06.09.1929
"Ah! Squire Riddle!"
The first cool hint of the autumn to come has descended upon them now, brushing across the earth scorched by the summer's sun. Still, it remains too hot to entertain the idea of a jacket at any time barring the dead of night. As such, Tom Riddle wears a crisp white shirt as he follows after his father, his tie not quite as tightly drawn as it would be had the summer's sun not crisped the earth so thoroughly. Regardless, he is dressed as is appropriate for one of his stature, walking in step with his father as they enter into the one restaurant in Great Hangleton that is worth the trip. The venison steak is always cooked to perfection.
"Doctor Bones, however did you escape the hospital in times such as these?"
Doctor Oliver Bones has been the family doctor longer than Tom has been alive; the man pushed past seventy mid-way through this decade and had been the one to fix the broken arm Tom's first horse-riding session had graced him with at the tender age of seven.
"Please," the man huffs with a smile, grey moustache twitching as he smooths down the salt-pepper curls of his hair, "the summer season is our quiet time. It's winter when the flu is among us. Just glad that Spanish Influenza has passed us on now." Both Tom and his father nod, though Tom has only the vaguest memories of the plague that had swept across the world in the wake of the Great War. Of course, he'd been too young to comprehend the significance of his father leaving for war, even if he were to be one of the war generals calling the shots. At the time, it had simply been what was to be expected; his father, a squire with land of his own, would of course not be risked in battle. It is only now with the knowledge of hindsight that he understands just how lucky his father had been to not be called into the trenches like so many others. As for the influenza, well another bout of luck. The disease had never made it to Great Hangleton, nor to its smaller neighbour of Little Hangleton.
"Dreadful stuff," Father agrees with a frown, inspecting his pocket watch for a moment before retuning his gaze to Doctor Bones. "And what brings you to The Rose, Doctor Bones? If I recall, you much prefer the comforts of your wife's cooking."
"If you had the delights of my wife's cooking to brighten your day, Squire Riddle, you'd understand why I favour my home dinners to those served within a restaurant. But no, I'm here to treat my new apprentice to lunch. I assume that's why you've brought young Tom here along?"
At the address, Tom lets his gaze linger on Doctor Bones for a moment before he turns his attention to the interior of The Rose. It's been redecorated since the last time he was here six months prior, funded by the mass profits the place reels in. When you are the only restaurant in town that caters to the rich and wealthy, one is going to turn a tidy little profit. It's why the Riddle family has had shares in the building for the last two decades. One grand chandelier resides within the centre of the room, thousands of carefully crafting glass teardrops throwing light across the room in every direction. The soft furnishings have all been reupholstered with a more muted, modern pattern, though the oak tables remain as glisteningly polished as ever.
"Yes, I do so adore Mary but it is wise for a man to spend time with his heir. Regardless, that bonding time can wait until a later date. Why don't you share the local news with us, Doctor Bones?"
"Of course, Squire Riddle, of course."
.
They are all seated at a pre-booked table at the back of the restaurant, away from the rabble that resides at the front. Here, the music from the gramophone lingers lazily at the edge of their subconscious as they speak, covering the supplies the hospital has begun gathering for the approaching flu season, the latest developments in real-estate within Great Hangleton, along with the Local Government Act attempting to clear out the workhouse in York in order to make way for municipal hospitals. What on earth they plan to do with all the poor (the elderly and the sick) that have taken refuge within that building, Tom does not know nor does he particularly care. Besides, it is in York— hardly his problem.
The waiter, a man in his thirties who is unfortunate enough to be balding prematurely places two glasses of wine upon the table for Tom and his father, and then an additional two filled with water are lined up before Doctor Bones and the as of yet empty seat.
"Our shift begins in three hours," the doctor says in ways of explanation, swatting a hand carelessly through the air. "Poor form to be inebriated on the job."
"Isn't it just?" The voice is female and perfectly capable of flipping Tom's stomach with the efficiency of a defective wheel derailing a train.
Sophia Lovegood circles around the table on his father's side, looping the handle of a decorative handbag around the edge of her chair before she takes a seat at the table. Of course, the only recent apprentice that the hospital has taken on was one of them.
"Miss Lovegood, what a pleasure to see you again."
"Ah! So you've met already?" Doctor Bones chimes, a wide grin upon his face as he turns a smile, beaming and proud, upon the unnatural woman who is apparently joining them for lunch. Tom's appetite has long since left him, fled into the rolling greenery that the back of The Rose looks out upon. "Miss Lovegood's grandfather and I were childhood friends; we continued corresponding with one another even after I had set off into the world, determined to make something more of myself than what my family would have ever expected. When he wrote to say his dear granddaughter was striving towards a profession in the medical field, I simply had to extend the offer."
