Chapter Summary: Tom gave a shallow nod and a small, charming smile towards the house elf; he must attend the niceties while under Harry's roof, and if he wanted to get the other man's help he knew he'd need to put in some effort towards the elf. "Well met, Kreacher."
The elf gave a great big sniff before it bowed and said in its hoarse, deep voice, "Kreacher welcomes emTom,/em" its voice absolutely dripped with disdain, "to the home of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black… and Potter." The elf added as an afterthought, then straightened and stared up at Tom.
Tom's smile became rather fixed and his voice tight as he said, "Thank you, Kreacher." He glanced at Harry, who was watching the two of them with one part amusement and one part worry, and his smile became more genuine. "I'm ever so grateful for Harry's hospitality."
Notes: Hello everyone! I'm awfully late with this chapter, apologies! I went through a bit of a funk, and I always seem to struggle with writing Tom POV chapters lmao, but hopefully this chapter makes up for it! It's longer than all the others (nearly double in size actually!)
I spent forever editing then adding more to this chapter, then editing, then adding more. So now it's a 5.2K+ monster when, originally, it was only supposed to be around 2.8K. I'm sure I'll go back and edit more eventually, but at this point I just wanted it posted and out of my face.
Once again, I want to thank every single one of you who've read, favorited, followed, and/or reviewed! It really brightens my day reading through all the reviews, even the ones that are just emojis haha. I really appreciate the love, even if I'm not that great at responding to it.
I also received my very first pieces of fanart ever! One piece shows the grove of trees that chapter two and three take place in. The second piece shows Harry sitting on the ground while Tom stands above him. Both pieces are so so so well done and I appreciate them so much! To see them, check out my tumblr tag tagged/fohg fanart
Chapter Four
New Year's Day — January 1st, 1999
It was well past midnight by the time Tom and Harry arrived at 12 Grimmauld Place. The logistics of traveling long distances as a ghost were more complicated than one might think.
Tom followed Harry up the stairs and watched as the young man pulled his wand out to take down his security wards, then unlock the door. After putting his wand away, Harry turned around to face Tom who hovered at the end of the front stairs. "Alright, we're here…" Harry said with a sigh. "Listen, I have a house elf here that you have history with. Do you remember Kreacher at all?"
Tom tilted his head and looked off to the side as he thought back on his past interactions with house elves. "Hmm… No, not that I recall. I never made an effort to learn their names. Or if I did, I didn't remember them for long."
Harry sighed and brought his hand up to rub the side of his neck. "Well, Kreacher used to belong to the Black family. He was particularly close with Regulus Black."
Tom's eyebrows raised for a moment, "Ah." He gave a small nod. "The youngest Black. He was one of mine, for a short time. He disappeared in the late seventies, I believe. After I—" Tom cut himself off as he remembered, a frown deepening on his face. "I believe I borrowed his elf for a task. Was that Kreacher? I assumed it died in the cave after I left."
"He lived," Harry emphasized with a glare.
Tom refrained from rolling his eyes at the young man, but pressed his lips together in a thin line. Of course Harry would treat house elves with respect. Tom never saw the point; he'd never respect a being that was subservient.
He'd need to remember to play nice; he'll be relying on Harry for some time, no need for things to be fraught with more tension than there already is. Tom watched as Harry crossed his arms in front of his chest.
"Because Regulus commanded him to come straight home after completing your task."
Tom became more alert at this. "How did the elf leave the cave?" He demanded. "There were protections in place to prevent Apparition or Disapparition."
Harry smirked at him and said, "Elf's magic is different from wizard's magic, didn't you know? They can get in and out of places even if it's protected against wizarding methods of transportation."
He wanted to sneer, to deny this vehemently, but he paused and reflected back on what memories he had that included house elves. He grudgingly had to admit to himself that it was possible. Tom pressed his lips together in a thin line, unwilling to admit out loud that he was wrong about something else; he'd need to research extensively when he was able to. He was foolish for not considering that creature magic differed from wizard magic, that it could bypass wizard magic in some cases.
He gestured for Harry to continue from where he interrupted.
"When Kreacher Disapparated home, half dead, Regulus asked him what you ordered Kreacher to do. According to him, Regulus looked worried, ordered Kreacher to stay hidden and not to leave the house, then he left for a time. He came back sometime later, appearing disturbed. He then asked Kreacher to take him to the cave."
