Just waiting for a pizza...
As I sit here waiting for dinner to be delivered, I've decided to post up the other fic I made to answer a challenge issued (again) by HPFF. It's completely ridiculous--the challenge was to write a fic about Voldemort deciding to change his name. I'll probably regret posting this up later, but what the hell:
The Dark Lord formerly known as Voldemort
Characters: Voldemort, Peter Pettigrew, various Death Eaters
Rating: PG-13
Summary:
The Dark Lord Formerly Known as Voldemort
Long after Lord Voldemort had vanquished young Harry Potter in an all too long and drawn out battle, (one which he continually cursed for having to happen in the first place), the evil overlord decided to return to his family manor in Little Hangleton. The small village was now devoid of all muggles, and what few witches and wizards still resided there were Voldemort supporters--not that they had much choice in the matter.
A fire blazed in one of the upper rooms of the Riddle House and outside, a short, twitchy man who was in the garden glanced up at it, his face practically grey with worry. Lord Voldemort called this man Wormtail, and had sent him to destroy a flower that was blooming in one of the old gardens. A dark ruler’s residence should be foreboding, not frilly, and Voldemort liked to keep up appearances.
This, of course, was why he had sent Wormtail from the room. Lord Voldemort was having one of his private moments of vanity, and he couldn’t allow someone like Wormtail to witness it. He stood in front of a full-length mirror with a frown etched onto face. He narrowed his scarlet eyes at his reflection, and his long, white fingers caressed the length of his face, pausing at where his nose would be if he had possessed a real nose. Lord Voldemort hadn’t had a nose for quite some time now, and unlike Alastor Moody, he didn’t have to attribute his lack of nose cartilage to battle scars. It was his decision to look like this, and he refused to admit that it was his own fault.
Though Voldemort was not the type of wizard particularly interested in appearance, he often found himself staring at his reflection, especially after visits from Lucius Malfoy and his son, Draco. Both men were quite beautiful, and they used it to their full advantage, especially when dealing with the public. Because of their prestige and looks, they could hold and captivate an audience for Lord Voldemort quite easily. It was one of the reasons he considered Lucius one of his best servants. Still, if he spent more than ten minutes with either man, he began to regret his choice to toss away his boyish looks in favour of a more serpentine appearance. His red eyes he could deal with. He actually liked their fiendish gleam. It was only on occasion that he missed the finer points of his form, like his aristocratic nose and his fine, dark hair.
He chalked most of the Malfoys’ good looks up to veela blood in their lineage. With silvery-blonde hair like Lucius’s, and because Malfoy men had a penchant for beautiful women, Lord Voldemort was almost certain that somewhere down the line a veela had been married into the family. It would also explain the Malfoy temper, not that he minded that in the least. Both Lucius and Draco responded very well when either’s patience was tried. Voldemort considered it an admirable quality.
He sometimes wished that Draco and Lucius weren’t quite so easy on the eyes. Anymore, when Voldemort was spotted in public, he was subjected to gawking, horrified screams, and the occasional fainter. He leered into the mirror, angry with himself for feeling jealous over something so trivial as looks. The Dark Lord was not supposed to be jealous of anyone. He wasn’t going to kowtow or conform to the general consensus of what made a man--wizard, he corrected himself--handsome. He was setting the standards in the world now, and what he said was to be abided by all.
Of course, this was now his problem.
At first, he had shrugged it off as idiotic commercialism. Young Gregory Goyle had appeared at one of the Death Eater rallies with a “Support Voldemort” t-shirt. Enraged that one of his Death Eaters had the gall to wear something with his self-entitlement and not “The Dark Lord,” Voldemort made the young man take it off, enduring the rest of the three-hour rally bare-chested. To make matters worse, he put Goyle under the Imperius, forcing him to jump up and down, his soft upper body wiggling and jiggling for all to see. Had Goyle a bit more sense or emotional capabilities, he might have been reduced to tears.
Lord Voldemort resolved to try harder next time.
After that, he received reports that quite a few more “Support Voldemort” t-shirts were popping up around the United Kingdom. Muggles even dared to wear them, thinking that it would cause Voldemort’s loyal army to be a bit more lenient. Voldemort was swift with his campaign against the new fad, and quickly gave orders to destroy the t-shirts and magically tattoo the words “Obey Voldemort” across the victim’s shoulder blades. It was a message to any other foolish muggles and it worked quite well. People were becoming true victims of fashion.
Of course, fads never die that easily, and he was quite appalled when he caught wind that “Obey Voldemort” tattoos were all the rage in tattoo parlours across the country.
