Gah, sorry for the incredibly long wait. This isn't my top priority and it's pretty hard to write (I work best on this in short bursts for some reason) but to make up for it I wrote this as a short double-chapter (if that makes any sense). It literally makes fun of just about everything. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Sorry for this pathetic excuse for a parody. (Oh, and I don't own anything that isn't mine.)

Two: Sorry For the Inconvenience

- - -

After Ron had finally returned with the towel (it took him several tries to get it right – the first two times he brought an apple and a knife, which Hermione hastily hid from Harry), the group got to work cleaning up Voldemort's mess (the Author just refuses to call him Tommy). Really, it was only Ron working, for Hermione considered herself above such grunt work, and Harry was busy lamenting to Voldemort the loss of his true love.

"You know, Voldie –"

"Tommy."

"You know, Tommy," lamented Harry mournfully, "it had to end. With you on the loose, it was just too dangerous. My heart would have been crippled if your servants had killed her to get to me. It would have bled slowly, through my nostrils and back into my mouth. From there it would go down my throat, causing me much pain, which really just reflects the state of my soul at the moment."

Voldemort stared at him. "Meheh?"

"Ron, I think you're done," Hermione said briskly.

Ron, who had just been scrubbing the dry spots on the floor with the towel, shook his head, his face contorting in concentration. "It's not perfect!"

"You know, this is kind of scary," she commented. "I've never seen Ron actually work in his life."

"Agreed." Harry scratched the back of his head. "So where do we go from here? How do we find the Author?"

"Asking around, I guess," Hermione replied. "There's not much else we can do."

"I have a contact," piped up Voldemort. "He goes by the name of Igor Eugendoodle-Smith. He knows much about some of the darker aspects of the world."

"Would he know about the Internet and the Fandom?" asked Harry.

Voldemort shrugged. "Possibly."

"Where does he live?"

"In London. It's not too hard to Apparate there."

"We don't have our licenses," said Harry sadly. "And I'm not sure if we should risk Side-Along Apparition with such a large group."

"You're right," Voldemort stated dejectedly. "Even though I am possibly the most talented wizard the world has ever seen."

Hermione looked out the window and smiled. "We could drive there."

"Drive?" Harry spluttered. "Forget the fact that none of us know how to drive! But where are we going to get a car, anyway?"

"Your aunt and uncle have one," she pointed out.

"Oh." He grinned. "Good idea."

"ARE YOU TRYING TO STEAL MY CAR, BOY?"

Thundering footsteps could be heard coming closer and closer, until finally Vernon Dursley stood before them. His mustache was quivering with anger and his face was red; this was not a good sign.

"Tommy, hurry up and do something," Harry hissed covertly.

"But –"

"ARE YOU TRYING TO STEAL MY CAR?"

"Do something!"

Voldemort sighed. "Fine. Imperio."

Uncle Vernon's face became pale, and his mustache froze in place. His eyes were distant, and the group knew instantly that the Unforgivable had worked.

"Excellent," said Harry in an evil voice, rubbing his hands together eagerly. "Vernon Dursley, you will let us steal your car."

"Borrow, Harry."

"Borrow your car. Sorry, Hermione." He turned back to Uncle Vernon. "Furthermore, you will not alert the police, nor come after us with a gun or knife or whatever it is you were plotting to kill us with. To add to all of that, you will maintain that this confrontation never took place."

"Yes, master," said Uncle Vernon dully.

Harry stroked his chin thoughtfully. "And give me your wallet."

"Harry!"

"What? We might need some money!"

It was too late for Hermione to protest. Harry was now in possession of Vernon Dursley's wallet and car keys, and there was nothing she could do about it.

"I think that's it," said Voldemort. "We should be leaving."

"Right-o," said Harry. He made for the door, but tripped over Ron, who was still scrubbing away. "Damn it, Ron! We're leaving!"

"Fine," Ron growled angrily. "If you get a bacteria infection, it's not my fault."

Harry had all ready stepped outside the door, swearing profusely, when Hermione stopped him.

"Harry! Aren't you forgetting our luggage? Hedwig?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, Hermione," he stated confidently. "I've got it covered."

He pointed his wand into the air and shot green sparks from it. Wind began howling, and he coughed.

"Any minute now, I'm sure."

At that second, there was a pop, and before them stood Remus Lupin. His clothes were ragged and his hairs were greying, but not so much to the point where he was unattractive. No, quite the reverse, actually, for many fangirls actually had crushes on Lupin. Werewolf, you say? Werewolves are the hot thing right now!

