Voldemort and the Nose Job: a Harry Potter One-Shot

Just a brief thing I wrote when I was bored. Be warned: it is not half as funny as the title suggests--though I tried. xD Enjoy!

Chapter 1

Voldemort's Wrath

Voldemort stood in front of Malfoy Manor and watched the peacocks prowl around proudly, his long, delicate fingers resting upon his nostrils; the only thing that was left of his poor nose. Once it had been straight, Roman and perfect, like a statue's. Now he was doomed to look like his most prized possession, other than his life: Nagini, his snake.

Her green, smooth scales and cunning eyes evoked a grudging admiration in him for her: his sixth horcrux. Beautiful, intelligent and surely as cold as he was. She was perfect--so for what inexplicable reason was he so sensitive about resembling her?

Perhaps, he decided, a part of him still longed to be youthful and handsome, as he had been all those years ago. As he had been long before that Potter boy came along--although Bellatrix did not seem to mind, he thought, amused as he remembered her adoring gaze.

But still. What he needed--what he truly needed--was a decent nose. Who would be impressed by an opponent without a nose? Tom Riddle knew he would not be; he would mock them and laugh with Nagini once no one was around, since everyone always looked so strangely at him when he laughed. They had since he was a child. When the times comes that I rule over all, Voldemort decided, I will laugh at them, and they will say nothing: they will cry and applaud and esteem me!

Above him, dark grey clouds gathered and swirled around. Voldemort hadn't realized he had been clutching his mighty wand tightly--his precious wand. Yet, he mused, also not good enough. He would find the Elder Wand sooner or later; of that he was certain. For now, this one would have to do. And after he had the Elder Wand, he would kill Harry Potter: he would watch the Boy Who Lived die, and then the prophecy would go fulfilled the way he wanted it. And when he had finished showing everyone that Potter was no longer breathing, he would kill his friends and followers, the ones he knew would engage in secret rebellion. Others, he would let live as punishment, as long as they were no true threat.

And after all that; after my victory, Tom Marvolo Riddle mused, I will rule them all, ridicule them, enslave muggle society and get my nose done, so no one will laugh at me. I will have all the funds and the most potent magic--not to mention wand--in the world, of course, but I will make every wizard and witch turn over all their bronze Knots, silver Sickles and gold Galleons. He would--literally--make them pay for their repugnance and defiant behavior.

Yes, Lord Voldemort decided, he would get his nose done as soon as he had dealt with Potter. That heroic, precious boy who’d had the luck to defeat him a couple of times. Oh, Potter would suffer. Voldemort relished the idea of tormenting the oh-so-noble boy with tales of how he would enslave, torture and eventually finish off his loyal followers. The foolish wizards had no idea of what was in store for them, he thought scornfully. The only thing that differentiated them from those filthy muggles like--he could barely bear to think it--his father, was their magic. He had a grudging respect for their courage and faith, though he thought that blind foolishness was a better description of it. Potter was only a boy--a very lucky boy.

Voldemort touched his nostrils a last time as he felt something smooth glide past his leg. "Hello, Nagini," he said quietly in Parseltongue. "I heard that Lestrange found some mudbloods. Are you hungry, my dearest?"

Nagini slithered forward and lifted her large, emerald head briefly. Her thin tongue moved briefly, and her eyes fixed themselves upon her master. "Yes," she hissed back, before sliding on slickly, her scales reflecting the watery sun that shone down on her.

Lord Voldemort looked up and with a flick of his Phoenix-core wand, made dark clouds roll in until it was gloomy as the night. A vindictive feeling rooted in his split soul and he inhaled deeply with what was left of his nose. "Soon, Nagini," he murmured, his eyes glinting malevolently. "Soon."


"My Lord," Bellatrix Lestrange said, her dark, insane eyes fixed on his face. "I heard rumours--are they true?"

Lord Voldemort's eyes flicked over to his most loyal servant. "That depends on what you heard, Bella," he said coldly. That name often reminded him of a weak, small girl with brown hair, for some reason--sparkles always came to mind, too.

"I will support you, my Lord--but know that I will follow you, with or without nose," she said eagerly, a glow creeping into her corpse-like cheeks. Azkaban had certainly taken its toll on her.

"Where did you hear that?" Voldemort asked quietly, in a sinister tone that made him sound all the more bloodcurdling. If looks could kill--which, honestly, Lord Voldemort wasn't that far away from inventing--then Bellatrix would have succumbed a long time ago.

She cringed in her seat and seemed to shrink. "Nowhere, my Lord--it must have been a mistake," she hastened to say. "My apologies, Lord."

His lips twitched. "If I hear more of this, Bella, I will come to you," he said, trying his utmost best to keep a bossy sneer from his tone. It was a habit he had been suppressing for years now, and it didn't get easier over time. He kept his rigid stare fixed on her horrified face for a just another brief moment and stifled a triumphant laugh as she looked away.

"Yes, Lord. I understand," she muttered.

Voldemort turned his gaze towards the mudblood who was suspended above the table, her eyes frightened and pleading. All were the same; they thought that if they begged and sobbed they would be released. A brief peek in Lord Voldemort's ingenious--if I do say so myself, Voldemort thought--mind offered the obvious information that muggles and mudbloods didn't get second chances when it concerned him.

"Avada Kedavra."

She dropped on the table with a smack, her emotional eyes suddenly lifeless. It was the exact half-surprised, dull gaze his filthy father and his muggle grandparents had worn when he had ended their petty, revolting lives.

"Feast, Nagini."


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