March to August 1941, 3rd year and summer

Sitting in the dirt, surrounded by ghosts and graves and early spring flowers, Tom couldn't help but admire her.

The way her hair shone in the moonlight and her eyes sparkled with delight as she listened to the dead telling her their stories while she carefully tended to their burial sites. There was something ethereal about it all that Tom could not quite put his finger on.

It had taken more persuasion than he had expected to get her here. He had found her in the library, sitting alone in a secluded corner and staring at nothing in particular, the book she had been trying to read forgotten in her lap. She hadn't even managed to muster up any motivation when he had told her of his plans. It had been … disconcerting.

Tom did not understand her fully. The dead always made him uncomfortable, no matter how many times he was exposed to them in Naenia's presence. But it helped and that was all that mattered.

Tom kept watching her. He knew that Naenia had noticed. Tom was always watching her, technically, but her steadily declining mood made him watch her more closely, more attentively.

It didn't always show. It wasn't constantly noticeable. Naenia kept up a perfectly normal façade during the day, her demeanour indistinguishable in class and the library and the common room where people were around. That conversation with Dumbledore over tea just the month before had made her downright happy, a tinge of amusement returning that Tom hadn't even noticed had been missing until he had been confronted with the sudden return and consequent repeated absence of it.

It was only when they were alone, just Tom and Naenia – no Nott, Tom thought with no little amount of glee – that the melancholy really shone through.

Tom was an observant person. Sneaking out and visiting graveyards and cemeteries and stumbling upon hidden burial sites in the highlands never failed to improve her mood, but he knew it did not solve the underlying problem.

There was a part of him that wondered if it was worry that he felt and whether he ought to nip this peculiar feeling in the bud before it had a chance to grow and take root. Emotions such as this, Tom had learned a long time ago, were bound to become weaknesses.

Still. Examining it closer, Tom could say with satisfaction that it wasn't worry that he felt. Not the kind a foolhardy, tender-hearted person would feel over their friend out of … the goodness of their heart. If it had to be called worry, it was a worry over the consequences Naenia's mood might have on their relationship, on his plans and ambitions. Naenia was a steady presence he would not allow to leave his side for she was his and whatever this was would not stand in his way.

So Tom got over himself and made the sacrifice to pen a letter.

He was careful with his words. Truthfully, he did not want to write the letter at all, but he had no choice. Naenia was his. He refused to lose her over something he could actually take care of.

⸸

Tom knew the Lémures had sent a reply to his letter barely a day later, because Naenia suddenly looked up during breakfast and turned her head to watch the morning mail arriving. The owl that delivered the reply was, as he should have expected, dead.

A small miscalculation on his part, but it was no matter. If the reply was a favourable one, he would not have to explain himself at all.

"Unusual bird," Nott commented.

"It would be," Tom replied, reading the letter a second time to ensure he had not missed anything.

"A beautiful bird," Naenia said softly and Tom glanced up to watch her reach out and gently stroke its feathers. "What business do you have with the Lémures, Tom?"

Ignoring the way Nott sat up straighter at the words, Tom gave her his best smile. "I will tell you after classes are over for the day." He deliberately glanced at Nott. "In a more private setting."

Naenia said nothing, merely inclining her head. Tom wished he could have read her mind in that moment.

There was a certain kind of anticipation hanging in the air all day. Tom couldn't tell whether it came from himself or Naenia or both, but he found himself not liking it at all. So he ignored it.

"The Lémures would gladly invite you to their estate over the Easter holidays," he finally told Naenia that evening, safely tucked away among the towers of forgotten items in the hidden room up on the seventh floor.

"Is that so."

"They are curious about their niece and how she fared on her own all these years with no one to guide her."

"And you contacted them why, exactly?"

There was something in her tone that gave Tom pause, but Tom always chose his words deliberately and carefully either way. "It's inherent, isn't it? Your Necromancy?"

Naenia hesitated.

