Around the House with the Dark Lord

In the Bedroom with the Dark Lord

The soufflés had been eaten, the repercussions of the aforementioned foodstuff had been endured and the dirty laundry had been washed and dried (without fabric softener, much to the horrifying chagrin of Voldemort, who hated static cling with the passion of a hundred suns). The Dark Lord and his loyal minion were camped out in front of the television, which was showing Thelma and Louise, each eating a plate of Wormtail's leftover peach brioche (Wormtail had gotten the recipe months ago off of the Food Network and was dying to try it).

Voldemort was attempting to crochet a replacement doily for the one destroyed by the Death Eater, and Wormtail was pretending to read Metamorphosis, by Kafka and fooling nobody (the book was upside down and backwards). Our friend Peter had a bit of a penchant for trying to look scholarly, but in actuality he had a porn magazine stashed in the middle. Currently on a page sporting a buxom Miss October, Wormtail was appreciative of, shall we say, her various assets and wished for what had to be the millionth time since he had discovered the opposite sex that he had his own set of boobs to play around with.

Voldemort stood up, stretched and scratched himself in two places at once, both areas I will not delve into here. "I'm pooped," he said with a yawn. "I think I'm going to go wash my face and head to bed. You coming, Wormtail?"

Wormtail nodded. "My bed has been calling my name for over an hour." He placed a hand to his ear. "Hear it?"

Peter...Peter...Peter...

(I could do this for the next six lines, but you get the picture).

As Voldemort headed to the bathroom he stopped suddenly, gripped at his stomach and let out a gigantic fart. As he fanned the area around him with his hands in a desperate attempt to distribute the gassy goodness to everyone in a ten-foot radius he had a deep and profound, very thought-provoking insight:

Must blame dog.

Voldemort's teacup poodle lay sleeping in his little doggie bed by the television set. "MR. SPARKLE!" Voldemort chastised in an exaggerated tone of voice, "That was so rude!" He shot his teacup poodle a glare that would have turned water to ice.

Wormtail shook his head. Voldemort was going to try the oft-used technique for shifting blame--incriminate the pet.

Poor Mr. Sparkle looked up from his doggie bed as if to ask, "what did I do wrong?" Perpetual confusion reigned with the canine and he trotted off into the kitchen in search of some Milk Bones (the official dog treat of the Dark Side), his tail between his legs.

"That will teach him," Voldemort said with a curt head nod.

Just before the door to the bathroom mercifully closed, Voldie let out another round of gas, this time imitating the sound of fevered Morse code. It echoed through the house. Wormtail once again resisted the urge to fall to his knees and thank Jesus that he had his own bedroom, because if that fart was a precursor to things that were to happen in the night...

He didn't want to contemplate that thought any farther. Repress this memory like so many others, he thought to himself. He began to think about his favorite cartoon, which, incidentally, was My Little Pony.

"BAWRP!"

"MR. SPARKLE! What crawled up inside you and died? Excuse yourself!" Voldemort growled from behind the bathroom door.

The Dark Lord's second in command had had it at this point. It was one thing for the Dark Lord to blame the gas on a bad soufflé; it was quite another to reproach a pet. Mr. Sparkle was not the victim of a gastrointestinal nightmare; he was just a dumb dog that peed in Wormtail's bed sometimes and occasionally humped his leg (best just to let him finish once he started). Wormtail was eager to give attention to anything that acknowledged his existence in an affectionate manner.

Even if it was Mr. Sparkle.

Beggars couldn't be choosers, after all.

"Quit blaming that on the dog!" Wormtail yelled. "He's not even in the living room anymore!"

Just then, Voldemort came out of the bathroom in the usual attire he wore when preparing to head off to Dreamland--pale blue pajamas sprigged with a pattern of ducklings and baby bunnies. His face was slathered in a thick white goop that promised to keep his sickly pale complexion "baby smooth and totally kissable" (at least, that's what the advertising on the container said--Nivea is the official skin softener of the Dark Side). Why Voldemort would want a complexion that was "totally kissable" was beyond Wormtail, who couldn't imagine anyone actually wanting to kiss him.

But he had learned over the years that it was probably best not to question the Dark Lord's motives; doing so could cause great damage and, well, let's face it--death.

The Dark Lord's bed was immense, which was a good thing, because he was a very athletic sleeper. He tossed and turned all night and it wasn't entirely unheard of for him to wake up on the floor. He also had quite the cache of stuffed animals--teddy bears mostly. The sheets were 320-thread count Egyptian Pima cotton (black, of course--the official color of the Dark Side). Voldemort insisted on quality in the bedroom, and not just on the quality of the sheets, heh heh heh.

