FIC: Bigger Broomsticks, Crunchier Kale, and One-Eyed Trouser Snakes
Title: Bigger Broomsticks, Crunchier Kale, and One-Eyed Trouser Snakes
Author: rose_whispers
Requestor: ladytonks
Claim: "Voldemort goes through a mid-life crisis and gets a racing broom and tries on toupees. Bonus Points if you have Lucius try and talk him out of it."
Rating: PG-13 for violence and naughty words
Summary: There's more than one way to topple a dark lord...
Warnings (if applicable): None
Notes: 4353 words. Thank you to thescarletwoman and cocohufflepuffs for the brilliant (as always!) beta jobs, and to my gentleman caller, who was surprisingly eager both to read this fic and to make some very funny observations
The Great and Terrible and Darkest of Dark Lords was extraordinarily impressive and powerful, as always. He was also in a bit of a mood. Not a temper, as these things went. No, he could only describe this deep, existential angst as--
"Ennui." He sighed the word out, almost hissing its second syllable in parseltongue. He ached in a nameless, longing sort of way. He felt hollow, which, considering the fact that he'd shredded his soul and parcelled the pieces out like so much left over wedding cake, was not altogether surprising. But this went deeper than a mere eviscerated soul. Glancing in a mirror, he saw someone pale, perhaps a little too chubby-- and when had that happened?-- and overall uninteresting and uninterested looking back. Even the reds of his eyes weren't as youthful and vibrant as once they were. All in all, he was just--
"Really fucking depressed."
It was not a healthy state for a great and gigantically powerful Dark Lord to be in.
"It's not that I'm a bad man," he sighed to his second-in-command later that day.
"I beg your pardon, my Lord?" Severus Snape shouted over the ruckus.
Lord Voldemort flicked his eyes in annoyance to the reason he had not been heard. He lifted the Cruciatus curse he had been casting steadily for the last ten minutes at a screaming Muggle, who immediately lapsed into muffled-- and, thankfully, much quieter-- sobs.
"I said, it's not that I'm a bad man," he repeated.
"Of course not, my Lord," Snape said smoothly, not in that irritatingly obsequious way of Lucius' or Wormtail's.
"And now I have a fucking headache," Lord Voldemort pouted.
"Shall I remove this filth from your sight, my Lord?"
"And bring me a headache potion." He made a face, which was doubly grotesque, considering his distinct lack of nose. "Licorice-flavoured, if you please."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Your usual concoction is vile."
"Yes, my Lord."
"I shall have to remove your skin and have it fed to you if you bring the potion to me without the licorice flavour."
"How creative a punishment, my Lord," Snape said, using his wand to send the broken Muggle from the throne room before making his own exit.
Lord Voldemort drummed his long, bony fingers against the arm of his throne. If a Muggle piñata hadn't cheered him up, and indeed, nothing very interesting had come out of this Muggle at all, then he wasn't sure what would. He knew what the trouble was, of course. It was gnawing at him, an inevitable, irreversible process that even his greatest magics had failed to circumvent.
Another sigh. Perhaps if he could just counteract these hideous signs of aging around his eyes...
~*~
All Severus Snape wanted was to be left alone to do his work. He didn't think that was too much to ask for in an impregnable fucking fortress of doom. Really, everything the Dark Lord did these days was grandiose. The brightest explosions, the nastiest poisons, the messiest tortures, and, of course, the biggest castle with the highest turrets and the strongest magical wards to protect it, high in the Pyrenees Mountains. Severus didn't have to ask what the Dark Lord was compensating for. He was just surprised that the man hadn't sent anyone out to fetch him a larger broomstick. That's what Dumbledore had done, after all, and it had seemed to make him happy. Really, they might as well put a big, Muggle, flashing neon sign on top of the castle that said "We're all hiding out in here, come and Avada the lot of us", in Snape's opinion. But of course, his opinion in these matters did not count anyway. And it wasn't as if Potter had the brains to find this place, let alone lead in the cavalry. At least the castle itself was habitable, Snape thought, now that they'd aired out the lingering smell of Basque.
Little point dwelling on these things, so Snape hunkered down in his work room-no longer in the dungeons, since he had no desire to hear the prisoners down there screaming pitifully. He needed to figure out how to add enough licorice to his best headache remedy to offset the taste without rendering the entire damned thing completely useless, and he wondered idly if he could get away with giving his master the regular potion with a sambuca chaser.
This, he felt, should have been a relatively simple task. And would have been, had Lucius Malfoy not come swanning in with his swishy hair and his prison tattoos and that annoying smirk. Why, oh why, could no one read the "Do Not Disturb" sign Snape had carved into his door?
Though he knew it wouldn't work, Snape tried to see if ignoring the man would make him go away.
It didn't. "Severus, I'm worried about the Dark Lord."
Snape winced, not looking up from the feverfew leaves he was finely grinding with his onyx pestle in his human-skull mortar. Theatrical, yes, but highly effective for headache remedies. He imagined that it was Lucius' head that he was grinding instead, and smiled grimly.
"Did you hear me? I said--"
"I heard you," Snape cut him off, pouring a pint of crocodile bile into his cauldron. "Why, pray tell, are you worried about our Lord and Master?"
"He's had a headache for days. I think he's ill." Lucius arranged himself in the chair opposite Severus. "Haven't you got a cushion?"
"Did the Dementors bring you cushions in Azkaban?" Snape asked, pleased by the annoyed huff of air that escaped Lucius' perfectly pouting lips, which were enhanced by Nagini's venom when he thought his master wasn't looking. "The Dark Lord is fine."
"He's ailing."
"He's not."
"But if he were ailing, what do you suppose would happen?"
Severus rolled his eyes. Either Lucius was power-playing, trying to consolidate supporters so that he could take over should the unthinkable occur, or he wanted to squeal like a well-bred pig that Snape himself was up to such tactics.
"He has a headache," Lucius repeated.
"Are you certain he didn't tell you that just because he's not in the mood?"
