Dear Mary,
Beware, for the following sentences will appear contradictory. Here comes the first sentence—I cannot express the joy that is coursing through my veins; I am light, buoyantly so, like a marionette manned by an angel; I am the seductive foam that rests atop tall pints of lager in pubs, saloons, and taverns across the world's latitudes. And here is the contradiction—this may very likely be my last letter to you for a long, long time.
As you know, I have been enlisted in the Cambridge Air Squadron for two years and counting; though I've only flown in old, single-engined biplanes (the sort that are slower than cars and have ungainly rectangular wings), I decided to go to Wittering, an RAF Station manned by many old Cantabrigians, to volunteer. Firstly, I underwent a physical checkover and a series of tests that were designed to see if I was fit and that my mind and eyes possessed sufficient acuity. Then, I was to go before a board comprised of a Group Captain, and a couple of Squad Leaders, etc. Upon entering the room, Group Captain Everson greeted me with, 'Hello Edward, score any centuries lately?', and I realised that I had played cricket against his team (Trinity vs Wolfson) last summer. He asked me a series of questions, some mathematical in nature, others philosophical. At the end, he told me that he could make me an observer or navigator—but I insisted that I'd like to become a pilot. He told me, 'Oh, very well'. I was among the 3 of the 37 volunteers that were sent to be trained, and I reckon it was because of the cricket match.
Anyhow, tomorrow, I shall disembark for a fortnight of training at Torquay, which will be followed by two months of 'square-bashing' to get me really fit. However, considering that we're at war, it is quite likely that standard procedures will be expedited substantially.
Perhaps you are worried for me and disappointed in me, Mary, for adding to the burdens of our mother; perhaps you are disturbed at my enlisting in the Air Force, the arm of His Majesty's forces most liable to dance tango-style with Hitler's Leviathan. You would be right, for the new mode of warfare is in the sky. The age of Salamis and Jutland is over; tomorrow, men will fight like birds. Perhaps you blame yourself for your uncle's death; perhaps you see the blood on my hands as your own. No, nope! I killed him, Mary. I pointed the forestock, I pulled the trigger. It is my sin to bear and mine alone. Allow your brother to fashion himself as the son of God, will you? I want to atone! I want the albatross around my neck! Perhaps you believe that I have sailed myself into the chartless seas of danger to exonerate myself from my murder of Morfin. Yes, that might be true, but it also true that I am at least equally if not primarily motivated by my desire to protect, which has long preceded my desire to wanton homicide (at least I hope so)—not the Empire, not the East India Company, not the Stock Exchange and high-rises in London, and not even the King—no, I want to protect you, Mary. I want to protect you, mother, father, Mrs. Dobson, Alfred, John. T, and John. F from Cambridge, Cecil, Finlay, and John. R from Eton—but most of all, I want to protect you, Mary.
I love you,
Edward
Enclosed in the envelope was the silver necklace with a small crucifix which had been, for all intents and purposes, adjoined permanently to the flesh of Edward's neck and chest—Mary hadn't ever seen him without it. She took it in her palm, and found that it was very cold, as untouched metal is.
For a moment, she sat unmoving in her bed, dazed as though she had been hit by a cow-sized bludger, before erupting into action—her brother's letter was scrunched and violently thrown against the wall, "Incendio!" was screamed to burn it to a crisp, and Mary willed herself not to break into ugly, hysterical sobbing.
"Aguamenti! Mare — what the hell?" asked Alice, whose naturally sharp eyes had become so vigilant that they were slightly comical.
"My brother — Edward, not Tom — he… he's a complete buffoon! He's done a stupid thing and he's all merry and proud about it!" Mary huffed. "Worst of all, he gave me his crucifix!"
"What'd he do?" Alice asked in a calmer voice, her shoulders slackening, "and what's so special about that necklace?"
She went to sit by Mary on her bed, and then examined, with a distrusting glare, the silver necklace in her hand. If it weren't for the knots of anxiety tying all over Mary's skin, she would have found her tall friend's apprehensiveness funny—Alice looked like a cat squaring up a colourful teacup.
