01.09.1930
"The leaves aren't brown." He blurts it out before he can think better of it and how it burns; Tom wishes he could snatch the words out of the air, wishes he could stuff them back in his mouth and swallow them down because it is a particularly stupid thing to say. Miss Lovegood will be well aware the leaves aren't brown yet but she's still here anyway, standing in the hallway of Wools with a big bag slung over one of her shoulders and those impossible shoes making her so much taller than Mrs Cole.
"Would you like me to come back later?" she asks with a smile and Tom jolts at the implication, feeling panic at the very suggestion snap through his veins. That's— no. No, he doesn't want that. He opens his mouth to say so, stepping forward to, to grab at her hand and hope that being closer will make it that much more obvious. Miss Lovegood steps forward to meet him, crouching to his level and the fabric of her dress falls over her legs like rain on rooftops, gliding along the surface to drip off the edge.
"I was only joking," she breathes, holding out both her hands for him and Tom slips his own in them. She's got a few pretty rings on, five on her right hand, three stacked on one finger and two on the pointer finger. They're not gold or silver, close to copper but it's not copper. He doesn't know the name of the metal, but they're pretty and shiny. Most of her hands are soft and smooth, though there's some rough skin on one palm. Not quite from where you'd hold a pen— it feels a little strange to run his fingers across. Miss Lovegood gives his fingers a gentle squeeze, her skin colder than his.
"You're taking me away from Wools?" It leaves his lips quietly, softly. It was so much easier saying it aloud in his room, where no one else could hear it all. Miss Lovegood is adopting him and she's here today, saying she could come back later so, does that mean today's the day?
"If you want to, pumpkin, we'll walk out the door today."
"I want to!" His fingers curl into fists in Miss Lovegood's grasp and she smiles, running her thumbs across the back of his knuckles like she couldn't dream he'd ever use them for a fist-fight like Billy and Dennis are already trying to do. Tom's never needed to use his fists, not since he figured out he could make the bad things happen to anyone who upsets him. He just needs to want it enough.
"Well, we best on with it then," Miss Lovegood declares cheerily, tilting her head back to look at Mrs Cole with that same bright smile on her face. "Will you be accompanying us up to Tom's room?"
"The paperwork is all completed; he's your responsibility now."
"I've worked hard to be able to carry my responsibilities," she says seriously, reaching forward and scooping Tom up almost quicker than he can follow. Hands under his arms, cradling his ribs until he's resting against her hip. "Do you have much to collect, Tom?"
"Just the Zouwu." It's the only thing he really wants to take with him. After all, anything else he has was graciously given to him by the orphanage and Miss Lovegood… Miss Lovegood made the ratty teddy into the Zouwu. She can probably create anything and everything he needs. She's like him. She has to be.
As they walk, Tom takes careful note of the stink eye that Dennis sends his way when they pass and he can't help but smile in the face of it all. He's the one getting to leave with Miss Lovegood, not Dennis. He's the one who is going to live with the woman who smells like sugar and looks like a princess. She picked him.
.
Walking out of the orphanage, hand in hand with Miss Lovegood, his Zouwu clenched at his side, Tom keeps his head held high despite the dreary weather. It looks dangerously close to raining but absolutely nothing is going to ruin this day for him. He could walk the whole way to his new home soaked to the bone and he wouldn't care (well, not too much). His new home which is… He doesn't know.
Worrying his lip between his teeth, Tom tips his head back to look at Miss Lovegood, working from their joined hands, up the short sleeve of her dawn coloured dress to her face. She's looking around the street, pretty blue eyes skipping back and forth but, whatever she's looking for, she doesn't appear to find it. Tom follows as she steps off the path to cross the road, the odd motorcar trundling by. Can he ask where they're going? He should be able to, right? Miss Lovegood has adopted him, and that means they're family, doesn't it? Mrs Cole had always been clear whenever one of the other orphans got adopted (a grand total of two in Tom's memory, not counting himself that is). They must be polite, they must have good manners… adults want children to be seen, not heard.
But Miss Lovegood had liked listening to him read, hadn't she? And he'd been speaking then…
"Where do you live, Miss Lovegood?" There. That's polite, he addressed her by name and said it all in a sweet voice.