The Wizard’s Wireless Network reported that the mortality rate for tattoo artists rose to 110% that month.
Lord Voldemort and his closest and oldest circle of Death Eaters stamped out all of the commercialism nonsense in the beginning, save Halloween, when their efforts became outnumbered. Whereas Harry Potter costumes had been popular naught but a few years before, Lord Voldemort costumes were all the rage, complete with a bone-white, snake-faced mask, black robes, and an eleven-inch wand. Storeowners stocked and re-stocked the dark costumes, and Lord Voldemort was the number one costume that year. Try as they might, the Death Eaters couldn’t stop every costume from being sold, nor could they stop creative mothers from making the costumes themselves. The only compensation for this was that hundreds of Harry Potter costumes were still hanging on the racks, and the kids who ended up having to go as Harry Potter were egged and had their candy stolen. One poor, little, round-spectacled child with a lightning bolt painted on his forehead swore he was egged by Voldemort himself, but the Dark Lord would neither confirm or deny that fact.
Lord Voldemort gazed at his reflection, a sneer playing at the corners of his lips. He should have realized it when it first began. Had he had the inclination that it would become such a large issue, he would have put a stop to it then.
“M-my Lord?” a timid voice asked, apologetically, from the doorway.
Lord Voldemort turned around quickly, his eyes resting on a short, dumpy man with watery eyes and pointed nose. “What is it, Wormtail?”
“M-my Lord, I’ve just received another notice.” Wormtail’s eyes were focused on his feet, and he shifted his weight nervously. He had always been too scared to make direct eye contact with his master. “I’m sorry to interrupt, master.” He bowed his head quickly, shoulders slumping. His silver hand shook, tightly clutched around an envelope in his fist.
Lord Voldemort’s brow raised in surprise. “No,” he snarled. “Ignorant fools!” He brandished his wand and hastily summoned the letter from Wormtail. He opened it up and scanned the letter, his snake-like nostrils flaring as his temper rose. “Another Voldemort!” he exclaimed. His voice rose to a high, shrill pitch. “Another damned Voldemort!”
Wormtail nodded quickly, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “Yes, master.” His eyes darted around wildly as he noticed the lights in the room begin to flicker from Voldemort’s intense mood swing. It was not going to be good.
Lord Voldemort was so incensed by the letter that it burst into flames in his hand, the ashes drifting slowly to the floor. “This it the third time in six months!” he exclaimed. He could scarcely believe it. Ever since he had been dominating the world with a fierce, unforgiving fist, he had started to receive legal notices that he was being sued for slander. Two people from France had claimed that Voldemort was an old family name and that his image was ruining their reputation. This third one was from an American. The nerve.
It was preposterous.
“Wormtail,” he spat, trying to control his temper. “Your arm.”
Nodding, Wormtail shuddered and scuttled forward, rolling up his sleeve and exposing his left arm.
Voldemort pressed his long forefinger to the Dark Mark on Peter’s forearm, which burned and sizzled under his touch. Moments later, the room was filled with the cracking and popping sounds of wizards and witches apparating.
One by one, they approached him, crawling up and kissing the hem of his robes. He sighed internally, noting how some of them crawled preposterously slow, and that most of them were very twitchy, save Bella, who crawled forward like a panther stalking its prey. Still, he stood straight-shouldered, chin lifted proudly, looking at them all with the best disdainful look that he could muster and resisting the urge to kick at them. The entire greeting process really did take an absurdly long time, and he had important things on his agenda. As Theodore Nott crawled away, he eyed the group steadily.
“It seems that I have encountered a problem,” he began, his gaze slowly drifting over each and every Death Eater standing before him. “My image has become besmirched by commercialism.”
A few consenting grunts echoed throughout the group, and the hoods bobbed up and down in agreement.
“There have been t-shirts, legal notices, and costumes, all of which you haven’t been able to stop. Muggles even dare to speak my name freely!” he continued, his voice deathly quiet. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”
As he spoke, he noticed a pair of light grey eyes sparkling with amusement from behind one of the hoods. That particular Death Eater turned to his neighbour and muttered something that sounded like “Let’s not forget about the red contacts.”
Lord Voldemort inhaled on a long hiss, grabbing his wand and pointing it at the young man. “How dare you speak while I am talking?” He flicked his wand at the boy, hissing “Imperius!” He pulled the boy away from the line of Death Eaters, managing to trip him and make him fall flat onto his face, exposing fine, silvery hair and a pointed, grimacing face. Voldemort didn’t allow the boy’s arms to catch his fall, and laughed mirthlessly at him when he landed on the floor with a thud. “Explain yourself!”