Lucius spluttered in outrage while Severus added several shredded gurdyroots to enhance the potion's effectiveness and take away any possible side effects the licorice might cause. He looked back up at the indignant blond opposite him. "He's fine. I know he's got a headache because I'm making him his headache potion. I shall be happy to express your concern to him, however."
Grey eyes narrowed. "He would listen to you, would he?"
"He will listen, yes. No one else will be present while I give him his potion." I have his ear alone, he did not need to add.
"Do that, then," Lucius said imperiously, and he immediately retreated. Excellent.
Snape began to shred the licorice root when a squeaky voice pierced his concentration once more.
"Severus!"
Not even looking up, Snape fired a Tarantellaga hex at the doorway. Wormtail shrieked as he began to dance crazily across the room. Well, bugger, that wasn't going to help matters, was it? He removed the curse and replaced it with a Stinging Hex instead, just as Wormtail began to thank him.
"SNAPE!" he cried, falling to the floor and writhing in pain.
"Honestly," Severus growled, adding a dash too much licorice. "Wormtail, if you have ruined my potion with your racket, I shall hack off your tail and use it to make a rat poison with which I shall kill you."
The little man quieted instantly, his watery eyes filled with pain. "The Dark Lord. Summons you. He wants his potion. Snape, he's looking quite ill."
"Out, he's fine," Snape snapped, slamming the door on Wormtail's foot. He didn't bother to remove the curse.
What Snape knew that no one else did was the exact cause of the Dark Lord's condition. It had nothing to do with illness and everything to do with next Monday, for that was the day the Dark Lord turned seventy-five. Much as he might deny it, Lord Voldemort was exhibiting the classic signs of a mid-life crisis. Not that Snape would tell anyone else that. Let them do their own research if they were so worried.
What not even Snape knew, though he'd guessed quite correctly, was that somewhere outside the Impregnable Fucking Fortress of Doom, Harry Potter had only one more Horcrux to destroy.
And what not a soul in the Fortress expected was to see their lord and leader running around the perimeter of the castle the next day in silver jogging shorts and matching muscle shirt, a bright green sweatband tight against his bald head.
The Death Eaters gathered upon the parapets and stared down in shock as the half-dressed dictator jogged his way through the snow.
"Is he mad?" Draco Malfoy asked.
"In Russia we have snow such as this," Antonin Dolohov sniffed. "Though of course, in Russia, we are usually wise enough to stay indoors and not get frostbite on our exposed calves."
"It is an ancient ritual," Severus intoned, wrapping his ferret fur robe more tightly around him. A metre away, Draco twitched.
"Well, if it's ancient," Alecto Carrow murmured as the Dark Lord made another lap in front of them, puffs of crystallized air steaming out of his nose slits.
Later, as Severus massaged peppermint oil into the Dark Lord's grey skin and tried not to voice out loud just how fucking creepy that was, he said, "The others begin to question you, my Lord."
Lord Voldemort's look of annoyance melted into a grimace of muscle pain as Snape found a particularly wound up knot. "But I feel so alive when I jog."
"Perhaps if you made the sceptics run with you?" Severus suggested. "Mercutio Avery, Draco and Lucius Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, the Carrows, and the Lestranges. Not to mention Wormtail, of course, though he snivels about everything."
"An excellent suggestion, Severus." The Dark Lord sat up and frowned down at the little pot belly that had accumulated over the last year. 'Perhaps if you laid off all that calorie-rich blood of the innocent,' Snape didn't say. Instead, he took the initiative to nip off to Kensington the next morning via a series of splinchable Apparitions, and came back with several books, including one called Butt of Bronze, Gut of Glory, and Biceps that Kill. Well, if any work-out regimen would appeal to a megalomaniacal murderer... He left it by the Dark Lord's night table and noticed it looked thoroughly perused by evening. It wasn't long after that that several of Snape's other selections were put to good use too.
"What in darkest Hades is this?" Lucius Malfoy demanded, staring down at his dinner plate in horror. A grumble of dissenting questions arose around him. The Death Eaters had sat down to dine, and they were not pleased to find--
"Lettuce?" Draco asked.
"Squirrel food," Macnair pronounced.
"They're sunflower and flax seeds, I believe," Severus supplied smoothly, taking a large forkful of the undressed salad and chewing it deliberately. It crunched rather more than a salad had any right to.
"Is this a joke?" Lucius sneered.
"I've had worse," Wormtail squeaked. His face was still covered in red nail marks from trying to scratch away the Sting Hex.
"I haven't, and I've been in Azkaban."
"As have I," Bellatrix Lestrange chimed in, taking a bite herself. "For a spot more time than you served, my pouting cousin. If this is what our master commands we eat, then we shall do so without complaint."
"It's an outrage!" snapped Lucius.
"It's fibre," the Dark Lord countered, entering and taking his place at the head of the long dining table, Severus at his right hand. Everyone's jaw dropped indecorously, because the Dark Lord was very, very orange.
"Did you enjoy your visit to the aesthetician, my Lord?" Severus asked, taking another bite that nearly polished off his entire portion. Lucius made a choking noise.
"I did. The filthy Muggle woman told me that my skin tone was much better." The Dark Lord held his hand up in front of his face and examined his arm. "They use a strange sort of magic called 'spray tanning', which leaves one's dignity in tatters, so I dispatched her after she suggested something called an antioxidant créme for me."
"Perhaps my Lord would rather not suffer the indignity of such a procedure?" Severus suggested. "There are far simpler ways of achieving healthy skin tone."
Draco snorted. "Says the pastiest of the lot of us."
Severus leaned close to Lord Voldemort and said, so quietly that even the most strained ears amongst the group could not hear, "Perhaps a few days on a beach, my Lord?"
"A beach?"
"I hear Bermuda is lovely this time of year."
"My Lord, if I might humbly say, you looked excellent and healthy before," Lucius cut in, sounding wheedling rather than tactful. Lord Voldemort's red eyes, clashing horribly with his orange skin, narrowed.
