Title: Revelations

Author: Elanah

Rating: eh, PG

Disclaimer: I don't own it, don't make any money off it, and don't even have any money to be taken away.

Pairing: none, though there's a slight mention of possible HP/SS

Summary: The Dark Lord gets a new lease on life.

Notes: Random thoughts in the shower + inside jokes amongst friends + VSD merchandise = this fic.

It had not, all things considered, been a good day for the evil lord formerly known as Tom Riddle. Which, he reflected, made him sound rather like some demented musician. The benefits of his current name's imposing quality notwithstanding, the whole thing was really rather bothersome. He had accumulated at least six different names, and keeping track of them was becoming time-consuming. However, it was worth it to avoid ever being called Tommy again. He paused for a moment to spit towards the grave of the man who had thought it keen to name his son after some cross-dressing character from a 1930's movie he'd fancied. That should have gone straight into the pile of Bad Ideas, but it hadn't, and he'd been stuck with the stupid name ever since. Far from inspiring the respect he wanted from his schoolmates, it did rather the opposite during his early years. One too many instances of ridicule from fellow students over one's name, and anyone would snap, he was sure of it. Most weren't quite so dramatic about it, of course, but he'd always prided himself on going above and beyond the norm.

The downside, of course, was that he was now surrounded by idiots. Any of his followers with half a brain were likely to be plotting against him, and those who were completely loyal couldn't carry out an evil plan without simple step-by-step instructions carved into their eyelids. Or with, even. They tended to be distracted by the blood. Hence, he was continually forced to micromanage the lot, meting out punishment when required. Actually, it was required most of the time. However, lately even the screams of the unfortunate weren't enough to raise his spirits. He would have gone to a bar, but anonymity was a little difficult these days. As he walked down the street, he idly broke into someone's house, and immediately recoiled at the sight of the mess greeting him. Whatever being he was about to disembowel obviously wouldn't be much of a loss, even to its own kind.

As he entered the main room, he paused to savor the sight of his newest victim. Then paused again to blink at the strange sight. The creature was hunched over a desk, its back towards him. The long, knotted, strands of brown hair might have indicated it to be female. It was muttering softly, and as he strained his hearing, he suddenly realized that it had a somewhat impressive knowledge of Latin curses, and was that French as well?

The fact that the Muggle didn't seem to have noticed his presence only added to the Dark Lord's ire. Impatiently, he cleared his throat. When that failed to produce a response, he picked up one of the many books strewn about the room and aimed it for the creature's back, careful to avoid the head. He fully intended for this one's mind to be in full working order during the torture session to come.

He did not completely succeed in masking his sigh of frustration as it was only answered by a slight twitching and a petulant request to 'Just wait a moment, and I'll get going.' This was becoming tiresome. Finally, he gave up his hope of doing some ominous looming and simply walked over to spin the thing around in its chair. Ha! Now he would be paid the fear owed him, the creature would cower before him as he raised his wand to-

"Wow, that's a cool outfit. Where's it from?"

Voldemort blinked.

"I've been looking for something like it myself. You know, something that just screams out 'Evil ruler!' I like the color, you can really never go wrong with all bla-"

The strange voice was cut off as Voldemort promptly wrapped his fist around the throat to which it belonged. Then sighed. The mood was ruined. He might as well just go back to his lair and try to relax. Maybe he'd sneak into Potter's mind and see whether the boy was still having embarrassing dreams about his Potions professor. That could be useful for mid-battle taunting. Idly, he glanced back to his captive, whose face had turned an interesting shade of purple during his pondering.

When released, his intended victim showed no more sense than previously. He vaguely registered some talk about being fellow evil overlords and plans for taking over the world, and did he know anybody who worked for the united nations? Whatever that was. It was sad, really, that he couldn't even seem to intimidate such an obviously weak-minded Muggle, of all people. Once again he felt disappointment and lethargy begin to take their hold on him. What was the point of it all? How could he function if he couldn't even get energized enough for simple torture and murder anymore? It was hopeless, he silently remarked, before suddenly backhanding the Muggle. It landed with a crash, sprawling in a heap across the desk. As it fell, the Muggle managed to disturb a mug of coffee, and Voldemort smirked slightly as the dark brew spilled all over the pages of whatever it had been feverishly writing. As he looked closer, his gaze was drawn to an image on the side of the mug, and he unconsciously leaned down for a better view. A disembodied eye peered out at him, reminding him of his own red-tinted gaze. Though thankfully his own eyes hadn't yet started spouting flames. Underneath was written a sentence: "It's fun to be evil."

Voldemort stared at the piece of pottery for several long moments, his brow creased in thought. Either that or mild indigestion; it was hard to tell sometimes. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up to reveal a slightly insane, very disturbing smile.

TBC