A/N: I own none of this. Honest. Nope, not me.
Harry Potter and the Trademark Dispute.
Chapter 2 - Research
It was time to show that Snake faced bastard just who he was messing with. It was time for the Big Guns. It was time for Hermione Granger to finally be let out of the box. It was Dark Lord Hunting season, and Hermione would have no bag limit. May God have mercy on Riddle's soul, because Hermione most certainly would not.
"My first thought was to try and find a spell to kill him, but then the thought occurred, since he's more or less immortal, why not let him live and make him suffer." Hermione was getting into her groove. Harry could tell that this was going to be a long one. The Hogwarts Express was pulling out of the station, and as they all knew, Hermione's summer research projects tended to be exhaustive. "So with that in mind, I figured, why not tie him up in court until we're all old and grey?"
"You want me to sue Voldemort?"
"Maybe eventually. First, we are going to make him suffer. I checked, his Death Eaters aren't unionized. I've let the International Brotherhood of Minions, Thugs, Underlings and Enforcers know all about Tom and his merry men.
Tom Riddle strode into his throne room and was startled to see a near total absence of his usual hoard of fanatically dedicated Death Eaters.
"Bellatrix, where is everyone?"
"Organizational Meeting My Lord"
"Organizational Meeting for what? We have no pending missions."
"The International Brotherhood of Minions, Thugs, Underlings, and Enforcers are attempting to organize your Death Eaters My Lord."
"Someone is going to die!"
"This is the standard Minion contract Mr. Voldemort."
"Oh holding yourself above the common working thug are you?"
Voldemort pulled the wand from his sleeve and held it in a threatening manner.
"Using a wand during a negotiation is a violation of the Henchperson accords of 1964 Mr. Voldemort, cast a single spell and you'll find every union and guild you have any dealings with suddenly forgetting you exist."
"I use no unions!"
"Clean your own robes do you? Clean your own lair? Who cooks your food? Local 204 of the Caterers of Evil that's who. Cast a single spell and you'll be eating your own cooking for the next decade."
Riddle's red eyes narrowed. "Fine." He read the contract. "What's this? No crucios except for cause?"
"Yes. You are entirely too free with that curse. You routinely curse underlings when you screw up, their only mistake would be working for an incompetent with blame issues."
"Fine." He read on "No killing minions? What kind of Dark Lord will I be if I can't kill my minions?"
"One who actually achieves his goals occasionally?"
"Fine. 'Sexual Harassment Sensitivity Training? This is an evil organization, not a tea party!"
"You and your entire Inner Circle are just too easy with your Imperius curses on your female and occasionally male Death Eaters. The work place is no place for angry women or crying men."
"Fine! Wait, what's this? They expect to be paid for the honor of wearing my mark?"
"Of course they want to be paid! How else will we collect the Guild dues that pay my salary?"
"This would put my pay roll at over 3 million Galleons per year. What if I were to make a 'donation' to the International Brotherhood of 1 million per year and forget about the payroll?
"I would say that would be the kind of forward thinking that makes a great and powerful Evil organization."
"Excellent." He read on. "A dental plan?"
"I'm afraid that is nonnegotiable Mr. Voldemort."
"There will be no 'dental plan'."
"That is part of every contract the Brotherhood is involved in."
"You forget, we are a BRITISH Evil organization."
The Union rep blinked. Twice. He then looked embarrassed. Reaching across the table, he picked up the contract and redacted the dental plan from its verbiage.
"Terribly sorry, I forgot."
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