Disclaimer: If my name were J. K. Rowling I would be rich, very rich. As it is, my income is 10 euros a week, if my parents even remember. Amen.
Chapter 1: Mayhem commences
It was one of those days.
One of those days when you woke up and just knew something was going to happen. Whether it be bad or good, he had no idea, and that made matters only worse, because he just didn't know what to expect, and how to possibly avoid it happening if it wasn't in his best interest. However knowing his luck it was probably something bad, so the only thing he could do whilst waiting was worry; and worry he did, for a day, for two days, for three days, until a week had gone by and nothing remotely out of the abnormal, he was used to living, had happened!
Harry believed himself to be a "man" of larger, clearer views, someone with the patience of a saint and able to cope with anything life decided to throw at him (and that is including Avada Kedavras and mashed potatoes from Dudley's baby puree)... that was the case, until he woke up late -something he'd never been allowed to do before - on a Sunday morning to find the house devoid of anything Dursley-ish. That is to say: no horrendous décor, no outlandish and excessively frilly furnishings, no trails of snack packs and no waffling whales and nosy horses... erm, relatives.
Having finally decifered what the uneasy feeling had been all about, he looked out of the curtainless front room window to check if Vernon's car was still there, only to notice a picket sign planted in the old flower bed, proudly stating that number four, Privet drive was "on sale".
'Great, just great."
Fighting down the urge to hyperventilate, the gnawing panic, the sense of happiness and the burning desire of apparating to wherever his despicable relatives were and Avada Kedavra-ing them on the spot, he sat down on the last vestige of the front room's furniture, the carpet, and started thinking.
Lord Voldemort was not having a nice day.
He had woken up at four o'clock, courtesy of some dumb bird which had no idea of what it had got itself into when it came pecking at Lord Voldemort's window.
Mmm... he hoped Nagini liked her breakfast a bit on the burnt side.
After donning his impressive "Mr Evil" dark robes of doom, Voldemort decided he was thirsty. And everyone knows that a cup of tea is the answer to all your problems. Right? You're thirsty? Have a cup of tea. You're sad? Have a cup of tea. You're thinking? Have a cup of tea. I'm sleeping and you think I need some help? Wake me up and give me a cup of tea. You're guaranteed to lose one of your cups and saucers. So, just have a cup of tea, and all will seem right in the world. Anyway, we're going off track here, people!
So... So he called for one of the house-elves, but to his chagrin, Bilky, the head house-elf, sent him Wormtail. He'd have to have a chat with those elves one of these days.
Wormtail, in all his mumbling, fumbling, bumbling glory managed to bring him the very desired cup of tea. However he inconveniently forgot to remember that he did not like milk and that he'd specifically asked for one spoonful, not three quarters, of sugar.
On the bright side, he did realise his error once the scorching beverage and afore-mentioned cup came hurtling through the air towards his head.
After hissing out a few obscenities and throwing one ore two, or, ok, maybe six, hexes, Voldemort snarled and sat himself down on his throne; the ratty Death Eater scuttled out of danger zone and the fuming Dark Lord's wand aiming area.
A few hours of utter boredom slouched by, until he became desperate, and decided to call his Death Eaters and see if they had anything remotely useful to report, other than the latest fashion news. Honestly, he already knew that! Why would he go and spend twenty nuts on "Gladrags, glad lads" magazine every month otherwise?
The next hour proved to be utterly useless, though he did enjoy watching Wormtail jump in fright every few minutes, every time Nagini went slithering past him. Ah, the joys of life!
Just for effect, he decided to spice up the meeting. "FOOLS!" he bellowed, "Why, I ask why, you incompetent bunch of fools never have one single useful thing to say? Just... stop wasting my time!"
Evidently he'd been a tad too harsh, because his little tirade had prompted a scuffle to break out in the midst of the meeting room. Bilky would have his head on a silver platter, if she found one single speck of blood on the newly dry-cleaned Persian carpet. That elf knew how to be scary. No wonder she'd been hired.
Wormtail, scared out of his wits of his master, had backtracked and trodden on Walden Macnair's foot, making him pull out his little hacking "toy", which in the force of the swing happened to brush against Lucius Malfoy's coiffure, shaving of exactly two hairs. Malfoy, cool as a cucumber, pulled out his wand, sans fluorish, and aimed a Crucio. The first one missed and hit Goyle, the second one hit target.
Goyle, having been hit, blindly crashed into Crabbe, who fell and brought the curtain and curtain rail down with him. Said rail grazed Bellatrix Lestrange's cheek, who promptly started screaming like a Banshee and casting Crucio's left, right and center. She managed to hit the scuttling form of Pettigrew, who went and trod on Nagini's tail. Bad move.
The snake thrashed her tail angrily and bit into the nearest bit of flesh, which just happened to be Voldemort's hand.
Silence fell immediately like a feather light ton of bricks, because, let's face it, a ton of bricks just wouldn't descend quietly... anyway, silence plunged upon them (Mad.A.N: Plunge, I like that word!), as all the black cloaked figures cowered in the corner.
"Out," hissed Voldemort, in his "I'm- very- angry- and- I- won't- be- held- accountable- for- my- actions" voice. Not that he usually was anyway. I mean, who would dare to fine him, even if he had admittedly parked his broomstick in the middle of a zebra crossing, but he was drunk at the time and he had been an exuberant youth. Exactly, he was a teenager (at the time), and he was entitled to be in the right, even if the whole world was against him.
A large crack resonated as all the Death eaters apparated away at once.
Nagini bowed her head apologetically and gently licked her Lord's hand, healing the skin immediately. Voldemort assured her it was all well and that it had been his incompetent follower's fault. The snake nodded and slipped out of the double doors, leaving her master, silently contemplating the room.
"I need a holiday," he muttered a few minutes later, and stood up.
The last thing Bilky the houself, who'd come to inform her master that regrettably Fenrir Greyback had raided the food stores again, saw, was a twenty year old Tom Riddle apparating away, without a sound.
"Bilky will refurbish the stocks before master is any the wiser." The elf nodded to itself, turned it's head towards the carpet and spotted a speck of blood. Oh dear.