She hums, the sound high and light and she turns from looking around the street to gazing down at him, a small smile tucked in the corner of her lips. The orphanage workers never have that smile, Mrs Cole definitely doesn't, not in all the time that Tom has been at the orphanage. He'll never know if she is capable of that smile and he doesn't care in the slightest to find out. He never wants to see Wools again.
"I'm so sorry, pumpkin, I never actually told you, did I?" Miss Lovegood swings their arms back and forth a bit, not enough to jostle him but enough to show she's, happy? He thinks it is anyway, he's never really seen an adult act this way, treat a child like they're worth conversing with. "I have a cottage in a small village called Poppleton, it's just outside of York. That means we'll be taking a train from Kings Cross to York, then catching another to Poppleton station. It's a bit of a walk from there, but I can carry you if your legs get tired."
"I won't get tired," Tom insists, pursing his lips even as he considers it. The only time he can recall going on a train was for the beach trip this summer. He knows he must have been on one before because he'd been to the beach last year too but he can't remember being on the train itself.
"I'm afraid it's a bit of a journey with how far we'll be travelling, so I've brought a colouring book along for you, though I'm happy to read to you instead." He's never had a colouring book before; there were only two at the orphanage and they'd long been filled in, probably before Tom had even been born. Tom looks up at Miss Lovegood again, tightening the hold he has on her hand. Miss Lovegood is his. His. He's not quite sure what she is to him (his mother had died on the doorstep at Wools, Daniel had told him so before Sarah had clipped him around the ear) but he knows some orphans end up calling the people who adopt them their parents, a mother and a father. Miss Lovegood hasn't told him to call her that yet, so he'll hold off for the moment.
"I want to do both," Tom declares, grimacing a moment later before he swiftly changes it. "I would like to do both. Please."
"That's fine, pumpkin. Here's hoping we can catch the twelve o'clock train and that it won't be too dark when we get home."
.
It's easy enough to keep quiet when they get to the train station, to cling that little bit harder to Miss Lovegood's hand when they get swept up in the crowds of people passing in and out of the building. Miss Lovegood walks through it all with her head held high, the soft fabric of her skirt swishing around her legs as she marches to their train and a lot of people get out of their way. A few gentlemen doff their hats to her, watching her pass by and Tom can't blame them. She's clearly very different compared to everyone else; the way she dresses, her shoes, how she moves like she has somewhere to be. And she does have somewhere to be. She's taking him home, after all.
Soon enough, they have boarded the carriage, a man offering his hand to guide Miss Lovegood aboard, which she accepts only after ensuring Tom himself has climbed over the big hole that exists between the platform and the train. Outside, the world begins to change from the dull greys and browns of London, blooming into a great stretch of green as they begin travelling across the fields. As promised, Miss Lovegood presents him with a colouring book, untouched and untainted by any other, and a set of colouring pencils. It's more difficult than Tom expected, keeping in the lines that is. It's a bit like when he was learning his letters and he needs to keep most of his focus on how his hand is moving to make sure it doesn't do something stupid and ruin the picture.
Miss Lovegood speaks up only when he's finished colouring the sky in, the same wash of grey-blue that is outside of their little carriage's window. "Do you have any questions about coming to live with me, Tom?" They're sitting on the same little bench, close together with his leg pressing up against hers but it's still difficult to hear her when the baby at the front of the carriage decides to start screaming. He can feel his nose scrunch at the sound. Miss Lovegood hums again before her hand is suddenly on his head, stroking along the painfully neat parting Mrs Cole had forced upon him this very morning. Yes, he usually has it parted just off the centre, but not as far as she had done it today. It's nice having Miss Lovegood stroke at his head, almost like she's whisking away another part of Wools from him.
"Do I still call you Miss Lovegood?" It's the big thing that's bugging him, that and the… the ability to change something into another. But he doesn't want to say that in here, where anyone else on the train can overhear him. What if they want to see Miss Lovegood do it too and they take up all her time? What if she stops paying attention him because of it?
