Getting Harry Back

Chapter 3
To Hang Love Slowly, Pt 1

Now conscience wakes despair
That slumbered, wakes the bitter memorie
Of what he was, what is, and what must be
Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensureÂ….
O Sun, ...I hate thy beams
That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell....

--John Milton
Paradise Lost, Book IV

"Revenge."

Against all the pains, pains he knew he must feel, he clutched that thought.

"Revenge."

He smiled.

"And breathing; that, too. Never forget breathing."

With these two, revenge and survival, he began to feel Voldemort reform within, buffering him from the agonized chaos swirling all around. Slowly, slowly his breathing steadied, his mind focused, and he could feel the coldness, that special hate that brought with it needed distance and calculation.

The subterranean Great Hall's empty silence surrounded him. He took comfort from that, as he took comfort from Nagini curled around his feet.

Now almost Voldemort, he gave himself time to embody that coldness, allowing it to penetrate and isolate which, once completed, would bring him back to himself. At least his Voldemort, his most-transformed self. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and re- settled:

"I am Lord Voldemort," he said.

He smiled and felt Nagini's smile joining him, a smile that came with so many tastes, so many feelings, most of them snakishly indescribable.

"You are subtle, my dear Nagini. You have depths and complexities."

Voldemort wondered, as he sometimes did, why he had never used Legilimency on her. Here were worlds to explore, perhaps powers he would find useful. Yet he felt a certain... not reluctance, it was stronger, much stronger. Almost like a line which must not ever be crossed, an incestuous taboo. Not only against doing, but even against thinking it.

Voldemort shrugged. "I have more pressing matters."

He returned to reliving Tommy:

..........

Out of nowhere came Esther.

When Esther first looked at him and smiled, her eyes really there for him, Tommy thought that at last Faylor had come. When she touched him, when she held him and rocked him, he was sure. Nothing ever had felt this good. Never had he felt so alive, so real, so richly Tommy. He could be Tommy now, because he had someone to be Tommy with.

But Tommy was shocked, then angry, and then terrified when, after that first day, she left. He wondered why she hadn't taken him. She'd come, she'd brought that peace, but then she'd left. He'd never seen that happen before. When Faylor came, she always took the baby with her. He figured he must have done something wrong, something that sent her away. But hard as he tried, he couldn't figure out what. He was terrified that she would never come back, that he would never get another chance, that he was so bad that Faylor would never take him.

When she came the next day, Tommy was at first delighted. But then he became desperate to learn what he'd done wrong. He had to learn to do the right thing, to make Faylor not only bring him peace, but to take him away. He tried, oh, he tried so hard! No baby ever tried harder: he never cried, he always smiled, because that's what she seemed to like most. He smiled and smiled with everything in his heart and will.

But again, at day's end, she left. Tommy was terrified that this time she'd truly gone, that again he'd failed, he'd done something to make her go away, something bad, something very, very bad.

But what?

Tommy cried that night as he'd never cried before. There was no cycle, only desperate, inconsolable crying. Faceless workers came and went from his cot, with their not-there eyes and their touchless touches. As each came, Tommy cried louder. Finally, they left him alone with his crying.

When she came the next day, Tommy was listless, hopeless. He knew there was nothing he could do, that he would drive her away again. He had no heart strength left to try.

But instead of leaving him, she picked him up, she took him with her around the line of cots. She bounced him, held him, talked to him and looked at him, really looked at him with eyes that felt as sad as his, eyes that tried to coax him into smiles. But Tommy couldn't smile because, in his heart, there were no smiles left. He noticed, though, that while her eyes were sad, they always stayed there, they never went not-there.

Tommy expected her to leave, and so that night when she left, he simply fell into an exhausted sleep. He could even feel the beginnings of fading. With that, a small hope came. He wondered if maybe that was it, that he needed to fade, and then she would take him away.

She came again the next day.

Tommy tried hard to hang onto his fading. When she looked at him, he tried to show her, in his eyes, his fading. Again, as the day before, she carried him around. Tommy tried so hard to fade, and perhaps he did a little.

But not enough, for at days' end, again she left.

Tommy faded even more that night.

The next day, she didn't come. Tommy continued to fade that day, that night and the following day when she still didn't come and Tommy knew that she was gone.

..........

Voldemort allowed all these feelings to go deeply into his body and search out that painful, hated love. With a satisfied smile, he felt that love, already quivering, begin to struggle and writhe in the noose. Love was starting the slow process of her death.

"To hang love slowly," he thought again, and felt his coldness recovering and growing.

..........

