A/N: My first story uploaded to this site... This is significant... Moving right along, I would like to thank my beta, Blaqksilence, about a million times. Finally, I do not own Harry Potter, or the Bratz company. I don't even own a Bratz doll, come to think of it...
"…And to top it all off, both Leon's Custom Poisons© and Bratz stocks are down seven percent! What a miserable week in the stock market," a man fumed, brandishing his newspaper in a violent gesture that was quite uncharacteristic for a senior citizen. The Dark Lord's agitation was not unfounded, however: The Death Eater funds had been greatly diminished and no amount of budget counseling and coupon-clipping seemed to have any effect. There was even talk of not having next year's Death Eater uniforms embroidered.
"If I may, my lord," a glossy-haired man ventured timidly, "I was not aware of our purchase of Bratz stocks."
"We aren't stockholders, Lucius," Voldemort assured the man. "I simply like to see companies with such a brilliant sense of fashion prosper." Uncomfortably, he pushed one such doll deeper into his pocket, hiding it from view. "But Lucius," Voldemort continued, "Stockholders or not, our funds are suffering. I've already been forced to start paying for Nagini's pre-packaged mice with money from my own purse." The Dark Lord's purse was a stylish shade of mauve, complete with a less-than-stylish purple, leather strap. "Have you any suggestions?"
"Well, my lord," Lucius answered pensively, "We could do fundraisers, I suppose." His voice growing more confident, he added, "We could sell candy bars door-to-door! And wash brooms! Just think of all the little children with dirty brooms! They'd line up around the block!"
Suggestions rang out throughout the room. "Sell flower bulbs," came the voices of several Death Eaters, the speakers of which had clearly been listening from outside the door.
"Spaghetti dinner?" offered Nagini.
"A raffle?" suggested the muffled voice of a Bratz doll from inside the Voldemort's pocket. Voldemort inserted his wand into his pocket and muttered something inaudible. A tiny shriek was heard, but the doll was otherwise silent for the rest of the meeting.
"No, you fools!" the Dark Lord exclaimed, though the statement lost some of its effect due to the fact that he was the only one wearing a sweatshirt and wielding a purse. "Do you realize the risk we'd be facing if we didn't maintain our secrecy? What if a Ministry wizard recognized one of us while buying a candy bar? What if a child who wanted his broom washed knew who we were? Dark wizards learned never to do that after the Dark sorcerer, Grindlewald, was cornered while hosting a bake sale! All would be lost if we were seen. Don't any of you have jobs?"
"My lord," Lucius Malfoy protested, "Our employers fired us after we were revealed as your supporters. Something about being a bad influence on the interns…" Outside of the room, many Death Eaters nodded in agreement.
"Golly, that's drastic!" Nagini exclaimed in Parsletongue. "Perhaps you should consider a lawsuit under the circumstances that you were unjustly fired because of association with a so-called 'bad guy'. Assuming you win your case, we would no longer have any financial issues!" But of course she was ignored, for her solution would have ended the fan-fiction rather early for the author's liking.
"Gosh darnnit!" Voldemort cried, completely neglecting the logic presented by his faithful snake. "We will raise money even if it means that I must go find a day job!" But of course, as it often happens in fan-fictions, the Death Eaters took it a tad too literally for his liking.
"They took that a tad too literally for my liking," the Dark Lord muttered after the Death Eaters and Nagini had left. Clenched in his left hand was a copy of the same newspaper that had brought the news of the failing stocks. In his right hand was the Bratz doll, hair slightly singed from her outburst in the meeting.
"As my talents are great," he mused, "it is only according that I choose a challenging job." Several jobs met this requirement: "Construction worker, zookeeper, childcare worker…" He shuddered at the latter; the prospect of keeping track of small children frightened him considerably. Keeping his criteria in mind, the Dark Lord searched through the help wanted ads of the paper and, finding nothing suitable, wandered out into the streets, plucking Muggle newspapers from doorsteps. This went quite nicely (with the exception of a run-in with a rabid child on a tricycle and a disagreement with a low-lying telephone line) and soon Voldemort was back home, accompanied by a stack of slightly dirty newspapers.
Eventually he had assembled a small list of promising job opportunities. The list read:
Telephone Answerer Wanted:
No experience required.
Must be available for long hours.
Voldemort liked that one; challenging yet with very few requirements. He had also harbored a secret desire to call Tibet in his lifetime. This would be the perfect chance.