"It is completely up to you," she murmurs, her fingers running down the side of his neck, across his shoulder to skin along his upper arm. Tom take the opportunity to press himself a little more surely against her side, basking in the close contact. "If you want to continue calling me Miss Lovegood, that's fine. If you would like to call me by my first name, then you can call me Sophia. And should you ever want to, Mum or Mother wouldn't upset me either, but only if you are happy with it." She tweaks his nose with the hand not rubbing at his arm, just a little twitch that brings a small smile to Tom's lips as he leans a little more against her. It's odd, for all he'd imagined what his mother looked like before, he can't look at Miss Lovegood and think the word 'Mother'. His Mother died, she left him all alone and there had been no father, nothing. He doesn't even know her name, just that her father had been called Marvolo. That's why it's his middle name. Her name is pretty though. Sophia. It suits her, she's exactly what he'd think a Sophia would be like.
He might call her Mum one day. But it's not gonna be today.
"What's the cottage like?"
"I'm glad you asked, pumpkin. It's got two floors and it's right next to the river, which is called the River Ouse…"
.
He's not sure when he fell asleep, somewhere between listening to Miss Lovegood describe her cottage and eating the sandwiches she'd packed for him (they'd been ham and some kind of very light yellow sauce that'd tasted delicious). All Tom knows is that, when he wakes up, they're in the middle of a sleepy little village with houses that look different from all the dull buildings of London. Lifting his head from Miss Lovegood's shoulder, Tom peers around at all the grass, peppered with the occasional tree, low stone walls and high hedges. Miss Lovegood (Sophia, her name is Sophia) is carrying him almost like a piggyback but from the front instead. It makes sense; he was asleep and wouldn't have been able to hold onto her shoulders if he were on his back. This way, Miss Lovegood can hold him by keeping one arm around his back the other under his bottom. Tom still doesn't hesitate to cling a little to her shirt though, just in case.
"Are we nearly there?" he asks, peering out at the sun that's getting very close to the horizon. The shadows of the trees are stretching out across the fields, reaching for the hedges on the other side. It's weird to see this much open space.
"Nearly there? We're here, pumpkin." He plans on responding, he really does, but then Miss Lovegood sets him down on his feet so he can turn around to look at his new home. His first thought is that it's small. Smaller than Wools but that makes sense. Wools had lots and lots of children living there, along with Mrs Cole and a few other caretakers. This cottage is going to house just him and Miss Lovegood. It's not as tall as the houses in London that're all squished together in long rows and maybe that's why it's wider, made of a strange almost yellowish kind of stone. It looks old, but old like it's survived a lot rather than old and ready to fall down. There are little boxes under some of the windows filled with flowers and the curtains are drawn.
It looks like a home should.
"Come on then," Miss Lovegood says, catching his hand in one of her own, the other holding onto her bag. He can see the tail of his zouwu sticking out from the opening. "I'll give you a tour, then we can eat something for tea."
Tom can only nod, following Miss Lovegood into the house. She toes off her strange shoes at the door and grows shorter now that they're not forcing her to stand on her tip-toes anymore. He's quick to copy the action, not wanting to get any London dirt on the clean floorboards. The hallway has a set of stairs going up to the next floor. The only thing it shares with the stairs at Wools is that is has a bend in the middle where you have to double back on yourself, everything else is different. It's covered in carpet for one, then the bit in the middle where you have to turn around has a little seat under the window, covered in a fuzzy looking blanket with several soft looking pillows.
"Shoes against the wall please, Tom. We don't want to be tripping over them later."
"Okay."
After that, Miss Lovegood whisks him around the house, starting with the living room that's got a fireplace and comfortable looking couches, through the kitchen that looks cleaner and shinier than Wools ever did, to a library that is impossibly large for how big the cottage had seemed on the outside. There's one more room that apparently can only be accessed from the outside but Miss Lovegood says they'll look at it another day. More importantly, she shuffles him upstairs to an indoor bathroom with a huge bath and something Miss Lovegood called a waterfall shower, then points to the door that houses her own bedroom. From the quick peek he got from the hallway, Tom sees soft lavender walls, wardrobes and draws and a dresser with lots of bottles and special looking boxes on it. Any curiosity about Sophia Lovegood's room leaves him the moment he steps into his own.
