21.08.1930
Clothes (far more than there should be for one individual) fly through the air, folding in on themselves as they land in their respective draws. Sophia stands in the eye of the hurricane, directing skirts and dresses and shirts into their positions, shoes already shrunk down and lined neatly upon a shelf. While a good colour-changing charm works wonders, there's something to be said for having a good selection to go at, even if Xander is under the impression she has far too many outfits. What does he know; he's a boy. The only thing he cares for in terms of clothes is how attractively he can paint them in a portrait. With a swift flick, the higher wardrobe rail disappears backwards, the lower half extending so that all of her skirts may drape themselves upon it, coat-hangers clicking as metal meets metal.
"You have way too many clothes." Speak of the devil—
"And you have far too few, dear brother." Xander smirks at her from his position by the door, brushing the loose strands of his hair back behind his ears. The majority is entrapped in a ponytail that rests low by the base of his skull, a handful of wavy silver strands curling at the back of his neck.
"See if I come over and help you paint you walls again," he scoffs, arms folded and flecks of paint dotted around prominent bones of his wrists. He's making a big deal of it, but he's only painted what will soon be little Tom's room. The rest of the rooms are all covered in muggle wallpaper and, while it must come down as it's terribly outdated (for the standards of everybody alive, nevermind Sophia's twenty-first century mindset), there's something almost therapeutic about peeling the stripes from the walls; she wants to have a go at doing that herself later on.
"You will," Sophia declares, utterly sure in her assessment, "because I'd leave stripes on the wall as I can't paint anything properly." Xander snorts, but he doesn't disagree with her. He just tips his head forward in a quiet acknowledgement, inspecting the splatterings of paint on his forearms. She can see the moment he decides to not get rid of it, the subtle shrug of his shoulders rolling under the clouded grey of his jumper.
"You sure the kid will be happy with rich green?"
"Careful, your Ravenclaw pride is showing." Stepping closer to Xander, Sophia folds her arms around him in a hug, absentmindedly noting he's gained another inch or so over summer. Which is, quite frankly, outrageous. At the rate he's growing, he'll be a head or so taller than her by the time he's finished Hogwarts. "Thank you, Xander. I really appreciate your help."
"Just don't wait until Christmas break to introduce me to the kid and we're golden." Huffing a laugh, Sophia smooths down one wild flick of Xander's hair, one that isn't yet long enough to be contained within his ponytail before she hums and agreement.
.
After seeing Xander off through the recently connected fireplace, she makes her way to the garden. The door is in the kitchen, at the far end past cabinets and the oven and her 'cool box' that is a fridge in all but name (and, she guesses, the power it runs off, given it's the wizarding equivalent). The garden is large enough it could perhaps be called a small field if one were feeling generous. It's covered in a variety of wildflowers now; the grass has to have grown unchallenged for a good few months given the height it has attained. It's a pretty sight, but it's hardly something that she could be putting to use. She'll need a small greenhouse for some of the magical plants and some vegetables too (why not grow them when you're already gardening for potion ingredients anyway?), she'll need an open-air section for the winter flora… it'd be nice to have a little stream coming off the River Ouse, maybe a small pond too for cooling down during the heat of summer? Certainly she'll need a treehouse in those oak trees. Ah, there's so much to do.
Sitting herself down on the doorstep, Sophia kicks off her house-slippers, resting her feet over the green grass that has started to yellow in the unrelenting sun. A magically sprinkler system as well. She's going to need a job list to keep up with everything, that is for certain. But, well, it's her home now. A house that she can edit and change and modify however she wants that this is… that is a very surreal concept. Soon, there will be more than just her living here; Tom will be sleeping in the bedroom that Xander has just finished painting, the one that looks out over this very garden. It's north-facing, so the sun won't blind him in the morning, though had it been east-facing, she's certain there'd be a charm to fix that.
"I am adopting Tom Riddle," Sophia breathes aloud, resting her forearms on her knees and gazing out across the wilderness of her back garden. The river-water is low, has been low for a fortnight now and that means she can't really hear the trickling of movement. Instead, there's only the melody of birdsong in the air, the faint buzz from insects hidden in the depths of greenery before her, and the distant splutter of a car engine. A distant splutter that is growing ever so slowly louder. Intrigued, Sophia rises to her feet, plucking up the house slippers and making for the front door.
