/ 7 /
It seemed like just yesterday Tom was clinging to her as she flooed them to his first day of school—and now here he was, looking sullen and irritable and ready for his graduation. He was complaining loudly and intermittently to Spot about the whole thing; Harry couldn't help but smile at him.
He was getting so big, she thought fondly. Already he was a few inches taller—he'd grow far taller than her soon, she knew.
These last few months had been… odd, to say the least. In all honesty she was more than ready for Tom to graduate; the change of pace would be a relief from the constant oppressive feeling of trepidation she'd lived in since she'd survived her third killing curse ever.
Her very first course of action was to badger Bill into taking another look at the wards around 221 Commonwealth Avenue.
Hermione 'ooh'-ed and 'ahh'-ed as Bill dismantled complicated wards like pulling silvery fabric off the top of the building, completely unbeknownst to the muggle foot traffic swimming around them. She'd used her lunch break to take an international floo over, insisting that seeing this was not the sort of opportunity to pass up. Bill appeared to notice the existence of the time travel runes securing the perimeter around the house, but did not comment on them. Instead he explained every security ward he placed up, giving Hermione—and by extension, Harry—a delightful history lesson with every single one. Some of them Harry thought to be a bit… overkill, but at this point she wasn't going to complain. Harry would have no unwelcome visitors appearing on her doorstep any time soon. Of that at least, she was sure of.
At any rate, this should have been enough to alleviate her fears, but despite rational thought reassuring her she was overreacting, she couldn't bring herself to let her guard down. She'd taken to dropping Tom off and picking him up as well, casually engaging in light conversation with his teachers in the interim, dismantling their thoughts and aspirations in an attempt to find which ones were the spies.
The problem was, being a new mother to a new student at a school that often times had generations worth of families returning every few decades meant she might just be attracting more attention to herself than she had previously.
She had also yet to meet the headmaster, despite subtle attempts to do so. It appeared he was both a man in high demand and a man constantly out of the office.
Well, at the very least, Tom's graduation would be a good opportunity to at least catch sight of him.
Harry makes sure they arrive to the ceremony with ample time to spare.
Tom may be graduating from the equivalent of primary school, but the majority of the attention will be centered on the actual graduates of the secondary school, so the whole ordeal is not nearly as stressful as it could be. All the same Harry is horribly stressed, appraising the crowds around her with a cautious eye. It is impossible to tell whether Grindelwald's spies were here as well.
Tom is antsy and very uncomfortable in his graduation clothes. The Wolcroft uniform wasn't exactly the most hospitable of fabric to begin with, but their formal wear was incredibly tiring. Tom did not like ties—it felt like he was being strangled. And his shirt was buttoned all the way to the top, making it even harder to breathe. This was to say nothing of the blazer; it made it almost impossible to move his arms with anything approaching mobility. He felt like a mummy or something.
None of his classmates looked all that enthused with the day either, except perhaps for the girls, who were all prim and proper, and looking quite pleased about that. Well, maybe that wasn't true. Ruth had confided in him earlier that her dress was actually quite uncomfortable too, but she was just used to it because all her dresses were like that. Margaret had actually put up a big stink and insisted she be allowed to wear pants like a boy. Clearly the school had no wish to upset one of their largest donors, and had made an exception for her.
But Tom did not care all that much for the state of attire of his fellow classmates. He was more concerned with the proceedings—and how much longer they were going to take.
Unless he was the one on that stage getting his diploma, all this pomp and circumstance seemed tedious at best, absolutely exhausting at worst. He did not know how long they had been sitting there, watching student after student walk up to the podium, but he was not alone. The entire school was forced to attend—even the primary students like himself, who were so far from graduating that it seemed eons away. Tom couldn't even fathom himself walking up onto that stage; what would he be like in ten years or so? Taller, hopefully.
His eyes slid over towards the stands ascending up into the dome of the auditorium; he tried to pinpoint Harry in the crowd. She had been wearing a very flattering but nondescript black dress, hat, and sunglasses—none of which would be of much use attempting to find her in a sea of people.
He sighs again, forcing his attention back to the stage, where the Headmaster is speaking. He had never actually met the man, or even seen him in passing, but he'd heard that he was very influential in… certain circles. Tom found his eyes once more drawn about the room; it would stand to reason that this new class of graduates would be very influential as well, and there were probably a lot of other influential people here to see it.
He tunes out the graduation speech after a few minutes of half-hearted listening. None of it applies to him, and it all simply serves to irritate him further. He wants to be on that stage. He feels stuck in this pre-adolescent body as if it is a shirt three sizes too small. He wants to be older, more mature, more knowledgeable—and he wants it now.
Harry keeps telling him that there's no rush, but Harry doesn't understand. Harry is already grown. She's probably blissfully forgotten how it feels to be young and dependent and constantly lacking in knowledge.
The whole thing makes Tom very cross, and it can't be over soon enough. His presence here is pointless, which only exacerbates the problem. What exactly is the point in having the whole school attend such a wasteful and time-consuming charade?
He can't wait until it's finally over, and he can find Harry and go home.
.
.
.
Meanwhile, Harry is thinking something very similar.
Harry did not meet any spies.
What she encountered was far worse.
She finally has her meeting with Tom's headmaster, a blindsiding event she was wholly unprepared for. That Charlotte Washington had cornered her once again, and Harry had blithely allowed the woman to ferry her around from party to party, mingling and introducing the young Miss Riddle (Potter, formerly) at every turn. Eventually they somehow coalesced with a group of professors nearby, the headmaster among them.
