Springfic: "And For Spare Parts We're Broken Up" for cyyt
Title: And For Spare Parts We're Broken Up
Author: chaoschild92
Recipient: cyyt
Character(s): Tom Riddle, Ginny Weasley
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1050 words
Warnings (highlight to view): dark!fic I suppose
Summary: The angel comes to Tom while he is sleeping.
Author's Notes (if any): This got really trippy! I really, really hope you like it!
Betas: The delightful bowie_glam.
And For Spare Parts We're Broken Up
The angel comes to Tom while he is sleeping. She haunts his dreams. Like a ghost. Like a guardian. She whispers in his ear at night, when the sound of the others at play has been reduced down to their breathing and the occasional sleepless sob, soft and grating.
His angel isn’t blonde, like all the ones in pictures he sees. Like the ones in the stained glass windows when they’re shuffled out of the orphanage to file, in a ragged line, down to the church for Christmas and Easter. His angel doesn’t have golden hair.
But she is beautiful.
Her hair is red. Red like blood. Red like love and pain and revenge.
Sometimes she comes to him bleeding. Her dress stained, colour reaching up the white cloth that billows about her legs, wrapping around them like vines. Stretching up her body, winding like a living tattoo until she holds her arms out to him in entreaty, scarlet bracelets twirling around the flesh. A plea, an escape, an embrace.
Sometimes she’s lying in a pool of it.
When he’s foolish enough to ask the pastor, who comes once a week, if angels can have red hair, one of the new boys laughs at him. He calls him crazy.
Tom breaks his arm.
Not in a physical confrontation. All the adults think the boy slips and falls. But Tom makes sure that all the other children know it was him.
And he never mentions the angel out loud again.
She’s his angel.
When Dumbledore comes to see him Tom thinks that they’ve heard him. Talking in the night with his angel. Sent a doctor because of what the boy said. Because they think he’s crazy.
She never speaks.
But he does. He pours his heart out to her every night. He feels like she becomes more real with every word he says. Every story he tells her. Each tale makes her more a part of his life, of him.
He feels her thrilling delight at his every act of revenge on the petty children that surround him. Feels her appreciation of his mastery. Of himself, of others, of the world around him.
When he is sad his angel cheers him with her beautiful face. When he loses conviction her very presence reminds him just how unique he is. How she has chosen him to visit each night.
At Hogwarts he forgets about her for a time. He loses sight of his dreams.
He ceases to feel special. A part of him withers and dies. He has always thought of himself as singular, as a perfect gem in the stone. Yet here he is surrounded by wonder. He hates it.
So he finds those less wondrous than himself. Even less at ease in this magical environment. And he torments them. He tortures them any way he can.
The night he first stumbles into the chamber of secrets he dreams of his angel again.
The night he first lets the basilisk loose he hears her for the first time.
She doesn’t say a word, hovering before him. But in his mind, she screams.
At the age of seventeen Tom meets his father.
How he hated the idea of the man.
He had dreamt many nights of what he would do, called up grotesque tortures and invented new spells to encompass the suffering he felt he deserved. He told the angel stories of what he would do, lying awake in the dormitory at night.
At the age of seventeen Tom kills his father.
It’s not exactly how he imagined it though. Having the man crumpled at his feet.
There’s fear frozen on his face.
He understands fear.
But then the magic he invoked earlier (with sweat and blood and a horrible crushing uncertainty hanging over him like a cloud) takes over and the last of Tom is ripped from his body.
It’s unbearable. The pain goes beyond the physical, beyond the mental and spiritual into something he cannot name, something he cannot endure.
Tom dies in that instant.
And Lord Voldemort rises from the ashes.
It terrifies him. Realising what power the name had over him (the name of his creation), what power he’d given a part of himself (what he’d created). That the tiny boy with the broken arm had been right. A part of him housed a creature of unspeakable insanity. Devoid of logic or reason. Filled with hatred. A being he could not control, that had somehow taken him over without his realising it.
And he sees it for an instant, the creature he’s becoming, hovering. Cut off from his body, unanchored. It’s terrifying.
It’s liberating.
Then he’s sucked down. Sucked into the diary that once held the story of his life. That he bought on a whim when he couldn’t go home (because where would he go?) and couldn’t think of anything better to buy with the money in his pocket (though his stomach was empty and his fingers freezing). He’s trapped in a prison of words. Alone.
He weeps, his tears soaking the pages. He’ll never see his angel again.
When Ginevra Weasley finds a diary, she keeps it because it’s what the slightly soppy girls in the books she reads would do. It seems to help them for some reason.
It sits in her bag for almost a week, falling onto her foot when she pulls everything out looking for her charms textbook on Friday evening. The common room is just a bit too loud and the way Harry’s laughing on the other side of the room is distracting her from her homework. So with the diary in her hand she slips off to her blessedly quiet dormitory.
She looks at it for a long time, wondering what she should write.
Anything directly about her feelings seems stupid, even in her head. There’s nothing there she’d want to commit to paper (which allegedly makes things more real, makes them concrete). Besides, what if somebody found it? What if Harry found it. Or one of her brothers. She can’t think which is worse.
So eventually, rather whimsically, she dips her quill in the ink on the nightstand and, her chin propped on her pillow, she writes the first words that come into her head.