Draco Malfoy gave a soft moan as he stood up, face flushed in embarrassment. He was a spoiled boy and, because of this, he didn’t respond well to public humiliation. Lord Voldemort knew that lessons like these would leave a lasting effect. If Lucius and Narcissa couldn’t teach the boy respect, he would. Draco would learn to keep his tongue quiet in the presence of his master.
Lucius Malfoy drew an icy glare away from his son long enough to clear his throat. “Master, please forgive my son for his callow manners.” He walked up to Draco and placed a firm, if not painful, grip on the boy’s shoulder. “He knows better.” This last comment was directed at Draco, and Lucius’s voice was bitter and cool. It was obvious that this was just the beginning of Draco’s reprimand.
Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the pair of men. “He didn’t, obviously,” he replied shortly. He would have been even harsher except for the fact that his curiosity about Malfoy’s comment was nagging at him. “What were you talking about, young Malfoy?”
Draco winced under his father’s grip, but he was intelligent enough to realize that he had acted poorly and would have to suffer the consequences. “Red contacts, my Lord,” he repeated, puffing up proudly. “It’s the newest fad in both the wizard and muggle worlds. People are putting red contacts with black slits for pupils into their eyes to imitate yours.”
The look on Lord Voldemort’s face made the entire group of Death Eaters shudder simultaneously. Even Draco’s smug look melted away.
“Contacts?” Voldemort repeated, aghast. Once again, he became so infuriated that all of the lights in the room went out, save the warm glow coming from the fireplace. “That’s it! This nonsense has gone too far. It’s time for me to introduce myself as the new, intolerant, Dark Ruler of the Universe. It’s time for me to create an image that will strike fear into the hearts of these idiotic mortals.”
The Death Eaters muttered quietly amongst themselves, deciding that perhaps this was the best route for Voldemort to go.
Voldemort, pondering his announcement, addressed them. “Each of you will suggest a new name that is suitable for a dark, treacherous Lord.” With a flick of his wand, a piece of parchment and quill appeared in front of every Death Eater, and, of all things, the Goblet of Fire. After he had killed Harry Potter and most of the Order of the Phoenix, he had raided Hogwarts for souvenirs. The goblet was one of his favourite finds, even though it reminded him of Harry’s lucky escape in the cemetery. Voldemort only wished that Harry were alive to see it sitting on the Riddle mantle, displayed triumphantly.
“Write the name down and drop it into the goblet. I will look at the suggestions and see if any of them will suffice.”
He turned away from them and walked over to the fireplace, staring at the orangey-red flames. Some of this lot were intelligent, and perhaps he could find at least one suitable idea to expand on. He considered redeveloping his image on his own, but was so attached to Lord Voldemort that he found it hard to commit to any other name.
The Death Eaters’ quills scratched at their parchments, and one by one, each dropped his or her suggestion into the goblet. It began to emit a thick, putrid-smelling green smoke, signalling that everyone had submitted an entry. Lord Voldemort quickly walked over to it, snatching a piece of paper that shot out of the goblet like a bullet.
His face went from a pensive thin-lipped frown to a sneer as his eyes scanned over the parchment. “You-Know-Who,” he said quietly. He lifted the parchment up into the air, scowling at the group. “Who on earth suggested this drivel?”
No one raised his or her hand, but because the Dark Lord’s skills at Leglimency were so great, it didn’t take him long to find the culprit. “Mr. Crabbe,” he said, leering. “You truly are a blithering fool.” His spidery hands crumpled the piece of paper and tossed it at the Slytherin alum, hitting the lump of a man squarely in the forehead. “You should be exempt from writing anything at all,” he admonished. “Thinking anything at all, either, for that matter.” Crabbe bowed his head, clearly ashamed.
The goblet spat out another sheet of parchment, and Voldemort continued on with the names, administering vulgar attacks as need be, especially after reading the names Saruman, Grindelwald II, and Hades. Each of the Death Eaters that had made one of those submissions was given a verbal lashing far worse than what Crabbe had sustained.
The worst suggestion that he encountered belonged to Ludo Bagman, a new Death Eater who joined up in hopes of protection from the many wizards and goblins he owed money. Ludo had affectionately scribbled down the name “Voldie”. Not only did Lord Voldemort berate him in front of his fellow Death Eaters, the Dark Lord also decided to use the Cruciatus on him. Physical pain was an effective way of reminding people to fear him, especially naïve wizards such as Bagman, no matter how loyal.
