Harry Potter 1. Chapter 1

I am re-posting this story as I realized it needs some major re-vamping. Many thanks to beta shirelily6!

x.x.x

Vernon Dursley was not a happy camper. Oh no, he was far from happy. His day had gotten off to a bad start, as Dudley had finished off the last of the loaf of bread, leaving none for Vernon's daily ration of toast smothered to the point of drowning in butter. He left the house late, and was stuck in traffic on his way to work. Some little old lady had crashed her car into a light pole and cars were backed up for half an hour while she raised a fuss about her toy poodle stuck in the backseat of the smashed car.

Once at work, Vernon had to deal with the mindless lemmings who worked beneath him. He yelled at a total of five fresh-faced interns before his 10:15 meeting, then left for a much-needed coffee break, and ended up yelling at the inept barista at the espresso stand when she informed him it would take a few minutes to make his extra-tall, double-shot, fat-free, part-skim, caramel cappuccino. Similarly, in the dingy little café where he chose to eat lunch, he waited much longer than he should have for his sandwich. He stormed around Grunnings and sent more interns running for their lives and snarling at workers until the hour was reasonably late enough for him leave work and head back home. But home was not quite as welcoming as it should have been. Dudley, still on his diet, whined about dinner and how he shouldn't have to eat rabbit food (salad) when he wasn't a rabbit, and why couldn't he have a burger or something like all the other boys. Vernon's incorrigibly obnoxious nephew, Harry, got a dressing down for allowing that blasted owl to swoop around the house, causing Petunia to drop a tray of éclairs. Yelling at Harry didn't even make him feel slightly better as it usually did, as the owl managed to leave Vernon a nice present on the top of his head while Harry shepherded it back upstairs. Bloody owl.

It was for all these reasons that, by only 9:30 in the evening, Vernon Dursley's short temper was only millimeters long. As he sat in the living room reflecting on his miserable day while attempting to tune out the television, which was blaring some cartoon at a cruelly loud volume, he concluded that his life just couldn't get any worse. Until, that is, the phone started ringing.

Cursing people who called at such a late hour, he hauled his bulk off the sofa and reached for the telephone. "Dursley residence, Vernon speaking," he harrumphed into the receiver. He waited for the caller to respond, but the dull buzz of the dial tone was the only sound that met his greeting. Grumbling about idiots making prank calls, he threw the phone onto its stand and flopped back onto the immaculate leather couch. Just as he had arranged a pillow comfortably beneath his head, the telephone rang again.

With a groan, he answered the phone. "Hello?" Silence from the other end. "Is anyone there?" he asked, his patience thinning. There was no answer. Irritably, he tossed the phone away and went to sulk on the couch once more. And wonder of wonders, no sooner than he had sat down, the phone rang yet again. Vernon closed his eyes, hoping the irksome noise would cease.

The phone rang again.

And again.

"Bloody people just don't know when to stop do they?" he grumbled to no one in particular from the depths of the voluminous couch. He would not give in. None of those blasted prank callers could lure him, Vernon Dursley, from the couch. No, he would not fall victim to their little game; he was Vernon Dursley.

The phone rang again. Vernon gritted his teeth and willed himself to be strong. He would resist. Another ring sounded, the noise penetrating his skull and rattling his brain against his eyeballs, like a racquetball ricocheting off the walls of the boxy court.

With a snarl of frustration that would have put an angry feline to shame, he reached for the phone. "WHAT?" he screamed into the mouthpiece, spit flying from his lips and splattering on Petunia's coffee table.

"My my, do you always greet people in such a manner?" the cool voice from the other end asked. "I highly doubt you make many friends that way."

"Who is this?" demanded Vernon in what he thought was his most intimidating tone. It was the tone that he used on the interns early in the morning, the one that sent two of them home early, after panic attacks and fainting spells caused by "job-related stress." The caller only gave a mirthless laugh, sending a chill up Vernon's spine.

"That's for me to know and you to spend many sleepless nights pondering over." the smooth voice responded. "I would like to speak with Harry Potter." Vernon's face, which had turned a spectacular shade of deep maroon at the caller's rudeness and sheer audacity, was drained of color before he fully comprehended the caller's words.

