Tom Marvolo Riddle | The Dark Lord Voldemort (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nexmosnonlucror) wrote2011-10-23 08:11 pm
nexmosnonlucror) wrote2011-10-23 08:11 pm
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[Tom is outside, in his long black coat, staring down intently at a gravestone. He has been there for close to three hours, his green scarf fluttering in the wind as he tilts his head, to read the name once more. No matter how many times he reads it, it does not change --
Merope Gaunt.
He has been told that if he stays long enough, he will see something, and, well -- Tom, though he couldn't care less about the pain of the people in the city, wanted to see what he would see. After all, he was a murderer -- so he thought perhaps he would see his father, his grandparents, that Myrtle girl, or Hanna Cross -- but instead, he comes face to face with his mother's gravestone, written in perfect cursive.
And, after three hours of waiting, Tom is accompanied by a woman, who touches his arm gently. He does not look over at the cool feeling, but he speaks quietly.]
You certainly took your time in approaching me.
[Merope is quiet, for a moment, before she moves in front of her grave. She is shorter than her taller son, with pale hollowed cheeks, wide eyes, and thin hands. She reaches out to touch Tom's face, but Tom moves away from her, narrowing his cold dark eyes in a silent warning. Do not touch. And while this bothers the woman, she smiles peacefully.]
You look just like your father.
[Her voice is high and soft.]
Just like --
You aren't real.
[Tom's eyes are boring holes into the hallucination, his lips pressed together into a thin line, hands still in his pockets.]
The Animus have shown me what happened. To you. That night, the orphanage, it was snowing.
[And Tom's voice quietly slips into Parseltongue as he steps past his mother, to reach out with a pale hand, to touch the cold gravestone. And, suddenly, around them, it is snowing, and they are on a street in London. All a hallucination. All not real. Tom knows enough to know this. But he doesn't seem bothered by the sudden change in scenery.]
You sold the locket of Slytherin in order to feed yourself to avoid dying, pathetic fool, how much good did that do you? You left this world as you entered it, desolate, filthy, and poor. Naming me after my filthy Mudblood father and then leave me behind in some orphanage, and is it really any wonder, before you open that atrocious mouth of yours, that I turned out -- well. Professor Dumbledore refers to it as off to those who will listen to him. As if I can't hear.
[Merope watches him silently before reaching out to touch her son's arm, again, and this time, her fingers touch the sleeve of his coat, her voice whispery and paper thin as she begs him to try and listen to her.]
You don't have to be this way, Tom, my beloved son, you have the world before you and --
[But the vision abruptly breaks, the snow stops falling, as a flash of red light shatters the grave stone in front of him. Tom lowers his wand, the end smoking, and his eyes cold as ice. It only takes a moment or two more before the gravestone has returned, but the vision has not. It is now silent.
-- for now.]
ooc: Come find Tom, if you want! But any interaction will be after this scene.
Merope Gaunt.
He has been told that if he stays long enough, he will see something, and, well -- Tom, though he couldn't care less about the pain of the people in the city, wanted to see what he would see. After all, he was a murderer -- so he thought perhaps he would see his father, his grandparents, that Myrtle girl, or Hanna Cross -- but instead, he comes face to face with his mother's gravestone, written in perfect cursive.
And, after three hours of waiting, Tom is accompanied by a woman, who touches his arm gently. He does not look over at the cool feeling, but he speaks quietly.]
You certainly took your time in approaching me.
[Merope is quiet, for a moment, before she moves in front of her grave. She is shorter than her taller son, with pale hollowed cheeks, wide eyes, and thin hands. She reaches out to touch Tom's face, but Tom moves away from her, narrowing his cold dark eyes in a silent warning. Do not touch. And while this bothers the woman, she smiles peacefully.]
You look just like your father.
[Her voice is high and soft.]
Just like --
You aren't real.
[Tom's eyes are boring holes into the hallucination, his lips pressed together into a thin line, hands still in his pockets.]
The Animus have shown me what happened. To you. That night, the orphanage, it was snowing.
