Hi, VanillaFields, Valentina, Mason and Alex and sarafina! Thank you very much for your reviews! :) I hope you like this chapter. I'll try to update as soon as I can but I can't promise anything because university has started again and the workload is very heavy this semester. But I'll do my best. This chapter is not what I'd call cheerful, but I hope it's alright. Please tell me your thoughts :)
Sachita
Chapter Nine
A train somewhere in Great Britain, December 29th, 1940
It was a bad idea. Asinine, even.
There was a Muggle saying, something about recklessness and stupidity and there being a thin yet significant line between those two, but Minerva had never given too much on Muggle sayings. Maybe that was why she was currently hiding out in a smelly Muggle train toilet, wearing her warmest woollen skirt with her warmest red-chequered blouse and the warmest coat she owned. It was certainly cold enough outside to warrant these kinds of measures.
The cold didn't stay outside though. It crept past the badly-insulated hull of the carriage she was currently situated in and past her thick clothes, freezing her to the very core. Corresponding to her thoughts, Minerva shivered badly. She could not see the outside world, only hear it: the rattling of the train's wheels whenever they encountered a rail switch, the icy winds howling and tearing at the train's exterior…Minerva shivered some more and hid her reddened cheeks in her scarf.
It wasn't as if she had much choice as to where to hide. This toilet was at the back of the train, just in front of the compartments where the firearms and shells were being kept. Normally, it had been a passengers-only train but, or so Minerva had learned when she had come to the station, the passenger trains had been partly transformed into freight trains in order to get as much weapons, food and fuel to the military bases in the south of the country as possible as well as to the coast to bring supplies to the British troops. Since this particular toilet was so far at the back, no one ventured here.
Minerva snorted a little. Of course there were few passengers anyway. No one was very eager to travel to the Capital these days, not when there were notices of London being constantly bombed every second day. She did have a ticket, too, but she knew that she would nonetheless be considered a minor by the Muggles and be sent swiftly back home.
If that didn't happen, she was in danger of being sent to the countryside seeing that large groups of children were being evacuated from the cities to the countryside. After having gone to all this trouble, not using magic and not taking her broomstick so that it would take her parents longer to find out where she had gone, being sent back to the countryside by the Muggles was the last thing she wanted. No, Minerva actually wanted to go to London.
This of course, returned her to the reason as to why this idea was asinine.
Leaning back, Minerva reflected on the last months as the train carried her steadfastly to London.
October had passed in a rush and so had November. There had been no news of Professor Accuratore, but their new Professor for Charms, Professor Gracieuse, who hailed from Paris, France, had proven to be a great deal more competent than he.
And another unusual but welcome development was- she had found friends. Poppy Pomfrey, who had alerted Professor Dumbledore so that he knew where to find her when Accuratore had kidnapped them, was becoming a fast friend. Minerva had initially only gone to thank her for telling Dumbledore about her whereabouts – without saying anything about the entire matter, of course- and she had found the two years younger Poppy to be a witty and intelligent girl. She hoped it was a friendship she could keep.
Winter holidays had come soon enough and Minerva had been looking forward to returning home, although she had known that she would miss Poppy and of course, Tom, the ever elusive Tom. When she had promised to write him, he had just regarded her with an indecipherable look and had told her that if that was what she wished to do, he wouldn't be the one to hold her back. Minerva stifled a sigh as she thought about it.
Tom was the literal riddle at hand, one that she at times despaired at, but she had always liked to be intellectually challenged and there was truly no one she knew that could challenge her as Tom could.
That day, though, had been one of those when she had again despaired at him. He had, with barely so much as a word of goodbye, taken his heavy suitcase whose size dwarfed him and had determinedly disappeared through the barrier to walk to the orphanage. Minerva knew that he had to go to the place he only called "where I have to live" alone, and in that moment she had wished he could go to Scotland with her.
Well, maybe, she mused, it would have been better if he had gone to Scotland with her. If he had, she certainly wouldn't be sitting in a smelly cold Muggle train toilet travelling to London. It was an asinine idea; she couldn't have repeated it often enough, even if that was only to herself.
The idea had come to her a few nights before, but it had actually started to take shape in her head some days before that…
Tom hadn't replied to her messages and so the only source that informed her of what was happening in London was the Daily Prophet. She was concerned, seeing that the Prophet's articles only seemed to become darker and more and more subdued. On this day the Daily prophet was lying on the scarlet and golden covers of her bed, courtesy of a tawny owl that sat right next to it, squawking indignantly.
"How did you get-?" Minerva started, but stopped when she saw the opened window. "Oh. Right. I forgot to close it before." The owl extended its foot and Minerva put the proper amount of coins in the little leather bag dangling there. Another squawk and the owl was gone. Minerva closed the window and sat down on the bed. The headline made her start and gasp: "Constant bomb terror causes London's muggle and wizard community to declare a state of emergency". While she read the article that dealt with war, death and fire, Minerva bit her lip. Oh Merlin. Tom…
She looked at Caelus who was sitting in his usual corner in her room, having fled inside from the thunderstorm brewing outside. No. She could not risk sending Caelus to the City of London again- she loved the owl too much for that. She could not do anything.
That night, she didn't sleep much- she kept dreaming of burning buildings, screaming people and a pale face that stared at her from behind the window of a burning house. Tom. The thunder and rain had her wake up every hour and each time she did, she woke up bathed in cold sweat, for she imagined the thunderclaps to be bombs, dropped as she lay there unawares and sleeping.
