HP Fanfiction - "The Chosen One"
Title: The Chosen One
Author: mr_mercutio
Characters: Voldemort, OCs
Rating: PG at worst
Word Count: ~1900
Warnings: crack fic, "original" characters, a few groan-worthy jokes
Summary: The Dark Lord Voldemort comes to destroy his nemesis. Crack ensues.
Disclaimer: His fearsomeness the Dark Lord Voldemort is the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic, though he would claim to belong only to himself. No copyright infringement is intended.
Prompt: "He's not the Messiah. He's a very naughty boy!" -- Monty Python's Life of Brian
Author's Notes: Originally written for the 2008/2009 HP Crackdealers crack!fest, with the original post found here. If you haven't seen Life of Brian, this might be less funny to you. Hopefully it's still amusing either way. As well, if you have seen LoB, you'll know to imagine the voice of the woman in a traditional Monty Python pepperpot/ratbag kind of voice. Enjoy!
THE CHOSEN ONE
Out of the murky darkness emerges He Who Must Not Be Named, the dread Lord Voldemort, swathed in shadow and evil. He fixes his gaze upon the tiny cottage that his loyal followers have told him houses the one threat to his unending reign of terror, a tiny child prophesied to one day throw him down. This cottage is all that lies between him and eternal victory.
"Bit shabby, really," he mutters upon seeing the peeling white paint, the broken picket fence, and the unmowed and yellow lawn. "Was rather expecting something a bit grander for the home of my nemesis. Ah well."
He draws his wand forth and advances up the drive, skirting around the overturned tricycle that lies in his path. Strewn all about are the toys that this so-called Chosen One must have played with earlier in the day. The Dark Lord gleefully steps on the toy soldiers, taking it as an omen that soon the world would fall beneath his feet.
"The time is now," he intones loudly as he steps before the front door, his wand brandished before him. "My enemy shall meet his doom. Come out, Potters, and know that you have no hope left!"
He stands there, wand pointed at the door, waiting for one of the boy's parents to come and be the first to be slain. After a few minutes of posing and waiting, he sighs and tries to peer in the window. There's a light on, so he assumes that someone must be home. "Hallo?" he calls out, knocking on the door. "Did no one hear me? Anyone home? Hallo!"
"Knock it off with the racket!" someone screams at him from the house next door. "Do you know what bleeding time it is? Decent people are trying to sleep!"
"Mind your own business!" the Dark Lord yells. "Don't make me come over there!"
He is about to toss a Cruciatus curse at the neighbour when he hears footsteps coming to the door. "Hang on a blessed moment, why don't you?" a voice calls out from inside. "I'm coming already. Keep your bloody shirt on."
"At last," whispers the Dark Lord, striking his pose again. "It begins."
The door is yanked open and a woman wearing a faded purple housecoat and hair curlers glares out at him, a curling iron clenched in her fist like a weapon. "What d'you want?" she snaps. "It's nearly midnight, it is!"
He is taken aback a little at the sight of her fuzzy bunny slippers, but he has memorized this speech and he's not going to let it go to waste. Days upon days spent with Bellatrix coaching him on his lines were not going to be thrown aside just because the Potter woman had horrible fashion sense. "Tremble, oh Mudblood, for I have come at last, despite all your attempts to hide from me -"
"You're not from the collections agency are you?" the woman interrupts, shaking the curling iron at him. "I told your manager that I sent the check in two weeks ago, and that if you people hadn't gotten it yet you ought to be taking it up with the Royal Mail, not me!"
"No, that's not it," the Dark Lord stammers. "I... damn it, woman, now I've lost my place and I'll have to start over. Ahem. Tremble, oh Mudblood -"
"Well then why are you here?" One of the curlers is starting to come loose in the woman's hair, and she grumbles and tries to keep it in place. "Goin' on like some kind of fancy-pants actor in your black robes like you're in the Royal Shakespeare. If this is some kind of charity thing to get money, you can just forget it, I haven't got anything to give to you people. Get a real job already and stop bothering people at twelve o'clock at night!"
