Dinner for One, Death Eater Style
(dedicated to LupinsGirlSA)
At the sound of a gong, Lord Voldemort pranced down the staircase of his family home dressed in his finest black robes—which were indistinguishable from the rest of his drab wardrobe, not that anyone would offer to comment on it. He stood primly beside a chair at the head of a vacant dining table, waiting for his butler.
On cue, a balding and graying Peter Pettigrew waddled over and dragged the chair out for him. "The same procedure as last year, master?"
Voldemort snuggled his bum down and allowed the chair to be pushed in for him. "The same procedure as every year, Pet," he answered. "I do so enjoy our we-took-over-the-world anniversary dinners, especially now that none of the guests attend. They were so boorish and dull, all 'I killed this bloke' and 'I paid for your hip replacement surgery'. Suck-ups."
"I so agree," Peter replied, trying not to be branded with the suck-up brush while slurping madly at the bristles. He'd already laid the table for four guests, all but the wine goblets, which he set by each plate as he rounded the table and stopped by Voldemort. "Shall I serve the soup, master?"
"It's not toadstool again, is it? I'm not falling for that again."
Peter grinned like a cornered rat. "I only wanted you to experience the heaven of the psycho—psychedelic—uh, drug."
"I'll have the sherry with it," said Voldemort, waving him off.
Peter toddled toward the sideboard, tripping over the head of the stuffed Nagini rug, and whacked his face on the sideboard. When he got up, he plucked free the tooth that had embedded itself in the wood. Shoving it in his pocket to fix later, he walked back carrying a bowl of Campbell's Chicken-n-Stars soup. "Here you go. Yum, yum."
"Wipe that blood off your face, you look like a bloated vampire," said Voldemort. He gave a rather intense glare. "I believe I also mentioned sherry."
"Right!" Peter plodded back to the sideboard, tripping again over Nagini's head. He brought the bottle of sherry to his master, filled his glass, then went around the table filling each guest glass while reciting their names: Severus Snape, Lucius Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Bellatrix Black Lestrange.
Once he'd done, he stationed himself at the first chair, looked at Voldemort for permission to begin, and said in as deep a slow drawl as he could manage, "My lord, may fortune shine upon our cause."
"Traitorous prick," Voldemort mumbled.
Pettigrew gulped the sherry and moved to the next chair. "My lord," he said in a fair reproduction of Lucius' voice, "may all muggles have the decency to drown themselves."
"Admirable sentiment from one who can't even bring himself to kill," retorted Voldemort.
Peter swilled down the sherry and rounded the table to Dolohov's spot. "Um…may your days be merry and bright."
"And may all your Christmases be white, you moron," said Voldemort in disgust. Sure, it was hard thinking up new toasts every year, but did the rat have to be so bloody bad at it?
Another gulped drink and Peter arrived at Bella's chair. He lifted the drink and leaned in so close he was half-laying on the table, ogling Voldemort like a prime cut of beef. In a shrill, grating—yet somehow sensuous—tone he said, "To my lord and master, the bestest, most wonderful wizard the world has ever seen."
"Ha! That sounds just like her!" Voldemort finished off his sherry as Peter did the same with the last goblet.
"I'll go get the fish, master."
"And white wine," added Voldemort.
Peter headed toward the sideboard, narrowly missing Nagini's head, picked up a dish, and weaved his way back to Voldemort. He set it down with a flourish, rounded all the way back to the sideboard, steering a hair's breadth from Nagini, to grab the bottle of wine. He turned round and promptly tripped over Nagini, doing a stupendous belly-flop on the floor while holding the bottle aloft lest it break.
"Stupid fucking snake!" he bellowed, getting to his knees. Upon spying the dark wizard eyeing him disapprovingly like a cat about to pounce on a squirrel, he muttered, "I thought I saw a snake—over there." For good measure he petted Nagini a few whaps on the nose.
