Dear Readers, I've been having a bit of a writer's crisis as of late, feeling perpetually dissatisfied with my work since the end of TVoV. Only lately have I felt inspired to write fanfiction again, after a short break into original fiction. I wanted to take this chance to say: I'm sorry I drone on so much with these fics, I just want my characters to live for a while before they meet their eventual deaths - at my hand, or at the closure of this tale.
Also, I hope you all will enjoy the direction in which I am taking Tom's character in this fic. I've been studying him for so many years, I felt like doing something a little different to what I'm used to. It's very, very important for me to take this opportunity to explore and comment upon subjects such as gender and identity, since I have the rare opportunity to. It's a blessing to me. -Angstier x
18 – Identity
"Are you sure it's safe here?"
Harry's voice shook when he asked the question. There was no telling whether it was from the rush of fleeing St Mungo's Hospital or from fresh fear brought on by being in yet another unfamiliar room of a strange inn. All he knew was that standing still made him feel on edge. He dropped his trunk at the foot of a double-bed, which took up the majority of the space in this cramped, plain rented space. The walls were high and painted a cold white up to the wooden beams that twisted and coiled over the ceiling. Tom turned to look at him when the question was posed, her expression not the least bit bothered.
"We can put up extra forces," she answered, her voice soft. "We'll be safer tonight than we've ever been previously, if I ward this room."
Harry was only slightly relieved to hear it. Without hesitation, he turned his attention back to his trunk, opened it up, and rummaged inside for spell books. Tom was more than able to choose magic best suited for their situation, but Harry felt like he needed to do something, anything, to contribute to their safety. If he couldn't practice magic alongside Tom, he wanted to make sure she didn't miss out anything important.
"We can't use anything too powerful," Harry said to her, perching on the edge of the bed, "in case it draws even more attention to us. There's a lot of magic that travellers have a habit of using when they stay in a new place. We should be able to find something in here..."
He caught Tom smiling softly.
"I know," she said. "We shall be safe."
Over the sound of Harry flicking through pages, Tom withdrew Dumbledore's wand. She began murmuring enchantments, pacing across the available floorspace. The sound of her voice and her footsteps was comforting to Harry. He read aloud spells and Tom added them into the mix without comment. The process spanned over the course of a few minutes and when it was complete, Harry felt calmer. There was nothing left for them to focus on. He glanced at Tom furtively.
"What do we do now?" he asked.
Tom was unusually calm. She tilted her head, surveying him.
"We survive," she answered. "We live."
Harry didn't like to hear it. He felt as if there was something more to be done, some task they had to work on in order to ensure their safety – and sanity. Nothing could be done about the Death Eaters, Ministry, and Order eventually being informed about his crimes, so he focused on a more pressing matter.
"We need to hunt down Voldemort's Horcruxes," he said flatly. "As soon as possible."
At this, Tom appeared solemn. Her attention was drawn back to Dumbledore's wand as she paced past him. She sat on the other side of the bed, her gentle frame weighing down the mattress. It occurred to Harry then how very strange it was to have her near.
"It may not be wise to use that name," she mentioned calmly. "It has been known to be a cursed phrase, especially at the height of war."
Somewhat annoyed, Harry glanced at the door and back. "You-Know-Who's Horcruxes, then."
"We're at an advantage," Tom assured him, unfazed by his anger. "The Dark Lord is as of yet unaware of my existence and unaware of what Dumbledore taught you."
"He only told us about a few Horcruxes," Harry pointed out in a low voice. "The Ring, the Snake – but where would Vol–... You-Know-Who – keep them?"
"That's our quest," Tom told him, "to find out what locations The Dark Lord chose to trust for his Horcruxes during the course of his life."
Harry felt restricted, as if the task ahead of them was impossible. It made him frustrated, but he didn't want his anger to lash out onto Tom. He drew in a deep breath, setting his wand on the blanket beside him.
"I don't suppose you have any ideas on his hiding places?" he asked Tom.
"I have ideas, yes," she agreed, turning her brown eyes on him. "Yet no solid answers."
Harry tried to nod, but it came out more like an uncomfortable shift. "That's it then..."
Tom's head tilted. She watched him closely. "This is the mere beginning."
It stressed Harry to hear it. He was about to voice his frustration, to ask Tom why they didn't start practicing magic or searching for Death Eaters to take down – anything to make a difference – but Tom was tired. She yawned beside him. Harry was startled to see it. Not only because sleep was the last thing on his mind, but also because he had never expected Tom to grow weary. Had he thought Tom was beyond sleep? Had he thought she was nothing close to human? The thought bothered him.
"You seem tired," he said.
She smiled softly. "A common drawback of being alive. It's been a long day, full of many accomplishments."
Harry wished he shared that view. He turned back to his trunk.
"I have some clothes you can borrow..."
He rummaged through piles of robes and pyjamas, the action making him even more annoyed, although he was ashamed to show it. It felt pointless to pay any attention to basic human routine, no matter what Tom said about living. Far from making it seem like a fleeting task in comparison to more important problems, the weight of fear magnified basic survival into an uncanny burden. Harry became at once distracted by it. He passed Tom a pile of clothes.
"I'll get changed," she said, standing up. She headed for the bathroom.
When Tom was out of sight, Harry got changed into his own clothes hastily. The silence that followed made him grow wary. He stood in the middle of the room, thinking about how strange it would have looked for an outsider to witness him living alone then stealing the body of a dying girl, who soon became overthrown by the soul of his seemingly imaginary friend. It was only in the cold grasp of solitude that he was able to notice, just for a moment, how insane all of this was. When Tom returned, he looked at her curiously, wondering whether any of this was real.
"We'll have to move again tomorrow," Tom mentioned, resting the dying girl's old clothes on a surface nearby. "It may not be long until word gets out about our crimes today."
Harry only nodded. He moved to pull back the covers, placing his glasses on a beside table. When he clambered beneath the blanket, Tom moved to the other side of the bed wordlessly and lay beside him. She didn't put out the torch yet, but lay with one arm behind her head, her free hand clutching Dumbledore's wand. She seemed to be lost in thought, looking up at the ceiling.
"How curious it is," she said, "to be human once more."
"You'll get sick of it soon enough," Harry joked.