The Dark Lord despairs of remembering the exact speech he was going to give, his weeks of planning ruined by the nonsensical ravings of a Muggleborn. "Now look here," he says. "If you'd just stop interrupting me -"
From deeper inside the house come the wailings of a small child. "Shut up!" screams the woman over her shoulder. "Mummy's trying to talk!"
The sound of the screaming child galvanizes the Dark Lord, and he moves to take up his dramatic pose again, remembering a good part of his speech. "None shall stand in the path of my route to glory, not even this child -"
"Is this about the boy?" the woman demands. "I told the doctor that if a child wants to eat grass who am I to stop him, and that he was just fine for it and his growth wasn't stunted one bit. He's my son, not Dr. Fitzgibbon's, and if I want to let him eat grass then that's what he's going to do."
"I... what?" The Dark Lord is confused. He shakes his head. "Yes, I'm here for your son, but no, I have nothing to do with a doctor -"
"Well that's a relief at least," remarks the woman. "Are you from Marks and Spencer then? I did put our name into the draw for the birthday surprise. So we won! It's really a bit late, but I suppose that late is better than never, and who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?"
"Shut up!" the neighbour yells again. "We're trying to sleep!"
"You shut up yourself, Harold Porker!" the woman returns, pushing past the Dark Lord to shake her fist at the nearby house. "This is a free country and I can do what I like! If you don't pipe down I'll tell your wife that I saw you with that trollop Cindy whatsername the other day, I will! Just see if I don't!" The boy's cries from inside get louder and more plaintive, and the woman throws her hands up in the air. "For the love of Pete, I'm coming already!" she shrieks. "You might as well come inside then to see him, but he can't have the prezzie tonight, it'll have to wait for morning."
All the Dark Lord can do is nod vacantly, and he follows the woman into the cottage. She leads him into what might pass in some circles for a nursery, a room with curling wallpaper with faded images of fat cherubs dancing upon it. In a corner is a crib, and the large pasty child within is shaking its bars and screaming at the top of his lungs.
"I'm here, what do you want?" the woman snaps at the boy. "Teddy? Blankey? Bottle? What is it?" She throws each mentioned item into the crib with the child and glares fiercely down at him. The boy gleefully snatches up the teddy bear and starts to suck on its nose. "No, you idiot, that's the teddy, you won't get milk out of that," the woman sighs, reaching down and switching the two objects. The boy seems hardly to notice the change.
"So this is your son," the Dark Lord observes, trying to gather the tattered remains of his grand plan around him. "What have you named him, woman?" He's sure that the snivelling Pettigrew lad told him the Potter boy's name once, but it hadn't seemed important at the time. Now, in this grand moment of destiny, he wishes to know the name of his nemesis before destroying him. It seems appropriately dramatic, something that Bellatrix would approve of, he was sure.
"Brian," the woman replies.
The Dark Lord draws next to the crib and points his wand down at the chubby boy, who blissfully continues to suck on his bottle. "Brian," he says, "oh foretold nemesis of mine, the Chosen One."
"He's not the Chosen One, he's a very naughty boy!"
"... Beg pardon?"
The woman places her hands on her hips. "Just because we won the draw doesn't mean that he can have the present right now. Brian's not going to be Chosen for anything, thank you very much, until he learns that a boy his age needs to behave himself, even if it is his birthday!" The boy scowls at her and throws a rattle at her head, which she dodges deftly. "It's behaviour like that, young man, that keeps you from getting presents! Now the nice man is going to have to leave whatever he brought you out on the table and you won't get it until the morning!"
The boy starts to wail again, but the woman turns her back on him. "Honestly, children these days," she says wearily. "Threw up all over the vicar earlier today and thought it was the funniest thing. I'll never be able to show my face in church again, let me tell you. So what did you bring? The bicycle? The train set? It had better not be a book collection or some new agey rubbish like that. His godfather already tried to give him a box of something called myrrh, whatever that is."
