/ 5 /
Tom throws himself onto his bed, not sure if he's mortified or miserable; it sort of feels like both. It's true, he's overreacting. Harry told him earlier that she'd be gone tonight, and might not come home until late. He hadn't even batted an eyelash at the time, relieved he wouldn't have to spend another evening attempting to stay as far away as possible from her.
Then the sun went down, he ate all his dinner, and Spot fell asleep. He tried to distract himself with his books but it was impossible to concentrate; a tiny voice in him whispered all sorts of things. She's not coming back. She's leaving—she's leaving you. You're all alone after all.
Tom worms his way under the covers, pulling them up over his head. It felt so horrible and there was nothing but silence to accompany him as he watched the clock-hand continue it's unending cycle.
He's being unreasonable, he points out to himself. It hadn't even been that late; later than normal surely, but nothing worth remarking on. It's his own insecurities coming back to him, and he hates it. He hates the idea of being anything less than infallible; of needing things; being dependent. Isn't that exactly what he is? He can't even bear the idea of Harry leaving him. He wants to cling to her and feel her warm hands and her lips on his forehead, reminding him and reassuring him that he is not a lost and forgotten orphan anymore.
He wants to run to her right now, worm his way back into her bed and hug her just as tightly as he hugs Spot.
Somehow he manages to root himself to the spot, diving under the covers and hiding there, refusing to give in.
Meanwhile Harry trudges up the stairs, running a weary hand through her untamable hair. Spot was anything but helpful, to her total lack of surprise. Other than revealing the fact that she's not paying nearly enough attention to what Tom is up to, he didn't have much else to say. Still, the idea of Tom getting so worked up over this concerns her; should she be encouraging him to move to his own room? Everything in his behavior suggests he wants more independence; he's not as clingy as he was a few weeks ago, he likes to sleep in his own bed and has a bubble of personal space that he's become very religious about protecting as of late. She's been trying to give him space—maybe she shouldn't be?
She finally gets to her room, tossing off all her clothes and attempting to make sense of her hair. Harry scrutinizes herself in the mirror. Why exactly did she decide to raise a pre-adolescent boy? She's not much older than adolescence herself. Tom is worth it, of course, but this doesn't negate the fact that she's in no position to be raising a child when she's by all accounts still a child herself. Hell, she can't even legally drink in this country, book a hotel room, or rent a car.
Harry sighs, forlorn. She honestly doesn't know what to do about Tom.
Should she follow him, try to talk to him? Or should she give him some space? Both options have their merits.
She crawls into her bed eventually, listening intently to the sounds outside her room. She can't keep asking him all the time, prying him for answers. It's all she can do to just make herself available if he wants to talk, and hope for the best. There are no footsteps in the hallway, or movement from the other rooms.
/
The day of the party comes, and Tom lets Harry comb his hair and fix his shirt, even if he's more than capable of doing it himself. He's missed the attention, and he doesn't mind if she fusses over him. This does not mean that he's happy about the situation by any means. Having to socialize with his insipid peers is the last thing he wants to do.
"You don't have to be there long." Harry reminds him, as she straightens up. She's wearing a lovely white lace dress, hair styled fashionably, and a line of pearls around her neck. Tom wants to make her change into something else. He hates when other people stare at Harry, especially other boys.
"I know." He sighs, long suffering.
She hands him the present she bought for the occasion. Tom doesn't even know what it is, and quite frankly he doesn't care to find out.
They take to the floo to the address specified—much to his surprise—and find themselves in the parlor of a stately colonial mansion. He hadn't expected Ruth to have a floo; didn't she say she was a muggleborns? Not just any muggleborns, clearly, judging by the house. He's privately impressed by her demeanor now; she's probably just as rich as Margaret, but significantly less arrogant about it.
"Tom!" He turns to see Washy exiting a floo on the opposite side of the parlor, waving ecstatically and bounding towards him. A woman with similar features follows him after a beat.
"James Washington," scowls the woman. "What have I told you about running ahead of me, like some uncivilized hooligan?"
The boy stops abruptly, turning around with a chastised expression. "Sorry, mom."
The woman sniffs, before her attention is diverted towards the scene in front of her.
"You must be Miss Riddle," Washy's mother gushes, inspecting her. "My goodness, you are such a lovely little thing!"
Harry smiles politely, and Tom wonders if he's the only one who can see how strained it is. "Thank you, Mrs. Washington."
"Please, call me Charlotte!" She cries with delight, taking Harry's arm. "Have you ever met Dorothy and John?"
"No, I'm afraid not. Perhaps in passing." Harry replies.
"Well allow me introduce you to them! Lovely people, you know. Especially for Muggles—can you imagine?"
