"He's here to see you, my lord," Lucius Malfoy simpered from his place at the bottom of the steps. "The man I told you about? He's come all the way from America to meet with you."
Voldemort sighed. Ever since Lucius' failure to retrieve the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries a year and a half earlier, he had been desperate to ingratiate himself to the Dark Lord again. There was a degree to which Voldemort needed Lucius. He was, after all, currently using the man's family home as a base of operations. Still, the more time passed, the more tiresome the entire Malfoy clan seemed to become, and Voldemort had more important things to worry about—namely, restaffing key positions in the Ministry of Magic, now that he and his people had taken control of it. Hoping to curry favor, Lucius had arranged a meeting between Voldemort and what he described as a promising candidate for the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.
"I warn you, Lucius," Voldemort said as he swept down the Malfoys' grand staircase, his black robes billowing around him as he descended. "I will be sorely disappointed if you are wasting my time, yet again. There will be dire consequences."
"Rest assured, my lord, I am doing nothing of the sort," Lucius said. He kept pace with Voldemort, hovering irritatingly near his elbow as the two of them headed toward the estate's drawing room. "The candidate is promising. Very promising indeed. Mr. O'Neal—"
Malfoy looked unwell and much paler than he had been prior to his short stint in Azkaban. His long, white blonde hair was lank, and there was a gauntness to his cheeks that hadn't been there before.
Just another disappointing thing about him, Voldemort thought distastefully. Plenty of my servants have spent time in that place, and none were so effected as he. If anything, Bellatrix came out much improved—madder, perhaps, but also more zealous, more fervently dedicated to our noble cause. Malfoy, it seems, is made of weaker stuff.
"Enough, Lucius." The Dark Lord waved a dismissive hand at the once highly regarded Death Eater, as if at a gnat, and Malfoy flinched slightly, as though he'd been struck. "If your candidate is as strong as you say, he can speak for himself."
"Yes, my lord," Malfoy said, opening the door the drawing room.
It sounded pathetically like the man might be on the verge of tears. Normally, Voldemort would've rolled his eyes at such a ridiculous display. At that moment, however, his focus was utterly elsewhere.
Standing in the center of the Malfoys' rich, wood-paneled drawing room was the most alluring being Voldemort had ever laid eyes on. He was a strapping, young man in his mid-twenties, and taller than average, by far, coming in at over seven feet. Voldemort could tell this was so because he'd always been fascinated by the American system of measurement. The light reflecting off the man's clean-shaven head was dazzling. Even through a set of eye-catching gold and purple, Reebok brand robes, Voldemort could see that his body was a thing of hard, bulging muscles strong enough to lift another grown man and cradle him in his arms like an innocent child.
He must be ripped, Voldemort thought; it was a casual manner of speaking that he never allowed himself to use in front of his Death Eaters because he didn't want it to undermine his authority, but it was still part of him. His heart fluttered, something he had forgotten it had the ability to do. It did it, though, and the sensation shocked him so much that he gasped.
The newcomer's face broke into a broad, friendly smile—a flash of powerful, masculine beauty. Its warmth was a far cry from the trembling brown-nosing the Dark Lord had become accustomed to. The fluttering in his chest intensified.
"Hey," the man said, his American accented voice as warm and lush as his grin. "You must be the Dark Lord Voldemort. It's great to finally meet you. My name's Shaquille O'Neal."
Shaquille stuck his hand out for a shake.
"How dare you not bow before my lord!" Lucius hissed suddenly. He lunged forward like a ferret about to strike. "Have you any idea—"
"Leave us, Lucius," Voldemort commanded. He locked eyes with Shaq—with his deep, drowning, melted chocolate eyes—and a frisson of understanding passed between them as though they'd known each other their entire lives.
"But, my lord—" Lucius began, indignant.
"Leave," Voldemort said again.
He didn't even bother to watch as Lucius slunk, muttering, from the room, and slid the heavy pocket door closed behind him. He was too busy allowing his long-fingered, white hand to be enveloped in the luxurious embrace of Shaquille's beautiful, brown one. Sexual desire was something Voldemort had thought had been lost to him with the destruction of his original body, and yet Shaquille's touch sent a heat through him that could be nothing else.
"Welcome to the United Kingdom, Shaquille," Voldemort said, trying to keep things professional despite the fact that being this close to Shaquille made his knees threaten to buckle beneath him.
"My friends call me Shaq," the American replied. His gaze was the most sincere thing Voldemort had seen in years. "I hope we'll become good friends."
"I believe we will." Voldemort struggled to keep the lust from his voice; the effort was only partially successful. A huskiness came through that he was sure couldn't be ignored. "But, first, to the matter at hand. A position as Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports has opened. Lucius Malfoy, for all his flaws, thinks you would be a good fit. Tell me, Shaq—what are your qualifications?"
Shaq let out a joyful, booming laugh that was like marbles made of thunder tumbling down the steps of Asgard. Voldemort noticed, then, that he and the other man had never ended their handshake, and were still holding tight to each other's hands. Somehow, though, there was no awkwardness in that. There was only a feeling of undeniable connection.