The headmaster himself was, well, certainly prestigious but still wholly unremarkable. He reminded her of an odd cross between Fudge and Dumbledore; a benevolent geniality and ineffable but benign improvidence to current affairs. Like Fudge, he did not appear to be ill-meaning when he casually brushed subjects off and painted the world as a lovely and untroubled place, just as his sense of optimism towards the future did not seem to come from naivety but some general sense of goodwill. That optimism and faith in humanity reminded her of Dumbledore. Could he not see that half the people he surrounded himself were gunning for the slaughter of millions of people? Alternatively he just didn't care. But there was something else about him that reminded her of her old headmaster; despite his seemingly good-natured exterior she couldn't help but think there was more to him.
At this point Harry did not have enough to go on, and very soon her full attention became preoccupied when a new figure entered their group.
"You look lovely."
Harry stiffens slightly, fingers ghosting down her bare arm. They're gone as soon as they had come, replaced by a hand at the small of her back.
Harry spares a quick moment to wonder how this man can make such awfully clichéd compliments sound so alluring and dangerous. It must be an art form, she thinks, exasperated.
"Thank you." She replies, flatly, voice barely above a murmur. The other guests have yet to notice his appearance, not even Charlotte Washington, who continues to chatter at Harry's left.
"Is this French?" He asks, fingers tracing up and down the intricate lace design at her back.
"Spanish, actually." She refutes, keeping her attention focused on the people in front of her. Charlotte laughs delightedly at a remark by one of the secondary school professors, starting a round of humorous chuckles.
"Really? You struck me as someone who only exclusively wears haute couture."
"Oh, no, quite the opposite really." Harry murmurs back. "I prefer pret-a-porter."
"Gellert!" To Harry's great annoyance, the man doesn't move away from her at all, even as all eyes turn to them. If anything, he leans closer. "I was wondering when you'd show your face. He declined the spot as the keynote speaker, did you know? A travesty, truly."
"I'm afraid I wouldn't know what to say," Grindelwald waves the headmaster off with all the gallant charm of a dark lord in his prime. "Instilling life advice into children has always been more your calling than mine."
The headmaster grins, twisting his moustache with one hand. "I suppose. But there's more to the audience than just the children, you know."
"That is true," Gellert agrees, coolly. He finally straightens up, his hand drifting away from Harry. "But I've no need for that at the moment."
There is an odd twinkle in the headmaster's eye, one that does not go unnoticed by Harry. "I suppose that's fair." The old man admits. "There will always be other opportunities…"
"Well you've all but missed the ceremony, Gellert. Don't tell me you'll kip out on the reception as well?" Charlotte cuts in, miming an air of insult.
"Oh, Charlotte you wound me, I would never miss it for the world." He gasps dramatically, much to the woman's delight.
"And what of you, my dear, darling Miss Riddle?" Charlotte turns her attention to Harry, catching her by the elbow. "I must insist you join us; James will be just delighted to have Tom there."
"I'll try," Harry hedges. "But I had planned to take Tom somewhere to celebrate."
Charlotte purses her lips. "Well, I suppose if you've already made plans…"
"We'll be sure to visit another time." Harry assures.
The socialite appears somewhat mollified. "Then I must insist you visit us at our Pennsylvania manor; the peony gardens are just beautiful this time of year." She requests, smiling in a way that means Harry will have to try a lot harder if she wants to get out of these social obligations.
"Right," Harry smiles back, pained. "Of course…"
"Why, is that Senator Connoway?" Grindelwald remarks. The Headmaster blinks, careening over Charlotte's shoulder. The assembled party all turn in that direction, Charlotte included.
"I do believe it is." The Headmaster replies.
"Headmaster," The dark lord cuts in smoothly, "now might be an excellent time to discuss that recent funding bill…"
"Excellent point Gellert," the Headmaster agrees. "He's a family friend, isn't he Charlotte? Would it be too much to trouble you for an introduction?"
"Oh no, not at all." Charlotte looks positively delighted. "Well, shall we?"
The amassed wizards and witches all embark at Charlotte's beckoning, all but Harry and Gellert, who watch the party walk off in silence.
"I'm assuming you did that for a reason," Harry remarks idly.
"Did what?" Grindelwald feigns ignorance, his winsome smile disappears; the cheerful and enigmatic expression taken on and off like a costume, leaving the master manipulator without charade.
"Distracted them." Says Harry.
Grindelwald does not look remotely abashed. "You're a hard person to find, Miss Riddle." He replies. "Or is it Potter?"
"I prefer Riddle." Harry replies, coldly, making a point to look away from him, towards the milling crowds.
"There's no record of either." Gellert points out, hovering over her shoulder. "No Harriet Riddle, or Harriet Potter."
Harry tilts her head towards him, gaze narrowed. "Maybe you're just not searching hard enough."
His eyes flash. "I assure you, I have been quite diligent."
Harry whirls around fully at that, careful to keep her voice down with the crowds about. "Well you have no right to be snooping about my private affairs, anyway." She hisses. "I've left you well enough alone, haven't I? Couldn't you extend the same courtesy to me?"
The Dark Lord steps forward. Harry does not back down. "You don't really think I'd leave you alone, do you, Harry?"
Harry narrows her eyes. "I was hoping you'd take the warning for what it was." She replies, voice soft but dangerous.
"I'm afraid I've never been one to let things go once my curiosity has been piqued." He returns, voice just as low.
Harry stares at him impassively. "Well I have no intention of enlightening you, so I suppose you'll simply have to make do with your own conclusions."
His eyes flash again, with frustration, perhaps. It's gone before Harry can properly decipher it. Instead he observers her for a quiet, long moment. "You could have killed me, you know."
For someone who was almost murdered by her hand, he does not seem particularly concerned over that.
"I know." Harry replies.
His hand draws up to her own, tugging it away from her chest. It's her wand hand. She watches warily as he inspects her fingers, turning her palm over in his own.
"But you let me live." He murmurs, quietly. "Why?"
