1 [Accidental Video]

[nexmosnonlucror]

[There is a rather ungainly thud as a figure lands, hard, on the ground. Pale trembling fingers sink into the soil to push the boy -- no more than sixteen -- onto his hands and knees. He is breathing heavily, a thin sheen of sweat covering his handsome face -- but that glint in his eyes shows a tremendous amount of life.

Thin lips purse together as the boy lifts his head, black hair falling into his eyes as he forces himself to look around his surroundings. One hand is curled around a thin piece of wood -- thirteen inches long, made of yew, to those that are truly paying attention -- and the boy pushes himself back to sit on his heels, laying the wand in the palm of his hand, dark eyes fixated upon it as he whispers:]

Point Me.

[The wand does not move. There is the slightest twitch in his cheek as the teenager hisses it again:]

Point --

[But from behind the teenager, there is a louder hiss -- a snarl, actually -- and Tom Marvolo Riddle twists his body around to stare at quite the large rabbit, which is baring his teeth towards the teenager in question. His eyes narrow and he raises his wand quickly, flicking it slightly with his right wrist.

But, again, nothing happens.

Tom's grip tightens on his wand and, this time, he adds the incantation, and with each spell, his voice becomes more and more of a feral snarl.]

Relashio! Stupefy! Impedimenta!

[The rabbit lunges. Tom instinctively lashes out with a hand, slamming his wand against the side of the animal, before diving for a rock -- which he brings squarely down upon the skull, killing the creature instantly.

The movements have Tom gasping for breath, though, and a pale hand presses against his chest, and he hisses:]

What did they do to me? Where is it, where is my --

[And his body convulses as he doubles over, arms finding his midsection as he retches.]

Comments

[nexmosnonlucror.livejournal.com]

Stop.

[Tom turns on his heel -- though it isn't a very smooth maneuver, as he sways on the spot. He needs to think. He needs to make this make sense. None of this makes sense and it is infuriating him.

One hand finds his forehead, to cover his eyes, to try and shut out the pain and the buzzing and the constant lack of magic in his veins.

When Tom finds his center again, he speaks coldly.]

You know my name. You know -- traits, you know --

[Tom turns to look at him, narrowing his eyes.]

Prove to me that this is real.

[lostwoutmyblogr.livejournal.com]

You can tell that it is. You certainly aren't dreaming.

[He shrugs.]

Unless you're referring to magic- in which case I have no way of proving or disproving anything. I'm a muggle, I don't know your rules.

[nexmosnonlucror.livejournal.com]

[No, he isn't, which makes it even worse. Tom isn't an idiot. He vaguely realizes it would be easier to accept if he were an idiot. To just blindly accept the truth as it is fed to you -- or, perhaps, this is where true genius lies.

Cancel out all other possibilities. Accept the truth for what it is.

He is in an alternate dimension, with no way home, with no magic, and a tattered soul that is bleeding through his entire body. He has no shelter, no allies, and absolutely no way to contact the professors that would ensure his safety.

He has a headache.]

... Sherlock Holmes.

[The name has an odd sense of deja vu to it and, for the first time in the conversation, Tom looks at Sherlock with that hardened sense of intelligence that Tom only wears for those that are worthy.

He slides his hands into his pockets in order to do something with them and he closes his eyes again, to think, and to focus on anything else but how weak he is.]

I have been here before.

[lostwoutmyblogr.livejournal.com]

Yes, you have. I suggest we get inside before more rabbits attack.

[Nudging him towards the houses- his old one in particular.]

[nexmosnonlucror.livejournal.com]

[His eyes open again to glance down at the bloodied mess of rabbit before he allows Sherlock to direct him, though he steps away to avoid any touch. It isn't a graceful snub, but Tom is so exhausted that he's having difficulty caring.]

Suspending my disbelief and allowing for the possibility that I am not hallucinating -- which is entirely possible, as I'm currently speaking with someone who isn't supposed to exist --

[He exhales.]

How is this possible.

[lostwoutmyblogr.livejournal.com]

My question, is how is it possible that I am fictional in your world- and if so why is the fiction only vaguely based on my life?

[Curiously.]

And how did it predate me?

[nexmosnonlucror.livejournal.com]

Parallel universes.

[Tom is reluctant to even say such a ludicrous thing.]

You are suggesting that the stories are false?

[lostwoutmyblogr.livejournal.com]

They're set in the eighteen hundreds, for the most part.

The year in my time is 2011.

[nexmosnonlucror.livejournal.com]

... World War II is ending, in my time.

[Distractedly -- none of this makes sense. Time is in flux.]

[lostwoutmyblogr.livejournal.com]

I know.

[He shrugs.]

We come from different worlds, you and I.

[nexmosnonlucror.livejournal.com]

This is nonsensical.

[It's muttered to himself as he walks forward. It's so going, but Tom is prideful, and he stoutly refuses to accept any help. So bugger off, all of you. 8(]

[lostwoutmyblogr.livejournal.com]

Yes, it is.

Come, this way, tea.

[nexmosnonlucror.livejournal.com]

Tea.

[Tom could almost laugh -- almost. How absurdly normal. But he can't quite find the energy to force the sound, so instead, he simply says it, with the slightest tone of incredulity and the tiniest hint of disbelief.

How very British.]

[lostwoutmyblogr.livejournal.com]

This way.

[Nodding for him to follow.]

[nexmosnonlucror.livejournal.com]

[He hesitates, for the barest moment, before following Sherlock closely. He hasn't shown any need to hurt him -- and there is some sort of odd sense of deja vu hanging about the individual. Weirdly.

Tom loathes this.]

[lostwoutmyblogr.livejournal.com]

You will find your feet quickly.

[nexmosnonlucror.livejournal.com]

What I need to find is where my power went.

[He is inches from panic, but to his credit, Tom maintains his facade remarkably well. He is calm, outwardly -- but to the well-trained eye, his fingers are trembling ever so slightly in his pockets.

He has not felt disconnected from magic. Ever. It has been his constant companion.]

[lostwoutmyblogr.livejournal.com]

It's an event. It won't be permanent, in all likelihood.

[nexmosnonlucror.livejournal.com]

Losing magic is not possible.

[Tom pauses before he curses underneath his breath.]

Or it shouldn't be.

[He cannot even speak Parseltongue, which really infuriates him.]

[lostwoutmyblogr.livejournal.com]

Welcome to Adstringendum.

[nexmosnonlucror.livejournal.com]

I'll be certain to send the Animus a post card thanking them for their services.

[It's hissed venomously to himself, but he's at least moderately calmer. Sort of. Kind of. ... maybe.]