The next day, she went through her daily routine automatically, even went to visit Abigail in the village but her heart was not in her actions. She ended up sitting on the window sill staring outside in the early evening and stayed there till late in the night.
On the fourth evening after she had received the Prophet and with Christmas having passed without a word of Tom, Minerva found that she couldn't do this anymore. She found herself some practical clothes- a warm skirt and a warm blouse- and snuck out of the house.
So there she was, in a train bound for a city in a state of emergency, sitting huddled in on herself on the floor of a Muggle toilet. The journey was starting to exhaust her; it had been eight hours already and they had still not arrived, but then it was a long way and the train could only go slowly. Minerva didn't dare to close her eyes though; her fear of being discovered was too acute.
Of course the idea was asinine. But she needed to see him. The reasons as to why she needed to see him were none that she liked to admit to herself, but the truth was…she needed him. She needed him more than she could have said.
"What are you doing there, girl?"
The loud booming voice wrenched her out of the light sleep she had fallen into and startled her so badly that she had to steady herself on the floor. Only then did she look up.
A man, wearing a long dark coat and a small-brimmed hat, who looked to be in his late forties stared back at her. He seemed to be some kind of official and a higher-ranked one at that, judging from his demeanour. Golden-framed glasses were perched on his nose over which he regarded Minerva in half-surprise, half-irritation.
"Are we in London?" she asked and picked herself up.
"Yes, girl," he replied tersely, "we are in London, at King's Cross Station, which of course makes me ask you again: what are you doing here?"
"I have a ticket," Minerva announced quickly and held it out to him. Inside, she was quivering.
The man looked at the ticket closely and when his eyes fell again on her, the look on his exhausted face was slightly friendlier. "What do you want here in such dark weeks, Miss?"
"My sister," Minerva started in a hurry, taking care to perfect her acting in face of his penetrating stare. "My sister is still in London with my Uncle, because she couldn't come with me when I was sent to live with my parents in Scotland. In the countryside. Normally we attend school here, you see…and I know that I shouldn't be travelling alone, sir, but my father is in the Royal Navy and not at home and my mother is unable to come herself, because she is sick…and my little sister is still so young. We were afraid that she might get lost…and I was afraid that I might get sent back if I sat among the other passengers."
What an immense lie she'd just told and she was not proud of herself for it, but she knew she had to do it.
"I am sure someone would have been found who would have travelled with the girl…" the official started and some of the annoyance from before was back. "Well," he added, "anyway. I suppose it would be best if I accompanied you to your uncle myself. The city is not a good place to be at the moment. It can start at any moment again."
"How long has it been going on?"
The man glanced at her and now all of his exhaustion was clearly visible on his face, making him look as if he were a good ten years older. "Since September, but it feels like forever. It's hell."
Minerva nodded and when he looked down in deep thought, she shoved him quickly aside and started to run.
"Hey!" she heard behind her. "Get back here immediately! It's dangerous! Stop!"
But she didn't stop, she just kept on running until she couldn't hear the screams behind her anymore. Only then, when she stopped next to elegant and great white-bricked houses, so different from what she was used to, she realised that she had no idea where to go.
But she knew the name of Tom's orphanage and she asked a kindly-looking old man for directions. He gave them readily enough, but there was concern in his eyes. "Be careful, my dear, will you? Those old bones feel that there is going to be trouble today."
"Don't worry, sir," Minerva replied and gave him a sweet and genuine smile. "I will be careful."
Nodding, the old man saw her off and she was quick to go, seeing that it was starting to get dark. She hadn't reached the orphanage yet, when it started. First, there was an explosion in the distance and people next to her seemed frozen. Then, they all started yelling at once.
"We need to get off the street," someone yelled and grabbed her sleeve. Minerva shook him off and ran.
She had no idea if the direction she was going in was the right one, but it didn't seem to matter anymore. Sheer panic overwhelmed her as the explosions came closer and she kept running, whereto, she couldn't have said. Sirens were wailing at a horrible pitch.
She only knew that she couldn't stop because the city was burning.
London was burning.
Bright flares floated strangely silent compared to the overwhelming cacophony high up in the air.
Constant explosions allowed glimpses of the dark silhouettes of German planes in the cold December night. The air smelled of sulphur and fire. An explosion just down the street she was running on made her stop and throw her arms over her head. Minerva was frozen to the spot in mindless panic as she suddenly realised just how asinine her idea had been. This was real. This was war. And there was no one to protect her here.
Someone impacted with her and shook her out of her stupor.
Turning around quickly, she saw a man. His hands were bloody and mangled, his hair was singed and his face that was twisted to a scream was smeared with soot. Tears had left light tracks on his cheeks. The explosions that continued in the distance lit his face in an eerie light. Minerva could see the whites of his eyes.
"It's-it's-"he laughed hysterically, crazily, "it's all gone! Burning! My house, our beautiful London! Our London's burning! Burning!"
"Sir, sir," Minerva screamed at him. "Sir!"
But he didn't appear to have heard her and Minerva was left to stare at his back as he stumbled away and disappeared in the darkness and the smoke. Gasping for breath, she turned to run in the other direction.
Stopping sometime later in a non-descript street, she jerked violently as a mortar hit a house some way down the street, closer this time. The noise was deafening. Without thinking of what she was doing she whipped her wand out, screaming "Protego" at the top of her lungs. When she dared to look again, her ears were ringing and white dust was hanging in the air. As it slowly settled she could see in the strange half-light caused by heaps of burning rubble that half of the house's front was gone. Nearby, someone was sobbing.
