Disclaimer: Tolkien owns LotR, Prachett owns Discworld, Rowling owns Potterverse, and Jay & Acacia own the PPC. This is only a bit of fun for an LJ challenge.
The Waning Moon: Where Dark Lords Went to Drink, they said. And it was true, but not the whole truth. The Dark Lords had found it first, but they couldn't go too long without inviting their evil minions. And the almost-evil characters made a fuss if they were not invited to the meets and whine-fests ensued and soon everyone who had ever been concieved of as evil went to the bar. The real Dark Lords had left for the Oliphant's Head down the block, as it had gotten so crowded at the Moon. It just was not good for one's reputation to be seen rubbing elbows with the likes of Nuggan or Skeeter. Then you would really be seen as evil.
But there were still people who stopped by for a mug of Bearhugger's or the house special, as the bartender was known for keeping the glasses full and not asking too many questions. Keep your tab paid up, and he wouldn't even ask you for a name. The cliente, after all, tended toward the darker end of the moral spectrum. Still, it was hard not to ask when he walked through the door. Conversation died down as the crowd attempted to make sure that their eyes were in working order. Blonde as a Malfoy, pale as Saruman's broken staff, and as gray of eye as Chyrophase's business-suit-covered back. Yes, it was him.
"Now I've seen everything," a voice drifted up from the rabble.
"Who did you piss off?" demanded another.
The newcomer didn't respond, but ordered a bleepka on the rocks. Kreacher offered him the peanut bowl. "Why does nice elf come to Waning Moon? Master shouldn't mock those who aren't so lucky."
"Lucky?" The elf tossed the shot back in a fashion that would do Voldemort himself proud. "You have your character polluted so deeply that the PPC can't stand you anymore and then you call me lucky."
Kreacher's large ears flattened slightly. "Not everyone here is evil, Master Elf, sir, and them that are often get it the worst. Sympathy fics, sir," the house elf whispered in tones reserved for the most nightmarish of senarios. Surely this one had seen the daughters of evil that attempted to make nice with the Dark Lords and threw all their traits out the window. Even Morgoth had faced a few. The fallen Vala did not like to speak of the incident, but rumor got around the bars quickly. Puppies were said to have been invovled. And flowers from Laurelin. The two elves shuddered.
"Some people at least get intelligent fans," The blond glared in the direction of Snape, who had wandered over to the Hurins' table. Boromir gave him the salute of one long-suffering lust object recognizing another. "It seems like if it's not Mary Sues, I'm always being whored off to another character. Is it any wonder that the new canon worshipers think I'm that shallow? Am I really what they think I am and I'm just fooling myself here? Are we all really nothing more than the sum of our relationships?"
"Kreacher is too drunk to philosophize, and he guesses that Master elf is as well."
"That's a rather racy comment for one of your kind, isn't it? I hope that I can set down my glass without you breaking it over your head," he cut sarcastically, feeling in the mood for a fight. He had only set said glass down in order to have it refilled.
"Not all elves are Dobby," Kreacher replied sourly. "Master doesn't follow the old ways, so why should Kreacher? Master thinks Kreacher should be a brownie, cleaning and cooking for a bowl of milk! Kreacher doesn't like milk!" The elf took a generous swallow of his butterbeer before continuing defiantly under his breath, "Kreacher doesn't much like Master. Kreacher wishes Mistress were here. Master won't listen to her portrait." His companion grunted in sympathy, before rising to go. The taller elf was not comfortable with the stares the crowd turned on him. "But Master Elf, Kreacher wonders if it is true what they say about him and Gimli."
"I cannot say." Legolas smiled for the first time that night. "Even Leggykins needs a few secrets."