/2/
Tom hasn't spent a single night in his own bed.
Harry isn't entirely sure how to feel about this. On the one hand, this isn't all that surprising. She's the only person that Tom genuinely cares for—not only that, but he has gone so long without any affection at all. So it didn't surprise her that he latched so quickly and easily onto an object of comfort; or that his attention has moved to the actual source of comfort—her.
She was prepared for that. She was prepared for everything, actually. Perhaps he would be too old, too wary and too jaded to let anyone in. Or perhaps he was already in the makings of what he would be; manipulative and cunning and disturbed at the very idea of love, already so scorned and angry and disgusted by it because he never had any of his own.
Or maybe he wouldn't be too wary and jaded. Maybe he would just be a little boy who doesn't have anyone else in this world but himself.
She looks down upon his peaceful, sleeping form. One hand draws idly to smooth against his hair. He is not at all what she expected him to be. She'd expected a coldness, a deep-seated resentment that has already made roots. He was wary and distrustful of her in the beginning, and undoubtedly he is cold and callous towards others, but it took a surprisingly short amount of time for him to let her in. Harry isn't sure if this is because he was still longing for comfort and affection and hadn't yet learned to resent it, or if it is because they had once shared two parts of the same soul.
She supposes it doesn't matter. But it makes her heart clench every time he turns his wide, fearful eyes towards her—as if he expects her to leave him. It reminds her that he really is just a boy, who is withdrawn and unhappy, and is still secretly wishing for attention; for affection, for love.
Something seizes in her chest again, and then she is leaning forward to place a kiss upon his forehead, holding him close.
the power the dark lord knows not
This will not come to pass.
He will know it—he will know love.
/
He wakes slowly and leisurely, blinking into the watery sunshine before he promptly decides he'd prefer to go back to sleep, and snuggles back into the warm nest of blankets he's made. He cracks an eye open, just in case, to make sure Harry is still there. She is.
But she is not in bed. She is exiting her closet, dressed in fine clothes. She appears wary, concerned, and incredibly late.
"Good morning," she smiles quickly at him, as she fastens a scintillating diamonds to her ear; he stares at it in wonder. He's never seen anything so shiny and beautiful, except perhaps for the girl in front of him.
And he's never seen anyone wear anything quite like this, but then, he's never met anyone quite like Harry. It occurs to him then that no one looks this presentable to simply sit around in the house. Something uncomfortable grows in his stomach.
"Where are you going?" He frowns—pouting perhaps may be the better description.
"I'm going to—" But then she falters slightly, as if something occurs to her. She pauses, before sitting on the bed beside him.
"I'm going to work, Tom." She explains, running a hand through his hair. He sits up, still frowning at her.
He blinks, once, utterly confused. "Why?"
This startles a laugh from her. "Well—because I need to, silly." She grins. "Money doesn't grow on trees, you know."
But girls don't work, he wants to say. He is promptly reminded that Harry is not like other girls, or like anyone else at all.
"Oh," is what comes out instead. "When will you be back?"
"In the afternoon," she replies.
That's a long time from now. His frown deepens.
Harry sighs. "I'm sorry, I wish I didn't have to leave you for so long..." She looks at him, smiling quietly. "But you're very mature, aren't you? I know you can take care of yourself."
Tom doesn't know what to say to that.
He agrees; he is very mature. He's always thought so. And it's not as if he cannot be left to his own devices—for most of life thus far he has had no one to lean on but himself. He is not incapable of learning things on his own.
But he doesn't want to voice this all aloud; he doesn't want Harry to leave.
She leans in to give him a quick kiss to the forehead. "I'll be back before you know it."
That is not true at all.
"Harry," he whines quietly, not okay whatsoever with the idea of her leaving for so long—not when he just found her.
But perhaps she had predicted this behavior, for she pulls something out of her drawer. It's not that shiny little metal box; it is a thick and archaic tome. A book. He is unwillingly ensnared in his own curiosity, shuffling closer to get a better look. A very thick book indeed.
"What is it?" He whispers, unable to stop himself.
"Hogwarts: A History." Harry answers. And then, to his unspoken question; "Hogwarts is a school—a magical school. You'll be going there soon."
He lights up at that. "I will?"
"Oh yes," she nods. "Your name has been written down there probably since the day you were born. But this magical school doesn't start until eleven years old."
So two more years then. That's not as disappointing as it normally would be, as Harry turns the book into his hands. He wonders what kind of knowledge he'll find in here.
"There's food in the fridge, okay?" She stands, turning to look at him with concern. Her concern is unfounded; he is already ensnared in his own little world.
/
Harry leaves every day promptly at eight-thirty in the morning, and returns just as punctually at five o'clock in the afternoon. Except for on Saturdays and Sundays—those days he has her all to himself.
It is Saturday today, and his first time actually leaving the walls of this lovely home. Harry is beside him, though, so he has nothing to be afraid of.
The world outside the big bay windows looks sunny and windy. He wonders absently if he'd dreamt what he'd seen before; the strange cars, and strange people, all the very tall buildings that peered over the hedges of houses. None of those are here now.
"You ready?" Harry looks down at him.
He nods.
Tom realizes they're not in London anymore when they arrive at their first store, and he notices that everyone talks funny.
"Why does she say it like that?" Tom asks fervently, when the associate leaves them to shop alone.
Store might be too succinct a description; this is a sprawling, palatial building full of opulence and luxuries. Everything smells of money, including the people. It makes him very uncomfortable. Harry is leisurely settled on a velvet settee to his side, looking as if she belongs here, with all this majestic beauty, all the perfection.
"Say what, Tom?" She returns absently; she is inspecting a pair of shoes for him. They shine strikingly in the lighting. The store associate said it was top-quality leather.
"Everything," he returns, drawing closer to her as his eyes dart around. "She talks so strangely..."
Harry blinks, before she laughs. "Oh, Tom," she smiles mirthfully. "We're the ones who talk strangely here."
He blinks rapidly.
"We're not in London anymore," she confides. He feels his mouth drop open in surprise. "Or Britain, for that matter."
He feels his mouth work, but no words can make it through the shock that gathers in his throat. The sales attendant returns, Harry asks for about a half dozen shoes, all in the same size. Tom has never had that many shoes before. Tom is not paying this any attention at all; he is still stuck on the idea of not even being in London—the only place he has ever known—let alone the British Isles.
"Where are we?" He gets out, finally.