"Do you suggest that I do not look excellent now, Lucius?"
Lucius sputtered something sycophantic. Severus let him wriggle for a few delicious moments before cutting in. "The flax is most excellent."
"We are all in desperate need of a diet," Lord Voldemort said with a nod. "Balanced proteins, fats, and carbohydrates, that's the key. Lower calories and no trans-fats. More fibre. And you may all add a tablespoon of macadamia nut oil to your salads. It is the thing to do in a place called 'The Hamptons'."
Lucius continued to splutter. "Surely my Lord...?" but he didn't seem to know how to finish his query without insulting his Master.
"Tell me Lucius, do your stools float?" asked the Dark Lord conversationally before he took a delicate bite of salad. Everyone else gagged on their lettuce. Lucius went white with shock.
"My... stools, Master?"
"If they don't float, you're not including enough fibre in your diet."
"I... could make them float using a Leviscatus spell, my Lord."
"Don't suck up, Lucius." He turned his attention away. "Severus."
"My Lord?"
"I wish you to make us all a vitamin and mineral supplement potion."
"Of course, my Lord."
"A fat burning one."
A beat. "Yes, my Lord."
Lord Voldemort frowned down at his stomach, which was still a bit flabby. "Have you anything to target my abdominals in particular?"
"Sit-ups, my Lord."
"Hmmmm. Everyone-- callisthenics, one hour after dinner in the Main Torture Auditorium."
"How apropos," Draco muttered under his breath.
~*~
The Death Eaters were a thoroughly disgruntled lot within a week, couped up in their sub-zero Fortress eating twigs and leaves while their group-aerobics-obsessed leader buggered off to tropical paradises to sunbathe and murder Muggles after soliciting their beauty tips. Snape had them all drinking hemp protein shakes and guarana-and-flitterbloom fat burning potions, at Lord Voldemort's behest. No one was happy about any of this, though Bellatrix told them off regularly for complaining and drank twice as much guarana to prove her point.
No one dared to voice out loud that the thick gold chains around the Dark Lord's neck were vaguely disturbing, or that it was odd catching him staring at his profile in a mirror before applying more Muggle antioxidant créme to his frown lines. If everyone thought their master was going insane, no one dared to voice it-- Bellatrix, in Snape's opinion, seemed to enjoy the company.
Severus was the only one not surprised by the mission proposed one morning, a month after the dieting had started.
Amid the muffled gasps of shock, Avery cried out, "None of us can stroll into Diagon Alley unnoticed!"
In spite of his leathery, over-tanned skin, Lord Voldemort was still capable of the most terrible glares, and with a careless, "Crucio," he continued to speak over the screams of pain and dismay emanating from Avery.
"I don't recall having to justify my request that the Boneses be disposed of."
No one responded, other than Avery, if his gurgle of anguish counted.
"It doesn't seem to me that any one of you protested the Surrey Sundown Muggle Massacre," the Dark Lord went on, his voice raising even higher-pitched than usual.
"That was necessary!" Macnair exploded, then clapped a big, scarred hand over his mouth as if shocked at his own outburst.
The Dark Lord ceased torturing Avery-- who whimpered something that sounded like "mummy" before subsiding into unconsciousness-- and turned his attention on Macnair.
"That was necessary?" he hissed. "Are you suggesting that this is not necessary?"
"Of course not!" Macnair croaked.
"Avada--"
"From the diaphragm, my lord," Severus muttered.
"--Kedavra!"
The executioner tumbled to the ground, a look of horror permanently etched upon his dead features.
"I believe he meant that he was not suggesting the task was unnecessary, my Lord," Severus said disinterestedly as he flipped the page of his month-old Daily Prophet.
"Hmmmph. Well, he was getting to be a drag anyway."
"An utter drag, my Lord."
Lord Voldemort bore his gaze into the others assembled. "Now then. Who will go to Quality Quidditch Supplies and fetch me a SuperNova III? I must have the latest style racing broom!"
No one asked why. Not with Macnair slowly cooling to room temperature in front of them. Bellatrix called out, "I shall fetch it for you, my Lord!"
Severus exchanged a sideways look with the Dark Lord, and neither needed legilimency to see that they were thinking the same thing: Bellatrix was just a mite too recognizable, not to mention deranged, to pull off such a scheme. She would probably use that creepy baby voice and call the shop clerk "ickle darling" before licking his eyeballs and stabbing him through his spleen with a broom handle.
Lord Voldemort arched one hairless eyebrow-- speaking of creepy, Snape mused.
"Perhaps, my Lord," he asked, "with the help of the Polyjuice Potion I always keep on hand, I might perform this task?"
The Dark Lord nodded, eyes flashing toward Bellatrix. "I have a far more... vital activity for you, my dear. Rodolphus, go with Severus."
Bellatrix's face lit up with sycophantic joy, even as Snape winced at the lack of his Master's subtlety, not to mention the fact that he would have company on his assignment. He had rather been hoping to send a letter at the Post Office in Diagon Alley. He was so behind on his correspondence, after all.
Rodolphus trudged out of the throne room along with Snape. The last thing they heard before the door shuddered shut behind them was their master asking Bellatrix, "Which do you think suits me better, V. Mo, or the V-Bomb?"
"What do you suppose he wants to do with Bella?" Rodolphus asked as Snape doled out an overgenerous portion of Polyjuice Potion for him.
"Cuckold you, I expect," Snape said. "Bottoms up."
~*~
The heist went off without a hitch, in spite of the fact that Rodolphus had a most unfortunate allergic reaction to the Polyjuice Potion, not to mention the news that his master was probably shtuping his wife a few stories above him, and had to lay down for a nap in Snape's laboratory. By the time Snape was back, however, racing broom in hand, Rodolphus had cleared out. In his place, brooding in the lab, was the Dark Lord himself.
"The mission was a success, my Lord." He held the broom out, but the Dark Lord did not take it.
"I require you to perform another task for me."
