crawlersout
/ 3 /
Tom returns from school one day to see Harry home early from work, cursing at something as he hears a loud crash. He rounds the bend from the living room into the open space of the rest of the first floor, seeing Harry in the sitting room by the front door, with a tall, somewhat lopsided fir tree.
His breath catches in his throat at the sight.
A Christmas tree.
They hadn't celebrated much last year, mainly because Tom was still getting used to living with Harry. It was a very quiet event; he sat by the fireplace and picked out all the furniture for his bedroom from dozens of magazines with the brightest pictures he'd ever seen, of illustrious, finely decorated rooms. His birthday was equally as quiet; just the two of them celebrating with a little cake and a few presents, more winter clothes and books.
This was the first time Tom had ever had a Christmas tree before. They'd never bothered with one at the orphanage.
It isn't at all like the ones he's seen in picture books; it is not fat and stout, but disproportionately tall and prone to leaning to the left. Still, it's his Christmas tree, and he and Harry decorate it with all sorts of fun magical decorations. Harry strings up thousands of little white lights around the boughs, and Tom chooses very pretty silver baubles to hang on the eaves, all in marvelous shapes and sizes. After that, Harry waves her wand and dozens of snow fairies come to nest in the branches. By the end of it, it is the most marvelous thing Tom has ever seen. He never saw much use in getting worked up for Christmas, but he finds himself seized with an unbidden excitement this time.
As the days grow colder and colder, and the breathtaking New England autumn gives way to a snowy New England winter, the presents beneath the tree grow in number and size—until one day, Tom turns to look at it and is shocked to see how many there are. They all sparkle underneath the Christmas lights, wrapped in luxurious bows and captivating, luminescent wrapping paper. His eyes light up with wonder as he nears, crouching low at the tree.
They are not all for him: a great deal of them are for people he doesn't know. But that isn't to say there isn't a fair amount with his name written on the tag in a lovely, familiar scrawl.
Tom only has one gift for Harry, and he hopes she likes it.
It's nothing special—probably nothing at all like whatever lies in wait for him behind all that shiny wrapping paper. They had taken a break this month from soul enchantments to create Christmas cards for their parents. Tom was dismayed and outraged; he was very fascinated with the idea of enchantments solely based around the soul. Gems that could capture the souls of others—lacquered cabinets that, when opened, could suck your soul out. They weren't in kindergarten! They were far past the age to be making arts and crafts. But he quickly changed his tune when he realized this was an excellent opportunity to make something for Harry.
The whole ordeal actually ended up being quite informative; he learned many new charms and enchantments, and used quite a few of them on his card.
Harry returns from work one day to say that they were making a return trip to Diagon Alley for Christmas shopping. Tom leapt at the chance to return to London—and perhaps find another worthy gift for Harry.
"Can I do it this time?" Tom asks, rushing over towards the fireplace and reaching for the floo powder. Tom goes to school everyday using the floo, but he's never done it internationally.
"Well, alright," Harry acquiesces, sounding unconvinced.
Tom doesn't wait for her to change her mind. He throws the floo powder in. "Diagon Alley!"
He reappears at a somewhat familiar pub, after what seemed like at least a few minutes. He was actually starting to worry that he might have done something wrong. It seemed to work alright though, for he didn't seem to be missing any limbs. He could have spelled them back using a bit of blood magic anyway, he thought proudly. Or at the very least, he could ask his professor to do it for him when he got back.
Harry ducks gracefully out of the fireplace soon thereafter, adjusting her scarf and brushing a bit of dust off her coat.
"That worked out rather well," she grinned at him, before they exited into the alley.
"Harry," he starts slowly.
"Yes?"
"Do you think I could go to stores on my own?" He asks in a rush. "I, um—want to get presents for my friends."
Harry blinks. "Well sure, of course." She pulls out a little pouch from her bag. "Don't worry about the amount; it's connected to a vault."
His eyes widen when he opens it and peers in.
"Don't go crazy now." She laughs, tousling his hair. "And meet me back in front of the ice cream parlor in an hour, alright?"
"'Kay." He is already racing up ideas for what to get her, darting out into the crowd.
/
Tom may have gotten some time alone to shop for Harry's Christmas gift, but that didn't mean he was anywhere closer to figuring out what he was even going to get her. He ponders this as he peruses the Alley, peering into windows as he wanders by. Every display totters with mystical items in an array of catching colors; most of it is junk, all of it is utterly fascinating, and none of it is stuff Harry would appreciate. He's not entirely sure what Harry would appreciate, but he knows it's not bat-eyes, or moon globes.