Harry smiles at him; there is perhaps some indistinct quality to it, vacuous and capricious. "Very far away." She replies.
Very far away indeed.
Tom begins to unbend a bit when it becomes clear that no one in this place is looking at them with anything besides pleasant indifference. He perhaps even begins to enjoy himself, walking around and feeling all the garments they pass; watching himself in the squeaky clean reflection on the floor; the long stately mirrors, Harry by his side, collecting all sorts of attire for him. The idea that he can point to something, that he can want something and have it has yet to fully sink in.
They leave the store in merry laughter and many brown paper bags. Harry holds his hand as they wander down the street, first for lunch, and then for ice cream. Tom tries chocolate this time; he thinks he might like it even more than strawberry. He spends some time pressing his nose against the display at the cafe, eyes wide and completely fixated upon all the unimaginable desserts presented on the other side. There are so many, more than he'd ever seen before, even in picture books, in all sorts of colors and sizes, decorated with succulent cream and topped with bright pops of color. Harry says they can bring something back; he chooses a small deep red cake with layers and layers of frosting. A raspberry chocolate red velvet cake was what Harry called it. Tom gets to hold it as they walk, a little package tied up in string. He is very excited to open it.
But its when they're back at home sitting down to devour their prize that Harry brings up something that surprises him.
School.
"Muggle school?" He reiterates. He likes using that word, it reminds him that he's different. That he's magical.
Harry pauses, thoughtful. "Yes and no," she replies at length. "They teach curriculum similar to muggle school, but they also teach witchcraft."
"So I'll learn magic?" His eyes sparkle in excitement. "Will I get a wand?"
"Yes," Harry answers, making his very breath catch in his throat at the idea. Magic. He'll finally get to preform magic.
It's been many days since Harry had introduced him to Hogwarts: a History, and afterwards, to 'first year' studies books and a few more difficult texts when he asked of it. He was especially fascinated with defense against the dark arts: the more on the dark arts and black magic than defense against them. It struck his curiosity; it was the sort of stuff that the other children would whisper about to scare the others, back in the orphanage. Ghost stories, scary stories. It seems like a lifetime ago.
"It's called the Wolcroft Bassett School of Magic and the Arcane Arts." She continues on. "It's one of the most prestigious schools here in Boston—in the whole world, actually." She adds.
Tom thinks this over. "Is that why we're here? In America?" He asks, suddenly. "You said Hogwarts doesn't start until I'm eleven... but this school starts earlier?"
"That's correct," Harry agrees. This is why they're in America. Though not only for that, but for protection in the war to come—but Tom doesn't know of that.
"...It's a good school?" He repeats, in a small voice.
"Very much so." The young woman nods. "Like I said, one of the best."
After a moment where he ponders this in silence, she frowns. "Listen Tom, it's okay if you don't want to go this school. Or even if you don't want to go to school at all; I have no doubt that you're more than capable of teaching yourself what you need to know until you go to Hogwarts." And then, "And if you do want to go, and you end up liking it—you don't have to go to Hogwarts, if you'd prefer to stay."
Tom mulls over all this new information as he takes another bite of cake. This is his second piece—his second piece of cake, ever—and he doesn't think he plans on stopping any time soon.
"It's up to you," she reassures.
"Why Hogwarts?" He asks, suddenly, visibly surprising Harry.
He looks up. "You said my name has been written to attend Hogwarts since the day I was born. And... and we came all the way here for this other school, right? For Wolcroft?"
She nods slowly.
"So what is it about Hogwarts?" He presses. "Why would we go back if Wolcroft is such a good school—why... do you want me to go back?"
She looks down at him with a sorrowful, forlorn expression. "Oh, my little Tomcat," she sighs with a small smile, placing her fork down. "Always so very clever."
He feels something warm and bashful gather in him at that, a pleased smile finding its way to his face.
"Hogwarts is a very big part of your history," explains Harry. "It's a very good school as well—what they teach there is a little bit different than what you'll learn here, but Wolcroft and Hogwarts are equally good institutions."
He nods, absently, waiting for the inevitable second part of this statement. He is not disappointed.
"But Hogwarts... is special to you," she hedges. "It's in your blood."
At the mention of this, he perks up. "My blood?" And then, leaping to his feet, feeling his heart lodge in his throat, "Harry—do you know my parents?"
She is watching him very carefully.
"Do you remember the houses from Hogwarts: A History?" She asks instead, as if on a completely different tangent.
He blinks. "Of course." He answers promptly. "There are four; Slytherin, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw."
"That's absolutely right." She gifts him a tiny smile. He beams back at her, pleased. "And they're named that because—...?"
"Because those were the four founders of Hogwarts." Tom finishes immediately, "Salazar Slytherin, Godric Gryffindor, Helena Hufflepuff and Rowena Ravenclaw."
"Right again." She agrees, nodding. "Have you thought about what house you'd like to be in?"
He frowns ponderously. "Slytherin." He decides, after a beat.
Her small smile turns into something full of lament and regret. "There's a reason for that." She returns, quiet.
His gaze flitters back up to her, curious.
"Tom, Salazar Slytherin was your ancestor." He feels like all the breath has been knocked out of him.
"...What?" He hears himself reply, faintly.
"That's why you can talk to snakes—why you feel an affinity for that House. You come from a very long line of witches and wizards that are descendants of Slytherin."
"I... I do?" He swallows ineffectually, feeling numb and breathless. His eyes trace the world around him, as if reminding himself that it still exists, that he's still here. But even as an overwhelming awe and wonder overtake him, a thought occurs to him, and he snaps his eyes again to Harry, narrowing them, "You know my family?" It is less of a question and more of an accusation.
"Not personally," she replies quickly. "But yes, I do know of them. And I don't want to keep that from you, Tom. You deserve to know where you come from: who you are."
He is silent for some time, mulling this over. His thoughts turn calculative; what does this mean for him? What does this mean for Harry?
"Is that why you took me?" He asks, hollow and unreadable. "Because I'm a descendant of Slytherin?"
"Not at all." She insists, touching his chin and gently tilting his face up to look at her. "Tom, I wouldn't lie to you. You mean so much more to me than that."
He makes a little noise in the back of his throat, abandoning his cake to throw his arms around her. He feels like crying for some reason, and it blindsides him more than annoys him. He's never felt like crying before—he's never been overly emotional about anything. He always thought he was far too mature for that sort of thing. But Harry always seems to elicit a certain childness in him, as if he feels comfortable enough around her to let it out.
