A lonesome, naked figure ran into the room, wearing nothing but a pair of pants and holding a wooden spoon in their right hand.
"Oh no, not again."
Voldemort watched in dismay as Harry fucking Potter, faster than the speed of sound, dismantled the entire room of Death Eaters with nothing but a piece of wood. Not even a wand, no, because of course that would be too 'tryhard' as the petulant child put it, whatever that meant.
Oh, he'd tried to kill the boy. Plenty of times. Succeeded, actually, except for the fact that he'd show up an hour later looking right as rain complaining about how he - the greatest Dark Lord of their time - had 'taken all his souls.'
Was it a taunt? Was it the fevered mutterings of what was obviously a far too powerful fourteen year old experiencing hallucinations so mind-bending that they would make even Herpo the Foul look a relatively well adjusted individual? Was it some pointed attempt to reveal to Voldemort that the boy knew his deepest, darkest secret?
Voldemort blinked, rubbing his forehead. "You threw a spoon at me. At me. Voldemort." He couldn't even find it in himself to sound mad, anymore. To be quite honest, he was just tired.
"Thanks for the farm, Tom!"
"What does that even mean!?" he shrieked, watching as Harry jumped out the window.
The fourth story window.
Tom sighed, sinking back into his chair and glaring half-heartedly at the mess of gore heaped around the room. New recruits and they were already dead. Butchered with a goddamn spoon.
Maybe he should have gone into politics.