Shuddering, Minerva pointed her wand to her feet and whispered "Vitesso". The world sped by in a blur. The countless screams of people around her were transformed into a single cry. Burning houses became whirlwinds of colour and sound, nearly beautiful in a horrifying and grotesque way. Momentary impressions flashed past her, the wide eyes of a young girl standing frozen to the spot staring at a burning house, a badly burnt man screaming and screaming- Minerva sped up. She felt nauseous. Her eyes burnt and spilt over, but her sobs were drowned by the enormous roar surrounding her.
Tom's orphanage was not located in the heart of the city, rather some way outside, but the explosions were still clearly audible. The smell of fire and sulphur was almost as strong and Minerva coughed and choked, supporting her weight on a pillar. Still shaking badly, tears leaving light tracks on her dirty cheeks, she stopped in front of the large iron gate, at a loss again for the second time that day. The orphanage's windows were dark and silent, contrasting the fiery noise everywhere around it.
The decision of what to do was however made for her as a dark shadow slipped out of a side door, opened the gate and hurried over to her.
"Minerva!" Tom- and yes it was indeed Tom's voice was incredulous. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"
His demeanour was calm, too calm for the situation, but a look at his face showed that he looked harried- he was pale, his hair was mussed and dark bruises circled his eyes.
"I came," she stuttered, hearing how her voice came out shrill and hysterical-sounding, "I came-because-you- I was afraid-"
Tom impatiently shook his head at her. "No time for that now. I am just about to go to a shelter."
"You?" she stammered," What about the other…?"
Again, he shook his head. "Evacuated. We have no time for this. Come on."
Minerva, nearly struck dumb by all that was happening around her stifled a desperate sob and allowed him to drag her along.
Minerva turned in his grip at a sudden sound, stumbled-
-and then the world exploded.
She had no time to react, but a voice shouted close to her ear: "Protego!"
The house opposite of them exploded and the world was set afire. Burning wreckage and debris was everywhere. For a moment the world seemed to stand still and then it picked up momentum and fell apart around them.
Minerva heard screams over the constant ringing in her ears. She wanted to run in their direction, but Tom grabbed her arm and yanked her away, pulling her roughly through deserted back alleys.
"Tom!" she gasped breathlessly, forcing him to stop. "We need to help these people!"
"You can't help them," Tom stated. It had not necessarily been said in a cruel tone of voice, but rather in a very matter-of-fact kind of way.
"No!" she yelled at him. "Let me go!"
She fought him, but in spite of his slight frame he overpowered her easily.
"Tom!" Minerva finally gave up, sagging against him. She tasted tears on her tongue. Warm hands supported her head; thumbs traced the light path that the tears had created on her soot-stained cheeks. If she had looked up, she would have seen that his self-assured front was cracking and his hands shook as he carefully traced the outline of her face.
Then he very lightly and very carefully pressed a kiss on her forehead, whispering:
"You can't help them, Minerva. Please come with me."
Minerva would have reflected on the kiss on her forehead and maybe on what it meant, had the circumstances only been different, but they were not and as such she allowed him to take her hand and run. The wailing of sirens was getting louder.
They ran for a few minutes that might as well have been a few hours seeing that Minerva's concept of time seemed to have disappeared completely; until they came to an entrance into what seemed to be a communal underground shelter. A thin man in a coat stood at the entrance.
"48, 49," he announced. "That's it, in with you two. We are closing the shelter."
Minerva and Tom half-fell down a dim staircase, hurried along by the man from the entrance until they found themselves among many people of whom most stared ahead apathetically, but someone who looked to be an elderly woman in the flickering light of a few light bulbs dangling from the ceiling, made way for them. Thanking her, Minerva and Tom sank down on the ground close to the staircase from where they had come in.
They stayed there, huddled against each other. Just the breaths in the heat, brushing against her over-sensitive skin reminded her that there were others in there, wasting valuable oxygen. And the touches -arms on her back, a head on her feet- buried alive together with people she had never spoken to nor seen their face. They were cooped up like cattle.
There was silence outside- for now, yet no-one spoke.
They all could easily imagine planes silently gliding through the clouds that hid them from view, advancing on the city that lay stretched out under them like them kind of wounded giant.
A feeling of tense terror was lying in the air and a child began to wail somewhere nearby. The mother helplessly shushed her, but the crying would not stop- it just got louder in volume.
Then the sirens started again and the wailing began to fade in the background. Their noise was terrible- it seemed to tear the very air apart, shredding its substance and leaving anyone alive just with the sound of the sirens, the sound of terror, of agony, of death.
Someone close to Minerva began to recite a prayer. "In Thee Oh Lord, I trust..."
The voice carried on whispering until it was hoarse from use and its owner fell silent. The oppressive silence inside the air shelter returned- a strange contrast to the cacophony outside. They stayed like that for long moments- concentrating on breathing- in and out and in and out...Feelings of terror and the smell of too many people packed too tightly together permeated the air, made it difficult to do so. Every breath tasted of stale air and of too little oxygen.
"It will take a few hours more until they stop," Tom said calmly next to Minerva. She turned to look at him for the first time in hours. "This is not your first time in here," she stated in a hoarse voice.
"No," Tom replied quietly. "London has been under attack since September and ever since I've returned from school it's been no different. They don't come constantly, but they come in calculated periods of time. Whenever we've settled down again, feeling remotely safe, they head back for another run at the city."
"That sounds horrible," Minerva whispered. Her eyes burned.