Fortunately his answer comes quickly enough, once he ends up following his nose. It is a patisserie, and Tom has a great fondness for anything copiously decorated in sugar. More to the point—so does Harry. She has been attempting to bake for the better part of the year, and it hasn't been working out all that well. There's a gift set of magical cooking ingredients, pots and pans and a cookbook that might actually help her in that quest.
He's quite satisfied with it, all in all, and he has more than half an hour to wander about the Alleyway in earnest.
Tom manages to get himself quite lost when he takes a wrong turn down a quieter street, and ends up spitted back out in a far more foreboding section of the alley. He feels as if Harry may have warned him at some point about their being a far shadier part of Diagon Alley, but he can't recall what she had said. And all his reservations are completely dashed away when he comes across a store front with The Coffin Shop in shoddy letters upon a tottering wooden sign—it is entirely dedicated to Dark Art materials related to raising the dead. How wonderful; they don't have anything like this in Boston. The closest Necromancy shops he knows of across the pond are all in the arid deserts of the native American tribal lands.
He finds the shopkeeper quite amenable, if not a bit wary at his age.
"Where's your Mum, little boy?" He scowls, when Tom walks in. "Don't want to get lost now, do you?"
"I'm not lost," Tom insists, looking around. There are vials and vials of blood, some far older than others; potions in glass bottles; withered limbs and knives and instruments made in a variety of metals, and an overpowering smell of death. It is all quite familiar and reassuring. "Is that a signet of the locust?" He peers into a glass case.
"It is," replies the shopkeeper, frugally, eying him with consideration.
"Oh." Says Tom. "It's quite lovely. Do you have any spinal shivers?"
The old man points across the shop, where fine bones are laid out by size and structure. Tom takes a look at those, before his eyes catch on the many Necromancy staffs bolted to the wall. He eyes them longingly, wondering if Harry would get mad if he bought one of those—they certainly look pricey. But then, he might not even be allowed to; if they wouldn't sell him a wand at ten, why would they sell him a necromantic staff? There are also enormous Necromancy chests and ritual tables which he'd love to get his hands on. They have a few at school, but they're not allowed to use them without supervision.
He decides to refrain from trying his luck on any of them, if only because he doesn't know how he would lumber one of those home. He does buy the locust signet though, because he's been having trouble raising swarms and its supposed to act as a far more stable locus of magic than drawing out a rune. The shopkeeper approves.
He's just exiting when he bumps right into someone.
It is a boy perhaps around his age, with a fine nose and coiffed hair, and a very foul expression.
"Watch where you're going," he snaps.
Tom eyes him warily, annoyed, and not in the mood to apologize to a petulant brat. "You watch it," he scowls back.
The boy's eyes turn livid. "You can't talk to me that way!" He shouts, imperiously. "Don't you know who I am?"
Tom's mood sours further. "No—and I don't care."
"You don't, do you?" the boy seethes, giving him a long once over. "But of course you wouldn't know, yeah?"
Tom blinks, taken aback by the violent change of tone.
"I bet you're a disgusting, filthy, mud—
But he doesn't get to finish. The cobbled ground beneath him splinters apart, and an enormous, skeletal hand made from dozens of dead things woven together erupts out of the earth and grabs him by the torso. The intricate claw moves in tandem, ripping the boy off the ground and holding him aloft. Tom smiles. The signet really does work. The complex ligaments are made from a variety of things out of the ground, though to his dismay he still has to work on the wrist joints; it looks as if it is about to crumble apart, waving the boy in its grasp at a very odd angle.
The boy's blood-curdling scream is loud enough to attract the attention of the whole alley. Tom glances around at their shocked faces, waving his wand to drop him. He falls unceremoniously to the ground, and the hand crumbles apart, retreating back into the earth.
"I'm Tom Riddle, by the way." He greets, happily, in a far more pleasant mood after that. He should have gotten a signet far earlier—no wonder Necromancers are so fond of them... he wonders what the Inca and Mayan ones must be like; he's heard they have some amazing properties...
The other child looks far less sure of himself now that he's been halfway crushed to pieces by a creature made from dead things, and is staring at Tom as if he hasn't ever seen him before.
"How old are you?" He demands, righting himself on shaky legs. He looks far less confident now, though he attempts it anyway.
"Nine," says Tom, matter-of-fact.
He looks scandalized. "You can't have a wand! That's illegal! You're not even in school!"