He limped to the table, pouring drinks all around, then returned to Snape's place, lifted the goblet, and drawled, "To all the girls I've loved before." He popped back the wine so fast he nearly choked.
"If you mean the pasty-faced muggle, nice try," said the other drolly.
Pettigrew moved on to Lucius' spot, thought for a minute, then said, "If at first you don't succeed…uh…but, well, you're the dark lord, of course you'd succeed. Carry on. L'chaim."
"Smacks of kiss arse—I like it," chirped Voldemort. "I didn't know you were Jewish."
"Yeah, me either," said Peter, hurrying on to Dolohov's place as he wondered why the room was spinning. He raised the glass and said in a decent imitation of the absent guest, "Kill 'em all and let God sort 'em out."
"God?" asked Voldemort, slightly scandalized. When had Dolohov stopped worshipping him?
Peter gulped the wine and swayed over to Bella's spot. Gripping the glass tightly, he bent over till his face was inches from his master, elbow braced on the table. "Gimme a good one right here, and to hell with the rest of the world." He winked, stood up, and dribbled half the wine from the corners of his mouth as he drank.
"You wish," Voldemort retorted. He finished his wine, took a bite of fish, and with his mouth full ordered, "Mo ah wan shikin—an champagne."
"Shit kins and champagne it is, mas—"
"Chicken, dumbass," interrupted Voldemort after swallowing.
Pettigrew stumbled toward the sideboard, the floor apparently not being as flat as it used to be, and—what else—tripped over Nagini once more. He sprawled temple first into the sideboard, and when he regained consciousness he rolled over and made several swipes at the three dancing snake heads taunting him. At last he struggled to his feet, hoisted a platter of roast chicken, and carefully, slowly, bobbed his way back to the table to plop it in front of Voldemort. His current inability to walk a straight line served him well, for when he returned for the champagne he not only missed Nagini, he hopped right over top. Grabbing the bottle of champagne, he sloshed it into the glasses as he rounded the table.
In Severus' stead, he lifted the glass and proclaimed, "Mylor, my undo pensible came now if ever my not so doodle." Grinning madly, he tilted back his head and swilled the champagne.
Voldemort pulled back his lips into a near-smile. "Severus, that's the nicest thing you ever said to me."
"Ikin top at," Peter said, falling against the chair representing Lucius. He belched and pronounced, "For imbelly nine says when gopop…you know t'res." Down the gullet went the champagne.
Voldemort would have stared him down had the rat been able to focus on his master. How might he possibly know the rest when he had no idea what the twat said? It wasn't like Lucius to mumble, after all—in fact, Malfoy took it as a matter of pride to enunciate until one wanted to throttle him; he was almost as bad at Severus that way. Still, he couldn't let Peter see that he wasn't all-knowing. "As usual, Lucius, you're cagey and clever."
Peter fell to one knee rounding the table to Dolohov's chair, then got up and said loudly, "Fuck!" Then he downed the alcohol.
"Pithy, as I've come to expect from you, Dolohov."
Peter took hold of the table, propelling himself by sheer force to Bella's spot, where he lifted the flower vase and said, "My eveyting, partly caps it'll mist own. Yeah, I said it." He leered, winked, and dumped water from the flower vase down his chest. "Oops." He raised his other hand which was gripping the champagne bottle, and slurped it dry before sending forth a tremendous burp.
"Ah, Bellatrix, you flatter me," said Voldemort, nodding. He hadn't understood a word, but the overall idea was there. Bella never was very subtle, and Peter had captured her nicely. While Peter swayed like a drunken sailor, he picked at the chicken. At last he pushed back from the table. "Wonderful party, even better than last year. I think I shall retire now."
"Same proceder as las year, master?" Peter managed.
"Same procedure as every year, Pet," answered Voldemort, starting up the stairs.
Peter grinned, pinching the dark lord's rear as he followed right behind. "I'll do my very best."
END