Tom did something very uncharacteristic. He came closer and put his arms around her shaking shoulders. "Don't worry, Minerva. I won't let anything happen to you."
He didn't say it in an arrogant or overly-confident manner, rather in a way that was so much like him that Minerva had to remedy her earlier opinion about him putting an arm around her being uncharacteristic. No, instead he uttered the words in a calm, matter-of-fact manner, showing that he really believed in what he said to her. Somewhat reassured beyond the frazzled anxiety of this moment, she allowed him to hold her close.
Time passed, minutes, hours, days- Minerva didn't know. She was staring fixedly at a spot between her feet, counting her breaths. She got confused a lot and had to start again but everything was better than concentrating on the sounds of the explosions going on outside. Maybe she even fell asleep for a short period of time, if she did, the situation hadn't changed in the very least when she woke up again: there was still the oppressive silence, the dim light and the explosions. She was so tired.
"It's longer tonight," Tom whispered hoarsely. He too, sounded exhausted.
When the call finally came that they could go outside, Tom had to drag Minerva to her feet because she was still staring fixedly at the ground, muttering something about breath 3650. Tom shook her rather roughly and she directed a frozen look, disturbing in its apathy, at him.
"Is it over?"
"Yes," Tom replied quietly, "for now."
They stumbled to the orphanage past burning ruins and fires that had started to die down. White smoke hung in the air of early dawn, ghost-like and disturbing. It had become quieter.
It was then, holding onto Tom's hand and stumbling across the ruins of a stately house that she finally allowed herself to cry. Tom didn't say anything, but his grip on her hand tightened.
Her tears had dried when they reached the orphanage, but the dark terror of this night remained inside of her and she was suddenly sure that it would never entirely leave her. Up a shabby staircase they went and along a cheerless corridor, until they reached a small room.
"My room," Tom said simply.
"Don't you have to share with someone?" she inquired simply.
"Not anymore," was all he said.
She took a cursory and tired look around; there was a narrow bed, a cupboard and a single chair with a small table in the room. It all seemed very Spartan.
Minerva stumbled across something when she entered the half-dark room, and Tom, arriving behind her, unhurriedly picked the books she had fallen over up.
"What are you reading?" Minerva asked, more or less as a question to fill the silence.
"Macbeth, at the moment," replied Tom.
"By Shakespeare?" She tried hard, and failed to keep the surprise out of her voice.
"Yes. I also like listening to Chopin." There was a trace of amusement in his voice now, as if he knew something that she didn't. "Sit down," he added with a great flourish.
Minerva sank down on the bed but refused to further his amusement.
"You read Shakespeare and you like listening to Chopin?"
"Yes." Tom looked placid.
For some reason, Minerva felt a hysterical giggle bubble over her lips. Tom, who had told her that Muggles had never been good to him. Tom, who she suspected might even hate Muggles.
Here she was, in a dark orphanage room with the boy who hated Muggles but liked Shakespeare and Chopin, sitting on a rickety bed and listening to the sounds of faint cries in the distance while the great City of London still burned around them. Who wouldn't laugh at such contradictions? The thought made her laugh and simultaneously choke on her laughter, because there were hot tears building up in her eyes.
A cold touch on her arm startled her badly.
"You are exhausted, Minerva," Tom said simply. Minerva could only stare at him as he manoeuvred her into a lying position on the narrow bed. She only reacted when she felt his fingers comb through her hair. "What are you doing?"
"Wearing your hair in such a tight braid must be stifling," Tom merely explained, resuming his business of removing ribbons from her hair. His boldness and even as some would call it, audacity, had Minerva fall silent- There was something nice about it, she admitted only to herself, in the way his fingers detangled her tight braid and combed through her long dark hair. When he was finished, Tom sat back and regarded the mass of black locks that was spread out on the pillow, surrounding Minerva's head like a halo. "There," he said, something akin to awe in his voice, "you are beautiful."
Minerva turned her head to look at him. The light of early dawn only allowed her to make out the vague outlines of his face, but she was aware that he was intently returning her look. There was something between them in the air, something indefinable, yet something almost tangible and Minerva found it suddenly hard to breathe.
After a long moment, he looked away and then got up almost hastily; seeming to search for something judging by the way he was rummaging through his cupboard standing at the back of the room. Mere seconds later, he returned, clutching a small pillow. Without further ado, he then proceeded to lie down next to the bed on the floor, stuffing the pillow underneath his head.
"Tom," Minerva broke the silence finally, having regained some of her calm, "what are you doing?" She could not quite keep a faint trace of weary amusement out of her voice.
"I'm letting you have the bed," he replied stiffly.
A small, disbelieving laugh escaped her that might have been more heartfelt had her mood not been so subdued. "Don't tell me," she stated once her amusement had died down, "you give half a pence's worth on propriety."
Tom's reply was tinged with irritation. "Of course I do, Minerva."
Minerva snorted. "Oh please, Tom Riddle, you can fool the teachers but you can't fool me."
"Wouldn't be too sure of that."
Minerva attempted to decipher if there were any hidden meaning in this sentence beyond the obvious, but she eventually decided not to dwell too long on it.
Her patience wearing thin, she eventually said tartly: "Oh come on, Tom, come up here."
For a while nothing happened in the tense silence and Minerva was left to stare at the peculiar blue shapes the light of early dawn that fell through the holes in the threadbare curtain painted on the ceiling. Then the bed groaned suddenly as a new weight was added to hers.
