23.07.1930
Spell by spell, he is ever so slowly coming around to the idea of magic.
The train had not been as busy as previous years given the current economic crisis, but there had been enough people present to contribute to the overwhelming heat. The cooling charm Sophia had hit their little cabin with had been pure bliss and, for the first time ever, Tom steps off a summer train ride without some layer of sweat coating his skin. Beside him and adorned in as strange a summer dress as their last outing to the Cornish shores, Sophia lifts one hand in offering and Tom slips his own fingers between hers. They've been blessed with a particularly good day today; shimmering sunshine in the sky, a horizon absent of any cloud-cover and a comfortable heat that is not yet bordering on sweltering out in the open. It's ideal.
"Barring that one in London, I've never actually been into a church," Sophia admits, her voice pitched low, possibly so that she may not gander disgruntled looks from those around them. Tom absorbs the information slowly, a soft frown working across his lips at the foreign thought. Admittedly, he too hasn't been to church since— well, since Gaunt. But the acknowledgement of knowing this woman beside him has never been Christened… he supposes it makes sense. After all, they can be devils or miracle workers, can't they? For what reason would they to pray for one? Something that seems otherworldly to him is a simple thing to Sophia; cuts that heal in seconds, broken bones that are mended overnight… Minds stolen and twisted until the world is a mess to perceive.
"If it is of any comfort to you, this is no longer a working church."
"As if the fact it inspired a vampire legend wasn't hint enough to that?" she teases, jolting her arm so that her elbow grazes his side ever so slightly. Cocking his head to the side, Tom peers down at Sophia; she meets his gaze for a single second before looking away, a smile on her face and cheeks dusted with the slightest pink tinge. Her heels click on the cobblestones, each step as carefully taken as usual when traversing any surface not perfectly flat. In those shoes, he can see why; one wrong placement and there's a very real possibility that she'd break her ankle. The form it gives her legs can be the only reason she risks wearing them… that and the additional five or so inches it gives her height.
"Your brother returns from his schooling today, doesn't he?"
Sophia hums, her pace a slow, lazy thing as they meander down the streets. All around them, shops and stalls are open, flogging produce, offering trinkets and charms for the visiting tourists, and brandishing their wares as enticingly as possible. Admittedly, there are fewer of them than Tom recalls being present last he visited. "He does. Zander'll be home for the next month and a bit; it's a later start to the summer holiday than usual, but it'll be a later start next year as a nod to it so, it's swings and roundabouts really." It's what? Tom does not allow the puzzlement of that particular phrasing to show on his face, instead manoeuvring the both of them towards the sole bridge that stretches across the River Esk, onto the eastern half of the seaside town. As they cross, a single motor car goes spluttering along beside them, an elderly gentleman sitting behind the wheel as it trundles forward.
"Would you rather sit within a motorcar to travel in comfort, or prefer the instantaneous travel of apparition?" Sophia asks suddenly, watching the car itself go by with curious eyes, her hand still wrapped up in his. Technically, he should have it nestled within the crook of his elbow for escorting her around town. Yet, there is no one present to see them, to judge and comment so Tom forgoes it. The sensation of her palm, soft and cool against his own, is far more preferable to having it tucked up against his side. The slight jolt of her tendons as she snaps to attention over something she finds interesting, the slight squeeze she gives whenever she wants his attention; there's a closeness to her company when he holds her hand that would otherwise be absent.
"It would depend how far I am to travel."
"Yeah, I can understand that. If I was going somewhere for the journey though, it'd have to be by car— oh! Or even a bicycle; I think I'm going to purchase one, put a cute little wicker basket on the front to travel into Poppleton with. That way I'll be able to cart my purchases back to the cottage without someone thinking I've transported them by magic."
"I hardly think that will be their first assumption," Tom murmurs, watching Sophia's eyes sparkle with mischief, white teeth flashing as she smiles.
"Well, no, but it would still be a good idea. Besides," she pauses for a half second, looking him u and down before she shyly continues, "I've heard bicycle rides can be relatively romantic, if done correctly."
It comes back in a slow wash, like the ocean lapping at the shore, that song his father used to sing to his mother.
"You cannot possibly be referring to Daisy Bell."
"We listen to music to, you know," Sophia teases, grin a bright and wide thing.
"About cauldrons and frogs?"
"Of course not! We're far past those particular topics; we're onto broomsticks and bats now." Tom laughs, a smooth and pleasant thing; it's not a sound he'd have believed himself capable of recreating a year prior. Funny, isn't it, how much things can change within the space of twelve or so months? Not to say it has yet been a full year but… it shan't be long now until he has been acquainted with Sophia for the full duration of the earth's travel around the sun. A whole year, how time has flown.