Tom laughed, her sharp teeth shining. "That may take a great deal of time."
Harry realised then that he had been running for so long that he hadn't stopped to consider what it might be like to see Tom alive. She had made a convincing illusion, but reality itself felt even more surreal.
Tom yawned again. Harry was fascinated. He might not have thought it was her at all, if it weren't for that familiar, thoughtful expression set on her hollow face.
"We should sleep," she said. "We deserve the rest."
"Alright."
Tom flicked Dumbledore's wand to the bracketed torch on the wall. It extinguished itself steadily. Harry heard her turn to place the wand on the beside table, before pulling the covers up over her shoulder. Not a word more was said. Harry had never felt more awake. He tried to get comfortable. It was difficult, because it had been so long since a living, breathing human lay beside him. Tom was falling asleep. He listened to the sound of her slow, even breathing, trying to match his own to it.
Tom had placed Dumbledore's wand down. It reminded Harry that they were in this together, that Tom had surrendered her weapon and had surrendered herself to sleep without a second thought. She put her trust, her life, in Harry's hands. He felt suddenly guilty for not doing the same. He wondered why he felt scared. There was nothing more peaceful, more trusting than to fall asleep beside someone else. Tom was powerful, she was fearsome, but she put her faith in Harry Potter.
Harry drifted off to sleep.
When he awoke the following morning, the pale, white light of an overcast day greeted him. He couldn't remember what he dreamt about, but a feeling of low anxiety followed him into his waking state. He opened his eyes to a view of the unfamiliar bedroom and turned over to find Tom wide awake, staring at the ceiling once more. Her expression softened when she realised he had looked at her. She didn't smile. Harry breathed in heavily, trying to calm his nerves. Something was on Tom's mind.
"What's wrong?" he asked her groggily.
She didn't answer at once, but averted her gaze. Harry had the impression that she was worried, distracted by some abstract fear. Eventually, she chose to speak.
"She's dead."
Harry stayed quiet. He stayed still. A moment of silence passed between them, a strange feeling of respect for their most recent victim. Tom was the first to move. She pulled back the covers without disrupting Harry's warmth and comfort beneath them, standing up. He watched her rummage through the trunk at the end of the bed, her expression unreadable. She had found a pair of robes, Hermione's robes. It was a lucky coincidence, Harry reflected, that they had packed them in their delirious rush to get away.
He tried to get his thoughts together when Tom closed the bathroom door to get changed. It felt like an insult to dread the cold in the wake of recent death, so he got out of bed and went to find his own clothes. Tom returned relatively quickly, allowing Harry to use the bathroom in turn. When he was ready for the day, he found Tom standing in front of a full-length mirror that was attached to the door of a wardrobe. She was taking a wand to the hem of Hermione's robes and tailoring them to fit the shape of her taller, slender form. Harry sat on the edge of the bed, watching her idly. He felt defeated.
It was clear that Tom had altered some features on her new face, shaping her eyebrows, straightening her nose, and turning herself into a ghostly, striking imitation of her old body. Harry watched her fix her hair and change its length, until she eventually decided to keep some of the natural curls and texture of it. It was easier for Harry to not think, but sit and exist instead. He watched Tom with a certain degree of interest.
"When did you learn to do that?" he asked her dully, trying to distract himself.
Tom caught sight of him in the reflection. She didn't hold his attention for long.
"The art of alteration is not a particularly complex field of magic," she answered.
Harry wondered whether that was true. Something seemed a little off. He might have figured it out on his own, if he weren't so distracted by the death of the girl. He was very glad Tom had chosen to change her appearance. It made it a little more bearable.
"It's important that we adapt new identities," Tom told him, aware when Harry continued to stare. "The wizarding world may be in search of witches who share characteristics to the one we so willingly possessed. If her family are outraged that they will no longer have a chance to make a funeral for the girl, it may become a case that interests many."
A funeral. The girl was meant to be mourned, to be cherished in death. Harry felt immediately guilty. He didn't say a word about it.
"I always wanted to be a woman," said Tom quietly.
Harry glanced up. "Did you?"
He was taken aback – and his voice made no effort to hide it. Tom's gaze fell upon him. She paused briefly in her magic, searching for something in his expression. She got her answer quickly. Her brown eyes shifted back to her own reflection.
"Yes," she answered shortly.
Harry, still stunned, felt suddenly bad for blurting out his bewilderment without thought.
"Sorry," he said, "I didn't realise – I didn't think you cared what body you were in."
The corners of Tom's mouth twisted up into a smile. It was a hollow gesture, which faded slowly the longer she concentrated on the task of transforming her hair. She looked at herself differently this time. Sudden pain ate away at Harry when he recognised doubt in Tom's eyes where there had so recently been triumph.
"I've never had the opportunity before," she said.
Harry's heart dropped and he didn't know why. He felt guilty. He realised it wasn't a coincidence that Hermione's robes had ended up here.
Before he could say a word, Tom turned from the mirror. Harry couldn't tell what she was thinking.
"Let us pack," she said. "The sooner we leave here, the safer we'll be..."
Harry didn't want to offend her any further, so took to returning all of his books and clothes to his trunk. They left without stopping to speak to anyone, Harry hiding safely beneath the Invisibility Cloak. They decided to take a trip to Diagon Alley, to find food and to spend the majority of the day outside. Harry could tell that in a new body, Tom was fascinated to go explore the world, to be amongst people, to see, hear, smell, feel, and experience life again. He was perfectly willing to support the desire.
The streets weren't as crowded as they had once been. Harry noticed it the moment they entered the centre of Diagon Alley, glancing at the passers-by in fear of detection. The day was grey and miserable and he saw it as nothing but a reflection on events changing around them. It was only when they passed a boy handing out newspapers that anything of interest happened to him. Tom bought an edition of the Daily Prophet.
"You may wish to have a look at this," she told Harry softly.
She spoke with her attention fixated on the paper, as if she were reading the headline to herself. Harry edged closer from under the Invisibility Cloak, peering over her shoulder. The headline hit him harshly. A photograph of the girl who had died beside him last night smiled brightly up at him from the fresh parchment. He read read the article in haste.
