Voldemort sat at his desk feeling very pleased with himself. This latest plan was sure to succeed. In front of him stood a gaggle of Death Eaters, nervously awaiting their orders. Was it a gaggle? Perhaps a flock? A school? A pack? What did you call a group of minions anyway? Voldemort pulled at his beard in agitation. He was sure he'd heard the proper term on a Discovery program once. A- clutch, was that it? Haha, thought Voldemort, my evil clutches. He smiled to himself. He'd made a pun. How clever of him.
A member of the clutch stepped cautiously forward. Actually, he did not so much step forward as he was shoved by his fellow Death Eaters. "My Lord," he began, swallowing uneasily, "About your plan…"
Voldemort preened. "Ah. Erickson, isn't it? Well, Erickson, my plan is genius, I know. You were about to praise its sheer brilliance, were you not? Well, go ahead. I haven't really got the time to listen to such frivolities, but even I can accept a compliment. You may proceed."
The luckless Erickson cleared his throat noisily. He shuffled his feet a bit. He scratched his neck and gave a cough.
"Well?" prompted Voldemort impatiently. "Out with it, man!"
"Er, it's just- you see, my Lord," Erickson continued hurriedly, "We- that is, my colleagues and I- what I mean to say is- well, wejustdon'tthinkyourplanisgoingtowork." He took a deep breath.
"I see," said Voldemort coldly.
"We've given it a lot of thought," Erickson continued, emboldened by the fact that he was not yet a smouldering pile of ash, "and we just don't think it's feasible. I mean, sneaking on to the Hogwarts grounds disguised as milkmaids, then getting trained mice to sneak into the boys dormitory and smear oil on Harry's face so that he will develop acne and thus be ostracized by his peers, waiting until he's alone and then braining him with a grapefruit wrapped round an enchanted cinderblock? Don't you think it seems a little- oh, I don't know- complex?"
Voldemort roared. "Complex? Let me tell you about complex. Being beaten in the height of your power by an infant- that will give you a complex!"- here he smiled at this second pun, really sometimes he was too witty for his own good- "I don't ask much of you; all I need you to do is kill one boy! One stupid boy! He's a Gryffindor, for Merlin's sake! But all you can do is shuffle about whining. 'It won't work, sir, it's too complex, sir.' I am far too good to you, you- you sissy little girls!"
A Death Eater named Caroline raised her hand. "Excuse me sir, I find that remark offensive in the extreme. Your sexism appals me. Perhaps you should try substituting something non-gender-specific, such as 'babies' or 'children.'"
Voldemort waved his hand dismissively. "The point is, while all of you putter about like a bunch of crotchety housewiv- homemakers," he amended hastily at Caroline's glare, "While you putter about like homemakers, I am making all the plans. Who does the work? Me! Who does the scheming? Me! Who maintains my public image, keeps the atmosphere properly portentous? Me! Today no witch or wizard dares to speak the name of Voldemort, but it wasn't always that way. I worked hard to achieve the infamy I have today. I started off a mere trouble maker. Then I graduated to petty crime… It was a long road to the top. A tall ladder, I mean. Well, a gruelling journey anyhow. It's not easy being a merciless dark lord with absolute power over a horde of cringing minions, you know. Why, when I was a little boy…" Voldemort caught himself getting misty eyed. He shook his head and swept away several Death Eaters who were patting his shoulder soothingly. "You are not here to judge my schemes. You are here to take orders. You haven't got half a brain between you! You think you can come up with a better plan than me? Now, you are going to do as I say, and leave the thinking to me. Any questions?" He stared down at them challengingly.
Several hands went up.
Voldemort was just running through his mental list of withering remarks when Fur Elise drifted across the room. Voldemort sighed and pulled out a cell phone. "One moment please." He turned to the motley clutch in front of him. "Now, you all just stand here and be quiet. Unless those orders are too complex for you?" Chuckling at his own irony, Voldemort turned back to his phone. "Hello? ….Yes, this is he….Oh you know, just the same old routine, plotting and menacing and the like….How are the wife and kids? ….You don't say! You must be so proud. How exciting! ….Yes, I can imagine. But now, to business. Do you have the package? ….Excellent. Have it here by tomorrow…. What do you mean the Owlery is closed on Sundays? ….Yes, one day matters quite a lot! ….Listen, you sorry worm, if you can't have it here by tomorrow then tomorrow just may be the last day you ever see…. No, I can't just have my hit men pick up the package! ….Because of the principle of the thing, that's why! You don't send hit men to knock someone off for disobedience and then just have them play postal service instead! ….You just don't! Get an owl to me tomorrow or your sun-bleached bones will serve as a warning to others in years to come! You can run, but I will find you! Your every day will be lived in fear, and wherever you go, people will point and say, There Goes A Dead Man Walking! Ahahahahaha!" The tirade stopped abruptly as Voldemort stared as his phone, perplexed. "He hung up on me."
A/N: Basically I just wrote this in an attempt to overcome my writers block and to let people know that I'm still alive. Let me know if you want me to continue. If you don't review, your sun-bleached bones will serve as a warning to others in years to come!