Disclaimer: aha, something new to put in. Whilst I don't own Harry potter or any related offshoots, I can also moan about not having written the poem mentioned here. It belongs to Wilfred Owen.

Chapter nine: Dulce et Decorum est

With a quick glance over his shoulder Tom began sifting through the sheets of paper. He wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, or whether he was looking for anything at all. He was desperately bored in the old house and more than a little unnerved by the photographs that hung on every wall – the face that was almost, but not quite, like his own. With one mystery on its way to being solved it was time to address another: the boy.

If Rosa was going to read his private property, he'd just have to do the same back. He'd failed to find any diaries, but these letters looked like a good bet. Hopefully she'd think these were more suitable than schoolbooks. Tom smirked, scanning a likely looking page. It wasn't a letter, or part of a journal or anything related to the son, but he didn't put it down. It was a poem, and for the half a minute he took to read it, it held his attention utterly.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through the sludge,

Till on haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick boys – an ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And floud'ring like a man in fire or lime. –

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs

Bitten as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, –

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,' he whispered, slipping the page back into the pile. He had no trouble understanding the Latin; he was simply trying to distract himself from the fact he felt slightly sick. There were times when an over active imagination wasn't such an advantage.

'How sweet and good it is to die for your country.'

Tom quickly slid the poems back into their hideaway, turning to face Rosa. She was smiling, which probably meant they were going to ignore their last meeting completely. Well maybe she was –

'I know what it means,' he said stiffly, a twinge of pain in his jaw effectively reminding him to mind his manners.

'I know you do – I've been having a proper look at your books; they're mostly Latin. You seem like a smart boy. Not smart enough to stay out of trouble though.'

'Did you write these?' asked Tom, calmly resisting the sudden urge to throttle the woman right there and then. With any luck there'd be something in the books that cursed her. He vaguely remembered a story of some ancient tome that instantly incinerated its reader if he or she was anything less than a half blood. But then it was probably just something he'd dreamt up.

Rosa was laughing her delicate, watery laugh, sweeping over and picking up the wad of poems. 'Of course not. A friend sent them to me – these are all written by a man called Wilfred Owen. He lived quite near here, perhaps you've heard of him?'

Curiosity sated, Tom merely shook his head. He wasn't in the mood to talk to Rosa – even now his petty plan.

'Are you going to go out and fight, Tom?' she asked lightly, flicking through the papers. 'When you're old enough, I mean.'

'No.'

Rosa raised a pale eyebrow. 'Oh? Don't let the poems put you off. This is a whole new war.'

'Are people dying?'

'Of course –'

'Then what's the difference?' Tom muttered. He tried to dodge pat Rosa, but she held him back with a surprisingly strong grip. Her other hand moved up sharply and Tom was mortified to find he flinched. Rosa, however, simply smiled, and ruffled his hair in what she clearly thought was a maternal gesture. Tom would have honestly preferred another slap.

'I mean it about the poems though. Some of them are quite ridiculous. They're written by a disillusioned minority. Interesting enough, but rather too graphic.'

'I suppose it was,' Tom agreed, though there was an edge to his words. 'Disgusting. Depraved, even.' Rosa gave no reaction in hearing her words thrown back at her, so Tom carried on. 'But still interesting. It shocks you into learning something. Just like my books do.'

'You are an odd thing Tom. You spend too much time in those dreadful stories and not enough being a child.'

Tom scowled, then forced his face into his sweet, fake smile. 'Let me be a child in my own way, madam. Give me back my toys.'

'You're not getting around me that way.' Rosa sighed, as if she was steeling herself to say something. 'You need proper guidance Tom, and I've been thinking – and Cecile agrees – we should be the ones to give it to you.'

Tom laughed. He couldn't help it – he'd seen it coming since Rosa had first laid eyes on him outside the house. She wasn't the first to try – far from it. Tom didn't consider himself vain, but he was very aware of the way he looked; even in his earliest memories he could recall strange, unknown couples smiling at him and telling him he was handsome little boy. But the adoptions never came through: some disaster would befall the couple before the papers were signed. He couldn't say he minded if Rosa was next in line, but he didn't want to be second to her own child. He didn't particularly like the orphanage, even if he practically ruled it, but he was no replacement.

'And Cecile agrees?'

'Of course. She may be angry with you at the moment, that's understandable –'

'She hates me. The feeling's perfectly mutual. I don't want a mother, or a sister. I've accepted that my parents are gone. I don't particularly care anymore. And I certainly don't want new ones.'

The silence that followed this statement stretched for nearly half a minute, before Tom thought of something to say. He'd been wondering what Min would do in a situation like this. Violence and anger didn't work. Reason might.

'If you don't mind me asking,' he said quietly, 'who is he?'

Rosa's own smile seemed to falter slightly. 'I don't know who you mean.'

