A/N: Not mine, wish they were . . . let's just get on with it, what say?

An overview of the story thus far:

A mysterious package has shown up, Voldemort is now riffling through the junk drawer in the kitchen for scissors, Lucius is quietly tending his fingers, Snape is plotting revenge on Harry Potter and his gang, Avery is desperately trying to breathe, Nagani is dead, and Wormtail is . . . wait. What is Wormtail doing?

"I'M TRYING TO PUT OUT YOUR HAIR, LESTRANGE, BUT YOU WON'T HOLD STILL!" shrieked Wormtail, dancing around a screaming Bellatrix.

Oh. That's what. Good luck to ya, buddy.

Um.

Where was I?

Oh, yees, the living room!


in . . . The Living Room (duh duh duh!)

"Guuuaahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah . . . " wheezed Avery, struggling with the exceptionally cumbersome package sitting on his ribcage.

"Should we help him?" asked someone. Quite a large crowd had gathered around Avery.

"Nah," said Greyback. "He's all right."

"Are you sure?" said Malfoy Jr., going up to Avery and kicking him.

Avery made a strange noise between a grunt, a gasp, and a scream.

"Positive," replied Greyback.

"I'm ba-aaaaaaaaaack!" sang the Dark Lord.

"Gah!" yelped someone, and all seventeen of the people (excluding Snape, who was quietly scheming in the corner) in the room ran and hid behind the couch. Several fist-fights ensued and were reined in by a particularly potent glare and a snarl from Greyback.

Whistling 'Madame Butterfly' to himself, Voldemort proceeded to happily hack away at the ductape holding the box shut. He continued to whistle, all the while ignorant of the sixteen pairs of eyes trained on him. Several people whispered back and forth, wondering what in the world their leader was under the influence of. Six people believed he was insane because of the pressure, nine people were convinced that his unstable condition was, in fact, hereditary and that Salazar Slytherin was responsible for his condition, and Nott was too busy trying to catch a moth to vote. Voldemort remained blissfully unaware of the heated debate behind the couch as he merrily slashed at the box, inadvertently carving up Avery as well.

And then, suddenly, the scissors snapped.

"Huh," he said, putting the scissors down in Avery's face. Whirling around, he dashed out of the room, his pink bathrobe swirling dramatically behind him, giving the effect of a large, bald, pink bat.

"Arrgguh," said Avery, clutching his cheek.

"Where's he going?" asked one of the slower Death Eaters.

"To get the battle-ax, stoopid," said Goyle thickly.

Sure enough, five and a half minutes later, Voldemort came in, dragging a large battle-ax behind him. Yodeling something in Swahili, he brought the battle-ax crashing down upon the box.

It broke.

"Whaaaat?" shrieked the Dark Lord. He stormed out and came back with a dagger. "You're mine now, cinderblock! Mwahahahahahaaaa!" He slashed at the ductape, sure that it would easily cut through it. The ductape, like good ductape, held up under this feeble onslaught. The dagger, like a shoddily made mass produced dagger (made in China), shattered into roughly 7 pieces, one of which gouged out Avery's eye. He passed out, which is good, because he stopped complaining, and bad, because he might die, and that would be bad because . . . trust me, it'd be bad.

At this point, we will have a small intermission.

If you cannot tell, there is music playing.

Hold music.

Yeeaaaaah.

A/N: It gets better. Trust me. Stick with it. Please. Give it a chance.

Oh, and btw, none of these peoples are my characters, m'kay? I never said they were. In fact, I never wrote about them, as far as you know. GOT IT?

Good.

Review. Now. Please.