Dear Solid Snakeface: A Harry Potter One-Shot

Dark Lord Voldemort woke up one morning to a bright summer morning of 1996. The sun was bright outside, the trees were rustling, and the birds were twittering away, lost in their own morning routines. One particular sparrow fluttered down onto the windowsill of his bedroom and started chirping away merrily. Lord Voldemort stared at the bird for a second from his spot in his bed, before he picked up his wand from the bedside table and pointed it at it.

"Evanesco"

The chirping stopped.

He pushed himself up from his bed, and with a couple of quick charms, freshened himself up and put on a black silk robe before heading downstairs to breakfast.

It was an off day today, and most of his Death Eaters were doing their jobs at the Ministry making sure that his plans for the eventual takeover were being implemented properly, he thought as he made his way down the stairs. He did need to tell Nott to start Thicknesse on legislation limiting the budget of the Aurors and make sure that their work hours were spent in paperwork and not out in the field. And there was telling his other Wizengamot based followers to make sure that the legislation passed unstopped. And then there was making sure that Thickness signed off on the final passed legislation.

Being a Dark Lord was not a good time, especially during the takeovers. It was the micromanaging that really got to you. Which was why, in his own not quite humble opinion,that peaceful days like these were so precious and important to have.

That particular train of thought ground to a sudden halt as soon as he walked into the dining room.

Lord Voldemort stared at the snowy owl with amber eyes that was perched on the back of his chair and staring intently at him. How had the thing managed to make it through the wards in the first place?

"Wormtail!" he called, not breaking eye contact from the white orange eyed ball.

A crash sounded from the kitchen, and the rat faced Death Eater came scuttling out and bowed so deep at the waist that his nose was touching his groin, "Yes M-master! H-how can I serve you?"

"Is that Potter's owl?"

Wormtail looked at the snowy owl, before his eyes widened, "Yes M-master!"

"What is it doing on my chair?"

"I d-don't know M-master," Pettigrew stuttered out, looking at the owl fearfully. He clearly remembered the many times the bird had tried to kill him.

"Get it out."

"Y-yes Master," Wormtail stuttered out looking utterly terrified, before pulling out his spindly wand and pointing it at the bird. The owl's eyes narrowed and snapped its beak threateningly at Wormtail, who immediately let out a loud squeak, and fainted right there on the spot. Lord Voldemort looked down at the limp body of what was supposed to be one of his Death Eaters, the trained fearless killers destined to take back the Wizarding world from the clutches of its current administration, before looking up at the owl still sitting comfortably on the back of his second favourite chair.

"Hoot," the owl said, holding out its foot impatiently, waiting for him to take the offered letter.

"Evanesco," he tried.

"Hoot" the owl indignantly hooted as the Vanishing spell washed harmlessly over it, before holding out its foot at him again.

"Fine!" Lord Voldemort finally said. It was too early in the morning to argue with an owl over an unexpected letter. After quickly scanning it for curses, for one could truly never be too careful, he accepted the crinkled looking letter. He tore open the seal, pulled out the letter, and began to read through it.

Dear Solid Snakeface,

Hello! How do you do?! Horrible I hope. How has your summer been? I am sure you are wondering why I am writing to you, and how my owl got through your wards. I will now answer the first question and completely leave you in the blind about the second one, just because I feel like doing it.

Professor Albus Dumbledore, in an effort to keep my location a secret from people like you, told me I wasn't allowed to write any of my friends this summer, nor were they allowed to write me. I'm not even allowed to contact him. Quite the unreasonable restriction isn't it? Of course, he would never have thought that I would be crazy enough to write to you. Foolish of him really. Being a hundred years old has probably dulled his memories of being a teenager.

So what do you say, are you willing to answer a few questions that I have for you? Don't bother telling me. I don't care if you're not. Here we go.

First question! Are you a dark lord because nobody would sleep with you while you were at school because you were an obnoxious teacher's pet and know-it-all? I know someone like that. Attractive, but an obnoxious teacher's pet and know-it-all. Nobody wants to sleep with her too.