Tom frowns. "I am in school." He refutes. "I go to Wolcroft's."
"Where's that?"
"In Salem."
The boy looks pensive for a moment. "The States?" He says it less like a question and more like confirmation.
Tom nods.
"Ah," and suddenly he looks quite amiable. "That explains it then. I guess you wouldn't know." He sticks out a hand. "Oswald Lestrange."
"Well it's nice to meet you, Oswald." He takes the proffered hand, and smoothly lays on the accent. "Like I said, Tom Riddle."
"You're a Necromancer, then?" Oswald's eyes light up, and Tom smirks.
"Not really," he drawls, casual, sticking his wand back in his pocket. "It's just one of the electives they teach there."
"They teach Necromancy?" His eyes grow very wide and excited.
"They teach all the Dark Arts," he remarks, off-handedly.
This most certainly gets his attention. "Is that so?" He replies, attempting indifferent but missing by a mile. His eyes are alit with a greedy hunger; Tom doesn't like the look of it. "You're really something, Riddle." He decides, at length. "I like you."
Tom cannot find it in him to care all that much what one spoiled pureblood thinks of him, and shrugs indifferently. "Thanks," he says, because he is also not a fool, and knows better than to burn bridges just for the sake of it. "Are you in school?" He adds, on a whim.
"Not quite," Lestrange sniffs. "But almost. I've only a year left."
"Oh, me too." Replies Tom. "For Hogwarts that is." He spares the other boy a magnanimous smirk. "I find it rather daft, don't you? It's only in Europe they start school so late... did you know the Babylonian Institute of Magic starts at birth?"
"Do they really? Oh but yes, very daft indeed." Lestrange agrees. "But my family has been schooled at Hogwarts for generations; it's the principle of the thing, you see. It's practically in our blood."
Practically in his blood? Tom's smirk grew. Oh, if only he knew...
"Are you to attend as well?" Lestrange cocks his head appraisingly at Tom.
Tom makes a grand show of nonchalance. "Dunno," he shrugs. "We'll see if it's up to par—I hear they don't teach any of the Dark Arts at Hogwarts."
Lestrange tosses him an arrogant look. "Well, not all of us need to learn it at an institution, if you know what I mean..."
Tom's eyes narrow. "I'm sure." He remarks, snappish. "Well, I'm afraid I'm needed elsewhere. But it was a pleasure, Lestrange."
The other boy's eyes gleam in the sunlight. "And you as well, Riddle."
/
Harry sighs, watching him disappear into the ebbing tides of Christmas shoppers. He's still just a boy, not even ten years old yet—it's completely natural for her to worry about him.
But then, he may be just nine, but he is by far a more talented wizard than any adolescent she has ever encountered—perhaps even some grown wizards. And he is far from defenseless, she reminds herself. She has no doubt that Wolcroft has been teaching him all sorts of deadly curses, but perhaps she had been right in her prior assumption. Tom shows an almost unhealthy fascination with the Dark Arts, but it seems to stop at that. Maybe he does know how to cast the most awful of black magicks; but he also knows the consequences of them.
It makes her smile involuntarily just thinking about it. He is already so grown up, and surprising her at each and every turn. There are so many signs that he is not the same boy he would have been had she not intervened—what he would have been without a soft touch, without a caring hand to guide him, or a reassuring smile.
Even Ron and Hermione agreed, when she relayed her progress to them. How could they not, when even his wand seems to speak for itself?
"Vault Key?" Called the Goblin, as she stepped up the front of the line.
"Right here," she smiled. "It's a satellite vault for an account in America, is that alright?"
"Certainly, Miss—" The Goblin looks down. "Potter. My associate will lead you to your vault."
She nods gratefully at the little goblin, making polite small talk all the way down. The goblin looks at her oddly, but warms up after a bit. Harry likes making friends with strange creatures; you never know when you'll meet them again. Even her satellite vault has far too much in it—and that's to speak nothing of her vault in her own time. She vows to give away half her fortune to some kind of charity. She wouldn't want the kind of child who sat around and wasted away on their inheritance, anyway. She digs around, making sure there's more than enough money for Tom to spend on whatever Christmas gifts he decides on, before she leaves.
Tom is waiting for her when she remerges from the bowels of the bank. He looks in far better spirits than he had been prior, and is carrying a little brown paper package laced in string. He hides it behind his back when she approaches, a little redness to his cheeks when he looks up at her. Harry smiles down at him fondly, suddenly compelled to swoop low and kiss his nose. He wrinkles it in a token protest, stating he is far too old for that, but the pleased smile on his face speaks otherwise.
