Dedication: Although I almost never dedicate my stories, this time I feel moved to make an exception—or rather, three exceptions. First of all, to all those beginning writers who have given me some of my strangest ideas through their mistakes; may we all remember that once we were like you, and may we have patience as others had with us when we were first starting. Second, to my late grandfather (nearly ten years now), whose sense of humour irreparably warped my own. Thanks, Papa Ben. And last—but never least—to B. J. P., whose ability to joke about almost anything has been a life-saver for me more than once.
Chapter 1: The Idea is Hatched
Picture this.
England. The city of Lincoln, dominated by a large hill. The castle, crouching like a cat who has no intention of moving from its cozy cushion. Across from it, the immense gothic-style Lincoln Cathedral. The bells are ringing now, a cacophony that (if you listen closely) has a rhythm and eccentrically dinging tune of its own. Also imagine, if you will, a house somewhere up the street from these two stately landmarks. It's a perfectly ordinary-looking house with brick stained by many years of smoke billowing out of its chimney. There is a rudimentary garden in the front of the lot, and the whole thing is surrounded by a low stone wall. This one is about three feet high and nearly a foot thick, covered in various forms of parasitic vegetation and dwarfed by the holly behind it. From the gate by the street there is a small stone path leading to the front door. Nothing at all to notice about it, really.
Except, of course, that although everybody knows that it's always been there—it absolutely oozes the sense of belonging—nobody can help wondering if it had always been there last week.
On a mountain of skulls in the castle of pain, he sat on a throne of blood.
Or rather, he'd like to think so. It was true that he was the most feared wizard of his time, and it was likewise true that he and his followers had done their share of torture and murder. But the truth was that at this point in time, he was sitting in a comfy rocking chair in the house that had always been in Lincoln. However, it was at the top of the unimaginatively-but-truthfully-named Steep Hill, and for many people that was like climbing a mountain anyway; much steeper and you'd need a grappling hook to get up and a parachute to get down. Nagini was curled up in her basket by his feet, and it would've looked quite domestic if it weren't for the skull-and-snake motif he'd decorated the place in and the fact that he looked like a noseless cross between a newt, a rhinoceros and George W. Bush. But the room was cozy enough for the (now literally) cold-blooded Lord of Darkness, and it was the perfect place for hatching nefarious plots and planning dirty deeds.
The fact was, he wasn't quite sure that he had his followers' absolute devotion anymore. And while Voldemort was very good at Reigns of Terror—he had of course had a very successful one seventeen years ago before that little incident with the baby, and he was on the cusp of a new one based on improved strategies—he wasn't quite at the point where he could easily replace old (and, quite frankly, somewhat defective) followers with shiny new ones.
It
just isn't like the old days, he
mused. Back
then, they'd tell me that they'd walk through fire for me, kill for
me, die for me, and even make egg salad sandwiches with sardines on
dark rye bread for me. They still do, but it's almost like they
don't believe it anymore. It's almost like...
Voldemort
started at the thought. It's
almost like the shine has come off and all they see is a gloomy
service full of black robes and oddly cooked eggs.
At this thought he grew angry. His red eyes blazed. His grey face contorted into a mask of fury. "They should be proud!" he declared to Nagini. "I am the greatest wizard ever to walk this earth since Slytherin himself. They should be proud to be in my service! They should be offering me their lives, their children and their favourite hats! I will have my vengeance. Come, Nagini, and help me plot my nefarious...er...plots! They must be reminded, and reminded they shall be. I will show no mercy! I will have torture! I will have pain! I will have—"
And inspiration hit the Dark Lord like a gooey mud splat on a starched white shirt. His eyes glowed with malice and his high, raspy voice burned with glee.
"I will have—a tent revival!"
With his course of action in mind, Voldemort summoned the Inner Circle of the Death Eaters to their Chief Secret Meeting Place (really the lower level of the Magna Carta pub; it wasn't far from his house, and they served decent food—for a Muggle establishment, of course). Given the location and the clientele of the place, the efforts of the Inner Circle to dress inconspicuously never failed to amuse the Dark Lord. They were getting better at it now, but each of them would often forget one small but important detail. For example, on one rather memorable occasion Lucius Malfoy, in an attempt to show off his superior knowledge and Muggle dress sense, had shown up at a meeting wearing a black tank top and a leather miniskirt with some rather fetching pink boots. And as for the day when Goyle had shown up wearing a thong...
He shivered at the thought. Nobody, even the Potter brat, should ever be subjected to the sight of a Goyle's naked backside. He truly had an arse like a bag of hammers—heavy, lumpy and uncomfortable to sit on.
