# 28:
{} Voldemort turns 'cool.'
{} Story must feature Voldemort in huge shades, a ponytail, and an earring in one ear.
{} The death eaters must be called 'the cool men of DOOM.' Voldemort is too cool for his Death Eaters, but not cool enough for Draco...
It wasn’t your average day in the Wizarding World. Since Voldemort took over the Ministry, everyone has feared for their lives, holing up in their homes. With a minimum of a death a day, He Who Must Not Be Named has people buckling beneath his wrath. Only those with a death wish speak his name aloud.
Little do they realize who they’re really afraid of…
“Hey homies!”
The Death Eaters looked up from their muttered conversations around the table to their Dark Lord. They did their best to hide their astonishment.
“What’s crackalakin’?” Voldemort swaggered across the room, pulling down the hood that hung over his face. He slowed as he neared his seat at head of the table.
“Uh… milord?” one of the men asked, his voice barely above that of a breath.
“Yaxleeeeeey!” Voldemort Apparated from where he stood to where Yaxley sat. He turned and held up a fist.
At first, Yaxley flinched, expecting a blow to the head for speaking up. When nothing happened, he turned slowly, looking up to the fist with wary blue eyes before shifting his gaze up to Voldemort.
“Dude,
fist pump,” Voldemort said, shaking his fist in emphasis. “I understand this is what you young folk do in greeting?”
Yaxley’s head twitched in an acknowledging nod and lifted a wary fist. As soon as he did, Voldemort’s fist pumped forwards, hitting Yaxley’s.
Yaxley let out a sigh of relief when Voldemort gave a tight-lipped smile and Disapparated.
“Well, my cool men of doom, we have to two very important matters to discuss. Now...” Voldemort’s voice dropped to a deep, serious tone, turning his head slightly to scan the loyal followers that sat at the table around him. His eyes were masked by his Ray-Ban sunglasses. “To start, the most important, crucial detail… what do y’all think of my ear-bling?” He gestured to his ear. Surely enough, resting upon and pierced within his milky white earlobe was a small gold hoop.
Silence met his question. The only noise that could be heard within the room came from his Death Eaters, the cool men of doom, breathing.
“C’mon, be honest. Is it boss or is it wack?”
The Death Eaters, his ‘cool men of doom’, started muttering to one another, their words indistinct. Voldemort cleared his throat, grabbing their fearful attention again.
“Well?”
“It’s…” Dolohov spoke up, his voice cracking and failing. He coughed and finished with, “Boss?”
Voldemort’s eyebrows rose over his sunglasses. Dolohov cleared his throat again and strongly repeated, “It’s boss.”
Voldemort’s thin red lips stretched up in a closed-mouth smile. “Good. This brings us to our second matter; Potter is still alive and out there. We must bring down da Potter’s house before...”
“Um, milord?”
Voldemort’s head snapped towards the direction of the unsure female voice, his eyes stopping upon Alecto Carrow.
“Didn’t… you already bring down the Potter house?”
Voldemort pushed his black Ray-Ban sunglasses, peering over them and analyzing Alecto. She started to shrink down within her seat, flinching worse than Yaxley did a minute ago when he burst out laughing.
“You always had a sense of humour, Carrow,” he said dismissively before pushing his sunglasses up and over his head, pushing back his newly-grown, ebony hair. His long locks slipped past the sunglasses, though, and into his eyes.
“Daaang,” Voldemort sighed. He pulled the glasses off entirely and folded them, resting them on the table and running his fingers through his hair, pulling it back and up. His robe’s sleeve fell down to reveal a hair elastic, one he used to tie up his hair into a ponytail. “Much better.” He then grabbed his glasses and stuck them over his eyes, pushing them down his nose as far as they could go so he could look over them at his cool men of doom. “Now with Potter…”
“What happened to your mouth, milord?” Bellatrix gasped, her dark, heavily lidded eyes wide as she peered with intense shock at him.
“Oh, yes, that reminds me…” Voldemort dug into his pockets. “As my cool men of doom, you will all be required to wear these.” He flicked his wrist up, sending the objects in his hand into the air. They started magically dispersing around the table, hovering before each loyal follower.
“What… are they, milord?” another cool man of doom, Avery, asked.
“Grillz, dawg!” When Voldemort smiled, he revealed his teeth and, thus, the metal covering his teeth that read ‘V-LORD’. “Get ‘em on so we can really get goin’.”
“I didn’t sign up for this,” someone whispered.
“Hey, man, not cool!” Voldemort called to the daring Death Eater that said that. “I’m just tryin’ to understand y’all, so I can
relate. In here.” He pounded a fist to his chest. “And now you’re Avada Kedav-ering me down? I repeat, dawg,
not cool.”
“But milord…”
“Pft!” Voldemort cut in, waving a hand. “Call my V-lord.”
“I think you’re doing a
sick job, V-lord! You’re totally bangin’.”
Everyone turned towards the end of the table, looking to the double doors that had just flung open. Swaggering in wearing a traditional wizard’s hat tipped to the side, an oversized Hollyhead Harpies sweater, matching sweatpants that clearly sagged far too low to be comfortable, and loosely tied Muggle basketball shoes was none other than Draco Malfoy.
Voldemort began to smile, pleased. “What up, D-foy?”
“Word.” Draco grabbed the open chair next to his father and yanked it out, hopping into it and leaning it back on two legs, crossing his arms and looking down the table to Voldemort. “I can whack Potter.”
“Wiggy-whack?” Voldemort asked, a tone of uncertainty ringing through his response.
“No, I’ll
whack my homeboy, Pot-head, for ya. Give ‘im a li’l som-som for you, G.”
Voldemort went silent for a moment. His glasses totally fell off of his nose, hitting the table. The confusion in his eyes was visible for all to see as he slowly asked, “Word?”
“Word.” Draco nodded, smirking proudly.
Once again, silence befell the Death Eaters. It took one daring soul to speak up for them all, asking the one thing even Voldemort himself was wondering.
“What word?” Lucius whispered to his son.
MalfoyzBeloved's Wiggy-Wack EEFD thread v.2 - Sa13+ 