Minerva looked to the right and saw Tom who had slid in next to her, his eyes stubbornly closed. "Don't give too much on your victory," he mumbled.
"Why of course not," Minerva replied seriously, though there was a weak smile dancing on her lips that she was glad he could not see in the dimness.
It was awkward, lying there tangled up like that and so close to each other and it was also uncomfortable because the bed had simply not been made for two persons. But after some shifting around and some mumbled swears when one of them accidentally hit the other with an elbow, the two of them settled down peacefully enough. Minerva couldn't relax fully though. Having him so close to her was unnerving. Also, something kept nagging at her.
After a while of silent contemplation whether she should say what was on her mind or not, she started tentatively: "Tom?"
He reacted only after she had nudged him in the side. "What, Minerva?" he mumbled sleepily.
"They will be coming to fetch me today, if only because they fear I might disgrace them." She paused and she knew that she did not have to clarify for Tom who they were. Tom had remained silent, but the pattern of his breathing had changed, clearly telling Minerva that he was in fact paying attention to her every word.
"I want you to come with me," she then added slowly. "To Scotland. You would be safe there, well, safer than here at any rate."
Tom's reply was quiet and strangely subdued, which struck her as odd since it was normally not as easy to read his emotions. "I'll think about it, Minerva."
Then, after another pause, he added: "At least you are from a Pureblood family."
Normally Minerva would react sharply to such a statement by anyone because in her eyes it implied arrogance and selective thinking which she abhorred, but there was a sense of abject loneliness in Tom's voice that had her reply in a gentle manner.
"You know, that doesn't mean anything, Tom."
"Then you are the only one who thinks so," Tom mused and his breath tickled her ear.
"I am not," she protested, trying to shake off the shivers that crawled down her spine as she became aware of just how close he was lying to her. "Rose Wilkins of Ravenclaw is a Pureblood and it doesn't matter to her. Sinead O'Brian is from an old Irish Pureblood family and she has a boyfriend whose parents are Non-Magical…"
"Minerva," interrupted Tom, "don't you realise something? For example, what is Miss O'Brian's house?"
"Hufflepuff, but-" she broke off as realisation hit her.
"Exactly." Tom sounded darkly amused.
"The Slytherins-"
"Their parents had them learn the family trees by heart, just like you obviously had to, Minerva, or else you wouldn't have understood as quickly as you have. Despite that, I had them fooled for about a year until they realised that Riddle is not exactly a typical wizard family's surname."
"What did you do?" Minerva asked after a pause, feeling more sympathy for Tom than he probably wanted. She knew he could defend himself quite well, too well, maybe.
"It's odd how, despite common belief, intellect always wins in the end," Tom replied blandly.
He turned away from her. "Sleep now," he added nearly roughly.
But Minerva couldn't sleep, because a question nagged at her and demanded to be posed.
"Tom," she whispered. Outside, the din had died down somewhat, but Minerva knew that this was not the end. If what Tom had told her was anything to go by, they would come again. The thought caused a slight whimper of terror to escape her lips.
"Tom," she repeated.
"Yes?" he finally asked, sounding decidedly annoyed this time, but she wasn't about to be deterred.
"What about your family? What happened to them?"
Tom abruptly tensed next to her. "Sleep," he said tersely and Minerva knew that they would speak no further on the matter.
Wool's Orphanage, London, 30th December 1940
"What were you thinking, Minerva?"
It was Andrew's angry voice who demanded that, while she was standing in front of him, head bowed. Tom at her side just looked exhausted, but other than that he was wearing his calm mask.
"I don't know," she finally replied contritely.
Her brother sighed and his anger seemed to dissipate. He looked completely unravelled. His eyes were suspiciously bright as he regarded her.
"I was so worried, Min." Gathering his sister in a spontaneous hug, he whispered: "I am only glad that you are alright."
As he let her go, he looked over to Tom, who stood there as pale and unmoving as a statue.
"My name is Andrew McGonagall. You must be Tom Riddle."
Tom, who had been silent ever since Andrew had appeared at the orphanage a good ten minutes ago, finally opened his mouth. "Yes, I am Tom Riddle. Pleased to meet you, sir."
Andrew's eyes had softened a bit as he regarded the sad state his sister and her friend were in; clothes and faces smeared with soot and in his sister's case also with tears.
"Why haven't you been evacuated to the countryside as well? The orphanage seems to be deserted."
Tom finally moved from his frozen stance. "I arrived too late from Hogwarts and the first operation sponsored by the government was already over. They are waiting to gather enough children for the next one at the moment. Miss Cole, who is the matron of the orphanage, thinks she might be able to arrange something for some children who are still here with some families from the countryside."
But not for Tom, Minerva noted, as she registered that he hadn't used "us" when talking about the children who were still in the orphanage. Or at least he won't be among the first because they think he is a freak. Something inside her was furious at the way Tom was being treated here. Whether her brother had realised that Tom hadn't included himself in the statement or not, his voice was considerably calmer when he spoke again.
"Well, Tom, we might be able to arrange something else for you. You could come to Scotland with us."
"I was just about to ask you, Drew," Minerva cried, jumping to her brother and throwing her arms around his neck. She was so glad to see him. After this horrible night and the madness he seemed to provide a measure of normalcy.
When she looked back at Tom, she was surprised to see that he was standing there, looking a little lost and even paler than before. His fists were clenched at his side.
"Well, what do you say, Tom?" Andrew asked eventually.
Tom's words came very precise and he sounded polite and very stiff. "I thank you for your offer, sir, but I do not know whether the matron would approve of such a suggestion. She does not care much for magic. That might have to be taken under consideration."