Harry studies him with an inscrutable look. "I don't enjoy murder, funnily enough." She answers, finally. "You may have deserved it, but I didn't want to kill you nonetheless."
"That's rather generous of you." He says.
"Yes, I rather think it is." Harry agrees, smoothly. "I spared your life, and have consciously stayed away from whatever plots you have for the world. Which is why I find it rather odd that, despite all the generosity I've shown you, you refuse to leave me alone."
The dark lord tilts his head, watching her closely. "You let me live, Harry." He says, again. "You should have known better."
Harry wrenches her hand out of his grip. "Yes, apparently so." She agrees, stoic. "I'll be sure to remember that for next time."
"There won't be a next time." He says, and this makes Harry's gaze narrow on him.
"Then why bother to seek me out?" Harry retorts, raising a brow. "If you're not here to finish the deed, then why are you trying so hard to find me?"
Grindelwald blinks at her curiously, observing her like she is an object of fascination. "Finish the deed." He murmurs, eyes bright, looking lost in thought. "Would it work even if I tried?" He turns the table, the cat-like gaze transfixed on her.
Harry doesn't actually know. She doesn't want to find out, either.
She doesn't reply, turning her back to him. They are in an atrium of people and yet it feels like they're the only two in the room; Harry trapped in an airless room with the great and terrible dark lord. She wants to get away, but cannot find the exit.
Tom, she reminds herself. She can't leave without Tom.
The indeterminable crowds finally return to focus; her eyes dart between congregations, trying to find her ward.
Grindelwald steps up behind her. "You didn't answer me." He notices, darkly.
His breath is warm against her shoulder; from the corner of her eye she can see his eyes through the curtain of her hair, staring at her fixatedly.
She turns her head slightly. "Why bother, when you already know the answer?"
With that she steps away from him, determined to lose herself in the crowd. A bubble of magic swells in front of her, collapsing like a warm sigh of air. Suddenly the world bombards her with full clarity; the voices of a thousand people laughing and chattering, glassware tinkling, the murmur of waiters as they slip through the crowd with gilded trays. She exits the privacy ward, weaving through crowds in search of Tom.
But in a place like this, apparently the dark lord is impossible to get away from.
A large bulk cuts into her path; Harry looks up to see a man she has never met before, unfamiliar features detached but not unpleasant. He is wearing a suit with the school crest upon it, denoting him as faculty of some kind.
Not just faculty, she thinks, as he stares her down. Harry slows to a stand still, realizing it is pointless to try and move around him.
It's only a moment before Grindelwald catches up to her, what with his men keeping her from going too far. The man blocking her path nods once at his master, before he melts back into the crowds, as silent as he had arrived, leaving Harry and the dark lord alone once again.
She should have never came to the graduation, Harry realizes with a defeated sigh. She knew it would be a perfect opportunity for an ambush, but she had assumed he wouldn't put so much effort into it with so many people in attendance. Apparently she had sorely underestimated his ability to be discreet.
She couldn't help but compare this to how Lord Voldemort would have handled the situation. He would have surrounded the building with his Death Eaters, masked men in cloaks throwing deadly spells at the crowds, the entire room exploding in chaos and anarchy.
Harry almost wishes that had happened.
At least if Death Eaters were here throwing curses and burning the place to the ground she could fight her way out in a blaze of fire. She'd be a lot better at that than this; standing her ground as she is surrounded by unseen adversaries, unable to fire a single curse without turning the crowds on her.
"I don't believe our conversation was over." Grindelwald intones calmly, as he emerges at her left.
"Really? It seemed quite finished to me." Harry replies, smiling facetiously.
"I want to know how you did it." It appears they are finally coming to the real purpose of this conversation, the real purpose of all of this, as Grindelwald's look turns deadly serious. "But I find myself equally as curious to know not just how, but why. What are your motivations? You have a power most could never dream of—one I myself cannot even fathom. Why are you here? What are your intentions, regarding the war?"
Harry watches him circle her with a wary gaze. His gait is calm and unmoved, like a stalking predator surrounding his prey; a scientist circling a chemical phenomenon; a master inventor staring at the world's greatest anomaly. Like he wants to pick her apart.
"I just want to be left alone." She repeats, suddenly so tired of all this. "Is that really too much to ask?"
"Yes." Grindelwald answers immediately, looking amused. "You must know that's never going to happen."
Harry sighs. "Yes, well, one can dream, can't they?"
"Why waste away like this? You are destined for more than just a life tending to some fickle offspring."
"My destiny has long since passed, and thank god for that." Harry waves him off. Grindelwald's eyes flicker with interest at that, but she continues before he can remark. "My motivations are not all that difficult to understand. I'm even suggesting a compromise; I will leave you alone, if you leave me alone. Does that not suffice?"
"No, not in the slightest." The dark lord answers without missing a beat. "I don't want to leave you alone."
Harry stares at him, perplexed. "You would prefer me to oppose you?"
"I would prefer you to—" He pauses, suddenly.
Harry watches him patiently.
"No, I don't want that." He finishes, after an odd beat of silence. "But I don't want you to disappear, either."
He appraises her with a quiet observation. For some reason, despite the softness of his gaze it is just as unnerving as when he was staring at her with intense obsessiveness. Perhaps because it is no less obsessive.
Harry stares back, feeling unsettled at such severe and unwavering attention. "What do you want, then?"
There is another long pause. Her gaze darts to the crowd; none of them appear remotely interested in the conversation occurring in the center of the room. Another privacy ward, then? He must be quite skilled, to erect and dismantle them so fluidly. Or is it a ward that moves with him? That is even more profound. When Harry's gaze returns to him, she finds it just as pensive and searching as it had been earlier.
"Answers would be a nice start." He replies, leaning back.
"I'm not under any obligation to give you any answers." Harry points out.