"He's joined the RAF, the Royal Air Force, that is," Mary began, her mind fumbling for a way to explain the concept of a military pilot to her pureblood friend, "Imagine an Auror, but they only fight on their broomstick, and their broomstick is huge and made of metal —"
"Oh! He's a flying ace?"
"Well, not quite — a flying ace is a pilot who's shot down lots of planes and gets a big shiny medal for it," Mary clarified. "No — Edward's going to be a pilot. Maybe he'll become a flying ace, but it's just as possible that one of Göring's flying aces will shoot him down."
"Well, I can see that you truly love him, Mare," Alice noted, as though her observation was anything but obvious. "You're not like those tarts who get all proud for their brothers or fathers with dangerous jobs. Are you disappointed in him?"
Mary had met Alice's father during the summer. He was a lanky man who had a sharp, handsomely vulpine face that his daughter inherited—and he was also a cursebreaker with a missing arm.
"I don't know, Al," Mary said in a shaky voice, "I'm proud of him but I fear for him, but I don't understand why he's given me his crucifix. Has he renounced God?"
"The necklace with the cross? Can I see it?"
Mary extended her hand, letting Alice's long fingers slowly creep onto her palm to fondle the silver symbol of Christ on it.
"I don't think it's even enchanted, Mary."
September passed quickly. The first quakes of war were loud and resounding, like claps of portentous thunder—the sinking of a passenger ship carrying a thousand souls, declarations of war from Britain and all her sisters in the commonwealth against Germany—and then, nothing. For a few days, the tall corridors of Hogwarts were contaminated by the shock of war; there was the sense that platoons of Grindelwald's Freimagier would apparate into the Astronomy Tower or the Great Hall at any moment, and even the fear that the German muggle Nazis would fly their bombers over Scotland to drop the same metallic death that had vanquished thousands of Polish muggles—nearly the entire magical population of Britain—in the span of a few days.
However, it quickly became clear that an imminent German invasion was more of a fantasy fuelled by gossip than a credible threat to lose sleep over. Thus, what began as a series of menacing thunderclaps faded into a gentle, distant shower, albeit one still girded by ugly grey clouds. The Freimagier disposed of all magical authorities in Poland, and the Nazis were taking towns by Tuesday, cities by Wednesday—but they were still far from Britain. A fishing trawler was captured and sunk by a German submarine, and then the Nazi submarine was sunk by three destroyers of the Royal Navy—but there were no deaths; the German seamen captured and released the British fishermen, and the Royal Navy kept the German submarinemen as prisoners—tonnes of metal were sunk, but no lives were lost, which prompted Marcel to ask, "What's the point of war, if no one wants to kill?", a question to which Mary knew the answer but didn't respond—muggles had mercy in Christendom, and a distinction between civilian and soldier; without arms and training, muggles were harmless, whereas every witch and wizard, with or without a wand, was capable of fighting.
The naval exchange prompted two questions to constantly return to Mary, one spiritual, and the other pragmatic—firstly, were the fishermen and submarinemen spared because of prayers—for there were no doubt innumerable prayers being delivered before The Holy Father, including Mary's nightly ones wherein she asked for mercy upon all souls British and German? And secondly, would this mercy, this lack of bloodshed last? Mary knew that wars often began with charity in the hearts of soldiers, but she also knew that they quickly delved into barbarism when the grimness of war turned their hearts—as was the case with the Ottomans in the Balkans.
It was on a Thursday, September the 28th, that Warsaw finally fell—but Mary wouldn't know of this until Sunday, for she would be occupied by a sequence of events that began in the Hufflepuff Common Room, where she was, at the time, helping (or trying to, at any rate) Ben Chapman with his homework.
"So why's this line 'ere down the middle?" asked Ben, pointing at the equation on a book Mary borrowed from the library, History of Theoretical Transfiguration, Vol. I.
E ≠ mc2
"That means unequal," Mary said. "It means that any object which has a disequivalent amount of mass to energy is magical in nature."
"But then everything's magical," Ben retorted quickly, "Cows are fat 'an 'eavy, yeah? So if a cow is asleep, it's magical 'cause it's not movin'. How can it show energy if it's not movin'?"
"No, no, even if the cow's asleep, it still has the potential to exert its energy."