Even Lucius’s suggestion of “Roi De La Mort,” and Draco’s suggestion of “Maitre Mauvais” didn’t quite have the ring that Voldemort was looking for. He also was sceptical that people would be able to pronounce it correctly. Not everyone could speak French with such flair as the Malfoys. He was even more disappointed when Bella suggested “Arawn”. Though the meanings of each their suggestions were appropriate, none of them really felt right.
It was times like these that he wished he hadn’t killed Severus Snape. One of the most intelligent and logical members of the Death Eaters-traitors of the Death Eaters, more like--he could have counted on Severus to make a few good suggestions with historical significance. Pity.
In the end, he decided to go back to his original idea-an anagram for “Tom Marvolo Riddle”. He patronized the group for a good thirty minutes before letting them go, giving them the task of blinding any muggle or wizard that they saw wearing Voldemort contacts.
Draco Malfoy looked positively euphoric at the assignment, and as he was disapparating, Lord Voldemort heard him mention something about “blinding Ernie McMillan in a heartbeat”.
The room was empty except for Lord Voldemort and Wormtail, who was busy cleaning up the crumpled balls of parchment and ashes that were scattered around the room. “Wormtail,” Voldemort interrupted, beckoning him over. “I have a duty for you to perform.”
Because Wormtail was his assistant, Voldemort set him to the task of scouring over pages and pages of anagrams for a suitable name. The little man was hunched over a table for what seemed like ages.
“My Lord, what do you think of Darrell Moodvomit?”
Voldemort decided that a stinging hex made a suitable answer.
A few pages later, Wormtail tried again, nervously squeaking out “Voltaire Molddorm?”
Voldemort pondered this. He had always had a secret fondness philosophy and writing, but he wasn’t sure it suited him. “Perhaps, Wormtail,” he said. “I want more options, however.” Wormtail continued listing names, but Immoral Oddervolt, Immortal Doverold, and Earldom Rod Vimolt were completely dreadful.
Voldemort was beginning to think that his original name was the only one appropriate. It was unsurprising, as he wouldn’t have created any name but the best. He sighed irritably. It was a pity he couldn’t just keep his original name.
He knew he was getting desperate when he considered changing his name into a symbol. The symbol he had in mind, of course, was the skull and snake from the Dark Mark. Later, as he petted Nagini, he came to his senses and mentally cursed himself for even thinking that a symbol was an appropriate name. He would have been ridiculed, he knew fully well.
* * *
After days of slaving over possible names, Wormtail cautiously approached Lord Voldemort, shaking with apprehension and excitement. “My Lord,” he began, “What do you think of Mordred Voltamoil?”
Voldemort looked up from The Daily Prophet, which he had been reading to see what was happening in the wizard world. He also kept a running tab on how many times he was mentioned. “Mordred Voltamoil?” he repeated, saying the words slowly so that they slipped off of the tip of his tongue. “Hm. That has a rather nice sound to it.”
Wormtail was so relieved that Voldemort was happy, he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. “Yes, yes, my lord,” he said, nodding his head up and down. “It’s been speculated that Mordred means ‘death counsel’ or it may have stemmed from the old English word ‘moroor’ which means torture.” He swiped a hand at his hair-what was left of it anyway-and gave a huge sigh of relief.
“Death counsel, you say?” Voldemort mused. “Torture?” Both seemed quite appropriate. “There’s also a nice connection to Arthurian legend.” He could live with being known as Mordred.
He considered his surname. “As I recall, Moil means confusion, as in turmoil. I like that too. Yes.” He nodded slowly, scratching his chin. “Volta is a time, or a turning.” It was quite appropriate.
“That would make you the Death Counsel of the Time of Turmoil,” Wormtail said quietly, putting two and two together.
Voldemort’s lips twisted into a satisfied grin. This new name was even better than Lord Voldemort. It came with its own slogan. “It’s settled, Wormtail. From now on, I will be known as Mordred Voltamoil.” As he spoke those words, his robes billowed victoriously and his voice echoed throughout the entire neighbourhood.
Kids on their bicycles stopped abruptly, mothers scorched suppers from being so distracted, numerous accidents were reported on the roads, and Wormtail toppled over in fright.
“You are to see to it that my new name is circulated at once, Wormtail. Be sure that no one will dare to use this new name for the means of making money or personal entertainment. It will strike the fear of death into their hearts.”
“Of course, Lord Voltamoil,” Wormtail quickly conceded. He gave out a small shriek as the wizard formerly known as Lord Voldemort brandished his wand and muttered a quick Cruciatus curse.
As Wormtail’s muscles involuntarily twitched and cramped, as his joints popped from overextension, and as the pressure inside his head grew so great that he thought it might explode, Mordred Voltamoil’s words echoed inside his head.
