Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

15.08.1929

There’s a woman on the doorstep. Henry stares, one hand still half curled around the handle to the grand door that denotes itself as the entranceway to Riddle Manor, trying to recall the last time they had been graced with such a visitor. Back before the… mess with that tramp, there had been Lady Cecilia. Understandably, the lady had not returned after hearing the news and, last Henry had heard, she’d married the Lord three towns over, birthing a healthy daughter just this last year.

The woman on the doorstep looks as if she could be of the same age as Lady Cecilia had been last Henry saw her, having just reached the cusp of adulthood and with the fine features to show for it. Certainly, she cannot be twenty, her eyes just a little too wide and her smile just a little too bright to really have completed her second decade on this earth. Nonetheless, she looks as if she comes from good stock, dressed in light silks in a fetching shade of pale pink and with hair the colour of champagne loosely woven into a side braid.

“Good morning,” she greets, a slight dip of acknowledgement to her head as she speaks. “I am looking for a Mr Tom Riddle and was directed here by the townsfolk. I’m a doctor.” The last of her words are almost hastily tagged on at the end, her accent some strange cross between West Country and something Henry would hazard a guess at being Scottish. He wouldn’t be able to say for sure, not when the only Scot he’s met was a visitor to the estate five or so years prior.

“I will ask the Master if he will receive you. Please, step in.” Even in the summer months, it’s impolite to leave a visitor on the doorstep, especially a young woman. She steps inside and the heels to her shoes click against the tiled floor. Henry takes a startled moment to look at them when he realises the lady’s shoes are, in actual fact, adding near five inches to her height by way of the whip-thin, tall heels they boast, much unlike any kind of shoe he’s ever seen before. There are no further straps to them, just a cover over her toes and they are only a shade or two darker than the silks of her dress. Definitely from money; no one else would care to buy shoes in a colour so easily dirtied.

“Thank you, shall I take a seat while I wait?”

“You may, Miss…”

She smiles and it is a charming, pretty thing. “Miss Sophia Lovegood.” Ah, it is not a surprise her name is just as lovely as her. Why, if he were ten years younger and a great deal richer- Henry pushes the thought from his head, offering the young woman a short bow as she takes a seat upon the receiving sofa, one leg crossed primly over the other. It exposes just an inch or two more of her legs, clad respectably in stockings and that is the last Henry sees of the woman for the day, turning to make for the garden where Squire Riddle and his wife are enjoying the summer sunshine.

Mother fetches him a half hour before he was due to join them for afternoon tea in the garden. She's tight-lipped about why she wishes for him to join them early, but there is a softness to her smile that he instantly finds suspicious. The click of their shoes echoes on the tiled floors leading down the hallway and already he can hear his father's voice, muffled through the walls given his current positioning in the garden.

"She's from out of town," Mother suddenly shares and that alone is enough for Tom's hackles to rise. It has been three years now, but three years is simply not enough to undo all of the damage that wretch left. The scars that have been seared across his mind from whatever it was that she fed him (drugged him with, some kind of enchantment that drugged him until all felt fine, until life was nought but a pleasant haze with only the lightest trickle of a sense of wrongness) do not seem to have healed in the slightest. Perhaps they never will.

It had only taken a year for Mother to start inviting young women, ones appropriate for him to be seen with given their status, into the house. They would leave just as quickly, just as Tom realised he could not look upon them without seeing the ugly phantom of the one who has so ruined his life. Perhaps Mother mentions she is from out of town in an attempt to signify she will not have heard any of the disdainful rumours that still circulate even now, three years past his return. One would think something of note would have happened in the village to give others to talk about within that time frame but apparently not. He doesn't interact with the townspeople enough to say for sure either way.

Stepping out into the garden, Tom eyes the maid (Molly's her name, a new hire and all of fifteen years old) warily as she places a tray of finger sandwiches upon the table beside the china. Steam, visible even in the stifling heat of the summer, rises from the sprout of the teapot. Father sits up to the iron-wrought table, hands clasped loosely in his lap and a look upon his face that indicates he is waiting for the young woman to respond to whatever it is he has just said. Tom doesn't look to her, instead holding out an arm for his mother to grasp for proprieties sake. Another young woman to be paraded before him akin to a carrot before a horse. Just trying to entice him forward, an encouragement to make progress.

He's not the least bit interested.

Alas, there is only so much garden between the back door and the table at which Father sits and all too soon, they are both present too.

"Mary, Tom," Father greets them, gesturing for them to both take a seat and Tom does so only after his mother, swallowing against the lump in his throat. "This is Miss Sophia Lovegood. A doctor who has recently moved to Great Hangleton."

"Just for a year," the woman pips in, forcibly drawing Tom's gaze for the first time. The first thing that registers is just how young she is to have attained the title of doctor; she can't be more than twenty and her attire indicates she too comes from wealth. No doubt the reason his mother had fetched him from the library earlier than they had previously planned. Hair a few shades too light to be described as honey and eyes a soft cornflower blue; she's pretty in a soft sort of way.

Already the ugly spectre of Merope stands at her back, those deplorable eyes incapable of looking in one direction and face as heavy as ever. Memories are supposed to fade with time, she should not be capable of haunting him so.

"In answer to your question, Mr Riddle, my mentor recommended a year's residency at Great Hangleton as I wish to gain an understanding in the healing of the mind too and I was informed that—" In the pause of her sentence, Sophia Lovegood sips at the cup of tea Molly has silently poured for her, swallowing quietly. "—there is a character in Little Hangleton that law enforcement would like to keep an eye on in regards to his mental health."

The Gaunt. The wretch's brother who is no doubt as unnatural, as magical as Merope had been. Tom feels sick with the thought. He had known, of course, that the bastard had come back from his prison sentence this month. Three years is too short a time for the bust-up he'd subjected Tom to all those years ago; he'd even caught hives from being near the man. Only now, with the hindsight of knowing what the tramps are, does he wonder if perhaps the Gaunts did something else to him in that time. Made him think something else, just as the wretch had made him believe himself in love with her. But if this Sophia Lovegood has been directed here by law enforcement in reference to that bastard—

"The Gaunt tramp?" Mother states with a surprised sniff, mouth turning harsh with a flash of a frown. She has more than a few choice words for the last of the family to live in that hovel. "That man is dangerous— what he did to my Tom…"

—she's like them.

He can feel his heartbeat picking up, hammering in his chest faster than the stallion's hooves hit the hardpacked dirt of the trail. He'd avoided looking at the woman but now, he cannot tear his eyes away, looking for danger, for a sign of the enchantress that is hiding behind those soft blue eyes. It'd been easy to see it in Merope when the haze had lifted; how could he have possibly thought to marry such a hideous woman if not for enchantments? The being before him is a very different brand of dangerous; pretty enough to hide the devilry that lingers beneath her skin but he knows it’s there, it's as if he can sense it.

"I've been well informed about Mr Gaunt's past, Mrs Riddle, though I thank you for your worry. Any interaction I am to have with him will only occur in an environment that ensures I will be safe."

"With a police officer present, I should hope," Father says, utterly oblivious to the fact that, for these people (if they can even be called as such), physical stature means nothing. With the magic this woman has, there is every chance she could create a perfectly safe environment for herself against the tramp's son. Who knows what rules they play by? They certainly seem to have no issue in stripping a man's will and thought from him. Tom clutches his teacup harder, ignoring the way a few droplets slosh over the shaking sides to land on his knuckles. The pain grounds him, keeps him present as his mother engages the witch among them in polite conversation about the surrounding area and the peasants that live nearby.

Such is his disconnection from the conversation that he does not realise what is happening until it is already too late to escape. His father had departed to fetch a medical journal written by an ancestor and that is when his mother declares she just needs to speak with the aging gardener (soon it will be time to start looking into hiring a replacement, sometime in the next five or so years) about the rosebushes.

It leaves him to entertain the witch in woman's skin. His heart thunders with the thought but, scared as he is, he cannot bring himself to flee with the fear. Instead, he clutches the teacup closer, reassured with the knowledge the tea had come from Molly who is normal and sane, that the witch has not had a chance to get close to his drink and the haze shall not overcome him again.

"I hope I am not being too forward here," Sophia Lovegood (a relatively normal name, not like the wretch's had been) says kindly, placing her half empty cup upon its matching saucer, "but I just want to check if you are feeling fine."

"I beg your pardon?" It's out of his mouth and coloured with offence before he can think to halt it, to hold it close so he does not provoke this godless being before him. Her lips press together, puckering ever so slightly.

"You have the faintest tremble to your arms; you're flushed and your pupils are dilated. You are either undertaking a course of drugs or, given what I have uncovered from listening to local gossip and listening to Mr Gaunt's ravings yesterday, still riding out the after effects of a love potion." A love potion. In an outrageously ironic way, it makes sense. The haze, the fact he awoke married to the wretch he would otherwise have never thought to look at twice (other than to sneer at her overall existence that is)— it all makes sense. It's terrifying. A potion to induce love, to fool a person into believing the feel something they most certainly shouldn't, stripping them of their free-will, effectively entrapping them in a form of slavery—

"It leaves lingering after-effects in the non-magicals for years. You appear to be in the tail-end of it though. Another few months and it will have left your system entirely. If you would like to speed up the process, I could give you—"

"Get out." It's barely a whisper of a thing, spoken with the very last of the oxygen in his lungs but Tom cannot think of a time he has meant his words more, certainly not in the last three years (not since he declared he was leaving and the wretch'd had the nerve to look heart-broken, as if she hadn't stolen his very life from him) but, by God, does he mean them with every bit of worth to his soul.

Sophia Lovegood blinks, her head cocked ever so slightly to a side. Then, with a shallow nod, she rises to her feet.

He doesn't really register the way in which she leaves. It's only later when Mother corners him with questions of why on earth he would drive this one off (pretty, intelligent, driven, what in God's name was wrong with this one— she doesn't know there's devilry beneath that lovely façade) that he learns she'd caught his father at the door to make her excuses.

She'd left her mailing address to a small townhouse in Great Hangleton, stating she would appreciate any information they could offer in regards to the alteration with Morfin Gaunt. He knows for a fact Father will write to the woman advocating for shock therapy, potentially for lobotomy, as he's read psychiatric patients are treated in such a manner. That or a return to prison. But no, such a thing will not work on those with magic. If there was a cure for their madness, then they would not be in such a way, would they? Merope had been mad too, though in a different way to her tramp of a brother. Hers had been a less obvious madness, one fools might call innocent. But no, that madness, that belief that she loved him and he her— it had stolen Tom's life from him. Had torn it out from under his feet and left him coming to in the centre of London, in an apartment he only hazily recalls renting and with a wretch of a wife absurdly believing he could ever love her.

That he had managed to flee before she could enslave him again was a miracle in and of itself.

He doesn't burn the mailing address, but it is a close thing. Better to know where the danger lies than to not, isn't it? Not that he will be making plans to visit Great Hangleton any time soon now, knowing what lives there. The Gaunt tramps, at the least, do not venture far from their hovel and were carted off when they attacked him. It's their women that appear capable of getting away with their crimes, of not being tried as they should. He will have to be careful to sustain no injury, least he need treatment for it. They very thought of being unconscious and one of them being able to 'treat' him… Swallowing down the bile in his throat, Tom makes for the library again, pushing down all the thoughts and memories of Merope and the worries of this new one.

Well, that could have gone better, Sophia thinks as she brushes down her skirt. She’s wearing pale pink today. It complements the light blonde of her hair, Sophia knows that. She knows the cut of her dress highlights her slight figure, knows the way the thin silks swish around her calves is particularly nice, both to look at and to feel. The man whom had answered the door at Riddle Manor had certainly thought so, though he’s too old for her tastes. An extra lifetime of memories she may have, but she is still very much only nineteen.

With a low sign, Sophia sits herself down at a table in the only cafe in town (near enough a village in truth, but the population is just a little too big to call it as such) and plucks her éclair from the paper bag it had been contained within.

Already she’s dreading the next meeting with Morfin, scheduled two weeks from now. It’s far too soon but she only needs three of those meetings in order to send a comprehensive report back to Saint Mungo’s with her verdict. It hasn’t taken her more than one visit to come to her own conclusions. The man is clearly swaddled in his own delusions of grandeur, incapable of changing his thought processes without a dedicated therapist and a great deal of time. It is... saddening to see another human being in such a state but there is little Sophia can do about it at present. She’s doing as much as she can in truth, what with the recommendations she will pass on to Saint Mungo’s. In truth she wouldn’t be bothering with this if it weren’t for the fact she jolly well does plan on having children someday in the future. A future in which Voldemort will be running amok if she doesn’t take steps to stop it. She can hardly bring children into a world she knows to be dangerous, can she?

Option one has obviously been to adopt the boy herself. This, however, wouldn’t solve the potential of hating muggles, certainly not the issue of hating his blood for leaving him to rot in an orphanage. Ergo, her interactions with said blood.

On the Gaunt side of things, well, it’s not promising. Marvolo is dead and Morfin, well, he is in no fit state to keep a child fed, never mind actually raise one to become a functioning member of society. Even if by some miracle he could manage such a thing, the muggle hate would quite possibly be even worse. With the nearest living relative to those two being a sixth cousin in the Potter family (yes, the inbreeding had been that bad that the last time they looked outside of the family tree for another had been two centuries ago, probably only for the fact Isabella Potter had Peverell blood at that) the entire family is an utter write off.

Which leaves the Riddle side. Being Muggles themselves, there’d be no chance for the small Voldemort to grow up hating the majority of the world’s population though there’d be no escaping that snooty attitude Squire Riddle and his wife had exhibited today. But that is still not an ideal option and one only needs look to Tom Marvolo Riddle’s father to acknowledge why.

The man is terrified of magic.

Taking a bite of her pastry, Sophia chews thoughtfully, doing her best to ignore the two men who, upon noticing her, had descended into a quick discussion. Tom Riddle is still in the process of shaking off the love potion he has been dosed with; judging by the length of time it has been (three years since his return according to the town gossip) then it had to have been a good six to twelve months under the effects of Amortentia to still have such profound effects. Which doesn’t even begin to cover the level of psychological damage; mistrust of others, anxiety, depression, sense of helplessness, the list goes on. She’s only dealt with one witch placed under the potion in her year as a healer, but that had been enough. The lady had been under the potion for twelve hours and had been unable to stop crying, hyperventilated whenever a man entered the room, and wouldn’t drink anything she hadn’t prepared herself. Admittedly, the idea of becoming enslaved to another being, being coerced and violated in such a way is terrifying. To be held under its control for months... well, there’s a reason Sophia is already drafting her first document to lobby at Wizengamot, an attempt to get Amortentia bumped up the list to potions that come with jail time if used.

If Merope were alive, she’d be calling the aurors on her. Yes, Sophia feels sorry for the woman, it’s hard not to give what she has read in Morfin’s file. Regardless, she’d still stolen another’s autonomy and, as far as Sophia is concerned, it’s as bad as the imperius curse. Awful home-life and a heart-wrenching sob story; still committed a serious crime.

Ah, she has her work cut out for her here. Well, Baby Voldemort is just that at the moment, a baby. He’ll be, what, three by the end of December? If worse comes to worst and she makes no progress before he turns five, she’ll face the spellfire and adopt him herself. Hell, if needs must, she’ll date a few muggles and see if she can score him an adopted muggle father too. That’s Plan Z though. Ideally, she’ll make progress with Tom Sr who wants nothing to do with magic and he can take in the son he doesn’t believe he has right now. All in a day’s work, right?

Chapter Text

29.08.1929

Sophia comes out of her apparition a short walk from the Gaunt shack. Her wand is in hand and there is a subtle ‘notice-me-not’ charm cast upon her dress (periwinkle blue today with the heels enchanted to match) in order to keep prying muggle eyes away. Even with the loud pop of apparition, most will assume it is one of the odd-looking new motorcars that are slowly becoming the norm across the country. Straightening out her skirt, Sophia flicks the tail end of her left braid (a duo of French plaits today) back over one shoulder before she begins making her way to the shack.

It’s easy to tell when she crosses over onto Gaunt land; the aged wards wash over her skin, the grass is calf-length and unlikely to be trimmed before the end of the decade and rushed hisses echo out from behind the destitute door that is only just managing to fill the frame. There’s a new snake nailed to it too; the blood is fresh. How charming. Instead of knocking herself, Sophia gives a quick swish of her wand, a bell-like chime that imitate a doorbell ringing out from flexible willow. The hissing stops for a beat before picking up, just as quick and just as ominous. Footfalls on the other side of the threshold reach her ears and Sophia takes a moment once again to ensure she is presentable. It cracks open just as she’s fixing the lay of her collar.

“Healer,” Morfin grunts, one dark eye staring right at her, the other gazing off far into the distance. Unlike her previous visit, his hair is not matted flat to his head with dirt and does in fact look as if he has made an attempt at washing it. It’s still thick, tangled and long, but it looks cleaner than it had been previously. She silently adds a point to the ‘could be trained into a civil member of society’ column. In truth, her report on the man before her is a tally chart of ‘can or cannot’ with a long list of footnotes beneath it. Needless to say, it’s heavily weighted in one direction.

“Good morning, Mr Gaunt. I am here for your second mandatory check-in that all former prisoners of two or more years at Azkaban must attend. May I come in?”

“You a pureblood?”

Sophia does her best not to sigh, instead fixing a polite smile to her face as clasps her hands before her. “I am a Lovegood, Mr Morfin. We descend from Pythia, the Oracle of Apollo. Admittedly, we are branched from the Vablatsky family who can claim a more direct descendent—”

“You’re pure, I get it,” Morfin grunts, pushing open the door and gesturing for her to follow him inside. Given they had this exact same conservation during her last visit, Sophia doesn’t exactly have high hopes that the man before her has made much (if any at all) progress. She’s already scrubbed him from her list of potential guardians for baby Voldemort so now it is just a matter of deciding if the man should be added to the Ministry’s watch list or not.

“Right then—” Sophia makes for the table and pulls out the same chair that she occupied during her last visit. As soon as Morfin’s back is turned so he may better hiss at the snake quivering on the floor, Sophia flicks out a quick cleaning charm before she sits herself down. “—let us start with the basics. How are you feeling at present, Mr Gaunt?”

It continues onwards from that point, the usual questions of well-being, intent for the future, thoughts on current events; it is all standardised questions but the answers she is given are certainly not standardised at all. Sophia’s smile becomes more and more fixed upon her face as they progress through the interview, taking a slow sip of her bottle water as they work through her check-sheet. She had come prepared this time, given her last visit Morfin had not once thought to offer her drink. Sophia wouldn’t have trusted the water in that runs through these pipes (if there even are any pipes and not just tricky spell-work by a less inbred ancestor) even if he had.

Unfortunately, it would appear that Morfin is not yet done in making her feel as uncomfortable as she has ever been in her life.

When she’s making her way to the door, he actually gets up to walk with her to the threshold this time. The floorboards, rotten and mouldy and almost certainly held together by magic alone, creak beneath her slight weight. They outright groan beneath Morfin’s. Sophia stops at the doorframe. The copper tang of snake blood is stronger by the exit, a relieving summer’s breeze seeping through the many, many cracks in the wood.

“You’re pure,” Morfin mutters, the words stilted as they leave from between his lips and, in that moment, his eyes try to flick down to her hand (try being the operative word, given they are both incapable of focusing upon the same thing). He’s looking at her left hand— her ring finger.

“I’m afraid I must be going,” Sophia states, taking a hasty step back and bodily pushing her way out of the shack. “I have other patients to see.” Not today; her next shift at the local hospital is tomorrow but what Morfin doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Her smile no doubt looks pained; it certainly feels it.

She doesn’t stop walking until she has hit the main road of the town. It is quite lucky that Little Hangleton lies almost directly between York and Hull; it means that the Hull to York line cuts neatly through the field to the southern side of the town and someone had been kind enough to plant a little railway station there (nothing more than a platform in truth). Regardless of their reasoning (though it is quite possible that an ancestor of the Riddle family had thrown the family wealth around for the convivences of having the line run right along the outskirts of his land), it does mean Sophia can enjoy a ride back to Greater Hangleton as opposed to apparition. That is not to say she does not like the instantaneous transport provided by literally teleporting to a different part of the country (especially when one has memories of a life lived as a muggle), but she could do without the queasy stomach when the dinner hour is so close.

The last of the market stalls are starting to pack up for the day but the middle-aged couple at the fruit stall aren’t as far along as everyone else; Sophia stops for a particularly red-looking apple, handing over the pennies required to purchase it. That is another thing she has a problem with; the ratio of pounds to shillings to pennies. True, the wizarding world is no better with the knuts, sickles and galleons (if not worse, given their ratios are not a product of ten) but, by god, does Sophia long for the simplicity of a hundred pennies in a pound. Still, she’s not incompetent so it is with little difficult that, upon arriving at the station, she purchases a ticket.

The station of Little Hangleton is open to the elements with no cover, not that this is an issue on this fine day. More than one woman is eyeing her footwear with blatant curiosity upon her features; understandable. The stiletto won’t be accessible to muggles until some clever clogs comes up with it (that or an entrepreneur squib or muggleborn take it over to the muggle world) and even then, it won’t have the comfort charms cast upon it. The weight distribution charms that ensure she doesn’t sink the thin heels into the mud are a blessing.

A half hour passes as she waits for the arriving train. The sky is a clear, mirror blue and there’s only the slightest hints of a breeze now, the last month of the summer making itself known in the baking sun and the sweet scent of flowers that bloom with it. Usually, if she’d been planning on taking the train anywhere at all, she’d have brought a book along in the little side bag she has thrown over her shoulder. There’s always more studying to be done when one is a healer. However, she hadn’t thought to do so. Consequently, she does not have her head buried nose first in a book when the train pulls up with a roar of clear white steam. It means she is not engrossed in the written word, lost completely to the world with only a vague grasp of what is occurring around her, when Tom Riddle Sr steps out of a buttercup cream carriage.

It had been uncomfortable, making the journey to York, even if it were to inspect the new horseflesh on sale at the market on Parliament Street. True, he had gone to meet with the best breeders in Yorkshire there once he had turned eighteen but— well, needless to say, it is another thing that wretch had ruined. Today had been the first time he had managed to bring himself to travel. The buckskin stallion that Henry Robson had written to him about had truly been a magnificent purchase, well worth the train journey across a good patch of the countryside. Here he stands upon the less than grand train station of Little Hangleton (well, he has just come from York and its grand station but, given it is a city, he supposes it has to be an impressive building) and there is dread clogging his throat.

The witch is here.

She stands out from the commoners of Little Hangleton, what with her lightly coloured clothes that are of a similar vibrancy to her hair; pastel and pale. The shoes, exactly the same as those he saw her in the previous week barring the petal blue colouring, add near a half foot to her height, which would leave her at near eye level with him, should he be stupid enough to get close to her.

Unfortunately, she seems just as capable of spotting him as he her; Miss Sophia Lovegood (a doctor form Great Hangleton and one of those cursed beings capable of witchcraft) lifts one hand to give him the smallest twitch of a wave he has ever seen from a woman, from anyone ever in fact.

Again, the familiar terror that three years ago had frozen every muscle within his body upon waking from a nightmare grips him tight (a memory of that woman and her mephistophelian ways as she had proclaimed herself in love with him while she stripped every bit of self-awareness he had right down to his very bones). She’d spoken of a love potion, hadn’t she? She knows of them, is probably capable of enchanting him just like the Gaunt tramp had done.

Only, this one isn’t like the tramp, is she? She has a job, has a genuine house— he knows, he sent Henry (the butler not the horse salesman) to check. The townhouse is reportedly old and a little run down, but the woman lives alone and there is no man on record, not her father or a husband. Admittedly, she is a little young for the latter but how is Tom supposed to know how those kinds of people live? The tramp’d seen no issues with marrying— however young she did. Gods, he still fears she will turn up any day with a marriage certificate in hand and he shall be ruined in the eyes of all, that it will become more than rumours and lessen him for it.

Yet, just because there are differences, that does not detract from what Lovegood is— just as dangerous as Gaunt has proven to be. By God, he cannot get rid of the woman; these people clearly have little care for money (one need only look to the tramp Gaunt to know that) and the doctors of Great Hangleton will just think him slipping into madness if he tries to force them into getting rid of the pretty female doctor with bribes.

“Look; she knows the Riddle Heir.” He’s not quite sure which woman the whisper comes from, but the snide remark already lingers in his brain, pressing down hard behind his eyes in a way that makes blinking vastly uncomfortable. What should he care what the commoners of the village, of the surrounding villages, think of him? He hadn’t before; they had all been beneath him.

The Gaunts had been beneath him— he’d laughed and mocked them. The wretch had ruined his life more thoroughly than anything he could have ever predicted.

“Goodness knows the poor woman should be warned about him— she won’t have heard what happened yet, will she?” He can feel the spiderlike fingers upon his chest, can picture the brittle wrists of the woman who had ensnared him with black magic and ruined him for the whole world, who had sunk her claws into his mind viciously enough that it presses hard against the very edges of his skull now. It has been three years and he is getting better; this alone goes to show what a state he had been in upon tearing himself from the tramp’s side in order to return home. He hadn’t even been fit company for his mother for weeks upon weeks.

“Money talks, Marie. She’s supposed to be highly educated; I’m sure she’ll know better than to get entangled in the Riddle mess.” At this point, Tom finally draws up enough of his weakened courage to look to the two women, tipping his head back to better peer down the aristocratic length of his nose at them. It’s an easy gesture, so well worn that it fits across his features as his favourite coat does his shoulders. The two women stiffen, their cheeks flushing upon being caught gossiping as they hurry away.

When he returns his gaze to the iron-wrought bench the woman had been sitting up, Tom’s startled to realise she’s gone. He turns, panic flaring in his chest to pound against the cage of his ribs, for if he does not know where she is, he cannot— but no. She is climbing aboard the train, the click of her odd heels crisp against the metal grating. Her hair, the colour of champagne, is tied in twin plaited tails, coming to rest just at the bottom of her shoulder blades. Sophia Lovegood boards the train and does not look back to check he is still there.

But he is still there, still watching her until the carriage has pulled out of the station.

Chapter Text

06.09.1929

“Ah! Squire Riddle!”

The first cool hint of the autumn to come has descended upon them now, brushing across the earth scorched by the summer’s sun. Still, it remains too hot to entertain the idea of a jacket at any time barring the dead of night. As such, Tom Riddle wears a crisp white shirt as he follows after his father, his tie not quite as tightly drawn as it would be had the summer’s sun not crisped the earth so thoroughly. Regardless, he is dressed as is appropriate for one of his stature, walking in step with his father as they enter into the one restaurant in Great Hangleton that is worth the trip. The venison steak is always cooked to perfection.

“Doctor Bones, however did you escape the hospital in times such as these?”

Doctor Oliver Bones has been the family doctor longer than Tom has been alive; the man pushed past seventy mid-way through this decade and had been the one to fix the broken arm Tom’s first horse-riding session had graced him with at the tender age of seven.

“Please,” the man huffs with a smile, grey moustache twitching as he smooths down the salt-pepper curls of his hair, “the summer season is our quiet time. It’s winter when the flu is among us. Just glad that Spanish Influenza has passed us on now.” Both Tom and his father nod, though Tom has only the vaguest memories of the plague that had swept across the world in the wake of the Great War. Of course, he’d been too young to comprehend the significance of his father leaving for war, even if he were to be one of the war generals calling the shots. At the time, it had simply been what was to be expected; his father, a squire with land of his own, would of course not be risked in battle. It is only now with the knowledge of hindsight that he understands just how lucky his father had been to not be called into the trenches like so many others. As for the influenza, well another bout of luck. The disease had never made it to Great Hangleton, nor to its smaller neighbour of Little Hangleton.

“Dreadful stuff,” Father agrees with a frown, inspecting his pocket watch for a moment before retuning his gaze to Doctor Bones. “And what brings you to The Rose, Doctor Bones? If I recall, you much prefer the comforts of your wife’s cooking.”

“If you had the delights of my wife’s cooking to brighten your day, Squire Riddle, you’d understand why I favour my home dinners to those served within a restaurant. But no, I’m here to treat my new apprentice to lunch. I assume that’s why you’ve brought young Tom here along?”

At the address, Tom lets his gaze linger on Doctor Bones for a moment before he turns his attention to the interior of The Rose. It’s been redecorated since the last time he was here six months prior, funded by the mass profits the place reels in. When you are the only restaurant in town that caters to the rich and wealthy, one is going to turn a tidy little profit. It’s why the Riddle family has had shares in the building for the last two decades. One grand chandelier resides within the centre of the room, thousands of carefully crafting glass teardrops throwing light across the room in every direction. The soft furnishings have all been reupholstered with a more muted, modern pattern, though the oak tables remain as glisteningly polished as ever.

“Yes, I do so adore Mary but it is wise for a man to spend time with his heir. Regardless, that bonding time can wait until a later date. Why don’t you share the local news with us, Doctor Bones?”

“Of course, Squire Riddle, of course.”

They are all seated at a pre-booked table at the back of the restaurant, away from the rabble that resides at the front. Here, the music from the gramophone lingers lazily at the edge of their subconscious as they speak, covering the supplies the hospital has begun gathering for the approaching flu season, the latest developments in real-estate within Great Hangleton, along with the Local Government Act attempting to clear out the workhouse in York in order to make way for municipal hospitals. What on earth they plan to do with all the poor (the elderly and the sick) that have taken refuge within that building, Tom does not know nor does he particularly care.  Besides, it is in York— hardly his problem.

The waiter, a man in his thirties who is unfortunate enough to be balding prematurely places two glasses of wine upon the table for Tom and his father, and then an additional two filled with water are lined up before Doctor Bones and the as of yet empty seat.

“Our shift begins in three hours,” the doctor says in ways of explanation, swatting a hand carelessly through the air. “Poor form to be inebriated on the job.”

“Isn’t it just?” The voice is female and perfectly capable of flipping Tom’s stomach with the efficiency of a defective wheel derailing a train.

Sophia Lovegood circles around the table on his father’s side, looping the handle of a decorative handbag around the edge of her chair before she takes a seat at the table. Of course, the only recent apprentice that the hospital has taken on was one of them.

“Miss Lovegood, what a pleasure to see you again.”

“Ah! So you’ve met already?” Doctor Bones chimes, a wide grin upon his face as he turns a smile, beaming and proud, upon the unnatural woman who is apparently joining them for lunch. Tom’s appetite has long since left him, fled into the rolling greenery that the back of The Rose looks out upon. “Miss Lovegood’s grandfather and I were childhood friends; we continued corresponding with one another even after I had set off into the world, determined to make something more of myself than what my family would have ever expected. When he wrote to say his dear granddaughter was striving towards a profession in the medical field, I simply had to extend the offer.”

Doctor Bones associates with their kind. There’s an uncomfortable tightness in his chest, the kind that’d have him heaving breaths he couldn’t keep in his chest no matter how he tried if only it weren’t for the fact they’re in public. He has to keep a lid on it, has to prevent the hysteria from showing because he is not mad. He has not lost his wits; he is not a lunatic and he does not need to see any more doctors. Doctor Bones himself said so, made it abundantly clear to his parents it was nothing good rest couldn’t solve. It’s been three years since that diagnosis but he has made progress. Tom does not need to see another doctor.

The fork in his grasp is cold, the prawn cocktail beautifully presented within its glass confines and he cannot focus upon the food, cannot allow himself to get lost in the fond memories of this building and its produce because there is a creature at this table that is not human. No matter how she winces as the heat of her soup graces her lips. The startled hiss has him glancing up sharply (too used to the tramp and his insane sounds, the hazy memory of the wretch by the windowsill hissing to something before she turns to him and the whole world goes fuzzy because she is looking at him) but Sophia Lovegood is just patting at her mouth with a napkin.

“I don’t know why I didn’t expect it to be scalding,” she says with a sigh, a flustered little smile on her painted pale lips and Tom’s father laughs. He doesn’t know they’re sitting up to a table sit with an enchantress, one who can steal your senses and plant emotions that have no right to grow in the cavity of your breastbone until they seem a garden as opposed to the tangle of weeds that they truly are. He doesn’t know and so Tom forces himself to remain in place, to keep his wits about him. The wretch had lured him in with an offer of a drink; who knows what this woman will try to do to them if they are not paying attention to the food served to them?

From there, the dinner passes by like a blur; Tom has only the vaguest understanding of what is discussed (something inane related to hospital affairs or the current expectations of health care) because his eyes are almost constantly upon his food. Not once does the woman make any move towards the dishes, though that means little to Tom. Does she have to even touch it to enchant it? He spent so much time under a haze, draped in faux contentment that he had never thought to pay attention; it hadn’t been necessary at the time. Probably because that is what the witch had wanted him to think. Sophia Lovegood chatters with his father as if she’s just a regular human, all quick wit and careful observations she’s made while working at the hospital.

“Yes, we went to Cornwall when Tom here had just turned ten, didn’t we, son?” his father muses, a twinkle to his eyes as he casts his mind back, no doubt recalling the quaint little seaside cottage they’d stayed at, secluded away from the riffraff with their own stretch of beach to explore. Tom remembers it fondly, the expanse of sand between his toes, the spray of sea salt upon his cheeks; it’s one of his clearer memories before his father had been thoroughly packed off for war. “I must admit, I didn’t realise you hailed as far South as that.”

“Yes, I am about as southern as they come, I’m afraid,” she says with a smile, a small helping of pudding passing between her lips so that she may chew thoughtfully. She is the only one yet to finish eating, a spoonful or two of desert left within her bowl. Tom isn’t entirely sure how he has managed to force down as much of his dinner as he has. “My parents have paid little thought to moving and I know my little brother is already planning exactly where he will build his own home; probably three fields left of the family home if he gets his way.”

How in God’s green earth is he to manage when this woman lives so very close to his home, interacts so very seamlessly with his family? He cannot afford to get ill or injured now, not with the woman working as an apprentice to the family doctor. Doctor Bones is a good man and no doubt wouldn’t hesitate to offer the woman a chance to apply herself on his patients, probably out of an assumption that she will do a good job. Does the good doctor know what creature he spends his time with? No, surely he cannot, otherwise he would have believed Tom when he stated the Gaunt tramp had enchanted him. He is turning his mind around in endless loops, circling the key issues but never drawing closer to a conclusion. How can he possibly manage to remain free of the witchcraft this woman can wield for the duration of her stay here? The ghost of the woman who entrapped him has only made that all too clear. He is defenceless in the face of this power; it is not something he can throw money at to solve, it is not something his family’s influence can see banished. What can he do?

“—look after her, won’t you, Tom?” Tom blinks back into the present, eyes flicking his eyes up to his father. He has a cigar in hand, Doctor Bones beside him and both with clear intentions of retiring to the smoking room for a short period. Leaving him with—

“I wouldn’t stop Tom from discussing politics with you, Mr Riddle.”

“Do not be so absurd, Miss Lovegood. It wouldn’t be proper to leave a young woman alone to finish her tea.” And with that, Father left. Stranded in the wake of his father meandering away through the tables, Tom forcibly unclenches his jaw; it wouldn’t do him well to be gritting his teeth so hard he ground them down. He cannot afford an episode here, cannot afford to appear anything less than perfect in such an establishment; he has brought enough shame upon his family by being unable to resist a witch’s ways once already. So instead of retreating as he wishes to, Tom instead remains in his seat as Sophia drops two sugar lumps into her tea, the light chimes of metal spoon on china echoing in the silent space between them.

“I do mean it,” Sophia says quietly, tapping the teaspoon against the cup’s brim before she sets it down upon the saucers. She cradles the cup between both hands for a moment, thin fingers of her right curled around the handle, the palm of her left cupping the curve of the china. “That you can leave me at the table here. I’d hardly be offended.”

“It wouldn’t be proper,” Tom states plainly, having to unclench his jaw in order to allow the words to pass through unhindered. The witch stares at him for another moment with those cornflower blue eyes, her head tilted ever so slightly down so that the thick bracket of her eyelashes shade the uppermost curve of her irises. Then, she takes a slow sip of her tea, delicately placing the cup back upon its saucer afterwards.

“Doctor Bones cannot perform magic,” the woman says after a moment, startling Tom so badly that he ends up jolting his own cup that he had just been in the process of picking up. Only the smallest amount of coffee leaks over the rim to fall to the saucer beneath, dark puddles of shame blatantly declaring just how very badly the woman had startled him with her sudden choice of topic. Already he can feel the lump forming in his throat but he pushes onwards. They’re in the middle of a restaurant, his father has just seen him and it will abundantly obvious if his behaviour changes within the twenty to thirty minutes that he has been left alone with the woman. “He was born to a magical family, but he doesn’t have any himself. My grandfather was his playmate until they realised he couldn’t perform magic.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sophia Lovegood blinks, cup before her chin and prevented from taking a sip by his sudden, harsh question. She worries her lower lip between the straight white lines of her teeth, the pale pink stain to the flesh remaining despite the food and drink she has consumed. Perhaps another element of magic at play.

“You looked concerned by the fact we know one another.”

The tense line of Tom Riddle’s shoulders do not relax and Sophia tries her best to not grimace. This blatant aversion to magic, while expected, in not a good sign. Not for her plans to ensure Tom Riddle Jr a home in which he would grow up loved, if somewhat spoilt. Tom Riddle can barely bring himself to remain at the table with her. When faced with the child Merope has born him, a reminder that cannot be more obvious of the woman who had enslaved him… it doesn’t look good. Sophia takes another sip of her tea, mulling over the words that she wants to explain against the confessions that her senior has entrusted her with. How is she supposed to admit to Tom that his family doctor was well aware the girl he ran away with was magical from the start, but had just assumed Tom had fallen for her because she was better than he was? Even though Oliver Bones had been… encouraged to leave his family upon the realisation he was a squib, he’d still be raised in a pureblood family which came with the assumption that those capable of magic were superior to those who were muggles. How is she supposed to explain the good doctor had assumed Tom had fallen in love with Merope because of what she could do and never questioned it, not until he’d come back with tales that sounded painfully akin to love potions? She very well can’t in truth.

“Are you well, Mr Riddle?” Sophia finally asks, deciding to just leave the conversation there. If Tom decides he wishes to continue down that vein of thought, then perhaps she will share that, alongside Doctor Bones’ riddled guilt complex over his assumptions. But, for now, they will simply leave it all well enough alone. It’s probably for the best.

“Of course,” he snaps, a sneer crossing his far too pretty face before he reels it back in, eyes sweeping out and around the crowd, though for what reason, Sophia can only begin to guess. Because he doesn’t want anyone to witness an outburst? To avoid an unsavoury reputation? To prevent this dinner feeding the whispers that she has already heard circulating Little Hangleton?

“I’m glad to hear it.” Sophia takes the last of her tea in three large gulps, the liquid scorching the back of her throat. “And, though I doubt you will feel the need to take me up on this offer, please be aware I am here to answer any questions you may have.” Rising to her feet, Sophia collects her bag, placing two notes upon the table to pay for her portion of the meal they have just dined upon. “Should Doctor Bones ask, please let him know that I have popped home to get ready for my shift at the hospital. Have a nice day, Mr Riddle.” The man remains sitting within his chair, though his dark eyes follow her all the way to the door, as if checking to ensure she is actually leaving as she says she is.

Sophia drawing a deep breath between her teeth, stepping outside into the late summer’s sunshine. It’s only more evidence that those who have been subjected to a love potion require some form of therapy, genuine therapy, not the bastardised variation the muggles currently have going on. Not to say that the magical side of things are any further on in that respect but still. Tapping her forefinger against her bag for but a moment, Sophia shakes her head and turns on heel to begin walking down the street. She didn’t lie; she does have a shift to get ready for.

Chapter Text

21.09.1929

There is a sharp knocking at her door.

Peeling her head from the palm of her hand and stripping the quill from the grasp of the other, Sophia blinks a handful of times and peers out of the window. It does her no good; she’s facing the terribly small courtyard that the townhouse boasts and cannot afford to enhance with magic, least her neighbours grow suspicious of the sudden flora that has appeared where there was previously only man-made ground. With a sigh, she removes herself from the desk, snatching up her doctor’s overcoat as she makes for the door. Just in case it is an emergency— she doubts they will care too much for the breezy summer dress she wears. It’s a Lanvin garment, though the significance of that will probably be lost upon her peers at the hospital. Not to say the muggle men treat her like she is one of them, but the thought of it counts, does it not? It has nothing to do with her magic and everything to do with her gender; at least that is something Doctor Bones did not lose when he left the Wizarding World to make something of himself. Over a thousand female doctors there may be in England, but they are still vastly outnumbered.

The floorboards do not creak beneath her feet, charmed into silence, the muffled slap of her slippers the only sound as she approaches the front door. A quick flick of her wand (drawn from the bun that rests atop her head) has the wood turning transparent from her side alone, only for as long as it takes for her to get a quick glimpse of who is visiting and still instantly knocking at her door. The sight of Tom Riddle Sr, face, neck and hands covered in hives, is enough to jolt her into pulling the door open. There’s a rather fetching car parked hazardously in front of her home; clearly the vehicle in which Tom Riddle has travelled from Little Hangleton to Great Hangleton. Given his impatience, it’s a miracle there’s nothing squashed flat against the bonnet.

“Miss Lovegood— the tramp—” he cuts himself off with a hiss, clearly uncomfortable both with discussing whatever incident has just occurred now and the fact he has, against all odds, turned up on her doorstep in what may very well be a request for aid. It’s understandable, both the hesitancy and the discomfort.

“Would you like me to see to you in your car, or in my house?” Would he like to be seen to in the comforts of a car he owns but in full view of any passer-by, or in the unfamiliarity of her home that would preventing anyone from viewing his current ailment is the true question. From the way the skin that surrounds his eyes tightens, lips pressing into a firm scowl, Tom Riddle knows it too.

“House,” he says, looking dearly as if he wishes to say otherwise. The couple making their way down the street (middle-aged, they live two doors over and had clucked their tongue at the fact Sophia was living alone) push him into making the choice. Stepping back and away from the door, Sophia gestures for the muggle to make his way inside, one hand rising to ensure that her wand remains tucked tidily into the messy bun atop her head; let it appear harmless and out of the way. Besides, she highly doubts Tom will willingly wander around a house inhabited by a witch; even if he does, he’s already aware of magic due to his should-never-have-happened marriage. If he sees her brewing station upstairs, the tomes of magic and all of the herbs, well, the Ministry cannot come down on her head for it.

“I can take a look at you in the living room of kitchen, whichever you feel comfortable in,” Sophia says, closing the door but not sealing the latch; Tom’s dark eyes sit heavy upon her shoulders as she shuts the door and Sophia turns to face him. She keeps her face calm, even though she itches to take hold of her wand and fix the harsh redness that has engulfed her face. She won’t be making her final assessment of Morfin Gaunt now, will she? No, this will need reporting to the aurors once she has cured Tom’s ailment. “The kitchen is through the back, the living room the first door on your right.”

There’s no cauldron over the fireplace. Tom focuses on that, focuses on the blatantly normal objects placed around the living room with not a strange plant, abnormal spell book or obscure creature to be found. Sophia Lovegood’s living room looks exactly as he would imagine a receiving room of a middle-class home; tasteful couches in a muted tone, a gramophone in one corner, a bookcase in the other. It’s far from filled, only one of the five shelves completed and, if he were to guess, he’d assume the books to all be medical based given the outward facing spines.

He shouldn’t have gone riding so close to the shack, shouldn’t have pushed his luck. But, in that respect, why shouldn’t he? He shouldn’t have to live in fear, shouldn’t have to avoid a specific area of his own hometown in order to avoid being, being— whatever this is! The skin of his hands is an off-putting red, not even consistent but instead a series of blotchy patches in a variety of shades. It’s also hellishly itchy, near unbearable. It’s the only reason he had even thought to come here, to the home of the only other magical being he knows. Perhaps it this will be the next mistake, perhaps the town will soon be whispering about how he has run off with another girl, only this time it will be somewhat believable because she’s relatively pretty (not as pretty as Cecilia was last he saw her), highly intelligent and must come from some kind of money. He’s done his best to prepare for that, has left his father a note insisting he be retrieved if he has not returned by night-fall no matter what he may say later in the day to dissuade him. This may be another colossal error—

“And, though I doubt you will feel the need to take me up on this offer, please be aware I am here to answer any questions you may have.”

—but she had offered to answer questions. Surely that will extend to correcting whatever devilry the Gaunt tramp has inflicted him with.

Sophia Lovegood walks into the room, placing two glasses of water upon her coffee-table, followed by a glass jug within which the water is held. She then pours herself a glass, drinks a mouthful, and then places the tumbler back under the top. So, it is either safe to drink, or the witch is immune to her own magics. One or the other and Tom doesn’t know, cannot assume to know the truth. He is perhaps already risking everything he has managed to build back up in the wake of the wretch as it is.

“I can remove the hives through a potion or through spellwork, whichever you would prefer,” Miss Lovegood says, seating herself on the opposing couch, so that the coffee-table resides in the no-man’s-land between them. His fingers dance across the back of one hand without his consent, attempting to arrest the itch that is prevalent there; it feels as if there are hundreds more across his body to be treated.

“What assurances do I have that is all you will do?” This is ridiculous, he is already well aware of just how powerless he is in the face of what a witch is capable of. But the last time he had broken out in hives (it had never happened prior to that, Tom had never had poor skin just like every one of his ancestors before him), it had taken weeks to leave. He’s starting to suspect the cause of those hives is the very same as what has happened this time.

“None, I suppose,” Sophia muses, plucking a thin stick from the terribly untidy bun upon her head to place it on the table. “That is my wand; without it, there is very, very little magic I can perform on someone. If you would like, I can treat you by potion and, if you feel there is any wrong-doing, you may snap it. The loss of a wand renders most witches and wizards useless.” Perhaps he should be ashamed of how desperately he reaches for the foot-long wood; maybe looking back on it one day he will be. But in this moment, he can only feel a sense of sweeping relief, holding this weapon in his hand. It seems so breakable between his fingers, nothing more than a piece of polished wood. Willow, from the looks of it and relatively flexible.

“It’s just a stick.”

“In your hands—” Sophia stands, brushing down the skirts of her dress. She has shed the doctor’s coat she answered the door in, leaving it folded over the back of the couch she had been sitting upon. “—it is. Magic is something that comes from the witch and wizard, the wand is just a conduct. Admittedly, it is incredibly difficult to perform magic without the wand, though there have been known cases of adult wizards performing it under dire circumstances. Excuse me, I will be right back with the potion.”

She leaves through the door and the sound of her footsteps upon the stairs soon reaches him. She truly has left him alone in her house, holding the very thing that gives her access to her magic. The Gaunt tramp’d been armed with one earlier, hissing and spitting as he’d waved it in his direction, hadn’t he? Tom frowns, free hand rising to his neck to drag his nails back and forth across the skin there, intolerably itchy. The thought of drinking a potion, of consuming something prepared by a witch is making his stomach bubble, innards turning over with nerves. What if this is all an act? What if she plans to ensnare him also? What if—

“I can drink a sample first, if you would like?” Sophia Lovegood stands in the threshold of the room, one of her pale hand wrapped around the neck of a long, violet coloured bottle. It is not dissimilar to a champagne flute, only with a thinner neck that is corked; the potion itself is even of a similar colour to the alcohol his mother favours. Tom gives a short, sharp nod in response, watching the woman lift her brows in return at the very rude agreement. Tom scratches at the side of his neck again. “It won’t show any visible signs of working on me as I do not have hives,” Sophia says, uncorking the vial to reveal that it is instead a thin measuring cup, which she then uses to pour a mouthful of the potion into. She drinks it without hesitation.

Something in Tom relaxes as the woman’s eyes do not become misty, do not haze over and she does not zone out from reality. There is no smile upon her face that showcases everything is right with the world when it most certainly is not. When Tom takes measuring cup from Sophia’s outstretched hand, his own portion of the potion poured into its confines, the scent is nothing at all like the hazy memories; the aroma of Cecilia perfume and queen’s pudding. Instead, this one smells sharp and altogether unpleasant. It can be said that no medicine tastes particularly pleasant and, with a huff, Tom downs the little cap. While the taste is disgusting, it has the same consistency as champagne, including the bubbles that sizzling across his tongue. He recalls nothing of the sort with Merope. Silently handing the cap back to Sophia, Tom watches as she places the cork-like measuring tool back into the neck of the bottle, seating herself once again. She takes another sip of water and Tom pours himself one out also, taking a subtle sniff. Again, there is no enticingly delicious scent so he assumes it safe to drink. It tastes as water does, of nothing in particular.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking what happened? Attacks upon muggles, that is to say those without magic, are very much illegal. I will need to make a report to our equivalent of the police who will deal with the perpetrator.”

“It was the Gaunt tramp,” Tom spits out with a scowl, hand clenching around the half-empty glass in his grasp. The surface is cool against his palm, not enough to inspire beads of condensation to descend down the sides, but pleasantly chilled in this lingering summer heat. With any luck, it shan’t be long until autumn is finally upon them; he has had quite enough of this dreadful warmth. In his other hand, the wand rests against his palm, distinctly unfamiliar. He twirls it about in his fingers until it is between them in much the same manner he would hold a fountain pen. Pincer grip with forefinger and thumb. Certainly, he doesn’t miss how very nervous Sophia has grown when he began moving the piece of polished willow about.

“I can’t say this surprises me.”

“What will happen now?” Tom asks, eyeing the redness upon the back of his hand. Already the vivid tones are beginning to seep out, slowly being replaced with the usual pale flush. Without question, the desire to itch is subsiding. She didn’t lie; the potion has begun healing the hives. Something within the core of his chest relaxes, uncoiling from the tight brace it’d wound itself up into.

“Morfin Gaunt will be arrested for using magic upon a muggle,” Sophia states, placing the glass she’d been nursing between her palms upon the coffee table again; it’s empty. “Depending upon his reaction to the aurors taking him in for questioning— should he resist arrest as he did last time, he’ll be looking at another handful of years in Azkaban given this will be a repeat offense. Usually, attacks upon a muggle, depending on the severity of the situation, can be anywhere between three months to two years in our prison. However, the last time he was requested to attend a hearing, Mr Gaunt attacked the member of the government who had come to make him aware of this; that landed him three year for what, by our laws, should only have been six months at most.”

Six months for magical assault. They have their own laws and it is illegal to attack a muggle, someone without magic. Then— then what Merope did to him, would that constitute as an attack? Is she in prison now? It would explain why the wretch has yet to track him down but, if it is only two years at most, would she not already be out by now? Unless she had resisted arrest as her brother had done?

“From there—” Sophia continues, lifting one leg to cross over her knee; it exposes the smooth length of her calf, the pastel tones of her skirt shifting around the limb. “—I will probably make a statement to our law enforcement, called aurors, about Morfin Gaunts mental health, his history both as a wizard and within the village, and then that will be used as evidence in court. I will, of course, tell the truth. I cannot imagine he will be in Little Hangleton for a good few months to bother you, Mr Riddle.”

“That’s good.” It comes out clipped, sharp and short on his tongue but it’s the truth. To not have that tramp stinking up the village within that shack, to be able to ride by the hovel and not see a new breed of snake nailed to the door will be a delight.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Tom shakes his head in response to her question, worrying the willow between his fingers again. If he hands it back to her, he will be placing a weapon, will be placing control into the woman’s hands. He doesn’t want to do that anymore than he wishes to hold onto the stick. He doesn’t want it, does not wish to keep hold of it, wishes he did not need to do so in order to feel some semblance of safety.

“I will leave your wand by the door.”

“Or I could leave the room first, you can place it on the coffee table, and I will see you out the door before I retrieve it?” Sophia offers instead, a small smile lifting the corners of her mouth. He doesn’t like the sheen of sadness that has overtaken the blue of her eyes; the way she smiles at him isn’t the expression he’s used to. Before the wretch, when he had been in his prime and all had known it, women of all classes had sighed wistfully after him as he passed by; Cecilia had flaunted herself upon his arm. Now, others watch him go by and tut, as if the madness his life has descended into is all the fault of his face. Sophia Lovegood looks at him with a pity in her eyes that is nought to do with his supposed madness, for she knows he is not taken by lunacy. No, for some incomprehensible reason, she seems to think him worthy of pity simply for being targeted by magicals like her. It’s deplorable.

Tom makes for the door, adjusting the knots of his tie so that it no longer presses the collar of his oxford shirt so harshly against his neck. He leaves the willow wand upon the coffee table as Sophia as requested only after she has stepped out into the hallway, the soft slap of her slippers a staggering difference to the three other times they have been in one another’s company. It is the first time he has seen her without those dangerous looking shoes, reducing her height by near half a foot. Are witches also a slave to what nature intends of them when it comes to height? Certainly, that must be the case with their physical appearance; he highly doubts the Gaunt tramps would look as such if they could change it.

“I would recommend avoiding a ride through the countryside for the next day or so, Mr Riddle,” Sophia says once he has stepped out onto the porch of her home, the late summer’s sun already starting to claw at that back of his neck. The itch had totally receded now, his palms no longer sporting the acidic red they had upon his arrival. He has parked the motorcar atrociously. What a relief that no one on this street is of any importance, barring the woman before him. “Just in case.”

