Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or assorted characters. If I did, I'd
be living it up in Tahiti and wouldn't have to resort to such low-budget
entertainment. J.K. Rowling is god, what can I say?
~^~^~
It's always when Virginia is sleeping that she gives herself the permission to ponder him.
It is just thinking after all. Dread figments of the mind. How can it pain all of the others in her life to let go of cares and moral obligations in the realm of the surreal? How would any of them ever guess that still, she thought of those days.
Thought of him.
/What they don't know can't her them. /
Besides. That one is dead. He can't come back just because the youngest of the Weasely children is thinking of him once more.
Yes, Tom Marvelo is dead, floating someplace in the seas of oblivion where he cannot extend his grasp. The only place he exists now is within the memories of victims, supporters and enemies alike.
And her.
But she was something entirely set aside from those categories.
She had created her own.
Memory. It was all she had now.
No, that isn't the right word to describe what she recollects of Voldemort. Somehow its too clean, too /nice/ to illustrate something so dirty.
She supposes Harry Potter was the only one who began to penetrate just what it was that had transpired between Slytherin's Heir and herself.
But he was incorrect about one thing. Golden boy had made one grave, grievous error.
He believed that she had loved Tom Riddle.
Whereas he'd never declared this theory out loud to her nor anyone else, she knew what roamed the plains of his thoughts all the same.
It was there, shoved to the fore of his gaze when he would chance and sometimes purposefully lock eyes with her.
/Peering through a glass darkly. /
Such a beseeching manner about Harold Potter really. It was almost like he was begging for her to confirm this so that he could feel justified casting her into hell, finally claiming herself to be 'evil' without innocent blood staining his conscience. She often did wonder if he truly hated her, or just was disconcerted with the idea of her continued existence.
Not that she blamed him.
It was actually quite reasonable. When you believe someone you trust to love your parent's murderer, the one whom has made your life a prison from which there is no escape, and not to mention the scourge of an entire people, it tends to be unpleasant.
If the youngest Weasely had been awake, she would have gone into laughing fits at that meek little understatement.
But even so, the boy was wrong. So callously wrong. One simply couldn't make any type of relation to Voldemort as black and white as ally/enemy, or love/hate. It was those beguiling shades of gray in between most chose to ignore, that were the only true definitions one could give to such an indefinite creature.
No, she never had loved Tom Marvelo Riddle.
But she had never hated him either.
The darker one that she cloaked from her peers would also agree that she didn't even hate his crimes, or atrocities he had supposedly made her 'suffer' through.
Suffer? She never tasted such an emotion at his hands. Why make your most valuable asset suffer needlessly while you manipulated it for your own means?
A wise being doesn't bite the hand that feeds it. Voldemort knew this. Why cause harm to that which sustains your continued survival?
And despite the general populous's reservations against any positive attribute raised in comparison with their Monster, she had none.
Her Tom /was/ a wise creature, murdering bloodlust for all things Muggle pushed aside.
There lay within her awareness an enigmatic respect for that. One she couldn't fully analyze herself.
He'd had green eyes Virginia knew, recalling what little she had gleaned from the image he had projected in the Chamber before she had fallen within the confines of magical-induced slumber.
Yes, green eyes and black hair. So physically alike his antithesis, Harry Potter, that it could make the skin crawl.
Marvelo had been tall and lank, and he had moved just as serpentine as the House that Salazar built had probably intended him to.
And he had been so polite, painfully so. He'd obviously been brought up in posh society, or had cultivated himself to cast the pre-fabricated illusion of it.
Virginia never had been a foolish first year, no matter how others had told the story.
The moment she had scribed that first sentence in the diary and had received a reply in return, she'd been suspicious of her new 'friend' knowing intuitively his ambitions already.
She could have put a stop to all before it had ever begun. Before it ever had the possibility to.
But who ever said that she was a saint?
The redhead hadn't wanted to, even with the insight she'd possessed at the time.
He had been her friend, confident. Virginia had trusted him simply because she knew that she shouldn't do so. When one gets the immediate impression that they are being lied to, what more can one worry about? Why keep sifting through reasons for their motives once you already know them to be the worst kind?
Twisted logic, she was sure, but hey. It worked.
And there had been an intriguing rapport between them. So the youngest Weasely would often ask herself if he hadn't known something subconsciously that she had recognized his intentions as well as he did, and that she wouldn't stop him if he accidentally let 'slip' some of the reality of his association with her.
Maybe this had allowed Tom to confide in Virginia just as she had him.
Yes, that seemed very plausible. But who could know with Riddle? He was Voldemort for Merlin's sake!
Not that it mattered anymore. Her companion was long since lost to her now.
Had she always known that Tom would be taken from her? Was that why she hadn't chosen to halt the events of the Chamber of Secrets before they ever had occurred?
Because she was human, and had wanted to enjoy it while it had lasted.
Even at the world's expense.
So what if she was selfish, she didn't debate that. But did it make her /bad/ as well? Was she evil?
Her sleeping brain was filled momentarily with hilarity at the thought.
Who knows? Perchance it did. Perhaps Dumbledore and Harry, as well as the others on the side of 'Light' would think this.
She didn't know. Couldn't possibly know for sure what their opinions would be. How could she anticipate them? Hell, for all she knew they could be thinking thoughts along the same lines.
But what the young student did comprehend and took as fact was this:
The world could have a time judging her. She wasn't bothered by it.
If it gives them something to do, why not let the bastards toy with it?
Tom Marvelo wasn't the only shade of gray wavering between the lines.
Virginia Weasely resided in that position as well.
She knew that in the end, the only one who could ever sufficiently and truthfully measure all that she was would be herself.
And she had already reached her resolve.
She was Divine.