The car engine dies as she opens the door, a very familiar Humber parked on the dirt-road that acts as her little cottage's driveway, and a very familiar head of hair just beginning to rise from the open door. Sophia leans against the doorframe, arms folding over one another as one bare foot rises up to rest at the ankle of her alternate leg.
"Good afternoon, stranger. It's been a while."
Tom closes the door of his car after pulling out a rather fetching bouquet, all purples, yellows and whites.
"Near a fortnight," he agrees, offering her the flowers the moment he comes to a stop on her doorstep. They smell wonderful, and Sophia takes them reverently. She's… she's never been given flowers before. Not in this life or the one before. Doesn't even have a vase to display them in. Nothing a bit of clever charm-work cannot fix, but the point still stands. They're lovely.
"Would you like to come in, Tom? Do try to keep your voice down on the doorstep, I don't want the neighbours making a fuss about your visit." Tom smiles, pointedly looking around. Her nearest neighbour is right down the little lane, their house a stone lump in the distance.
As he steps in, he takes a look around, smile becoming ever so slightly more stained. "It's certainly—"
"Dated?" Sophia pitches in with a smile of her own, tapping at the wallpaper in the hallway as she heads for the kitchen. The outdated curtains that once framed the window are gone, replaced with a soft cream fabric that she'll charm to the correct colour once she's sorted out the wallpaper. And the cabinets. And the cooker. Merlin, there's a lot she needs to change. But that all comes secondary to— Sophia peers through the window, grimacing at the squat little stone building that still stands on her land. Yes, it all comes secondary to getting rid of that horrendous outhouse and getting an indoor bathroom installed. Plucking one of the tulips from the bouquet, Sophia gives her wand a wave and transforms it into a simple vase, filling the innards with water. An everlasting charm follows, ensuring the flowers will always remain fresh and bright.
"Will your decorating be as easy as that was?"
"Not quite," she admits, pulling two cups from the cupboard and lifting one up in a silent gesture. Tom gives a gentle tip of his head and Sophia sets about brewing tea, kettle soon whistling away. "I don't actually know many decorating charms; I've never needed to given my father is the one the Wizarding World comes to for house-expansion charms. He's gotten quite good at interior design as well given my mother's ever-changing tastes. He's coming over tomorrow to help me sort this place out." Of course, she'll have to remain very firm about what she wants; for all that her father is a sane, sensible man, the Lovegood eccentricity does shine through when he's given free-rein to decorate a home. She dreads the day Xander purchases his own plot of land to build on because her dear brother will no doubt give Father total freedom to construct whatever he wants. As long as he gets a good view out of it.
"So there will soon be some radical change to this house then?" Tom asks, accepting the cup of tea with a soft thank you. He pulls a chair out for her and Sophia sinks into it, turning to face Tom when he takes the seat beside her.
"Certainly. I'll probably have to talk Dad out of expanding the upstairs space to include more bedrooms. Not when I don't have need of them."
From there, the discussion turns to the different elements of a wizarding house, from enchanted libraries that are bigger on the inside than could be believed, the occasional duelling hall for the enthusiastic witch or wizard (or the purebloods who have more money than sense) to the delights of hot water on demand via spellwork. Sophia very carefully keeps any mention of a potions laboratory (usually housed in the basement) from popping up in conversation as they slowly work their way to the dregs resting at the bottom of the teacup.
It is Tom who changes to the topic, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt now rolled up to expose the pale stretch of his forearm. Sophia is very respectfully not staring too much at the way the muscles move beneath skin as he sets his teacup down with a final clink.
"After my trip to London, I informed my parents of what will be happening. I, of course, did not disclose your… magic to them, nor the boy's. But they are aware of his existence, his connection to me, and that you will be the one to raise him." Dark eyes flicker over to look at her for a mere moment, the afternoon sun that leaks through her window forcing them into a startling contrast against the whites of his sclera, an abyss of emotion she is hesitant to put a name to. Not for lack of recognition, more because she doesn't quite wish to name it within her own mind.
