The Pterrodyl Terror ~ by Jinny

The Pterrodyl Terror
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They came without warning, without sound, gliding smoothly downwards on outspread, leathery wings. With them they brought the stench of putrefaction, of the rotting dead.

Snape's expression remained, as ever, inscrutable. Had anyone known him well - which, with the possible exception of Albus Dumbledore, no-one did - they might have noticed small signs of anxiety. A particular glitter was in his black eyes. His head was held at a certain angle as he looked haughtily down his rather large (but nevertheless shapely) nose.

Along with the rest of the Death Eaters, he flung himself forward to grovel at the Dark Lord's feet. He had always hated this part. Sometimes he wondered whether it was the real reason he had - but no; this was not the time to entertain such thoughts. Still, he did at least get to see Lucius Malfoy also on his belly in the mud.

"My Death Eaters," Voldemort's gloating voice hissed. "Tonight, I have a real treat lined up for us!" His long, spider-like fingers gestured to the circling creatures. "The Pterrordyls.Each of you will face them in turn, and this will reveal to me your innermost secrets, and your worst fears..They cannot, like the pathetic Boggart, be easily thwarted ."

Nott was first up. As the putrid things circled his head, an awful chill descended on the masked circle of watchers. Dementors..gliding towards him...mouths open for that lingering kiss.Nott panted and gasped in terrible fear.

Voldemort sighed. He was bored. He had hoped this evening would provide him with some amusement. Dementors were dull. He waved his wand impatiently; they vanished.

Bellatrix Lestrange looked up at the stinking creatures from under her heavy-lidded eyes. Suddenly she let out a yell of utter terror. The Death Eaters sucked in their breath. Lord Voldemort himself lay still and cold at her feet: dead beyond redemption, dead beyond raising yet again from the grave.

"My little Bella," Voldemort said fondly.

And so it went on. The dreadful fantasies of each of the Death Eaters was visited on them in turn. Their capacity to imagine horror was very large. Snape swallowed. He saw no way out of this one. Inevitably, the Pterrodyls would conjure up the image of himself revealed as a spy, then to be subjected to the most subtle tortures of the Dark Lord's rabid mind.

Malfoy cowered, whimpering, at the feet of Dumbledore: not the kindly, bearded figure with twinkling eyes who strolled the corridors of Hogwarts, but Dumbledore incandescent with the fullness of his immense powers.

"Hmph," said Voldemort sniffily. His scarlet eyes flared at Malfoy. So he thought Dumbledore was more to be feared than Lord Voldemort, did he? Soon, he would learn his mistake.

Snape gagged with the disgusting smell as one of the things more or less alighted on his greasy head. He closed his eyes, almost too afraid to watch the images the pterrodyls would animate out of his own buried fears.

A peculiar sound emerged from the watching Death Eaters. Not - almost, Snape could have sworn it was -

A giggle? He opened one eye. He drew himself to his full height in an outburst of profound rage.

Standing before the watching Death Eaters, posed before Lord Voldemort himself, was a replication of his own self. Gazing wildly round. Dressed in - in - pink frills

"He he he he." A strange noise was emerging from Voldermort's lipless mouth. A high, thin, wailing noise. "Oh Snape, your expression - he he he he."

It was true, indeed, that the look on Snape's face would have curdled milk. More: the whole cow would probably have dropped dead in apprehension, so murderous was his glare.

Voldermort strode up to him, still emitting a churning noise which Snape supposed must be the closest he could approximate to a laugh. He clapped Snape on the back in a comradely fashion, and drew him into a rough embrace. Snape attempted to curl his lip in a flattered smile. It did not really succeed. An appalled sneer was nearer the mark. Voldemort, however, did not appear to notice.

"Death Eaters, behold," he cried, still clutching Snape's shoulder. "Behold, my beloved servant, who fears nothing so much as to be ridiculous in my eyes!"

Snape's forced smile began to crack. Never in his life had he hated the Dark Lord so much as at that moment. The laughter of the Death Eaters rang in his ears.

"I am pleased," he spat out, "to have afforded my master so much pleasure." Surely, no-one could have been fooled by the ghastly leer on his face into thinking this was actually the case.

He really, really, really, wanted to go home.

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