Fanfiction: Once Upon a Freakin' Time
Okay, so maybe this should have technically been called "The Death Eaters Ruin the Lestranges' Reception," but that didn't have the same ring.
The Death Eaters Ruin the Lestranges' Wedding
Bellatrix Black-Lestrange had never been happier. No, that would be incorrect to say, for Bellatrix was above such common, plebian feelings as happiness. She was self-righteously satisfied. (As was the author, who realized her speculation that Mrs. Lestrange had a dumb alliterative name was right all along.) She had made the perfect match (pureblood, approved family, but not so closely related that the children would be born with gills or, Morgana forbid, a Squib); her perfect wedding was over in a flurry of opulent altarpieces, fresh day lilies and gigantic, garish hats; and her reception was being officiated by Lord Voldermort, Dark Master of Ceremonies, himself.
Her smugness probably could have smothered a small puppy. Perhaps she would test that hypothesis later.
Her sister Narcissa, replete in a screaming yellow dress with puffy sleeves and an accompanying wide brimmed hat mounted with a stuffed canary studded with rhinestone eyes to match the dress’s trim, followed closely behind Bellatrix to keep her train from dragging on the ground. Bellatrix felt slight gratitude toward her sister, and congratulated herself on dressing her sister in the least hideous of the bridesmaids’ dresses.
She wished to present herself to Lord Voldemort and thank him for his generosity in supplying the staff, food and entertainment for her reception. However, he currently appeared to be lecturing to Severus Snape, Lucius Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov and, ick, Fenrir Greyback. She made a wide pass around the group, making sure that the Dark Lord saw she had arrived. She would pay her respects later.
The group of gentlemen (and one werewolf) Death Eaters did notice the ladies passing by. They paused their conversation politely, but Lucius couldn’t resist waggling his eyebrows at Narcissa. She returned the gesture with some googly-eyes of her own. “Would you stop flirting with her?” hissed Snape. “Your hydraulic eyebrows nearly caused the pastor to spill the sacrament several times.”
Lucius pouted, but didn’t argue, as it was impossible to argue against the truth.
“I’m hungry,” growled Fenrir, bringing the group back to the subject they had been discussing before Bellatrix and Narcissa swept by.
“Quelle surprise,” replied Voldemort. “I’m going to need a drink if I’m going to stomach Lucius’s romantic attempts and your whining. Where’s a waiter?”
At a gesture from Voldemort, an Inferius lurched into Lucius with the apparent intent of offering the group a tray carrying flutes of champagne. The undead creature moaned lowly as they all warily took a glass, making sure to keep an eye on all their stray fingers. Once the tray was empty, the Inferius shambled back to the cash bar.
“You should have hired caterers,” said Snape to Voldemort.
“Nonsense,” replied Voldemort. “Why should I pay for good help when I can just raise them from the dead?” As another Inferius passed with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, Voldemort picked off a spinach tart and some pinkish paste spread on a cracker.
Fenrir sniffed at the snacks and snorted angrily. “I want meat!” declared Fenrir. “I’m a carnivore. I won’t eat any of this vegetable crap!”
Voldemort sighed. “Then why don’t you go up to the main table and ask what the house elves are whipping up for the main course?”
Fenrir slouched a little and said sheepishly, “I might…accidentally scavenge one of the Inferi.”
“Not at the reception!” snapped Voldemort. “Lucius, go up and ask what we’re having for dinner. I’m feeling a bit peckish myself.”
Lucuis, who hated getting stuck with the goffer jobs, consoled himself with the thought that he might run into Narcissa, and convince her to step away from her sister for a little “alone time.” In the “broom closet.” If you “know what I mean.”
As Lucius walked away with a jaunty little bounce in his step, Voldemort noticed the groom had recently arrived, and took it upon himself to grab another flute of champagne and introduce himself as the man’s new Lord and Master. Sweeping across the room, watching all scatter before him, Voldemort loomed briefly over the surprised looking Rodolphus before grabbing him tightly around the shoulders and steering him to the other side of the dance floor. Voldemort glowered beatifically (if that’s at all possible) at the surprised and slightly horrified husband of his favorite Death Eater.
