For QLFC, Round 4
Team: Tutshill Tornados
Position: Keeper
Prompt: Asylum (Meaning #1: a place of refuge, a sanctuary; Meaning #2: a dated term for a psychiatric hospital)
Notes: Character study (sort of?), mostly headcanon on uncharted territory, but with some slightly un-canon twists.
TW: (Mention of) murder, torture, mental illness
Word count: 2,492
Beta: ForeIsketParadise, thanks so much for your help!
Tom knew the words. He'd heard the whispers.
Crazy. Possessed. Freak. Touched by the Devil. Spawn of Lucifer.
The words cut like barbs, but mere thorns couldn't threaten him.
Tom could count the things he was afraid of on one hand.
He was afraid of the black curtain fluttering next to the bed in the hospital ward he nearly died in (the Reaper, Tom knew it was him hiding in the fabric). Losing his 'freak' abilities. The cane in Mrs. Cole's office (but not that much). Not having enough to eat or a bed to sleep in.
He folded his thumb into his fist and added Asylum to that list.
An asylum. One more incident, and no questions, he's going straight to an asylum.
He stuck his fingers in his ears to quell the little voice, but he still heard it. The whisper wouldn't get out of his head. It was stuck inside it, rattling around like the shiny little ball in a marble game.
Whether he's a lunatic or possessed by some ungodly evil — I'll wash my hands of him and good riddance.
They were not good places. Bad doctors (not the ones who had taken care of him when he had scarlet fever) would stick metal things into his arms and make him tremble.
It would be humiliating. It would hurt.
And when he misbehaved, there would not be the utter boredom of time-out, or the pang of his empty stomach when he was sent to bed without supper, or even the sharp, stinging pain of a ruler across his hands (of which he always knew ten were coming, and he could count).
They tear your balls off, one of the older boys had told him gleefully. So you can't have any freaky kids!
They would wrap him up in a straitjacket. His arms would be tied up. Tom would be helpless.
He wanted to feel better, so he stole. A copy of The Hobbit from the bookshop thrust down his shirt in one giddy, exquisite moment. A handful of sweets and a little toy train.
Tom returned to Room 27, somewhat comforted. He went to the battered wardrobe, took out the small cardboard box, soft and pliant under his fingers, and deposited the contents onto his bed.
A yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ, a marble that glittered in the grey light, and a few shiny buttons lay on the faded blanket. And now, he had the scarlet train to add to it.
He lay on the bed, the stolen treasures scattered around him, and The Hobbit propped up against his pillow, turning the pages with his sticky fingers.
Tom had just gotten to the part where Bilbo stole Gollum's ring and escaped from his lair when someone knocked on the door.
He quickly stowed the book under his pillow and gathered the trinkets back into the box, licking the last of the sticky sweetness off of his hands to hide the evidence of chocolate.
"Come outside, Tom," came the muffled voice. He obeyed, slinking into the hallway, where Martha immediately began attacking his hair with a wet comb and scrubbing his face and neck raw with a washcloth and all the while muttering about the dirt.
He had done this before. Did someone want to adopt him? Who was it?
Martha did not offer any information, and Tom did not ask as she ushered him into Mrs. Cole's office.
"Thank you, Martha," said Mrs. Cole tightly. She gave Tom an appraising look, and in turn, his gaze wandered to the man sitting in the chair in front. Unlike the others, there was no wife.
His back was turned to Tom. He was wearing an expensive-looking peacoat, and there was a well-made leather briefcase on the floor next to him.
He must look like his father, because his mother was no beauty.
Was this really him? Was this his father? Was he going to turn around, lift Tom in his arms, and take him far away—
—No. That was a stupid, childish fantasy. Tom didn't need a father (though he deserved one). And if this was his father, he should behave like a big boy.
Tom stepped forward and put on his best manners.
"How'd you do?" he asked grandly, extending a hand towards the man.
The man took it, shaking Tom's hand firmly. He looked up. His eyes, like Tom's, were brown. His fingers, too, were long and clever (good for stealing). If he squinted and hoped, he could see his own nose and mouth, too.
"Pleasure to meet you, young man," he said softly.
Tom looked at him intently, struggling to bite the words back. He could not.
