Harry Potter Oneshot: Don't Fear the Darkness
Title: Don't Fear the Darkness
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1192
Pairing/Character: Tom Riddle
Warnings: Very, very weird. Written as quickly as possible with no editing. Beware my abuse of repetition and some very obvious symbolism.
Summary: Children are prisoners. [Written for cliche_bingo, prompt "phobias".]
“Hey, freak!”
This scene is a familiar one.
Item one: Laurence Handler. Laurence’s parents are dead. Laurence is tall, heavyset; Laurence likes watching things come apart. Destruction makes him feel strong.
Item two: Tom Riddle. Tom’s parents are dead. Tom is short, skinny; Tom likes knowing how things are put together, so that he can later take them apart himself. There is power in knowledge, and that knowledge makes him feel strong.
Item three: the cafeteria. Tom is by the door. Laurence is by his seat. Tom is leaving. Laurence is having his fun.
The other children pay no attention. This is an orphanage, and orphanages are a lot like prisons; no one can leave, no one will help you, and the only thing there is to do is survive. Like a prison, there are bars on the windows here, but only on the second story, to keep the children from jumping to their deaths. Just like a prisoner, Tom must make his stand; he is five and Laurence is twelve, but if he does not fight things will be even worse for him. He must endure; it is a sentiment wrapped around his heart. So instead of continuing out the door, he says, “you want something?”
“Yeah,” Laurence says lazily. He is taller, he is stronger. He shows his power through this laziness just as Tom shows it through answering. It remains convincing, despite the much taller fifteen-year-old next to him. “Go get me some more food, will you?” He raises his tray, waves it around sloppily. He is older, he is bigger. He does not need precision.
“Go get it yourself,” Tom bites back, and then he does something he shouldn’t. He should know better, but his eyes dart to the opposite wall, where the windows are, anyway, just for a second. Just for a second, but Laurence sees it, sees it and knows what it means. Laurence’s mouth twitches into something like a smile, and then Tom is through the door, heading back to his room. Orphanages are just like prisons, and just like in a prison Tom can’t show weakness.
In the orphanage, the shadows stretch long early in the evening, casting wicked shapes across the walls. Tom looks at these shapes when he sits on his bed, and just like in the cafeteria his eyes dart away, towards the window where there is light. Tom could turn the light on and get rid of the shadows, but that would be giving in. In prison you can’t give in.
Tom goes to sleep with the light off. Four hours later he awakes panting in the darkness.
It takes Laurence two days to get back at him. Two days, and Tom’s back is still up, he is still waiting for something to hit him. When it does, he is not surprised. He is terrified.
He’s walking to his room when Laurence grabs him by the hair and shoves him into a cupboard. His back hits the far wall and then the door slams shut, taking all the light with it. His breath is shallow and quick. Outside, Laurence is laughing.
Tom always compares his room to a prison cell, but being in a cupboard is a thousand times worse. The air is full of the scents of the cleaning supplies stored within and his lungs burn when he breathes in. The darkness is absolute, so pure that he can’t see his hands in front of his face. Every time he tries to turn around he hits something that he can’t see, a wall or a mop or a spray bottle, and he feels like the walls are tilting in.
For a moment, he almost cries, almost screams, but then he remembers. Crying and screaming are things to do when someone is around to provide a rescue. No one is going to rescue Tom. He is in prison, and he will endure. That sentiment wrapped around his heart, wrapped around his core, gives him power. It’s like magic, and with it he can do anything.
It takes Tom a while to get his breathing under control-how long, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know how long he has been in this cupboard for. But eventually his breathing is deep and even. He can now see shapes and outlines; the darkness is not as absolute as he thought it was. He no longer knocks bottles over. He no longer turns aimlessly. Instead he says to the door, calmly, “let me out, Laurence. I want to apologize.”
There are shuffling steps to the door. Laurence didn’t go away; Laurence is a bully, Laurence is weak, Laurence becomes strong hearing Tom cry and scream. Tom hasn’t cried or screamed, so Laurence says, “no, I think I’ll leave you in there for a day or two.”