"Professor," Harry greeted him.

"Don't call me 'Professor'," said Lupin, thus saying what he must say in every fic that has Harry and Lupin interacting. "It's been a long time since I've been your professor. Remus will do."

"Whatever you say, Pro– Remus," Harry responded, fulfilling his part of the standard Harry-Lupin interaction. "But anyway, all of our stuff is upstairs and we just Imperio'd my uncle. Do you think you could take care of it for us?"

"Of course, Harry. Why not? I've got nothing better to do!"

He trudged off into the house, mumbling darkly under his breath.

"Well," said Harry, clapping his hands together, "I'm glad that's settled! Now that my slave –"

"Lupin's not your slave, Harry," Hermione reminded him.

"Father –"

"Not that, either."

"Lover –"

"In your wildest dreams."

"Sirius's lover –"

Hermione shrugged. "Close enough."

"Okay. Now that Sirius's lover is off doing my gruntwork, we may leave." He dangled the keys from his finger and a mischevious grin came upon his features. "I'll drive."

"Oh, no, no, no, mister," Hermione protested as she wagged her finger. "You're not driving that thing. We need someone with intelligence."

"Intelligence? Who're you talking about? You're certainly not intelligent!"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah!"

Following this was a small tussle that McGonagall herself would have been proud of. Before it was over, Voldemort's previously nonexistent hair would be turned pink, Harry's Evanescence shirt would be transfigured into a bunny suit, and the house next door would inexplicably end up as a submarine. After it was all said and done, they somehow reached the conclusion that Ron would drive the car, even though he was probably the worst candidate of the four.

"Waitaminnit," spluttered Harry as he took his seat in the back of the car with Hermione. "Why is Ron driving again?"

"I don't know, Harry," she replied, adjusting her skirt. "The Author decided to skip that passage because he didn't really want to write it, so I guess we'll never know."

"All right, guys!" exclaimed Ron happily, holding the keys above his head in a gesture of triumph. "Buckle up – here we go!"

There was silence as they waited for the car to start.

And more silence.

And more silence.

And even a little more.

"Ron," Hermione muttered, "you have to actually stick the keys in the little hole for it to start. You just ruined a really dramatic moment there."

"Oh. Sorry." He did as she had said and grinned goofily. "Here we go!"

With a roar the car shot backwards, hitting a tree on the lawn. The tree merely fell over, however, and the car did not seem to have taken any damage.

"I put up some protective barriers when you weren't looking," explained Voldemort as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. "It was most convenient. You know, I think I like this color. It really goes well with my eyes."

"Oh, God," moaned Hermione, covering her face with her hands.

There was much jerking as Ron attempted to drive the car. Bystanders were forced to be on alert, for otherwise they would have all perished. With help from Voldemort's wand (which served as a GPS of a sort – an updated version of the Four Point Spell!), they began to traverse their way to London.

"What's this?" Voldemort asked. He was pointing at the radio.

Harry grinned. "It plays music."

"Oh." He pushed the "on" button and immediately emo music began pouring from the speakers. Ron winced; Hermione grimaced; Voldemort's ears nearly burst into flames; Harry began singing along.

"Turn it!" Hermione begged. Voldemort obliged, settling on a sports station, and she breathed heavily. "Good. Emo music is unbearable."

"That's just your opinion!" protested Harry.

"Harry, what you don't realize is that my opinions are actually facts. Emo is just a bunch of whining." She looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Actually, all music really is just whining."

"Even rap?" Ron said incredulously.

"Don't be silly, Ron." Hermione made a face. "Rap isn't music. It's audio-erotica."

"Aw, you're just hatin'."

To spite her, Ron turned it on England's most prolific rap station, and the car bounced its way to London on previously unmentioned hydraulics. They all rocked to the beat, occasionally bursting into freestyle during lulls in the rap, and in an inexplicable amount of time (for the Author really doesn't care how long it took) they reached the great city.

How much time, you ask? Well, let's just say it was enough time for the gang to become severely ghettified. By the time they got to London, they were all homies and dawgs, and had all ready had several gang fights and turf wars.

Voldemort and Harry were just celebrating a victory in the most recent turf war (they gained an extra cup-holder) when a rather irritable Ron slammed his foot on the breaks.

"We're here," he snapped. "London."