After a quiet that last perhaps longer than a gap in conversation should, Sophia asks, "how did they react?"
"Mother is pleased to know he will be nearby; though quite…" he trails off and Sophia mentally fills in the missing word as he continues; distraught, offended, despondent. "It's the boy's linage." He finishes curtly, a hard twist to his lips and Sophia swallows around the lump in her throat. There will always be that ghost, that horrible reminder lingering in the air between Tom Marvolo Riddle and the rest of the Riddle family, through no fault of his own. She reaches for Tom's hand, stopping just before she can make contact. Only when she meets his eyes with her unspoken question does she place her palm against his knuckles, stroking her thumb across back of his forefinger. Tom twists his hand, flipping it so they are instead pressed palm to palm, fingers weaving together and then he raises her hand, peppering a kiss to her knuckles. It's very swoon worthy.
"Do you not wish to speak of your Father?"
Tom scoffs. "Father cannot understand it; according to the law, the boy would be considered my heir and he detests the idea of tramp's lineage ever inheriting the Riddle fortune. His land is, after all, the only piece that has never been sold to us." Yes, because it is magically land, will probably have family wards and all sorts of significance that is no doubt lost on the last Gaunt given his addled mind.
"Speaking of the Gaunts, I've received confirmation from my government that Morfin Gaunt has been released from prison. His property has been warded so that, should he leave, the authorities will be alerted and he'll be put back in prison. A sort of house arrest, you could say."
"I am unfamiliar with the term," Tom admits, squeezing ever so slightly at her hand, curling the ends of his fingers around the very tips of her own, her nails against the cool pad of his fingertips. "What did recognise was the gramophone in your living room; is your music recorded in a similar fashion to ours?"
"Would you like to find out?"
.
They retreat to the living room, Sophia setting the music going with a few flicks of her wand that she then sets on the fireplace, out of immediate reach and by the bag of freshly-opened floo powder. Xander has left little green fingerprint on the mantle that stand our stark against the off-white paint.
"This sounds like jazz," Tom murmurs, taking both her hands in his own, the both of them standing within the centre of her living room.
"That's because it is. It's from across the pond, though the name is quite horrendous." Tom glances down at her, the difference in their height stark now that they're both barefooted. Still, Sophia continues at his clear interest. "Blind pig." It pulls a smile from his lips, begrudging as it is. Slowly, they begin to turn in lazy circles, Tom drawing her closer and Sophia takes the invitation for what it is, one hand lying on his shoulder, the other clasped in his as his hand comes to rest feather-light at her hip. It's the most hesitant touch she's ever experience and she doesn't' quite dare to breathe too heavy for fear of those fingers retreating. Time passes; it could be seconds, it could be hours as they continue to slow dance along to a series of gentle jazz songs, each softer than the one that comes before it. It isn't until the needle falls from the record itself that Sophia realises she's come to rest her head against Tom's chest as they've been moving; the second it registers, she stills, forcibly halting the almost hypnotic movement of their feet. The low hum that Tom breathes out echoes through his breastbone and Sophia feels it on her cheek, his shirt a thin armour against the almost piercing sound. Maybe it sounds so loud to her because maybe this is perhaps the closest they have ever been.
"Sophia."
"Yes?" Tom's lips are on hers the moment she lifts her face from his chest, brushing against her own and she responds in kind, keeping it soft and slow, even as her hand leaves his to come rest at his side, thumb brushing over his lower ribs, her other hand rising to find the curls of his hair. His palm is hot against her cheek, against her hip and, for a moment, she very nearly forgets where she is, who she is with, in favour of chasing more. It's a sharp, short reminder when her hand slides ever so slightly down to brush against Tom's belt and he all but tears himself away. Right, trauma.
"Sorry!" she squeaks out, cheeks on fire as she scans Tom face, desperate to see— well, she's not sure. Whatever it is she's expecting to find though, it's not present. He's a little wild-eyed, hair a hot mess on one side and chest heaving with breath.