"H- Harry Potter?" he croaked, suddenly very, very frightened. "But… you're not one of his lot, are you?" He very much hoped not.

"I am." The caller stated shortly. "Now I insist that I speak with him." His worst fears now confirmed, Vernon dropped the phone like he would a dirty sock. It clattered onto the floor and then fell still, the static of the connection still audible, though the caller patiently remained silent. The only thing worse than prank calls were calls from… _those _people. He shuddered at the very thought.

"Boy!" he yelled up the stairs. "Get down here, NOW!"

x.x.x

Harry Potter was in his room trying to coax his owl, Hedwig, into her cage. Uncle Vernon had just given him a half-hour-long lecture about not letting her fly around the house. She had only flown into the dining room and perched on the chandelier, it wasn't such a big deal, but Uncle Vernon, as well as Aunt Petunia, had been horrified. Granted, Hedwig had made a complete mess of the table, and frightened Aunt Petunia so badly that she smashed her best crystal tray and ruined her chocolate éclairs, but Hedwig had only escaped from Harry's room because he had forgotten to shut the door. Consequently, he was forced to scrub the table free of owl residue and wipe up shards of glass and chocolate pudding from the tiled floor. He had also locked Hedwig in his bedroom before Uncle Vernon carried out his threat of finding a recipe for owl dumplings.

As he was bribing Hedwig back into her cage with a stale owl treat, he heard Uncle Vernon's shout. "What now?" Harry groaned to his owl. Hedwig blinked her large, amber eyes at him and swooped soundlessly to the top of his dresser; as far as she could possibly get from the cage. "You have to go back in there sometime," Harry told her, trudging out into the hall, prepared to face what was probably going to be another accusation of his carelessness. He took as long as he could to go down the stairs, lingering for a few seconds on each step before finally descending to the next. His spirits sank with each step he took. He had heard the fury in Uncle Vernon's voice. He was sure to face another verbal attack, and his ears were still ringing from the one only a few hours ago. But when he entered the living room, he found a white-faced Uncle Vernon staring at the telephone, which as lying harmlessly on the floor, as though it would burst into flames and burn the house down. "What?" Harry asked.

Uncle Vernon tore his gaze away from the telephone to look at Harry. Was that fear in his uncle's eyes? No anger? No glee at the thought of exerting his superiority over his nephew? It was definitely fear, Harry decided. He had only seen his uncle frightened a precious few times in his life, usually when Harry pulled out his want over the holidays and threatened to turn Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley into cockroaches. Uncle Vernon sucked in a noisy breath through his nose. "You got a phone call." he said, somewhat distantly.

"A phone call?" Harry repeated in disbelief. No one had ever called him before, save Ron Weasley two years ago, and he had quickly learned that telephone was not the most convenient way to communicate with Harry. That incident had resulted in one of the worst fights with Uncle Vernon that Harry had ever endured. He had been completely drenched in his uncle's spit while he was yelled at for giving out the Dursley's phone number to other wizards. After that incident, Harry had never so much as mentioned a telephone to his friends again. And now, apparently, someone was calling him again.

"A phone call," confirmed Uncle Vernon brusquely. "Pick it up and tell whoever it is to never, ever call this house again." Then he stormed out of the room to pour himself a large brandy, hoping to drink the troubles of the day away. Harry was left in the living room, taking over his uncle's task of looking at the phone. Perhaps it was Ron again, he mused. More likely Hermione, but she had no reason to phone him, and she would have had more sense than to tell Uncle Vernon that she was a witch. Curiously, Harry plucked the telephone off the freshly vacuumed carpet and put it to his ear.

"Hello?" he inquired, half-hoping to hear Ron's or Hermione's voice. He hadn't seen them all summer; it would be nice to talk with one of them…

"Ah, Harry Potter," a collected voice issued from the earpiece. It was most definitely not Ron or Hermione. "I hoped I might get a chance to speak with you." Harry froze. He knew that voice. No one else had the same masterfully calm, silky voice.

"V- Voldemort?" He asked incredulously. Could it really be…?

