Seed of Discontent He was quite certain that had he friends, they would have abhorred his treatment of the child
Carline bounded off the seventh step of the stairs, blithely expecting to be caught in his arms. Tom bit through his lip, sagged to his knees, but did not drop the girl from his arms. He adopted a polite smile to cover the grimace of pain, but six years with any one person and you learn their habits well. The child stepped away, her eyes criminally aged for one so young, "What have you done?" she asked.
Carline, born in 1962, and he's told it was in the midst of a most unpleasant storm. Tom's not sure if the details are accurate. He hadn't been present at the time of his daughters birth. Carline, after her own mother. Tom had made an impressive case against naming another living thing after a family member, but then her mother died and he'd felt rather cornered into the name.
Rumors say it was indeed quite painless, and for that he'll never forgive her. Dying in childbirth was quite the cop out after she had repeatedly swore to undertake this responsibility alone. For five of the nine months he hadn't even known of the pregnancy and for the remaining she had been adamant that he keep his distance. It wasn't for a case of love, or doing what was right. It wasn't for a case of dependency nor that of detachment. Security. Simply security, which he couldn't provide. In the end, there wasn't enough of her to give him reason to let go the obsession. There wasn't enough of him to allow her the luxury of letting it slide. Perhaps had he been chasing something a bit less fruitless and a lot less dangerous.
It was only two weeks of owning… of caring for this child when he realized that he was not at all adapt for this particular situation. A new breed of patience had to be learned in a miniscule amount of time, and the girl who was smaller than the average alley cat came closer to death in the first two weeks of their relationship than any still living thing had ever come in Tom's presence.
It wasn't a curse, exactly, though there wasn't a single part of it that was a blessing. It was, for him, a responsibility. Like all obligations, it was one he could easily eliminate.
He was quite certain that had he friends, they would have abhorred his treatment of the child. As it was, he had only his personal judgment to rely upon, and often believed that it could always be worse. In fact, hadn't his own childhood been much worse than this?
Carline had barely been seven months old, and it was to Tom's immense relief that her first word hadn't sounded a bit like one of the Unforgivables.
But her breath was curling in the cold air like cigarette smoke as he made his way through the small town he had found himself in, and something had to be done.
It was justifiably one the least senseless murders he had ever taken part in and by far the least thought out. Luck be on his side that the former residents had been no one of immediate importance as he couldn't afford to leave at present time, too much rid on this adventure, as he was prone to call it.
He had figured a medium of parenting should be involved in all this, and tried to use logic on the mind of that seven month old Carline, explaining that every so often murder is a rational conclusion to a problem, but caution must be used at all times, recklessness was never acceptable. It had taken only twenty minutes for him to confess the one thing he hated most to believe, and asked young Carline never to grow up to be like her father.
Something, Tom suspected, the young child had seemed to retain.
Carline's small fingers seized her father's wrist and wrenched the robe over his arm. Her eyes widened immediately, her right hand coming to her mouth in silent horror.
Branches of white scars danced along the toned but thinning muscles ofhis arm, livid welts surrounded by blackened bruises decorated the pale skin. Tom was a network of scars at the moment, and if he had been less drugged on exhaustion, exertion and agony, he might have calculated the chances of this situation presenting itself and healed the lacerations long before Apparating.
Carline must have felt the scrutinizing evaluation of her father's expression, for when she looked up she had swallowed the terror of seeing such a sight on one she cared so deeply for. She leaned in closer, finding it harder to determine details in the dark lighting of almost five in the morning. The damage was mostly complete in less than an instant and Tom's bleached eyes flicked down to the floor, pulling his arm back as he rose to stand and turned away.
It was much too early to be catering to the needs of anyone else. It was, for that matter, entirely too early for him to be catering to his own needs. He was running through the ways he assumed a parent might get rid of their troublesome brat when the almost neutral tones of the hallowed young voice said, "Ghastly habit, you have."
His fingers clenched into fists, and he grateful for the length of his robe which cloaked the gesture, "Not as horrific as some."