Hello my dark angel.
Author: chaoschild92
Recipient: cyyt
Character(s): Tom Riddle, Ginny Weasley
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1050 words
Warnings (highlight to view): dark!fic I suppose
Summary: The angel comes to Tom while he is sleeping.
Author's Notes (if any): This got really trippy! I really, really hope you like it!
Betas: The delightful bowie_glam.
And For Spare Parts We're Broken Up
The angel comes to Tom while he is sleeping. She haunts his dreams. Like a ghost. Like a guardian. She whispers in his ear at night, when the sound of the others at play has been reduced down to their breathing and the occasional sleepless sob, soft and grating.
His angel isn’t blonde, like all the ones in pictures he sees. Like the ones in the stained glass windows when they’re shuffled out of the orphanage to file, in a ragged line, down to the church for Christmas and Easter. His angel doesn’t have golden hair.
But she is beautiful.
Her hair is red. Red like blood. Red like love and pain and revenge.
Sometimes she comes to him bleeding. Her dress stained, colour reaching up the white cloth that billows about her legs, wrapping around them like vines. Stretching up her body, winding like a living tattoo until she holds her arms out to him in entreaty, scarlet bracelets twirling around the flesh. A plea, an escape, an embrace.
Sometimes she’s lying in a pool of it.
When he’s foolish enough to ask the pastor, who comes once a week, if angels can have red hair, one of the new boys laughs at him. He calls him crazy.
Tom breaks his arm.
Not in a physical confrontation. All the adults think the boy slips and falls. But Tom makes sure that all the other children know it was him.
And he never mentions the angel out loud again.
She’s his angel.
When Dumbledore comes to see him Tom thinks that they’ve heard him. Talking in the night with his angel. Sent a doctor because of what the boy said. Because they think he’s crazy.
She never speaks.
But he does. He pours his heart out to her every night. He feels like she becomes more real with every word he says. Every story he tells her. Each tale makes her more a part of his life, of him.
He feels her thrilling delight at his every act of revenge on the petty children that surround him. Feels her appreciation of his mastery. Of himself, of others, of the world around him.
When he is sad his angel cheers him with her beautiful face. When he loses conviction her very presence reminds him just how unique he is. How she has chosen him to visit each night.
At Hogwarts he forgets about her for a time. He loses sight of his dreams.
He ceases to feel special. A part of him withers and dies. He has always thought of himself as singular, as a perfect gem in the stone. Yet here he is surrounded by wonder. He hates it.
So he finds those less wondrous than himself. Even less at ease in this magical environment. And he torments them. He tortures them any way he can.
The night he first stumbles into the chamber of secrets he dreams of his angel again.
The night he first lets the basilisk loose he hears her for the first time.
She doesn’t say a word, hovering before him. But in his mind, she screams.
At the age of seventeen Tom meets his father.
How he hated the idea of the man.
He had dreamt many nights of what he would do, called up grotesque tortures and invented new spells to encompass the suffering he felt he deserved. He told the angel stories of what he would do, lying awake in the dormitory at night.
At the age of seventeen Tom kills his father.
It’s not exactly how he imagined it though. Having the man crumpled at his feet.
There’s fear frozen on his face.
He understands fear.
But then the magic he invoked earlier (with sweat and blood and a horrible crushing uncertainty hanging over him like a cloud) takes over and the last of Tom is ripped from his body.
It’s unbearable. The pain goes beyond the physical, beyond the mental and spiritual into something he cannot name, something he cannot endure.
Tom dies in that instant.
And Lord Voldemort rises from the ashes.
It terrifies him. Realising what power the name had over him (the name of his creation), what power he’d given a part of himself (what he’d created). That the tiny boy with the broken arm had been right. A part of him housed a creature of unspeakable insanity. Devoid of logic or reason. Filled with hatred. A being he could not control, that had somehow taken him over without his realising it.
And he sees it for an instant, the creature he’s becoming, hovering. Cut off from his body, unanchored. It’s terrifying.
It’s liberating.
Then he’s sucked down. Sucked into the diary that once held the story of his life. That he bought on a whim when he couldn’t go home (because where would he go?) and couldn’t think of anything better to buy with the money in his pocket (though his stomach was empty and his fingers freezing). He’s trapped in a prison of words. Alone.
He weeps, his tears soaking the pages. He’ll never see his angel again.
When Ginevra Weasley finds a diary, she keeps it because it’s what the slightly soppy girls in the books she reads would do. It seems to help them for some reason.
It sits in her bag for almost a week, falling onto her foot when she pulls everything out looking for her charms textbook on Friday evening. The common room is just a bit too loud and the way Harry’s laughing on the other side of the room is distracting her from her homework. So with the diary in her hand she slips off to her blessedly quiet dormitory.
She looks at it for a long time, wondering what she should write.
Anything directly about her feelings seems stupid, even in her head. There’s nothing there she’d want to commit to paper (which allegedly makes things more real, makes them concrete). Besides, what if somebody found it? What if Harry found it. Or one of her brothers. She can’t think which is worse.
So eventually, rather whimsically, she dips her quill in the ink on the nightstand and, her chin propped on her pillow, she writes the first words that come into her head.
Hello my dark angel.