Around the House with the Dark Lord

"Why hello, little friend. Don't you look all bulbous and beautiful today?" the Dark Lord cooed to his rosebushes as he pruned them neatly and poured artesian well water on their thirsty leaves. A few feet away, his second in command was digging a small hole and sweating in the hot sun.

Voldemort lovingly lifted one particularly fragrant bloom to his nose and inhaled deeply, unaware that there was a small insect inside. The bug shot up his nose faster than a one-pump chump, causing Satan's biggest rival to hop around madly, waving his arms like someone one card short of a full deck.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!" screamed the man whose photo appeared in Wizarding dictionaries under the word "evil",."Woooooormtail! I just inhaled an insect!"

"That's not all you've inhaled," muttered the little man from his area of the garden. Louder, he commented, "Think of it as protein, sir!"

"I can't," whimpered Voldemort. "I can feel it in my throat. It tickles."

"Well, hock it up, then," Wormtail said. He wondered how on earth the Dark Lord had managed to live as long as he had. Then he remembered that he had played a significant role in the man's return to a body.

It was at that moment that he realized there was truth in the saying that "hindsight is twenty-twenty."

Wormtail was shaken out of his thoughts by the following sound:

Voldemort reared back his head and prepared to launch his loogie. As he was rather unpracticed at the crude movement, however, the gob of spit merely landed on the front of his robes rather unbecomingly.

However, it did get the bug out of his throat, for which we are all grateful, as we can now leave that particular topic.

Don't all cheer at once.

Voldemort had a green thumb. He could grow anything, and I do mean anything.

Yes, even that.

And no, you can't buy any. He's not selling, and besides, it's strictly for medicinal purposes.

He had every plant imaginable in his garden and, quite honestly, could have been interviewed for Better Homes and Garden were it not for his penchant for killing Muggles, which all reporters for the magazine were likely to be. The Dark Lord found gardening to be especially therapeutic. For a little while, digging around in the dirt and cross-breeding flowers took his mind off of the hard work it was to be him.

It was, after all, hard work being evil.

And the health insurance benefits were terrible.

He had wondered briefly if perhaps a career in interior decorating might be the way to go. His Death Eaters were constantly fawning over his color scheme, his cupboards, his doilies, his taste in Cubist Art, his collection of miniature shampoos...

Shampoos?

Hey, he thought, wait a minute. They're not impressed with my tasteful decorating at all! They're just trying not to get killed!

I'm going to Crucio some major ass when I find my wand. The thought made him tingle with happiness.

With these thoughts running through his head he decided that he could never leave his wonderful lifestyle. He would lose his minions and his ability to scare the living shit out of people.

Not to mention his membership in the "Frequently Flying Dark Lords" club, courtesy of Delta Airlines (the official airline of the Dark Side). He had almost earned enough miles for a free trip.

Subject to blackout days, of course.

With these thoughts in mind, the Dark Lord kneeled before his prized pansies. As he gazed at them, he could have sworn they were trying to stand a little taller, just for him. He smiled as he treated them to a nice drink of water.

Voldemort stood up, reached for his can of Tab™ (the official cola drink of the Dark Side) and took a large swig. "Gardening might be murder on my knees, but I'll be God-damned if anyone's pansies turn out as nice as mine," he commented.

"Too true, too true, my Lord," Wormtail said obsequiously, gazing at Voldemort's prized blooms. "Unfortunately, my

Voldemort rolled his eyes theatrically. "All the Miracle Grow in the world isn't going to help if you don't use the right tools, Wormtail. You probably aren't fertilizing enough."

The world's most incompetent second in command looked to the earth surrounding his pathetic plants and started to take off his belt. "But I can only do so much!" he sniffled. "I'm only one man, My Lord!"

Voldemort blinked, then decided that he would pretend for the sake of decency that Wormtail was talking about actual fertilizer and decided to mosey on...

"I would also wager that you do not talk to your plants, either," Voldemort said casually. He bent over a flaccid-looking Jack and said, "He doesn't talk to his widdle planty-wanties does he, hmmmm?"

Wormtail contemplated how long it would take him to get to the Ministry of Magic in rat form, decided it would take too long and sighed.

"You have to let the plants know that you love them," Voldemort explained. "Sometimes I read to them, and sometimes I sing. Merely listen." He cleared his throat:

"I understand, I understand!" Wormtail conceded, placing his hands over his ears and mentally tabulating how many beers he'd have to drink to obliterate the image of his Master dancing on his toes, "but is the dancing actually necessary?"

Voldemort caught himself, mid-Arabesque, and gave his second in command the evil eye. "How badly do you want beautiful flowers?" he asked.