In 1964 they had been in Australia for less than a week, making their way out of Melbourne chasing a folk story who turned out to be flesh and blood. Melbourne, where Tom's patience hadn't been brimming with ease.
Dragging about a box and two over stuffed bags filled mostly with recently acquired books that positively hummed with restless power. There was a vague idea in his head to the direction they should be heading, impended for the most part by having to stop every few minutes to gaze about the modestly busy streets to catch sight of Carline when she wondered past the range of his peripheral vision. The ethics of enlisting the aid of a leash was swallowed by the relief of having this spawn of reckless energy diverted to other means of amusement that didn't involve touching anything in the box or asking inane questions on the random faulty of life.
By no stretch of the imagination was he enjoying the relative solitary of being alone in the midst of a crowed.
Tom's mood swings weren't terribly horrible, and he wasn't in the habit of reprimanding every small wrong doing, or every nuisance Carline achieved. For the most part, they got along fairly well. More like siblings or friends than parent and child, which all around suited the situation best. He did his best not to get in Carline's way, sometimes coming off aloof, but at least it was with well meaning attentions.
But every so often, emotions crept up unbidden, usually when he was physically drained and his senses were numbed, at inopportune times when he was certain it'd be years before he could see straight and move without biting back a grimace of pain.
Carline had a habit of rolling her eyes or hiding behind her hands to stifle a laugh when anyone spoke of how patient, considerate or brilliant Tom was. She would wander around the room, touching anything that looked remotely interesting, fidgeting in boredom, or asking when they could leave. He'd tried to confront the problem from a manipulative standpoint, but Carline simply didn't take threats from Tom seriously and the words of distorted reason had filtered out of her head in less than a week.
Before she was three years old, she'd been under the Imperious curse more times than any fully grown wizard Tom had met. But at least she was blessedly silent.
He didn't need to turn around to feel the scorn of his child's gaze. It wasn't as though he had ever intentionally thrown Carline to the mercy of the wolves. He'd been rather vigilant in his respect to keep the child away from the worst of the monsters he faced. Still, he suspected, this was probably the time to make amends. He was sure he couldn't buy off the child's fear or disgust, but all he needed was a quick way out, and within a week this would smooth itself over.
Until the next time.
He turned, taking a deep breath and casually threw his vision over the girls shoulder, "I was thinking of music tonight," Carline's sharp breath was the perfect ridicule that statement truly deserved, "of the Opera house…" the suggestion was made without being given, but the child was more than willing to let it slide. Slowly Tom looked her in the eyes and shrugged slightly, "It was a pleasant idea."
And if there ever was a time to not bring up the fact he could see the youth's thoughts clear as day in his own mind, it would have been now. But irritable with the last of his reserve working to rectify the situation, he couldn't help being irrationally sensitive to what he saw reflecting back, he snapped, his voice loud in anger. "I'm not going to kill anyone! Must you constantly think the worst of me? It's a play, for the love of" his voice stopped abruptly and when it sounded again, it was a much colder, controlled form of anger, "I'm not going to kill over that." His daughter flinched, and no, that wasn't the best of phrasing. "Well go to the park, then." Not too many innocents to slaughter there, and with luck he would only get admonished for stepping on ants, "Not necessarily the height of refinement, but it should quell any doubts"
"The park would be nice." Carline's voice said softly as she nodded her assent, and taking a page from her fathers book she straightened her back and looked up into the horribly faded eyes that shinned without color from the shadows. "But it's late, now. I'm hungry, and you're tired." She had precious little else to say, and wanted desperately out the conversation. Turning on her heel, she headed back up the stairs to the bedroom she'd been staying in for the past two months.
Tom sighed, miserable over the entire ordeal the week had presented, he felt that nothing could be better than sinking to his knees and forgetting the rotten injustice of accountability. His eyes followed the slowly departing body up the stairs and he called out softly, his voice so carefully calm that he knew it longed to waver, "Goodnight." Carline's step hesitated on the middle stairs, swallowing a reply and Tom's voice carried once again through the quiet home, "I love you."
A ghost of a smile flickered on the child's tired face, "I know."