A/N: Allusions to Lucifer and Jack Merridew refer to rather satanic characters in Milton's Paradise Lost and Golding's Lord of the Flies, respectively, as do the allusions to celebration and buzzing in Pandemonium. I liked the way it sounded in this farce, so I might use it again in another work. Say, perhaps, Charms and Charisma, which you all should read, or else.

Disclaimer: Disclaimers are retarded; this is FANFICTION! Of course it's going to be plagiarizing another author's characters. However, there is a more prevalent disclaimer I need to suggest that is not covered by the prerequisite: I do not own Grease. And I don't wish I did, because then, I'd be really old.

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He sat atop his throne in an appalling image akin to that of Lucifer at his perch in Pandemonium or Jack Merridew at the head log of his frivolous tribe, only, he had half the heart of Satan, which amounted to nearly none at all, and twice the tactics of the boy tyrant, Jack. And all his minions, instead of celebrating in ecstasy and festivities, trembled in fear before the horror that was their lord, their Lord Voldemort.

But Voldemort was feeling pimp-ass, sick-nasty that day and wanted to prove to his blind puppets that he, too, had a sense of humour.

"Dolohov," he bellowed, curling his gnarled, long finger in a "come-hither" manner to one of the most powerful wizards in the world. Antonin Dolohov, now so estranged that he could not even shake fervently in his boots, stepped forward and bowed to his master. "Antonin, Antonin, Antonin, what a pity 'tis that you have betrayed the Dark Lord."

Wide, glassy eyes stared at Voldemort in disbelief. "Never," he whispered.

"SILENCE!" With one word the buzzing in the Pandemonium quelled immediately. "Ah, see, what use are spells when you're so powerful that people will obey your every whim with regular communication? Anyhoooo," Voldemort continued gaily, because he was, in fact, gay, "This is what happens to those who betray the Dark Lord!" He eyed an infuriated and frightened Dolohov with shaky confidence. "AVADA KEDAVRA!" A white-hot green light shot squarely into the Death Eater's chest and he gasped... suddenly turning into a scantily-clad woman!

"My liege! I knew you could never do such an illogical harm! I am forever grateful!" Antonin Dolohov kissed his master's feet in his cutesy, sparkling magenta g-string. Evidently, Voldemort had mastered the art of multi-tasking; he'd used a silent charm to override his unforgivable curse.

Voldemort smiled a sickly, blank grin that emanated only darkness. "Now dance!"

Dolohov eyed him uneasily, standing in his little thong, and then laughed profusely. "Haha, good one, man. You almost had me there. I never knew you had such a good sense of humour."

"Er... I wasn't kidding."

"Ha! Nice! Almost had me again!"

Beads of sweat began to form at Voldemort's brow and for once he was unaware of what he should do. He looked around with his red, horrifying eyes uneasily, as if expecting an answer from his pawns. "That's enough, Antonin."

But Antonin was now rolling on the floor in spasmodic fits of laughter. "Man, you sure had me! You had me good! Real good!"

"Really, Antonin, that's enough."

"HA! That was even better than the time I molested those little girls in the back of the creek and then made it look like their dad did it and their mum killed them, and then I raped the mother and performed an abortion on her with a rusty scalpel and then told everyone in the town the father was gay! What a farce!"

"AVADA KEDAVRA!" This time, the curse left Dolohov dead for real and for good. Er, excuse me–fo' rizzle and fo' gizzle. "Now, where were we?"

Suddenly, the doors burst open, and a disheveled-looking Severus Snape came waltzing through the archway, levitating with him a deceased Lucius Malfoy in the appearance of his son, Draco.

"Master, I have him." Severus bowed down to Voldemort.

"Ah, good, good."

"But I have a dire matter of which to inform you. It seems the mudblood girl has fed Cedric Diggory to Potter's cousin in an attempt on his life. As far as I am aware, he remains unmolested, but currently resides in the bowels of the very young, but very dead, Mr Dursley."

Voldemort's brow, or lack thereof, furrowed. "Well done, Severus. Very well done, indeed."

"Wh-wh-wh-whizzle?" Snape was flabbergasted; he'd expected an Avada Kedavra from the start, or at the very least, a recitation of the Cruciatus curse.

"I never expected you to be aware of this, but when a martyred son of the Diggory line is expelled from the anus of a muggle, it is as though he is reborn, and is completely ready for my sexiness-extracting procedures. If only we could bring the fat one back to life long enough to crap 'im out, my plans would be complete!" Voldemort cackled. "I'll entrust you with that task, Severus. I know you won't do me wrong, m'boy." Severus nodded. He liked it when his master called him that; it always got him all excited in the pantalones, if you know what I mean.

"Never," he exhaled graciously, horny as hell.

"Yo!" a voice screamed from the back of the room. It was one of the Lestranges. "How come he never gets punished fer doin' shit an' stuff?"

Voldemort raised the eyebrow that he did not have provocatively. "Oh, he gets punished," he affirmed with a suggestive wink in Snape's direction. Snape shivered at the thought of bondage with Voldemort.

Mmmm, leather and chains.

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Hermione burst through the doors of the Great Hall, only, nobody recognized her as such; her hair was highlighted blonde and chemically straightened, and she wore a leather micro-mini body suit that inappropriately showed off her bodacious bod. Her breasts spilled over the barely-there-neckline and on her face was finally caked makeup–mascara, eyeshadow, eyeliner, lipstick, lipgloss, blush, foundation–you name it, that girl had it. She carried in her mouth a fag and a pipe, one for nicotine and the other for weed and cocaine, respectively. She was bad to the bone, and wouldn't let you forget it. And she was a goddess.

Draco Malfoy burst through the other doors of the Great Hall, only, nobody recognized him as

such; he'd let his hair down and wore a Hogwart's letter jacket, and was lacking his signature cigarette. Not only that, he was clearly a changed man: Slytherin Prince no longer, he was a caring, sensitive individual with big dreams. The whole room went silent.

And then an old record began to play.

Upon seeing Hermione, Draco stripped off his jacket, revealing a black skin-tight sleeveless tee-shirt and black leather pants. "I got chills! They're multiplyin', and I'm losin' control... 'Cause the power you're supplyin'... it's electrifyin'!"

Hermione moved toward Draco, putting one hand on his shoulder and dancing provocatively. "You better shape up, 'cause I need a man, and my heart is set on you! You better shape up; you better understand that to my heart I must be true–"

At that moment, Harry Potter burst into the room and turned the record off. Hermione looked quite disappointed. Conversely, Draco appeared relieved. "Ugh, this is utterly abysmal," Harry sighed. "Hermione, it pisses me off so much that you're so ugly in canon. You always get stuck in the positively worst make-over story lines, I swear!" He stared at Draco. "And you! When did you start crying so often? I think I liked arsehole Malfoy better than I like pussy Draco. So why don't you go into the corner and grow a penis?"

"Whatever, man. I have inner pain," Draco explicated. "Heroes like you wouldn't understand." He flipped his hair emotastically. "C'mon, Crabbe, Goyle, let's go cry crimson rivers of tears in our rooms and write awful, 'emotional' poetry about cutting ourselves."

But just as he turned with his cohorts to leave, Severus Snape, broken and stumbling, burst through the door. "DRACO, RUN!" he pled before collapsing on the marble floors.