Doctor Bones associates with their kind. There's an uncomfortable tightness in his chest, the kind that'd have him heaving breaths he couldn't keep in his chest no matter how he tried if only it weren't for the fact they're in public. He has to keep a lid on it, has to prevent the hysteria from showing because he is not mad. He has not lost his wits; he is not a lunatic and he does not need to see any more doctors. Doctor Bones himself said so, made it abundantly clear to his parents it was nothing good rest couldn't solve. It's been three years since that diagnosis but he has made progress. Tom does not need to see another doctor.
The fork in his grasp is cold, the prawn cocktail beautifully presented within its glass confines and he cannot focus upon the food, cannot allow himself to get lost in the fond memories of this building and its produce because there is a creature at this table that is not human. No matter how she winces as the heat of her soup graces her lips. The startled hiss has him glancing up sharply (too used to the tramp and his insane sounds, the hazy memory of the wretch by the windowsill hissing to something before she turns to him and the whole world goes fuzzy because she is looking at him) but Sophia Lovegood is just patting at her mouth with a napkin.
"I don't know why I didn't expect it to be scalding," she says with a sigh, a flustered little smile on her painted pale lips and Tom's father laughs. He doesn't know they're sitting up to a table sit with an enchantress, one who can steal your senses and plant emotions that have no right to grow in the cavity of your breastbone until they seem a garden as opposed to the tangle of weeds that they truly are. He doesn't know and so Tom forces himself to remain in place, to keep his wits about him. The wretch had lured him in with an offer of a drink; who knows what this woman will try to do to them if they are not paying attention to the food served to them?
.
From there, the dinner passes by like a blur; Tom has only the vaguest understanding of what is discussed (something inane related to hospital affairs or the current expectations of health care) because his eyes are almost constantly upon his food. Not once does the woman make any move towards the dishes, though that means little to Tom. Does she have to even touch it to enchant it? He spent so much time under a haze, draped in faux contentment that he had never thought to pay attention; it hadn't been necessary at the time. Probably because that is what the witch had wanted him to think. Sophia Lovegood chatters with his father as if she's just a regular human, all quick wit and careful observations she's made while working at the hospital.
"Yes, we went to Cornwall when Tom here had just turned ten, didn't we, son?" his father muses, a twinkle to his eyes as he casts his mind back, no doubt recalling the quaint little seaside cottage they'd stayed at, secluded away from the riffraff with their own stretch of beach to explore. Tom remembers it fondly, the expanse of sand between his toes, the spray of sea salt upon his cheeks; it's one of his clearer memories before his father had been thoroughly packed off for war. "I must admit, I didn't realise you hailed as far South as that."
"Yes, I am about as southern as they come, I'm afraid," she says with a smile, a small helping of pudding passing between her lips so that she may chew thoughtfully. She is the only one yet to finish eating, a spoonful or two of desert left within her bowl. Tom isn't entirely sure how he has managed to force down as much of his dinner as he has. "My parents have paid little thought to moving and I know my little brother is already planning exactly where he will build his own home; probably three fields left of the family home if he gets his way."
How in God's green earth is he to manage when this woman lives so very close to his home, interacts so very seamlessly with his family? He cannot afford to get ill or injured now, not with the woman working as an apprentice to the family doctor. Doctor Bones is a good man and no doubt wouldn't hesitate to offer the woman a chance to apply herself on his patients, probably out of an assumption that she will do a good job. Does the good doctor know what creature he spends his time with? No, surely he cannot, otherwise he would have believed Tom when he stated the Gaunt tramp had enchanted him. He is turning his mind around in endless loops, circling the key issues but never drawing closer to a conclusion. How can he possibly manage to remain free of the witchcraft this woman can wield for the duration of her stay here? The ghost of the woman who entrapped him has only made that all too clear. He is defenceless in the face of this power; it is not something he can throw money at to solve, it is not something his family's influence can see banished. What can he do?
"—look after her, won't you, Tom?" Tom blinks back into the present, eyes flicking his eyes up to his father. He has a cigar in hand, Doctor Bones beside him and both with clear intentions of retiring to the smoking room for a short period. Leaving him with—
"I wouldn't stop Tom from discussing politics with you, Mr Riddle."
"Do not be so absurd, Miss Lovegood. It wouldn't be proper to leave a young woman alone to finish her tea." And with that, Father left. Stranded in the wake of his father meandering away through the tables, Tom forcibly unclenches his jaw; it wouldn't do him well to be gritting his teeth so hard he ground them down. He cannot afford an episode here, cannot afford to appear anything less than perfect in such an establishment; he has brought enough shame upon his family by being unable to resist a witch's ways once already. So instead of retreating as he wishes to, Tom instead remains in his seat as Sophia drops two sugar lumps into her tea, the light chimes of metal spoon on china echoing in the silent space between them.
