A/N: Estimates for the total casualties of WW2 vary, but most suggest that some 60 million people died in the war, including about 20 million soldiers, 40 million civilians and an unknown number of wizards.
'I am telling you, Albus, the boy is unnatural!" the Headmaster pursed his lips together, "he chats with house-elves, for Merlin's sake!"
"I fail to see how taking the path that would provide him with the most information for his project proves Tom is somehow unnatural," Slughorn put in his two knuts, "a Slytherin, maybe, but not unnatural. Why, many children have an amiable relationship with their family house elf, especially when the elf looks after the child on a regular basis. I myself, have very fond memories of our elf Sissy – she baked me the most delicious raisin bran cookies…"
Armando Dippet waved his hand, knowing full well that allowing Horace to start reminiscing about previous gastronomical experiences meant listening to endless recipes for the rest of the afternoon.
"I grant that the number of complaints I received have substantially lessened, and from what I understand, the boy excels in his classes…"
"Then what is your complaint, Headmaster?" Albus Dumbledore began to grow impatient. "You accused me of favouring the boy from the beginning, now I must question whether it is not you who is biased against him."
"Albus," Slughorn laid a restraining hand on his friend's shoulder, "please. Headmaster, as young Mr Dumbledore's Head of House I see no signs that the boy is somehow unnatural. In fact, over the past weeks his behaviour and his grades in the classes he was struggling with have both improved remarkably."
That was completely true. Ever since Tom started actually doing his Transfiguration homework, he had never scored less than an O. Of course, the question remained whether not refusing to do anything at all for a class should rightfully be described as 'struggling'.
Dippet caved under the combined force of two professors defending their charge, and they left leaving a frustrated but somewhat reassured Headmaster behind.
"Of course, the truth is that the boy IS unnatural," Albus muttered sadly.
"Albus!" Horace looked scandalized, "he is NOT unnatural. Disturbed. Troubled. But not unnatural."
Albus shook his head. "Of course. You are right, he is only troubled, and is doing much better. I just wish…I had always thought that when I had children, I would have a very close relationship with them. The kind I could not have with my own father since I was ten and he was arrested. I – I know have a son who is vastly different from what I imagined, and I find myself forced to adjust my dreams and wishes accordingly. It is – difficult."
"Ah," Horace understood, "you are grieving for the child you thought you would have. I suppose that is normal, Albus, but please do not let Tom see that."
"Of course not," his friend smiled, "it is an idée-fixe that I have to let go of, and that is never easy. Tom is not the easiest child to deal with, but then again, I am not the perfect father, either. I just hope that some day, Tom will not be so hesitant to share with me what he feels or thinks or even needs. I hope one day he will just walk into my office and ask for extra pocket money to take a girl to Hogsmeade, and gets home all flustered because she kissed him goodbye. That sort of thing."
sssssssssss
If Tom entertained ideas of taking young ladies to Hogsmeade trips in the future, he would have put those aside for this anyway – the all-important chess finale of the year.
Alastor sat at the front, ready to watch the game. Professor Dumbledore sat next to him. The rest of the chess club and a few supporters had gathered as well. John Shephard smiled at the younger boy.
"I've been looking forward to playing this game," he said, "no matter who wins, I'd like it if we could play again in the future – perhaps by owl post during the holidays? Did you ever play chess long-distance?"
Tom shook his head. "How does it work?"
"Easy, we both have a board and pieces that we keep in our house. Say, I start. I would have the board ready, all pieces, and send you a note stating my move. You make that move with the pieces in your board, then make your counter move and send me a note. I move that piece on my board and send you a note with my next move and so on."
"That sounds very time-consuming," Tom commented.
"True, but it is fun to do if you have no one to play against during the holidays. If you have several boards you can even play more than one person that way."
The game began. John Shephard was an extremely capable player who had learned a lot from observing previous games – Tom had no chance to lure him into a trap. It was quite clear from the start that John would win, though Tom played very well, even better than he had against Minerva, and managed to get himself out of a few tight spots masterfully. It took two hours before John made his last move.
"Check, and mate," he said gently. "Sorry, Tom."
