Nothing's Embrace

Nothing's Embrace
Amethyst Soul

He ran down the halls with increasing speed. It didn't matter that each step against the cold stone floor brought about a loud echo and faded away behind him. The echo's noise could potentially give away his presence to anyone that may be nearby, loud and rapid enough to peak the curiosity of those listeners. He knew the consequences of being out this late, and he didn't care- evidenced by the fact that he didn't stop running until he leapt out the window in front of him.

Tom became dully aware of the feeling of falling. Of course he was falling- he had just leapt out of the window of one of the highest towers in the castle. He felt the feeling, the true feeling of falling- that squeamish, terrible feeling you get in your stomach when your body feels just how awesome the power of gravity is; that free, wonderful feeling of having no boundaries, no constraints- just pure, limitless freedom; that cold, stinging feeling of the atmosphere ripping at your skin; that annoying, conscious feeling nudging at the back of your mind that tells you every fall must end.

He felt it, and he liked it. But his conscious told him either the fall or his life must inevitably end soon; and so, with a sigh, he swung the broom he had been clutching in his hand beneath him and, using the power of magic, defied gravity.

Defying gravity and harnessing magic were alike in that sense. They both, while almost limitless, demanded immense amounts of power. Both could free humans from what they were bound to since birth: defying gravity, the constraint of its pull; magic, the constraint of mere human physical abilities. Both were invisible- but, like faith, could be "seen" by those who believed, and witnessed, its abilities. Both were what Tom Riddle embraced when he couldn't stand life anymore, when he sought comfort in the unseen, the intangible, the sure.

"This is so ridiculous," he muttered under his breath.

/Is it?/ he asked himself.

Magic, gravity- it was all ridiculous. He had more faith in them than he had in his own life. More than his own friends- the surrogate family he had adopted as his own. Even more than the stone castle from which he now fled. Everything tangible- everything he could see, taste, feel, smell, touch- had little meaning to him. For some reason he relied more on what he couldn't see, what he could only witness the consequences of. For some reason, he had more faith in falling backwards with no one behind him than he did having someone there to support him, opening himself to betrayal- or worse, disappointment.

He was in one of those moods spurred by no real event; the kind that scientists call "raging hormones" and psychics call "influences of planetary alignments" and women call "times of the month" and parents call "that teenage stage" and wiccans call "aftermath of moon phases"- the kind where no one knew what the hell they were talking about, and blamed visible objects on their emotions instead of attributing them to the conscious of the mind or the motives of the heart.

Tom had been morose all day, and when night had come he realized just how alone in his mood he really felt and he could no longer stand the confines of his castle jail. So he fled with his own musings, fled like the good-for-nothing bastard of a father that had left him so long ago; but, unlike his father, with every intention of going back.

Running, falling, flying- suddenly it didn't matter what way he escaped, as long as he did so. Before long he realized that he had exceeded far beyond Hogwarts grounds than he had ever gone. The chilled air rushed against him violently, winding through, tickling, and moaning in his ears as if whispering to him: "You don't belong here."

/But if not here, then where?/ he told himself, and decided to land.

The trees he had once soared above now loomed over him, giving him the distinct feeling of powerlessness. In this sense, it seemed as though once he could no longer deny gravity he also could not harness magic, and he was as much a victim to the elements as anyone else. He propped his broom up against the trunk of a particularly large looking tree and walked a few feet towards a small clearing he had spotted, where the trees parted and allowed him a clear window to the world above.

He wondered internally why he'd come here; the only answer came in the sway of trees and rustling of leaves as the wind danced and mocked him. Tom shuddered and pulled his black cloak closer to himself. His hand brushed over the Slytherin patch he had sewn onto the cloak himself- it was an acrylic snake that he had seen in a muggle shop one day and impulsively bought; now he bore it on the shoulder of his cloak to boast his individuality. Even to his closest friends he did not disclose the whereabouts of what store he had bought it from- he wanted to be the only one to wear the creature. Or, at least that had been his excuse. In truth, he did not want to reveal to anyone that this "creature" was of muggle origin.

Now the once proud snake was withered and old: the glittering strings that once bound tightly together were a strangled mess; years of abuse and dirt marked the edges of the patch; the emerald and silver colors were faded, drained, and hardly discernible from an everyday green and grey.

Tom always had the choice to restore the patch to its original state, but he had never wanted to. He had, in the words of his potions teacher, wanted to give it "character". The snake, though a tattered, torn mess obviously had a story behind it- it had life to it; it was as real as he was. Perfectly imperfect. Tom numbly stopped picking at the snake and buried his hands beneath his cloak, suddenly aware of how cold it was. He stared up at the sky; the moon was either behind shadows or clouds and all he could see was darkness and little rays of light poking out from night's cloak here and there.

The scene made him sleepy, but the weather kept him partially awake. He was sitting down on the grass, now, back arched against a tree, calmly taking in everything that was before him. He wasn't sure what time it was, what homework he had, or even if he had classes the next day. He had an image to uphold, a title- Head Boy- to maintain, but for a few hours he wanted to abandon those responsibilities.