“You will call me the Dark Lord.”
{Fin}
The Dark Lord formerly known as Voldemort
Characters: Voldemort, Peter Pettigrew, various Death Eaters
Rating: PG-13
Summary:
The Dark Lord Formerly Known as Voldemort
Long after Lord Voldemort had vanquished young Harry Potter in an all too long and drawn out battle, (one which he continually cursed for having to happen in the first place), the evil overlord decided to return to his family manor in Little Hangleton. The small village was now devoid of all muggles, and what few witches and wizards still resided there were Voldemort supporters--not that they had much choice in the matter.
A fire blazed in one of the upper rooms of the Riddle House and outside, a short, twitchy man who was in the garden glanced up at it, his face practically grey with worry. Lord Voldemort called this man Wormtail, and had sent him to destroy a flower that was blooming in one of the old gardens. A dark ruler’s residence should be foreboding, not frilly, and Voldemort liked to keep up appearances.
This, of course, was why he had sent Wormtail from the room. Lord Voldemort was having one of his private moments of vanity, and he couldn’t allow someone like Wormtail to witness it. He stood in front of a full-length mirror with a frown etched onto face. He narrowed his scarlet eyes at his reflection, and his long, white fingers caressed the length of his face, pausing at where his nose would be if he had possessed a real nose. Lord Voldemort hadn’t had a nose for quite some time now, and unlike Alastor Moody, he didn’t have to attribute his lack of nose cartilage to battle scars. It was his decision to look like this, and he refused to admit that it was his own fault.
Though Voldemort was not the type of wizard particularly interested in appearance, he often found himself staring at his reflection, especially after visits from Lucius Malfoy and his son, Draco. Both men were quite beautiful, and they used it to their full advantage, especially when dealing with the public. Because of their prestige and looks, they could hold and captivate an audience for Lord Voldemort quite easily. It was one of the reasons he considered Lucius one of his best servants. Still, if he spent more than ten minutes with either man, he began to regret his choice to toss away his boyish looks in favour of a more serpentine appearance. His red eyes he could deal with. He actually liked their fiendish gleam. It was only on occasion that he missed the finer points of his form, like his aristocratic nose and his fine, dark hair.
He chalked most of the Malfoys’ good looks up to veela blood in their lineage. With silvery-blonde hair like Lucius’s, and because Malfoy men had a penchant for beautiful women, Lord Voldemort was almost certain that somewhere down the line a veela had been married into the family. It would also explain the Malfoy temper, not that he minded that in the least. Both Lucius and Draco responded very well when either’s patience was tried. Voldemort considered it an admirable quality.
He sometimes wished that Draco and Lucius weren’t quite so easy on the eyes. Anymore, when Voldemort was spotted in public, he was subjected to gawking, horrified screams, and the occasional fainter. He leered into the mirror, angry with himself for feeling jealous over something so trivial as looks. The Dark Lord was not supposed to be jealous of anyone. He wasn’t going to kowtow or conform to the general consensus of what made a man--wizard, he corrected himself--handsome. He was setting the standards in the world now, and what he said was to be abided by all.
Of course, this was now his problem.
At first, he had shrugged it off as idiotic commercialism. Young Gregory Goyle had appeared at one of the Death Eater rallies with a “Support Voldemort” t-shirt. Enraged that one of his Death Eaters had the gall to wear something with his self-entitlement and not “The Dark Lord,” Voldemort made the young man take it off, enduring the rest of the three-hour rally bare-chested. To make matters worse, he put Goyle under the Imperius, forcing him to jump up and down, his soft upper body wiggling and jiggling for all to see. Had Goyle a bit more sense or emotional capabilities, he might have been reduced to tears.
Lord Voldemort resolved to try harder next time.
After that, he received reports that quite a few more “Support Voldemort” t-shirts were popping up around the United Kingdom. Muggles even dared to wear them, thinking that it would cause Voldemort’s loyal army to be a bit more lenient. Voldemort was swift with his campaign against the new fad, and quickly gave orders to destroy the t-shirts and magically tattoo the words “Obey Voldemort” across the victim’s shoulder blades. It was a message to any other foolish muggles and it worked quite well. People were becoming true victims of fashion.
Of course, fads never die that easily, and he was quite appalled when he caught wind that “Obey Voldemort” tattoos were all the rage in tattoo parlours across the country.
The Wizard’s Wireless Network reported that the mortality rate for tattoo artists rose to 110% that month.