“Thank you, for the treatment.” It grates, expressing his thanks to the woman who has not healed his ailment with medicine and science but instead, witchcraft and devilry.

“Drive safe, Mr Riddle. I hope you have a pleasant night.”

Chapter Text

23.09.1929

It is raining the day the witch-police force (a thing he had not quite believed to exist prior to seeing them appear out of nowhere before him in the field over) arrive. Tom has the Humber parked at the pinnacle of the hill adjacent to his own dwelling, situated in such a way that he can peer all the way down to the hovel where the Gaunt tramp lives while sheltered behind roadside bushes that are getting rather out of hand. He shall have to inform his father that he needs to have a word with the residents, they cannot allow the main road into the village to become untidy after all. Drawing a hand down the side of his face (skin still perfectly normal, Sophia’s treatment has worked faultlessly with no relapses at all; it is as if he has never suffered hives), Tom leans one elbow on the car window, hand cradling his head. Outside, the rain is not particularly heavy, nothing more than a light shower. The droplets barely even bounce as they hit the bonnet of the Humber, puddling instead upon the cream metalwork prior to sliding off of the sides.

It has been two days since he was cursed with magic, two days since he went to Sophia Lovegood asking for assistance. It cannot be denied that she did provide him with such; his ills are healed, the hives banished by the potion she presented him with. However, it is only now, near twenty four hours later that they have come for Morfin Gaunt. It is only now that Tom gets to witness some retribution for the discomfort, pain and irritation this irrational man set upon him. If he can truly be called a man, what with the way he hisses at snakes more than he talks to his neighbours. Were it anything else, perhaps Tom would have preferred to see justice be done within a court room setting. This, however, is a culture of people who use magic, who have the capabilities to enslave others with but an enticing drink, suckering them into a haze of delight from which they don’t wish to return, do not even think to question the presence of.

The witch police force approach the Gaunt shack cautiously, as if they are well aware of the kind of beast that lives within. They should be though, shouldn’t they? Sophia Lovegood had stated that Gaunt had attacked the last people to come and arrest him, hadn’t she? Perhaps that is what will happen here today, perhaps he is about to see this fearsome power of magic used in a whole knew way. The very thought chills him, has shivers running up his spine. His fingers grip tight to the steering wheel, the leather creaking beneath the pressure. The rain continues to patter against the metalwork, creating a soundtrack to the event that is happening before him. It’s just as well, given he’s much too far away to be able to hear whatever it is that is being exchanged between the witch police. Not that he would want to be in hearing distance of any of them, in truth.

Shockingly enough, the witch police force gives Gaunt no time to react upon opening the door go his hovel, one of them streaking forwards and there’s a jet of coloured light, presumably from a wand alike the whin-thin wood Sophia Lovegood had shown him the previous day. The tramp drops; Tom assumes he’s hit the floor but, without getting out of the Humber to peer down the hill at the better angle, he cannot say for sure. It is… surreal to watch, to see just how easily Morfin Gaunt is dealt with by one of his own? Could it be that the Gaunts are nothing more than substandard witches? While the thought is relatively terrifying when he considers what a capable witch is like… there is also a small, shallow part of him that is pointing to the degenerates that linger on the fringes of his own society, that kill and steal and swindle their way through their lives. Could it be that the witches have their own louses in society too? He rears back from the thought almost immediately. He does not wish to spend his time considering how the people akin to the Gaunts live their lives. It is comfort enough to know the last tramp has now left (to know that the wretch will have one less reason to come back.

Outside, the wind picks up, rain beginning to lash against the thin glass windows of the Humber and Tom sinks a little more into the back of his leather chair as he waits. Gaunt will be gone shortly, for a few months in the very least, if anything Sophia Lovegood says is to be trusted. It’s… it’s a weight off of his shoulders, that’s for sure. For the next few months, he will be able to rid that handsome buckskin stallion around the village without fear of being cursed by black magic, struck down with hives as if he is a commoner living in poor conditions, unable to afford to take care of himself. Stroking at the side of his face for a moment and feeling only smooth skint here, Tom allows a low, pleased hum to pass between his lips. Though it had been a risk, going to Doctor Bones’ apprentice had not been a poor judgement call… this time. That isn’t to say he should risk such a thing again. Not that with Gaunt gone he will have any need to now.

All he needs to do is remain out of the hospital for the next year, just until her apprenticeship is up, and then he will be home free. It is just a shame that he cannot pull a few strings in order to have her moved to another hospital. After all, finding another doctor willing to take on a female apprentice is undoubtedly a monumental task, one that may very well take until the end of her apprenticeship anyway.

“You should have taken the apprenticeship at Saint Mungo’s.”

Lifting her gaze from the reams of paperwork in front of her (and truly, Sophia means reams of it), Sophia meets the smug stare of Bronson Hooch. Bronson had been her fellow Ravenclaw prefect during their schooling years, a meticulous perfectionist in every sense of the word, even if he tried to portray otherwise. In all honestly, he reminds her of a clockwork mechanism; everything has a place and it all runs smoothly. If something is off, then Bronson doesn’t tend to work. His spirals of melodrama had not made their lives any easier during their perfect rounds. Admittedly, Sophia interest in reading during the patrols hadn’t exactly helped matters either.

“Good afternoon, Bronson. How is Rolanda?” Bronson huffs, yellow eyes rolling skywards before he plops himself, uninvited, into the chair beside her. He even goes so far as to slouch across the desk, head propped up on his palm and a scowl on his face.

“Off injuring herself in Quidditch again,” Bronson grumbles, tossing one lock of silky, straight black hair back over his shoulders to join the rest of it. “I swear to Merlin, if she hadn’t insisted on doing her part in the Great War by flying about all over the continent, I’d never have become a healer in the first place.” Sophia hums, lacklustre in her agreement to a moan she’s heard at least seven times already, before she returns to inspecting the form in front of her with weary eyes. Then, with great reluctance, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a pair of thin-frame glasses. They’re a mint green, just like her day-dress today. Are they charmed to match whatever shade of fabric she’s wearing on the day? Perhaps. She looks fabulous in her reading glasses regardless. Bronson clucks his tongue as she places the glasses upon the bridge of her nose, leaning over her shoulder to read while she returns her attention to her papers. It takes only a handful of seconds before he is once again rambling away at her.

“What on earth have you got half a stack of auror forms for?”

“I got assigned the Gaunt case; he used magic on a muggle before our final appointment so I was the one who had to report it.” Of course, had he used it after said final appointment, she’d still have reported it, what with being in town for another eleven months anyway. The perils of signing one’s self up for a doctor’s apprenticeship the muggle way. Yes, she passed her healer qualification at Saint Mungo’s with flying colours, but that can hardly say much when Hogwarts covers most of the standard magical healing in their Seventh Year courses. Admittedly, it’s a little late to teach them how to solve magical injuries by their final year (by that point, if you haven’t had a magical injury you’ve the luck of the devil) but the summer study period that Saint Mungo’s offers post NEWTS is an intensive course to undertake; more than half drop out by the end of it all. Bronson had not been one of said drop-outs; he hadn’t lost any of his clogs this summer, that much can be said for certain given how smoothly he’d progressed through the course. He had still tested out three weeks after her though.

“Honestly though, Lovegood. A muggle doctor apprenticeship?” He pauses, leaning forward with a sly grin on his lips, his voice nought but a whisper as he asks, “Do they still cut each other open?”

“Of course,” Sophia says, bored. “How else would they know what’s going on inside their bodies?” Bronson chuckles, leaning back and out of her personal space so that Sophia can turn her attention back to her reports. Now that the fine print is no longer encouraging her headache, it’s a bit easier to tackle. There’s a lot of questions that seem to be irrelevant, all about her personal history, her schooling history, even her preferred Quidditch team. Then again, she supposes any and all information could be vital in an investigation given the widespread mischief and mayhem that can be drummed up with magic, should a witch or wizard be determined enough.

“Sound dreadful,” Bronson mutters, pulling a small stack of his own papers from the pocket of his robes, flicking through to the fifth or so page. Sophia chances a quick glance over to the sheets, eyebrows lifting when she finds a series of images depicting dragon-pox on the page. “Oh, don’t be so surprised,” Bronson huffs when he catches her looking, rolling the butter-yellow of his eyes. She doesn’t miss the smug uptick of his lips though. “Some of us actually went for a Saint Mungo’s apprenticeship to further their education properly. Honestly, what on earth made you decide to go apprentice yourself to a muggle doctor?”

“You know, Oliver Bones is actually a squib, not a muggle.”

“Squib, muggle, they’re close enough to the same thing. And I’ll stick right where I am, thank you. I’m going to learn to heal real ailments here.” As if to further cement his point, Bronson turns the papers in his head towards her, tapping on one of the pictures with a particularly rampant case of dragon-pox. The image is of a child’s back, perhaps just on the verge of receiving their Hogwarts letter, and their skin has a particularly vivid green tone, beneath all the pockmarks that is. Sophia utterly ignores his point, instead gesturing with her free hand in a rough approximation of a beater’s bat.

“I don’t think healing you’re darling elder sister’s quidditch injuries counts. Though I suppose if you get enough practise in, the quidditch league may tap you up as a standby healer for all their games.”

“Don’t even joke about such a thing, Lovegood,” Bronson groans, one hand running down the side of his face. “That’s the last thing I ever want to put my knowledge to use doing.”

From there, the time passes in a pleasant quiet between the two of them, punctuated only by their soft breaths and the Saint Mungo’s contracted house elf appearing with a pair of tea-cups, each one containing a soft blend of earl grey. In the peace of the study-room, Sophia has the time to write up all her observations on Morfin Gaunt, handwriting as neat and precise as is required when placed upon official paperwork. She covers both the facts and the figures in addition to her own conclusions drawn from Gaunt’s behaviours. She refers to his repetitions of things he has already been told, the fact he had put effort into his appearance for her second meeting with him; everything and anything is written down. Soon enough, the pressure she has been applying to the nib of her quill leaves indents in the pads of her fingers. Not that it matters too much now, what with the paper-work finished.

Leaning back in her chair, Sophia stares at the completed pile, allowing a long, slow breath to leave from between her lips. Once she hands this in… well, she knows enough about the law and Morfin’s actions to recognise he won’t be able to squirm out of this one. Pureblood he may be, but the Gaunts have long since fallen out of favour with the elites of their society and have squandered their fortune away; there’ll be no pressure Morfin could apply to escape another Azkaban sentence, that is for sure. If he were even coherent enough to consider such an option as opposed to just attacking the Ministry officials that pick him up. She wouldn’t know; Sophia had come to Saint Mungo’s to submit her reports an hour after receiving a note from the auror department, informing her that they would be investigating. It’s… uncomfortable, recognising that the patient she’d been both helping and assessing has had to be restrained again. In some respects, part of her feels like a failure. On the other hand, however, she’s well aware that it would have taken a miracle to save the Gaunts, one she is incapable of performing. Born too late; not early enough to help Merope prior to her father’s arrest, not early enough to stop her from dosing Tom Riddle Senior, not early enough to use legally magic to track the pregnant woman. Yes, Sophia wanted to change the circumstances of the baby Dark Lord if she could, though preventing his birth would have been an even more sure-fire way to ensure Voldemort never rose. However…

Sophia is unafraid to admit she’s selfish. She had no intention of breaking one of the key laws of her society; no underaged magic. Even just a warning would have affected her chances of a job as a healer. There were other ways to prevent Voldemort and she was hardly going to fuck up her chances of a good job for one of them. She intents to live well after all and that extends to having a good job that provides her with a sufficient amount of money to support herself. That she might be using that money to support a baby, Parselmouth Tom Riddle is… well, it’s something.

But Tom Riddle (the senior one, that is) had come to her. He knows she is a witch, knows she uses magic, yet he had still turned up on her door. True, he had obviously been looking for help, what with being cursed by Morfin… but he had still come to her for help. It means the chances of Tom Riddle accepting magic is not hopeless.

“All done?” Bronson drawls, flicking the side of his empty tea-cup and grinning at the crisp ‘ping’ that comes from the contact.

“Yes, I rather think I am.” There are just over ten months of her tenure left to complete with Doctor Bones. Just over ten months to try enticing Tom Riddle into accepting magic isn’t horrible, all the while dealing with his trauma. The lingering aftereffects of a love potion are difficult enough for a witch or wizard to deal with; for a muggle, it’s no doubt even worse. She’ll give it ten months and if there’s not a sufficient enough amount of progress… then she’ll adopt the baby Riddle herself. A new child to coo over; her mother would be undoubtedly thrilled.

“Well, if you can drag yourself away from that backwater muggle town of yours, the usual cohort are having a party; I got told to pass the invitation on to you.” Sophia accepts the card, making no mention of the fact Bronson could very well have sent the card onto her via owl. After all, it’s nice to catch up with one another once in a while.

“I’ll see you there.”

Chapter Text

18.10.1929

The next time he runs into Sophia Lovegood, witch and she who reported the Gaunt tramp to the witch police, it is neither in Little Hangleton nor in Great Hangleton. Instead, it is within the city centre of York, accompanying his mother that he catches sight of the woman through the crowds. At first, he’s unsure if it is her; for all that blonde hair is not the common colour, it’s hardly as rare as true red. As such, he looks and then, foolishly, looks again. All it takes it a quick glance towards the feet (in truth, he needn’t even do that, the fact she stands taller than most of the woman in the crowd is indicator enough) to certify that she is wearing the death-trap, pin-thin heels he has seen on no other. Unfortunately, his mother also follows his line of sight and a smile graces her face a moment later. Of course, this too is Tom’s own fault; had he not looked a second time, then his mother would not have turned and spotted Doctor Bones’ apprentice. If this had been when he first returned, she’d had turned her nose up at the very fact Tom as so much as looking at a woman outside of their social standing But, after three years in which he had not so much as entertained the company of a female for more than an hour enforced by his parents— well, that he has even deigned to look at a female at all is probably enough for his mother. No doubt she’d have drawn a hard line at a working class woman, but a female doctor is middle-class at the least and… and Tom’s mother is no doubt getting desperate to see him show even the slightest intention of marrying, what with… what with Lady Cecilia having given birth to her first child now.

Sophia Lovegood pauses in the crowd, her pale brows lifting to widen her eyes; though the colour is not clear from here, Tom is aware they will be as soft a cornflower blue as they were previously. Regardless, that is not what is important right now; what is of far greater priority is to impart on his mother how very much Sophia Lovegood is not suited to being a wife, specifically, his wife. His mother has clearly mistaken his second look for one of appreciation, rather than the drip of dread, of bone-deep wariness that it is.

“Miss Lovegood,” Mother says, making her way over and, given his arm is looped through hers as an escort, as any dutiful son would do, Tom can only trail alongside her. “How are you on this fine day?” The sky is overcast, though not dark enough to inspire worry of rain. The air carries with it the crisp scents of autumn; the trees leaves come in varying shades of gold, orange and brown, all scattered along the cobble streets or else getting caught up in the wheels of wagons that occasionally pass by.

Sophia Lovegood hums pleasantly, adjusting the hold she has upon a paper bag so that she can tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. It is pinned up respectably today, only two short, loose tresses framing her face, one of which she now has tucked behind her ear.

“Good day to you both. I’m doing well, thank you, just collecting an order while I’m in town.” As if to give proof for her reason, she jostles the paper bag she has curled her arms around, leaving it half pressed to her chest. Beneath the rustle of paper, there’s the soft shuffling of fabric and, undoubtedly, his mother has heard it too.

“An order for clothes, perhaps?” Mother is being both unbearably nosy and overly friendly. Again, it is not a way she would have acted three years prior, but Tom’s blatant lack of interest in anyone over these past few years have driven to her to become more outgoing, to subtly steering women before him with one excuse or another. Annoyingly enough, his father is even beginning to join in on such undertakings. Perhaps they are both worried that, if they leave him unattended with too few choices, he’ll find another local tramp to run off with.

“Yes, a party dress. In our final year, my fellow graduates of Hogwarts decided it is only right to throw a party every thirtieth of October to celebrate our achievements; a way of both keeping in contact, catching up with one another, and establishing bragging rights.”

“Did you attend a private school, Miss Lovegood?” Mother, scenting blood in the water, begins to carefully herd the three of them down the street; Tom cannot say for certain that the witch has even noticed she has started walking along with them.

“Oh yes. My family have attended Hogwarts for our three hundred years; it’s a beautiful castle in Scotland, right by Black lake and by invitation only. It’s old enough to have its ghost stories and there’s even rumours that a giant squid can be found within its depths.” She smiles, as if sharing a joke and, while his mother gives a delighted laugh, Tom feels his insides go cold. Sopha Lovegood has attended a school, the same school her family has attended for hundreds of years— there is a school for those like her. What in God’s name could they possibly teach— do they teach them how to harness that unnaturalness? How to use it, how to master it so that they can bend others to their will?

“—must join us for tea and pastries; it will be no bother,” Mother states, waving her hand to bat away whatever it had been Sophia had been about to say. “As much as I adore spending time with Tom, it is always a delight to have the company of another woman at the table.”

“I wouldn’t wish to intrude,” the witch says, her bag now balanced in one hand, the other now palm up and held before her in a kind of half-hearted surrender, as if recognising she has no feasible way of escaping his mother’s clutches at present but unable to not try. Her eyes flick to his for a brief moment, wide and the blue clear now that they are closer to one another. Mother has already steered them towards Ouse Bridge and her favourite patisserie, situated on the street that leads onto the bridge.

“It would be a lovely opportunity to talk with a woman from the next generation. Did you know I headed the suffragette movement for both York and surrounding towns?”

Tom had not expected to spend his day sitting up to a table and resolutely ignoring the grand display at the front of the patisserie, which housed a splendidly decorated queen’s pudding. It had been (perhaps still was) Cecilia’s favourite dessert, one that she had often eaten when they had dined together on outings, the handful of times both her father and his own had attended to look upon their offspring with a smile on their face and a shared look of understanding, one that implied they would soon be in laws. The tramp’s daughter had ruined that with easy, but it is not the only scar she has left behind. The drink that Merope had offered him— that had smelt of Cecilia’s perfume, and of queen’s pudding. Even now, he cannot smelt the dessert without his stomach flipping, his palms growing sweaty as he looks about, half expecting the wretch to appear from whatever dark abyss she has fallen into. She never does of course, but he cannot help but wonder if this time will be the one where she does re-emerge. It is why he is sitting with a coffee cup, the drink far stronger than he would usually favour but the scent overpowering that which threatens to violently throw him back into darker memories.

Mother, of course, had shot him a look of worry as they walked in; now, she is fully engrossed in her conversation with the witch, recounting her trials as a suffragette now that he has shown no clear signs of distress. Sophia, halfway through her raspberry gateau with her fork currently digging into the pink dessert, appears to be fascinated by his mother’s tales, completely focused upon her and asking questions in all the right places.

“—was keeping up with the movement by the time I turned seven. I was thrilled when the government passed the Equal Franchise Act last year; I’ve only two more years to wait until I’m of age to vote.” Nineteen then, Tom thinks, looking the woman over again. She is the same age as Merope Gaunt was when he left her, forced himself to walk away despite the lingering poison in his blood insisting he stay. He’d left her there in London, nineteen and alone in a flat he’d been entrapped in, rented with his own money for the tramp’s daughter sure didn’t have any. He has no idea how much he paid upfront for the place, hasn’t thought to check on it. He doesn’t care; it could be that he paid a ten year advance; he does not wish to go looking into it because that may bring forth questions about the wretch. As far as his family is concerned, he has left her and good riddance. Technically, he is still married, though most have assumed he has divorced the woman. He hasn’t; cannot bear thinking about being in a room long enough to push for such a thing. No, not when she may very well ensnare him again. He won’t risk it.

“Excuse me please,” Mother says. Tom looks up in alarm; his mother has risen to her feet and collected her bag, clearly intending to use the powder room. Across the table from him, the witch is watching his reaction with sharp, assessing eyes. Tom forces himself to sit back in his seat, offer his mother a smile that hopefully showcases none of his distress, and plucks up his lukewarm coffee. Should he suspect any magic, he can throw it at her. True, it shall cause a scene, but none worse than what running off with another woman will do.

He’s still genuinely discomforted by her presence.

“I can leave, if you would prefer?” Sophia says, eyeing the teapot (there’s enough hot-water still in there for another cup of tea yet) instead of looking at Tom as she would prefer to when speaking to someone. Against her inner wrist, her wand is a warm, light weight.

“You cannot leave, Mother will be offended.” Despite his words, the hand Tom has holding his coffee curl is curled more into a fist than anything else, tension evident in the way his jaw ticks. Sophia turns her gaze away from his again, pouring herself another cup of tea and dropping two little sugar cubes into the mixture.

“Would you like me to pass you my wand then?” she asks quietly, crossing one leg over the other to flex one set of calf muscles. Yes, wearing heels makes her feel tall, professional and it is empowering to hear the sharp click of them on the ground. They also hurt after a while (though, thanks to magic, she can walk much, much longer in them than before) so it is nice to be able to sit down and relax a bit.

“No.” That one word clearly costs Tom Riddle something to vocalise, though his hands are steady and he reaches for the coffee press that remains on the table. Pride prevents him from agreeing, though Sophia cannot comprehend why he would continue to stress himself like this. Well, no, that is a lie. She can understand the necessity of keeping up appearances, of retaining a public image (she, after all, has dressed a certain way since become a prefect in her fifth year). Consistency is key, after all; others are more likely to trust you if you have a track record of being reliable. Given the rumours she’s heard about Tom Riddle, it’s understandable he’d wish to avoid causing a scene in order to continue building up his respectability. It’s terribly dreary, how the upper class are a slave to their ideals and the way they present themselves. Not to say Sophia isn’t doing something similar given the way she dresses and acts.

“Here.” She flicks her wand out from the holster, shielded by the tablecloth, before lifting it and placing it near the centre of the table, half-hidden beneath the rim of the cake-plates. Tom tracks it with his eyes, right up until she had placed it down and released her hold of the willow wood, retracting her arm back until it once again rests in her lap. With her other hand, she plucks up the small milk jug and pours a splash into her tea. “Morfin Gaunt was sentences to nine months in Azkaban yesterday.” That catches his attention.

“Azkaban,” Tom repeats, his brow furrowing.

“Our prison.” It’s not difficult to expand on; she had done her research prior to putting herself forward for Morfin’s case. “It’s designed in such a way that, in its two hundred years of operation, no being has ever come close to escaping.” Admittedly, that is due to the fact most lose the will to live by the second month, but that is neither here nor there in her current explanation. “Greater, smarter and more powerful wizards than Morfin Gaunt had served life sentences within those walls, so please rest assured when I say he shall not be popping up unexpectedly in your life for a while now.” That is if he even survived a second tenure on the island. Had the man been sent back to Azkaban a second time prior to her meddling? Sophia cannot say for sure, nor does she wish to ponder too much on the topic.

“That’s good.” There is a stilted pause between them now, Tom resolutely not meeting her ears as he takes a sip of his coffee and Sophia can only fill the silence by loading up another forkful of gateau. If anything, this meeting has been worthwhile for the desserts, which are splendid.

“Do we truly have nothing to speak about between the two of us?” Sophia finally asks, tucking that irritating strand of hair behind her ear once again, preventing it from its continued tickling of her left cheek. “Ignoring the elephant in the room, this is the fourth time speaking to one another and, given your families association with Doctor Bones, it can be assumed we will run into each other again and again until I have completed my apprenticeship. We should in the very least be able to converse politely and not make a mockery of ourselves, right?”

“Forgive me if I cannot think of a shared topic to broach,” Tom drawls, voice relaxed but the tension evident in the pinched skin by his eyes.

“Very well, how goes your riding then? Doctor Bones said he’d first treated you for a broken arm when you were learning and I’m afraid I’ve never taken an interest in riding the horses.” Thestrals on the other hand, wee a different matter. Particularly bony, but they could navigate to any location the rider knew of. It’d seemed only right to learn how to treat such useful animals, even if she were not legally allowed to own one.

“You have an interest in horses?”

“I have an interest in conversing with you,” Sophia admits, batting down the scepticism in Tom’s voice with a smile on her lips. “If riding is your preferred subject or a favoured hobby, then I would be happy to hear about it until your mother returns.”

Tom Riddle considers her from across the table, the three or so feet of space between them filled with the pristine white tablecloth, fine china and handful of remaining cakes.

“Did Doctor Bones tell you I was seven when I broke my arm?”

“No, he did not.”

The conversation between them doesn’t flow as easily as it did between herself at Tom’s mother, but that’s hardly a surprise. Finding out that Mary Riddle, widely considered an upper-class snob by the inhabitants of Little Hangleton and most of Great Hangleton too, had been so deeply involved with the suffragette that she wrote the Emmeline Pankhurst every month had been a delight to uncover. Upon realising just what timeline she had been born into, Sophia had followed the women’s right to vote movement religiously, celebrating with her somewhat confused family in 1918 when women over thirty received it. Of course, her parents and darling little brother had been endlessly confused (sexism was, shockingly, not a thing in the British Wizarding World, primarily due to Hogwarts being founded by two men and two women working as equals) but they had shared her enthusiasm for the muggle advancements. Purebloods they may be, but they weren’t bad people.

“So, a green horse is one that has had little training on being ridden, have I got that right?” Sophia asks, both her cup and her saucer now empty, her attentions utterly focused on Tom Riddle as he gives a sharp nod and a pleased smile. He gestures freely with one hand, as if wishing to indicate towards this green horse of his.

“It’s a warning, that a rider should proceed with caution as be considerate to the kinds of problems one would expect from a horse that is not yet finished.”

“And by not finished, you are referring to a horse that is not fully trained, potentially not having been saddled for long.”

“Yes,” Tom says with a nod, jolting suddenly as his mother draws out her chair and slips back into it. Sophia eyes the woman, noticing Tom doing the same from where he has jarred back into reality. It has been a pleasant ten minute chat, though what on earth Mrs Riddle had found to do in the powder room to give both Tom and her time to speak alone is anyone’s guess. Regardless, she looks exceptionally pleased with herself, no doubt having witnessed Tom’s borderline rant about horse terminology. In the very least, Sophia can walk away from this knowing that she has learnt something, though it is somewhat disappointing to watch Tom clam back up as he recalls both where he is and who he is with.

“May I ask what topic you were just discussing? It has been so long since I have seen my Tom so lively within a conversation.” Mary Riddle smiles at her. It’s clear the woman thinks highly of both herself and her family, from the way she presents herself to the way she’d frowned at some of the working men that has walked past them when they were traversing the streets. None the less, Sophia thinks she rather likes the woman. Maybe, just maybe, if Tom still won’t accept magic, she might be able to entice Mary Riddle into looking after her grandson. Sophia mentally scribbles the option down to be reviewed later.

“Horses, Mrs Riddle. I’ve never ridden before and we were just covering the basic terminology.”

“Never ridden before? Clearly your education didn’t cover everything then,” Mrs Riddle murmurs, plucking up one of the small shortbread biscuits to take a nibble of. “You shall have to come by later; Tom is more than capable of teaching you the correct posture.” It is rather impressive just how quickly Tom’s face takes on a pallor similar to that of the tablecloth, his hands clenching back up into fists.

“Oh, I’m afraid I’m quite busy with my apprenticeship for now, Mrs Riddle, though I thank you for the offer. Perhaps, if you are still willing to consider the idea, spring would be a good time to reconsider? Thar way when I fall off, I will have a warmer ground to land upon.” Mary Riddle laughs, a smooth, warm thing as she flicks her dark eyes over to assess her son again.

“Tom would never allow you to fall off, Miss Lovegood, he’s far too good with the horses for that. But I agree, perhaps spring would be a better time to learn. Regardless, you simply must come and visit the manor soon. It has been far too long since I had the pleasure of reciting my suffragette days to another.”

“I would be honoured. If you would excuse me, I am afraid I do have a few other tasks to be completing today. Thank you for the tea; it was wonderful.”

“Miss Lovegood has forgotten her bag; it would be dreadful if she were to leave before he could return it to her.”

“Henry could deliver it tomorrow.”

“Come now Tom, the lady cannot have gotten too far from us. I will check Browns; you should head for the train station. Just in case she has left.”

Sophia Lovegood had picked up her wand before leaving the table, so at least he did not look like a halfwit wandering the streets with a polished twig in his hand. Instead, he has a paper bag within which there’s a slip of golden fabric (it sparkles, he’d seen that much when he picked the bag up from the floor) that the witch had forgotten in her haste to leave the table. And now here he stands on Foss Bridge, having walked perhaps a little quicker than normal when he spotted the familiar shade of blonde hair among the small crowd of people jostling to and fro. As if sensing his eyes on her (maybe she had, who is he to know what kind of sorcery witches possess?), Sophia Lovegood had turned around to look at him, a small slip of a smile blooming on her lips when she spied the bag in his arms.

“Thank you,” she says when he is close enough to address, smile still curving her pale mouth, the light pink stain to the skin of her lips matching that of her dress. It is offset by the warm tan of her cardigan, thick enough to chase off the chill brought by the cloudcover in the sky.

“Mother insisted we try to find you before resorting to sending Henry to your home with it.”

“I’m sure Henry, should he ever learn, would be thankful too,” the witch says, her smile growing that little bit more and the slightest indentation of dimples appear. “And it was nice, getting to converse with your properly today, that is.”

A couple walk by, older than his parents and still draped in fashion only the Victorians would have considered for an outing. The woman meets his eyes and offers an encouraging smile; Tom looks away, out over the dull water of the Foss as he fights off his grimace. Of course, to those passing, they probably look like something they most certainly aren’t. He’s well aware of how handsome his own face is (it is, after all, what drew in the tramp’s daughter) and Sophia is both young and dressed exquisitely, with both colours and cut matching her fair hair and pretty face perfectly. But they do not have the full story, they do not look upon this woman and see a witch, a dangerous being of magic. Tom does, Tom knows, and even he still managed to lose himself in conversation with her.

He’d not dared to drink the last of his coffee after coming back to himself. Thank goodness his mother had returned to snap him out of it.

Sophia Lovegood holds out her arms and Tom places the paper bag within them, careful to ensure their skin does not brush against each other in any way at all.

“Is there a day in particular you go out?” she asks, securing her purchase against her chest. “I can tell your mother that we could do tea on that day. Or I could even invite her to my home, if her taking tea with me there would ease your mind more?” His magicless mother who hadn’t believed Tom when he claimed himself ensnared, left alone with a witch in her home? No, that won’t do at all. In the very least, if she is in the manor, then both Molly and Henry would be present to recognise if his mother’s attitudes suddenly changed.

“Mother would be unwilling to visit your home,” he finds himself saying, adjusting the lapels of his jacket to ensure the lay correctly over his shirt; the swift walk to catch up to the young woman before him had jostled outerwear. “Besides, Molly has become quite proficient at serving tea.” Sophia smiles again, turning to look out over the small stretch of the Foss that runs beneath the bridge, one of her hands coming to rest upon the stone railings.

“Thank you for delivering my dress to me, Tom Riddle, even though approaching me no doubt discomforted you.”

“Do not expect it to happen again. I am the Squire’s son, not a servant.” She laughs, head tipping back ever so slightly to expose the pale column of her neck, face lighting up in genuine amusement. She looks at him over her shoulder, over the tan knit that covers it.

“Of course not. I doubt anyone would ever make that mistake. Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr Riddle. I hope it is a pleasant one.” With that, Sophia Lovegood turns on the toes of her too high shoes, offering him a little wiggle of her fingers in lieu of a try goodbye wave. Then, she walks away, heels clicking on the smooth stone slabs of the bridge’s pathway, that one strand of her she has been persistently tucking behind her ear for the past hour or so springing free to graze her face once again. There are not enough people for her to disappear into the crowd, instead only vanishing from his sight when she turns onto a side street. It is only at that point he realises she is heading in the opposite direction to the train station. But then again, what does he know of how witches travel. Had the witch police force not appeared from nowhere before his very eyes? It doesn’t matter; now that the witch has her dress, he can return to his mother, mission accomplished and just a step closer to the son she had four years ago, back before the tramp’s daughter had ruined everything.

It is only as he’s walking that he realises there is a small smile tucked into the corner of his lips; Tom wipes it away in favour of a frown instead.

Chapter Text

31.10.1929

“Had a good party then?”

“Wonderful,” Sophia admits, her honesty lacking any form of enthusiasm given they are currently on the morning shift. While staying awake into the early hours of the morning drinking an unholy combination of firewhiskey and pumpkin juice had seemed like a good idea at the time, her head is currently spinning and that is after downing a sobriety potion. From the look on his face, Oliver Bones is well aware of her trial and appears to derive a great deal of amusement from her suffering. At the very least the three glasses of water she’d downed before trekking to the hospital removed the pumpkin juice fuzz from her tongue. Sophia is relatively certain she’s still got her make-up on from last night, glittery eyeshadow and all. She hasn’t exactly looked on a mirror this morning, having crawled out of bed only an hour after clambering in. She’d had to strip off the skin-tight gold dress, pull on a respectable outfit for work and spell her hair up into some semblance of order before she set out. 

“I do recall you advocating to Mr Blackthorn the advantages to working a job sober just three days ago,” Doctor Bones with a cheery smile on his face, collecting the file a nurse has just handed him in passing. He doesn’t open it, instead gifting it to her. Sophia accepts the offering cautiously, flipping open the front page before forcing herself not to groan. A child patient: she’s normally happy to deal with children but she normally doesn’t have a headache. Children are, most often than not, loud creatures when in pain.

“I am sober,” Sophia grumbles, eyes flicking over the generics in the file. “I’m just suffering.” 

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Doctor Bones laughs, taking a seat in his office chair behind his desk, gesturing for her to take up the second chair just beside him. Sophia has only just sat herself down when there is a knock at the door. It opens to reveal a woman’s face, pinched tight with worry as she ushers in a small child that’s half-clinging to her arm, half hidden behind the fabric of her skirts.

“Good morning, Mrs Roberts. What seems to be the problem?”

“Johnathan has a rash, Doctor.” Here, she places her hand upon the back of her small child, pushing him forwards so he’s standing front and centre. He’s a relatively small boy, probably no older than four, with a head of soft-brown hair and freckles a plenty on his cheeks. He’s adorable, that’s for certain.

“Miss Lovegood, if you could give Johnathan here a look over while I discuss the symptoms with Mrs Roberts?”

“Of course, Doctor Bones.”

It doesn’t take much coaxing to get Johnathan up onto the examination table, just a few sweet smiles, and comment about how very brave he’s being and how she’s sure his calm attitude is impressing his mother. Then, she has a happy little four year old eagerly presenting his arms for her to inspect. They’re red, mildly swollen and littered with small red spots across the skin. Sophia gently takes hold of Johnathan’s wrist, carefully turning his arms back and forth to inspect the underside before she clicks her tongue, leaning forwards ever so slightly so that they are nearly at eye level.

“Is it itchy, Johnathan? Like you want to scratch and scratch?” The answer to this is already obvious given the way the lad has been trying to do just that ever since he walked in the door, but he confirms her words with a quick nod of his head. Sophia turns to address Doctor Bones next, offering a small smile. “I would say prickly heat; it’ll go away on its own by calamine would help with soothing the rash and a cold bath will relieve some of the swelling and heat.”

They break for lunch after seeing only one more patient, Ray Dring, who has managed to break his ankle whilst playing football. It’s not a game that Sophia had understood the necessity of when she was a regular muggle, nevermind now that she’s a witch. Quidditch is just, so much more entertaining to watch. Not that she would ever breathe a word of that to Bronson, who would undoubtedly spend far too much time trying to dissuade her with a speech on the evils of quidditch.

“Any plans tonight, Sophia?”

“Not really. My brother is away at school now, and celebrating Halloween with just my parents— well, it’d be nice, but I don’t see much of a reason to travel down to Cornwall to give out soul cakes when I can do that just as well from my house here.” Sophia pauses for a moment then, spoon dipped into the bowl of her soup before she looks back to Doctor Bones. “Do you get many children who go guising here?” Doctor Bones laughs, spreading butter into the warm crust of bread that’d been served with the soup today, offering a colleague a wave as he passes by to collect his own lunch from the cafeteria.

“It’s called souling down here in England, lass. You’re showing your Scottish upbringing there.”

“Hardly a Scottish upbringing. That just so happens to be where… where Hogwarts is.” Sophia trails off, having paused halfway through the sentence when her brain caught up with her mouth. Of course, Doctor Bones wouldn’t want to hear anything about Hogwarts, not when he probably grew up with stories and dreams about going to the castle, only to get the rug pulled out from under his feet. The silence between them becomes stilted then, lingering heavy as Sophia scoops up another spoonful of soup and takes a regretful sip. Surprisingly enough, it is Doctor Bones who cuts into the quiet, though his topic is not one that Sophia would have expected him to venture into.

“I truly did believe Tom had fallen in love with the Gaunt girl,” he says, keeping his voice low and his eyes even lower, locked on the carrot and coriander soup that resides within his bowl. His shoulders are hunched, a frown on his lips as he twists the spoon about between the thick liquid that is serving as their lunch. “For everything that she lacked… she had magic.” And of course, to a squib, that would weigh out against anything and everything. It doesn’t matter how attractive a child a wizarding couple could have; how mentally bright they are or how charming. If they are without magic— well, magic is at the core of their very being as witches and wizards. To have a child so painfully different, a child who lacks… it would leave lasting scars on all those involved. It cannot help that they do not know where squibs come from, why they come about from parents who have magic themselves. It all smacks of ‘something is wrong’, either with the parents or the child and it’s probably not a pleasant environment to be in.

“The only person to blame in that mess is Merope for her actions. Certainly, her brother and father’s abusive ways will have contributed to her view of the world but having a poor childhood doesn’t give one an excuse for inflicting trauma on others.” There is a lot that is wrong with the situation here in the Hangletons, but Doctor Bones should not be told to feel guilty, not when he was probably raised on the beliefs that being able to marry anyone magical was better than a muggle. The elitism still runs rampant. He no doubt saw Tom running off with someone that he, as a child, would have been expected to marry and probably thought Tom had done well for himself. That is the distinction between their kind and the muggles. There is little culture understanding between the two of them and Sophia is well aware she is just as bad; there are things about the muggle world she doesn’t know (at least, in this time period) and she had made no effort to learn. Why would she need to know how muggle women deal with their period when she herself can down a potion and have the whole thing over and done with in the space of ten minutes? No doubt there are other things she’s clueless on too.

“The Gaunts were a piece of work,” Doctor Bones agrees with a hard-pressed frown, inhaling another spoonful of soup a moment later. “Good riddance to them.” Sophia tips her water glass ever so slightly in a silent acknowledgement of Doctor Bone’s words, draining half the contents a moment later.

They don’t step on the mine-field of Hogwarts again for the rest of the day.

Elbow on the oak desk and fingers massaging small circles into his temples, Tom Riddle peers sightlessly down at the latest letter from the bank, reviewing all the investments the Riddle family have a hand in. Whatever those god-damn Americans are up to over in their ridiculous Wall Street, they need to get their acts together. Already the numbers are starting to make his head spin and he despises the idea of having to approach his father for advice on his own monetary affairs. The implications of this are not brilliant, but it isn’t like the Riddle family are plebians that have to work for a living; what finical mess the Americans are plunging the world into, England will do just fine as they always do, the Riddles more so than the rest of Little Hangleton.

Straightening his posture, Tom looks across his study, eyes lingering on the couch that resides alongside one wall, right by one of the tall windows. It’s shut right now, will be until spring once again graces them with its presence. Autumn has well and truly set in now; he’s ordered a new coat to be tailored in the latest fashions, has purchased a fetching scarf and gloves set to be gifted to his mother upon her birthday next week. It should be easier to sleep now that it the heat of summer has been chased away, now that the nights are growing darker. And it had been, until he’d woken himself from a dream that didn’t make sense in the slightest.

He had been in this very study, pouring over some kind of documentation the likes of which he cannot even begin to describe. Not from a lack of understanding, but the words had been hazy, the content a meaningless to his mind. It had been summer, the sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up and the window opened to allow a breeze to sweep into the room, bringing with it the scent of the blooming flora in the gardens. His tie had been loose, hanging lacklustre around his neck. When he’d looked up, it had been to find Sophia Lovegood in his office, sitting on that couch by the window, a half-finished cup of tea on the coffee table. There had been no words exchanged between the two of them, just the quiet sounds of his papers being shuffled about and Sophia flicking through whatever book it was she’d been reading. It’d had a deep green cover, he recalls that much, but beyond that, nothing. Nothing to indicate it was magic, nothing to indicate it was anything out of the ordinary. There had been nothing to indicate why the witch was in his dream at all. Indeed, all that had happened was the blonde had coexisted peacefully within the same room as him, her long blonde hair keep back from her face in a lazy plait that curled around the column of her neck, tied with a pale pink ribbon that complimented the lilac of her dress. Her strange, heeled shoes had been abandoned on the floor; her bare feet tucked up somewhere under the fabric of her skirt. She’d looked comfortable. He had been comfortable.

Tom huffs, running a hand through the curls of his hair before reaching for the tumbler. He drains the last of his whiskey from the glass, planting it back down on the coaster as he continues to stare at the sofa. It’s empty now (and cream now, whereas in the dream it had been a terrible shade of red). There’s no Sophia Lovegood sitting upon it; she has never been within this room, is probably unaware that he even has a sofa within his personal study. Yet, he cannot get the very thought of her being in the room out of his mind. Because in the dream, it had been calm. A different kind of calm to what he had experienced during his last close contact with a witch. With the Gaunt tramp, everything had been wonderful (while he was under her spell anyway). It had seemed as nothing could go wrong, as if other things were inconsequential. There was no need to be worried because he had the love of his life with him. Oh, how very wrong that had all been.

In the dream, however, the calm had been different. There’d been a sensation of the paperwork he’d been pouring over being important, his mind ticking over it again and again. Even as he’d looked up to the witch in his presence, his mind had still been churning over thoughts he cannot recall now. When he had looked at the witch, everything had not suddenly become well, the room had not suddenly smelt wonderful and his muscles had not relaxed. He had looked at Sophia and seen her, but there had been no driving desire. Just an acknowledgement she was there and comfortable. That he was comfortable.

It’d been the same calm that had washed over him as she walked away that day in York, her glittering gold dress tucked away in a bag she held. She had been there and, for a moment, she’d been nothing other than another person. Normal in a way she could not possibly ever be.

Rubbing at his temples again, Tom sets aside the papers he’s been trying to focus on giving the accounting up for a bad job. He’ll tackle it tomorrow, when he’s had a restful sleep and not jolted himself awake at four in the morning from a dream that no logical man would consider a nightmare. It is ridiculous; all he had dreamt about was the two of them occupying the same space for an extended period of time. The last he had seen her, Sophia Lovegood had spent the better part of two hours sitting up to a table with him as they consumed pastries and drunk an excessive amount of tea (the latter on her part, given he had been gripping his coffee cup like a lifeline at that point). That had been with his mother though.

It clicks then, what the difference in the dream had been. Just the two of them, coexisting in a room and Tom hadn’t felt those nerves, sweat hadn’t coated his hands nor the muscles in his jaw clenched. In the dream, he had been calm… as it had been before the tramp’s daughter. Something he cannot say with certainty he will ever achieve again He hadn’t even realised he had missed the sensation until he had dreamt of it.

There has to be some way to attain that feeling again, to not feel that tension, to become unaffected once again. He needs to find a way, needs to get that back. Surely, he was not doomed to this pitiful state of being forever? Merope Gaunt had stolen a year from him, had damaged his reputation and his mind. He can only put up a fight to ensure she doesn’t steal the rest of his years by haunting him like this.

Chapter Text

18.12.1929

“You mean they don’t have fairy lights?”

Tom nearly snaps his neck at the young voice, the word ‘fairy’ repeating in his head like an echo revibrating around a cavern. He shouldn’t have been able to make the connection, shouldn’t have heard that word and instantly jumped to magic because neither witch that he has known had ever mentioned them. But jump his mind did, his head did turn and he’s unsurprised to find Sophia Lovegood standing before the large Christmas tree in the centre of Browns department store besides a child, perhaps a half-decade her junior. She hasn’t spotted him yet, it’s still quite possible for him to depart and not be seen, for all of three seconds before his mother notices the witch.

“Miss Sophia Lovegood, what a wonderful surprise!” Tom shares a look with his father, who looks displeased by the intrusion to the family shopping trip, before he returns his gaze to Sophia. His mother has approached her now, drawing the attention of Sophia’s company. It’s a boy, clearly a younger brother give the similarities that they share. The same eyes, a similar nose; the only significant difference is perhaps the shade of the boy’s hair. It’s a shockingly bright blond, near enough to veering dangerously close to platinum. It falls around his face in gentle waves, cut short enough that it falls a half inch short of gracing his shoulders.

“Mrs Riddle. You look well; Christmas shopping, I assume?”

“Indeed. And who might this be?” The boy, upon being addressed, draws himself up to stand tall, near enough the same height as his sister given she has not adorned her regular footwear. It is the only time he has meet Sophia Lovegood and seen her in sensible shoes; swede brown boots with a near miniscule heel, one that might as well not even be present.

“Zander Lovegood, my lady.” The boy holds out one hand to greet his mother and, when Mother places her palm in his, bows over her hand. Well, someone raised him well. From the charmed look on her face, Mother thinks so too. “Sophia is my older sister; I’ve just returned from Scotland for the holidays and she suggested I get the train to York instead of London, so that we can shop for your parents’ gifts without being spied on.” Scotland, the same school that Sophia went to probably which means… this boy has magic too. He’s a witch as well. Looking at him, it’s impossible to tell. Aside from the shock that is platinum blond hair consists of, there’s nothing in the way he looks that gives away the unnaturalness of what he is; with the Gaunt tramps, it’d been evident in how they looked.

As with his sister, Zander Lovegood looks relatively normal. A knit hat in deep blue sits atop his head, matching the blue and silver scarf that is wound around his neck. His coat is a soft charcoal grey, a respectable cut that matches the shapes of his boots well. He just looks like any other teenager. There’s nothing to indicate he spends his days brewing potions or turning frogs into teacups.

“And what is it you are studying, young man?” Tom has obviously zoned out a little too much; he has missed his father’s introduction but certainly not the man’s question. Zander looks up at his father with large blue eyes, a pleasant smile on his face.

“The usual core subjects, sir, though I favour art. I am going to be an artist when I’m older, with a focus upon portraits.”

Just like that, they are suddenly wandering around Browns with the Lovegood siblings, his father already deeply engaged with the younger of the two on the topic of art. Father, after all, has commissioned more than his far share of paintings in his time as Squire Riddle, in addition to curating for the York Art Gallery several times throughout the past decade. Perhaps most impressive is that the boy keeps up, referencing some of the masters, though a few names he drops are evidentially unfamiliar to Father, given the way his frown deepens. Tom, for the life of him, cannot comprehend how magic could possibly work alongside art but he doesn’t doubt there is something that can be done there. Why a witch would want to spend his time working magic upon a piece of art, he cannot say. Zander Lovegood offers not explanation either, never once hints that there’s something unnatural about his life. Just as Sophia has done with anyone that isn’t Tom himself.

Speaking of the woman— she’s walking two steps behind his father and her younger brother, one of her gloved hands in a pocket of her long coat and a small smile on her face. Mother has caught up to Father, one arm looped through his so that she may listen politely to the younger Lovegood, though Tom is well aware his mother has little interest in art as a subject. Which leaves him with the witch.

“How are you, Mr Riddle?” she ask, turning her head only slightly so that her eyes can find his, a small smile upon her lips. She has a wrapped package tucked neatly beneath one arm, a present already purchased for the festive season perhaps.

“I am well, thank you for asking. How long will your brother be staying with you?” How long will her magical, younger sibling be in town for?

“We are leaving for my parents’ home tomorrow,” Sophia admits freely, pulling at the copious fabric of her scarf (in the same blue and silver shades as her brother’s, if looking relatively more worn) until it exposes a little more of her neck. Inside, where the winter winds cannot nip as viciously as their skin, it’s understandable she’s feeling a little warm. It is strange to walk beside her and not hear the usual click of her heels. “I’ll probably stay down there for a week or so, long enough to enjoy the festivities.” There are more than a few questions sitting upon the tip of his tongue, most along the lines of enquiring if her kind truly celebrate the birth of Christ or if the holiday has some other meaning for them. He doesn’t voice them however, aware both of his parents are in earshot and believe his condition to be improving. After all, he hasn’t mentioned magic or how we was ensnared by the Gaunt tramp for at least half a year now. Primarily, of course, because he hadn’t wanted to start pointing out how the new doctor’s apprentice was one of them and be thought mad again.

“Only a week? Not through to the new year?”

“I’m afraid not; I was only able to get the one week off of work with Doctor Bones and, to be honest, I’d rather be present to exchange Christmas gifts than to watch the family get drunk and set off fireworks to usher in the new year.” Yes, the new year festivities; when Tom was a young adult, they had travelled down to London to partake in one of the gatherings there. Only with the peerage, of course, not the common folk who had congregated to get rip-roaring drunk.

“Soph?” The call interrupts their conversation, forcibly drawing Tom back to current events. Zander Lovegood has a fetching dress in his hands, holding it up for Sophia (referred to as Soph, a nickname between siblings) to inspect. “Do you think mum would like this one?”

“I think she’d love it. Do you need any money?”

“I got it exchanged before I came, thanks.”

“Exchanged?” Tom parrots a moment later, only after checking that his mother and father were absorbed in their own shopping as Zander made a beeline for the nearest attended counter to get his purchase rung up.

“We have our own money,” Sophia admits, peeling her hand free of her pocket in order to show him a golden coin slotted between two of her fingers. She offers it out to him, blue eyes snapping about the place as if looking for something. What, Tom cannot begin to guess and he accept the coin gingerly, half waiting for it to disappear before his eyes. That or enchant him. Neither of these things occur though and he is left looking at a golden coin, the edge housing a serial number of sorts and the centre occupied by a large motif of a dragon. Without question, it is no coin he has ever seen before. He hands it back with little fanfare, struck with the realisation that the witches (with their own currency, school and police force) seem to have their own civilisation hidden across the stretch of the British Isles. If Sophia and Zander are the typical witch, then there is every possibility he has walked by another before and not even realised it; it’s not like they make themselves and their powers known, is it? He only knows of the Gaunts because— because of Merope’s actions. Is this what they do then? Remain hidden from those without magic? Why would they do that when they are evidently so much more powerful than regular people?

“And where is this legal tender?”

“Predominantly, Diagon Alley. It’s the main wizarding shopping district in London. There’s a few wizarding villages dotted about the country, such as Hogsmeade up in Scotland, but it’s more common for there to be the collection of odd shops in different cities across the country than to find a full on village now. Distance isn’t too much of an issue for us; we have ways of getting around quickly.” Yes, he can see those with access to such a dangerous power developing ways of moving quickly. “It’s probably best if you consider my side of things like a separate country. We have our own beliefs, problems, laws— pretty much anything that makes a society, we have it.” Their own society? Would the Gaunts have been considered lowlifes in their eyes too? Or are the Lovegoods are particularly well respected, well-mannered family? They have both shown neither hint nor hair of magic (barring the day Tom asked, and the day Sophia Lovegood had placed her wand upon a table next to a cake plate) and his parents are none the wiser. 

“Why are you not completing your Christmas shopping within one of your own districts then?”

“Because muggle clothing is so much more daring than ours,” Sophia admits, as if she can ever make him believe that the outrageous heels she wears will be something ‘muggles’ are ever capable of creating. “Besides, I’m sure you’ve bought gifts when visiting other places; why would that be any different for us? I mean, we’re human too, just with a little something more.” Human too? Yes, she looks it, more so than the Gaunts had done. Morfin and Merope Gaunt were brother and sister and it showed, both in the appearance and their terrible actions against him. Zander and Sophia Lovegood— there is not a single hint that they have bad intentions. It is… difficult to comprehend.

“Are you doing anything nice to celebrate Christmas?” Sophia asks, a small smile on her painted pink lips, even as her eyes linger on the jewellery cases, each containing multiple sets of earrings presented in a variety of ways. For her mother, he assumes. Tom fills the air between them with low words, explaining the Riddle family Christmas tradition (meal, presents, entertain some carollers if the working class summon up the courage to approach the manor this year) as Sophia pours over the jewellery, proving she is listening whenever she asks a particularly insightful question, such as asking why the Riddles open presents from casual acquaintances as soon as they receive them (in case one is a slight so it does not ruin their Christmas day that way). It continues in the same vein for a half hour, in which Sophia selects a pair of clean-cut sapphire earrings to purchase for her mother and the sales assistant looks upon her gloved left hand and then Tom’s own, as if searching for a hint of ring beneath the fabric. It sets his teeth to grind.

This is when Zander Lovegood reappears, a wide grin on his face and several more packages cradled in his arms, all wrapped tight.