Washy looks just as unhappy to be here as Tom does, so he finds small consolation in that. He looks to have been stuffed into an overbearing outfit by his mother, and turns to him with a defeated expression. "Mom's always like that," he confides, sighing. "Let's just try to stay out of the adult's way. Maybe it won't be so bad then."
Tom staunchly agrees with this policy.
Ruth's house is more a mansion than a house, and more of an estate than a mansion. He can see sprawling, well-groomed lawns and luscious gardens, and horses roaming about in their fields. Washy reveals to him that she is from old money—whatever that means—or as old as money can be in a place so new as America. At any rate, she is the exact opposite of Margaret, who is 'new money'. Tom doesn't contest this; he learned long ago that the only thing that matters in this country is money, and everything else thereafter is utterly meaningless. What he didn't know was that there was a distinction in different kinds of money.
"What does it matter?" Tom returns, after Washy has explained this all. "Money is money, right? I mean, they're both rich."
"That's what I think!" Washy agrees. "Mom says differently though. She says old money is better, you know, like families that have a lot of land and money and have always had a lot of land and money. She says all the new families are 'vulgar, gaudy, marked by excess and garishness and lacking in social graces in taste'." He parrots, in a manner that sounds as if he has no idea what any of that means. Considering it is Washy, Tom would not be all that surprised to find he doesn't.
Tom snorts at that.
He may not particularly like Margaret, or the fact that she, and by extension he assumes her family, are rather arrogant and definitely excessive and garish, but the same could probably be said of all the old aristocracy and gentry families. At any rate, he doesn't like rich people, in no small part because they all seem so arrogant and wasteful to him and look down upon everyone else, especially considering his background as an orphan with no money, land or wealth to speak of. But if he had to choose, he'd probably like Margaret's family better. The self-made man has always appealed to him, and from what he knows of Margaret's father that seems to be exactly what he is.
"I don't really care either way." Washy confesses. "It gives me a big headache."
"Me too," he agrees.
It seemed so horrible to think that most of the country—and the world at large—was plummeting into anarchy and economic despair, and yet this upper cusp did not even blink at the suffering of the rest. But perhaps Tom was just being maudlin because this was the biggest, most extravagant house he'd ever been in. He had known people were rich in the abstract, but he'd never realized just what that meant until now.
Unfortunately the hallway ends, and opens into a grand parlor full of people dressed lavishly, drinking from flutes of glass and mingling amongst themselves. He catches sight of Harry, greeting a couple whom he assumes to be Ruth's parents. She catches his eye, smiling slightly at him. The room is decorated with—to his great consternation—pink flowers and pink decorations. There is far too much pink.
Washy tugs on his sleeve, and with relief he follows the boy to a corner of the room that is full of people he knows from school.
"Tom!" Ruth gushes, rushing over to him. Her ball gown is the same hideous shade of pink as everything else in the room. "I'm so glad you came!"
Tom pries her off him. "Happy Birthday," he says, stiffly.
She grins brightly at him. "Thank you!"
He finds quiet solace settled between Washy and Wesley; if anyone attempts to talk to them, he can normally slough off the social duties onto one of them. He notices Margaret isn't there, which is strange considering the two are inseparable during school. When he asks Ruth about it, she waves it off. "Our parents aren't fond of each other," is all she has to say about it, not looking particularly concerned. Tom digests this thoughtfully; apparently Washy wasn't kidding. The social divide between the older families and the newer ones seems to be the biggest rift in this country—even more than blood purity. He notices that there are quite a few purebloods here, Washy included, and they all seem quite content to visit a Muggle house and consort with Muggles. Halfbloods, Muggles, Muggleborns… they were all excusable. The only thing inexcusable was poverty.
Tom spends most of the party sullenly wedged between his friends, keeping a close eye on Harry with the adults. She handles herself appropriately, and he wonders if that's what she meant when she told him to 'try to be normal'. He knows very well that Harry doesn't like gatherings like this, and has no care for monetary or materialistic values. He hopes she's okay; she isn't new money or old money—at least, he doesn't think so—so he doesn't know what people will think of her. He narrows his eyes at the young man speaking to her now. Tom amends his prior statement: he knows exactly what that man is thinking.
He leaps to his feet. "Ruth," he calls, distracting her from a conversation about toy dolls. "Who's that boy there?"
"Where?" She looks around.
He points surreptitiously towards Harry. "That one. In the suit."
"Oh!" Ruth jumps up as well. "That's my brother Ralph! Come on Tom, I'll introduce you."
His eyes grow wide at that, alarmed at the prospect. "No, wait, Ruth—
"You'll like him, promise!" She gushes. "He's an alchemist, you know. He goes to University and stuff for it."
Tom blinks in surprise. "He's a wizard?"
"Yep, both my brothers are." She reveals. Tom frowns thoughtfully at that; how strange. All her siblings are magical, but their parents are Muggles?
