Goodbye IWSC Event.
Theme: Write about the drawbacks of infinite health/life or infinite wealth.
Prompt: [Event] A writing competition
Special Rule: something you have never written before. (crack)
Word Count: 2967/3000
Warnings: a bit of blood and violence
Blood stained the floor of the large ballroom, but the sight failed to cheer Voldemort up. He usually loved torturing Muggles and watching the life leave their eyes, but he had gotten tired of it all. It was the same process day in and day out: his minions tortured Muggles while he sat on his throne and smiled at the scene, and then, some Death Eater would ask him for permission to kill.
The truth was Voldemort was bored. He was bored of the repetitive screams and pleas for death. Of watching his Death Eaters revel in pools of blood and chunks of flesh. Of sitting on his arse all day long without anything interesting to do. He longed for action, for something that sent adrenaline coursing through his veins, for something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
He tried to amuse himself with more blood and carnage, more strategical attacks on Potter and the Order, but his boredom only increased.
Immortality certainly had its drawbacks.
Boredom invited his brain to play, to let himself soak into a moment and see the richness in the minute subtlety life had to offer. Voldemort let it in, allowed his thoughts to float without direction, and soon enough, his subconscious released the boredom in the form of powerful fantasies.
While his Death Eaters taunted a wailing child after killing her mother, Voldemort leant back to let his imagination soar.
Would skydiving out of a Muggle aeroplane be the same as flying without a broom? Probably. Would surfing through a volcano make him happier? Yes, but he didn't know how to surf—neither were there spells to help him. Would jumping off a tall cliff into the dark ocean be refreshing? Likely. Wait, he couldn't do that either. It was a shameful fact, but he didn't know how to swim. Still, he could use a spell to keep himself safe underwater. No, he didn't want to rely on magic for things lesser humans could easily do.
Merlin, this whole immortality thing was hard when you didn't have the right resources or knowledge to fulfil your wishes.
The daydreams had once been his paracetamol, but now they become his heroin. Voldemort missed the good old days when he had been free to roam about in search of vast knowledge. Now, he was stuck inside a stupid manor away from all the action and adventure that he'd once craved.
Sometimes, being a dark lord wasn't as wonderful as he had thought it would be. Especially when he had to interact with dumb, airheaded blonds (Lucius, I'm looking at you) and deranged lunatics like Bellatrix, who was screeching and running after her dimwitted husband Rodolphus with a man's chopped-off head slung over her shoulder. For what reason? Voldemort didn't care to know. As long as the stupid bint didn't come close to him, he was fine with it.
Rubbing his chin, Voldemort sighed. He could kill for something fun to do, he really could.
A few days later, Voldemort finally found something that caught his attention and held it. He was at the breakfast table, buttering his toast on both sides, while Lucius Malfoy sat reading a copy of the Quibbler opposite him. Lucius harrumphed every now and then at the ridiculous articles as he slowly turned the pages. It was then that Voldemort saw the large advertisement.
Immediately, he placed his bread on the plate, wiped his hands on his napkin—he was an orphan, but that didn't mean he didn't have manners drilled into him—and plucked the magazine from Lucius' delicate hands. Lucius opened his mouth to say something but must have thought better of it. He remained quiet as Voldemort's eyes scanned the page.
This is it. This is what I was searching for. Something I would enjoy yet doesn't require too much movement. No spells required, nor do I need to go to far-off places to enjoy myself. Perfect!
"Is something wrong, my lord?" Lucius finally asked.
Voldemort shushed him with a wave of his hand and focused on reading the terms and conditions printed at the bottom of the page. When he was done, he looked up and smiled creepily. "Lucius, I require some parchment, quills, ink, and a space where I shall not be disturbed."
Lucius swallowed and ducked his head, not meeting Voldemort's eyes. "I will advise everyone to stay away while you…work."
"Good. Because if anyone interrupts me for anything less than the entire Order attacking the manor, I will torture them within an inch of their life, and then, I'll flay you alive."
"Yes, my lord," Lucius murmured. "If you wish, you can use my study—"
"Your Floo is open, and I'm not in the mood to kill everyone who steps through it. It's not good for business."
"What about the library?"
"Too big for me to focus on what I intend to do."
"What about the bedrooms?"
"Too…intimate. Your Egyptian bedsheets always put me to sleep."
Lucius hesitated before he asked, "What about…the barn? It's a peaceful place, it's away from the main house, and the peacocks shall not bother you either. Yes, it smells a bit off, but it's nothing a quick Air-Freshener charm can't fix."
Voldemort stared at Lucius, wondering if he had heard him right. Had Lucius actually suggested he do his most exciting work in a bloody barn? Surely he was mistaken. The Dark Lord could not work in a place meant for holding livestock, right? He wanted to be offended, but at the same time, he knew no one would interrupt him over there.
And so, Voldemort rose and looked down at Lucius. "Very well. Send the items I require to the barn as soon as possible."
