A/N: Because after reading the "Brick's" article, Serp and I just couldn't resist this. We apologize in advance for any and all damages done to your mind and point to the real culprit: Mrs Samantha Brick.

Disclaimer: We apologize to JKR (who owns HP unlike us) for brutally mutilating her creation in the below 'article' and we make no money from this - unlike someone else who got paid for her 'article' by the Daily Mail. We also don't own Samantha Brick's article and her words, and we are very proud of said achievement. We make no money from writing this parody. Any and all words you recognise were not made up by us. They're all Lord Voldem-Samantha Brick's (or the Daily Mail's Editor's apparently. *snnnrks*).

The article that inspired this one-shot can be found here: freezepage dot com slash 1333529642ZBBAURGUQO

(Since yesterday, we've learned some interesting stuff about the true nature of the Daily Mail and how it operates, which we, foreigners, were unaware of. Thus, we felt a direct link to them would be a supporting their ad-income, which we no longer feel comfortable with. Therefore, we're now linking to someone who provided the article without the photographs. I'm sure if you can't live without seeing the photographs that were surely chosen to supply maximum hatred/impact, a Google picture search on Samantha Brick will get you them in a flash).

(Serp: Psst … shouldn't we say … er … some disclaimer for our Lord's eyes, too, Nerys? So we won't get hunted down. Again.)

(Nerys: I thought you said your hideout was foolproof secure! O.o If not, I need to relocate.)

(Serp: It IS. But … you plan on staying in here forever? And ever?)

(Nerys: Well, we may have to … after this *points to 'Article')

(Serp: Not if we think of a good disclaimer … erm … uh … *pauses* …)

(Nerys: Oh, hi … cough … My Lord. It's so nice to finally see you agaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!)

xxx

'THERE ARE DOWNSIDES TO LOOKING THIS HANDSOME': WHY MEN HATE ME FOR BEING GORGEOUS

by Lord Voldemort

On a recent trip aboard a wizarding international train carriage, the witch behind the trolley offered me a bottle of champagne and all the snacks I desired for free. 'This is on me — I want to welcome you on board and hope you have a great trip with us today,' she explained. You're probably thinking 'what a lovely surprise'. But while it was lovely, it wasn't a surprise. At least, not for me.

Throughout my adult life, I've regularly had bottles of bubbly or wine sent to my restaurant table by witches I don't know. Once, a well-dressed witch bought my Quidditch World Cup ticket when I was standing behind her in the queue, while there was another occasion when a charming lady paid my fare as I stepped off a carpet in Morocco.

Another time, as I was walking through London's Diagon Alley, I was tapped on the shoulder and presented with a beautiful bunch of Fairy's Breath. I also on several occasions had to watch out for love potions in my presented gifts and foods. Even the waitresses at The Three Broomsticks frequently shoo my Galleons away when I try to settle my bill.

And whenever I've asked what I've done to deserve such treatment, the donors of these gifts have always said the same thing: my pleasing appearance and charming smile made their day.

While I'm no Gilderoy Lockhart, I'm tall, dark and, so I'm often told, a handsome man. I know how lucky I am. But there are downsides to being gorgeous — the main one being that other men hate me for no other reason than my dashing looks.

If you're a man reading this, I'd hazard that you've already formed your own opinion about me — and it won't be very flattering. For while many doors have been opened (literally) as a result of my looks, just as many have been metaphorically slammed in my face — and usually by my own sex.

I'm not smug and I'm no flirt, yet over the years I've been dropped by countless friends who felt threatened if I was merely in the presence of their other halves. If their partners dared to actually talk to me, a sudden chill would descend on the room.

And it is not just jealous husbands who have frozen me out of their lives. Insecure male bosses have also barred me from promotions at work.

And most poignantly of all, not one of my male friends has ever asked me to be his best man.

You'd think we men would applaud each other for taking pride in our appearances.

I work at mine — I don't drink Butterbeer or Firewhisky or smoke, I play Quidditch, even when I don't feel like it, and very rarely succumb to Chocolate Frogs or Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. Unfortunately men find nothing more annoying than someone else being the most attractive specimen in a room. It seems to threaten their own masculinity.

Take last week, out walking my snake, a neighbour passed by on his broom. I waved — he blatantly blanked me. Yet this is someone whose sons have stayed at my house, and who has been welcomed into my home on countless occasions.

I approached a mutual acquaintance and discreetly enquired if I'd made a faux pas. It seems the only crime I've committed is not leaving the house with a bag over my head. He doesn't like me, I discovered, because he views me as a threat. The acquaintance pointed out he is shorter, heavier and older than me and he doesn't have such a fancy tattoo as I do.

