Fanfiction: Once Upon a Freakin' Time
Happy birthday to me.
Lord Voldemort Is Another Year Older, Though Not Necessarily Another Year Wiser
“I’m wasting my life!” announced Lord Voldemort, apropos of nothing.
“Never!” protested Avery.
“My Lord!” cried a shocked Wormtail.
“Eh?” asked Lucius.
Snape sighed. “It’s your birthday again, isn’t it?”
Voldemort pursed his lips until they were bloodless, and lowered his eyelids to assume a more brooding aspect. He stalked toward his followers, then paused dramatically. “Yes, Severus. Another year in the life of Lord Voldemort has passed.”
“Happy Birthday!” cried Lucius, his wand disbursing a fountain of confetti with a loud BAM!
“No!” snapped Voldemort, swishing his arms about to disperse the confetti. “It is not a happy birthday! It is a terrible birthday. I have had an epiphany!”
“What kind of spell is that?” Avery asked Lucius.
“I have dedicated my life to fomenting my Dark powers. To unlocking the forbidden secrets most wizards are too weak to face. But what has it brought me? Unimaginable power and influence, yes. But has it made me happy? Do I feel fulfilled?”
“I invented it myself,” answered Lucius.
“No, I am not happy; I am not fulfilled. I have made a mistake. But there is still time to right it. I can make a difference in the world, and in myself. Therefore, I have decided to disband the Death Eaters and join an animal rights activist group protesting at a mink farm.”
“What?” asked the stunned Death Eaters.
“I know you’re shocked. After all, I have replaced your own will as your raison d’être in these past few years. Merlin knows what you’ll do without me, but you’ll all just have to cope. Maybe I’ll send you a postcard.” And with a jaunty wave, Lord Voldemort was out the door, down the wide, stone walkway, and off to a new life.
“Wow,” said Lucius. “Good for him.”
ONE WEEK LATER
Peter Pettigrew took a deep breath and patted the back of his newly purchased heifer. The previous owner, a crusty farmer with red-rimmed eyes, nodded his head at Peter’s pride, and said, “That’s a fine animal you’ve purchased. What do you plan to do with her?”
“I’ve always wanted to open a dairy farm,” replied Peter, “but I figured I’d start small.”
“Well, you’re off to a good start, I’d say.”
Peter had thought he would be lost without Lord Voldemort to protect him. He’d had a panic attack following Voldemort’s adieu, but after Snape had cursed some sense into him, he’d had a revelation of his own. He didn’t need protection. He wasn’t proud: he could live as a rat, or even a Muggle. In fact, maybe that was what he wanted. No more Voldemort telling him what to do. No more bowing and scraping, and hoping to be ignored when the dragon shit hit the fan. He’d be his own man. Rat. Whatever. He’d buy a cow.
And so far, life was wonderful. He’d hung up his Death Eater’s mask in his cupboard (labeled with masking tape, “Wormtail”), and fled to the country. His future was spread out before him, like the sunlit, cow littered field he was standing in. He would live a quiet life, full of early mornings, satisfyingly hard work, and fresh, homemade cheese. Lots and lots of fresh, homemade cheese.
Lifting his arms over his head, Peter enjoyed a nice, relaxing stretch, before turning to the elder farmer, ready to pay for his purchase. But before he could open his mouth to close the deal that would open the rest of his life, a searing pain shot up his arm. He let out a shrill squeak, causing the farmer to jump back, mystified. Peter’s fingertips tingled as the bolt of agony localized itself in his forearm - right on his Dark Mark.
Gasping and twitching on his feet, he turned to the farmer. “I’m sorry. Excuse me. The Master is calling.”
“Never heard it called that before,” the farmer harrumphed, as Peter ran out of his line of sight to Apparate.
Seconds later, Peter was back in a place he’d thought he’d never see again. Crowded into the foyer of their headquarters/house were nearly all of the Death Eaters, each looking as confused and surprised as Peter. Snape and Lucius lounged near the staircase, apparently discussing Lucius’s lack-of-Voldemort-inspired visit to a rainmaker in Wajir, Kenya. Skittering over to join them, Peter asked, “What’s happening? Why are we here?”
Before either could answer, a familiar voice boomed down the stairs, “I have had another epiphany!”
Staring up the staircase, Peter saw Lord Voldemort, his eyes ablaze with renewed vigor, proudly descending toward his recently released followers. “Welcome back, all of you. I appreciate your promptness. I take it you all share my zeal for recovering the Darkness within.”
Snape frowned while the Born Again Dark Lord made a quick headcount of the Death Eaters. “I thought you had a new calling in life. Weren’t you campaigning for animal rights?”
“I was. But a few nights ago, I realized I was taking joy in releasing mink from fur farms not because they were free, but because they would terrorize the countryside, killing small animals and pets, and then getting trapped or killed by larger native predators themselves. I thought I cared about the long-term goal, but I really only wanted to get in on the methods. And then I realized, this is what I’ve been doing all along, but with Muggles and wizards, not mustelids. And doing it to people is far more satisfying. So I’ve decided to reclaim my mantle as Dark Lord, and re-gather my followers.”
“You mean your mink,” said Snape with a cynical sneer.
“So, the Death Eaters are back in business?” asked Peter mournfully.
“Do you have something better to do, Wormtail?” questioned Lord Voldemort, with a dangerous look on his face.