He sits in her arms for quite a while, saying nothing, enjoying the affectionate petting as she runs a hand through his hair. "Can you tell me about them?" He mumbles, in a voice so small it is almost inaudible.
This close to her, he can feel the tension in her shoulders seize up at his words, and also the immediate release of it as she considers a response. "Of course," she replies, her inflection difficult to decipher. "Well, your mother belonged to a family referred to in England as one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. And they were called that because they were one of the remaining twenty-eight families to be one-hundred percent pure-blooded."
"Pure-blooded?" Tom repeats, and his innocent expression almost crumbles her resolve.
"Yes. It means that every person in your family is magical." She explains. "Your mother belonged to one of these families—the Gaunt family."
"Oh." He says. "Do they... are they—still around?"
"I'm not sure," Harry confesses. "But I know she had a brother and a father. They too were the last descendants of Slytherin."
Tom doesn't say anything for a long time, pressing his face into the crook of her neck, and deciding mutinously that he would like to spend the rest of his existence here. He doesn't know how to feel about this. It's strange to think that he... comes from something. He has spent so long dreaming up a family that it is disorienting to realize that they do, in fact, exist.
Perhaps what is more concerning is how detached he feels from them. He has spent so long wishing for a family to call his own, dreaming up so any scenarios; a large family, with a sprawling family tree and dozens and dozens of cousins and so many aunts and uncles that he could never remember their names. He could have never imagined his real family: not nearly so large, but far more famous. Legendary, in their own right.
Far stranger—he feels... unsettled at the thought.
Harry is his family. He doesn't like the idea of having any other. She may not be his mother, but she is still his everything.
/
In so many ways, Tom is already so different.
He is open and expressive—when he wants to be, at any rate. She's noticed that more and more he becomes withdrawn and obscure, masking what he feels behind a face of neutrality. He forgets to do that quite often when it's just the two of them, though, leaving him as he truly is, a curious, and perhaps a bit shy little boy.
Though he's not all that little anymore.
And in many ways, he hasn't changed at all.
Harry can still see the person he will become in small moments of clarity; when he is hunched over a large text; when a fierce and volcanic anger stirs in his eyes; when his sharp tongue cuts through flesh and bone; when he manipulates the other children in the neighborhood to do as he likes. Harry can't deny all of the existence of these traits, even if they never turn their ire to her.
But she had expected this. She had expected that the darkness would be an intimate part of him—not all of him, she wouldn't allow it this time, but this didn't disregard the fact that it was still an intrinsic part of his nature that perhaps could never be changed. And perhaps it could never be changed—but it may be... harnessed, in a more productive manner.
That's why she chose this school, out of all others. Why she brought them both to such a distant land. Why she was in such a distant land; a land so distant it didn't even reside in the same dimension as her own.
For one, Wolcroft started education at five years old, just the same as primary school for Muggles, and this was something she staunchly agreed with. The idea of starting even the basics of education at eleven never seemed particularly logical to her, and though she wanted Tom to have an education prior to Hogwarts, she didn't know if she wanted it to be purely muggle. She'd thought she would simply have to teach him on her own—but an even better alternative had presented itself.
Because Wolcroft had no compunctions against the Dark Arts, and this was another reason she was so adamant Tom go there. Maybe she couldn't curb his innate desire for black magic, or his hunger to delve into it as deep as he could—but she could at least provide him with enough knowledge to perhaps stop him from diving too deep. At least here he would be taught it in a unprejudiced and theoretical manner; not only just the spells themselves but the dangers that accompany them.
But Harry was getting ahead of herself.
She couldn't do any of that without getting him a wand first.
Tom is practically bouncing on his toes at the idea of finally getting his own wand. He's used Harry's a few times, with her supervision, but that was only for little spells; cleaning charms and his favorite, lumos. That was the spell Harry had used, when he had felt so lost and alone; it was the first spell he'd asked her to teach him. And though he has learned a great many more, some more explosive and eye-catching than others, he still feels it is the most lovely spell of them all.
"Alright," Harry kneels down, fixing up the buttons on his coat. He could do it himself, but he lets her clasp them all up, adjust his scarf and fix his hat. He likes it when she fusses over him. "So I'll floo us this time, together, so that you can see how to do it."
"You said you just throw the powder and say the address." He whined. "I can do that!"
Harry laughs. "Oh, Tomcat, I'm sure you can. Listen, I thought that same thing on my first floo travel; it did not work out very well for me. So just humor me this once, okay?"
"Okay," he drawls, sounding far more reluctant than he actually is. He doesn't care about how they get there, he just wants to get there.
Tom doesn't remember how he found himself so far across the world from where he started. All he remembers is Harry's arms around him, her soft voice telling him to close his eyes. And then he was here. Whatever had happened; they most certainly did not use a fireplace.
She takes his hand, throwing a handful of bright green powder into the empty fireplace. It roars to life quite suddenly, filled with emerald flames.
"Ready?" She looks down at him. He tugs her in almost immediately.
"Let's go!"
Diagon Alley is as amazing as he'd thought it would be. Harry says there's a magical town just like this in Boston, but they haven't been there yet. There are shops full of everything his imagination could ever conjure; strange creatures and birds; broomsticks that fly; bubbling cauldrons placed at the storefront windows; children run past with bright balloons that change every so often into animal shapes.
He holds Harry's hand very tightly: he doesn't want to get lost. They meld into the throngs of people, and he stares for a rather rude amount of time at every single one of them. They don't look so much different from other people he's seen, but for some reason, he feels as if he can tell the difference between these folks and Muggles.
He forgets about all the people when they enter their first shop; a lopsided counter, a very small foyer, and what seems like endless boxes piled atop each other in haphazard piles along all the walls.
He jumps, startled, when an old man swings his way into view on a sliding ladder. "Well hello there, how do you do?" He greets, pleasant.
"Well, thank you, Mr. Ollivander." Harry replies.
His brow raises. "Americans?" He looks at the two of them.
"For now," Harry smiles, returning back to a familiar accent. "We're here for a wand, please." She cuts through the formalities, thrusting him forward with a gentle hand at his back.
"Is that so?" The old man raises a brow at them both.
Tom is practically vibrating in his excitement, looking around the shop with wide eyes.
"Yes—phoenix tail, eleven inches, yew." Harry informs.