"Aw, snaps," said Harry, making a chipmunk-like sound that only the truly "gangsta" could make. "Why you have to be so hatin', g-unit?"

"Yeah," piped in Voldemort, "you's be disrespecting us."

"Us" referred to their gang: the South Side Kedavra Survivor Boyz. It had changed names several times (each time after crushing defeats – at one point after losing control of the glove compartment Voldemort suggested, in frustration over their surrender, that they change their name merely to "the French"), but this was a name that would stay.

But alas, it would only stay for all of five seconds. It was at that point that Hermione turned off the radio, and as if coming out of some spell, Harry and Voldemort put down their respective spray cans (and beanies, ski caps, guns, knives, and/or other playful accessories) and immediately stopped their gang bravado.

"Whoa," said Harry. He scratched his head and stared blankly out of the window. "I don't remember a single thing that just happened."

Voldemort nodded, perplexed. "Neither do I."

And so Hermione convinced them that they would never ever listen to rap again, for it had corrupted their fragile little minds.

They all got out of the car, which was now sadly vandalized, and onto the curb of the street. It was raining, of course, because that's just pretty damn dramatic.

"So," said Hermione, "where is this Igor…"

"Igor Eugendoodle-Smith," finished Voldemort. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Well, I don't really remember. It's somewhere around here."

Harry sighed. "Well, isn't that convenient! What're we supposed to do, just ask everyone we meet if they know an Igor…"

"Eugendoodle-Smith."

"What're we supposed to do, just ask everyone we meet if they know an Igor Eugendoodle-Smith?"

"That's the plan."

"Oh." Harry shrugged. "Okay."

Now that the only remaining tension had been dispelled by Harry's newfound short term memory loss, the group set out to find the mysterious Igor…

"Eugendoodle-Smith," said Voldemort helpfully.

The group set out to find the mysterious Igor Eugendoodle-Smith. Harry and Hermione decided to cover one side of the street, as Hermione feared that Harry may try to seduce one of his fellow males if given a chance, and Ron and Voldemort were chosen to cover the other.

All in all, it was an intriguing affair.

First off, our bossy but intelligent heroine (Hermione) and our chronically depressed former hero (Harry) were having a little trouble. No less than fifteen homeless people had approached them looking for cash, and two had gotten dangerously violent. The first time an old man pulled out a knife on the two, demanding their money; Hermione quickly disarmed him, erased his memory, and forced him to do a hundred jumping jacks – all without breaking a sweat. The second time a crazy lady pulled out a sausage on the two, demanding their money; Hermione quickly directed her to the nearest social worker – again, without breaking a sweat.

"Wow," Harry marveled, "you sure are powerful, Hermione."

"I know, Harry," she agreed, rather pleased with herself.

"You're really good at magic."

"Yep," she said.

"And you're smart."

She nodded. "That, too."

"And beautiful."

"Er… yes, and that."

"I think I love you."

"That's nice, Harry." She patted his shoulder reassuringly. "But you love Ginny, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah." He grinned stupidly. "Thanks, Hermione. Sometimes I just forget."

"It's all right. I know you do."

On the other side, it was a bit less mushy.

Our loyal but dim sidekick (Ron) and our pink-haired former villain (Voldemort) were having a little trouble. No less than fifty-five prostitutes – er, female escorts, that is – had approached them, wondering them if they were interested in their services. Fifty-five times Ron consented, although Voldemort's wisdom prevented him from doing anything (or someone, in this case) that he might regret. If Ron were intelligent then he would've been thankful for the lack of child support bills flooding his house every month, but he was not intelligent, and therefore not thankful.

"You know, Ron, you're going to have to learn that temptation is going to come along and bite you in the arse if you let it," consulted Voldemort wisely.

"My mum said something like that to me and my brothers once," mused Ron, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "But she stopped after a while."

The former Dark Lord raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"

"Fred pointed out that she'd had seven children."

"Oh. Touché."

"That's what she said."

Their little dialogue would be interrupted by a monster of a man wading up to them. He looked very angry: his face was red, his knuckles were white, and his beard was a little blacker than it had been two minutes beforehand. His muscles rippled in the pale afternoon sunlight, and sweat poured down his neck, even though it was rather cool outside. Needless to say, he looked like he wanted to smack a bitch – or, in Voldemort's case, a bastard.

"All right," he seethed through gritted teeth, "is it true that you turned down the services of my little sister?"

"Um…" Voldemort looked at his shoes. "Which one's your sister?"

