The studio was quiet, just the way Dr. Phil McGraw preferred it before he was scheduled to go on the air before millions of his daily viewers. He could vaguely hear the audience's muffled voices of anticipation carrying over from the next room, but thought nothing of it. They would not be permitted to take their seats before his stage for another few minutes at least.
It was one of his longtime pre-show rituals to go over his show notes before speaking to his guests about their problems. There was no way better to spend the few minutes before show time than to brush up on his guests... and boy, did he have guests today.
He had never read about such an obscure life and personality before. This man, Voldemort ... he was quite the character. And he didn't mean that as a compliment. His camera crew had returned from Little Hangleton in England full of odd stories about the man he would be interviewing today; how he had the vague appearance of a snake, how everyone around him seemed to cower in fear when he looked at them, and his continuous ramblings about a boy named Harry Potter.
Dr. Phil had watched the tapes over and over again, and he knew that this Harry Potter had to be an important factor in Voldemort's overall mental health. He himself had traveled to England to find this boy, but it was someone who found him instead that led him to Harry Potter's location.
He had arrived in Little Whinging of Surrey on a cold, grey Saturday. Little Whinging was the place where Harry Potter was rumored to live with his aunt and uncle, the Dursleys. Rapping lightly on the door of Number 4, Privet Drive with his camera crew in tow, he was greeted ecstatically by a tall, thin, blonde woman.
"Oh my God!" she screeched when she saw who had occupied her doorstep. "Vernon! Dudley! Come here this minute! Oh, Dr. Phil, it is such a pleasure to meet you ... I love your show. What can I do for you?"
Dr. Phil shook the woman's hand, peering over her shoulder as two beefy men soon joined her. Dr. Phil looked warily from one to the other. One had to be her husband, and the other, possibly, her son. He looked as though he could use a copy of Dr. Phil's best-selling book, 'The Ultimate Weight Solution'.
"Oh, I didn't even introduce myself," the woman grinned, blushing deeply. "My name is Petunia Dursley, this is my husband Vernon, and our son Dudley."
Dr. Phil shook each of their hands. "Pleased tah meet yew."
The men's attention soon waned, and they retreated back into their home. Petunia continued grinning at him, apparently still in disbelief that her television idol was standing on her doorstep.
"Won't you come in, Dr. Phil?" she asked. "I would be pleased to make you a cup of tea..."
"That would be great, Mrs. Dursley, but we're on a bit of ah schedule," he declined. "Unless, o' course, we can speak tah Harry Potter?"
Mrs. Dursley's pleasant expression quickly turned to one of unwelcoming dislike. Her eyes narrowed, and her arms crossed.
"He doesn't live here anymore," she snapped before slamming the door in his face.
Dr. Phil stared at the closed door in confusion. He had only asked a simple question, but it seemed to be a tender subject for this family.
"Now they seem like someone who should come on your show, sir," one of the cameramen chuckled before turning off the camera.
Dr. Phil grinned. "Yeah, but we're here tah worry 'bout Harry Potter, not his family. Come on, let's try somewhere else..."
They all got back into the van, settling in for a long drive before them. Just as they were preparing to drive off, however, an old man tapped on the passenger seat window, startling Dr. Phil. The man seemed to come out of nowhere, for Dr. Phil had not seen him anywhere in the surrounding area when he had first arrived.
"Careful, sir," the driver muttered under his breath as Dr. Phil lowered his window. "He could be homeless, or insane."
"Most usually assume the latter, but I must assure you, that is not true," the elderly man stated calmly, his eyes twinkling as he smiled. He turned to Dr. Phil. "I hear you are looking for Harry Potter?"
Dr. Phil furrowed his brows in suspicion. "How did yew-?"
"Oh, I know plenty of things," the man replied cheerfully. "My name is Albus Dumbledore. I am the Headmaster at Harry Potter's school."
"Are yeh now?" Dr. Phil extended his hand to the man. "Mah name is Dr. Phil McGraw. Ah'm a psychologist."
Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, I have heard of you ... most of my friends do not normally take regard to Muggle contraptions such as the television, but I must admit, it is one of my many weaknesses..."
