Well hello, I'm back. I had a couple of stressful weeks at work and could get my head to wrap around editing for a while. So here is an extra-long chapter to make up for it.

WARNING: July 23 gets violent, and there is a bit of PTSD.

The Muggle's Lesson

July 12, 1943

The smell of dead fish that clung to Stubbs was becoming intolerable, to the point that Tom stayed out of the orphanage most of the day, returning only to sleep, even though the tension outside wasn't much better.

Three days before, sirens had gone off for the first time since Tom had arrived in London and the memory still made his heart pound. Nothing had happened in the end, not in London at least, but all the Muggles were still wound up after a German plane killed over a hundred people just outside the city, many of them children. Talk of war was inescapable and Tom caught himself subconsciously keeping an eye on the sky whenever he stepped out of Wool's.

Stubbs had been less than pleased when Whalley had mentioned their new, more permanent positions, becoming hellbent on finding a job to support himself and Dennis without Eric's help. He'd pestered an old employer until the old man had given him back his job gutting fish for a pittance. Since they had no running water, the smell had gotten progressively worse, and even Dennis had been stirring clear of his protector, looking slightly green whenever they were in close quarters.

On the other hand, it made for quality entertainment whenever Tom mentioned his cushy, well-paying job to the blond. Stubbs was furious that despite doing the right thing, Tom still came out on top; each time, he watched the blond struggle between ignoring him and giving him a piece of his mind. Even so, the Muggle didn't dare rat them out to the police.

What Stubbs, or even Whalley, didn't know was how tense Tom's days were at headquarters.

The accountant kept breathing down Tom's neck, checking and rechecking his numbers, so hiding his petty theft was nerve wracking. He'd been piggybacking off some idiot's scheme, who thought he could get away with selling high quality cigarettes and reporting low quality earnings. It was bound to be found out sooner rather than later, but Tom would use it for as long as he could.

Then there was Johnny Crowe. Crowe watched him like a hawk whenever he wasn't out collecting debt, beating up those with late payments, or cutting off the ears of those who tried defaulting on them. Tom knew this because Johnny liked boasting about it whenever he was at headquarters… which was a lot.

He almost missed Whalley. Almost. They hadn't crossed paths since that night, for Tom mostly stayed at headquarters and Eric worked the West End. Tom worked mornings and afternoons, Eric worked nights. Unlike him, these new Muggles had not yet learned to stay out of his way and let him be, particularly Crowe, who'd taken the complete opposite approach.

They had disliked each other from the start, but at least Tom hadn't felt more aversion to Crowe than to the other Muggles. All that changed one fateful afternoon, as Tom sat alone at his desk working on the books.

Crowe had left behind his little posse of admirers and swaggered over to him while the others sniggered. "Hey, you," he sneered, looming over Tom's shoulder. "Ye know what I don't get? Why Joe keeps ye around. Yer just a pencil-pusher. Ye don't do anything useful."

He punctuated this illustrious statement by pushing Tom's ledger off the desk, where it landed with a loud smack, followed by the rustling of pages as it hit the ground.

Tom tensed but bit his tongue, his fingers tightening on his pencil. Suddenly, he was a First Year again, and Crowe was replaced by an image of Goyle in his mind. The much bigger -and older- Goyle had been the first one to go after the 'Slytherin mudblood', the orphan with the strange name and secondhand books. Tom narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Like Goyle before him, Crowe was strong and stupid.

The Muggle snorted when Tom didn't react to the provocation. "Ye just sit here all day, counting other people's money. Yer nothing but a snivelling little worm."

Also like Goyle, he enjoyed bullying Tom before learning who he was dealing with.

Tom's temper had flared. He couldn't stand being talked down to like this, especially by a Muggle as stupid and brutish as Johnny Crowe. "Better a pencil-pusher than a spineless thug," he hissed.

Crowe's face darkened. "What did ye jus' say to me?" he growled, grabbing Tom by the collar of his shirt.

Tom felt a flicker of fear at the sudden violence, but he refused to back down. "You heard me," he said, glaring up at the Muggle. "I listen to your little tales. You're nothing but a coward who has to get off on hurting weaker people because you're scared of people your own size."

Crowe's grip tightened, and Tom could feel his breath hot on his face. "Ye don't know what yer talking about," he snarled.