The man blinks.
Harry does not give an explanation, only a bland smile.
Ollivander turns back around, shuffling into the bowels of his shop without complaint. Fortunately Tom is far too enamored with all the wand boxes to have noticed such a strangely succinct explanation for an event that is supposed to be rather long and complicated.
The wandmaker drifts back to the front of the shop soon enough, holding a dusty box that appears to have been unused and unmoved for some time.
Tom bounds up to the counter, barely tall enough to clasp his fingers on the surface and bring his eyes level to watch.
Ollivander carefully opens the box, setting aside the top, and hands the wand to Tom. The moment he grasps it in his hand it shoots out happy green sparks.
Ollivander looks completely taken aback. His thoughtful eyes turn to Harry; Harry, again, only offers him a pleasant, but detached smile. His gaze turns back to the boy staring at the wand in wonder.
"Well, would you look at that," his brows raise in surprise. "And what did you say your names were?"
"I'm Tom Riddle." Tom says, imperious but thoroughly distracted by the wand in his hand.
"Hello then, Mr. Riddle." Greets Ollivander. "Are you going to Hogwarts this year?" He asks, amiably.
"No," Tom responds, before Harry can think to stop him. "I'm not old enough yet."
His cordial expression falters, and he frowns at Harry. "Is that so?" He sighs. "Well, wizards aren't allowed to have a wand until age eleven."
Tom's attention snaps back to him, expression dawning into horror.
Harry frowns. "Why not?"
"Underage Magic Laws," he quips. "Children can only get their wands when they're going off to school."
Harry gives him a baleful look in response. "Children do underage magic all the time, with or without a wand."
"I agree with you," he sighs. "But unfortunately, the matter is out of my hands."
Tom's look of distress is almost enough to make Harry stun and obliviate him and then just take the wand anyway. But then the boy drops the wand back onto the counter and darts out the door.
"Tom—" But the door has already closed. Without a backwards glance she follows him.
He hasn't gone very far; he stands a few meters away from the entrance, arms folded, facing away from her. Harry takes a deep breath, walking over to him.
"I'm sorry Tom, I didn't know there was a law for that." She apologizes.
Tom doesn't look at her. "It's not you fault, Harry." He insists, hollow.
Harry bites her lip. Though he feels cheated and angry, he feels worse knowing that he's making Harry feel bad too. The thought doesn't stop him from pouting mutinously out into the distance. The world is always unfair to him; he should know this by now.
But Harry always has a way of tipping the scales. He should know that by now too.
Harry frowns at him, brushing hair out of his eyes as she crouches next to him. "It's okay Tom, we can come back and get it when you go to Hogwarts." She reminds. "You'll be old enough before you even know it."
"But what if they sell it off by then?" He returns fearfully.
She laughs softly. "They wouldn't: the wand chooses the wizard, you know. So it'll still be here when you're old enough to go to Hogwarts."
He pouts mutinously, saying nothing.
"In the meantime," she starts, with a fine little smile and a twinkle in her eye. "Why don't we find you another one, huh?"
"We can?" He asks, skeptical.
Harry nods. "Absolutely. Not all schools start at eleven." She holds out her hand. "Why don't we go back home, get some ice cream, and then go to the biggest magical sector across the pond?"
This sparks Tom's interest, and he readily takes her hand as she straightens up. "Where is it?" He asks, excited.
Harry laughs. "Why, in New York of course!"
/
Tom has never been to New York. He'd never been to America before either—until Harry whisked him away, that is—but he'd heard all the stories. Almost all of them revolved around this city. It was everything he'd imagined it to be. It was so big.
Harry floos them into a dingy little pub full of queer-eyed elderly folks, who all turn when they exit the fireplace. Harry pays them no mind, tugging him out of the restaurant. Even though they're in the magical part of the city, he can still see the muggle part; the vast, endless metal buildings that stretch into the sky like silver arms, gleaming in an opulent light. Everything is so big and tall; it makes him feel very small in comparison, as if he is walking among the feet of giants.
They enter another wand shop, and when Harry explains that he'll be going to Wolcroft's next term, he's ushered into a plushy chair and an attendant comes back with boxes and boxes of wands. It looks nothing like Ollivander's; small, cramped and homey. This one has a stuffy air of corporatism, and is far cleaner and organized. He tries each and every one, but none of them felt like the one he'd found at Ollivander's. Harry had given him an apologetic look, and told him that he most likely won't find one that will compliment him as well as that one. Tom found that very odd; Harry's wand felt perfectly fine to him. But as he swished wand after wand into the air, he started to think that perhaps that wasn't normal.
He eventually does find a wand, but the event is decidedly uneventful and dulled with the memory of the other wand, waiting for him across the ocean. Seeing another magical city cheers him up somewhat; the two are very different in such small ways. Where Diagon Alley was long and winding, dipping into intricate turns at arbitrary intervals, growing smaller or wider at equally arbitrary moments, New York City is spacious and wide. The streets are similar to those of the muggle side; there is even room for automobiles. He doesn't see very many of those, but he does see quite a few carriages, drawn by startling horse-like animals. But even all of this does not lighten his spirits.
Still, Harry seems to notice his crestfallen mood, for she directs him down another street, saying there's another shop they should stop by before they leave. Tom nods, not paying much attention, following her lead.
She ends up bringing him to a Magical Menagerie—full of animals that he couldn't have even thought up in his wildest imaginations. There's a three-headed skrewt; a beautiful striped bird with four eyes; a small tiger with a chameleon head, and a lion with wings. A horse with wings, even, in its own stall in the back. Harry called it a Pegasus. All of them are for sale: most of them are illegal.
Harry bypasses all the strange mammals, aves, fish and amphibians and heads to the reptile section. There are a great many curious lizards, but Tom moves right for the snakes.
He presses his nose against one of the enormous glass terrariums, just watching the creatures behind it. He lifts his head up after a beat. "Harry," he starts, hesitant. "Are we—I mean, can I—
"You can pick out any one you want," Harry reveals, smiling as his eyes grow wide. "But only one, okay?"
"Okay." He nods, excited. One is more than enough.
It takes him forever to decide on a particular snake. Harry seemed surprised when he actually entertained the idea of the winged lion instead of a serpent, but he dismissed it after remembering that he couldn't talk to the lion like he could the snake. There are so many species, and they all do different things and come in different colors. Harry wanders around while he carefully considers the snakes in the many terrariums, moving to converse with a little tropical, neon green snake on the other side of the store. He scrunches his nose in thought, before eventually coming to a decision.