She drags him over towards them, but he does nothing to stop her, finding his curiosity unwillingly piqued. An alchemist? He's never met one, aside from their professor. The idea is an alluring one, even if he doesn't like the way the boy is looking at Harry.
"Ralphie," Ruth calls as they near, causing the older boy to groan.
"Ruth, what have I told you about calling me that?" He retorts with exasperation, a light pink to his cheeks.
In response, Ruth sticks her tongue out. "This is the boy I was telling you about!" She thrusts Tom forward. "Tom—Tom Riddle! He's the best in our class."
"Err—hello." He says, flustered.
Ralph blinks, before turning to Harry with a surprised expression. "Riddle?" He repeats.
"Tom is my ward," Harry's smile gives nothing away. Even Tom can't read anything out of it, which concerns him. He's never seen Harry look so ill at ease.
Ruth's brother looks taken aback, but wisely does not remark on the subject. "A little Alchemist, huh?" He looks back at Tom. "Do you think you'll pursue higher education in it?"
"I'm not sure yet," Tom sniffs. "I really like Alchemy, but I also like Necromancy."
"He constantly resurrects all the dead vermin in the backyard," Harry laments. Ralph laughs at this: Tom scowls.
"He does, does he?" The boy grins. "Well, you must be very talented to do that as well, at such a young age."
He turns again to Harry. "Have you thought about University for him?"
Harry blinks. "University?" She echoes, blankly. "Hmm… well, no I suppose I haven't. That would be up to Tom, of course."
The boy smiles again. "Of course."
He doesn't like Ruth's brother at all, but he is begrudgingly fascinated—with both of them. Her other brother wanders over at some point, introducing himself to Harry with a most ridiculous bow, kissing her hand with a look that makes Tom's scowl deepen. Ralph, the alchemist, is reserved and polite; while Richard, the cursebreaker, is friendly and full of roguish charm. He dislikes them both, if only because they keep smiling at Harry and making her laugh. But they had their merits. Ralph was a University student; he had a lot to say about pursuing higher education, and Tom was smitten with the idea of learning the things he talked about. Ruth's other brother, Richie, traveled the world as a cursebreaker, had an adventurous spirit and the most amazing stories to tell. Since he was learning both about Alchemy and Curses, he could only imagine the possibilities in both. He might not like them, but he can at least admit they are both informative.
Tom ends up finding the party to at least be tolerable, if only because he learns a lot from Ruth's siblings. He was not a big fan of her father, when the man came to see where his family had run off to, and especially not the way he looked at Harry. Like he was… sizing her up or something, deciding if she was worthy. He didn't like it at all. He liked the actual party even less; he hadn't expected to be so disgusted with the wealthy, all their excess and obliviousness to the outside world. Granted Harry was anything but impoverished, but they certainly didn't live in a sprawling estate and waste money on a birthday cake the size of the birthday girl.
Tom loses Harry some time between Ruth blowing out the candles of her outlandish birthday cake—three stories, all done up in that horrendous shade of pink—and the opening of her small castle of presents. He wishes no ill will upon the girl, but he finds the whole spectacle disgusting nonetheless.
The crowd applauds diligently at every opening. Ruth opens the present Harry had gotten for her; it's a fairytale book. It appears to have hundreds of muggle fairytales, that stand up off the paper and re-enact themselves with little paper settings and characters. Ruth is utterly delighted; more enraptured with this than she was with her miniature pony. Tom blinks, feeling the hairs stand on the back of his neck as he stands in the crowd. He turns, and watches incredulously as one of Ruth's eccentric older brothers, Richard, approaches him and starts a conversation. It's a shallow conversation at first, full of light topics about his school and his favorite subjects. And then Tom realizes what he's really after.
"So, Harriet is your guardian, right?"
Tom has never heard anyone refer to her as 'Harriet', and narrows his eyes. "Yes," he answers, guarded. "Why?"
"Just wondering." He smiles. "She's from the Potter family? That's what old Charlotte Washington was saying, but the woman's barmy, you never know with her."
Harry has never told him as much, but he's seen her mail before. They are always addressed to Harriet Potter. "She is." He replies, shortly.
The boy does not take the hint. "How old is she?"
Tom scowls at him. What's with all the leading questions about Harry? "She'll be twenty-one in July."
"And she's not married?"
His eyes narrow at this. "No." He retorts, sharply. "And she doesn't have any interest in marrying any time soon, either."
"Right, of course." The older boy's eyes twinkle, in a way that irks Tom. Fortunately he averts the subject. "And you're her ward, yes? Are you from England as well?"
"I am." He replies, cautiously. "Why does it matter?"
"I'm just curious," Richie laughs. "You're a touchy one, aren't you?"
"I don't like mind games." Tom states, imperiously. "And you're asking a lot of leading questions."