"Kelsey!" the man barked irritably. "She told you her name and everything! She's right here!"

A skimpily-dressed blonde stepped forward, tears adorning her cheeks. Ron swooned; Voldemort cringed.

"Yeah, we might've turned her down," he squeaked.

"I didn't!" protested Ron angrily. "It was him! He is very persuasive!"

"Very persuasive, eh?" The man laughed and flexed his muscles. "More persuasive than a knuckle sandwich?"

This was followed by a display involving frantic waving of his fists. All in all, he looked like a chicken trying to take flight. It was not a pretty picture.

"Oh, so original," said Voldemort mockingly. He immediately recanted, seeing the man's six-pack bulge through his jacket. "And very intimidating, too!"

"It looks like we've got a wise guy!" the man exclaimed, laughing. "Well, I just love wise guys… and knuckle sandwiches!"

"Hold on!" Voldemort held up a hand warningly. "I'm sure we can settle this in a nonviolent manner. Otherwise, I shall have to utterly destroy your soul and feed your dead carcass to my dragons."

"Right. We'll see about that."

His counterpart sighed. "What can we possibly do to avoid such a situation?"

"Nothing!" barked the man. "You're just going to have to eat…"

"Eat a what?" asked Voldemort dully, wanting to get it over with.

He grinned. "Eat a knuckle sandwich!"

"Oh bother."

"You've had your chances, Mr. Wise Guy. Now it's time for you to eat."

"Dude," said Ron suddenly, realization dawning on him, "that's one hulk of a man!"

Voldemort deadpanned.

The Hulk raised an eyebrow. "What'd you call me?"

"He didn't call you anything!" piped up the eldest of the three, running a hand through his pink hair. "And if he did say anything, it was that you are amazingly muscular and ruggedly handsome!"

"Well, tell him that I'm flattered," replied the Hulk, blushing. His serious look quickly returned. "But I'm going to have to feed you, buddy, first."

"Damn it all!"

The Hulk lunged forward, and Voldemort just dodged his attack. The man was sent sprawling, but he quickly recovered, and Voldemort swore.

"Please don't make me do this," he said quietly. "I really don't want to utterly destroy your soul."

"Don't worry," growled the Hulk. "You won't have to!"

He swung out his arm, hitting Voldemort in the chest. The Dark Lord crashed to the ground, and the Hulk beat his chest like a certain giant gorilla monarch.

Voldemort looked at him dubiously. "Oh Merlin."

It was then that he noticed that the escort – Kelsey – was now conversing with young Ronald. They looked very friendly… very friendly. She was whispering in his ear, and he had lipstick on his neck and above his eyebrow. Although that could have just been Harry.

"Damn it!" He leapt up and towards them, but the Hulk caught him with one gargantuan hand.

"Mwahaha," laughed the Hulk. Voldemort winced at the man's attempt at an evil cackle that he himself had perfected years ago. "You're mine now!"

Ron had reached into his pocket and pulled out a Galleon; the escort reached out to grab it. He tried to recoil, but was unsuccessful. As a result the Galleon was flung into the air, where it spun for an eternity before finally coming down.

On the Hulk's head.

After this much cliched turn of events, the Hulk predictably fell to the ground in slow-motion and with a tremendous thud. The girl screamed. Voldemort shrugged. Ron swore.

The chapter was over.

-

Two and a Half: Politically Incorrect

Okay, so it wasn't over, per se. The half-chapter was over, you see. But the Author needed to write more to make up for the insane wait for an update and thus we have this second part. Happy? You, Pointless Reviewer? And you in the back, Dearest Reviewer? What about you, Reader Who Never Reviews? Wait, the Author doesn't care about you. Sorry.

"Where could he be?" wondered Ron aloud.

"Who? Eugendoodle-Smith?" Voldemort shrugged. "Dunno."

At this point our heroine and chronically depressed former hero had approached the two, not having found the mysterious Igor Eugendoodle-Smith on their side of the street.

"We couldn't find the mysterious Igor Eugendoodle-Smith on our side of the street," said Harry.

"Harry," admonished Hermione sharply. "Stop repeating the narrative."

Thank you.

"Sorry," Harry said sheepishly.

It's all right. The Author forgives you.

"Whew! Good!" Harry looked decidedly less nervous. "Anywho, we couldn't find him."

Voldemort stared. "You were looking for what, five minutes?"