"To a certain degree," she said, eventually. "If you are introduced to the Art at a young enough age, grow up in an environment thriving on Necromancy, have a talent for such things – well, then one will find themselves set up to further their education on their own. But had I grown up with an ordinary family that did not practice the Art as mine does, then I might have likely needed help and instructions for far longer until I could have stood on my own feet."

"They knew you would be fine on your own," Tom said, "when they left you in London to fend for yourself."

Naenia inclined her head, but did not confirm his words verbally.

"Yet whatever it is you are doing is not enough to sate your need for – ah – 'the Art'," he continued, "and you find yourself listless because of it. I believe what you need is to practice Necromancy to a deeper level than you currently are and it appears you do not know how or you would have already done so."

"So you went behind my back and wrote to the Lémures."

"Why didn't you ever do it, yourself?"

To this, Tom received no answer.

⸸

For the first time in a long time, Tom spent the Easter holidays on his own. He found he did not enjoy it at all.

He made good use of his time, of course – he always did. He still could not find the Chamber of Secrets, no matter how hard he looked, how much research he conducted or how many books he read. He did, however, learn more about the hidden room on the seventh floor as well as the many things hidden within it.

He considered, briefly, whether he could sell some of the items left behind there, to earn some money for his own. Knockturn Alley would surely provide willing buyers for anything if he knew where to look. But Tom would have preferred to have established some worthwhile contacts he could rely on for evaluating fair prices and general security and all that before doing so. Such things needed to be carefully planned if one wanted to make the most of it, after all. And it wasn't as if he was pressed for time and money, anyway. Not while he still had several years to spend at Hogwarts.

Naenia's highly anticipated return at the end of the holidays was rather anticlimactic in comparison to all the – in Tom's opinion mundane – things he had done in her absence. She didn't acknowledge her absence, didn't acknowledge that Tom had been right – and he had been, he could see it in her eyes, in the way she held herself, in her entire demeanour and the flavour of her thoughts – she simply continued on as if nothing had happened at all.

But that was alright. Truly, there was only one thing Tom wished to know.

"Will you return to their estate for the summer holidays?"

"For a few visits, yes."

"Not the entire duration?"

Naenia gave him a look. "Don't be silly, Tom."

And that was that.

⸸

May was … a bad month.

News from the war and London in particular were not looking good. Another major air raid happened. People died.

Tom went to the Headmaster, prepared and ready to argue his case – but it was no use. They wouldn't allow him and Naenia to stay over the summer. They were to go back to the orphanage as usual, war or no war.

June was … better, if only by a small margin.

Tom sought out every scrap of news he could get his hands on to make sure that the air raids really had stopped – but there was no certainty. And even without the air raids hanging over their heads, they would still return to a London in ruins.

And in ruins it was. It was a wonder King's Cross Station was still perfectly intact – but, then again, the magical community had a vested interest in making sure this particular place would be protected. The surroundings painted a far worse picture. Burned down houses, leftover debris that had not been cleared away from buildings that had collapsed. Several weeks had passed since the last air raid, but the destruction was not so easily cleared away and rebuilt.

The city looked desolate.

"I don't understand," Tom said, unable to keep the helpless tone out of his voice. "How can they still ignore the war after seeing all of this?"

"I don't think they are," Naenia said, her eyes on the people around them rather than the ruined buildings.

Tom wondered what she saw that he didn't. Skimming their minds only told him how worried they were about getting home quickly, about their neighbours being safe. About the poor, odd little girl with the strange white hair.

The latter surprised Tom momentarily. He had forgotten how much Naenia stood out. He couldn't remember people's reaction being this bad in the years before. But there hadn't been a war ravaging the country in the years before.

"The Statute of Secrecy may forbid them from using magic around Muggles," Naenia told Tom on their way to the orphanage, "but that does not prevent them from secretly laying down protective spells and wards. It doesn't prevent them from helping the injured or sheltering the homeless. It may only be on a small scale, but it proves that they aren't as ignorant as everyone's behaviour at Hogwarts may make you believe."

"And what about us? Who is helping us?"

Naenia gestured to the building in front of them. Behind the iron gates, Wool's was standing untouched, as dreary-looking as it always had. It seemed the wards she had laid down, herself, had held up.