Ben sat silently for a moment, as though to genuinely comprehend Mary's answer, but then a mischievous smirk came on his face, and Mary knew her words had been for nought.
"Wot if the cow's dead? Still fat 'an 'eavy, but no potential energy then, is 'ere, Mary?"
"That's not how it works," Mary sighed, "Let's go back to the beginning. Do you remember who the physiomancers are?"
"Yeh, the clever American chaps behind the Berkeley equations, wot about 'em?"
"Their intention was to discover new Magic by inversely using Muggle science — after all, what is Magic if not that which is scientifically impossible?"
"Fancy way o' sayin it, Mary," Ben retorted with a dismissive gesture of his hand. "Einstein was bloody brilliant, not that I get 'im — I don't, but all 'is physiomancy crap is jus' pureblood nonces scribblin' over muggle work and calling it a day."
"You make it seem as though all purebloods are vultures set on predating on us," said Mary.
But before Ben could make a retort—and he would have made a retort, for pointless arguing was one of Ben Chapman's greatest pastimes, not out of malice or irritability; no, Ben was quite well-tempered; but rather because he found it amusing when others grew frustrated with him—they were interrupted by the small, pigtailed brunette first-year girl, Agnes Baker.
Agnes had snuggled up to Mary on the couch, and clasped her like a child trying to find solace in their mother. Mary realised the younger girl was sniffling—the sound one made either when they were trying to stifle tears, or when they were out of tears—and her heart sank like a fishing trawler sunk by a submarine.
"Aggie?" Mary asked softly, "What's the matter?"
The small girl made no response, so Mary extended an arm around her shoulders, before repeating herself, "What happened, Agnes?"
In a bizarrely uncharacteristic show of maturity, Ben Chapman rose from his seat across Mary, and went to sit on Agnes' other side to hold her hand.
"He took my sketchbook," she whispered, "and he said he'll rip it apart."
"Who?" Mary instantly shot back with an edge to her tone.
"Anthony! He couldn't answer a question in charms so Professor Rotaru asked me instead and I-I knew," Agnes said rapidly, "and after class, h-he called me a mudblood and stole my sketchbook and ran away!
Mary couldn't recall any first-years named Anthony—which was fortunate for whoever Anthony was, for Mary could feel cold, hungry hatred run through her body at the mere thought of him—and apparently, neither could Ben, for he asked, "Anthony? D'you mean Antoine? Antoine Rosier?"
"Y-yes, sorry," Agnes mumbled, "Antoine."
"I'll get your sketchbook back, don't worry," Mary assured, smothering the anger in her voice, "Ben will take care of you — let him get Marcel's chess set, you'll beat him sorely."
"Uhh, that sounds like a fine plan," Ben nodded, "Don't yer reckon, Ag?"
Though the small girl's head remained downturned, she returned Ben's nod, whereupon Mary patted her shoulder, flashed Ben a strange smile, and departed the common room at once, walking at twice the pace with which she usually moved.
There was no plan nor strategy in her mind; the springs in her legs were fuelled neither by blood nor rational conviction, but rather by bright white hatred and the desire that carnivorous animals had for sinking their fangs into weaker, feebler beings. Invisible butterflies ran back and forth from her wrists to her shoulders; Mary's Magic agreed with her—it called for blood. She would beat Antoine Rosier so terrifically that people would regard what she did to Justin a year ago mere child's play. Her wand was already drawn, and she twirled it in her hands to produce electric shocks on her fingers.
Mary passed through many corridors and halls before she found a Slytherin first-year whom she could interrogate—a pug-faced girl with stringy brown hair called Hesper Bulstrode.
"Excuse me," she began with a tap on the younger girl's shoulder, "I'm looking for Antoine Rosier, perhaps you know where he is?"
To Mary's surprise, rather than defying and deriding her, as she had learned to expect when questioning a Slytherin, Bulstrode gave her a frank answer.
"He's in the Entrance Courtyard," Bulstrode said with a hint of fear in her voice.
"Thank you."