"Will you be my father?" It was more of a demand than a question. He heard Mrs. Cole gasp. The man frowned.
"I must admit that I am not here to adopt you," he said. "I apologise for the confusion; and the disappointment. I am Doctor Lewis, Tom."
"From the hospital?" He glanced at Mrs. Cole, struck with fear. "Am I ill?"
Will I die?
The man paused before he spoke; as if he knew how awful the words were.
"No, Tom. You are quite well. In body, at least. You see — I am from the asylum."
Tom's heart beat so hard in his chest that it threatened to burst through skin and bone; he was instantly reminded of the rabbit's heart beating quick and hard against his palm moments before he hung it.
Except, now he would be the helpless one, struggling for breath in the noose.
"I'm not mad!" he said, panting for breath and looking around at Mrs. Cole, wide-eyed.
Tell him! Tell him I'm not mad! Tell the truth!
Tom didn't mean it. He didn't mean to be cross and dark and sullen-looking. He didn't mean to hurt the others, but bad things wouldn't happen to them if they didn't annoy him. They deserved it.
"I'm not going!" he said, his voice rising and creaking. Yes — he would fight, he would kick, he would bite. He would tear — he would break anyone who laid a hand on him. "You can't take me! You don't know nothing! I never did nothing to Amy and Dennis, they'll tell you!"
A syringe filled with sedative — Don't you want to be a good boy, Tom — NO!
Mrs. Cole was gone, but he was still in her office. The bad doctor was smiling at him like the Cheshire Cat. Tom imagined the doctor disappearing and leaving that grim smile hanging in the air.
"Open your mouth, Tom; there's a good boy."
He obeyed. His mouth was filled with cold, hard metal — the curved back of a spoon — and the taste of medicine. He swallowed.
Tom Riddle twisted the ring on his finger. An adjustment of habit. It was slightly too big, but now it was heavy with his soul, too. The same way that the diary had been.
This was habit. This was safe.
He curled his fingers against the back of the desk — the stone shivered with his father's last scream — and smiled.
He deserved it.
He was at Hogwarts. He was safe. Nothing and no one could hurt him here.
Murderer.
The whisper rattled. Tom wanted to drill a little hole through his head and pull it out. He imagined a dirty, ink-stained piece of paper. He would crumple it. Tear it to shreds and silence the fragile dregs of his humanity, begging to be heard.
They don't know.
He shut his eyes.
Guilty.
I'm not.
The door opened, and Tom sprang to his feet.
"Professor Dippet," he said, smiling pleasantly. The ring buzzed against his palm. I grieve for your soul, it said.
The diary did not speak. Why do you speak?
"Are you quite all right, Tom?" asked Dippet, offering him a cup of tea.
"Thank you — I apologise, sir," he said. "I'm afraid I haven't been sleeping much lately."
That will explain the dark circles under my eyes. Won't it?
Dippet laughed good-naturedly. "Ah, the joys of youth," he said.
"Mmm." Tom took a sip of the tea; it was too hot and burned his tongue.
Liar, said the ring. You killed me, wicked boy. You pressed your lips to my cold forehead and smiled as you held my dead body, as you desecrated my home.
"Professor Merrythought has just retired, hasn't she, sir?"
"Yes," said Dippet, nodding along. "Such a difficult position to fill, my dear boy. The paperwork is simply horrendous."
"I was wondering," he began. Tom set the cup carefully down on the saucer. The rim sparkled with moisture. "If you would permit me, Professor... to apply for the position?"
Dippet laughed.
Threw his head back and laughed.
Tom's hand quivered — fear — anger — he couldn't tell — and the cup clattered to the floor. Red liquid crept out between the delicate shards.
"You must excuse me, Tom," said Dippet, tapping his feeble hand on the fine desk as he wheezed with laughter. "Simply the idea — and so earnestly put! Teaching at eighteen — your marks are truly commendable, my dear boy; the talent is not lacking. But I fear it too much responsibility — do come again in a few years, Tom, and I shall see what I can do."
"Yes, sir," he said tightly. Tom pointed his wand at the stain on the carpet, and the tea and cup returned to their proper places.
The ring was silent.
"What will you do now, Tom?"