BREAK-IN AT ST MUNGO'S HOSPITAL
Reports came flooding into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement late last night after St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries faced its first successful break-in and abduction since the end of the last Wizarding War. A young witch, Astraea Caden, was taken from her deathbed by an unidentified wizard after having reportedly pleaded for help from her hospital room.
Astraea was brought to St. Mungo's seven months ago by her parents after falling fatally ill at home. She was not expected to make a recovery, which has lead many Healers at St. Mungo's to describe her newfound health as a 'magical miracle'. However, the Ministry believes that her sudden awakening and disappearance weren't the result of a recovery, but the consequence of a successful abduction or act of Necromancy. The wizarding community is being asked to stay on high alert.
An eye-witness at the scene, Healer Eleanor Stoutly, caught sight of the abductor in question, describing him as a 'dark-haired boy'. The Ministry has refrained from releasing further reports until investigations are made by the Auror Offices. Until they can give explanation for the curious circumstance in which this come arose, the wizarding world is being asked only to search for signs of the missing girl, in the hope of reuniting her with her family.
"We just want our daughter back," says Dianna Caden, mother of Astraea. "We don't know how this could have happened. It was bad enough losing her months ago..."
Tom took the paper away from sight before Harry could finish reading. It took everything in his power to not reach out for it, to scan through the article more closely in fear of catching his own name. They would take it back to their next rented room, where he would be able to flip through it, but for the moment, Tom was attracting a strange look from the young wizard selling papers. Her dark skin and full lips still resembled that of the dead girl. She began to stroll along the streets of Diagon Alley, folding up the Prophet close to the shadow of her robes.
"This is bad," Harry told her from under the Cloak. "Tom, they'll be looking for you."
"They won't find me yet," she assured him in Parseltongue. "You needn't fret."
"Look at the way they've written this," Harry asked of her, dropping his use of English. "They're turning the country against us!"
"They're trying to spread fear, yes," Tom agreed quietly, "by drawing up comparisons to the last war, by using her first name to familiarize the public with her, by rightly guesses this was an abduction... Perhaps they wish to use this as a reason to keep the public on edge."
Harry was shaken. He felt guilty and despite Tom's gentle tone, she can't have been unaware of how dangerous all of this really was. He tried to keep up with Tom's pace, glad they could move, but he could feel the eyes of passing witches and wizards lingering on her from across the streets.
"We should get out of here, Tom..."
She didn't object. With calm, collected confidence, she glanced for the nearest quiet location and indicated for Harry to follow her. They Apparated to the other side of the country. It was too early for them to find an inn to stay in, so they found somewhere quiet to eat food and read the remainder of the Daily Prophet. There was no mention of Harry's name in the main article, nor any other, but this did little to settle his nerves. He knew the Aurors would be onto him.
Later in the week, when the two of them awoke in another wizarding inn, a new edition of the Daily Prophet arrived outside their door. Tom was the one who found it. She brought it to Harry almost without comment, a cold, brooding look on her face. He took the paper urgently and scanned the front page until he saw a picture of the same smiling, happy dead girl. The article read:
ASTRAEA CADEN – ST. MUNGO'S MIRACLE – SPOTTED ACROSS BRITAIN
Astraea Caden, the young witch abducted from St Mungo's Hospital earlier this month, has been sighted in various inns and taverns across Britain. A worried innkeeper at the 'Bee and Bowtruckle' in London was the first to contact the Ministry. Since his initial concern, several travellers and innkeepers have contacted the Ministry with similar stories: Astraea Caden – dead or alive – is on the move across Britain, acting under the possible influence of her captor...
... The Ministry is frantic over the condition of the young witch, saying they will do everything in their power to track her down before the situation worsens...
"The Aurors will be after us," said Tom the moment Harry looked up. He couldn't bring himself to read the whole thing.
"This is bad," he murmured. "People are going to be suspicious no matter where we go."
Tom inclined her head in agreement. "I think it's time I cease to rent rooms under anything similar to this appearance. It worries many."
"What can we do?" Harry asked her. "We've nowhere to go."
"You can speak to the next innkeeper," she said. "I can change your appearance."
Harry thought it over briefly. He didn't like the idea, but it might have been their only option.
"That might be useful..."
Tom stepped forwards, wasting no time and asking for no further invitation. She reached out a hand. "Allow me to try."
Harry was, for a moment, reluctant. Tom had withdrawn Dumbledore's wand. When he lifted his hand to take Tom's, he found her fingers were as cold as they had ever been, but fragile. It occurred to him that they should really eat better in order for her to gain back her strength. He stood up, standing only a few inches taller than Tom.
"We can remove your glasses," she said. "They're much too obvious."
She reached for them as she spoke. The last thing Harry saw clearly was the shadowed look on her face and the the swift, delicate movement of her fingers.
"This may be bothersome," she warned him.
Harry saw the moment when she lifted Dumbledore's wand. He felt paranoid standing here without his sight, especially as Tom looked like the dead girl once again when her features were blurred. However, in an instant, there was a flash of soft yellow light. A burning sensation met his eyes, which began to water.
"Ow!"
Harry stepped back, blinking several times. He rubbed his palms over his face. Tom laughed quietly and when Harry looked up nervously to understand why, he found his vision was clear.
"Is that better?" she asked him.
He could see every freckle on her dark skin, every hair on her even eyebrows, every eyelash.
"That's – mad!" he exclaimed, blinking heavily.
"Have you never considered magic as a solution to your eyesight?"
"No," admitted Harry. "Is that an option? Loads of people wear glasses – even Dumbledore. There's no way he didn't know how to preform the same magic."
"I rather think that was a fashion choice," Tom remarked, "a subtle statement in support for Muggle culture, if not to appear more intellectual. No witch or wizard, at any rate, would consider keeping poor eyesight if they desired to win duels."
For the first time, Harry felt embarrassed. No one had ever told him that before. Noticing his discomfort, Tom's expression softened a little.
"The glasses suited you," she said. "I merely consider them a little too characteristic to your image. Now, if I may, I could try to alter it..."
Harry, thoroughly confused and self-conscious by this point, tried to stand still. It was difficult to do when his face burned red and Tom got ever-closer to him. His new vision was eerily crisp, which made it hard for him not to relish in just how clear and human Tom's face was. He couldn't believe no one had told him to drop his glasses before. His thoughts wandered to this father, who had worn similar spectacles to his own. He wondered for the first time whether that had been James' attempt to stop looking like a proud Pureblood, so that Lily Evans, amongst others, wouldn't consider him an ally to the Death Eater during the first war...