"That's right, Potter," Voldemort said, sounding pleased that Harry had recognized him so quickly. "We have something to discuss."

x.x.x

TBC 


	2. Chapter 2

Harry was shocked. Completely and thoroughly shocked. He was speaking with the most powerful dark wizard in the world over the telephone. Wasn't Voldemort supposed to be hunting Harry down to give him a what-for, and then torture him for hours before finally finishing him off with an A_vada Kedavra_ and a lazy flourish of his wand?

Though his dumbfounded surprise, Harry found his voice and willed his tongue to form words. "Why are you calling me?" he managed to choke out.

"So straightforward…" Voldemort sighed. "I think that perhaps I'll keep you in suspense for a while so you don't get the upper hand." The amusement in his voice was maddening.

Harry's eyebrows crept upwards ever so slightly. "The upper hand?" he repeated, unsure of Voldemort's point. "You realize that I could just hang up on you whenever I want, don't you? That sounds rather like the upper hand to me."

"Yes, yes, I know." said Voldemort airily. "But you wouldn't do that, would you, Potter?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you're much too curious about my reason for contacting you," was Voldemort's smug reply. "And don't bother denying it. We both know that deep down, you really want to know."

"Fine," Harry snapped, angered by Voldemort's ability to read him so well. "I want to know, so why don't you tell me, and get it over with?" He tangled his fingers in the cord of the phone and squeezed it, imagining that the wadded ball of cord in his fist was Voldemort's head.

"All in good time," answered Voldemort, eerily sounding very much like Dumbledore did when talking about the less pleasant details of Harry's life. Harry ground his teeth together, considering hanging up on Voldemort. "Now, why don't we have a nice conversation before we get down to business?"

"How about not?" Harry returned, beginning to get very irritated. "I have better things to do, you know."

Voldemort ignored him and asked instead in the most normal of voices, "How are you today, Potter?"

It was so unlike Voldemort, asking after his well-being, that Harry simply couldn't take it anymore. Grinding his teeth furiously, he slammed the phone back down onto its stand, effectively ending his unproductive conversation with the most fearsome wizard of all time. How dare Voldemort contact him after all he had put Harry through? Voldemort had murdered his parents, and tried to steal the Sorcerer's Stone, and possessed Ginny Weasley, and killed Cedric Diggory. He tried to kill Harry countless times. He returned to power only a few short months ago, and now everyone thought Harry was a crazy, attention-seeking brat because no one would believe him when he said Voldemort was back. All Harry's problems were Voldemort's fault. Harry stood glaring at the telephone for a moment, as though he could vanquish Voldemort through willpower only. Then he whirled about and left the room.

His foot had barely touched the bottom step when the phone rang. Again. Harry's blood boiled. He had a very good idea of who was calling.

From the kitchen, Uncle Vernon let out an unintelligible roar, then loudly muttered something about bloody telephones and why on earth were_ those people_ calling_ his house_ at this time of night, and wouldn't that blasted boy hurry up and answer it. Harry distinctly heard the sound of a large gulp and the clink of glass on wood, followed by the splash of liquid filling a cup.

Steeling himself, Harry trudged back over to the telephone. He gave it another glare just for good measure, and picked it up.

"Really, I_ did_ expect better manners from you, Potter," said Voldemort in his silky voice. Much to Harry's irritation, he didn't sound perturbed in any way. In fact, he sounded even more delighted than before, as if Harry was the source of all his amusement. "But no matter," Voldemort continued, as though he hadn't heard an infuriated huff from Harry. "I suppose we_ should_ eventually get to the point."

"Yes, why don't you, before I hang up again?" Harry suggested angrily.

"As you wish, Potter," Voldemort said, sounding as though he were making a great sacrifice. "But you never told me how you are doing today."

"I'm going to hang up," Harry threatened. His hand inched towards the telephone stand. All it would take was a little pressure applied to the button on the telephone stand to simulate the phone being hung up, and instantaneously, the connection would end. It was so easy; all he had to do was just press… right… there…

"No, you won't hang up on me, Potter," said Voldemort. His voice lost some of its friendly amusement and took on a steely edge. "I am the most powerful wizard in the world, and I say that you_ will not hang up the phone!_" Harry could have sworn he felt the ground shake and thunder rumble in the skies as Voldemort shouted through the telephone. As strange as he was acting, Voldemort was right, he was incredibly powerful, and Harry had best remember it.