Severus hid his eyeroll with a facial twitch as the Polyuice Potion wore off. Back to his normal self, he laid the broom against the wall. "Yes?"
"I need another potion from you. For... energy."
A frown creased Snape's brow, genuinely puzzled. "Is the guarana draught no longer sufficient?"
"No, it works well." Lord Voldemort huffed for a moment, avoiding Snape's gaze. "How about something to get my spirits up? I am hard. up. for some excitement around here."
Snape nearly choked on his own tongue. Surely he didn't mean... Severus tried for an innocent tone, shoring up his Occlumency shields. "A happiness elixir?"
"In a manner of speaking." Lord Voldemort fussed with the cuff of his robe, looking frustrated. "For performance, Severus."
"You wish to mount a play?"
"I want to mount... yes. Well, how about a potion for vigour? So that I might erect a... monument to... Oh, sod it. Snape, make me a potion to counteract my inability to become aroused."
Severus absolutely did not laugh, though he nearly had an aneurysm suppressing the urge. "I see," he said tactfully.
"The groundhog needs to come out of his hole."
"Quite."
"It's time for the soldier to rise for reveille."
"Yes, my Lord."
"The one-eyed trouser snake is--"
"I've got it!" Snape said, hold a hand up. "I shall commence immediately."
"I don't suppose it needs to be stated that if you tell anyone about this--"
"I have no desire to end up like Macnair," Severus said. "Besides, when I have ever not been the soul of discretion?"
"Indeed." Lord Voldemort nodded and swept toward the door. Snape cleared his throat.
"My Lord?"
"Yes, Severus?"
"Have you considered 'T. Riddy'?"
~*~
It took five days to develop and brew the Viagraserum to Severus' satisfaction, during which time, Lord Voldemort could be seen whizzing in circles around the castle on his racing broom, striking down any bird foolhardy enough to take wing that far up the mountain.
To be sure, the Dark Lord was nearly peeing in his jogging shorts with glee when Snape presented the goblet of libido elixir to him, and Bellatrix's eyes gleamed with anticipation.
"A word of humble advice, my Lord?" Severus murmured, so that no one else could hear. "While the potion helps with the physical, it does not affect the mental aspects of desire."
"What are you on about, Snape?" the Dark Lord demanded as he took a swig.
"Simply that Madam Lestrange, while no doubt... exuberant, is rather far past her prime."
Lord Voldemort considered. "She does have those unsightly bags under her eyes."
"Indeed."
"And saggy tits."
Severus coughed a polite agreement. "Perhaps if my Lord focused his attention on a younger, fairer, more agile target?"
Lord Voldemort flicked his gaze over his minions before a thin-lipped smile of triumph twisted his tanned features. "Draco. A word, if you please?"
Bellatrix's face contorted when Lord Voldemort's orange hand settled upon Draco's shoulders and strayed down toward his slim, tight arse as they strolled out of the throne room. Snape didn't think he imagined the surprised falsetto yelp that greeted that propositioning.
"What's going on?" Bellatrix and Lucius demanded together.
"Draco is about to be deflowered, I should think," Severus said, picking up a crossword puzzle and beginning to fill it out in ink. "Probably before the Dark Lord insists on another invigorating round of Tai Bo for us all, and a lovely bowl of psyllium husks and kale for dinner. I do hope he brings us souvenirs when he pops off to the French Riviera tomorrow-- I wonder if he will have Draco along to apply the tanning oil?"
The chamber was positively vibrating with tension when the Dark Lord returned an hour later, his satisfied smirk matched by Draco's dazed expression and strangely constipated walk.
"My Lord!" Lucius squawked, moving halfway toward his son but faltering.
"Ah, Lucius. There is something you must do for me." Lord Voldemort beckoned him closer. "Your flexible son was just mentioning how he enjoys the feeling of the wind whipping through his hair when he is upon his broom."
Lucius goggled in a most undignified way.
"As you know, I am quite bald, and I do not think the look becomes me. I, too, wish to experience the wind in my hair."
"Enough of this!" Bellatrix, who had been staring wide-eyed at her master, snapped. "My Lord, how could you forsake me for that milquetoast little boy!"
"Relax, Bella, you just aren't what I'm looking for."
"What?"
"Lucius, shave your head so that I might make a toupee for myself with your hair."
"What?" both Bellatrix and Lucius cried.
"You're just too old, Bella."
With twin shrieks of rage, Lucius and Bellatrix launched themselves at their Master. Rolling his eyes, he reached for his wand...
Which wasn't there. Because Draco was holding it with a kind of shell-shocked, self-satisfied grin.
"Severus!" Lord Voldemort screeched as simultaneous Cruciatus curses hit him. He went down screaming.
Snape let out a long-suffering sigh, looked at the assemblage, and said, "I hear Tahiti is excellent this time of year and offers stellar group discounts." The Death Eaters glanced at their fallen Lord, expressions ranging from mildly amused to outright vengeful, and one by one Disapparated amid talk of taking proper baths and eating fatty hippogriff steaks.
Snape pulled out his pocket watch and moved to the window. Ignoring the screaming from behind him-- and who would have thought the darkest wizard of the century could sound so much like a little girl?-- he countered the heavy wards and unlatched the window. Right on time, for once, a crimson blur on a broomstick came hurtling into the castle. Trust Potter to wear fucking Gryffindor colours to dispatch the Dark Lord.
The boy tumbled to a halt and stared wide-eyed at the tableau: Snape had let him in, Draco was holding the Dark Lord's wand, and Bellatrix and Lucius were happily torturing their master into the dirt.
"I see you received my owl," Snape said, shooting Potter a nasty smile. "Do finish the job neatly, Potter, and lock up when you're done. I expect full pardons and Orders of Merlin for everyone in this room."
Potter's mouth opened and closed wordlessly. Snape shook his head. "No, no, no need to thank me. You may owl my awards and accolades to Tahiti. Good day, Mister Potter. Lucius, Bellatrix. Let the boy do his prophesied job. Draco..." Snape arched an appraising brow at him. "How are you with tanning oil?"