Except Ron.

But Ron is weird.

Anyway, let's move on to the next one! Who was your favourite teacher at Hogwarts and why? My personal favourite has to be Flitwick, simply because he reminds me of penguins. Penguins are quite the awesome animals. You just have to love penguins. Have you ever seen one in person? They just come over, look at you disinterestedly, think, 'Huh!' before waddling right off, not giving a rat's arse about who you are. Doesn't matter if you are the dark lord or the worst zoo keeper ever. Penguins just don't give a fuck.

Now that I look back at the last paragraph, I really think that I could have written a smarter sounding answer.

And finally, when I saw your body take shape in the graveyard back in '94, to my infinite displeasure, I was forced to watch you naked before you got Pettigrew to robe you. You had no asshole. No rectum. No sign of a bumhole at all. So I was wondering, how do you poop? Or is the real reason you are a dark lord is because all that crap is piling up inside you and you feel really constipated all the time? If so, then you have definitely made a sympathiser out of me. Nobody deserves that.

On that note, I fear that I must end my letter now. I can hear my aunt coming up the stairs, and while I'm sure she would be delighted to know that I am trying to get myself killed, she probably wants me to cook for her and her son, who simply cannot stop looking like he is pregnant with a pregnant woman. I wouldn't do anything for her, but bloody hell my stomach hurts from the hunger. I don't think I can make it through another day without an actual meal.

What a hilarious thought isn't it? The Boy Who Lived, lives through dark lords, basilisks, and dementors, only to be killed by hunger pangs of all things. Oh well. Never let it be said that Fate doesn't have a sense of humour.

Sincerely thinking that you should have been an ejaculation into a sock rather than be born,

Hairy ArmPitter (The Boy Who Needs A Razor To Shave His Armpit Hair Because It Has Been Growing Like A Forest This Summer And His Relatives Don't Really Want To Buy Him Anything And He Isn't Allowed Out Of The House To Buy It Himself)

A sudden wave of anger rolled over him and his face contorted into a harsh frown, before it was replaced by a grin. It seemed his young nemesis was starving, and he couldn't have that. After all, nothing else but he could be the one to finish him off. Transfiguring the unconscious Pettigrew into a quill, he began to write.

Harry stared at the speck of white that had suddenly appeared in the sky and was steadily going larger and larger with a large grin on his face.

He had been unbelievably scared for his avian friend's life when he had written the letter and sent it with her, but he had found no other choice. She was the only mail delivering creature nearby, and he needed to make sure that his experiment with the letter had a clear result, whether it be a success or a failure.

Of course he hadn't been crazy enough to write a happy bubbly letter to the dark lord out of no reason. The letter had been an experiment. An experiment to prove to Albus Dumbledore that someone with his blood in their veins could easily pass through any wards that were based around either Voldemort or him. Last year, after he had realised that Voldemort had the same blood that ran in his own veins, he had found a book in the library that detailed ritual magic of all sorts.

With a quick ritual to lift the Trace off of himself and put it onto a stray cat that frequented Privet Drive early in the summer, Harry had been free to use magic in any way possible. The thing that had prompted him to do this experiment had been the owl bonding ritual that he had found in the book as well, which involved the owner marking his owl with his own blood to make sure that the owl was protected from common harmful spells. It wasn't the protection part he'd been interested in, but in the blood part. The owner had to drain themselves of a couple pints of blood and inject it into the owl's veins before casting a charm to make sure that the human blood-bonded with the owl's body.

The ritual had been one of the safest things in the book, so Harry had cleared his conscience, transfigured a syringe, chanted the chants and done the ritual, leaving Hedwig with Harry's blood inside her.

Most dark wards were built using a blood sacrifice by the owner of the house, and Voldemort had Harry's blood in his veins, which was why Harry had been pretty sure that the plan would be at least moderately successful when he had sent off his owl on what was a possible suicide mission.