~^~^~^~^~
*blinks. Wow. My fingers are very sore from typing, so I think I'll go lie down now. Read and Review, as always please.
~^~^~
It's always when Virginia is sleeping that she gives herself the permission to ponder him.
It is just thinking after all. Dread figments of the mind. How can it pain all of the others in her life to let go of cares and moral obligations in the realm of the surreal? How would any of them ever guess that still, she thought of those days.
Thought of him.
/What they don't know can't her them. /
Besides. That one is dead. He can't come back just because the youngest of the Weasely children is thinking of him once more.
Yes, Tom Marvelo is dead, floating someplace in the seas of oblivion where he cannot extend his grasp. The only place he exists now is within the memories of victims, supporters and enemies alike.
And her.
But she was something entirely set aside from those categories.
She had created her own.
Memory. It was all she had now.
No, that isn't the right word to describe what she recollects of Voldemort. Somehow its too clean, too /nice/ to illustrate something so dirty.
She supposes Harry Potter was the only one who began to penetrate just what it was that had transpired between Slytherin's Heir and herself.
But he was incorrect about one thing. Golden boy had made one grave, grievous error.
He believed that she had loved Tom Riddle.
Whereas he'd never declared this theory out loud to her nor anyone else, she knew what roamed the plains of his thoughts all the same.
It was there, shoved to the fore of his gaze when he would chance and sometimes purposefully lock eyes with her.
/Peering through a glass darkly. /
Such a beseeching manner about Harold Potter really. It was almost like he was begging for her to confirm this so that he could feel justified casting her into hell, finally claiming herself to be 'evil' without innocent blood staining his conscience. She often did wonder if he truly hated her, or just was disconcerted with the idea of her continued existence.
Not that she blamed him.
It was actually quite reasonable. When you believe someone you trust to love your parent's murderer, the one whom has made your life a prison from which there is no escape, and not to mention the scourge of an entire people, it tends to be unpleasant.
If the youngest Weasely had been awake, she would have gone into laughing fits at that meek little understatement.
But even so, the boy was wrong. So callously wrong. One simply couldn't make any type of relation to Voldemort as black and white as ally/enemy, or love/hate. It was those beguiling shades of gray in between most chose to ignore, that were the only true definitions one could give to such an indefinite creature.
No, she never had loved Tom Marvelo Riddle.
But she had never hated him either.
The darker one that she cloaked from her peers would also agree that she didn't even hate his crimes, or atrocities he had supposedly made her 'suffer' through.
Suffer? She never tasted such an emotion at his hands. Why make your most valuable asset suffer needlessly while you manipulated it for your own means?
A wise being doesn't bite the hand that feeds it. Voldemort knew this. Why cause harm to that which sustains your continued survival?
And despite the general populous's reservations against any positive attribute raised in comparison with their Monster, she had none.
Her Tom /was/ a wise creature, murdering bloodlust for all things Muggle pushed aside.
There lay within her awareness an enigmatic respect for that. One she couldn't fully analyze herself.
He'd had green eyes Virginia knew, recalling what little she had gleaned from the image he had projected in the Chamber before she had fallen within the confines of magical-induced slumber.
Yes, green eyes and black hair. So physically alike his antithesis, Harry Potter, that it could make the skin crawl.
Marvelo had been tall and lank, and he had moved just as serpentine as the House that Salazar built had probably intended him to.
And he had been so polite, painfully so. He'd obviously been brought up in posh society, or had cultivated himself to cast the pre-fabricated illusion of it.
Virginia never had been a foolish first year, no matter how others had told the story.
The moment she had scribed that first sentence in the diary and had received a reply in return, she'd been suspicious of her new 'friend' knowing intuitively his ambitions already.
She could have put a stop to all before it had ever begun. Before it ever had the possibility to.
But who ever said that she was a saint?
The redhead hadn't wanted to, even with the insight she'd possessed at the time.
He had been her friend, confident. Virginia had trusted him simply because she knew that she shouldn't do so. When one gets the immediate impression that they are being lied to, what more can one worry about? Why keep sifting through reasons for their motives once you already know them to be the worst kind?
Twisted logic, she was sure, but hey. It worked.
And there had been an intriguing rapport between them. So the youngest Weasely would often ask herself if he hadn't known something subconsciously that she had recognized his intentions as well as he did, and that she wouldn't stop him if he accidentally let 'slip' some of the reality of his association with her.
Maybe this had allowed Tom to confide in Virginia just as she had him.
Yes, that seemed very plausible. But who could know with Riddle? He was Voldemort for Merlin's sake!
Not that it mattered anymore. Her companion was long since lost to her now.
Had she always known that Tom would be taken from her? Was that why she hadn't chosen to halt the events of the Chamber of Secrets before they ever had occurred?
Because she was human, and had wanted to enjoy it while it had lasted.
Even at the world's expense.
So what if she was selfish, she didn't debate that. But did it make her /bad/ as well? Was she evil?
Her sleeping brain was filled momentarily with hilarity at the thought.
Who knows? Perchance it did. Perhaps Dumbledore and Harry, as well as the others on the side of 'Light' would think this.
She didn't know. Couldn't possibly know for sure what their opinions would be. How could she anticipate them? Hell, for all she knew they could be thinking thoughts along the same lines.
But what the young student did comprehend and took as fact was this:
The world could have a time judging her. She wasn't bothered by it.
If it gives them something to do, why not let the bastards toy with it?
Tom Marvelo wasn't the only shade of gray wavering between the lines.
Virginia Weasely resided in that position as well.
She knew that in the end, the only one who could ever sufficiently and truthfully measure all that she was would be herself.
And she had already reached her resolve.
She was Divine.
~^~^~^~^~
*blinks. Wow. My fingers are very sore from typing, so I think I'll go lie down now. Read and Review, as always please.