Without further ado, Mary went directly to the Entrance Courtyard—and there he was. With long, curly brown hair and a tanned round face that made him look somewhat girly, Antoine Rosier sat on a table with three other boys, all of them Slytherins—and as it was the weekend, the only time when students weren't obliged to wear uniform—all of them wore expensive-looking robes in dark shades. Though Mary's hair was extended down her shoulders and curled in the pureblood way from Mirabel's shampoo and enchanted brush, her dark blue cape-coat made her an evident muggleborn.
It was a sunny day, and as such, the courtyard was teeming with groups of friends—perhaps one of the last of such days before the snowfall would detain everyone inside for months.
Rather than pounce on Rosier like a wolf on a sheep, which Mary had expected herself to do, she suddenly became dazed, as though she had just woken up and discovered herself sleepwalking.
It became suddenly absurd to her that, for the past few minutes, she had become fixated on the idea that Antoine Rosier—a rather mean first-year boy, yes—was a monster of the same sort of Polyphemus the Cyclops and the Roman Emperor Nero. It suddenly seemed pitiful and pathetic—rather than enraging and evil—that a first-year pureblood boy would call a first-year muggleborn a mudblood. Mary suddenly became very conscious of the crucifix on her breast, which she had worn for a month since Edward's inexplicable letter—and she asked herself two questions: what the hell was her plan; barging in on Rosier and dangling him about in the air? How would that have appeared to his friends, who were new to Hogwarts just like him?
She recalled something from Paul's Letter to the Corinthians relating to the resistance of temptation (for brutalising Antoine Rosier had been a great temptation), which she later discovered that night as—There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.
Just as she felt when she reread the Gospel of Matthew during summer, Mary saw that which was at once obvious and obscure at once—that the Christian Faith wasn't about moral dictations of the sort that schoolmarms would give, but practicable prescriptions on how to do anything and everything. If she had abruptly attacked Antoine, nothing but seeds of resentment would have been sown in the Slytherin boy's heart—and perhaps that was the basis of much muggleborn-pureblood hostility; a failure to forgive, which spun schoolyard duels into mortal hatred.
She offered a silent prayer to God for interceding on her behalf by means of implanting a small revelation in her mind, for she would have done something disastrous indeed.
Once again, she thought of Tom, who was absurdly versed in Scripture, and his lack of adherence to it. Then, she realised Hesper Bulstrode had feared her because she saw Tom in her, which was why when Mary walked up to Antoine Rosier and his friends, who were immersed in a game of gobstones on their table, she began with—
"Excuse me, Antoine — might I have a word? I'm Mary Riddle, by the way."
The other boys, one of whom Mary recognised as Abraxas Malfoy, stared at Rosier expectantly—his face had suddenly become tense.
"Oh, yeah, of course."
As he stood up, Mary saw Agnes' bark-brown sketchbook tucked under his arm—surprisingly, she felt no anger at the sight of it. Despite being only a year older than Rosier, Mary felt like she was chastising a small child. Perhaps it was because she towered over Rosier, whose head barely reached her neck—she had already begun flowering into a woman, while he had yet to initiate his first steps into manhood. She recalled that he took Agnes' notebook just because the latter had answered a question that she couldn't—something that would happen in junior school.
"Why were you being nasty towards Agnes?" Mary began gently. "You can be honest with me."
Antoine chose to stare at the floor rather than answer Mary's question.
"How would you feel if I took your things just because you answered a question in class that I couldn't?" Mary reiterated.
"She can have it back," he suddenly blurted, shoving the notebook into Mary's hands.
"Thank you — though, I think you should apologise to her in person, too."
"But they'll see… they'll see," Antoine said in a low whisper, "Please, Mary, tell Agnes I'm sorry — but I can't tell her in person, I'll never hear the end of it in my dorm, you know?"
"In that case, we can do it in secret — I'll be with Agnes at the Astronomy Tower, at seven, tonight."
"Okay… okay, I'll be there."
With that, Mary gave him an encouraging smile, before turning her heel and departing back to the Hufflepuff common room.
Thankfully for all parties involved, Mary's proposition was heeded and proceeded as planned—Rosier made his apology to Agnes under the starry night sky in the Astronomy Tower, and Agnes in turn showed and explained to him some of her pencil sketches, one of which was of the Cathedral in Coventry, which was a few miles away from her home in Birmingham—their reconciliation was so tender and sincere that Mary felt breathless; she had done some good in the world.