"If you do, I'll leave your ward alone."
This gives Harry pause.
"That's what you want, right? I can promise you your ward will be safe from me and the upcoming war. I'll even bestow upon him my personal protection, should the need arise." He assures, and the prospect is enough to stop Harry's immediate protests. "All I want in return is a conversation."
Harry purses her lips. "A conversation?" She repeats.
The dark lord nods.
Harry surveys him closely, weighing her options.
She takes a breath, wondering if she's making the wrong choice.
.
.
.
Tom squints into the crowds, hoping Harry will miraculously appear out of the ether, beaming at him and cheerfully telling him its time to leave.
The ceremony has been over for half an hour and he's still yet to find her. The audience and students alike have moved into the grand hall, where refreshments and hor d'oeuvres circle around atop the deft hands of waiters, and throngs of people migrate in packs, looking for yet another person to make meaningless small talk with. Tom has managed to wrangle his way out of all of it, and he has spent his reprieve searching for his guardian.
Tom sighs. It's going to be impossible to find her with all these people around.
He thinks he sees a glimpse of fiery hair, his eyes narrowing in that direction as he sets off towards it.
"Tom Riddle, isn't it?"
Tom swirls around, taken aback to find the Headmaster staring down at him.
"Yes, sir." Tom answers, cautiously. He's never spoken to the Headmaster before; how does the man know his name?
"You look troubled, young man. Are you looking for someone?"
"Yes, Headmaster." Tom replies, warily. "I'm trying to find my guardian."
"Harriet, wasn't it?" The Headmaster tilts his head thoughtfully. "Hmm… I was just speaking to her. She ought to be around her somewhere…"
"Tom, I've been looking for you everywhere—
A figure his size stops abruptly beside him, stepping forward to reveal the bouncy blonde curls of Margaret. "Headmaster!" She changes tracks quickly, smiling. "It's good to see you."
"Little Miss Buchanan," the Headmaster greets warmly. "Lovely to see you. I assume your father is around here as well?"
Margaret nods. "Oh, yes. I think he might have been looking for you, actually."
"Is he really?" The Headmaster laughs. "Everyone's looking for someone today, I suppose. Very well, do you happen to know where he might be?"
"I last saw him by the refreshment table." Margaret replies dutifully.
"Alright then, thank you Miss Buchanan." He moves to leave, before turning to look over his shoulder. "Tom, I believe the person you're looking for is that way." He points somewhere behind Tom, before disappearing into the crowds.
Tom turns back around, stunned to see a long, familiar curl of red hair behind him, not too far away. He could have sworn he'd checked over there…
Margaret makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat, gripping him with hands like talons. "Is that Chanel?" She gasps, looking right towards Harry as well. "Oh Merlin, Tom, I have to know."
"What? What are you talking about?" He snaps impatiently, not even listening to her. "Let go of me."
"I was going to ask you earlier," she continues, as if she hadn't heard him. "I saw you two come in and I just adored her bag... I was going to ask you if you knew what it was."
"It's a bag." Tom replies, boggled. "What else would it be? Look, could you please let go of me I really need to—
Margaret gasps again, and her hold tightens. "Oh, and those shoes! What are they? They are perfection."
Tom finally manages to struggle away from her, practically sprinting to the girl in question. Quite honestly he could care less about her attire, and was more concerned over the fact that someone was commandeering all of her attention. If he had taken a closer look, he would have recognized the veiled wariness in her eyes.
Margaret catches him before he can get too far, looking at him with an absurd amount of urgency.
"Tom, I simply must visit you over the summer." Margaret begins, insistently, in a complete change of tact.
"Why?" Tom hedges, alarmed and impatient.
"I need to look at her closet, Tom, it is of the utmost importance." She says, imploring, and totally serious. "Even if it's just a peak. I'll be quick, I promise."
"Her closet?" Tom repeats, incredulous. He tries to remove her from her person, but to no avail. "Why in Merlin's name would you want to see her closet?"
Her eyes practically bulged. "Tom, that dress is Balenciaga," she heaves, looking possessed. "I thought my heart stopped when I saw it. And that's to say nothing of the shoes, or the bag— I can only imagine what the rest of her wardrobe must look like! Oh please, just a look at her dresses—oh, and her shoes. And maybe her bags. And jewelry. You know what, maybe just a run through of everything. She won't even know I was there."
Tom does not know what to say, so instead he backs away slowly. "You're still not making any sense."
Margaret rolls her eyes. "Well of course you wouldn't understand, what do you know about the latest in fashion? Probably nothing."
"Why would I want to know?" Tom returns, wondering how this conversation got away from him so quickly.
"This is utterly besides the point." Margaret sniffs. "Just invite me over, alright?"
Tom eyes her distrustfully. He's fairly sure this is not standard etiquette—isn't he supposed to be the one to invite her? Hell, she's practically just inviting herself but using him as a proxy.
"You won't even have to talk to me," she adds, quickly. "We can just do our summer reading or something."
The prospect doesn't sound all that horrible now, but Tom is still at a total loss. "I still don't get why you want to come over so badly."
Margaret takes a breath, expression both severe and impatient. "Tom, I know you won't understand, but Harry is… quite fashionable—you know I normally go towards the boyish look of Katherine Hepburn, but Harry's really made me see the appeal of the more feminine A-line waists and longer skirts—
She cuts herself off when it becomes clear Tom has no idea what she's talking about. "I just really want to see her clothes." She says, succinctly.
Oh. Well that is an explanation, true, but it is still a totally insensible and illogical one. Why on earth would she want to do that? "Well if you want to see her clothes, why don't you just ask her?"
Tom realizes his mistake when Margaret brightens. "Oh! Tom, that's an absolutely excellent idea! Now where is she?"
