(A/N: A bit longer than the last two chapters. We don't own We Will Rock You.)

November 1, 1981

12:00 am

Voldemort was feeling slightly tired. Although he had deactivated most of the traps, he hated to admit it, but had missed one or two. Or three. Oh all right. More than that.

When he'd gotten into the house, he'd been confronted with a launch of paintballs. Unfortunately, he hadn't been anticipating them (they were evidently a muggle contraption). He growled. Now his pristinely black robes were all red and gold. Wait…red. And gold. Oh, he was going to kill the Potters after this.

He had advanced forward into the hall. It was dark. "Lumos!" Nothing happened. Oh, no, not Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder! Chilling violin music played in the background. He frowned and walked forward. His foot landed on something warm and furry. He jumped. Okay, no he hadn't jumped. He'd screamed. Screamed like a little girl. Merlin, he needed to regain his composure. He was the Dark Lord, of all people. He bent down to find what he had stepped on. It was a pillow. Just a furry pillow with a warming charm on it…

WHACK! A hammer hit him on the face, right between his eyes, on his…not-nose.

Eyes now watering, he stood up warily again, and as he did, a rubber fist came out of nowhere and punched him on the shoulder. He fell over sideways…right into a pool of freezing cold…raspberry jam? Who knew how Potter's mind worked? Possibly his friend, Black…but then no one knew how his mind worked either.

As he got to his feet again, he was drenched with a shower of scalding water. At least that had gotten the jam off of his head, but Merlin, it was so hot! On the bright side, he was no longer red, gold and raspberry scented. Alas, it was too good to be true. A second later, glue, glitter and feathers all descended onto him. Scowling, he cast a cleaning charm on himself. The feathers and glue went away, but he was absolutely covered with glitter. That was it. He'd had it.

"BOMBARDA MAXIMA!"

The hall exploded, leaving a direct path to the living room. He ran, positively sprinting towards it. He did not need anything else happening. As soon as he stepped over the threshold of the hall, a bucket of slippery, round golf balls emptied itself on his head. Everything was silent. Wait. It was silent. What had happened to the creepy music? There was a whirring noise and muggle rock music started to play at a very loud volume. "Buddy, you're a boy, make a big noise, Playing in the street, gonna be a big man someday!" He nodded along to the song. He actually liked it. This was his type of music. He nodded his head, singing, "We will, we will, rock you!"

"What-?" He stepped backwards and slipped on a golf ball, which led to him grabbing on to the nearest solid object: a red button. Well, it seemed solid, so he pulled himself up - and nearly fell down again. Because it wasn't a button. It was a lever. It had come down when he had used it to stop falling. And then there was another whirring noise, as a hatch in the ceiling opened up, and a huge XXXXXL-sized hot pink flowery dress with neon purple embellishments and an absolutely hideous neon orange and lime green bow attached to the dress.

"NooooOOOoooo!" He covered his eyes. "What is this horrific torture device?" And then, to his absolute disgust and horror, it fell over his head and somehow fit itself around him.

"AAAAARGH! GET OFF!" he yelled. But it didn't. It somehow clung to him, even though it was size XXXXXL and still hung off him limply at the same time. What had Potter even done? The mirror in the living room was right across from him, and as he looked up, he screamed. Again. Like a little girl. It looked absolutely horrendous! Sure, he was good-looking, but no one, not even a fashion model, surely, could pull off looking even decent in that sort of dress. He tugged at the dress. It shouldn't have fit him in the first place - he was very thin. But now it wasn't coming off!

"Relashio! RELASHIO!" Nothing happened. He slashed at the dress with his wand. "Diffindo. Diffindo. Bombarda! BOMBARDA MAXIMA!" he said, trying to make a hole in the dress. But nope, nothing happened. He was actually impressed. He should get robes like these for his fellow Death Eaters and for himself as well - they were like indestructible suits of armor. And then he realized it. The dress was ALIVE! Well, that was easily remedied. "AVADA KEDAVRA!" It fell limply off him. "We will, we will rock you!" said the song. "Yes, Potter, I will wreck you," muttered Voldemort. A note fell out of the dress. It said:

Dear Voldy,

Just so you know, this was my muggle sister-in-law, Marge Dursley's wedding dress. Thought it would look quite nice on you.

