Disclaimer: none of these characters belong to me, except for the Random Demon. Sauron and Morgoth were created by J.R.R. Tolkien, the Dagda Mor by Terry Brooks, Torak by David and Leigh Eddings, and Grindelwald and Voldemort by J.K. Rowling. Even the manner of Voldemort's demise isn't mine; it's taken from Magdalena's fic "I Think You Mean It Like That" on Lumos at Sycophant Hex.

Additionally, though I find PETA's campaign tactics to be offensive and occasionally disgusting, no attempt was made to offend members of this organization.

. . . . . . . . .

So this was how it ended. Not on a grand field of carnage as he had long expected it to; not even in a small pitched battle in the corridors of Hogwarts. There wasn't a grand victory for the Dark; it was a miserable and rather embarrassing defeat. But ended it had, and now Voldemort had been sent to Hell.

This isn't so bad, though, he thought. Nice and warm. I could never get warm enough in Scotland. Besides, I've actually got a decent face now. I was getting pretty sick of the reptilian look near the end. If it weren't for the fact that I am actually in Hell, I think I could learn to enjoy the afterlife.

A demon whose name he couldn't even pronounce led him through the dark corridors to his eternal punishment. "Ah, here we are," hissed the creature. "The Dark Lords' Chamber."

"Hold the fellytone," Voldemort said, perplexed. "We actually have a whole room to ourselves?"

The demon nodded. "Yep. There've been so many of you over the years that we had to create special rooms for you. This one's for the magical folk. There're others, too—you know, terrorist masterminds, extremist politicians, PETA...that sort." He tapped the door in a complex pattern that Voldemort couldn't possibly memorize, and it opened. "Listen up, you lot!" the demon boomed as the door swung open. "This here's Thomas Marvolo Riddle, also known as Voldemort during his Reigns of Terror. I'm going to let you off your punishment for a bit so's you can get acquainted with him." With that he shoved Voldemort into the room and swung the heavy door shut.

The room was filled with an odd miscellany. There was a hunchbacked humanoid with a catlike face obscured by a black hooded cloak, a collection of black robes wearing an iron crown, an eye formed of fire, and a trio of rather ordinary-looking men dressed in standard wizarding robes. Thinking that these three would be the safest, he approached them. "Greetings," he said smoothly. "I am Lord Voldemort."

The oldest of the three chuckled. "Now, now, Voldemort, no need for formalities here. After all, we are in Hell."

"Well, yes, I realize that, but I was trying to get you to notice the clever anagram."

The old man's lips moved as if he were trying to figure it out. "Ah, yes," he said with a chuckle. "You know, young man, that's an extremely convenient middle name you've got. Though what do you do with the extra letters? Ah, no matter. My name is Morgoth, though my original name was Melkor. This is Torak, the former Dragon God of Angarak, and this here's Grindelwald."

Voldemort gasped. "Not the Grindelwald! I so admired your work during your Reign of Terror that I tried to emulate it as well as I could."

Grindelwald grunted. "Bloody Dumbledore."

Morgoth dropped his voice to a whisper. "He doesn't say much else. Still hasn't got over the fact that not only did his nemesis defeat him, but he also managed to perfect the art of the cheese soufflé. Downright malicious of Dumbledore to learn it, really."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow.

"Grindelwald loved his cheese soufflés when he was alive and it was a huge disappointment that he wasn't able to cook them for himself." The older Dark Lord turned to the others. "That heap of robes with the spiky hat wasn't really a Dark Lord, but he was close enough—he was my successor's right-hand Wraith, the Witch King of Angmar. And the burning eye there is my successor himself, Sauron. Whatever you do, don't mention rings, hobbits or broken swords around him. They're rather touchy subjects, I'm afraid."

Voldemort nodded. "Understood. I've always thought he got a raw deal."

Morgoth chuckled. "He deserved it. Really, the idiot should've known better. Don't put all your eggs in one basket, and all that. Well, boys," he said, addressing the rather motley crew. "Why don't we have a little welcome for our latest Dark Lord? Let's tell him how we met our tragic ends. I'm first. I'm a former Vala—that's something like a God, only not quite—who embarked on a noble quest for world domination because I was bored. That didn't really go over too well. Really, I'm supposed to be shut out of the world forever until the Final Battle for the world, but I needed someplace warm to go at night. Sauron?"

"I was killed when a stupid halfling threw my ring into Mount Doom. I KNEW I shouldn't have put all of my power into a piece of jewelry! But what were the odds? Ten thousand thousand against one little hobbit! Stupid Angmar!" The fiery eye glared at the Witch King.

"I swear, it wasn't my fault!" the ex-wraith protested. "No man was supposed to be able to kill me. So what did they do? They sent a woman to do the job! Thanks for the ambiguous wording to your curse on my ring, boss. I was supposed to be invincible!"

"Ah, right," said Morgoth. "And you, Dagda Mor?"

The hunchback groaned. "I was killed after an aerial battle to the death with some young upstart Druid who was only five hundred years old. I hate rocs! In fact, I hate birds in general. One of them crapped on my robes just before I mounted my giant bat."

Torak glared. "A bloody magic stone set one of my eyes on fire, and a few thousand years later it was part of a shield used by my foe in a swordfight. Knocked me unconscious for about three eons. Then it was part of a sword wielded by some idiot who barely knew how to fight in comparison with me. Three times defeated by the same lump of rock. Bloody embarrassing, that's what it was."

Grindelwald made a grunting noise. "Bloody Dumbledore."

All eyes were now on Voldemort as he prepared to tell his tale of ghastly death. "Well, I...ah...I was dispatched in a most unlikely skirmish involving a frying pan full of sizzling bacon."

Morgoth's eyes widened. "Has food become a weapon in the world these days? How ingenious!"

Sauron said, "No, it must've been a mighty battle in which he was forced to use a frying pan as a shield while his enemy tried to chop his hand off with a broken sword."

"No, you've both got it wrong!" insisted the Dagda Mor. "He was conducting a routine inspection of his dark army and the opposing forces attacked while he was questioning the cook!"

"Bloody Dumbledore," Grindelwald seethed.

"I quite agree with those sentiments," groaned Voldemort under his breath.

The Witch King of Angmar hissed. "You're all wrong," he said. "He was attempting to demonstrate the proper method of cooking bacon to his inept cook when the other side attacked. After a long, furious, exhausting battle he was finally bested when he sent a spell at his opponent, who reflected the magic back at him with the shiny new frying pan that the cook had been using."

Voldemort groaned. "While I appreciate your creativity…well, no. That would've been a nice and dramatic way to go, all right, but what in fact happened was that I attacked a random home and the bloody Boy Who Was Indestructible Though He And Several Others Often Tried To Prove Otherwise hit me in the back of the head with a frying pan. That's not exactly how I expected our Famous Last Stand to go."

The other Dark Lords were busy making sympathetic noises when the demon who had led Voldemort to the chamber returned. "All right, folks, break's over. Time for your eternal punishment to resume."

Voldemort looked at Morgoth. "What's the punishment? Flames burning our skin while we get white-hot pokers shoved up our backsides?"

Morgoth shuddered. "Even worse, I'm afraid. We've got to dance to the excruciating torment of what the folks above ground call music these days."

As the terrifying opening strains of NSYNC's "I Want You Back" started to fill the room, Voldemort began to scream.

"It could be worse," Morgoth said as he did a complicated pirouette. "It could be country."