Disclaimer: All characters belong to J. K. Rowling. Except for Voldemort's mother. I mean, we assume that he had a mother, but I bet she wasn't anything like this…
P.S. No offence whatsoever is intended towards homosexuals with this fic. It's a parody and not meant to be taken seriously.
TOMMY, DARLING, ARE YOU GAY?
It was November fifth, Guy Fawkes Day, and Voldemort (A.K.A: Tom Marvalo Riddle. A.K.A: You-Know-Who. A.K.A: He Who Must Not Be Named. A.K.A: the Dark Lord. A.K.A: Margaret Thatcher...) was busy organizing his "special" schedule for this special occasion. There were only eleven things on his To Do list, but he just could not decide which task he should do first. They all looked like so much fun!
Voldemort sighed, his breath coming out in a snake-like hiss. His eyes, redder than the worst case of conjunctivitis ever recorded, scanned down his inventory again. The list read:
Things To Do Today:
1. Aspire to world domination.
2. Torture Muggles
3. Murder Muggles
4. Blow up London Bridge, thus murdering or maiming Muggles.
5. Blow up the Ministry of Magic
6. Blow up Hogwart's School of Wizardry and Witchcraft
7. Kill Dumbledore.
8. Create an immortality spell.
9. Become immortal.
10. Kill, torture, or in some way maim Harry Potter.
11. Impregnate a thousand beautiful American witches with gorgeous, likeable, powerful and prophesised daughters. Call them all Mary Sue.
He paused, his quill hovering over the parchment. Number 11 looked like fun... But that wasn't very special. With the number of his various Mary Sue daughters already running around, conceiving another thousand was a bit of a drag.
He idly chewed on the end of his quill. Numbers 4-6 really expressed the true meaning of Guy Fawkes Day. Blowing things up. But on the other hand, he could hardly achieve world domination without first killing Dumbledore and Potter.
Voldemort rubbed his forehead. He just couldn't choose. Damn the bloody indecisiveness of Libra! It wasn't HIS fault that he'd been born in October. And he could feel a headache coming on. He'd been having a lot of headaches lately, what with all those Death Eater meetings, rehearsing evil speeches about world domination, and keeping the bloody Malfoys from taking over… It was just so stressful being the Dark Lord.
His psychiatrist had told him he needed a holiday, that he needed to get away from it all, maybe limit himself to six Muggle killings a day.
"Six?!" Voldemort had protested. "Bollocks to THAT!"
The psychiatrist's hasty, "Well, we could aim for ten, and gradually cut down-" was completely wiped out by Voldemort's screech of "Avada Kedavra!" and a flash of green light, as he committed his first civic action: killing a psychiatrist.
"Nagini? Preciousss? Preciousss, I have a treat for you..." Voldemort had hissed into the silence that followed.
*
Now, as he was busy sorting out which amusement to do first, Nagini was hissing and writhing in the corner, in the snake equivalent of human indigestion. Voldemort, after a moment or two, looked up and hissed in Parseltongue: "Nagini, my precious, be silent. By the Dark Arts, I'm trying to work!"
"Forgiveness, Master," the snake hissed back. "Those Muggles...ugh... are sticking... ssss...in my throat."
"Come, come, Nagini. There weren't that many," Voldemort replied soothingly in Parseltongue. "Remember the fun we had at my old orphanage? You ate many more Muggles there."
"Those Muggles were little children, Master! Today, you made me eat fourteen adult Muggles. And some of them were quite lardy, I might add. I feel so bloated, as if my skin were stretched about me," she whined.
In a rebellious undertone, Nagini added; "I should report you to the RSPCA for the usage of a snake as a garbage disposer. You vile git."
Voldemort shrugged self-consciously, ignoring her. Today, his horoscope had suggested that Libras should do something good for their Cosmic Karma. The Dark Lord had considered this, then decided to play to his strengths, and boost his karma through the systemized murders of the thirty most useless Muggles he could find.
Almost all of the thirty Muggles had been Americans. When Voldemort performed the killing curse- flawlessly, of course- upon six TV evangelists, an entire wave of goodness had swept through him. After feeding Jerry Springer and Rickie Lake to Nagini, he had felt so good that he almost apparated to the Ministry of Magic to tell them he'd rejoined the Light, and planned to adopt Harry Potter as his son.
A little worried after his brush with the Light Side, Voldemort had decided to limit himself to psychiatrists, lawyers, politicians and telephone salesmen. Although he did save the best for last, throwing in Nancy Stouffer as number 30. Voldemort showed his teeth. It was a cross between an evil grin and an angelic smile. The word "kill" made it evil, but with "Nancy Stouffer" as the context, Voldemort's until now unseen angelic side was showing through.
