Death Eater Therapy

Chapter 1- Chips and Confessions

"Well, you fools know why you're here," stated the Dark Lord in his icy pitch, reclining on an ornate black and green chair. The Death Eaters glanced at each other through their masks.

"Um...," began Macnair, not wanted to provoke Voldemort's wrath.

"Apparently, I didn't get the memo," said Lucius Malfoy haughtily, looking rather impatient.

Voldemort turned to Wormtail, who was beside him, carefully peeling the grapes, and glared. Wormtail cowered, accidentally dropping a couple grapes in the process.

"I w-wanted it t b-be a s-surprise," he mumbled apologetically. All of the Death Eater, even the ones who thought Wormtail was an idiotic twit, watched with bated breath as Voldemort's unforgiving eyes remained fixed on Wormtail. However, he did not berate him or do anything of that sort; he simply turned his piercing red eyes back to the rest of them.

"Well, Wormtail here wanted us to have a chat," said Voldemort, stressing the last word as if he really did not agree with Wormtail's idea.

Lucius rolled his eyes and got up. "I'm sorry, Master, but I really don't have time for this. Ever since that dratted house elf got away, Narcissa's been keen on me about dishwashing duty."

"Well, Lucius, after all that has happened during this past year, I find myself desperate enough to heed my servant's advice, however.... ridiculous it may seem. Our Wormtail here suggested that we have a therapy session."

Voldemort paused, waiting for the chortles from his more intelligent servants; after all, he himself had been inclined to laugh at the idea the day before, when Wormtail had spoken about it to him. However, there was no sound among the Death Eaters. The whole atmosphere around him seemed dusty (after all, they were in the cellar of the Nott Manor), yet it was also willing. Well, it was either that or all his servants were skilled at hiding their ignorance. Or it was a practical joke; he always hated one of those. Voldemort glanced at Bellatrix, who was one of those more rebellious Death Eaters. However, she too seemed enthusiastic about the idea, judging from the way she was not frowning and setting the people around her on fire. Voldemort look all around him and saw eager faces (well eyes really because all of them were wearing masks).

"Well, I guess Narcissa can wait... I'll tell her it was a mandatory meeting about new plans," said Lucius, sitting down again. Voldemort rolled his eyes. It seemed like he had to go through this after all.

"Master?" Bellatrix asked, idly twirling her wand. Everyone near her, including her husband Rodolphus, edged away. Voldemort smiled, just waiting for her opposition.

"What problems does therapy solve? I don't see any big problems, but it's a funny word so I'm still interested."

"Well, then you've done well by averting your eyes from the sight of Crabbe and Goyle," stated Voldemort. Crabbe and Goyle were busily munching on potato chips and, after hearing their names, quickly stashed away the packet. Voldemort put on a disgusted face and continued.

"Well, I must clarify what therapy is for those who are ignorant of Muggle ways. Therapy helps humans and great beings, like me, conquer and eliminate all mental problems, although, for a large majority of you, I will find that difficult. Therapy involves confession and ink pictures-"

"-Sounds a lot like church to me," muttered Antonin Dolohov.

"Well it's not. It may, in actuality, be as useful as, say, hot water bottles, lotion, or fruity wine."

"And potato chips!" yelled Crabbe as Goyle nodded vigorously, munching loudly. Voldemort stood up with his eye twitching and wand in hand. The Death Eaters trembled, expecting the worst.

"The first step to therapy is talking, and today, we're going to talk about things we don't like," he growled. "This will help us control anger."

"What happened to your whole philosophy about how anger should be demonstrated fully on any weaklings-"

"Forget it. Now, I shall go first. What I don't like can be written into a list five Never-Ending Scrolls long. Now, to spare your time and self esteem for the moment, I shall recite my current top ten. I don't like death. I don't like Harry Potter. I don't like love because I don't see the point. I don't like April Fool's Day because I'm really surrounded by you fools all year long. I don't like Butterbeer because it is too sweet. I don't like music because it is so irritating. I don't like flowers because they are too pretty and smelly to realize their futile ends. I don't like food fights because they are too loud and do not impose respect for greater beings upon the participants. And finally, I do not like being interrupted." Glaring at all of them, he took his seat again. "Next."

Wormtail stood up.

"I don't like cats," he mumbled.

There was a great deal of snickering from the other Death Eaters following this statement. Wormtail mistook it to be a sign of appreciation and continued.

"They're just too unpredictable!" he exclaimed. Avery paused his laughter and blurted out, "And big?"

"Yes!"

More snickering.

"Alright, my turn, my turn," declared Lucius imperially.

"Nobody wants to take your turn," Macnair sneered. Lucius ignored him.

"I don't like Harry Potter."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes.

"Now really, Lucius you can be more original than that..."

"Well it's just that my useless son keeps complaining about him..."

"And that's a bad thing?" someone in the audience burst out. Voldemort smiled.

"My thoughts exactly."

"Well, Draco doesn't even want to kill him... he just wants to beat him in Quidditch!"

"I see your problem...," Voldemort murmured. Lucius felt confident by this sign of approval.

"Yes... all he does is complain about how Potter has a Firebolt and is always winning the House and Quidditch cup and beating Slytherin's reputation up-"

"My... this is quite a problem... it seems that you hate your son more than Potter... nonetheless, your son is showing satisfactory signs of a possible future Death Eater... do show him to me when we have Open House..."

"Yes, Master...," mumbled Lucius as he bowed low and sat down. Macnair stood up.

"I hate those blokes from the Department of Magical Creatures who have mushy feelings whenever I have to axe something. Why do they tell me to do it and then get cold feet? I just want them to bugger off....," Macnair proceeded to stamp his feet and claw his hands as if to suffocate someone (or something).

"Not bad... not bad at all... next!"

Bellatrix Lestrange glared at Wormtail, Lucius, and Macnair, who all then, like the freaky phobic version of Pavlov's dogs, started shuddering involuntarily.

"What I don't like are people who forget their place and disrespect their superiors," she said curtly. The three men continued shuddering, wearing guilty faces that were obvious to even Crabbe and Goyle, who laughed at them while still devouring chips (it was a really really big bag), making them look like they were choking. "Next."

"I don't like the color blue."

"I don't like bananas."

"I don't like bright lights..."

"I *crunching of chips* donth ligh abbelsh."

"What?"

Crabbe swallowed the chips and repeated, "I don't like apples."

"Me neither," chirped Goyle.

"Okayyyyy.... anyway, I don't like birds... nasty blighters...."

"I don't like socks," stated Rookwood.

"Then what do you wear?"

"Um... no socks?"

Many Death Eaters wrinkled their noses in disgust.

"I don't like pepper."

"I don't like pie."

"I don't like-"

And so it went on until everyone had said what they did not like and Voldemort was rather bored. After all, it really wasn't his idea. But our brilliant evil genius-type wizard was undergoing writer's block... or evil genius's block. And he didn't like socks much either. But he really began to regret starting this whole thing.

"Um... Master?"

"Yes?"

"I really have to go for dishwashing duty," Lucius stated, looking as if he was leaving a fun-filled party and did not really want to.

"Um... yes, yes... you are dismissed."

"What planned for next time?"

"Some ink picture or likewise rubbish."

There was some small cheering.

"Arrrghh!" Voldemort groaned.