"All right," Harry said, subdued. "I'm having an awful day. It was going well until dinnertime, when my owl got loose and made a mess in the kitchen, and my uncle yelled at me. He tends to spit when he gets really angry, and let me tell you, that is_ not_ a pleasant experience. So, I had to lock the owl in my room, and I was trying to get her back into the cage, when the phone rang, and it was you calling. That was when my day got phenomenally worse."

"I see," said Voldemort, unsympathetically. "That does sound like an awful day." His voice was patronizing, and Harry had the distinct feeling that Voldemort really couldn't care less about how his day had been.

"Would you like to make it better?" Harry asked hopefully, just in case Voldemort really did care.

"How can I make it better, Potter?" Voldemort accommodated.

"Stop calling me," Harry said flatly. "Hang up the phone, and never, ever call me again."

"No," answered Voldemort gleefully. "I refuse." Harry felt his anger rising again. Voldemort was treading on very thin ice. "What did you do before dinner?" the Dark Lord continued, once again in an amiable, chatty voice. "You haven't told me anything about what you did before you had dinner."

"I didn't do much of anything," Harry responded wearily. "I wrote a few letters to my friends. I did a bit of homework. I annoyed my cousin. I walked through the park and thought about how miserable my life is."

"Why is your life miserable, Potter?" asked Voldemort. To Harry, he sounded like a psychiatrist. A very evil, snakelike psychiatrist.

"Because the entire wizarding world thinks I'm crazy, thanks to you, and I had an awful year at Hogwarts last year, also thanks to you and your Death Eaters, I hate my uncle, my aunt, and my cousin, my friends haven't been writing me any interesting letters, and I'm bored. Oh yeah, you've returned and are wreaking havoc in the world, and I can't do anything to stop it."

"Ah," said Voldemort. "And how does this make you feel?"

"Miserable," answered Harry. "And right now I'm very annoyed with you. Everything is your fault."

"And you haven't tried to seek retribution in any way?"

"No," Harry said dully. "I can't, you see; I'm still underage. I can't use magic over the holidays, or I'll be expelled."

"But if you could, would you?" Voldemort asked.

"Yes," said Harry. "I'd hunt you down and kill you. I'd make you suffer for everything you've ever done to me!" He was shouting now. It felt to satisfying to vent his anger to the one person who was responsible for all the misery and unhappiness in his life.

"You're already making me suffer, Potter!" Voldemort shrieked back, sounding equally enraged.

"I am?" Harry asked incredulously. "How?"

"You have stolen my most prized possessions! I won't be able to go on without them!"

"I didn't take anything of yours!" Harry said defensively.

"Don't lie to me, Potter," hissed Voldemort threateningly. "I know you took them."

"Took what?' asked Harry. "What do you think I stole from you?" There was a sniff from Voldemort's end of the line. Then, a shaky breath. "Are you crying?" Harry asked. Voldemort, crying? He heard another sniff. "Not so scary now, are you?' Harry taunted, enjoying Voldemort's unhappiness. "Big intimidating Dark Lord, crying! What happened, did one of your Death Eaters tell you how ugly you are?"

"I'm not ugly!" raged Voldemort through his tears. His voice was thick with sobs. "Don't try to change the subject on me, you miserable brat!"

"All right, then," said Harry happily, playing along. "What did I take from you?"

"You know what you took," sniffed Voldemort, loudly blowing his nose. Harry jumped and held the receiver a bit farther from his ear.

"Refresh my memory," he encouraged.

"Don't play games with me!" shrieked Voldemort.

"You would sound much more intimidating if you weren't crying while you said that," Harry pointed out. He began to wonder how he ever could have feared the wizard at the other end of the line. "I bet your Death Eaters don't know how easy it is to make you cry. So much for being the scariest wizard ever; you're going to have to give the title up if you keep carrying on like this."