"Uh, right," Dr. Phil replied, deciding it would be better not to ask this man what a 'Muggle' was. "So, where can ah find Harry Potter?"
"Dr. Phil?"
He was brought back to the present as a hand rested on his shoulder. Slightly startled, he looked up from his show notes.
"It's two minutes to air," the techie told him. "We need you over here..."
"O' course," he replied, standing up from his seat. Just as he disappeared behind the stage, the doors opened for the audience to take their seats. He could hear them talking amongst themselves in excitement, then begin to clap in anticipation as the opening montage for his show began to play on the numerous screens in the main area. Catching his cue, he walked through the opening passage, waving and smiling at the crowd.
He waited for the applause to die down before speaking. "Are yew someone that, no matter where yew go and what yew do, people consider yew tah be mean, inconsiderate, an' jus' downright evil?"
There was a murmur of consent throughout the audience. Some of the crowd members were nodding unhappily, and some were laughing slightly.
"That seems tah be thah case fer mah first guest today," Dr. Phil continued, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Because o' some things that he's dun in his past, he has a repewtation o' pure wickedness following him around. Jus' take a look."
He looked, along with the crowd to one of the screens in his studio, where a shot of the snake-like man had come up on the screen. A look of astonishment was mirrored on every face in Dr. Phil's audience. Dr. Phil's face, however, remained passive. He had seen this peculiar face too many times now to be taken aback in the least.
The man began to speak, his high voice reverberating through the studio. "My name is Voldemort, and I am considered one of the evilest men of all time. It's not like I didn't earn this reputation ... I've destroyed many families, and many homes. I've hurt people who did not deserve my wrath, I even saw to it that my wretched Muggle grandparents were killed when I was only in my late teens..."
There was that word again: Muggle. Dr. Phil considered the nature of the word ... he could not conclude what it could possibly mean. He made a mental note to ask Voldemort if he got the opportunity.
"...I'm not really too sure why I'm here. It's not like I'm mentally unstable ... I'm just a bit different than all the others, and I've always known it. I've known it ever since I was a young boy. But, now, some of my Death Eaters are beginning to say that I'm losing touch in my evil ways - though, some of them won't be saying much in the next little while - but even my closest ones are beginning to agree, though they won't admit it..."
''Death Eaters'?' Dr. Phil thought.
The montage ended. Most of the audience members were looking quite mortified as to what Voldemort had been saying moments before on the screen. Dr. Phil took his seat in his usual chair, waiting for one of his crewmembers to lead Voldemort out to the chair opposite him.
The crowd clapped nervously as the man was led out to the stage. Some of them pursed their lips in disapproval, but none hissed, booed, or showed any other sign of disrespect.
"Now," Dr. Phil stated as Voldemort took a seat next to him. "I would just like tah ask ... did yew dress yerself fer tha show?"
Voldemort was wearing the same clothes he had been wearing in the video clips: long, black robes that billowed behind his as he walked, and a drawn hood, hiding his flat face, pale skin and slit-like eyes.
He narrowed his eyes in dislike. "Yes."
Dr. Phil did not know quite how to answer. "All right, then, let's get on with tha show ... first of all, is Voldemort yer real name?"
Voldemort's eyes remained narrowed. "No. It is a name that I have been called ever since I left school. I left my common name behind when I began to rise as a powerful and demanding force."
Dr. Phil considered him, stroking his chin. "Do yew think that maybe yew go about calling yerself this name because yer tryin' tah hide somethin'?"
"What would I be trying to hide?" the man asked coldly.
"Yew tell me," Dr. Phil replied. "Ah can't git inside yer head. Did yew have a rough childhood?"
Voldemort's eyes opened, his tense shoulders falling slightly. "I guess so ... I don't know..."
"Of course yew know," Dr. Phil encouraged him. "Ah can see it-"
"Hey, hold on a minute," Voldemort suddenly spoke, cutting Dr. Phil off. "I came here to ask you about how I could retain my evil and sadistic ways, not to poke around my childhood."
Dr. Phil leaned in closer, looking at Voldemort with a very serious look of compassion. "Did yew ever stop tah think that maybe yew came tah me because yew wanted help?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Why would I need help?"