Lord Voldemort wasn't the only one allowed mid-life indulgences, after all.
Fin
Author: rose_whispers
Requestor: ladytonks
Claim: "Voldemort goes through a mid-life crisis and gets a racing broom and tries on toupees. Bonus Points if you have Lucius try and talk him out of it."
Rating: PG-13 for violence and naughty words
Summary: There's more than one way to topple a dark lord...
Warnings (if applicable): None
Notes: 4353 words. Thank you to thescarletwoman and cocohufflepuffs for the brilliant (as always!) beta jobs, and to my gentleman caller, who was surprisingly eager both to read this fic and to make some very funny observations
The Great and Terrible and Darkest of Dark Lords was extraordinarily impressive and powerful, as always. He was also in a bit of a mood. Not a temper, as these things went. No, he could only describe this deep, existential angst as--
"Ennui." He sighed the word out, almost hissing its second syllable in parseltongue. He ached in a nameless, longing sort of way. He felt hollow, which, considering the fact that he'd shredded his soul and parcelled the pieces out like so much left over wedding cake, was not altogether surprising. But this went deeper than a mere eviscerated soul. Glancing in a mirror, he saw someone pale, perhaps a little too chubby-- and when had that happened?-- and overall uninteresting and uninterested looking back. Even the reds of his eyes weren't as youthful and vibrant as once they were. All in all, he was just--
"Really fucking depressed."
It was not a healthy state for a great and gigantically powerful Dark Lord to be in.
"It's not that I'm a bad man," he sighed to his second-in-command later that day.
"I beg your pardon, my Lord?" Severus Snape shouted over the ruckus.
Lord Voldemort flicked his eyes in annoyance to the reason he had not been heard. He lifted the Cruciatus curse he had been casting steadily for the last ten minutes at a screaming Muggle, who immediately lapsed into muffled-- and, thankfully, much quieter-- sobs.
"I said, it's not that I'm a bad man," he repeated.
"Of course not, my Lord," Snape said smoothly, not in that irritatingly obsequious way of Lucius' or Wormtail's.
"And now I have a fucking headache," Lord Voldemort pouted.
"Shall I remove this filth from your sight, my Lord?"
"And bring me a headache potion." He made a face, which was doubly grotesque, considering his distinct lack of nose. "Licorice-flavoured, if you please."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Your usual concoction is vile."
"Yes, my Lord."
"I shall have to remove your skin and have it fed to you if you bring the potion to me without the licorice flavour."
"How creative a punishment, my Lord," Snape said, using his wand to send the broken Muggle from the throne room before making his own exit.
Lord Voldemort drummed his long, bony fingers against the arm of his throne. If a Muggle piñata hadn't cheered him up, and indeed, nothing very interesting had come out of this Muggle at all, then he wasn't sure what would. He knew what the trouble was, of course. It was gnawing at him, an inevitable, irreversible process that even his greatest magics had failed to circumvent.
Another sigh. Perhaps if he could just counteract these hideous signs of aging around his eyes...
~*~
All Severus Snape wanted was to be left alone to do his work. He didn't think that was too much to ask for in an impregnable fucking fortress of doom. Really, everything the Dark Lord did these days was grandiose. The brightest explosions, the nastiest poisons, the messiest tortures, and, of course, the biggest castle with the highest turrets and the strongest magical wards to protect it, high in the Pyrenees Mountains. Severus didn't have to ask what the Dark Lord was compensating for. He was just surprised that the man hadn't sent anyone out to fetch him a larger broomstick. That's what Dumbledore had done, after all, and it had seemed to make him happy. Really, they might as well put a big, Muggle, flashing neon sign on top of the castle that said "We're all hiding out in here, come and Avada the lot of us", in Snape's opinion. But of course, his opinion in these matters did not count anyway. And it wasn't as if Potter had the brains to find this place, let alone lead in the cavalry. At least the castle itself was habitable, Snape thought, now that they'd aired out the lingering smell of Basque.
Little point dwelling on these things, so Snape hunkered down in his work room-no longer in the dungeons, since he had no desire to hear the prisoners down there screaming pitifully. He needed to figure out how to add enough licorice to his best headache remedy to offset the taste without rendering the entire damned thing completely useless, and he wondered idly if he could get away with giving his master the regular potion with a sambuca chaser.
This, he felt, should have been a relatively simple task. And would have been, had Lucius Malfoy not come swanning in with his swishy hair and his prison tattoos and that annoying smirk. Why, oh why, could no one read the "Do Not Disturb" sign Snape had carved into his door?
Though he knew it wouldn't work, Snape tried to see if ignoring the man would make him go away.
It didn't. "Severus, I'm worried about the Dark Lord."
Snape winced, not looking up from the feverfew leaves he was finely grinding with his onyx pestle in his human-skull mortar. Theatrical, yes, but highly effective for headache remedies. He imagined that it was Lucius' head that he was grinding instead, and smiled grimly.
"Did you hear me? I said--"
"I heard you," Snape cut him off, pouring a pint of crocodile bile into his cauldron. "Why, pray tell, are you worried about our Lord and Master?"
"He's had a headache for days. I think he's ill." Lucius arranged himself in the chair opposite Severus. "Haven't you got a cushion?"
"Did the Dementors bring you cushions in Azkaban?" Snape asked, pleased by the annoyed huff of air that escaped Lucius' perfectly pouting lips, which were enhanced by Nagini's venom when he thought his master wasn't looking. "The Dark Lord is fine."
"He's ailing."
"He's not."
"But if he were ailing, what do you suppose would happen?"
Severus rolled his eyes. Either Lucius was power-playing, trying to consolidate supporters so that he could take over should the unthinkable occur, or he wanted to squeal like a well-bred pig that Snape himself was up to such tactics.
"He has a headache," Lucius repeated.
"Are you certain he didn't tell you that just because he's not in the mood?"