"You find what you needed?" Harry rubs a hand through his hair.
Tom nods, humming his assent.
He is still in a fantastic mood after trying out his new Necromancy artifact, and can't wait to go home and show Spot, and perhaps use it a few more times. He'll try for the backyard's dead squirrels this time, if only to appease Harry's wish to keep the dead mice dead.
/
Harry leans against the framework of the porch door, arms crossed against the winter wind. Tom is out frolicking in the backyard, wearing Spot like a toga, talking imperiously to his new friends. Around him are a lot of pathetic looking dead things, all clamoring for his attention. He calls them his bone minions—Harry isn't sure whether she is amused or appalled. He is not quite ten and yet he is already so far advanced for his age, surprising her at every turn. And not just in academics.
She doesn't regret moving here, enrolling him in Wolcroft's—starting this new life. It is more than worth it to see every lovely smile Tom turns her way, his shriek of laughter as he plays in the yard, his warm weight when she carries him to bed. Even now, watching him crouch in the snow; winter flakes drifting across his hair and nose; a little parade of dead squirrels dancing at his feet; she can't help the involuntary smile that finds its way to her face. Because the darkness in him is undeniable—and that is perhaps not a bad thing.
"Tom," she calls, and the boy turns around abruptly, all two dozen or so skeletal squirrel heads moving in tandem with him. "Would you like to open your presents now?"
"Yes!" Tom darts back towards the house. The squirrels crumble back into the fresh snowfall, before they are swallowed back into the ground.
She prepares them both hot chocolate, and settles herself by the Christmas tree, Spot on her lap.
She finds another smile lighting her face when Tom comes tumbling into the room, his eyes lit and wide as he scans through all the presents under the tree. She has some for the Weasley's and Hermione in there, and for other friends, but the majority of them are for Tom. Though she feels a brief pang of sadness at the idea of missing a Weasley Christmas, she is happy to spend it here with just her and Tom. Anyway, she can always go back for Boxing day.
"Any of them?" He clarifies, breathless, eyes big and wide with wonder.
Harry laughs. "Yes, well, the ones with your name on it at least."
He dives right in, going for—predictably—the largest one. The present lays far longer than it is wide, wrapped in sparkling blue paper that, upon closer inspection, has snowflakes that drift about on the paper, and a fat, fluffy silver bow tying it all together. He almost doesn't want to open it; it's so beautiful.
But his impatience gets the better of him, and then he is ripping it to shreds and staring down at the long, narrow box. He opens the lid and, if possible, his eyes grow even larger.
"A broom?" He says, darting his enormous eyes towards Harry. "Like the ones for the Quidditch team?"
"Yep." She grins. "Now you can try out for the team!"
Tom gives her a mild look of alarm. "Maybe not that… but it'll be nice to fly with Washy and Wesley—they're always talking about it. They don't shut up about it, actually."
"Your friends?" Harry tilts her head. And then, with a vague gesture, "The one with the hair, and the other with all the freckles?"
"Uh-huh." That is actually a very succinct and accurate description of them both. Though he wouldn't ever refer to them as 'friends'. They were growing on him though, as his general exasperation towards them has grown into a resigned exasperation.
Tom returns his attention to the broom in his lap, staring down at the fine wood as if he'd never seen a broom before. It wasn't that—it was just… he'd never been excited about Christmas, never felt this strange, wondrous thrill run through him as he tore through the wrapping paper, felt himself shaking with excitement, practically unable to wait to run outside and use it.
But of course he hasn't. He's never had a Christmas before. Or at least, not like the ones in the pictures.
"Tom?"
He jerks his head up. Harry is watching him with a flicker of concern lit upon her features; Spot is wrapped around her shoulders—or at least, a part of him is, he's not sure where the rest of him is, probably under the couch again—she is wearing a most unsightly Santa Claus hat, another strange shirt with writing that she always wears to bed, a pair of scandalously short shorts and long striped socks; her hair is a artful mess and there's whipped cream on her nose and he has the sudden and overwhelming urge to run over to her and… and he doesn't know. But it feels like there is no air left in the room, and his heart is about to beat out of his chest.
It might not be the kind of Christmas's he's seen in picture books or fairytales; but he has Harry, who matters far more than any brood of siblings ever could, and Spot, who makes for better company than most people. It's not the picture perfect family; the husband, the wife, the sister and the brother and some mangy dog—but it's his, and that's more than enough. His heart squeezes in his chest, simultaneously feeling as if it will sink to the ground and explode out of his chest. He doesn't know what to do with the feeling; it scares him, even.