The magic Tom preformed on him felt warm and uncomfortable. It was as if his skin was being stretched and pulled by invisible hands, giving Harry the illusion that his face was surely melting and warping into an unnatural shape. Even his hair was changing, some of it sinking uncomfortably back into his skull. Tom reached up a hand at one point to push it back. Harry avoided her eyes. She concentrated on him with a calm, steady expression. When she was done, she stepped back. A gentle smile found her and she tilted her head, considering her work.
"Can I look now?" asked Harry quickly.
"If you wish."
He turned to the mirror. What he found wasn't an unpleasant mess, but he looked like a stranger. It was, for a moment, as if there were no mirror in here at all, but a sight into another room. Harry's glasses were gone and his green eyes had been replaced with blue ones. His messy black hair was unusually straight, pushed back into place, and his mouth and nose looked as if they had been replaced by that of someone else's. They felt exaggerated and strange. Harry didn't like the sudden change. He reached a hand up to his skin in disbelief.
"The affects of changing can be quite startling," Tom told him, watching his reaction from a wall she leant against. She twirled Dumbledore's wand between her long fingers. "You will get used to the change eventually, naturally, but the faint-hearted can become discouraged."
"Right," said Harry, "well, then it looks like I'm not as brave as I thought."
Even his teeth had changed shape. It occurred to him that this more handsome, more striking version of a stranger was something Tom would have preferred to look at. That's what discouraged him most. He didn't dare speak about it, but turned away from the mirror instead, trying to accept it.
He was about to ask Tom what they should do about the Daily Prophet's story on Astraea Caden, as a way to move onto more pressing matters, but the moment he seated himself on the edge of the bed, he glanced over to see Tom looking at her own reflection. He was distracted by it, reminded of what Tom had said days ago about wanting to be a woman. Harry couldn't bring himself to ignore it any longer – he felt guilty every time Tom cast a strange, dark look at her own reflection.
"These changes you make, this magic you preform... Tom, it's really amazing."
She turned to meet his gaze, showing no signs of being flattered. "I'm glad you think so."
Harry watched her steadily. She slipped Dumbledore's wand into a pocket of her robes, standing up from the wall.
"Tom, can I ask you something?"
"Yes?"
He knew he was intruding, but he felt like it was for a good cause. He waned her to understand how he felt. "Why didn't you ever change?"
"When?"
"When you were younger," he said. "If you wanted to be female, why didn't you? I mean, you changed your whole identity – you took on a completely new name from at least the age of sixteen, dropping 'Tom Riddle' to start a new life, away from Muggles. What stopped you from becoming who you really wanted to be, from becoming a woman?"
Tom stood very still, staring at him. A thousand thoughts and considerations flickered behind her eyes. She didn't smile or turn away, nor was she irritated. Instead, she acted as if this were a test. She didn't trust him.
"I'm afraid I don't know," she said. "The Dark Lord, as we know him, still very much identifies with masculinity... At least outwardly; his recent rebirth may have rendered him genderless. Especially as it was done so hastily. I assume that, upon his rebirth, he either chose to forget about such a desire in favour of keeping his Death Eaters satisfied, or he simply lost interest in favour of pursuing intellectual matters over physical ones. We can only guess."
"But what about you?" Harry pressed, not wanting to speak about Lord Voldemort. "You must have learnt how to change by the time you were in your later years at Hogwarts, surely? I mean, you were able to make Horcruxes. It can't be harder than that."
Tom considered the matter slowly. She was reluctant. She was wary.
"I possessed the skills to transform myself from an early age, yes," she agreed, "but I could not find the right time to make any such change."
"Why not?"
For the first time, Tom looked away. Harry thought she was going to ignore him, but she must have been aware that this wouldn't leave his mind any time soon. She straightened up where she stood. He waited for her to find the right words.
"My friends at Hogwarts didn't understand it," she admitted quietly. "They associated masculinity with power, almost as readily as they associated pure-blood with it. The irony was startling; I saw femininity as a comment upon how skill in intelligence and magic easily overrode that of physical brutality. I considered the idea of changing sexes to be the ultimate proof of my rebirth, of shedding my association to the old beliefs of the Muggle world... No, I could not make my friends understand my desire to change, no more than I could explain to them that I was living proof of the pure-blood within my veins overriding that of my Muggle-blood. I shared my desire with no one."
Harry was startled – not because of the nature of Tom's secret, but because she had been hiding something so important for so long. Harry may have been the only non-Death Eater Tom had ever been close enough to speak about this to, if not the only person at all. No matter how reluctantly she spoke, she wanted to trust him with how she really felt.
"Why did you care about what they thought?" Harry asked, more affected by this than he'd ever guess. "That was your choice to make, not theirs."
"It was convenient," Tom answered shortly. "I needed my friends to view me as something greater than human. I couldn't convince them to give up their views on women, no matter how right I was. Even Slughorn would never have looked at me the same again if he knew. It was a fleeting desire..."
It hurt Harry to hear her say it. It hurt him more to see the way Tom's expression darkened with these old memories in mind. She had never before been in an environment where voicing this was acceptable, but she regretted speaking to Harry about it. He didn't know how to comfort her.
"I'll find a better solution soon," Tom added in a low voice, as an afterthought.
"Like what?" Harry asked her quietly.
Tom pulled at the cusp of her robes absent-mindedly. When she eventually spoke, there was a cold expression on her face. Harry sensed her anger.
"I want to find my father's bones..."
The subject was dropped after this. Harry didn't know how to tell Tom that things were different now, that she was free to be exactly who she wanted to be. Tom began to speak of studying magic, voicing her thoughts on the dangers and advantages of planning a trip to the graveyard in Little Hangleton in the near future. When Harry reminded her that they should wait until at least both of them could use magic, the matter was put aside.
Harry decided to spend his days studying defensive magic. He couldn't practice any of the spells while he was still underage, but he felt a need to learn as much as he could in theory to prepare himself. They booked a room in a new inn under his false face and identity that night. Both Harry and Tom felt more comfortable doing so, which allowed them to comfortably rest in one place for more than one night, for a change. It was only when another, more urgent article in the Daily Prophet showed up that worry found them again.