"Ah mean way, way, deep down," Dr. Phil spoke softly. "Do yew think that maybe under this tough exterior there is a little boy - a tortured soul - just beggin' fer relief?"
To Voldemort's horror, he felt his bottom lip start to quiver, and something wet began to formulate at the corners of his eyes. He was going to cry. Hating himself immensely, he wiped the fluid away quickly on his sleeve, hoping this man before him didn't notice.
He did. Taking a tissue from the inside of his pocket, he handed it to Voldemort, who stared at it in disdain before grudgingly accepting it. He patted his cheeks dolefully, cursing himself for letting this man get to him.
"Let's jus' get it all out, Ok?" Dr. Phil proposed. "Remember, yew can't change what yew don't acknowledge."
Voldemort nodded, blowing his nose on the tissue.
"Now," Dr. Phil continued. "What were yer parents like?"
"Never knew them," Voldemort replied, a sneer coming over him. "My father left before I was born, and my mother died shortly after giving birth."
"Do yew think thah fact that yew were abandoned when yew were born caused yew tah bottle all yer emotions up inside yew, bringing tah life this desire tah hurt other people? Be honest ... do yew hate yer father?"
"Oh, yes, I hated my father," Voldemort nodded bitterly. "It wasn't long before I tracked him down and killed him."
Dr. Phil's insides went cold as ice. A gasp echoed through the audience, most of its members looking on in horror and revulsion.
"Yew killed yer father?" Dr. Phil repeated in a dead whisper. "Are yew sure that yer not a little mentally unstable, perhaps?"
Voldemort shrugged, staring at the floor. "I don't know. You tell me. You're the doctor."
Dr. Phil considered Voldemort again. "Listen, Ah'm going tah get yew the help yew need-"
Voldemort met his eyes with a steely resolution. "I do not need your help."
Dr. Phil gave him another reassuring glance. "Remember what I said, Voldemort. Yew cannot change what yew don't acknowledge."
Voldemort sighed, nodding. "All right. Fine. You can go ahead and try."
Dr. Phil shook his head. "No, Ah'm not goin' tah try to help yew unless yer willin' tah be helped. Do yew want mah help, or not?"
Voldemort stared at Dr. Phil. He couldn't understand why someone would go so far to try to help him. He wrestled with the notion inside himself. He teetered back and forth between his options; half of him wanted to hear what this man had to say, but the other half was leaning on blasting this man to smithereens and carrying on with his day as if none of this had ever happened.
"Whud yew like some time tah think about it?" Dr. Phil asked him after he hadn't replied for a full minute.
Voldemort nodded hesitantly. He couldn't believe that he was actually considering going along with this whole shenanigan.
Dr. Phil nodded, leaning forward in his seat again. "Yew don't know this, but someone is here tah help me help yew ... someone that yew used tah know. Would yew mind if we brought him out?"
Voldemort's mind raced as he thought of who it could be. He had a pretty good idea of who would want to take time out of their busy day to offer help to him...
"We'll take a quick break, then we'll bring him out," Dr. Phil spoke after a moment into the camera. "Join us again after these commercials as this tragic tale of abandonment and spite continues tah unfold. We'll be right back."
Voldemort drummed his fingers impatiently as Dr. Phil stood, walking past him towards stage left.
"It's good tah meet yew again," Dr. Phil spoke, shaking the old man's hand.
"It's a pleasure," came the calm, compassionate voice that Voldemort knew only too well.
Voldemort whipped around in his seat. There, shaking hands with the kind, balding man was his old Transfiguration professor and one of his many, mortal enemies, Albus Dumbledore.
Dumbledore waited patiently as a member of Dr. Phil's crew conjured a chair for him to sit in. He plunked down next to Voldemort and laced his fingers together on his front lap, looking around the studio with a faint smile of curiosity.
"Would yew like some water?" Dr. Phil asked Voldemort and Dumbledore. Dumbledore refused politely, his eyes sparkling innocently, but Voldemort took the water bottle, opened it and drank it all down.
"Thirsty, are we?" Dr. Phil asked, taking the now-empty bottle back and handing it to a stagehand.
"A bit," he replied quickly, then closed his mouth tightly.