"What's wrong?" She frowns, lowering her hot chocolate.
He decides that anything is better than staying here, so he crawls over to her and throws his arms around her, burying into the warm skin under her chin; his favorite place. She catches him reflexively, setting her cup down just in time to catch his weight. Her hands rise to hold him steady; Spot slithers around her shoulders, brushing against Tom's hair. His nose burns, and he grips her tighter, probably too tight.
"Tom," she murmurs, and it almost sounds—panicked? "What's wrong? Are you alright?"
He makes an indecipherable noise.
"Did you… not like it?"
At this he vehemently shakes his head; that's not it at all. "I love it." He refutes, thickly.
"Oh." She breathes out a sigh of relief. "Well, that's good."
A hand draws into his hair, combing lightly. For some reason, it doesn't make him feel better right now.
"Tom… what is it?" She asks again.
And then, when he doesn't reply, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," is his muffled reply.
Harry pauses for a moment. And after a beat; "Then what's wrong?"
"Nothing," he denies. "I'm just… I…"
He swallows, holding her so tightly his arms are shaking.
I'm just so happy, is what he wants to say. And it is true, he is practically bursting at the seams with this overwhelming emotion—but as it grows into something uncontrollable, it is accompanied by a cold, hysterical panic. Because he knows that nothing this good will ever last. It can't. And the idea of losing it as soon as he'd found it is a prospect too horrifying to entertain, but an inevitable one all the same.
But perhaps he is so fearful for he is so happy right now, so content and warm and showered with affection—he has grown far too comfortable with it all. He doesn't want to believe in this reality, because if it crumbles he doesn't think he'd be able to live through it.
To his total horror, he finds that his eyes are wet, and even when he squeezes them shut something hot burns its way down his cheek.
"Oh, Tom," Harry chokes, holding him just as tight.
He finds with great dismay that he might actually be crying in earnest now. As a consolation though, Harry is not unaffected, murmuring into his hair; "It's okay, Tom, everything's going to be okay," smoothing the hair out of his eyes, placing a quiet kiss at his temple.
It is a most awful affair; he's no idea why he suddenly starts bawling, as if he is some small, inconsolable and insensible child, but he is. He cries until his face is wet and ruddy and he can't dislodge any words out of the chokehold on his throat. He doesn't look up, clinging desperately with his arms wrapped tight around her, tiny hands fisting the material of her shirt. He doesn't think he can look up, and face the world that exists outside of the soft warmth of Harry's skin and the smell of quiet mist that clings to her. It all seems so terrible and he prefers to say here.
He has to acknowledge the existence of the rest of the world eventually though, but he waits until his tears have finally slowed, and he doesn't feel so horrible.
Harry gently pulls him away, just enough to tilt his face up and get a good look at him. He peers back at her, sniffling pitifully. She doesn't say anything, thumbing away the tears still gathered in his eyes, pressing their noses together in an eskimo kiss. He smiles slightly at that; it never fails to make him feel better. She doesn't say anything for some time, actually, even as he wiggles around in her lap until he's comfortable, and then promptly decides he doesn't want to leave. She doesn't make him either; she lowers them both to the floor, until he is still sprawled on top of her with his face in her neck, mindlessly enjoying the petting as she runs a hand through his hair.
They don't open any more presents that day. He feels exhausted after all that crying and all he wants to do for Christmas is crawl back into bed with Harry and sleep off the rest of eternity. So they spend it in bed, huddled together under heaps of blankets and pillows, and he dozes away the hours of milky daylight in the comfort of Harry's arms. Tom doesn't explain to her why that sudden crying spell came over him, and Harry doesn't ask. Tom doesn't think he could explain it, anyway. Not when he doesn't even know himself.
They open the rest of the presents the next day, and it is a happy, unmarked affair. He is enamored with all his new presents, though if he's honest with himself, he's not nearly as enamored with them as he is with Harry.
He doesn't think there is any Christmas present on this earth that could compare to her.
/
Tom stretches his arms as the teacher calls for the end of class, rolling his neck. He feels as if he's been hunched over his textbook for the better part of an hour—probably not an unfair assessment. Alchemy is just so fascinating; there are so many properties to learn, and so many ways to ruin it—Tom adores it all. It is such a finicky thing, less to do with Potions and more to do with fate and luck, but this is perhaps what Tom enjoys the most about it.
