Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor any related names, places, or vocabulary.

Voldemort's Seventy

He had more power than anyone being on Earth, but he was still unhappy. He could rip the lives from his enemies with ease and most everyone was afraid of him. People, wizards and Muggles alike, bent to his will like pipe cleaners.

He was still unhappy.

Tomorrow he would turn seventy. This did not mean much to him seeing that he was practically immortal, but for some reason it made him unhappy. He had never been one to enjoy his birthday. No one had ever given him reason to. His mother had died giving birth to him. He had grown up in an orphanage where he was rejected by all the other children. In Hogwarts, he was not rejected, but he still did not have any friends. Even now, he had servants, slaves and his faithful Death Eaters, but not once had anyone asked him when his birthday even was.

Then he got a brilliant idea. No one would question him since he was The Dark Lord. He may even get a few presents. He, Lord Voldemort, was going to have a birthday party.

He put his wand to the Dark Mark on his forearm. Instantly hooded figures started popping into the room. "My Lord," they bowed.

"You have all been summoned here for a reason of the utmost urgency."

Muttering sounded through the Death Eaters.

"Silence! Now, tomorrow is a very important day. Do any of you know why? Goyle?"

"No, my Lord," he said.

"Crucio!" shouted Voldemort. Goyle crumpled to the floor in pain. Voldemort removed the spell and allowed him to get up before he continued. "Now, tomorrow is my birthday. We are to have a party. Each of you is to be responsible for one aspect. Lucius!"

"Yes, my Lord?"

"You are to bring a cake!"

"What kind, my Lord?"

"Chocolate. Severus!"

"My Lord."

"You will be in charge of drinks."

"Yes, my Lord."

And he went on. He had food, entertainment, party games, and guests. Rastaban was even bringing party hats.

Voldemort was happy that he was making up for his lost childhood. Yet, there was still something missing.

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The day came quickly. He had Crabbe decorate. Dark drapes adorned the once barren hall. Tables sat, each spot with a black, cone-shaped party hat.

His guests arrived, mostly Death Easter with a few others thrown in. He saw their apprehension at the party hats, but no one dared to object. His power loomed over their every action.

Voldemort refused to play Pin the Dark Mark on the Death Eater. He reasoned that it was no fun because he could only play alone; no one else but he could issue a Dark Mark. Pin the Tail on the Donkey was too Muggle, hence he refused to play that also. Finally, after a suggestion from Alecto, he decided that they would play Pin the Curse on the Order of the Phoenix Member.

Voldemort grinned evilly. He won, although Lucius was a close second. Now it was time for cake.

If there was ever a scary sight to see it was tens of Death Eaters singing "Happy Birthday" to a certain Lord Voldemort. Voldemort was quite pleased with the song despite its sickening cheerfulness. He was so pleased he made them sing it five times, each time in a different language, before he would blow out his candles.

As for the candles, well…it basically looked like the whole cake was on fire. Seventy candles is a lot to fit on one cake, but he knew he could handle it. Voldemort had a breathing capacity to kill for. It was going to pay off right now.

He blew out the candles, every single one. No candle would dare not go out if he willed it to.

After cake was presents. Voldemort took in the sight of the darkly wrapped gifts with glee. He opened them greedily with the hunger of a starving child. There were books, potions and other magical bits and pieces. Augustus had given him a hand drawn picture of he, Voldemort, taking over the whole world. He decided that he must have that one framed. Perhaps he would put it above his mantle.

Too soon the party was over. His loyal servants had gone home and Voldemort was left alone in the darkness. He was seventy this day. He knew it meant nothing to everybody except him. He sat a lone in the dark, watching the dim candles burn out. Perhaps, in time, he would dim as well. He would burn down until nothing was left but the lingering smoke, the residue of what he was, of what he had worked for.

Death awaited him and beckoned him forward, but he would not go yet.

There was still work to do.

Finis.