The Dark Lord stares blankly at the woman. "... Birthday?" he finally manages to croak.
"Oh I know," the woman goes on, "I shouldn't expect a boy born on Halloween to be anything but a devil child, but I certainly didn't pick his birthday. Now, where's the present?"
"I haven't got any present!" the Dark Lord snaps, his patience wearing very thin as his confusion grows. "What do you mean birthday? It can't be his birthday today! Snape said that the boy was born as the seventh month dies or some poetry rot like that, and so that means July, not October!"
"Who the devil is this Snape fellow?" demands the woman. "Is he the manager at Marks and Spencer? Because he assured me that we had entered the draw for the October birthday surprise, and if you people got things mixed up then that's your fault, not mine."
The Dark Lord rubs his forehead and wishes to Merlin that he had a flask of Firewhiskey right now. "You're not Lily Potter, are you?" he asks, dreading the answer.
The woman looks affronted. "Of course not! Lily Potter is a dreadful hussy, how dare you! She and that no good husband of hers live across the street. What's this about then? Are you here for Brian or not?"
The Dark Lord glances out the window to look at the cottage directly across the street. Indeed, it seems to fit the image he had much better: a tidy little place with a beautiful garden surrounding it, the moonlight shining down it just so. In fact, he can see James Potter walking around through the front window. He glances back at the woman, who continues to glare at him, and it's so tempting to point his wand in her face and Avada Kedavra her to hell, but he wants tonight's deaths to be special. "Oh you're not worth it," he mutters and shoves her out of his way, heading for the door. "Bellatrix will never let me hear the end of this. Now, how did that speech go? Tremble, something something, I'm sure I say Mudblood at least once..."
The woman picks herself off the floor in a huff, gathering the fallen hair curlers around her. "Well!" she shouts after the Dark Lord. "Mr. Snape will be hearing about this, let me tell you!" The baby starts to cry again, and she smacks the side of the crib. "Shut up."
Author: mr_mercutio
Characters: Voldemort, OCs
Rating: PG at worst
Word Count: ~1900
Warnings: crack fic, "original" characters, a few groan-worthy jokes
Summary: The Dark Lord Voldemort comes to destroy his nemesis. Crack ensues.
Disclaimer: His fearsomeness the Dark Lord Voldemort is the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic, though he would claim to belong only to himself. No copyright infringement is intended.
Prompt: "He's not the Messiah. He's a very naughty boy!" -- Monty Python's Life of Brian
Author's Notes: Originally written for the 2008/2009 HP Crackdealers crack!fest, with the original post found here. If you haven't seen Life of Brian, this might be less funny to you. Hopefully it's still amusing either way. As well, if you have seen LoB, you'll know to imagine the voice of the woman in a traditional Monty Python pepperpot/ratbag kind of voice. Enjoy!
THE CHOSEN ONE
Out of the murky darkness emerges He Who Must Not Be Named, the dread Lord Voldemort, swathed in shadow and evil. He fixes his gaze upon the tiny cottage that his loyal followers have told him houses the one threat to his unending reign of terror, a tiny child prophesied to one day throw him down. This cottage is all that lies between him and eternal victory.
"Bit shabby, really," he mutters upon seeing the peeling white paint, the broken picket fence, and the unmowed and yellow lawn. "Was rather expecting something a bit grander for the home of my nemesis. Ah well."
He draws his wand forth and advances up the drive, skirting around the overturned tricycle that lies in his path. Strewn all about are the toys that this so-called Chosen One must have played with earlier in the day. The Dark Lord gleefully steps on the toy soldiers, taking it as an omen that soon the world would fall beneath his feet.
"The time is now," he intones loudly as he steps before the front door, his wand brandished before him. "My enemy shall meet his doom. Come out, Potters, and know that you have no hope left!"