Author's note

: He also liked quality lighting! Where the hell did you think I was going to go with that?

After all, Voldemort's reasoning went, a person spends one-third of their lives there, and it ought to be a sanctuary of sorts.

Wormtail pulled the bedcovers back and his Master slipped between the sheets. As Wormtail pulled the blankets up to his Master's chin, Voldemort made a request:

"Will you read me a story?" Voldemort asked.

"A story, my Lord?" questioned Wormtail.

"I so like being read to," Voldemort said. "Your soothing voice makes me forget all about wanting to kill you for that unfortunate incident with the toilet paper," he added.

"All right, all right," Wormtail said. He walked over to Voldemort's immense bookshelf and began to thumb through the tomes. "Which book shall it be tonight: Lifestyles of the World's Greatest Villains, Getting in Touch with your Inner Dark Lord? Sam Walton: Made in America--My Story?"

Author's Note

: Sam Walton: Made in America--My Story is the official "how-to" publication of the Dark Side. I thought you'd like to know.

"I want The Three Billy Goats Gruff."

Why won't God let me die? Peter wondered. He picked up the dog-eared copy of the children's classic and began to read:

"Once there were three goats who lived on a hillside. They were sad and very, very, very hungry."

"We are sooooo sad and hungry!"

"They were sad and hungry because they had eaten all the grass on the side of the hill. But on the other side of the hill, across the bridge, there was lots and lots and lots of grass to eat."

"Do you suppose there was lots of grass, Wormtail?" asked Voldemort.

"I believe there was, that," Wormtail answered. "It's implied, anyhow."

"We should go over there...over to the other side of the hill."

"We should but what about that big, ugly troll that lives under the bridge? He has a big, slurpy appetite and he loves goat meat!

"

"Do the voices."

"Master?"

"The voices. Make the goats sound different."

"How old are you?"

"Old enough to use my wand!"

Wormtail raised the pitch of his voice and spoke in a falsetto manner; "We should but what about that big, ugly troll that lives under the bridge? He has a big, slurpy appetite and he loves goat meat!"

"You do that so well, Wormie. You're my favorite Death Eater."

Wormtail smiled as he lowered his voice: "Maybe he is gone. Maybe he is visiting his mother.

Yeah! He's visiting his mother, let's go across the bridge.

Tell you what, you go across the bridge first.

Me? Why me"

"That first goat has the right idea. Never do what you can sucker someone else into doing," Voldemort smiled. "I like his style."

"Ever think that if you did things on your own you'd have more success?" Wormtail asked hopefully.

"Nah," Voldemort said. "I rather enjoy having minions."

And the story continued...

************

LATER THAT NIGHT:

"Wormtail!"

G. M. Chrysler! Just when my dream was getting really, really good!" Wormtail sighed as he threw back the covers on his own tiny cot. The cold air hit him like an arctic blast, causing some temporary shrinkage. You see, Wormtail enjoyed sleeping in the buff. It allowed his body to breathe. He had developed a love-hate relationship with clothing during his many years as a rat and the fixation with the human body in its most natural state hadn't diminished upon becoming a human being again. Wormtail's appreciation of the nude form, particularly his own, had grown. That is, until the fateful morning when Voldemort caught him posing in front of his full-length mirror, flexing his invisible muscles and trying to sing like Barry White.

"My darlin' I...I can't get enough of your love baby..."

So continued Wormtail's secret shame.

Pulling on a pair of skivvies (He-Man Underoos, for those of you who wanted to know his underwear preference, and there are a gosh darn number of you who do, admit it), Wormtail sleepily shuffled down the hall and tapped on his Master's door.

"What is the matter, My Lord?"

"It's dark in here."

Not this again, thought Wormtail resignedly. "Generally it's supposed to be dark when one sleeps, my Lord."

"But I am, you know--"

"You're what, Voldie?" Wormtail asked with an evil grin.

"You know."

"Say it." And now Wormtail giggled in a way that no heterosexual male should be able to.

Voldemort pouted. "If I had my wand, I would--"

"I know, I know. You'd Avada Kedavra me in a heartbeat. I've heard it."

Voldemort scowled. "Fine," he said through gritted teeth, "I'm scared. If you ever blather about my shortcoming to another living soul I will rip out your bladder and make a balloon animal out of it," Voldemort hissed in the most theatrically threatening voice that he could muster, given the nature of the situation.