"No— no, it's me," he hisses out, scrubbing a hand through his hair and ruining the other side, releasing the curls completely from that perfectly styled, pushed-back thing he'd had going on. She shouldn't be finding that attractive, should not be focusing on that when Tom needs her to be focusing on boundaries first; she very determinedly pushing that though away.
"It was my hand that wandered—"
"Barely. Not at all in truth." He huffs out another harsh breath before closing the distance between them again, gently taking her hand and resting it at his waist, so the meat of her palm rests at the very edge of his belt. There's nothing sexual about the touch but she can see where his mind is going just from looking at his face.
"Tom—"
"I want to get better," he breathes, breath fanning across her face and it still smells slightly of the tea they'd drunk in the kitchen. "I want to get better and be able to dance with you like this, to kiss and not have to worry about being haunted—" he cuts out again with another frustrated huff, planting a soft kiss against her forehead. She would be lying if she said she didn't melt from the touch. But Tom is not yet done with his confessions. "I want to be part of your life. And I know that the boy will be part of it so I must get better."
"You don't have to rush it; healing takes time."
"You make it worth it," he whispers, quiet as the rolling morning mist, his hands still wrapped around her one forearm, her palm still flat against his stomach and sensing every rise and fall as he breathes. He draws his breath steadier than she does in this moment; Sophia is not ashamed to acknowledge that, too busy absorbing the words Tom has just spoken.
"I got a job nearby," she blurts out, quite unable to help it and utterly unsure how to express just how touched she is by his words. "At the York branch of Saint Mungo's. They have an agreement with the muggle director that we are registered as doctors, with some spellwork for muggles who know a magical doctor to assume they have seen them working there should they visit, under the agreement we will treat any muggles affected by magic." Admitted the slight magical influences on the minds of muggles doesn't fill her with joy and Sophia watches, worried, for Tom's reaction. His lips have tightened, but he nods slowly.
"A fair trade off, I suppose." He exhales, the sound sharper than the rest and Sophia feels the muscles of his abdominals quiver beneath her touch. She draws her hand back and Tom allows it, threading his fingers between her own once again. "My parents and I are walking on eggshells around one another now. Short of calling this whole thing off, which is quite frankly not an option, I am unsure of how to solve it."
"Is this why your mother hasn't invited me for tea recently?"
"Quite possibly." In truth, Sophia hasn't the slightest idea of how to fix this problem. She informs Tom as such, keeping her eyes to their adjoined hands as they slowly began to rock back and forth between them.
"In truth, I am more concerned with what… with what Tom will be told."
"What would you like me to tell him?" Sophia asks, stepping back slowly, drawing Tom over to the sofa she has placed opposite the fireplace. The muggy heat of August is filtering in through the open windows, lingering in the air around them, settles across her shoulders like a thick winter's coat. Another thing to ask Dad about, heating and cooling charms.
"I don't want him to think I abandoned him out of neglect or malicious intent. But I can't…"
"You can't deal with it at the moment at that's okay," Sophia whispers, curling her fingers between Tom's, fingertips stroking at the soft flesh of palms that've never known a day or hard labour. "There's nothing wrong with that, no matter what society would have you think. It would be more detrimental to both of you to force it." She offers the idea of informing little Tom that he cannot yet be involved in his life due to begin hurt by magic. She can tell by the tightening of his face that Tom dislikes the idea, and by the stiffening of his shoulders that he sees no appropriate alternative.
"Don't tell the boy that it isn't due to a physical injury. Be ambiguous, Sophia darling, please."
"Of course," she breathes, barely able to make the words pass her lips for all that her heart is hammering at the sound of an endearment. "We can make this work."
She wishes that she could bring him instant closure, not for little Tom's sake, but for the sake of the man sitting beside her. No one deserved to live with trauma, to be prevented from doing things they wished as they were haunted by a past they had not sought out. She had disliked Merope Gaunt before, but it pales in comparison to the emotions that sear inside her innards now, as she grows closer to both Toms.
"Eventually," Tom agrees softly, drawing her against him in a gentle hold that may generously be called a hug. She leans into it, presses her cheek into his shoulder, and breathes.