A/U: OK, this is a hopefully funny story that just randomly popped up in my head. I'll try to make it as funny as I can. Enjoy and review!

Disclaimer: OK, anything you guys recognise, it's not mine!

'Zis is ridiculous! I vould rather stick peens in my eyes zan buy zis rubbish!' Thomas Riddle scowled.

'Peens?' the artist, Larry Von Trup repeated, blinking.

'Peens!' Thomas nodded, eagerly.

'Peens?'

'Peens!'

'Oh, pins!'

'Of course, peens. Vat did you zink I meant?' Thomas said sarcastically. 'Now, be off viz you! I am tired of seeing all zis rubbish art! Ven, oh, ven vill I finally find ze perfect painting?'

'Uh ... is that a rhetorical question?' Larry asked, stupidly.

Thomas glared at him. 'Are you deaf? Get out! Go on, shoo!'

With that, Larry Von Trup, the world's most famous artist, was 'shooed' away from Thomas Riddle's mansion. Thomas scowled, glaring at the painting.

A few minutes later, the painting was soaring out of the window, crashing on to the floor. Thomas waved cheerily out of the window, not looking in the least bit guilty.

'You forgot somezing, Barry! Mon dieu, you are – how you say – stupid!'

'Ze name – I mean, the name's Larry! And I'm not stupid, whatever the press say!'

'In ze vords of ze youthful teenagers today, vatever!' Thomas stuck up two fingers, making a 'v'.

Larry began spluttering.

'Go avay, 'Arry!' Thomas slammed the window shut, turning around firmly to glare at his room. His bottom lip pouted – it was a habit he could not get rid of – and muttered, 'Per'aps, I should move somevere else. I hear Inkland is very nice. Bit cold, but I can vear a jumper.'

Suddenly there was a loud crack and a dark-haired woman appeared out of thin air. Thomas yelped and fumbled for a weapon. 'Who are you, voman?' he yelled, bringing up the awesome weapon he'd found.

It was a long piece of bread.

'My lord, I am profoundly sorry – I lost track of time!' the lady bowed deeply. 'Have I disturbed your lunch? Please, my lord, punish me as you will.'

'Excuse moi? Vat is wrong vith you, voman? Who are you? Vy are you bowing?' Thomas shot at the lady, not lowering the bread. It may have been useless and crumbling, but it still made him feel safe. 'Not zat ze bowing isn't flattering, but –,' Thomas gasped. 'Tell ze truth, voman, are you from ze DRM? Are you 'ere to – to kidnap me? I svear, zat chocolat vas for a friend! And I only took vun bar, anyvay!'

The lady looked beyond confused. 'I – I'm sorry, my lord?'

'Lord?' Thomas repeated incredulously. 'I am no lord! Vat are you on about, voman?'

'My – my lord, I – I am Bellatrix.'

'Bellaaatriiix?' Thomas stretched out the name, tasting it. 'I 'ave never seen you before in my life.'

Bellatrix looked offended. 'But – but master! I – I 'ave – I mean, have been serving you faithfully for years!'

'Serving moi?' Thomas repeated.

'My lord, why are you speaking in a French accent?' Bellatrix asked, eyes wide.

'I assure you – zis is no accent! I am French! 'Ow dare you assume zat I'm not!' Thomas said angrily.

'But, my lord, you are not French –,'

'Enough!' Thomas clapped his hands for silence. Bellatrix shut her mouth. 'I am French!' he stamped his foot.

Bellatrix's eyes almost popped out of their sockets, but she kept her mouth shut. Her eyes flickered around the room, widening as they landed on otherwise ... outlandish things.

'Now, back to ze main qvestion. 'Oo are you, and vat do you vant viz me?' Thomas demanded. 'And vy are you ogling my precious pictures?'

'Zis – I mean, this is you, my lord?' Bellatrix picked up the picture, stunned. 'You're wearing a –,'

Thomas strode over and took the picture, smiling fondly. 'Ah, but of course! I remember zis like it vas yesterday! Of course it vas yesterday ... but zat is not ze point!'