Still, he thought as he opened the window and let Hedwig in while taking the package and the letter she had been carrying off of her, he had never expected a success of this exceptional a degree. With an actual letter from Voldemort himself, Dumbledore would no doubt have to admit that the blood wards were useless with his own blood inside Voldemort's veins and he would finally be forever free of Privet Drive. A real victory, he thought as he let Hedwig have a sip of her water and feed.

Casting a couple of quick charms to make sure that the letter wasn't charmed or cursed in any form, Harry tore open the seal, pulled out the letter, and began to read.

Potter

I am doing fine.

In answer to your questions, no, Slughorn, skin pores, and no. There is ever-fresh food in the package. Your death is to be carried out by my hands, and nobody and nothing can take that away from me, least of all hunger.

Sincerely,

Dark Lord Voldemort

Short and to the point, Harry noted with a smirk, just as he had imagined a response from Voldemort would be. He probably wrote the letter with the quill in his mouth while using both hands to cast Crucios on his followers, and couldn't really write all that much.

The sentiment about nothing but Voldemort killing him was sort of sweet, despite it being so in the creepiest of ways, but he wasn't going to be eating stuff that Voldemort of all people sent him.

He put down the letter and was about to go over to his desk to write out a victorious letter to Dumbledore about how he was right and that he should be moved from Privet Drive as soon as possible because Voldemort could attack at any moment, when suddenly the fragrance from the package reached his senses and he froze.

It was the most heavenly smell that he had ever smelt in his entire life, a beautiful medley of fresh baked confection combined with the gentle smell of sugar, spice and everything nice. A pleasant haze fell over his mind, all his worries vanished, and everything with the world suddenly felt right and well. His mouth started watering at the thought of how whatever was in the box would feel in his mouth.

Almost out of a will of their own, his legs carried him back to his bed, on which the package lay unassumingly. His hands likewise moved on their own, uncovering away the brown paper that wrapped the package.

Opening the lid of the box, Harry came face to face with the most beautiful piece of cake that he had ever seen. The smell of heavenly strawberry filled his sense, and he almost fainted then and there.

Unable to hold himself back anymore, Harry picked up the piece of cake and sank his teeth into it, almost moaning as the orgasmic taste that washed over his palate. He swallowed his mouthful, eager to take another bite.

And promptly keeled over and died.

The next morning, his aunt found him in the same position. Her loud scream alerted the Order patrol guards, who, after much panicking and screaming at each other, took him and the letter and package he was found with to St Mungo's, where it was determined that Harry Potter had died because of a lethal poison, presumably made by Lord Voldemort's hands, forced to eat it due to a powerful dark Amortentia-based compulsion charm cast on its container.

And thus the Prophecy was complete.

~Omake~

Lord Voldemort stared at the snowy owl with amber eyes that was perched on the back of his chair and was staring intently at him. How had the thing managed to make it through the wards in the first place?

"Hoot" the snowy owl hooted at the man.

"What?" Lord Voldemort said, utterly baffled.

"Hoot" the owl repeated, holding out its foot.

"I don't care what letter you have. It is my off day and I won't have any of this." he said, starting to feel annoyed.

"Hoot"

"Avada Kedavra"

"Hoot"

"Crucio"

"Hoot"

"Imperio. Go kill yourself."

"Hoot"

"Why are you still here? More importantly, how are you still here?" Lord Voldemort asked, looking at the owl with wide eyes. The owl simply held out its foot again, and still partly in shock, he untied the string and took the letter.

The owl instantly spread its wings wide apart and hooted to the ceiling, "Hoot ho hoot hootty!"

A whirr suddenly started up in his ears, and the owl started glowing. In a bright flash of light, it was gone, leaving an empty dining room and a very confused dark lord.

Let me know what you thought of this in a review please.

Edit: This used to be the first chapter of a collection of one shots I'd planned called 'Trope Turnover', but due to various real life reasons I had to cancel that series. Instead of deleting this or something, I've now turned this into a standalone one-shot called 'Dear Solid Snakeface' so that the people who enjoyed it can still read it whenever they please. Thanks so much for reading. :-)