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He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, before he was He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, accidentally created his first horcrux one day after first reading about them from his research. It turned out that mixing a drop of his own blood with assorted household chemicals would create a rather unfortunate outcome. See–blood is not powerful enough on its own to create a horcrux of one item. No–it had to be made of multiples. Which is why he found himself with a singular horcrux made of his bright pink fluffy socks, his baseball cap, and his grandma’s dentures. He placed the items with great care across the wooden bed he had been sleeping in since age 3.5.
FLASHBACK
“GIVE ME THE BED!” Tom yelled at Ms. Figg, the orphan vendor.
“No,” she yelled louder.
“Yessss,” he hissed,summoning a snake from below the floorboards. Taking the form of his will, the smoke took the shape of a great serpent.
“Now. Give. Me. The. Bed,” he hissed, voice dripping with malice.
Ms. Figg simply grinned. “I’m not afraid of snakes,” she said, then drew her wand, and turned into an occomy. She immediately began flopping across the filthy floor, mouth agape and spilling a gooey mercurial slime onto Tom’s toe.
“AUGHH!” Tom yelled, kicking Ms. Figg’s fishy form.
END OF FLASHBACK
Tom shuddered. All this work, just to get the bed as an altar to this ritual tying his soul to these items forever. But would it work?
As he pondered placing himself into the right mindset for such a vital ritual, he overheard a crackling on the radio. Then a song started playing–a song that spoke to his soul,
I’m just a girl in a village doin’ alright…
Tom swayed on his feet, his wand glowing gold. The items, full of princess spirit, lifted slowly off the bed. Suddenly, the dentures flapped open wide as it about to sound a brain melting scream when Ms. Figg’s shiny slime spewed forth like a fountain. The pink socks snapped to attention and caught each drop in its fuzzy fibers. Now that the final item had been collected, after one year of storing Ms. Figg’s body in a Mountain Dew bottle, the Horcrux was complete.
He pointed the wand at the mirror.
“Avada Kedavra!” he yelled.
He succeeded in killing himself. But not his “self” self; his ego, his ID. But somehow, he stood unscathed. It must have worked.
“Did…did it work?” asked Ash Ketchum, who had pikachu sitting on his shoulder.
“Yes, I believe so,” he said.
“Pika-pikachu,” Pikachu said, and then said in perfect English, “good.”
“You can talk?” Ash asked. “Yes,” Pikachu said.
“Slayyyy,” said Sailor Venus, juicily, flipping her golden hair exuberantly, fwapping Ebony Darkness Dementia Raven Way while doing so.
“OMG, U, stupid prep, get ur hair out of my fase,” said Ebony, suicidally.
Voldemort stared blankly at the crowd before him. What went wrong? Or was this exactly as it should be?
“Voldy-baby, what are you doing?” Lavender said, as the world whirled around him, and they suddenly all ended up on the base of the hot, volcanic Mount Doom.
In the sweltering heat of the desolate mountain, Lord Voldy contemplated the trials and tribulations of his journey.
“It was a long journey with an acceptable price,” the future dark lord spoke as he marked the new grave.
“You will forever be missed,” he murmured softly, “John Cena.”
With a sigh, he stood up. “John Cena, I–it hurts to tell you this. I’m–I’m so ashamed. But I–I–I love you. So with you, I leave a piece of myself.” As he left the goopy socks, the Dipper’s Pines hat, and his grandmother’s dentures in the grave. The end.