Prologue
"What is the meaning of this?" Voldemort struggled against the bonds holding him prisoner, "release me, I say!"
"Hmm..." the Writer pretended to think about it, "I think not, actually."
"Who are you? Why am I here?" He-Who-Was-Tied-To-A-Chair demanded, straining his neck to look around the strangely ordinary office he appeared to be in.
"I'm a Writer and I have nothing better to do," she replied, resting her feet on the desk she sat behind, watching with amusement as Voldemort grasped at his robes.
"Where's my wand, filthy Muggle?"
"It's quite safe," the Writer folded her arms, feeling for the first time in her life like a Bond villain, "you'll get it back when you leave."
"Little bit-" Voldemort spat, still attempting to throw off the chains and ropes.
"Tut, tut," the Writer shook her head in disappointment, interrupting his effort to swear at her, "I thought you would have paid more attention to what I just said. I'm a Writer. In this piece, I could make you do whatever I want. Be rude to me, and you'll regret it."
"I don't believe you, filth," he snarled.
With a sigh, the Writer turned to her computer, "Don't say I didn't warn you..."
She began to type and Voldemort felt all the chains, ropes and padlocks fall to the floor. Then came a strange sensation in his right arm, as it raised itself and slapped him in the face.
"Holy sh-!" he cried out as he made painful introductions with the floorboards. Almost immediately, he was pulled back into his chair and the bonds once more gripped his pale frame in place.
"Now," the Writer continued smugly, "would you like some tea?"
"T-tea?" Voldemort stuttered, "you kidnap me, blindfold me, take my wand and bring me here, all to offer me a cup of bloody tea?"
"No. I told you why you're here. I need something to write about, which is where you come in," the Writer explained as though she was talking to a particularly ignorant child, "it's courteous to offer someone a beverage when they visit. Now, would you like some tea?"
"Oh, very well," Voldemort sighed with exasperation, "but how am I meant to drink it, eh? You've tied me up so I can't move."
The Writer began typing again and he felt free enough to move his arms, but couldn't get out of the seat. He looked down, noticing his feet had been shackled to the floor. The Writer passed him a mug, which he took and gulped from.
"Tell me," the Writer began, "how much do you know about Veritaserum?"
"The truth telling potion," Voldemort replied coldly, "one drop and anyone will tell you anything...this tea tastes funny...what's in it?"
"Tea leaves, milk, Veritaserum, sugar..." the writer listed them all with a grin of satisfaction, before offering him a plate, "biscuit?"
"No thank you...wait a second," Voldemort looked thoughtful, "could you run just one of those ingredients by me again? I thought you said Veritaserum...?"
"Well, I knew you wouldn't just tell me any of your secrets, so I thought could use a little help."
A second passed, before his mouth began to run of its own accord.
"I'm a Half Blood! I was never good at Quidditch, even when I practiced and practiced, so I tried to make a potion to make me better, but instead I burned my eyebrows off! I had a blue teddy called Bubbles, right up until Seventh Year!" Voldemort endeavoured to clamp his mouth shut, to no avail, "I wear women's clothing in private!"
"Well, none of those are particularly...come again?" the Writer was stunned.
"You heard me! I wear women's clothing and I like it!" Voldemort was sobbing by this point.
"Hold the phone..." the Writer whipped out a wand and smacked it against the side of his head.
"Ouch! That hurt!"
"Keep quiet and stay still," she ordered, pulling a long, silver strand from his temple. She threw open a drawer in the desk, took a vial and emptied the memory inside.
"What was that for?" Voldemort sniffed, rubbing the point where the wand had struck him.
"For my own amusement later," the Writer clarified. She dismissed him with her hand, "you may go."
Voldemort stood up, not knowing what exactly to do with his newly discovered freedom. But then he remembered something important.
"And my wand?" he hissed.
"Go through that door," the Writer pointed to the other side of the office, "you'll be back where you were, with your wand."
Voldemort snorted with contempt, and then turned. He opened the door, stepped through, and was gone.
Checking he was well and truly gone, the Writer chuckled to herself.
"Oh, boy, this is going to be fun!"
Taking up her wand, she waved it and a crack opened in the wall. A Pensieve slid out of it, onto the floor. She poured the memory from the vial, until it filled the bowl. Then, sniggering in anticipation of what she would find, she dove in.