"Margaret, wait—
But the blonde has already darted towards her, making a beeline towards the girl in question. Oh hell, Tom scowls warily. He's pretty sure he just sealed his own fate with that one. He can imagine Harry's reaction to this; utter delight.
He is right.
Harry seems pleasantly surprised with this turn in events, looking at first as if she doesn't know what to do with the little girl badgering her with questions about her outfits, but after a bit she warms up to the young blonde. She was clearly an ambitious one, with a very good eye for fashion. Harry couldn't help but encourage her; it was very refreshing to see a determined and no-nonsense little girl here.
Not to mention her timing couldn't have been better, her presence effectively splitting she and Grindelwald apart.
Harry couldn't help the amusement and satisfaction she felt at the consternated expression on his face as he was so conclusively interrupted. He did not look pleased, to say the least. But she was just a little girl—a girl belonging to a family that probably donated him a lot of money—so any attempt at berating her would be considered impolite. Not to mention Harry took the opportunity to devote her entire attention to the girl, turning to her with a sunny smile and crouching to her level, wholly ignoring the dark lord beside her as she turned her back on him. Shooing her away now was impossible.
Tom catches up to them eventually, but it only takes one look at the pair to know the situation is irreparable. Margaret is beaming and talking a mile a minute, and Harry is nodding and smiling at her indulgently. It is worse than he expected.
"Oh, Tom!" She waves him over with a brilliant smile. "There you are—I was just talking to your friend Margaret here—
Tom pulls a face at the use of the word 'friend'. More like evil, conniving little manipulator, he thinks meanly.
"And she was saying something about a trip during the summer?"
Tom pauses, surprised that this was Margaret's choice in conversation, when she had been in hysterics at Harry's clothing earlier. He catches sight of her cherubic smile—and the sly glint beneath. Ah, so that's her game. Win Harry by being adorable, insightful, and intelligent, and then lavishing her with compliments on her outfit. Tom would have applauded her, if it had been anyone else but Harry. He narrows his eyes at the girl, intent on making sure that he gets his message across; he will not tolerate anyone attempting to manipulate Harry. Anyone but him, that is.
His attention is diverted towards a figure hovering over Harry's shoulder; a tall, well-built and impeccably dressed man with light hair is staring down at Harry with an alarming look. It dissolves into something pleasant and nondescript when he notices Tom watching him, but the smile the man gives him instead is equally as concerning. It looks… predatory. It makes all the hairs on the back of Toms neck stand, and he narrows his eyes at the tall man.
"There are a couple," he replies, smoothly, turning his attention away. "But I think I'd rather take summer classes."
"Oh, don't say that!" Margaret returns, waving him off. "You'd love the exchange program to Chinchaysuyu—I heard it's beautiful, and they're all necromancers there."
Yes, he would love that exchange program. In fact, he had been considering going on it; it was very far away from home, but Margaret was right. The darkest of black magic is kept somewhere in that vast, ancient empire—the lost art of capacocha, as they called it. Human sacrifice. Many ancient civilizations had some form of blood magic and necromancy involved in their society, but none were as powerful or complex as the greater Mesoamerican empires. Unfortunately Wolcroft didn't allow students under a certain age into the Shaman's Academy of Chilam Balam exchange program, but the Mayans above all others had perfected the art of blood sacrifice. Just thinking of it sent a shiver up his spine. That said Chinchaysuyu was a common alternative for the younger necromancers of the school, and was probably just as informative.
But on the other hand, could he leave Harry for that long? He mentally shook his head. He would have to, he reminded himself. If he intended to go to Hogwarts the year after next, he was going to have to learn to live without Harry as a constant presence by his side. Just thinking about it horrified him.
"Is that so?" Harry asked, curious. "Where is the program?"
"It's in the heart of the Incan Empire," Margaret answers.
Harry gasps with delight. "Oh! That's so exciting!" She turns to him. "Do you want to go? I'll talk with your teachers."
Tom vacillates for a moment. "We'll see," he settles for, looking away. "I might want to stay and take summer classes."
"Of course you would," Harry laughs good-naturedly. "You always need to be learning something or other—is it impossible for you to simply sit and enjoy the day for a while?"
Tom shrugs.
Harry claps her hands. "I know! Why don't we make a vacation out of it? How long is the program?"
"Two weeks," Margaret replies, cheerfully.
"Two weeks isn't so bad," Harry murmurs to herself. Not to mention she has plenty of vacation days that she needs to use up by the end of the year.
"All study and no vacation? Harry, you never told me your ward was so studious." The man finally deigns to speak, cutting into their conversation with a smoothness that makes Tom think he was rather annoyed at being so effectively cut out of it in the first place, and had been waiting for an opportunity for some time.
"You never asked." Harry replies, and despite her cheerful expression her posture has turned stiff and uncomfortable.
"I prefer learning to idleness," Tom retorts, narrowing his eyes at the man.
The blonde man looks away from Tom, his gaze once again focusing on Harry. "It appears there is much I don't know about your ward… or you." He adds, eyes gleaming. "We should sit down some time and discuss things, shouldn't we, Harry?"
Harry's gaze flickers towards him, narrow and nonplussed. "Yes we should." She says, but her tone is frosty. "We'll have to schedule in a time—later in the summer, for it seems I may be going on vacation."
The man does not look enthused at all. "Later in the summer, then." He agrees, with a tight smile.
"Yes, later." Harry says hastily. "Now, we should probably be taking our leave, Tom, we don't want to be late…"
Late to what? Tom thinks but doesn't say.
"Right, of course." Tom plays along coolly.
Harry takes his hand; her hands are cold, and her grip is too tight. She bids the two a quick and strained farewell, and then she is cutting through the crowds with a surprising efficiency, making for the floo.
.
.
.