Thomas Riddle was dressed in a Mexican shawls and a sombrero, one that dipped low over his eyes, showing only his mouth that seemed to be forming the words, 'Zis cameraman – he is an idiot!'

'Ze cameraman vas an idiot, but no matter. It vas a fun day,' Thomas sighed wistfully, putting the picture down.

'Argh!' Bellatrix suddenly snarled, clutching her arm, wildly.

Thomas appeared not to notice her agony, too busy with dusting the picture. He turned around, saw Bellatrix roaring like a banshee and putting a hand on his heart, made a fake gasp. 'But Bellatrix! Vat is wrong?'

'My lord – is calling me! But my lord is right here!' Bellatrix started kicking the air, sprawled on the floor, crazily.

'Vat is zis lord you are speeking of? I am no lord, but it ees deeply flattering for moi!' Thomas flushed slightly, pressing on his heart.

There was another loud crack, which emitted a gasp of dismay from Thomas.

'Mon dieu! Vy 'ave I suddenly become ze 'otspot for loud cracks?'

His exclamation was ignored, by both Bellatrix and the newcomer.

'Bellatrix,' the newcomer said in a soft, menacing voice, not noticing Thomas. 'You have ignored my summons, twice. Tell me, Bellatrix, are you fond of the Cruciatus curse?' he took out a – stick? – and began twirling it in his fingers, slow, calm motions that did not betray the madness within.

Now where did that come from? Thomas asked himself, but before he could answer himself, Bellatrix was stuttering apologies.

'My – my lord, I did come! I – my lord, please forgive me, I merely – merely mistook you for another!'

'Another?' the man's voice was silky, but tinged with anger. 'How could you mistake the Dark Lord for another?'

'For him, my lord!' Bellatrix pointed at Thomas wildly, flashing him a triumphant grin as the Dark Lord turned to see Thomas.

Instant shock. Mouths fell open. Eyes widened. Breathing became irregular.

Thomas was the first to speak, pressing another hand to his heart dramatically. He did have a guilty fondness for theatre. 'Vat is zis? Vy do ve look exactly alike?'

'What sorcery is this?' the Dark Lord demanded, taking out his stick and pointing it threateningly at Thomas, who merely chuckled.

'You zink I vill be afraid of a stick?' Thomas laughed.

'This is not a stick, you pathetic, French excuse for a man –,'

'Ah, now I am zankful! At last, somevun recognises me to be French!' Thomas glared meaningfully at Bellatrix who glowered back. 'But I must say – I resent being called pazeteec. It is highly offending. Ze press 'ave often called me 'eccentric' and 'freaky', vunce even 'insane', but never pazeteec.'

'What are you blithering about?' the Dark Lord thundered. 'Who are you? Why do you look like me?'

'I am Thomas Riddle!' Thomas spread out his arms, welcomingly. 'And you are ...?'

The Dark Lord spluttered, dropping his stick, and stepped back in shock. 'Riddle!' he barked out.

'My lord – perhaps – perhaps he is ... related,' Bellatrix said in a hushed voice.

'Never!' the Dark Lord snarled.

'Mon dieu!' Thomas cried. He was very fond of saying this. 'Per'aps ze lady is correct. Per'aps she does 'ave a brain. And per'aps ve are related.'

'Ve – I mean we are not related!' the Dark Lord growled.

'Of course, ze only vay to be sure vould be to take a DNA test,' Thomas mused thoughtfully.

'Of course,' the Dark Lord nodded knowingly.

Thomas broke into a smile and marched out, calling, 'Follow moi!'

'Bellatrix?' the Dark Lord turned to Bellatrix, who instantly assumed a timid expression.

'Yes, my lord?'

'Just – just what is a DNA test?'

'… I have no idea, my lord.'

A/N: OK, this is just to clear up any questions you may have.

Une: Inkland - England

Deux: DRM - French spy organisation thingy

Trois: Mon dieu - my God!