He looked over at Dumbledore, who continued to smile as though everything was normal. Voldemort knew, however, that things were not as they seemed.
"You..." he started, staring at Dumbledore with intense dislike. "You put something in my water."
"How could I do that, Tom?" Dumbledore smiled again. "I had no previous access to your water bottle."
Voldemort leaned in closer to him, whispering so that Dr. Phil would not hear him. "You and I both know that you have other ways of getting something into my water."
Dumbledore did not reply. Dr. Phil was beginning to welcome the public back to his show, and had shushed the two of them.
"Joinin' us now is Albus Dumbledore, who used tah teach Voldemort before he left school. Now, Albus, what do yew remember o' Voldemort from when he was young?"
Dumbledore smiled. "Well, before we get into that, I would just like to suggest that we call Voldemort by his real name: Tom."
Voldemort sneered at Dumbledore. "Tom is not my name anymore, Dumbledore, and you know that."
"You will always be Tom Riddle to me."
Dr. Phil held his hands up, gesturing them to stop. "Listen, with all due respect, Albus, we will call him by wha' he prefers to be called."
Dumbledore nodded. "All right, then. You will not mind that I call him Tom, though, will you?"
"O' course not," Dr. Phil replied. "Now, Ah'll ask yew again ... what do yew remember of Voldemort from when he was young?"
Dumbledore looked over at Voldemort, who stared back at him with an apparent look of mistrust. Dumbledore only ignored his gaze, and answered Dr. Phil's question. "He used to be very secretive ... kept to himself most of the time. He had friends; if you could call them that ... more like followers, which is only more so apparent now with the Death Eaters. He liked to cause pain in people ... I recall that when I collected him from the orphanage in which he was raised he told me that he hurt people. He did not show any remorse whatsoever. He liked to collect trophies, as well."
Dr. Phil nodded throughout Dumbledore's answer. "That's quite thah list ... Voldemort, is all this true?"
"Yes," he answered mechanically, then glared at Dumbledore again. "I swear, Dumbledore, if you put truth serum in my water-"
"Sh, Tom," he spoke sternly out of the corner of his mouth. Dr. Phil had not noticed. He was studying his show notes.
"Now, ah have tah ask ... what is a Death Eater?"
"They're my followers," Voldemort stated.
Dr. Phil nodded, looking back at his show notes. "So ... are yew thah leader of a cult then, or somethin'?"
"It's more of an organization," Dumbledore answered for Voldemort, who was looking rather insulted by Dr. Phil's conclusion.
"And what exactly is a Muggle?" Dr. Phil asked.
"Someone who doesn't have a drop of magical blood in his or her body," Voldemort answered before he could stop himself. He glared, speaking to Dumbledore out of the corner of his mouth. "See what's happening? Great plan of yours, huh? You've just risked the exposition of the Wizarding world..."
Dr. Phil did not notice. He was frowning, looking over his show notes for something that would help him. "So ... yew think that yer magical? Are yew sure yer not the leader of a cult ... perhaps a Pagan group or a black magic group?"
"I'm sure," Voldemort slid down in his seat, crossing his arms. He was more than angry at this Muggle man's foolish assumption that he would associate himself with such poor endeavors of magic.
"Mmhmm ... Now, what's all this business with a boy named Harry Potter?"
Voldemort's face contorted into a harrowing sneer. "He is my worst sworn enemy. He caused my downfall, and forced me to go into hiding for ten years before I was strong enough to return."
"It was for the best, Tom," Dumbledore stated serenely. "You were getting way too carried away with your power, ambition and greed."
"Exactly," Dr. Phil leaned forward in his chair. "Do yew think that maybe Harry Potter was not tah be seen as an inconvenience, but instead as a blessing in disguise?"
Voldemort's sneer did not lessen. "No. He took everything away from me ... everything that I had worked so hard to obtain."
"All in the same," Dr. Phil told him. "Perhaps there was somethin' better for yew in this world ... maybe yew should be thankin' Harry Potter instead of despisin' him."
Voldemort didn't know what to say. The very thought of seeing Harry Potter as anything other than an enemy made his stomach sink and twinge in anger.