That evening, two workers, eyes not-there and touchless as always, stood over Tommy's cot. One said, "Faylor t'Trive," and the other nodded.

Faded Tommy slept, clutching his faint hope of Faylor.

Next morning he awoke, and she was there! Now, he thought, now she will take me! And she did, she picked him up and carried him around with her. But they didn't leave, and by midday Tommy grew suspicious.

Another worker came to them, looked at her, and called her, "Esther," like they called him, "Tommy".

Then Tommy knew: she wasn't Faylor. He felt that hope leave. But he felt another hope come: if I can't have Faylor, maybe I can have Esther?

And so he did. She wasn't Faylor, at night she kept leaving, and there were days she wasn't there. But she always came back, she always saw Tommy, talking with him, touching and holding him.

Most amazing of all, she played with him. Tommy had never known, had never seen or felt playing. It was, after her eyes and her voice and her holding, the most wonderful thing he could imagine.

Tommy grew and thrived, and he began to forget Faylor.

He had Esther.

..........

Voldemort sighed. This was the one of the hardest parts. He could feel, inside him, love catching her breath. It was a struggle, now, to keep Tommy and Tom submerged, under control. But he knew he must and, more important, he knew help was coming. He sought the coldness that was still left. He embraced it and went back to the memories, to reliving:

..........

Tommy was five now, all the fingers on one hand. When anyone asked him, he proudly showed them, and if Esther was around, she always smiled. He knew he'd done right, because she smiled. He could walk around, and he always followed Esther as she walked the line of cots with little babies. Sometimes he stuck close-by and held her hand. Sometimes he went off exploring and came back to Esther, telling her what he had seen and heard. And Esther always smiled.

Esther left each night, but even when she left, Tommy now had a picture of Esther in his heart, and he could feel Esther all around him, holding him as he went to sleep. In the morning, almost every morning, she was there. He knew she would come back.

But that day, Esther wasn't smiling. She was crying, and Tommy was sure he'd done something bad, very bad. She was talking to him, and he tried hard to listen. It was hard to listen because of her crying.

"Tommy, I have go away."

"Go away?" Tommy thought.

"My mother is very ill, and she lives far away, in a place called India. She needs me to go to her."

"Take me with you!" Tommy cried.

"I can't, Tommy, I can't. You see, I'm not married, and they won't let me adopt you, they won't let me take you with me. And I am Indian, too, you see, and you are English...." She let the sentence trail off.

"But make them, make them let me go with you! I want to go with you!"

"I know, Tommy, and I want to take you with me, I want to with all my heart."

"Then make them let me go with you! Make them! Make them!"

"I can't, Tommy. I've tried and, well... I can't."

"But you have to! You have to!"

"I can't Tommy. I wish I could, oh, I so wish I could, Tommy, but I just can't."

"I'll be good, I'll be very good! I promise, I promise! Take me with you, please! Please, take me with you! I'll be very, very good! I promise, I promise!"

When Esther bade Tommy goodbye and left that evening, Tommy was terrified, but part of him couldn't believe that she wouldn't be back, she'd always come back. He was up the next morning, hoping and looking. For the next week, he spent all day, every day searching, because his heart knew that somewhere there was Esther. She had to be there, she had to!

Then his hope died. He knew Esther wasn't coming, he knew Faylor wasn't coming, he knew they were gone, gone forever. And in his heart, where that hope had been, where Esther and Faylor had been, it became empty, then cold and hard.

Tommy could also feel a wound inside him, a vast, always there, always hurting wound. Gradually that coldness and hardness grew until it covered his heart and wound, until it looked out of his eyes. And while people still called him Tommy, he knew that Tommy was gone, too, gone away with Esther. And like Esther, Tommy wasn't coming back.

* * * * * * * * * *

Me miserable! Which way shall I flie
Infinite wrauth, and infinite despaire?
Which way I flie is Hell; my self am Hell....

--John Milton
Paradise Lost, Book IV

* * * * * * * * * *

"My first transformation," Voldemort thought, feeling the coldness and hardness grow within him, feeling love gasping for breath within the tightening noose.

"The love of someone more powerful than you is never to be trusted. They will use their love, their power over you to hurt you. You must never trust their love, you must always find a way first to hide and deceive, and then when you are strong enough, when you are clever and knowing enough, you can be in control."

Voldemort felt his cold heart agree, solidify, close and, to his lights, strengthen.

"And my next transformation:"

..........

Several months later, the boy that people still called Tommy was standing alone in a room, holding a toy, a tattered teddy bear that he and Esther had played with so much that it still smelled and felt of Esther. Not-Tommy took it to bed each night, not for comfort but out of habit, a now-empty habit. A younger boy, two, perhaps three years old, entered the room, came up to him and grabbed the bear away from his listless grip.

