Lord Voldemort dived down behind a line of dust bins, out of breath, and hoping he’d shaken off his pursuit. He was annoyed with himself; he’d let it happen again. He’d given into the temptation to go Muggle-baiting like in the old days. After all this time, he should have learned by now that he could no longer partake of such pleasures. Indeed, it was best if he didn’t go out in public at all these days. He had minions to take care of things for him now.
It was just that he missed the fun of torturing a few Muggles here and there from time to time. He longed for the old days when he could go out without the danger of encountering one of them.
The entire wizarding world was under the delusion that the only person Lord Voldemort feared was Albus Dumbledore, but the wizarding world didn’t know about the women who chased after him every time he showed his face out of doors. There was something definitely wrong with these women. It didn’t matter if they were witches or Muggles. Whatever else they might be, they were all insane and they all spelt trouble.
Crouching on the dirty brick that paved the alley, wishing he could simply Disapparate back to his lair, the Dark Lord tried for what seemed the thousandth time to fathom the twisted minds of these women. There was something unnatural about their perfection. The one who had spotted him today had looked like that famous American pin-up with her feathery blond hair, which had been artfully tousled into planned disarray, her mouthful of teeth so white they were blinding, and her sparkling emerald eyes. Her burnt orange halter dress had clung daringly to her lithe form, accentuating all her curves, while her platform shoes set off to perfection a pair of legs that seemed to go on forever.
Hell, her name probably was Farrah, Voldemort mused.
But as beautiful as this woman was, that was exactly where the problem lay. A woman like that could have any man she wanted at her beck and call. What did she want with a man who had glowing red coals for eyes, was as thin as a skeleton, and whose nose was missing? Chasing a much younger, far more handsome Tom Riddle, he could understand. But everything about Voldemort’s body bespoke of death and corruption. What could possibly be attracting these goddesses to him, of all people?
Perhaps it was his aura of absolute power. The Dark Lord could understand that. It was the one thing he himself found alluring above all other things. Power was far better than sex. Voldemort understood that. The knowledge that he could one day hold the entire world under his sway, to mould it into his own vision of the perfect society, one in which he decided the fate of the least Muggle on the planet… Yes, that was more arousing than any aphrodisiac.
In any case, Lord Voldemort had no use for sex. When one aspires to be immortal, one has no need of an heir to pass on one’s legacy to. Heirs simply got in the way. History had taught him that heirs had the annoying habit of coveting their father’s place, quite often before said father was finished occupying it.
No, the last thing Lord Voldemort needed was progeny.
The problem was, that was all these women ever seemed to want. From what little he paid attention to the Muggle news, even he was aware that there was a sexual revolution going on, that women were embracing their power and going after what they wanted.
Salazar, were they ever!
Or so he assumed, at any rate. For some reason his mind blanked out whenever he had an extended encounter with one of them. That alone was reason enough to fear these nymphs. The held a strange power over him, him, the most powerful dark wizard alive. Not only did they have the ability to block his memory, whether they were witch or not, they also removed his power to Apparate. One touch, and he was stuck where he was for at least an hour.
He cursed himself for allowing Farrah to get close enough to touch him. He could have got himself out of this mess otherwise. And since he was in some seedy part of Muggle London, he couldn’t even take advantage of a handy Floo outlet. No, he was well and truly stuck.
A noise out at the head of the alley caused what was left of the Dark Lord’s heart to beat faster. He tried to make his tall form as small as possible. Hugging his knees to his chest, he looked down and noticed his long, tapered fingers. He’d never thought much about them in the past, but those nutty women possessed an irritating acumen when it came to noticing them.
Just today, just as he was about to set the Cruciatus Curse on some unsuspecting Muggle, Farrah had appeared out of nowhere and grabbed his hand. Her eyes had glittered like the twin gems they were in anticipation. "Ooohh," she’d purred, her accent annoying and American. "I bet with fingers like these you really know how to keep your woman satisfied."
As the memory echoed through the Dark Lord’s mind, he spent one wild moment contemplating having the tips of his fingers cut off. Perhaps that would keep the raving hoard of lunatic ladies at bay.
But his heart sank, as he remembered that prospect was impossible. Thanks to his most recent transformations on the road to immortality, he couldn’t afford to lose the least body part, not even the tips of his fingers. Having these women after him was just the price he’d have to pay.
Footsteps sounded on the pavement beyond the dust bins. "I’ve found him, girls!"
With a sense of foreboding, the Dark Lord raised his eyes to meet a pair of emerald eyes staring back at him. Farrah’s hair was fairly whirling in a non-existent breeze. The smile that graced her ruby lips was triumphant. Standing beside her were two other women, each as perfect as the first. Both had dark hair and dark eyes, both were dressed in form-fitting clothes, both were licking their lips in anticipation.
"I get him first," Farrah stated with a giggle, "but I’m sure there’s enough of him to go around."
Voldemort groaned, and prayed for the instant in which he would know no more.