Though it turned out her fear that Antoine would try to secretly bring accomplices to assault them was unfounded—which was, again, good for all parties involved, for Mary had Cassian hide disillusioned nearby the whole time in case any subterfuge was attempted—by the next day, it became clear that the affair was not over, because Abraxas Malfoy and Ben Chapman were both sent and then confined to the Hospital Wing.
It was a great mess of events that lead to Tom finding himself in the Hospital Wing with his sister for the second time in his second year.
A day and a half prior, Lydia, the toothy first-year girl, told Tom of everything that had happened. Antoine Rosier stole a book from a mudblood girl named Agnes Baker, which sent her scurrying away in tears, only for Mary to intercede on her behalf and pry the book out of Antoine's hands. However, the debacle didn't end there, for a day later, Ben Chapman mobilised two Gryffindor first-year boys—Arthur Hill and Septimus Weasley—to assist him on his retaliatory assault on Antoine and his supposed accomplices. Of course, none of the Slytherin first-year boys Ben targeted were truly harmed—for the spell of choice that Ben Chapman used apparently made celery grow out of one's ears—except for Abraxas Malfoy.
Thus, with Abraxas confined to the Hospital Wing and Antoine fuming from his friend's humiliation, Tom knew that there was favour to be gained by performing retribution on their behalf—and so, Ben Chapman was thrown down a long set of stairs, into a bed in the Hospital Wing close by Abraxas' own. Of course, no one suspected a thing from Tom, not even Ben himself, who chose to blame his own 'clumsiness' for bruising himself all over.
It was Tom's luck that he converged with Mary on a weekend; Tom was there for Abraxas, and Mary was there for Ben—although neither of them were initially there for the other, Tom made sure that he would shape fortune to favour him. They met in the lobby, from where Ben and Abraxas were hidden unseen behind tall blue curtain-like bedscreens.
"Tom. I suppose you're here to check on Malfoy?" Mary asked straightforwardly.
His sister's expression and tone were both extraordinarily grave, but Tom answered her question in a genial voice, "I am. I suppose you're going to check on Ben?"
"More so to shout at him, than to give him a hug and a box of chocolates," Mary said sternly.
Tom was taken aback; he was confused by Mary's anger towards Ben—they were obviously on the same side—but he enjoyed seeing Mary when her composure was intense, so he followed her as she strolled to Ben's bed.
There the second-year Hufflepuff boy was; Ben Chapman's face had graduated, over the course of the past few months, from babyish to childlike—though he had grown substantially taller and leaner, his brown hair was still messy and stupid, and he was still shorter than Tom. There was a bouquet of conjured flowers wrapped in Hufflepuff black-and-yellow ribbons by his desk, and a great deal of packaged confectionery—all for a few bruises.
"Mary, Tom," Ben greeted. "Welcome ter the 'ospital wing. Would yer like some tea?"
"Ben," Mary acknowledged him in a humorless tone. "Why did you attack the first-years?"
Ben fired back immediately.
"Why did the soddin first-years take Agnes' drawing book?"
"I told you I would get it back for her, which I did!" Mary exclaimed, slapping the footboard of Ben's bed, "and it was only Rosier responsible for taking it from her — do you even realise what you've done to Malfoy?"
"Now 'old it right 'ere," Ben said fiercely, "how was I meant ter know that Malfoy's a cornstalk in the cold?"
"What?" Mary replied, perplexed at his poor Londoner's expression which Tom understood. "Actually, nevermind. But can't you think before you do things? Now Rosier and his friends are going to resent muggleborns more —"
"Wot, so us mudbloods got to bend over for em pointy hat ponces then, isit? I'm on Agnes' side — whose side are you on, Mary?"
"What do you accomplish from rousing the ire of all the first-years? I got Agnes' sketchbook back without laying a finger on anyone —"
"'Rousing the ire' — bloody 'ell, Mary, you sound like a soddin' priest! Got some Catholic bollocks in your mouth now, d'you?"
With a strained expression, Tom interjected. "Don't insult her again, Ben."