Startled, Not-Tommy tried to grab the bear back, but the boy hung on. Not-Tommy tugged, the boy tugged, and the fragile, over-used bear ripped, the boy holding a bear- arm, Not-Tommy holding the rest.

For a moment, Not-Tommy left. Tommy came back and stared at the torn-apart bear. He looked at the boy, who smiled. Something snapped, and Tommy felt a rage he'd never felt before. Scared, the boy backed up. Tommy felt something rush out of him, pick up the boy and throw him down a long flight of concrete stairs. When the boy reached the bottom, he didn't move, and his head was at a strange angle.

Tommy had never lost his ability to feel others' feelings. When Esther came, he'd concentrated on hers, and the feelings of others had faded into the background. When Esther left, though, he began to feel others again, even though he didn't want to, even though feeling them often hurt.

Now Tommy reached out to feel the boy. Nothing. Like when Faylor came, there was nothing. Tommy knew the boy was gone, gone like Esther, gone and not coming back.

Then Tommy went away, too, and Not-Tommy came back. Not-Tommy stood there, looking at the boy. He felt his heart's coldness and hardness growing, and as they grew, he felt stronger. Not-Tommy looked back at the torn bear and again, he felt the coldness and hardness growing, and again, he felt stronger.

Not-Tommy realized that the power inside of him, the power that had killed the boy had come from his wound, out of Tommy, who hadn't gone away forever after all. That Tommy power had come from his rage, his abandoned love and shame turned into rage. Not-Tommy realized, too, that the power had also come from the coldness and hardness of his, Not-Tommy's heart and eyes, from Not-Tommy's hate. The power had come out of both Tommy and Not-Tommy.

And Not-Tommy had discovered that using power to hurt made him feel better, made him stronger.

Not-Tommy quickly and quietly walked out of the room, taking with him the bear pieces. For many months, he kept it and took it to bed, as a reminder. Then he threw it away. He didn't need a reminder any more. He had others; he made his own reminders, many reminders.

He had made his second transformation: he had discovered a power within himself, and had learned how it could be strengthened and used.

When the dead boy was discovered, there was a lot of upset and talk, but no one ever found out what had happened.

After this, Not-Tommy asked people to call him Tom.

..........

"Ah, yes," Voldemort smiled, "coming into my own, and at such a tender age." He felt the coldness and hardness, the hate within him strengthening and restoring his control, his strength, and he also felt that primal rage. Tom and Tommy were more at a distance, but they had become useful again. And love dangled listlessly in the noose, only her eyes showing any life at all.

"My second transformation: hate and rage, the basic fuel of my power, my pathway to magic and domination."

* * * * * * * * * *

Here we may reign secure, and in my choyce
To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav'n."

--John Milton
Paradise Lost, Book I

* * * * * * * * * *

There were so many injuries, so many deaths in the orphanage, none ever explained, that it developed a bad-luck reputation and grew steadily smaller. The halls and rooms became more and more empty, and there was talk of closing.

Tom had grown -- in size, in strength and, most importantly, in power. He'd learned how to get and use that power, though he never quite understood what it was. Tom realized that the power came through Tommy, his pain, his shame turned to rage, and through Tom's hate. He learned, too, that he could feed on the emotions of others, to strengthen that rage and hate.

Tom learned to prowl the empty rooms in the old, sprawling Georgian mansion, which had been an orphanage for almost a hundred years. He could feel and hear generations of loneliness, of fear and shame, of abuse and rage and hate. He learned to avoid love, which in the orphanage, wasn't difficult. Love drained his power, melted the coldness and hardness. Though he learned that small bits of love had their uses. Tom discovered that, when he went into a room with love just long enough, then went into, say, the line of cots, the power of rage and hate came much faster. But certain rooms, where Tommy and Esther had played the most, rooms that held his happiest and most loving memories, those he had to avoid. Even a few moments there left Tom drained for days. The pain and shame was too great.

Tom had also become a beautiful boy, something he often heard remarked on. He learned to use this to get privileges, to gain access to those weaker and open to his preying.

A few years after he became Tom, one of the newer and younger workers took a fancy to him, and began spending more time with Tom. At first Tom, as always, used this to his advantage. But he noticed that the young man never seemed to mind, even when as a test Tom became quite brazen.

This left Tom confused, and he, out of curiosity, began spending even more time with the young man. He discovered this time felt more and more pleasant. The young man took an interest in him, in his thoughts and moods, in his whims and wonderings, satisfying them if possible, and if not, praising him for his cleverness.