Tom's brow furrowed as he processed the information. "He betrayed me?" Distantly he thought about how far gone he became, compared to his time at Hogwarts. He couldn't necessarily blame the boy, but there was still a not-so-insignificant part of him that seethed at the betrayal, that wanted to personally oversee the punishment for such a transgression.
Harry must have seen the murderous look in his eyes for he paused and frowned at him. "Yes." He leaned against the front door, his arms still crossed against his chest. "Regulus drank the potion and replaced the locket with a fake. He gave the real one to Kreacher before ordering him to leave Regulus there. He died there in that cave. The Black family tapestry shows that he died in 1979."
"I see…" Tom said, as he reflected on the new information. It explained the boy's disappearance. Too bad that he was a ghost and the boy was already dead. At least the death was presumably violent, what with the inferi in the lake. That would have to be revenge and punishment enough. "And Kreacher never told his," Tom emphasized for Harry's sake, "Mistress about what happened?"
Harry gave him a stern look, as if he knew Tom was only playing nice, before shaking his head. "No, Regulus forbade Kreacher from speaking to Walburga about what happened. My friends and I only managed to get him to speak of it before the Battle."
Tom nodded in understanding. He remembered that Orion Black died the same year, before Regulus' disappearance. He remembered hearing that Walburga was never the same afterwards.
"The point is, Kreacher and Regulus were fond of one another. I don't know if he'll recognize you or not. So just… it'd be great if you could be polite towards him."
"I'm not sure if he will recognize me or not. I don't know what I look like right now." His eyes tracked the blush that spread up Harry's neck, before holding his gaze.
"Uh. Well. I think you look like, uh, what your sixteen year old self would have looked like in his thirties." Harry waved his hand about. "Y'know, without the Horcruxes."
He almost asked how Harry knew what his sixteen year old self looked like, when he suddenly remembered the other man's second year at Hogwarts. Except this time he remembered what the Diary Horcrux got up to that year; it appeared its memories synced with the others upon his soul getting stitched together by Death.
Interesting.
(He viciously ignored the fact that Harry destroyed the diary; Harry destroyed or facilitated the destruction of most of his Horcruxes, if he got angry about all of them now he'd never get anything done.)
The corner of Tom's lips raised as he watched the young man in front of him shuffle from foot to foot again. He made a small noise of understanding. "I see. Well, in that case, he shouldn't recognize me. We should, however, move inside before someone out here notices me."
"Oh! Right. Come on then, follow me." Harry said before turning back to the door. He grabbed the handle and opened the door. "Watch out for the troll leg. And keep your voice down."
Tom spent the rest of the night holed up in the library.
The elf must have been sleeping, for it didn't show up when he and Harry entered the house. Harry showed Tom around before bidding him goodnight and heading upstairs for his bedroom.
The library caught his attention during the brief tour Harry gave him. He'd only been here once in the past, when he was a student at Hogwarts and acquaintances with Orion Black and a few of his cousins. He'd been invited to a formal gathering during the winter holidays one year. After performing the social niceties and networking, Tom had retreated to their library with Orion's permission.
Their library enthralled him. It wasn't as large as Hogwarts' but it was the quality, not quantity, that mattered. Most of their selections were darker, more obscure, collected over generations and generations.
It was here that Tom spent the early hours of the morning of New Year's Day.
He didn't have quite enough practice to interact with physical objects yet, so at first he simply read the titles of the books. He made notes in his mind which books he thought would be useful for the research he intended to do once he could either interact with the world or, perhaps, he could get Harry to turn the pages for him.
Harry. There was so much to process in the last few hours. What the man did for him, he would never be able to repay. But the fact that he'd even want to, it baffles him.
The longing he felt for those months he spent alone in the grove isn't as loud now that he and Harry have connected, but it's still there.
Content, for now.
He has to wonder if perhaps what he's experiencing is what Harry feels and that's why he's feeling it. However, that doesn't make much sense to Tom. It is more likely, he speculates, that the piece of his soul that resided in Harry for all those years had mellowed, perhaps, resulting in these emotions. Now that it has returned to the main soul, it's longing for the warmth of Harry's soul once more. Tom recalled that Harry suggested it was a bleed through effect.
It's their best theory, for now. That's all they can do is speculate; this situation is unique. He's certain this has never happened before. In none of his research has he ever heard of a human Horcrux, let alone the side effects of that piece of soul returning to the main soul.