They do not floo home, but onto an unfamiliar street Tom has never been to before. Harry releases his hand when they arrive, and Tom looks up at her warily. Her shoulders are still stiff.
Tom walks beside her, wondering if he should say anything.
But what is he supposed to say? He thinks, angrily. She probably wouldn't tell him what was wrong even if he asked. She wouldn't want him to worry. Harry was always protecting him, but he doesn't want her to always be protecting him—he wants to protect her.
He scowls.
Unfortunately as a ten-year old boy there's not much he can do on that front.
But Tom has already spent a lifetime wishing he was older—old enough to leave the orphanage, old enough to take care of himself, old enough to no longer have to rely on anyone—and it appears he will spend even longer until it becomes true.
Harry suddenly pauses, causing Tom to almost miss a step.
"Harry?" He calls, worried.
Harry shakes her head vigorously, the pensive haze disappearing from her eyes as she smiles. "I think we're lost."
Tom stares at her blankly.
They eventually find where they're supposed to be going, once Harry returns to her cheerful self. It appears they actually did have a reservation they were going to be late to.
Tom was worried it would be some kind of stuffy place with white tablecloths and a dozen wine glasses, but when they arrive the atmosphere is decidedly relaxed.
Harry seems to relax as well, visibly deflating as they make it to their seats, finally looking less like a marionette and more like a person. The stiffness in her arms collapses back into an organic shape; her mechanical expression is replaced with a look of relief and leisure.
"Well, this is nice." Harry remarks, looking around.
Tom follows suit. "Where is this?"
"A friend recommended it," Harry replies vaguely. "He said it's one of the best places to eat in Boston."
He? Tom thinks, annoyed. Harry doesn't elaborate, and despite his jealousy Tom doesn't feel like opening up a line of interrogation. Not when she still seems so maudlin.
Harry shakes her head, annoyed with herself. Tom just graduated from his first year of schooling, and they should be celebrating! Instead she's sitting here letting another Dark Lord get the best of her, fretting over things that were pointless to fret over—at least, pointless for now. Whatever plans Grindelwald had were not going anywhere; meanwhile, she and Tom were supposed to be spending time together now.
"Recommended it?" Tom asks, disrupting her thoughts. "Recommended for what?"
Harry blinks, before grinning. "For your celebration, silly."
For some reason, Tom never feels particularly insulted or chastised when Harry calls him 'silly'. If anything, it always makes him pleased. "Celebration?" He repeats, still at a loss.
Harry leans closer, still smiling mischievously. "Well yes, of course. We have to celebrate. You've graduated from your first year of school!"
Tom's first consternated thought is; is that really cause for celebration? He still has a small infinity of grades to go through. But the brief vexation disappears, as he realizes then that he wouldn't really know what was cause for celebration; he'd never celebrated anything, before. Before Harry, he had never found much reason to commemorate anything, be it birthdays or holidays or personal achievements. Harry, meanwhile, tends to put importance on the most arbitrary of milestones. Things like good grades (which should be a given), test scores, and teacher praise (also a given) are cause for conviviality; if she knows he had a big test that day she takes him out for ice cream; she rewards him for good behavior and acting appropriately with company—all of which are things that Tom would have done anyway.
If Tom were any other child this sort of lavish attention would probably go straight to his head and make him into the most inconsolable brat around. But since Tom is intimately aware of a life without all of this, it only leaves him humbled and slightly bewildered. Why does she always put so much effort into praising his every achievement, no matter how insignificant?
He looks down, lips pursed into a thin line.
It's not that he doesn't like all the attention, all the ice cream, all the praise; but it always serves to remind him of what he has now. And how easy it would be to lose it all again.
"Tom?" She leans closer, brow furrowed.
He shakes himself out of his thoughts. "Sorry—I was just thinking about the theory behind a new spell in my necromancy book." He offers with a charming smile.
Harry looks at him fondly, huffing. "You and your dead things." She shakes her head, diverting her attention to the menu. "Well, it's your day today—what do you feel like eating?"
Tom never has much preference for food, but dutifully looks over the thick parchment anyway.
"I just want a sandwich." He announces, putting the menu down. He likes them; they remind him of Harry.
The girl orders for both of them, accidentally charming the waiter so much he brings her a complimentary glass of wine. Harry thinks he's very kind; Tom thinks he just wants Harry's attention, and scowls deeply.
On the subject of people wanting Harry's attention, Tom's thoughts wander back to that strange man standing next to Harry after graduation.
Harry returns her attention to him, her smile growing wicked. "So, Tom," she drawls, still grinning. Tom is immediately apprehensive. He leans back a bit, eying her warily.
"Yes?" He prods, when she doesn't continue.
"Margaret," Harry starts, eyes sparkling. "She's a friend of yours?"
Tom regards her coolly. He knows this game, this twinkle in her eyes; adults do it to him all the time. They crow about how adorable he is whenever he's alone together with a girl. They seem to think he's always involved in some kind of sweet and ineffable young love. It's annoying, but commonplace enough.
Still, Tom doesn't want to answer. And it irritates him just enough for him to snipe back, despite better judgment.
"That man you were talking to," he turns the tables around. "Is he a friend of yours?"
Harry was clearly not expecting that, for the wicked gleam in her eyes disappears into a sharp look.
She says nothing for a moment, regarding him just as deeply. Tom refuses to back down. It's rare to see Harry so inexpressive—rare, and rather alarming. Her shoulders have stiffened again, the only indication that something is amiss.
"No." She says, at last. "Not at all."
Tom frowns.
He had assumed as much, just from observing her posture when he hovered over her. He frowns a bit deeper at the thought; he was such an odd man. It was unusual for someone to put Tom so ill at ease just at first glance, and so conclusively at that. He knew, just from one look at him, that he wouldn't like him.
