That would be the proper beginning of this story, he supposed. It was as good as any other and better then most.
Not without reason. Not without reason, but---
"It's very hard to love the world when the world doesn't love you back, Helen."
He tells her this, sometimes. Not that he thinks she actually understands what he's blathering on about, but still.
"...But Jesus loves us, and God loves us, and...and the Holy Mother loves us! That's what Sister Annette says, and Mrs. Susans says so too..."
Little grubby child who he hopes stays grubby and boney and uninteresting a little more. Just a little more time, please...
"---It's not enough, Helen. People need people to take care of them and love them."
And it had taken him---what, a lifetime and a half, truncuated as it was?---to realize this little tit-bit of wisdom, had it?
And then there would be big sad eyes filled with big sad tears, till one day, when she said---
"It's alright, Tommy, we'll take care of each other. We're people, too, right?"
Just a little more time. Time needed to plot and plan and scheme.
It was damnably hard to do anything without a proper wand, but he wasn't in a position to be choosy, now was he?
Helen lets him cut a piece of her hair, and winces when he sqeezes out three drops of blood from her pinkie. In lie of wood he uses a piece of bamboo from the pieces of a broken wicker basket.
He doesn't dare use his own hair or blood, of course. Not for something like this, something made to be disposable. Helen has only faint traces of Magic, so she should be all right, once he'd used and properly disposed of the thing. Though the "proper disposal" was almost as complicated as making the blimy thing in the first place.
He was damn lucky that she turned out to be one of those Muggles that had faint traces of Magical Talent, though. Somebody (bossy kind frizzy-hair) had told him once that that kind of thing was quite possibly a sign of Wizarding ancestery somewhere up the line, since it meant that those people had at least part of the so-called Wizarding genes---
...Hmmmm. Now what was that reminding him of?
"Tommy."
Helen's voice had been quiet. Too quiet.
"---The Home's burning, Tommy."
"---I know, Helen. I got Carl out of the cupboard, and there wasn't anybody in the basement tonight. The Sisters and Mrs. Susans are getting everybody out right now, see?"
She looks, peering tearily through the smoke.
She does not ask about Them, which is just as well.
---Not that he killed Them, or even just let Them burn in their beds. Not that They didn't deserve it, but---
It was for the most pathetic and selfish of reasons, actually. He just didn't want to dirty his hands. Not at this stage in the game, anyhow...
"But what're everybody gonna do, Tommy? We're gonna starve, or sleep on the streets, or---"
"Don't you worry about the rest of them, Helen. I made sure the richest, noisiest, rabidest do-gooders in the neighbourhood are gonna come down like a pack of hounds here, come morning."
Or at least six or so of them, at the very least. Dream-spells were so useful, sometimes.
---And wouldn't They just love that.
"---And where are we goin, Tommy?"
"...Someplace different, Helen. You'll like it. ...I think."
If that part of his plans worked out, that is.
If not...well. There were always backup plans.
---As soon as he managed to think of them, that is.
Once upon a time, he whispered to the little girl slumbering besides him in the train seat, once upon a time---
Once upon a time, there had been a boy who hated the world, (which was understandable) who'd grown up into a young man who hated the world (which was even more understandable but just so stupid), and had ended up self-terminating at the age of ---well, seventeen or something, he supposed, since that was when the memories went all red and dark--- and had, most stupidly of all, not even noticed the fact that he was dead already.
Well, it had been a rather understandable mistake, all in all, he supposed. Especially since his body had been still up and moving, sort of, and even had a mind, sort of.
The next memories that had color and depth---though fuzzy---were those of a baby in the womb, and then a infant. A bit of double vision, there, vaguely superimposed with the red-and-black flat bloodthirstiness. Which meant that It had retained some connection with his---well, let's just call it a soul, for lack of a better word---after all.
It was rather luckly for all of him that souls seem to have no trouble multitasking, all things considered.
And then came the night of screams and pain and green lightning---
He looks at the dustmotes, swirling on the train's floor.
Tom Marvelo Riddle. I am Lord Voldermort.
He thwacks at the words with his handmade not-quite-wand, and remembers he has to dispose of it properly, as soon as possible.
But for now, he keeps on thwacking at the floor, murmering, murmering.
Never, never, never, never, never---
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(Posted Sat, 22 Jan 2005 09:12)
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