Nagini hissed.
"Precious, be silent!" Voldemort rebuked her.
Nagini hissed again, ignoring his words. "An owl is coming, Master, you dolt. And don't tell me to 'be silent!" '
Indeed, a large, charcoal black owl had just swooped in through the open window. Voldemort watched it land on his desk with boredom. At least seven Death Eaters messaged him each day. But then, Voldemort realised that the envelope was smoking. He stared at it. It was beginning to burn at the edges, fire licking the red corners. With a shudder, the most feared Dark wizard in the magical world quickly opened the envelope. A hugely amplified voice filled the room. The Dark Lord shook with rage at and fear of the only person in the entire world who would dare send him- him!- a Howler.
"Oh no, Mum, don't do this to me!" he pleaded to the empty air, in the split second before the Howler's message began.
"TOM MARVALO RIDDLE!"
Voldemort jumped involuntarily. His Mum using his full name... that spoke of tears before bedtime.
"TOM MARVALO RIDDLE! DEAREST, I DIDN'T WANT TO RESORT TO THIS, BUT YOU HAVEN'T BEEN READING ANY OF YOUR MUMMY'S MAIL! DARLING, OF COURSE I LOVE MY LITTLE TOMMY-KINS, BUT I WANT YOU TO MAKE A COMMITMENT IN YOUR LIFE! NOW, I STOOD BY YOU WHEN YOU FIRST DECIDED TO JOIN THE DARK, AND I WENT TO ALL OF THOSE "PARENTS OF YOUNG DEATH EATERS" MEETINGS WITH THOSE TRULY UNPLEASANT PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS ATTEMPTED TO LORD IT OVER ME, BECAUSE MY LITTLE TOMMY-WOMMY-"
Voldemort closed his eyes in abject misery. Tommy-Wommy. Even he could not think up a better torture then that of an adult man being forced to endure a mother who refused to let go of her image of her little boy with pretty blue eyes and shoulder-length black curls...
"-WAS A HALF MUGGLE. BUT MY LITTLE DEVIL SHOWED THEM, DIDN'T YOU, DARLING? I RECALL THOSE SNOTTY MALFOYS, THE 'PROUD PUREBLOODS,' WERE FORCED TO KNEEL TO US! DO YOU REMEMBER, SWEETIE-PIE? BUT I DIGRESS. TREASURE, I'M WORRIED ABOUT YOU. YOU ARE OVER SEVENTY YEARS OLD, AND YOU HAVEN'T FOUND A NICE GIRL TO SETTLE DOWN WITH YET! CHERUB, I DON'T WANT TO PRESSURE YOU, BUT I AM GETTING OLD, AND I WANT TO HOLD MY GRANDCHILDREN IN MY ARMS BEFORE I DIE."
Voldemort would have laughed at this, if he wasn't so close to screaming at "Cherub."
With the amount of beautiful American exchange students to Hogwarts that turned out to be his long-lost daughters, (he would have liked just one son) there were more granddaughters to fill his grandmother's arms then there were incestuous marriages in the Egyptian royal families.
"SWEETIE-POO, AS I SAID, I'VE BEEN CONCERNED, AND I WENT TO ONE OF THOSE MUGGLE PSYCHIATRISTS TO SEE IF THEY COULD HELP ME WITH MY LITTLE DARLING. NOW PRECIOUS, I TOLD HIM A BIT ABOUT YOU, HOW YOU HAVE THOSE AWFUL LITTLE TANTRUMS OF YOURS, AND LASH OUT AT PEOPLE OCCASIONALLY. I ALSO MENTIONED THAT YOU DON'T RELATE VERY WELL TO GIRLS- AND I DID TELL YOU, DARLING, RED EYE CONTACTS ARE NOT VERY ATTRACTIVE- AND HE SEEMS TO KNOW WHAT YOUR PROBLEM IS."
Voldemort waited in resigned silence. Him having tantrums? More to the point; Sweetie-Poo?
"TOM, IS THERE SOMETHING YOU'VE BEEN MEANING TO TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF? THE PSYCHIATRIST THINKS THAT IT IS BEST IF YOU ADMIT IT TO YOURSELF FIRST, AND HE WANTS YOU TO KNOW THAT YOU SHOULDN'T FEEL EMBARASSED ABOUT IT, NOT AT ALL. I WANT TO ASK YOU A SERIOUS QUESTION."
What was it this time? Voldemort wondered to himself. Did Mummy-dearest think that he was a 70-year old juvenile delinquent or something?
"TOMMY, DARLING, ARE YOU GAY?"
The Howler burned up in Voldemort's hand. Silence reigned, broken only by Nagini's hissing equivalent of a snigger.