He picked up his toast and walked out of the dining room, his robes billowing about his ankles as his mind ran rampant with more and more ideas. He couldn't wait to get started.
Hermione's spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered on the Gryffindor table, but she didn't pay it any attention. She was too busy reading that week's Writing Competition fics.
The Quibbler had started the weekly competition a few months ago, and it had soon become a hit with people of all ages and professions. The magazine even allowed the readers to nominate their favourite fics, all of which were published anonymously to keep people from showing favouritism, and even comment on them to keep the author-reader interaction alive.
Hermione hadn't participated in the competition—though she would have loved to—as she didn't think she was creative enough to come up with a brilliant idea, but she did enjoy going through the various entries sent in by Owl-post. It was a great way for her to relax and unwind after a long day of non-stop studying and helping Harry survive.
The writing competition often featured stories filled with magic and adventure and happily-ever-afters that tugged on the readers' heartstrings, but there was one particular author who never wrote anything…nice. It was an open secret that the author received a lot of hate mail for writing terrible stories that always ended in the death of the wizarding world's fictional saviour, Perry Dotter, at the hands of the Evil Overlord, Reed Thomas. It was so obvious that the author was writing about killing Harry that Hermione had to hold back her laugh every time she read one of his latest entries—and it was definitely a 'he'. The writing felt masculine and screamed of a powerful man behind the quill.
Besides, the pseudonym 'Tommy M. Darklord' was a dead giveaway. Hermione had done a double take when she had first seen the name, and she'd had to rub her eyes to make sure she wasn't seeing things. But the name hadn't changed.
She had wondered what sort of trap Voldemort was trying to lay by submitting fanfiction about himself killing Harry, but nothing had happened to her best friend yet. She had asked Dumbledore if he had read the strange stories, but the headmaster had only smiled and said, "To be creative means to be in love with life. You can be creative only when you love life enough to want to enhance its beauty by bringing a little more music to it, a little more poetry, a little more dance, and a little more imagination."
She had understood Dumbledore's vague comment as advice to let Voldemort be. Still, she promised to stay vigilant while dealing with such a bizarre situation.
She religiously checked each story he sent, poring over its contents to see whether he had given a clue to what he was going to do next, but to no avail. All his stories were filled with drama, angst, and fantastically twisted plots that always ended in violence and gore—and of course, the death of 'Perry Dotter.'
Hermione was in the middle of reading Voldemort's latest story when someone bumped into her side. She glanced up and frowned at Harry. "Oh, it's you."
"You don't sound so enthused about seeing me," Harry joked, nudging her ribs with his elbow. "What's wrong?"
Hermione shook her head. "Nothing. I was just reading the stories in the Quibbler."
"What stories?" Harry asked, curiosity gleaming in his green eyes. He leant over to look at the magazine in her hands. "Don't tell me you're reading romance."
Hermione bristled, but she held back her retort. "No, I'm not reading romance—not that there's anything wrong with that."
"Then show me what you're reading," Harry demanded, trying to yank the magazine out of her hands. She held on for a few seconds longer before suddenly letting go. Harry tumbled backwards and was about to fall off the table, but Hermione caught his wrist in time. He grumbled under his breath when Draco Malfoy and his cronies sniggered at him.
Shooting Hermione a half-hearted glare, Harry muttered, "Read your stupid romance then."
"I told you it's not a romance," Hermione snapped, scowling at him. "It's a story about killing you."
Harry blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then, he grinned and asked, "You mean that stupid Perry Dotter series? You're reading that tripe? Really, 'Mione? I thought you weren't into bullshite like that."
"It's…funny," Hermione half-heartedly argued before shaking her head. "Oh, Harry, you won't believe me if I told you I know who writes this fanfiction about you!"
Harry snorted and crossed his arms. "I'm pretty certain it's Malfoy or his father. Who else is dumb enough to write things like killing me with an axe to the head?"
"You've read the stories?"
"No, just heard Seamus and Neville discussing it the other day. I am not going to read any story just to get mad at the idiotic writer."
"Not even if I say that it's not Malfoy?"
"Who else could it be?"
Hermione leaned in closer and whispered in Harry's ear, "It's You-Know-Who."
Harry burst into peals of laughter, and tears of mirth streamed down his face. He banged his fist on the table as he cackled like a lunatic. He choked out, "Yeah…right…'Mione! I…believe…you."
Hermione scowled and crossed her arms. "I'm serious, Harry. It's him."
"That's…hilarious!" Harry guffawed harder at the thought. "Why would…he write about…that? He's not…that foolish."
"I don't understand that either, but I'm certain it's him. All the evidence points directly at him. The pseudonym, the amount of torture in each story, the way the Evil Overlord always wins. It's so obvious!"
Harry's laughter subsided until he was only chuckling every few seconds. He wiped his face and grinned at her. "Want to send him a letter and ask him about it?"
