How's my driving post?

Criticisms, asspats, etc, etc, etc.

Anon off, etc.

Yes.

The Lady Morgana has left Adstringendum.

[It is in Tom's own voice -- Morgana leaving abruptly brought him back into his own body. Which he intends to stay in, until the end of the event. Thank you very much.

And, with a burst of static, the feed ends.]

( [Filtered to Raphael // Private // Unhackable] )

( [Filtered to Castiel // Private // Unhackable] )

[There is only the sound of breathing -- and, suddenly, a shattering of glass, along with a breathy high-pitched laugh, and a familiar soft voice, but this time, something is definitely wrong.]

Adstringendum... the name is Latin, if you all didn't realize, completely bastardized Latin, but Latin all the same -- and it's odd, because when I've gone to sleep, a crew of doctors at Saint Mungo's have informed me that it isn't real -- which is nonsense, naturally, because how could it be false? I've been trapped here for months, as have we all, and we're expected to swallow such a thing?

Hardly.

[Another shattered glass.]

I wish to offer a challenge, to those that are bored -- but not to anyone in specific, no, I wish to speak to the Animus, to the ones inside my head --

[A vicious crack of wood.]

-- I want to introduce you to what insanity truly looks like. Allow me to introduce you to the flexibility of magic.

[x,y]

[And then, the feed cuts with a crackle -- a magical off-switch/ Or, rather, Tom waving his hand and slamming it against something.]

[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.

[Tom is smiling. It's pleasant, airy, and extraordinarily polite. He is standing in his kitchen, eyes moving over the counter, before he reaches out with a hand to pick up an apple. He looks at it thoughtfully, before he tosses it upwards, catching it neatly.

It's then that he speaks, with a remarkably peaceful tone.]

It would appear that Sherlock Holmes has returned to 221B Baker Street.

[He inclines his head towards the camera.]

How extraordinarily lucky for him, hm?

[And the wizard bites into the apple with a large crunch.]

[It is pitch black, when the PCD turns on, and there is little else in the room besides the softest sound of breathing. And, a light whisper:]

Lumos.

[The tip of Tom's wand lights, burning brightly in the dark, casting shadows across Tom's face, his eyes bright with the achievement, and his lips twisted into a faint smile.

For the first time since his arrival, Tom actually looks -- happy. And he glances towards the PCD, his long pale fingers gently gripping the wand, before he speaks quietly.]

May August be less eventful than July.

[And, with a flick of his wrist, the light goes out with a whispered Nox, and the feed turns off without Tom touching a button.]

[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.]

Tom is a Legilimens. This means he can read your mind -- and, if he has the need to, he probably will. Every secret, every ability, every nightmare and memory -- his, for the taking. This post is if you plan to interact with Tom frequently -- because if he finds you fascinating, he will look.

SO WHAT I NEED FROM YOU IS:

1. Can Tom read your character's mind?
2. Is there anything to stop him from doing so?
3. If he can get into your mind, what type of weaknesses does your character have?