Lord Voldemort and his closest and oldest circle of Death Eaters stamped out all of the commercialism nonsense in the beginning, save Halloween, when their efforts became outnumbered. Whereas Harry Potter costumes had been popular naught but a few years before, Lord Voldemort costumes were all the rage, complete with a bone-white, snake-faced mask, black robes, and an eleven-inch wand. Storeowners stocked and re-stocked the dark costumes, and Lord Voldemort was the number one costume that year. Try as they might, the Death Eaters couldn’t stop every costume from being sold, nor could they stop creative mothers from making the costumes themselves. The only compensation for this was that hundreds of Harry Potter costumes were still hanging on the racks, and the kids who ended up having to go as Harry Potter were egged and had their candy stolen. One poor, little, round-spectacled child with a lightning bolt painted on his forehead swore he was egged by Voldemort himself, but the Dark Lord would neither confirm or deny that fact.
Lord Voldemort gazed at his reflection, a sneer playing at the corners of his lips. He should have realized it when it first began. Had he had the inclination that it would become such a large issue, he would have put a stop to it then.
“M-my Lord?” a timid voice asked, apologetically, from the doorway.
Lord Voldemort turned around quickly, his eyes resting on a short, dumpy man with watery eyes and pointed nose. “What is it, Wormtail?”
“M-my Lord, I’ve just received another notice.” Wormtail’s eyes were focused on his feet, and he shifted his weight nervously. He had always been too scared to make direct eye contact with his master. “I’m sorry to interrupt, master.” He bowed his head quickly, shoulders slumping. His silver hand shook, tightly clutched around an envelope in his fist.
Lord Voldemort’s brow raised in surprise. “No,” he snarled. “Ignorant fools!” He brandished his wand and hastily summoned the letter from Wormtail. He opened it up and scanned the letter, his snake-like nostrils flaring as his temper rose. “Another Voldemort!” he exclaimed. His voice rose to a high, shrill pitch. “Another damned Voldemort!”
Wormtail nodded quickly, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “Yes, master.” His eyes darted around wildly as he noticed the lights in the room begin to flicker from Voldemort’s intense mood swing. It was not going to be good.
Lord Voldemort was so incensed by the letter that it burst into flames in his hand, the ashes drifting slowly to the floor. “This it the third time in six months!” he exclaimed. He could scarcely believe it. Ever since he had been dominating the world with a fierce, unforgiving fist, he had started to receive legal notices that he was being sued for slander. Two people from France had claimed that Voldemort was an old family name and that his image was ruining their reputation. This third one was from an American. The nerve.
It was preposterous.
“Wormtail,” he spat, trying to control his temper. “Your arm.”
Nodding, Wormtail shuddered and scuttled forward, rolling up his sleeve and exposing his left arm.
Voldemort pressed his long forefinger to the Dark Mark on Peter’s forearm, which burned and sizzled under his touch. Moments later, the room was filled with the cracking and popping sounds of wizards and witches apparating.
One by one, they approached him, crawling up and kissing the hem of his robes. He sighed internally, noting how some of them crawled preposterously slow, and that most of them were very twitchy, save Bella, who crawled forward like a panther stalking its prey. Still, he stood straight-shouldered, chin lifted proudly, looking at them all with the best disdainful look that he could muster and resisting the urge to kick at them. The entire greeting process really did take an absurdly long time, and he had important things on his agenda. As Theodore Nott crawled away, he eyed the group steadily.
“It seems that I have encountered a problem,” he began, his gaze slowly drifting over each and every Death Eater standing before him. “My image has become besmirched by commercialism.”
A few consenting grunts echoed throughout the group, and the hoods bobbed up and down in agreement.
“There have been t-shirts, legal notices, and costumes, all of which you haven’t been able to stop. Muggles even dare to speak my name freely!” he continued, his voice deathly quiet. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”
As he spoke, he noticed a pair of light grey eyes sparkling with amusement from behind one of the hoods. That particular Death Eater turned to his neighbour and muttered something that sounded like “Let’s not forget about the red contacts.”
Lord Voldemort inhaled on a long hiss, grabbing his wand and pointing it at the young man. “How dare you speak while I am talking?” He flicked his wand at the boy, hissing “Imperius!” He pulled the boy away from the line of Death Eaters, managing to trip him and make him fall flat onto his face, exposing fine, silvery hair and a pointed, grimacing face. Voldemort didn’t allow the boy’s arms to catch his fall, and laughed mirthlessly at him when he landed on the floor with a thud. “Explain yourself!”