"I'll talk to her and I'll see to it that she agrees and that I won't mention the word magic when talking to her," Andrew said. When the boy still looked reluctant, he went on. "There isn't anything you can do here, Tom, neither for your studies nor for anyone. Scotland is safe at the moment. There are neither bombs nor anything else of the kind. We would only like to help you."
Tom loosened up a little at Andrew's words, but Minerva knew him and she knew that the stiffness was still very present. "Thank you," he simply replied after a pause. "I'd like to take you up on your suggestion, if I may."
"Very well then," Andrew merely said. Another heavy sigh escaped him and an abrupt wave of guilt hit Minerva. Her brother regarded her for a long moment and then nodded once. "Let's go," he said and the exhaustion in his voice reflected that of Minerva's and Tom's expressions. Outside, the new day started and the cold air of morning intermingled with the white smoke of burnt out fires.
McGonagall Manor, Scotland, 30th December 1940
"This is where you live then?" Tom was taking in the house with avid eyes. A few hours had passed since they had arrived and Minerva's parents had refused to talk to her, only greeting Tom in a very cold manner, while Andrew had told her tacitly that she was forbidden to go outside. But it didn't matter much to her and in her mind they couldn't have thought of a punishment that hurt less, because while she liked to watch the fluffy white snowflakes falling outside she had little desire to actually go outside.
It had got to be very cold and the winds howled around the house, whirling up cascades of snow. Shaking herself out of her thoughts, she saw that Tom was still gazing around with keen eyes.
She wondered what he thought about the sumptuous interior of the McGonagall manor- the high stone structures, the red and golden carpets, the fireplaces, the elegant spiral staircase leading to the first storey and the high windows that allowed a look at the outside world, currently covered in masses of snow.
"It's nice," Tom eventually said and Minerva nearly laughed at his dry statement. "Thanks," she said.
"Let me show you to your room."
When she turned to go to the staircase, she accidentally brushed her hand against Tom's. "Sorry," she said and quickly withdrew the hand. How odd-even though his hand was cold as usual (hypotonia, he'd once told her), she felt as if she had burned herself.
In the afternoon she felt that she needed to see Michael and Abigail. Andrew, when she told him what she was planning to do, agreed with a sigh and a muttered "I don't know how it is that you can manipulate me so", to cover for her with their parents. After the horrible reality of the burning London she needed a measure of normalcy and for some reason she needed to see for herself that her friends were alive and well, that nothing had changed here in her little sanctuary in the Scottish Highlands.
Tom, when he heard of her plan, asked if he could accompany her.
Minerva glanced at the pile of books that he had piled up on a desk in their big library. Tom had immediately felt quite at home in the library, well, of course he had, she thought with a quiet smile.
"Aren't you busy?" she asked, hoping that he'd reconsider, remembering the thinly veiled disdain in his voice in Autumn when he had learned who Michael was.
"No, I'd like to meet your friends," Tom said with a smile that she could tell was insincere. But there was resolve in his voice and attempting to get Tom to change his mind was like trying to move a house by brute force.
"Come along then," Minerva sighed.
Michael and Abigail had obviously been sitting at a table in the small grocer's shop because Michael was still sitting there when Abigail opened the door for them. Minerva's friend took in their wind-tousled appearance, their heavy coats and their reddened cheeks and exclaimed:
"Good heavens, do come in! It's awfully cold out today."
"Abigail," Minerva greeted and embraced her friend happily. Michael had got up from his place in the corner as well. He was wearing a flat cap and a dark vest with a white shirt, which accentuated his brown eyes and hair. Minerva felt all giddy when he smiled at her, but she didn't catch Tom's angry glare.
"Who is your friend, Min?" Abigail asked cheerfully.
Tom stepped forward, extending his hand. "Tom Riddle, pleased to meet you," he muttered.
Abigail shook his hand with a curious look and Michael did the same. Tom chose to glare at him, which in turn, caused Michael to look a bit put out.
The tension between the two was instantly noticeable and Abigail must have noticed it too, because she sounded uncomfortable when she asked:
"Are you from London?"
"I am," Tom affirmed simply.
Abigail bit her lip, bemused with his short replies, while Minerva glanced between them, feeling worse with each passing minute.
"Were you there when it was attacked?"
"Michael!" Abigail admonished her brother, gasping a little.
Tom smirked coldly. "I was," he said flatly. "You should be rather grateful that you don't know what that means."
"We are," Abigail assured him because now it was Michael who was glaring.
"Please, sit down." For a moment, she wrung her hands and hers and Minerva's eyes met, Minerva conveying a silent apology while Abigail nodded.
"Would you like something to drink?"
"That would be nice," Tom answered politely. "Thank you."
Half an hour, that had been spent making forced conversation at the small table in the corner later, they somehow ended up on the topic of human rights and equality as well as equal chances for everyone.
"I think it's not just, "Michael said rather heatedly. "People should be treated the same, no matter who they are and no matter where they come from."
"Have you heard of Marx's and Engels' theories then and would you say that you are a supporter of them?" Tom's question was innocently-posed, but Minerva knew that Tom Riddle definitely didn't do innocent.
From the look on Michael's face Minerva knew that he hadn't heard of either Marx or Engels. Tom eyed the former cunningly.
"Would you approve of a state ruled – in theory- by the working class? The praxis is an entirely different matter anyway, as I am sure you know. Look at Russia. Do you feel a planned economy is better and more economic than a liberal one, governed only by the functions of demand and supply?"