“Have we met before?” asked Voldemort, peering at the man.
“Yes, my Lord. I have served you loyally for many years.”
“Oh. Lestrange, is it?”
“Um, yes, my Lord.”
“French, right?”
“…Sure.”
“Lies,” stated Voldemort, gesturing with his glass and sloshing his champagne all over the parquet dance floor.
“My Lord?”
“I know it looks like French, since you have the ‘le’ article in front of the word ‘strange,’ but ‘strange’ isn’t French for ‘strange.’ It’s ‘étrange.’ Technically, your name should be Létrange, or quite possibly ‘Lesétrangers.’ That would make sense.”
Rudolphus blinked. “I’d never given it much thought before, my Lord.”
“Well, you should,” said Voldemort. “Your French makes my French look positively inspired.”
“I didn’t come up with it, my Master. It is an old and venerable name-”
“Oh, please! Find me one other Lestrange!”
“My father-”
“Immediate relatives don’t count! It’s a conspiracy. You’re all in this together.”
Wary of offending the Dark Lord, but eaten up with anger at the disparagement of his family’s heritage, Rudolphus came to a decision. He would show his resourcefulness to his Master, who was recognizing him for the first time. “I will bring you a Floo Network Directory, my Lord.”
Voldemort looked at him in much the same way as he would look at a tropical fish while snorkeling. “All right.”
“That shall prove to you, sir, that there others who share the name ‘Lestrange.’ It shall be a dangerous task, as I need to break into the Ministry to find this register. I think this speaks of my commitment to my family, which I hope you realize applies to you in my many years of service.”
Voldemort nodded and looked into his empty wine flute. “You do that,” he said, while looking around for an Inferius to top him off.
And thus charged with his mission, Rodolphus exited his own wedding party to break into the Ministry and hunt down other people who shared his name. Because he had all his priorities in the right order.
“Strange man,” said Voldemort to the Inferius who had meandered over with another tray of drinks. “Maybe that explains his name.” The undead creature moaned in what Voldemort assumed to be agreement as he tried to determine which glass held the most champagne. It was difficult, what with all the sloshing around as the Inferius swayed back and forth. Voldemort was pleased at his own coordination as he snagged a glass almost full to the brim.
Snape, who had seen Rudolphus walk out, hurried up to Voldemort to find out what had happened. “My Lord, where is the groom going?”
“I have no idea,” replied Voldemort. “I think he’s gone to find his long lost family.”
“But they’re all on the other side of the room,” said Lucius, wandering back to the group. His robe front was rumpled, his collar smudged with pink lipstick and his hair had come out of the neat ponytail he’d pulled up for the ceremony.
“I don’t think he knows that,” replied Voldemort. “I think I need to sit down now.”
“Did you find out what we’re having for dinner?” asked Dolohov of Lucius.
“Oh! Yes,” said Lucius, who had forgotten his mission while getting his clothing rearranged (not that it mattered, as Voldemort had forgotten he’d sent Lucius off, or that Fenrir was a strict carnivore, or even that he was at a wedding). “I spoke to the head waiter. It seems we’re having braaaaaaiiiins. And marble cake.”
Voldemort plopped down in a folding chair and watched, highly amused, as his followers frantically scrambled for their own chairs so they would not be placed higher than He-Who-Must-Sit-A-Head-Above-Everybody. His bemusement was interrupted, however, as a wide, blurry vision in white approached and knelt at his feet. It took him a whole minute to realize this was a human being. “Bella!” he cried, throwing up his hands in amazement at his own deductive brilliance.
“My Lord, I have come to inform you that Rodolphus and I will be cutting the cake momentarily. I am greatly flattered you have chosen to fête our lowly union. I beg your blessing, and pray that you will do us the great honor of giving the first toast.”
Voldemort rose and nodded to no one in particular. “Right. I’ll need another glass for the toast. Nobody go anywhere!”
Bellatrix accepted Dolohov’s proffered hand and rose as Voldemort marched away, blossoming under his recognition and the great honor he was bestowing upon her. She would never forget this day. Bellatrix looked around at the Death Eaters who had been privy to Lord Voldemort’s council, and rejoiced at her pre-eminence over them. Then, she blinked.