"Harry," he calls. "I think I know which one I want."
Harry maunders back over, sparing the many tanks a brief glance. "Alright. Which one?"
"That one." Tom points to the biggest snake, in a tank far in the back.
Harry blinks rapidly. "Oh." Is all she says, staring at it with a complicated expression. Tom thinks he can see a bit of alarm in there, and frowns.
"Or is he too big?" Tom would feel a bit more mutinous about it, but it's true. It's a rather big snake.
"Oh, no, he'll be fine." Harry shrugs. "He'll be harder to take care of than the others, though."
"That's okay." Tom decides. "I don't mind; I'll take good care of him."
Harry looks down at him appraisingly, before finally she calls to one of the sales assistants. The boy doesn't even bat an eyelash when she asks for the big one in the back, and Harry looks equally as indifferent when he tells her the price for it (which is no small sum). Tom stares up at the adolescent boy with a scowl; he doesn't like how the boy looks at Harry, or how close he's standing to her. Even worse, Harry doesn't even seem to notice. She smiles when he makes a joke, and makes polite small talk as he rings them up.
"Do you want a... bag for that?" The boy stammers, but seems to realize how ineffectual that's going to be, considering the size of the snake.
"That's alright, we'll take him like this." Harry replies, reassuring.
Tom beckons the snake to him once the attendant leaves, and it slides up his arms and drapes itself over his shoulders—a couple times, because it really is quite big. He has to hold most of him in his arms.
Harry giggles at him. "You look like you're wearing him as a shirt." She observes.
"He's so big!" He exclaims, looking down at all the long ropes of scales. They are so pretty though; the scales are a cream color with bright banana yellow spots. He sort of looks like an inverted giraffe.
Tom looks up at her with big eyes. "Can I name him Spot?" He asks, as they wander back to the floo network.
This derives a bark of laughter out of her. "Sure," she enthuses. "Spot the lethal, deadly giant Anaconda. Why not?"
Tom returns his complete and unwavering attention back to his new snake, petting it fondly. The thing is at least three times larger than him.
"Are you sure you don't want to name it something more... formidable?" She hazards, looking down at them with no small amount of bewilderment.
Tom shakes his head. "I like Spot." He proclaims. Spot seems to like this to, for he drapes himself around Tom's head and flicks his tongue near his ear.
"What do you think, Spot?" Tom turns his head to look at him; Harry notices with slight trepidation that their heads are about the same size.
"I like Spot," Spot agrees. Harry doesn't think Spot actually knows what spot means. Well, she supposes if they're both happy there's nothing to worry about.
/
Harry isn't exactly sure how she ended up like this, but somehow her enormous bed has gotten crowded. Tom doesn't take up much space; he always curls up into a little ball when he sleeps, and doesn't move much. Meanwhile, Spot is almost six meters long and expected to grow even bigger—he folds himself in many layers at the base of the bed like a big, scaly dog. He also likes to move when he gets cold, and his favorite place to move is right on top of her. At least he doesn't shed, Harry consoles herself. Well, he doesn't shed hair. She hopes she doesn't start finding dead snake skin in all the corners of the house.
Fortunately Tom is completely enamored with Spot, and Spot seems equally as enamored with him, so he is kept entertained during the long hours she's away. She wishes she didn't have to leave him, but she really does have a job, and really does need to work. She can't sit around and drain her family vault forever; all that flowing gold will run dry eventually if she does. And Spot, combined with all his books, distracts him from looking in to deeply into where she goes.
Because its certainly not to the offices down the street.
"I can see why you like this place so much," Ron offers, as he devours his lobster sandwich. "These things are amazing! I'd live here too if I could have these everyday."
Harry rolls her eyes, biting into her steamed pork bun. "I'm not actually a fan of those—or the clam chowder, to be honest."
Copley Square is full of tourists, skateboarders, broke college kids and hipsters, all crowded into the little mall of grass and adding noise to the already noisy city. Ron has proved himself to be a food truck enthusiast; he comes almost every day at lunch and drags her around to try them all. Sometimes for more than lunch; she'd left the building one day to see him waiting for on the benches by the street, holding an alarming green smoothie. Harry doesn't mind, she's pleased he comes and visits at all. Hermione does as well, but it's far more difficult for her, considering her new occupation as intern/assistant/ baby-sitter for the new Head of the Magical Creatures department,
"Why move to Boston if you don't like lobster?" He retorts, scandalized, mouth full of said crustacean.
Harry scowls. "Gross, Ron."
He swallows, wiping his mouth. "What?" He protests. "I mean, it's true!"
But she's already explained to Ron why she's here, and what she's doing. They'd gotten Bill to do the wards on her house, after all. Of course, Bill didn't know about the house's... special properties. Namely, that it manages to sit in completely different time periods in completely different dimensions. But Ron does, so there's no reason for him to be so flabbergasted, other than the fact he's probably already forgotten.
He's equally as flabbergasted at the idea of her having a job.
"A muggle job, at that." He adds, looking completely and sincerely boggled by it. "I don't get it. Why have one if you don't need one? Why a muggle job—and I mean, how'd you get it anyway?" And then, peering at her with wide, fascinated eyes, "What do you even do in the muggle world?"
It appears the Weasley fascination with Muggles is genetic.
Harry heaves a great capitulation. "Investing," she reminds, patiently. "And I do need one; I can't squander my fortune away forever. And you know very well why I wanted a muggle job; I'd prefer to live my life in apparent anonymity."
He nods sagely. Harry didn't even bother to try for an Auror position when the war was over; she didn't even both with wizarding London, at all. Not after the first few times she'd gone and found herself overwhelmed with people, to the point Auror's had to guard her against the crowds,
"Well yeah, but how'd you end up here?" Ron gestures to the building behind them, blinding blue in the sunlight, towering over them, everyone else in the square, and every other skyscraper in the city. At its feet a whole bunch of tourists have their cameras held up and are snapping away. "Hermione says its super prestigious—or maybe she said pretentious?—and very difficult to get in to."
Harry merely stares at him flatly. "Nepotism." She replies, blandly.