Voldemort was too dejected to notice. If just one of his Death Eaters had heard that... Well, it'd be the end of the Dark Lord Voldemort, that was for sure. In fact, he'd probably get the nickname of the Gay Lord Voldemort, or the Dark Poof Voldemort, and the bloody Malfoys would take over the world instead of him. The Darkest Wizard of All Time, the Most Powerful Practitioner of the Dark Arts in The Universe, and The Most Evil Bastard In History put his head down on his desk and sobbed.
"Sensitive little pansy," Nagini hissed.
* * * * * *
After a while, Voldemort lifted his head. His tears had soaked through his Things To Do parchment, and everything save a task he had added just
before the Howler, a 12th task, had been smudged. Voldemort read number 12. "Oh no," he said. "Anything but that."
Task number 12 was: Visit Mum.
Voldemort banged his head on his desk. Repeatedly.
As he slowly gathered the strength of will to force himself to apparate over, he found himself wishing that his mother's subterfuge; that she had died giving birth to him, was true. Muggles were so easy to fool, and even Grandfather Dumbledore had believed his mother dead. Voldemort shuddered at the thought of Dumbledore.
His maternal grandfather had more than a few screws loose, but they had more or less come to an agreement: Voldemort did not call Dumbledore's bluff, and apparate with his Death Eaters to raid Hogwarts (never believe a book written by an eccentric wizard) and Grandfather Albus did not release his copy of the Cute, Adorable, Little Baby photograph of Tom Riddle into the public.
Dumbledore was the one person the Dark Lord was afraid of. The moving photograph in question showed a two-year-old Tom Riddle skipping through a meadow of flowers in a pink frilly cap and equally frilly baby-suit.
Still, Voldemort mused, his mother's "death" was useful, considering the type of mother that she was. He shuddered to imagine how his Death-Eaters would react if they were to hear her call him "Tommy-kins." He took a few deep breaths, then Disapperated to his mother's house.
"Tom, darling!" his mother trilled. "So you got my Howler, then?"
"Yes, Mum," Voldemort replied. "And I am NOT gay!" he added indignantly.
"Tommy, don't throw a tantrum at me. I will not have you being disrespectful."
Voldemort hung his head. "Yes, Mum," he said. "Sorry, Mum."
Mrs Riddle nodded sharply. "Good. Well, precious, now that you're here, you can help me peg put the washing."
"Yes, Mum."
"Then, Tommy, you can clean the kitchen and cook up a little dinner."
"Yes, Mum."
"And after that, dearest, you can clean up your room! You left it in a pig-sty when you last visited!"
Voldemort hung his head even further. "Yes, Mum."
"Oh, and treasure?"
"Yes, Mum?"
"Take off the make-up, sweetie. Don't hide your pretty face."
"Yes, Mum." Voldemort said, and traipsed up the stairs to the bathroom. He sat down on a stool, and slowly and carefully wiped off all of his white face paint, inwardly seething. It took hours each morning to do his face powder so perfectly! Next he removed his glowing red eye contacts. His turquoise blue eyes were revealed underneath. Lastly, he tapped his scalp with a Hair-Growing Charm. Thick black curls threaded out of his head. Voldemort allowed them to lengthen until they reached shoulder length. His Mum liked to see him with long, curling hair.
He paused for an instant, staring at his reflection. He was over seventy... and he looked like a sixteen year old. Voldemort smiled. It seemed that the secret to eternal youth was immortality, which he had long ago achieved.
The secret to immortality was to stay alive. Preferably through the use of the Dark Arts, which was why he was so good at it.
Voldemort hurried back down the stairs. His mother met him halfway up. She nodded when she saw the absence of face paint. "Much better, my handsome boy. Come along now, and help me with my washing."
"Yes, Mum," he said.
The Dark Lord Voldemort, nine times winner of the Magical Times' "Most-Evil-Wizard-In-Existence" award followed behind her like a faithful spaniel.
Ahead of her son, Mrs Riddle smiled a particularly knowing smile. No matter how evil the child, there is nothing darker, more frightening, more loathsome, horrifying, and downright embarrassing than a mother with a complete collection of baby photos. The more demeaning the photo, the more evil the mother.
Mrs Riddle could certainly give her son a running for his Magical Times' Evil awards. "Honey-pie," she cooed, "After dinner, we really must go over your baby photos..."
*
*
Pigeons are birds that are really quite twisted
Their many oddities are bird-lover-listed
A lesser-known fact's that they're quite the connoisseurs
Yes, pigeons are sculptured art appreciators.
And when they enjoy, they let the world know
Through a gift left behind, on the head, heel or toe,
But you (I hope) are of the human race
And if you enjoyed, well, then, please grace
The box below with a sentence or two
Come, Gentle Reader, please leave a review!
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