"I do mean it," Sophia says quietly, tapping the teaspoon against the cup's brim before she sets it down upon the saucers. She cradles the cup between both hands for a moment, thin fingers of her right curled around the handle, the palm of her left cupping the curve of the china. "That you can leave me at the table here. I'd hardly be offended."
"It wouldn't be proper," Tom states plainly, having to unclench his jaw in order to allow the words to pass through unhindered. The witch stares at him for another moment with those cornflower blue eyes, her head tilted ever so slightly down so that the thick bracket of her eyelashes shade the uppermost curve of her irises. Then, she takes a slow sip of her tea, delicately placing the cup back upon its saucer afterwards.
"Doctor Bones cannot perform magic," the woman says after a moment, startling Tom so badly that he ends up jolting his own cup that he had just been in the process of picking up. Only the smallest amount of coffee leaks over the rim to fall to the saucer beneath, dark puddles of shame blatantly declaring just how very badly the woman had startled him with her sudden choice of topic. Already he can feel the lump forming in his throat but he pushes onwards. They're in the middle of a restaurant, his father has just seen him and it will abundantly obvious if his behaviour changes within the twenty to thirty minutes that he has been left alone with the woman. "He was born to a magical family, but he doesn't have any himself. My grandfather was his playmate until they realised he couldn't perform magic."
"Why are you telling me this?" Sophia Lovegood blinks, cup before her chin and prevented from taking a sip by his sudden, harsh question. She worries her lower lip between the straight white lines of her teeth, the pale pink stain to the flesh remaining despite the food and drink she has consumed. Perhaps another element of magic at play.
"You looked concerned by the fact we know one another."
The tense line of Tom Riddle's shoulders do not relax and Sophia tries her best to not grimace. This blatant aversion to magic, while expected, in not a good sign. Not for her plans to ensure Tom Riddle Jr a home in which he would grow up loved, if somewhat spoilt. Tom Riddle can barely bring himself to remain at the table with her. When faced with the child Merope has born him, a reminder that cannot be more obvious of the woman who had enslaved him… it doesn't look good. Sophia takes another sip of her tea, mulling over the words that she wants to explain against the confessions that her senior has entrusted her with. How is she supposed to admit to Tom that his family doctor was well aware the girl he ran away with was magical from the start, but had just assumed Tom had fallen for her because she was better than he was? Even though Oliver Bones had been… encouraged to leave his family upon the realisation he was a squib, he'd still be raised in a pureblood family which came with the assumption that those capable of magic were superior to those who were muggles. How is she supposed to explain the good doctor had assumed Tom had fallen in love with Merope because of what she could do and never questioned it, not until he'd come back with tales that sounded painfully akin to love potions? She very well can't in truth.
"Are you well, Mr Riddle?" Sophia finally asks, deciding to just leave the conversation there. If Tom decides he wishes to continue down that vein of thought, then perhaps she will share that, alongside Doctor Bones' riddled guilt complex over his assumptions. But, for now, they will simply leave it all well enough alone. It's probably for the best.
"Of course," he snaps, a sneer crossing his far too pretty face before he reels it back in, eyes sweeping out and around the crowd, though for what reason, Sophia can only begin to guess. Because he doesn't want anyone to witness an outburst? To avoid an unsavoury reputation? To prevent this dinner feeding the whispers that she has already heard circulating Little Hangleton?
"I'm glad to hear it." Sophia takes the last of her tea in three large gulps, the liquid scorching the back of her throat. "And, though I doubt you will feel the need to take me up on this offer, please be aware I am here to answer any questions you may have." Rising to her feet, Sophia collects her bag, placing two notes upon the table to pay for her portion of the meal they have just dined upon. "Should Doctor Bones ask, please let him know that I have popped home to get ready for my shift at the hospital. Have a nice day, Mr Riddle." The man remains sitting within his chair, though his dark eyes follow her all the way to the door, as if checking to ensure she is actually leaving as she says she is.
Sophia drawing a deep breath between her teeth, stepping outside into the late summer's sunshine. It's only more evidence that those who have been subjected to a love potion require some form of therapy, genuine therapy, not the bastardised variation the muggles currently have going on. Not to say that the magical side of things are any further on in that respect but still. Tapping her forefinger against her bag for but a moment, Sophia shakes her head and turns on heel to begin walking down the street. She didn't lie; she does have a shift to get ready for.