Harry had left the inn for a short trip to find food and hear news in the heart of a wizarding community when he found the paper. It broke the false sense of security he had allowed himself to fall into with a new face, under a fake name. The moment he bought an edition of the Prophet that morning, he stopped searching for something to eat and headed back to the inn. He found Tom sitting on a comfortable armchair by a desk, surrounded by papers and books.
"Tom, this is bad," Harry told her in a rush. "This is really bad..."
She straightened up in her seat, giving him her full attention. There was a photo of Harry printed on the front of the newspaper, his face unusually somber and shadowed. Tom reached out for it at once. The main article read:
HARRY POTTER: No.1 SUSPECT AS THE
ST. MUNGO'S NECROMANCER
The Ministry of Magic has released an urgent request for any information pertaining to the location of Harry Potter after the Department of Magical Law Enforcement officially recognised him as the number one suspect in the Astraea Caden case. Several eye-witnesses to the break-in and abduction at St Mungo's claimed to have seen Potter both in Astraea's room and leaving the hospital, but the Auror Headquarters couldn't confirm their suspicions until they were unable to contact Potter, both in Muggle and Wizarding communities. Many now believe that Potter is on the run, avoiding confrontation.
The Ministry's fears were confirmed again after several possible sightings of Astraea Caden and a young wizard emerged throughout the week. Potter is believed to have altered his appearance and is suspected to be using the Imperius Curse – a highly illegal Unforgivable Curse – to control Astraea, who has made no attempt to contact either the Ministry or her friends and family, despite the pleads of many. Potter has been marked as a highly dangerous fugitive who should not be approached by any witch or wizard. Those who suspect any sightings have been asked to contact Ministry officials immediately...
Tom stood up from her chair. Harry heard her footsteps shift and her hands clutch the paper in stress, but he sat on the edge of their bed with his head in his hands. When he eventually looked up, breathing in heavily and catching Tom's eyes, it became clear that she felt the same way about the situation. They were going to get caught. They had to run.
"Where can we go?" Harry asked her.
She shook her head once, her sealed lips parting. "We can no longer hide away in inns."
It worried Harry. He didn't know what they were supposed to do, who they were meant to run to.
"I'm not even of age to use magic," he said defensively, "how does the Ministry suppose I got away with that one?"
"Because here we are," Tom reasoned quietly. "We committed these crimes. The Ministry will not admit to their confusion about our actions – not when there's no doubt in their mind now that you are indeed standing here with Astraea Caden's body. The only detail that stopped them from believing that you were the St. Mungo's Necromancer was that you cannot use magic. Yet here we are."
Harry shook his head, looking away irritably. It made him realise he was in denial. The Ministry was panicking because he had committed a terrible crime. They didn't know how, or why, but it was the truth of the matter. He wondered whether it was normal for murders, abductors, and necromancers to go into denial about their crimes...
"They're making you a public enemy," mentioned Tom, interrupting his thoughts. "The Ministry controls the Daily Prophet, and the Death Eaters are in control of the Ministry."
"But they're right," said Harry flatly, "I did do this. They just don't understand why we had to."
Tom seemed to agree. She posed no further speculation on the subject, but turned to a more pressing matter.
"This poses a problem," she said, "for the Ministry will be searching every wizarding inn and tavern in the country. It matters not which of us chooses to appear in face to book rooms: we will be questioned. We will be followed. We are highly suspicious, no matter what face we hide behind."
Harry pressed his lips together hard, thinking. He felt trapped.
"Look – we'll be better off forgetting about inns and saving the rest of whatever money I've got for a real emergency," he said, "just incase we really need it. I can't exactly go waltzing into Gringotts any time soon, now that I'm rising up amongst Death Eaters in the Ministry's opinion. We need to find somewhere safe to go – and free. Somewhere we know we won't be spotted by anyone."
"That may be wise," Tom agreed gently, twisting the Prophet between her hands. "There may be certain wizarding families willing to have us stay, if we pay them in polite labour. We could find someone who needs skills beyond their comprehension. It's a fair trade. Yet with the upcoming war, who will trust us, and who can we trust in return?"
"No one," answered Harry flatly. "We have to do this alone. If we're on the run, we have to start living like it."
Tom was genuinely interested. She kept her dark eyes fixed on him.
"Sirius used to stay on the run by camping out in caves, up near Hogsmeade or in other parts of the country," Harry explained quickly, his mind racing. "Slughorn as well – he used to stay in Muggle houses when they were away on holiday, to avoid the Death Eaters. We could, I dunno, find some abandoned house and stay there for a while."
"Rendering it fit to live in," Tom added, the idea inspiring her. "It would be simple enough. Magic can go a long way in ensuring that a location remains seemingly untouched – and magic is our only advantage."
"We could put up protective enchantments without fear then, as well," Harry added, "more powerful magic than we could use here."
Tom grinned, her sharp teeth shining brightly. "We would be safe."
Harry couldn't say he was happy, but he was relieved that Tom found comfort in his plan. There was only one thing left for them to do. They couldn't stay here. If he weren't so used to packing everything up and fleeing, Harry might have been scared, but he was getting used to this. Keeping his travelling cloak on, he stood up, moving across the room to collect up books and clothes from where they rested.
"We should leave now," he said, "before anyone around here recognises us..."
They packed the trunk in a matter of minutes, mainly with the help of Tom's magic. She threw the Invisibility Cloak over her shoulders at Harry's instructions, following him out of the room with faint footsteps. On the ground floor of the inn, Harry approached the desk to confirm he was leaving. He could feel eyes focused on him. He caught sight of witches and wizards turning their heads curiously in a mirror behind the innkeeper, some of them looking up from editions of the Daily Prophet, others speaking to each other in hushed voices. Even the innkeeper's attention flickered up to Harry more than a few times. He felt a hand on his elbow. Tom noticed them too.
They left the place in a rush. Harry's heart was beating hard in his chest, not settled down by the village around him or the burning sunlight that beat down over him, promising freedom. Tom, still clutching at the arm of Harry's robes through the Cloak, lead him down the deserted street, her pace hurried. They Apparated as soon as they were out of sight of the wizarding villagers who passed them by. Tom moved them to another part of England, to another wizarding village, but Harry reminded her that they wouldn't be safe. They'd have to hide out in a Muggle town.
