Memoirs of a Dark Lord
Lord Voldemort; celebrated Dark Lord and most awe-inspiring and feared man of the century, was having an extremely productive summer.
So far, he had managed to declare war, (again), on Great Britain, blow up a few bridges, kill a few annoying Auror's, and torture Mrs Grudgeon's ginger cat. The pest had always made his skin crawl, hissing at him whenever he passed by. The vaunted Dark Lord considered a few hours of highly ingenious torture, accompanied by some delightful caterwauling, as excellent pay-back. He rather thought it his greatest achievement this summer; although of course he would rather kiss Dumbledore's big toe than admit it to anyone. He had also reached a new high on the number of Crucio's he had dealt out to his minions; they had to be kept in line after all. After a few rather humiliating debacles involving one pesky-midget, (aka Harry Potter), the supreme Dark Lord had thought they all needed a little reminder about how terribly dark and dangerous he could be. Terribly dark. Highly dangerous.
Voldemort preened. Yes, he had been in fine fettle recently. He was practically the dictionary definition of the word 'evil'. Voldemort liked that word; eeviill. It sort of rolled off the tongue. You could stretch it out and add lots of sibilant hissing; very sinister, of course.
The Dark Lord yawned and twirled his wand idly through his fingers. It was a stunning piece of wood; dark ebony, long, thin, pointed; sinister enough to belong to an extremely evil Dark Lord. He had hired a personal designer especially for the production of a suitably magnificent wand. The odious little man had demanded payment for such an honour. As if to bask in the radiance of his presence had not been enough. Voldemort had killed him of course. What an insult that little dwarf had been; one serious miscalculation.
The Dark Lord did not make many miscalculations of course; he prided himself on being all-knowing, anticipating every outcome, planning all inevitable repercussions. That was, of course, what made a Great Leader, and the snake-like man knew with absolute certainty that he was a Great Leader. Why else would people cringe in fear whenever his name was uttered? (Pesky midgets aside, but we don't want to think about him). Yes, that little worm of a wandmaker had perished, suitably painfully of course, lots of screaming; that's the best way.
At least Voldemort thought he had perished. The Dark Lord frowned thoughtfully. It really was time he took another tour of the torture chambers… he'd lost count of the number of prisoners he had down there. An inventory couldn't hurt, after all. It was always best for one to know the number of prisoners one had in stock. Prisoners can be nifty things after all; you never really know when one of them may just render itself handy. They can be used for all sorts of things; fresh Potions ingredients, harmless fun, human shields - after all, a celebrated Dark Lord can't very well be seen running uncouthly away from battle, it would be unseemly and downright bad for his image. Best to always have a disposable prisoner handy, just in case he had to duck a jinx or two. Not that he would ever have to of course…
Voldemort snorted at the very thought, and then hastily looked around to make sure none of his minions had heard such an un-darklordish sound being uttered. He would have had to kill them of course, had anyone overheard and he really didn't want to kill any more followers; it seemed he had begun to get fairly low on Death Eater stock. He couldn't imagine where they were all disappearing to; he couldn't have killed that many could he?
As it was, however, the snort went undetected as Voldemort was alone in the great chamber he used for meetings. He took a moment to wonder why that was; didn't his followers want to seek out his company? Did they not want to bask in the reflected glory of his presence? He felt a pang of loneliness spear through his chest, and, horrified, ruthlessly squashed such a thing. Emotion! Pah, a weakness! Dark Lord's did not have weakness. It was the number one rule featured in the 'Guide to becoming a ruthlessly successful, highly intimidating and utterly evil Dark Lord handbook' he had inherited from Grindelward.
Never experience emotion. It's a disgusting, slimy creature only meant for a weaker species. Dark Lords are above such dependencies. Always remember that!
N.B (Emotions of anger, hate, wrath or envy that cause unexplainable killing spree's are exempt from the above clause.)
Voldemort repeated the hallowed rule to himself a few times. It must have been too long since he had catharsis; that was why such a pathetic little thought had crept inside his mind
Limbering himself out of his jewel-encrusted throne, (suitably decadent for a supreme Dark Lord), Voldemort stretched and arranged his features into his best Death Glare, (suitably blood-curdling for an seriously evil Dark Lord). Humming the funeral march softly between his teeth, the vaunted snake went in search of some prisoners to torture. He really needed to realign himself with his inner monster; he had been far too soft on everyone around here lately. Granting himself a moment to self-indulge, the feared Lord treated himself to practising his evil cackle as he slammed open the door to his own private torture chamber.
It really was a hard life, being a Dark Lord. There was so much pressure, so many expectations to live up to. Voldemort heaved a long-suffering sigh. Really, they didn't deserve him. He worked far too hard, and what did he get in return; nothing! He decided then and there that he really would have to look into the going pension rate for being an unconquerable Dark Lord; there had to be some perks to the job after all.