The other boy seems taken aback by this, as if he hadn't expected Tom to figure him out so easily. His smile fades, leaving something scrutinizing in its place as he studies Tom deeply. "You're right," he says at length. "I am."
Then he shrugs. "I'm a bit interested in her, to be honest."
He does not like the sound of that at all. "Why?"
"Well, she's a really lovely lady," he smiles. "And a Potter… I wonder if she has any of their heirlooms – man, what I would do to get my hands on that cloak."
Tom blinks, perplexed. "Cloak?" He repeats. "What cloak?"
Richie looks at him surprised. "Why, don't tell me you don't know. What are they teaching at Wolcroft these days…" He shakes his head. "They're the most legendary artifacts for any cursebreaker—they're called the Deathly Hallows."
He's definitely never heard of them. "I've never heard of them in any of my classes."
He sighs dramatically, before explaining. "Well, they're a bit of a myth these days; no one really knows if they exist or not. I've always been a believer. Anyway there are three, a stone that resurrects the dead, a cloak of invisibility and an—
"An unbeatable wand." Tom finishes, eyes wide. "But that's from The Tale of the Three Brothers."
Richie smiles widely at him, looking impressed. "Yes it is. You're exactly right."
"And they're real?"
"Oh, I definitely think so. Here, give me your hand." He crouches low. Tom watches him apprehensively, before slowly drawing up his hand. The older boy grabs it, and fishes a pen from his suit pocket. He draws a very small mark on Tom's palm; a triangle with a circle inside, both sliced in half by a line.
Tom looks at it curiously. "What is this?"
"The mark of the Deathly Hallows." Richard reveals, quietly—reverently. "You're from England, right? If you're ever back on the isles, go to Godric's Hollow, to the graveyard. This same mark is on the grave of Ignotus Peverell."
Tom's eyes are as big as saucers as he listens with rapt attention. He had never even heard of any of this. It wasn't mentioned in any of his history books.
"Godric's Hollow? Have you been there, then? Seen it?"
"Yes, I've definitely seen it." He replies, low.
Tom's thoughts are whirling a mile a minute. He can barely comprehend what this means. Suddenly he blinks. "What does Harry have to do with this?"
The young man's eyes grow conflicted. "Well, it's all just rumors, you see… but it's said that the Potters are descendants of the Peverell brothers; Ignotus Peverell in particular. Supposedly they have a very powerful invisibility cloak in their line. One that might even be—
"Death's Cloak." Tom interrupts, breathless.
Richard nods gravely.
"Oi, Richie," his other brother is cutting through the crowd, Harry following behind. Richard straightens, sparing his brother a blinding grin.
"Yeah?"
"We're opening presents from grandfather and grandmother now." Ralph relays with a consternated expression. "Mother wants us up front."
Suddenly Richard shares that same consternated expression.
The two are dragged up to stand with their family as their youngest sibling opens her biggest presents yet, apparently from her grandparents—an unhappy looking elderly couple standing stiffly some feet away—with sedated cheers from the crowd. It's all rather clerical, and Tom can't help but remember his birthday, celebrated with just him and Harry. He wouldn't trade that for the world, even for the mountain of presents that Ruth has.
By the end of it he is utterly exhausted. All he wants to do is go home, stop talking to people, and read his books. While he did enjoy how easy it was to get all the other children to listen and obey him, he couldn't say he enjoyed their company. He wants to dive into Harry's library and research everything Ruth's brother told him. At the very least, it was fruitful in that regard.
Ruth drags them all over to look at her mountainous amount of toys; Tom only allows himself to be carted over with the rest of his peers because he saw her get a really fascinating book on Alchemy runes that he wants to look at. Ruth doesn't mind at all, thrusting it into his hands as she and some other girl from their class play with the mini ponies. The book is riveting and full of useful information; so a gift totally wasted on Ruth, in other words. Ruth didn't like Alchemy at all. The only things she seemed to like were Professor Oz, combing or fixing her hair, and blowing things up with fire. At any rate, Tom is just about to turn to the chapter on Destructive Attunements—a class they'll be taking next term—when he overhears a part of the conversation behind him.
Ruth's whole family is standing some ways off, posing in front of some large tapestry and loitering about as they wait for the photographer to set up all his instruments. Ruth has been pulled away from her pony to join them in the family portrait, and her mother is fixing her dress as Richie converses with the camera man. It's not them that he's interested in; rather, in her eldest brother and her father.
"—never heard of her before," Ruth's father is in the middle of saying, sounding disapproving.
"Richie said she's from England," Ralph confides, making all the hairs on the back of Tom's neck stand up.
"England?"
"Yes. From one of the pureblood families there—the Potters."
"A good pedigree, then. She is a pureblood?"
"I'm not sure. I would assume so. I don't know of what relation she is to the family but they boast a rather prestigious lineage; lots of land, I hear. Richie is more interested in the their heirlooms, of course."
