Title: And the Meek Shall Inherit
Pen Name: dilly
Website: http://www.prefectsbathroom.com
Feedback: headgirl@prefectsbathroom.com
Rating: PG-13
Primary pairing: None
Summary: A young Tom dreams of one day becoming a superhero.
He had always been scrawnier than the other boys his age. In fact, he could be mistaken for a boy two or three years younger. Of course they teased him. The stronger always flock to the meek lest they should come across someone stronger yet. He knew this because he also spent his time with things that couldn't hurt him. People that he created of pen and paper.Short stories. He'd always write himself in. And he was strong. More powerful than they could ever be.
Most of his weakling adversaries of the written word held a strange resemblance to one Geoffrey Klein. A large boy at twelve years with a haircut that made his face unpleasantly square. Geoff usually left him alone while he was hiding in his little corner of the orphanage, a window sill in the old infirmary which was, technically, off limits for the children because of the dusty bottles that still held bits of medicinal opium and the many sharp, rusty instruments. None of the adults ever caught him there. None of them cared enough to find the skinny little good-for-nothing, too small even for manual labour.
Yes, usually they left him to his musty old room with his rusty old knives and stories. But Geoff, as he had learned in the years they'd known one another, was not one to leave well enough alone.
He'd been deep in thought, illustrating a portion of his story in the empty margin in which the muscular-but-fundamentally-stupid-square-headed boy was crushed under a large chandelier through the wit and cleverness of the mighty Tom Marvolo Riddle.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle," he said aloud with a frown. "That doesn't sound at all mighty." He stared down at the place where he'd written his own name. He'd never liked it. It wasn't his name. It was his father's. His fool of a mother had left him inscribed forever as his father's son. He never added the "Jr." to the end of it. He was quite certain that his father never added the "Sr."
"Maybe if I..."
"What's this, then, Riddle?" The paper was snatched out of his hand. He looked up, startled. He'd been so deep in thought that he hadn't heard the door creep open or the footsteps approach him. Yet there stood Geoff, towering over him. Tom leapt off of his sill and grabbed for the paper, which Geoff easily held out of his grasp.
"Give it back!" It was meant as a roar, but it came out as little more than a squeak.
"Or what?" Geoff said with a sneer. "You'll beat me up?"
This was Tom's cue to run. To hide. Or to quake in fear while pleading and bargaining for his life.
It was not his cue to yell back at the top of his lungs: "Yeah! I WILL!"
He was so angry, so blinded by anger that he didn't fully realise that Geoff was flying across the room until he hit one of the cabinets with a sickening crack and a thundering crash.
Tom approached him slowly unable to really take it in. A huge piece of the old wooden cabinet had splintered off and lodged itself through Geoff's stomach. Geoff was staring down at himself with huge eyes. Tom didn't understand. It didn't make sense. He hadn't even touched him. He couldn't be bleeding to death on the dusty infirmary floor.
"H-how..." Geoff said in a choked voice. He looked up at Tom. There was something like horror in his eyes. "Riddle... how...?"
"I'm not Riddle," he said in a quietly, his eyes trailed down to the bit of paper still clutched in the boy's hand.
"Who...?"
"I am..." he started near a whisper, but his voice grew. His voice boomed off the walls back into his own ears. He'd never heard himself sound so fantastic.. and brilliant, and superb and terrific and SPLENDID! "I am LORD VOLDEMORT!"
Pen Name: dilly
Website: http://www.prefectsbathroom.com
Feedback: headgirl@prefectsbathroom.com
Rating: PG-13
Primary pairing: None
Summary: A young Tom dreams of one day becoming a superhero.
He had always been scrawnier than the other boys his age. In fact, he could be mistaken for a boy two or three years younger. Of course they teased him. The stronger always flock to the meek lest they should come across someone stronger yet. He knew this because he also spent his time with things that couldn't hurt him. People that he created of pen and paper.Short stories. He'd always write himself in. And he was strong. More powerful than they could ever be.
Most of his weakling adversaries of the written word held a strange resemblance to one Geoffrey Klein. A large boy at twelve years with a haircut that made his face unpleasantly square. Geoff usually left him alone while he was hiding in his little corner of the orphanage, a window sill in the old infirmary which was, technically, off limits for the children because of the dusty bottles that still held bits of medicinal opium and the many sharp, rusty instruments. None of the adults ever caught him there. None of them cared enough to find the skinny little good-for-nothing, too small even for manual labour.
Yes, usually they left him to his musty old room with his rusty old knives and stories. But Geoff, as he had learned in the years they'd known one another, was not one to leave well enough alone.
He'd been deep in thought, illustrating a portion of his story in the empty margin in which the muscular-but-fundamentally-stupid-square-headed boy was crushed under a large chandelier through the wit and cleverness of the mighty Tom Marvolo Riddle.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle," he said aloud with a frown. "That doesn't sound at all mighty." He stared down at the place where he'd written his own name. He'd never liked it. It wasn't his name. It was his father's. His fool of a mother had left him inscribed forever as his father's son. He never added the "Jr." to the end of it. He was quite certain that his father never added the "Sr."
"Maybe if I..."
"What's this, then, Riddle?" The paper was snatched out of his hand. He looked up, startled. He'd been so deep in thought that he hadn't heard the door creep open or the footsteps approach him. Yet there stood Geoff, towering over him. Tom leapt off of his sill and grabbed for the paper, which Geoff easily held out of his grasp.
"Give it back!" It was meant as a roar, but it came out as little more than a squeak.
"Or what?" Geoff said with a sneer. "You'll beat me up?"
This was Tom's cue to run. To hide. Or to quake in fear while pleading and bargaining for his life.
It was not his cue to yell back at the top of his lungs: "Yeah! I WILL!"
He was so angry, so blinded by anger that he didn't fully realise that Geoff was flying across the room until he hit one of the cabinets with a sickening crack and a thundering crash.
Tom approached him slowly unable to really take it in. A huge piece of the old wooden cabinet had splintered off and lodged itself through Geoff's stomach. Geoff was staring down at himself with huge eyes. Tom didn't understand. It didn't make sense. He hadn't even touched him. He couldn't be bleeding to death on the dusty infirmary floor.
"H-how..." Geoff said in a choked voice. He looked up at Tom. There was something like horror in his eyes. "Riddle... how...?"
"I'm not Riddle," he said in a quietly, his eyes trailed down to the bit of paper still clutched in the boy's hand.
"Who...?"
"I am..." he started near a whisper, but his voice grew. His voice boomed off the walls back into his own ears. He'd never heard himself sound so fantastic.. and brilliant, and superb and terrific and SPLENDID! "I am LORD VOLDEMORT!"