“No. No, not at all,” sighed Peter, and went to get his mask from his cupboard.
Lord Voldemort Is Another Year Older, Though Not Necessarily Another Year Wiser
“I’m wasting my life!” announced Lord Voldemort, apropos of nothing.
“Never!” protested Avery.
“My Lord!” cried a shocked Wormtail.
“Eh?” asked Lucius.
Snape sighed. “It’s your birthday again, isn’t it?”
Voldemort pursed his lips until they were bloodless, and lowered his eyelids to assume a more brooding aspect. He stalked toward his followers, then paused dramatically. “Yes, Severus. Another year in the life of Lord Voldemort has passed.”
“Happy Birthday!” cried Lucius, his wand disbursing a fountain of confetti with a loud BAM!
“No!” snapped Voldemort, swishing his arms about to disperse the confetti. “It is not a happy birthday! It is a terrible birthday. I have had an epiphany!”
“What kind of spell is that?” Avery asked Lucius.
“I have dedicated my life to fomenting my Dark powers. To unlocking the forbidden secrets most wizards are too weak to face. But what has it brought me? Unimaginable power and influence, yes. But has it made me happy? Do I feel fulfilled?”
“I invented it myself,” answered Lucius.
“No, I am not happy; I am not fulfilled. I have made a mistake. But there is still time to right it. I can make a difference in the world, and in myself. Therefore, I have decided to disband the Death Eaters and join an animal rights activist group protesting at a mink farm.”
“What?” asked the stunned Death Eaters.
“I know you’re shocked. After all, I have replaced your own will as your raison d’être in these past few years. Merlin knows what you’ll do without me, but you’ll all just have to cope. Maybe I’ll send you a postcard.” And with a jaunty wave, Lord Voldemort was out the door, down the wide, stone walkway, and off to a new life.
“Wow,” said Lucius. “Good for him.”
ONE WEEK LATER
Peter Pettigrew took a deep breath and patted the back of his newly purchased heifer. The previous owner, a crusty farmer with red-rimmed eyes, nodded his head at Peter’s pride, and said, “That’s a fine animal you’ve purchased. What do you plan to do with her?”
“I’ve always wanted to open a dairy farm,” replied Peter, “but I figured I’d start small.”
“Well, you’re off to a good start, I’d say.”
Peter had thought he would be lost without Lord Voldemort to protect him. He’d had a panic attack following Voldemort’s adieu, but after Snape had cursed some sense into him, he’d had a revelation of his own. He didn’t need protection. He wasn’t proud: he could live as a rat, or even a Muggle. In fact, maybe that was what he wanted. No more Voldemort telling him what to do. No more bowing and scraping, and hoping to be ignored when the dragon shit hit the fan. He’d be his own man. Rat. Whatever. He’d buy a cow.
And so far, life was wonderful. He’d hung up his Death Eater’s mask in his cupboard (labeled with masking tape, “Wormtail”), and fled to the country. His future was spread out before him, like the sunlit, cow littered field he was standing in. He would live a quiet life, full of early mornings, satisfyingly hard work, and fresh, homemade cheese. Lots and lots of fresh, homemade cheese.
Lifting his arms over his head, Peter enjoyed a nice, relaxing stretch, before turning to the elder farmer, ready to pay for his purchase. But before he could open his mouth to close the deal that would open the rest of his life, a searing pain shot up his arm. He let out a shrill squeak, causing the farmer to jump back, mystified. Peter’s fingertips tingled as the bolt of agony localized itself in his forearm - right on his Dark Mark.
Gasping and twitching on his feet, he turned to the farmer. “I’m sorry. Excuse me. The Master is calling.”
“Never heard it called that before,” the farmer harrumphed, as Peter ran out of his line of sight to Apparate.
Seconds later, Peter was back in a place he’d thought he’d never see again. Crowded into the foyer of their headquarters/house were nearly all of the Death Eaters, each looking as confused and surprised as Peter. Snape and Lucius lounged near the staircase, apparently discussing Lucius’s lack-of-Voldemort-inspired visit to a rainmaker in Wajir, Kenya. Skittering over to join them, Peter asked, “What’s happening? Why are we here?”
Before either could answer, a familiar voice boomed down the stairs, “I have had another epiphany!”
Staring up the staircase, Peter saw Lord Voldemort, his eyes ablaze with renewed vigor, proudly descending toward his recently released followers. “Welcome back, all of you. I appreciate your promptness. I take it you all share my zeal for recovering the Darkness within.”
Snape frowned while the Born Again Dark Lord made a quick headcount of the Death Eaters. “I thought you had a new calling in life. Weren’t you campaigning for animal rights?”
“I was. But a few nights ago, I realized I was taking joy in releasing mink from fur farms not because they were free, but because they would terrorize the countryside, killing small animals and pets, and then getting trapped or killed by larger native predators themselves. I thought I cared about the long-term goal, but I really only wanted to get in on the methods. And then I realized, this is what I’ve been doing all along, but with Muggles and wizards, not mustelids. And doing it to people is far more satisfying. So I’ve decided to reclaim my mantle as Dark Lord, and re-gather my followers.”
“You mean your mink,” said Snape with a cynical sneer.
“So, the Death Eaters are back in business?” asked Peter mournfully.
“Do you have something better to do, Wormtail?” questioned Lord Voldemort, with a dangerous look on his face.
“No. No, not at all,” sighed Peter, and went to get his mask from his cupboard.