Tom didn't flinch. "Oh, I think I do," he said quietly. "Why aren't you at the front, then? Fighting Germans if you are so tough?"

A murmur went through the other Muggles. Crowe glared at him for a long moment, then released him with a shove. "Yer lucky Joe likes ye, or I'd kill ye where ye sit," he muttered, stalking away.

"You forgot to pick up my ledger," called Tom viciously, heart pounding, before Crowe could reach his mates. He'd known he was playing with fire, but he'd be damned if he knelt down to recover his work. He would not cede an inch.

Crowe stopped in his tracks and turned around with a stunned look on his face. "What?"

The other Muggles exchanged disbelieving looks and the murmur rose.

"Pick up. The ledger," Tom repeated, enunciating every word, infusing them with the same compulsion he used to get animals to do his bidding. It was primitive magic, but it was enough on individuals who lacked a strong will.

Crowe stood frozen for a moment, as if trapped inside his own body, and then slowly began to move towards the desk. Tom followed his movements with his eyes, ignoring the swearing going on in the rest of the room, tense in case his control broke.

The brute knelt down, picked up the ledger, and placed it on the desk with a soft thud.

"Thank you," said Tom sarcastically. "Now you can go."

He'd seen when Crowe regained control of his body because he leapt back a mile and stared at Tom with those little eyes of his, like he'd seen a ghost. He backtracked quickly and joined the others, punching one in the face when he dared to open his mouth.

The lot had scampered off and left Tom in peace. Not one of them had dared to tell One-Eyed Joe what had happened that day.

However, Tom had underestimated Crowe's contempt for him because he regained his bravado only a few days later. The pillock hadn't dared to intimidate him so overtly again. Instead, the short encounter had kicked off a series of petty attacks on Tom that kept escalating in viciousness, like bumping into his chair, handing in late whatever he'd collected during the day to make Tom stay after hours, and stabbing the table where Tom worked as he passed by.

Naturally, Tom had retaliated. He'd loosened the legs of Crowe's favourite chair so he'd fallen on his arse during a meeting, slipped a bug into his hip flask when he left it unattended, and left his infernal milk bottle out of the icebox to curdle overnight. Nothing violent, nothing that would point back to Tom at all, but enough to make Crowe rant and rave about his bad luck to anyone who would listen.

Petty? Yes. Necessary? Also, yes.

Unbeknownst to him, the Muggle was steadily becoming a serious candidate for a Horcrux.

The escalating tension in the orphanage, on the streets, and at work had Tom's neck and shoulders feeling so stiff from it all that the slightest touch made him wince.

However, today was a good day, and none of that could faze him. He'd been woken up by insistent tapping on his window; the damned thing had been boarded up, so it'd taken him forever to pull the splintered planks, and the owl had been cross with him by the time he managed to pry it open, but Tom had gotten his letter in the end.

The indignant bird had delivered his OWL results. As it were, he'd completely forgotten about them, they just seemed like a very small detail in the grand scheme of things. He had expected the results, but eleven Outstanding OWLs still brightened his day.

Rare were the days when the stars aligned and good things actually happened for him. His good mood had prompted him to convince the accountant -the thin muggle with the glasses that had paid Tom that day- to let him out early because he had finally made enough money to pay the innkeeper in Knockturn Alley. Crowe had scowled at him as he left, and Tom had shot him a cheeky smirk in return.

Now he was walking out of Gringotts, savouring the fact that he would be living among his own kind for the rest of the summer. No more fish smell, shitty rations, mould, or critters on the walls. On the way, he briefly greeted the shopkeepers that had come to recognize him from all the time he spent in the Alley. Being polite had paid off, as some of them had started offering him small discounts or showing him new merchandise before it went up for sale.

Diagon Alley's friendliness dissipated once he stepped into the perpetually dark streets of Knockturn; even the sun chose to shine elsewhere. He would much rather avoid the shifty denizens, even if he preferred them to his new muggle acquaintances, but just barely.

There wasn't much housing in Knockturn Alley. Most shopkeepers resided above their shops. Finding accommodation, even if it was temporary, narrowed the options down to a couple of inns. The one he had chosen came into view after several twists and turns.