Mary rolled her eyes at him.
"My point, Ben, is that you've achieved nothing! Everyone's worse off — and not just that, but you got two bloody first-years mixed up in your business too! And they aren't even in our house!"
"Arthur 'n Timmy wanted ter do it," Ben smirked. "Doesn't take much persuadin' ter curse someone who hates your guts, Mary."
"There's no persuading you, is there?" Mary said in a strangely desolate voice. "Ring-a-ring o' roses, Ben — people like you are the reason we all fall down."
With that, Mary abruptly turned away from her house-mate and left. Ben shrugged and smiled at Tom, who was perplexed at Ben's ability to come out of an argument amused. Then, Tom turned and followed Mary, who went to Abraxas' bed—and there he was, looking much smaller, paler, and altogether sicker than Ben Chapman by magnitudes.
"Ben and the Gryffindors were brash and stupid," Mary explained to Abraxas, who Tom wasn't even sure was listening to her. "They didn't actually want to hurt you like this. They'll apologise."
The way Mary firmly intoned they'll apologise seemed to be suffixed with an implicit 'or else'.
Abraxas made no response, and for a moment, there was an uncomfortable silence between the second-year twins and himself, before Mary went closer to his bed, and held his left hand with both of her own. Tom felt a passing twinge of jealousy—he wanted Mary's hands all to himself—before he moved to the other side of the bed, and gazed down at Abraxas as though he were Tom's sickly little brother.
Then, the sturdy, energetic figure of Madam Milosz arrived. Predictably, she told the twins to leave her station. "I'm sure he treasures your company, children, but for now, he needs peace, he needs quiet."
To Tom's surprise, Mary responded with obstinance rather than acquiescence.
"If he sees that we care for him, won't he recover faster, ma'am?" Mary asked. "Solitude is bad for the humours, no?"
"Yes, it is," Milosz's accent laid thickly, in a tone somewhere between approval at Mary's knowledge and impatience at her obstinancy, "but for now, children, he needs to sleep."
"Ah, my bad, ma'am."
"You can come back in the afternoon. If he is awake, then you can stay."
Thus, the twins departed the Hospital Wing together, and as it was a Sunday morning after a particularly busy week, neither of them knew what to do. Then, Mary tipped on her toes and pulled Tom's shoulder as to whisper into his ear—and the damp warmth of her breath was like the lapping of a gentle tide on a moonlit beach—to ask, "What's wrong with Abraxas Malfoy?"
Her behaviour—whispering so intimately—was strange, but her voice, which was absurdly sibilant and smooth, was even stranger, albeit beautifully so. Then, Tom realised she was speaking parseltongue.
"What are you doing, Mary?" he asked in a warning tone.
She propped herself onto his shoulder again, and warmly breathed into his ear in the parseltongue once more, "Why don't you talk back to me like this?"
"If anyone overhears us, we'll be found out."
"Exactly," she hissed, "haven't you noticed? Parseltongue is awfully quiet — even if we're heard, people will still think we're whispering in English — they'll just think they can't hear us because we're too quiet."
What she said rang true—after all, in his animagus form, Tom could hear everything—snakes only needed to hiss very quietly to hear each other.
"Fine," he whispered into Mary's ear, "not quite, wait — there, there we go."
He had to pretend the fleshly outer curve of Mary's earlobe was a snake to render his speech into parseltongue.
"So, Abraxas Malfoy, Tom," she began, "what's the matter with him?"
Having established a new communicative custom, Tom proceeded to retell the tale of the Malfoy family to Mary entirely in parseltongue whispers to her soft ear, which his lips touched on no less than a dozen occasions. If there were any flying, invisible snakes in the corridors of Hogwarts that day, they would have learned the tale of Longinus Malfoy and his morbid family.
At first, Tom regarded conversational parseltongue as an inconvenience, a liability—he was restricted to whispering directly to Mary's ear after all—but he grew to like it immensely; he liked things that were available to only Mary and himself, things that were completely inaccessible to other: their shared heritage, their extreme magical precocity, and even the darkness of their hair and eyes; he liked the warm, ticklish caress of Mary's breath on his ears, and he liked having his lips so proximate to Mary's ears—he wondered if it that was originally her intention for opting to whisper in parseltongue.