"Stop it, Potter," said Voldemort. "You've caused me enough pain already. Why don't you just give them back?"

"What did I take?" asked Harry, his patience growing thin. "How will I know what to give back if I don't know what I took? For that matter, if I don't know what you're missing, then how can I have taken whatever it is?"

"You're a wizard, Potter. Granted, a rather poor one, but I'm sure you figured out some way to do it."

"I am not a bad wizard!" Harry shouted into the telephone. "If you're so great and powerful, why don't you just summon whatever I supposedly stole, and get it back?"

"You'd just take them again," said Voldemort helplessly. "I don't want to give you the satisfaction of watching me struggle to reclaim what is mine. You took them, you return them!"

"Sorry," said Harry. "But what exactly do you think I took?"

"We've been through this," snarled Voldemort. "I wish you'd stop, and just give them back!"

"I'm going to hang up on you again if you don't tell me," said Harry." His finger inched towards the button on the phone stand once more. He was getting tired of Voldemort's whining, funny though it was. As much as he enjoyed hearing the Dark Lord cry, he wasn't enjoying the accusations that he had stolen something.

"Don't you dare hang up on me until you promise to return them!" cried Voldemort, sounding desperate.

"Look," said Harry tersely. "I didn't take anything from you. Got it? I never have. I haven't the slightest idea of what you're missing right now."

"Stop lying!" agonized Voldemort. "I know you stole them!"

"I haven't stolen anything!" roared Harry. "Although it may be a good idea, considering how vulnerable you are when something_ is_ taken from you!"

"Ah!" said Voldemort. "A confession!"

"That was not a confession," said Harry, strangling the phone cord again. "It was an observation about your mental state after an event that I had nothing to do with!" He heard Voldemort took several deep breaths over the phone. When he finally answered, his voice was a great deal calmer and only the slightest bit congested from his earlier crying bout.

"You took them, now give them back," he said flatly. "Give them back!"

"No," said Harry. "Not until you tell me what they are."

There was a contemplative silence from the other end. After a long, agonizingly quiet moment, Voldemort spoke again. "Very well, Potter," he said. "You really leave me no choice. I suppose I shall have to tell you."

Harry waited, genuinely curious to hear about the objects in question. Voldemort didn't say anything. "Are you going to tell me?" he asked after a long moment of silence.

"Not until you promise to give them back," said Voldemort.

"I've told you," ground out Harry. "I haven't taken anything from you."

"Promise me, Potter!"

"All right, all right." Harry conceded. He crossed his fingers, just in case. "I promise."

"Good!" said Voldemort, delighted. "I shall tell you."

x.x.x

Many thanks to my beta, shirelily6!


	3. Chapter 3

**Many thanks to beta shirelily6!**

Voldemort took a deep breath. "Out with it, Potter," he said, his voice cracking ominously. Harry could tell that Voldemort was dangerously close to crying once more, and he twisted one of Aunt Petunia's decorative pillows as he braced himself for the inevitable sobs. He was, however, completely unprepared for what Voldemort said next. "What have you done with my pink bunny slippers?"

Harry nearly dropped the telephone. He wasn't sure if he had heard correctly. "Come again?" he asked.

"My pink bunny slippers," said Voldemort, more calmly. "You've stolen them, and I want them back."

"Your… pink… bunny slippers…" Harry repeated faintly, digging his fingernails deep into the velveteen cover of the pillow. "I didn't know you had pink bunny slippers," he said derisively.

"Well, I don't any more," Voldemort huffed, his previously collected tone losing some of its smoothness. "This morning when I got out of bed, I was planning on wearing them beneath my robes while I issued some new orders to Wormtail, but I couldn't find them!"

"Then perhaps Wormtail knows where they are," Harry suggested.

"Oh, don't you give me that, Potter," snarled Voldemort. "Don't try to place the blame on one of my Death Eaters. Wormtail is stupid, but not stupid enough to risk my wrath by taking my slippers. You took them, I know it!" Accusations finished, Voldemort broke down again into noisy sobs. "Y- you must have known that th-they were my favorite," he hiccupped pathetically. "It's all part of your evil plan to kill me and become a great big hero. Well, it won't work! Give me my slippers back!"