Margaret makes a grumbling, unhappy noise by his side. "I'm hungry," she demands, imperiously. "Why can't it be lunch time already?"
"The world doesn't revolve around you, you know." Washy retorts, but the girl ignores it.
"Why don't we have a picnic for lunch today?" Ruth suggests. "By the willow tree near the secondary school yard—with the pond? Maybe we can skate on it!"
"You'd probably just fall in," Wesley teases.
"I would not!" Ruth protests, hotly.
Tom sighs, wishing he could find a way away from these people. As it is, they all clamor behind him and trot diligently in his wake when he leaves the room. He has no idea why they all follow him around; it's fairly clear he doesn't like them all that much. They take all the seats around him when he sits down for their Conjuration class, attracting a gaggle of peripheral friends that all chatter with them—and him, unfortunately.
They shut up really quickly when Professor Oz walks in the room, all the girls sigh simultaneously as he greets the class. Tom scowls; what's so great about him anyway? He has stupid looking hair. He tells this to Washy: Washy agrees. But Tom thinks that might be because Ruth is also staring adoringly at their teacher, and Washy is staring adoringly at Ruth. But then, is Tom any better? Most of his distaste for the man comes from the fact he always seems to be around to talk to Harry whenever she's here.
Tom tunes them all out the moment Professor Oz starts talking. He might not like the guy, but he can begrudgingly admit that he always has something interesting to teach. They're learning to summon nature spirits, and he is explaining the concept of elemental affinities. Tom has read ahead, so he knows all about them. This doesn't make him any less excited for it though; he is very curious to see what his elemental sign is.
"Now I want each of you to take hold of this piece of paper," Professor Oz is instructing, as he walks around the room, handing out little sheets of innocuous looking parchment. "And on my mark, add a little twinge of magic to your paper."
Ruth's hand shoots up, flailing around wildly. "But Professor!" She cries "We don't know how to do wandless magic!"
You don't know, Tom thinks smugly. He has already been practicing.
Professor Oz laughs. "Sure you do! You do it all the time!"
The class gives him a collective look of incomprehension.
"Well come now," he smiles. "What happens when you get very angry? Or very excited? Sad?"
"Accidental magic!" Answers Margaret.
"Very good Miss Buchanan." He praises, much to Margaret's utter delight. "That's exactly right. Accidental magic is just another form of wandless magic. I want you all to remember that feeling, and concentrate it onto your paper. Don't worry—it doesn't have to be very much."
There is a long silence as everyone attempts to do just that. By his side, Washy looks like he's about to turn purple in concentration. Ruth appears to have given up about three minutes in—or perhaps she just wants Professor Oz to sit next to her and instruct her through it. Tom managed to get his in the first minute; much to the utter surprise of absolutely no one. He had assumed he'd be one of the first to get it to work, but he hadn't expected his sign.
His paper shrivels up in a sizzling crack, and though it smokes in his hand there are no flames.
"Lightning," Professor Oz remarks. "Wonderful, Mister Riddle!"
He frowns down at his paper, before ferreting through his book to see what it means. Margaret's erupts into a burst of flames; she squeals in delight. Washy's explodes in his face in a splash of wetness. He turns to their chapter, skimming through the pages. Lightning is equal parts air and fire affinity. He's not sure what that's supposed to mean though. Fortunately Professor Oz gives up on attempting to personally tutor half the class, deciding it is a lost cause and stops walking around and begins to explain the meanings of nature signs in earnest.
"Having one sign over the other doesn't mean you're only capable of utilizing one," he lectures sternly. "So I don't want any of you to use this as an excuse. That said, your sign is your affinity; when summoning nature spirits of your sign or casting elemental spells, you will have an easier time of it than you will with the others. It's important to remember your sign; as you progress through your schooling and begin to cast more powerful and complex spells, you will want to specialize in spells of your particular sign."
Tom's eyes light up at the thought. The very idea of casting lightning bolts with his hands is making him want to run to the secondary school and beg one of the teachers to teach him. Wesley was telling him the other day that that's what Benjamin Franklin did. Except he electrocuted himself and ruined a kite or something. Or maybe it was the other way around? Maybe he can ask Harry about it. She might not know how, but she can most certainly point him in the direction of a book or two.
Tom glides through the rest of the class in a fantastic mood, practically buzzing with excitement. He vows to spend his whole lunch reading ahead and studying on natural signs and affinities.