Tom drops the book back in the pile of presents, standing abruptly. He doesn't dare turn around.
Ruth's father scoffs derisively. "Of course he is." The man retorts, with a surprising amount of scorn. "Honestly, that boy, gallivanting about searching for treasure—why, if only he would settle into a proper institution, much like yourself Ralph. At this rate he'll besmirch the family reputation."
Ralph makes a noncommittal noise. "But what do you think of her?"
"She's acceptable." Is the noncommittal response.
The subject changes abruptly once the photographer finally manages to work his elaborate machinery, and the whole family goes off to take their stately, aristocratic portraits. Tom sneers at the display, thoroughly disgusted with it all. Not just the lavish party, the pretentious photography or even the presents; the very idea of them discussing Harry like a cattle for sale makes him sick to his stomach. He brushes past his classmates, making a bee-line towards her.
She is in the middle of polite, if not strained conversation, and he doesn't even have it in him to be polite enough to wait before interrupting—he just tugs at the hem of her dress, grabbing her attention.
"Tom?" She looks down, surprised. "What's wrong?"
"I want to go." He replies: at this point he is wholly disturbed and exhausted by this affair, and no longer has any patience to present even an ounce of social dignity. He doesn't care if it's rude. He just wants to go home.
Harry must see something in his eyes, because she takes him quite seriously and finishes up her conversation with dexterous aplomb. He doesn't know how much longer he can take; fortunately Harry announces their departure in a timely fashion, thanking their esteemed hosts and saying her farewells to the other guests.
"I don't like them, Harry." He confesses quietly, when they're finally alone.
Harry takes his hand as they walk down the voluminous halls. "Oh, Tom, you don't even know them."
"I know enough." He sniffs, narrowing his eyes at her. He doesn't want to bring up the conversation he overheard; it's enough to make his blood boil already. "And you didn't like them either."
She is silent for a moment. "Well, that's true." She admits at length. "I'm not particularly fond of them. I'm sure they're harmless."
So Harry was just as disgusted by the garishness of it all. But Tom doesn't agree that they're harmless. He detests the lot of them. Quite frankly he's surprised that Ruth is as level headed as she is, growing up in a place like this, with parents like that. He can't help but think of the orphanage, of comparing the two. He couldn't possibly have imagined such wasteful wealth like this.
"I guess." He bites out.
Harry sighs. "Well, thank you for going. I know it wasn't your favorite way to spend a Saturday afternoon."
He leans a bit closer to her for a brief moment, before pulling away just as quickly. "I just want to go home." He says, petulant.
"Alright, let's go home."
/
Harry wasn't sure what she imagined the party to be like. For some ridiculous reason, she had expected it to be in a lovely suburban home with a white picket fence and a dog, and the sort of kitschy house that she'd seen in shows and movies from the 1950's. She supposed that was rather remiss of her; anyone going to Tom's school had to be at the highest level of the aristocracy. It wasn't exactly a tuition to scoff at.
Harry would be considered wealthy as well, by modern standards, so even more so in this era. But she had forgotten just what that meant.
Fortunately she had come prepared for a dance around social landmines, but hadn't quite expected the landscape to be what it was. Having never lived anywhere else but Britain—and regrettably, not being nearly as internationally savvy as Hermione—she had no idea what to expect of the aristocratic climate. On the one hand, she was truly warmed by the lack of division in blood purity, and the ease in which Muggles and Purebloods mixed together, as if nothing was amiss in that. As if that wasn't taboo in most of the world. Of course, these were Muggles that new very well of the Wizarding World and had dealings with them frequently, but they were Muggles nonetheless. A Muggleborn girl like Ruth could have friends who had come from lines so pure they could trace their lineage back to medieval times, and a halfblood orphan like Tom was just as easily accepted into their little group of friends as a pureblood royal like James Washington.
On the other hand, just because they weren't prejudiced or even all that interested in Tom's blood purity didn't mean they weren't prejudiced or judgmental about other things. Namely, their income status. Though it was clear both from Tom's schooling and their attire that they were far from impoverished, or even middle class, the guests still didn't quite know what to make of her. Charlotte Washington had been very adamant about dissecting just where her wealth came from, to the point Harry admitted to being from Potter family of England. This appeased the woman, and appeared to appease most of their company as well. Harry was not sure why it mattered so much: she vowed to ask Hermione when she saw the girl next.
Still, Harry was relieved to see Tom get dragged away to a little group of kids keeping to themselves, birthday girl included.
Harry swallowed her nerves, looking around the room. She lucked out with Charlotte Washington taking her under her wing, introducing her to the crowd.