.
They climb the famed steps, all one hundred and ninety-nine of them, pausing midway up so that Sophia may gaze out towards the sea where the town's lighthouse stands tall and proud, protruding from a man-made outstretch of stone. When they reach the pinnacle of the climb, they both find rest upon a bench, not quite collapsing atop the seats but certainly sinking into the rest-stop.
"That's a lot of steps," Sophia whispers, cheeks red and words a little short as she catches her breath. Tom nods wordlessly, unwilling to admit he's been winded by the climb also. Still, it's well worth it; the view of the town is spectacular and he's sure the ruins of the Abbey will be as worthwhile a visit as he'd found them as a young child. Of course, back then, he'd imagined himself a valiant knight assigned his placement within the Abbey to watch for intruders threatening to breech the eastern coastline. He had been six years old, imagination ripe and versatile. Perhaps on this visit he will be able to enjoy the history and lore of the church as it is supposed to be appreciated.
"I am thankful my ancestors settled further inland than this."
Sophia laughs at this, a bright, high thing before she's leaning forward ever so slightly, blond brows wiggling. "Don't fancy a move to the seaside then?"
"You do?" Tom asks dubiously, a smile working across his face as the woman beside him continues to giggle, her slight shoulders shaking with the motion.
"Heavens no; the sea salt in the air would do horrendous things to my hair if I had to suffer through it daily and climbing these steps is just— I'm sure all of the locals would very quickly realise there is something wrong with me when they never witness me climbing these steps but simply appearing at my destination as if by magic." Yes, if he had to face this particular challenge on the daily, he'd certainly be applying an otherworldly force to travel between two places as well. "I'm quite content in the countryside if I'm honest. A single day-trip to the beach is more than enough for me." She has her breath back now, as does Tom. He stands, offering her his hand and Sophia accepts, allowing him to reel her up so that they are both standing by the entrance to the church's graveyard. The headstones that protrude from the ground and are a mismatch of old and new, some with their inscriptions worn from exposure to the weather, others freshly carved with loved ones still grieving their loss.
"Come on, the Abbey ruins are just a little bit more of a walk away."
"And once we have explored, then we can stop for a picnic," Sophia chirps, her gaze finding their still joined hands, a contact that he had initiated to slowly draw her onto her feet. Tom draws his thumb across the ring of Russian-gold that rests on her forefinger, catching on the small sapphire contained in the cradle of the jewellery. It matches the earrings he got her, the very ones currently hanging from her lobes now. Outdated, yes… but fetching on her.
.
The ruins are a marvellous sight, all ancient stone and antediluvian arches; it's a challenge to stand back and imagine what this very building once looked like when all that remains is less than half of a shallow skeleton, half of a rib-cage created from pillars and columns. The stone here is more worn than the graves they had passed earlier, smoothed by centuries of rain and sleet, the occasional crevasse where freeze-thawing has taken effect. Sophia finds the effects of the world just as interesting as he, stopping by one stalagmite of remaining wall to press her palm against it, eyeing the half-formed arch above her that could once have once been a window. The loss of her palm against his is terrible ache.
"You know, Hogwarts is built in a similar style to this," she muses, tapping twice against the stonework beneath her fingers. "It's older, but the style is remarkably familiar. Of course, it's not actually in ruins either; there's just magic in effect to make muggles believe that it looks like this Abbey, only bigger." He can't imagine it. What would he see, were he to stand on the edge of that castle's grounds and watch Sophia walk into the building? Would he see a woman disappearing before his very eyes, or would he simply stop thinking about her the second she crossed the boundary line? Both thoughts are discomforting and… and it's for the recognition of the fact he would feel distinctly uncomfortable being so very close to a central hub of magic. Sophia is different in that… he trusts her. That does not extend to the rest of the magic world. While logically he knows that her world— no, her people are probably very much like his own in that the bad apples are far and few between… he has known more rotten fruit than the pleasing goodness that Sophia has presented herself as. The tramp's family had numbered three; Sophia is but one good witch. It is not quite possible to shake the thought that only Sophia is good, despite how very illogical that can be.
It's magic; who is to say logic can be applied at all?
"It's strange to think that people actively worshipped here." Sophia glances around, inspecting the handful of stone steps that seem to grow from the ground, the rest of the building's flooring already claimed by nature and devoured by the grass and soil that now rests atop it. "It just looks like a monument to a time passed."
"It's hardly the only place in England."
"Then we should visit another one." She pauses, flicking an almost hesitant glance towards him. "If you want to, that is."
Truly, that is an offer he needs not think about. "I would love to share another outing with you, Sophia."