The Augurey lacked the flair of the Leaky Cauldron, but Tom preferred it that way. It was also secluded so he wouldn't be running into anyone he knew. It was about three storeys high and wrapped around the block like a dilapidated set of crates. Guests and residents hung out on the rickety balconies, watching the riff-raff enter the pub below. He walked through the doors and went straight to the desk. Evening was just rolling around and a few shady customers had already found their way to the bar.

Amongst this crowd, Tom stood out for looking clean, and the ratty owner recognized him right away.

"Ergh, yer back," spat the man, glancing at the teenager above his copy of the Daily Prophet.

Tom narrowed his eyes. "I want a room."

The man grunted. "Like I said, that'll be a Sickle a night. Ye got them, lad?"

"I can pay for two weeks in advance," reassured Tom, pulling out one Galleon and placing it on the desk. Paying in advance meant he wouldn't have to deal with the unpleasant innkeeper too often.

The landlord made to grab the coin, but Tom pulled it back before he could touch it. The man shot him a dirty look that Tom returned evenly. Perhaps the man was used to intimidating guests, but he had nothing on One-Eye Joe. At last, the innkeeper conjured a key with a flourish of his wand and placed it on the table as well. "The room's yours. Number 24, second floor."

Tom slid the golden coin towards the scruffy landlord, and picked up the brass key. A sense of relief flooded him as he stared at the small key on the palm of his hand.

The innkeeper swiped the Galleon into a drawer, and went back to reading the Prophet, acting as if Tom wasn't there.

Tom's temper, always under the surface, prickled. "You owe me three Sickles."

"Wha?"

"Don't play dumb, I gave you a Galleon, you owe me three Sickles."

The landlord scowled and waved him away dismissively. "Got no spare change."

"Yes you do, now give me my money," ordered Tom, adding a little compulsion for good measure.

The man looked stunned for a moment, but then, almost mechanically, he reached into the drawer and pulled out three silver coins.

"Thank you," said Tom with forced politeness as he accepted the change, before turning around and taking his leave.

"Ye'll be paying them back later anyway!" called the man to his back. Tom ignored him, and sought out the staircase.

He found it tucked into a dark corner and climbed until he found the number 2 painted on a door. He exited into a long, outdoor corridor, and went looking for his room. He could hear the signs of life all around him as he walked: pots and pans clacking as dinner was prepared, music blasting out of a window, a group of men laughing on the first floor, children running upstairs, even the bark of a crup somewhere in the building.

Inserting the key into the door of number 24 and hearing the satisfying click as it turned was bliss. He pushed the door in, and lamps flared to life as he stepped inside. The room itself was small and threadbare, but it had a clean bed, a private bathroom and a tiny kitchenette with a table and a couple of chairs. Best of all, it was all his. The door swung shut behind him, and all sound from outside was cut off. It was perfect.

He made a beeline for the sink and tried the faucet. It sputtered and then clean water rushed out; Tom almost laughed with relief. Never again would he take running water for granted.

He tried the bed next. He could feel the springs moving, but couldn't actually hear them. A silencing spell must have been cast on them. There was a single window with a view to the courtyard below; he could make out people playing Gobstones and others around them placing bets.

It was extremely rare for a genuine smile to find its way into Tom's face, but it did so then. If he hurried back to Wool's, he would be able to ride the Knight Bus back with his trunk tonight, he wouldn't even have to see the muggles again, as Stubbs went to bed early and Whalley was probably out.

Making up his mind, Tom hurried outside, and almost ran over an older wizard wrapped in blankets in his rush to get to the orphanage before the sun went down. The man yelled something at him, but Tom ignored him, too focused on his goal.

Within the hour, Tom had everything packed and ready to go. To be honest, he hadn't really unpacked the whole time he'd been living at Wool's; doing so would have felt too final, too hopeless.

Standing on the deserted corridor, he realised he had never gone upstairs to his old room. He'd left it the year before without knowing that he would never see it again. He'd learned he was a wizard there. That there were others like him.

The room originally served as an aide's room, but had become Tom's after a particularly bad night in the boys' dormitory.

It had all been Charlie Greene's fault, really. Tom had been planting seeds in the garden by the fence, and Charlie kept nagging him about what a crap job he was doing. So Tom had pushed him through the iron fence and his head had been stuck between the bars for hours. He'd cried and screamed and bruised his ears, making a fool of himself in front of everybody.