It's big, at least four times bigger than his room in Wools ever was, impossible big for the size of the cottage, a part of his mind whispers. The walls are a deep, rich green with dark wooden boarders breaking between the bottom of the walls and the charcoal grey of the thick carpet that, even through his worn socks, feels amazing on his feet. Tom steps into the room slowly, running his fingers along the fabric on the bed, staring at the huge windows that let him look out over the back garden and the river and farmland beyond that. It's, it's big. There's a bookshelf on one side of the room next to a desk that's about right for him, not too big like the one at Wools had been. And there's a great big soft toy, bigger than him on the other side of the bookshelf in the shape of a snake's head, probably to sit on and, and maybe read on? He's got his own lamp but it's not an oil one, it's got a switch that maybe turns it on? And there's a wardrobe and a set of draws too, along with a big trunk that's got who knows what in it.
"Tom? Are you okay?" Miss Lovegood is crouching down next to him, has taken his hands in hers and she's looking worried. Which is stupid; why would she look worried when they're in her home, this little stone cottage that's in a field and there's so much space, so much green everywhere he looks because there're trees and grass and his walls are green like dark gemstones—
"I'm okay," he whispers, tightening his hold of Miss Lovegood's hands even as he feels his traitorous bottom lip wobble. It's stupid, he shouldn't feel like crying; he's not hurt, he's not injured, he's not upset or angry. Why does he feel like—
"Oh, pumpkin." And then he's in Miss Lovegood's arms, face pressing into her chest as a sob works its way up through his throat. He shouldn't be crying because this is all good, this is so very good and Miss Lovegood is going to think he's weird and he needs it to stop, he can't let anyone see that he's crying because then she might think he's being ungrateful and he doesn't want to be here and then she'll take him back. Miss Lovegood shushes him and she must be sitting on the floor now because he's curled up in her lap, one of her hands stroking big, warm circles into his back even as he blubbers into her neck like a baby.
"It's a lot to take in," Miss Lovegood breathes and she sounds like a fairy again, all soft and sweet like sugar-cookies. "It's okay to cry, you know? We've had a long day and now we're home we can just relax and destress and sometimes that means crying. Never be afraid to do that, darling. I'll always be here to wipe your tears."
As slow as the setting sun, Tom draws his face out from where he'd buried it in Miss Lovegood's neck, peering up at her. There's a slight redness to her eyes too, though he doesn't get to look for too long because she's soon gently wiping at his own eyes with a soft handkerchief, still stroking his back. He shouldn't feel so tired; he'd slept on the train from London and when they'd changed over to the other train to bring them here. Miss Lovegood had carried him from the train station nearly all the way home so it wasn't like he could be tired from walking either! And boys don't cry, even the orphans at the orphanage had known that; even the girls had known that. Miss Lovegood is a little weird but… but it's not a bad thing.
He's not quite sure how long it takes him to settle down. Even though the tears have stopped, Tom doesn't want to get up. It's nice, sitting in Miss Lovegood's lap as she strokes his back, the room dark and quiet.
"Do you feel up for a quick talk, pumpkin?" Miss Lovegood asks, soothing down his hair and it takes Tom a minute to fight through the sleep that is trying to gather in his eyes and process what she is saying.
"Talk about what?" He keeps his voice low and quiet, just like Miss Lovegood has done and she hums slightly, pulling a thin stick out from somewhere.
.
Magic. Magic was what Miss Lovegood wanted to talk about. She tells him that she has magic, that the house is magic because it's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside (he knew it) and it could do a whole lot of other stuff too. She tells like that her whole family is magic, that her father helped with the house and her mother put defences up around it and her brother is currently going to school to learn more about magic. Their tea was made with magic, sausage and mash potatoes that Miss Lovegood made float through the air onto their plates and the gravy danced across the table before it went onto their food. The things he can do, Miss Lovegood says, is magic. He's magic, will someday go to learnt it all at the school called Hogwarts (it's an odd name but right now, Tom doesn't care). o
Truthfully, he'd only half listened when Miss Lovegood had quietly explained what had happened to his father, that he'd been injured by magic and wasn't healed yet. The thought had slunk into his head for a moment, settled down like that one rat Dennis had found in the pantry before scaring it off. Which is what Tom had done to the thought too. He didn't need a father, not when we is magic. Not when he has Miss Lovegood who is also magic and lives in a magic house and who call shim pumpkin and darling and holds him and makes him feel warm inside. Yes, before Miss Lovegood had plucked him up that first day outside the church, looking like she'd stepped out of a Fairytale, he'd wished for his mysterious father to come and save him from Wools. But he doesn't need that anymore. Not when Miss Lovegood asks him if he would like her to carry him up to bed. He could have easily walked up to bed himself but, in a moment of weakness, he'd reached out for her with both arms and she hadn't hesitated to scoop him up, to rest him on her hip and carry him upstairs. He'd been presented with pyjamas to change into after a quick shower (something Miss Lovegood had said wasn't technically magic when he asked but Tom's never seen one work like that before) and then he'd climbed onto his bed.