Draco Malfoy gave a soft moan as he stood up, face flushed in embarrassment. He was a spoiled boy and, because of this, he didn’t respond well to public humiliation. Lord Voldemort knew that lessons like these would leave a lasting effect. If Lucius and Narcissa couldn’t teach the boy respect, he would. Draco would learn to keep his tongue quiet in the presence of his master.
Lucius Malfoy drew an icy glare away from his son long enough to clear his throat. “Master, please forgive my son for his callow manners.” He walked up to Draco and placed a firm, if not painful, grip on the boy’s shoulder. “He knows better.” This last comment was directed at Draco, and Lucius’s voice was bitter and cool. It was obvious that this was just the beginning of Draco’s reprimand.
Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the pair of men. “He didn’t, obviously,” he replied shortly. He would have been even harsher except for the fact that his curiosity about Malfoy’s comment was nagging at him. “What were you talking about, young Malfoy?”
Draco winced under his father’s grip, but he was intelligent enough to realize that he had acted poorly and would have to suffer the consequences. “Red contacts, my Lord,” he repeated, puffing up proudly. “It’s the newest fad in both the wizard and muggle worlds. People are putting red contacts with black slits for pupils into their eyes to imitate yours.”
The look on Lord Voldemort’s face made the entire group of Death Eaters shudder simultaneously. Even Draco’s smug look melted away.
“Contacts?” Voldemort repeated, aghast. Once again, he became so infuriated that all of the lights in the room went out, save the warm glow coming from the fireplace. “That’s it! This nonsense has gone too far. It’s time for me to introduce myself as the new, intolerant, Dark Ruler of the Universe. It’s time for me to create an image that will strike fear into the hearts of these idiotic mortals.”
The Death Eaters muttered quietly amongst themselves, deciding that perhaps this was the best route for Voldemort to go.
Voldemort, pondering his announcement, addressed them. “Each of you will suggest a new name that is suitable for a dark, treacherous Lord.” With a flick of his wand, a piece of parchment and quill appeared in front of every Death Eater, and, of all things, the Goblet of Fire. After he had killed Harry Potter and most of the Order of the Phoenix, he had raided Hogwarts for souvenirs. The goblet was one of his favourite finds, even though it reminded him of Harry’s lucky escape in the cemetery. Voldemort only wished that Harry were alive to see it sitting on the Riddle mantle, displayed triumphantly.
“Write the name down and drop it into the goblet. I will look at the suggestions and see if any of them will suffice.”
He turned away from them and walked over to the fireplace, staring at the orangey-red flames. Some of this lot were intelligent, and perhaps he could find at least one suitable idea to expand on. He considered redeveloping his image on his own, but was so attached to Lord Voldemort that he found it hard to commit to any other name.
The Death Eaters’ quills scratched at their parchments, and one by one, each dropped his or her suggestion into the goblet. It began to emit a thick, putrid-smelling green smoke, signalling that everyone had submitted an entry. Lord Voldemort quickly walked over to it, snatching a piece of paper that shot out of the goblet like a bullet.
His face went from a pensive thin-lipped frown to a sneer as his eyes scanned over the parchment. “You-Know-Who,” he said quietly. He lifted the parchment up into the air, scowling at the group. “Who on earth suggested this drivel?”
No one raised his or her hand, but because the Dark Lord’s skills at Leglimency were so great, it didn’t take him long to find the culprit. “Mr. Crabbe,” he said, leering. “You truly are a blithering fool.” His spidery hands crumpled the piece of paper and tossed it at the Slytherin alum, hitting the lump of a man squarely in the forehead. “You should be exempt from writing anything at all,” he admonished. “Thinking anything at all, either, for that matter.” Crabbe bowed his head, clearly ashamed.
The goblet spat out another sheet of parchment, and Voldemort continued on with the names, administering vulgar attacks as need be, especially after reading the names Saruman, Grindelwald II, and Hades. Each of the Death Eaters that had made one of those submissions was given a verbal lashing far worse than what Crabbe had sustained.
The worst suggestion that he encountered belonged to Ludo Bagman, a new Death Eater who joined up in hopes of protection from the many wizards and goblins he owed money. Ludo had affectionately scribbled down the name “Voldie”. Not only did Lord Voldemort berate him in front of his fellow Death Eaters, the Dark Lord also decided to use the Cruciatus on him. Physical pain was an effective way of reminding people to fear him, especially naïve wizards such as Bagman, no matter how loyal.
Even Lucius’s suggestion of “Roi De La Mort,” and Draco’s suggestion of “Maitre Mauvais” didn’t quite have the ring that Voldemort was looking for. He also was sceptical that people would be able to pronounce it correctly. Not everyone could speak French with such flair as the Malfoys. He was even more disappointed when Bella suggested “Arawn”. Though the meanings of each their suggestions were appropriate, none of them really felt right.