Lucius spluttered in outrage while Severus added several shredded gurdyroots to enhance the potion's effectiveness and take away any possible side effects the licorice might cause. He looked back up at the indignant blond opposite him. "He's fine. I know he's got a headache because I'm making him his headache potion. I shall be happy to express your concern to him, however."
Grey eyes narrowed. "He would listen to you, would he?"
"He will listen, yes. No one else will be present while I give him his potion." I have his ear alone, he did not need to add.
"Do that, then," Lucius said imperiously, and he immediately retreated. Excellent.
Snape began to shred the licorice root when a squeaky voice pierced his concentration once more.
"Severus!"
Not even looking up, Snape fired a Tarantellaga hex at the doorway. Wormtail shrieked as he began to dance crazily across the room. Well, bugger, that wasn't going to help matters, was it? He removed the curse and replaced it with a Stinging Hex instead, just as Wormtail began to thank him.
"SNAPE!" he cried, falling to the floor and writhing in pain.
"Honestly," Severus growled, adding a dash too much licorice. "Wormtail, if you have ruined my potion with your racket, I shall hack off your tail and use it to make a rat poison with which I shall kill you."
The little man quieted instantly, his watery eyes filled with pain. "The Dark Lord. Summons you. He wants his potion. Snape, he's looking quite ill."
"Out, he's fine," Snape snapped, slamming the door on Wormtail's foot. He didn't bother to remove the curse.
What Snape knew that no one else did was the exact cause of the Dark Lord's condition. It had nothing to do with illness and everything to do with next Monday, for that was the day the Dark Lord turned seventy-five. Much as he might deny it, Lord Voldemort was exhibiting the classic signs of a mid-life crisis. Not that Snape would tell anyone else that. Let them do their own research if they were so worried.
What not even Snape knew, though he'd guessed quite correctly, was that somewhere outside the Impregnable Fucking Fortress of Doom, Harry Potter had only one more Horcrux to destroy.
And what not a soul in the Fortress expected was to see their lord and leader running around the perimeter of the castle the next day in silver jogging shorts and matching muscle shirt, a bright green sweatband tight against his bald head.
The Death Eaters gathered upon the parapets and stared down in shock as the half-dressed dictator jogged his way through the snow.
"Is he mad?" Draco Malfoy asked.
"In Russia we have snow such as this," Antonin Dolohov sniffed. "Though of course, in Russia, we are usually wise enough to stay indoors and not get frostbite on our exposed calves."
"It is an ancient ritual," Severus intoned, wrapping his ferret fur robe more tightly around him. A metre away, Draco twitched.
"Well, if it's ancient," Alecto Carrow murmured as the Dark Lord made another lap in front of them, puffs of crystallized air steaming out of his nose slits.
Later, as Severus massaged peppermint oil into the Dark Lord's grey skin and tried not to voice out loud just how fucking creepy that was, he said, "The others begin to question you, my Lord."
Lord Voldemort's look of annoyance melted into a grimace of muscle pain as Snape found a particularly wound up knot. "But I feel so alive when I jog."
"Perhaps if you made the sceptics run with you?" Severus suggested. "Mercutio Avery, Draco and Lucius Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, the Carrows, and the Lestranges. Not to mention Wormtail, of course, though he snivels about everything."
"An excellent suggestion, Severus." The Dark Lord sat up and frowned down at the little pot belly that had accumulated over the last year. 'Perhaps if you laid off all that calorie-rich blood of the innocent,' Snape didn't say. Instead, he took the initiative to nip off to Kensington the next morning via a series of splinchable Apparitions, and came back with several books, including one called Butt of Bronze, Gut of Glory, and Biceps that Kill. Well, if any work-out regimen would appeal to a megalomaniacal murderer... He left it by the Dark Lord's night table and noticed it looked thoroughly perused by evening. It wasn't long after that that several of Snape's other selections were put to good use too.
"What in darkest Hades is this?" Lucius Malfoy demanded, staring down at his dinner plate in horror. A grumble of dissenting questions arose around him. The Death Eaters had sat down to dine, and they were not pleased to find--
"Lettuce?" Draco asked.
"Squirrel food," Macnair pronounced.
"They're sunflower and flax seeds, I believe," Severus supplied smoothly, taking a large forkful of the undressed salad and chewing it deliberately. It crunched rather more than a salad had any right to.
"Is this a joke?" Lucius sneered.
"I've had worse," Wormtail squeaked. His face was still covered in red nail marks from trying to scratch away the Sting Hex.
"I haven't, and I've been in Azkaban."
"As have I," Bellatrix Lestrange chimed in, taking a bite herself. "For a spot more time than you served, my pouting cousin. If this is what our master commands we eat, then we shall do so without complaint."
"It's an outrage!" snapped Lucius.
"It's fibre," the Dark Lord countered, entering and taking his place at the head of the long dining table, Severus at his right hand. Everyone's jaw dropped indecorously, because the Dark Lord was very, very orange.
"Did you enjoy your visit to the aesthetician, my Lord?" Severus asked, taking another bite that nearly polished off his entire portion. Lucius made a choking noise.
"I did. The filthy Muggle woman told me that my skin tone was much better." The Dark Lord held his hand up in front of his face and examined his arm. "They use a strange sort of magic called 'spray tanning', which leaves one's dignity in tatters, so I dispatched her after she suggested something called an antioxidant créme for me."
"Perhaps my Lord would rather not suffer the indignity of such a procedure?" Severus suggested. "There are far simpler ways of achieving healthy skin tone."
Draco snorted. "Says the pastiest of the lot of us."
Severus leaned close to Lord Voldemort and said, so quietly that even the most strained ears amongst the group could not hear, "Perhaps a few days on a beach, my Lord?"
"A beach?"
"I hear Bermuda is lovely this time of year."
"My Lord, if I might humbly say, you looked excellent and healthy before," Lucius cut in, sounding wheedling rather than tactful. Lord Voldemort's red eyes, clashing horribly with his orange skin, narrowed.
"Do you suggest that I do not look excellent now, Lucius?"