He could vaguely understand why this piece would crave for the warmth of Harry's soul; over a decade bathing in the pureness of it, Tom could understand why it'd want to go back to that or at the very least be as near as possible.
Briefly, he contemplated returning the piece to Harry if he's able to attain a human body again and make Harry his Horcrux once more. But then he felt such a heavy sense of dread, followed by a quick glimpse of the incomprehensible Being that stitched him back together— Death— from the corner of his eye before they disappeared just as quick as he noticed them.
He knew, instinctively, that he would be unmade and scattered amongst Limbo should he attempt to create a Horcrux again. No true consciousness, always drifting. Seeing, feeling, tasting, hearing, smelling nothing for he was nothing. The memories of his time in Limbo nearly drowned him as a warning from the Being; use this chance wisely, they seemed to say. Make the same mistakes, and suffer the consequences, they warned.
Shaking with the terror Death inflicted upon him, Tom nodded in acknowledgement to the empty library and the oppressive dread lifted.
No more Horcruxes then.
He shoved the remaining panic and the heaviness of that moment away; if he dwelled on the fact that Death, as a Being, as an Entity, is real, that they exist, that he's on what appears to be Death's Watch List, he'll never know peace. That happened, move on, he urged his mind.
That piece of him is simultaneously relieved yet full of sorrow; it will never return to the home it made in Harry Potter, to the hole it left when it was ripped from the young man, to the warmth of his soul.
Tom has never known much warmth, nor kindness in his life. He certainly hasn't been kind, nor warm, not that he can recall anyway. Not even as a child. But, who could blame him then?
(Mrs. Cole did, the other children did as well. Dumbledore would come to blame him too.)
But no one in that orphanage was kind. No one was nice. No one was warm and friendly. Not the children, not the adults. It was a free-for-all. An eye for an eye. 'You hit me, and I'll hit you ten times harder' type of mentality.
He gave as good as he got, and he eventually came out on top because of his magic.
In retrospect, Tom knew he returned the children's cruelty a thousandfold once he gained control of his magic. It was instinctual for him to dish out his own brand of vengeance, lashing out when the adults weren't looking and had no hard proof it was him that did it.
A large part of him will never regret putting the muggles in their place even decades later, making them afraid for once. Making them think twice about being nasty towards the kid they found hissing at a grass snake one day and watched as it hissed back.
And when Billy Stubbs stomped on that snake, killing it before it could strike back? Well. He certainly learned upon finding his rabbit hanging from the rafters the next day, didn't he?
Tom knew that plenty blamed him once he started fighting back. Plenty looked upon him as the Devil— he remembers how Mrs. Cole threatened to bring Father Shelby to exorcise the demon that surely was possessing him; she never did, but she would threaten exorcism or threaten to send him to an asylum when the children complained about him— and, well, he had much to live up to as a child didn't he? At least now, he knew, he is what they said he was. Not that they'll ever know the atrocities Tom's committed or gave approval for.
(The dusty, little-used emotions that have made themselves known since he's been back on this plane twinge at remembering everything he did or sent his Death Eaters to do during the wars; he immediately tried to shove the memories and emotions away. The tendrils of remorse, his yet not his in a way that Tom knew now originated from the piece of his soul that resided with Harry for so long, tried to eat away at him but he locked it back up tight. This is not the time. If Tom had his way, it will never be the time to remember or to feel that.)
(Secretly, he knew instinctively that if he allowed himself to feel all these emotions and remember every single thing he did, particularly during the wars, it would overwhelm him. The full weight of the disparity of regretting and yet not regretting would surely drive him insane again. So back, back, back they go, those pesky emotions that Harry poisoned his soul with, shoved away. They are unwelcome here.)
Tom sighed as he sat himself down in one of the arm chairs in a corner of the library. Enough about the damnable orphanage and likely long dead muggles and actions he doesn't fully regret. He closed his eyes and reflected on his current state.
It's been decades since he was last whole, since he'd had his full faculties. If only he was flesh and blood, if only he had a body. He shut down the panic before it can start— he isn't a wraith. No, being a ghost isn't much better, but at least he isn't in unimaginable pain.
He's safe, he has shelter, he has a tentative ally, he has access to a Dark family library, he's whole, he's relatively sane. He's leagues better than he was when he was a wraith. He's fine.