Her cheeks flush, face soft as she retracts her hand from the stone, folding one over the other before her. "Right. Speaking of sharing…"
.
They retreat to a bench on the outskirts of the Abbey grounds, overlooking the large stretch of crisp green grass. The boy… his son, has written Sophia a letter. A three year old child has written a letter. Admittedly, the handwriting is atrocious, as is the vast majority of the spelling. Truthfully, it's a wonder Sophia can even read it; the way she verbalises each and every word hint several attempts to do so in the past, that this understanding of the letter she has is due to a multitude of practises with reading the word aloud. Yet, writing a letter describing a trip to the beach is a monumental thing for a three year old; even Tom who has never interacted with young children can grasp that much.
"That is…" Tom trails off, wondering how he can word it correctly. The boy is, by the eyes of the law who do not recognise magic (and even then, who is to say a wedding forced by magic would not be recognised anyway? What does he know of these people and their laws?), his child. And yet, it still does not sit right to be able to claim the boy is exceptional for his age. The handful of children he has been exposed to at that age had barely been able to verbalise a sentence, nevermind a grammatically correct one. The thought of those children writing one was laughable.
"He's exceptional," Sophia says with ease, smoothing out the letter against the stretch of her thigh, heels abandoned beside the bench and her toes half sunken into the green grass at their feet. The trio of pages (for the boy's handwriting is obscenely large) are creased from a multitude of folds, as if Sophia has opened and closed the correspondence a multitude of times already. She's attached. It's a numbing realisation, another nail in the coffin, another creaking hint for the uncanny sensation of an impending an ultimatum. It's discomforting.
"I want to write to him about our trip, leaving your name and relation out of it, of course. You'll just be the friend I visit with, if that is okay with you?"
Tom hesitates, weighing up the thought of the boy reading about Sophia's outing, unaware that the man that accompanies her is one who contributed to his very existence, if unwillingly. "It is your day you would be writing about," he states, working his lower lip between his teeth once the words have left him. When there is no answer, he chance a quick glance away from the stretch of lush gardens before them to find Sophia. Her eyes are fixated upon him, specifically his mouth, her own parted in the smallest 'o' of surprise. It's a good look for her; Tom tweaks his own lips up into a smile just to see her own face soften with the same expression, eyes warm. Heavens, he does not wish to lose this. There has to be some way they can make this work, some way they can progress through this tangle of life that has been presented to them so that he can still hold tight to this wonderful woman.
"Thank you, Tom. I can't say I know what you're feeling; I doubt I ever will. But please, if any aspect of our situation ever causes you distress, please talk to me." Her empty hand twitches, as if she wants to reach out toward him but she masters the impulse at the last moment. The cliff-breeze whips around them, carrying the loose strands of Sophia's hair from behind her ear to frame the smooth skin of her temples, to cascade down her cheekbones. Tom reaches out, brushing the tips of his fingers along the wisps of champagne blonde hair, tracing the soft curve of her cheek.
"Write your letter," he says, reaching for his own bag, retrieving the sketchbook that sits within. "Given we are not catching the train back, we have plenty of time."
.
The time passes in a lazy saunter, the sun traversing across the sky much akin to a duck slowly circling a pond. There's no hurry, no rush to their actions and there's no unnecessary chatter between them, just an accepted silence as they work along side each other. After Sophia has finally finished drafting her letter, she begins to write it again on outdated parchment (honest to God parchment, the kind that the family accounts from two centuries prior were written on). He's long since finished the majority of his own work, the landscape complete and the shadows sketched into place.
For a moment, he feels a slight pang over past decisions, for focusing on landscape instead of portraits. But, he'd never really had a desire to draw others, not when the usual artist could complete the family portrait and yes, Tom had been vain enough to turn his nose up at the idea of doing such a thing himself. Everyone knows self-portraits never turn out quite right, are never truly reflective of how others see you and there's an uncomfortable thought of exposing to others how he sees himself. At present, that idea is particularly terrifying— it would have been even worse last year.
Yet, he does wish he could sketch Sophia as she is now. Her hair half-braided back, some strands loose, her features soft and warm. If only he were a talented artist instead of just well trained, then perhaps he'd have attempted a portrait regardless of his lack of experience with them. There'd be something more personal to it than just the camera that he has also withdrawn from his bag, now balanced between both of his hands. It is a clunky, awkward thing. Perhaps Sophia's people will have a better alternative available? If they even have cameras that is. She is, after all, currently writing on parchment.
"May I take a photograph of you, Miss Lovegood?"