Lucius sputtered something sycophantic. Severus let him wriggle for a few delicious moments before cutting in. "The flax is most excellent."
"We are all in desperate need of a diet," Lord Voldemort said with a nod. "Balanced proteins, fats, and carbohydrates, that's the key. Lower calories and no trans-fats. More fibre. And you may all add a tablespoon of macadamia nut oil to your salads. It is the thing to do in a place called 'The Hamptons'."
Lucius continued to splutter. "Surely my Lord...?" but he didn't seem to know how to finish his query without insulting his Master.
"Tell me Lucius, do your stools float?" asked the Dark Lord conversationally before he took a delicate bite of salad. Everyone else gagged on their lettuce. Lucius went white with shock.
"My... stools, Master?"
"If they don't float, you're not including enough fibre in your diet."
"I... could make them float using a Leviscatus spell, my Lord."
"Don't suck up, Lucius." He turned his attention away. "Severus."
"My Lord?"
"I wish you to make us all a vitamin and mineral supplement potion."
"Of course, my Lord."
"A fat burning one."
A beat. "Yes, my Lord."
Lord Voldemort frowned down at his stomach, which was still a bit flabby. "Have you anything to target my abdominals in particular?"
"Sit-ups, my Lord."
"Hmmmm. Everyone-- callisthenics, one hour after dinner in the Main Torture Auditorium."
"How apropos," Draco muttered under his breath.
~*~
The Death Eaters were a thoroughly disgruntled lot within a week, couped up in their sub-zero Fortress eating twigs and leaves while their group-aerobics-obsessed leader buggered off to tropical paradises to sunbathe and murder Muggles after soliciting their beauty tips. Snape had them all drinking hemp protein shakes and guarana-and-flitterbloom fat burning potions, at Lord Voldemort's behest. No one was happy about any of this, though Bellatrix told them off regularly for complaining and drank twice as much guarana to prove her point.
No one dared to voice out loud that the thick gold chains around the Dark Lord's neck were vaguely disturbing, or that it was odd catching him staring at his profile in a mirror before applying more Muggle antioxidant créme to his frown lines. If everyone thought their master was going insane, no one dared to voice it-- Bellatrix, in Snape's opinion, seemed to enjoy the company.
Severus was the only one not surprised by the mission proposed one morning, a month after the dieting had started.
Amid the muffled gasps of shock, Avery cried out, "None of us can stroll into Diagon Alley unnoticed!"
In spite of his leathery, over-tanned skin, Lord Voldemort was still capable of the most terrible glares, and with a careless, "Crucio," he continued to speak over the screams of pain and dismay emanating from Avery.
"I don't recall having to justify my request that the Boneses be disposed of."
No one responded, other than Avery, if his gurgle of anguish counted.
"It doesn't seem to me that any one of you protested the Surrey Sundown Muggle Massacre," the Dark Lord went on, his voice raising even higher-pitched than usual.
"That was necessary!" Macnair exploded, then clapped a big, scarred hand over his mouth as if shocked at his own outburst.
The Dark Lord ceased torturing Avery-- who whimpered something that sounded like "mummy" before subsiding into unconsciousness-- and turned his attention on Macnair.
"That was necessary?" he hissed. "Are you suggesting that this is not necessary?"
"Of course not!" Macnair croaked.
"Avada--"
"From the diaphragm, my lord," Severus muttered.
"--Kedavra!"
The executioner tumbled to the ground, a look of horror permanently etched upon his dead features.
"I believe he meant that he was not suggesting the task was unnecessary, my Lord," Severus said disinterestedly as he flipped the page of his month-old Daily Prophet.
"Hmmmph. Well, he was getting to be a drag anyway."
"An utter drag, my Lord."
Lord Voldemort bore his gaze into the others assembled. "Now then. Who will go to Quality Quidditch Supplies and fetch me a SuperNova III? I must have the latest style racing broom!"
No one asked why. Not with Macnair slowly cooling to room temperature in front of them. Bellatrix called out, "I shall fetch it for you, my Lord!"
Severus exchanged a sideways look with the Dark Lord, and neither needed legilimency to see that they were thinking the same thing: Bellatrix was just a mite too recognizable, not to mention deranged, to pull off such a scheme. She would probably use that creepy baby voice and call the shop clerk "ickle darling" before licking his eyeballs and stabbing him through his spleen with a broom handle.
Lord Voldemort arched one hairless eyebrow-- speaking of creepy, Snape mused.
"Perhaps, my Lord," he asked, "with the help of the Polyjuice Potion I always keep on hand, I might perform this task?"
The Dark Lord nodded, eyes flashing toward Bellatrix. "I have a far more... vital activity for you, my dear. Rodolphus, go with Severus."
Bellatrix's face lit up with sycophantic joy, even as Snape winced at the lack of his Master's subtlety, not to mention the fact that he would have company on his assignment. He had rather been hoping to send a letter at the Post Office in Diagon Alley. He was so behind on his correspondence, after all.
Rodolphus trudged out of the throne room along with Snape. The last thing they heard before the door shuddered shut behind them was their master asking Bellatrix, "Which do you think suits me better, V. Mo, or the V-Bomb?"
"What do you suppose he wants to do with Bella?" Rodolphus asked as Snape doled out an overgenerous portion of Polyjuice Potion for him.
"Cuckold you, I expect," Snape said. "Bottoms up."
~*~
The heist went off without a hitch, in spite of the fact that Rodolphus had a most unfortunate allergic reaction to the Polyjuice Potion, not to mention the news that his master was probably shtuping his wife a few stories above him, and had to lay down for a nap in Snape's laboratory. By the time Snape was back, however, racing broom in hand, Rodolphus had cleared out. In his place, brooding in the lab, was the Dark Lord himself.
"The mission was a success, my Lord." He held the broom out, but the Dark Lord did not take it.
"I require you to perform another task for me."
Severus hid his eyeroll with a facial twitch as the Polyuice Potion wore off. Back to his normal self, he laid the broom against the wall. "Yes?"
"I need another potion from you. For... energy."
