The notes of the music rang through Voldemort's ears as the bodies in the concert hall churned around him. His eyes looked up towards the stage and focused on the sole being upon it. The mocha skin of the being shone in the spotlights, and its dark curly hair splayed through the air. He was the most beautiful person Voldomort had ever seen.

"Your butt is mine. Gonna take you right. Just show your face…"

Voldomort zoned out and marveled at how wonderful the situation would be if the lyrics were true. His daydream, consumed with naughty pleasures, was abruptly cut short as one of the other concert-goers brushed against his…arm. He returned to listening to the magnificent voice flowing through the speakers.

"I'm giving you on count of three to show your stuff."

And show his stuff Voldomort would do if only given the chance. He would make the chance for himself by force.

As the lyrics slipped passed his moist lips, he looked out into the massive crowd. Right there on the stage, stood a man, a handsome, sexy man with pale white skin, the colour of clouds and the Jonas Brothers. His bald head looked absolutely perfect with his gorgeous crimson eyes. The cavity where his nose should've been was smooth and incredibly attractive to him.

The music died off, and in return he stopped singing. They took in each others' appearances once more. He thought the stranger was so gorgeous; his thoughts traveled into the perverse slums of his mind, arousing himself.

Both men left the stage together to finish their business.

"And that is how babies are made."

"But, Dad, how exactly-"

"No, Orichimaru, I'm not telling you all of those details. Your virgin ears and mind will not be able to understand it until you are older. If you want a deeper explanation, go ask your father," Voldomort retorted to his son. "Michael, your son wants to know more about sex. You explain it to him."

At that moment, Voldomort's husband Michael Joseph Jackson entered the room with a coy smirk upon his lovely pale face (long story short Voldomort didn't like black people, and Michael loved him so dearly so he bleached his skin to be the same shade as his husband).

"Now why in the world are you even telling him about sex this early? He's only six right now; give him a couple more years," Michael questioned Voldomort.


Orichmaru awoke with a start from the horrible dream-turned-nightmare. His father Michael didn't really die…it was just a terrible instance that had plagued Orichmaru's mind for the past couple of months. Voldomort had left a few years prior to stalk and attempt to kill a British child named Harry Potter. Ever since that day, Orichimaru had come to hate his nose-less father for obvious reasons. Michael had been devastated when his lover had abandoned him for a mere child.

Both males wondered if they were no longer good enough for Voldomort, but the younger of the two had quickly gotten over such feelings. He got up out of bed and made his way to the bathroom adjoined to his room. Seventy-two minutes later he reemerged from the bathroom with his long, inky black hair flowing down passed his shoulders. His footsteps were eerily silent as he walked down the stairs to the sitting room.

When all of a sudden:

"Michael, Orichimaru, I'm home!"


No, we are not on drugs.