“I suppose we best be leaving,” Sophia muses, collecting the top-most two packages from her younger brother’s pile and adding them to her own, relieving his teetering tower of gifts. The boy tips his head back and grins at her. “Thank you for allowing us to tag along in your shopping; it was nice to catch up.” Mother and Father offer their goodbyes, Mother’s significantly warmer than Father’s. Though, admittedly, Father does state he hopes Zander’s studies go well.

“I’ll be putting in the maximum effort, sir,” the boy states, cheery smile still in place and, without much thought on his part, Tom finds himself with a little smile of his own. Even compared against normal people, Zander Lovegood, it seems, is particularly good natured. It has, in truth, not been an unpleasant encounter.

19.12.1929

“A present?”

Coming down the stairs in his riding gear, Tom stops two steps from the hall, finding Henry standing beside his mother the foyer, the latter holding a neatly wrapped rectangle. It’s covered in a highly decorative paper, a deep blue featuring small, golden stars that are dotted about the surface, tied together with a matching golden ribbon. Certainly, it’s unlike any other present they have been gifted before and Tom finds a small portion of his stomach sinking as he looks upon it, a suspicion bubbling into being in the back of his mind. He takes the last two steps quickly, boots clicking against the hall (it’s a deep click, not the high, sharp snap that tall heels make) as he makes for his mother. Henry has now retreated further into the house, no doubt to go and help in the kitchen. They will be entertaining guests today, Mother’s extended family all descending upon the manor for the Christmas period. It will be the first time since— since the tramp happened that he will be joining them to dine. He pushes down the nerves with practised ease.

“Mother?” Mother hums in response to him, plucking up a small card (the cover in the same deep blue as the wrapping paper) before she opens it. Forgoing all attempts at propriety, Tom leans over her shoulder to read it.

‘Dear Squire Riddle, Mrs Riddle, and Mr Tom Riddle,

Thank you for joining my sister and I on our shopping trip yesterday; please accept this gift from the both of us (I am afraid the woodwork is my sister’s talent rather than my own).

We wish you a very Merry Christmas during this holiday period.

Zander and Sophia Lovegood’

“What a neat hand the boy has,” Mother muses, admiring the handwriting of all things. Certainly, it looks like an old, crisp hand; Tom would be hard-pressed to manage strokes like that with his fountain pens. As an artist, the boy no doubt has some skill with his hands, that’s for certain; it shouldn’t surprise them that it translates over to his handwriting too. Mother slips one of her fingers beneath a fold in the wrapping paper, pulling the bow of the ribbon free a moment later.

It’s a framed picture, a sketch brought to life with water coloured paints. A buckskin stallion, not too dissimilar than the one he purchased this year, cantering through the snow with not a bit of tack on it. Its poetry frozen in motion; the muscles perfectly reflected on the canvas it has been drawn onto. Truly, the boy is talented. The picture falls just short of being the length of his forearm, separated from the world by a clear glass panel within a wooden frame. And the frame itself, that too is a work of craftsmanship. Two willow trees bracket the picture, branches twisting and twining in a nonextant wind, their shed leaves gracing the bottom of the frame to stretch between the two trunks. The frame though— it’s too perfect. There’s not a hint of a flaw and Tom instinctively knows that, for all the wood has clearly been formed into the likeness of willow trees, some form of magic must have been used. Not that his mother will be aware of it.

“How marvellous,” Mother breathes, tilting the picture so the light from the windows does not reflect so harshly across it. “We will have to display this, perhaps in the library, by the window that looks out over the grounds. It would be such a shame to keep is secreted away in a study where only we can admire it. That boy has a talent.” Yes, Tom will concede to that. The present is particularly tasteful and will fit in relatively well with the rest of the manor’s décor. And at least it shall be Mother writing the thank you card for this particular gift.

Standing before her childhood home, Sophia collars Zander before he can take off down the drive, forcibly jamming a hat onto his head despite the fact they won’t be out in the cold for long. The brat sticks his tongue out at her, face screwed up, before racing off, leaving her to levitate his school trunk in after him. It’s… nice to be back home. The lavender wont’ bloom until summer is upon them, but she rather likes to imagine that she can smell the scent of it in the air anyway.

“Soph! Come inside already!” Zander’s bellow echoes out down the drive and Sophia chuckles, picking up the pace to a soft job. She’s forgone the usual heels again; there’s no point when she has no one to impress right now. After all, her parents had seen her in her childhood rompers rolling through the spring mud and the autumn leaves; they are already aware of exactly how much of a mess she can look when she wants to.

Sophia deposits Zander’s trunk by the door, kicking off her boots and leaving them beside her brother’s own discarded pair. The fireplace is roaring with the same soft pink flame she recalls as her first piece of accidental magic, something her far-too sentimental mother had bottled up and kept forever more. The jar containing the fire is sitting on the mantelpiece, beside the squiggles of paint that Zander had animated at two years old. By the wall, the clock chimes four times, indicating that all four Lovegood are currently at home, though dad is undoubtedly down in his workshop, busy with some experimental charm or another.

“Sophie,” Mum greets, opening her arms wide and Sophia steps into them, tucking her chin on her mother’s shoulder, arms wrapping around her waist. “How are you? The muggles aren’t getting you down, are they?”

“Of course not, Mum. I’m doing perfectly fine, thank you.”

“Soph’s friends with a muggle,” Zander interrupts, shoving his way into the hug as he has been doing ever since he could stumble across the room, jealous little baby that he was. “A pretty-boy muggle.” Zander cackles, squeezing the two of them tighter and it’s disorientating to realise he’s just that little bit taller than her now. He’ll only keep growing, Sophia realises, inspecting the gangly arms he withdraws from them to stretch above his head. Artist’s fingers and that charming grin; Zander’ll be beating the girls off him soon enough. If he isn’t already.

“A muggle?” Mum says slowly, a pinch of worry in her voice. Sophia rolls her eyes, making for the kitchen where something delicious is clearly cooking on the stove. It’s not a Christmas dinner, but it certainly smells like something chicken based. Mum follows after her, the distant thumps the only indication that Zander has chosen to retreat to his rom after firing that spell.

“A widower to a witch; he’s in the know. Not that I’d slip up and expose our entire world, Mum.”

“I don’t know, dear. There was that time when you were five—”

“Can we not go one year without bringing up how I caused a scene so bad the obliviators had to be called out?”

Mum smiles, reaching out to smooth an errant flyaway hair to her forehead as she replies, “No, we’ll never allow you to forget that one, Sophie. Now come on, tell me about how your apprenticeship with Doctor Bones is going.”

Later that day, after sun the has set, Sophia finds herself bundled up and sitting on the old swing that hangs from the chestnut tree in the back garden. Zander is beside her, the wooden seat still wide enough for the two of them to just about squeeze onto it. They probably won’t be able to manage it next year, Sophia realises with a pang, not with the way Zander keeps growing. One of her hands keeps the wooden bowl steady in her lap, the other fishing about in the broken shells to find any remaining chestnuts that they haven’t yet cracked open.

“Any left?” Zander asks, pressing his cheek to the shoulder of her coat, peering down at the bowl and as perpetually hungry as every teenaged boy in the world.

“Two more,” Sophia confirms, holding the remaining roast chestnuts up. They rest in the palm of her gloved hand, the hot shells unable to burn her skin through the thick wool of her gloves. “One each.”

“On it.” Zander taps his wand against the two, stripping them both of their shells to leave the wrinkled, soft innards. He snatches one up, popping it between his lips and Sophia throws the last one back, chewing. The fairies flutter about in the garden, enchanted by her father to glow throughout the Christmas period and they love it, dancing about and glimmering in the vanity.

“Come on then, Zan. Tell me all about the mischief you’ve gotten up to at Hogwarts. Kissed any girls yet?” she asks, nudging him gently with her elbow and Zander laughs, hot breath misting in the air before his face.

“Promise not to tell Mum?”

“Promise.”

“Alright, so there’s this girl…”

Chapter Text

05.01.1930

She’s in London. She’s in London and she’s being stupid but, Sophia is coming to realise, that’s not something she’s immune to. Memories of another life she has, but it does not grant her instant wisdom. It doesn’t give her the answers to the test, it doesn’t whisper prophecies to fulfil into her ears, it doesn’t make her omnicompetent. She had promised herself she wouldn’t come here until she had a definite answer, a resolution to the problem that has been haunting her every step during this life, ever since she was old enough to realise both what she was and the time period she’d been born to. Yet, here she is, sitting in a small church in the belly of muggle London, listening to service she doesn’t believe in for a religion that, a few hundred years ago, would have seen her burnt alive for merely existing.

Sitting on the back pews, she’s well out of sight of the vicar (whose thin wire-frame glasses continue to slip down his nose) and, most importantly, the congregation of orphans that are all gathered at the front. Here, at the back, there’s only a trio of working class men to keep her company, whose nails are permanently stained by the coal they work with. In truth, they’re lucky to still have a job now that the Great Depression is starting to unfeignedly sink it’s claws into the country. Admittedly, it’s not as bad as it’s reported to be over in America, but they were still in a post war slump here before the American markets collapsed in on themselves. Perhaps it hadn’t been her brightest idea to come out into muggle London without a costume change, but it’s nothing a subtle muggle repellent hadn’t solved. Only an exceptionally weak one, more of a ‘don’t question me’ than a ‘don’t look at me’. Her heels are smaller than usual, her outfit a pale cream with a soft brown coat; there’s no need for boots today when it won’t rain. Unsurprisingly, wizarding weather predictions far outstrip that of their muggle counterparts, even near a hundred years in the past.

“—in which our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ was born—” the sermon goes on, has been going on for near twenty minutes now. Sophia is relatively surprised that the orphanage children have been so well behaved throughout but, then again, she assumes there’s a different expectation here in 1930. The adult muggles will all have been raised with that expectation that children are to be seen not heard and will probably have imparted that lesson on the children in their care. Sucking in her lower lip, Sophia toys with the flesh there, keeping it grazed lightly between her teeth.

Her first instinct with Tom Marvolo Riddle had been to find blood family for him, one suitable to taking care of him and raising him on a steady diet of love and tolerance. She could have broken laws and, as an underaged witch, helped Merope but… the truth is, she hadn’t wanted to. Both because she hadn’t wanted to risk her stand in and… and because what Merope had done was wrong. Why should Sophia extend her hand and help the woman? It’s illogical, probably exceedingly selfish of Sophia in some respects, but she cannot find it in herself to care too much. She cannot change what has already happen now, can only focus on the future. And the key to the future of oh so many is currently sitting at the front of the church, no doubt very uncomfortable on these wooden pews; Sophia knows she well and truly is. er

Morfin is out as a guardian; he had been since the moment Sophia had first spoken to him but, prior to that meeting, she had allowed herself to hope that there was something redeemable about the man. But no. He was too indoctrinated into the pureblood agenda by his father, too wrapped up in Merope and Tom Riddle Sr’s perceived slights against him that, if presented with their child… well, Sophia is quite certain he’d be back in Azkaban for attacking a minor.

That leaves the Riddles as he sole potential blood family to adopt Tom Marvolo Riddle and Sophia had sworn to herself that she would not consider doing exactly what she is doing right this very moment until she knew for certain if Tom Riddle Sr could step up to the plate as a father. The circumstances that surround the whole thing are so exceedingly delicate; Tom Marvolo Riddle is, when someone sensible and moral looks upon the situation, a product of rape; Tom Riddle Sr is terrified of magic and was still watching Sophia with suspicion in his eyes when they ran into each other last month; the boy that could someday become Voldemort is unquestionably a wizard and will no doubt be exhibiting traits of his magical heritage already. All of this and more has tangled in on each other until Sophia finds herself sitting, trying to unravel the mess of yarn that is the future of the wizarding world. She had been a good study but, as a Ravenclaw, she’d hardly had much of a relationship with Albus Dumbledore beyond that of a normal student. Besides, she’s not entirely sure she’d trust this to Dumbledore either; not when his first reaction to a child with sticky fingers was to set everything they own on fire. Oh, no doubt it works in Hogwarts itself; but there’s a difference between setting school property ‘on fire’ and then combusting everything an orphan could have to his name.

Sighing, Sophia tucks the loose lock of hair that’s brushing up against her cheek as always behind her ear. With the Riddles still a big question mark (even now, after four months in their acquaintance), Morfin and Dumbledore stricken from her list for varying reasons, she’s left to consider herself. On one hand, she’s magical. That alone could endear her to Tom. On the other, she has no bloodline relation to him, no feasible excuse to give to him when, once grown up, he would begin asking that big question of ‘why did you adopt me’. Somehow, she cannot see it going down well that she did so in order to assure herself he wouldn’t decide his lifelong goal was the conquer the country and start a genocide. Alongside that logical reason… there’s also the personal one.

Children are a big fucking commitment. Throughout the entirety of her life, Sophia had lived it knowing she wouldn’t bring a child into the world unless she knew, without question, she could provide it with everything it would need. Love, a secure family home, the finances to afford a dependent; the list was endless. She’d never pictured herself with a child until she was well and truly into her twenties, possibly her thirties. And yet, that had all been slaving away under the impression she’d have a choice of conceiving a child. Tom Marvolo Riddle is already very much conceived and very much a living, breathing being. He’s already here, already living. So, the question becomes ‘can Sophia Lovegood offer Tom Marvolo Riddle everything he needs to thrive?’ to which the answer is, at this moment, a no. She doesn’t have a secure wage coming into her home that could support both herself and a child. There would be no routine or stability for him, not while she is still an apprentice healer currently studying in the muggle world. She could adopt him, but with her working hours, he would either be bounced between her and a childminder (if she could even afford such a thing, though Sophia has the sneaking suspicion she very well can’t) or between her mother and herself. Meanwhile, the orphanage has stability, is clean and well-cared for despite being a bit worn in places. A year, she had said to herself upon meeting Tom Riddle Sr. She’d give it a year and, if the Riddle family showed no intention of welcoming magic into their lives in the form of their son/grandson… then Sophia would adopt the boy.

The service ends and Sophia remains seated, one hand wrapped around the handle of her handbag, the other resting atop her knee. The trio of men who’d also been occupying the back stand and leave, though not before two of them cast her appreciative looks. She smiles back at them, for why not? It’s not like they’ll ever meet again and she does dress to impress. She’s middle class by muggle standards and Sophia flaunts it with the clothing she wears. She doubts the Riddles would ever bother to associate with her if not.

She remains sitting at the orphans at the front gather around the caretakers, a half-hundred or so children, from the stumbling toddlers to the teenagers who have clearly been roped in to help shepherd their younger counterparts. They toddle down the aisle, all in their matching grey uniforms, shorts for the boys, dresses for the girls. Each one of them has a coat and more than half have hats and scarves. They’re not destitute, not this early into the Great Depression. The Matron (Sophia has long forgotten the name and not dared to venture too close to find it out) clearly knows what she’s doing with the money, that much is clear.

“Keep a tight hold of Billy, Sarah. We don’t want him wandering off.”

“Yes, Mrs Cole.” Mrs Cole is a young woman, she’s startled to realise, not much older than Sophia herself. She’s quick to take charge and obviously cares about her young charges, what with the way her sharp brown eyes flutter about the lot of them. Counting heads, Sophia realises. She choses this moment to stand, the ease of practise allowing her to balance in her heeled shoes as she makes for the door. After all, remaining sitting in the church now will only draw attention to her and, for all the muggle repelling charm will instil a ‘don’t question me’ aura, it won’t stop the muggles from remembering her either.

Outside, the weather is mild for January, the sun dipping in and out of the grey cloud cover. With how wet December had been, it’s particularly nice to experience the cool, dry wind brushing up against her cheeks and not be lashed out by the rain. Sophia draws the lapels of her coat around her with one hand, the other still holding her bag close. The buttons are charmed to do themselves up and, soon enough, she’s as warm as possible without any wand work. She’s just made it out onto the street, peering up as a London motorbus goes trundling by. The whole group have partitioned themselves off into smaller, manageable chunks and the first three groups pass without issue. It’s in the fourth group there’s a problem, when one of the smaller children stops suddenly. Sophia knows who it’s going to be before she even looks, knows that she needn’t even glance to find out. But look she does anyway.

The first thought that strikes her is that he looks remarkably like his father. It’d been a vague thought that’d stuck with her throughout the years, that Tom Marvolo Riddle would inherit his father’s pretty face and that it would only help make everyone all the easier to manipulate for him. Knowing and seeing are two very different things, however. His hair isn’t the slick curls that Tom Riddle Sr has, more soft waves that are already artfully arranged atop his toddler head, most probably by one of the staff of the older children. Everything else though, everything else is taken directly from his father. Even hidden beneath the puppy fat of his youth, the blood relation is so prevalent that it genuinely surprises Sophia. Certainly, should she be able to talk Tom Riddle Sr into accepting his son, none at the orphanage will be able to proclaim them unrelated.

“Tom? Why have you stopped?” One of the teenagers (a girl, tired given the bags beneath her eyes and the worry lines already beginning to congregate on her forehead) stops beside him, following his eyes to land on Sophia. The boy is supposed to be very intelligent, isn’t he? Could it be that a part of him recognises the magic in her, like calling to like? Sophia lifts one hand, offering a gentle wave with a quick flex of her gloved fingers. Tom continues to stare, ignoring the teenager who tells him to start moving unless he wants to get in trouble. And she shouldn’t do it, she shouldn’t but—

Sophia goes over to them, hand dipping into her pocket to give a shallow wave of her wand, cancelling the muggle repellent charm. This is stupid but, as stated previously, she’s not immune to the occasional bout of stupidity.

“Would you like some help?” she asks, stopping just a few feet away from the group, several of the children now swinging around to stare at her with wide eyes. The woman who Mrs Cole had been talking to heads this group, looking at startled as the children that herd around her. All the while, dark eyes in a familiar face continue to stare up at her.

“We wouldn’t want you to trouble yourself, Miss.”

“It’s no trouble at all; it looks like you are all going in the same direction as I am anyway.” Then, she turns her full attention on Tom, squatting down to his level. It’s a bit of a balancing act, what with her heels and skirts, but she manages. “Would you like me to carry you?”

There’s a moment where Tom Marvolo Riddle examines the hand that is held out to him, potentially cataloguing every little white stitch that her lilac gloves are made up of. After a moment of consideration, he steps a bit closer, sliding one of his tiny, tiny hands into hers without saying a word. Sophia doesn’t need any further invitation, scooping the boy up as she stands, marvelling at how very small, how very light he is. Of course, he’s a three year old child and the last child she’d carried about had been Zander when he was nine years old and still demanding a griffyback. Apparently, things were always more entertaining when you were hanging off your sister’s back like a demiguise.

The orphanage staff (Sarah, she introduces herself as) flutters about nervously, but Sophia waves her off, instead focusing on making sure Tom is situated comfortably against her him. One of his tiny hands comes up to wrap itself in the folds of her coat’s lapels and, a moment later, his head is resting against her shoulder. She’s glad she pinned almost all her hair up so thoroughly; no offense to the orphanage staff, but she doubts they’re perfectly on top of the headlice problem. After all, muggles can’t just spell the little blighters off their heads like wizards can.

“Do you talk yet, Tom? You’re awfully quiet,” Sophia coaxes, following along with the huddle of children. Mrs Cole, at the front of the delegation with that first group, has turned back to look at her with blatant confusion on her face. And it’s stupid but already she can feel the attachment growing in her chest. She’s always liked children, always known that she wanted them but only when she was good and ready, only when she could provide them the absolute best life she could. Little Tom Marvolo Riddle’s weight is both the lightest thing she has carried and the heaviest as his cheek rests on the curve of her shoulder.

“I can talk,” he says, quietly and intently, dark eyes flickering up to look at her again. His other hand is at the collar of her jacket now, half buried beneath to wrap around the soft cashmere beneath.

“And you’re very good at it too,” Sophia praises, smoothing an open palm down the side of his ribs and then back up again. “Your voice is so lovely and clear. How’s your eyesight, can you see that dog across the street?” With a tired little huff, Tom lifts his head from her shoulders, looking in the direction she’s indicated with a tilt of her head. He looks, frowns, then looks back at her.

“That’s a cat.”

“Is it? Why, I should probably put my glasses on, huh?” She can see the dog just fine, it’s fine print that she can struggle to read but Tom doesn’t need to know that. He’s three years old though and she’s morbidly curious about just how much he knows of the world. “You’ll have to help me, what else can you see on the other side of the street?” The toddler in her arms huffs again, eyes narrowing as he forces himself to focus beyond how tired he is. He’s a toddler who has sat still for a long time, he’s no doubt in desperate need of a nap. Still, he manages five minutes of reciting everything he can see, listening carefully when Sophia points something out he hasn’t named and describes it to him along with offering him the name of the object. Soon enough though, his head of soft hair is resting in the crook of her neck, hot little breaths fluttering across her exposed collarbone. Fast asleep. Gods, she shouldn’t have come, she should have walked away from the church before they could interact, she should have— she should have done anything but this. Because now she foolishly, stupidly doesn’t want to give him up. She doesn’t want to put Tom Riddle down, doesn’t want to send him back through the iron gates of the orphanage they’re starting to approach.

“Do you have any children?” It’s Sarah who asks, the worker who is now also carrying a napping toddler in her arms. The little girl is drooling onto the shoulder of Sarah’s coat. “You’re very good with him.”

“Oh no, just a younger brother. I’m Sophia Lovegood by the way. I’m currently studying to be a doctor.” Sarah’s eyebrows rocket up in surprise, an expression mirrored on the face of the teenaged boy that’s been slinking along half a foot behind her. 

“Didn’t know they let ladies ‘come doctors,” he mutters, only to choke on a curse when Mrs Cole, who had been lying in wait at the orphanage gates, swats him around the back of the head in a reprimand. 

“Don’t be uncouth, Edward. Go help with the lunch.”

“Yes Mrs Cole.”

As Edward the teenager marches off, Sophia adjusts her hold on the sleeping Tom, just until he’s resting more securely on the curve of her hip. Gods, she’s such a fool. It’s been no longer than a quarter of an hour but she is already stupidly attached. He’s adorable and knowing that they are standing outside of an orphanage, knowing they are standing here and she is going to have to hand him over to a place where he will just be one of many with no parental affection available for him is tearing at her heart. Perhaps she’s susceptible to stupidity after all. 

“Doctor is a good profession,” Mrs Cole says slowly, eyeing the slumbering Tom in her arms before she returns her gaze to Sophia’s face. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to come inside for a bit? Tom is an usually quiet boy—”

“But me carrying him inside lessens the chances of him waking?” Sophia offers, stroking her hand down the boy’s side again. He breathes, long and harsh into the side of her neck. “My train doesn’t leave until the evening; I have the time.”

Wool’s Orphanage is everything that its occupants hint at, clean, well-cared for, but tired. Though there’s an older Matron, it’s clear Mrs Cole is all but running the place from the way she barks out orders as they step inside. Both staff and children respond swiftly and without defying the woman; it’s impressive given the fact she only looks a handful of years older than Sophia herself. It’s commendable really, to take charge when you know you can do something, when you know you’re capable of it. To set out to improve just one little thing and accomplish it with hard work and determination. Mrs Cole leads Sophia through the orphanage, onto what can only constitute as a little office room. There’s a filing cabinet beside one window, two chairs that reside on either side of a sturdy wooden desk, and (to Sophia’s distaste) a glass cabinet with a few bottles of liquor residing within. Hardly something that should be accessible in an orphanage, is it? 

“Take a seat, Miss Lovegood. I hope you don’t mind, but are you looking to adopt?” 

There’s something lodged in Sophia’s throat, sitting heavy something in the centre point of her oesophagus that only swells like a balloon when Tom Riddle unconsciously snuggles that little bit deeper into the crook of her neck. 

“Not right now I’m afraid. I’m nineteen, unmarried and am only just finding my feet in my profession.,” she admits. It doesn’t stop her from working soothing circles into Tom’s back, doesn’t prevent her from shuffling him ever do slightly until he’s (hopefully) lying up against her chest in a more comfortable position. 

“Yes, not really ideal circumstance for a child,” Mrs Cole murmurs, though there’s a twinge of something in her voice; disappointment? Discomfort? Sophia isn’t sure, doesn’t wish to look too much into it. Because, what if Tom is already showing signs of magic? It wouldn’t be outlandish; both she and Zander had performed their first bit of accidental magic before they turned three. If Tom is already performing magic, if he’s already starting to alienate himself from the rest of the orphans, can she really leave him here? But she doesn’t have a choice today; she has nothing set up, hasn’t prepared herself or made preparations to accommodate a child— she’d just be doing more harm than good to feed a guilt complex and nurse an affection for the child in her arms. 

“Perhaps when I am more secure in life,” Sophia whispers, smoothing down the wispy locks of Tom’s hair. It’s already as dark as his father’s cut shorter at the back but she supposes Tom doesn’t have to contend with curls like his father does. “Do you want to show me to his room? I’ll carry him up before I leave.”

“Happy birthday, my darling.” Mother plants a kiss to his cheek, soothing down his hair and Tom favours her with a smile, feeling something uncoil in his chest at the sight of both parents at the table. Lunch is being served, his Mother is in good spirits despite her recent bout of cold and the vague haze of his latest nightmare is slipping through his conscious fingers already. The Christmas period is over, Mother’s extended family (and their judgemental eyes) are gone for another year, Father’s extended family had all come down with flu on the cusp of the New Year so they hadn’t travelled up to go and see them and now the holiday season is almost over. It is a marvellous time to be turning twenty-five.

Pulling a chair out from the table, Tom seats himself and accepts the soup bowl that Molly presents him with, in such a good mood he even graces her with a thank you. Father peering at him from atop his newspaper but Tom pays him no mind. It should therefore come as no surprise that Mother bursts this blissful bubble of happiness just as he is beginning to truly relax into his seat.

“Tom darling, I have written a thank you card for the Lovegood. Would you be so good as to ensure it is delivered to Sophia personally? You could take the new stallion on an outing to Great Hangleton, stretch his legs,” she swiftly adds in just as Tom opens his mouth to protest. The idea of taking the buckskin, who he has since named Zeus for his lightning reflexes, for a long ride is rather tempting. What lays at the end of that journey however—

“Surely Henry…” No, not Henry, Tom recalls halfway through his first protest. They had given Henry the first two weeks of the new year off at his request, so that he might go visit his sister on the eastern coast. No, the only staff present now are Molly (returned from her Christmas break on the day just gone by) and William, the gardener. Molly would have to deliver the letter on foot whereas William is far too old to be making such a journey. Even if they had most of the staff to hand, there’s only Henry that can drive.

“Please Tom? I am sure the brisk country air will do you the world of good.” His father scoffs behind the battlements of the Financial Times, one hand emerging to gather supplies (the butter dish, undoubtedly for his bread roll) before disappearing back into his paper fortress. Truly, there’s no getting away from the request at present, not without an excuse that will have both Father and Mother exchanging worried glances. After all, if this had been years ago (before the tramp’s daughter, probably before Cecilia and her brown ringlets had come spinning so comely into her life) then he would have quite happily delivered his mother’s gratitude to the pretty young woman who had moved into the neighbouring town. Would have perhaps stuck around for longer than would be sensible given what Lovegood is. But then, he wouldn’t have known, would he? Not if it were before the wretch had wormed her way into his life.

“Of course, Mother.”

Zeus performs admirably on the journey to Great Hangleton, keeping a steady pace though he is just as eager to stretch his legs in a canter when they hit the open, dusty highway. Yes, the stallion had been worth both the money and training Tom had put into him and, as he comes to a stop on the street that Sophia Lovegood’s house resides on, the beast offers a simple snort as Tom dismounts. Apparently out in the bigger cities, there are now far more motorcars bundling along the roads than there are horses. In the fields of Yorkshire however, innovation of that level hasn’t quite worked its way into the lives of those here, not so efficiently that motorcars outnumber the horses upon the streets. Drawing the letter from his breast pocket, Tom makes for the witch’s door, rapping his knuckles against the glass. There is no answer.

It is, Tom thinks, entirely possible that the woman is at the hospital right now working. She isn’t part of the aristocracy and has a job to fund her own lifestyle. There are just over a thousand female doctors in England (his father had informed him of this after talking to Doctor Bones) so it is not as if she is a glaring oddity. Wise men would find an intelligent woman to be an ideal wife if one believes the theory of evolution that Darwin had concocted a half-century ago.

“Are you looking for Miss Lovegood?” Tom twists to find a middle-aged couple on the doorstep one house over, having obviously just stepped outside to go out for the day.

“I— yes.” There’s no need for them to know why, is there now?

“I’m afraid she’s gone out for the day, sir,” the woman says, linking her arm through that of her husband, smiling softly at him. “You’re not her first gentleman caller, but certainly the best dressed of the lot.” That draws Tom up short. There are others visiting the witch? Why on earth would they do that?

“What my wife means to say is that Doctor Bones is a good friend of ours and requested we keep an eye on Miss Lovegood, unmarried and, well, one could say she’s vulnerable for it.” Vulnerable? The witch? What kind of ridiculousness is this? “There have been two men already asking after her since she first moved into town and she’s not that much younger than our youngest daughter. It worries my dear wife.” Worries her? What— of course. They don’t have the slightest idea the woman is a witch, that she is not only capable of defending herself but could very easily inflect torment upon others.

“I am only here to deliver a thank you card from my mother. I have no other intentions,” Tom states, presenting said card before him and he watches the man nod, his wife deflating ever so slightly.

“That’s a shame,” the woman murmurs with a sigh. “You’re the first one that would be worth her time.” Tom isn’t sure if he should be flattered or not. Regardless, he bids the duo a goodbye, slips the card through the letterbox of Sophia Lovegood’s door, and then makes for Zeus. He needs not think too much on this anymore; he has a ride back to Little Hangleton to enjoy.

Chapter Text

12.01.1930

“I beg your pardon?”

“My Aunt Marian has died and your father is going to drive with me to the estate to aid in sorting out her inheritance; she was childless, after all.”  Mother plants a hat upon her head, not even so much as looking at him as she steps into the coat Molly is holding out for her, slotting one arm into the sleeves after the other. Tom remains standing in the foyer, destination already forgotten in the face of this terrible news.

“That part I understood,” he says slowly, watching his mother begin to button her soft blue coat. “It’s the bit that came before that I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why on earth can you not just rearrange the date?”

“Because there’s no doubt that Miss Lovegood is already on her way over, whether that be by train or bus. It would be a slight on our family to have invited her over for tea, only to turn her away at the door.” Here, Mother pauses, reaching forwards to clasp one of his hands in both of hers. The leather of her gloves is cool against his skin, her hands smaller than his own. “I know things haven’t been easy Tom, but she’s of a good sort, despite only being middle-class.” Mother sniffs, as if it has pained her to say the words. Whatever else was going to come from their conversation, be that be Mother offering further encouragement with thinly veiled references to his reappearance following the tramp’s enchantments, or Tom himself offering up a second protest on why exactly this could not be allowed to happen, the arrival of Father stalls the both of them in their tracks. He comes in through the front door, already dressed for an outing with a hat atop his head that is slowly becoming a thing of the past, outdated.

“Mary. Let’s go.”

“Of course, dear.” Mother plants a kiss upon his cheek as she goes to leave, flouncing out of the door with her arm wrapped up in Father’s. Upon the drive, Henry sits within the Humber, as crisp and professional as always. They are both just leaving him here to entertain a witch who will be arriving at any moment now. It is just Molly and himself in the manor and, female though she is, he hardly doubts the maid could serve as a successful deterrent if Sophia Lovegood does decide she rather likes the wretch’s methods after all.

“Sir,” Molly says, head bowed demurely, “I could claim that you had to pop out also, for a family emergency if you wish?” It’s tempting to take her up on the offer, that’s for certain. It would be an easy way to avoid this potential catastrophe. But Mother would surely find out and, though Tom is hardly controlled by the woman, the thought of upsetting her in discomforting. Mother, while not believing his ‘mad’ ramblings about being bewitched, had been the one to comfort him. She had been the one coax him back to himself, little by little.

“It’s fine, Molly. Please prepare tea and cakes for two, we’ll take it in the library.” At least then Sophia will be able to see they have displayed the Lovegood’s gift to the Riddle family properly.

Molly fetches him from his study a half hour later, declaring that Miss Lovegood had arrived and had been brought to the library, as he requested. Walking down the hallway, Tom listens carefully for any sign out of the ordinary. All that persists is the gentle tick-tock of the grandfather clock at the southern end of the hall, its golden pendulum swinging back and forth in a timely manner. He stops at the threshold to the library unaccustomed, his footsteps having been muffled enough upon the rug laid across the floorboards.

Within, Sophia Lovegood stands with her back to him, inspecting the titles upon the western wall. Her hair, usually worn long, appears to have been miraculously tucked away to give the illusion of a chin length bob. Were it not for the fact he had seen both Cecilia and Molly perform such a feat, he’d accuse her of using magic for the sake of vanity. In a soft blue dress, she looks exactly as one would expect to find a woman within a manor such as this. Well, discounting the frightful heels that seem to grow thinner by the day. This pair, while matching the blue of her dress, appear to have a white sole, again visible only for the height of them.

“Miss Lovegood,” Tom greets, stepping into the room and watching her turn ever so slightly, tipping her head over to a side so that she may watch him half over her shoulder. “Mother sends her apologies but we received distressing news from her extended family.”

“I see. These things happen, don’t they?” she says, turning fully to meet him now, both hands clasped before her. She’s already shed her gloves, presumably placed in her pockets to leave her pale hands free. There’s a thin ring upon her little finger, Russian gold, if he’s not mistaken. Very outdated given it was popular a century ago, but he supposes that is of little interest to the middle class— keeping up with the trends for jewellery that is. “Where would you like me, Mr Riddle?”

“Molly has set up some cakes and tea by the western window.” Tom gestures in the correct direction, though he doubts Sophia missed the small table and twin chairs set up on the other side of the room, looking out over the grounds. At the bottom of the lawn, the stables reside; he can see Zeus in his paddock from here. Sophia hums and they make their way over together, Tom waiting for her to sit as would be proper before he takes his own seat. The tea is freshly poured, the cakes baked just this morning in preparation for the witch’s visit because, for some obscure reason, Mother likes her. No, that isn’t the truth; it’s blatantly obvious why Mother likes Sophia Lovegood. She likes to play about with the fantasy that she too could have become anything she wished but had instead settled for marrying Father, because the man would be ‘lost without her’, to paraphrase her own words. He doesn’t doubt his mother could have been a great woman in her own right, but it would have taken a great effort given the constraints on women when she reached adulthood. At present, women have more rights than they ever did and the young woman before him benefits from that. Well, in their world at least. He doesn’t have the slightest clue what life is like for the woman before him among her own people. Given how well put together she always looks, he’ll assume she has quite a few rights in her own world too.

“How was your Christmas period, Miss Lovegood?”

“You can call me Sophia if you’d like,” she says softly, reaching for the sugar bowl and placing what he is coming to understand is her customary two lumps into her own cup. “I like to think we’re acquainted with each other enough now. And it was wonderful, thank you. Any time with my parents is a delight and Zander is— well, in truth he’s a little menace who’s always more than happy to irritate me, but it’s all in good humour.”

“Tom then,” he says, though it leaves reluctantly from between his lips, as if his gums are coated in fuzz that tries to cling to the two words that slip free. Tongue dry, he reaches for his own cup, sipping quietly at the Yorkshire tea within. There has been a question coiling about in the back of his mind since they last saw each other— no, before that. The question had come simmering into existence that day in York, where his mother had corralled the two of them into having a conversation over tea and cake. Something she has managed yet again he realises with a bitter smile. “What will happen when the tramp returns?”

“The tramp?” Sophia repeats, confusion filtering across her brow for a moment before comprehension dawns. “Oh, you mean Gaunt.” She leans back in her chair, taking her cup with her, balanced on the palm of one hand with the fingers of the other wrapped around the handle. The Russian gold ring clinks against the china in the silence between them. With one leg folded over the other, the hem of her dress rises to just above the knee and Tom forces himself to pay it little attention. “Given he’s a repeat offender who has already been released once, they won’t bother looking for relatives to watch over him; chances are, he’ll even come back with some kind of ward or wand restriction on him, or he will be relocated elsewhere. It’s… tricky, given his status as a pureblood. For all that the Wizengamot families will lock down upon him for his ancestors squandering the family fortune and selling off their hereditary seat, he is still technically one of them.”

“The tramp is part of the nobility?!” Tom splutters, turning wide and horrified eyes upon Sophia. She looks remarkably grim; her lips pressing into a firm line and even goes so far as to place the teacup she’d been holding back down on its saucer.

“Yes. You must understand, in our world there is a concept of elitism known as purebloods. That is to say, those who have magical ancestors and they will do their upmost best to ensure the bloodline isn’t polluted by anyone with a drop of muggle blood. The Gaunts took some three hundred years ago and ran with it to an extreme degree. Much like the royal family, they married cousin after cousin, failing to realise that fresh blood is what pushes down hereditary diseases. Consider it alike Queen Victoria’s son, the one who had haemophilia and died from it; that too is due to keeping the family tree too interwoven.” He’s never heard of anything like this. And yet, it would explain the appearance of the Gaunts; their exceedingly noticeable squints, the features they’d shared, even the unintelligent mumblings. Inbreeding then. “Mental deficiencies are one such outcomes of marrying those too closely related; that they squandered the money away isn’t too much of a surprise in truth.” Tom collects one of the thin shortbread biscuits that have been set off to a side, added to the small table like more of an afterthought than a true addition to the spread of cakes and treats. He chews slowly, thoughtfully as he considers the woman’s words. That’s when he recalls something else that Sophia said.

“Your government won’t look for any relatives to watch over the tramp. Did they—” The words get caught within his throat, tangled and lodged for all that the mouthful of biscuit had gone down smoothly. Sophia straightens in alarm but Tom downs a mouthful of tea before she feels the need to do anything about his near-choking fit, soundless as it had been. He doesn’t know how to ask the question, doesn’t know if he dares to. After all, how does one ask after the wretch that entrapped you, ask why the witch government (what a horrific thought that is) did not deposit her tramp of a brother with her.

“Did they,” Sophia repeats, though he can see the moment it clicks behind her soft blue eyes. She’s chosen this dress because the colour matches her eyes, he realises belatedly, watching her face smooth over into a flat, emotionless thing. “Oh. Mr Riddle— Tom. The only living relative that Morfin Gaunt has is a three year old child. There was no adult witch or wizard to release him into the custody of.” No living relative—

So… she’s dead then.

It’s strange; he always thought there would be a swell of emotion when the time came that he next heard news of Merope Gaunt, his estranged wife. They are not divorced after all, how can they be when he daren’t look for her, too fearful of the very idea that she could ensnare him all over again only, this time, she wouldn’t allow him his sense back again, would keep him in that hazed state of being as nothing more than a pretty, thoughtless thing she could bat her dreadful eyes at? But they’re not estranged because she is dead. Merope Gaunt is dead which means Tom Riddle is a widower. It is a… strange thought to process.

Sophia Lovegood is staring at him, her lips parted ever so slightly to give a small ‘o’ shape. It showcases her surprise quite well, the pale pink of her painted lips a sharp contrast to the small black void of her mouth where no light can currently reach.

“Sorry. I thought that you already knew that information. That Merope had died, that is.” No. He hadn’t known. Would that have affected how he has lived his life, knowing the tramp’s daughter who so thoroughly ruined his life was dead? Yes, it would have done. He would have gone to the London flat, would have seen if he could wiggle free of whatever renting agreement he’d have signed and paid for upfront. He wouldn’t have lived with her ghost hanging around his frame, the very thought of her chilling and that lingering constant of ‘what if she’s going to turn up now’ sitting heavy upon his shoulders. But no, Morfin Gaunt has no living—

“A three year old child.” The words feel foreign in his mouth, how they fall off his tongue to rest in the space between himself and Sophia. No adult witch or wizard to give custody of Morfin to but there’s a three year old child. The tramp didn’t have a child and the wretch’s father hadn’t been released until a few months after Tom’s return to Little Hangleton. Not soon enough to father a three year old child which means—

“Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave us.”

The— the bitch had said us. She’d said us, had claimed she was pregnant and cried and begged as Tom walked out the flat, had walked out of the building and onto the street until he found a way out of London itself. Another trick to ensnare him, another way of keeping him by her side and he hadn’t thought, hadn’t hesitated to walk out—

“Anapneo!”

Tom chokes out a breath without conscious thought, his mind suddenly coming back to him as quickly as he realises Sophia Lovegood has that thin wand of willow pointed at him. She drops it the second his eyes focus in on it and Tom doesn’t hesitate to snatch it out of the air, clenching the thin stick hard between his fingers. She hasn’t held it long enough for the wood to grow warm.

“What did you just do to me!”

“I cleared your airways,” the witch says, her voice horrendously calm in comparison to his own. She’s sitting back in her chair again now, hands folded politely in her lap as if there is nothing wrong, as if they are simply discussing the weather or the latest piece of literature to capture the heart of the nation. Not as if she has dropped the bombshell that, that Merope Gaunt had been pregnant and now there is a three year old child somewhere out there in the world, a relative of Morfin Gaunt who had no children himself— He cannot do it, cannot focus on this, cannot begin to comprehend the fact the wretch is dead but there is a child.

“The child—” He wants to ask where the child is, if it’s safe, if Sophia knows anything. That’s not what comes out. “—is it magic?” His company’s smile frosts over some, like dew icing over. It doesn’t detract from the sadness in her eyes.

“Yes. The boy, he’s magical. He recognised it in me the moment he saw me.” He’s magical. One of them. There is a boy out there that carries half of Tom within him and he’s one of them, something Tom can never understand and isn’t sure he wants to. Then, another thing registers.

“You’ve seen him.” She must have done for her to claim the boy recognises the magic within her. Sophia Lovegood has interacted with— with his child. This boy who can only be his son. “This is why you’ve bothered with our family.” It all falls into place then; with Morfin Gaunt jailed again, there would be no reason for Sophia to keep interacting with the Riddle family as she has; she’s shown no interest in marrying into their wealth, clearly intends to remain a doctor or whatever the witch equivalent of the job is. No, Sophia Lovegood came to Little Hangleton knowing that Morfin Gaunt had a relative, knowing exactly what Merope Gaunt had done to Tom himself. She knew from the beginning there was a child and she has been interacting with his family… why? He asks as much aloud, watching her pretty face fall into a seriousness he’s rarely seen upon others before. It is the kind of look at has weighted decisions behind it and equally heavy consequences.

“Magic is tied intrinsically to our emotions. Accidental magic, the kind a child produces before they have control of their powers, is a wonderful thing. For his first, Zander animated a drawing. But it also makes a child different. In a muggle orphanage, that can inspire a lot of fear. And if you’re feared, you get defensive and the magic reacts accordingly. It’s a vicious cycle.” The witch runs one hand down the side of her face, exhaling in a short, sharp breath before she turns her gaze upon him. Tom doesn’t know why he’s surprised by the redness to her eyes, it’d been evident in the tremble of her voice that she was becoming emotional, affected by the topic of their discussion. “I’ve been trying to decide if you will be able to set aside your aversion to magic for the sake of your— for the sake of the boy.” She doesn’t call it his son. Tom isn’t sure how to feel about that, other than acknowledge the distinct indifference that has settled in his own breast. But he does know something.

“I can’t.” He means for won’t to come out, but it’s not the word to leave his mouth. Won’t implies it is a choice; can’t implies it is something he is incapable of. It is not a word that should be applied in this situation. He is capable of taking care of a child, has more than enough money and space and he is a functioning adult.

“I can see that.” Sophia murmurs, leaning ever so slightly forward to pick up her teacup again. “And I would never dream of forcing a child upon you. You were a victim and shouldn’t be left to deal with the product of rape.”

“I wasn’t raped!” The very thought is absurd. Sophia flinches back violently, dropping her teacup and it shatters on the floorboards, spilling lukewarm liquid across the polished wood. He’s holding her wand and, without thinking, had pointed it in her direction in his rage. Even knowing he has no magic, that he is isn’t one of those freaks— he drops it and the thin whip of willow clatters to the table, the tip landing in the strawberry tart. He’s breathing heavily and Sophia isn’t looking much better, her eyes wide and startled, her knuckles white with tension. It’s a miracle that Molly hasn’t come racing at the sound of shattering china.

Slowly, as if she’s speaking to an easily spooked horse, Sophia says, “any form of sexual penetration to any part of the body without explicit consent is called rape.” She meets his gaze, her eyes surprisingly level for all the red, swollen skin around them. She looks one breath away from tears. “That applies to both men and women.”

It’s outrageous. Women get raped. It’s a crime where women are the victims because they’re weaker, because they can be held down and forced— and with magic, force can be applied in a different way. His mouth is dry, hands trembling and Tom violently shoves the thoughts aside, shoves the words Sophia Lovegood has spoken to a side because she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She cannot, otherwise she would not say such stupid things.

“And what now?” Tom snaps, folding his arms across his chest (fingers clinging tight to the fabric of his jacket, his chest heaving sharp, stuttered breaths) as he stares hard at the stupid girl sitting across from him. The witch looks at him for just a moment more, just as sadly as she had done a moment before, and then she turns her eyes towards her wand. It’s dug deep into the strawberry tart now, a third of the wood submerged. She does not reach to retrieve it.

“I suppose I tell you that I cannot knowingly leave a magical child in an orphanage and, as you have said you cannot take him in, then it’s only fair I warn you that, upon completing my year in Great Hangleton, I will be adopting that boy.”

“You have to be twenty-five to adopt!” Tom seethes, some relative of panic seeping into his bones. Why the emotion comes, he doesn’t know. Once the witch’s apprenticeship is complete, she’ll be leaving Great Hangleton. He won’t see the child; he doesn’t want anything to do with the boy. He’s the wretch’s son— he can’t deal with that, he can’t. But not for the reason that Sophia states. Tom wasn’t— he can’t have been—

“Perhaps it’s best if I show myself out,” Sophia mutters, rising to her feet and collecting her wand in the process. She’s careful to step around the puddle of tea, to avoid the shattered shards of china. It is only as she gets to the door, something he knows simply because she blocks out some of the light that floods in through the hallway because he hasn’t moved (hasn’t looked away from the table and his own hands that have worked down to his knees to clench in the fabric of his trousers) that she speaks again. “If you have any questions, you know where to find me.” Then she’s gone.

He retires to his room. Doesn’t even try to put up a pretence of things being okay. He roars at Molly to leave the one time she hesitantly knocks on his door.

He wraps himself in his bedding and tries to pretend, not for the first time, that the Gaunt wretch hadn’t ruined everything again and again.

Chapter Text

22.02.1930

There is a knock on her door. Unlike the last time this happened, Sophia is not hunched over a desk, scribbling out papers. Instead, she had been sitting in the living room, wand in hand as she worked through the motions of brackium emendo. On the coffee table, a variety of bones (some from animals, some from witches and wizards who had donated their remains to Saint Mungo’s to allow trainee healers to practise) are scattered, all broken in different ways. Though it would appear she is not going to be getting the opportunity to apply the spell. With a sigh, Sophia gives a wave of her wand and send the whole lot marching up the stairs, climbing back into the trunk that sits on the landing. Only once all of the white soldiers have climbed up the wooden fortifications does the lid snap shut, locking down tight. Another wave has her healer’s spell book masked, so that it would read as nothing more than a fairytale if a muggle were to lay eyes upon it. Then, only then, does Sophia open the front door.

Tom Riddle stands upon her doorstep, that car of his parked with far more care upon the road this time. He seems a fair bit more put together than he did during their last meeting; the thousand yard stare is no longer prevalent in his eyes, nor are his hands trembling. Sophia herself feels better too; it’d been a highly charged moment, the discussion of Merope being dead, of revealing that Tom Marvolo Riddle exists as something more than a couple of words Merope may have strung together, finally putting it out there that what had happened to Tom had a name. Not that he had accepted it as such. Hell, in the twenty-first century it had been tabooed to talk about, but at least it had been acknowledged that it existed. The panic and shame that had rolled off the man in front of her had been enough to encourage tears to well in the corners of her eyes, though she had forced them down, had waited until she could apparate home before she allowed them to flow free. Life isn’t fair, Sophia knows that. It doesn’t mean she cannot sob her eyes out over that fact.

“Hello. Would you like to come in?” she asks quietly, eyes flicking over his form. He’s as well dressed as ever. He’s an aristocrat, of course he’ll be well dressed if he’s leaving the house. Probably even if he’s not leaving the house. And here she is, wearing a pair of pants, a jumper two sizes too big with sleeves that engulf her hands, and a pair of comfortable house slippers. It’s probably the worst Tom Riddle has ever seen her dressed but it’s not like Sophia had planned on leaving the house today, nor to entertain guests as it were.

“Yes, please. If you’re not—” He looks down at her attire and stares perhaps a bit too long at the pants and slipper combination. “—if you’re not busy.”

“Not at all. Here.” Sophia steps aside, gesturing for Tom to come in with one hand, the other offering her wand out to him. Part of her worries, her heart clenching in the cavity of her chest at the thought of handing it over now. Tom is a muggle, even when he had pointed her wand at her during their last meeting, the only thing he could have done was take one of her eyes out with it. But there is a war happening outside of Britain and of that, she is all too aware. The very fact their country is the one that has been untouched since the beginning of Grindelwald’s attacks is the reason most of the serious cases from the continent are sent to Saint Mungo’s. Sophia has dealt with a few, the handful of days she is not working in the muggle hospital but still expected to make her monthly hours up. She is aware of what damage magic can do and for a single moment, she had been scared. 

Leading Tom Riddle to her living room, Sophia disappears to make up the usual teapot, steeping the teabags for a minute to allow her nerves to settle. Only then, upon grabbing a plateful of chocolate coated biscuits, does she return to her visitor. He’s sitting in the same seat he’d occupied last time, looking uncomfortable in her perfectly normal living room. He’s still holding her wand in one hand, though it’s cradled gently as opposed to the tight grip he’d had last time.

“All of the magic is upstairs,” Sophia announces as she takes a seat, pouring both of them a single cup each. Two lumps of sugar follow the liquid for her own cup. “Barring the one book, but that’s only about healing. What is it that I can do for you, Mr Riddle?”

“Tom,” he says, ignoring her tray of biscuits and tea to look at her again. “You know everything and I already gave you leave to call me Tom.” So, you may as well do so. Ducking her head, Sophia pushes down the stupid urge to smile, instead sipping at her tea. It’s still a little too hot, the liquid searing as it crosses her tongue but she forces it down anyway. 

“What is it that I can do for you, Tom?” She settled back in her chair now, examining the man. His curls are pushed up and off his forehead, teased into a slick back style at the roots with the tips free to form the beginnings of a classic quiff. His features are sharp, attractive and it’s only made that much more obvious with the casual day suit he’s wearing.

“The—” He cuts himself off, eyebrows resting heavy over his eyes as he looks away, a hard frown to his face, turning his thoughts over one another. Sophia waits patiently, one leg folded over the other, bouncing the foot in the air back and forth ever so slightly. The cotton of her pants shifts against her calves and she wonders how long it will take her visitor to notice the house is far warmer than it should be without any of the fire-places burning in the tail-end of February. “Why are you adopting the child?” Oh. Not a denial that she cannot, throwing out her age again. He’s probably realised that’s a little detail she can tweak when she goes to collect Tom Marvolo Riddle. If it weren’t for the fact adoption had only just become a protected legal right (in some ways more than others), then she could have just strolled in and adopted him right off the bat. Sophia is well used to the laws of the time-period hindering her by now.

“It was never reported in the muggle world because we are very good at covering our tracks,” she begins, linking her fingers together where her palms are resting in her lap. “But three years ago, there was an obscurial attack in New York. An Obscurial is what becomes of witch of wizard that has supressed their magic as a result of psychological or physical abuse.” It is… not a pleasant topic to talk about. It hadn’t even been in the healer books five years ago, hadn’t been included until what happened in New York. Following the devastation there, there’d been a hasty reprint of several books to include information and warning signs yet again; it hadn’t been necessary before because everyone had assumed that there wasn’t going to be any more obscurials.

“Why is this significant?” Tom asks, reaching for his cup of tea now. He holds it beneath his nose, inhaling the fumes— no, he’s checking the steam for any smells that are out of place. She can hardly blame him, what with being dosed with a love potion before.

“I have some pictures of the result of the attack, I think that would explain more than I can. Would you like to see them? Fair warning, they move.” After a hesitant agreement, Sophia gets to her feet and meanders upstairs, flicking through the bookshelf within her bedroom until she finds the correct editorial saved from the Prophet that day. It’d been the Head Healer of Saint Mungo’s, since retired, throwing in his two sickles on the latest outrage from the Americas. She hands the paper over to Tom only after he has placed his cup down; it’s a good call, given he almost drops the paper upon seeing the moving pictures. Whichever lucky photographer had gotten those photos of the obscurial tearing through New York, they’d been lucky to make it out alive with how close they’d been to whatever poor child that had been. There’s a pause then, before Tom registers what it is he’s actually seeing.