And it was clear from the way he looked at her that he wanted something from Harry. His eyes were sharp and shrewd—dangerously. But what would he want? Tom's eyes narrow in thought. He could think of one reason; the Deathly Hallows. He still didn't quite understand Harry's connection to the whole affair, but he did know that there were people out there who took them very seriously.
"I see." Tom returns, before the silence between them can linger on. "How do you know him, then? You two seemed very familiar."
He can tell Harry is becoming even more displeased with this direction of conversation. Her mouth is set in a thin line, vibrant eyes inscrutable despite their brightness.
"Not particularly," she answers. "We've bumped into each other a couple times."
Tom knows that's not the whole story. He also recognizes that Harry is uncomfortable with all these questions—though he doesn't understand why—and ultimately decides to drop it. Their food arrives, distracting them both from the current topic.
At that point, he concludes a change of subject is in order.
He gives a long-suffering sigh. "Margaret is not my friend." He insists, after he's taken a few bites. "But I do respect her intelligence."
From Tom, that's practically a winning endorsement.
Harry blinks. She shifts in her seat, a smile quirking into existence; Tom doesn't know who's more relieved at the change of subject, he or Harry. The sight of it has him releasing a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Well, you should invite her over some time." Harry says lightly. "You guys could study together."
Tom's eye twitches. Somehow Margaret had managed to manipulate Harry into suggesting the plan herself. And not only that, but even to ask Tom to invite her over! She was conniving and evil.
"Sure, yeah." Tom replies, admitting defeat.
"She seems like a nice girl." Harry continues. "Very ambitious and studious—she seems more like the kind of person you'd be friends with than some of your other friends."
She is probably referring to Ruth, who is probably just as smart but far less motivated to do anything about it. Or Wesley, who dreams of retiring on an unplotted island somewhere at an age far too young to be considering retirement.
Tom stares at her balefully. "How many times do I have to tell you they're not my friends?"
"Right, of course." Harry pretends to clear her throat to hide her laughter.
"Harry." Tom scowls, not fooled in the least.
"I know, I know, Tom." She grins. "You're too cool for friends, Tom."
His brow ticks indignantly. "That is not what I—
But Harry is not listening, snickering behind her hand at his adorable expression of disgruntled revolution.
This is a lost cause, Tom thinks, with exasperation.
At the very least, Harry is in better spirits than she has been all day, and there are worse things in the world than listening to Harry's laughter—even if it is at his expense.
.
.
.
"You can stay out tonight?" Hermione asks over the phone, tinny voice colored with surprise.
"Yeah, weird, isn't it?" Harry replies with a light laugh. That's what she gets for deciding to become a full time single parent, though. A lack of free weekend nights was fairly par for the course.
Hermione makes a noise of agreement. "You're sure its fine? You said he got a bit tetchy the last time you stayed out late."
"He'll be fine," Harry hedges off with a confidence that is not nearly as unshakable as she made it out to be. Tom had certainly said he was fine. He said that the last time too, though.
"If you say so…" Hermione replies uneasily, not sounding convinced in the least.
"Never mind that." Harry waves her off. "What do you feel like eating tonight? I swear, the selection of foods in the past leave much to be desired."
"I don't doubt it." Hermione snorts. "Shall we try something exotic then? Should I corral Ron into coming, or are we going somewhere he won't like?"
Harry hums thoughtfully as she gets off the elevator, crossing through the voluminous and sparkling lobby. The city greets her with a warm gust of air, and the unending cacophony of modern day rush hour traffic. Well, Ron was normally quite adventurous—assuming no one tells him just what it is exactly he's putting in his mouth—but he does draw the line at some things.
"How does barbeque sound?" Harry offers, because she knows for a fact Ron would never turn down meat.
Hermione, ambitious vegetarian-hopeful that she is, makes a strangled noise. "Oh alright, fine." She huffs, much to Harry's amusement.
"Perfect, okay. I'm leaving now. Shall I meet you at the downtown floo? The place is just a quick ride away from there."
Hermione agrees, and ends the call soon after that, leaving Harry alone in the overwhelming city.
She takes a breath, reminding herself that there's nothing to be afraid of here. Fifty years in the future was safely out of Grindelwald's reach. Truthfully she was always relieved after she hugged Tom goodbye and stepped into the floo, only to reappear in the same house half a century later. Despite the fact that both worlds were theoretically the same, this was her world, the one she grew up in, the one where all her closest friends resided in. Everywhere she went in the past was fair game for Grindelwald. Considering Tom's schooling and his interests in the Dark Arts it wasn't surprising that they moved in the same circles, making it impossible to truly get away from his influence. She always had the urge to look over her shoulder; she was always wary of speaking to people—both strangers and people she already knew—in fear that they were gathering information on her for the dark lord.
He was making a mess of things, and quite frankly it had blown past tedious and headlong into genuine fear.
The man had shot a killing curse at her, for Merlin's sake, and then turned around a few months later and complimented her on her dress! How was Harry supposed to react to that? It was so unfortunate too; now every time she saw the garment she would be reminded of the event. And she really liked that dress.
Harry digressed.
Grindelwald was becoming an issue, and Harry was probably only exacerbating the problem by avoiding him.
This was exactly why she needed to see her friends—she had no one else she could talk to. Any acquaintance she may have in the past was liable to be working for the dark lord, her work friends were muggles, and it's not as if she could talk to Tom about this, or god forbid, Spot.
Hermione and Ron were waiting outside the restaurant for her, snippily bickering at each other in a way that meant Harry would have to do some damage control.
They settled down once they were seated, Hermione bristling in her chair, Ron ostensibly ignoring her by fiddling with his straw wrapper. Harry thought them both childish, and turned her intention towards the waiter instead, rattling off a whole list of meats and hoping for the best.
"Do you even know what you ordered?" Hermione asks critically, crossing her arms. Well, at least she had stopped sulking.