Mrs. Cole had tried to pull him out by rubbing butter on him, but to no avail. No one could figure out how his head had become stuck in such a narrow space. In the end, it took the emergency rescue people to free his head by prizing the two bars apart. After the incident, Charlie had glared at Tom, and silently promised revenge.

That night, the older boys, led by Charlie, had ganged up on him, held him down and tried to smother him. In his panic, he'd lashed out with what he now knew was accidental magic, and every light in the room had flared and exploded, the windows cracked and burst, the other boys woke up screaming at the noise and the chilly draft that rushed into the room.

Mrs. Cole and two of the aides had run into the room to restore order, but the panicked orphans wouldn't stop screaming, there was glass everywhere, boys had cuts on their bare feet and hands, and the lights wouldn't come on. It was pure pandemonium. By the time order was restored, Greene and his gang had pointed to Tom as the culprit.

The other orphans were quick to agree, even though they had been asleep for most of it. Mrs. Cole hadn't believed them, of course, and reassured everyone that it had just been a freak gale, but every boy insisted they wouldn't go back to bed while Tom was in there, so she'd made him grab his meagre belongings and isolated him in his new room.

He'd been seven years old, but Charlie Greene never dared to touch him again.

Two lessons had been learned that night. The first, that others would turn on him even without evidence. The second, that children that feared him left him alone. If they were going to point their fingers at him anyway, then he'd become the most frightening thing in Wool's.

He briefly considered climbing the stairs to see what became of his little haven, and in the end decided that such sentimentality was beneath him. Tom carried his trunk downstairs instead, making as little noise as possible, as he didn't want to alert the muggles that he was on the move. He'd seen the golden glow under the door to Stubb's room.

An odd feeling bubbled in his chest as he exited through the front door. He supposed it was a mix of happiness and disbelief that he'd finally done it: he was leaving Wool's behind for good.

Being at Hogwarts was like a balm, but his stay had always been poisoned by the knowledge that every summer he had to return to this hellhole. The isolation, the wailing children, screaming toddlers, miserable rations, and outside: a war torn city, people pretending to carry on as normal while keeping an ear open for the wail of a siren, always keeping an eye on the nearest shelter, wondering if they could run fast enough so that that day wouldn't be their last.

Standing under the threshold, a weightlessness that he'd never really known before made him sigh in relief. By next summer he would be seventeen, officially an adult, and there would be no reason to even see the wretched place again. He was free.

Tom descended the few steps, relished the sound of his shoes crunching on the gravel as he walked through the yard, and crossed the gate without looking back.

Darkness had already fallen by the time Tom wrangled the heavy trunk into a deserted alley so he could summon the bus without being seen by any curious passersby. A purple triple decker was bound to attract unwanted attention. He held out his wand, and was almost immediately startled by a loud bang. The young man in the purple uniform had barely opened his mouth to greet him, when Tom handed over the eleven Sickles and climbed inside quickly. The conductor stared after him slightly dumbfounded, but shrugged in the end and closed the door behind him.

The trip was infamously terrible, but very short, and Tom was grateful that the bus dropped him just outside of The Augurey, saving him the need to haul his luggage through the streets.

More shady characters had found their way into the already crowded pub, drunkenly blocking his way every few paces. A few cursed at him for being pushed to the side, others leered, and Tom scowled and snarled at them as was appropriate. A wizard somewhere in the back was casting small fireworks with loud popping noises, bottles and glasses levitated from the bar to the tables. With so much magic floating around, the Trace must be going haywire.

Protected by the amount of magic around him, Tom dared to use a bit of wandless magic, making his trunk hover up the stairs. He was certain the inebriated adults around him didn't give two hoots about a teenager bending the law. It felt good to cast something again, like welcoming back an old friend. Or at least he thought that's what it must feel like.

Tom groaned when he found even more people loitering in the corridor. Surely they must sleep at some point?

He locked the door behind him, not so fond of the soundproof spell anymore. Considering the crowd outside, he didn't like not being able to hear if someone approached. He dared to do a little more magic, and placed an extra locking charm on it for his peace of mind.