"Sorry," Shaq said, shaking his head as he tried to calm his laughter. "It's just so amazing to meet someone who doesn't know who I am, these days. I gotta say, it's pretty refreshing. But my qualifications...they're a bit of a long story." He nodded at a buttery, leather loveseat nearby. "Mind if we have a seat? My portkey here was a wild ride." He winked in a way that gave Voldemort the distinct impression that he wasn't the only one who could feel the mounting sexual tension between them.
Normally, Voldemort would've been incensed at the idea of someone asking to sit in his presence when he hadn't indicated they could do so. With Shaq, however, it was a welcome invitation. Nodding, Voldemort sank onto the couch and patted the cushion beside him. Shaq joined him with another smile.
"The No-Maj media will tell you that my biological father was a man named Joe Toney, but that's a lie," Shaq admitted. His face softened, some of the joy draining away from it in a way that Voldemort found heartbreaking. "The truth is that my father was a giant. My mom—a witch—was ostracized from our local wizarding community in New Jersey—that's a place in America—because of it. I learned from a young age how wizards seem to hate giants and think they're all violent, but I know who I am. I know I'm not like that." For a moment, there had been anger building in Shaq's words, but he shook his head, dismissing it. "When it was time, I went to Ilvermorny. I'm proud to have been sorted into Wampus house, but, in a lot of ways, I never fit in too well, at the school. I was a born athlete, but it was impossible for me to play the sports offered there. I loved watching quidditch and quodpot. My family moved to Texas when I was a teenager, so I got to be a big fan of the Sweetwater All-Stars quidditch team. Unfortunately, I was just too big of a guy to play. A regulation standard broom just doesn't cut it when you're half giant."
Voldemort could more than believe that. Shaq was massive in a way he found maddeningly titillating. Just sitting next to him made Voldemort feel downright delicate.
"That must have been a difficult time," Voldemort offered. He clutched at his robe, trying to control himself. He wanted to reach out to Shaq, to comfort him, but they had only just met and this encounter had all the trappings of a job interview.
I shouldn't, Voldemort reminded himself, though he quivered with raw need. I need to maintain the authority of my position. The words sounded breathy even in his head.
Shaq shrugged as though shaking years of pain off of his broad, athletic shoulders, then smiled again, though this time it felt a little forced.
"It was," Shaq went on. "But that wasn't gonna stop me. I got involved in a No-Maj sport called basketball, and started playing professionally. I'm on my second professional team, now, and I've played in all kinds of international events. It's a great life, really, even if I do have to hide my magical powers." A sudden earnestness sparked to life in his eyes. "Of course, when I heard that you needed a new head for the Department of Magical Games and sports, I was ready to drop everything, my lord. I know that the last time you came to power, you reached out to the giants here in Europe, and became their allies. That's not something the mainstream wizarding community would ever have the sense to do. I learned that much growing up. If there's a chance to be part of something that's bringing wizards and giants closer together..." He placed a hand the size of a dinner plate on Voldemort's knee. "Then I want in."
All thoughts of professional decorum disappeared from Voldemort's mind like a pile of important documents getting blasted with an industrial grade leaf blower. His free hand—because, of course, the two men still had yet to release the handshake—moved to Shaq's chest as though it had been drawn there by sheer magnetism. Voldemort's palm slid up Shaq's body, feeling the shape of the broad pectoral muscles beneath his robes.
Shaq's face drew closer to Voldemort's. Their eyes flicked to one another's lips, and Voldemort could tell that Shaq yearned for this moment just as passionately as he did. He could feel Shaq's quickened breath on his lips and his flat, snake-like nose. His own breath came in quick little gasps, so intoxicated was he by the brawny athlete's scent—a delicious mixture of Gold Bond spray and Wheaties cereal previously unknown to the dark wizard.
Voldemort closed his eyes and leaned in. He could sense that Shaq's luscious lips were only millimeters from his own when, suddenly, the room's pocket door was flung open with a slam. Voldemort and Shaq both leapt back, startled, and the dark lord sent a furious glare shooting toward the person in the doorway: Lucius Malfoy.
"My lord," he said, bowing and scraping. "Urgent news from 'Minister' Thicknesse." The quotes he'd placed around the word 'Minister' had been audible. "I've been told it's of utmost importance."
Voldemort groaned, a sound halfway between frustration and desire. He knew how strange it all was, how sudden, but the fact remained that his entire body was humming with hunger for Shaq.
Still, he thought to himself, it was Lucius who introduced me to him. He should reap the rewards for this, his only good decision in years.
It was on these grounds alone that he decided to forego administration of any punishment, despite Lucius' rude interruption.
"I understand if you have to go," Shaq said, his voice a lusty rumble that drew Voldemort gently out of his reverie. "You're a busy man, my lord."
"I am," Voldemort agreed as he got to his feet. "But not too busy for you." He straightened his robes, trying not appear too conspicuous in front of Lucius, though the uncomfortable flush to the Death Eater's cheeks suggested that he already had an idea of what he'd walked in on. Voldemort cleared his throat. "I intend to move ahead with your appointment to the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Feel free to make yourself at home here in the manor. I have business to attend to, but I hope to continue our meeting as soon as possible."
"So do I," Shaq said. He caught Voldemort's hand one more time and gave it a squeeze that promised more.
Well done, Lucius, Voldemort thought, near giddy at Shaq's tender touch. Your successes may outweigh your failures yet.