“My god,” he whispers, the fear evident in his voice and Sophia grimaces. Yes, probably not wise to introduce the muggle to the vicious outcome of a magical child truly mistreated, but Tom has already stated he cannot take in his son (she cannot blame him either) and she had promised to answer his questions.

“You must understand, prior to this, there hasn’t been a documented case of an obscurial in over two hundred years. They were relatively common before we all went into hiding, what with the way the muggles were trying to burn us. From the look of the orphanage and the staff, I can say with utter confidence that the circumstances to create an obscurial aren’t present, but I think I can still offer a better childhood for him than that place.” One adult’s undivided attention and affection? It’s a no brainer.

“He won’t become this thing?”

“No. That I can promise.” Because even if she is struck down by lightning tomorrow, Tom Marvolo Riddle is far too emotionally controlled to ever allow anyone to force him into supressing a piece of himself. He will never become an obscurial, just something much worse. But only if she does not take steps to counteract it.

“How do you know he won’t be like the Gaunts.” Well, that… that is a trickier question.

Running a hand up her other arm, Sophia considers the Tom Riddle before her, with his worried brow and his tight eyes. Then, she says, “I don’t. There are a lot of arguments that can be made about nature verses nurture. That is, how we are born verses how we are raised; I am of the opinion it is a combination of the two. But there isn’t a single parent in the world that can accurately predict what their child will be like when they are older. All I can try to do is set a good example, consider the child as family, and hope that is enough.” All she can do is offer Tom Riddle Jr the opportunities that he would not get within the orphanage and hope that would be sufficient. She refuses to believe that anyone is incapable of learning to love.

Silence persists again between them, Sophia sipping on her no longer scalding tea, Tom nibbling upon one of the biscuits that her mother had sent her back up north with at the end of the Christmas period. Honestly, it’s a miracle the biscuits have lasted into the second month of the year. Mother is a wonderful baker.

“I hadn’t exactly planned on adopting him,” Sophia blurts out, setting her now empty teacup down, fingers clenching into the hem of her sweater. “I knew from a young age that I wanted to have a job and, once I started studying, I knew healing would be that job. When I pictured my life as an adult, I never envisioned children until I was in a secure place, probably happily married and with a good deal of financial security so that I could take a few years off work to spend the formative years with my children.” Grinning wistfully at the plans that have oh so easily shattered, Sophia directs her gaze back to Tom. “I never really expected to be talking about adopting a three year old child at the age of nineteen, but here we are.” Well, she’ll be twenty when the summer is over, but that doesn’t make much of a difference.

“Show me some good magic. Please.” The request is hastily tacked on at the end of the demand; Tom Riddle forcibly steeling himself in the chair he occupies. Good magic… what is the definition of good magic? Good magic could be a show of power, impressive and flashy. It could be something small and simple, healing a paper-cut or creating bubbles from the tip of a wand. But no, Sophia thinks she knows exactly what Tom Riddle is talking about. He, after all, has only suffered at the hands of magic, has this idea that magic itself is bad because that is all he has ever witnessed of it. So, something suitably impressive but not scary, something that could inspire an appreciation for magic and show that it can be used for good— well, there really is only one charm for it, isn’t there?

“My wand please?” Tom slips the willow wood into her palm with only the slightest hint of hesitation and Sophia runs her finger down the polished surface, inhaling ever so slightly.

“Expecto patronum.”

A brilliant silver cat rises like the sun from Sophia’s wand, radiating light as it circles the two of them, leaving wispy trails of mercurial vapour in its wake. It’s unbound by gravity, striding up and down as if walking upon the very air itself as it twists around his chair once more, Tom craning his neck to keep the being in sight. It doesn’t breathe, doesn’t make a sound as it comes to a stop before him, sitting upon the table and passing through the teapot and several cakes, nothing more than a ghost of a feline. Every bit of its eyes are a near blinding light and there are still streams of silver coiling around its glimmering form. But the sensation it radiates—

It’s wonderful. He cannot even begin to describe the sensation. It does not make him believe all is right within the world, doesn’t rip his senses away from him and leave him with a false understanding of reality. It doesn’t blind him to the horrors, doesn’t strip away his consciousness and leave a puppet with strings pulling him this way and that. He can feel the sensation, but he can acknowledge that it is separate from his person. If he must put a name to it… perhaps, hope? Wonder? Whatever it is, it’s pure. Pure and good and not something he would have ever expected magic to be capable of producing.

“What is it?” Tom asks, leaning ever so slightly forward to inspect the cat. He doesn’t recognise the breed but it’s an attractive beast with thick fur and a comely face.

“A patronus charm. It’s used to ward off evil creatures.” Yes, he can imagine that. Something dark and wicked trying to exist in the presence of this creature is unfathomable. Lifting his eyes from the cat, Tom studies Sophia Lovegood as she sits across from him, bathed in the light of her magic. The white glow of her ‘patronus’ dyes her hair a painfully light blonde, the same shade her brother sports naturally and bleaches some of the colour from her skin, leaving her looking pale. It’s not a frightful look, just… unearthly. As if she doesn’t belong. With the glowing cat, she really doesn’t belong among normal people, Tom thinks with a smile.

Merope had never been capable of something like this. She had never looked like that when casting magic either.

He doesn’t stay long after that, his two major concerns answered. Someone capable of creating magic that felt like that couldn’t be like the tramp’s daughter. He could never picture Merope ever being able to produce a sensation so pure, so very real. Perhaps he’s being foolish, perhaps he’s been stupid and gullible and showcasing just how little he knows of magic. But he cannot see how someone who can create a being that is incandescent with hope could ever stoop to a level as to steal a person’s very being from them.

He does not think on the terminology Sophia had applied to what occurred during their last talk, does not wish to do so. He does not wish to think on the wretch at all, so he does not. Instead, he turns his thoughts towards Sophia and what she had said. She will be adopting the boy, the child that by any account should be his responsibility. The child he cannot take care of. The thought had kept him up for days as it turned over in his mind.

The boy has magic, that much Sophia had confirmed. That already meant he was more like his mother than— that meant he was not alike Tom himself. With the choice being the child raised in an orphanage where he would be singled out for that, or being raised by Sophia Lovegood who can cast magic that feels like hope, well, the decision is hardly a difficult one, is it? Both she and her brother appear to be well-rounded people, for all the unnaturalness they have hidden beneath their skin. And—

Tom pulls over, the shock of the thought far too distracting for him to ever dream of focusing upon the road now. The last thing he wants to do is to crash the Humber into one of the deer roaming the countryside.

Because, Tom is startled to realise, he trusts Sophia. He had taken her every word at face value, had listened to her speak, had heard her words, and had accepted them as the truth. Not once had he doubted that she wouldn’t look after the child, that she wouldn’t do her best to set a good example. His fingers clench tightly at the steering wheel, heart hammering about in his chest in a motion it really has no right to be completing. By some sick twist of events, he has come to trust Sophia Lovegood.

Tom laughs, short and sharp. Well, if anyone is going to raise that child, at least it is someone capable who he trusts.

Chapter Text

28.02.1930

“Doctor Bones? Mr Tom Riddle is here to see you.”

Gingerly cradling his throbbing arm to his chest, Tom waves his mother’s worried looks off, informing her that he will be quite alright and she should most certainly go entertain herself with shopping in Great Hangleton while she has Henry and the Humber to hand. Mother frowns but, after one more insistent wave, she pecks him on the cheek and disappears down the hall. The nurse steps back and away once the door to Doctor Bones’ office opens, the man himself brightening at the sight of Tom. Understandable given he’d avoided the man ever since their last run in at The Rose. Something remotely similar to guilt squirms about in his stomach but it’s soon abandoned as unimportant in favour of the throbbing pain in his arm.

“Doctor Bones. I’ve been told you are currently on your lunch break but I was hoping you would have time to give me a look over, being the family doctor.” Beside him, the nurse sighs dreamily, eagerly stepping forward.

“I am more than happy to help, Doctor.”

“No need, Amy dear. Sophia’s in today.”

“Right,” Amy the nurse says a little sharply, disappointment clear on her features and Tom takes the open door as the invitation it is, sliding past Doctor Bones into the room.

Doctor Bones’ office is just as he recalls; grand bookshelves filled with medical journals and books, medical charts carefully framed and situated upon the walls, a large oak desk with a leather-backed chair, and a casual examination table. It is the only one Tom has ever been seen to on, though he had been shuffled along to a theatre shortly after when he’d broken his arm as a child. The only new addition is a secondary desk and the occupant currently occupying it.

Sophia Lovegood had looked up as he entered, head haloed with a braid of blonde hair that shone in the natural light leaking in through the high windows. Unlike last week, she’s wearing something presentable now, a crisp white shirt tucked into a pale pink skirt which flows around the legs of her chair, exposing the pale length of her stockings and those too-tall heels. A smile lights her face, one hand rising to wiggle her fingers in a greeting before she returns to her papers, writing with a quill, of all things. The sleeves of her doctor’s coat are rolled up at least twice to expose the tight cuffs of her shirt.

“What seems to be the problem, Mr Riddle?” Doctor Bones asks, though his eyes are already on the arm that Tom is gingerly holding to his chest.

“The buckskin was spooked and managed to unseat me.” It hadn’t been a comfortable landing, though it had thankfully happened while they were out on the field rather than on the dirt paths or, worse, the actual roads. He’s had worse, though it does smart to know the stallion had managed to buck him at all; it’s been a decade since he’d last been unhorsed. These things happen, he supposes.

“Landed on your arm, did you?” Doctor Bones muses, clucking his tongue as he looks at Tom’s arm with a frown. “Well, let’s have that jacket off and take a look. Miss Lovegood—” Doctor Bones pauses, a harsh frown slashing across his face and Tom is both proud and disgruntled to realise exactly what the doctor is thinking. Of all the people he had proclaimed his woes to, the only two who knows them to be true are within this room. Doctor Bones is well aware that he was enchanted by Merope Gaunt and he has no doubt concluded, given the last time he had seen Tom interact with Sophia at The Rose, that he does not wish to be in the woman’s presence.

“I am comfortable with Miss Lovegood’s continued presence,” Tom says, the words leaving between his lips slowly as he considers the truth to his statement. He truly doesn’t mind her being within the room and, had Doctor Bones not been working today, then he would have preferred to see her over Doctor Thompson. That man, after all, had been the one to perform the caesarean that left his aunt (Mother’s sister) unable to carry another child to term. How on earth he had managed to retain his job, Tom will never know. Slowly, Tom strips himself of his jacket, hissing in pain as the material catches on his wrist.

“Would you like me to numb it, Mr Riddle?” Sophia asks, dropping her quill into the inkpot to make her way over. Her heels click on the wooden flooring, skirts ruffling as they shift around her legs. Tom flicks a glance over to Doctor Bones but the man is already busy looking through his cupboards for something rather than look over at Sophia’s offer. “It’ll wear off on its own.”

“Then yes, I would appreciate it.” Thank goodness he’d chosen to wear a short-sleeve shirt beneath his riding gear, otherwise having to roll the long fabric up over his forearm would have been quite the trial. Tom presents his arm to Sophia, who clucks at the swollen limb and the bruising that is slowly starting to appear. She draws her wand from the overcoat pocket (and there must be some form of magic going on there, for the pocket he can see is nowhere near deep enough to hold a near foot of wood) before reaching for his arm with her other hand. There is a single moment where half a dozen thoughts rush through Tom’s head, each as billowingly loud as the other. They can all be boiled down to a single point; is he about to willingly let a witch cast magic upon him? Sophia has done so once already, back when she had forced him to take a breath after informing him Merope was dead and there was a child; it was not a spell he had consented to, for all that it had helped. The magical cat, though created at his request, had not been cast upon him, had simply been brought into existence and scampered around him. This would be the very first time he is asking for magic to be placed upon him and his stomach is twisting but— he trusts Sophia.

Tom places his arm in Sophia’s grasp, feeling her cool dry fingers wrap ever so carefully around his wrist. With her other hand, she traces from the top of his knuckles to the edge of his elbow with the tip of her wand, leaving a gorgeous cooling sensation coating his arm like a sleeve. It’s marvellous, stealing away near enough all of the pain that throbs about in his forearm.

“Thank you, Sophia.”

“You’re welcome.” The witch places her wand back in her pocket, free hand now coming to rest upon his elbow to better steady his arm as she takes a look. Her fingers gently, oh so gently, run around the protrusion of his wrist bone, working over the tiny metacarpals before making their way up the length of his forearm next, completely focused. “Nothing’s broken,” she says after a moment, drawing the fingers she’d been using to inspect him back, though the ones at his wrist remain. “Just a bad sprain.”

“And for treatment, Doctor Lovegood?” Doctor Bones’ vastly amused voice cuts through between the two of them like a surgeon’s knife, precise and well-practised. Sophia doesn’t quite drop his arm, but she certainly lets go quickly, turning to look at her mentor with a charming smile on his lips and an embarrassed flush to her cheeks.

“Sorry.”

“No, go on. You have more than enough experience under your belt to deal with a sprain.” As he speaks, Doctor Bones sits himself down again at his desk, fingers threading together on the surface top as he waits. Tom, standing beside Sophia, draws himself up that little bit more, so that her eyes are now at level with his chin when she turns to look at him. She tips her head back ever so slightly in order to meet his gaze, amused smile on her face.

“It doesn’t appear to be a severe sprain, so I would recommend resting your wrist for the next forty-eight hours, and if possible, apply some ice to reduce the pain and swelling once the numbing charm wears off. It will heal quicker if you elevate your wrist above you heart, so I’d recommend situating yourself in the library with a good book and keeping your arm on the back of your chair. Now, I can either wrap it manually or magically, which would you prefer?” Her eyes are the same blue as they’ve always been, perhaps he’s just seeing them clearly for the first time. The ghost of Merope Gaunt doesn’t haunt this woman’s every step anymore, cannot do so especially now, not when Sophia Lovegood looks at him with nought but a steady focus.

“Magical.” Why not? He’s already allowed the numbing spell; Doctor Bones is here as a witness should she try anything but— but he knows she won’t. Because Sophia is trustworthy. She looks away, off to a side as her lips (painted the same pink as her skirt) twitch up at the corners. Then, the wand is back out and she announces the spell this time.

“Ferula.” Bandages snap out, wrapping around his arm far faster than a human would manage and Tom just about managed to bite down the instinctive flinch at the sudden appearance of fabric. It’s over in a moment, his arm flawlessly bandaged and tucked up terribly neatly.

“A bit quicker than normal, eh?” Doctor Bones says with a smile, stretching his arms up and over his head before he gets to his feet. “I’ll go and phone the local department store; I’m assuming that’s where Mrs Riddle went?” Tom nods, not quite trusting his voice as he inspects his bandaged arm, twisting it slowly bac and forth to admire the perfect wrappings. Well, it’s done with a spell, of course it is going to be perfectly done. It is only after Doctor Bones leaves that Tom realises the man is going to go and ring his mother to inform her that they are all done so that he is not waiting uselessly around in the hospital. A hospital where doctors work and he had intruded on the lunchbreak of the two he knows.

Sophia has sat herself back at her desk now, half of a sandwich still in front of her. It doesn’t look particularly appetising but, he supposes, when one has a job, they cannot sit down for a three course meal during their break.

“Are there ways to stop your horse from being spooked?” It takes a moment for his brain to catch up on the topic of conversation, despite Sophia inquiring on information he’d shared right as he’d walked into the office here.

“Yes, exposure primarily, but there are not enough motorcars for Zeus to have spent enough time around them, nevermind experienced one back-firing.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the slightest idea what that means,” she admits, taking a bite of her sandwich and smiling at him while she chews. Tom leans back against the examination table, absentmindedly collecting his jacket with his good arm as he does so. After swallowing her food, Sophia continues, “But I’ll assume it’s a relatively loud noise in order to spook a horse. It’s the same with abraxans.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Abraxans,” Sophia repeats, a hint of mischief blooming in her blue eyes. “Winged horses that’re mainly found of the continent. They’re just a bit smaller than elephants.” He genuinely cannot tell if she is lying to him or not, if this is a tease or if such a creature genuinely exists. She must read the suspicion on his face because Sophia laughs— no, it’s more of a giggle, half hidden behind her hand as she lifts her sandwich up with the other. “I’m serious. Ask Doctor Bones if you don’t believe me. Though you won’t really find them in England. Aethonans? Yes, but they’re just normal sized winged horses.”

“You are making those up,” Tom concludes with a confidence he doesn’t feel, if only to draw another one of those light giggles from Sophia, a sound she forcibly muffles with a bite of her sandwich. She doesn’t look at him, staring at the window but it doesn’t ruffle his feathers because she’s not doing it to ignore him. In fact, he rather suspects if she looks at his face she’s going to start laughing again. Which is ridiculous. Five years ago, he’d never have believed he would be seriously debating the existence of magical creatures with a pretty witch who’s posing as a doctor in a hospital. Speaking of—

“Do witches have doctors?” Tom asks, one brow rising when Sophia finally turns back to look at him, still smiling but no longer chortling. “Can you not just all spell yourselves better?”

“Almost all kinds of magic require studying, it’s why we go to school. But healing is an especially tricky craft. A lot of witches and wizards come up with all sorts of spells and never bother to consider a way to reverse them; there’s a whole branch of Saint Mungo’s — that’s the wizarding hospital by the way — that is dedicated to that particular chore. Nevermind all the magical diseases, spells that go wrong and curses that go right. It never gets repetitive at least.” Sophia shrugs, popping the last of her sandwich into her mouth.

“Spells can go wrong?”

“You can fall off a horse?” Is the teasingly tart reply, softened by the smile that Sophia directs his way afterwards. Well, touché to that. Doctor Bones returns to the door at that moment, his eyes finding Sophia first.

“There’s a three year old with a broken leg in Cranburg’s room; can you go and help calm things down?”

“Of course, Doctor.” Sophia stands, brushing down her skirts and firing him one last smile. “Have a nice day, Tom, and don’t forget to keep that arm elevated.”

Making his way down to the entrance hall of the hospital, Tom looks to Oliver Bones and waits. It’s clear the man is mulling something over but, for the life of him, Tom cannot pinpoint what it is he would like to speak on. The hospital itself isn’t too busy, Tom has seen with a much greater population moving about its halls. A few of those passing by, both doctors and nurses, offer Doctor Bones cordial nods as they go; there is only one who doesn’t but, given they are rushing a stretcher with a patient on down the hall, he supposes they have a very good reason not to do so.

“Have you a bit of a soft spot for Sophia, Mr Riddle?” He could not have possibly surprised Tom more if he’d slapped him. His face quite possibly says it all as he turns to look at Doctor Bones, having snapped his mouth shut from where it had dropped in surprise. A soft spot? For Sophia? What on earth would possibly give him that impression? Yes, he has accepted that Sophia is a witch, a good witch at that (for all that those words feel like an oxymoron) and had allowed her to perform magic on him. She’s smart, listens when he speaks and asks questions and when she had teased him, her smile—

“Is she dosing me?” It’s the first question that comes out, panic lacing through his thoughts because Doctor Bones is right; he does have a soft spot for Sophia. He had been happy to remain in a room with her and chat about a meaningless subject that had nothing to do with the child or with his health, had even discussed the possibility of magical animals that he had planned on speaking to Doctor Bones about for clarity before the man had distracted him so thoroughly with his question.

“If she were,” Oliver Bones states, a sad sort of smile on his face as he clasps a hand on Tom’s shoulder; Tom tries and fails not to look irritated by the gesture, “then you wouldn’t even be able to consider that thought. You obsess over the idea of a person; come to believe they can never do anything wrong and that all is wonderful. However, it cannot create true love and the change in behaviour is very noticeable to those closest to you.” Which is why the tramp’s daughter had made him run. Of course, that makes sense, she couldn’t exactly live in the manor and keep dosing him with both of his parents around, could she?

“That is a relief,” Tom admits, even as something swirls about in his stomach. If she had been dosing him with a potion, if she had been manufacturing these artificial feelings, then responding would have been easy. He would just never see her again, would have walked away as easily as he had Merope the moment it wore off. But it’s not; this ‘soft spot’ as the doctor has so easily termed it is something he has nursed himself. The last person he’d had feelings for was Cecilia, a gorgeous lady who had complimented him something fine. They had been two peas within a pod, their thoughts aligning more often than not. There is a burnt out husk of emotion for Cecilia in his chest now; even if she weren’t married, he doubts he could ever look upon her in the same manner as he did before. That had been a very different Tom Riddle who had loved her and, no matter how much he tries to change the fact, that is not who he is now. No, this Tom Riddle apparently nurses a soft spot for a pretty doctor who always dresses in light colours of spun sugar and can tease him with a smile on her lips. They stop just a few feet from the door, close enough that Tom will be able to see the Humber as it approaches.

“She’s a good girl, Mr Riddle,” Doctor Bones says quietly, not quite looking at him as he stares out onto the drive before the hospital. “And I dare say the you of today is one she would prefer to the Squire’s son I knew was seeing Lady Cecilia.” What on earth was that supposed to mean? Does Oliver Bones believe him to be something better now than he was as a twenty-year old? Why, because he has been exposed to magic, seen a darker side of life and suffered for it? Is that what he means, that suffering makes a man? As if he has any such idea—

Jerking his thoughts back to the present, Tom forces himself to give the man a stiff nod, pulling on his jacket as best he can upon sighting the Humber. Thank goodness Henry is a swift driver.

“Tom Riddle is sweet on you.”

Sophia very nearly spews her drink across the room. She manages to swallow at the last second, though can do nothing for the unfavourable hacking and spluttering that follows as she tries to catch her breath.

While she is trying to choke up what feels like half her lung, her mentor takes his briefcase and begins packing up for the end of the day. Following the call to help with the child earlier, Sophia had bounced back and forth between the unofficial children’s ward, calming the little ones and patiently explaining to the elder ones what their problems were and how they were going to fix it. In a time when men are expected to be serious, stern and instantly listened to with no questions asked, it’s no wonder the children prefer her presence when they are in hospital. The attitude towards patient care is miles behind what Saint Mungo’s presents but, again, they’re muggles who are filled with a few centuries worth of misogyny. She wonders if Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff realised what an example they set for generations of future witches and wizards. The lack of sexism in the wizarding world had been a pleasant surprise. Upon returning to Doctor Bones’ office, the last thing she’d expected to happen was for Doctor Bones to throw that bloodroot into the potion.

When she finally gets her breathing back under control and it feels like her heart isn’t going to explode out of her chest, Sophia turns her attentions back to the cause. “Excuse me?”

“The muggle has a soft spot for you. I would have assumed you had realised that.” Would have realised— of course. He’d allowed her to perform magic on him. For someone who has lost so much to it, who had been scarred so thoroughly by it— well, to find out he’s carrying a bit of a torch for her shouldn’t be too much of a surprise. But the idea that Tom Riddle, a man who had been dosed with a love potion by a witch and had a terrible aversion to anything linked to magic, would ever develop something resembling feelings for her hadn’t so much as crossed her mind. “You would be quite the catch for him.”

“I would be quite the catch for anyone, Doctor Bones,” Sophia points out with a grin, gaining her bearings once again. “But it is a bit of a surprise for Tom Riddle to consider me so.”

“And what about you, Miss Lovegood? Would you consider a muggle?” She wonders if there is any bitterness to Oliver Bones as he asks that. As a squib, he had been considered no better than a muggle and, according to her grandfather, heavily encouraged to leave the family home and make his own way in life. Better than being a Black, she supposes, who may have very well tried to drown him in the bathtub before he could flee. It is a good question though; would she consider a muggle? The short answer is yes, she would. Love is love and she doesn’t believe one needs magic for another to find them attractive. Could she find Tom Riddle attractive? Certainly. He has his flaws, as does everyone else. They get along well enough, he’s easy on the eyes— but he’s also stated he cannot raise Tom Marvolo Riddle with a hidden panic simmering beneath the surface of his face. And Sophia Lovegood cannot leave that boy in an orphanage to grow up into Voldemort.

“I would consider a muggle.” She would consider almost anybody as a partner now, all they would need to be is reliable, someone who listens to what she says and considers it. “But they would also have to consider me. I have plans in my life and I need someone to fit into them, because I can’t afford to adjust them now.” And Tom had already stated he couldn’t raise the child. “Tom Riddle is charming, I’ll agree. But I can’t see him fitting seamlessly into my life; can you?” Doctor Bones laughs, offering an agreement and Sophia smiles back, beginning to pack up her own belongings ready to head home for the night. 

But the niggling thought of Tom Riddle (his surprised face as the bandaging charm took, the weight of emotion in his eyes when he’d stared at her as she held his arm) having a soft spot for her isn’t left at the hospital that night. 

Chapter Text

22.03.1930

“Would you do me the honour of accompanying me?”

“You say that with such a pained expression; is it truly that tedious?”

“You have no idea.”

“I am sorry I doubted you, even for a moment.” Sophia whispers it through the sweet smile she has plastered onto her face as, with a witty anecdote, another of Squire Riddle’s friends introduces himself to Tom. The man’s wife, a woman who cannot be more than a decade older than Sophia, coos over her outfit, inquiring after the shop she purchased it at. She appears suitably impressed when Sophia recounts that she gets all of her clothing from a private tailor, a friend of the family. She’s not about to admit to the people here that Theophania Twilfitt made all of Sophia’s clothes in exchange for free healing consultations for her twin children. Theophania had been a year ahead of her in Hogwarts and, six months after graduating, had popped out her twins to then open a tailoring shop with best-friend Caspian Tattings. It works well for them both; Sophia gets clothing made exactly as she would like and Theophania gets an opinion she can trust without any risk of the twins’ existence getting back to their biological father. If the mysterious man ever so much as cared to look for them. She tries not to think too much on it, not when she already has one child born to poor circumstances to account for.

“It’s the same every single time they get together,” Tom informs her, leaning ever so slightly to the side so he can do so, gesturing vaguely to the aristocracy that have filled the grand halls of this manor. They’re in Beverley today, what with Sophia foolishly agreeing to accompany Tom to the unofficial meet up of all the peerage families in this half of East Yorkshire. It had been a surprise that Tom had even asked her if she would be willing to come along, his father introducing her at the start as a friend of the family (what on earth that even meant to these people, she doesn’t know) and that had been that. Apparently, all she needs to do is stick near Tom, smile nicely at anyone and everyone, and throw out the occasional witticism so that Tom doesn’t die of boredom. 

“You know, meetings with my lot are never this tedious,” she whispers as the latest couple to come and greet Tom (they hadn’t even acknowledged her which meant she hadn’t needed to smile at them) waddle off. “Especially if there’s alcohol involved; the night usually ends in fireworks. That or something equally as ridiculous.” Wistful of that fantastic party just before Halloween (though she could do without the hangover afterwards), Sophia taps one of her fingers against Tom’s wrist-bone.

“Sounds dangerous,” he murmurs in return, eyes scanning the great hall around the before it lands on the table of drinks. What with this damn meeting (supposedly about investing in more housing for Beverley but Sophia’s beginning to suspect it is simply a way for the peerage to meet up and brag to each other) being after dining hours, there’s not a hope of rest between standing. There’s no dancing either, which is a shame. That, at least, would mean they wouldn’t have to stand around greeting anyone and everyone. She hadn’t a clue there were so many upper class families out and about in Yorkshire at all.

“It can be,” Sophia admits, keeping a steady pace with Tom as he makes for the refreshments, her fingers curled around his elbow, “but most wizards with sense leave their wands where they can’t reach them if they are planning to a bit more sloshed than just tipsy. Champagne please,” she answers Tom’s unspoken question when he gestures to the multitude of glasses, two butlers standing by with more bottles to offer refills for those who are, she supposes, looking to indulge in the drink tonight. “Besides, do you mean to tell me nothing ever goes wrong when your lot get a little tipsy?”

Tom tips his glass towards her, but only ever so slightly given the precious liquor will surely spill out otherwise. “Touché.” He knocks back a swig of the liquid, dark eyes scanning the hall they stand in and Sophia copies the motion, wondering just what he is looking for. How many of the people here does he recognise? How many recognise him? Mrs Riddle had made it abundantly clear that this is the first time in a while that Tom had agreed to join them on a venture that included meeting numerous people (read, the first time since he had been dosed with love potion). She wonders how many of these people who knew relatively well before, wonders if he feels like an outsider to this group whom he once belonged to. After all, she doesn’t believe any of these people know about her world, hidden in the long shadows their large muggle buildings.

“We can slip out once the clock strikes eight,” Tom whispers to her, facing forwards but a small, coy smile ticking at the edge of his lips. A quick look to the grandfather clock (that truly has no reason to be quite so large other than for the owner to flaunt their excessive wealth) confirms that there’s twenty minutes to go until they react the acceptable time to skip out.

“Be honest with me, Tom, did you ask me to accompany you here as a thin veil for some drunken revelry on the streets?” At that, he does snort, coughing hard and it’s relatively impressive that he doesn’t end up spitting out the mouthful of whiskey he’s just drunk. Sophia consoles him with an absentmindedly pat on the arm, sipping at her own drink as she does so. Well, if they are going to be skipping out in just short of twenty minutes (as it appears more than a few of the other younger members of this current gathering are planning to do, what with the way they too keep glancing to the clock or at their watches) then she should probably get ready before they do make for the door.

“I’ll just pop to the powder room—” It’s a ridiculous name for the bathroom but apparently that word isn’t yet good enough for the upper crust of society. “—can you hold my drink for me please?”

“Of course, though I expect saving if one of the social sharks manage to corner me.”

“I promise I will come and fish you out of such treacherous waters should the worst happen.”

Peering at her face in the mirror, Sophia purses her lips, flamenco red lipstick balances between two fingers and a thumb. The colouring had faded on the tip lip after her drink (she hadn’t charmed it to stay on; though the chances of the muggles thinking anything of the sensational staying power of her lipstick were close to zilch, well, why take the risk) so she’s just reapplying it before they head out. Plus, it gives her an excuse to not have to stand by Tom’s side and look pretty for whatever people have decided to stare at him now. She doesn’t do too bad of a job of it— or at least, she hopes that’s the case. There’s been a few looks, but Sophia is rather hoping that is simply because they don’t recognise her. They’ll never see her again at any rate; she won’t be silly enough to accept another of Tom’s invitations to a ‘party’ like this again. Honestly, any excuse to brag about each other; it’s almost like being back at Hogwarts and sharing herbology with the Slytherins again.

Slotting the lipstick back into her clutch, Sophia pops her lips and inspects her face in the mirror. She’s got mascara on, her face is smoothed out with the equivalent of a foundation and contouring charm, and the red lipstick is on point. She looks good, not her usual professional pastel palette, but it works. Sophia makes for the door, exiting back into the hallway that will lead her down to the hall where the ‘party’ is happening. She would have continued onwards, had she not heard—

“—claiming he’s been bewitched and now, years later, he shows his face again?” Claims of bewitchment? Must be talking about Tom. Now, Sophia should head back to the hall, she should find Tom and convince him there’d be no harm in sucking out five minutes earlier Thant he acceptable time. And yet...

Plucking her wand from her bag, she casts a quick disillusion charm, followed by a sound muffler. Someone will only spot her now if they are well and truly looking. Even then as a new face, she can just claim she’s lost. So, Sophia makes her way down the corridor, heels leaving the slightest little imprints in the thick rug that stretches down the length of the place. 

At one end, a woman is wrapped in the arms of another man, her brown ringlets pinned strategically to bring as much attention as is feasibly possible to the long column of her neck and the great assemblage of jewels that rest there. While Sophia doesn’t recognise her, it’s clear the other woman knows Tom, what with the way she’s pouring her heart out to this disgruntled man that is holding her.

“He was completely mad, refused to even meet with me the three times I deigned to try speaking to him. And now he just comes here, some silly blonde clinging to his arm while they share secretive smiles—” She draws in a sharp breath, shooting adoring eyes up at the man that’s holding her; it softens his harsh frown. “—Not that I am in any way displeased with you, my love. But the very way he treated me, as if Tom George Riddle was not the luckiest man in the entire county to have my attentions— and now here he is and he has not even sought to apologise.”

Well, Sophia can kind of see where the woman is coming from; to the muggles, it sounds insane. Tom ‘eloped’ with Merope, then came back and (no doubt because of the trauma gained from his brush with magic) refused to see this woman that Sophia is beginning to suspect is a past flame. She’s very pretty and has the kind of attitude she’d expect to have fit in well with the Riddles, given the whispers and gossip that runs through the residents of Little Hangleton. Though the woman doesn’t appear to be particularly friendly… Sophia does feel a bit sorry for her. She doesn’t understand, only sees it as a slight against her. She has no idea about what actually happens and can never learn, not just because it would expose the magical world to a muggle who does not need to know (after all, what harm does this woman’s incorrect perceptions do?) but because Tom would no doubt not want the truth shared. That silly attitude that sex under a love potion isn’t rape is still persistent in the magical world, nevermind the concept of male rape in the muggle world. Sophia only has a good opportunity to do something about that it one world, unfortunately. If she manages to get an Azkaban stay slapped on those potions, then she’ll consider this a life well lived.

“Shall we return to the hall, Cecilia love, and show the fool what he is missing?” Ah yes, the hall. Where they will soon be skipping out. If this is an old flame of Tom’s that was disrupted by Merope Gaunt, perhaps it’s for the best they escape a little earlier than planned.

Clutching her bag close, Sophia quickens her steps as she strides down the hallway. Get-togethers are always a bit of a drama it seems, magic or muggle.

She may not be dressed akin to anyone else (or even in her usual style), but there is no denying that Sophia looks stunning tonight. Instead of her usual pastel, her dress is the deepest black, the top in a Bardot style that was the height of fashion fifty or so years ago and should look out of date today. It doesn’t; the lack of frills, the tight bodice and the hems falling to the same mid-calf length that has been popularised recently forcibly pull the look into the modern era. Even her ridiculous shoes match; black with the soles (exposed because of that dangerously thin heel) the same rich red that she’s painted her lips with. Combined with the simple pearl necklace and matching earrings, she looks alien among this crowd. Alien, but eye-catching in perhaps the best way given how very confident she looks.

She stops beside him and Tom offers out her drink, forcing down the smile that wants to bloom as she downs the last of her champagne.

“We should skip out now,” she says, glancing to the clock (there’s still ten more minutes before they hit the earliest acceptable time to disappear, he’s already looked before she reappeared). “Neither of us want to be here and I have been in East Yorkshire for six months without seeing Beverley Minster. That seems like it should be criminal.”

“The architecture is impressive,” Tom agrees, plucking her glass from Sophia’s grasp to hand it off to a passing waiter. “The Rose Window in particular is a splendid thing to look at.” He should know; that is where his parents had baptised him, after all. They go for the Christmas service every three years. But— “Do you not have any particularly impressive buildings?”

“The most impressive building on my side of things would be Hogwarts, where we go to study. It’s a castle and, though it’s been acting as a school for near nine-hundred years now, the building itself just passed its thousandth birthday. Everything else— well, I’m pretty certain it would give an architect a heart attack.” That is a particularly worrisome sentence but Tom assumes (and he hopes he is assuming correctly) that it is because of how the buildings are designed and not because they have a curse on them geared towards inducing heart-attacks.

They’re almost to the door now and Tom gestures to the butler to collect their coats, offering his arm to Sophia. She stares at the limb, confusion knitting her brow before she clicks on, weaving her arm through his as they step out into the hall. There’s a little bounce to her step now as they transition from the polished floorboards of the hall to the tiled entrance, her dress slinking back and forth around her calves like ocean waves against the shore.

When he sees Cecilia coming around the corner arm in arm with her husband, the father of her child if Henry’s report is correct, it is only for a moment. But the sight still stings.

The cobbles streets of Beverley are illuminated by the gas streetlamps, a warm orange glow that puddles across the floor and illuminates the railings around Beverley Minster. It’s an impressively tall building, stretching terribly high towards the stars that loom above them. Huddled down in the thick fluff of her coat, Sophia stands as close to him as she can without plastering herself to his side, arm in his. Only the contact he has initiated, he realises.

“Barring Hogwarts and the Ministry, I don’t think we have a building quite this tall,” Sophia muses, her head tilted up on her craned neck as she tries to take in the entirety of the Minster. Tom steps a bit closer to her, so that his arm brushes against her ribs and hers his. She takes it as the unspoken invitation to huddle closer, shuffling until they are pressed near side to side. It has been near a month since that day in Doctor Bones office where he had allowed Sophia to touch him, to heal his arm using magic. His wrist had been good as new after a handful of days and he had wondered if there were more to the bandages she’d applied, some kind of healing solution lathered onto the wrappings. He hadn’t asked, just been present when Mother had invited her over for tea again and again. Four times she has been over to the manor in the last few weeks and the conversation between them has flowed as easily as the Ouse.

Mad as it is to admit, he does, as Doctor Bones would say, have a bit of a soft spot for the woman. It’s outlandish and never something he could dream of acting upon. She’s a witch, a good one, but still a witch. She will be leaving Yorkshire for the South by the end of the summer in order to go and heal ridiculous injuries and diseases like, like dragon bites. Maybe. If dragons do exist. He cannot see why they would not exist if witches do. And yet, there is a shallow part of him that is looking at her and thinking… perhaps. Perhaps if the thought of magic did not freeze the blood within his veins, if acknowledging her powers did not make him second guess their every interaction.

She has her wand right now, doesn’t she? She hadn’t handed it over when she met them at the manor today, hadn’t even shown him it. But he doesn’t doubt Sophia has it on her somewhere.

“Come on then,” the witch on his arm says, “tell me what happened the last time you snuck out of one of these parties in Beverley.” The last time had been when he was in the early days of him and Cecilia seeing one another; he and a few of the other sons set to inherit titles had snuck off and ended up roaming the streets, throwing poorly concealed barbs at one another and laughing them off before they could strike home. He hasn’t spoken to any of them since the Gaunt wretch sunk her claws into him. Most of them, no doubt, are either married now or on the hunt for a wife. He says as much to Sophia, who scoffs.

“How boring. What about your education then? How did that go?”

“Boarded at Eton, of course, and I was going to go study at Oxford after spending a few years with Father going over the details of the estate.” But Gaunt had happened. Sophia reads it on his face, nodding before her free hand (the clutch having somehow grown a handle at some point to be thrown over her shoulder) snatches up the hand Tom has closest to her.

“Come on,” she says, taking off at a quick stride down the street and Tom has no choice but to walk along side her for fear she’ll drag one or both of them down with her momentum.

They stop by the entrance to the church grounds. Sophia looks back at him, her eyes near a colourless grey in the lack of lighting. Beverley may have a scattering of gas streetlamps, but that’s it. A scattering and the closest one is not near enough to illumine the blue of her irises.

“Want to create a little miracle for the church-goers tomorrow?” Hesitance immediately zips through his bones, though the smile on Sophia’s face is soft as she speaks. What does she mean by a miracle? And speaking of miracles and church, just how much of what happens in the bible— how much of what he has taken for as an act of God had actually been one of the witches (or wizards, he believes the males are called) playing about with people like Tom?

Finally, Tom responds with a low, quiet tone. “What type of miracle?”

“Nothing outrageous; just something to brighten the day tomorrow.” She reaches into her bag, extracting the wand that has so far been missing from the night. With a wave, the ever so small stems that have only just began to rise from the ground tremble. Then, they are growing, a slow and steady process as they wind up and around the iron railings, petals enlarging and opening, their perfume permitting the air around them. He doesn’t recognise most of them, barring the irises and the lilies. The former of which are a deep, royal blue shade, their petals large and soft to the touch.

Certainly, anyone that walked by yesterday will notice the flowers that have suddenly appeared but, Tom thinks they will just assume they didn’t notice them the day before. Anyone who knows anything about flowers may be baffled by their early bloom but— there are very few people out there who genuinely believe in magic, he has come to realise. His admittance that he had been enchanted had been treated with pity and second-hand embarrassment; he doubts anyone will look upon these flowers and have their thoughts instantly jump to the magic that was used to create them.

“What do you think?” Sophia asks, her arm now only loosely wrapped around his, having released his hand in order to cast her magic. She is not wearing her gloves, the ones she had taken off upon arriving at the party this evening.

Tom plucks one of the irises from the stem, inspecting the flower. The colour is too dark but—

“I think they suit you,” he admits, turning to face Sophia better now, inspecting the artful updo her hair is currently situated in. It would be a travesty to ruin it by attempting to tuck the flower into the waves, so he instead offers her the stem. She takes the flower slowly, looking off to a side as she does so.

There are no further words exchanged between them, but he doesn’t miss the smile as she tucks that flower behind her ear.

Chapter Text

24.03.1930

He notices the figure before it registers just who the figure is.

It’s the cream lady, Tom realises, the hazy memory surfacing in his mind once he lays eyes on her properly. She’d carried him home from church one day, had talked to him until he had fallen asleep, his head tucked up against the warmth of her coat. She’s not wearing that coat now, he notices. Of course she isn’t, it’s spring, even if it is early spring at that. The flowers are only just starting to peak out of their stems, the grass (what few patches he can find near the orphanage) is still slick with the rainfall from yesterday. It’s been warm for days and days so of course the cream lady isn’t in a winter coat. Instead, she’s in a pretty pink dress that matches the material wrapped around her head and through the twists of her hair, some kind of jacket on that he’s never seen before but it looks soft. Compared to all the people he’s seen around the orphanage and in church, she looks like a fairy. She must be if she can stand in those weird shoes. Tom stares at them, at the very thin part on the heel and he wonders how it hasn’t snapped yet, like Eric’s arm had done when the other boys had pushed him. The bone had shown through his arm, Tom remembers. It’d been very white among all the blood.

Eric had been in the hospital for a long time for that.

Amy and Dennis stumble about in front of him and Tom huffs, craning his neck to see past them so he can still follow the woman who is talking to Mrs Cole. The smile is different that he remembers, not that his memory of that day is very good. He’d been tired, too small to stay focused for that long. He’d fallen asleep on her and woke up in his room, tucked up in the covers and for a moment he’d believed he imagined her. But then he’d found two gloves tucked beneath his pillow, the same lilac fabric the lady had been wearing. They were soft and Tom had sat on his bed for so many days afterwards, one hand inside the material, his too small fingers trying to fill the fabric. Why had she left the gloves? She’d left both, not one, so it hadn’t been an accident. When Anna had tried taking them, he’d been able to make her trip and hit her nose on the floor even though he’d been on the other side of the room. He’d torn the gloves from her before she could get her blood on them; her nose is still a little funny even now.

No, Tom might not have known why the lady left her gloves, but he’d clung to them tightly because, because— maybe it had been a promise. One she hadn’t spoken but a sign she would come back for him.  He knew his mother had died here; knew she couldn’t possibly be his. But maybe she’s an aunt— an aunt or a cousin or something. Anything.

He’s desperate, standing on the tips of his toes and scanning her face, searching for anything that looks the same as his. But where Tom’s hair is dark, hers in fair; where he frowns, she smiles. Where he’s stretching miserably to see her, she’s not even looking for him.

“Tom! Come play!” He scowls, turning to look at Billy who is stupid and always gets upset when Tom beats him at anything and then gets more upset when he tries to hurt Tom and Tom just hurts him back even worse.

“No,” he says, making sure to say it as clearly as he can so the boy cannot get the wrong idea. But then he turns back to the hallway to find the cream lady is gone.

She’s back in London because apparently that’s what she does during a time of crisis. Throws herself face first into a reminder of what she has been obsessing over ever since she realised where she is (when she is) because her mind is indecisive and she is silly.

Mrs Cole seems incapable of deciding what to do with her and, in truth, Sophia cannot fault her for it. After all, they are in March now; it’s a long time (in the eyes of children anyway) for her to remain away if she truly had any intention of adopting a child. So, for her to turn up out of the blue like this— well, Sophia wouldn’t be sure what to make of her either.

Smoothing down the skirt of her dress, she accepts the glass of water Mrs Cole offers, casting a quick lead removal charm when the woman’s back is turned to her. The office is the same as it was previous, filing cabinet and liquor case included, though the number of bottles within does not seem to have dwindled in the slightest.

“You wish to spend some time with one of our orphans?” Mrs Cole says slowly, as if repeating Sophia’s intentions back to her will provide a strike of brilliance, one that will force her to see the light and realise she shouldn’t be here at all. Not without a few more years under her belt so that she can walk out of this building with a child attached to her hip anyway. But her words only strengthen Sophia’s resolve. She may not be able to adopt Tom herself right this very moment, but as she has completed her tenure at Great Hangleton, then she will be a qualified Junior Healer, a job that comes with a living wage and, she hopes, enough respect that some government branch will listen when she says she wants to use magic to fib her age in order to adopt a magical orphan. While their attitude towards muggles is far more morally correct than any of the other countries on the continent, there are more than a few in positions of power who would probably be happy to allow Sophia to squirrel a magical child away from an orphanage.

“Yes. I—” Sophia swallows, forcing her hands to lie flat and still upon the fabric that covers her thighs instead of bunching the material between her fingers. “—am seeing someone at the moment and it is quite serious. He hasn’t discouraged me from pursing this.” There. Not one word of that is a lie, though Mrs Cole is certainly going to be taking it in a completely different context. She is seeing Tom Riddle every week when she goes to visit his mother for afternoon tea and he just so happens to be there. Given it’s occurred five times now, she feels confident in stating that the interactions are completely intentional on Tom Riddle Sr’s part. That’s the bit that is worrying her. Because that night in Beverley where they had wandered through the streets, Tom regaling her with local history that had clearly been beat into his mind by a governess in his youth, their arms loosely intertwined… she had spent the entire night with that iris tucked by her ear.

That is why she is here. To even entertain the idea of a romance with a muggle, particularly this muggle, would be stupid. She had approached this year with the firm goal of getting Tom Marvolo Riddle settled somewhere. Tom Riddle Sr had made it clear he couldn’t (not wouldn’t but couldn’t) take Tom in so now it falls to her. There would be far too much to juggle. Dating a muggle seriously would usually mean hiding elements of herself, but Tom is a grey area here, what with being a witch’s potion-dosed widower. And yet— She’s well aware that Tom Riddle Jr will require all her attention and commitment. She cannot go about this half-hearted if she is to adopt him and inviting his father into her life when the man himself cannot bear the thought of Tom— No. It’s too complex a web to weave, nevermind navigate and she cannot, will not do it.

“You can see the boy in one of the nursery rooms if you wish, though a member of staff will be present caring for the babies.”

“That’s fine. It speaks well of both you and your establishment that you’re taking your charges’ safety seriously.” It does. Sophia is well aware that the adoption act is still a recent piece of legislation and that more than a few orphans are slipping through the cracks even now. Though it may be worn and run-down, it’s clear that Mrs Cole takes the orphanage and her responsibilities seriously with how she runs the show here. That and buttering up the woman could never be a poor decision. Her cheeks have taken on a faint red hue and it makes Sophia smile, rising to her feet to follow the woman as she heads for the door.

The nursery room that Mrs Cole leads her to is less crowded than Sophia had been expecting. There are three infants, all under the age of one, present in the room. Two are laid out in their cots, the third resting in the arms of the young woman who wears a similar outfit to Mrs Cole. Tired but professional. Mrs Cole explains to the woman just why Sophia is here; her eyebrows shoot up but Sophia adamantly ignores the expression, instead wrapping her hands tight around the handle of the bag she had brought. It’s not particularly big and, in truth, could not fit the sole book she has brought along with her, nevermind everything else she has in there. But it is big enough for a muggle to look at and assume a book could fit in. She does have a bigger bag but— this is in a soft light gold that matches the clasp on her dress perfectly.

Within this room, the furniture is just as exhausted as the rest of the place, the wood sanded down to give it a more cared for appearance and the metal rubbed vigorously with a cloth to buff up a bit of a shine. There’s a single bookshelf, half full and the majority of books are exceptionally well worn. Not that any of this matters. Instead, the most important thing is the little figure following after the teenager Mrs Cole had caught earlier, a scowl on his cherubic face. It wipes clean when his eyes land on her. Sophia smiles, fingers waggling in a small, almost hesitant greeting.

Tom Marvolo Riddle looks bigger than when she last saw him, though this could very well be due to the fact she’d spent most of their interaction then carrying him. The last she’d seen of his cute little face had been when it’d bene half-buried into a pillow, small body tucked beneath the covers of his bed. Wide awake now, there’s no way to deny the glimmer of intelligence in his eyes.

“Tom. This is Miss Sophia Lovegood. Do you remember her?” Dark eyes flicker over to look at Mrs Cole and he gives a slow, unsettled nod of his head. “She volunteered to help with the babies today and wanted to see you again before she left.” Ah. Sophia looks over at Mrs Cole now, a newfound respect coming to rest in-between her ribs. She’s not allowing Tom to get his hopes up just in case Sophia proves to be lying about her intentions. Well, she supposes at three years old, Tom has yet to begin tormenting the other children. While it’s possible to tell Mrs Cole isn’t particularly fond of the boy, she’s professional with him. It’s just a shame children need more than a professional. Unconditional love. And it’s not just Tom; every child in this orphanage will be fundamentally missing that. Some may have had it before they were brought here, some may have never had it— it’ll no doubt vary from child to child.

But none of the other children here have potential to lay waste to, and bring the British Wizarding World to its knees.

Sophia takes two steps forwards before squatting down, the hem of her dress brushing the floor as it engulfs the entirely of her bent legs. She holds out one hand towards Tom, smile on her face.

“Hello again, Tom. It’s nice to see you a little more awake this time.”

Lips pressing into a little frown, Tom looks between Mrs Cole, Sophia, and then back to the retreating form of Mrs Cole again. Once she has walked out of the room without a backwards look, then Tom steps forward and slips his hand into hers. Sophia clasps his tiny fingers gently between both of her own, shaking his hand until that frown begins to slip into a smile.

“It’s nice to meet you properly,” she says, voice soft. He is a gorgeous youth; there’s no other way of putting it. How on earth he hasn’t been snapped up by prospective parents, Sophia doesn’t have a clue. He is also, painfully, his father’s son. It’s in every soft line of his face, in his dark blue eyes and pale pink lips. The only difference is that Tom’s hair, combed neatly to a side, has a soft wave to it instead of his father’s curls.

“Hello Miss Lovegood.” He fumbles a bit over her surname; it's clear he knows the words love and good, but he pronounces them as separate things, only realising that it was incorrect after he’s finished saying them. It’s incredibly cute.

“I brought a book with me; would you like to read it together?”

That is how Sophia finds herself sitting on a rug quite possibly older than she is, alongside a boy that has the potential of becoming the most feared wizard of the century. He leans against her side so he can see the pages of the book, having finished his inspection of the front page. While the Ministry probably wouldn’t be happy with her bringing The Tales of Beedle the Bard to a muggle orphanage, it’s not like it is a magical copy with moving pictures. If anything, the worker currently soothing baby number two will probably assume it’s just a book she has never heard of before.

“What’s a bard?” Tom asks, leaning forward to inspect the title page with his little brows furrowed, one hand reaching out to press to the thin parchment. He runs his tiny fingers over the word and, to Sophia’s surprise, he sounds out each of the letters individually before he puts them together. Okay, baby Tom can read, er, sort of. He can recognise the letters, sound them out and then blend them together. That’s— that’s advanced. No, that’s very advanced for a three year old. A young three year old.

“Beedle the Bard was a professional storyteller,” Sophia explains, flicking to the first short story. The Fountain of Fair Fortune stares up at them both, the title written in a flowing font, the fountain itself sketched beneath on the page. Sophia pulls the book closer, allowing Tom to run his fingers over the letters, sounding each one out as he goes before putting them together. She has to correct his pronunciation of ‘fortune’ when he doesn’t recognise the split digraph, but for a three year old, it’s incredible.

As they read, Tom takes the first two sentences and Sophia covers the rest of the page, saying each word once Tom’s fingers run along them. She’s very familiar with this particular tale; it’d been Zander’s favourite when he wasn’t much older than Tom. He never soaked it in quite like Tom is doing though. He’s leaning further into her side now, to the point she’s given up the pretence of distance to wrap her arm around his back, both hands still cradling the book before them. Tom’s little body is like a furnace pressed up against her side, even through the jacket he’s still wearing despite now being indoors. Understandable, she supposes. After all, the orphanage doesn’t have any form of heating beyond a fireplace from the looks of things. Certainly, it has no warming charms set to keep the place at a comfortable temperature like her own home. Something she will have to remember to dismantle when she leaves, Sophia realises. After all, she very well can’t stay in Great Hangleton if she’s bringing Tom here into her life. People will begin asking questions when they notice the boy she has adopted is the spitting image of the nobility one village over.

“Can we read another?” Tom asks once they finish the first, pausing after he has spoken to frown. Then, he turns his dark eyes on her, a stunning shade of dark blue that are far brighter than they should be. It’s astounding he’s not been plucked up already. “Please—” Tom stresses the word, his chubby little face very serious as he continues to stare up at her. “—can we read another?”

“Of course. Let’s read the Wizard and the Hopping Pot.”

“Sounds silly,” Tom mumbles, though he happily leans back into her side, head resting awkwardly on her shoulder. It’s not the most comfortable of positions and, after a moment of shifting her weight around to try and get comfortable, Sophia gives it up as a bad job.

