Notes: Hey! I'm so sorry there was such a delay with this one! I was having a bit of a block with it. I hope you're still interested in reading!
I'm hoping the next one will be a bit faster, as it's one I've been excited for. Cross your fingers everybody!
By the way, I changed that thing I said I would in the Snape chapter! It's towards the end, when Snape's looking into Tom's mind. It's not a big deal if you don't want to check it out, but it is related to this chapter!
I hope you guys like it! As always, it's your comments, and interest, that keep me writing!
Tom stared up at the ceiling in the hospital wing, his hand behind his head, thinking about all that had happened…and some of what hadn't happened.
Sometimes that was a very dangerous thing to do indeed.
An annoying woman by the name of 'Madam Pomfrey' kept periodically checking on him, and offering him food and medicine. He wouldn't be surprised if she woke him in the middle of the night just to make sure he was sleeping well.
There was also a boy in the bed beside his. He wasn't sure what his affliction was, but he kept mumbling to himself, and his face and neck had swollen to make him look like some overripe fruit.
When he had arrived with Snape earlier, a group of students were leaving. Apparently they had been 'petrified.' Whatever that meant. That made it sound like they'd been turned to stone, but they clearly were still flesh-and-blood—(he wasn't entirely sure flesh-and-blood was better).
Snape even pulled aside one of them—a girl with bushy hair. Tom tried to subtly listen, but Snape pulled her into another room, and Madam Pomfrey had deigned that moment as one of her thousand times to ask if he was comfortable.
Madam Pomfrey had offered him clean robes. He had decided to visit the nearest bathroom, and, after both changing and taking care of business, had lingered before the mirror.
He'd never admit it aloud, but it was scary not to recognize himself. The boy in the mirror was in his teens, older than Harry. If he had to guess, he'd say he was around sixteen. He was wearing black school robes with a green snake emblem on the front.
He had leaned forward, tipping his head to one side, then the other.
He was handsome, there was no question of that. Which...he wasn't sure if the fact that he didn't recognize this as himself made that fact stranger, or less strange. At the very least, it was a pleasant thing to know about himself.
Who are you? He had resisted the urge to ask aloud.
Of all the many questions buzzing throughout his head, he hadn't realized until that moment that that was the one that bothered him the most.
All this left him here, with the annoying nurse, a boy who probably couldn't hold in his own pee, a stranger in the mirror…and a lot of questions.
So many things about this whole situation weren't quite right. Waking up in that chamber with the dead girl, the way she died, the way Harry reacted to his presence, and Dumbledore's later denial that he had killed her, or that their hatred was all that serious. And though Dumbledore had explained the diary, he wasn't satisfied there either. Not to mention the fact that everything else in that chamber still was unaccounted for.
Would Harry really be so vehement against someone who was just a bully?
There was something they weren't telling him. In fact, he reasoned, there were probably a great deal of things. He wasn't going to assume they were all on the same side just because they said so.
The idea that this was a magic school, and that he was a student…He wasn't quite sure how to feel about it yet. They'd done magic in front of him, so he couldn't deny it—not that he intended to.
The thought did send a certain energy through him…like that word was everything right in the world. He was indeed excited to learn magic. At least, that was one of the few things that didn't give him confusion, question and pause. Rather it created a form of what could only be called hunger within him. He wondered how proficient he had been at magic before he lost his memory. More than any information he wished he could remember the spells.
The boy on the bed next to his asked if Tom would like to play a game called 'Exploding Snap.' Tom wasn't sure if the 'exploding' part was something that should draw him in, or which he should be wary of, but once he realized this wouldn't be a poor opportunity to get some information, he decided to accept.
After a few rounds, (and learning that the 'exploding' part referred to the cards' tendency to spontaneously combust), he began to ask his questions.
"How long have you been at this school?"
"I'm in my second year!" When he spoke, his swollen face made his words sound a little gummed up.
"Do you like it here?"
"Of course! Hogwarts is the best! Don't you?"
"Oh, yes, of course."
"You're in Slytherin, right?"
The boy pointed to the emblem on Tom's robes.
"Yes," Tom replied, not really sure what he was referring to, but sure that was the right answer. He wasn't even sure if he was, seeing as Madam Pomfrey merely gave him the robes.
"I'm in Hufflepuff!"
Tom nodded. He wanted to ask what 'Hufflepuff' was—(they seemed rather fond of their ridiculous names at this school. At least 'Slytherin' sounded a bit more noble)—meant, but thought it too risky.
"Do you like your classes?" Tom asked.
"Yeah! I really like Herbology and Charms. Defense Against the Dark Arts was a bit of a joke with Lockhart teaching. And Potions is never fun."
"Why's that?"
"You must be—?! Well, I suppose it's probably a bit easier for you to enjoy. Snape is always easier on you Slytherins."
"Snape isn't a nice teacher?"
The boy laughed. "He must go really easy on you."
"So..Who's your favorite teacher?"
"That's a good question. McGonagall is kinda scary sometimes, but I always feel like I learn a lot in her class. Flitwick and Sprout are really nice. Sinistra's alright...Yeah, I think professor Sprout, probably. Though, maybe I'm only saying that because she's the head of my house."
"Those...portraits outside. Why do they move?"
He snorted. "What? Why are you asking me that? You're older than me, if anything, I should be asking you! I don't know why they move! They just do! I mean, I'm sure it's some sort of enchantment but, I don't know what it is."
Tom only managed to get a few more questions and rounds in before Madam Pomfrey was telling them it was lights out.
As he lay awake, Tom pondered everything he had been through and learned today. He was sure he could figure this, them, out—maybe even tonight, if he just stayed awake a little longer. But he was more exhausted than he realized and, in the midst of his pondering, fell into dreams.
