Evil Lair of Lord Voldemort;
Evil Extraordinaire,
(Also Good at Pluming),
Trained in the Dark Arts (Not Bad at Kung Fu),
Delusional Head Boy of Hogwarts Past,
Strong Believer in Rights for Women,
Gardener,
Dark Lord.
Lord Voldemort was sitting on his camp bed, staring at the opposite wall, humming some unfamiliar tune and feeling altogether blue. He'd been thinking about decorating his Evil Lair for quite a while, but his Minions kept reminding him that pink wallpaper was a little too sweet for a Dark Lord. and, therefore, he'd decided it was safest to keep his walls paperless and blank. And he'd been denied the pleasure of fluffy carpet, so he'd just lined the floor with old newspapers, instead. Surely a Dark Lord could have whatever wallpaper and carpet, and dresses, he wanted? No one would pick on the notorious Dark Lord, would they? Well, apart from that horrid Bellatrix Lestrange person, who was barely old enough to go to school but somehow managed to insult every hobby he had - she'd even stopped him from going horse riding. Yes, Lord Voldemort was miserable, and in the worst sense. 'They even stole my copy of Little Women', he thought, sombrely, finding, instead, a book entitled 'How To Cook Seven Hundred Types Of Curry To Kill'. The only small joy he had was the blue-tacked photo he had on his opposite wall, depicting his one and only son - an ugly little thing, in his opinion, but still. his son. His light, his fluffy- little-piglet, his - was he being cute again? He cringed. Yes, a photo of the small, ugly, pink Peter Pettigrew was hanging on his wall, gurgling in that annoyingly adorable way ugly babies always do. Voldemort sighed. He was about to address the photo, as he often did, when he had the strange urge to do something quite, quite unfamiliar. . .
"Nobody's there when I get home, I'm renting Bambi on my own; Your photo's on my bedroom wall, Yet I hardly know you at all. And I know I leave you on your own, And I need you to be strong When I'm killing your best friends. And I, I hate to say goodbye; It gets harder every time." He sobbed; such a lovely song. he just wished he knew why he was singing it. "What I feel, You feel inside; When the day turns into night." he stood up from his bed, letting the 'How To Cook Seven Hundred Types Of Curry To Kill' book thud to the floor, and spread his arms expressively. "Another tired afternoon; Another un-pinked room. I hate the fact that your not here But now I'm counting down the days till you grow hair," he wasn't very clever; anyone else would have actually remembered the fact that their son was at Hogwarts, and in his Sixth Year. "And I know, I leave you on your own; And I need you to be strong When I'm killing your best friends. And I, I hate to say goodbye; It gets harder every time. What I feel, You feel inside; When the day turns into night."
"Your Lordship?"
'EEKKKKK!!! Lestange. . .'
"Your Lordship, are you singing again?"
Evil Extraordinaire,
(Also Good at Pluming),
Trained in the Dark Arts (Not Bad at Kung Fu),
Delusional Head Boy of Hogwarts Past,
Strong Believer in Rights for Women,
Gardener,
Dark Lord.
Lord Voldemort was sitting on his camp bed, staring at the opposite wall, humming some unfamiliar tune and feeling altogether blue. He'd been thinking about decorating his Evil Lair for quite a while, but his Minions kept reminding him that pink wallpaper was a little too sweet for a Dark Lord. and, therefore, he'd decided it was safest to keep his walls paperless and blank. And he'd been denied the pleasure of fluffy carpet, so he'd just lined the floor with old newspapers, instead. Surely a Dark Lord could have whatever wallpaper and carpet, and dresses, he wanted? No one would pick on the notorious Dark Lord, would they? Well, apart from that horrid Bellatrix Lestrange person, who was barely old enough to go to school but somehow managed to insult every hobby he had - she'd even stopped him from going horse riding. Yes, Lord Voldemort was miserable, and in the worst sense. 'They even stole my copy of Little Women', he thought, sombrely, finding, instead, a book entitled 'How To Cook Seven Hundred Types Of Curry To Kill'. The only small joy he had was the blue-tacked photo he had on his opposite wall, depicting his one and only son - an ugly little thing, in his opinion, but still. his son. His light, his fluffy- little-piglet, his - was he being cute again? He cringed. Yes, a photo of the small, ugly, pink Peter Pettigrew was hanging on his wall, gurgling in that annoyingly adorable way ugly babies always do. Voldemort sighed. He was about to address the photo, as he often did, when he had the strange urge to do something quite, quite unfamiliar. . .
"Nobody's there when I get home, I'm renting Bambi on my own; Your photo's on my bedroom wall, Yet I hardly know you at all. And I know I leave you on your own, And I need you to be strong When I'm killing your best friends. And I, I hate to say goodbye; It gets harder every time." He sobbed; such a lovely song. he just wished he knew why he was singing it. "What I feel, You feel inside; When the day turns into night." he stood up from his bed, letting the 'How To Cook Seven Hundred Types Of Curry To Kill' book thud to the floor, and spread his arms expressively. "Another tired afternoon; Another un-pinked room. I hate the fact that your not here But now I'm counting down the days till you grow hair," he wasn't very clever; anyone else would have actually remembered the fact that their son was at Hogwarts, and in his Sixth Year. "And I know, I leave you on your own; And I need you to be strong When I'm killing your best friends. And I, I hate to say goodbye; It gets harder every time. What I feel, You feel inside; When the day turns into night."
"Your Lordship?"
'EEKKKKK!!! Lestange. . .'
"Your Lordship, are you singing again?"