He stands there, wand pointed at the door, waiting for one of the boy's parents to come and be the first to be slain. After a few minutes of posing and waiting, he sighs and tries to peer in the window. There's a light on, so he assumes that someone must be home. "Hallo?" he calls out, knocking on the door. "Did no one hear me? Anyone home? Hallo!"
"Knock it off with the racket!" someone screams at him from the house next door. "Do you know what bleeding time it is? Decent people are trying to sleep!"
"Mind your own business!" the Dark Lord yells. "Don't make me come over there!"
He is about to toss a Cruciatus curse at the neighbour when he hears footsteps coming to the door. "Hang on a blessed moment, why don't you?" a voice calls out from inside. "I'm coming already. Keep your bloody shirt on."
"At last," whispers the Dark Lord, striking his pose again. "It begins."
The door is yanked open and a woman wearing a faded purple housecoat and hair curlers glares out at him, a curling iron clenched in her fist like a weapon. "What d'you want?" she snaps. "It's nearly midnight, it is!"
He is taken aback a little at the sight of her fuzzy bunny slippers, but he has memorized this speech and he's not going to let it go to waste. Days upon days spent with Bellatrix coaching him on his lines were not going to be thrown aside just because the Potter woman had horrible fashion sense. "Tremble, oh Mudblood, for I have come at last, despite all your attempts to hide from me -"
"You're not from the collections agency are you?" the woman interrupts, shaking the curling iron at him. "I told your manager that I sent the check in two weeks ago, and that if you people hadn't gotten it yet you ought to be taking it up with the Royal Mail, not me!"
"No, that's not it," the Dark Lord stammers. "I... damn it, woman, now I've lost my place and I'll have to start over. Ahem. Tremble, oh Mudblood -"
"Well then why are you here?" One of the curlers is starting to come loose in the woman's hair, and she grumbles and tries to keep it in place. "Goin' on like some kind of fancy-pants actor in your black robes like you're in the Royal Shakespeare. If this is some kind of charity thing to get money, you can just forget it, I haven't got anything to give to you people. Get a real job already and stop bothering people at twelve o'clock at night!"
The Dark Lord despairs of remembering the exact speech he was going to give, his weeks of planning ruined by the nonsensical ravings of a Muggleborn. "Now look here," he says. "If you'd just stop interrupting me -"
From deeper inside the house come the wailings of a small child. "Shut up!" screams the woman over her shoulder. "Mummy's trying to talk!"
The sound of the screaming child galvanizes the Dark Lord, and he moves to take up his dramatic pose again, remembering a good part of his speech. "None shall stand in the path of my route to glory, not even this child -"
"Is this about the boy?" the woman demands. "I told the doctor that if a child wants to eat grass who am I to stop him, and that he was just fine for it and his growth wasn't stunted one bit. He's my son, not Dr. Fitzgibbon's, and if I want to let him eat grass then that's what he's going to do."
"I... what?" The Dark Lord is confused. He shakes his head. "Yes, I'm here for your son, but no, I have nothing to do with a doctor -"
"Well that's a relief at least," remarks the woman. "Are you from Marks and Spencer then? I did put our name into the draw for the birthday surprise. So we won! It's really a bit late, but I suppose that late is better than never, and who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?"
"Shut up!" the neighbour yells again. "We're trying to sleep!"
"You shut up yourself, Harold Porker!" the woman returns, pushing past the Dark Lord to shake her fist at the nearby house. "This is a free country and I can do what I like! If you don't pipe down I'll tell your wife that I saw you with that trollop Cindy whatsername the other day, I will! Just see if I don't!" The boy's cries from inside get louder and more plaintive, and the woman throws her hands up in the air. "For the love of Pete, I'm coming already!" she shrieks. "You might as well come inside then to see him, but he can't have the prezzie tonight, it'll have to wait for morning."
All the Dark Lord can do is nod vacantly, and he follows the woman into the cottage. She leads him into what might pass in some circles for a nursery, a room with curling wallpaper with faded images of fat cherubs dancing upon it. In a corner is a crib, and the large pasty child within is shaking its bars and screaming at the top of his lungs.