Exhaustion caught up with him as soon as he sat down on the bed. It hit him like a mallet to the back of the head, bone deep. He'd scavenged for weeks, he'd done the muggles' dirty work, all the while coping with the anxious thought in the back of his mind that any day, any night, the German planes might pay them a visit. He had to be safe from that threat while he was in Knockturn, at least. He hoped.

Tom slid down the mattress, cutting down the bitter thoughts before they could take root. He wanted today to taste like victory.

He was exhausted, Merlin yes, but he was content. For the first time since leaving Hogwarts, sleep came easy.

July 23, 1943

There was a saying that routine could kill the spirit, but after so much uncertainty it rather felt like relief. Waking up, going to work on the East End, cashing in his wages, spending the evening either reading his new books, or perusing intriguing shops like The Coffin House and Borgin & Burkes, and then going to sleep. Rinse and repeat. Now that he wasn't constantly worrying about his immediate future, his mind was free to think about his next move: visiting Marvolo Gaunt's last known residence. He'd put it off long enough, and there were questions that needed answers.

As for his new neighbours, they mostly kept to themselves, but Tom didn't mind the solitude. Quite the contrary, he preferred it.

The man that Tom had startled on the first night lived at the end of the hall and barely left his room. A Polish woman and her two small children lived on the flat above Tom's, but the Silencing Charm thankfully kept their squealing at bay. To his horror, he'd discovered that he lived across a one-eyed witch that had made a habit of staring at him from her window; it had taken him a few days, but he'd realised it was the same one that had tried to snip a lock of his hair the first time he'd gone hunting for a job. It made him paranoid. Then there was a young woman two doors down, a Dutch refugee, that liked to lean on the railing every night and smoke. She'd waved him down more than once as he came back from work, but Tom had always declined to stop and chat.

Rather than taking his meals in the sketchy pub, Tom put the tiny kitchenette to good use. Not even Wizarding Britain had been able to escape the blockade, but there was still more variety to choose from in Diagon Alley than from any muggle shop. And no ration books. To him, cooking was akin to potion making, so preparing his own meals came naturally.

Only one thing had started to get on his nerves.

The yellow pages of the ledger crinkled under his fingers as he stared at the long list of numbers. It was nearing the end of the month, which meant inventory was upon them.

In a matter of days, someone would discover that a clever spiv had been selling the expensive brand of cigs and reporting the cheap one. For every pound reported, Tom docked a sixpence and slipped it into his pocket. If the accountant looked at the numbers too closely, questions would be thrown his way. Questions he'd rather not answer.

The best way to avoid detection? Shining the light on someone else.

It had worked for him before, hadn't it?

Tom looked up from his work and glanced around him; the accountant was focused on his ledgers, two bookies were laughing at Crowe's stories, but One-Eye had slipped out of sight. He liked to keep an eye on them as they worked, so that was odd, but it worked in his favour. He didn't want to catch the leader's attention just yet. He eyed the sallow faced accountant and frowned.

"There's something wrong with the books," Tom said suddenly, putting down his pencil and catching the accountant's attention.

The man turned his face towards him and snorted derisively.

"There isn't."

"There is."

The accountant narrowed his eyes and haughtily pushed his glasses up his nose.

"Even if there were, that is not your job. You just write down what the collectors bring in, and register who owes what. That's it."

Now Tom mirrored the older man's expression. He hadn't expected to be rebuffed so easily.

"But there's a pattern consistent with inventory," he drawled, picking up his pencil and making a little mark next to some of the entries. He knew the money was missing, he'd been taking a cut, for Merlin's sake. "Someone's been selling higher quality, and reporting having sold something cheaper. They must be pocketing the difference."

"What did ye say?"

The accountant flinched. Tom turned around in his chair. One-Eye Joe had just walked in and caught the end of the conversation. The room had gone very quiet. Even Crowe had paused halfway through a retelling of how a poor devil had squealed under his knife the day before.

Tom steeled himself. Showtime.

"Someone's been reporting less money than they should," said Tom into the silent room, looking straight into Joe's eye.

The boss regarded him for a moment.

"Show me."

"Joe-"

"Quiet, Archie."