“Let’s move to the chair, Tom. My old-lady legs are hurting on the floor.”

“You’re not old,” Tom protests quietly, a hard frown on his face, but he nonetheless allows her to scoop him up and carry him over to the rocking chair situated by the unlit fire. She settles him down in her lap, arms wrapped around his thin form to hold the book open and something in her chest aches, claws at her ribs like a wild beast wanting to break free. Are these the fabled maternal instincts? Is it even possible for them to grow so strong when this is only the second time she has held this child that isn’t even her own blood? Not that such a thing matters; she’ll have him as family all the same. But how is one supposed to breach the subject of potential adoption with a child? Particularly a three year old child that has proven himself to be far more intelligent than he has any right being?

“Why would the pot hop?” asks Tom, his nose scrunching with the thought and Sophia huffs a laugh under her breath, the air ruffling through Tom’s hair.

“Why not? If I had magic, I would certainly booby-trap some of my belongings against people using them in a way I didn’t agree with.” The child in her lap grumbles, shifting around until he’s laid back against her chest, his head nestled against her collarbones. Having already cast a quick detection charm for lice and what-not and had it come up empty before she even entered the building, Sophia feels no worry for placing her chin gently atop the crown of Tom’s head, continuing to read to the boy. She tries to ignore the worker who is feeding one of the baby’s and her hopeful smile. She can’t take Tom with her. Not today.

Tom wakes with a start, his fingers automatically clenching into the fabric they’d been brushing against. He’d nodded off, had fallen to sleep and he can’t remember how the Tale of the Three Brothers ended—

“Oh, you’re awake.” It’s the cream-lady, Miss Lovegood. She smells really nice, like something close to the bakery they walk by on the way to church but with more… sugar. Yeah, it’s sweeter than the smell of freshly baked bread. He’s not sure how a person can smell like that, but he suspects it might be something like how Mrs Cole makes herself smell sort of like lemons. That squirty stuff that comes in a bottle. Maybe someday he’ll have a bottle of stuff that will make him smell nice too.

“I don’t remember the rest of the story.” He’s not even sure he managed to stay awake for it. He remembers the three brothers making their own bridge to cross the river, he remembers Miss Lovegood’s voice saying -about the shadowy figure of Death appearing— how it’d been angry at the loss.

“That’s okay,” she says, running a hand up the length of his back, just as she’d done that day when she walked to the orphanage from the church with them. “We can read it again later.”

“Late?” What does later imply? Because at the moment, it seems like she is walking him up to his room. He’d been sure she was the one to tuck him in last time and this confirms it for him; how else would she know where his room is out of all the ones that are in the building? It makes sense. But he doesn’t know why she’s still here. Unless—

Tom leans back in her arms, one hand still clenched in the fabric of her dress’ sleeve. Her eyes are too light to be like his, even if they are blue. Her nose isn’t the same and her lips aren’t either; the first is softer than his and the dip in her top lip isn’t as clear as his. They don’t really share any features, Tom realises. Something in his stomach sinks down, like a rock dropped in the water. He can sort of remember doing that at a rockpool when they went to the beach last year. It’d sunk to the bottom and he’d had to stick his hand in the salt-water to get it back. He still has that smooth rock in his wardrobe, brought back from the beach in the pocket of his shorts.

“I’ll come back,” Miss Lovegood promises, nudging open the door to his room with her hip, walking inside with her funny shoes clicking on the floor. He glances around, inspecting his room from this new height he has not observed it from before. After all, he’d only gotten the room shortly after turning three and no one else had really picked him up since he turned two and had fully mastered walking, running and asking questions. It looks smaller from up here. He can see the teddy on the top of his wardrobe from here, the one that’d been falling apart when he squirreled it away from Dennis because the other boy was going to break it. It’d ended up on the wardrobe somehow and, now that he knows for certain where it is, Tom’s sure he can get it down. Somehow. Anything he’s wanted to do so far; he’s been able to do. This will just be another challenge. Though there’s more important things to focus on right now.

“You’ll come back?” he asks quietly. He doesn’t want to look at Miss Lovegood’s too light eyes so buries his face by her neck instead, inhaling that sweet smell. Sorta like the gingerbread biscuit they’d all got at Christmas. It’s a nice smell.

“Yes. I might be a while, because I’m training to be a doctor. But I will definitely come and visit you, Tom.”

“Why?” Doctor’s a good job, isn’t it? Sarah had said he could be a doctor when he showed he understood the letters she was showing the older, stupider boys. It’s not like reading is hard; each of the letters makes a different sound and then you just put them together. The other boys are all just dumb.

Sophia smiles, sitting herself down on his bed and it creaks and groans when she does so, louder than when he’s lying on it. “Because we’re the same,” she whispers, threading her fingers through his hair and is feels nice. Tom relaxes into the touch, eyes closing and he soaks in the feeling.

“How?”

“I’ll show you before the leaves start turning brown, okay? I promise, when the tree leaves are starting to golden, you’ll know. It’ll give you something to look forward to.” How is he supposed to know when that is? There aren’t any trees near the orphanage and they only go to church once a week, where there’s exactly one tree in the graveyard. It hasn’t even got any leaves on it yet to start turning brown which means that it’ll be ages away. He wants to know now.

“Tell me,” he demands, leaning back to stare hard at Miss Lovegood, just as he did with Anne to find out who really took his extra sandwich last week. It’d made her tell the truth, made her reveal that it was Daniel who took it. But Miss Lovegood only blinks, huffing one of those pillow-soft laughs against before she suddenly has his nose between her forefinger and thumb. Tom squawks when she gives it a little tweak, swatting her hand away to rub at his face. It hadn’t hurt, just felt a bit funny.

“Nice try, pumpkin, but you’ve got a long way to go with that.” …What does that mean? Tom frowns, sticking his lower lip out as he lets go of Miss Lovegood’s dress, folding his arms across his chest. He’s seen Mrs Cole do it when she was mad and it’d made the others admit what they’d done wrong. It doesn’t work on Miss Lovegood though; if anything, her face softens even more. It’s not supposed to make her smile, it’s supposed to make her explain. “You’re too cute,” she whispers, smoothing down his hair and Tom allows it because it feels nice.

“You’re going to come back and read to me?” Sometimes people come to the orphanage for that, to do things with all the orphans. Tom’s not sure why; if he didn’t have to live here, then he’d never visit again. He’s not sure why anyone would want to spend a day here but he’s not going to point that out to Miss Lovegood. She might not come back then.

“Definitely. That is, if you want me to?”

“I want you to!” Tom snaps out before he can stop it, feeling his cheek burn with the words. No, he wasn’t supposed to shout it.

“Then I’ll come back,” Miss Lovegood declares, tweaking his nose again before Tom can stop her. “I’ll keep coming back if you want me to, though a lot of my days are about working hard to become a doctor.”

“What about when you’re a doctor? Can you come back every day then?” The word ‘doctor’ doesn’t come out as easy as when she said it and Tom scowls, repeating the word three times to himself until it is perfect. There. Miss Lovegood knows he can learn and learn quick now.

“I don’t know about every day, pumpkin,” she muses, one hand rubbing at her chin. It looks like she’s thinking hard when it really shouldn’t be difficult. Tom’s here after all and she’s come to read to him; why would she not want to come back even if Wools looks bad and dull and boring? It’s not like she’ll be looking at Wools once she’s here; she’ll either be looking at a book or at Tom. Only Tom, none of the others.

Then, she says something that makes his heart jump.

“Maybe one day I’ll leave and you’ll come with me?”

“I will?!” It bursts from his before Tom can even think about what he’s saying, nevermind consider stopping it. Where would Miss Lovegood take him? Probably to a house, he reasons. Doctors are important so she’ll probably get a lot of money, enough for a big house and he’ll have his own room like here but it’ll be bigger— maybe there’d even be a garden to run around in, one with snakes that live in the grass unlike the one that had found him last week and complained about the cold stone floor.

“If you’d like to?” Miss Lovegood says, her eyes wide because— because he’d shouted. Right, Mrs Cole doesn’t like shouting and Miss Lovegood is a lady like her, only she dresses better and she’s younger. She won’t like shouting either and Tom won’t ruin what might very well be the best news he’s heard in his whole life.

“I’m sorry I shouted.”

“Don’t worry about that, silly.” He’s not silly, he’s not. But she doesn’t say it like it’s meant to hurt. She says it the same way she says ‘pumpkin’ or ‘Tom’. As if it’s a nice word, something to call someone she likes. That doesn’t make any sense. “If you want, when the leaves are starting to go brown, I will have finished my training to be a doctor. So, I’ll come back and ask you again if you want to come with me.”

“I will.” He won’t change his mind. Why would he not want to go with her? Miss Lovegood dresses like a fairy in posh clothes and she smells wonderful. She must have a lot of money and she wants him. She wouldn’t have asked otherwise. None of the other people who come to the orphanage and talk to him ever ask if he wants to go with them. “You’ll come back and we can read the Three Brothers.” His stupid tongue trips over the word brothers and again, Tom says it to himself three times until it comes out right.

“You know, you’re supposed to say that as a question,” Sophia points out, tweaking his nose for the third time and Tom allows it. Why wouldn’t he if she’s really going to take him with her out of Wools?

“Will you come back and read to me before you take me?”

“Of course, I will, pumpkin.”

Tom has never really liked Mrs Cole, but he’s pretty sure he hates her when the woman comes and tells him it’s time for Miss Lovegood to leave. He sits on his bed only until he hears the click of shoes on the wooden flooring fade. Then, he’s racing out into the hallway, throwing open the door to Daniel’s room and ignoring the other boy as he yelps in surprise. Tom’s too busy wrestling with the chair to Daniel’s desk, clambering up on it and wishing that the other boy would stay away from the window so he can look out without a problem. It takes a minute, but then Mrs Cole is at the front of the orphanage with Miss Lovegood.

The cream lady in the pretty pink dress offers her a little dip of her head before she heads off, leaving through the gate to walk down the road. Tom watches her go, watches the way two gentlemen step aside for her to pass them, turning to watch her go. They shouldn’t, they should keep going. She’s not in London for them, is she?

Tom watches and watches, right up until Miss Lovegood disappears into the streets beyond what he can see. He loses track of her somewhere between the tram crossing the street and two of the motorcars whizzing across in the direction of the church. She’s gone.

Only then does he turn back to the room, stares a little at Daniel who’s still fighting with the bedsheets, like he can’t get out of them. The other boy is nearly two whole years older than Tom but he can’t even get off his bed properly. This is why Miss Lovegood is going to take him home instead of anyone else.

Because there’s something special about him, Tom’s sure of it.

Chapter Text

29.03.1930

“Miss Lovegood.”

She still has her doctor’s coat slung over her shoulders, the pearl grey of the dress beneath offsetting the brilliant white of the fabric even further. Sophia Lovegood blinks, one of her eyebrows (dark honey compared to the soft champagne of her hair) rising in surprise at his very presence outside her place of work. Ridiculously, it’s not even a spur of the moment run-in. He, Father and Mother had met Doctor Bones at The Rose for dinner last week and Tom had quietly enquired after Sophia’s shifts for the next week. Which brings him to the present, standing before Great Hangleton’s hospital with his motorcar parked by the roadside, catching Sophia Lovegood’s attention as soon as she exits the building.

“Good afternoon… Mr Riddle. Are you here for a check-up? I believe Doctor Bones is on shift for the evening.”

“I am in fine health, thank you. I do believe my mother offered you riding lessons and I am here to see if you would like to begin them.”

“Right now?” Sophia asks, her other eyebrow shooting up as a small smile works across her face. There is no lipstick on her mouth right now, worn away from a day’s work, no doubt. “I’ll have to change first.”

“Then allow me to give you a ride to your house; I brought the Humber with me today.” He gestures back and behind him with one arm, indicating to the motor car that is parked up ready and waiting. All the while, he never takes his eyes off of Sophia, watching the way her shoulders shed that little bit of extra tension, the way her face softens up ever so slightly. 

“I’d be delighted to accept a lift.”

It is only as they both sit within the motorcar, Sophia in the passenger seat as he grips the wheel, that Tom realises he has no idea how witches get around. He doubts they have motorcars; surely people with their... capabilities would have found an alternative. He asks once he gets the car started, pulling out into the road and keeping his eyes peeled for any foolish pedestrian who would fancy sauntering across the road. 

“How we travel?” Sophia repeats, her fingers working through her hair and beginning to twist it back into what he assumes will be plaits, starting with the left half of the hair she had parted. He can only vaguely see the movement from the corner of his eye, though once he registers that her tongue peaks out from between her lips as she’s concentrating, he can’t not think about it. “Well, there are several ways. The first is Floo powder, a substance that can be thrown into a fireplace hooked up to the floo network and allows you to travel to another fireplace.”

“Excuse me?” It sounds ridiculous, the very thought of travelling through flames. There’s absolutely no logic behind it and Tom says as such. It proves to be a very costly error. Now, theoretically, he had known Sophia is something of an academic. As a doctor-in-training, she could hardly be anything but. Yet, knowing and witnessing are two very different beasts. He understands about a tenth of the terminology she uses in her following rant upon the process of magics travel through flames, her own gripes over the system and how pronunciation shouldn’t affect the intent of the traveller. That much he understands, it’s the mechanics behind it that he doesn’t grasp, though Sophia herself appears well informed on the topic. Then again, he supposes if he were to be told they would be travelling to the local market by fire, he too would seek to understand the entire process in order to assure himself it would not permanently damage him. Still, there is something dangerously pleasing about listening to her ramble on. Her accent, that bastardised mix of southern and Scottish, wraps soothingly around the words, carrying them to him in a crisp, clear package. 

All too soon they have arrived at her house and he in none the wiser on magical travel, barring the thought of flame-travel. 

“I’ll be quick,” Sophia promises, her hair now down from the pristine updo he’d first seen her with and now sporting a much more serviceable twin braid. It keeps the hair back from her face; she also appears to have found the time to reapply more pale gloss to her lips. “I don’t want you wasting your day waiting around.” She’s out of the car before he can respond to her words, walking as fast as possible to her door. In those shoes, such a speed cannot possibly be safe but Tom has no reason to stop her. In truth, the thought of waiting around within the Humber for Sophia go ready herself doesn’t sound too terrible a task. It is odd, but there’s a strange thrumming sensation nestled within the core of his body, one that verges close to, well, eagerness. He is looking forward to sharing his hobby with Sophia. When he had last spoken on the topic, she had listened with disciplined interest, even though she knows little of the subject. It had been... pleasant. He cannot recall the wretch ever asking him questions. 

Not five minute later, the door to the Humber opens and Sophia climbs back in, astonishingly enough in a pair of jodhpurs tucked into warm brown boots. It’s a respectable outfit, exactly what he would have expected to see a lady wearing when going riding. Forcibly turning to the rod again, Tom starts up the motorcar and they’re off, the spring sunshine soaking them through the Humber’s many windows.

“And is there any other way to travel but through flames?” he asks, partly because he’s genuinely curious, partly because the thought of Sophia literally stepping into flames in order to appear in some other person’s dining room makes him feel ever so slightly sick in the throat. What an exceptionally dangerous, stupid way to travel. How many were injured when discovering this method? It’s absolute madness.

“Are you sure you want to know; they all have their downsides. Even the Knight Bus.” There’s a charming lilt to her words, the woman leaning forward in her chair to angle her face at him better, smile on her lips.

“Start with that one,” Tom suggests, foot pressing a little further down on the peddle now that they are out of the main body of Great Hangleton and beginning to travel down the country roads to his home. “That one doesn’t sound as outrageous as fire-travel.”

Yet, somehow, she manages to make it explicitly clear that the Knight Bus is both as popular as it is dangerous.

Instant teleportation where you can leave pieces of yourself behind, a bus that can run up and down the entire length of the country in but an hour and objects that can carry you across the ocean.

“How have they not killed themselves?” Tom marvels, exiting the Humber and shutting the door behind him. Sophia has her door open before he can get around and open it for her, climbing out just as he gets round to offer her a hand. She looks a bit surprised but takes it regardless. She certainly doesn’t look like someone who has ever left a limb behind in one county while travelling to another, though he hasn’t exactly been looking at her skin long enough to map any kind of unfamiliar scars.

“Are you just going to leave the motorcar here?” asks Sophia, inspecting the vehicle as Tom tucks the hand she had offered him into the crook his elbow.

“Of course. Henry shall move it if either of my parents require it and, if not, then it shall be here for me to return you home.” She makes and agreeable noise and Tom turns his head to fully inspect her now as they head down to the stables. Without her usual footwear, she’s significantly shorter than he is, taller than his shoulder but only just. He can see the pin-straight parting of her hair, how the left braid is tighter to the skull than the right. It’s far from perfect; understandable given she had bound her hair while they were driving without a mirror.

“So, are we going to be cantering over the grounds today?” Sophia asks with a grin, making a show of looking across the wild open space at that sits as the back of the manor. There’s a spring in her step; her excitement is a pleasant thing to bask in, even as he laughs at the idea of Sophia being able to rampage across the grounds on the back of a stallion.

“Heavens no. You will be lucky if we even go for a slow ride today.” There’s far too much to learn before he lets her loose on horseback. He explains as such, Sophia listening carefully to his every word, nodding along every so often to showcase her understanding without interrupting his flow. “Do you have much experience with animals, Sophia?”

“Some; I took Care of Magical Creatures for my OWLS, but I didn’t continue to NEWTS.” Yes, because that makes a great deal of sense, doesn’t it? “Are we back to first names now?” What— oh. Tom coughs into one fist, slipping his arm out of Sophia’s so that he may open the stable door. The usual scent hits, despite the fact it is nowhere near as severe as it could be. He had requested the stables get mucked out yesterday, it could be worse. Sophia steps in after him, nose wrinkling as she turns this way and that, eyes filtering over the two stallions and single mare within. Zeus is the closest, his dark eyes locking onto him before he snorts, looking away. Giving him the name for king of the gods had certainly been an apt decision, what with his high and mighty attitude.

“Do you wish to revoke first name privileges?”

“Not in the slightest. Every time I hear ‘Miss Lovegood’, I have flashbacks to professors in the classroom or, Merlin forbid, the damn Gringotts goblins.”

Tom startles. “I beg your pardon?”

“Gringotts is our bank,” Sophia explains, padding across the floor in her soft leather boots to stand beside him, inspecting the tack that is all hung up on the southern end of the barn. “It’s run by goblins who look after all wizarding gold; we went to war with them back in the eighteenth century. But they’re protections are impeccable; Gringotts is now over four hundred and fifty years old and no one has ever come close to being able to steal from it.” There is a terrible amount to unpick from that but Tom sets that aside for later. Instead, he gestures to the gear for Dapple, the calm mare whose mother he’d learnt to ride on as a child.

“Are you familiar with anything on here?”

Ten minutes goes by in which Tom explains the purpose of the saddle, how to secure it, and all of the other affects. Sophia listens carefully, though it is quite obvious her interest lies more with the horses in the stables. He introduces her to Dapple first, a Welsh Mountain Pony and perhaps one of the easiest breeds to learn on.

“Aren’t you gorgeous?” Sophia coos, holding out her palm for Dapple to sniff. The moment the horse has pressed her muzzle to Sophia’s hand, the woman is off, stepping close and running her fingers through the ash blonde mane, cooing all the while. Tom watches her, that uncomfortable sensations squirming about in his stomach a stark reminder of Doctor Bones’ words last he saw him. A soft spot— yes, he does have one for the woman in front of him. It would be silly to not acknowledge it, to try and pretend otherwise. He does like her, which in itself… well, it isn’t too strange. She is a pretty enough woman, intelligent and good company. And she’s… kind. For all her qualities, that is not a word that could have been applied to Cecilia. The wretch probably didn’t even know the definition of it.

“-and then Tom will take me and you out for a ride the next time I come over,” Sophia whispers, running her hands down the side of Dapple’s flank, her voice two pitches higher like she’s speaking to a young child. “Yes, he will. And if I fall off your beautiful self, I can bounce back up. I’m sturdy.” That Tom doubts. Sophia is built like a willow tree, short but with graceful long limbs that are only exaggerated in her usual footwear. No doubt she was the type of child that the stablemaster would have looked at and shuffled off to the Shetland pony. Less of a drop that way.

On the other side of Dapple, Tom rests both of his forearms across her back, watching in amusement as Sophia continued to baby-talk the horse that is, perhaps, five years her junior. It takes her a moment to realise he’s looking but, when she does her eyes flick up to look at him and she smiles.

“Did you just bring me here to lavish praise on your horses?”

“No, the aim is to go for a walk with Dapple and to grow used to how she moves and reacts.”

“Right. Speaking of lavishing praise…” she trails off, working her hands through Dapple’s mane yet again and Tom waits patiently, leaning down to rest his chin in his arms. Sophia is chewing on her lip, worrying the skin back and forth before she seems to decide on whatever it is that has been bubbling away in her brain. “Do you want to know how your— how the child is?”

“You went to see him again?” Somehow, it manages to leave his mouth in the form of a question, not a statement of surprise. It shouldn’t be shocking; she’s made her intentions to adopt his clear and, while he isn’t sure how that could work on her side of things (who knows, maybe child-theft is a common occurrence, there are stories of witches, woods, and little children after all) he assumes one would want to know what they are getting in for. It’s odd, the feelings that burrow under his skin as he acknowledges the woman in front of him will, quite possibly by the end of the year, be raising his child. The boy could do a lot worse than to call Sophia Lovegood family; solidly middle class and, while he cannot imagine that the boy wouldn’t be better off with a married couple— no, that’s idiotic. There is no guarantee that such a couple would come along and adopt him anyway. And this is if he were a normal child. Perhaps a magical one does not require two parents to become a well-rounded member of society.

“I did,” she admits softly, smoothing her hands down Dapple’s neck now, until they run across her back. The tips of her bare fingers brush against his sleeves as they pass by. This repeats twice and, upon the third time, Tom shifts his arms forwards to trap her hands beneath them, halting the movement. Sophia’s fingers dance a little bit under his wrist, but there is no true effort put forward in the escape. They grow still after a moment, only her thumbs stroking back and forth across Dapple’s back. Sophia continues as if there isn’t only a single layer of cloth preventing skin to skin contact between them. “He can read already and he’s only just turned three. That’s incredibly advanced; I promised I’d return so we could finish the story we started.” Is three years young to be reading? Tom doesn’t truly recall a time when he himself couldn’t read; his earliest memory is something in the realm of five and, even then, it’d been more focused upon following his father through the winding streets of York for the first time. The city had made a significant impression upon him at a young age; he recalls learning about the Viking invasion of the city from his Governess.

“What were your impressions of him?” Tom asks quietly, lifting his forearms up to release Sophia’s hands. She doesn’t retract them though and, after a single moment of hesitation on his part, Tom rests both of his hands atop hers, thumbs tucking beneath her palms. Her fingers curl, surrounding his thumbs; they’re cool to the touch. It’s March but, based on the temperature of her skin, she probably should be wearing gloves.

“He’s incredibly intelligent… has your, well, everything.” One of her hands slides free of his to gesture to her own face, as if to indicate this nameless boy is his spitting image. Then, Sophia grips at her plait, twisting it around her fingers with a smile. “Other than your curls. He’s got waves instead.” She doesn’t meet his eyes but she doesn’t pull the arm back that he’s still connected to. Tom shifts, working the hand in his grasp gently until they’re pressed palm to palm, wrists resting across Dapple’s back so that he can better thread their fingers together. His hand spasms as Sophia continues. “He’s already using his magic too.”

“He is?” It comes out as a choked kind of question, halfway towards an embarrassing splutter and Tom’s relatively certain his own heartrate has picked up. One of his hands tangles in Dapple’s mane, the other tightening around Sophia’s.

“Unconsciously,” she admits, thumb stroking across the range of his knuckles, each rising pinnacle climbed and the valleys between each one traversed. “He has so much potential. And—” Blue eyes shoot up to look at him, accompanied by a mischievous smile. “—he’s cute as a button.” Well, if he truly has inherited Tom’s everything then of course he will be. Part of him, a miniscule part that lingers in the back of his mind which could quite possibly be named ‘morbid curiosity’ wonders what the boy looks like. Would Tom see what Sophia does; would he see his face in the boy, his mannerisms, his attitude? Or would there be a recognition of the woman who birthed him, her ghost haunting the child to conjure nightmares and a reminder of a time when he had been truly powerless? He daren’t risk it, not when it feels like he is finally making progress, when it feels like he is finally coming to call his life his own again.

“And he wants to live with you?”

“He seemed pleased with the idea. I said it’d be when I finished my training. As the leaves turn brown.” Yes. Sophia arrived in late summer and she is only here for a single year. When that ends, once that time has passed, she will return to her world as a magical doctor. Perhaps she’ll leave the house she currently resides at, move somewhere to be with others like her. It’s probably for the best; no doubt rumours will fly should the pretty young doctor he’s been seen in the company of a handful of times suddenly appear with his miniature double. She’ll have a job and will be making money— clearly has some to be able to afford a house on her lonesome in the first place, but—

“Do you want any money to support the boy?” She jolts, pulling her hand back and Tom releases it, reluctant. The contact had been… pleasant.

“No thank you. I’ll earn enough on a healer’s wage to purchase a small house after selling this one— I only managed to buy this one because I came across some old artefacts within the school’s lost and found that the goblins were very happy to take off my hands. But I am not short; I’ll be able to keep both of us living comfortably… the current market crash hasn’t touched the Wizarding World, what with the goblins.” She says this as if it should explain everything so Tom just nods along, not wishing to analyse the sinking sensation in his stomach. At the end of summer, Sophia will adopt the boy and move away; contact between them will be sparse, if it exists at all— she is a friend, Tom realises. A friend whose company he enjoys and he does not wish to lose. But this is not something that either of them can work around, is it?

Clearly as desperate as he is to find a new topic, Sophia pats at the mare’s back with a smile. “Shall we take Dapple for a walk?”

“Yes, while the midday weather is still with us.”

They don’t touch upon the topic for the next hour. Instead, Tom gives her a tour of the grounds, pointing out the apple trees that line the estate and recalling a childhood spent climbing the limbs, seeking the reddest fruit he could source. She leaves by means of teleportation, instantaneously vanishing with a soft pop, the sound akin to a soap bubble disappearing from existence and leaving the stable accommodating one person less.

She has not truly left yet and already he misses her company.

Chapter Text

13.04.1930

He’s going over the finance reports again. Most of their tenants are making rent even in the fact of the world’ financial difficulties. It’s lucky they are not a mining town; the newspapers continue to report those are the ones hit worst. In the rolling fields that surround Little Hangleton, a great deal of fruit, vegetables and livestock are produced. People shall always need to eat so there shall always be farmers. And farm workers shall always need a place to live.

Marking down the last total sum, Tom relaxes against the back of his chair, hand rubbing at the tense muscles of his neck. That’s the moment Father decides to darken his door. He’s dressed in his best suit, no doubt in anticipation of the next meeting regarding those homes to be built over in Beverley. More money to come to their hands as they rent them out, no doubt. It’s a wise business venture, especially given the slums will have to be cleaned out in order to make way; those who live there will find themselves with stable housing and the streets themselves will be a marked improvement. There’s a second where he entertains the idea of taking Sophia for a tour when the construction is complete. He banishes the thought a moment later. The first few builds won’t be complete until well into next year and, by that point, Sophia Lovegood will be a distant, fond memory.

“Tom.”

“Father.” Tom dips his head towards the man, tidying the books before closing them up. After all, Father would not grace his presence right before setting out to a meeting unless it was for something important. As expected, he steps inside the room, waving Molly off when she enquires if he would like some tea while he waits until the appropriate time to leave.

“Your mother mentioned that Doctor Bones’ apprentice shall be celebrating her twentieth birthday next month.” Doctor Bones’— ah, Sophia. Of course, he’d known that she was younger than him, had known she isn’t yet twenty. He had never thought to inquire about her birthday. “Will you be getting her a gift?”

Tom considers the idea for a moment before he nods, firmly resolute on the idea. “Yes.” Though what he will be getting her is up in the air. Afterall, what does one get a being with magic? Surely if she wishes for something, she can just, magic it into existence. Is that how it works? No, that cannot be right. If that were the case, none of the witches would work and instead spend their days conjuring gold to live off. A frown creases his face and Tom stares down at the books, but only for a moment. After all, his father has not yet left which means he still has a piece to say.

“And that gift will be?”

He doesn’t know. “Flowers, perhaps?” Tom offers the first thought that comes to mind, recalling the Minster and iris blooms. “I have not given it much thought in truth; this is the first I have heard of the impending date.”

It seems, however, his father has finally had enough of beating around the bush. He tips his head back, sets his jaw and asks. “Do you intend to court her?” The thought alone is choking. Courting Sophia Lovegood— courting a witch? Yes, he may have a shallow soft spot for her, yes, she may be the first woman in the past few years to not make his skin crawl upon setting her eyes upon him— only that isn’t true; he had felt that rampant paranoia, that sickening worry when they first met and she had alluded that she knew the truth because she was one of them— but it isn’t like that any longer, is it? Because Tom knows this woman now, or so he likes to think. She takes great pains to showcase herself as a presentable, driven young woman striving to further her life, something she is capable of only due to the tireless work of the women who came before her. Though, how much of that is true? What is it like in the world of witches?

Not that it matters. So, Tom is carrying something of a torch for Sophia, he can admit that in the safety of his mind, though the hand that holds it is clammy with nervous sweat. There is one key factor standing in the way of anything happening, which begins with—

“She will be leaving at the end of summer.”

“If you must insist upon a woman from the middle class, then give her an incentive to stay. It shouldn’t be too difficult,” Father drawls, as if it were truly that simple, as if Tom could entice Sophia to remain and all would be well and dandy from there. The sheer fatuity of it teases a laugh from his throat, the sound uncomfortably pained.

“Father, she has every intention, upon completing her year training, of adopting a child.” And then, to Tom’s growing horror, his father bats his hand before him and calmly asserts that Tom could just give her a child instead if she was insistent upon children right from the starting blocks. His heart thunders, his thoughts screeching to a halt and freezing in place and he cannot catch them, cannot grasp at them as if they are liquid slipping freely through his fingers, a complete contradiction because they are not moving so how could they possibly be flowing at present? Because producing a child involves—

“She won’t give up the child.” His voice sounds distant to his own ears, even though he is utterly confident in what he states. She has met this boy twice now, has promised to return a third time to finish reading a story with him because distance means nothing to a woman who can disappear from one place and reappear in another, all within the blink of an eye. The more he considers the situation, the very thing that led Sophia Lovegood to Little Hangleton in the hopes that she would find family willing to take in the child, and what he knows about the woman herself… the surer Tom becomes. She will not abandon the boy to the fate of an orphanage. And Tom— Tom cannot risk it. Not if he wishes to keep some semblance of control within his life right now. “Sophia will not abandon that child.”

Father sniffs, a priggish sort of gesture that he had made whenever they road through the village when Tom was but a boy, the very expression Tom had copied until he has perfected it. “A bastard is it?”

What? No. No, the child is many things, but it cannot be a bastard. Merope, the wretch, had ensured that the moment they were married with the church. He has memories of that; the sickening sweet perfume that he now knows to be the devilry of a potion, the way the wretch’s eyes had been unable to meet his in what he imagines in any decent person would be guilt. It may have been against his will, but they were married. The child is no bastard. 

“It— He’s not a bastard,” Tom says, though how the words leave his numb tongue, he has no idea.

His father is silent for a moment. “Young to be a widow. Perhaps a poor choice after all.” And that’s when it clicks. Father hadn’t been calling... hadn’t been calling the wretch’s child a bastard. He’d assumed the child Sophia wished to adopt is— is what? The product of some torrid love-affair she’d had while too young, that she’d left the boy in an orphanage until she could support them both? It sounds like something from a Charles Dickens novel. And yet, impossibly, horribly, the truth is stranger than the fiction. And yet, Tom cannot admit that aloud. No, Father will think he has regressed, will think him well and truly addled. All he can think—

“The boy isn’t hers.” It comes out as a rasp. Tom plants the back of his skull against the high back of the chair, sucking in one harsh breath. “She knows of him from one of her assignments and...” and what? She feels responsible for what the power of magic has created? Feels guilty over the criminal actions of another witch? She has, in only two visits, bonded with the boy to the extent she wishes to call him family? Each leaves him feeling discomforted, the next even more unpalatable than the one that came before. “She refuses to leave him in an orphanage. 

Father clicks his tongue, muttering how this is a ‘likely story’ before bidding him a good day with no further questions. And Tom cannot rise from his chair to see him go, cannot being himself to stand on his shaker legs. For Father doesn’t believe him but— this child inherited Tom’s everything according to Sophia. Everything. Barring the hair. Should Father, for whatever trivial reason, run in to Sophia in the future, should he catch sight of her new charge... Tom does not wish to think about it, could not even begin to imagine what the reaction would be. There is that sickening sensation churning in the back of his stomach, coiling in the back of his throat and he needs air.

The window is stiff to open, the hinges shall need oiling. He will have to add it to Henry’s list of overall jobs that need completing around the manor. His eyes find the stable at the bottom of the grounds, Zeus out in the pen and trotting around his enclosed space.

For a second, just a second, he considers it. A world where he releases all his fears and worries, where he looks upon Sophia and sees just the pretty girl that she is and not the lingering, potential threat that ghosts beneath her skin. A world where he can take it at face value. Perhaps in this world he would be riding Zeus, she astride Dapple as they trot around the pen. Tom would be checking back, a quick glance to ensure all is well and Sophia has mastered the riding technique. Of course she would; he is a splendid teacher and she must be a quick study. A bolt of longing, hot and sharp, tears through his core— Tom forces reality to take over. 

Imagining the child alongside her brings with it the winding force of being unseated from a horse; sharp shock, a loss of breath and a shaking sensation. There is the shortest moment where he can picture Sophia cooing over the child, but then he turns and Tom sees her eyes. It’s a falsity; Sophia had stated the boy had his everything, she would certainly have informed him of a deformity such as those wicked eyes. It is a tortuous illusion of his mind but Tom cannot quell it. 

He storms from his office, unsure of where he is going other than away.

“Sophia!” Zander slams into her with all his heavy, teenaged weight, near enough knocking her from her feet. It’s a fight to remain on them; Sophia takes too steps back before enough momentum has bled off to not put her on the floor.

“Hello, Zander.” He grins, chin peeking out from the blue and silver scarf wrapped around his neck. They’re now easily into the warmth of spring; Zander is missing his coat and the scarf he wears is thinner than his thick winter wool. Though the sun is not shining, it’s not cold, just cool instead. Warm enough for a jumper instead of a coat.

“It’s great to see you, how’re your studies going? Do you have the full day off?”

“Yes, I’ve the full day off. Let’s enjoy the festival before you hound me for knowledge on a field you’re not even aiming to join.” Sophia flicks her finger across Zander’s nose, a shallow reprimand that has him grinning at her. Without her heels, he’s taller than her now, shoulder-length hair just as messy and free as ever. Her younger brother throws one arm across her shoulders, reeling her into his side and twisting so that they might both face the water garden’s festival. It’s the third one (last year’s being cancelled due to a sudden outbreak of dragonpox at Hogwarts but at least it is being held in spring now) to ever be hosted at Hogsmeade and there are more than a handful of students sniffing around the place. What they are looking so intently for, Sophia cannot begin to guess. Nor does she particularly want to, not when she is no longer a prefect. She has enough to deal with, all problems she has voluntarily took on her own shoulders, problems she’s sought out, true. But there’s a difference between Sophia’s problem and what’s happening in front of her. If she doesn’t do something, then Tom Marvolo Riddle will grow up and personally slaughter a few dozen people (that she knows of) and indirectly massacre hundreds. If no one stops the Hogwarts kids from sniffing around the exotic plants, a few of them might end up as high as a broom.

“A few of these would be perfect to paint,” Zander muses, inspecting the giant water lilies of Egypt, floating along the curved surface of the water. All along main street, great orbs of water (fresh and salt) levitate within the air, plants either encased or lingering upon the liquid, each as pretty as the last. “I have the perfect charm to give a soft glow to the water.”

For a time, they wander through the village, admiring the plants, dodging the first years who are obnoxiously excited to be out visiting Hogsmeade earlier. The new professor of herbology scurries after them, clearly distressed. Perhaps a field trip to the village in order to learn about exotic water plants not usually available on the Hogwarts curriculum had been a bad idea for the younger years.

“How’re things going with your girl?” Sophia asks, nudging Zander in the ribs. They stop by a stall selling fresh peaches, each appearing as deliciously juicy as its neighbour.

“Charlotte? Nah. Katy Gordan is way prettier.”

Sophia hands over the sickles for their peaches, gentling tossing one into Zander’s chest; he catches the fruit with ease, biting into the ripe flesh a moment later. “So fickle, dear brother.”

“It’s the muse,” Zander bemoans, wiping the peach juice from his lips. “When the light hits a girl’s face just right, I know she’s the one. Alas, the sun rises and sets, forever changing whom it graces.”

“Alright, alright.” Flicking at Zander’s nose again, Sophia takes a bite of her own peach, turning back to the harried looking professor. “As a second year who is on a field trip, shouldn’t you be studying the plants too?”

“I am studying them,” Zander insists, all wide-eyed innocence.

“More than their physical aesthetic. What uses do they have?”

“What do I care? There’s only forty-three magical plants that can be used in pigmentation and I know them all off by heart.” Of course, there’s nothing like a career orientated Ravenclaw. Luckily enough, she knows the perfect distraction.

“I’m going to adopt a child.” Zander chokes, hacking away on a bite of peach and Sophia rolls her eyes, clearing his airways with a single swish of her wand.

“You’re what?!”

“Adopting. There’s a boy in a muggle orphanage who has magic; I can’t knowingly leave him there and there’s no family capable of taking him in. I checked.”

For a moment, her little brother says nothing, just stares in open mouthed astonishment. Then, his lips crack into the widest grin she’s seen on his face in a long time, a kind of child-like innocence to him.

“Uncle Zander. I think I like the sound of that.”

Chapter Text

20.04.1930

Tom stands at the threshold. Henry was right, Sophia Lovegood is indeed on his doorstep. She has an umbrella held aloft, the fabric a matching mint green to the— good Lord, are those formal pants? Tom throws open the door to its fullest, stepping back into the entryway and Sophia fires him a charming smile, taking the unspoken invitation to enter. As she steps inside, she gives the room a quick glance over. Upon finding it empty, she twirls the umbrella in her hand and it shrinks, mint fabric folding away into the void until all that is left is the wand, something that is swiftly tucked away into her pocket. Her pants’ pocket.

Why on Earth is she wearing formal pants? Where on Earth did she get fitted formal pants? 

“Tom, good morning.” Her tone is cheery, her cheeks a flushed rose-red. There is a sprinkle of water, fine droplets haloing her forehead which catch the light of the entryway. 

“Sophia. I was unaware you were due to visit us.” Last he recalled, mother said she was due for the usual afternoon tea in three days. He’s still unsure just what the two of them talk about when he is not present, other than to assume it is related to Mother’s suffragette days. His surprise company hums, swiping one set of fingers along her hairline to draw forth the water, which she then rubs between her fingertips and thumb. In no way has she managed to remove all of the liquid there; one droplet breaks away from the others and runs down her face to rest in the gentle hollow beneath her eyes. His eyes find the matching set of earrings that dangle gently from the lobes, once again the Russian gold that she seems to favour despite it being outdated. Admittedly, the metal does pair well with her usual pastels, but it’s hardly in fashion now, is it?

“It’s a bit of a surprise drop in,” she admits, tucking one strand of loose hair behind her ear, a tress that has escaped from the lazy braid that confines the rest. “I wasn’t planning to stop by but, something came up that I think you would enjoy and I wanted to see if you had an hour or so free.”

“An hour free?” Tom repeats thoughtfully, mind clicking over as he considers his schedule. Today he was supposed to head down into the village to check on some of the properties, to ensure they were well-kept by the tenants and have a few words if that were not the case. It’s not a pressing matter; he could allow it to sit until tomorrow. It is only after he has certified with himself that he can free himself for the day that he considers the next thing. What is it that Sophia Lovegood has found that he ‘would enjoy’? Should that not have been his first thought, not if he could make himself available for her?

“We would have to travel a little,” she states, absentmindedly twisting that thin stick of willow between her fingers and Tom watches it go, forcing himself to relax, even if he cannot quite take his eyes off it. She notices in the next breath, the wand freezing in place and an apologetic smile graces her lips. “The two methods of magical travel we have would both require a wand, though I suppose I could summon the Knight Bus and leave it here if that would make you more comfortable?” He does recall her little lecture on magical transportation; travel by flames is both an uncomfortable idea and one he understands to not be possible from within his own home given Riddle Manor would not be connected to this ‘network’ she spoke of. Broomsticks— well, the very idea of that is laughable. With the Knight Bus mentioned, that leaves the only other method to be—

“The teleportation technique would be your alternative,” Tom states.

“Yes; it would be much quicker but it does require a wand so if you are uncomfortable with the idea, then we can go by bus.” If he were uncomfortable with the idea… there is no point in lying to himself; the very thought of leaving with Sophia (with a witch, no matter how good she has so far proven herself to be) makes him dizzy. Nausea climbs up his oesophagus to rest at the back of his throat, sliding across his tongue. The last time he had left town at the whim of a witch— nothing more needed to be said upon it.

But last time had not been voluntarily. This time, he is being asked. His mind is his own, for all that it is haunted with the actions of the wretch, damaged and scarred in a way that he has not been able to overcome. Merope had been a stranger. Sophia is, against all odds, a friend. So, even though he is partially terrified with he thought of it, Tom quietly states that he would not mind teleporting to the location. The smile Sophia gives him is almost reward enough.

“It will feel like you are being pressed in on all sides for half a breath; this is completely normal and how everyone feels when apparating. Being a muggle doesn’t change that. Do you still want to do it?”

“I have already given my word.” It would be cowardly to duck out now after being told the sensation will be unpleasant. What is half a breath anyway? Such a short period of time in discomfort for instantaneous travel; he can understand why a witch would prefer it over a bus travelling at high speeds. “Just what is this surprise you are insistent on showing me, Sophia?”

Blue eyes stare into his, only for Sophia to once again smile, petal-sweet joy in the curve of her pale, painted lips. “It’s a nice surprise, I promise. Here, hold the hand with my wand in, that way you can always confiscate it if you’re unhappy where we end up.”

Really, this is ridiculous. Tom chances a single glance at Sophia’s hands before he captures the empty one between his own, insistently threading one set of fingers through hers. Genuine surprise blooms upon Sophia’s lovely features, cheeks dusting the slightly shade of pink. It’s a nice look on her. Her palm feels soft against his own, flesh relatively cold given she’s been outside in the April showers. It’s comfortable, this contact between them. Then, Sophia twists on her feet and every thought leaves his head.

Knees hit the grass and his palms follow a moment later, stomach rebelling from the squeezing that he just occurred. Good God, he takes it all back. Why she would not prefer the witch bus over that, Tom cannot begin to say. Nausea has bypassed his oesophagus entirely to rest just behind his teeth but he will not shame himself by vomiting into the field. For yes, when he is capable of lifting his head and looking around, he realises that they are indeed in a field. There is a hand rubbing soothing circles into his back— Sophia, of course. Who else could it possibly be?

“Would you like a stomach soother?”

Tom croaks out, “no thank you.” He’s simply pleased he retains the ability to apply his manners even if it feels like his organs are still being rearranged. After another breath (long and drawn through clenched teeth), he forces himself to stand, turning to look at Sophia in order to ask what could possibly be so important as to drag him to this unfamiliar field in such a crude manner. But, before a single enquiry can leave from his throat, he spots the exact reason Sophia insisted that he would enjoy this some hundred metres behind her.

Horses, winged horses, a whole herd of them, perhaps just short of twenty of the beasts. Each and every one is chestnut in colour, with a handful features blazes or stars in white upon their faces. And they all have great big wings, larger than any bird’s wingspan that he has ever seen before. The feathers transition from brown near the shoulder, progressing to grey and then dipping into a shimmering white at the feather tips. They’re gorgeous.

“They’re aethonans,” Sophia whispers, still crouching down beside him, the flat of her palm still rubbing soothing circles into his midback. He doesn’t flinch away from the touch, but neither does he lean into it. It is simply, there. “They migrate to the continent for the winter and the herd just moved back here for the first time this year.” She pauses, turning away from the winged-horses to look at him with a grin. “We’re in Wales by the way. I read that the herd had returned in the paper while I was waiting for my appointment.” Tom hasn’t the slightest idea what appointment they were referring to, nor why a newspaper would ever report upon the migration habits of wildlife. Yes, the newspapers he is familiar with would certainly report upon the herd if they were to see what Tom is currently witnessing, but only because they are winged-horses. They’re magnificent.

“Is it a wild herd?” he asks, gathering his bearings at last to righten himself, standing and Sophia joins him in synchrony, until they are both standing in order to better look at the horses. True, winged-horses.

“They’re not owned by anyone, but this herd are well used to humans coming to watch them,” Sophia says, opening her handbag and pulling free an entire bag of apples that most certainly should not have fit within its hold. That it does not shock him just goes to show that Tom is growing used to magic. It’s a discomforting thought, but he sets it aside to be considered later upon his return home. “None of these horses would ever allow someone to ride them, but they can be enticed over before the summer birthing season. Providing, of course, that you have the right incentive.” The incentive in question, it seems, will be the apples that Sophia has brought along with her.

Here in Wales, it is not raining, though clouds do cover the sky. Tom had been dressed for the weather and so too is Sophia; they are both in thin coats that protect them from the cutting chill of the wind. It is only now as he looks further afield that Tom realises they are situated atop a great big hill, the occasional stone jutting out from the sea of otherwise lush green grass. His company is making the most charming ridiculous noise to try and entice the horses over, an apple in her hand and wand still within the other. He walks alongside her, strides wide and confident. For all that they are magical, for all that they are capable of flight (one swoops overhead, confuting any notion otherwise), they are just horses. Tom knows horses, has known horses for most of his life and he is confident he can befriend wild ones such as these. A quick whistle through two fingers gathers their attention and he holds out the apple Sophia had placed in his hand, keeping his body language open and friendly.

It’s a mare that has the confidence to approach, scenting the air thrice before she deems it safe enough to brush her muzzle against the curve of his fingers. Her breath is hot and wet, lips wriggling across his flesh in a command to surrender the apple; Tom does so without hesitation, cooing softly when the beauty chews the fruit he has gifted her. At her flanks, the great wings flutter, feathers twitching in the wind and Tom reaches out to run his hand down her jawline, smiling as the mare presses her face into his touch. Just like regular horses. Only, they have wings. They have wings because they are magical creatures.

For a few minutes, he gets lost in the interactions. Feeding apples to the herd that have now all approached following the mare’s triumph. The bag never seems to run empty of fruit, despite being no longer than his forearm. One young stallion presses its muzzle right into Tom’s stomach, huffing and chuffing against the fabric of his coat as he rubs soothingly at the skin behind its ears. He’s not sure what makes him turn to glance at Sophia, but what keeps his attention is the way she is looking at him. She’s sitting on the ground and the first mare they interacted with has laid down beside her. Its head is not in her lap, more hanging over her shoulder and trying to eat one of her braids. She’d been in the process of gently discouraging the horse when their eyes had met. She looks at him as if he’s something special, as if there’s something about him that turns her gaze soft and her smile warm, as if there’s nowhere she’d rather be than right here, entertaining a herd of wild, magical horses with him.

And he likes her. He truly does like her, had barely thought twice about sacrificing a part of his day to spend time with her at a surprise she had chosen. Such a thoughtful thing, to read about an event in her world and think of him, to think of sharing it with him.

“This was a good surprise,” he tells her, watching Sophia’s face soften just that little bit more, her shoulders relaxing and hands stilling. It’s all the opening the mare needs; she practically inhales Sophia’s braid and the girl squawks, swatting at the mare while extracting herself as best she can. He cannot help himself; Tom laughs, leaving the young stallion alone in order to make his way to the witch, drawing her hands back from her near-destroyed braid. She takes the ribbon that’d been tied at the end, tipping her head back over her shoulder to look at him but Tom already has the loose strands of her champagne blonde hair in hand then, weaving them back together with well honed practice. He has horses of his own, of course he knows how to braid hair, though Sophia’s is far softer than Dapple’s mane. Silently, he holds his hand out for the ribbon when he’s near done. Once Sophia has handed it over, he ties the thin slip of white around the end, tight in a little bow that he takes a second to admire. In that time, Sophia completes a little half-turn in order to run one of her hands down the restored braid, her fingertips finding his. It is the second time today that Tom takes hold of her hand, fingers linking with hers, thumb brushing across her first knuckle. He does not wish to give this up, Tom realises, a thought that has been building for so long but has only now just pushed into the cloud of his consciousness. He wants to keep spending time with Sophia, to keep pushing himself into situations a year past he wouldn’t have dared to tread foot within. He wants to keep meeting her gaze in sweet moments such as this, wants to hold her hand again and again. Wants her to keep thinking of him when she sees something that reminds her, wants to be introduced to magic that doesn’t hurt but fascinates and heals and charms him in the most innocent of ways.

Wants to kiss her, he realises belatedly. That is a problem. It is a problem because Sophia is set upon adopting the child that Tom cannot raise, not right now, not in this moment. Not as he is. He has a choice between chasing what he wants, damn the consequences, or retreating. And the wretch has taken enough of his life from him. Small changes, small challenges—

“I think I want to see the boy,” Tom says and it is true. There is the smallest, most minute part of him that is indeed curious. What is the child like? Sophia has claimed in the past that the boy has his ‘everything’, all but his hair. He’s curious to know if it is true, but the very thought of meeting the boy— “From a distance,” Tom clarifies to Sophia’s raised eyebrows. She has turned in totality now, facing him with one hand still wrapped up in his, the other currently in the process of dropping the apple she had been holding. The mare snatches it up but a moment after it has hit the floor.

“You want to see Tom?” Want to see— oh. The wretch named the child for him, did she? Discomfort swirls in his stomach, both from the thought of the Gaunt bitch clinging so hard to her fantasy where he would ever want her, and… and for the fact the boy is named for him. Just as Tom had been named for his father, and his father before him.

“I cannot begin to imagine ever looking after the boy—” Tom has only recently accepted the child is real, has only just been informed he exists at all this year. “—but I don’t believe I can continue on without knowing.” Knowing what he looks like, seeing how he interacts.

Witnessing if the child uses magic as the wretch who bore him or the woman who plans to save him.

Sophia smiles at him, all earnestness and grace and she looks near ethereal now that the sun is slowly beginning to force its way through the clouds. “I can help with that, there are ways to make you difficult to notice. But please don’t be doing this for me.” Does she realise? Does she realise that he is even considering such a thing simply because of her? No, not for her, but for his desire to not have her lost to him for the remainder of his life. He does not wish to lose her, does not wish for this easy friendship to ever end. He is comfortable with life right now, in a way he hasn’t been since he was a small, ignorant child.

“I need this,” Tom says and it is the truth. He needs to know if exposure can stimulate change, if he can push past the state he has been left in so that he may become something more than the wreck the wretch left him as. He needs this to know if he has a chance of being able to keep this easy camaraderie with Sophia, if he can become comfortable with the circumstances that would be required to progress their friendship into something that could be something more. It has been so long since he ever dared to think of kissing a woman. For so long, it has felt like the wretch had hollowed out that part of him, had burnt those emotions as she poured the sickeningly sweet concoction down his throat. This is the first time he has ever looked upon a woman and fancied the thought of it. The thought of her.

“Okay then.” Sophia’s voice remains gentle and soft, her other hand coming to rest over their joined fingers and Tom takes the opportunity to capture that one to, to wind his fingers through hers until they are standing facing one another, hands held between them. In her flat shoes, she is almost an entire head smaller than him, has to tilt her chin up to continue meeting his gaze when they are standing this close. “Ready to go back?”

Tom looks towards the winged-horses again, admiring their beauty now that they are so very close. “Just one moment,” he says, but then turns to peek at Sophia again. She too is observing the horses now, her cheeks rosy from the strong Wales wind, her lips in a soft curve of a smile. The make-up she paints them with has worn away on the lower lip, exposing the flesh where blood has flushed it to a dark-rose pink. She’s lovely.

“Right, let’s go.” And with a twist of heels, they’re gone.

Chapter Text

04.05.1930

She is late.

Pushing open the door, Sophia slips inside the church with a light blush to her cheeks and a wand disguised as an umbrella to hand. She can hear the rain against the stain glass windows, a steady pitter-patter that hopefully masks her late entry to the Sunday morning service. She hadn’t meant to lose track of time to this extent, though it can hardly be called as such in truth. No, it was more a misjudgement. Measuring the distance between the muggle entrance to Diagon and the location of Wools Orphanage isn’t something she has ever had to think about before. But she hadn’t wanted to risk apparating to the orphanage; both because it increased the risk of her being spotted by someone that shouldn’t witness a display of magic, and because she was side-apparating Tom. There’s always a significant increase of splinching when it’s more than one person so Sophia had selected the place in London she is most familiar with. That it had made her late to attend the start of the muggle ceremony is, irritating.