It wasn't difficult to find a place to stay. It took an entire afternoon, but with the aid of Apparition, Harry found it pleasant to walk with Tom in the heart of summer's heat, passing through tens of villages for sign of an empty house. They spoke at length about how they could put this new plan to good use, starting up a new life. It came as a surprise to Harry, how untroubled he slowly became in an environment outside of the wizarding world, but he couldn't ignore to the cold, calculating change that overtook Tom every time a Muggle appeared in the distance. They wouldn't have to involve themselves with anyone living nearby, at the very least.
The abandoned house that they took the most interest in was down a quiet, winding road. It was the last house on the outskirts of a large town, hidden under the contrast it had to the well-kept, lived-in buildings of its neighbours, forgotten under the shadows of prosperous apple trees, tall grass, and unkept, ivy-ridden hedges. Many of its windows had been boarded up in the ground floor to keep out curious children and bored adolescents, making it the perfect place to bewitch to a private dwelling. It was in clear view of the Muggles nearest to it, but this was ever better to keep out other, unwanted visitors during the day. Harry and Tom broke in at nightfall.
The house was trashed inside. Muggle teenagers had clearly made their own use of it during the course of the last few decades. Piles of rubbish had been left in most of the rooms, containing smashed and empty bottles of various types of alcohol, endless cigarette butts, piles of fast-food wrappers and containers, mixed with ripped-up magazines, papers, and an indistinguishable hoard of abandoned clothes, overflowing bin bags, boxes, crates, what looked like a few attempts at building a fire, and neglected portable electronics from the late nineties. There was graffiti in many of the rooms, poetry scrawled and etched into the walls of others. Harry took some time reading it in the light of a lantern they had brought, feeling strangely sympathetic towards a world he'd never know.
Tom wasted no time in clearing out the rooms she entered. She took no interest in the history of local Muggles, but focused instead on creating a clear, clean space for them to work on. When the house was devoid of trash a few minutes later, it was already barely recognisable. Tom boarded up the windows with something stronger than wooden boards, bewitching them to let out no torchlight and no sound to passers-by, and sealed them with a final few spells to give any curious Muggle a very difficult time of finding a way in. When this was done, she put torches in every room. Harry watched her work, feeling inadequate when he couldn't help her.
"You can unpack your trunk, for a change," she told him, "if you so desire."
After a moment of hesitation, Harry followed through with the suggestion. Tom furnished every room with ease, putting up bookshelves and desks for them to work on later. She turned a grubby fireplace into a working one, which warmed the house and gave them a comfortable light to work in. She put down carpets and hid the boarded windows with velvet curtains of crimson and emerald. The more books, parchment, quills and ink-pots that Harry organised in the living room and the more clothes he was able to put away in a handsome wardrobe in their new bedroom, the safer this house became to him. It was relaxing to know that they wouldn't have to flee quite so soon.
When Tom was finished giving the house basic comfort, she rose Dumbledore's wand to put up protective enchantments around them. Any magic they could think of, weak or strong, to repel both Muggles and Wizards and to keep them from detection was useful now. Harry spoke of spells that came to mind and Tom would add them, softly pronouncing them under the breath while she paced the rooms. They didn't need more than a living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom, but Tom decided, after an idle discussion, to turn the upper floor into a hall for practicing magic in when the right time presented itself.
Since it was the height of summer, Harry and Tom didn't struggle to find food. The Muggle village around them was full of farmers and gardeners, who kept plenty of fruit, vegetables, herbs, and eggs from chickens in their gardens and fields at night. Even if they hadn't been able to use magic, Harry rather thought they could have survived, but Tom knew it was best for them to take as little as they could in the dead of night, multiplying and increasing the growth of any food they desired, since they were unable to buy it or produce food out of nothing. Each evening, they made a habit of taking a walk, talking about their studies in defensive magic while gathering what they could.
They lived comfortably hidden away in their previously-abandoned home. Harry felt at ease about the troubles of the wizarding world for now, knowing perfectly well that as long as they had somewhere safe to sleep, eat, and study in, he couldn't ask for anything more. Having Tom around as constant company proved itself to be a blessing, because he never felt alone. He found he could study more easily by the light of a fire and with her guidance. One morning, however, a few days into enjoying their new home, Harry awoke to find Tom was gone.
He had thought, at first, that she might be in the living room, studying early. When he got up and wandered the house in search of her, however, he found she was nowhere to be seen. It was still early, but he could tell the day was dawning warm and bright outside. A low, burning sensation of dread gripped him, making him unable to comfortably study or even make food. He returned to the bedroom to pick up his wand, which he normally left on his bedside table. It was from there that he heard footsteps in another part of the house. He grew tense and still.
"Tom?"
There was only a moment's delay. "Yes?"
Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He headed out into living room. Tom was emerging from a back door in the kitchen, calm and unhurt.
"I didn't think you'd awaken so soon," she said.
"I noticed you were gone."
She smiled delicately at this. She noticed the wand in his hand. Harry noticed she was holding an edition of the Daily Prophet.
"Did you go back to the wizarding world?' he asked slowly, thoroughly confused.
"Yes," Tom admitted. "I brought you something. A gift."
Harry thought she meant the Prophet, but from under her cloak, Tom presented something wrapped in brown paper. It looked large and heavy, supported by a levitation spell.
"What did you get that for?"
Tom pushed the gift towards him with a flick of Dumbledore's wand. "Happy Birthday."
Harry was bemused. He'd forgotten about his Birthday completely; through going into hiding and being unable to read the date on any newspaper, it had been pushed far to the back of his mind. He pocketed his wand, reaching out for the gift.
"It's fortunate that I picked today to scare you with a momentary disappearance," Tom mused with a soft smile. "If you had used magic a day earlier, I don't think the celebration would be nearly so pleasant."
Harry laughed, his attention absorbed on the heavy item in his hands. He headed for a table by the fire, placing it down and taking a seat. So few people had ever cared about him enough to remember about his Birthday that a strong sense of painful nostalgia gripped him. He ran his hands over the brown paper, unable to guess what Tom might have bought him – and not minding what it might be. Tom took a seat opposite the low table, watching him.