The scraping of Tom's chair as he stood up to retrieve the inventory grated on his ears. No one else moved, but he could feel eyes on him as he walked across the room, and back again. Joe was rooted on the spot, radiating waves of tightly controlled anger. Tom forced himself to remain calm; he knew this game, and he would not break, he would not falter. He went back a few pages on the ledger and showed the muggle the numbers, as requested.

"Son of a whore," swore the boss. Then, "Where's Fred?"

Nobody answered for a moment.

"Maybe at the usual haunt," mumbled a bookie suddenly, before the silence stretched too long. One-Eye looked murderous.

"Well, find him! Nobody moves until he gets here!"

The bookie scrambled out of the room, nearly tripping over his own two feet.

For the next half hour, Joe settled down behind his table, grumbling darkly and working his way through a pack of cigarettes. The fear in the room was palpable. No one dared speak or even move.

As a rule of thumb, Tom didn't like people. He certainly didn't like One-Eye, but he had to admire the hold he had over his little band of crooks. Some of them were throwing Tom accusative glares for snitching on their friend.

Finally the bookie came back, dragging another man by his bright orange collar. Fear was stronger than loyalty, it seemed. The newcomer babbled curses and pleas as he was pushed in front of the leader.

"Found 'im in the train station, lookin' at timetables."

One-Eye raised an eyebrow. "Going on holiday, Fred?" he asked amiably with that hidden edge of his. He put out his cigarette slowly, deliberately, not even looking at the thief.

"No, no," he stammered, this so called Fred, twisting a cap in his hands. "Been thinkin' of visitin' me mam, that's all."

One-Eye nodded slowly, savouring the words. "What a sweet mama's boy."

He'd said it in a joking tone, but nobody dared to laugh. The knot in Tom's stomach twisted a little tighter as the scene unfolded. He'd pointed the finger before someone could have pointed theirs at him, but he hadn't really known what to expect.

"Have ye been stealing from me, Freddy?"

"Stealing? Joe, I wouldn't dare!"

"Bookkeeper here says ye are. Selling the good stuff, and keeping the money to yerself."

Tom snapped to attention. He had not expected to be put in the spotlight. The dishevelled spiv looked at him with deep loathing, before turning back to his leader.

"Then he's lying! I've not taken no stuff from ye, Joe! Yer goin' to believe this rookie bastard over me?"

"I seen the numbers, Freddy. Ain't no lie. Did ye think ye'd get away before I noticed?"

"I-"

One-Eye Joe lifted a gun and pointed it at his disgraced associate. Tom's breath hitched.

Freddy's eyes opened like saucers and he took several steps back.

Joe fired at his chest. Red splattered everywhere. Freddy dropped like a pile of logs.

"Apologies, Freddy boy. Business is business."

Tom froze at the sudden violence, barely registering the loud ringing in his ears. He'd never even heard a gunshot before, much less seen what they could do to a man. His mouth had gone dry, and his hand itched for his wand. He knew he'd set-up the other man to take the fall for the theft, but… well what had he been expecting, exactly? It wasn't like dearly departed Fred could have been expelled like Hagrid was. He felt oddly out of his depth. He didn't like it.

One-Eye Joe had turned his attention to him, but Tom found he could not take his eyes off the neat dark hole on the spiv's chest, framed by an expanding dark red halo.

"Say… how would ye like to be my new accountant, Tom?"

One-Eye stared expectantly at him, and Tom forced himself back into nonchalance, looking up at the boss with the gunshot still ringing in his ears.

"What's in it for me?"

Joe guffawed appreciatively, as if he had not just shot a man point blank. Hell, it was probably normal for him, and the action no longer registered.

"His salary, for starters," he replied, nodding his gun at the current accountant, who'd gone very pale and flinched back. "And a nice bonus for bringing this mess to my attention."

Tom looked at the older man, measuring him up. While he had responded amiably, he had the feeling that One-Eye was not really asking him to take the position, merely threatening someone else; the chilly smile directed at the accountant made obvious who the target was.

"I would do my best," Tom answered, keeping up the charade of being given a choice. He didn't look at the gun. He knew better than to take his eyes off a man like Joe. Never give an opening to a predator.

"Excellent!" boomed One-Eye. "See, Archie? Even the lad can do yer job better than ye! Heh? Whatever Fred took will come out of yer wages, and ye will fix this, or by Jove, ye'll join Freddy here, understand?"