He doesn't get the chance, because his schoolmates have accompanied him to his secluded spot.
Margaret is boasting about her parents once more, much to the annoyance of everyone else.
"No one wants to hear about your father again, Margaret." Wesley rolls his eyes. "You've told us this story a thousand times."
"I have not!" Margaret protests hotly. "And I'll have you know my father is—
"The President of something interesting." Washy sighs. "Yes, we know."
"What about you, Tom?" Wesley interrupts her, drawing the unwilling boy out of his book.
"What about me what?" He sighs, irritated.
"Your parents." He says. "You never talk about them. You have a Mom, right?"
"Harry's not my Mum," he replies. "She's my… my guardian."
"Oh." Says Ruth. "But you said your Mom was a witch."
"She was." Tom agrees. "She died when I was a baby."
"That's so sad…" Ruth commiserates, looking like she might hug him. Horrified at the prospect, Tom quickly averts the subject.
"But I wouldn't want to live with anyone but Harry. I like it like this. I don't want anyone else."
"It's just the two of you alone?" Ruth gasps as if he has said something quite scandalous.
Tom frowns. "Yeah. So?" He retorts, defensive.
"Harry's not married?" She presses, sounding completely shocked, and totally judgmental. "But she's so pretty—I bet she could have anyone in town. Even Mayor Hathaway, and he's so handsome—did you see him in the papers the other day?"
"I did!" Margaret squeals. "Oh, he's such a dreamboat—
"Harry doesn't need to be married!" Tom snaps, alarmed at the very prospect. He doesn't care about the mayor, and even less his apparent good looks. The thought of Harry thinking anything like this is utterly horrifying.
"Yeah she does." Ruth insists. "She's a girl! How old is she?"
"Not old enough." Tom replies.
"Well she has to be older than eighteen—
"What does it matter, anyway?" Tom interrupts, exasperated and not at all okay with this change of subject. The idea of Harry and… and anyone, deeply disturbs him. Harry is his. He can't even contemplate the idea of her with anyone else without feeling ice cold fear wander down his back. Fear, and a pervasive, almost overwhelming anger. Burning so profusely it actually surprises him. He doesn't think he's felt this kind of fury over anything before.
"But how is she going to live without a husband?" Prods Ruth, looking genuinely (and irrationally) concerned. "Girls are supposed to get married! Girls take care of the house and the man goes to work and makes money and takes care of his wife."
"I can take care of Harry just fine." Tom rationalizes. "She doesn't need anyone to take care of her, or anyone to make money! Harry already makes money!"
Margaret's eyes grow wide. "Harry works?"
"Yeah," Tom nods.
"Where? Is she a store clerk?" Margaret continues.
"A sales lady?" Ruth adds.
"Neither!" denies Tom. "She works… at a bank."
"Oh, she's a bank teller." Margaret nods with solemn understanding.
"No," Tom scowls. "Not like that."
Margaret blinks. "Then how so?" She asks, innocently uncomprehending.
Tom bites his lip, debating. He's not entirely sure what Harry does either. He thinks she's remarked upon it once or twice, and he may have asked in passing, but nothing concrete is coming up. Except… "Investing," he says. Margaret makes a delighted noise. "She works at their headquarters, in the John Hancock building, y'know, the really big one in Copley?—
"Everyone knows that building, Tom—
"—And she does something super important. She has meetings all the time, and sometimes she doesn't get back until really late." He confides.
"That's so cool," Margaret breathes. "I want to be just like her! I want to have a job too—I don't want to sit around all day. I want to be Katherine Hepburn."
"Katherine Hepburn doesn't work." Wesley rolls his eyes.
"Yeah she does!" Margaret shrieks, incredibly offended. "She's an actress! A moving picture star!"
"Yeah, but not like that." Wesley retorts. "My dad works for a big bank, down in the Financial District. He's always on the telephone talking to people about important sounding stuff. And he always gets a lot of mail."
"She's really not going to get married?" Ruth presses, completely ignoring the new vein of conversation.
"No!" Tom replies, scandalized. "Never!" He decides, vehement. And that is a promise.
"Harry doesn't need to get married." He decides, imperious. "Harry has me."
And with that, he grabs his book and pivots smartly for the school building, deciding he's better off waiting in the classroom and reading his book alone.
/
The thought eats at him for the rest of the day, and onwards into the rest of the week.