“Has anyone seen my husband?” she asked.
The Death Eaters Ruin the Lestranges' Wedding
Bellatrix Black-Lestrange had never been happier. No, that would be incorrect to say, for Bellatrix was above such common, plebian feelings as happiness. She was self-righteously satisfied. (As was the author, who realized her speculation that Mrs. Lestrange had a dumb alliterative name was right all along.) She had made the perfect match (pureblood, approved family, but not so closely related that the children would be born with gills or, Morgana forbid, a Squib); her perfect wedding was over in a flurry of opulent altarpieces, fresh day lilies and gigantic, garish hats; and her reception was being officiated by Lord Voldermort, Dark Master of Ceremonies, himself.
Her smugness probably could have smothered a small puppy. Perhaps she would test that hypothesis later.
Her sister Narcissa, replete in a screaming yellow dress with puffy sleeves and an accompanying wide brimmed hat mounted with a stuffed canary studded with rhinestone eyes to match the dress’s trim, followed closely behind Bellatrix to keep her train from dragging on the ground. Bellatrix felt slight gratitude toward her sister, and congratulated herself on dressing her sister in the least hideous of the bridesmaids’ dresses.
She wished to present herself to Lord Voldemort and thank him for his generosity in supplying the staff, food and entertainment for her reception. However, he currently appeared to be lecturing to Severus Snape, Lucius Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov and, ick, Fenrir Greyback. She made a wide pass around the group, making sure that the Dark Lord saw she had arrived. She would pay her respects later.
The group of gentlemen (and one werewolf) Death Eaters did notice the ladies passing by. They paused their conversation politely, but Lucius couldn’t resist waggling his eyebrows at Narcissa. She returned the gesture with some googly-eyes of her own. “Would you stop flirting with her?” hissed Snape. “Your hydraulic eyebrows nearly caused the pastor to spill the sacrament several times.”
Lucius pouted, but didn’t argue, as it was impossible to argue against the truth.
“I’m hungry,” growled Fenrir, bringing the group back to the subject they had been discussing before Bellatrix and Narcissa swept by.
“Quelle surprise,” replied Voldemort. “I’m going to need a drink if I’m going to stomach Lucius’s romantic attempts and your whining. Where’s a waiter?”
At a gesture from Voldemort, an Inferius lurched into Lucius with the apparent intent of offering the group a tray carrying flutes of champagne. The undead creature moaned lowly as they all warily took a glass, making sure to keep an eye on all their stray fingers. Once the tray was empty, the Inferius shambled back to the cash bar.
“You should have hired caterers,” said Snape to Voldemort.
“Nonsense,” replied Voldemort. “Why should I pay for good help when I can just raise them from the dead?” As another Inferius passed with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, Voldemort picked off a spinach tart and some pinkish paste spread on a cracker.
Fenrir sniffed at the snacks and snorted angrily. “I want meat!” declared Fenrir. “I’m a carnivore. I won’t eat any of this vegetable crap!”
Voldemort sighed. “Then why don’t you go up to the main table and ask what the house elves are whipping up for the main course?”
Fenrir slouched a little and said sheepishly, “I might…accidentally scavenge one of the Inferi.”
“Not at the reception!” snapped Voldemort. “Lucius, go up and ask what we’re having for dinner. I’m feeling a bit peckish myself.”
Lucuis, who hated getting stuck with the goffer jobs, consoled himself with the thought that he might run into Narcissa, and convince her to step away from her sister for a little “alone time.” In the “broom closet.” If you “know what I mean.”
As Lucius walked away with a jaunty little bounce in his step, Voldemort noticed the groom had recently arrived, and took it upon himself to grab another flute of champagne and introduce himself as the man’s new Lord and Master. Sweeping across the room, watching all scatter before him, Voldemort loomed briefly over the surprised looking Rodolphus before grabbing him tightly around the shoulders and steering him to the other side of the dance floor. Voldemort glowered beatifically (if that’s at all possible) at the surprised and slightly horrified husband of his favorite Death Eater.
“Have we met before?” asked Voldemort, peering at the man.
“Yes, my Lord. I have served you loyally for many years.”