Archie swallowed and nodded frantically, causing his glasses to shake.

"See that ye do," sneered One-Eye, finally, finally putting his infernal gun away. "Johnny, ye know what to do."

The blond brute stepped away from the wall, and gave Joe a single nod. For the first time, the muggle looked solemn, ashen even. It made him appear older, clearly old enough to have been drafted, so why he was even in London was a mystery.

"Come now, Tom. Let's step outside while Johnny cleans up the mess," said Joe, extending an arm towards him and leading him to the exit. Tom fought back a flinch when the muggle squeezed his shoulder, like a proud uncle. "Ye got a good head on yer shoulders, I can tell. Yer a smart, smart man. Men like ye are hard to find, ye know?" he prattled.

Tom forced his eyes away from the sight of Crowe dragging the body away, leaving a red stain in its wake. Things had escalated so quickly he could barely remember this had all started because of a poorly hatched cigarette scheme.

One-Eye stopped just outside the building and cornered Tom. He offered the teenager a cigarette, and Tom quietly declined, thinking he'd been put off the things forever. Joe shrugged it off and lit it as he grumbled under his breath.

"Mark me words: ye let them get away with the little things, and soon they'll be robbin' ye blind. No respect."

Tom remained silent. It didn't seem like the muggle was expecting an answer.

"Ye got responsibilities as a leader. Gotta teach 'em which lines they can't cross. Been tryin' to get these boys to do some good, ye know? Keeping the streets clean like Spot wants, selling nice goodies to the good people of London. I pay them good. Sometimes a sixpence or two go missin' but I look the other way, no need to make a fuss o'er pennies. I'd run out of men."

Tom felt a chill at the mention of the sixpence. Too close, much too close. He forced his face to remain neutral.

"But this, ye bring it up like that in front of everyone, ye force me hand, Tom. Can't lose face with the dogs or they turn into a pack of wolves. Ye got t'be careful," he said, pulling out a fresh cigarette. He was going through them like candies. "Them boys won't like what ye did. Now, pennies are nuthin' but Freddy was disrespectful. I don' give a rat's arse about the fags, but he made me look like a fool, I had ter do it. What ye think?"

Tom shifted on his feet, discreetly moving away from the muggle and his growing cloud of foul smelling smoke. He wasn't about to pass judgement on the punishment he'd just witnessed; it seemed extreme even to him, which was saying a lot. If anything, it was one hell of a deterrent for the witnesses.

"That he should have known better," said Tom, speaking for the first time.

"Yeh! Exactly, ye understand. Ye got no respect, ye got nuthin', so I appreciate what ye did, but the boys won't like that ye sold him out. Ye should watch yer back."

Was this man trying to give him advice, or warning him against retaliation? Tom could barely understand the rambling speech.

One-Eye was nodding to himself. "A lesson was learned today."

A lesson? Well, he'd certainly learned a new healthy respect for muggle weapons. He had enough nightmare fuel for the rest of the summer. He didn't know what the others took away from it, but he sure as hell wouldn't see them stealing any time soon.

Another cigarette butt ended up on the pavement, crushed under Joe's shoe. Tom noticed the muggle's hands were shaking.

"Blasted guns," swore the muggle, pulling out the pack again. "It's the noise. Takes me back."

"Back?" he asked with feigned innocence, happy to have an excuse to stir the older man away from such a dangerous subject.

"Libya. Lost me eye. Came home, been useless since."

One-Eye rattled the pack and cursed when he realised there were no more cigarettes left. He threw the box away, narrowed his remaining eye and took a good look at Tom.

"How old are ye?"

Tom grimaced. "Sixteen."

"Ye'll make the cut soon." The older man considered him, and seemed to make a decision. "I'll get ye papers, keep yer smart noggin home."

Not that Tom would need them. September 1st couldn't come fast enough.

One-Eye was nodding to himself again. "Did it fer Johnny. Not fer his noggin, 'course, more like his size. He's got a mean streak, that one. Ye should see 'im at work, he's a thing of beauty."

Tom very much doubted that the brute had anything to offer that could be described as beauty.

The muggle rummaged through his pockets, pulled out a wallet, and offered Tom a White Fiver.