"Agorastocles of Yarmouth said that dementors are a sort of demon," came Mary's breath into his ear. "He also saw the patronus charm as… the 'most Christian among spells', I believe."
"The most Christian among spells," Tom repeated in an ironic voice—it seemed like a contradiction. Time and again as an orphan, his Magic had been seen as the instrument of The Devil.
Even so, Tom was able to divorce his own experience from that of Magic as a whole—he supposed that if muggle men were driven to the heights of experience by Christian notions, from the Saints who starved themselves atop pillars, to the crusaders willing to die divine deaths in the desert—then Magicals might derive similar benefits, too. Perhaps some sorts of holiness and apotheosis as it was understood in In Virtute Tenebrae were one and the same.
Contemplating God and Magic, Tom looked at the silver crucifix resting above Mary's breasts—the one her stepbrother Edward gifted to her (Tom silently swore to Salazar Slytherin and God that he would one day gift Mary jewelry that she would adorn permanently—perhaps the mysterious locket that Morfin Gaunt had rambled on about)—and realised the extent of the Faith's influence on her. He recalled her argument with Ben Chapman; she was upset that he was incapable of forgiveness and approving of vengeance.
Though Ben's sympathies lied with mudbloods and muggles, Tom and he were on the same side—they were acolytes of strength, not God, not forgiveness.
"Do you really think, Mary," Tom began in a slow hiss, "that the Antoines of the world will ever stop preying on Agnes and her ilk? Not just at Hogwarts, but out in the world as well?"
"I made it happen," said Mary, and if snakes could sound petulant, she sounded petulant, "Agnes even showed Rosier her sketches, and he was happy for it."
"You forget the precondition, Mary — none of that would have happened, if it weren't for your reputation."
"My reputation?" Mary hissed sharply. "I didn't intimidate him."
"No, you didn't," Tom noted, "but you did throw Justin Hurst —"
"Don't bring Justin up!" Mary exclaimed in English, perhaps accidentally, "I didn't force Rosier to do a thing."
"Kindness is a garden, and power is her fortress," Tom poetically intoned, admiring his ability to improvise metaphors. "There would have been no after-dinner apology at the Astronomy Tower if it wasn't you who proposed it, Mary. Do you think Ben Chapman could have done it, even if he wanted to? Or your friend Alice, or Caoimhe?"
Mary made no response, and her soft face tensed—Tom knew that he had successfully punctured her idyllic vision of things, in some capacity.
"It all makes sense, doesn't it?" Tom smiled, "It's why dementors can't be killed — they are melded from the pain in our world just as clouds are formed by vapour. The natural world is fallen; we aren't in Eden — kindness is a luxury afforded only by power."
In the afternoon, they returned to the Hospital Wing, where Abraxas Malfoy was still pathetically reclined in his bed. Madam Milosz levitated a pair of large stools over, and Mary sat to the left of Abraxas' bed, with Tom facing her from the right. They made a small carnival of Magic on Abraxas' sheets—Mary conjured a dozen small yellow birds to chirp Christmas carols and church hymns, and then Tom, using a chocolate frog, invented a story of a giant amphibian Inferius—he 'killed' the frog, and described in detail the necromantic ritual that would bring it back as a thrall to terrorise all of Britain—all the while Mary looked at him severely without saying a word, which he delighted in.
Surprisingly, Abraxas in turn talked about his life at Malfoy Manor; with house elves, meetings with prestigious guests who always brought expensive gifts, and a model—Lucretia, who he called Lucy—for a half-sister, he represented an entirely different order of pureblood life from Macnair and Avery, who were serfs in comparison.
Tom was unsure whether Mary genuinely took to Abraxas, or if her kindness and talkativeness was borne merely from compassion that derived from pity. In either case, by evening, Mary insisted that they have their dinner by Abraxas' side in the Hospital Wing, something which Tom accepted—it was preferable to the Great Hall, where they were two tables apart.
Later at night, Antoine arrived—and Tom saw that he looked at Mary with the same greedy, yearning look that was to be found on an increasing number of boys when in her presence. Though Tom knew they couldn't help it—his sister was growing more beautiful week by week—he wrapped an arm around Mary's waist and gave Antoine a daring look.