[And Tom's voice quietly slips into Parseltongue as he steps past his mother, to reach out with a pale hand, to touch the cold gravestone. And, suddenly, around them, it is snowing, and they are on a street in London. All a hallucination. All not real. Tom knows enough to know this. But he doesn't seem bothered by the sudden change in scenery.]
You sold the locket of Slytherin in order to feed yourself to avoid dying, pathetic fool, how much good did that do you? You left this world as you entered it, desolate, filthy, and poor. Naming me after my filthy Mudblood father and then leave me behind in some orphanage, and is it really any wonder, before you open that atrocious mouth of yours, that I turned out -- well. Professor Dumbledore refers to it as off to those who will listen to him. As if I can't hear.
[Merope watches him silently before reaching out to touch her son's arm, again, and this time, her fingers touch the sleeve of his coat, her voice whispery and paper thin as she begs him to try and listen to her.]
You don't have to be this way, Tom, my beloved son, you have the world before you and --
[But the vision abruptly breaks, the snow stops falling, as a flash of red light shatters the grave stone in front of him. Tom lowers his wand, the end smoking, and his eyes cold as ice. It only takes a moment or two more before the gravestone has returned, but the vision has not. It is now silent.
-- for now.]
ooc: Come find Tom, if you want! But any interaction will be after this scene.
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Hello? Is anyone real out here? I can help, if you need it...
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-- I'm over here.
[Already noticed, goddammit.]
And I'm fine.
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[She smiles a little, looking relieved that everything's alright for now.]
You're sure?
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[He falls quiet for a moment before looking back at the grave.]
Do you see things in the fog, too?
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[Reassuring smile Go!]
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My mother is dead.
[Tom inclines his head towards the tomb.]
She has been since infancy.
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Though I... am given to understand it's not... an uncommon thing?
['with humans', she means. Not that she would know herself, not remembering her first life in the least, but she's performed enough soul burials...]
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It was packed with something, magic? Souls? Who knows.
The city transformed itself into a mass graveyard. A city of the dead.
How quaint. And oddly fitting.
In Camelot, some would say the Lady Morgana had a talent to move about without a sound. A gift that had perfected from childhood. But even she went somewhat noticed these days. After all, she wasn't a ghost.
To some, she'd look as if she belonged in this atmosphere. A lady of pale skin and dark hair, covered in a hood and a cloak that dragged behind her. She was white and black and crimson red.
Perhaps this, too, will one day become part of her myth. Morgan Le Fay, she had heard that whispered here and then.
Morgana Le Fay, she's insist, if they had to. And she wasn't too disturbed today, though the next day, she will look convincingly so. She'll cry and throw herself at the tomb and shut herself in her room and look weak and fragile.
Not today.
She walked among the dead, listening to their whispers and ignoring most of them. She had no interest in the dead.
Well fitting that he shall be here too. ]
Tom.
[ Her voice was calm and deep and neutral. ]
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... Lady Morgana.
[It's quiet, even for him.]
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Forgive my intrusion.
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[Tom smiles lightly before glancing down at the grave, now perfect as it was before. The name is still the same.]
What have you seen in your wandering?
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--- This and that. I cannot be sure if any of it is real so I do not know if to -
[ rejoice?? ]
Respond at all.
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[His voice is quiet, and Tom stoops slightly, to touch a hand to the cold marble of the gravestone in front of him.]
Visions of the past or future, I would say, though I have only been haunted by one spirit since stepping out to investigate. Perhaps more will appear.
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If this is their plan to scare us, I should say it's nearly insulting in its simplicity.
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'Severus Snape'
The sound of the blast causes him to lift his head, glancing around through the fog with a small frown before--]
My lord.
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[Without looking over. He lowers his wand with a tight-lipped frown.]
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So he stays.]
Can I be of assistance?
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I did not feel them within my mind for this projection.
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[The slightest tinge of disappointment in that one syllable. A short pause, one that spoke of a small spark of hope being extinguished. Such was his faith in the Dark Lord.]
That is... unfortunate.
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Unusual, though. They usually allow people the option of being unaffected -- or, perhaps option isn't the right word... they allow themselves the option of leaving people unaffected.
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