"I always had faith that you would break free of the mold set for you, Tom," Dumbledore added to the conversation. "It is truly our choices that make us, not what is set before us as our supposed destiny. You made a few wrong choices somewhere down the line, is all. It is never too late for redemption."
Voldemort looked at Dumbledore, then at Dr. Phil. Dr. Phil was leaning forward in his seat again, his forehead wrinkled with consideration. "Don't yew wish that maybe yew could stop being so angry at everyone, especially yer mother and father?"
"What have they got to do with anything?" Voldemort asked, an unfamiliar feeling of sadness coming over him.
"They've got everything tah dew with it," Dr. Phil replied in a low, sorrowful tone. "Yer anger stems from thah hate yew feel fer them fer leavin' yew on yer own. Don't yew think that maybe yew should stop livin' in spite of them, and start tah live thah way yew want tew?"
Voldemort frowned as he fought back a sob. "My dad didn't want me to exist, and my mother ... well, she came from a rough crowd..."
"That's all right, still," Dr. Phil continued. "Our parents are suppose tah be our idols, but sometimes it jus' doesn't turn out that way. If yew think yer parents weren't the best that they could be, why are yew followin' the same path that they did, what with hurtin' people an' all? Do yew want tah end up like yer mother and father? Yer father left because he whus unable to love and cherish his own child, and yer mother, well..."
"I don't want to end up like her, either," Voldemort admitted.
"Then, there we go, Voldemort. If yew continue going down the path yer currently goin', that's where yew'll be," Dr. Phil stated. "Do yew want me tah help yew get the help yew need?"
Voldemort nodded, bowing his head. Dr. Phil took another tissue out from the inside of his suit jacket and handed it to him. He dabbed at his face once again, trying to hide his face from the silent, pressing crowd.
"Ah want yew tah look at this man here," Dr. Phil told him softly, pointing at a smartly dressed man in the front row of his audience. "This is Dr. Kenneth Alders. I know yew aren't from this area, so we called him in fram London. Dr. Alders, do yew think yew can help this man?"
Dr. Alders smiled and nodded his head, forcing Voldemort to emit a dry sob. "Yes, I think we can ... of course, he will need a lot of help, as most people do with abandonment issues, but I am willing to take him on as a client."
The crowd clapped encouragingly. Voldemort smiled very slightly, feeling as though a giant weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
Dr. Phil talked over the cheering people. "Ok, next, we will be talking to a man who claims that his wife takes every opportunity tah try tah bring upon his death, and make it look like an accident in thah process. Yew aren't going tah want tah miss this one. Stay tuned."
Dr. Phil turned back to Voldemort as the station cut to commercials. "Voldemort, do yew believe what ah said when ah said that Harry Potter gave yew a second chance at life?"
Voldemort nodded emphatically, wiping his cheeks clear of his escaped tears.
Dr. Phil continued to look on with a fatherly look of kindness, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Would yew like tah see 'im?"
Voldemort nodded again. Dr. Phil pointed towards stage left, where Dumbledore had come out before. Approaching the stage with apparent caution was young Harry Potter, his black hair in its usual mess and his round glasses covering the eyes that so resembled his mothers.
Harry stood at Dumbledore's side, eyeing Voldemort with slight apprehension. Before Harry could react, Voldemort had seized him in a rib-crushing hug and was sobbing uncontrollably on his shoulder.
Mortified, Harry looked at Dumbledore, asking without words what he should do. Dumbledore only smiled, not helping Harry in the least. Hesitantly, Harry patted Voldemort lightly on the back in what might be taken as an attempt at comforting him.
It never occurred to Dr. Phil the magnitude of the show he had just put on with Voldemort, Albus Dumbledore, and Harry Potter. His shows had always been a place where even the coldest man could search for and find answers deep down inside himself, and could be pointed in the right direction to receive whatever kind of aid he required.
Two new guests joined him on stage, taking their seats where Voldemort and Albus Dumbledore had sat moments before. Looking over their shoulders, he watched his former guests contentedly as they were pulled off the stage by two of his stagehands, followed shortly by Dr. Alders to make further arrangements as to rebuilding Voldemort's mental health.
To him, it was just another job well done.