Will Harry get married? Ruth is right; all girls get married. They get married and have babies and clean the house and cook and stuff—everyone knows that. But Harry isn't like other girls. Harry isn't married, doesn't have children, can't clean without an evanesco and burns anything she cooks. Though with her new book she's gotten a thousand times better at baking. Tom actually eats all the cookies before they've even been out of the oven for more than a half hour. And she doesn't stay at home; she has a job and she makes money and she's always working. If anything, she's not home enough.
But Tom is starting to realize… Harry isn't normal. They aren't normal.
None of his peers still sleep in a bed with their parents. They don't beg and whine for bed time stories; they don't even like spending time with their parents at all, preferring to be out playing sticks on the street with their friends. In contrast, Tom hates most other children, adults, and even pets, and he would prefer to spend every single hour of the day with Harry if he could. Even by magical standards Tom and Harry aren't normal.
Regardless of all this, he doesn't want to give any of it up.
He mutinously clings to Harry all week, refusing to be far from her side, cuddling insistently when they sit to read after dinner, and demanding she pick him up and carry him to bed. Harry indulges him. She always does; Harry never withholds affection. And he never wants to stop having it directed towards him. Him—and only him. Spot is okay. But no one else.
He's still clinging to her when they settle for bed that night. It is Friday, and though he is very excited to have her all to himself for Saturday, the thought is not enough to reassure him, or placate his sudden and besieging need to be close to her at all times.
And though she allows him to crawl into bed next to her, worming his way until he can wrap his arms around her neck and press his nose against her collar, she does call him out on it eventually.
"What's wrong, Tomcat?" She whispers into the early-evening dark, petting his hair.
He makes a noise of discontent, burrowing further. Spot slides over both of them. Harry makes an exasperated noise, kicking him back to the bottom of the bed.
"Tom," she murmurs, pressing a kiss into his hair. "Will you tell me what's wrong?"
His fingers curl into the material of her shirt.
"I…" He swallows, suddenly unable to make any words rise from his throat. He feels a sting in the back of his nose, and grows angry at himself for being such a baby. He's already cried once this year—although maybe it counts as last year—and that's already one time too many. He's ten now! He's practically an adult! Well maybe not—but he's always prided himself on being very independent and mature.
She rubs his back reassuringly, not pressing further, simply waiting until he's ready.
Tom takes a breath. "Harry… are you—are you going to leave me?" He croaks out, desperate and quiet.
"No, of course not. I would never leave you." Is Harry's immediate response. And after a thoughtful pause; "What's got you thinking that?"
He frowns, sniffling. "But what if you get married to someone?" He returns.
Harry's absent petting stops.
"What if," he begins fearfully. "What if you find someone? Someone you like? Like—like Mayor Hathaway or that movie picture star—"
"Tom," there is a hint of amusement to her voice. "I don't even know who that is. Why do you think I'm getting married?"
"Well all girls get married." He points out, pushing away from his hiding place to look into her eyes. There is a tender affection, directed towards him. Only for him. He loves this look; it reminds him of all the sweet and lovely things in the world, it reminds him of what's his. Will this look one day turn to another?
"All girls?" She raises a brow.
"Yes." Tom emphasizes.
"Well that can't be true—
"It is though!" He cuts her off, mutinous. "Everyone says so—
"Who's everyone?"
He pauses, flushing. "Well…" he hesitates. "I dunno. Everyone at school. They all say that girls get married. I guess sometimes they can have a job and stuff, but they always have a husband."
Harry laughs. He's not sure if he's relieved or hurt by her nonchalance. "Well, not this girl. There's no need to worry about that, kiddo." She leans in to rub their noses together, smiling conspiratorially. Tom finds himself smiling back. "You'll always be my number one."
"Oh." He blinks. "Okay." He says, happily, placated with this answer, promptly returning to her warmth.
Harry draws him close again, running her fingers through his hair. He is warm, comfortable, and relieved after a long week of constant worry. Worry over nothing, apparently. Harry doesn't seem interested in any of that stupid stuff—or at least, not any time soon. And anyway, he'd never let it happen, he can at least be assured of that. Spot slithers his way back to them, draping his long body over them like a winding blanket, before he shoves his nose in between them. This time, Harry sighs in resignation and doesn't kick him out. Tom makes a noise of content; sleep finds him easily.
Oh man, I hadn't expected so many people to want to see Tom stay at this school! On the one hand, I agree that it would certainly suit his need for the Dark Arts better, but I do want him to go to Hogwarts... I like the idea of summer school, for sure. I couldn't imagine Tom sitting idly for so many months anyway.
