So, this is chapter 2...sorry it took a bit to get out, i was on vacation and waiting for my colleagues to answer emails...

Ive actually been thinking of bumping up the rating, cuz in chapters 3 and 4 it gets a bit more explicit...well, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

Enjoy, and REVIEW, FOR GODS SAKE, IM SO DAMN LONELY HERE, U HAVE NO IDEA...oo like i said, include any ideas u want, this fic is like a quilt, and if i like ur idea, i just might use it later and credit u in the disclaimer.

Oh. Disclaimer. Right.

I own nothing. I am completely devoid of all earthly possesion. Observe, and pity a poor, damned soul.

Hehe.

CHAPTER 2: Voldie is a WANNABE

Harry huddled in a corner of the Gryffindor common room, drooling and gibbering softly. Ron and Hermione sat opposite him, sunk into large, soft armchairs. Both looked exhausted.

A fly buzzed around Harry's head. His eyes followed it for a moment, and then he snatched out, and popped the creature, buzzing with confusion, into his mouth.

The soft "drip, drip, drip" of water falling was heard. If Harry's interesting state wasn't enough, Peeves had somehow configured a Chinese water torture device in the Gryffindor common room. This didn't do much for Hermione and Ron, who were already in a right state. Hermione was especially nettled, not being able to locate the whereabouts of the apparatus, as it was dropping annoying little droplets from a different point in the ceiling each time.

Ron groaned softly and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Hermione sighed. Her face was stonily determined, but the dark clouds playing across her expression were steadily deepening. Harry rocked back and forth on his haunches. "It's alright, Ron, I'm sure there's a way to bring him back," she said firmly.

Ron looked at her for a moment. That had been somewhere around the...what? tenth? eleventh? time she had said that. "Oh, bloody hell," he muttered, and headed determinedly up toward the dormitory, the drops of water following him.

"Rain drops keep falling on my head." A sing-song voice caroled, followed by a happy cackle.

"Oh, stop it, Peeves" Hermione snapped at the room, eyes closed, her voice strained and wavering. "And stop your bloody pessimism, Ron!"

Harry burped.

Ron turned around and rolled his eyes, moving his hands frantically to try to stop the drops of water, which were now attacking him from all directions. Hermione sighed. "Alright, I get your point," she conceded with obvious reluctance. Ron smiled grimly. "But that doesn't mean we should just give up. We need to find out what's wrong with him."

A fire kindled in Ron's face. "Well, we know what's bloody well wrong with him," he said sarcastically, giving up his half-spirited defense, now thoroughly soaked. "He's a nut, that's what's wrong with him. Bonkers. Barking mad. Absobloodylutely spiffingly insane. So personally, I'm a little less worried about fixing him than what happens when the rest of the world finds out about it!"

"We don't know if it's permanent!" Hermione wailed, as Harry passed gas absent-mindedly.

"It's bloody well permanent enough for me!" Ron shouted. "And, stop me if I'm wrong, but I think it'll be just the same for, say, Malfoy, or Dumbledore, or Rita, or the whole bloody student population of bloody Hogwarts, or-"

Hermione suddenly paled. "Or Voldemort," she said quietly.

"Yes, and- oh..." The water stopped, and silence filled the room.

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

Mister Tom Riddle was feeling rather dashing that day, if he might say so himself. His daily routine of snarling into the fire, casting shadows and exercising the sexy, evil little cogs of his sexy diabolical mind had been nervously interrupted when Peterpoo-erm, Wormtail had approached and suggested meekly that he "begin maybe possibly looking into-maybe even just thinking about…blending in…with the Muggle population…of Europe, as it might be refreshing to his greatsupremeall-knowingall-powerfulrightful-king-of-the-universeLordship to not have to use spells to keep meddling non-magical animals away from his Holy…er, Hide-out...?"

The Dark Supreme Lord Voldemort had settled back in his armchair, quickly thinking it over. The snake, or just Crucio this time? Maybe just a blast of the evil eye would do the trick. He turned to his servant, summoning his punishing powers, when he noticed that Peter Pettigrew was sweating ever so slightly. His lower lip trembled just a hair, and his eyes were filled with the happy obsequiousness of a small puppy. A tear of hope teetered fetchingly on the brink of his eye.

Mmmm. What was it he had called him? Great, supreme, all-knowing...oh, he had lost it there. It sounded nice though, whatever it had been. Very nice indeed. It had certainly been very impressive.

Voldemort's...er...unmentionable stiffened, and he shifted in his seat, sighing in resignation. He always loved it when Peter sweated.

"Yes, I suppose that's a good idea..." he said, stroking his chin.

Wormtail's face brightened and he whipped out a large pink plastic case from his robes. "First thing to do is get rid of your awful pallor." He pushed a button with his perfectly manicured metal hand, and the case sprang open, folding out to reveal a wonderland of sparkly, red-based colors and shiny plastic tubes. "I brought my entire make-up collection!"

Voldemort smiled generously down at his happy servant. Yes, he was feeling very good indeed.

So here he was, now, striding through a busy London intersection, happily humming "Sex Machine" under his breath as his stylish new jeans and striped, button-down tee rustled comfortably against his previously deathly skin as only very new clothes could. He walked with great, long, confident steps in time to the music in his head as he hadn't done in many years, his new sneakers humming energetically on the sidewalk.

As he stopped to wait for a cross-light (Wormtail had been very specific on this...apparently Muggle drivers didn't have the sense to see when someone was walking across the sidewalk directly in front of them), he touched his face reflexively, unused to the pasty feel of the layer of make-up expertly and enthusiastically applied by Pettigrew. Within moments, Tom Riddle's deathly pale complexion had been transformed into a healthy (if somewhat flushed) mortal face. And pale blue contacts did wonders for snake-like eyes. Peter had been very obviously proud of his work, and Voldemort eyed him somewhat hungrily. Ooo yes, he loved it when Peterboo was like this.

Alright. Now this won't hurt a bit, i promise. simply move your mouse to the button that says "submit review" and...click. Very good, very good, now comes the tough part. Settle your hands correctly on the keyboard, and begin, using the conveniently placed computer keys, to tell me just was a masterpiece my fanfiction is, and what an extraordinary young writer i am, and just how famous i deserve to become. Hehe. well, you could just write variations on that, as well, i mean,its not as though im being PICKY...;)