Performer/Magician Wanted:
Experienced magician to perform
at "Kid's Night" every Friday.
This one would be a bit trickier, Voldemort realized. He had never figured out exactly how those magicians managed to pull their tricks off.
Foreman To Supervise The Production Of Bratz Dolls:
Must have minimal experience in manufacturing,
be able to yell loudly,
and have a thorough knowledge of Bratz dolls.
This one was the most favorable in his opinion. He was almost fully qualified for it as well!
The telephones were great fun. The alleged "interview" for the position of answering phones was no more than filling out a form with his personal information (he had left out his social security number, of course, because giving it away could lead to identity theft--and no one wanted that). He was accepted almost immediately (the interviewer muttered something about him being the only applicant) and --as soon as the Dark Lord worked out which end of the receiver was held to the mouth- the job couldn't have been easier.
The trouble began when Voldemort grew bored of informing callers that what's-his-name was out of the office and that 'no, this is not Leon, you have the wrong number'. When his interest in the job began to fade, his fantasies of calling Tibet arose. Pressing a series of buttons at random, without waiting for an answer he shouted, "Is your refrigerator running?" He stopped for a moment as he was overcome by giggles. "Well, you'd better catch it!"
Far away, an elderly woman hung up the phone, shaking her head and making a mental note to become an unlisted number.
Not so far away, Voldemort's employer fired him.
Hands clenched angrily, Voldemort stormed off to his next destination, a local amusement park. His hopes were high until he saw his competition. There were quite a few Muggles practicing their alleged magic tricks, making handkerchiefs disappear and such. He knew without doubt that he could put on a better performance than those clowns. Voldemort's hopes were dashed, however, when he spotted a man in the corner juggling three bowling pins. The Dark Lord left the vicinity without applying. He had no chance if he was to face a man who could juggle.
Two hours later, Voldemort heaved a deep and nervous sigh. "This is our last hope," Voldemort whispered to the Bratz doll melodramatically. Both gazed up at the building before them. Taking a deep breath, they entered the doll factory.
"Mr. Riddle," the interviewer informed him, "Let me be rather frank. Your looks sure as heck aren't going to inspire any new Bratz fashions, and I'm not sure if you have enough experience in manufacturing. But, boy, let me tell you! Not one applicant has known quite as much about these dolls as you have. Heck, even I didn't know about the upcoming line of clothes for the Baby Bratz. The job is yours, Mr. Riddle! Now if you'd just sign here…"
As he walked into the Riddle Manor, Voldemort whistled "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" cheerfully. His first day in his new position as foreman in the Bratz factory had gone quite nicely. He had thrown things, hexed workers and received several free Bratz dolls (his original doll had become rather jealous). "We are saved!" he shouted up the stairs. "Your brilliant, intelligent, intelligent, brilliant leader has found a way to replenish our funds!"
He was greeted by silence.
The Dark Lord was puzzled and slightly annoyed. He had been working all day while they wandered around the English countryside causing mayhem! Was this how they thanked him? He ascended the stairs, preparing to shout at his followers, but was shocked as he entered the room.
It was empty, completely devoid of the "Welcome Back" committee that he had arranged to greet him after the first day of his new job. Instead, only a note on the table that looked like it had been written by a boa constrictor with bad hand-writing caught his eye. Picking it up, he read:
Dear Master Moldyshorts, Lots of slimy kisses
We (here meaning "the Death Eaters and I") have left for the lawyer's office. We are going to sue the Death Eaters' previous employers, just like I suggested in the beginning of the fan-fiction. When we are fabulously rich and you're still doing fundraisers and we're lying on some beach in the Bahamas and you're shoveling snow and we're living in huge mansions and you're still in that crumbly, old manor, I'm going to be laughing. It may also interest you to know that I am now leader of the Death Eaters and that we have changed our name to The Terrible Terminators. I think it has a nice ring to it, don't you? Anyhow, don't leave the house. SIT! STAY! Good boy!
-Nagini
Voldemort blinked in astonishment. "Why didn't you just listen to Nagini in the beginning of the fan-fiction?" asked one Bratz doll, exasperated.
Unfortunately, this question could not be answered because the author had already closed the fan-fiction and had scurried off to find a beta reader. To compensate for the cliffhanger, have this stuffed piranha.