"I don't have your slippers." Harry told Voldemort dully.

"But, Potter," Voldemort hissed. "I know you have them. Who else would try to steal something from me?"

"Loads of people," said Harry. "Most of the wizarding world hates you, you know. Plenty of people would want to make you unhappy." He absently twisted a corner of the pillow that he still held in his hands, imagining that it was Voldemort's neck.

"It must have been you, Potter!" howled Voldemort. If he had not been accused of taking the Dark Lord's slippers, Harry would have found the entire situation completely hilarious. He had never seen (or, rather, heard) Voldemort sound so whiny and out of character.

"Look," he said impatiently. "I didn't even know you had bunny slippers. It doesn't really go with the whole 'scary dark wizard' character, does it?" Voldemort responded with a wordless, enraged roar. "And neither does dissolving into tears and hysterics," continued Harry. "You'll be the laughingstock of the wizarding world if this gets around."

"That's why you stole my slippers!" Voldemort accused again. "Part of your aforementioned evil plan to kill me. First, you plan to humiliate me in front of the entire wizarding world, including my faithful Death Eaters, by revealing my slippers! You won't even let me die with dignity! I'll go out in embarrassment, with everyone laughing at me!"

"You don't deserve to die with dignity," Harry said mercilessly. "You deserve to die a horrible, painful death at the hands of everyone you've hurt. You'll be cursed into dust. And then your dust will be cursed into the four winds, and everyone across the country will celebrate."

"See?" said Voldemort. "You do have a plan to kill me! You've put it into motion already! You've taken my slippers!"

"I don't have your slippers!" Harry yelled at him, patience wearing rather dangerously thin. He began abusing the pillow again. The stuffing inside had been pushed around quite a bit, and the pillow was loosing its shape, and the velvety cover was rumpled and smudged. Aunt Petunia was not going to be happy, but Harry didn't care.

"Stop, Potter!" bellowed Voldemort hysterically. "Stop trying to deny it!"

Harry made a noise similar to that of an enraged elephant, straining his vocal chords quite a bit. "Get it through your thick head," he snapped. "I. Didn't. Take. Them."

"Yes, you did!" howled Voldemort. "I'm not stupid, Potter. You hate me more than most people; therefore, you are the most likely person to have taken the slippers!"

"If you're not stupid," countered Harry, "I suppose you'd know how ridiculous you sound when you falsely accuse me of stealing your slippers."

"I do not sound ridiculous," Voldemort spat. "I am the most feared wizard on the planet. Everyone is frightened to say my name, let alone steal something from me. You are the only one who possibly could have taken my slippers. You want to humiliate me!" His voice rose to a shriek, and the lights in the Dursley residence flickered. From his post in the kitchen, Uncle Vernon let out a wordless roar, correctly guessing that the caller was causing his lights to malfunction.

"You're doing a pretty good job of humiliating yourself already," said Harry, collapsing onto the couch. This was turning into a very long conversation. Through the receiver, he heard a crackling, statickey noise, and the light bulb in the lamp next to him exploded. Harry's Seeker reflexes took over for a moment, and he flung Aunt Petunia's abused pillow in front of his face to shield his head as bits of glass rained down from the shattered bulb. Unfazed by Voldemort's display of power, Harry said calmly into the telephone, "That was a pretty stupid thing to do. You can't even do proper magic anymore. You've resorted to blowing up little Muggle appliances. I don't need to humiliate you, you're doing it for me."

The sound of several deep breaths could be heard over the telephone, and Harry felt a surge of satisfaction at Voldemort's obvious fury. "I've told you, Potter, you are the guilty one here. Don't try to make me think that it's all my fault! You took my slippers; you are the one who wants to cause my downfall; and you are the one who is trying to embarrass me!"

"I'm not guilty of anything!" Harry roared. "I was just having a normal day until you called me and started crying about bunny slippers and evil plans. I have nothing to do with your problems right now, got it?

"You have everything to do with my problems," accused Voldemort. "Everything is your fault."