To her lack of surprise, the hot topic of conversation had nothing to do with the birthday party, but the political climate in Europe. Many of the families assembled were ambivalent to Grindelwald, though they agreed with some of his philosophies. For the most part the general consensus—even with the Muggles—was that they liked most of his policies but don't care much for starting a war or killing off such a large part of the population. Well, that was a relief. Wars were bad for business after all, and they were more concerned with keeping the money within their small, isolated community than anything else. Grindelwald's active push for a stricter Statue of Secrecy would hinder all Muggles without prior connections to interact with the Wizarding world.
But this did not mean that Grindelwald wasn't trying. To her alarm, Grindelwald had apparently met with many of these families at gatherings like these; a favorable clientele, private estates without listening ears, people more concerned with fiscal gain… she looked around warily, hoping she wouldn't see the man suddenly pop up in her peripheral.
He didn't, much to her relief.
Harry actually found herself entertained by little Ruth's older brothers; both were charming in their own regard and easy to talk to, if only because they were the only ones even close to her age. She was surprised to find that Tom wasn't a fan of the eldest—she thought he'd find the man's thirst for academia something he could relate to. He seemed to have made a friend of Ruth's other brother, though, so that was reassuring.
Harry found herself tired out by the proceedings, more than she had assumed she would be.
By the time they got home the only thing she wanted to do was take these horrid shoes off and go to bed.
"Tom?" She calls drowsily, looking around the house. No response
She treads up the stairs, calling again. "Yeah?" Is his muffled answer.
Harry peeks into his bedroom, finding it empty. She opens the office door to see Tom on the built-in seats on the bay windows, tome in hand. She found herself smiling at the sight. "Sorry, are you reading?"
He makes a noise of assent.
"Alright, well I'm taking a nap, okay? If you disturb me, be prepared to face a very, very grumpy Harry."
Tom looks up with a smile at that. "You're always grumpy." He teases.
"Lies." She snorts, closing the door and leaving him to his books. Tom and his books, she shakes her head fondly. At least he's been acting normal lately—she'll count this as a win.
Meanwhile, Tom continues to search through his Encyclopedia of Magical Ancestry, trying to find truth to Richard's words. His heart beats faster and faster at the idea of it—the idea of them. The Hallows. He can understand why they must be legends among curse breakers; powerful magical artifacts with all sorts of enchantments on them. The opportunity to study them would be the opportunity of a lifetime. He wonders if his Curses and Enchantments professor knows about them. He was a cursebreaker before he became a teacher, so perhaps he does.
Tom's breath catches when he finally finds it. The Peverell brothers. Their lineage dips in and out of obscurity, and there isn't much to say about their line. There were rumors that Slytherin came from Ignotus, so perhaps he and Harry were distantly related. Tom finds the information surprising; he's researched everything about Salazar Slytherin, so finding new information intrigues him. He notices that the Encyclopedia does not mention this fact in the section dedicated to Slytherin, which makes him wonder the validity of the claim. Still, the claim that the Potters were direct descendants of Ignotus Peverell holds more merit. Tom wonders if he should ask her; would she know?
He looks down at his hand, where the symbol remains stark against his skin. He's never seen it before, in any of the books. Not Hogwarts: A History, the Encyclopedia, or any of Harry's books from her History of Magic class. Tom is a voracious reader, so the idea of not knowing something only serves to fascinate him and spur his desire for knowledge.
He decides that Harry probably doesn't know. Why would Harry know about something like this? He couldn't imagine someone so pure and lovely knowing of something so dark and malevolent.
But this just means that Tom must find out about them in other ways. Perhaps he'll search the Wolcroft library; maybe he'll find something in there.
/
Spring is upon them soon enough. The deep trenches of snowfall, bitter winds and winter chill are all slowly leaving the city, like a tide washing back into the sea. Tom spends every lunch break hunched over books in the library, researching the Deathly Hallows. Ruth's brother was right—they are a highly revered legend in some circles. To cursebreakers they're practically the holy grail. Each object is highly coveted by different people; the cloak appeals to cursbreakers. The enchantments woven into it are said to be unlike any other on this earth, and any cursebreaker worth their salt will want to study it. Necromancers crave the stone. Professor Caithe seemed very surprised when he asked her about it, revealing to him that most Necromancers believe it about as much as muggles believe in Santa Claus. Still, it is a highly lauded artifact, even if it isn't real. He was correct in his prior assumption; they are truly the blackest of dark magic, and combined, make one the Master of Death. His professor warned him not to take it too literally—myths and legends have a way of being allegories instead of actual fact.
At any rate, the months pass quickly. There is a slight glaze of ice over everything when Tom wakes up one day and honestly thinks he can't get out of bed. It's so sunny outside his window, even though the spindly, naked branches of the trees outside are lined in ice like silvery glass. It sparkles so invitingly; he almost wants to touch it. He frowns sleepily; why would he want to touch ice? It's so cold. That doesn't make much sense. He feels out of sorts, and both warm and cold at the same time. His throat hurts a bit, but he ignores it—refuses to acknowledge it.