Tom does not despair. Tom says, “It’s almost lunchtime. I want to carry your tray for you.”
The door unlatches almost immediately. Laurence becomes strong when Tom is weak, and Tom’s servitude would be the ultimate sign of weakness. Uncowed, Tom emerges from the cupboard. The light outside of it hurts his eyes, so he keeps them shut, circling around so Laurence is between him and the cupboard.
Laurence smirks. Children in an orphanage are like men in prison, and so a smile on a normal child’s face becomes a smirk on these children’s faces. Instead of an expression of joy, it is an expression of superiority, strength. It is about power. Everything is about power. “Come on, freak,” he says, and he leans forward, about to push Tom. But that sentiment wrapped around Tom’s heart squeezes tight and something peculiar happens.
The door to the cupboard swings open again, and Laurence stumbles back into it. The expression on his face makes it clear that his feet are not moving backwards of his own volition; something is propelling him into that dark, gaping maw, something he cannot control, something he has no power over. Tom backs away. He does not want to be controlled by whatever this is. He wants to have power over it.
The cupboard door slams shut, leaving Tom unharmed. At the same moment, Laurence starts screaming. He screams and cries, screams and scratches at the door, and Tom realizes that he can hear it better than he should be able to. It’s as if the cupboard door isn’t even there, and that’s when Tom realizes that he is the one doing this. The sentiment wrapped around his heart changes. He will not simply endure. He will transcend. He will conquer.
Laurence stops screaming. Laurence stops crying. Laurence stops scratching at the door.
Tom opens the cupboard door.
Laurence is gone. There is nothing to suggest that anyone was ever in the cupboard. The bottles that Tom knocked over are back where they began. The door that Laurence scratched is perfect and untouched. The shadows shrink back in the face of the light. One of them looks like it has hands, scratching, screaming, crying.
Tom closes the cupboard door. Tom goes to lunch.
Tom does not fear the darkness. Tom does not fear anything.
In related news, I have decided only to f-lock my NC-17 stuff. In hindsight, it makes a lot more sense than my original plan.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1192
Pairing/Character: Tom Riddle
Warnings: Very, very weird. Written as quickly as possible with no editing. Beware my abuse of repetition and some very obvious symbolism.
Summary: Children are prisoners. [Written for cliche_bingo, prompt "phobias".]
“Hey, freak!”
This scene is a familiar one.
Item one: Laurence Handler. Laurence’s parents are dead. Laurence is tall, heavyset; Laurence likes watching things come apart. Destruction makes him feel strong.
Item two: Tom Riddle. Tom’s parents are dead. Tom is short, skinny; Tom likes knowing how things are put together, so that he can later take them apart himself. There is power in knowledge, and that knowledge makes him feel strong.
Item three: the cafeteria. Tom is by the door. Laurence is by his seat. Tom is leaving. Laurence is having his fun.
The other children pay no attention. This is an orphanage, and orphanages are a lot like prisons; no one can leave, no one will help you, and the only thing there is to do is survive. Like a prison, there are bars on the windows here, but only on the second story, to keep the children from jumping to their deaths. Just like a prisoner, Tom must make his stand; he is five and Laurence is twelve, but if he does not fight things will be even worse for him. He must endure; it is a sentiment wrapped around his heart. So instead of continuing out the door, he says, “you want something?”
“Yeah,” Laurence says lazily. He is taller, he is stronger. He shows his power through this laziness just as Tom shows it through answering. It remains convincing, despite the much taller fifteen-year-old next to him. “Go get me some more food, will you?” He raises his tray, waves it around sloppily. He is older, he is bigger. He does not need precision.
“Go get it yourself,” Tom bites back, and then he does something he shouldn’t. He should know better, but his eyes dart to the opposite wall, where the windows are, anyway, just for a second. Just for a second, but Laurence sees it, sees it and knows what it means. Laurence’s mouth twitches into something like a smile, and then Tom is through the door, heading back to his room. Orphanages are just like prisons, and just like in a prison Tom can’t show weakness.