And that's not even remotely untrue. All Harry had to do was casually mention offhand one Yule holiday that she was looking to start a career in the muggle world as opposed to the wizarding one. Unsurprisingly Mr. Weasley was over the moon, but the only one who had any real advice to give was Andromeda Tonks. She'd just mentioned her late husband's family was involved in some sort of finances, and she could reach out to them if Harry wanted.
"Right." Ron moves on to his chips, laughing.
"Anyway, I didn't know what I was getting into, but I think I like it." Beggars can't be choosers anyhow, and she managed to land herself in a pretty nice spot, all things considered.
"But do you like it?" Ron pressed. "Uh, investing, or whatsit."
Harry looks out to the sprawling gardens, and then the city unfurling behind it. She and Ron have parked themselves at the base of a staircase belonging to a rather famous church she can't remember the name of. Either way, it's still in the square, it's close to her office, and the stairs provide dozens of places to sit that doesn't have the hazard of dog poop on it. Not to mention, most of the food trucks in the city park themselves around the curb during lunch time, and Ron has his fair share of the city's finest food trucks all within walking distance.
"Yeah, I do." She answers honestly.
It was so far beyond everything she's ever known it's almost as if she just stepped into yet another new world, this one full of cutthroat business and mind-boggling technology. Harry tended to think of the software they invest in in the same manner she thought of potions; somehow through some kind of mystical magic they have managed to create bewildering things out of nowhere. Harry didn't understand it in the least. It was humbling, and also nice in its own way. Harry liked being so far removed from everything she used to know. It felt like a fresh start.
Ron shrugs. "Well then, I guess that's a good thing. Congratulations?"
"A little belated," Harry points out, amused. "But thank you."
"And uh—you know. The kid. How's he?"
"Tom is fine." Harry chuckles. "Very inquisitive and intelligent."
Ron blinks, "He's good, though?"
"Oh yes—he's actually rather sweet." Harry observes; it still surprises her.
"And the forties?" He presses onwards. "Or wait, is it the thirties? Well, whatever, you know what I mean. How're they? What are the people like?"
"Strange," Harry admits. "There's a lot of things that are normal there that people would think is utterly foolish now. And anything from here is totally bizarre to them."
Ron makes a noise of understanding as finishes his chips. Harry thinks he might have something to say on the subject, but then he simply shrugs and asks; "You going to eat those?" He points to her crisps. She shakes her head, and he pounces on them.
"Mmrgh—Oh yeah, by the way," he says around a mouthful. "Bill wanted me to ask about the wards. How're those doing?"
"Quite well." She replies. And then, after a pause. "I think they are at least. To be honest, I don't know enough about wards to tell. But I haven't gotten stuck in either time period yet, and I can go back and forth smoothly, so I'm assuming they're okay."
"Sounds okay to me," remarks Ron. "I'll pass the message on."
He leaves soon after that, begging off because Molly has summoned all her children to the Burrow for dinner. He looks quite horrified at the very thought, but leaves promptly anyway. Harry supposes she should probably get back in too, far past whatever hour or so she usually takes for lunch.
When she gets home, she arrives just in time to hear a voice yell, "Expulso!" And then she is reflexively throwing up a protego as an enormous pillow explodes into a winterstorm of feathers.
She releases her shield charm, looking up as all the feathers drift back onto the floor. A few catch in her hair. She turns to Tom, the main culprit in this dilemma. He is sitting cross-legged on the sitting room carpet, looking quite sheepish.
"Sorry," he says, sheepish, before waving his wand again. "Evanesco," he whispers, and all the feathers disappear.
Harry isn't actually mad at all, if anything, she's impressed he's already casting so many spells so easily. He has a book in his lap, one she's pretty sure came from her second year. "Having fun?" She teases as she wanders into the kitchen.
He nods bashfully. "There's so many spells to learn," he confesses. "I want to know them all—but I try not to mess up the house."
Harry tosses him an amused glance over her shoulder. "Try not to?" She echoes.
He blushes, looking somewhat chastised.
"Oh, it's alright Tom," she laughs. "Practice all you want. But try the more explosive ones in the backyard, okay? I don't know what we'd tell the neighbors if you blew a hole through the wall. Now what do you want for dinner?"
He pauses for a moment. "Spaghetti and meatballs!" He exclaims. It's the same thing he's said for the past four days.
Harry blinks. "You're not getting tired of it?"
"Never," he swears, vehement.
She laughs. "Well, alright then. Spaghetti and meatballs it is."
/
Tom has never felt so satisfied and content in his life. It's been many months now, and he can scarcely remember his life before Harry. Not with any clarity, at any rate. He still feels the pang of fear at the idea of all that loneliness, and a niggling worry that Harry will leave him that refuses to go away, no matter how often Harry assuages his fears.
He's still alone for most of the day—though he likes to wake up with Harry so they can have breakfast together—but now he has Spot to talk to, and so many books to read. And if he doesn't want to do either of those he can always go outside and explore. Harry warned him not to go too far, because the neighborhood might be safe but they still lived in a city. That was what Tom loved about it though; it wasn't as big as New York City, but it was his oyster to explore and play in. There was always something going on in it. It was very hard to get bored here.
Still, he's equally as excited about leaving these long, endless days for school. Like Harry, he's going to be gone for most of the day too. It makes him feel rather grown up and adult-like.
He gets a little nervous when the time finally comes for them to floo to his new school. He's never been to school. None of the children at the orphanage ever went. How does he know he'll like it? And what of the other children? Will they like him? More importantly, will he like them? They're all magical, so maybe he will. And he has a few friends in the neighborhood that aren't so bad. Maybe he'll be okay. Harry comes with him on the first day of term, to talk to all his teachers.
He finds himself growing incredibly shy at all the people conglomerated at the entrance. Some of the kids are a ways younger than him—some look a little older. Across the grounds he can see another big brownstone building, that Harry tells him is for the secondary school. Wolcroft even has a University, but it's not on the same campus.
All his classes aren't very big, but are still full of people he doesn't know. They all stare at him curiously when he walks in, so it's clear that they have all known each other prior to this day. He sticks close to Harry as he chances a glance at the class. They don't seem all that different from him. Harry is talking avidly to his teacher; a middle aged man with a boyish, open face. Tom hasn't even met him and he already doesn't like him, if only because he seems to be hanging on every word she says.
Harry has to leave eventually though, and with one last hug he is all alone in this strange new school.
