A/N: I have little to no knowledge of British Halloween traditions, especially during the World War II era, so I apologize if anything is out of whack.
Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition.
Round: 6
Team: Ballycastle Bats
Position: Keeper
Words: 1,114 (according to Pages)
General prompt: Write about a light character portraying a sin or a dark character portraying its countering virtue.
Keeper's prompt: sin - gluttony/virtue - temperance
Tom enjoyed Halloween, but not for the reason one might expect; not for the same reason that the other children thundered about the orphanage in a flurry of wild anticipation, squealing and chattering until Mrs. Cole was forced to establish a blanket ban on frolicking of any sort. The multitudinous young residents, deprived of a way to vent their gaiety, resorted to skulking resentfully about the echoey halls, and in the wake of their indignation, Tom thrived. Liberated from enduring their pitiful excitement, he was left in peace to contemplate the potential personal advantages the holiday offered him.
Tom didn't care for sweets. In fact, he found them rather sickening — something about the stickiness, the hot chemical flavor, and the cloying sugary scent always elicited a shudder in his belly. He considered, and always had, the practice of the consumption of such horrifying delicacies to be beneath him. It was weak, petty, trivial; he held no interest in the vices of lesser beings. He wasn't like the others, who would stuff themselves to the point of illness at the first opportunity. While his peers consumed monstrous quantities of candy distributed by noble, charitable, and distinguished persons of great wealth, he would be free to relish the more intriguing aspects of the eagerly awaited day.
This was to be the first Halloween since his discovery of his special power.
As yet, Tom had acquired no clear understanding of his strange new abilities. He had tried, of course; surprised and fascinated, though not unnerved, he had turned to his coveted books for answers. When those had failed him, he had weaseled his way into viewing Mrs. Cole's private collection (under the pretense of doing extra schoolwork), and finally, desperate, had embarked on an excursion to the local public library.
Having unearthed nothing of significance thus far, Tom had set his mind upon a new course of study. The approach of the holiday had led him to a theory that he was eager to test; though he had yet to experiment, he was consumed by a nagging feeling that he could control this newfound power and perhaps even wield it as a weapon of sorts. Halloween, when magic and mystery was afoot, would be the perfect time to asses his capabilities.
While the others donned gaudy costumes and crammed their mouths with sweets, Tom would attempt to weaponize his power beneath the cover of eerie holiday darkness. He would have neither the time nor focus to devote to the pointless consumption of candy that would only make him ill and rot his teeth.
Even disregarding that aspect of his distaste, Tom was preoccupied by a new fascination with Halloween that deterred him still further. He had only recently been able to direct his interest to the information locked within books that he had previously been unable to read without excessive effort. With the approach of the holiday, he had acquired a deep interest in its foundations and history. Dolly Bars seemed laughably banal when contrasted with the magic and rituals of Samhain.
Of course, Tom was alone in his abhorrence of such treats — or at least nearly so. All of the other children were enveloped in a state of desperate longing in anticipation of the great day, and had been so for nearly a fortnight. Their delight was almost too painful for Tom to endure. The only other child who seemed to share in the sentiment was little Beth-Ann Haynes, a bossy mite of a thing a year or two behind him in school.
Though he disliked the thought that she offered him a shred of respite, Tom could not profess to despise the girl to the degree that he detested the others. Despite his general and long-embraced aversion to any and every living being, Tom couldn't deny that she did not elicit in him such strong feelings of revulsion. In fact, he considered her something of an enigma. He was loathe to admit it, but he even found a dull sort of satisfaction — never contentment, but satisfaction was acceptable — in their shared disgust. Beth-Ann's presence was one that he could tolerate, if only for the fact that she, like he, despised the other children's silly grievances and habitually tortured crickets in the churchyard.
Briefly, Tom considered drawing Beth-Ann into his confidences. He wouldn't tell her of the power he had discovered; no, that could not be revealed to anyone. His interest in the subject, though, if he tread carefully, could perhaps be safely conveyed. Tom knew that, despite the fact that she was at least a year younger than he, she considered books to be important — more so than he, at least, as she seemed to revere them and he could certainly never be accused of such a thing. She certainly knew her way around the bookcases in the second floor hall.
Perhaps, if he asked politely — no, he could not cede to asking; that would suggest that he was in need of her aid, and Tom needed no one. No; he could plant the idea in her mind, perhaps by speculating a more efficient method of torture that she could employ in her fits of boredom. The suggestion would develop from there, and she could search, hunt through the old tomes on Medieval practices, and perhaps that would lead to a mention of some ancient power used as a weapon, and there he would have his answer . . .
No, Tom decided abruptly. He would track down the books on his own, obtain the information on his own; he would test his theories alone in the dark next week. He had to, because of course, Beth-Ann was merely a child like the rest of them, and could not be counted upon. Certainly, she was not quite as abhorrent as the rest, but there was nothing to guarantee that in the excitement of the evening, caught up in the holiday glee, her ideals would not slip; nothing to promise that she would not suffocate beneath infectious childish enthusiasm and grab eagerly for the sweetmeats with her chubby little hands still stained with the evidence of her barbaric hobbies. She might enjoy the candy, and then Tom would lose the little faith he had.
He had nothing to worry about, after all; if he embarked on his journey of discovery alone, he could not disappoint himself. He would never disappoint himself. He wouldn't do it now, and he wouldn't do it in a week's time, either, when tin pails overflowing with cakes and candies from those cheerful, do-gooding socialites were passed around like castor oil. He wouldn't acquiesce.
He wouldn't eat one bite.