She pauses, cornflower blue eyes flicking up from her writing to look at him, lips thinning thoughtfully as she sucks at them. He notices that a bit too quickly, a bit too intently to be proper. In honesty, he's losing care for the thought of 'proper' at this point. What is proper between them when this woman is a witch, one he is too lucky to be in the acquaintance of? What is proper about the son of the witch that— that ensnared him being adopted by this witch, her polar opposite in her light hair and kind demeanour?
"Only if we can also get one together, Mr Riddle. I think we'd look rather fetching together." Yes, on that they can most certainly agree. Tom angles the camera her way, peering through the shutter as she twirls the— yes, the quill between her fingers. Heavens, is a pen too advanced? Is there some significance to the quill as a writing implement that he doesn't understand? The dexterity she has with her fingers can only have come from long practice and he wonders if that is from time spent with her wand to master spell casting, or time spent studying with a quill to write whatever notes it is doctors make.
.
Tom has to be the one to ask another to take a photograph of them; Sophia had admitted to having never used one of the cameras he has, claiming the only ones she's been exposed to are from the Wizarding World, older in design but made greater by the charms and enchantments set upon them. Of the three pictures that were taken of them, only one is really serviceable; the first too blurry, the second interrupted by a swooping seagull right before their startled faces, and then there's the third. The third where they're both laughing in surprise in the aftermath of the descending seagull ('photo-bombing seagull' to use the phrasing Sophia does), faces alight with joy and looking at each other with an emotion Tom is hesitant to put a label to.
They had spent the rest of the afternoon strolling around the Abbey grounds, Tom regaling her with tales of his misadventures here as a child, half-embarrassed, half-softened by the clear way she listens, attentively asking questions and comparing his experiences to her own. The significant age-gap between Sophia and her younger brother have ensured there is little serious sibling rivalry between them, only a casual kind of humour expressed in practical jokes the likes of which Tom can only imagine. Sticking the entire contents of someone's bedroom to the ceiling in recompense for a hair-colour changing potion is… well, outside of the usual normal for him, that is for certain. And the acknowledgement of how very easy it is for them to slip each other substances that have adverse effects is… he doesn't care to think too much upon the subject, that's for sure.
"And you arrive by train?" They are currently in Kings Cross Station, near an entire day away by train from Whitby itself but the travel had been instantaneous (if excessively uncomfortable) the moment they had decided to make the journey.
"Yes," Sophia says, brushing down the floral patterned fabric of her skirt and shooting a most disgruntled glance toward the windows where rain is pelting against the glass panes. "The Hogwarts Express is how students before arrive and leave Hogwarts. It's a rite of passage, tradition by this point, even though a great number of purebloods actually opposed the implantation of the train system when it first came over from the muggle world. If you speak to them, they'll have you believe it was actually a wizarding invention that we graciously shared with the muggles after taking pity upon their painstakingly slow methods of travel."
"What hubris," Tom mutters beneath his breath, low enough hat Sophia can only just catch her words. It wasn't spoken with the intention of making her laugh, but laugh she does, clear and bright as the morning sky. He's not sure what it is about that particular statement entertained her, but the reaction is pleasant all the same.
"You can say that again."
They walk through the station, hand in hand once again though with a difference. This time, Sophia had unthinkingly reached for him. Every other time she has paused, has only exhibited a twitch that she wants the contact. This time, Tom hadn't realised what was happening until her fingers were already sliding down his palm, dancing between his own with the feather-like steps of a ballerina. And…. And it had felt natural. He hadn't frozen up at the unexpected contact because… because it is not so unexpected between them, is it? Not anymore. There are casual touches, hand holding, Sophia's fingers curled at his elbow, the softest graze of their lips on one another, few as there have been so far.
"This is the muggle side," Sophia whispers, flicking her eyes over to right, focused on one pillar in particular. "To get to the platform, you have to run full pelt at that pillar; it's like an illusion, you pass right through to the hidden platform."
"And those with magic who are born to ordinary families believe this?" That he finds hard to accept.
Sophia hums, adjusting the strap of her bag from where it sits upon her shoulder, a contrast to the one he holds in his free hand. "Well, they usually require a demonstration to prove we aren't pulling their leg, I will admit to that."
The thought strikes him a moment later. No, that is not the correct definition. The thought washes upon the shores of his mind with the surety of the tide, a steady push-pull of notions that he should have been expecting, especially when one takes into consideration how very often his mind is beginning to be occupied with it. "The boy will be coming through here in the future, won't he?" There's a hesitant pause before Sophia answers.