Beneath the wrappings was a radio. It was beautiful – tall and heavy, with large speakers behind a soft brown screen and dark wood weaving in a criss-cross pattern over the face of it. There were several knobs on the front of it in dark brown and black. On the top, there was the face of a clock, traditional to Wizarding design. A swarm of stars twisted and span over a black disc.
"This is perfect," said Harry, stunned. He met Tom's gaze. "Thank you."
"It was my pleasure," she told him, smiling. "It is, of course, Wizarding tradition for one to receive a watch upon turning age, but I rather felt you needed something a little more useful. What with all the news under your name recently, and our inability to often read written news from now on, it seemed wise to keep an ear out on all lines..."
Harry was flattered. He couldn't believe Tom would take time to think about a gift to get him, never mind one with such careful consideration. He wanted to tell her something meaningful – that he was relieved they could listen out for stories on the Order, Death Eaters, and Ministry, that it would be perfect to have this around the house – but the words didn't come out. He sat staring at the radio instead, speechless, running a hand over it.
"Oh, I also came across a newspaper in my short venture into society," Tom added, withdrawing the Daily Prophet again. "I wouldn't have taken the risk, but there's a rather interesting piece of news that I couldn't wholly avoid. I rather thought you might be interested in seeing it..."
She pushed the Daily Prophet across the table, until the main article faced Harry. A cold-faced, rather distracted photograph of Rufus Scrimgeour speaking to reporters glanced repetitively up at him. The Minister was bothered and stressed – until Harry realised, with a start, that he was Minister no more.
SCRIMGEOUR STEPS DOWN
There was a long article written across the front page, but Harry had no interest in reading it just yet. He met Tom's gaze in disbelief.
"Why would Scrimgeour resign?" he asked quickly. "Why would he give up now?"
Tom's light mood had disappeared for the moment. She considered the matter with one hand pressed against her lips, the other running long, dark fingers in a drum-beat over the arm of her chair.
"I believe the Minister is dead," she stated. "I believe the Death Eaters are winning."
Harry's heart dropped for the second time today. "How?"
As if guilty, Tom removed the hand covering her mouth and faced him with her full attention. She clearly felt bad for giving bad news on his Birthday, but on the contrary, Harry was fascinated.
"The Dark Lord was known to send spies into the Ministry during the first war, as you know," she explained calmly. "Unspeakables, Heads of Office, Aurors... An assassination of a Minister for Magic has never been successful before, least of all one attempted so subtly, but the Death Eaters are strong. Fudge's reluctance to accept the Dark Lord's return well over a year ago can't have gone without consequences..."
It didn't take more than this to convince Harry. The Order had always told him the same thing.
"Well, unless this means they're going to kill off Mad-Eye soon, I don't reckon Death Eaters ruling the Ministry is good news..."
"Oh, they will doubtlessly want to," said Tom, humour momentary finding her, "but they will never try to kill Alastor Moody. Not now. A failed attempt on Moody's life would compromise the Dark Lord's plans. It would alert the public. He will remain as powerful an Auror as he always was..."
Harry was worried. The Death Eaters and Order now definitely had access to the same information that the Auror office kept.
"Let us move on from dire news," Tom suggested, breaking his trail of bad thoughts. "I planned to make a good meal for us this morning, in celebration of your coming of age."
"Let me help," said Harry at once. "I can finally use magic – you should teach me how to cook, if I'm supposed to be an adult now."
He said it with a grin. Not even the assassination of the Minister could demolish the good mood that Tom's kind gesture brought him.
"We can listen to the radio, as well," he added. "The quiet here is driving me mad."
Together, they stood up and moved into the kitchen, trying out Harry's present. It had a good sound and in an attempt to forget about Scrimgeour's death for just a little while longer, they listened to a music station. Tom hated the sound of it, but Harry was amused when she began a long rant about music from her later years at Hogwarts. He couldn't stop smiling to himself as they lit a fire in the oven, put an iron kettle on boil, and prepared eggs and vegetables, ready to make themselves breakfast more than fit for two.
Later that evening, they listened closely to the news station for information on Scrimgeour's resign, discussing how much of it they supposed was lies. It sounded like the majority. Tom decided, after a while, that they do something else to avoid too much worry. She suggested they spend time practicing the new magic Harry had been reading up about. He agreed to the idea excitedly. Having been unable to use magic for so long, it was a relief to vent his pend-up frustration on something new and useful. He felt more secure with a wand he could use than he had felt since long before Dumbledore's death.
However, the day following Harry's Birthday proved itself to be more troubling than the last. Tom and Harry were sitting around the fireplace late in the evening, drinking pain Muggle tea that they had stolen from an open kitchen window. Tom disliked the taste, but continued to drink it in a polite attempt to adapt to their current lifestyle. They had put on the news station again, speaking idly over any interesting movements, until a vital announcement came on. Harry, who was lost in thought, almost missed it. The words came crashing over him:
"It has been announced that an attack took place earlier this evening in the small Muggle-Wizarding community of Ottery St. Catchpole, harming many but killing none. A group of unidentified sorcerers fought their way into a wedding between members of the Weasley and Delacour families, who were celebrating the marriage of a known Werewolf, Bill Weasley, and his newly-wed wife, Fleur Delacour Weasley...
"The Ministry has identified the commotion as a potential attempt by unknown persons to capture Harry Potter – the main suspect in St Mungo's recent act of Necromancy. Potter was thought by many to still be in contact with the Weasleys, which has struck anger in the hearts of the Wizarding public... Now, onto our next story: a family of four has baffled Muggle police, causing mayhem in the Ministry, when –"
Harry stopped listening. He sat very still, holding a cup of tea tightly between his hands. Tom placed her own cup down on the table slowly. Her dark eyes were on him. Harry shook his head a few times, utterly wrought with anger and fear, unable to believe what he had heard.
"Don't you think it's funny," he said in a low, shaking voice, "that the day after Scrimgeour resigns, the Burrow goes under attack?"
Tom didn't speak a word. She awaited his reaction. Harry's clenched his jaw shut, noticing now that the cup was shaking in his hands. He put it down on the table harder than intended, sitting back to run hands over his hair and rub his face in stress. The Weasleys had been attacked...