"Not that badly," mumbled Wormtail.

"WHAT?" hissed the Dark Lord.

"Very badly, sir, very badly." Wormtail took a deep breath and began to "sing." He even attempted a half-hearted soft-shoe as he bellowed:

It did not take a rocket scientist to deduce which of the two had more musical talent, Voldie thought with annoyance. How in the HELL had he ended up with Wormtail as his most loyal second? Why couldn't Remus Lupin have taken him up on his original offer?

As Wormtail continued to butcher "Brandy", the Dark Lord openly cringed at his most loyal minion's total lack of ear-training skill and pathetic dancing ability. He sings so incredibly flat, groused the wizard whose name was feared by all. How can he not hear it? I also believe I speak for all when I say that Wormtail is not Fred Astaire reincarnated.

"It's not working," panted Wormtail, who collapsed to the ground, out of breath.

"Well, sometimes you have to be forceful with them, too," Voldie said impatiently. "You're a wuss. Let me demonstrate how it's supposed to be done." The skeletal wizard got on his hands and knees in front of the throng of plants and hissed in a cold voice, "GROW DAMN YOU, OR YOU'RE GOD-DAMNED MULCH!"

Wormtail could have sworn he saw the Jacks cower, then straighten. He had to admit that his Dark Lord could be very persuasive when he wanted to be.

"You just have to show them who is boss," stated the Dark Lord simply. "Now could you help me over here? I want to pick some radishes and make some darling little rosettes for dinner!"

Numbly, Wormtail followed his master to the vegetable garden. His eyes strayed to the onion patch, where he had hidden Voldemort's wand, so it couldn't be used on him. It had been rather a brilliant idea on the second's part; Voldemort hadn't been able to find the wand in weeks.

Wormtail knew that Voldemort made it a point not to go near the onion patch. So consumed was the Master that his breath would be anything less than minty fresh and generally pleasing, he neither dared to enter that part of the garden nor partake of the vegetable.

You never know when someone's going to want to kiss you, after all, was Voldemort's line of thinking.

Lord Voldemort knew that onion breath could be a little off-putting.

A person in his line of work had to think about things like that. Sometimes it was annoying, really, being in the public eye.

As the two men pulled and tugged at the radishes, Wormtail kept glancing furtively over to the spot where the wand lay. After a few moments, Voldemort noticed his odd behavior.

"Whatever are you doing?" he asked.

"Uh...I think...that is...I don't really know," stammered Wormtail.

"What are you hiding from me?" Voldemort asked, his red eyes flashing dangerously.

"N--nothing, my Lord," Wormtail shook.

"You lie. I can smell it on you," said the Dark Lord. "I can also smell Old Spice. Can't you wear a nicer-smelling cologne than that? What about that Joop I got you for Christmas?" he asked petulantly.

"It burns, my Lord."

Wormtail's words fell on deaf ears as Voldemort scanned the vegetables. "There's something here...something you don't wish me to see," he said in a nasty voice. "In the onion patch, perhaps?"

"You wouldn't...sir, think of your breath!"

"You're hiding something, and I want to know what it is," Voldemort said. "Breath be damned!"

With that, he plunged his hand into the onion patch. He fumbled around for a moment. Wormtail silently acknowledged that he must indeed be on Jesus Christ's hit list, for all the bad luck that seemed to befall him.

"My WAND!" shrieked the Dark Lord like a prissy little girl. "You found it for me, Wormtail! How incredibly spiffing!" He gripped the wood between his fingers, stroking it lovingly.

"Ah, yes," Wormtail said weakly. "I found it. That's what I did."

Voldemort looked to his second with an expression of glee. "Oh golly gee, I could just KISS you!"

"That's okay, My Lord. No thanks are necessary...will you stop?!" Wormtail cried as the Dark Lord planted a wet one on his cheek.

"Come here, you know you want a hug," Voldemort said, reaching for his minion.

"Nope, nope, not me," Wormtail said as he leaped to his feet. "Please, my Lord. Think of what the neighbors will think." He tugged at the neck of his robes. He backed away from his Master's probing hands...

...and straight into a patch of the Dark Lord's award-winning begonias.

"MY BEGONIAS!"

Wormtail paled. He put up his hands. "Mistakes were made, sir," he said. He laughed feebly, still stepping backwards.

The Dark Lord growled and lifted his wand.

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" screamed Wormtail, turning tail quite literally and scurrying into the house.

"Come back you rat-faced coward! I'll find you, and when I do, you're going to wish you were dead!"

"Looking Glass wrote "Brandy youre a fine guirl"