Harry shrugs. "I'm living life dangerously these days."
Hermione shakes her head. "Oh yes, questionable raw meat is quite dangerous."
"No really though, I'm being serious."
Hermione raises a brow. "So am I."
"Wait." Ron butts in. "It's raw?"
Harry gestures impatiently to the stove. "You cook it." She rolls her eyes at Ron's bewildered expression, adding lazily; "Crazy invention, the stove."
"But why would you cook it here?" He guffaws.
Harry ignores him in favor of piercing Hermione with an austere look. "I think I've gotten myself into a bit of a mess."
Hermione blinks. "A mess?" She repeats, slowly.
"Yes," Harry sighs. "Remember how we had that talk about Grindelwald and whether or not I should confront him?"
"Oh Harry, tell me you didn't."
"I didn't." Harry affirms. "But he kind of found me anyway."
"Again?" Hermione sits up straighter.
"You think he'd learn his lesson after almost blowing his own head off." Ron snorts.
"You'd think, right?" Harry drawls, annoyed. "But no. He shows up at Tom's graduation, casually compliments me on my dress, and then goes on to act like we're friends and there's nothing wrong and like our entire last encounter was not nearly as deadly as I remember it to be!"
Harry trails off as the waiter returns to drop off their food.
"So he found you." Hermione surmises from her tirade.
"I should have known he'd make his move there." Harry shakes her head in annoyance. "I had figured he wouldn't do anything with so many people there, but I had overlooked the fact that he wasn't Voldemort. Voldemort would have stormed the place and turned it all into chaos. Grindelwald had no need to do that; he managed to single me out just fine without all the havoc."
Hermione purses her lips. They both haven't even touched their food, but Ron is going at it enthusiastically. He seems to have come to terms with cooking his own food in front of him, having a grand time of it.
"What did he say?" Her best friend inquires softly.
"Well, unsurprisingly he's very confused and bewildered by my inability to die—"
Ron laughs. "Welcome to the club—"
"And frustrated by my lack of cooperation."
"But he didn't try to hurt you?" Hermione presses, brow furrowing.
"No." Harry shrugs. "Didn't so much as even lift his wand."
"What did he want from you?" She frowns. "Answers?"
"He said he wanted a 'conversation'." Harry reveals with a humorless chuckle, reaching over Ron to claim a couple cooked slices from the stove.
"A conversation?" Hermione repeats, eyes widening.
"Yeah, you know. He wants to talk to me. One on one, I guess. Probably to interrogate me."
"Probably to date you." Ron snickers.
Hermione looks at him disapprovingly. "That's not funny Ron." She reprimands.
Harry looks down into her rice bowl. "Actually, I think Ron is right."
They both turn to stare at her.
Hermione's look turns empathetic. "Oh, Harry…"
They all remember how Voldemort went down. Well, Harry was fairly sure Voldemort had never wanted to date her, but he was oddly obsessive all the same. Harry snorts under her breath; he may as well have been a possessive, jealous ex-boyfriend for all the havoc he wreaked on her romantic life with his mere existence. Just kidding, even the jealous ex-boyfriend would have been preferable. No one ever wanted to date the girl who was standing at the center of Lord Voldemort's ire—and Harry had never really blamed them. Anyone standing beside her was liable to become a target.
Harry shakes her head. "Well, there's nothing I can really do about it now." She commiserates with a sigh.
She isn't even sure what, exactly, she did to elicit such furtive attention from someone who was not only quite powerful, but also quite busy.
Hermione stares at her with open worry. "You're not going to meet him… are you?"
Harry falters slightly, picking uneasily at her pickled radish. "Well…" She bites her lip. "He promised he'd leave Tom alone, if I did."
"Okay, so he'll leave the kid alone. But he didn't say anything about leaving you alone, did he?" Ron points out, observantly.
Harry lowers her gaze. "No, he didn't." She agrees.
Hermione busies herself with plucking food off the stove before Ron can devour it all, fixing up her plate before looking back up at her. Her brow is furrowed, her lips thinned into a pensive line. "This really doesn't sound good, Harry. I don't like this one bit."
"Neither do I." Harry protests with whine. "What am I supposed to do, though? Uproot us to Mongolia? I can't just leave, and unfortunately he appears to have a sphere of influence over everywhere I go."
Hermione gave a defeated shrug, returning her attention to dinner. "I suppose."
"Shoulda just killed him, Harry." Ron shakes his head with a laugh.
At least someone sees the humor in this.
Harry silently agrees. She wishes she had—she wishes she had it in her to do that.
But she just couldn't do it. She'd only ever killed one person, and look what happened. She ended up turning her whole life upside down to give him a second chance. She shakes her head. Tom is different though.
"You'd think he'd at least be a little grateful." She grouses. "I mean, I did save his life."
"Hold on," Ron interrupts, mid bite, "doesn't that mean he owes you a Life Debt?"
Harry blinks. She hadn't thought of it that way.
They both turn to Hermione.
Unsurprisingly, she has the answer.
"Yes, he does." She reveals.
Harry frowns. "But what exactly does a Life Debt entail?" Nothing she's ever heard or read on the subject has been particularly enlightening.
"They're a rather undefined branch of magic," Hermione explains. "It could entail a lot of things. Really it just means he's indebted to you—and will have to repay you in some way."
"But what constitutes as repayment?" Harry presses.
Hermione's brow furrows thoughtfully. "I'm not really sure, Harry. I guess that would be up to you."
Harry leans back in her chair, her words sinking in.
"Well," she says, with great finality. "I guess that's that, then."
"What's what?" Hermione sits up straighter, looking alarmed.
Harry sets her chopsticks down. "I'm going to meet with him."
Both Hermione and Ron turn to her incredulously. "What?"