"I'm here, what do you want?" the woman snaps at the boy. "Teddy? Blankey? Bottle? What is it?" She throws each mentioned item into the crib with the child and glares fiercely down at him. The boy gleefully snatches up the teddy bear and starts to suck on its nose. "No, you idiot, that's the teddy, you won't get milk out of that," the woman sighs, reaching down and switching the two objects. The boy seems hardly to notice the change.
"So this is your son," the Dark Lord observes, trying to gather the tattered remains of his grand plan around him. "What have you named him, woman?" He's sure that the snivelling Pettigrew lad told him the Potter boy's name once, but it hadn't seemed important at the time. Now, in this grand moment of destiny, he wishes to know the name of his nemesis before destroying him. It seems appropriately dramatic, something that Bellatrix would approve of, he was sure.
"Brian," the woman replies.
The Dark Lord draws next to the crib and points his wand down at the chubby boy, who blissfully continues to suck on his bottle. "Brian," he says, "oh foretold nemesis of mine, the Chosen One."
"He's not the Chosen One, he's a very naughty boy!"
"... Beg pardon?"
The woman places her hands on her hips. "Just because we won the draw doesn't mean that he can have the present right now. Brian's not going to be Chosen for anything, thank you very much, until he learns that a boy his age needs to behave himself, even if it is his birthday!" The boy scowls at her and throws a rattle at her head, which she dodges deftly. "It's behaviour like that, young man, that keeps you from getting presents! Now the nice man is going to have to leave whatever he brought you out on the table and you won't get it until the morning!"
The boy starts to wail again, but the woman turns her back on him. "Honestly, children these days," she says wearily. "Threw up all over the vicar earlier today and thought it was the funniest thing. I'll never be able to show my face in church again, let me tell you. So what did you bring? The bicycle? The train set? It had better not be a book collection or some new agey rubbish like that. His godfather already tried to give him a box of something called myrrh, whatever that is."
The Dark Lord stares blankly at the woman. "... Birthday?" he finally manages to croak.
"Oh I know," the woman goes on, "I shouldn't expect a boy born on Halloween to be anything but a devil child, but I certainly didn't pick his birthday. Now, where's the present?"
"I haven't got any present!" the Dark Lord snaps, his patience wearing very thin as his confusion grows. "What do you mean birthday? It can't be his birthday today! Snape said that the boy was born as the seventh month dies or some poetry rot like that, and so that means July, not October!"
"Who the devil is this Snape fellow?" demands the woman. "Is he the manager at Marks and Spencer? Because he assured me that we had entered the draw for the October birthday surprise, and if you people got things mixed up then that's your fault, not mine."
The Dark Lord rubs his forehead and wishes to Merlin that he had a flask of Firewhiskey right now. "You're not Lily Potter, are you?" he asks, dreading the answer.
The woman looks affronted. "Of course not! Lily Potter is a dreadful hussy, how dare you! She and that no good husband of hers live across the street. What's this about then? Are you here for Brian or not?"
The Dark Lord glances out the window to look at the cottage directly across the street. Indeed, it seems to fit the image he had much better: a tidy little place with a beautiful garden surrounding it, the moonlight shining down it just so. In fact, he can see James Potter walking around through the front window. He glances back at the woman, who continues to glare at him, and it's so tempting to point his wand in her face and Avada Kedavra her to hell, but he wants tonight's deaths to be special. "Oh you're not worth it," he mutters and shoves her out of his way, heading for the door. "Bellatrix will never let me hear the end of this. Now, how did that speech go? Tremble, something something, I'm sure I say Mudblood at least once..."
The woman picks herself off the floor in a huff, gathering the fallen hair curlers around her. "Well!" she shouts after the Dark Lord. "Mr. Snape will be hearing about this, let me tell you!" The baby starts to cry again, and she smacks the side of the crib. "Shut up."