It had been a serious question, but Minerva knew Tom. And she knew that he was only talking that way not because he considered Michael to be an interlocutor worth of his time, but because he wanted to make Michael look like a fool. As if it was his fault that his education hadn't been as thorough as Tom's! Minerva felt her anger rapidly mounting and she wanted to speak up, when Michael spoke up for himself.
He drew himself up to his full height- being three years older he had about two heads on Tom, excluding easy grace.
"All I was saying," Michael replied quietly yet forcefully, "is that there should be equal opportunities for everyone, no matter what their social status is."
Tom snorted harshly. His English accent made his words sound very accurate compared to Michael's rolling brogue.
"That sounds like a very noble notion. However, did you ever consider that the people in power are never going to listen to dreamers like you are? Did it ever occur to you that they might be quite reluctant to give their power away?"
Michael's fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides. Minerva knew that he had understood that Tom's purpose of talking had not been because the former had been looking for a serious conversation, but because he had wanted to humiliate him.
"Sorry that you have so few values that you feel no cause is worth standing up for," he ground out between clenched teeth. Minerva looked between the two- Michael who was rapidly reddening and Tom, whom the white weather made only look paler, standing there as silent and still as a marble statue.
"We are gonna go now. Good seeing you," she announced rather hastily, taking Tom's elbow and dragging him to the door. Neither Abigail nor Michael reacted and Minerva quickly shut the door. She felt tears brimming in her eyes.
Not looking at Tom nor saying another word to him, she stormed away.
"Minerva!"
She turned around and was horrified to feel that her eyes were still burning. Blinking rapidly, she forced herself to face Abigail with a neutral face. "Yes?"
Tom had stopped a few metres away and was looking at them with narrowed eyes, but Minerva refused to acknowledge him.
"I am sorry," she sighed heavily.
Abigail rested a hand on her arm. "Don't be. You are a good friend, Minerva, and I would not quarry with you about such mere trifles. Michael will calm down too. Just do me a favour-"
When Minerva nodded, Abigail looked over to Tom. "Don't bring your friend next time."
Library, McGonagall Manor, Scotland, 31st December 1940
"Decided to talk to me again, have you?"
Tom was sitting behind his pile of books, wavy dark hair combed into a neatly-parted mass of locks. His dark blue eyes surveyed her as she stood in the doorframe, hands clasped behind her back. Instead of replying, Minerva heaved a huge sigh.
"Come on, Tom;" she said as a reply. Ever since they had returned from the Michael fiasco as she liked to dub it, Minerva had taken to avoid Tom the rest of the day before and had not spoken to him except for a quick goodnight.
"Well, it's nearly New Year's Eve, so…." She trailed off. A smirk appeared on Tom's face.
"You can come off your high horse now, Minerva," was all that he said.
Minerva, startled, stared at him. "What?"
"Your friend Michael. You kept trying to jump to his defence. As if you doubted his ability to hold his own in a battle of wills against me. As if you were the one who is older- even though he is two years older, was it? than you. So please spare me the lectures about me being arrogant and condescending towards him and think about your own behaviour."
Minerva opened her mouth to protest, but then, with dread gathering in her stomach she did recall the way she had behaved on the afternoon the day before- and it occurred to her.
He was right.
It was a nasty sensation, discovering that she was not as unbiased as she had thought herself to be. How would she ever be able to look Michael in the face again?
When Minerva averted her eyes, Tom merely nodded. "I do not want to humiliate you, Minerva," he said suddenly in a gentler manner. "I merely want you to recognise your own, let's say, shortcomings."
"It's not Michael's fault that he has not received the same high standard of education as you have, Tom," Minerva protested.
Tom arched an elegant black eyebrow. "Maybe not, but people without ambition to make more of themselves are not the ones whom I wish to be among my acquaintances."
Minerva shot him a quick look. "Say, you are unable to attain the same level of education because you do not have the means to do so? Say you are poor?" She waited a beat, then added: "What would you have done, Tom, if Hogwarts didn't exist?"
Tom wasn't about to be deterred and if he was surprised by her words, he didn't show it. "I would have never given up," was all he said.
Minerva recognised the matter as a lost cause and eventually gave up.
While they had been talking, they had walked along a high corridor with parquet flooring and a high ceiling that was lit by golden lamps set in alcoves in the stone walls. Eventually they entered a room with a long wooden table. Normally, Minerva despised this room- "Luncheon Chamber" as mother liked to call it- for it was the room they always had their most formal dinners in, but today was a different story.
There was a pile of food on the festively decorated table- silver and green ribbons because this was for Tom after all. Next to the pile of food was Fletcher who was grinning happily at his Miss Minerva and her friend.
"Fletcher," Minerva smiled. "Thank you for arranging it all in such a wonderful manner."
Fletcher bowed and with a pleased smile he said softly: "It was my honour, Miss Minerva." When he disappeared with a loud crack, Minerva looked at Tom and was surprised to see a very odd look on his face; nearly hesitant and very bemused. Tom was very seldom bemused and Minerva could count the times on one hand she had ever seen him show such a vulnerable emotion as hesitation.
Deciding that she'd have to plough on nevertheless, she walked over to him and gave him a heartfelt hug, while he stood there as stiff as a board. "Happy Birthday, Tom." She meant her words.
"This-" he finally said and another odd look hushed over his face before he started again, "this is for me?"
"Yes," Minerva laughed. "It's your birthday, isn't it?"