"I wish dad was here," Abraxas said in his quiet, passive tone. "Or Lucy — she'd always visit me when I was sick before Hogwarts."
"She'd come if she knew," Mary assured, as though she knew anything of how Lucretia Malfoy behaved. "But don't worry, Raxy — I'm here for you. I'll stay the night, too."
"Raxy," Abraxas repeated with a faint smile on his face. "Haven't heard that one before. Dad would say it's improper, like something you'd call a draft hippogriff."
"My friends call me Mare — we're horses of two kinds, huh?"
A few minutes later, Madam Milosz came to usher the twins to leave, whereupon Mary resisted by means of a question, just as she had done in the morning.
"He's quite comforted by our presence," she began, "if we're near, would he not sleep more soundly?"
Madam Milosz's dark eyes stayed on Mary in consideration, before she returned the absurd question with an even more absurd answer in her heavy accent, "Yes, girl, you make a good point — and you should sing to him, too. He needs a mother, and my voice is like a blunt stone."
Tom blinked in confusion, at both the Healer's bizarre expression, and at her even more absurd proposition. He knew that Healers esteemed psychical health to be as important as bodily health—but to talk of needing a mother? A singing mother? It seemed like something an old country yokel would believe.
Mary, however, shared none of Tom's qualms; she gave the healer a wide smile and said, "Yes, of course."
They returned to Abraxas, to whom Mary gave no warning before she broke into song—
"Hark! the herald angels sing,
Glory to the new-born King!
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled."
Her voice was sweet like honey and smooth like silk, even if the song was an irritating carol Tom had to endure listening from many an inferior voice for many a Christmas. He figured that Mary's adeptness at piano required some general musical proficiency, which translated well into singing, at least for her.
"Hail, the heav'n-born Prince of peace,
Hail! the Son of Righteousness,
Light and life to all he brings,
Risen with healing in his wings…"
Abraxas' expression was unambiguously joyous—he looked content, and there was even a faint smile on his typically emotionless face—Tom realised, incredulously, that Mary's unprompted singing was remedially effective. She was aware of the fruits of her voice, too, as she followed her first song immediately with another.
"Now I go cleanin' windows to earn an honest bob,
For a nosy parker it's an interestin' job,
Now it's a job that just suits me
A window cleaner you would be
If you can see what I can see
When I'm cleanin' windows,"
Here was a song Tom was as first entirely unaware of, but with the blithe lyrics and here-and-there rhythm, he searched through Mary's memories—it was from a comedy film, and the nun who made sermons at her junior school rebuked it as vulgar, which in turn compelled the girls to sing it in secrecy even more—so much so that Mary memorised it.
"Honeymoonin' couples too
You should see them bill 'n coo
You'd be surprised at things they do
When I'm cleanin' windows,"
It was utterly absurd; the song was obviously intended to be told from the perspective of a leering man to an adult audience, but it was sung by Mary—a twelve year-old girl—to a sickly eleven year-old pureblood boy.
By the time Abraxas fell asleep like an infant subdued by nursery rhymes—except they weren't nursery rhymes, but hymns, carols, and the odd film-song—Tom realised that he had also been enthralled by Mary's spell; he hadn't said a word nor yawned a yawn since Milosz left them with her charge. For years, he had been confident that he hated singing, but now he realised, he only hated it when it was done by orphans and muggle clerics.
All the beds in the Hospital Wing were designed to fit one person, and even if Tom fit himself snugly against Mary, he knew—and perhaps he had known for some time—that his was desire for her would be regarded as deeply abnormal if it was found out, like a thumb growing out of a forehead, so they slept separately, though Tom fell asleep concentrating on the mesmerising sound of her breaths falling and rising.
A/N: This site is a real pain, I tried to add links here to youtube videos but their anti-link filter is quite thorough. Anyway, if you'd like to hear the songs Mary sang, they're these ones (they can be found on youtube):
- Hark The Herald Angels Sing, personally I like Sissel Kyrkjebø's rendition of it
- George Formby—When I'm Cleaning Windows