He thought of the place waiting for him at Borgin and Burkes' (his fallback) and grimaced.
"I do not know, says the great bell at Bow."
Dippet gave him a strange look but said nothing more, realising that it was something Muggle. Tom looked down at his hand, ashamed. The ring glinted.
The rest of the hour was filled up with pleasantries, but all Tom could think of was how he wanted that awful little voice away from him.
No. The ring should be buried, like his father. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, particles he would never join. They should meet in the soil. Mortal bones should mingle with unchanging rock.
He dug the little hole in the graveyard soil at Little Hangleton with his bare hands — I've come to visit, Daddy — the bouquet of conjured roses lay before his witch-hating father's bones. Perhaps he would tear the crimson petals, too, and sprinkle them over his ashes. Let his magic cleanse his filthy father's drying blood.
The twisted, everlasting yew hung above him, and Tom wondered if, in some incredible stroke of irony, the wood of his wand had been torn from its branches.
Even now, its immortal roots were burrowing deep into the soil; he pressed his palms against the rough bark and sobbed for a loss that he did not understand.
He swore to himself, the first time that the Reaper reached for his soul, that he would bring Death to his knees. Now, he would tear it to pieces; if he had to tear his soul along with it, so be it.
Tom grabbed handfuls of thorns, biting into his hands, but mere thorns couldn't threaten him. The thorns stung, but his father's betrayal stung deeper. It filled his veins, mixed with the poison of the yew tree, but neither could hurt him now.
The ring throbbed with the life of its fatal curse. Now his half-foul blood lay dripping off crimson petals, and he covered it all with a little mound of dust. Pressed a soft kiss to the earth.
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death. It was only proper that he attended his father's funeral; he should make up for his absence.
Am I clean? — Filthy boy — Tom looked at his dirt-smeared hands and sobbed — he would tear the stench of mortality and fear from his skin if he had to rip himself a thousand times to feel safe.
The sky was raw and heavy above him, the great maw of the Reaper gaping with hunger. He had only the reminder of scraps of soul to keep him safe.
The little church was silent. The sanctuary was softly lit, with little candles casting warm fingers of light across the altar.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.
Safe, safe. The unholy magic twisting its way through his limbs would keep him alive. The evil in his heart (yes, he embraced it — there is only power, anyway) would keep him from fear.
He was Lord Voldemort, the great Dark Lord, but he could not shake the simple, childish pleasure of stealing. Giddy with excitement, he had snatched the treasure from its hiding-place, thrust it inside his cloak, and remembered, suddenly, that no one could threaten him.
It had been such a long time since the roof of Hogwarts stretched over him. Such a long time since he felt safe, without the thought of his Horcruxes to cling to — all the sharp little edges of his torn soul cutting and stinging his mouth — no, that was the way he still chewed on the insides of his cheeks constantly.
He had tried to put the diadem on his head — but it did not enhance his wisdom because nothing was left to learn. He had lived nearly forty of infinite years, and already the world was growing empty.
All that was left were mindless, cruel treasures; diamonds and trinkets and the cold-hot-cold rush of murder.
The diadem was wrapped in heavy cloth inside his coat, stifling him with its unearthly warmth. A twin heartbeat that he shouldn't have had, the dull reminder of a man screaming out his last breath.
He had screamed as Tom carefully wrung the last of his life from his body (the Horcrux ritual required more and more of him, the more fragile that he grew). He composed a symphony of blood, tears, and pain, and when it was all over, Tom Riddle was safe.
The diadem screamed, too.
Perhaps that was why he looked into their eyes as he killed them; because he could not follow, and he would not, but that was knowledge that he never would have.
A moment forever preserved in time. He preserved his last Horcrux in the most secret place.
"You are safe," he said.
He breathed in. He breathed out. The last piece of Tom Riddle was gone.
A whispered spell, and blood was slipping down his arm. He imagined it looked clean. Pure.
There will be no more rest, no more sanctuary. There will be terror everywhere. Panic. Confusion.
It was time for the end to begin, and only he would emerge unchanged. Unscathed. He, alone, was safe.
Lord Voldemort would protect him.
A/N:
*marble game, as far as I can tell from our mutual friend Google, is an old-fashioned term for a pinball machine.