The look of pure fury the boy gave him and the board sent gasps through the spectators near enough to notice. Dumbledore half rose from his chair, ready to catch Tom should he erupt, but soon enough the child's face became blank.
"I see. Congratulations," the boy managed before muttering an excuse about the bathroom. Dumbledore left as well – the game had gone on longer than anticipated and he was already late for the brief end-of-term staff meeting.
"I never knew Tom was such a sore loser," Alastor commented to John, who was packing up the board.
"Oh, don't blame him, Al," the older student said with a smile, "it isn't easy to lose in front of your guardian, even though no one expected him to win."
"His guardian?" Alastor said in confusion. No one had told him Tom's guardian would be here today – he hadn't noticed a strange face in the crowd, but then again, he had been so focussed on the game he might not have.
"Yes. Professor Dumbledore. Don't tell me you did not recognize his handwriting on the permission note, or his signature."
"I never looked, I just gave it to you," Alastor admitted with a frown.
Tom re-entered the now much emptier room, obviously much calmer.
"Sorry," he said to John, "and congratulations again. I knew I could not win, but it was unexpected when you did finish me off anyway."
"That's alright. And I think you still made a very good impression on your guardian," John said kindly.
"Professor Dumbledore is your father?" Alastor demanded.
Tom gave him a nod. "He…he adopted me."
"And you never told me? You told me about your guardian and your adoption and you never saw fit to mention that it's our teacher?" Alastor nearly shouted.
John saw the younger boy's face completely close off before he turned and ran from the room.
"Some way to support a friend, Al," he told the irate Moody, "wouldn't you be a bit embarrassed to have a teacher for a father?"
Alastor flushed. "I…I guess. I just…thought he trusted me more. I never was that secretive about my Dad adopting me."
"You still had a wonderful Mum," John reminded him, "You said Tom grew up in an orphanage. He probably needs more time to get used to the idea than you did. I am sorry I brought it up, he would probably have told you himself soon enough."
Alastor's face brightened a little. "Do you think so?"
"Of course. You're his best friend, aren't you?"
ssssssssss
The term had ended, and the students were busy packing. The train would leave the next morning and most could not wait to return to their families. Albus stretched lazily – the summer was always a nice quiet time for him. Of course he revised his lesson plans for the next year somewhat, but the curriculum was pretty much set by now. Though the OWL students could do with a little more thorough grounding in flesh-to-stone transfiguration; the OWLs had shown most had trouble with the questions dealing with that particular subject. He jotted down a few notes to add another lecture on it and assign an essay. Then the sixth years would only need to review it, opening up a little time there for a little more interspecies transfigurations. Yes, that would all work out beautifully.
He had ordered Tom to bring his trunk down to his rooms. Even though they would spend part of the holidays in Hogsmead, Tom had to learn to consider his bedroom in Dumbledore's quarters as home. He frowned. That brief instant of fury the boy had shown after losing the chess match concerned him. Tom had such a long way to go yet, and he could not be allowed to unleash his anger on other students. He would keep an even closer eye on the boy.
When Tom entered a little later, dragging his trunk, Rowdy immediately appeared to take it to his room, excited that she would have the young master home to pamper.
That left Tom standing in the office, with nothing to do suddenly. He did not look at his father, choosing to admire the floor and the bookcases instead, behaviour that reminded Dumbledore very much of the earliest months of their acquaintance. They had suffered a setback, Albus realized, and he did not even know why.
"Tommy," he breathed softly, "I am happy to have you home."
Merope mewled, sniffed around the office, seemingly wanting to know who had dared to trespass in the weeks she had been away from what she now considered part of her territory, and finally settled for a nap in the chair by the fireplace.
"Yes, sir," Tom eyed his cat, "may I be excused, sir?"
"No," Albus said, desperately, stepping around his desk and carefully approaching the boy, "Tommy, what is wrong? I am not 'sir', remember?"
Tom took a step back. "I am perfectly fine, sir."
"Tommy," Albus said sternly, "you are not fine. What happened?"
"Nothing," Tom spat out before rushing to his room and slamming the door shut.
Albus sighed and rubbed his forehead. What a wonderful start of the holidays.