|I'm a realist / I'm a romantic (arcadian_dream) wrote in phoenix_flies,|
@ 2008-03-25 17:49:00
Satisfaction (Voldemort, PG)
Prompt: #156. Voldemort is a secret fan of Monty Python -- and the Death Eaters know this. (Several of them are fans as well.) Do they dare tease the Dark Lord by singing the Spam Song at meetings? Will doing the Dead Parrot sketch earn them a Cruciatus?)
Characters: Voldemort, random Death Eater, various Muggles
Word Count: 811
Summary: Voldemort takes a stroll in the moonlight.
Warnings: death, violence, general cruelty
Author's Note: I know this is probably not quite what one had in mind when submitting this particular prompt - it was certainly not the direction I intended to go in when I claimed it - so I hope it's not too disappointing.
The crisp night air whipped the Dark Lord’s face: the taut, pale skin smarted against the fierce wind. Pointed, white fingernails peeked surreptitiously over the tips of his fingers as Voldemort, fidgeted with his wand, stroking the carved, cylindrical sliver of timber, savouring the power that lied within. As he walked or, rather, moved, for it cannot be said that he was strictly walking, his rich ebony robes fluttered in the breeze, slicing a darkened trail in the space and air behind him.
Voldemort continued to move slowly, his robes caressing the ground over which he travelled. He surveyed the scene before him, delighting in the destruction that he witnessed: corpses lay strewn across front lawns, a middle-aged man and woman grasped desperately at one another for eternity, victims not only of the killing curse, but rigourmortis as well; further down the street a number of small cottages had gone up in flames, the blazing ribbons of fire licking ferociously at the night sky. The smoke emanating from the site of this particular pyro-destruction carried with it not only the scent of burning timber and grass, but of burning flesh: bodies that would be forever lost, the lives of nameless Muggles reduced to nothing more than charred ash and bone. The Dark Lord’s nostrils flared as he caught the scent: he inhaled deeply, drinking in the horror for which he was responsible. He smiled.
“Yes,” Voldemort thought to himself, “My Death Eaters have done well. Very well.” But he was still not entirely satisfied. Suddenly, a piercing cry erupted into the night: a pathetic plea for clemency, Voldemort was certain: he recognised the tone of horrified despair in an instant. The slits of Voldemort’s scarlet eyes widened, emitting a soft glow. He sniggered appreciatively under his breath as a bright green flash reflected from somewhere within the nearest house – the screaming stopped.
Voldemort approached the house from which the recent cries had come: as the offending Death Eater exited the front door of the cottage, he caught sight of the gliding Voldemort and bowed before him.
“My Lord,” he uttered, his voice thick with adoration.
“Stand,” Voldemort commanded, wielding his wand, the motions cutting the air, “Bring out the dead. I am feeling somewhat…detatched from this scene. It’s so…impersonal: I crave the sight of a face bereft of life,” Voldemort concluded with a flourish of his thin, bony hand.
“Bring out the dead, my Lord?” the Death Eater repeated, unable to suppress a titter of a laugh as he spoke.
“Is something funny?” Voldemort demanded to know, raising his wand suddenly.
“No, n-n-no my Lord,” the Death Eater stammered, “It’s just, ‘Bring out your dead’…like in that Muggle film you like.”
“Ah,” Voldemort sighed in understanding, “Yes. Yes…” the Dark Lord broke off into a high, cold laugh: “Bring out your dead!” he repeated composing himself once more and smiling cruelly.
“Yes,” the Death Eater muttered in relief, “Yes, just like in the film, my Lord.”
“Indeed. Well?” Voldemort asked, his eyes narrowing, “What are you waiting for: go!”
“Oh! Oh, yes, of course my Lord,” the Death Eater rambled quickly, shuffling away into the cottage once more to comply with Voldemort’s request.
“Levicorpus!” the Death Eater cried once inside, lifting the lifeless bodies into the air, limbs hanging limply, drawn down by the forces of gravity, and resting them at the Dark Lord’s feet.
The residence emptied of bodies, the Death Eater returned once more to the Dark Lord’s side.
“Very good,” Voldemort muttered as he gazed upon the stiffening flesh and deathly white faces of the victims. He prodded at the side of a young woman with his foot. Grinning, he was about to move onto the next victim when he heard something.
“Nngh,” the woman managed to croak. Breathing heavily, she tried to speak: “Please,” she rasped, the word struggling past her lips and teeth into the bitter cold: “Help me.”
The grin disappeared from Voldemort’s face, his deformed features darkening. He turned on the Death Eater suddenly.
“Useless!” he spat viciously, “Crucio!” he breathed, sending the Death Eater into the air, contorting and crying out in agony. “She’s not quite dead yet, is she, you pathetic fool!” Voldemort angrily lowered his wand, sending the Death Eater to the ground with a sickening thud.
“Never mind,” Voldemort whispered hoarsely – disgusted at the incompetence of his follower - as the fiery glow of his eyes came to rest on the whimpering, terrified form of the woman before him, “I shall take care of it." A deranged smirk settled on Voldemort's thin lips as he uttered the incantation: "Avada Kedavra!”
Voldemort smiled. He kicked viciously at the still-warm corpse on the ground before him. Satisfied, he moved on.
Walking away, the Dark Lord began to laugh: “Bring out your dead,” he muttered, laughing into the impenetrable darkness of the night.