forward, then strode away laughing his high, cruel laugh.
“I can’t believe they’re keeping you alive, Potter,” snarled Draco, the moment he thought Voldemort was out of earshot.
“You probably shouldn’t call me that anymore,” said Harry flatly, slumping in his seat and taking a steady bead on the ceiling.
“I refuse to call you by any name that implies we’re related!”
“I really don’t care one way or another,” said Harry, steadfastedly refusing to look anywhere but the stucco, “but I’ve seen enough people offed over my name in the past week. Voldemort (oh, don’t flinch, you idiots) has apparently lost his mind. Snape told me I used to be called ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-In-He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s-Presence,’ but I suppose that didn’t fit on the name change form.”
“Our Master isn’t here right now, Potter, so I can call you whatever I like!”
“He’s standing in the doorway behind you,” said Blaise, taking an affectedly dainty sip of his drink. Draco started and unconsciously tried to look over his shoulder.
“Don’t look!” snapped Harry and Blaise simultaneously. Draco stopped himself and swept up his teacup in attempt to convince the unseen Dark Lord that that was what he intended to do all along. “There is an excess of doors in this room,” he remarked.
“Kind of drafty too,” added Theo.
“Look,” said Harry, “everyone shut up. Let’s all just sit here in silence and pretend this isn’t the most awkward thing that’s happened all year.”
“You’ve been the Dark Lord’s prisoner for weeks and this is the most awkward thing that’s happened to you?” asked a disbelieving Blaise.
Harry took his eyes off the ceiling and leveled them at Blaise. “It’s been mostly surreal,” he said. “I mean, have you ever been in a room with Draco’s father for more than ten minutes? Bizarre.”
“Don’t talk about Draco’s father like that!” snapped the young man seated on Draco’s right. Harry hadn’t paid him much mind until then, other than briefly wondering why Crabbe and/or Goyle the Lessers didn’t flank Draco as per usual. The young man looked like a badly made up model of Draco’s third year. His hair was obviously bleached blond (little brown roots and all), and was slicked back in a way that guaranteed top marks in the wind tunnel. His nose was turned up at an almost unnatural angle; Harry thought he might spend up to an hour a day in front of the mirror practicing his disdain.
“And who are you?” asked Harry. “His redundantly evil twin?”
“This is Graham Pritchard, my personal assistant,” interjected Draco over any response Graham might have made. “He’ll be taking notes about this encounter, won’t you, Pritchard?”
“Yessir!” cried Graham, pulling a tattered scroll, a quill and some ink out of his robes.
Harry sighed and pointed to the secretarial equipment, “This is why wizards need pens. Though I suppose there’s something about magic that makes ball bearings and gravity not work.” Harry shrugged in a mock helpless sort of way.
Draco rolled his eyes. “What are you talking about, Potter-” Blaise coughed. “-Black?”
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(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-03 01:19 pm (UTC)In other news, I have decided to make a list of all the names you've given Voldemort.
Guy-With-Way-Too-Many-Nicknames
Master of Snakes and Moron Who Doesn’t Listen to His Own Warnings
Fearsome-One-Once-Known-As-Tom
Master Overlord
He-Who-Can’t-Be-Named-Because-He-Hasn’t-Thought-of-One-Yet
Mr. Do-As-I-Say-Not-As-I-Do
Bringer-Home-of-the-Bacon
Dark Lord of Mistreating Texts
Master of the Mysteries of the Dark
Self-Proclaimed Evilest Man Who Ever Eviled EVER
He-Who-Has-No-Concept-Of-Personal-Space
Also, I would like to say (after re-reading the chapters to find these names), that I rather like how you made Moody use "Constant Vigilance!" as a swear. And James telling Voldemort and the Death Eaters to get off his lawn was very amusing as well.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-03 08:07 pm (UTC)I pretty much wrote the entire softball fic just so Moody could say, "Constant Vigilance!". That's just the type of person I am.