Brushing down the skirts of her soft yellow dress, Sophia takes a seat, wand-umbrella folding in on itself to rest beside her in the pews at the back. There are more people present now, a thin look to them and Sophia tries her best to not squirm. Here, away from the splendour of Riddle manor and absent of the glitz and glamour of the Wizarding World, it’s starkly evident that the Muggles are beginning to truly feel the squeeze of the Great Depression. Their faces are worn, their eyes tired and there’s dirt beneath the nails of many, working themselves down to the bone to keep their jobs in a world where occupations are drying up faster than a shallow puddle in summer. 

Ahead, the muggle serviceman continues with his drone of holy text, a background noise that Sophia zones out of. Witches and wizards don’t truly have a god they prayed to and Sophia hadn’t been a believing in her before. Knowing what she does of the world now, of the people who can work miracles as thoroughly as this ‘son of god’ the man speaks of... well, Sophia doesn’t believe in it. She believes in the power of man alone. Things will only change as a result of action. And speaking of action...

She doesn’t wish to get her own hopes up, doesn’t wish to believe that things could work in accordance to her original plans. That Tom had even stated an interest in seeing his son (even if only from a distance) is more than she believed she would be capable of encouraging at the start of the year. More importantly though... Sophia has changed.

She wants Tom. And what’s difficult to distinguish is which she means. The child who is currently sitting at the front of the church, the one she has read to and tucked into bed and already given a portion of her heart to— she wants that child. She wants to call him family, to nurture and raise him and offer him all of the love she can give. She has promised him that, though not in those words. She has promised to take him away as the leaves turn, as autumn sinks into the earth and brings with it crisp air, as it banishes the summer heat that is not yet upon them. She wants Tom.

But she also wants the Tom who laces his fingers with hers. This is the pinnacle of greed, selfishness that has crawled into her heart and made a home beneath her breastbone, nestled content and eager to grow. That she had even considered for a moment giving up, settling herself down in Great Hangleton for the long haul and damning the two Toms to a life where they were on course to collide in the worst possible way— it says a lot about her character that she even considered it. Sophia is supposed to be a healer, is supposed to be a woman whose first intent should always be to heal. And to heal... Tom needs to take it at his own pace, whatever he is comfortable with but to be aware there are options, that there are people willing to help him. 

Is it selfish of her to want them both in her life? To wish that she can keep the child she is already, foolishly beginning to think of as her own, and to keep the man who looks at her as if she is something more? More than what she is, more than what he believed possible. Because Sophia likes him. She likes the arrogant cut of his jaw, likes how he says her name, likes the way his hands fit with hers. How he rubs his thumb across her knuckles, how he reaches out to her despite the past, despite what she is and what she represents to him. She likes the trust he has in her. And… she rather thinks he likes her too. But life doesn’t care for likes and dislikes. Life just is. Life will continue and not even magic can prevent this. Knowing what she does, knowing there is a clever little boy who has placed a bit of trust within her because she had made him a promise— that is where Sophia must plant herself. A tree with roots, standing steady to offer shelter to little Tom Marvolo Riddle. Because when you choose to have a child, your life is no longer your own. And Sophia has made her choice to have this child, regardless of the lack of blood between them. The moment she told Tom she would take him from Wools was the moment her life was no longer her own. 

If only everyone thought the same way, maybe there wouldn’t be as many damaged children within the country. She doesn’t want to get her hopes up, doesn’t want to dare dream she can have both— but the idea is already planted and her every thought tends to that small sapling. 

Folding one leg over the other, toe of her high-heel grazing the pew before her, Sophia once again scans the crowd, though this time she focuses in on the front. Why are the orphans at the front anyway? Is it because they are children? Because they are poor and the church wishes to exhibit what it is doing for the charity cases? Is it because they have nothing better to do on a Sunday morning than to arrive early? Regardless, Sophia can pick out the bunch of them, if only because the teenagers are tall enough for their shoulders to be seen over the tops of the pews. They’re in their orphanage uniform, the worn grey jackets that’re still peppered with damp patches from the walk here. She cannot see Tom’s head; he’ll be too small to see anyway. But, for some foolish reason, she still tries.

The service passes with the same dull roar as it had the last time she’d been here. Sophia spends the time reciting the different bones in the body, starting from the cranium and working her way down. She’s reached the femur when it is time for them all to pray. By the time she gets to the calcaneus bone, others are beginning to leave. Slipping out into the aisle to allow those on the row she’d sat upon to begin leaving, Sophia turns her gaze back to the front. She can see the moment that Mrs Cole spots her; the woman’s lips thin ever so slightly, her brows dropping in confusion before she offers her a slight nod in greeting. That is as much as Sophia requires; she makes her way forward against the flow of the crowd, with the click of her heels muffled by the thin carpet that has been rolled out between the rows and rows of pews.

“Good morning, Mrs Cole.”

Mrs Cole gives her another cordial nod, her thin lips turning up ever so slightly. She’s got one hand planted firmly on the shoulder of a squirming child, perhaps eight or nine years old. Clearly up to no good given the guilty cast to his face, something Sophia can totally understand. If she’d been forced to come into this building once a week at that age, she’d probably have been climbing the walls too. “Miss Lovegood.”

There’s a sharp gasp from the pew before them at the sound of her name and, a second later, Tom’s head of neatly combed hair pops over the back of the seat, dark eyes homing in on her instantly. There’s a small scratch on his cheek, crusted over and halfway through healing. Her fingers tighten on her wand and she forces herself not to react, not to give away the need to heal it. Mrs Cole sucks in a sharp breath at the sight, probably because he’s climbing on the pews; Sophia steps closer to him before the woman can offer up a reprimand, tucking both her hands under his arms to hoist the child up. He’s tall for a three year old, she’s beginning to understand, though still skinny as a twig. It means he’s not as heavy as he could be when she lifts him clean over the pews to rest against her hip.

“Hello, Tom.” He smiles at her and it is such a bright, pleased thing that Sophia cannot help but to return it, one hand smoothing down the wavy locks of his hair.

“Hello, Miss Lovegood,” he repeats dutifully. Then, he buries his face into the space between her neck and shoulder, both arms thrown across her shoulders so his hands can gather the butter-yellow fabric that covers her.

Sophia directs her attention to Mrs Cole once again. “I was hoping I could have a few hours of Tom’s time today? I promised we’d finish a book together.”

Walking on the street isn’t as easy in the rain, if only for the fact she must juggle a wand disguised as an umbrella in one hand while the other supports Tom. She cannot exactly offer the former to the later; the enchantment to keep the rain from her will fall without question the second Tom’s magic recognises exactly what she has offered him and the muggles will no doubt be startled by the sudden disappearance of an umbrella. Thankfully, Tom soon realises he needs to help with balancing himself upon her hip and, soon enough, his legs are half wrapped around her waist to alleviate some of the pressure from her arm.

“How are you, pumpkin?” Sophia asks, adjusting the angle of her umbrella so it covers two of the other orphans that are walking close by her side. If the fabric seems to grow ever so slightly, well, clearly there is something wrong with the depth perception of these people to not be able to comprehend how large the umbrella was before.

“I am… fine,” Tom mutters into her neck, pulling away only after he has spoken to look at her through exhausted eyes. Yes, she supposes he would be tired following the hour long service. Three years old is awfully young to be sitting through such a long lecture on those uncomfortable seats. He muffles a yawn into the curve of his shoulder, blinking forcibly in an attempt to wake himself up. “Are we gonna read again?”

“I do hope so. I brought the ‘Tale of the Three Brothers’ with me again, if you can focus long enough to read it.”

“I can focus,” Tom states stubbornly, button nose scrunching and there’s a pout on his lips. It’s adorable. That ugly monster in her chest is rearing again, claws scraping at her ribcage, howling. Demanding. Sophia tightens her hold ever so slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to reassure the child in her arms, it would seem, for Tom settles that little bit easier against her, one hand coming up daringly to run his fingers along the bumps and bends of her braid. It’s not a perfectly coordinated movement, but there’s no hard tug on her hair so Sophia doesn’t say a word. Instead, she begins to recall her last trip to York, where she had gone to see the spring market in full swing before walking along the castle walls. Tom isn’t the only child to listen to her and, soon enough, there are more than a handful of the orphans keeping the same pace in order to eavesdrop.

“It’s brown now.”

They’re both sitting in Tom’s room, Mrs Cole having waved off the other orphans upon arriving back and Wools, only to turn around and inform Sophia that she has two hours before Tom is expected to come down and take part in his own chore rota. Now, Sophia may not yet have any children (or a thorough understanding of muggle childrearing in the nineteen-thirties, but chores for a three year old seems a bit excessive. Regardless, she hadn’t wanted to be kicked out so Sophia had agreed with a smile and retreated with the little wizard.

Now, the two of them are situated on Tom’s bed, the thin covers bunched over their legs and the once-lumpy pillow (an ample application of magic when Tom hadn’t been looking had soon sorted that out) acting as a backrest between them and the wall. She’d been sitting on the bed when Tom suddenly clambered off, hunting beneath the iron-framework before he’d surfaced with a leaf. The magic on it is strong enough to make her fingers tingle when Tom places it between her hands, the once green surface now an aged and weathered brown. He’s brute-forced it through the lifecycle in… in an attempt to strongarm her into keeping her promise perhaps?

“It’s the only one that’s brown,” Sophia points out softly, coiling one arm around Tom’s back and the boy tenses for a breath. Then, he melts into her side, resting his head on the side of her chest as he mutinously folds his arms, lips pressing out into a cute little pout. “I’m sorry, Tom, but this isn’t something I cam rush. I finish my studies when autumn begins. I promise I’ll be here as soon as I do.”

“Then you gotta read two stories today,” he demands, pulling back and away to stare up at her, huge dark eyes wide and imploring and there’s not a hint of magical compulsion in his voice this time, only the usual demands of a greedy child. It’s enough to lift the corner of Sophia’s lips, enough to prompt her to shuffle that little bit further back against the wall, pillow supporting her back. Tom takes the movement as an open invitation, climbing over one of her thighs to settle between her legs, worming his way into a comfortable seat where he’s resting against her torso.

“There’s only one story left of the book, pumpkin, but I think I know a handful about a magic castle that you might be interested in.” Smoothing down the lopsided waves of his hair, Sophia summons the book from her bag, catching it with the hand that is not currently petting at Tom’s hair.

“Shall we start from the beginning?”

She still smells nice. Tom relaxes into the warmth of Miss Lovegood, his legs stretched out between hers, feet only just reaching beyond her knees on his bed. The cheery yellow of her dress is soft beneath him, brushing against the exposed backs of his knees, the shorts of his uniform itchy in comparison. Miss Lovegood still smells like a bakery, something like he imagines the great big party-cakes do, the ones he’s seen being delivered from the bakery on the way to the church. They were never quite as colourful as Miss Lovegood, for all that they smell the same though.

He follows the words on the page as she reads, fingers working around the leaf in his hand that he slowly but surely begins to rip up. It’d been useless after all, hadn’t it? Even though he’d managed to get one down from the tree, even though he’d stared and stared at it until it began to turn, the green bleeding brown as it had lost the waxen shine and turned brittle— none of that matters because she said it had to be autumn. Autumn when all the leaves fall like little sheets of crisp gold to the floor. He can’t make that happen sooner, can he? It’s not something Tom has ever tried before. He’s only tried reaching for things, calling them to him. There had been the one snake too, the one that complained about it being cold. He’s not heard any other animal talk ever since, even though he’d stared and stared at Billy’s new rabbit for hours on end. The other boy had gone crying to Mrs Cole when he found him, saying he was going to steal his rabbit. Tom was not; if he was ever going to have a pet, he’d want a talking snake, not a boring little rabbit.

“—Death searched and search for the third brother, over many years—” Miss Lovegood’s voice falls over his ears like honey, that sweet treat they’d gotten only a week ago. It’d been the first time Tom ever got to taste honey and it was marvellous. He’d love to have it again, but Mrs Cole had been very clear. It’d been a one-off treat, one they would probably not receive again for a very long time, if ever at all. Miss Lovegood smells like sugar and sounds like honey; she’s sweet and it’s him that she wants, him that she will take home when all the leaves fall. He’ll get to leave Wools like little Betsy did, only he won’t be stupid enough to upset Miss Lovegood; she won’t return him like that couple did Betsy. The girl still cries whenever they see a man and woman walk by hand in hand. But Tom’s not stupid, he can hold on to a good thing. He can. Betsy might be older than him, but he’s smarter, isn’t he?

“—greeted Death like an old friend.”

“You can’t greet death,” Tom grumbles, feeling the soft rise and fall of Miss Lovegood’s chest at his back. Tom traces the bare skin of her forearm down to the bracelet wrapped around one of her thin wrists, inspecting the three little hanging ornaments. They look almost like the things that were hung from the trees when it was Christmas; each one is in a different shade of yellow to match her dress. They’re pretty and shiny; he wants one.

“I wouldn’t know,” Miss Lovegood says softly, shimmying her wrist until he can’t keep inspecting her bracelet, her hand sliding down to catch his own. Tom threads his fingers alongside hers, absorbing the way her hand covers almost all of his with ease. They’re soft and warm, nothing like the hard skin that any of the other adults have, who have to clean and work all day. Miss Lovegood is a doctor, isn’t she? She probably knows how to take care of her hands properly so they stay soft and nice forever. “Would you like to see a little bit of magic, Tom?”

“Magic’s not real.” Tom says this as a matter of fact because that’s what it is; magic isn’t really. Billy had said it was real only a few weeks ago and the older boys had all laughed at him, calling him a baby and humiliating him until the other boy had cried (because he’s weak; Tom won’t be weak like him).

Miss Lovegood hums, rubbing her thumb into the flesh of his palm in soothing circles. “Nonsense. Magic is most certainly real and I’ll prove it to you… if you can keep a secret, that is?”

“I can keep a secret!” Tom cries, feeling his cheeks flush hot a moment after his outburst. But Miss Lovegood ignores his almost shout, instead laughing as she continues to massage his palm with her thumb. The contact is nice; it’s not something that anyone has ever done and if one of the other boys would have told him about it, he’d have thought it really weird. And it is a bit weird, but it’s weird in a nice way. He could sit here for the rest of the day with Miss Lovegood just doing this and it’d be a good day.

“Can I have a look at your teddy then?” Tom doesn’t want to get up off the bed, doesn’t want to leave Miss Lovegood’s side and he’s sure as can be that she really can’t do magic. Magic is from the fairytales Sarah tells them and there’re only one princess now. And he’s pretty sure Miss Lovegood isn’t a princess so she’s probably not got any magic. And yet… there’s a small something in his stomach that is jumping about, that is ready to believe even though the other boys have said its not true. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve lied to Tom. So, he climbs off his bed, making for the wardrobe where he hides him things, the teddy included. He’d gotten it down from the top not long after Miss Lovegood had been here last time and it’s right there where he left it, hidden under the bulk of his winter coat. Tom draws it out, feeling the rough felt brush against his fingers before he toddles back over towards the bed. There’s no struggle to climb up as usual though; Miss Lovegood catches him under each arm, hands at his ribs and she lifts him into her lap again, only this time he’s facing to a side instead of away from her. Her arms are wrapped around him and it’s warm, warm and nice. He can’t wait for the leaves to turn brown; he wants to leave Wools now, wants her to take him out of the door and to never ever come back. He wonders what her home is like. Is it one of the small thin slips of a townhouse he sees on the way to church? Is it a house that stands on its own? He wants to know, wants to know so he doesn’t have to come up with a picture in his head instead.

“Right,” Miss Lovegood says, holding out one hand for the teddy and slowly, Tom places the worn little bear in her palm. After all, Miss Lovegood had left her gloves with him; she won’t ruin his bear. She won’t. “I’m going to change this little bear into something else; ready?”

Tom eyes her warily and Miss Lovegood huffs out a laugh, the warm breath ghosting across his forehead. Her breath is the only thing that doesn’t smell of sugar, it just smells like a normal breath. She asks him to close his eyes and, after one more suspicious look at the woman, Tom does so. Part of him wants to peek, to see her swapping the teddy out for something else to claim it magic, but he forces himself not to. She’s given him an instruction after all and adults don’t like it when you don’t listen. He doesn’t feel her arms move though, only the wrist by his shoulder twists ever so slightly but it’s not enough for her to be able to actually swap the toy with something else, especially not to hide the teddy he’s given her.

“All done.”

Tom opens his eyes and his mouth drops open half a second later. Where there was once a teddy he had placed in Miss Lovegood’s hand, there is now some kind of strange creature. It’s about the same size as the teddy was, but that’s where it stops being similar. It had five colours, looks something like a cat but it has stripes, a scraggly mane and there are four dangerous fangs curving out of its mouth. The tail is at least twice as long as the rest of it, with all five colours featured at that particular point. Tom completed forgets about claiming magic isn’t real, too busy staring at the creature that is made of similar felt to the teddy, even if it feels much, much softer when he takes hold of this one.

“What is it?”

“It’s called a zouwu. A magical creature that lives in China,” Miss Lovegood explains and Tom has a thousand different questions. Is China another city, or is it another country? Is it far away, has Miss Lovegood been there, has she seen one of these animals? It’s so strange looking, it barely looks like a cat at all. Its fangs make it look dangerous too. Maybe this creature talks like the snakes do? It’s definitely better than a rabbit, that’s for sure. He wants a zouwu as a pet; it could probably eat Billy Stubbs’ rabbit and, if it’s big enough, Tom could ride it to church— no, if it’s big enough, he could make Mrs Cole not take him to church. He wants to see one and the only way that is ever going to happen is—

“You have to come back for me!” Tom demands, clutching the zouwu to his chest as he twists to look up at Miss Lovegood, face set in a scowl as her eyebrows fly up.

“I have to, do I?” Miss Lovegood repeats but, before Tom can say anything, her fingers are running up and down his sides, startling a laugh out of him. She’s smiling, hands still tickling at his sides as Tom laughs, trying to wiggle free from the sudden attack. “How’re you gonna make me do anything when you’re laughing too much, huh?” Her stupid fingers find the tender skin beneath his armpits and Tom shrieks with laughter, kicking at the bed, at Miss Lovegood’s legs in an attempt to get away. He manages to squirm free after another moment, or maybe she lets him go, Tom isn’t sure. But he’s breathing quick and there’s still a smile on his face. There’s one on Miss Lovegood’s face too, a bright one that lifts her red cheeks. She looks very pretty.

“Watch your manners, pumpkin.” He’s still not sure what a ‘pumpkin’ is, but he knows he likes the way her voice says it. He knows about manners too, knows Mrs Cole is always demanding they use them and the visitors to the orphanage always like the orphans who use their manners better. So he settles back on the bed, still hugging the zouwu to his chest as he looks up at Miss Lovegood.

“Please come back for me.”

She finds standing at the end of the street, half-hidden beneath the overhanging awning stretching out before the greengrocer’s shop. There’s a paper bag in his hand, containing some fruits, she assumes. Sophia stops before Tom, her wand once again transfigured into an umbrella as the rain continues to steadily dance across the pavement, collecting in the gutters in small puddles.

“How are you?” she asks quietly, lifting her wand enough to allow for the accommodation of someone taller than her. With a breath, Tom ducks under, exchanging the shelter of the awning for her make-shift umbrella, his freehand collecting hers to tuck against his ribs, resting on the bend of his elbow.

“I am not sure,” Tom admits quietly, not looking at her as they continue to walk down the street, though nor does he look back towards the pathway that would lead to the orphanage. The younger Tom had been desperately unhappy when Mrs Cole came to tell them that it was time for Sophia to leave and she had gone without a fight, promising to write to the boy. He can read, so why not? Any words he doesn’t know, Sophia assumes he will be capable of asking an adult to help him understand them. Because visiting, as nice as it is… it’s making things harder. When he’d demanded she take him with her, that she come back for him— she’d honestly considered just throwing caution to the wind and adopting the boy then and there (magical aid necessary or not). It is only the knowledge that this Tom would absolutely freak out if she were to walk out with the little pumpkin that strayed her wand. Instead, she’d left a plush zouwu with the child and walked out.

“Would talking help, or would you like to be distracted?” Sophia asks, her heels still producing that usual sharp click; both she and Tom are in stride with one another right now, the wet thump of his own shoes meeting the pavement perfectly in time with her own feet. As they walk, more motorcars than she has seen outside of London go whizzing by, some with roofs and happy drivers, some without and piloted by grumpy looking men wearing driving googles. They take a left at the next intersection, walking without any real destination. She can, after all, just apparate them straight back to Little Hangleton’s without much effort on her part.

“You were right,” Tom says softly, still not looking at her, still staring right ahead with his jawline in sharp relief to his neck. “He doesn’t have my curls.” It goes unspoken that he has his everything else. Sophia looks upon the man beside her, feels the tension trapped within the forearm her hand is currently curled around and she gives that limb a gentle squeeze, adjusting her steps so that she can slide a little bit closer to Tom.

 “I like your curls.” She truly does; they’re not the standard hairstyle at the moment but they do so suit him, lend something to the aristocratic cut of his cheekbones that makes looking at his face that much more appealing. The smile he offers her then, finally turning to look at her, puts to shame any goodness his curls lend him; that smile is radiant in its worn pleasure.

“I don’t think I am ready to speak of it just yet,” Tom admits, “but maybe in the near future.”

Sophia smiles, sliding her hand down Tom’s arm ever so slightly; he lifts it as she does so, until his hand finds hers and their fingers thread together. They walk together, hand in hand, and Sophia asks again if Tom would care for a distraction. When he agrees, she begins speaking of the hippocampus and its origin over in Greece and how, one day, she would rather like to go and see some of the creatures in person.

Chapter Text

19.05.30

There had been a fetching pair of earrings in one of the chests up in the attic, small sapphires clasped in the rose gold that Sophia favours. It isn’t something that will not be the height of fashion for a good long time again and there had been more than enough pieces that the family shan’t miss the one pair.

Relaxing back into the driver’s seat of the Humber, Tom plucks the small box from his pocket, opening the lid in order to inspect the jewellery within. It does indeed look very much like something Sophia would wear and he can only hope she will consider it an appropriate gift for her birthday. Father, despite the tension that is still lingering between the two of them, had certainly seemed to think so and Mother… Tom hasn’t necessarily told his mother that he plans on gifting a pair of her great, great aunt’s earrings to Sophia. But she likes her; they have lunch every week together; he cannot see her finding fault with this. Of the family, the only one that could pose to have a problem with the actual gifting is Tom himself. And it is not as if it is for any substantial reason. In fact, most would assume Tom is being ridiculous, would question if he has been addled (and there is some truth to it because the wretch had addled him) simply with how much thought he is giving things.

She had looked so natural carrying his child.

Shielded beneath the egg-like sensation of Sophia’s magic, Tom had been standing on the street outside of the church when it had begun to empty from the Sunday morning service. It is not a ceremony Tom has attended since he first returned from London; why should he? If there truly was a god, would he had not kept his devoted followers safe? Would he have not smote the wretch when she set her sights upon Tom? No, Tom cannot bring himself to attend any services now, cannot bring himself to step foot within the church when the Lord Almighty was not there for him within his time of need. Given all he knows of the world now, he questions if even an ounce of it is real, for certainly he has seen no proof of a gracious and good God. Part of him is coming to believe that there is no inherit good or evil, that it is something decided by those who hold power. That there are many different definitions of power is all that keeps him from spiralling for a second time. There is the power of magic, that is true. But there is power in the mind, in money and politics and the body and in a reputation and the list stretches on endless. It had still felt like all of his strength had fled the moment Sophia Lovegood had exited that church though.

The boy that she’d had resting on her hip had been his spitting image, that goes without question. The same dark eyes, the same promising features hidden beneath the slender puppy-fat of his youth. He looks exactly as Tom himself did some twenty years ago, back when Mother and Father had organised for family photos to be taken in York. He has a hazy recall of hating having to sit still for so long, even though Mother had gotten him some sweets afterwards. The child hadn’t looked as if he’s had an opportunity for many sweets, thin as he was. It’s no wonder he had clung to Sophia as he did, tiny hands bunching the cottons of her yellow dress— the boy had look delighted to be held by her. And something in Tom had ached at the sight of it, something deep in his chest had clenched and stalled as the woman had continued walking down the street with the child he cannot possible deny as a relation. That was what he could have had, Tom realises as he stares out across the wide street that Sophia’s little townhouse rests upon. If the wretch had not intervened, then he could have met Sophia free of any preconceived ideas, could had found himself enchanted by her personality and he doesn’t doubt that, had she revealed her nature to him as a witch and it had been his first encounter with magic… he would have fallen that much more for her. He had been a stupid man at twenty, barely more than a boy. He would have seen Sophia with her pretty smile and the magic at her fingertips and he would have believed only a woman of magic would be worthy of him.

He knows better now, is hurt for it but wiser too. Hates it but knows it to be true. There is a small part of him that also acknowledges that Sophia may very well have never graced him with her time had he acted as he once did. And, though he does not like to dwell on the thought… who knows if Sophia would have turned up had the Gaunt tramp never attacked him? If the Gaunt tramp had never gone to prison, then Sophia would never have needed to come to town in order to examine him as a medical professional. He refuses to fall into the idea that what happened with the Gaunt wretch was necessary to bring Sophia to him; if he had never drunk the concoction from Merope Gaunt, then he would have been whole and Sophia would have still come to Great Hangleton hospital when the tramp was released from the witch prison. And he may have also been married to Cecilia by now.  

Leaning his forehead against the steering wheel, Tom exhales long and slow, closing the box and slipping it back into his pocket. It’s not even a given that Sophia will be at home; true, he had asked Doctor Bones if she is on shift today (she isn’t), but that doesn’t necessarily mean she will be home. After all, Sophia is a witch. She could easily pop away to be with her family to celebrate her twentieth birthday. Just because she is on the other side of England to them does not mean that she cannot travel to see them. Especially given what she is. Nonetheless, there’s only one way to know for sure.

Climbing out of the Humber, Tom ignores the light drizzle that falls on his suit shoulders, closing the door and making for Sophia’s house. The weather is exactly as it was when they had last spent the day together, exactly as it had been when he saw his child for the first time and a small, stupid part of him is half expecting for the door to open and Sophia to be standing there with the boy on her hip, as if she were the child’s mother instead of the wretch.

The Sophia that answers the door could not possibly have been more different than the one he had last seen. Well, perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration, but his point that she is substantially different stands. Her skirt would be indecent to go about town in, exposing her knees as it is, with a jumper that is a size (perhaps two) too big for her tucked in at the waistband. She’s wearing a pair of thin-frame reading glasses, Tom belatedly realises, hair loosely contained within a messy bun. Certainly, it does not look as if she is planning to spend her birthday in the company of others. Unless this is the usual state of dress for normal witches.

“Good afternoon, Mr Riddle.” Sophia lifts her voice at the end, as if addressing him as such is a question. This is the second time he has turned up on her doorstep and it is the second time she has addressed him as Mr Riddle, though this time it feels… like teasing.

“Tom,” he insists, adjusting the lay of his lapels as Sophia’s eyes warm behind her glasses. “Do you have any plans for this evening, Sophia?”

“I didn’t believe so until I found you on my doorstep,” she muses, stepping back and away, opening the door as she does so. “Would you like to come in?”

He does so tentatively, stepping over the threshold and taking care of where he places his feet. Sophia, after all, is only wearing a thin pair of house-slippers. Without her heels, there is once again a significant difference in their height, made even more noticeable now that they are up close with one another. He doesn’t balk at the nearness, can smell that sharp, herbal scent she usually hides beneath the sweet aroma of her perfume. The smell of some kind of healing potion, he assumes.

“I have booked a table at The Rose, if you wish to join me?”

Sophia smiles, tucking the magazine she had been holding in her hand fully beneath her arm. “I would love to. Do you want to take a seat while I go and get changed?” She pauses, cocking her head to a side in such a way that the bun atop the crown of her head bounces to one side, loose strands of hair cascading around her forehead. “Would evening wear be okay, or is this a full-formal event?”

“It will be just the two of us.” He had toyed with the idea of inviting his parents, knowing that Mother would be able to draw Sophia into conversation effortlessly, but had ultimately disregarded the idea. That his father is still labouring under the impression that the child Sophia is going to adopt is hers by birth… oh, Tom has tried his best to dissuade Father of the notion, but it is not yet something he has managed to do.

Sophia hums, making for the stairs. It is only as she has climbed the first three that she turns back to look at him. “Make yourself at home, I’ll try not to take too long.”

For being the home of a witch, Sophia’s living room is remarkably normal. There is not a hint of anything magical present within the room, not a magic mirror upon the walls or even a book of curses laid out across the coffee table. There are some things he does not recognise, the shape and style of mundane items, but that may be more due to Sophia’s personal taste than any magical properties. Just as each dress and skirt she wears is of a different cut than what he is used to, different to what is currently in fashion or has ever been in fashion before. Perhaps that is a witch thing, perhaps that is where the style she favours comes from.

Tom likes it though. She always dresses in a way that best flatters her and today is no different. The dress is a royal blue that gradually lightens to a sky-shade at the hem which stops just below her knees. The heels upon her feet match the darkest shade of her dress, the slightest sheen to her legs indicating she’s wearing stockings. She isn’t in the standard fashion but she still looks beautiful regardless. Tom stands, drawing the box from his pocket as he does so in order to present it to her.

“Happy birthday, Sophia.” Sophia stares, her lips parted ever so slightly, cheeks reddening in a way that has nothing to do with the slight blusher she has applied. She accepts the box and lifts the lid, her face turning soft as her eyes land on the jewellery within.

When she speaks, her voice is as gentle as her face. “Thank you, Tom.”

The drive to The Rose is short, what with it being but a few streets away and the roads not well traversed by motorcars. They were much more common down in London, Tom recalls, but there are few within Yorkshire who have the money to purchase one, especially given the current climate. As they drive, Sophia fills the air between them with her latest escapades at the hospital, which seems to revolve around guilting a duo of teenaged boys into no longer throwing themselves into the river in order to avoid cracking their heads open, as one had reportedly done. With Sophia being the one to stitch the head-wound shut… well, it may very well encourage the two boys to continue their misadventures now that they know a pretty young woman is going to be the one fixing their scrapes. He doesn’t say as such though, instead pulling the Humber over and instructing Sophia to remain in the car until he opens her door. That is the proper way to treat a woman and Tom will leave no doubt in Sophia’s mind that he respects her.

Walking into The Rose, arm in arm, is odd. The last time he had been here with female company alone, it had been Cecilia. They had both been fresh from the completion of their schooling, the very same age and he had thought her beautiful. Physically, she had been, still is, most probably. He had not gotten a good look at her that night in Beverley, too enchanted with the idea of escaping out of the party to meander down the streets of the town, arm in arm with Sophia. Much akin to how they are now, he supposes, though neither of them have yet to sample any of the alcohol here. Not yet anyway.

“So, what is the occasion?”

“Is you’re birthday not an occasion enough?” Tom replies, taking his seat only after Sophia has done so. She’s wearing his gift now, the sapphires cradled within the rose-gold brushing up against the edges of her jawline whenever her head tilts of twists, dangling delicately from the lobes of her ears.

“I suppose so,” she says, turning her gaze to the menu, one of her hands coming up to brush the tips of her fingers against the blue gemstones that hang by her jaw. The little smile that curves her lips leaves Tom’s stomach warm.

The meal is wonderful as always, the company even more so. They make light conversation over Sophia’s work, talk about how Zeus’ training is coming along regarding exposure to unexpected noises; it’s Tom that turns the conversation to family and celebrations.

“Mother always used to throw a garden party for Father’s birthday, it’s in August you see.”

Sophia hums, swirling the half-drunk cocktail about where it’s balanced in one hand. “That’s what my parents used to do for me when I was a child; a spring garden party. But it feels weird to have a party without Zander now, so we’ve taken to waiting for the Hogsmeade weekend and we go and visit him instead now. It’s a small village near Hogwarts,” Sophia expands upon his confused glance, “and the students are allowed out once a month to visit. Technically, it’s only third years and above who can go, but the staff are a little lax about things at the moment.”

“Do all witches attend Hogwarts?” Tom asks, sliding a small helping of cake between his lips once his question is finished, chewing slowly.

“Almost all. Some wizarding families used to choose to send their children to a different school on the continent before tensions got too high. Hogwarts picks up all the muggleborns —children with no magical lineage— along with any halfbloods who don’t have contact with their magical parent either. Our Ministry has gotten very good at ensuring no one slips the net and gets trained as they should.” So, even without Sophia, the boy would have been picked up by that world eventually. And Tom is relatively sure the wretch never attended Hogwarts; he’s sure he would have noticed if the tramp’s children disappeared for three-quarts of the year. He used to ride past the hovel monthly, he would have noticed.

Sophia drains the last of her drink and, without any conscious thought on his part, Tom watches the slender line of her neck, watches the bob of her throat as she swallows. There’s a light flush to her cheeks now that has nothing to do with the blusher and, perhaps, everything to do with the fact that was her second cocktail in a short space of time. Usually, it would be proper to do tea and coffee after a meal, but Tom is hardly in the mood for a calming cup of camomile tea. There’s a knot in his stomach, tying his insides tighter and tighter, winding them round and round.

He wants Sophia. He wants a relationship with her, wants to be able to walk arm in arm, hand in hand with her. He wants to greet her after a shift at the hospital, wants to see that magical cat made of pure happiness thread between their legs as they dance in her living room. He wants to see her curled up on the sofa within his study, legs tucked under her as she reads and he reviews the books. And he can see it oh so clearly; sleepy eyes over the breakfast table, lazily brushes Zeus and Dapple’s manes in the stables, riding down the trail during the height of summer and curling up by the fire in the winter. Ludicrously, he’s longing for the concept of a relationship with a witch, this witch. This witch that is going to adopt his child.

There is no getting around that fact; Sophia Lovegood will be adopting that boy, had made it explicitly clear by this point and Tom isn’t foolish enough to believe he will be capable of swaying her from that path. If he is to go ahead with this idea of chasing a relationship with Sophia, then it goes without saying that he will be unable to avoid the boy. A child that, for all he looks like Tom could have fathered him alone through asexual reproduction, came from the wretch. How could he ever treat the boy fairly knowing that? He cannot bring himself to consider raising the boy himself, so what hope does he have of managing to romance Sophia? Perhaps with more exposure to the idea, his own thoughts would change? Or perhaps he will only spiral, will become worse and dislike the idea even more so? There is no winning in this situation and, quite frankly, Tom cannot decide what to do.

Perhaps he could tell the child some version of the truth? No, that couldn’t work, could it? The boy is but three years old and will have magic himself? What if he takes after the tramp’s family and believes himself superior for his abilities, abuses them, uses those who cannot defend against magic? And would rejection by his birth father not sure wound the boy more? Yet, what other options are there? He cannot ask Sophia to lie about knowing him, for all that the idea appeals. It would be doing her a disservice to ask her to tell a falsity for him, would it not? No, it is something to be considered at a later date. Tonight, he is just going to enjoy another hour in Sophia’s company and worry about nought else.

The sun has ventured beyond the horizon when they pull up outside of Sophia’s house, the stars blanketing the moon as it rests in the southern side of the sky. Standing by the door to Sophia’s little townhouse, Tom runs his thumb across the pale flesh of her knuckles. Her cheeks are illuminated by the glow of a distant street-lamp, pale lips curving in a smile.

“I had a lovely night,” she admits, fingers giving a slow, gentle squeeze of his hand and Tom returns the gesture, smiling too.

“As did I.” Her hair, though held back in an updo, is starting to escape its confines and Tom takes the opportunity it presents, tucking one lock behind her ear, fingertips brushing against the sharp curve of her cheekbone upon the retreat. “We should do this again.”

“I know a place in Cornwall that does a lovely roast dinner,” Sophia admits and she is so close, the sweet aroma of her perfume still lingering despite the late hour. “I could pop us over one day, if you can stomach it?”

“I may need time to walk around and digest before we pop back.” She laughs, a hearty thing that sounds all the better with any sort of giggle absent, dipping her head in agreement. Her eyes, violet in the dark of night, dip to his lips for a breath; Tom doesn’t miss it. He runs one hand up her arm, having released her fingers, dipping in and pressing a slow, soft kiss to her cheek. The scent of those cocktails clings to her skin, mixes with that odd herbal smell.

“Let me know when you’re free,” Tom breathes, far too close to be proper and it is time to leave.

Looking over his shoulder as he puts the Humber into gear, his heart flips upon the sight of Sophia with a hand pressed to her cheek, staring dazedly after him.

Chapter Text

09.06.1930

It’s warm. Stretching her arms out wide and tipping her head back to simply bask in the delightful rays of sunshine, Sophia lets her eyes slide closed and a smile slip across her lips. As the first month of summer, June has finally begun to shake the sporadic downpour of rain that has routinely haunted the skies through spring, drumming up some of that gorgeous summer warmth to allow them to venture out of the house for the first time without an umbrella. Not that Sophia carries an umbrella herself anyway, but it is the thought that counts. And speaking of thought—

Standing by the low stone wall that brackets the churchyard here, Tom Riddle stands with one hand in his pocket, a relaxed tennis shirt on and trousers that could almost be described as informal. Well, in this time they probably are but, given her recall of men’s clothing prior to waking up in the body of an infant, Sophia begs to differ. Still, he looks far more comfortable than she can recall seeing him at any point during their acquaintance. Brushing down the short length of her skirt (it stops just above her knees, apparently this classifies it as a short skirt), Sophia closes the short distance between herself and Tom, wedged sandals offering a muffled thump as she meanders along the pavement.

They’re in Cornwall, just as Sophia had promised, having dined at the little pub she could remember her parents taking her to just after Zander had been born. He’d done nothing but wail the whole meal and Sophia had stubbornly refused to leave after she had gotten a chance to try the food; it’d been delicious and remains so to this very day.

“Want to walk along the beach?” Sophia asks as she comes to stand beside Tom, one hand half curled around the strap of her hanging-off-one-shoulder bag, the other making an aborted motion in reaching for Tom’s arms. It’s getting harder to keep focused, to not lose herself in the easy interactions and remember this isn’t a man she can just fall into easy physical contact with. No, she has to be mindful, has to force herself to hold back until Tom initiates the contact, until he sets the level. But it’s getting easier to forget, to reach for him on instinct because he likes touching him. Likes when her hand is tucked in the crook of his elbow or when their fingers are linked. She pulls herself back because that’s the right thing to do, not because it is what she wants to do.

Tom’s eyes follow her retreating hand, one eyebrow rising before he holds out one of his own, long fingers spread wide. “The beach sounds lovely,” he says once her palm is pressed to his, fingers not linking but instead stretching out, the tips brushing against the underside of her wrist. Only after that soft stroke does he gently twist her hand so that their fingers may weave through one another, thumb circling the first knuckle of her index finger only once before stilling. Sophia gives his hand a light squeeze, stepping a little bit closer while turning her attention to the street. At a quick pace, the beach is a five minute walk away from this particular pub (and hadn’t it been an amazing sight, upper-class Tom Riddle sitting upon a little pub stool in a working-class establishment as his fellow muggles eyed him curiously) however, Sophia is hardly in a rush. It will be nice to take her time and enjoy the scenery.

“Well, Mr Riddle,” Sophia begins teasingly, her gait slow and steady, Tom’s effortlessly matching her own despite the greater length of his stride. “I do believe I would like to get to know you better through a series of silly questions.”

“There are no questions you could ask of me, Miss Lovegood, that would constitute as silly,” Tom reports snobbishly, nose in the air and a look of mock-superiority upon his face.

Sagely, Sophia says, “We shall see.” They shuffle to the left to avoid colliding with a harried looking mother chasing after a pair of twins, the scamps hooting with laughter when one of them nearly trips over a cobblestone that protrudes slightly more so than its fellows. “You, of course, may ask me a question in return; I won’t make any promises about not laughing over them though.”

“A fair deal.”

“I am glad you think so. Now, if you could go for a ride on the back of an elephant or on the back of an ostrich, which would you pick and why?”

Fifteen minutes of snaking through the streets (five of which had admittedly been spent laughing, though this time had been pieced together from a series of intervals) had led Sophia and Tom to the beach, where cobbled street transitioned to untamed marram grass.

“Why on earth would you not wish to fly unaided?” Tom asks, distinctively disgruntled with her opinion and Sophia scoffs, pausing to slip her shoes off before they begin traversing the sand instead of stone.

“I have flown on a broomstick before; quite frankly, it’s not all that it is cracked up to be. More importantly, I don’t have any great need to fly. Being able to breathe underwater, however, would be fantastic. Who knows if you’re ever going to fall unconscious near a body of water all of a sudden? Better to have and not need and all that.” Tom shakes his head, clearly very much disagreeing with her opinion regardless of her very well thought-out reasoning. This, after all, had been a question that Zander had asked her last summer, and one he’d taken great interest in arguing with her. He too had favoured being able to fly unaided like Tom, though his preference stemmed from being able to paint mid-air if he did not have to concentrate on remaining aloft upon some kind of aid. Her toes sink into the sand, wedged sandals clacking against one another in her grasp as she’s forced to shift her weight in order to accommodate the new terrain. Tom handles it easier than her, his shoes also clasped in the hand not currently holding her own, socks stuffed into them.

“Next questions then,” Sophia insists, climbing up the small sand-dune, picking up her pace a little now that she no longer has to worry about retaining her balance on her heels. Tom is quick to join her and, soon enough, they’re jogging up and over the small sand-hill, leaving them both standing at the crest to look down upon the stretch of beach. With the sky clear of clouds and the sun burning bright, the water looks an inviting blue. Certainly, it won’t be what one would classify as warm, but it won’t be the standard freezing that English waters usually are.

“Have you ever gone paddling in the sea?” Tom asks. In the sun, his eyes are no longer that odd shade of midnight blue, more an intense indigo. It is a very, very pretty colour, but not nearly enough to distract Sophia from his question. A question that is—

“Hardly a silly question.”

“It’s a genuine one. Do witches spend days at the seaside frolicking in the water, or are your kind too busy breaking the laws of physics?”

“As a matter of fact,” Sophia says, turning fully to face Tom now, their hands still interlinked and hanging in the shortening space between them, “we do like to grace the seaside with our presence every now and then. We even like to run full pelt towards the water.” With that, she slips her hand free of Tom’s, taking off down the sad dune with a light laugh, running as fast as she possibly can. It’s not something she has done since they last went to the beach three years ago, when Zander had insisted he could beat her in a foot race (he could, but it had taken him a considerable amount of effort and it had been close). She’s not quite sure where this bout of childishness has come from, but it is nice to just… indulge. To forget that she is very much an adult with an adult job and a lot of duties and pressures resting upon her shoulders. Perhaps the next time she visits a beach, she’ll be holding a much smaller hand in her own, obsessively checking to make sure the very small life she is offering to take responsibility for isn’t at risk from drowning in the shallow waves where water meets shore.

A hand catches hers again and then there’s Tom beside her, a smile on his face and some unmeasurable fondness in his eyes. It’s a world away from how he had looked at her last summer, ten whole months ago when they had first met. Half of the time, he hadn’t even met her gaze; when he did, it’d been guarding and wary. It’s like she’s spending time with a completely different person now, one that she is finding herself liking more and more and more. By Merlin, she wishes she could be greedy, wishes she could push the two Toms together in hopes they can accept each other and she can keep both. But this isn’t a situation where her greediness can be harmless, so Sophia pushes down the desire, leaving it as something to be confronted at another date.

Tom reels her to a halt before they can go splashing into the waves, insisting he gets the chance to roll his trousers. While he’s busy doing that, Sophia takes a quick look around and, upon confirming no one is looking, spells his clothes impervious to water. It’ll wear off on its own without upkeep, so she feels no guilt in doing so. When he’s done, Tom threads his fingers more surely through hers and then they begin a slow stroll along the shallows, the waves constantly drawing water up and along their feet, encircling their ankles in a lackadaisical embrace.

“What about you then, Tom? How often did you visit the seaside?”

“It was considered fashionable to do so as often as possible when I was a child,” Tom muses, glancing out over the inviting blue sea that stretches near-endlessly towards the horizon. “We would travel by train to Scarborough or Whitby, though the latter is of course more interesting for its Abbey than for its beach.” He pauses, looking to her with an assessing gaze and Sophia looks back, waiting. After a moment, Tom continues to speak, regaling her with childhood memories of travelling through the towns on the east coast one summer’s day at a time. It’s pleasant to hear, though it’s blatantly obvious he is so very privileged with the casual comments of fine-dining as a child, of being able to take a holiday every week without fail, if not conducting multiple ones in the same week. And he’s so very oblivious to it; it draws a small smile from Sophia, their upper arms brushing, hands swinging lazily with ever step they take. The sea-water is cool upon the tops of her feet, the wet sand a gentle brush against her soles.

“We should go to Whitby,” Tom says suddenly, angling his head so that their eyes can meet with ease, a not-quite smile on his lips as he looks at her. “It was the inspiration for that novel, Dracula, if I recall correctly.”

“Well, I suppose that’s a given, what with the vampires that live there.” Tom jerks to a stop, wide-eyed with surprise, and it is too much for Sophia; she laughs, one hand coming up to try and block the sound but it’s the hand still linked with Tom’s and he keeps it away from her mouth in some form of petty vengeance, which only makes Sophia laugh that little bit more. “I’m sorry! The opportunity was there!”

“I,” Tom declares, continuing to hold her hand hostage, a petulant frown on his face that is only just managing to suppress the smile that clearly wants to break free, “am some day going to learn all there is to know of your world and you will never catch me with one of your little jokes again.”

“That seems like a lot of needless learning just to prevent my silly jokes.”

“How can it possibly be needless, understanding the world you live in?” And oh. Oh. There are a lot of hidden implications there. Because you wouldn’t strive to understand the world of someone who is leaving in three months if you weren’t planning to retain contact with them. What Tom is implying would require a truly herculean amount of effort, like moving to another country and striving to understand anything and everything about it, trying to acclimatise; it’s a daunting prospect but the man before her states it as if h cannot be expected to do anything else with his time. Her heard squeezes a little inside her chest, as if wrapped in a corset with the strings drawn too tight, holding steady and she’s quite forgotten how it feels to breathe properly.

Sophia looks down at their joined hands, still held somewhat aloft between the two of them, perhaps even at level with her heart. “That’s a big undertaking.”

“I’ve heard the greater the workload, the greater the payoff,” Tom whispers and she can feel his eyes resting heavy on her, even though she cannot see them, focused on their hands as she is. “Sophia.” And now she does look, quite unable to not do so when he says her name like that, as if he holds it tight in his chest and when he speaks it, it escapes with whatever oxygen it cane grab on the way out. “I don’t want to lose you as this summer ends. I know you will never leave the boy in that place as surely as I know I am incapable of looking after him as I am now. But I wish to try and improve, to strive to get better and make this work somehow. I…” Tom trails off, running the pad of his thumb along the lower half of her forefinger, his gaze fixed ardently upon it. Then, he draws her hand up, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. His breath ghosts over her fingers, his lips dry and the tang of ocean salt continues to invade her sense of smell, her sense of taste, almost as thoroughly as Tom has taken over the ones that remain. “I think the world of you, Sophia Lovegood.”

Her stomach has dropped through the floor, her corseted heart lodges somewhere in her throat and Sophia swallows around it with extraordinary levels of difficulty. Stepping closer, drawing their intertwined hands down so that she may press her lips to Tom’s knuckles as he had done hers, Sophia allows her eyes to flutter shut and just, try and picture some kind of paradisal outcome in all of this. She wants Tom, wants his son, wants them both, wants it all. She wants a house on the outskirts of a city, wants her work as a healer, wants that smart little orphan reading books beyond his years, wants Tom to habitually weave their fingers together until they are one as they stroll down a beach at sunset.

“I want to make something of this too,” she admits, pressing each word into the tips of Tom’s fingers, offering a gentle kiss to soothe the burn of that admission afterwards. “I think you are delightful and resilient and wonderful. I want to try and figure something out also. I want—” she cuts off, eyes flickering up to his face, to his soft dark eyes and his slightly parted lips. She’s not quite sure who it is that let’s go of the other’s hand, not sure who is the first to drop their shoes into the surf but her palm is pressing to Tom’s chest, the other against the soft cotton of his shirt hem as one of his glides up her arm, the other on her cheek as their lips brush for the first time.

Oh, does she want.

Chapter Text

18.06.1930

Rain creates a pebbledash against the window, some droplets teaming up together in order to streak down the panes, collecting in the aging wood that serves as the sill outside. In the sky, grey clouds roll cumbersomely over one another, rumbling ominously with the promise of further thunder. With the lashing downpour and aggressive winds, nobody dares to venture outside unless it is a complete necessity. Not that Tom would have much of a reason to go outside at all. At the moment, he’s stilling upon the chair of his newly acquired desk, the thin pillow of his bed resting between his folded legs and the seat to give him that little bit more height to reach the tabletop. His desk is one of the older ones, wonky on one side to the point he’d had to shove half a bible under it (he really hopes Mrs Cole doesn’t notice exactly which book he’s using to level it out, he’s tried hiding it by ripping a page out of one of the older children’s schoolbooks and putting that on the top as a disguise) and even that hasn’t brought it to a perfect level. It is serviceable enough and that’s all that matters in this moment.

With one pencil in his hand, balanced carefully in the same grip he’d seen some of the elder children using, Tom shakily begins practising the letters an amused Sarah had written out for him. There are twenty-six of them in total which is a lot; Tom can count to one-hundred, so he does know it could be worse. But twenty-six different letters is a lot, especially now that he has realised some of them can make different sounds when they are put together in specific pairs. It doesn’t seem very clear but it’s what everyone uses, what Miss Lovegood uses and what is in books so learn it he will. Tom may only be three, but he’s long since recognised the smarter children are treated better and offered more opportunities and that’s what he wants. He can be the best, so why shouldn’t he be? And being the best begins with learning to write as well as read. Then he can write a letter back to Miss Lovegood.

He pauses on his shaky fifth attempt at an ‘a’, reaching for the letter in question. Sarah had read it to him when it had arrived yesterday, the woman offering her apologies for not being able to visit this month due to some big exams to become a doctor. When Tom had asked, he’d been informed exams were like a kind of test, one that people had to do a lot of studying and learning for. Miss Lovegood had promised to come and get him when the leaves turned brown, when she has completed her training as a doctor, so this is just another step to being able to bring him home with her, isn’t it? That’s the important part, no matter how much Tom hates having to wait for such a thing to happen.

Shifting about on the lumpy pillow, he puts his finger to the very first words. “D-e-a-r, Dear Tom.” He pronounces the first word slowly, having never seen that one before; why would he? This is the first letter that has ever been written to him. He knows his own name though; it had been the first thing he’d learnt to write. Anyone who can read would be able to see something belonged to him if it had his name on it. He just doesn’t have many things to put his name on. The only thing he has now that is worth putting his name on is the zouwu that Miss Lovegood had given him. It’s such a strange teddy though that everyone already knows its his; he’d been smacked once for fighting with Billy, though the other boy had gotten three smacks and three weeks of punishment chores for trying to steal the zouwu from Tom. That’d been the only reason Tom had even punched the other boy. Sarah had stitched his name onto one of the zouwu’s paws after that, which had calmed Tom down a little bit. No one could steal his zouwu if his name was on it, could they?

“I went to the b-e-a-c-h, beach with a f-r-i-e-n-d, friend y-e-s-t-e-r-d-a-y, yest-er-day, yesterday,” Tom reads aloud, his brow knitting slightly as he considering the words again. Do adults have friends? Mrs Cole doesn’t have people she goes out and plays games with and neither does Sarah, not that Tom has seen. Maybe that’s because they’re adults here though; maybe it’s different where Miss Lovegood is.

With a sniff, Tom reaches for his little journal again, repeating the five letters that make up the word ‘beach’ in his head, under his breath, again and again. B-e-a-c-h. With the pencil in hand, he slowly begins copying the letters down, feeling his frustration grow when he can’t get the letters the right size, when the ‘e’ comes out backwards on his first try. But Tom grits his teeth and carries on, determined. He wants to have one letter for Miss Lovegood ready and he can only do that if he practises his writing. Sarah offered to write one for him, but she doesn’t need to do it. Tom can manage on his own. Miss Lovegood has told him all about her visit to the beach, how she and her friend had a hot dinner before going to paddle in the waves. Tom’s well aware that Mrs Cole has organised a trip for all the children are Wools to go to the beach next month and he wants to be ready for it. He doesn’t need anything prepared for when they go, but he wants to be able to write about what he does the same way Miss Lovegood did. So, even though it’s really hard, even though it makes him want to cry (he does once, one stubborn tear escaping down his cheek when the ‘p’ keeps being too big and too wobble and too not-right) he keeps trying.