He drifts off again, only rousing once more when a warm hand is brushing the hair away from his forehead.
"Harry?" He whispers, drowsily.
When he opens his eyes he sees her leaning over him with a visage of concern. "Hey Tomcat. I've been calling your name… you missed your alarm. How are you feeling?" She asks quietly, her hand sliding to cradle his head. He hadn't realized how much pressure he felt there until she was gently smoothing it away.
He gives an unintelligible grunt in response.
"Not well, huh?" She smiles slightly, but it is overwhelmed with worry. She leans down then, pressing her palm to his forehead, and the back of her hand to her own forehead.
"Definitely a bit hot." She frowns, more to herself than anything.
Tom struggles awake at that, a spike of fear shooting up his spine. "'m fine." He insists, amidst the haze in his thoughts.
Harry frowns at him. "You sound sick," she comments, ignoring him. "Is your throat hurting?"
"I'm fine." He asserts, trying to wiggle away from her.
"No you're not, Tom, you're burning up." She retorts, somewhat impatiently. "Please stop squirming, I need to take your temperature—
"I'm fine!" He breaks away from her, rolling to the opposite side of the bed.
Harry is taken aback by such an explosive reaction, blinking over at him with a touch of concern. Tom doesn't reply, holding the blankets tighter around him, utterly horrified. He's not sick. He can't be sick. His breath catches in his throat, and suddenly it is very hard to breathe; he knows exactly what happens to sick people. It happened often enough in the orphanage. He's so distracted by his memories that he doesn't realize Harry has moved after him until she's wrapping her arms around him—gently, but firmly.
"Tom," she starts, slowly. "Why are you so scared?"
He burrows his way out of his blanket-nest, sparing her a terrified glance. "I don't want to die." He says, with wide eyes.
For a moment Harry almost wants to laugh, thinking it all so outlandish and over-dramatic. But then she pauses for a moment, wondering just how outlandish and dramatic it really is. This is not the future, where most dangerous diseases have met their end with vaccinations, and a runny nose or sore throat is met with ambivalent annoyance rather than terror and paranoia. Polio runs rampant among the young, small pox has not yet been eradicated and the seasonal flu takes the lives of thousands every year. Harry swallows thickly, suddenly overcome with the thought. Tom lived in an orphanage. Certainly children his age dying of illness is not a foreign topic to him.
She relaxes her grip, relieved when he doesn't run away. She thinks he might even be tearing up some. "Tom, you are not going to die." She reassures him, patiently. "Have you been sick before?" It would make sense, considering his livid reaction.
He nods miserably. "Once," he admits.
Harry strokes a hand down his back, smoothing the tension there away. "What happened?"
He shakes his head, refusing to answer.
Harry can guess, though. "You don't have to worry," she leans down, kissing his hair. "You'll be better in no time."
"Not everyone gets better." He replies, in a small, watery voice.
That's true, but she has no intention of letting that happen—even if she has to drag him almost a century into the future for treatment. "You will." She promises, firmly.
Then she looks down on his small, bundled form. "I promise." She says, quietly.
Harry moves to stand then, but a little hand shoots out of the blankets and grabs her sleeve. "Don't leave." He looks up at her with wide, imploring eyes.
Harry hesitates for a moment, before she winds her arms underneath him and hauls him up, blanket and all. She carries him into her own bedroom, settling him in with a big glass of water and his gigantic pet snake, hoping that this might reassure him. Fortunately it does, and once he's drowsy enough she slips out of the room to find her phone. It's buried in her work bag, and turned off to prevent any undue attention. She doesn't want Tom getting into it, that's for sure. It only takes her a moment to apologetically tell her work that she's not going to be in today, and then she's grabbing a Tylenol and a pepper-up potion and tip-toeing back up the stairs. She peaks in; Tom is fast asleep, Spot draped on top of him.
She takes his temperature, cursing when she realizes this definitely warrants a trip to the doctor. She's no idea what sort of inane practices might still be going on in this era, and has no intention of finding out. That said, she doesn't want to drag him decades into the future unless as a last resort.
So she does the next best thing: call Hermione.
"Define sick," her best friend says, thoughtful, once she's explained the situation. "What are his symptoms again?"
"A fever, um, a runny nose. His voice sounds raspy—I think his throat's sore too."
"You think?"
"He wouldn't tell me." She confesses. "I think he's scared of it."
Hermione laughs. "Of course he is. He's a child; they all hate being miserable and sick."
"He thought he was going to die." Harry confides. Hermione stops laughing. "I think he's been sick before; really sick." She runs a wary hand through her hair, pacing down the hallway.