"We're efficient," responded Hermione proudly. "And besides, it was a long five minutes. Maybe I used my Timeturner and didn't tell you."

"Oh." Ron looked confused. "Wait a second, I thought you turned in your Timeturner!"

"Shut up, Ron."

"Well, seeing as you two are the laziest heroine and chronically depressed former hero to ever walk the Earth, I guess we'll have to work together!" piped up Voldie brightly. He narrowed his eyebrows. "Hey, Author! Don't call me Voldie!"

A fire hydrant exploded near him.

"That was just a coincidence. I'm not scared of you!"

Suddenly a girl walking nearby them dropped dead. Pure coincidence, of course.

He recoiled. "On second thought, I rather like the name. It suits my tastes, I think."

Good. Now let's continue.

"So," Voldie stated, "as I was saying, you two are incredibly lazy."

"We're not lazy!" protested Harry angrily. "We're just… energetically challenged!"

"Oh. That's so much better."

"Well," huffed Hermione huffily, "is there anything you know about Mr. Eugendoodle-Smith that would help us find him, Tommy?"

"Er…" Voldie stroked his chin thoughtfully. "He likes crowded places. I think he might be a cannibal."

"So he's checking out his next meal?"

"Probably."

They looked all around the area for a place that might be crowded. There was a nightclub with a line out the door, an amusement park with a line out of the city, and also some kind of sports stadium that had "WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP GAME" written on its sign and was very loud. And then there was some building housing polls of some kind that looked rather empty.

"Hm… it's a tough decision," Hermione murmured. She brightened up. "Oh, I know! It must be the polling place! Everyone loves voting! It's a civil responsibility!"

"Oh, please." Voldemort crossed his arms and sighed. "No one votes any more. That was possibly the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Just look at the other places!"

She scowled. "Go to hell!"

"Oh, I've heard Hell is great fun. From what my sources tell me, it's mostly made up of lawyers, rock stars, and liberals. Guys such as Bruce Springsteen are just considered a two-for-one."

"Shut up." She glared at the others. "So… polling place it is, then?"

Harry and Ron paled in her wake.

"Yes," they agreed. "Bright idea!"

"As I suspected!" She sneered smugly at Voldemort. "Who's the fool now?"

And so they trudged into the polling place. It was rather old and stale – it may have been a school or something of the sort, but the Author is tired and lazy and really doesn't give a damn. But anywho, they trudged on in and did something or another. The Author doesn't know. He's tired. Let's just say they looked around. Yeah, that sounds good. They looked around.

"Hm," Harry remarked quietly, wary of Hermione's fury. "It's… empty."

"Don't say that, Harry," Ron corrected him. This would be the only time Ron would correct anybody at any point in his sad little life. "It's not empty. It's capacity challenged."

Voldemort snorted. "Oh, nice call, brainiac. Who's the fool now?"

"Hush." Hermione tugged at her sleeves and glanced around the room conspicuously. "Merlin, this place is empty."

"Mmhm," Harry agreed intelligently.

"Hold on!" Hermione suddenly ducked low as if she were under attack by some mysterious force. Her eyes darted around the room, and she, in all of her paranoia, looked oddly like an incumbent politician. "This explains everything! I've always wondered how such idiots get elected into the government – it's because they're the only ones that actually vote!"

"No," said Voldemort solemnly, "that's just the election process. It's completely messed up all over the world."

"Oh. Damn."

"Hey, you guys," Harry said excitedly, pointing to a corner of the room. "Look! Someone's actually voting!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Harry, that guy's eighty-five at the least. He probably can't even remember who's running. Or what they're running for, for that matter."

"Heh," Ron giggled. "You said 'for' twice in a row. That was crappy writing by the Author!"

The old man voting in the corner dropped dead all of a sudden with a look of terror on his face… really scary terror. That shut the boy's mouth.

"Ron!" hissed Hermione, flustered. "Don't insult the Author! You just killed a guy!"

"I didn't kill a guy!" Ron protested. He scratched the back of his neck. "The Author did!"

Harry nodded fervently. "That bastard!"

A healthy young man walking in the door also dropped dead with a look of terror… scarier terror. Our heroes were suddenly very silent.

"Well," said Hermione, gulping. "Let's vote, shall we? I mean, we're already here. Why not?"

Voldemort was doubtful. "But what about registering and such? I don't even know who's running!"