He abandoned his responsibilities to his friends as well- what few he had. He was well known in the Slytherin House, but he didn't really have many "true" friends, albeit Malfoy and Decker could hardly be counted as so. Malfoy had voiced a desire to gather tonight in the Slytherin common room for a meeting, of sorts, but Tom professed that he was exhausted and feeling ill, and thus left the two to their own devices.

Here, under the shadows of the trees, they hardly crossed his mind. They may as well have not existed at all, and so Tom pushed them to the back of his thoughts to let others surface within him. These feelings, not new in form but new in recognition, Tom found as anxiousness. Anxiousness for what he did not know- for family? A sense of belonging? Someone to listen? An understanding? Something. Something that mattered to him most dear. He had an anxiousness for something his heart knew that his mind didn't- and the key to the lock of the safe wasn't about to be given away.

Tom became aware of the fact that he was talking aloud. He wasn't sure when he started, or even what he was saying. He was just talking away to ears that weren't there, ignored by everyone and everything- even himself.

"...and it's almost the end," he was whispering. He stopped talking when he finally registered that the words coming from his mouth, blushed at the stupidity of his schizoid actions, and then spoke again. "...of my third year, I mean. Back when I first got here, I couldn't believe that I actually had... more to me than those other pathetic souls in the orphanage. I thought I was just like them, and I'm not. I'm more than them, better than them. And now here I am, preparing to be what they could never be... given a privilege that they'll never have."

His eyes held a glint devoid of any true consciousness of his surroundings. He might have even been crying, too, but the wind wiped his tears away and left his face dry. Hugging his knees closer to himself, he finally realized what he was saying, and who he was saying it to. And so he kept talking.

"Mom..." he paused, and realized now why he hadn't wanted to listen to himself speak. It was so silly, so childish- something he used to do as a young boy, growing up in a house where no one had parents. He had almost forgotten he had done it in the first place. For some reason, this seemed a good time to pick up the habit again. "Mom, you'd be ashamed of me now. I'm not a very good son. Me and my friends... we play dirty tricks on the other boys. And I sneak out all the time- twice a week, now. But I'm trying hard in school. Just for you, you know. A few days ago I ventured into the restricted section of the library. It's fascinating. You'd love it- there are so many things you can do... so many spells and enchantments...

"But you knew that, didn't you? You knew what power was... what power you had over your own husband, and your muggle friends and colleagues. I don't know how you kept it from them... magic is so much a part of my life now that I can't imagine living without it. You'd laugh at me, but sometimes I dream that our entire family was magic. We'd grow and learn together... father would help teach me Quidditch moves- even though I don't like to play- and you'd help me through my potions studies- even if I didn't need the help. It'd be something we would share.

"You'd miss me so terribly when I went away to school that'd you'd send me letters every week, and the other boys would laugh at me and call me a "mother's boy". I'd blush and pretend to be ashamed but secretly I'd know they were jealous- their mothers didn't care so much."

Tom stopped talking for a moment; the pause made him aware of how strange it must have been for him to talk aloud. Even though he knew that no one was around for miles, he still felt insecure, as though the woods were filled with others ready to ridicule him for his weakness. Not that his fellow Slytherins, even if they were here, would do so. They knew he was far more advanced in the arts of wizardry and could implement horrible curses on them- not that he had ever done, or even threatened, to do such a thing.

/They're afraid of you./

He didn't know the why, he just knew the what: they feared what they did not know, and Tom was often so quiet in class that his introverted personality caused others to fear him even more. To them, he was a mystery. The less of his personality he revealed to others, the less they were sure of. He almost laughed to himself. They were so dependent on knowing that they hardly trusted their instincts without givens. And without givens, they turned to assumptions- a far cry from intuition.

Tom sighed laid his head back; his black hair was messy, widly strung about his face as if he hadn't brushed it in years. He braved the cold again to lift a hand up and brush the tangles out of his eyes; his hand, under the dim light, was pale and almost faded in color. Once his hand retreated back under the warm protection of the cloak, he went back to thoughts of his mother; whenever he did, matters seemed to make more sense. He looked up at the sky with sleepy eyes, noting that the air was slightly less cold.

"If you're watching over me... protecting me," he told her, "don't waste your time. I'm going to protect myself. I'm going to become something you would've been proud of." He stopped, searching the sky, silently. He wasn't quite sure what she would have been proud of. But he was sure it didn't involve the orphan life of his muggle past, or the subservient, shy wizard life he was leading now. He smiled at the stars then, and they seemed to smile back; an indication of his mother's approval.

"...I don't know you," Tom whispered, so low he wasn't sure if it was aloud or in his thoughts. The stars above glimmered questioningly, beckoning him to continue. "I don't remember you. As far as I know, you don't exist..."

He closed his eyes as the wind embraced him. This translucent gesture was the closest he'd ever get to real comfort- and he cherished it. "...But that's the way I like it. You're just a creation of my imagination- and that's how I want it. I can lean on you because you're not really there. I can turn my back to you and you can never stab me. You are nothing... and I love you for it."

Tom felt himself falling away from the scene before him, falling away from the empty conversation and into the arms of the nothing; there he felt comfortable to close his eyes and eventually, he fell asleep.

And woke up something different.