Lightning tears across the sky, thunder cracking a moment after and it makes him jump. The little light above his head is the only thing that lets him see his letters, his words crammed together because he’s not put in spaces like Miss Lovegood has so it’s all wrong. With a snarl, Tom tears the page from the journal, crumpling it up and throwing it at the window, watching it bounce harmlessly off the glass. It’s not fair; if Mrs Cole had let him start school this year like he wanted, then he’d probably be able to write by now. She’d said he was too young and had sent only the kids who were five or over, even though Dennis and Amy couldn’t even read yet. Tom still is so much better than them, even though they’ve been at school for a few months now. They can’t read like he can. Not that it matters because—

“Miss Lovegood is coming for me,” Tom tells himself, clambering down from the chair and making his way over to his bed, climbing in and looking out the window. It’s dark, but that’s not because of the time of day, only because of the storm. His room is reflected in the glass, but not to the point he can’t look through it and see the world outside. The smoke rising from the factories in the distance blends into the clouds so well Tom can’t quite tell where one begins and the other ends. Just one continuously stream. He can’t smell them from here though; the only things he can smell in the orphanage is the same not-quite-right smell as normal, mingling with the scent of burnt toast because one of the older boys had gotten greedy and tried making himself some toast. It hadn’t gone well and the smell is stubbornly refusing to leave.

Lying across his bed, Tom squashes the zouwu to his chest, staring hard at the crumbled up ball of paper that is now lying abandoned on his desk. He stares and stares and stares, harder and harder until, finally, the little ball begins to tremble. Slowly, ever so slowly, it begins to rise into the air, hovering shakily above the desk. It’s not risen much, but that Tom’s managed to get it to rise on its own is, well, a miracle. He can do things no one else can do; everyone always says magic isn’t real and the older children (away from the looming shadows of the church) insist miracles aren’t real either. Only, Tom can do this. Which makes him special. He hasn’t told anyone; doesn’t dare. The older boys take the mick out of the younger children for believing in magic… he doesn’t’ dare imagine what they would do if they realised Tom could perform feats such as this. But would thi stop Miss Lovegood from taking him?

Tom squashes down the thought almost right away, forcibly shaking his head before he turns his attentions on the zouwu in his arms. It’s multicoloured fur is just as soft to the touch as it was the day he’d been given it, looking a little dirty though he can’t expect it not to be, what with the way Tom carries it wherever he goes. He hasn’t been able to find the old teddy anywhere and he’s quite certain Miss Lovegood wasn’t holding it when she left. It’s almost like it had, disappeared. And he’d gotten the zouwu instead. It’s for that reason a thought is swirling about in his head, bouncing around again and again because—

“What if she’s like me?” he says it quietly, an idea he’d been toying with but hadn’t dared to put into words. What if, like him, Miss Lovegood can make things fly? What if she can trip people up like him? What if she can turn old teddies into new ones? He doesn’t dare to try anything with the zouwu, unwilling to ruin the first real gift he’d ever been given. But that hasn’t stopped him from staring at his pillow hard, from working it over with his hands, desperately trying to turn it into something different. It hadn’t happened yet; he isn’t even sure it’s possible. But everyone says things don’t float but Tom can do that to paper. So maybe, just maybe—

Even if she isn’t like him, does it matter? Miss Lovegood wants to take him aware from Wools, where they only ever get away for a little trip to the beach once a year, where they are otherwise rammed into the church instead. Miss Lovegood has visited the beach, maybe she’ll take Tom with her next time? Not that Tom would refuse to leave with her if she wouldn’t; anywhere has to be better than Wools and Miss Lovegood is… nice. When he closed his eyes last year, before he’d met her, she’s sort of like what he’d pictured his mother would look like. Not blonde, but they eyes are close to what he’d dreamed of, the soft smile is exactly the same, or maybe he’s remembering wrong now that he’s seen a smile from a woman who could be the age of his mother. He knows she can’t be his mother, knows his mother died when he was born, Mrs Cole had told him that when he’d asked her. He knows that babies come from the tummies of women so they can’t possibly have gotten that wrong. Miss Lovegood isn’t his mother. But she could be something to him, that much is clear. For some strange reason, she had seen him on the street that day and offered to carry him, had come back some time later and promised to take him away. She’d only do that if she wanted him, wouldn’t she? Maybe she can tell there’s something special about Tom, something that sets him apart from all the other orphans. And, he’s got to prove that, hasn’t he?

Frowning hard, Tom pushes himself up from his bed and makes for the desk again, climbing up onto his stupid, too big chair and snatching up his pencil. He’s special and he’s going to prove it. Starting with learning how to write.

“Oh! This is marvellous news.” Mother smiles, looking truly overjoyed what he has just shared and, quite frankly, it doesn’t surprise Tom in the slightest. They’re sitting in the garden, enjoying a spot of afternoon tea and they had been speaking about the seaside holidays they had once taken when Tom was a child. It was only as Mother had mentioned Whitby and slyly implied going again for another visit that Tom had found the courage to say he was actually planning to go with Sophia at some point, just the two of them. Father had lifted his eyes from his reports, dark eyes in a hard stare because they still haven’t moved beyond that little misunderstanding but Mother missed the look completely. Her entire face had lit up, a brilliant smile teamed with her bright eyes, hands curling that little bit tighter around her teacup.

“That is wonderful news, Tom. Even though she’s not quite the standards we’d have expected, Sophia is a lovely girl and clearly so very intelligent. She’s a good choice— oh, this is fantastic.” His father scoffs, low and deep but it is still not enough to gather his mother’s attentions from this ‘marvellous news’. Tom only watches, half his mind still, the other half spinning en pointe. Mother thinks Sophia is beneath their current standard solely based on the assumption that she is only middle class; in some respects, she isn’t wrong on Sophia’s standing. She hadn’t mentioned that her family was part of the government when they spoke of the Gaunt family’s former standing in her world, so it’s quite possible she is not one of the gentry in her own world. It’s odd; five years ago, he would have agreed with them, would have looked down upon Sophia given her birth, even if he knew her as well as he does now. He would have probably felt some ounce of shame, to be interested in a girl who is of lower class than he is, despite the fact he is clearly so very wonderful.

But the difference between the lowest class Tom con comprehend and his own status isn’t the most significant one in this country, no matter what others would believe. No, the most distinct difference is if a person is capable of magic or not. Sophia is, Tom is not. Apparently, in the eyes of some of her people, that makes him the less worthy one. Having been exposed to what those types of witches considered appropriate behaviour to those without magic… well, it is something that prompts a person into re-evaluating their views on life, doesn’t it? For a moment, Tom toys with the idea of exposing his parents to the concept of magic again, but he shoots the idea down just as quickly. They hadn’t believed him the first time, even though he had been acting so blatantly out of character, even though he had done things that should have made his parents sit up and notice that something was wrong with their son. He had been— he had been forced into the role of a married man without any conscious thought (without any agreement on his part) and then he had returned home only for his parents to dismiss the idea, to consider him ‘unwell’. He’s doing better now, his parents believe he is doing better; the last thing he wants is for them to assume he is no longer improving, to consider asking for a doctor again.

“What about the child?” Father’s voice cuts through the garden, a steak knife through cake; completely unsuited and far too efficient at its task. Tom’s jaw clenches without any conscious thought, his eyes flicking over to his father, meeting that judgemental, inquiring gaze with his own hard stare.

“What about it?” Tom says, feeling the muscles of his thighs bunch, though he cannot begin to guess for what reason he would be tensing up? To spring to his feet and shout? To flee? He’s not sure which option he prefers. Yes, life would be plain sailing for him if the wretch hadn’t dared to fall pregnant, would be much easier if he could approach Sophia without any strings tying him to a dead woman who so thoroughly ruined his life.

But the child didn’t ask for his mother. If children could pick their families, there would be an overabundance of aristocratic children and not a single working-class child; it just wouldn’t work. For all that he cannot picture looking after the child himself, raising the boy himself, it doesn’t detract from the acknowledgement that the child is as much a victim of circumstances as Tom himself is.

“Does she still plan upon adopting this child?”

“Yes.”

“What child?” Mother tries to interject, but neither of them pay her a lick of attention. Tom’s focus is solely on his father, much in the same way Father’s focus is solely on him.

“You cannot expect us to welcome this woman to the family when she tows her bastard child—”

“It’s my child!” Tom screams, push to his feet and slamming one closed fist down on the table. In the corner of his eyes, he notices Mother jump, but it is the only action that follows in the wake of his explosion, leaving only tense, surprised silence. It’s the first time he’s said it aloud, the first time he’s attached the pronoun ‘my’ to ‘child’ since Sophia had told him, the first time he’s openly acknowledged it. Stepping away from the table, Tom shoves the iron-wrought chair back into place, running one hand through his hair. His chest is tight, pressing inwards, but he can’t just leave it there.

He turns back to his parents, meeting his father’s wide eyes first before he turns to his shell-shocked mother. “It’s my child,” he repeats, voice soft now. “The Gaunt wretch birthed him and I didn’t know— I can’t stomach having to assume responsibility for the boy and Sophia is too— too kind to just leave the boy in an orphanage.”

He leaves after that, just walks away even as his mother calls his name. He keeps his pace strong and swift, ignores her attempts to bring him back to the garden table to, to, he doesn’t know. Talk about it? How can they possibly talk about it with him when they don’t know the true story— no, when they won’t believe the true story? They can’t possibly comprehend it, can they? Goodness, it’s a relief that it was only Mother and Father there, that they had sent Henry and Molly off to different parts of the manor to sort something or other. The last thing he needs getting around is that he has a child that he is ignoring. Only, how can he possibly be ignoring him when the boy creeps into his mind daily? He’s there, alongside the thought of Sophia, circling closer and closer. There will be a time, not long in the future, when their lives will collide simply because Sophia Lovegood cannot leave the child alone and Tom cannot leave Sophia alone. And… and it would be wrong to say he wants nothing to do with the boy, with his son, for the rest of his life. It’s only right now, in this present moment, that he cannot…

Swinging himself up and onto the tacked Zeus, Tom sets off down the country path, head still spinning. Both of his parents are now aware of the boy’s existence; Father will undoubtedly be disappointed to know there is living, breathing evidence of his son’s folly with the Gaunt Tramp. Heh, Tom doesn’t doubt that Sophia Lovegood now looks like a shining beacon to his father given that sudden contrast. The ugly local tramp or a pretty, from-out-of-town doctor. It’s rather obvious which of the two his father would prefer Tom to father a child with. Regardless, the only thing the wretch shared with Sophia Lovegood was the ability to perform magic. He cannot even be sure if the woman was attached the boy, if she had even seen the baby she’d brought into the world as another human to be respected, or something else to be used to build her perfect little fantasy. Because that is what Tom had been to her, an escape. Nevermind that she was entombing him in a slow-death, a relationship that was not his by choice but shackled him down, gagged him, removed his ability to say no.

He refuses to put the word to it, the one Sophia had vocalised so many months ago. That just— it doesn’t happen to men. He won’t acknowledge it. He was magically enslaved, that’s all. It wasn’t his choice; he didn’t get to decide and now he has to live with the fallout of the whole fiasco. But he’s not the only one who didn’t get a choice, who was affected by the manipulations of a mad-woman. He may hate the idea of it, but the boy is just as innocent as he is in all of this, has to suffer the consequences of another’s actions. Tom wants so badly to ignore him, to pretend he doesn’t exist now that he’s aware, to focus only on himself and getting better. But it’s impossible to ignore. He may not have wanted the child, still doesn’t, but he cannot ignore him. He needs to be better than that, better than the wretch that has left the boy alone in London, an orphan with nothing to his name. Perhaps it is some stupid need to prove himself as something other than useless against the wretch, but he needs to prove he can do something for the child. Looking after the boy isn’t the solution though; he knows himself enough to recognise that.

Heels press into Zeus’ flanks and he pushes the stallion into a lazy canter, the smooth grey clouds fanning out between one another overhead. Sophia is too young to adopt the boy legally, that much is certain. She could use magic to prompt the matron into allowing it, but Tom has no idea what kind of legal standings she will have in her own world if she does such a thing. Tom, on the other hand, is old enough but not capable… maybe he can be the one to officially adopt the boy, but instruct the matron that a nanny will be caring for the boy, that she shouldn’t mention him to the boy because— because why? Wha excuse can he possibly have? Oh, he can say it is because the boy is a bastard, a stain on the family so he will allow him to grow up under the care of a woman who will treat him like her own child but not associate with him. Only, if this is said to the boy, it will sink any chance of Tom being able to connect with his son years down the line. It is something he needs to talk to Sophia about, that much is clear. Perhaps she will be unhappy with the idea of having to lie to the boy, perhaps she won’t agree to omitting truths from the child.

There has to be some way that he can balance his need for distance (and he needs the distance if he wants to continue improving, cannot risk slipping because he’s exposed to the living proof that Merope Gaunt tore his whole life apart) without having to sacrifice a relationship with Sophia, without risking the burning of all bridges between himself and his son. The boy’d had as much of a choice in this as Tom himself— no, even less. Tom at least, when freed from the wretch’s magic, had been able to walk away. Whereas the boy cannot do so, all of three-years old and at the mercy of those who oversee him. To him, Sophia is no doubt a miracle, a promise of a better life and Tom tries his best not to grow bitter with the thought.

He will have to warn Sophia before she next visits for tea that his parents are aware of the boy and her intentions towards him. He hopes she won’t be upset over it.

Chapter Text

21.06.1930

“Congratulations, sweetie.”

Basking in the sincere commendation from her mother, Sophia allows her eyes to flutter closed with pleasure for a half-second. She hadn’t expected to do anything less than ace her exams, but it is still nice to get the confirmation she has succeeded in passing the requirements to become a healer, and it’s even better to be able to share that news with her family. All that stands between her and a job as a healer of Saint Mungo’s now is the completion of her final placement under Doctor Bones, something that will be accomplished in the last week of August.

“Thanks, Mum.”

“You’re making us so very proud!”

Sophia laughs, bumping her elbow against her mum’s, cheeks reddening in a way that has nothing to do with the overhanging sun. “You can stop now, I get it.”

It’s a gloriously sunny day, exactly the kind one would expect from the first month of summer and Sophia takes her time to bask in it. She’s in a light summer dress, there’re sandals on her feet and a pair of sunglasses perched on the crown of her head; if she closes her eyes, it’s almost like she’s back in a time she once knew. Only, then she wouldn’t have any magic and quite frankly, if she were offered the choice of returning to her old life or remaining in this one, well— she’d probably stay here. She tries not to think why (finally accepting she’d never see the people of her old life again, making new bonds, her magic) and instead focuses on the here and now. The here and now in question being Diagon Alley.

With all the school children currently serving their last half-term in Hogwarts, the streets are near enough devoid of all teenagers, leaving the actual children looking around with their parents, the elderly who are predominantly window-shopping, and the regular adults who can peacefully get some serious shopping done away from the Hogwarts madness.

“You’re all grown up,” Mother muses, her arm linked in Sophia’s, smile on her face and flowers in her hair curtsey of her early lunch with Sophia’s father; he’s always brought her a bouquet for every date. “A good job, a house of your own, and now a child!”

“It’s not set yet,” Sophia points out, though it is not done with enthusiasm. It’s one last hurdle to clear and, speaking of things they need to clear— “Also, I’m going to get a new house, something on the outskirts of a town or city, I think. One with a big garden.” Poor Tom has lived in the centre of London his entire life; a big open space, a field around a cottage, that’ll probably do him some good.

“It isn’t how I expected to get grandchildren, but your father and I will support you all the same. A magical child left alone in an orphanage—” Mother clicks her tongue, tipping her head back to pointedly stick her nose in the air and it’s times like these that Sophia recalls, regardless of the fact she’d married into the Lovegood family, Mother’s maiden name had been Malfoy. Admittedly from a small branch family, fourth cousin to the actual lord and, in her own words, truly not that important really. Blood shows though, sometimes in all the best ways.

“Right. Anyway, I think I’ve got the basics so far; children’s furniture, a handful of simple outfits before I can take him to Theophania’s place for a fitting, cook-books and home-spellbooks; anything I’m missing?”

“If you weren’t a healer, I would recommend a first-aid kit but—” Mother waves the thought away with her free hand, easily guiding their walk towards Tumbles’ Toys and Treats. “A handful of toys of course, certainly a child’s broomstick. Best to get that potential fear of flying out of the way right from the start, especially if the poor dear has been stuck with the muggles since birth.”

“Anything else?”

They spend a great deal of time window-shopping from there, meandering across the cobblestones, inspecting the latest fads that are being flogged in some shops, her mother recalling the same products being released in her own youth, though admitting the quality wasn’t as good then. The conversation between them rolls in much the same manner as their travels, lazy and without an intended definition. Or, so Sophia believes until they are suddenly within the bank, setting up a vault for her future child which is a rather strange terminology to apply when said child is already very much alive. Mother breezes through the goblins’ instructions with ease, presenting Sophia with the occasional piece of parchment to sign in a dazed haze, slowly nodding along as the goblin ran through the restrictions and penalties of failing to meet all of their rules and regulations.

Walking out of the bank in a stupor, Sophia allows her mother to wind an arm through her own.

“Now that’s all done, darling, you have to promise me that when you purchase this new property of yours, you’ll allow me to ward it. The one you have now is nothing more than a temporary house with temporary wards. If you are planning to remain at this new place for a good few years—” Mother peers hard at her, a silent and you will be staying at this place for a few years. “—then I will of course be the one to ward it. Properly this time, not some half-arsed job like you had me do this time around.”

“As long as you tell me how to add people to the wards; there may well be muggle friends in the future.”

“For the child? Or for you?” Sophia coughs, looking away. It’s warm today but the red that blooms across her cheeks is not solely due to the temperature.

“Mother, please.”

“You could do better than a muggle suitor, dear.” And there is that Malfoy snobbery. Even if Mother had been willing to lower her standards enough to accept the ‘blood-traitor’ ways of the Lovegood family, what with Sophia’s half-blood cousins (first and second), that semi-polite attitude apparently that doesn’t quite extend to her only daughter’s future.

“Mother.”

Mother sniffs. “I, of course, will accept whatever makes you happy, darling. But just make sure it is what truly completes your life before you go dragging the rest of us along by association.”

“Understood, Mum.”

Given her background, Mum took the potential muggle associate well. Not that there is going to be anything between her and Tom at the moment. Of course they’ve kissed, have held hands and strolled along the seaside as with every romantic novel she’s ever consumed presents as their romantic happily ever after ending. But a sweet moment does not make a lifetime, not when there are other things out there that demand her attention. Even if it is nice to day-dream about it. Yes, she likes Tom. Yes, in an ideal world he could get over his trauma (or have never experienced any to begin with) and they could build a life together, a little family. Maybe one day they still can. But right now, in reality, that’s not possible in the immediate future so Sophia will approach those tasks she can deal with.

“-August?”

“Late August. As close to the end of the month as you could manage, please,” Sophia says with a smile, hands clasped behind the small of her back, head tilted demurely forward ever so slightly and eyes just a little bit glossier than needs be. The muggle she’s currently conversing with is trying to flog his gorgeous little cottage by the river and Sophia had been taken with it from the moment she laid eyes on the place. It’s on the very outskirts of Poppleton, a twenty minute walk from the village train station that could carry her into York by rail. Its on the other side of the city compared to Great Hangleton but, but this is pretty much perfect. There’s a lot of land, stretches of green fields with oak and apple trees pepper across the landscape like they’d been a last minute, whimsical addition.

“Not met many Misses that have the money for a house on their own,” the man mutters gruffly, lifting the hat from his head to run a hand through the wisps of brown hair beneath it.

“I sold some old artefacts to people who care for their history—” Not a lie there. “— and I bought a little townhouse over in Great Hangleton. The town on the other side of York? Well, I decided I wanted to move out of the hustle and bustle of the town and this place, it’s perfect for that.” Sophia casts her gaze out over the little cottage again, a smile tweaking up the edges of her mouth. It’s a lovely stone cottage, two stories with a roof that could use a patch-job but it’s nothing magic can’t fix. Most importantly, it’s back garden stops right as the River Ouse begins, two oak trees resting close enough to the bank that some branches hang over the water. It’s perfect for building a little treehouse, for summer rope-swings into the river and picnics, all sorts of outdoor fun. Zander is going to be painfully jealous of how very pretty the landscape is and, best of all, there are three bedrooms on the top floor. She can beg her dad to transform one into an indoor bathroom (and knock down that hideous outhouse while he’s at it) and then that will leave both herself and little Tom with a room of their own.

“Well, I wanted to be out by the start of August, but at best, I can wait ‘till the twenty-first?”

“That would be marvellous, thank you very much Mr Edmond. How soon would you like to head over to the bank and make this thing official?”

After setting a date, Mr Edmond agrees to allow her the privilege of exploring the grounds further whilst he goes in and starts cooking his dinner. The loss of his wife must be hitting him terribly hard if he’s willing to sell their home to get away from her ghost. Metaphorical ghost, that is. The woman had been a muggle, after all.

There’s a stone wall, perhaps three and a half feet tall that boarders the property, the ivy creeping up the south side a clear indication to its age. Sophia seats herself on the rounded stone top, peering out over the river as it slowly weaves on its way, water a glittering, rippling surface beneath the hot glow of the summer’s sun. It’s a very rustic aesthetic, very cottage-chic and Sophia can already she herself living here. There’ll be window boxes filled with flowers, the roof repaired and the slate tiles charmed to insulate heat for the winter. She’ll certainly be changing the curtains in the windows, perhaps install a window seat in that little study that she’ll turn into a miniature library. Space-expansion charms will be necessary and, if it weren’t for the fact it’s her dad’s literal job to improve homes using magic, then there would have been no way she could afford it all this year. Thank Merlin for family discount.

She can see little Tom out here already, shorts on and dark waves slick against his forehead in the muggy summer heat, whispering to the little grass snakes that will worm their way through the longer than necessary grass. She’ll have to do something about that too; some long grass is nice enough, but she does plan to have a tidy home. Mother will never let her live it down if she doesn’t. And given the gardens of Riddle Manor—

“Tom would probably cringe at the sight of this,” Sophia says with a light laugh, resting her chin in her palm, elbow to knee and foot to the wall as she looks over the outhouse. Yes, that’ll be the first thing to go when she moves it. It never crosses her mind that she wouldn’t invite Tom to come and see her new home. True, there will be more distance between them now, more than a half-hour journey to get to Poppleton and then this charming little cottage is a twenty-minute walk from the station, that’s near another half hour. But she cannot imagine not inviting him to come and see the place. And a small part of her, Sophia admits, wants to know what his opinion of the place will be. It certainly doesn’t have the splendour of his own abode, but it’s got character. That’s enough for Sophia.

She arrives back in Great Hangleton via train, having travelled the same way and it would look mightily suspicious if she managed to get back home without anyone seeing her pass through the station again. It is a good thing she does so; apparating back to her home would have seen her most certainly miss the fact Tom Riddle is waiting on her doorstep.

“Have you been waiting long, Mr Riddle?” It’s funny to watch his eyes slide over to her, eyebrows lifting ever so slight in a ‘how many times must I tell you’ kind of way.

“A half hour at most, Miss Lovegood—” and oh, is that a return tease? That’s, that’s something. “—I guess I could not expect my luck of catching you at the right moment to hold. And I must insist on Tom.”

“Of course, Tom. And don’t speak so hastily; I am in a marvellous mood at the moment. Have you eaten yet?”

When he responds with a negative, Sophia unlocks her front door and steps inside, Tom following her a moment later. He’s back in his usual clothing, a far cry from the casual, almost relaxed outfit she’d last seen him in by the beach. Perhaps he’s been conducting business today that brought him to Great Hangleton and he’d thought to visit her while he was in the area? She doesn’t want to ask, instead offering him tea. The lasagne she’d set to cook before heading out to meet up with her mother this morning should be ready shortly, having been charmed to finish cooking the by six in the evening.

Sophia glances over her shoulder, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat as Tom sheds his formal jacket, leaving him in only a crisp white shirt, the sleeves of which he rolls up to expose his forearms. That’s effortlessly attractive and quite unfair of him.

“What brings you to my humble abode, Tom?”

“You,” he says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world, as if she is remarkably silly for even thinking to ask the question of him. “To be precise, I spoke with Doctor Bones this morning and he informed me you will have received your exam results today.”

“Ah. I passed with flying colours, thank you for asking.” As she very well should have given how much time she’d poured into studying. “I spent the morning celebrating with my mother; we went shopping together.” Tom’s lips curl up into a smile, no doubt amused that witch-mothers and daughters celebrate in a very similar fashion to muggle ones.

“And this afternoon, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Sophia pushes open the door to the kitchen, inhaling the heavenly spell of Italian that tarries the air. “I was house hunting, actually. I only purchased this place to see me through my placement so I will be selling shortly and moving to this gorgeous little cottage on the outskirts of Poppleton.”

“Poppleton?” Tom repeats slowly, pausing at the threshold to scent the air, eyes flicking to the over curiously. “Not Cornwall?”

“Merlin no. I adore both my parents but now that I’ve had a taste of living on my own out from under their constant supervision, I don’t think I’d be able to go back to it.” A flick of her wand has plates floating out from the relevant cupboards, cutlery whirling like a silver snowdrift onto the table beside the placemats, the lasagne emerging from the oven to begin serving itself. Whilst this happens, Sophia chances a quick glance over her shoulder to see how Tom has taken the blatant display of magic, but he’s just watching the proceedings curiously, nothing close to panic etched into his features. That’s a relief.

“You did not fancy moving further away?”

“Any further North and I’ll be in Scotland,” she points out, even if it’s not all that true; there’s still a reasonable stretch of English land before she hits the Scottish boarder. “Besides, I’ve come to like this little patch of the North.”

“Yorkshire does have it’s charms; you haven’t even seen Whitby or Scarborough yet.”

Sophia hums, catching the two now fully loaded plates in her hands and turning to the table where she sets them down. With a small, tentative smile, she glances up at Tom from beneath her lashes, praying her expression is as coy as she intends it to be. “It’s the people that I’ve found the most appealing to be honest.”

There’s a shallow pause then, as if they are both holding their breath before Tom reaches out, fingers skimming across the exposed flesh of her forearm. They trail back down upon reach her elbow and Sophia turns her hand around in an unspoken request; he weaves their fingers together.

“That you are not moving far does come as a relief, Sophia.”

The usual ease of interaction is blanketed by a soft layer now, a hesitant question of ‘how do we make this work’. It’s one thing to go out on and adventure together, to visit the beach and confess to a mutual attraction (though it’s been in a few more words than that). It is another thing entirely to sit up to table together, sharing a meal she has cooked (sort of, it’s her magic that’s made it) as Tom admits his parents now know of his child and Sophia intentions toward the boy, as Sophia confesses she would very much like to make things work out between them (between all three of them) but she does not know how to do so.

They set it aside for later consideration, Tom sharing his thoughts of adopting his own son in his name on the muggle paperwork but having Sophia act in his stead as a caretaker. She theorises that perhaps they could inform young Tom that his father is not yet healthy enough to look after him; he will know magic, he’ll soon know some wounds can be more than physical. Tom doesn’t shoot her down immediately, so it’s also shelved for later. And, after a quick explanation of her future home, Sophia sits back and asks Tom about his day, losing herself in a shallow day-dream where this could be an everyday occurrence, sharing their days with one another over an evening meal.

Chapter Text

23.07.1930

Spell by spell, he is ever so slowly coming around to the idea of magic.

The train had not been as busy as previous years given the current economic crisis, but there had been enough people present to contribute to the overwhelming heat. The cooling charm Sophia had hit their little cabin with had been pure bliss and, for the first time ever, Tom steps off a summer train ride without some layer of sweat coating his skin. Beside him and adorned in as strange a summer dress as their last outing to the Cornish shores, Sophia lifts one hand in offering and Tom slips his own fingers between hers. They’ve been blessed with a particularly good day today; shimmering sunshine in the sky, a horizon absent of any cloud-cover and a comfortable heat that is not yet bordering on sweltering out in the open. It’s ideal.

“Barring that one in London, I’ve never actually been into a church,” Sophia admits, her voice pitched low, possibly so that she may not gander disgruntled looks from those around them. Tom absorbs the information slowly, a soft frown working across his lips at the foreign thought. Admittedly, he too hasn’t been to church since— well, since Gaunt. But the acknowledgement of knowing this woman beside him has never been Christened… he supposes it makes sense. After all, they can be devils or miracle workers, can’t they? For what reason would they to pray for one? Something that seems otherworldly to him is a simple thing to Sophia; cuts that heal in seconds, broken bones that are mended overnight… Minds stolen and twisted until the world is a mess to perceive.

“If it is of any comfort to you, this is no longer a working church.”

“As if the fact it inspired a vampire legend wasn’t hint enough to that?” she teases, jolting her arm so that her elbow grazes his side ever so slightly. Cocking his head to the side, Tom peers down at Sophia; she meets his gaze for a single second before looking away, a smile on her face and cheeks dusted with the slightest pink tinge. Her heels click on the cobblestones, each step as carefully taken as usual when traversing any surface not perfectly flat. In those shoes, he can see why; one wrong placement and there’s a very real possibility that she’d break her ankle. The form it gives her legs can be the only reason she risks wearing them… that and the additional five or so inches it gives her height.

“Your brother returns from his schooling today, doesn’t he?”

Sophia hums, her pace a slow, lazy thing as they meander down the streets. All around them, shops and stalls are open, flogging produce, offering trinkets and charms for the visiting tourists, and brandishing their wares as enticingly as possible. Admittedly, there are fewer of them than Tom recalls being present last he visited. “He does. Zander’ll be home for the next month and a bit; it’s a later start to the summer holiday than usual, but it’ll be a later start next year as a nod to it so, it’s swings and roundabouts really.” It’s what? Tom does not allow the puzzlement of that particular phrasing to show on his face, instead manoeuvring the both of them towards the sole bridge that stretches across the River Esk, onto the eastern half of the seaside town. As they cross, a single motor car goes spluttering along beside them, an elderly gentleman sitting behind the wheel as it trundles forward.

“Would you rather sit within a motorcar to travel in comfort, or prefer the instantaneous travel of apparition?” Sophia asks suddenly, watching the car itself go by with curious eyes, her hand still wrapped up in his. Technically, he should have it nestled within the crook of his elbow for escorting her around town. Yet, there is no one present to see them, to judge and comment so Tom forgoes it. The sensation of her palm, soft and cool against his own, is far more preferable to having it tucked up against his side. The slight jolt of her tendons as she snaps to attention over something she finds interesting, the slight squeeze she gives whenever she wants his attention; there’s a closeness to her company when he holds her hand that would otherwise be absent.

“It would depend how far I am to travel.”

“Yeah, I can understand that. If I was going somewhere for the journey though, it’d have to be by car— oh! Or even a bicycle; I think I’m going to purchase one, put a cute little wicker basket on the front to travel into Poppleton with. That way I’ll be able to cart my purchases back to the cottage without someone thinking I’ve transported them by magic.”

“I hardly think that will be their first assumption,” Tom murmurs, watching Sophia’s eyes sparkle with mischief, white teeth flashing as she smiles.

“Well, no, but it would still be a good idea. Besides,” she pauses for a half second, looking him u and down before she shyly continues, “I’ve heard bicycle rides can be relatively romantic, if done correctly.”

It comes back in a slow wash, like the ocean lapping at the shore, that song his father used to sing to his mother.

“You cannot possibly be referring to Daisy Bell.”

“We listen to music to, you know,” Sophia teases, grin a bright and wide thing.

“About cauldrons and frogs?”

“Of course not! We’re far past those particular topics; we’re onto broomsticks and bats now.” Tom laughs, a smooth and pleasant thing; it’s not a sound he’d have believed himself capable of recreating a year prior. Funny, isn’t it, how much things can change within the space of twelve or so months? Not to say it has yet been a full year but… it shan’t be long now until he has been acquainted with Sophia for the full duration of the earth’s travel around the sun. A whole year, how time has flown.

They climb the famed steps, all one hundred and ninety-nine of them, pausing midway up so that Sophia may gaze out towards the sea where the town’s lighthouse stands tall and proud, protruding from a man-made outstretch of stone. When they reach the pinnacle of the climb, they both find rest upon a bench, not quite collapsing atop the seats but certainly sinking into the rest-stop.

“That’s a lot of steps,” Sophia whispers, cheeks red and words a little short as she catches her breath. Tom nods wordlessly, unwilling to admit he’s been winded by the climb also. Still, it’s well worth it; the view of the town is spectacular and he’s sure the ruins of the Abbey will be as worthwhile a visit as he’d found them as a young child. Of course, back then, he’d imagined himself a valiant knight assigned his placement within the Abbey to watch for intruders threatening to breech the eastern coastline. He had been six years old, imagination ripe and versatile. Perhaps on this visit he will be able to enjoy the history and lore of the church as it is supposed to be appreciated.

“I am thankful my ancestors settled further inland than this.”

Sophia laughs at this, a bright, high thing before she’s leaning forward ever so slightly, blond brows wiggling. “Don’t fancy a move to the seaside then?”

“You do?” Tom asks dubiously, a smile working across his face as the woman beside him continues to giggle, her slight shoulders shaking with the motion.

“Heavens no; the sea salt in the air would do horrendous things to my hair if I had to suffer through it daily and climbing these steps is just— I’m sure all of the locals would very quickly realise there is something wrong with me when they never witness me climbing these steps but simply appearing at my destination as if by magic.” Yes, if he had to face this particular challenge on the daily, he’d certainly be applying an otherworldly force to travel between two places as well. “I’m quite content in the countryside if I’m honest. A single day-trip to the beach is more than enough for me.” She has her breath back now, as does Tom. He stands, offering her his hand and Sophia accepts, allowing him to reel her up so that they are both standing by the entrance to the church’s graveyard. The headstones that protrude from the ground and are a mismatch of old and new, some with their inscriptions worn from exposure to the weather, others freshly carved with loved ones still grieving their loss.

“Come on, the Abbey ruins are just a little bit more of a walk away.”

“And once we have explored, then we can stop for a picnic,” Sophia chirps, her gaze finding their still joined hands, a contact that he had initiated to slowly draw her onto her feet. Tom draws his thumb across the ring of Russian-gold that rests on her forefinger, catching on the small sapphire contained in the cradle of the jewellery. It matches the earrings he got her, the very ones currently hanging from her lobes now. Outdated, yes… but fetching on her.

The ruins are a marvellous sight, all ancient stone and antediluvian arches; it’s a challenge to stand back and imagine what this very building once looked like when all that remains is less than half of a shallow skeleton, half of a rib-cage created from pillars and columns. The stone here is more worn than the graves they had passed earlier, smoothed by centuries of rain and sleet, the occasional crevasse where freeze-thawing has taken effect. Sophia finds the effects of the world just as interesting as he, stopping by one stalagmite of remaining wall to press her palm against it, eyeing the half-formed arch above her that could once have once been a window. The loss of her palm against his is terrible ache.

“You know, Hogwarts is built in a similar style to this,” she muses, tapping twice against the stonework beneath her fingers. “It’s older, but the style is remarkably familiar. Of course, it’s not actually in ruins either; there’s just magic in effect to make muggles believe that it looks like this Abbey, only bigger.” He can’t imagine it. What would he see, were he to stand on the edge of that castle’s grounds and watch Sophia walk into the building? Would he see a woman disappearing before his very eyes, or would he simply stop thinking about her the second she crossed the boundary line? Both thoughts are discomforting and… and it’s for the recognition of the fact he would feel distinctly uncomfortable being so very close to a central hub of magic. Sophia is different in that… he trusts her. That does not extend to the rest of the magic world. While logically he knows that her world— no, her people are probably very much like his own in that the bad apples are far and few between… he has known more rotten fruit than the pleasing goodness that Sophia has presented herself as. The tramp’s family had numbered three; Sophia is but one good witch. It is not quite possible to shake the thought that only Sophia is good, despite how very illogical that can be.

It’s magic; who is to say logic can be applied at all?

“It’s strange to think that people actively worshipped here.” Sophia glances around, inspecting the handful of stone steps that seem to grow from the ground, the rest of the building’s flooring already claimed by nature and devoured by the grass and soil that now rests atop it. “It just looks like a monument to a time passed.”

“It’s hardly the only place in England.”

“Then we should visit another one.” She pauses, flicking an almost hesitant glance towards him. “If you want to, that is.”

Truly, that is an offer he needs not think about. “I would love to share another outing with you, Sophia.”

Her cheeks flush, face soft as she retracts her hand from the stone, folding one over the other before her. “Right. Speaking of sharing…”

They retreat to a bench on the outskirts of the Abbey grounds, overlooking the large stretch of crisp green grass. The boy… his son, has written Sophia a letter. A three year old child has written a letter. Admittedly, the handwriting is atrocious, as is the vast majority of the spelling. Truthfully, it’s a wonder Sophia can even read it; the way she verbalises each and every word hint several attempts to do so in the past, that this understanding of the letter she has is due to a multitude of practises with reading the word aloud. Yet, writing a letter describing a trip to the beach is a monumental thing for a three year old; even Tom who has never interacted with young children can grasp that much.

“That is…” Tom trails off, wondering how he can word it correctly. The boy is, by the eyes of the law who do not recognise magic (and even then, who is to say a wedding forced by magic would not be recognised anyway? What does he know of these people and their laws?), his child. And yet, it still does not sit right to be able to claim the boy is exceptional for his age. The handful of children he has been exposed to at that age had barely been able to verbalise a sentence, nevermind a grammatically correct one. The thought of those children writing one was laughable.

“He’s exceptional,” Sophia says with ease, smoothing out the letter against the stretch of her thigh, heels abandoned beside the bench and her toes half sunken into the green grass at their feet. The trio of pages (for the boy’s handwriting is obscenely large) are creased from a multitude of folds, as if Sophia has opened and closed the correspondence a multitude of times already. She’s attached. It’s a numbing realisation, another nail in the coffin, another creaking hint for the uncanny sensation of an impending an ultimatum. It’s discomforting.

“I want to write to him about our trip, leaving your name and relation out of it, of course. You’ll just be the friend I visit with, if that is okay with you?”

Tom hesitates, weighing up the thought of the boy reading about Sophia’s outing, unaware that the man that accompanies her is one who contributed to his very existence, if unwillingly. “It is your day you would be writing about,” he states, working his lower lip between his teeth once the words have left him. When there is no answer, he chance a quick glance away from the stretch of lush gardens before them to find Sophia. Her eyes are fixated upon him, specifically his mouth, her own parted in the smallest ‘o’ of surprise. It’s a good look for her; Tom tweaks his own lips up into a smile just to see her own face soften with the same expression, eyes warm. Heavens, he does not wish to lose this. There has to be some way they can make this work, some way they can progress through this tangle of life that has been presented to them so that he can still hold tight to this wonderful woman.

“Thank you, Tom. I can’t say I know what you’re feeling; I doubt I ever will. But please, if any aspect of our situation ever causes you distress, please talk to me.” Her empty hand twitches, as if she wants to reach out toward him but she masters the impulse at the last moment. The cliff-breeze whips around them, carrying the loose strands of Sophia’s hair from behind her ear to frame the smooth skin of her temples, to cascade down her cheekbones. Tom reaches out, brushing the tips of his fingers along the wisps of champagne blonde hair, tracing the soft curve of her cheek.

“Write your letter,” he says, reaching for his own bag, retrieving the sketchbook that sits within. “Given we are not catching the train back, we have plenty of time.”

The time passes in a lazy saunter, the sun traversing across the sky much akin to a duck slowly circling a pond. There’s no hurry, no rush to their actions and there’s no unnecessary chatter between them, just an accepted silence as they work along side each other. After Sophia has finally finished drafting her letter, she begins to write it again on outdated parchment (honest to God parchment, the kind that the family accounts from two centuries prior were written on). He’s long since finished the majority of his own work, the landscape complete and the shadows sketched into place.

For a moment, he feels a slight pang over past decisions, for focusing on landscape instead of portraits. But, he’d never really had a desire to draw others, not when the usual artist could complete the family portrait and yes, Tom had been vain enough to turn his nose up at the idea of doing such a thing himself. Everyone knows self-portraits never turn out quite right, are never truly reflective of how others see you and there’s an uncomfortable thought of exposing to others how he sees himself. At present, that idea is particularly terrifying— it would have been even worse last year.

Yet, he does wish he could sketch Sophia as she is now. Her hair half-braided back, some strands loose, her features soft and warm. If only he were a talented artist instead of just well trained, then perhaps he’d have attempted a portrait regardless of his lack of experience with them. There’d be something more personal to it than just the camera that he has also withdrawn from his bag, now balanced between both of his hands. It is a clunky, awkward thing. Perhaps Sophia’s people will have a better alternative available? If they even have cameras that is. She is, after all, currently writing on parchment.

“May I take a photograph of you, Miss Lovegood?”

She pauses, cornflower blue eyes flicking up from her writing to look at him, lips thinning thoughtfully as she sucks at them. He notices that a bit too quickly, a bit too intently to be proper. In honesty, he’s losing care for the thought of ‘proper’ at this point. What is proper between them when this woman is a witch, one he is too lucky to be in the acquaintance of? What is proper about the son of the witch that— that ensnared him being adopted by this witch, her polar opposite in her light hair and kind demeanour?

“Only if we can also get one together, Mr Riddle. I think we’d look rather fetching together.” Yes, on that they can most certainly agree. Tom angles the camera her way, peering through the shutter as she twirls the— yes, the quill between her fingers. Heavens, is a pen too advanced? Is there some significance to the quill as a writing implement that he doesn’t understand? The dexterity she has with her fingers can only have come from long practice and he wonders if that is from time spent with her wand to master spell casting, or time spent studying with a quill to write whatever notes it is doctors make.

Tom has to be the one to ask another to take a photograph of them; Sophia had admitted to having never used one of the cameras he has, claiming the only ones she’s been exposed to are from the Wizarding World, older in design but made greater by the charms and enchantments set upon them. Of the three pictures that were taken of them, only one is really serviceable; the first too blurry, the second interrupted by a swooping seagull right before their startled faces, and then there’s the third. The third where they’re both laughing in surprise in the aftermath of the descending seagull (‘photo-bombing seagull’ to use the phrasing Sophia does), faces alight with joy and looking at each other with an emotion Tom is hesitant to put a label to.

They had spent the rest of the afternoon strolling around the Abbey grounds, Tom regaling her with tales of his misadventures here as a child, half-embarrassed, half-softened by the clear way she listens, attentively asking questions and comparing his experiences to her own. The significant age-gap between Sophia and her younger brother have ensured there is little serious sibling rivalry between them, only a casual kind of humour expressed in practical jokes the likes of which Tom can only imagine. Sticking the entire contents of someone’s bedroom to the ceiling in recompense for a hair-colour changing potion is… well, outside of the usual normal for him, that is for certain. And the acknowledgement of how very easy it is for them to slip each other substances that have adverse effects is… he doesn’t care to think too much upon the subject, that’s for sure.

“And you arrive by train?” They are currently in Kings Cross Station, near an entire day away by train from Whitby itself but the travel had been instantaneous (if excessively uncomfortable) the moment they had decided to make the journey.

“Yes,” Sophia says, brushing down the floral patterned fabric of her skirt and shooting a most disgruntled glance toward the windows where rain is pelting against the glass panes. “The Hogwarts Express is how students before arrive and leave Hogwarts. It’s a rite of passage, tradition by this point, even though a great number of purebloods actually opposed the implantation of the train system when it first came over from the muggle world. If you speak to them, they’ll have you believe it was actually a wizarding invention that we graciously shared with the muggles after taking pity upon their painstakingly slow methods of travel.”

“What hubris,” Tom mutters beneath his breath, low enough hat Sophia can only just catch her words. It wasn’t spoken with the intention of making her laugh, but laugh she does, clear and bright as the morning sky. He’s not sure what it is about that particular statement entertained her, but the reaction is pleasant all the same.

“You can say that again.”

They walk through the station, hand in hand once again though with a difference. This time, Sophia had unthinkingly reached for him. Every other time she has paused, has only exhibited a twitch that she wants the contact. This time, Tom hadn’t realised what was happening until her fingers were already sliding down his palm, dancing between his own with the feather-like steps of a ballerina. And…. And it had felt natural. He hadn’t frozen up at the unexpected contact because… because it is not so unexpected between them, is it? Not anymore. There are casual touches, hand holding, Sophia’s fingers curled at his elbow, the softest graze of their lips on one another, few as there have been so far.

“This is the muggle side,” Sophia whispers, flicking her eyes over to right, focused on one pillar in particular. “To get to the platform, you have to run full pelt at that pillar; it’s like an illusion, you pass right through to the hidden platform.”

“And those with magic who are born to ordinary families believe this?” That he finds hard to accept.

Sophia hums, adjusting the strap of her bag from where it sits upon her shoulder, a contrast to the one he holds in his free hand. “Well, they usually require a demonstration to prove we aren’t pulling their leg, I will admit to that.”

The thought strikes him a moment later. No, that is not the correct definition. The thought washes upon the shores of his mind with the surety of the tide, a steady push-pull of notions that he should have been expecting, especially when one takes into consideration how very often his mind is beginning to be occupied with it. “The boy will be coming through here in the future, won’t he?” There’s a hesitant pause before Sophia answers.

“Yes. When he’s eleven, I’ll be dropping him off. Probably on the magical side through apparition; the muggle side can get quite a bit of foot-traffic.” Yes. His son, the boy he never even knew of until this woman came sauntering into his life with her ridiculous heels. He does not want to linger on the topic right now, wishes to set it aside for a bit longer, just until he has had more time to process. Thankfully, it appears that the world is, for once, listening to his desires for people begin to spill out onto the platform from, well, nowhere in particular. It is only when he focuses, truly focuses, on the pillar that Sophia had pointed out that he witnesses them actually passing through. Magic in action. An outlandish use of it, that’s for sure.

Zander Lovegood spills out onto the platform a between a blink, a great trunk of luggage trailing behind him and two canvases balanced precariously against his side. The work, what little Tom can see of it that is, looks impressive. The boy certainly is talented.

“Sophia!” Is this what it means to have a younger brother? The loud, jolly shouts of welcome, the race into each other’s arms with warm greetings, Sophia’s hand abandoning his to better hold tight to her little brother. “And Mr Tom Riddle,” Zander continues after he pulls back from Sophia’s embrace, dropping his luggage with nary a care in the world so that he may offer his free hand to him. The boy hadn’t even done so to hug his sister, instead just standing there and accepting the embrace. Tom grasps the offered hand, giving it a firm shake.

“Good evening, Zander. How are you?”

It is strange, returning to his home in the same manner they have just arrived at Kings Cross Station, even if it takes Sophia two trips, not willing to risk this terrible ‘splinching’ issue. Given the grave face Zander wore prior to their departure, it is a genuine problem that can arise. How anyone can survive leaving a limb behind in another county is beyond Tom but he does not voice this opinion. He can recognise when some things are beyond him. Sophia had dropped Zander off at his home before she came back for him and here they now stand, hidden in the evening shadows of the stables at the edge of the grounds.

“Today was nice,” Sophia breathes, pulling the loose strands of her hair back to the nape of her neck with one hand, the other peeling her wand free of her bag. With a quick flick, the whole mass is gathered in a sleek low bun, exposing the stretch of lightly freckled skin between her neck and the back of her dress.

“It was.” Today was ideal, exactly how he would prefer to spend his time with Sophia. Not to say that he would not wish to spend time with her in other circumstances. The knowledge that this time is slowly dwindling, that the opportunity for days like this will soon be a ship long passed and disappearing beyond the horizon—

“When you take him in— it won’t kill the time you are willing to spend here, will it?”

“Here at Riddle Manor?” The small, cheeky grin that lights her lips makes it clear enough that Sophia knows exactly to what he refers, made even more apparent when it slips into something softer and she offers him her hands. He takes them, wraps them in his own thumbs brushing up across the peak of every knuckle like he will never be able to memorise them without just one more touch. Kill the time she is willing to spend here does not refer to the manor but here by his side, this place where the image of her comes so naturally now. “Of course not. It will undoubtedly be more difficult given the… unique circumstances, but I cannot see myself ever wishing to stop our visits, these outings and the time we spend together.” Sophia huffs a shallow breath, a quiet thing that is at odds with the way she tightens her hold upon him, pulls his hands that little bit closer until the edge of his palms are pressed up against her clavicles. “You have grown so very much as a person, Tom Riddle, and I dearly wish to remain to witness every development, every step and stride you take.”

Gods… this is it, isn’t it? Is this what love feels like? Looking at a person and knowing it is going to be difficult, so difficult that a year prior he’d have balked? What a difference companionship makes, what a difference time spent with another can induce within a person. Yet, even knowing exactly how challenging it will be, the thought is an acceptable one? Oh, the implications of it are terrifying, it’s enough for his heart to clench in the cold casing of his ribs and yet— and yet Sophia thinks to very highly of him, wishes to spend time with him despite a very busy life, despite the stark differences between them. What may establish him as an ideal husband to many a woman in his social circle can have no meaning at all to Sophia. Her world runs on different rules and he would be so very out of his depth and yet… yet he stands here wondering if he can keep his head above the water regardless. He wants this; yes, he’s considered it before today. But now, in this moment, there is a certainty that has been absent before, as if it’s all come crashing in at once, a summer’s storm and a diligent downpour all at once.

Tom takes a step closer, leaning that short distance down to rest his forehead against Sophia’s, the vast gap between their heights negated by those shoes of hers.

“May I court you, Sophia Lovegood?” Part of him wishes to ask if he needs acquire parental approval; he has known this woman for near a year but never once met her parents. The entirety of his being needs to know her answer now.

Her wide blue eyes stare up at him, lips again in that soft ‘o’ of surprise.

“It won’t be easy,” she breathes.

“I know,” he admits.

Neither of them move; the steady pounding of Sophia’s heart is discernible through the thin fabric of her dress.

“I accept. Woo away, Mr Riddle.”

Chapter Text

08.08.1930

It is a nice bright day when Tom Riddle finds himself in London again. The heat of summer persists, pressing down insistently upon the crown of his head. It’d have been madness to even consider wearing a jacket in weather such as this; it’s why Tom stands in a simple white polo shirt. Hardly ideal for a meeting as serious as this but it would be far more embarrassing to sit within an office and have to insist on a window being opened because he is melting within the confines of his own clothes. For a moment, he debates over the necessity of his presence here, even though he knows it is but a product of his still-healing mind. Were it not for Sophia, he would not be here at all. Not because this is something she wants, but simply because he would have had no knowledge of this place and how it is linked to him.

The orphanage, just like it was when he first laid eyes on it, is a bleak thing. Well cared for, but clearly tired from overuse and quite possibly underfunded too. Physically, it’s an imposing building, built with dark brick stained darker by the soot of industrial London. There are a handful of children scurrying around, all over the age of five as they swarm about the courtyard with bruised knees visible beneath the hems of their shorts and skirts. Is this how normal children play? It seems excessively rowdy but then Tom had never given the lower class much thought before.

He makes his way through the gates, striding up the path and pushing down the urge to wipe his sweat-slick palms against the material of his pants. He doesn’t have to be here, he reminds himself. Sophia will not require any help if she choses to push through with her goal of adopting the boy. His presence, his intervention here— that would just keep things on the correct side of the law. He clings to the idea, even though he knows Sophia now. He knows her— trusts her. She would not use her magic on another being unless it was for a good cause. Perhaps it’s gullible of him to believe such a thing. Certainly, he wouldn’t trust any other being to do so, especially not on himself. Mayhap he is simply blinded by his affections for her, unable or unwilling to see any inclination towards a flawed persona. But he believes in Sophia. It doesn’t mean he won’t do what he can to ensure magic is not required in this situation, even if having to physically show his face and admit to having— associated with the Gaunt wretch (enchanted to do so or otherwise, none of the adults present here will believe him should he speak of magic) is making him feel nauseous.

Inside, the corridors present a blessed coolness, the worker who greets him (Sarah, she introduces herself as) now taking him down to this ‘Mrs Cole’s’ office. It’s a world away from the memories of his own childhood; there are no paintings upon the wall, no dedicated library room, not a patch of grass to run about upon. The very idea of any of the children going horse-riding as he had done at the age of seven onward is ludicrous. Is it any wonder they grow up to be such ruffians, that children grow up far less well-rounded than Tom himself did when they have so few opportunities?

“Mrs Cole?” Sarah calls after giving a gentle knock to the half-open door, poking her head through the threshold a moment later. “There’s a…” she trails off, realising he has not yet given her a name to announce him with. Tom swallows against the lump in his throat, well aware that the speak now will be to condemn himself by association, even before the manager of this orphanage sets her eyes upon him.

“Tom Riddle,” he says, keeping it matter-of-fact to the best of his abilities. The woman’s eyes still go wide, her lips parting in a silent gasp of surprise before she whips around again, repeating his name to this faceless Mrs Cole. She places as much emphasis upon his name as should be warranted given the circumstances and yet— it still has his innards twisting. Even knowing there are some parents out there that give up their own children, even knowing that there are those who do not care for their children and simply deposit them on an orphanage doorstep— He does not wish to be lumped with them. It was not his choice to have a child and he had not even been aware of the boy’s existence until recently. Yet, he cannot stand the thought of another looking upon him and judging him for leaving the boy here to fester in less than ideal circumstances. Not when he cannot feasibly defend himself with the truth; no one outside of those already in the know would believe him.