Cheers,

Flames

Who was that from? He doubted that James Potter was called Flames. And then he remembered that his wife, Lily Potter, had red hair. Of course. Flames. Right. Hang on, wasn't that Severus' friend? He'd asked him to spare her. But now he wasn't going to, not anymore. Oh no. The Potters were doomed.

He stormed off to the stairs and was immediately knocked off his heels by a heavy paint can that swung into him from midair and covered him with bright turquoise wall paint. And then another can helpfully emptied all over his head. He firmly shut his eyes and mouth as he recognized the smell of turpentine. Oh well. The paint would be easier to clean off now. He went back into the living room and picked up the dress, wiped himself off with it, Aguamenti-d himself several times, took a hot shower in the living room bathroom, and came out feeling happily clean. Oh, but the glitter….the glitter still wasn't coming off. Ducking the cans, he stormed up the stairs - only to find himself trapped in a trick stair, and all the way up to his waist. His wand arm was pinned beside him, while the other was desperately clutching the banister. There was a flash of bright white light and a fiery red wig settled itself on his head. A fake nose attached to fake, round, black glasses also stuck to his face. "POTTER!" he shouted. But he couldn't do anything. He was stuck. In a stair.

Ten minutes had passed. He was still stuck. The accessories were still stuck to him. He sighed. And now he had to wait here. Until one of his faithful servants came to check on him when he didn't come back. By now, he'd expected at least Severus…

Ten minutes had passed. No one had come yet. And then, he noticed a small gap in between his legs and the hole in the staircase. If he just twisted, and flew up at the same time, he'd be able to get out of the prison that was the stair. He shot out of the hole like lava from a volcano, and had another idea. He wouldn't fall into any trick stairs if he was in the air. He zoomed forward through the air, feeling very free. Until he crashed into a net. A muggle football net? It was stretched across the entrance to the landing.

He tumbled down the stairs again but got up quickly. He was NOT going to give up now, not now when he was so close to success. He could taste it on the air. He waited and decided to plan for a bit. So, all the Potters would be hiding in the boy's nursery (he certainly hadn't encountered any of them all throughout his very adventurous ascent to the nursery and he assumed they'd blocked apparition). He would first blast apart the adults (he was originally going to spare them, but noooooo. They were so. Very. ANNOYING!) and then move on to the baby. It was easy. He didn't want to draw it out; he was exhausted and wanted to get this over and done with. He flew up, banished the net, and dramatically 'Reducto'-ed the door.

"It is I," he started. "Lord Voldemort. Did you think you could hide from me forever? Now-" he stopped. No one was there. "What on earth? Oh Merlin," he muttered.

He checked in the crib. Under it. On the ceiling. In the bookshelf and behind it (who knew a one-year-old could read so much? But then his mother was Lily Potter). Under the toy broomstick (wasn't it supposed to be for five-year-olds? But then, again, his father was James Potter the Great, King Chaser, blah blah blah). He sighed in defeat and slumped over in the squashy crimson armchair in the corner of the room. Just then, a note fluttered down. Curiously, the Dark Lord picked it up. It was written in elegant cursive, like the type taught in old pureblood families. He nodded approvingly. Until he read the note. This is what it said:

Dear Voldy (he scowled),

Did you get our gift? ("Gift, indeed," he snorted) Leave us a rating by owl. Oh wait. You don't have my address. And you never will. I would have come and taken a picture, but you're too ugly to waste on pictures. (How dare he?) Anyways, we might come rescue you sometime. Be sure to prepare some tea, we're a bit thirsty after all that.

With great disrespect,

Moony, Padfoot, Prongs and Flames

P.S. Lily tells you to say hi to Severus.

By the end of the letter, steam was coming out of his ears. Quite literally.

And that was where he was.