He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling.
Already he can feel the longing to be closer, closer, closer still to the man asleep in his bedroom on one of the upper floors. It's not as all encompassing as when he first returned to this plane but the longer he's not near Harry, the louder and more annoying it becomes.
It's going to be a long night.
As morning arrived, Tom took to pacing the hallway outside Harry's bedroom. He tried convincing himself to stay in the library but he became antsy as the hours passed. He spent hours trying to physically interact with the books but couldn't manage it just yet, so without something to keep his mind busy he decided to explore the house. Which, as the longing got louder the longer he was apart from Harry, led to him staying near the young man's bedroom.
As Tom paced, his thoughts circled back to Harry. He still couldn't get over the fact that he'd been his Horcrux. He wanted to shake his past self wildly and yell, "You fool! Protect him, don't kill him! He's important! He holds part of your soul, he's yours!" and he doubted that desire will ever leave him. Oh, the things he could've done with Harry by his side.
He shook his head and shoved those thoughts to the side. There's no use for dwelling on what could have been. He paced down the hallway, turned, then paced down the other side. As Tom turned once more, he heard a cry come from Harry's bedroom. Tom paused and turned towards the door, waiting, listening.
"No!" Harry yelled.
Tom jerked into action at once and floated through the bedroom door. He found Harry thrashing wildly in the middle of his bed, obviously in the midst of a nightmare. Tom hovered at the end of the young man's bed awkwardly, debating on if he should call out to him in an attempt to wake him.
"No, no, stop, no…" Harry cried out as his head turned to the side. There's sweat on his brow, his bangs cling to his skin.
As he hovered there, he noticed that the longing in his chest is content again in the presence of the other man; he ignored that for now, but made a note in his mind that it's definitely proximity based. Pacing the hallway outside his bedroom did help, but now that he's closer to Harry he understood that it will always want to be closer still.
Tom gazed up at the ceiling for a brief moment of debate before he decided and drifted over to the side of the bed. "Harry, wake up, it's only a nightmare. You're safe." Tom said, his voice firm and clear.
Harry's eyes flew open as he jerked awake. His wand soared from his bedside table to his hand with an audible slap before it's quickly pointed towards Tom, his breaths coming out in heavy pants. Tom held his hands out in front of him and remained still, giving the man the time to come to his senses; not that Harry would likely be able to harm him in this form.
It took Harry maybe a second before he seemed to recognize Tom, then three before he lowered his wand. Many emotions flickered across his face, but Tom recognized the fear, the sorrow, the anger, the relief, the conflicted guilt.
"You're alive. You're safe." Tom reassured the man once more. He doesn't know why he wanted to soothe Harry; he chalked it up to the soul-touching issues and potential bleed through effects.
Tom watched as Harry gained control of his breathing, watched as the tension slowly left his body.
"I'm alive. I'm safe. I'm awake." Harry said, his voice rough from sleep. He propped himself up in the bed, his sheets pooling around his waist revealing bare arms and torso littered with a few scars and a light dusting of dark hair.
Harry flicked his wand and cast a quick tempus. 7 A.M. appeared in blinking, green lettering above his wand and he groaned.
"G'morning, Tom." Harry said with a yawn, slowly rubbing one eye with the back of his hand.
Tom's eyes trailed over the oval scar above his heart in the shape of a locket and his mind jolted with the knowledge that it must have been from his locket. His stare lingered, and a sense of possessive hunger flared for a moment before he pushed it down, down, down.
He forced his gaze up to Harry's eyes which now watched him intently. "Good morning, Harry. My apologies for barging into your room, I was passing by in the hallway when I heard you cry out. I only wanted to make sure you were alright. Now that you're awake, I'll leave you to get ready for the day."
He turned around abruptly and left the room before Harry could give a reply.
Half an hour later, Tom found Harry barefoot in the kitchen, dressed in simple black robes that were worn over casual muggle clothes. He appeared to be in the middle of a bartering session with an elderly house elf.
"If you let me fix breakfast and dinner, you can fix lunch and dessert." Harry offered, his voice firm but friendly.
The house elf merely grumbled in a hoarse voice, "Master will do as he wishes, as always."
Harry sighed dramatically, "Kreacher, honestly, I would just enjoy cooking for myself for once. After spending literal years cooking for the Dursleys, it's nice to be able to actually eat all the food I cook. I'm not saying you can't cook anymore, I'd just like it if we could split the duty. Alright?"
