Hey guys! I know I just dropped off the face of the earth but college has been crazy, I started a novel, and I've been plagued by writer's block. I'm working on a chapter update for "If He'd Gotten the Job" and I hope to have that up around New Year but until then... here's a little something from your friendly neighborhood author.
He didn't frequent nightclubs as a general rule, because a dark lord had to maintain his dignity. His Death Eaters couldn't understand why his current venue of choice was a Muggle establishment, when there were more than enough plush lounges in the wizard part of London. However, it was his third night in a row at Storm in central London, and if he did not endeavor to break the habit his men were bound to get suspicious. Their curiosity was eventually bound to outweigh their fearful respect for his authority, and it would not be long before the more daring of his companions ventured into the overtly modernist bar and sought out what had captured their young dark lord's interest.
Lord Voldemort did not like to dwell on the reasons for a second and third return to the location. Lanterns hung suspended from thin wires, almost giving the illusion of bewitched globes casting a gauzy glow in the darkened room. The artwork was in poor taste, done by an amateur endeavoring to produce 'cutting edge' work, and the patrons fit every stereotype of the desirous Muggle London elite. The women were coquettish to the point of ridiculousness, the men were overconfident in their lack of sobriety, and the bartender fancied himself far more suave than the sad reality. There really was no reason for him to be there, he thought, regarding his newly-drained glass of scotch, knowing that as he thought it his reason would manifest itself in three, two, one...
"Good evening," the voice said, sufficiently audible over the background noise, amplified by the microphone in its silver stand. He found himself inclining his head, as though the woman had spoken directly to him, and not to the bar patrons at large.
She began to sing, her voice smoky and languid as Julie London's own as the notes poured out in an undulating wave. The usually jazzy piano accompaniment was subdued, the pianist's fingers lazily traversing the keys in an understated harmony. Riddle closed his eyes appreciatively, letting the ambience wash over him and letting the slow, sultry music envelope him. He was a busy man. There was no harm in an occasional night of music, especially when the singer was as becoming as this one.
You drove me nearly out of my head
While you never shed a tear...
Voldemort smiled, opening his eyes. Her voice had turned almost accusatory. He wondered if it was theatrics and sudden wish to be dramatic that brought it on, or if the song reminded the woman of some unfortunate failed romance in the past. He regarded her approvingly, taking in the long inky curls that draped her shoulders and framed her face. She brought the microphone close to her lips, pursed as she held a note, their red color more vibrant with the contrast of her pearly teeth. Her choice of attire was different from the style she had chosen the two previous nights he had seen her as well. She had abandoned the full-skirted knee length dresses in favor of something long, slinky, and artfully sequined, just enough to catch the light when she moved and in a shade of deep green that matched her eyes. At the moment they were closed; likely she was as engrossed in the music as the rest were. One slender bare arm was raised, her third finger tapping out the rhythm in the air as the pianist took a solo for himself. Her other hand remained on the microphone, her nails filed to ovals and lacquered. Voldemort's eye traveled up her arm to her bare shoulders to her neck, where a gold chain looped around her throat a number of times. The pendant rested at a low point on her chest, just above the neckline of the dress. His eyes narrowed.
The pendant struck him as oddly familiar at first glance, but as he looked more closely he knew it could not be a coincidence. The small golden snake with the green gemstone eyes that this lounge singer wore was the very same as the one he had gifted to-
You say you loved me, but you lied...
Her voice had started again, and those lowered eyes opened fully, leveled directly at him. And Voldemort found himself mildly embarrassed even as a slow smile spread over his lips. How he had failed to recognize her for two nights, he would never know.
Come on and cry me a river, cry me a river
I cried a river over you.
He was among those who clapped the loudest and the longest, his smile broadening when she threw back her hair and smiled in appreciation, her eyebrow arched and her smile turning suggestive when her gaze flitted over him. She turned aside and whispered something to the band, and slipped down from the stage as they struck up a jazzy instrumental number. Voldemort conjured a bouquet of roses, knowing what was to follow, and prepared to wait. But when he realized she was hardly moving towards his table, the smile left his eyes, and he left his chair. In half a moment he was out the door, and on the lookout for a back entrance as he skirted the side and back of the building. He was not a moment too soon.
"Minerva McGonagall," he said, voice just loud enough for her to hear.
She turned, her smirk quickly turning into an exasperated smile. "Do I know you?"
"I brought you flowers," he said quietly, producing the bouquet smoothly.
"That was thoughtful," she said lightly, tossing the roses into the nearby wastebasket. "A pity I have nowhere to keep them."
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm sorry, I'm afraid you have the wrong woman," Minerva said. "I don't believe I've met you."
"Don't be ridiculous, Minerva. It's me, Tom."
"Really? I thought you were Lord Voldemort," she said, turning away from him. "I would say it's been a pleasure, but-"
He caught her arm. "Wait."
"Yes?"
"Why are you behaving this way? You picked that song deliberately, you looked at me directly when you sang, and now you're acting like a child." He caught her by the waist, pulling her in. "Explain yourself."
"I don't think I need to." She rested her hands on his shoulders.
"When did you become a lounge singer?"
Minerva shrugged. "It's something I started before I got my job at the Ministry, and I've enjoyed it too much to quit. I don't sing every night, just on the weekends, now."
Voldemort drank in the sight of her, eyes rimmed in black kohl that winged out at the corners, lending her a cat-like appearance that was all too alluring, and the words were out before he could stop them. "I would be delighted if you'd accompany me to my apartment-"
Minerva placed a finger on his lips. "Tom, you never learn, do you?"
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You're right, I did pick this song for a reason," she said quietly, "and as usual, you completely missed the point because you're an indifferent twat."
"If this about Dougal, I've told you a thousand times if I've told you once, I'm sorry." He cupped her face with his spare hand. "You told me later that it was probably for the best-"
"Maybe so, but you meddled for the wrong reasons," she snapped.
"I'm sorry," he said, rolling his eyes and tilting her face up to meet his. "But will you-"
She twisted out of his arms and ran a few paces from him, lips parted once again in an exasperated smile and black curls blown back by the night air, her husky contralto lingering as she Disapparated with a twirl.
And now you say you're sorry
For being so untrue
Well, you can cry me a river
Cry me a river,
I cried a river over you.
A/N: Hey hey hey my dahling reader, be ye new or one of my followers! I have been listening to a lot of Julie London lately and have a fantasy of being a glamorous lounge singer for a night... so I wrote this. Because it happened. Read and review and I promise to get that new chapter up for my other fic. Soon.