“Oh. Lestrange, is it?”
“Um, yes, my Lord.”
“French, right?”
“…Sure.”
“Lies,” stated Voldemort, gesturing with his glass and sloshing his champagne all over the parquet dance floor.
“My Lord?”
“I know it looks like French, since you have the ‘le’ article in front of the word ‘strange,’ but ‘strange’ isn’t French for ‘strange.’ It’s ‘étrange.’ Technically, your name should be Létrange, or quite possibly ‘Lesétrangers.’ That would make sense.”
Rudolphus blinked. “I’d never given it much thought before, my Lord.”
“Well, you should,” said Voldemort. “Your French makes my French look positively inspired.”
“I didn’t come up with it, my Master. It is an old and venerable name-”
“Oh, please! Find me one other Lestrange!”
“My father-”
“Immediate relatives don’t count! It’s a conspiracy. You’re all in this together.”
Wary of offending the Dark Lord, but eaten up with anger at the disparagement of his family’s heritage, Rudolphus came to a decision. He would show his resourcefulness to his Master, who was recognizing him for the first time. “I will bring you a Floo Network Directory, my Lord.”
Voldemort looked at him in much the same way as he would look at a tropical fish while snorkeling. “All right.”
“That shall prove to you, sir, that there others who share the name ‘Lestrange.’ It shall be a dangerous task, as I need to break into the Ministry to find this register. I think this speaks of my commitment to my family, which I hope you realize applies to you in my many years of service.”
Voldemort nodded and looked into his empty wine flute. “You do that,” he said, while looking around for an Inferius to top him off.
And thus charged with his mission, Rodolphus exited his own wedding party to break into the Ministry and hunt down other people who shared his name. Because he had all his priorities in the right order.
“Strange man,” said Voldemort to the Inferius who had meandered over with another tray of drinks. “Maybe that explains his name.” The undead creature moaned in what Voldemort assumed to be agreement as he tried to determine which glass held the most champagne. It was difficult, what with all the sloshing around as the Inferius swayed back and forth. Voldemort was pleased at his own coordination as he snagged a glass almost full to the brim.
Snape, who had seen Rudolphus walk out, hurried up to Voldemort to find out what had happened. “My Lord, where is the groom going?”
“I have no idea,” replied Voldemort. “I think he’s gone to find his long lost family.”
“But they’re all on the other side of the room,” said Lucius, wandering back to the group. His robe front was rumpled, his collar smudged with pink lipstick and his hair had come out of the neat ponytail he’d pulled up for the ceremony.
“I don’t think he knows that,” replied Voldemort. “I think I need to sit down now.”
“Did you find out what we’re having for dinner?” asked Dolohov of Lucius.
“Oh! Yes,” said Lucius, who had forgotten his mission while getting his clothing rearranged (not that it mattered, as Voldemort had forgotten he’d sent Lucius off, or that Fenrir was a strict carnivore, or even that he was at a wedding). “I spoke to the head waiter. It seems we’re having braaaaaaiiiins. And marble cake.”
Voldemort plopped down in a folding chair and watched, highly amused, as his followers frantically scrambled for their own chairs so they would not be placed higher than He-Who-Must-Sit-A-Head-Above-Everybody. His bemusement was interrupted, however, as a wide, blurry vision in white approached and knelt at his feet. It took him a whole minute to realize this was a human being. “Bella!” he cried, throwing up his hands in amazement at his own deductive brilliance.
“My Lord, I have come to inform you that Rodolphus and I will be cutting the cake momentarily. I am greatly flattered you have chosen to fête our lowly union. I beg your blessing, and pray that you will do us the great honor of giving the first toast.”
Voldemort rose and nodded to no one in particular. “Right. I’ll need another glass for the toast. Nobody go anywhere!”
Bellatrix accepted Dolohov’s proffered hand and rose as Voldemort marched away, blossoming under his recognition and the great honor he was bestowing upon her. She would never forget this day. Bellatrix looked around at the Death Eaters who had been privy to Lord Voldemort’s council, and rejoiced at her pre-eminence over them. Then, she blinked.
“Has anyone seen my husband?” she asked.