In the orphanage, the shadows stretch long early in the evening, casting wicked shapes across the walls. Tom looks at these shapes when he sits on his bed, and just like in the cafeteria his eyes dart away, towards the window where there is light. Tom could turn the light on and get rid of the shadows, but that would be giving in. In prison you can’t give in.
Tom goes to sleep with the light off. Four hours later he awakes panting in the darkness.
It takes Laurence two days to get back at him. Two days, and Tom’s back is still up, he is still waiting for something to hit him. When it does, he is not surprised. He is terrified.
He’s walking to his room when Laurence grabs him by the hair and shoves him into a cupboard. His back hits the far wall and then the door slams shut, taking all the light with it. His breath is shallow and quick. Outside, Laurence is laughing.
Tom always compares his room to a prison cell, but being in a cupboard is a thousand times worse. The air is full of the scents of the cleaning supplies stored within and his lungs burn when he breathes in. The darkness is absolute, so pure that he can’t see his hands in front of his face. Every time he tries to turn around he hits something that he can’t see, a wall or a mop or a spray bottle, and he feels like the walls are tilting in.
For a moment, he almost cries, almost screams, but then he remembers. Crying and screaming are things to do when someone is around to provide a rescue. No one is going to rescue Tom. He is in prison, and he will endure. That sentiment wrapped around his heart, wrapped around his core, gives him power. It’s like magic, and with it he can do anything.
It takes Tom a while to get his breathing under control-how long, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know how long he has been in this cupboard for. But eventually his breathing is deep and even. He can now see shapes and outlines; the darkness is not as absolute as he thought it was. He no longer knocks bottles over. He no longer turns aimlessly. Instead he says to the door, calmly, “let me out, Laurence. I want to apologize.”
There are shuffling steps to the door. Laurence didn’t go away; Laurence is a bully, Laurence is weak, Laurence becomes strong hearing Tom cry and scream. Tom hasn’t cried or screamed, so Laurence says, “no, I think I’ll leave you in there for a day or two.”
Tom does not despair. Tom says, “It’s almost lunchtime. I want to carry your tray for you.”
The door unlatches almost immediately. Laurence becomes strong when Tom is weak, and Tom’s servitude would be the ultimate sign of weakness. Uncowed, Tom emerges from the cupboard. The light outside of it hurts his eyes, so he keeps them shut, circling around so Laurence is between him and the cupboard.
Laurence smirks. Children in an orphanage are like men in prison, and so a smile on a normal child’s face becomes a smirk on these children’s faces. Instead of an expression of joy, it is an expression of superiority, strength. It is about power. Everything is about power. “Come on, freak,” he says, and he leans forward, about to push Tom. But that sentiment wrapped around Tom’s heart squeezes tight and something peculiar happens.
The door to the cupboard swings open again, and Laurence stumbles back into it. The expression on his face makes it clear that his feet are not moving backwards of his own volition; something is propelling him into that dark, gaping maw, something he cannot control, something he has no power over. Tom backs away. He does not want to be controlled by whatever this is. He wants to have power over it.
The cupboard door slams shut, leaving Tom unharmed. At the same moment, Laurence starts screaming. He screams and cries, screams and scratches at the door, and Tom realizes that he can hear it better than he should be able to. It’s as if the cupboard door isn’t even there, and that’s when Tom realizes that he is the one doing this. The sentiment wrapped around his heart changes. He will not simply endure. He will transcend. He will conquer.
Laurence stops screaming. Laurence stops crying. Laurence stops scratching at the door.
Tom opens the cupboard door.
Laurence is gone. There is nothing to suggest that anyone was ever in the cupboard. The bottles that Tom knocked over are back where they began. The door that Laurence scratched is perfect and untouched. The shadows shrink back in the face of the light. One of them looks like it has hands, scratching, screaming, crying.
Tom closes the cupboard door. Tom goes to lunch.
Tom does not fear the darkness. Tom does not fear anything.
In related news, I have decided only to f-lock my NC-17 stuff. In hindsight, it makes a lot more sense than my original plan.