"We are helping ourselves," she said. "As we always have. We don't need anyone else."

Tom felt an involuntary smile spread across his lips. "Of course. You are absolutely right."

But his improved mood dropped again as soon as they set foot inside the orphanage. If things had been dreary before, he didn't know how to even begin to describe how it was now.

Mrs Cole barely acknowledged them beyond telling them to reclaim their room on their own if they felt they must take up so much space by themselves. Wool's was overrun with orphans. Not surprising, all things considered. Mrs Cole was desperately trying to get as many of them adopted or at least out of the house, the city if possible, as she feasibly could by all means necessary. Tom and Naenia made themselves sparse whenever the children were rounded up to present themselves to whoever Mrs Cole had procured to take some of them away this time.

It took Tom embarrassingly long to realise that Billy the Undead was not among them anymore.

Apparently, he had gotten caught in an air raid because 'he hadn't been a perfect imitation, in the end'.

"You never told me that," Tom said accusingly.

Naenia didn't reply, but Tom knew she hadn't wanted him to worry unnecessarily. (It would absolutely have been necessary! Their lives were at stake here!)

"It was due to my carelessness," she said eventually, pouting. "The wards can only do so much when people leave them to find shelter elsewhere and he … well, he did realise somethings was off on his own – I count that as a win – and he did have an idea where everyone might have gone and went after them. He did not, unfortunately, come to the conclusion that going out into the open during an air raid might result in getting a bomb dropped on you. Or being caught in a nearby explosion."

"And you couldn't have stopped him?"

"There was no reason to monitor him constantly. Besides, I value my sleep."

Tom frowned. "Then how do you know what happened?"

Naenia pointedly looked at Morrigan, perched on their windowsill. "The crows know the orphanage is safe. They came to seek shelter here the moment they sensed the danger."

"You are certain we are safe here?"

"You are a wizard, Tom. If you're worried, lay the groundwork and perform the spells, yourself."

Tom averted his gaze. His eyes landed on the undead crow and he grimaced. "I trust your abilities. It's not that. I simply can't help it."

"Can't help what?"

He could be truthful with her. Naenia was the one person in the world he knew he could trust.

"I'm afraid, Naenia," he whispered. "No, I'm terrified."

"I don't understand," she replied. "What is there to be afraid of?"

Tom closed his eyes. "I'm afraid of dying."

"I don't understand," she repeated and Tom turned to look at her again. "Why would you be afraid of dying?"

"How could I not?" he exclaimed, his composure slipping. "You have seen how bad it is out there! Thousands, hundreds of thousands of people have already died, Naenia! And we could be next!"

"But we are safe here."

"Are we?"

"And to die is to accept Death's greatest gift," she continued calmly. "It is as natural as living. If it is dying painfully you were afraid of, I would understand. No one likes being in pain. But what is there to be afraid of about Death? He will welcome you with open arms into his embrace."

"You wouldn't understand.," he told her bitterly. "You're a Necromancer. You don't have to die."

"But I do. All living beings must die eventually. Even Phoenixes have to die before they are reborn."

"Phoenixes are the literal opposite of Necromancers."

"Yes, precisely."

"Yet like a phoenix, if you die, you can just come back!"

Tom watched her gaze harden, felt her mind close off completely.

"It is not that simple. Immortality is a gift Death grants only to a select few. And being undead cannot be compared to coming back to life. We will never be the same again, for no one can remain unchanged by Death.

"Besides," she continued in a prim tone, "the Totengräbers have not received the gift of immortality in many, many generations. They may have found other ways to enter an almost undead existence, but the moment they die, they will all likely join Death's Realm forever."

"So you don't know of a sure way to keep living forever."

"No. Why would I want to in the first place?"

Naenia, Tom slowly realised, actually wanted to die one day.

He took a steadying breath. "There is no use in arguing about this. Like I said, I simply cannot help it. But it doesn't matter. We are safe here."

AN

Tom, the unreliable narrator: This is fine. I'm afraid? It's fine. I'm not feeling anything. Nope. Nothing to see here. No emotions to be had.