"Is that your mom?" Whispers the girl next to him, the moment he sits down. She has a funny accent—that is to say, an even funnier accent than the normal American one—and big bouncy blonde curls, done up in twin pigtails.
"No," he replies. "She's my—" He pauses, suddenly. What is Harry? He's never had to describe their relationship before. "Guardian." He finishes, but even that doesn't feel right.
"Oh," says the girl.
"I like her hair." Remarks another girl, behind him. "It's so beautiful."
"Yeah," agrees the girl with the curls. "She's really pretty."
"Isn't she?" Tom enthuses as he smiles at them, feeling somewhat smug about their apparent adoration for Harry.
They nod readily.
Tom thinks he might end up liking this school.
By the end of his first class he already has friends, though this was from no input from him. As it turned out, being the new kid was fun, especially in a school where the children had known each other since kindergarten. They were incredibly fascinated with his British accent, and Britain at large. Tom didn't mind being the center of attention; actually he thinks he sort of likes it.
The two girls reveal themselves to be Ruth and Margaret. The only way he can tell them apart is by their hair; Margaret is blonde, and Ruth has short, straight brown hair. They both sound and act the exact same, so it's difficult to tell otherwise. They twitter around him for the entire day, poking at him at odd intervals and insisting that he sit with them at lunch. Worse still, they have a whole gaggle of fluttery girls that all ask him all sorts of stupid questions. He doesn't have a favorite color, and he doesn't care much for music or moving pictures.
Fortunately by the end of the day he has, once again with no effort of his own, found two boys who he can appreciate.
John Wesley, or Wesley, and Washy, which was a nickname the boy protested greatly but somehow ended up with anyway.
The girls are muggleborns, and Wesley says one of his parents is magical, making him a halfblood. Washy is a pureblood, and a descendant of George Washington himself; he says he hates telling people that because he hates being named after him—"Everyone in my family is named Washington," he mopes. "It gets really confusing sometimes. That's why they call me Washy."
They ask Tom, but Tom really doesn't know. "My mom was a pureblood witch," he replies, when they ask him about it. He pauses suddenly, thoughtful. "I don't know about my dad." He is reminded that he didn't actually ask Harry about his father; he'd been so enamored with the idea of being related to Salazar Slytherin that he completely forgot to ask.
The question has him on guard though. Harry had pulled him aside this morning as she fixed his tie, confessing to him that there are some prejudices against people based on if their parents were magical or not.
"Oh," Washy says.
Tom's brows knit. "Why does it matter?" He returns, defensive and a bit fearful. He doesn't want to lose all his new friends just after he met them all.
"It doesn't really." Wesley shrugs. And then, excitedly, "Unless he's like, super famous or something. Did you know Esther Pearl's dad is a moving picture star?"
"Who's Esther Pearl?" He blinks, as Margaret talks over him.
"So?" She challenges, hands on her hips. "My father is the President of General Motors." She reveals, haughtily. "And my mother's a moving picture stare too."
"Yeah, but she's not like a super famous one." Wesley retorts.
Margaret looks offended, and like she's about to go over there and ruin her school dress by wrestling Wesley into the mud. But then they are called to their next class; Curses and Enchantments. Tom takes one look at their provided text and is enamored at the very sight. The class is mostly introductory—as all of their classes have been so far—but Tom is simply excited to take home the book. It is a long and detailed history of many mythological artifacts throughout the ages, along with the enchantments upon them. Their teacher reveals that they will make their first enchantment by the end of term. Tom cannot wait. This is—magic. Finally. What he's been waiting for this whole time. Even these new children are irrelevant in the face of this new world.
By the end of the day he feels as if he might be a bit overwhelmed, but this is perhaps not a bad thing. He didn't know what to expect form Wolcroft, even after reading all the brochures Harry had given him to look over. It was certainly every inch as beautiful as it had looked in all the pictures; sprawling New England trees and manicured lawns; lovely fountains full of water sprites; gardens of fairy hedges with all sorts of little magical creatures residing within them—and completely dedicated to teaching black magicks.
He lights up when he sees Harry waiting by the entrance to the main receptional manor, along with quite a few other beaming parents. He sees quite a few of his classmates leap towards their parents, speaking a mile a minute as they apparate away or head inside to use the floo network. Tom had assumed he would simply take the floo back to his house by himself, because Harry normally had work this hour.
"Harry!" He beams at her, trotting over towards her side.
"Hi, Tomcat." She smiles down at him. "Did you have a good first day?"
"Yes." He nods, and then, excited, "Everything we're learning is so fascinating—and the children are nice."
This seems to take Harry off guard. "Well, that's wonderful." She regains her composure quickly. "I'm glad you're making friends. Maybe we could have them over some time?"
Tom frowns. "I don't know if I'd call them friends," he hedges; they're nice enough, but like the children in the neighborhood they're fun to manipulate—though he would never voluntarily keep their company.
"Bye Tom!" Someone shouts from behind him. He turns to see Ruth waving at him with a man he's assuming is her father, beaming as they walk out the front gates. He returns her farewell with a wave of his own and a strained smile. Behind her he can see Margaret waving as well as she walks with what appears to be one of her butlers, escorted into a long, nice-looking automobile. Washy is being reprimanded for something by his mother... along with all his other brothers, who are all—as he had griped—named Washington. They're much older though, and are probably from the secondary school across the lawn.
"Are those girls friends of yours?" Harry tilts her head.
Tom scrunches his nose. "Girls are weird." He reveals. Harry laughs aloud at that.
"Well why don't you tell me all about it at home?" Harry suggests. "Spot is getting impatient and very mopey without you."
This sounds like a fantastic idea. Tom nods eagerly, practically dragging Harry into the brownstone manor.
/
The days roll by, and Tom and Harry fall into a routine.
They wake up at eight and have breakfast together; normally some combination of toast and eggs, because Harry isn't all that good at making much else. Sometimes he can wheedle her into letting them have ice-cream for breakfast. Harry might act all grown-up, but she's still just a kid too, with no compunctions about having dessert for breakfast. Every time he thinks he's tried every flavor there is, they manage to find another one. Their newest expedition is blumberry chocolate chip.
Then he lets Spot out into the backyard with a whole bunch or rabbits Harry conjures, so he can get some exercise. Spot doesn't actually like exercise, but he's growing fat and could use the fresh air. Spot is an anaconda though, so sometimes Harry conjures a whole bunch of fish in the pond instead. Personally, Tom likes the rabbits better. It's always fun to watch the enormous snake lure them into a false sense of security before he strikes. The other neighbors have dogs and cats; they have an enormous, highly dangerous serpent. But their muggle neighbors can't see into their yard, so they'll never know the difference.