A frown creased Snape's brow, genuinely puzzled. "Is the guarana draught no longer sufficient?"
"No, it works well." Lord Voldemort huffed for a moment, avoiding Snape's gaze. "How about something to get my spirits up? I am hard. up. for some excitement around here."
Snape nearly choked on his own tongue. Surely he didn't mean... Severus tried for an innocent tone, shoring up his Occlumency shields. "A happiness elixir?"
"In a manner of speaking." Lord Voldemort fussed with the cuff of his robe, looking frustrated. "For performance, Severus."
"You wish to mount a play?"
"I want to mount... yes. Well, how about a potion for vigour? So that I might erect a... monument to... Oh, sod it. Snape, make me a potion to counteract my inability to become aroused."
Severus absolutely did not laugh, though he nearly had an aneurysm suppressing the urge. "I see," he said tactfully.
"The groundhog needs to come out of his hole."
"Quite."
"It's time for the soldier to rise for reveille."
"Yes, my Lord."
"The one-eyed trouser snake is--"
"I've got it!" Snape said, hold a hand up. "I shall commence immediately."
"I don't suppose it needs to be stated that if you tell anyone about this--"
"I have no desire to end up like Macnair," Severus said. "Besides, when I have ever not been the soul of discretion?"
"Indeed." Lord Voldemort nodded and swept toward the door. Snape cleared his throat.
"My Lord?"
"Yes, Severus?"
"Have you considered 'T. Riddy'?"
~*~
It took five days to develop and brew the Viagraserum to Severus' satisfaction, during which time, Lord Voldemort could be seen whizzing in circles around the castle on his racing broom, striking down any bird foolhardy enough to take wing that far up the mountain.
To be sure, the Dark Lord was nearly peeing in his jogging shorts with glee when Snape presented the goblet of libido elixir to him, and Bellatrix's eyes gleamed with anticipation.
"A word of humble advice, my Lord?" Severus murmured, so that no one else could hear. "While the potion helps with the physical, it does not affect the mental aspects of desire."
"What are you on about, Snape?" the Dark Lord demanded as he took a swig.
"Simply that Madam Lestrange, while no doubt... exuberant, is rather far past her prime."
Lord Voldemort considered. "She does have those unsightly bags under her eyes."
"Indeed."
"And saggy tits."
Severus coughed a polite agreement. "Perhaps if my Lord focused his attention on a younger, fairer, more agile target?"
Lord Voldemort flicked his gaze over his minions before a thin-lipped smile of triumph twisted his tanned features. "Draco. A word, if you please?"
Bellatrix's face contorted when Lord Voldemort's orange hand settled upon Draco's shoulders and strayed down toward his slim, tight arse as they strolled out of the throne room. Snape didn't think he imagined the surprised falsetto yelp that greeted that propositioning.
"What's going on?" Bellatrix and Lucius demanded together.
"Draco is about to be deflowered, I should think," Severus said, picking up a crossword puzzle and beginning to fill it out in ink. "Probably before the Dark Lord insists on another invigorating round of Tai Bo for us all, and a lovely bowl of psyllium husks and kale for dinner. I do hope he brings us souvenirs when he pops off to the French Riviera tomorrow-- I wonder if he will have Draco along to apply the tanning oil?"
The chamber was positively vibrating with tension when the Dark Lord returned an hour later, his satisfied smirk matched by Draco's dazed expression and strangely constipated walk.
"My Lord!" Lucius squawked, moving halfway toward his son but faltering.
"Ah, Lucius. There is something you must do for me." Lord Voldemort beckoned him closer. "Your flexible son was just mentioning how he enjoys the feeling of the wind whipping through his hair when he is upon his broom."
Lucius goggled in a most undignified way.
"As you know, I am quite bald, and I do not think the look becomes me. I, too, wish to experience the wind in my hair."
"Enough of this!" Bellatrix, who had been staring wide-eyed at her master, snapped. "My Lord, how could you forsake me for that milquetoast little boy!"
"Relax, Bella, you just aren't what I'm looking for."
"What?"
"Lucius, shave your head so that I might make a toupee for myself with your hair."
"What?" both Bellatrix and Lucius cried.
"You're just too old, Bella."
With twin shrieks of rage, Lucius and Bellatrix launched themselves at their Master. Rolling his eyes, he reached for his wand...
Which wasn't there. Because Draco was holding it with a kind of shell-shocked, self-satisfied grin.
"Severus!" Lord Voldemort screeched as simultaneous Cruciatus curses hit him. He went down screaming.
Snape let out a long-suffering sigh, looked at the assemblage, and said, "I hear Tahiti is excellent this time of year and offers stellar group discounts." The Death Eaters glanced at their fallen Lord, expressions ranging from mildly amused to outright vengeful, and one by one Disapparated amid talk of taking proper baths and eating fatty hippogriff steaks.
Snape pulled out his pocket watch and moved to the window. Ignoring the screaming from behind him-- and who would have thought the darkest wizard of the century could sound so much like a little girl?-- he countered the heavy wards and unlatched the window. Right on time, for once, a crimson blur on a broomstick came hurtling into the castle. Trust Potter to wear fucking Gryffindor colours to dispatch the Dark Lord.
The boy tumbled to a halt and stared wide-eyed at the tableau: Snape had let him in, Draco was holding the Dark Lord's wand, and Bellatrix and Lucius were happily torturing their master into the dirt.
"I see you received my owl," Snape said, shooting Potter a nasty smile. "Do finish the job neatly, Potter, and lock up when you're done. I expect full pardons and Orders of Merlin for everyone in this room."
Potter's mouth opened and closed wordlessly. Snape shook his head. "No, no, no need to thank me. You may owl my awards and accolades to Tahiti. Good day, Mister Potter. Lucius, Bellatrix. Let the boy do his prophesied job. Draco..." Snape arched an appraising brow at him. "How are you with tanning oil?"
Lord Voldemort wasn't the only one allowed mid-life indulgences, after all.
Fin