Tom walked very hesitantly over to the pile of food- there was roast turkey, gravy and mashed potatoes as well as a delicious-looking chocolate cake. He very carefully brushed his hand over the green and silver ribbons on the table, mumbling so quietly that Minerva wasn't sure whether she'd heard him right or not: "Nobody has ever done so much for my birthday before." A silent for me was implied in the sentence. "I haven't seen so much food in a long time," he added bemusedly.
Swallowing the sudden knot in her throat because of his childlike sense of wonder, Minerva finally managed: "Your birthday is important, Tom. One only gets to be fourteen once."
"I suppose you are right," he mumbled deep in thought. He approached the package that was also lying on the table, wrapped in silver and green paper. "May I open it?"
"Yes," Minerva replied, "by all means, open it."
And when Tom opened the package and saw the rare edition of "Silver-tongued charms and spells" his lips curved upwards and he revealed rows of white teeth. A small delighted sound escaped him. For one moment, Tom Riddle looked utterly, absolutely happy. In that moment, Minerva wondered whether he might look like that more often if only he had had people who valued him enough to gift him on his birthday every year of his life.
The New Year approached with rapid steps and Minerva and Tom awaited it sitting at one of the high windows in Minerva's room, gazing out into the darkness. Fletcher had brought them each a glass of orange juice and so there they were sitting, watching the stars. Later, they'd have to go down and wish Minerva's parents a good new year, but not now. Now there were just the stars, glittering so beautifully in the cold clear night, and the light of the moon, and Minerva and Tom sitting on the window sill. In that moment Minerva was happy.
"Do you want to practice with me the charms from the book tomorrow?" Tom interrupted the peaceful silence.
Minerva looked over to him and saw that the sense of amazement from the forenoon had still not completely faded. A smile broke out on her face at the sight of his genuine happiness. "Sure," she replied.
Tom smiled at her then and there was something so odd about his look, that made Minerva suddenly very conscious of how she looked. Of course she was wearing her nicest dress tonight, but she felt suddenly that her hair was in disarray and her face was red-
Tom leaned closer in the moonlit quiet and she forgot to breathe.
Then, he approached until they were only centimetres left between them and pressed his lips very very softly to hers.
It was as wet as the first kiss Minerva had got from a boy, but it was so different. Butterflies danced in the pits of her stomach and she wondered giddily that if she weren't holding on to the window sill with her other hand might she just float out of the window and farther out and up, even up to the stars that were so far away in the night sky?
Tom eventually leaned back and Minerva felt that the temperature in the room was suddenly elevated to ten degrees Celsius more. She touched her lips and took a deep breath. Tom was also breathing quite harshly.
After a long while wherein she gathered herself, she finally uttered:
"Well, that was-"
"A kiss," Tom supplied helpfully.
Minerva, who had been staring dazedly at him for the last minute or so regained her wits.
"How astute of you, Tom."
"Well, I always try to help." The smirk on his face was infuriatingly smug.
"William Yaxley's kiss was better though." Minerva kept a straight face.
Tom actually bought it for a second and she laughed inwardly at the dismayed expression that flitted momentarily over his face. But Tom wouldn't have been Tom had he not caught up an instant later.
"Ah," he smiled. "How very kind of you, Minerva, but I know for a fact that my kisses are much better."
"Why?", she asked, feigning exaggerated interest.
"Because I am Tom Riddle," was all that he said, leaning back on the windowsill and looking at her placidly, that smug smirk still on his face.
"Not full of yourself at all, are you Tom?"
He examined his fingernails in mock boredom and said imperturbably:
"Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, brags of his substance: they are but beggars who can count their worth."
Amazed she asked: "Was that Shakespeare?"
Tom raised a nonchalant eyebrow: "I told you I read his works, didn't I? This particular quote is from Romeo and Juliet."
"Oh but I'd make a horrible Juliet," Minerva inserted, hard-pressed to stifle her smile.
He smiled in wry amusement. "I concur. We are both not cut out to be Romeo and Juliet. I know for a fact I wouldn't climb a bloody balcony. I'd ask you where you keep the ladder." Minerva laughed at his scowl.
"Plus," Tom went on, "what a poor fool he is, killing himself to be with her when he doesn't even know if they can be together in the next world? Or if there is even one. Death is a certainty, they say," he mused, "But shouldn't the when be of our choosing?"
Looking up he caught her startled frown and added a smooth: "Not of William Shakespeare's choosing at any rate, so yes, I refuse to be Romeo."
Minerva's frown had made way for renewed merriment. "You'd be an awful Romeo, too, Tom," she snorted. "I can imagine it- everyone's waiting for the end and you stand there saying Well, everyone, it's been lovely but I just don't feel like killing myself tonight."
A small laugh escaped Tom's lips as well. His midnight eyes danced with glee.
"Like the unending story, I'd always end up at that point, I guess. No, no Romeo for you, Minerva, I am sorry."
"Well," Minerva told him boldly with a twinkle in her eyes, "I prefer Tom anyway."
That seemed to sober him for a moment and he looked at her in a suddenly quite serious manner.
Thankfully the clock struck twelve just then, saving them from possible awkwardness.
"Happy New Year, Tom," Minerva said sincerely and she meant it.
"Happy New Year, Minerva," Tom replied and he gently tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, gazing at her motionlessly, the glasses of orange juice already long forgotten next to them on the windowsill .
And then, the first thing Minerva saw of the year 1941 was Tom's impish smirk as he leaned in to kiss her again.
tbc