After that Harry goes to work, and Tom goes to school.
He hasn't managed to get rid of his annoying gaggle of girls, much to his dismay. Ruth and Margaret are okay, because they don't giggle and squeal at him when he talks to them. And Wesley and Washy are alright, if only because they don't talk much.
But it's not the other children that he likes about school; it's the classes. He loves each and every one, even the muggle ones, full of science and math. He doesn't mind learning about muggle history, or reading muggle books in english class. It is a small price to pay for the rest of his classes, where he learns all about magic of all kinds. He hasn't quite picked a favorite; he likes them all.
Alchemy is perhaps the most fascinating to him, because the potentials seem limitless. But like they learned in science class, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. One must always give something up of equal value to obtain what they want. It seems to be a running theme in his Alchemy and Blood Magic class. Balance is the key to life, he notices his teacher is very fond of saying. And it is also apparently the key to mastering the Dark Arts.
Necromancy is a close second, even though dead things sort of scare him. They learn Necromancy in tandem with Healing, as Necromancy has less to do with killing things and more to do with keeping them alive. After all, the world is full of dead things already—the trick to Necromancy is being able to sustain them. Tom is quite good at Necromancy, actually. One time he'd managed to resurrect all the dead mice in their backyard. Some hadn't been alive for hundreds of years, just wisps of bones, whittled away with time. Harry was horrified. Not because of the Necromancy and the whole dead stuff coming alive, but because of the dead mice. Harry doesn't like mice—she really, really doesn't like mice, to the point she gets mad at Spot when he doesn't eat all the ones in the house.
Tom is also very adept in his Curses and Enchantments class. To Harry's complete lack of surprise, he is at the top of all of his classes, but he has a special affinity for curses (also to her lack of surprise). Tom enjoys the class because he is so naturally good at it, but he's not sure if it's really his favorite. Curses are very dangerous things if misused, and enchantments are really cool in theory but not so cool in practice. They're very tricky and difficult to master, and it depends a lot on the object that the enchantment will be placed on. Tom would much rather just pay for something already enchanted than go through the tedious process of making one himself.
He wasn't all that fond of Shamanism and Conjuration, if only because his teacher seems to like Harry far too much. Whenever she comes to his school he always somehow manages to be around. The discipline has grown on him though; there is such an intrinsic, natural element to it. He hadn't realized you could tell so much from a mound of dirt. It was the great power of the ancient tribal leaders of the continent—more interesting to him though was that it was also the great downfall of them. He's so very fascinated with the idea of such a powerful civilization like the Mayans being wiped out by something of their own design. There is a great power to be found in nature, one that is perhaps far too powerful for humans to understand.
Tom enjoys school, this is true. But he'd still much prefer to stay with Harry.
He relishes the quiet moments when it is just the three of them, lounging in the living room, in bed, or at the breakfast table. He is almost always pouring over the dozens of new books he has for his classes; sometimes Harry reads as well, but most of the time she sits with her little folding metal box, and a great many papers all around her. She never lets him get too close to it though, insisting he's not yet old enough to know what it is. Tom would be more stubborn about this, but his school texts prove to be ample distraction. Spot likes to wind himself around the two of them, or curl up like a big, scaly rug by the fireplace. It's getting colder now, so he has become rather lethargic as of late. Lethargic—and petulant, always demanding them for more warmth.
He has also started conniving Harry into reading him bedtime stories. He proclaims that he is still young enough to need them, even though he can read proficiently at a level high above his age, and doesn't need a story to put him to sleep. Harry indulges him anyhow, and they read through many fantastical worlds full of fantastical characters. Tom enjoys the Tales of Beetle the Bard the best—most specifically the Tale of the Three Brothers.
"They're so stupid!" He exclaims, the first time Harry had read the story to him.
She looks down at him, curious. "Is that so?" She replies, quiet, and if he had been paying more attention he would have noticed something capricious in her tone. "Why do you say that?"
Tom scoffs. "Well with dark magic you can't expect something without giving up something of equal value in exchange—everyone knows that! They should have never taken that offer; with objects like that, of course they would pay with their lives!" And then, snorting; "They deserved to be tricked if they were really that stupid."
Harry runs an affectionate hand through his hair. He closes his eyes, leaning into it. "But everyone doesn't know that, Tomcat."
He harrumphs. "Everyone in my class does. Even Wesley, and he's super slow and always manages to blow everything up. That's the first rule of... of—everything!"
Harry laughs softly. "Maybe in your school, yes. But you must know Tom, not everyone learns the same kind of stuff you do. You go to a very special school, even by Magical standards."
"That's not true," Tom insists. "Everyone says the Salem Institute of Magic is so much 'better' than we are."
"That's just school rivalry." Harry waves off. "Anyway, the Founders, Wolcroft and Bassett, were also Salem Witches—both schools were founded by essentially the same group of women. One isn't better than the other. They're just... different."
"I guess," he bites out, reluctant. In his hands he twirls his wand round and round.
He likes to feel the wood in his hands. It reminds him that this really is his life—that he's not in a dreary orphanage halfway across the earth, dreaming up this illustrious new world. Eleven-inches, Birchwood. They had spent ages in the store as he deliberated between this one and another wand; twelve-inches, sycamore, with a core of Basilisk poison. Harry had seemed very surprised when he chose this one in the end. ("Birch symbolizes truth, new beginnings, and cleansing of the past to the ancient tribes of the plains," said the wandmaker, after he had made his decision: "Sycamore symbolizes ambition.") He liked it, even though it wasn't at all like the wand he'd seen in England.
"I'm very proud of you, Tom." Harry murmurs, startling him out of his thoughts.
"Thank you," he replies, flustered for some reason he can't place, and feeling something warm envelop him at her words.
"You're learning such amazing things," she sighs into his hair.
He flushes. "So—so does everyone else in my class." He insists, weakly. Normally he'd love to boast about his apparent prowess in academics, but with Harry he feels bashful.
"Not that," she smiles into his hair. "There are far more lessons to be learned than those in the classroom."
Tom frowns, not entirely sure what she means. But he is also very sleepy, and she is very warm, and the bed is very soft. It is a matter of moments before he is dozing in her arms.