Not, of course, that Voldemort would know about that last one from personal experience, but he had a very fertile imagination, especially for things which could cause other people pain.
In any case, recent attempts at Muggle clothing had proven more successful. Voldemort himself was quite comfortable in a t-shirt and blue jeans, though sometimes he had trouble getting his favourite wig—black, of course—to stick to his head. In the early days the local Muggles had insisted on knowing the reason behind the more unusual aspects of his physical form; eventually they came to accept his vague references to "an industrial accident" and left him alone. Only tourists bothered him now—but then, tourists bothered everyone, in his opinion.
Once they had all assembled, Voldemort put on his best "Impressive" face. "Oh hear ye, my loyal followers, my Knights of Walpurgis. Let my words enter your ears and inspire you with malice this day. It hath come unto mine omniscient eyes that—oh, for Merlin's sake, Wormtail, what is it?"
The cringing Peter Pettigrew had been tugging on Voldemort's sleeve. "Master," he whispered, "I would not insult you for the wold, but...the Muggles are staring."
The Dark Lord sighed. "Nothing to see, folks, we're just rehearsing for a play. All right, then. So much for an opening speech to put awe into the hearts of my followers...the fact is that I have picked up some signs of discontent lately. Nobody—yes, Bella, including you—seems to have the fire of the old days. Where is the zeal which you once had for doing my noble work? Where is the fervour of your declarations of loyalty to me? Where are the egg-and-sardine salad sandwiches? This cannot continue. So I have decided to do something to rekindle your former wrath against those who do not obey only me. I have decided—oh, what is it this time?"
"'Scuse me, sir, but do you think...erm, that is...can I be in your play? Sounds like good stuff to me." A lanky, awkward Muggle boy had walked up to the table.
"Certainly not," snapped Voldemort. "It's a private performance, and you really wouldn't want to be part of it anyway, trust me." The boy persisted for several minutes, during which Voldemort's hand itched for his wand. Only the fact that he really did not want to have to leave Lincoln—a good Evil Base Station is hard to find—kept him from casting the Killing Curse then and there. Finally he bellowed, "BUGGER OFF! ALL THE ROLES HAVE BEEN FILLED!"
The boy scowled. "Fine, then. See if I ever audition for you again," he said, muttering all the way up the stairs and out onto the street.
When he was certain that the intruder had gone, Voldemort continued. "My course of action will not be a pleasant one to take, but I feel it is for the best. What lies before you, my loyal henchmen—and henchwomen, of course—is a trial of strength and spirit that will leave many of you feeling drained. You have suffered much for my soon-to-be-immortal sake, but that is nothing compared to the trial ahead. I have decided, in my magnificence, to renew your dedication to me in the most painful way possible. I am holding a tent revival, my dark Death Eaters, and you are all to attend. I will accept no excuses from anyone, even you, Snape. It's the summer holiday now, so you have no dunderheads to teach. Are there any questions?"
Lestrange reluctantly put up his hand. Voldemort sighed. "Yes, Rodolphus?"
"Er...my Lord...will there be pinwheels?"Author's Notes: Although the story itself was largely written after the release of HBP (and my reading of the above, concluded about three days afterwards), the idea was conceived some time before and a basic plot summary was written down. I briefly considered never unleashing this on the world after I finished, but I honestly had so much fun writing this that I thought it deserved to be shared. Therefore, if there is any part of this story that is not totally AU, I can assure you that its presence is a complete accident.
In 2005, I sang Evensong at Lincoln Cathedral for a week with my choir; like Winchester three years before, it was a wonderful experience. I have no idea why Lincoln seemed to be a good place to set the first part of this story, but it's a beautiful city and I plan to return there someday. My description of the hill in this story is heavily based on a diary entry of mine from our first day there. (Incidentally, I was in England when HBP was released; I picked up my copy in Cambridge that day. I finished reading it in Lincoln that Monday; this is possibly the shortest time I've ever taken to finish reading a book of that length.) At any rate, the food (and the tea) at the Magna Carta really is good, and I'd recommend the fish pie at Brown's Pie Shop—at least, I think that's what it's called—a short way down the hill from the Cathedral as well.
This piece is pretty much complete; the last two chapters need a bit of polishing and expansion, but that's it. Updates should be relatively regular—for me, that is—meaning, in this case, roughly once a week.
Oh, and incidentally, I owe part of the inspiration for this piece to Evadne's absolutely hilarious vignette collection called "Once Upon a Freakin' Time"—particularly the chapter titled "The Death Eaters Have a Bake Sale". It's archived here, and I urge you to check it out. There's a link to her work here in my "Favourite Authors" list.