It was times like these that he wished he hadn’t killed Severus Snape. One of the most intelligent and logical members of the Death Eaters-traitors of the Death Eaters, more like--he could have counted on Severus to make a few good suggestions with historical significance. Pity.
In the end, he decided to go back to his original idea-an anagram for “Tom Marvolo Riddle”. He patronized the group for a good thirty minutes before letting them go, giving them the task of blinding any muggle or wizard that they saw wearing Voldemort contacts.
Draco Malfoy looked positively euphoric at the assignment, and as he was disapparating, Lord Voldemort heard him mention something about “blinding Ernie McMillan in a heartbeat”.
The room was empty except for Lord Voldemort and Wormtail, who was busy cleaning up the crumpled balls of parchment and ashes that were scattered around the room. “Wormtail,” Voldemort interrupted, beckoning him over. “I have a duty for you to perform.”
Because Wormtail was his assistant, Voldemort set him to the task of scouring over pages and pages of anagrams for a suitable name. The little man was hunched over a table for what seemed like ages.
“My Lord, what do you think of Darrell Moodvomit?”
Voldemort decided that a stinging hex made a suitable answer.
A few pages later, Wormtail tried again, nervously squeaking out “Voltaire Molddorm?”
Voldemort pondered this. He had always had a secret fondness philosophy and writing, but he wasn’t sure it suited him. “Perhaps, Wormtail,” he said. “I want more options, however.” Wormtail continued listing names, but Immoral Oddervolt, Immortal Doverold, and Earldom Rod Vimolt were completely dreadful.
Voldemort was beginning to think that his original name was the only one appropriate. It was unsurprising, as he wouldn’t have created any name but the best. He sighed irritably. It was a pity he couldn’t just keep his original name.
He knew he was getting desperate when he considered changing his name into a symbol. The symbol he had in mind, of course, was the skull and snake from the Dark Mark. Later, as he petted Nagini, he came to his senses and mentally cursed himself for even thinking that a symbol was an appropriate name. He would have been ridiculed, he knew fully well.
* * *
After days of slaving over possible names, Wormtail cautiously approached Lord Voldemort, shaking with apprehension and excitement. “My Lord,” he began, “What do you think of Mordred Voltamoil?”
Voldemort looked up from The Daily Prophet, which he had been reading to see what was happening in the wizard world. He also kept a running tab on how many times he was mentioned. “Mordred Voltamoil?” he repeated, saying the words slowly so that they slipped off of the tip of his tongue. “Hm. That has a rather nice sound to it.”
Wormtail was so relieved that Voldemort was happy, he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. “Yes, yes, my lord,” he said, nodding his head up and down. “It’s been speculated that Mordred means ‘death counsel’ or it may have stemmed from the old English word ‘moroor’ which means torture.” He swiped a hand at his hair-what was left of it anyway-and gave a huge sigh of relief.
“Death counsel, you say?” Voldemort mused. “Torture?” Both seemed quite appropriate. “There’s also a nice connection to Arthurian legend.” He could live with being known as Mordred.
He considered his surname. “As I recall, Moil means confusion, as in turmoil. I like that too. Yes.” He nodded slowly, scratching his chin. “Volta is a time, or a turning.” It was quite appropriate.
“That would make you the Death Counsel of the Time of Turmoil,” Wormtail said quietly, putting two and two together.
Voldemort’s lips twisted into a satisfied grin. This new name was even better than Lord Voldemort. It came with its own slogan. “It’s settled, Wormtail. From now on, I will be known as Mordred Voltamoil.” As he spoke those words, his robes billowed victoriously and his voice echoed throughout the entire neighbourhood.
Kids on their bicycles stopped abruptly, mothers scorched suppers from being so distracted, numerous accidents were reported on the roads, and Wormtail toppled over in fright.
“You are to see to it that my new name is circulated at once, Wormtail. Be sure that no one will dare to use this new name for the means of making money or personal entertainment. It will strike the fear of death into their hearts.”
“Of course, Lord Voltamoil,” Wormtail quickly conceded. He gave out a small shriek as the wizard formerly known as Lord Voldemort brandished his wand and muttered a quick Cruciatus curse.
As Wormtail’s muscles involuntarily twitched and cramped, as his joints popped from overextension, and as the pressure inside his head grew so great that he thought it might explode, Mordred Voltamoil’s words echoed inside his head.
“You will call me the Dark Lord.”
{Fin}