Tom filed the information away to be brought up later. He knew precious little about how Harry was raised after he killed his parents. Tom ignored the sharp, still unfamiliar, sense of remorse that bubbled up within him. Down, down, down.
"...Yes, Master." The house elf grudgingly agreed.
Tom watched as a smile of satisfaction grew on Harry's face, likely due to getting his way, before it fell and he rolled his eyes.
"You're never going to call me Harry, are you." Harry said with exasperation clear in his voice before he turned and noticed Tom in the entryway. His eyes widened slightly before he gave a nervous grin. "Oh! Hello, Tom." His eyes darted from Tom to the elf and then back again.
The elf eyed Tom with distrust clear in its watery grey eyes, but there was no spark of recollection. Good, it didn't seem to remember him at all.
"Kreacher, this is my guest, Tom." Harry said, gesturing towards Tom who slowly drifted into the kitchen proper. "Tom, this is Kreacher." This time, Harry gestured to the elf. Then he sent them both a pointed look and said, "Be nice."
Tom gave a shallow nod and a small, charming smile towards the house elf; he must attend the niceties while under Harry's roof, and if he wanted to get the other man's help he knew he'd need to put in some effort towards the elf. "Well met, Kreacher."
The elf gave a great big sniff before it bowed and said in its hoarse, deep voice, "Kreacher welcomes Tom," its voice absolutely dripped with disdain, "to the home of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black… and Potter." The elf added as an afterthought, then straightened and stared up at Tom.
Tom's smile became rather fixed and his voice tight as he said, "Thank you, Kreacher." He glanced at Harry, who was watching the two of them with one part amusement and one part worry, and his smile became more genuine. "I'm ever so grateful for Harry's hospitality."
Harry grinned, ducking his head bashfully before he turned around to start fixing breakfast. The elf made a disgruntled sound before leaving the kitchen, moving slowly as it left.
Tom sat at the kitchen table on the only seat that was already pulled out. He observed Harry as the younger man used mostly muggle means to cook breakfast. Once or twice Harry would flick his wand to summon food from the pantry, but all the actual cooking was done the muggle way.
"Where did you learn to cook?" The question blurted out before Tom could stop himself from asking
Harry froze for a second, two, then relaxed. He cleared his throat and busied his hands with the food preparation. There were strips of bacon in a frying pan on one of the burners and a carton of eggs sat on the nearby counter for when the bacon was done. A selection of fruits were in a bowl, and under preservation charms like all the food in the house, sitting on a corner counter. A jug of fresh orange juice sat next to the carton of eggs.
"I was taught," Harry spat this word out with derision, "by my Aunt Petunia from a young age."
Tom said nothing to this, sensing that it was a sensitive topic, but filed it alongside all the other little things he picked up about Harry's past.
"I've also learned some tips for magical cooking from Mrs. Weasley, but I'm so used to doing it the muggle way though. I find it's more hands on and it's something I can do mindlessly, or rather, it's a bit meditative." Harry said as he used a spatula to flip the bacon. "Physical motions and actions I know like the back of my hand that I don't need to really think about because I've done it hundreds of times before."
Harry plated the bacon before cracking two eggs in the same pan. "I didn't always cook for them. But it was often enough. It didn't start until I was just taller than the stove. Rarely did I get to eat the same amount as them, even if I cooked the meal." He used the spatula to splash the bacon grease and leftover oil onto the eggs.
"There's nothing wrong with teaching kids to cook alone or alongside you. But I wasn't taught, not really. Not with kindness or professionalism. I was expected to learn, to obey, not to ask questions, and not to burn or spill anything. If I burned or spilled anything, well." Harry stopped there. But his voice painted a clear picture. Nothing pleasant happened if he made a mistake.
Tom didn't know how to respond. He frowned as he watched the younger man nonchalantly plate the two eggs onto the plate of bacon before sending the egg carton and package of bacon back to the pantry with a flick of his wand; they would remain fresh under the food preservation charms. Foods that needed to remain cold were also under cooling charms. Harry levitated a glass from the cupboard and poured the orange juice before sending the jug back to the pantry as well.
He contemplated talking about the orphanage, to offer a sense of camaraderie through adversity, but decided against it. He'd rather not talk about that time of his life too often; at all, if possible. Instead, he asked, "What are your plans for the day?"