And, according to our mutual acquaintance, he is adamant that something could happen between his wife and me, 'were the right circumstances in place'. Yet I've no such interests and never will be; I'm happily single. I value my solitude.

This isn't the first time such paranoia has gripped the wizards around me. In my early 20s, when I first started in a simple job as a shop boy at Borgin and Burkes, one male boss in his late 30s would regularly invite me over for dinner after a long day in the office.

I always accepted his invitation, as at the shop we got along famously. But one evening his partner was at home. We were all a couple of glasses of wine into the evening. Then she and I said we both liked the Celestina Warbeck song we were listening to.

He laid into his bewildered partner for 'fancying' me, then turned on me, calling me unrepeatable names before ridiculing me for placing charms on my hair and wearing all black. I declined any further invitations.

Healer Alassea, author of self-help guide 'Charming Your Way to Confidence', says that wizards have always measured themselves against each other by how tall they were, seeing how magical powers were equated with a wizard's length for centuries — and it can make the lives of the good-looking tall ones very difficult.

'Many of my clients are well-known, attractive wizards, yet people are always astounded when I explain they don't have it easy,' she says. If you are attractive, other wizards think you lead a perfect life — which simply isn't true.

'They don't realise you are just as vulnerable as they are. It's hard when everyone resents you for your looks. Witches think "what's the point, he's out of my league" and don't ask you out. And wizards don't want to hang out with someone more attractive and taller than they are.'

I certainly found that out the hard way, particularly in the workplace.

One position I strived for was blighted by a jealous, famous Headmaster. It was the height of summer and I'd opted to wear flowing, silk-like robes. They were modest, yet pretty; more Madam Malkin's than Twilfit and Tattings.

But the wizard stared me down in his office and informed me my dress style was distracting his female teachers. I didn't dare point out that there were other wizards in the school wearing similar attire.

Rather than argue, I tried again later on wearing second-handed robes. It was clear that when you're striving for a position with a male boss, it's best to let them shine, but when you have a female boss, it's a different game: I have quilled a few articles in the Prophet on how I have flirted to get ahead at work, something I'm sure many wizards do.

Wizards, however, are far more problematic. With one phenomenally tricky boss, I eventually managed to carve out a positive working relationship. But a year in, his attitude towards me changed; the deterioration began when he started to put on weight. We were both employed by Dark Arts Unlimited. One of our female UK chiefs recommended I take the company's global leadership course, which meant doors would have opened for me around the world. All I needed were two personal recommendations to be eligible. As everyone in the company agreed I was good at my job, I didn't think this would be a problem. But while the female executive signed the parchment without hesitation, my immediate male boss refused to sign. When I asked his right-hand witch why, she pulled me to one side and explained that my boss was jealous of me.

Things between us rapidly deteriorated. Whenever I wore something new, he'd sneer at me in front of other colleagues that he was the star, not me. Six months later, I handed in my notice. Privately he begged me to stay, blaming the nasty comments on his hormones. He was in his early 40s, and confided he was having marital problems. But by then I'd had enough.

I find that older wizards are the most hostile to beautiful wizards — perhaps because they feel their own bloom fading. Social occasions can be especially tasking. I dread the inevitable snarky comments. 'Here he comes. We're in the the Hog's Head yet Tom's dressed for a Ball at Hogwarts,' was one I recently overheard. As a result I find dinner parties and social gatherings fraught and if I can't wriggle out of them, then often dress down in simple black robes and wear a hood over my head.

But even these ploys don't always work. Take last summer and a birthday party I attended with my pet Nagini. At one point the hostess, who was celebrating her 50th, decided she wanted a photo with all the guest wizards. Positioning us, the photographer suggested I stand immediately to his right for the shot.

Another wizard I barely knew pushed me out of the way, shouting it wasn't fair on all the other wizards if I was dominating the snap. I was devastated and burst into tears. On my own in the loos one wizard privately consoled me — well out of ear-shot of his friends.

So now I'm 71 and probably one of very few wizards entering his seventh decade welcoming the decline of my looks. I did everything I could to make sure my looks would no longer be seen as a threat to other men. I altered my skin colour to be extremely white, made my long, slender piano fingers — as one witch once complimented them on being — obtain a spidery quality, I reddened my eyes (partly from all the tears over the meanness of other wizards) and created slitted pupils like my darling Nagini who never judged me. I also obliterated my nose and hacked slits-for-nostrils in its place. Then, I removed my precious black locks from my head and am as bald as what you see today. I can't wait for the wrinkles that will help me blend into the background even more so.

Perhaps then the brotherhood will finally stop judging me so harshly on what I look like, and instead accept me for who I am.

Lord Voldemort, the greatest, most accomplished, amazing, humblest wizard of all time.