Suddenly a great whip of fire materialized in the middle of the room. It lashed itself into the ground elegantly, and a few seconds later these words were burnt into the floor:

THE AUTHOR DOESN'T REALLY WANT TO WRITE ABOUT YOU IDIOTS REGISTERING AND SUCH. SO LET'S JUST PRETEND THAT EVERYONE IS REGISTERED AND WE ACTUALLY KNOW WHO'S RUNNING, MMKAY?

"Good God!" exclaimed one of the people working the polling place. "Some dude just emblazoned words into our floor! I'm going to call the cops!"

Basically you get the gist of what happens here. Of course, what if the Author chose not to kill him? That would be a surprise! Maybe he didn't. Maybe the Author didn't feel like it.

…

Okay, the Author gives up. That guy definitely kicked the bucket.

Another death later, the group was ready to illegally vote in an election that they knew nothing about.

"I'm scared, Tommy," Ron whimpered. "I don't know what to vote for! I don't know anything about abortion or stem cell research or other important moral topics in today's society!"

"Ron, it's okay," Voldemort assured him as he clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner. "Just remember: all political decisions, especially when dealing with something like abortion, should be firmly rooted in science. Unless you're conservative."

"Oh. Okay." Ron looked up. "Wait – I don't know anything about science either."

"Oh." He shrugged. "In that case, just choose the name that sounds the funniest."

So our four heroes stepped up to four different booths. Not to say they weren't talking or anything.

"Hm," Harry called out. "I can't remember… Prime Minister isn't very important, right?"

Ron scribbled on his sheet. "I don't think so. I believe it's a chef of some kind."

"Ah. I see." Harry scratched his chin thoughtfully. "What's a George Bush?"

"I believe that it is an ancient bush used by Asian pastoral nomads to feed their herds."

"Got it. Thanks, chum."

"Wait a bloody minute!" cried Hermione, saying "bloody" and thus making this fic appear authentically British. "Why the hell are we voting for the President of the United States? And the Queen of Britain? You can't vote for someone to be queen!"

"Let me check," Voldemort stated calmly, checking his sheet. "Oh, here, at the top of the page. It says something:

'FIRST ANNUAL SUPER-DUPER ELECTIONS! – brought to you by MegaCorp.

A brave new step in a brave new direction, the first annual Super-Duper Elections hope to establish one thing: super-duperness! By enabling people all over the world to vote for positions that don't really matter to them, we will establish a fair society everywhere! Also, although it is merely 1997, you – yes, YOU! – are able to vote for a candidate in a position (George Bush, future president) that really won't even be voted for until three years from now – or even seven years from now!

Ha, ha, ha. Yes. Well, it's very exciting. So, go ahead, vote. And have a super-duper day!

Lots of love,

The World (sponsored by MegaCorp)'

"Well," he muttered. "That's…"

"Flamboyant?" giggled Harry.

"Obnoxious?" shouted Hermione.

"Obsequious?" whimpered Ron.

"I was actually going for 'interesting', but good guesses."

The rest of the voting process passed in silence. As soon as they all were finished, they gave their ballots to a worker at the front.

"First time voting?" the worker asked kindly.

"Yep," said Ron. He appeared to be worried. "You're going to take care of our ballots, right?"

"Don't worry, chief," laughed the worker. "I worked Florida during the 2000 presidential elections. I've got this covered."

True to his Floridian roots, the worker dumped their ballots into a garbage bin as soon as they weren't looking.

But they didn't suspect this. Happy, they turned to leave the building. But to their surprise, Voldemort suddenly shouted out.

"Great galloping gargoyles of Greenland!" he yelled. "Look! It's my old friend and comrade, Igor Eugendoodle-Smith!"

There was a shabbily dressed man where he was pointing. The man didn't look fazed.

"I've literally been here the entire time that you have."

"That's beside the point now, eh, Igor?" Voldemort said happily, slapping Eugendoodle-Smith on the back. "We're together again!"

"Stop – that makes us sound like ex-lovers." Eugendoodle-Smith shivered. "So, Voldemort, what's been goin' on? Still evil?"

"Nah, I'm repenting. And don't call me 'Voldemort'. I'm not evil any more."

"No prob, Voldude."

"Don't call me that. I'm not a stoner any more, either."

"Sorry."

"Mr. Eugendoodle-Smith!" cried out Hermione, breaking up the odd little exchange. "We require your assistance in locating someone!"

"Locating someone?" Eugendoodle-Smith struck a dramatic pose. "Well, you've come to the right person… dude."