Suspicion crept on Tom as he stared at the money. That was a full Galleon plus change, way more than an entire week's wages. What game was the muggle playing?

He reached for the note with caution, and One-Eye's other hand shot out from nowhere and gripped Tom's forearm, hard. His instinct to fight back flared and he started to struggle, until he remembered the muggle was armed, and went very still. He became acutely aware of his wand in its holster pressing against his other arm, where he couldn't reach it.

One-Eye Joe levelled him with a piercing stare. The iris was hazel, but there was a whole winter in that single eye. "Next time, ye come straight to me. Not Archie, not anyone. No funny business."

The man released him and gave Tom the money, for real this time. Tom pocketed it and took a step back, away from the muggle's range. Sensation slowly prickled its way back into his left hand; he would surely have a bruise. If he wasn't so shaken, he'd be furious.

"I know ye moved out from the old place," said One-Eye conversationally. "Good fer ye."

This time, Tom couldn't keep the frost out of his own glare. So he was still being followed. He would have to do something about that, sooner rather than later. He would not be intimidated, he would not be confined to a single place, even if it was part of Wizarding Britain. And he did not appreciate the implied threat.

The muggle smiled, all teeth. What Tom would give to curse that smile off his face, to show him who the scariest was between them.

"Take the rest of the day. Walk it off."

One-Eye didn't wait for him to leave, turning around and going back inside the building. Only then did Tom rub the spot of his arm where he'd been grabbed, trying to rid himself of the sensation. He hadn't been manhandled like that since he was a small child. It made no difference, he couldn't defend himself then, and couldn't defend himself now, not the way he wanted to anyway.

Tom narrowed his eyes and glared at the door. He'd find a way to bring the whole thing down around the muggle. If One-Eye thought he could control Tom the same way he controlled the lowlives that worked for him, he had another thing coming.

History Trivia

Orphanages: I didn't realise this the first time I read HBP, but the more I researched the more I saw that orphanages back then did not work as depicted in the book. For one thing, boys and girls were split into different institutions, and they were likely to kick them out once they reached around 14-15 years of age, supposedly old enough to find a trade and support themselves. There simply weren't enough resources, particularly after the Great Depression, and then the war. It also struck me as odd that Tom would have his own room, because orphanages had shared dormitories, so something must have happened for him to get special treatment.

Refugees: When the Blitzkrieg advanced through continental Europe in 1940, governments fell within days, and whoever could escape before the borders closed attempted to do so. Between 40-60 million people were displaced. Many found their way into the UK, which was the only country the Nazis couldn't reach by land, but this wasn't easy. Then as it is now with the current refugee crisis, entry to the country was restricted, and in many cases resented by locals. Even so, about 50,000 Jewish refugees made it into the UK before 1940, as did nearly 100,000 refugees from Belgium, France, the Netherlands, Denmark and Norway, and about 250,000 refugees from Poland fleeing the occupation from the Nazis, and later the Soviets. It was very common to find foreigners in London during this period.

Libya Campaign: The North Africa campaign took place between 1940 and 1943, and covered Libya, Egypt, Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia. It was a battle for control of the Suez Canal, access to oil from the Middle East and resources from Asia; considering that this was a mechanised war, oil became essential for winning, so controlling the area was extremely important. It also paved the way for the Sicily Campaign that brought down the fascist regime in Italy, and kicked Mussolini out of the war.

Forged Papers: Some of the most sought after items sold by the Black Market were medical discharge papers, for those wanting to avoid being conscripted into the war. By 1942, males between 18-51 years old and females 20-30 years old were liable to be called up. Boys of 17 were accepted into the Home Guard as a last line of defence, should the Nazis manage to invade. Some were as young as 16, but they required parental consent.

Troublesome Vocab

Fag: Today it's an offensive word, but back then it was another word for cigarette.

White Fiver: it was a 5 pound note that was in circulation until 1945. They were called "White Fivers" because they were printed on white paper, and it was quite large.

Additional Notes

OWLs: The maximum number of OWLs a student can obtain is 12, at least in the 90s. One of those subjects would be Muggle Studies. Considering the animosity towards muggles and muggleborns in this period, this class was probably not available in the 40s. I like to think Dumbledore included the class in the curriculum when he became Headmaster. Hence, Tom gets eleven OWLs.