"—and I'm just down the hall if you need anything at all. Doesn't matter how small, you come straight to me, okay?" Miss Lovegood is sitting on his bed beside him, having drawn the fluffy covers up to rest just below his collarbones and she still tucking the edges in around his arms.
"I will," Tom says, even though he's not sure what Miss Lovegood expects him to come to her for. He'd never needed to get up at Wools (a good thing as they weren't supposed to be out of bed after Mrs Cole had called it nighttime) but maybe it's different living in a home. The silvery curtains of his room cover the big windows and now he can see the sparkling dots on the ceiling which almost make it look like the night's sky outside. It's not completely dark in his room like he was used to, but that's not a bad thing. Squirming around a bit, Tom nuzzles the side of his cheek into his pillow, looking up at Miss Lovegood. Her face look soft, the smile on her face is nice and Tom closes his eyes, determined that the pretty smile will be the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep. A hand strokes across his head, through his hair and along his cheek.
"Good night, Tom. Sweet dreams."
His new bed doesn't groan like the old one did when someone got off it, but he can still feel the mattress rise up as Miss Lovegood gets up. He can't help but peel one eyelid open ever so slightly, just so he can see her figure stop at the door, cast as a shadow with the light of the hallway to her back. She pauses, looking back at him and Tom can't think of a sensible reason to do it, but she does. Then she's gone down the hall, footsteps fading as she makes for her own room. Tom lays there, rolling onto his back so he can continue staring up at the ceiling now that he's ruined his whole 'see one nice thing before bed' idea. Not that his room isn't nice. He isn't sure what he'd expected, but it hadn't been this. He wouldn't have thought of the big snake-head shaped cushion he can use as a weird chair/bed to read on. He wouldn't have thought of the star ceiling (how does it glow in the dark? Is it magic? It must be magic, doesn't it?) to cast a shallow light on his bed at night. He wouldn't have thought of the shower in the bathroom or the cottage that's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside or the winding river he spotted outside of his window or— he wouldn't have pictured a home like this.
"I'm not at Wools," Tom whispers to himself, curling up in the bedsheets as he twists back onto his side, spotting two letters he'd brought in the pockets of his shorts (that he'd carried with him everyday since getting them) that he'd put on the bedside table along with his zouwu. He reaches out for it with his mind, remembering how Miss Lovegood had made the sausages float but he can't focus, stomach still bubbling away because he's not at Wools anymore. He's with Miss Lovegood in her house— their house now, this is Tom's magic house.
"I'm magic." He says it slowly, testing the words on his tongue. He's magic, Miss Lovegood is magic, there's a whole world of magic out there. He's special and Miss Lovegood is special like him.
Quite unable to help himself, Tom wriggles out of bed, forcing his footsteps to be quiet as possible as he works his way across his big, big room to one of the windows. He draws the silver curtain back to peer out across the garden. It's dark, so all he can really see are shadows, but he knows it's all there. The two huge trees rise like the buildings of London did but they twist and turn around and cast a completely different shadow against the night's sky. There's no smoke or smog here either. Tom let's go of the curtain, making his way to the bookshelf instead. He runs his fingers across the books, what he guesses is a dictionary based on how big it is, lots of other smaller, thinner books too. Then, he sits down on the funny snake-head cushion, sinking into it and it's really, really comfortable, though he can't decide if it's more comfortable than his bed or not. Under his toes, the carpet is soft and thick.