"No, it isn't," Harry countered. Just minutes ago, he had been feeling like all his problems were Voldemort's fault, and now the Dark Lord was declaring the same thing. It was time to set the record straight. "You cause all my problems. I'm not the one running all over killing people just for fun. I'm not the one who's a mass murderer and a cult leader. I'm not the one who uses unforgivable curses and coerces other people into following me. I'm not the one who makes people kiss my robes! You are!"

"That's not true," hissed Voldemort.

"It's not?" asked Harry sarcastically, playing along.

"I do not make my Death Eaters kiss my robes. They do it willingly, as a sign of respect!"

"Sure, they do," said Harry, rolling his eyes.

"And it's not a cult, Potter," continued Voldemort. "It's a political party. Our goal is to eliminate half-bloods and Muggle-borns. Rather like that Muggle man several years ago. What was his name? Ahh, yes. Hittle, or some such…"

"Hitler?" supplied Harry, dredging up old Muggle school lessons from his pre-Hogwarts days. "And you're calling yourselves a political party?"

"Hitler!" cried Voldemort, sounding pleased. "That was it. And of course we're a political party, Potter. I'm planning on taking over the world, something you should know by now. I'm going to rule all the wizards. I shall kill all those whose blood is impure! My philosophy is very similar to Hitler's."

"So," Harry said. "You want to get rid of all wizards except pure-bloods, is that it?"

"Exactly," answered Voldemort. "And you, Potter, most unfortunately fall into the category that needs to be… eliminated."

"You do realize," Harry pointed out, "that you're a half-blood too? You're father was a Muggle. You're out to kill yourself!" He laughed at the absurdity of it.

"I don't appreciate your laughter," sniffed Voldemort haughtily.

"I notice you're not correcting me about your father, though," grinned Harry.

"Where are my bunny slippers?" demanded Voldemort, hastily changing the subject.

Harry felt the smile slide right off his face. Back to that again. "Oh," he said dully. "Those."

"Yes, Potter. 'Those' are my bunny slippers, and you have them, and I want them back."

"I haven't got them," Harry said. "I've already told you this. Why don't we talk about your father again? That was such a nice conversation."

"We are not going to talk about my father!" shrieked Voldemort. "And don't change the subject!"

"You were the one who changed the subject," said Harry. "And I didn't take your slippers."

"Then who did?" asked Voldemort. "If you didn't take them, where did they go?"

"I haven't any idea," answered Harry. "And I don't particularly care, either."

"I care, Potter," snapped Voldemort. He paused for a moment, and Harry heard the sound of a deep breath being drawn through Voldemort's snake-like slits of nostrils. "Let's pretend, just for a moment," he said more calmly. " Let's pretend that you really didn't take them, even though I know you did. If we assume that you had nothing to do with the disappearance of my poor slippers, where are they?"

"Oh, yes," Harry mocked, thoroughly fed up. "Let's also pretend that you are not calling me on the Muggle telephone, and you are not the most evil git that ever lived, and while we're at it, why don't we also pretend that I'm not going to strangle you on the spot with that ugly snake of yours the next time I see you? As for your slippers, did you consider looking for them?"

"Well, no…" Voldemort said. "Because I'm pretending that they aren't in my house. So someone must have stolen them. Someone like you!"

Harry gave a long-suffering sigh. "Why don't we, uh, pretend that we're not pretending anymore and assume that they are somewhere in your house?"

"That doesn't make any sense." Voldemort whined.

"Pretend that is does." Harry snapped. "Why don't you hang up and go look for them?"

"Excellent idea, Potter!" Voldemort cried. Harry gave a sigh of relief, his entire body sagging against the couch in a weary celebration of finally having accomplished something. He heard the clumsy sound of the receiver on Voldemort's end being forcibly hung up, but the noise was music to his ears. Suddenly feeling drained, Harry tossed the telephone away from him, not bothering to hang it up, and leaned back against the couch, savoring the silence. Arguing with Dark Lords was exhausting, he decided. He absently toyed with the fringe on Aunt Petunia's pillow again. Voldemort was going insane, he thought. Completely bloody insane.

TBC 


End file.

Harry Potter, Humor