"Yes. When he's eleven, I'll be dropping him off. Probably on the magical side through apparition; the muggle side can get quite a bit of foot-traffic." Yes. His son, the boy he never even knew of until this woman came sauntering into his life with her ridiculous heels. He does not want to linger on the topic right now, wishes to set it aside for a bit longer, just until he has had more time to process. Thankfully, it appears that the world is, for once, listening to his desires for people begin to spill out onto the platform from, well, nowhere in particular. It is only when he focuses, truly focuses, on the pillar that Sophia had pointed out that he witnesses them actually passing through. Magic in action. An outlandish use of it, that's for sure.
Zander Lovegood spills out onto the platform a between a blink, a great trunk of luggage trailing behind him and two canvases balanced precariously against his side. The work, what little Tom can see of it that is, looks impressive. The boy certainly is talented.
"Sophia!" Is this what it means to have a younger brother? The loud, jolly shouts of welcome, the race into each other's arms with warm greetings, Sophia's hand abandoning his to better hold tight to her little brother. "And Mr Tom Riddle," Zander continues after he pulls back from Sophia's embrace, dropping his luggage with nary a care in the world so that he may offer his free hand to him. The boy hadn't even done so to hug his sister, instead just standing there and accepting the embrace. Tom grasps the offered hand, giving it a firm shake.
"Good evening, Zander. How are you?"
It is strange, returning to his home in the same manner they have just arrived at Kings Cross Station, even if it takes Sophia two trips, not willing to risk this terrible 'splinching' issue. Given the grave face Zander wore prior to their departure, it is a genuine problem that can arise. How anyone can survive leaving a limb behind in another county is beyond Tom but he does not voice this opinion. He can recognise when some things are beyond him. Sophia had dropped Zander off at his home before she came back for him and here they now stand, hidden in the evening shadows of the stables at the edge of the grounds.
"Today was nice," Sophia breathes, pulling the loose strands of her hair back to the nape of her neck with one hand, the other peeling her wand free of her bag. With a quick flick, the whole mass is gathered in a sleek low bun, exposing the stretch of lightly freckled skin between her neck and the back of her dress.
"It was." Today was ideal, exactly how he would prefer to spend his time with Sophia. Not to say that he would not wish to spend time with her in other circumstances. The knowledge that this time is slowly dwindling, that the opportunity for days like this will soon be a ship long passed and disappearing beyond the horizon—
"When you take him in— it won't kill the time you are willing to spend here, will it?"
"Here at Riddle Manor?" The small, cheeky grin that lights her lips makes it clear enough that Sophia knows exactly to what he refers, made even more apparent when it slips into something softer and she offers him her hands. He takes them, wraps them in his own thumbs brushing up across the peak of every knuckle like he will never be able to memorise them without just one more touch. Kill the time she is willing to spend here does not refer to the manor but here by his side, this place where the image of her comes so naturally now. "Of course not. It will undoubtedly be more difficult given the… unique circumstances, but I cannot see myself ever wishing to stop our visits, these outings and the time we spend together." Sophia huffs a shallow breath, a quiet thing that is at odds with the way she tightens her hold upon him, pulls his hands that little bit closer until the edge of his palms are pressed up against her clavicles. "You have grown so very much as a person, Tom Riddle, and I dearly wish to remain to witness every development, every step and stride you take."
Gods… this is it, isn't it? Is this what love feels like? Looking at a person and knowing it is going to be difficult, so difficult that a year prior he'd have balked? What a difference companionship makes, what a difference time spent with another can induce within a person. Yet, even knowing exactly how challenging it will be, the thought is an acceptable one? Oh, the implications of it are terrifying, it's enough for his heart to clench in the cold casing of his ribs and yet— and yet Sophia thinks to very highly of him, wishes to spend time with him despite a very busy life, despite the stark differences between them. What may establish him as an ideal husband to many a woman in his social circle can have no meaning at all to Sophia. Her world runs on different rules and he would be so very out of his depth and yet… yet he stands here wondering if he can keep his head above the water regardless. He wants this; yes, he's considered it before today. But now, in this moment, there is a certainty that has been absent before, as if it's all come crashing in at once, a summer's storm and a diligent downpour all at once.
Tom takes a step closer, leaning that short distance down to rest his forehead against Sophia's, the vast gap between their heights negated by those shoes of hers.
"May I court you, Sophia Lovegood?" Part of him wishes to ask if he needs acquire parental approval; he has known this woman for near a year but never once met her parents. The entirety of his being needs to know her answer now.
Her wide blue eyes stare up at him, lips again in that soft 'o' of surprise.
"It won't be easy," she breathes.
"I know," he admits.
Neither of them move; the steady pounding of Sophia's heart is discernible through the thin fabric of her dress.
"I accept. Woo away, Mr Riddle."