Harry placed his plate and glass on the table, grabbed an apple from the bowl on the corner counter, before pulling out a chair across from Tom and sitting down. "Well, I have a few things to follow up on. Yesterday was the New Year's Eve gala for Ministry workers and people deemed important in the community... and I ended up sneaking out early."
Tom snorted at this, and Harry grinned at him; he's reminded of how many times he snuck away during formal gatherings after hours of charming smiles and hushed whispers and niceties and political lobbying.
"I'll probably have to floo call Kingsley and make my apologies before he decides to call me himself." Harry grabbed a strip of bacon and chewed a piece off.
"Do you often attend Ministry events?" Tom asked, his eyes glued on Harry's throat as he swallows. He forced himself to drag his eyes back to the younger man's face. He scolded himself; more and more he's been drawn to Harry. Knowing that he was his Horcrux only amplified the desire. He refused to act on it, however. Look if he must, but be brief, and never touch. (Not that he could even if he wanted to.) Don't ogle him, for Merlin's sake!
(He didn't know if his newfound desire towards Harry was tied into their souls touching, or the bleed through effect reawakening feelings and desires he rarely experienced, whether it was just because Harry was his Horcrux at one point, or if he simply found the other man handsome and wanted to make him his; whatever the origin, he highly doubted it would be wise to pursue anything. No matter how many times he caught Harry staring and blushing at him. Allies, perhaps, but nothing more.)
Harry took a gulp of his orange juice, then swallowed. He shrugged, then scratched at the scruff on his cheek.
"There were several events I've had to attend since the war ended. Like award ceremonies or press conferences or interviews or rebuilding efforts or charity events, y'know, things to boost morale, that Kingsley and his advisors basically guilt me into attending or taking part in for not joining the Aurors or going back to Hogwarts." He paused to dig his bacon in the yolk of one of his eggs, before plopping it in his mouth.
He chewed quickly, swallowed, then said, "It feels like the moment I stop to rest, I get another owl or a floo call inviting, but more like demanding, me to attend. It's horseshit. I should tell them to piss off and let me be, but Kingsley is a good man. I have a lot of respect for him, so I feel like I have to show my face sometimes. And, of course, because of who I am, because I was the face of the resistance, there is a sort of widespread expectation for me to be involved and seen doing things for the betterment of the community now that there isn't a war breathing down everyone's backs."
Tom nearly sneered but he held back. "I'm surprised you aren't taking advantage of the publicity."
Harry glared at him, to which Tom merely arched an eyebrow, before he sighed and rolled his eyes. "I want nothing more than to tell the Wizarding community to clean up their own messes and let me live my life in peace. But I've got what Hermione calls a 'Saving People Thing' and I feel obligated to help out where I can. I never wanted publicity or fame or what have you. I just wanted to be Harry, just Harry. That wish got shot down as soon as Hagrid told me who I was, told me about my parents, told me about you."
Tom stared at the man with wide eyes. "Hagrid told you?" He asked, "What do you mean, Hagrid told you? You weren't raised knowing?"
The other man groaned and rubbed his face with both hands, as if this wasn't the first time someone assumed as such. "No, I wasn't raised knowing. I was raised by muggles, Tom. Raised by magic-fearing muggles. They didn't tell me anything except for lies about my parents and how they died, and 'don't ask questions.' Hagrid had to deliver my letter because my relatives wouldn't let me read all the letters sent by Hogwarts over that week."
Tom shook his head. There were many things that didn't make sense, many things that were wrong in that sentence, and he had several questions about them all, but he had the feeling that Harry wouldn't answer them. Not right now, at least.
"Anyway, I'll spend a few hours in the library after I make my floo call if you'd like to join me. I spend a few hours there each day if I have the time. Some of it I spend on school related topics since I'm self-teaching for my seventh year and plan on taking my NEWT's in the summer. Other than that, I practice at least an hour each day in the duelling room I set up after the war."
By time Harry's finished talking, he's managed to finish the rest of his plate and drain his glass of orange juice. He flicked his wand and his dirty dishes levitated to the sink; a swish and they started cleaning themselves, before they found their way back to the cupboard.
"I'll join you in the library when you're done with your floo calls." Tom said as he rose from the seat and hovered near the table.
Harry sent him a small grin as he washed his hands at the sink. "Great, I'll meet you there within the hour."