Disclaimer: This is a bit of pointless drivel involving Voldemort, who is not my property whatsoever. It's one of those Voldemort does Muggle things stories. I just couldn't resist the plot bunny when it occurred to me… 'cause I just got contacts for the first time yesterday. Some incidents are roughly based on my own experiences, and the story is of indefinite length.

Voldemort nodded quite self-assuredly at the sign outside the optometrist's office, attempting to hide his anxiety regarding his appointment within. Lately, he had found the words of his dark tomes were beginning to blur, even as he could scarcely make out the person standing a yard away from him. It was all a blur and he simply had to be treated, for right now, if he were to get into a battle with his mortal enemy, all he would have for a target would be a skin-colored and robe-colored and slightly black blob. Quite frankly, it was extremely embarrassing to have such poor vision while being such a powerful wizard.

In any case, the dark wizard forced himself to regain composure, and tugged Pettigrew, rather nervously, through the tinted doors beside him.

"Please sign in," the receptionist informed him, not looking up.

Voldemort looked around, unsure of what to do. He had heard that signing in was something you were supposed to do when you worked someplace, but, really, he wasn't trying to get a job here! He was trying to do something about his abysmally bad vision.

"On the clipboard," she suggested helpfully, still looking at something on the desk in front of her.

Voldemort shuffled his feet and looked down at the clipboard. He bent down to within a foot of the paper, and, sticking his tongue out, grasped the… writing utensil in his left hand, and barely managed a respectable scrawl of the name "Tom M. Riddle"

Totally random A/N: I just noticed that Tom and I have the same middle initial. My middle name isn't Marvolo, though.

Why on earth had he made the appointment under that old embarrassing name? And why had he decided that it was a good idea to disguise himself as a left-handed person?

"Now, I just need you to sign these papers with regard to our privacy policy." The receptionist pushed forward some papers without looking at him.

Voldemort gulped. He made a general policy of never signing anything he hadn't read, but he really couldn't read this tiny print. Besides, what harm could it do? Muggles couldn't magically bind him to a contract, and this cleared up a little of his ambivalence about the whole thing—the ambivalence due to his going to a Muggle optometrist because he didn't want wizards knowing about his terrible vision. So he signed, not noticing that one of the papers included this ominous sounding phrase "You agree not to hold Doctor Hillary liable for any damages."

"And now if you could update your information at that little kiosk over there…" the receptionist pointed to a station that was currently occupied by a black haired man.

Voldemort muttered his agreement, and shuffled over, pulling Pettigrew along with him, to wait in line for the kiosk.

But he was more than just slightly surprised when he recognized its occupant…