"Are you out of your mind, Harry? We can't do that! That's not—"
"Don't lie that you don't want to see what he'd say," Harry said, still grinning. His eyes shone mischievously as he got to his feet. "Come on, I'll write him the letter, and you can read me a few of his stories."
Hermione hesitated, wondering if she should tell Dumbledore about Harry's half-baked plan, but Harry looked so amused at what he was about to do that Hermione didn't have the heart to snitch on him. How often had she seen him smile like that? Rarely.
She sighed and got up from the table. "Fine, but you can't use Hedwig to send the letter. And make it anonymous. I don't want him to find out you're the one blackmailing him."
"Who said anything about blackmail?" Harry batted his lashes at her, and she shot him a pointed glare. He grinned and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, leading her towards the doors of the Great Hall. "Alright, you got me. But think of it this way: if we know his true identity, we could tell him to stay away from us, or else we'll tell everyone who he really is. I don't think he'd want anyone to know he's been writing fanfiction about me."
"Okay, fine," Hermione muttered. She really hoped they weren't going to get into trouble—but then again, it was Harry she was talking about, and Harry always ended up in trouble.
"Now, about these stories…"
"Oh, I've been saving them all for research purposes." She wasn't going to admit that some of Voldemort's stories had been strangely erotic about death. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a thin book with several papers taped inside. Flipping to the first page, she began to read.
Standing in the middle of the Great Hall, the Evil Overlord looked around and smiled at the destruction around him. He had finally done it!
"Perry Dotter…is dead!" he said, quite amused by the thunderous applause of his Supreme Battalion. "The Boy-Who-Lived lives no more!"
Reed Thomas felt something inside his chest, something like pleasure for finally killing the Dotter brat. This was the beginning of his world-wide domination. First, he was going to take the Ministry, and tomorrow, the world.
"The world belongs to me now!" he shouted in glee, smiling beautifully. He had never felt more powerful than at that moment.
"I thought the stories were filled with blood and violence?" Harry asked with a frown. "This seems like something a five-year-old Malfoy would write."
"That's one of the tamest stories he's written," Hermione said before flipping through the book. "Ah, here's one."
He'd been planning something much more dramatic, actually. Something much more horrible and soul destroying. Avada Kedavra was just so good, with its bright light and wonderful permanence. He was going to use that, like he had with the other most impressive deaths. He was going to quash this prophecy just as seamlessly and efficiently as he had killed Liam and Jamie Dotter. And every other opponent he'd ever faced and wanted dead.
Instead, he watched as the toddler hurled himself over the half-open side of the crib, and he thought, well. That's an idea, isn't it? Pirates walked the plank for a reason.
So he merely set the baby back into his crib, removed what was left of the safety locks, and dismantled one entire side to create a hole in the floor leading to the floor below where his pet snake lay, waiting to be fed. He sat back to watch.
It didn't take long.
"Wow, I can't believe he actually had a great idea to kill me years after failing to kill me," Harry deadpanned.
"Harry, don't be so caustic," Hermione scolded, already flipping through the book again. "What if he had actually had that idea in his head back then? He could have killed you."
"But he didn't. Read the next one."
He stared at the body lying on the floor. Perfect. The slash marks crisscrossed so beautifully to create the diamond pattern all along the front of the torso. Further down the legs ran swirls and stars that called out to the universe for wonder and awe to bless the creator.
The start of his creation had taken effort. No matter how much he had already tied Perry down and stunned him, the thrashing nearly caused his knife to slip more than a few times, and he couldn't have that.
The artwork required precision and detail for the blessing to truly work.
After an hour or so, though, the thrashing had slowed and just became the odd pitiful jerk and muscle twitch.
Much easier to work with.
But now, Perry was perfect, the pool of blood underneath him creating the summoning circle and the marks doing the summoning.
Tonight, Reed would be blessed, and he would be the one to rule the world.
"That one was good. Sure, I end up dead, but the creativity was great!" Harry snickered at Hermione's affronted look. "Next, please."
He hasn't done this in years. He has refused the nice things that come with dolling yourself up, and setting up the illusion that you are unobtainable because of your beauty. He looks at himself in the mirror, with harsh lines and soft and supple cheeks. He adorns himself carefully, and now comes the most important part. Blush.
"You are never ready without lipstick and rouge kissing the tops of your cheeks." The older girls in the orphanage have taught him.
He brings out a syringe, an oddly Muggle-looking thing, and fills it with the blood from the boy asleep on his bed.
The boy stirs but doesn't wake up, and Reed Thomas continues painting his face. He hopes that his supply will last a while, he does love the tint Perry Dotter's blood brings out in his eyes.
Harry's eyes lit up. "I know just what to blackmail him with! This last story screams of him having feelings for me."
"Harry, no…"
"Harry, yes," Harry said, rubbing his hands gleefully before he sprinted for the stairs.
Hermione groaned. She was right. Harry always led her into trouble.