..........

"What a fool I was," thought Voldemort, "what a complete and utter fool."

..........

They began to take strolls on the grounds, and even into the forest that was attached. Tom was pleased, as this was something not allowed the children unless they had a worker with them, and few workers cared enough to bother. He began to enjoy, even to look forward to their time together.

Until the young man raped him.

Tom was so surprised, so shocked that he forgot about his power until long after he had returned to the orphanage and the young worker had left for the day.

The next day, the young worker was found at the base of some concrete steps, his neck broken, apparently having fallen, though the violence of the fall puzzled the coroner who investigated.

Tom grew colder and harder and even more rageful, hateful and powerful.

Shortly after turning ten, another young boy, Jim, about Tom's age, came to the orphanage after his parents had died in a fire. At first, Tom fed on the new boy's sadness, on his loneliness and fear.

A week after Jim arrived, Tom did him a genuinely good turn – nothing major, and with the intent of setting him up. But it was still a good turn.

Jim was surprised. He looked into Tom's eyes, really looked, and he reached out, grabbed Tom's forearm and held on. Jim's look and his touch somehow penetrated the coldness and hardness, and Tom felt touched, really touched. And not only touched, but seen, seen not for who he was, but for who he could be.

Tom looked back into Jim's vivid blue eyes, saw that shy, grateful smile, and felt something inside melt, melt in a new and deeper way. Before he could shore up his defenses, Tom felt his own face come through the mask, having its own shy and, yes, a grateful smile from his heart. Tom found himself at first reluctant, then unwilling to undo either his smile or his heart-gratitude.

So Tom and Jim became friends.

...........

Again Voldemort felt those hated tears falling down his face. Nagini lifted her head, turned towards him and flicked her tongue, tasting and testing.

"Ah, Nagini, do not be concerned. Or hopeful." He smiled his cold smile. "I had learned about the love of those more powerful. I still had to learn about the love of friends. Be patient, my dear Nagini, only two more loves, two more transformations left. Be patient."

..........

The next eight months were the most wonderful Tom could remember since Esther. A deep wonderful, a safe wonderful – safe because Tom knew that Jim wouldn't leave. No child left except by death or by becoming an adult. And becoming an adult was, to a ten year old, a lifetime away.

It was, for Tom, as if someone had turned on the sun again, the sun within. Equally stunning, Tom saw that he turned on the sun for Jim after the darkness of his parents' sudden death.

The two instantly bonded and became inseparable. To see Tom's smooth black hair was to know that Jim's shaggy black-black hair was not far away. Their playful joy together brought smiles to even the most hardened staffers.

Three months into their friendship, Tom heard a staffer comment that the years of bad luck seemed to be over. With that, Tom got two surprises. First, he felt that the power he had so assiduously cultivated was gone, replaced by another, gentler power. Second, he found not only that he did not miss that first power, but that he liked the exchange.

Tom still felt in others, but he was no longer searching out their weaknesses. He was touching their loves, their hopes, their better natures, not feeding and preying on them, but... joining with them.

Tom and Jim concentrated on the boy good times so abundantly available in an underused Georgian mansion with adjacent grounds and forest, especially when boys were poorly supervised. Jim taught Tom, simply and by example, how to be a boy, and Tom, an apt and eager learner, finally had a real taste of childhood.

"Oy! Tom! Over here! Look at this!"

"What is it?" he cried as he came scrambling over.

The two boys had decided to explore a locked corner of the attic – strictly forbidden and so, of course, overwhelmingly attractive. They plotted for weeks, and had finally discovered where the key was kept and they nicked it.

"A box," Jim answered. "With your name on it."

"What?" Tom peered down at a small, dusty wooden chest.

"Locked," Jim added. "Can't even see a bloody keyhole."

Tom frowned. "Let's have a look, eh?"

Jim backed away, giving his friend access.

Tom picked up the box and gave it a shake. It rattled.

"Bloody hell," he said. "Wonder what's in it."

Jim shrugged, and both boys stood staring at the box in Tom's hands.

Tom ran his fingers around the crack of the box lid. As he reached the front's center, something inside of him told him to stop. He closed his eyes to feel more keenly, and moved his right thumb fractionally. Then he pressed and felt... power? Something flowed out of him and into the box.

The lid opened, and there, on top of various papers, were two rings, a broach, and a short piece of polished dark wood.

Tom touched the piece of wood, strangely hesitant. "Wonder what it is?"

Jim grinned and nudged him. "What else? A magic wand."