Hermione makes an empathetic noise. "That's awful." She sighs. "I can only imagine… at any rate, it sounds like the flu to me. I'll ask Mrs. Weasley when I go to the Burrow this afternoon, but I don't think it's any real cause for concern."
"If his temperature gets any higher, you should call a doctor." Hermione warns.
"Will do."
Harry returns to her charge, who has left his dreams for a more fitful sleep. She decides now is as good a time as any, and rouses him to take his medicine.
"What is this?" He asks cautiously, once he's sitting up fully. His cheeks are red and ruddy, and he's flushed with fever. Harry wishes more than anything that she could make all the pain go away, but unfortunately both modern science and modern magic can't even do that.
"Medicine," she answers, holding up the potion. "And this is a pepper-up potion. They'll make you feel better."
He takes this as an appropriate answer, cautiously downing the pepper-up potion first, before looking down curiously at the pills. He looks back up. "What do I do with this?"
Oh. "You—swallow it. It's easier to do it with water." She hands him the glass. She wonders what sort of medicine they gave him at the orphanage—or if they even gave him any, at all.
He downs the whole thing, but does eventually swallow the medicine. She hopes he's too sick to start asking curious questions that she doesn't know how to answer. Fortunately she's in luck; he slumps back down onto the pillows, turning to the side to huddle against her. Tom thinks he might be feeling a bit better. Maybe Harry is right, maybe he'll be just fine.
Tom remembers exactly what happened last time he was sick. He refused to believe it at first, but then it became too hard to deny. He became bed-ridden, stuck in that cold, drafty dark room. An occasional head would poke in, to see if he was alive, bringing water and food, if there was any to be had. It was an unseasonably cold winter and food and water was sparse enough without the weather taking a turn for the worse. He felt dreadful, waiting in fear for the moment when the pain would become unbearable—when he would start to feel nothing at all. Everyone knew what happened to sick orphans. Every year the winter cold reaped the unlucky ones; there was no medicine, no care-taking for the sick. The staff was too busy, and there was no medicine to be had—the unwell were sent to their rooms, where some would leave under a white sheet, cold and limp with death. The year Tom was sick, half the orphanage had been sick as well. They said it was an epidemic; an especially cold winter, and a viral spread of influenza. He was too young to understand what had happened to him at the time—how lucky he really was.
He pokes his head out of the blankets, studying Harry closely. But Harry wouldn't let anything happen to him, right? She promised he would get better, and Harry never broke a promise.
And this time was different. He was not stuck in a damp, cold room, lonely and feverish. Harry doted on him the entire day, never leaving for very long. He had as much water as he could ask for, and bread and hot soup and chocolate ice cream when his throat started to hurt. He was not shivering in a threadbare cot; Harry had wrapped him up in soft, fuzzy blankets, tucking him into a little pillow fort with Spot by his side. He spent most of the day asleep, but she was there whenever he blearily opened his eyes.
The day passed into night without much fanfare. His dinner was a big bowl of soup—Harry said liquids would help him get better. He slept fitfully and in small intervals. He woke up from tumultuous dreams feverish and sweaty with Harry curled around him, and he reminded himself to breathe. The world in his dreams didn't exist anymore. The orphanage was only in his memory. Harry was here now; he had someone to take care of him, someone to rely on. He wasn't all alone.
Harry stirs above him, drawing a hand to smooth the damp hair away from his face. "Oh Tom, you're burning up." She murmurs, rising from the bed.
"I'm okay," he replies, voice small and watery.
"Does your throat hurt?"
He nods slowly.
She holds a hand out, and the drawer jams open, a little bottle trotting diligently into her hand. She pours something out of it, pulling Tom into a sitting position and handing it to him. He is lucid enough to wonder what it is. It looked foul. "What is this?"
"Cough Syrup," Harry says. "C'mon, you have to drink it. It'll help your throat some."
He scrunches his nose—he was right. It tasted as foul as it looked. She gave him another one of those little pills to swallow, and a big glass of water. Even the water didn't help wash the taste away. Being sick was awful, he digressed. But at least he didn't have to be afraid that he wouldn't live to see the end of it.
He settled back down into his nest of blankets, snuggling in next to Harry's warmth. He supposed there was one upside to all of this—he had an excuse to indulge in her affections again. He had missed it terribly. He almost didn't want to get better, if it meant he could stay with Harry like this forever. He suddenly felt very foolish for trying so hard to say away from her—from staying away from his. On the subject of being lucky, he was very lucky to have found Harry. Uncannily lucky, really, but Tom was never one to look a gift horse in the face; he was also not one to squander a perfectly good opportunity. He was good at being resourceful.
Tom throws an arm around her, resting against her chest. Harry leans down to kiss his forehead, much to his pleasure, and wraps an arm around him. "Go back to bed, Tom," she whispers. "I'll be here in the morning."