"It was Death Eaters," he said flatly, sure of it. "They attacked the wedding. They knew no one could stop them, because the Minister's dead. They must have been looking for me – the news got that much right. Or looking for the Order. They thought they were protecting me..."
"I think you're right," agreed Tom quietly. She seemed to have endless patience.
"Bill's not even a Werewolf!" exclaimed Harry suddenly, as if this were the problem. "If the Death Eaters are sick enough to send Fenrir Greyback off to attack people out of the full moon, the least they could do is explain what they did to Bill, how they left him!"
"Well, why would they miss the opportunity to damage the Weasley name further?" Tom asked darkly, mocking the Death Eaters.
"They're painting the Weasleys out to be some sort of associates to Werewolves and Necromancers!"
"That may not be the height of their concern," Tom argued calmly. "The Death Eaters attacked not only the Weasleys' wedding, you must remember, but the current heart and headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix itself, since Dumbledore's death."
Harry tried to take this in best he could. His thoughts felt clogged and sluggish, warped by fear and guilt. "Do you think they captured members of the Order?"
"I think they fought them... They possibly attempted to identify any suspects. If, indeed, the report did not lie and if no one was murdered during the incident."
Harry felt sick. His face crumpled into a look of disgust and panic. "So... what does that mean for the Order?"
"I believe," said Tom in a careful tone, "that the Death Eaters have gained an advantage. I believe that the Order of the Phoenix has fallen."
It was as if a veil had been thrown over Harry. In spite of how he had felt since moving here, since getting his magic back, since spending time calmly with Tom, he now could no longer remember what it felt like to view the future brightly. Had he thought that running away would keep the Order of the Phoenix safe? Had he forgotten that the life he shared with the Weasleys, the life he shared with Ron and Hermione, hadn't been forgotten by his enemies? They were suffering from his crimes as much as he was – if not worse. Their names were being blighted, their safety compromised, because they were the closest thing he had ever had to a family.
"This is my fault..."
Tom's lips parted, but she didn't speak. She waited.
"Where are Ron and Hermione now?" Harry asked suddenly, the idea scaring him. "They were at the wedding. If they've been attacked, if they've been hurt... I – I have to find them, Tom."
"That would be very unwise."
"I don't care!" said Harry violently. "I can't just sit here when they could be –"
He couldn't finish the sentence. He couldn't begin to imagine what their fates might have been.
"I understand you care about them," said Tom, speaking in a serious tone for the first time, "but it would be extremely dangerous to expose your location now. Dangerous not only for you, but for your friends also."
Harry wanted to argue – he wanted to tell Tom that she was wrong, that he needed to be there, but she was right. He stood up from his seat suddenly, but did no more than stand and face the fireplace, running a hand over his hair. He felt that he couldn't sit here and do nothing, yet leaving here now would accomplish nothing. The Weasleys and Hermione might not even want to see him again. He hated the idea and hated himself, without question, for doing all of this to them. There was no way out. He did what he did to avoid being betrayed and murdered, yet he betrayed and murdered in the process...
"I need to find out what happened," he explained in a quivering voice. "You don't understand – they're my family. I need to know they're alright."
"There are better ways to gain information," Tom reminded him quietly.
This was true. Harry considered keeping the radio on or searching papers, but he hated the news for being warped by the Death Eaters and he knew no real information would be there. He couldn't stand the idea of hearing anyone speak about the Weasleys like they were associated with the Dark Arts.
"We could ask someone," he said, thinking aloud, "someone important. You know how to change our identities. We could pose as someone else and – I dunno – find out about the Order, find out about the Weasleys."
"Yes," Tom agreed, as tranquil as ever. "That may be our best and only option. Who do you think we might we be able to deceive?"
Harry's mind raced through a list of people who must have attended the wedding. He wanted to get information from someone who had experienced the attack first-hand.
"Forget about the Ministry or Daily Prophet," he said. "I don't want to hear from them... One of the Weasleys might open up, assuming they're not dead. Even Percy – he'd know the Ministry's side as well. Though, he doesn't get along with the rest of his family. He might not speak about it to any strangers..."
"If the Ministry has marked his family name, moreover, the pressure will have caused a great deal of turmoil in his general life," Tom added, thinking it over. "Now is unlikely to be a good time to discuss family matters with him."
"I don't reckon anyone from the Order will talk, either," Harry carried on. "Especially if they've fallen. All of them will be suspicious of strangers. I don't want to be anywhere near Moody. Tonks would never share information, Lupin's been through too many wars to be that stupid... I'd say we should scope out St. Mungo's for anyone who was injured, but I reckon we've probably tightened the security there to about Gringotts' level by this point..."
"Which leaves us with but one hope."
Harry turned around at once. "Who?"
There was a burning look in Tom's eyes, characteristic to any moment in which she was truly inspired. Harry's heart lifted up in hope and he awaited her answer, hoping for some brilliant idea to get him out of this Hell. She straightened up in her chair, taking in a deep breath, her pointy, bright teeth shining. Harry had no patience for games, but he didn't dare interrupt her. He waited.
"Who, from the wedding, would be in mourning?" she asked him quietly. "Who would not only have information on the Weasleys first-hand, but may be in need to share it? Who, most importantly of all, can be both easily bought and easily found lurking in pubs to drown his sorrows, more ignorant than most about the habits and schemes of Death Eaters or others?"
Harry's heart leapt. "You mean Hagrid?"
"Yes."
Tremendous relief washed over Harry. They'd know exactly where Hagrid would be and when. He wasn't a prime suspect for the Death Eaters, nor would the Ministry suspect that he was the one and only person Harry would turn to in times of such distress and chaos.
"How do we convince him?" Harry asked in a rush. "Where are we going to find something good enough to interest him and make him trust us? We have to go as strangers – that's the only way we'll pull this off – but I haven't exactly got a Dragon's Egg up my sleeve."
"That's the best part of all," said Tom, elated to voice her cunning plan. "We won't need to give him anything in order to make him speak. We'll merely lead him into pleasant conversation, giving him an opportunity to vent his dismay. For although we have nothing up our own sleeves, Rubeus Hagrid will always wear his heart on his own..."