'Yes you do. The one who looks like me.'

'You noticed.'

'It's hard not to. What was his name?'

'Robert,' said Rosa weakly, looking up at one of the many photographs.

'I don't want to be here,' said Tom calmly, vaguely impressed with himself for treating Rosa so kindly. The woman was nothing. Grace was more of a threat. Rosa Grey wasn't worth the fight. 'I don't need a family. And even if I did, I wouldn't want to be adopted simply because I look like someone who's died.'

Rosa's eyes flashed with anger as she took a step towards him. 'Robert isn't dead,' she spat.

'Cecile told me.'

'She doesn't know what she's talking about!'

'She seemed convinced –'

'So you think I'm lying, do you?'

'I think you're in denial,' said Tom, almost impressed by the woman's temper tantrum. Almost. Rosa might not have been worth the fight, but she was fast earning his pity. 'And slightly unbalanced.'

'You think I'm mad? A little rich coming from a fourteen-year-old who still believes in magic! We've all heard you talking in your sleep, I've seen threatening the other children – you're lucky I haven't packed you off to an asylum!'

Tom froze at the last word, unbidden memories flowing into his mind. That was Knight's favourite threat – it had once been the only thing that would stop him from terrorising the other children. It was still one of his more frequent nightmares.

'I don't understand why they haven't done it already,' Rosa was saying, realising she'd found a chink in Tom's armour. 'But you do know how to charm people, don't you Tom? Why else would good, normal people listen to some twisted little brat – to someone's bastard? I've seen you with the children, innocent children hanging on every depraved word that come slithering past your lips!'

It was at that moment Tom realised there was something truly wrong with Rosa Grey. He only knew one person who could become this cruel and irrational at the drop of a hat and that was himself. He had his excuses; plenty had happened to him. He could only dream what had happened to Rosa.

'You –' Rosa was shouting. 'You – you snake – are you even listening to me?'

Tom ignored her, trying to push past. Rosa slapped him round the face.

If it had been anyone else, something would have happened. His anger would have sparked visibly, teasing the flames out of the fireplace, or searing Rosa's skin. Tom rotated his jaw gingerly. It ached, but from yesterdays bruise. Rosa had barely hit him.

'You wonder why else I don't want to live here?' he asked softly. 'I owe you, Rosa. You stole my books. You hit me, more than once. People don't do things like that. Not anymore. You've reminded me of something quite important. I owe you a lesson,' Tom added, pushing past her. Rosa stepped swiftly out of the way, and was left alone in the drawing room.

He still felt like there were two of him. Tom was beginning to think he always would. But now they understood one another. The softer, fearful, weaker version of himself…he may not approve of the road ahead, but at least he understood. He wasn't killing mudblood. The thought had never occurred to him before. He wasn't setting out to murder anyone. They were to be casualties, just like Rosa's son.

Rosa…Tom slipped into his allocated room, letting his eyes fall once again on the myriad of photographs. It was no longer a symbol of dotage, but obsession. Rosa had reminded him that muggles weren't worth the fight. She embodied them all so well – she was vain, cowardly, narrow-minded and stupid. He wasn't killing muggles, Tom explained to his other self. He was saving the ones worth saving.

Deep down Tom had a strong feeling he hated Rosa. Just that morning he'd seriously contemplated her demise. But his hatred had been shaken into temporary submission by his new discovery. Rosa wasn't just eccentric, or cruel. Cecile hadn't just been trying to scare him away. The woman had lost her mind. For someone who had been accused of insanity to the point where he'd genuinely begun to consider the possibility, Tom felt a bizarre empathy with her. Maybe that was too strong a word – sympathy, certainly. Tom shook himself mentally, focussing on the photographs. It would pass. It had better pass. If he even considered staying with them – it could ruin everything.

Tom focussed on a single photograph, studying its occupant carefully. A teenager smiled for the camera, his arm wrapped around a pretty young woman with pin curls and lipstick that could be discerned even through the greyscale. The similarities were striking, but as he looked the differences became more pronounced. Were you happy here, Robert? he thought dully. You've been here long enough. Tom smiled suddenly, not taking his eyes of the picture. He'd just had a rather fantastic idea. It might even help Rosa get over her obsession – if she didn't crack first.

A/N: I don't know if the poem seems out of place. I could have chosen one better related to the themes – but anti-war ranting is kind of one of my themes lol. Anyway, Wilfred Owen's is an incredibly expressive poet and think it's amazing that he can relate his experiences to words in such a way – yes, probably unsurprisingly, I love war poems. And he did actually grow up near where I've based this.

And yeah, this is getting a bit confused. I'll go back and sort it out soon; especially the first chapter as the ideas of had while it developed might change the mood of that a little. But not now – now, all my brain is focussed on AS exams. Bloody history. Wish me luck :(