"Wait, mom!" His voice sounded strange, high and young…too high, too young. Almost girly.
A plump woman with short red hair turned around at the last word.
"What is it, dear?!" She sounded a bit put out. "Are you ready to go?"
"I'm missing my Charms book!" Tom's voice was pained. "Have you seen it?"
She gave a forced exhale. "And you're sure you checked your room? Didn't miss any corners?" She inclined her head. "You're sure it's not sitting on your nightstand?"
"Yes! That was the first place I checked!"
"You checked under the bed?"
"Yes!"
"The bookshelves and wardrobe?"
"Yes!"
She sighed. "Talk to your father, dear."
"Did you say you were missing a Charms book?" A boy with red hair like their mother's came in front of him, along with an identical copy of him.
"We wouldn't know anything about it, sure."
"We're just a little concerned"
"Of course, for our—" The last word got blurred.
"Boys. You didn't take"—He was sure she said his name, but for some reason the word became murky, as if she was trying to speak through a veil of water—"Charms book, did you?"
"What?"
"No!"
"Never!
"You know us, Mom, would we ever do something so terrible as steal a poor"—Another blurred word—"—'s charms book?"
"We're good and virtuous boys."
Tom looked at the woman who was apparently his mother, who gave him a knowing look. "Check your brothers' room."
The dream turned over, and now he was standing on a platform in front of a glimmering red train engine, the words 'Hogwarts Express' emblazoned on the front. Steam poured out from its many orifices, and it whistled with the shrillness of a bird being squeezed…though somehow the sound was like music to his ears.
That wasn't the only loud noise, in fact this place was extremely loud indeed. The whole platform was full to bustling with children, parents, and as many other assorted relatives as it could hold. But the strangest thing was, he wasn't annoyed by their presence. He was feeling many things: nervousness to leave his parents, and about what house he'd get sorted into, and if the other kids would like him, and excitement, excitement for what the castle would be like, what house he'd get into, what the classes would be like, what friends he'd make…but no annoyance.
Perhaps more than anything there was a pit in his stomach about Harry and Ron. Were they okay? Why didn't they get through the barrier? He had been so excited to ride the Express with them. His parents tried to assure him they'd be fine, but he could hear the fear lining their voices too. He tried to let the sight of the engine distract him, and the excitement about the coming year overpower him. He knew they'd gotten safely through crazy situations before.
He gave his parents a giant hug, and his mom kissed him many times, and he could tell she was trying very hard not to cry. They told him everything would be fine, and gave him a number of quick quips of advice. He looked towards the engine, about to take his first steps towards it on his own.
The dream crossed over itself, and though he was on the same platform, he was alone.
Well, not alone alone, it was just as loud as before, and there were just as many passersby. Not the same people, still. This time, the sound was muffled somehow, like he couldn't completely hear or feel what was going on around him. Just a few loud shouts would break through, and each time they did, annoyance would strike him.
There were no parents to wish him luck, or kiss him goodbye. No brothers to steal his books.
Did he like it better that way?
He looked down at his robes, and felt satisfaction run through him. They were clean and sleek and new. The first clothes he'd had that fit that description in a long time. None of the other kids got those. Well, none of the other kids could do magic either. He was special.
Just satisfaction. Not really excitement or nervousness…Just that hunger. That hunger for magic, for prowess, for a better world. Nothing compared to the bursting geysers of emotion he'd felt moments ago.
He looked up at the engine, a small smile lining his features as he stepped up to enter it.
Tom woke up to the hospital room, and went from teetering to falling off the bed.
And for a brief moment he was dizzy with unsurity; unsurity of where, or even who he was.
After he took a moment to right himself, the questions restarted themselves:
Was that just a dream? Or were those his memories?
They can't have been, could they? He didn't wake in a flurry of remembrance of all the memories preceding and following those. Besides, Dumbledore had told him his family was dead.
Although the final dream, or memory, was so different from the first two…Maybe that was from another year, and explained what had happened to his family?
He could tell from context they were his family, at least at some point. Yet he didn't recognize them, or remember their names, or much of anything else about them.
Yet…
Yet, at the remembrance of their images, waves of emotion crossed over him, mostly comprised of loss, and longing. He didn't know where those waves could have hailed from, when he didn't remember or care for these people. But something inside himself wanted all this to stop.
It overwhelmed him. He wanted to brush it off…but stayed on the ground, leaning against the wall, digging his nails into his shirt.
He tried to feel normal…or even remember what normal was. He thought he felt normal most of the day. Right now he didn't feel like…himself.
A line of light reached its hands out to him, and he looked up to see the door to Madam Pomfrey's room open slightly. She must have heard him fall off the bed—(did she have owl hearing? The other kid was still snoring like a troll, and mumbling in his sleep). Meeting her eyes was a mistake, because she gave a small gasp, and ran over to him with the speed of a rocket powered penguin.
As she helped him up, she quickly began bombarding him numerous questions, comforts, and recommendations—
"I'm fine!" he yelled, pushing her hand away—(the other kid's snores abruptly stopped, but he didn't wake)— "Stop pestering me!"
Her eyes widened, apparently so shocked a student would speak this way to her, that for a moment she couldn't speak. And at that look, before she could scold him, he muttered.
"I'm…sorry."
The words just came out, he didn't really think about it. But as his tongue traced the words he tasted iron.
"My dreams weren't very pleasant," he added. "That's all."
She still proceeded to berate him heavily for his behavior, and checked more than once that his dreams really were the only problem, but he could barely hear her. He couldn't stop thinking about how strange it was that, after all the foreignness both the day and the night had to offer, the most foreign experience of all that day, was the feeling of those two words leaving his lips.