The most feared wizard of all time had one fear, and that was the Dark. He had never had much luck with anything remotely dark. It had been dark that fateful Halloween when he met his first defeat in 1981. His capture of Harry in the graveyard was also thwarted--when it was dark. Hell, he didn't even want to be referred to as "The Dark Lord," preferring instead, "The Big Kahuna," but the editors of the Harry Potter books never would have gone for it.

"Shall I plug in Elmo for you, Master?" Wormtail asked helpfully. He walked over to the Chippendale bureau and picked up Voldemort's Sesame Street nightlight (the official nightlight of the Dark Side). There was a smiling Elmo emblazoned on the device. He was holding some balloons. Wormtail fought the urge to laugh as he plugged the nightlight into the wall.

Nothing.

No brilliant flash of light, no colorful balloons to cheer up the room, nothing. Wormtail was a bit hesitant to speak the awful truth:

Elmo's bulb was burnt out.

"Sir, I am very v--very sorry, but your nightlight doesn't work anymore."

"Can't you make it work?"

"We need a new bulb."

"Just fix it with your wand!"

"No can do, My Lord. You broke my wand in half when I deserted you after 'HarryGate,' remember?"

"My Elmo nightlight doesn't have a bulb," Voldemort pouted. Sadness encompassed his very soul "What am I going to do, Wormtail?"

"If you close your eyes and try to sleep, you won't know it's dark, sir," Wormtail suggested. He couldn't believe that he had given up any semblance of a normal wizarding life for this.

"But it's going to be dark...I can't sleep in here with it so dark. Can I sleep with you in your bed?"

No. No. No.

"Sir, my bed isn't as comfortable as yours. Besides, I have my 180-thread count Bob the Builder sheets on my bed. They would chafe your delicate skin. You wouldn't like them."

"Is Bob killing anyone or casting dangerous hexes?" Voldie asked with a hopeful smile.

"No, My Commander. He is driving a dump truck."

"Oh." Voldemort sounded disappointed. "Well, is he driving the truck dangerously?"

"Um, he's not wearing a seat belt..."

"Excellent." Voldemort tapped his fingers together "I'm still scared. Sleep with me, Wormtail."

Oh GOD, Wormtail thought. This was, bar none the worst possible scenario. He did not like sleeping with the Dark Lord. For one thing, the idea of a thirty-something sharing the same bed as a man that was older than his grandfather was just...sick.

Gingerly, the fat little wizard slipped between the sheets, taking special care to give the Dark Lord a very wide berth. He huddled himself into a little ball and prayed that Voldemort's gas problems were over.

Four point seven seconds later Wormtail made the sad discovery that they were not.

He sighed and closed his eyes as he tried to make the best of a bad situation. In a matter of minutes, visions of Kristi Yamaguchi were swimming in his head. He smiled in his sleep as Kristi, wearing a red-jeweled mini dress skated over to where he stood on the boards and said, in a very throaty voice, "How's about you and I work on a star lift together?"

"Sure, Kristi," purred Wormtail. He placed his arms around her waist, and--

Suddenly, frozen feet pressed deeply into his thigh.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I would go into detail as to Wormtail's actual commentary, but this is a family story. Suffice it to say that a pirate would blush at his words.

"Your bony feet are cold and clammy!"

"And your thighs are warm. Your point?" grumbled the Epitome of Evil.

And so the night went on. Voldemort's snores shook the walls and Wormtail wished with all his might that Sirius had been able to kill him off on that street so many years ago. Each and every time Wormtail would try and leave the bed, Voldemort would throw an arm around him, preventing escape.

Until 3:30 AM.

Voldemort farted in his sleep and turned over. Wormtail made a pact with God that no eggs would ever enter the house again as long as he was alive if the Almighty would please get him out of the room without his Master awakening. He quietly slipped out of the bed and slowly...ever so slowly, tiptoed toward the door...

...and would have made it out had it not been for the telemarketer from MCI (NOT the official telephone service of the Dark Side) calling to see if he was happy with his long-distance telephone service.

"Would you like to hear about my walk with the Lord Jesus Christ?" Wormtail answered hotly as he slammed down the telephone. He looked to see if Voldemort was still sleeping. It appeared that he was. Miracles never cease! He smiled with delight...

...until he stepped on that creaky floorboard...

"WORMTAIL! GET BACK HERE!" howled his Master.

Wormtail shuddered. "Yes, My Lord," he said sadly. Once again he slipped between the sheets. Voldemort smiled in the dimness.

"I love you, Wormie."

"I love you too, My Lord."

"You're just saying that because you're afraid of my wrath."

"Yes, My Lord."

"It's so nice to lay here beside you, with my hands between two warm pillows," Voldie sighed.

Wormtail stiffened.

"THOSE AREN'T PILLOWS!"