For a moment, he stays there, just staring at his room from a new angle. The bed is bigger than the one in Wools, smaller than the one he'd seen in Miss Lovegood's room but that makes sense; she's taller than him, even if she is very slim, like how Sarah said she wanted to be. Tom'll never know if Sarah gets as skinny and pretty as Miss Lovegood though because he's not going back to Wools. Not now that he's here. He can't— won't. He'll do whatever it takes to stay here, whatever Miss Lovegood wants. There aren't any other orphans to bother him here and there's only Miss Lovegood to look after him and Tom likes it that way. She's nice and smells good and she's pretty. She's not his mother, she's better than that. She's Miss Lovegood and she's his.
Tom moves to the wardrobe next, opening it up to find two shirts of soft cotton inside, not the button up on that he wore from Wools but something that looks like it'd have to be pulled over his head like the pyjamas he's got on. There's a pair of shorts at the bottom as well, an outfit to get him through tomorrow while they go clothes shopping in York, Miss Lovegood had said. He doesn't know what York is like, he'd slept through the journey, but they must have some shops if that's where they're going tomorrow. And Miss Lovegood had said he'd get to pick his clothes. Tom closes the doors quietly, ignoring the draws for now because they probably only have one pair of underwear and socks in anyway. Instead, he makes for the chest pushed against the wall opposite the bookshelf. When he opens it, a gasp slips through his lips before he can stop it and he quickly bites down so he doesn't make another stupid noise and let Miss Lovegood know he's out of bed.
There are toys inside the chest, lots of them. He can barely make out what they are in the dark, only that there's all sorts in the box and he quickly closes the lid before he can be tempted. For a moment, he looks back at his bed, knowing he should go to sleep but… But he just wants to check that Miss Lovegood is in her room. It's stupid, where else would she be? But the thought creeps into his mind that she might not be, that things are going too well, that things are too good and there must be something wrong.
He's silent in the hallway, more brushing his feet along the carpet than he is walking. He stops by her door, which is half open with a soft blue light leaking out of it. When he risks peering in, he spots Miss Lovegood tucked up in bed, leaning back against the headrest with two fluffy pillows supporting her back. Her pyjamas are just as pretty as her day clothes, a top with thin straps and its make of light pink fabric that almost shimmers in the light. She's reading a book, hair pilled on her head in a really messy bun and then her eyes flick up to find his. Oh no.
"Tom?" she asks and it's not the shout he was expected for being out of bed after what is clearly the declaration for nighttime.
"I can't sleep," he blurts out, hands clenching into the fabric of his pyjama bottoms and he looks down at the floor. The hallway carpet is the same soft cream as Miss Lovegood's bedroom carpet, probably the same one. But his is grey and different and where he should be.
"Do you want to sleep with me tonight?"
"No." No, that's what babies do, go running to the adults because they can't sleep in their new room. Tom hadn't done that when he got out of the nursery at Wools, he hadn't needed to. There was nothing to be scared of in that room and there certainly wasn't anything to be scared of in his new room.
"Do you want to come read a story with me until you drop off then?" That… that's okay, isn't it? Only big kids can read and Tom was smarter than most of the kids two, three or four years older than him at Wools because he could read. He nods, slowly pushing open the door and stepping into Miss Lovegood's room, trying not to stare too much. The dressing table has lots of fancy glass bottles on it and there's a miniature tree thing that slowly twists around on its own but instead of leaves it has different types of earrings hanging from its branches. There's a big mirror that stands on its own and one of the wardrobes is open so Tom can see all the lightly coloured dresses inside, though they're far too small to fit Miss Lovegood. Maybe she makes them bigger with magic when she takes them out?
"I have the Tale of the Three Brothers, if you want to read that one."
Tom nods again, stopping beside Miss Lovegood's bed. "Yes please." She draws back the covers and Tom clambers up and in; it's a little higher than his bed was at Wools but it's like a cloud underneath him, soft and warm and it feels really good on his skin. A thin book floats over to him, directed by Miss Lovegood's wand and, when she lifts one of her arms up, Tom takes the invitation to snuggle up against her side to read.
He doesn't really remember actually reading anything though. He just sits there, listening to the gentle breathes Miss Lovegood takes, the soft rise and fall of her side under his head and he doesn't know when he drops off, only that he does.