Sarah pushes the door open for him and gesturing for him to enter. Tom does so, blatantly logging the way the young woman leaves not a moment after, closing the door as she does so. It leaves him within the office with only this Mrs Cole, a woman with precisely presented hair and weathered lines already beginning to work their way into a face that would otherwise be classified as young. Her hard eyes are sweeping over him, no doubt finding exactly what features he shares with his son.

“How can I help you, Mr Riddle?” It’s polite and there’s no indication of judgement to the woman’s face. In fact, it’s a masterful expression, one that gives no inclination to what the woman is thinking.

“I wished to speak about some matters with you, regarding Sophia Lovegood and, my son.” There is only the slightest hitch of breath before he addresses the boy as such; in comparison, Sophia’s name came from his lips as easily as he draws breath. He has spoken with the witch prior to heading down to London today, he knows exactly what he wishes to say and what he wishes to accomplish. But is so very difficult to remain focused when everything is so very close.

The boy is in the very same building as he is at this moment. He has never been closer to the last living ghost of Merope Gaunt and it sets his every nerve on edge.

“I am unwell,” Tom states before Mr Cole can ask any questions and, though it grates something fierce to voice it aloud, it is better than the blatant truth. He is unwell, still struggling in the aftermath of what the Gaunt tramp did. While it can be acknowledged that he is better than he was last year, there is a world of difference between the Tom that existed before Merope ensnared him and the Tom he is now. “And I was unaware of the boy until this spring. At the moment, I am in no position to care for him. Miss Lovegood has graciously offered to take the child in. I am here to sign the relevant papers for the thing.” He gives her no chance to argue, though he doubts the woman would do so. Not when he is so clearly a blood relative looking to remove a child from the orphanage. “The boy will be adopted in my name but Sophia—” Damn. He wasn’t supposed to address her by her first name. “—will be his caretaker. And he cannot know of my intervention with this. How much will you require for the proceedings?”

There were few questions following his demands. Tom’s unsure if this is a relief or not, is unsure about the whole process. Mrs Cole had inquired no further into the state of his health, though she had undoubtedly taken note of the fact he is not crippled or deformed in any such manner. Perhaps she assumes it is a disease of the lungs? Mayhap the heart? After all, when told someone is unwell, the first thought is for the physical form. He doubts there is anyone who would first jump to the conclusion that he is mentally unwell, for all that he detests addressing it as such. Still, it is a better terminology than what Sophia had once referred to the incident as. He refuses to consider it as such. That just, doesn’t happen to men.

“One ticket from London to York, Sir.”

Dipping his head in thanks to the ticket salesman, Tom accepts the small slip of paper and makes his way into the throngs crowding into Kings Cross Station. It’s easy to pick out those who are not well-off; the hems of their trousers have been let out or patched up, shoes are shone within an inch of their life in an attempt to hide the scuff-marks, and shirt have a worn look about them. It’s a stark difference to his own attire. Yet, his circumstances differ so very much to theirs. How many of the people who surround him know of the secondary world that hides behind the shadows of the United Kingdom? How many have any inkling that there is more to the world than they had previously thought?

Seating himself on a bench at platform three, Tom peers towards the edge of the station, where the wall transitions into the mass tangle of tracks upon the ground. Six platforms or so over from where he sits, there is the entrance to the magical branch of Kings Cross where children climb aboard a train to head up to the Scotland, where they will learn magic in the comforts of a grand castle. It’s a platform his child will one day walk upon, all packed up and ready to be shipped off for his formal education in all things magic. His skin itches with the very thought. Accepting that the boy is his, that he is magical, is one thing. Acknowledging that he will one day be highly trained in the art with only his moral compass (and the sketchy wizarding police force that Tom does not put much stock in, given his own experiences) to guide him is another thing altogether. Yet, he has already set everything up.

Come Autumn, Sophia will be collecting Tom Marvolo Riddle (and what a horrendous middle name, the wretch’s father’s name, it has to be a wizarding one and what an awful one at that) from the orphanage and she will probably settle him in at this new cottage she has purchased. Easily within travelling distance should Tom every be capable of visiting. Incredibly, he wants to as well. Not within the first few months— he’s not quite that certain yet. No, while he may have signed off on all the papers, may have given his agreement that Sophia Lovegood can raise his child, the adoption down in his name even if it is not to be spoken of, that doesn’t mean he is in any position to be more involved than he currently is. Yet, there is some unnameable emotion, neither positive nor negative, that has come to rest within his bones at the thought of Sophia raising his child. Perhaps before Merope, he would have had no issues with the idea of playing family with the woman. No, that is not quite true. He would have been more akin to his father when it came to childrearing, emotionally distant and only showing up for significant achievements or to speak about the future of the family. Looking upon how Zander Lovegood interacts, he cannot say for certain that the wizarding method of raising children is of a similar vein.

Maybe one day he will find out, should everything continue progressing as well as it has done this past year. The thought, while discomforting, is not utterly deplorable. Fierce anger, renewed with the current train of thought, blooms in his chest for Merope Gaunt again. He should be able to consider the possibility of a woman, of a future family, without quailing at the thought of what acts it would take to make said family. But the idea of marriage brings with it a stomach-churning hesitancy, the thought of sex brings an anxiety that cannot be described. How thoroughly has that woman ruined him, to cause such reactions? If anything, he will continue to strive towards wellness, continue to push on bettering himself if only out of spite toward her.

Then, someday, he will be able to live his life without her ghost haunting his every step.

He leaves Mrs Cole’s office in a daze, one hand clenching tight around the papers she’d presented him with. It’s a list of everything he can take with him, along with some stuff about the law side of it all regarding adoption. If he’s honest with himself, Tom can admit he doesn’t know more than half the words used on that second bit of paper but he’d demanded a copy all the same. Because it’s proof, proof that Miss Lovegood is keeping her promise.

Scamping up to his room, Tom whirls on the balls of his feet to shut the door behind him. A moment later, he’s laid flat on the floor beside his bed, reaching for the little tin box that’s hidden beneath it, tied to the iron-frame so it’s not obviously positioned on the wooden floorboards. When he’s finally got it to hand, he climbs up onto his grubby, groaning mattress and pulls the lid off, retrieving the letter from inside. It’s not written on paper, something thicker and richer instead and the handwriting is very pretty. Pretty and sort of difficult to read but he had worked hard to understand it all. He knows it all by heart now, could recite it without it in front of him, even though it only arrived five days ago. It’s Miss Lovegood’s latest letter, about her trip to the seaside with her friend. While the bit about visiting the Abbey that inspired stories about a monster is interesting, his favourite part is where she mentioned taking him to the seaside next year. The promise of her taking him somewhere— it’d felt like he’d swallowed the sun with how warm it’d made him. But now it’s his second favourite bit of writing because… Because he’d got a bit of writing in his hand that says he’s being adopted.

Smoothing out the piece of paper, Tom pours over the words, pausing only to go and retrieve the battered dictionary from his desk. Even using that, he still doesn’t understand what almost all of the paper is saying. The important part is the top line though. The one that says he’s getting adopted and will be in the care of ‘Miss Sophia Lovegood’. Her name doesn’t look as pretty in Mrs Cole’s handwriting as it does on Miss Lovegood’s letter. Not that Tom really cares. He’d asked Sarah when the leaves would turn brown and she’d said it’d be autumn. And, autumn comes after summer, which means it’s almost time for Sophia to come and get him.

He rolls both pieces of writing up, squirrelling them away into the little tin case again before he plucks up his zouwu. It’s still as bright as the day Miss Lovegood gave him it, it hasn’t really gotten dirty like any of the other orphanage toys would have done by now.

“I am getting adopted,” he says out loud, testing the words on his tongue and finding he likes them very much indeed. “Miss Lovegood is adopting me.” It’s true. He has seen the papers to prove it. Now he just needs to make sure he doesn’t mess it up. He wants to be called ‘pumpkin’, wants to go the seaside and listen to Miss Lovegood read and have her tuck him into bed every night like she’d done here. Only, he bets her house is as pretty as she is, probably smells as nice as she does too. It won’t be in London; maybe it will have lots of trees around it so he can watch the leaves turn brown every year as he gets older and the years pass by. Maybe he’ll like it so much there he’ll forget all about Wools and all the other stupid children who live here, who aren’t special like him— because Tom is special. He can do things other children can’t, can make them hurt when they hurt him, can make them tell the truth and leave him alone. The only problem is… What if Miss Lovegood isn’t like him?

“She has to be,” he whispers quietly, inspecting the zouwu once again, focusing on the delicate stitches around its face that cannot be made with anything other than a special power. Maybe she’s just practised with it for a lot longer than he has? He hadn’t been able to turn Alice’s teddy into a different animal when he spent all his time focuses on it, even though he had really, really wanted it to happen. He needs to be taught how to do that, to change one thing into another. He’d never need anything again.

It’s funny. For the first time he can remember, Tom is actually looking froward to church on Sunday. They’ll get to walk past some trees after all. Maybe they’ll start turning brown soon.

Chapter Text

21.08.1930

Clothes (far more than there should be for one individual) fly through the air, folding in on themselves as they land in their respective draws. Sophia stands in the eye of the hurricane, directing skirts and dresses and shirts into their positions, shoes already shrunk down and lined neatly upon a shelf. While a good colour-changing charm works wonders, there’s something to be said for having a good selection to go at, even if Zander is under the impression she has far too many outfits. What does he know; he’s a boy. The only thing he cares for in terms of clothes is how attractively he can paint them in a portrait. With a swift flick, the higher wardrobe rail disappears backwards, the lower half extending so that all of her skirts may drape themselves upon it, coat-hangers clicking as metal meets metal.

“You have way too many clothes.” Speak of the devil—

“And you have far too few, dear brother.” Zander smirks at her from his position by the door, brushing the loose strands of his hair back behind his ears. The majority is entrapped in a ponytail that rests low by the base of his skull, a handful of wavy silver strands curling at the back of his neck.

“See if I come over and help you paint you walls again,” he scoffs, arms folded and flecks of paint dotted around prominent bones of his wrists. He’s making a big deal of it, but he’s only painted what will soon be little Tom’s room. The rest of the rooms are all covered in muggle wallpaper and, while it must come down as it’s terribly outdated (for the standards of everybody alive, nevermind Sophia’s twenty-first century mindset), there’s something almost therapeutic about peeling the stripes from the walls; she wants to have a go at doing that herself later on.

“You will,” Sophia declares, utterly sure in her assessment, “because I’d leave stripes on the wall as I can’t paint anything properly.” Zander snorts, but he doesn’t disagree with her. He just tips his head forward in a quiet acknowledgement, inspecting the splatterings of paint on his forearms. She can see the moment he decides to not get rid of it, the subtle shrug of his shoulders rolling under the clouded grey of his jumper.

“You sure the kid will be happy with rich green?”

“Careful, your Ravenclaw pride is showing.” Stepping closer to Zander, Sophia folds her arms around him in a hug, absentmindedly noting he’s gained another inch or so over summer. Which is, quite frankly, outrageous. At the rate he’s growing, he’ll be a head or so taller than her by the time he’s finished Hogwarts. “Thank you, Zander. I really appreciate your help.”

“Just don’t wait until Christmas break to introduce me to the kid and we’re golden.” Huffing a laugh, Sophia smooths down one wild flick of Zander’s hair, one that isn’t yet long enough to be contained within his ponytail before she hums and agreement.

After seeing Zander off through the recently connected fireplace, she makes her way to the garden. The door is in the kitchen, at the far end past cabinets and the oven and her ‘cool box’ that is a fridge in all but name (and, she guesses, the power it runs off, given it’s the wizarding equivalent). The garden is large enough it could perhaps be called a small field if one were feeling generous. It’s covered in a variety of wildflowers now; the grass has to have grown unchallenged for a good few months given the height it has attained. It’s a pretty sight, but it’s hardly something that she could be putting to use. She’ll need a small greenhouse for some of the magical plants and some vegetables too (why not grow them when you’re already gardening for potion ingredients anyway?), she’ll need an open-air section for the winter flora… it’d be nice to have a little stream coming off the River Ouse, maybe a small pond too for cooling down during the heat of summer? Certainly she’ll need a treehouse in those oak trees. Ah, there’s so much to do.

Sitting herself down on the doorstep, Sophia kicks off her house-slippers, resting her feet over the green grass that has started to yellow in the unrelenting sun. A magically sprinkler system as well. She’s going to need a job list to keep up with everything, that is for certain. But, well, it’s her home now. A house that she can edit and change and modify however she wants that this is… that is a very surreal concept. Soon, there will be more than just her living here; Tom will be sleeping in the bedroom that Zander has just finished painting, the one that looks out over this very garden. It’s north-facing, so the sun won’t blind him in the morning, though had it been east-facing, she’s certain there’d be a charm to fix that.

“I am adopting Tom Riddle,” Sophia breathes aloud, resting her forearms on her knees and gazing out across the wilderness of her back garden. The river-water is low, has been low for a fortnight now and that means she can’t really hear the trickling of movement. Instead, there’s only the melody of birdsong in the air, the faint buzz from insects hidden in the depths of greenery before her, and the distant splutter of a car engine. A distant splutter that is growing ever so slowly louder. Intrigued, Sophia rises to her feet, plucking up the house slippers and making for the front door.

The car engine dies as she opens the door, a very familiar Humber parked on the dirt-road that acts as her little cottage’s driveway, and a very familiar head of hair just beginning to rise from the open door. Sophia leans against the doorframe, arms folding over one another as one bare foot rises up to rest at the ankle of her alternate leg.

“Good afternoon, stranger. It’s been a while.”

Tom closes the door of his car after pulling out a rather fetching bouquet, all purples, yellows and whites.
“Near a fortnight,” he agrees, offering her the flowers the moment he comes to a stop on her doorstep. They smell wonderful, and Sophia takes them reverently. She’s… she’s never been given flowers before. Not in this life or the one before. Doesn’t even have a vase to display them in. Nothing a bit of clever charm-work cannot fix, but the point still stands. They’re lovely.

“Would you like to come in, Tom? Do try to keep your voice down on the doorstep, I don’t want the neighbours making a fuss about your visit.” Tom smiles, pointedly looking around. Her nearest neighbour is right down the little lane, their house a stone lump in the distance.

As he steps in, he takes a look around, smile becoming ever so slightly more stained. “It’s certainly—”

“Dated?” Sophia pitches in with a smile of her own, tapping at the wallpaper in the hallway as she heads for the kitchen. The outdated curtains that once framed the window are gone, replaced with a soft cream fabric that she’ll charm to the correct colour once she’s sorted out the wallpaper. And the cabinets. And the cooker. Merlin, there’s a lot she needs to change. But that all comes secondary to— Sophia peers through the window, grimacing at the squat little stone building that still stands on her land. Yes, it all comes secondary to getting rid of that horrendous outhouse and getting an indoor bathroom installed. Plucking one of the tulips from the bouquet, Sophia gives her wand a wave and transforms it into a simple vase, filling the innards with water. An everlasting charm follows, ensuring the flowers will always remain fresh and bright.

“Will your decorating be as easy as that was?”

“Not quite,” she admits, pulling two cups from the cupboard and lifting one up in a silent gesture. Tom gives a gentle tip of his head and Sophia sets about brewing tea, kettle soon whistling away. “I don’t actually know many decorating charms; I’ve never needed to given my father is the one the Wizarding World comes to for house-expansion charms. He’s gotten quite good at interior design as well given my mother’s ever-changing tastes. He’s coming over tomorrow to help me sort this place out.” Of course, she’ll have to remain very firm about what she wants; for all that her father is a sane, sensible man, the Lovegood eccentricity does shine through when he’s given free-rein to decorate a home. She dreads the day Zander purchases his own plot of land to build on because her dear brother will no doubt give Father total freedom to construct whatever he wants. As long as he gets a good view out of it.

“So there will soon be some radical change to this house then?” Tom asks, accepting the cup of tea with a soft thank you. He pulls a chair out for her and Sophia sinks into it, turning to face Tom when he takes the seat beside her.

“Certainly. I’ll probably have to talk Dad out of expanding the upstairs space to include more bedrooms. Not when I don’t have need of them.”

From there, the discussion turns to the different elements of a wizarding house, from enchanted libraries that are bigger on the inside than could be believed, the occasional duelling hall for the enthusiastic witch or wizard (or the purebloods who have more money than sense) to the delights of hot water on demand via spellwork. Sophia very carefully keeps any mention of a potions laboratory (usually housed in the basement) from popping up in conversation as they slowly work their way to the dregs resting at the bottom of the teacup.

It is Tom who changes to the topic, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt now rolled up to expose the pale stretch of his forearm. Sophia is very respectfully not staring too much at the way the muscles move beneath skin as he sets his teacup down with a final clink.

“After my trip to London, I informed my parents of what will be happening. I, of course, did not disclose your… magic to them, nor the boy’s. But they are aware of his existence, his connection to me, and that you will be the one to raise him.” Dark eyes flicker over to look at her for a mere moment, the afternoon sun that leaks through her window forcing them into a startling contrast against the whites of his sclera, an abyss of emotion she is hesitant to put a name to. Not for lack of recognition, more because she doesn’t quite wish to name it within her own mind.

After a quiet that last perhaps longer than a gap in conversation should, Sophia asks, “how did they react?”

“Mother is pleased to know he will be nearby; though quite…” he trails off and Sophia mentally fills in the missing word as he continues; distraught, offended, despondent. “It’s the boy’s linage.” He finishes curtly, a hard twist to his lips and Sophia swallows around the lump in her throat. There will always be that ghost, that horrible reminder lingering in the air between Tom Marvolo Riddle and the rest of the Riddle family, through no fault of his own. She reaches for Tom’s hand, stopping just before she can make contact. Only when she meets his eyes with her unspoken question does she place her palm against his knuckles, stroking her thumb across back of his forefinger. Tom twists his hand, flipping it so they are instead pressed palm to palm, fingers weaving together and then he raises her hand, peppering a kiss to her knuckles. It’s very swoon worthy.

“Do you not wish to speak of your Father?”

Tom scoffs. “Father cannot understand it; according to the law, the boy would be considered my heir and he detests the idea of tramp’s lineage ever inheriting the Riddle fortune. His land is, after all, the only piece that has never been sold to us.” Yes, because it is magically land, will probably have family wards and all sorts of significance that is no doubt lost on the last Gaunt given his addled mind.

“Speaking of the Gaunts, I’ve received confirmation from my government that Morfin Gaunt has been released from prison. His property has been warded so that, should he leave, the authorities will be alerted and he’ll be put back in prison. A sort of house arrest, you could say.”

“I am unfamiliar with the term,” Tom admits, squeezing ever so slightly at her hand, curling the ends of his fingers around the very tips of her own, her nails against the cool pad of his fingertips. “What did recognise was the gramophone in your living room; is your music recorded in a similar fashion to ours?”

“Would you like to find out?”

They retreat to the living room, Sophia setting the music going with a few flicks of her wand that she then sets on the fireplace, out of immediate reach and by the bag of freshly-opened floo powder. Zander has left little green fingerprint on the mantle that stand our stark against the off-white paint.

“This sounds like jazz,” Tom murmurs, taking both her hands in his own, the both of them standing within the centre of her living room.

“That’s because it is. It’s from across the pond, though the name is quite horrendous.” Tom glances down at her, the difference in their height stark now that they’re both barefooted. Still, Sophia continues at his clear interest. “Blind pig.” It pulls a smile from his lips, begrudging as it is. Slowly, they begin to turn in lazy circles, Tom drawing her closer and Sophia takes the invitation for what it is, one hand lying on his shoulder, the other clasped in his as his hand comes to rest feather-light at her hip. It’s the most hesitant touch she’s ever experience and she doesn’t’ quite dare to breathe too heavy for fear of those fingers retreating. Time passes; it could be seconds, it could be hours as they continue to slow dance along to a series of gentle jazz songs, each softer than the one that comes before it. It isn’t until the needle falls from the record itself that Sophia realises she’s come to rest her head against Tom’s chest as they’ve been moving; the second it registers, she stills, forcibly halting the almost hypnotic movement of their feet. The low hum that Tom breathes out echoes through his breastbone and Sophia feels it on her cheek, his shirt a thin armour against the almost piercing sound. Maybe it sounds so loud to her because maybe this is perhaps the closest they have ever been.

“Sophia.”

“Yes?” Tom’s lips are on hers the moment she lifts her face from his chest, brushing against her own and she responds in kind, keeping it soft and slow, even as her hand leaves his to come rest at his side, thumb brushing over his lower ribs, her other hand rising to find the curls of his hair. His palm is hot against her cheek, against her hip and, for a moment, she very nearly forgets where she is, who she is with, in favour of chasing more. It’s a sharp, short reminder when her hand slides ever so slightly down to brush against Tom’s belt and he all but tears himself away. Right, trauma.

“Sorry!” she squeaks out, cheeks on fire as she scans Tom face, desperate to see— well, she’s not sure. Whatever it is she’s expecting to find though, it’s not present. He’s a little wild-eyed, hair a hot mess on one side and chest heaving with breath.

“No— no, it’s me,” he hisses out, scrubbing a hand through his hair and ruining the other side, releasing the curls completely from that perfectly styled, pushed-back thing he’d had going on. She shouldn’t be finding that attractive, should not be focusing on that when Tom needs her to be focusing on boundaries first; she very determinedly pushing that though away.

“It was my hand that wandered—”

“Barely. Not at all in truth.” He huffs out another harsh breath before closing the distance between them again, gently taking her hand and resting it at his waist, so the meat of her palm rests at the very edge of his belt. There’s nothing sexual about the touch but she can see where his mind is going just from looking at his face.

“Tom—”

“I want to get better,” he breathes, breath fanning across her face and it still smells slightly of the tea they’d drunk in the kitchen. “I want to get better and be able to dance with you like this, to kiss and not have to worry about being haunted—” he cuts out again with another frustrated huff, planting a soft kiss against her forehead. She would be lying if she said she didn’t melt from the touch. But Tom is not yet done with his confessions. “I want to be part of your life. And I know that the boy will be part of it so I must get better.”

“You don’t have to rush it; healing takes time.”

“You make it worth it,” he whispers, quiet as the rolling morning mist, his hands still wrapped around her one forearm, her palm still flat against his stomach and sensing every rise and fall as he breathes. He draws his breath steadier than she does in this moment; Sophia is not ashamed to acknowledge that, too busy absorbing the words Tom has just spoken.

“I got a job nearby,” she blurts out, quite unable to help it and utterly unsure how to express just how touched she is by his words. “At the York branch of Saint Mungo’s. They have an agreement with the muggle director that we are registered as doctors, with some spellwork for muggles who know a magical doctor to assume they have seen them working there should they visit, under the agreement we will treat any muggles affected by magic.” Admitted the slight magical influences on the minds of muggles doesn’t fill her with joy and Sophia watches, worried, for Tom’s reaction. His lips have tightened, but he nods slowly.

“A fair trade off, I suppose.” He exhales, the sound sharper than the rest and Sophia feels the muscles of his abdominals quiver beneath her touch. She draws her hand back and Tom allows it, threading his fingers between her own once again. “My parents and I are walking on eggshells around one another now. Short of calling this whole thing off, which is quite frankly not an option, I am unsure of how to solve it.”

“Is this why your mother hasn’t invited me for tea recently?”

“Quite possibly.” In truth, Sophia hasn’t the slightest idea of how to fix this problem. She informs Tom as such, keeping her eyes to their adjoined hands as they slowly began to rock back and forth between them.

“In truth, I am more concerned with what… with what Tom will be told.”

“What would you like me to tell him?” Sophia asks, stepping back slowly, drawing Tom over to the sofa she has placed opposite the fireplace. The muggy heat of August is filtering in through the open windows, lingering in the air around them, settles across her shoulders like a thick winter’s coat. Another thing to ask Dad about, heating and cooling charms.

“I don’t want him to think I abandoned him out of neglect or malicious intent. But I can’t…”

“You can’t deal with it at the moment at that’s okay,” Sophia whispers, curling her fingers between Tom’s, fingertips stroking at the soft flesh of palms that’ve never known a day or hard labour. “There’s nothing wrong with that, no matter what society would have you think. It would be more detrimental to both of you to force it.” She offers the idea of informing little Tom that he cannot yet be involved in his life due to begin hurt by magic. She can tell by the tightening of his face that Tom dislikes the idea, and by the stiffening of his shoulders that he sees no appropriate alternative.

“Don’t tell the boy that it isn’t due to a physical injury. Be ambiguous, Sophia darling, please.”

“Of course,” she breathes, barely able to make the words pass her lips for all that her heart is hammering at the sound of an endearment. “We can make this work.”

She wishes that she could bring him instant closure, not for little Tom’s sake, but for the sake of the man sitting beside her. No one deserved to live with trauma, to be prevented from doing things they wished as they were haunted by a past they had not sought out. She had disliked Merope Gaunt before, but it pales in comparison to the emotions that sear inside her innards now, as she grows closer to both Toms.

“Eventually,” Tom agrees softly, drawing her against him in a gentle hold that may generously be called a hug. She leans into it, presses her cheek into his shoulder, and breathes.

Chapter Text

01.09.1930

“The leaves aren’t brown.” He blurts it out before he can think better of it and how it burns; Tom wishes he could snatch the words out of the air, wishes he could stuff them back in his mouth and swallow them down because it is a particularly stupid thing to say. Miss Lovegood will be well aware the leaves aren’t brown yet but she’s still here anyway, standing in the hallway of Wools with a big bag slung over one of her shoulders and those impossible shoes making her so much taller than Mrs Cole.

“Would you like me to come back later?” she asks with a smile and Tom jolts at the implication, feeling panic at the very suggestion snap through his veins. That’s— no. No, he doesn’t want that. He opens his mouth to say so, stepping forward to, to grab at her hand and hope that being closer will make it that much more obvious. Miss Lovegood steps forward to meet him, crouching to his level and the fabric of her dress falls over her legs like rain on rooftops, gliding along the surface to drip off the edge.

“I was only joking,” she breathes, holding out both her hands for him and Tom slips his own in them. She’s got a few pretty rings on, five on her right hand, three stacked on one finger and two on the pointer finger. They’re not gold or silver, close to copper but it’s not copper. He doesn’t know the name of the metal, but they’re pretty and shiny. Most of her hands are soft and smooth, though there’s some rough skin on one palm. Not quite from where you’d hold a pen— it feels a little strange to run his fingers across. Miss Lovegood gives his fingers a gentle squeeze, her skin colder than his.

“You’re taking me away from Wools?” It leaves his lips quietly, softly. It was so much easier saying it aloud in his room, where no one else could hear it all. Miss Lovegood is adopting him and she’s here today, saying she could come back later so, does that mean today’s the day?

“If you want to, pumpkin, we’ll walk out the door today.”

“I want to!” His fingers curl into fists in Miss Lovegood’s grasp and she smiles, running her thumbs across the back of his knuckles like she couldn’t dream he’d ever use them for a fist-fight like Billy and Dennis are already trying to do. Tom’s never needed to use his fists, not since he figured out he could make the bad things happen to anyone who upsets him. He just needs to want it enough.

“Well, we best on with it then,” Miss Lovegood declares cheerily, tilting her head back to look at Mrs Cole with that same bright smile on her face. “Will you be accompanying us up to Tom’s room?”

“The paperwork is all completed; he’s your responsibility now.”

“I’ve worked hard to be able to carry my responsibilities,” she says seriously, reaching forward and scooping Tom up almost quicker than he can follow. Hands under his arms, cradling his ribs until he’s resting against her hip. “Do you have much to collect, Tom?”

“Just the Zouwu.” It’s the only thing he really wants to take with him. After all, anything else he has was graciously given to him by the orphanage and Miss Lovegood… Miss Lovegood made the ratty teddy into the Zouwu. She can probably create anything and everything he needs. She’s like him. She has to be.

As they walk, Tom takes careful note of the stink eye that Dennis sends his way when they pass and he can’t help but smile in the face of it all. He’s the one getting to leave with Miss Lovegood, not Dennis. He’s the one who is going to live with the woman who smells like sugar and looks like a princess. She picked him.

Walking out of the orphanage, hand in hand with Miss Lovegood, his Zouwu clenched at his side, Tom keeps his head held high despite the dreary weather. It looks dangerously close to raining but absolutely nothing is going to ruin this day for him. He could walk the whole way to his new home soaked to the bone and he wouldn’t care (well, not too much). His new home which is… He doesn’t know.

Worrying his lip between his teeth, Tom tips his head back to look at Miss Lovegood, working from their joined hands, up the short sleeve of her dawn coloured dress to her face. She’s looking around the street, pretty blue eyes skipping back and forth but, whatever she’s looking for, she doesn’t appear to find it. Tom follows as she steps off the path to cross the road, the odd motorcar trundling by. Can he ask where they’re going? He should be able to, right? Miss Lovegood has adopted him, and that means they’re family, doesn’t it? Mrs Cole had always been clear whenever one of the other orphans got adopted (a grand total of two in Tom’s memory, not counting himself that is). They must be polite, they must have good manners… adults want children to be seen, not heard.

But Miss Lovegood had liked listening to him read, hadn’t she? And he’d been speaking then…

“Where do you live, Miss Lovegood?” There. That’s polite, he addressed her by name and said it all in a sweet voice.

She hums, the sound high and light and she turns from looking around the street to gazing down at him, a small smile tucked in the corner of her lips. The orphanage workers never have that smile, Mrs Cole definitely doesn’t, not in all the time that Tom has been at the orphanage. He’ll never know if she is capable of that smile and he doesn’t care in the slightest to find out. He never wants to see Wools again.

“I’m so sorry, pumpkin, I never actually told you, did I?” Miss Lovegood swings their arms back and forth a bit, not enough to jostle him but enough to show she’s, happy? He thinks it is anyway, he’s never really seen an adult act this way, treat a child like they’re worth conversing with. “I have a cottage in a small village called Poppleton, it’s just outside of York. That means we’ll be taking a train from Kings Cross to York, then catching another to Poppleton station. It’s a bit of a walk from there, but I can carry you if your legs get tired.”

“I won’t get tired,” Tom insists, pursing his lips even as he considers it. The only time he can recall going on a train was for the beach trip this summer. He knows he must have been on one before because he’d been to the beach last year too but he can’t remember being on the train itself.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit of a journey with how far we’ll be travelling, so I’ve brought a colouring book along for you, though I’m happy to read to you instead.” He’s never had a colouring book before; there were only two at the orphanage and they’d long been filled in, probably before Tom had even been born. Tom looks up at Miss Lovegood again, tightening the hold he has on her hand. Miss Lovegood is his. His. He’s not quite sure what she is to him (his mother had died on the doorstep at Wools, Daniel had told him so before Sarah had clipped him around the ear) but he knows some orphans end up calling the people who adopt them their parents, a mother and a father. Miss Lovegood hasn’t told him to call her that yet, so he’ll hold off for the moment.

“I want to do both,” Tom declares, grimacing a moment later before he swiftly changes it. “I would like to do both. Please.”

“That’s fine, pumpkin. Here’s hoping we can catch the twelve o’clock train and that it won’t be too dark when we get home.”

It’s easy enough to keep quiet when they get to the train station, to cling that little bit harder to Miss Lovegood’s hand when they get swept up in the crowds of people passing in and out of the building. Miss Lovegood walks through it all with her head held high, the soft fabric of her skirt swishing around her legs as she marches to their train and a lot of people get out of their way. A few gentlemen doff their hats to her, watching her pass by and Tom can’t blame them. She’s clearly very different compared to everyone else; the way she dresses, her shoes, how she moves like she has somewhere to be. And she does have somewhere to be. She’s taking him home, after all.

Soon enough, they have boarded the carriage, a man offering his hand to guide Miss Lovegood aboard, which she accepts only after ensuring Tom himself has climbed over the big hole that exists between the platform and the train. Outside, the world begins to change from the dull greys and browns of London, blooming into a great stretch of green as they begin travelling across the fields. As promised, Miss Lovegood presents him with a colouring book, untouched and untainted by any other, and a set of colouring pencils. It’s more difficult than Tom expected, keeping in the lines that is. It’s a bit like when he was learning his letters and he needs to keep most of his focus on how his hand is moving to make sure it doesn’t do something stupid and ruin the picture.

Miss Lovegood speaks up only when he’s finished colouring the sky in, the same wash of grey-blue that is outside of their little carriage’s window. “Do you have any questions about coming to live with me, Tom?” They’re sitting on the same little bench, close together with his leg pressing up against hers but it’s still difficult to hear her when the baby at the front of the carriage decides to start screaming. He can feel his nose scrunch at the sound. Miss Lovegood hums again before her hand is suddenly on his head, stroking along the painfully neat parting Mrs Cole had forced upon him this very morning. Yes, he usually has it parted just off the centre, but not as far as she had done it today. It’s nice having Miss Lovegood stroke at his head, almost like she’s whisking away another part of Wools from him.

“Do I still call you Miss Lovegood?” It’s the big thing that’s bugging him, that and the… the ability to change something into another. But he doesn’t want to say that in here, where anyone else on the train can overhear him. What if they want to see Miss Lovegood do it too and they take up all her time? What if she stops paying attention him because of it?

“It is completely up to you,” she murmurs, her fingers running down the side of his neck, across his shoulder to skin along his upper arm. Tom take the opportunity to press himself a little more surely against her side, basking in the close contact. “If you want to continue calling me Miss Lovegood, that’s fine. If you would like to call me by my first name, then you can call me Sophia. And should you ever want to, Mum or Mother wouldn’t upset me either, but only if you are happy with it.” She tweaks his nose with the hand not rubbing at his arm, just a little twitch that brings a small smile to Tom’s lips as he leans a little more against her. It’s odd, for all he’d imagined what his mother looked like before, he can’t look at Miss Lovegood and think the word ‘Mother’. His Mother died, she left him all alone and there had been no father, nothing. He doesn’t even know her name, just that her father had been called Marvolo. That’s why it’s his middle name. Her name is pretty though. Sophia. It suits her, she’s exactly what he’d think a Sophia would be like.

He might call her Mum one day. But it’s not gonna be today.

“What’s the cottage like?”

“I’m glad you asked, pumpkin. It’s got two floors and it’s right next to the river, which is called the River Ouse…”

He’s not sure when he fell asleep, somewhere between listening to Miss Lovegood describe her cottage and eating the sandwiches she’d packed for him (they’d been ham and some kind of very light yellow sauce that’d tasted delicious). All Tom knows is that, when he wakes up, they’re in the middle of a sleepy little village with houses that look different from all the dull buildings of London. Lifting his head from Miss Lovegood’s shoulder, Tom peers around at all the grass, peppered with the occasional tree, low stone walls and high hedges. Miss Lovegood (Sophia, her name is Sophia) is carrying him almost like a piggyback but from the front instead. It makes sense; he was asleep and wouldn’t have been able to hold onto her shoulders if he were on his back. This way, Miss Lovegood can hold him by keeping one arm around his back the other under his bottom. Tom still doesn’t hesitate to cling a little to her shirt though, just in case.

“Are we nearly there?” he asks, peering out at the sun that’s getting very close to the horizon. The shadows of the trees are stretching out across the fields, reaching for the hedges on the other side. It’s weird to see this much open space.

“Nearly there? We’re here, pumpkin.” He plans on responding, he really does, but then Miss Lovegood sets him down on his feet so he can turn around to look at his new home. His first thought is that it’s small. Smaller than Wools but that makes sense. Wools had lots and lots of children living there, along with Mrs Cole and a few other caretakers. This cottage is going to house just him and Miss Lovegood. It’s not as tall as the houses in London that’re all squished together in long rows and maybe that’s why it’s wider, made of a strange almost yellowish kind of stone. It looks old, but old like it’s survived a lot rather than old and ready to fall down. There are little boxes under some of the windows filled with flowers and the curtains are drawn.

It looks like a home should.

“Come on then,” Miss Lovegood says, catching his hand in one of her own, the other holding onto her bag. He can see the tail of his zouwu sticking out from the opening. “I’ll give you a tour, then we can eat something for tea.”

Tom can only nod, following Miss Lovegood into the house. She toes off her strange shoes at the door and grows shorter now that they’re not forcing her to stand on her tip-toes anymore. He’s quick to copy the action, not wanting to get any London dirt on the clean floorboards. The hallway has a set of stairs going up to the next floor. The only thing it shares with the stairs at Wools is that is has a bend in the middle where you have to double back on yourself, everything else is different. It’s covered in carpet for one, then the bit in the middle where you have to turn around has a little seat under the window, covered in a fuzzy looking blanket with several soft looking pillows.

“Shoes against the wall please, Tom. We don’t want to be tripping over them later.”

“Okay.”

After that, Miss Lovegood whisks him around the house, starting with the living room that’s got a fireplace and comfortable looking couches, through the kitchen that looks cleaner and shinier than Wools ever did, to a library that is impossibly large for how big the cottage had seemed on the outside. There’s one more room that apparently can only be accessed from the outside but Miss Lovegood says they’ll look at it another day. More importantly, she shuffles him upstairs to an indoor bathroom with a huge bath and something Miss Lovegood called a waterfall shower, then points to the door that houses her own bedroom. From the quick peek he got from the hallway, Tom sees soft lavender walls, wardrobes and draws and a dresser with lots of bottles and special looking boxes on it. Any curiosity about Sophia Lovegood’s room leaves him the moment he steps into his own.

It’s big, at least four times bigger than his room in Wools ever was, impossible big for the size of the cottage, a part of his mind whispers. The walls are a deep, rich green with dark wooden boarders breaking between the bottom of the walls and the charcoal grey of the thick carpet that, even through his worn socks, feels amazing on his feet. Tom steps into the room slowly, running his fingers along the fabric on the bed, staring at the huge windows that let him look out over the back garden and the river and farmland beyond that. It’s, it’s big. There’s a bookshelf on one side of the room next to a desk that’s about right for him, not too big like the one at Wools had been. And there’s a great big soft toy, bigger than him on the other side of the bookshelf in the shape of a snake’s head, probably to sit on and, and maybe read on? He’s got his own lamp but it’s not an oil one, it’s got a switch that maybe turns it on? And there’s a wardrobe and a set of draws too, along with a big trunk that’s got who knows what in it.

“Tom? Are you okay?” Miss Lovegood is crouching down next to him, has taken his hands in hers and she’s looking worried. Which is stupid; why would she look worried when they’re in her home, this little stone cottage that’s in a field and there’s so much space, so much green everywhere he looks because there’re trees and grass and his walls are green like dark gemstones—

“I’m okay,” he whispers, tightening his hold of Miss Lovegood’s hands even as he feels his traitorous bottom lip wobble. It’s stupid, he shouldn’t feel like crying; he’s not hurt, he’s not injured, he’s not upset or angry. Why does he feel like—

“Oh, pumpkin.” And then he’s in Miss Lovegood’s arms, face pressing into her chest as a sob works its way up through his throat. He shouldn’t be crying because this is all good, this is so very good and Miss Lovegood is going to think he’s weird and he needs it to stop, he can’t let anyone see that he’s crying because then she might think he’s being ungrateful and he doesn’t want to be here and then she’ll take him back. Miss Lovegood shushes him and she must be sitting on the floor now because he’s curled up in her lap, one of her hands stroking big, warm circles into his back even as he blubbers into her neck like a baby.

“It’s a lot to take in,” Miss Lovegood breathes and she sounds like a fairy again, all soft and sweet like sugar-cookies. “It’s okay to cry, you know? We’ve had a long day and now we’re home we can just relax and destress and sometimes that means crying. Never be afraid to do that, darling.  I’ll always be here to wipe your tears.”

As slow as the setting sun, Tom draws his face out from where he’d buried it in Miss Lovegood’s neck, peering up at her. There’s a slight redness to her eyes too, though he doesn’t get to look for too long because she’s soon gently wiping at his own eyes with a soft handkerchief, still stroking his back. He shouldn’t feel so tired; he’d slept on the train from London and when they’d changed over to the other train to bring them here. Miss Lovegood had carried him from the train station nearly all the way home so it wasn’t like he could be tired from walking either! And boys don’t cry, even the orphans at the orphanage had known that; even the girls had known that. Miss Lovegood is a little weird but… but it’s not a bad thing.

He’s not quite sure how long it takes him to settle down. Even though the tears have stopped, Tom doesn’t want to get up. It’s nice, sitting in Miss Lovegood’s lap as she strokes his back, the room dark and quiet.

“Do you feel up for a quick talk, pumpkin?” Miss Lovegood asks, soothing down his hair and it takes Tom a minute to fight through the sleep that is trying to gather in his eyes and process what she is saying.

“Talk about what?” He keeps his voice low and quiet, just like Miss Lovegood has done and she hums slightly, pulling a thin stick out from somewhere.

Magic. Magic was what Miss Lovegood wanted to talk about. She tells him that she has magic, that the house is magic because it’s bigger on the inside than it is on the outside (he knew it) and it could do a whole lot of other stuff too. She tells like that her whole family is magic, that her father helped with the house and her mother put defences up around it and her brother is currently going to school to learn more about magic. Their tea was made with magic, sausage and mash potatoes that Miss Lovegood made float through the air onto their plates and the gravy danced across the table before it went onto their food. The things he can do, Miss Lovegood says, is magic. He’s magic, will someday go to learnt it all at the school called Hogwarts (it’s an odd name but right now, Tom doesn’t care). o

Truthfully, he’d only half listened when Miss Lovegood had quietly explained what had happened to his father, that he’d been injured by magic and wasn’t healed yet. The thought had slunk into his head for a moment, settled down like that one rat Dennis had found in the pantry before scaring it off. Which is what Tom had done to the thought too. He didn’t need a father, not when we is magic. Not when he has Miss Lovegood who is also magic and lives in a magic house and who call shim pumpkin and darling and holds him and makes him feel warm inside. Yes, before Miss Lovegood had plucked him up that first day outside the church, looking like she’d stepped out of a Fairytale, he’d wished for his mysterious father to come and save him from Wools. But he doesn’t need that anymore. Not when Miss Lovegood asks him if he would like her to carry him up to bed. He could have easily walked up to bed himself but, in a moment of weakness, he’d reached out for her with both arms and she hadn’t hesitated to scoop him up, to rest him on her hip and carry him upstairs. He’d been presented with pyjamas to change into after a quick shower (something Miss Lovegood had said wasn’t technically magic when he asked but Tom’s never seen one work like that before) and then he’d climbed onto his bed.

“—and I’m just down the hall if you need anything at all. Doesn’t matter how small, you come straight to me, okay?” Miss Lovegood is sitting on his bed beside him, having drawn the fluffy covers up to rest just below his collarbones and she still tucking the edges in around his arms.

“I will,” Tom says, even though he’s not sure what Miss Lovegood expects him to come to her for. He’d never needed to get up at Wools (a good thing as they weren’t supposed to be out of bed after Mrs Cole had called it nighttime) but maybe it’s different living in a home. The silvery curtains of his room cover the big windows and now he can see the sparkling dots on the ceiling which almost make it look like the night’s sky outside. It’s not completely dark in his room like he was used to, but that’s not a bad thing. Squirming around a bit, Tom nuzzles the side of his cheek into his pillow, looking up at Miss Lovegood. Her face look soft, the smile on her face is nice and Tom closes his eyes, determined that the pretty smile will be the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep. A hand strokes across his head, through his hair and along his cheek.

“Good night, Tom. Sweet dreams.”

His new bed doesn’t groan like the old one did when someone got off it, but he can still feel the mattress rise up as Miss Lovegood gets up. He can’t help but peel one eyelid open ever so slightly, just so he can see her figure stop at the door, cast as a shadow with the light of the hallway to her back. She pauses, looking back at him and Tom can’t think of a sensible reason to do it, but she does. Then she’s gone down the hall, footsteps fading as she makes for her own room. Tom lays there, rolling onto his back so he can continue staring up at the ceiling now that he’s ruined his whole ‘see one nice thing before bed’ idea. Not that his room isn’t nice. He isn’t sure what he’d expected, but it hadn’t been this. He wouldn’t have thought of the big snake-head shaped cushion he can use as a weird chair/bed to read on. He wouldn’t have thought of the star ceiling (how does it glow in the dark? Is it magic? It must be magic, doesn’t it?) to cast a shallow light on his bed at night. He wouldn’t have thought of the shower in the bathroom or the cottage that’s bigger on the inside than it is on the outside or the winding river he spotted outside of his window or— he wouldn’t have pictured a home like this.

“I’m not at Wools,” Tom whispers to himself, curling up in the bedsheets as he twists back onto his side, spotting two letters he’d brought in the pockets of his shorts (that he’d carried with him everyday since getting them) that he’d put on the bedside table along with his zouwu. He reaches out for it with his mind, remembering how Miss Lovegood had made the sausages float but he can’t focus, stomach still bubbling away because he’s not at Wools anymore. He’s with Miss Lovegood in her house— their house now, this is Tom’s magic house.

“I’m magic.” He says it slowly, testing the words on his tongue. He’s magic, Miss Lovegood is magic, there’s a whole world of magic out there. He’s special and Miss Lovegood is special like him.

Quite unable to help himself, Tom wriggles out of bed, forcing his footsteps to be quiet as possible as he works his way across his big, big room to one of the windows. He draws the silver curtain back to peer out across the garden. It’s dark, so all he can really see are shadows, but he knows it’s all there. The two huge trees rise like the buildings of London did but they twist and turn around and cast a completely different shadow against the night’s sky. There’s no smoke or smog here either. Tom let’s go of the curtain, making his way to the bookshelf instead. He runs his fingers across the books, what he guesses is a dictionary based on how big it is, lots of other smaller, thinner books too. Then, he sits down on the funny snake-head cushion, sinking into it and it’s really, really comfortable, though he can’t decide if it’s more comfortable than his bed or not. Under his toes, the carpet is soft and thick.

For a moment, he stays there, just staring at his room from a new angle. The bed is bigger than the one in Wools, smaller than the one he’d seen in Miss Lovegood’s room but that makes sense; she’s taller than him, even if she is very slim, like how Sarah said she wanted to be. Tom’ll never know if Sarah gets as skinny and pretty as Miss Lovegood though because he’s not going back to Wools. Not now that he’s here. He can’t— won’t. He’ll do whatever it takes to stay here, whatever Miss Lovegood wants. There aren’t any other orphans to bother him here and there’s only Miss Lovegood to look after him and Tom likes it that way. She’s nice and smells good and she’s pretty. She’s not his mother, she’s better than that. She’s Miss Lovegood and she’s his.

Tom moves to the wardrobe next, opening it up to find two shirts of soft cotton inside, not the button up on that he wore from Wools but something that looks like it’d have to be pulled over his head like the pyjamas he’s got on. There’s a pair of shorts at the bottom as well, an outfit to get him through tomorrow while they go clothes shopping in York, Miss Lovegood had said. He doesn’t know what York is like, he’d slept through the journey, but they must have some shops if that’s where they’re going tomorrow. And Miss Lovegood had said he’d get to pick his clothes. Tom closes the doors quietly, ignoring the draws for now because they probably only have one pair of underwear and socks in anyway. Instead, he makes for the chest pushed against the wall opposite the bookshelf. When he opens it, a gasp slips through his lips before he can stop it and he quickly bites down so he doesn’t make another stupid noise and let Miss Lovegood know he’s out of bed.

There are toys inside the chest, lots of them. He can barely make out what they are in the dark, only that there’s all sorts in the box and he quickly closes the lid before he can be tempted. For a moment, he looks back at his bed, knowing he should go to sleep but… But he just wants to check that Miss Lovegood is in her room. It’s stupid, where else would she be? But the thought creeps into his mind that she might not be, that things are going too well, that things are too good and there must be something wrong.

He’s silent in the hallway, more brushing his feet along the carpet than he is walking. He stops by her door, which is half open with a soft blue light leaking out of it. When he risks peering in, he spots Miss Lovegood tucked up in bed, leaning back against the headrest with two fluffy pillows supporting her back. Her pyjamas are just as pretty as her day clothes, a top with thin straps and its make of light pink fabric that almost shimmers in the light. She’s reading a book, hair pilled on her head in a really messy bun and then her eyes flick up to find his. Oh no.

“Tom?” she asks and it’s not the shout he was expected for being out of bed after what is clearly the declaration for nighttime.

“I can’t sleep,” he blurts out, hands clenching into the fabric of his pyjama bottoms and he looks down at the floor. The hallway carpet is the same soft cream as Miss Lovegood’s bedroom carpet, probably the same one. But his is grey and different and where he should be.

“Do you want to sleep with me tonight?”

“No.” No, that’s what babies do, go running to the adults because they can’t sleep in their new room. Tom hadn’t done that when he got out of the nursery at Wools, he hadn’t needed to. There was nothing to be scared of in that room and there certainly wasn’t anything to be scared of in his new room.

“Do you want to come read a story with me until you drop off then?” That… that’s okay, isn’t it? Only big kids can read and Tom was smarter than most of the kids two, three or four years older than him at Wools because he could read. He nods, slowly pushing open the door and stepping into Miss Lovegood’s room, trying not to stare too much. The dressing table has lots of fancy glass bottles on it and there’s a miniature tree thing that slowly twists around on its own but instead of leaves it has different types of earrings hanging from its branches. There’s a big mirror that stands on its own and one of the wardrobes is open so Tom can see all the lightly coloured dresses inside, though they’re far too small to fit Miss Lovegood. Maybe she makes them bigger with magic when she takes them out?

“I have the Tale of the Three Brothers, if you want to read that one.”

Tom nods again, stopping beside Miss Lovegood’s bed. “Yes please.” She draws back the covers and Tom clambers up and in; it’s a little higher than his bed was at Wools but it’s like a cloud underneath him, soft and warm and it feels really good on his skin. A thin book floats over to him, directed by Miss Lovegood’s wand and, when she lifts one of her arms up, Tom takes the invitation to snuggle up against her side to read.

He doesn’t really remember actually reading anything though. He just sits there, listening to the gentle breathes Miss Lovegood takes, the soft rise and fall of her side under his head and he doesn’t know when he drops off, only that he does.

Chapter Text

02.09.1930

He can’t pay attention to the numbers.

Scrubbing a hand down the side of his face, Tom stares out the window down to the stables, even though he knows he is nowhere near clear headed enough to go riding right now. That’d be a one way trip to the hospital and there’s nothing at Great Hangleton’s hospital that holds his interest. Not anymore. Because Sophia has completed her training there and her base of work is York now. She lives in Poppleton now, not Great Hangleton and she’s not living alone anymore. Because yesterday she took his son from the orphanage and brought him up north.

Tom sets his pen down, well aware he will not be finishing the accounts today. He can’t; how can he possibly focus at a time like this? Which is absurd because it is not as if he can do anything. The very thought of getting involved has the goosebumps rising in great waves across his arms, a subtle tremble to his hands. It’s not just his son, it’s the last living evidence of Merope Gaunt and that isn’t something Tom can face right now. Which is why it is ridiculous that he cannot set aside the acknowledgement and get on with his day. His mind keep gravitating towards it, circling the idea but never quite getting close enough to touch, to get bitten.

Sophia is a twenty minute drive away, it would take him less than a half hour to be at her door, the Humber parked before the little cottage she has purchased. Just as he had done the last time he had visited. The house will be different now though; he had last visited just as she had begun redecorating. He had seen the deep green that Zander had painted the upstairs bedroom, the one in which his son could very well be sleeping in at this moment… Well, dependent on how early he wakes. The horizon has just birthed the morning sun. Tom is only awake now because he cannot sleep, had tried to put his restless mind at easy by working on the accounts but damn it, not even that could distract him.

Pushing back and away from his desk, Tom gets to his feet, walking over to the window to stare down across the neatly trimmed gardens. Had life been different, had he been able to overcome the mental deficiencies that Merope Gaunt had scarred into his very being… then perhaps the boy would be asleep on the floor above his head. Perhaps he would spend his days running through the grounds that Tom’s office overlooks, weaving in and out of the hedges, sneaking down to the stables to see the horses. Perhaps it would be Sophia dwelling over the idea of visiting him instead of Tom trying and failing to drum up the courage to visit her.

He turns back to his desk, seating himself again and setting the books aside. There’s no point in even trying, nothing has change other than the fact twenty minutes has passed since he first seated himself here and tried to begin working on them. Instead, Tom reaches for a sheet of paper, his eyes slowly drifting to the one photograph currently displayed in a small frame upon his desk. It is the photo of both himself and Sophia at Whitby, laughing at that dreadful seagull that had surprised both of them. Maybe he is being a fool, keeping such explicit evidence of their relationship upon her desk where either of his parents could stumble upon it. It is not that they are unaware he is courting the woman, though he doubts they understand the severity of his intentions. Were he not serious, he would have broken all contact upon Sophia’s admittance that she were taking his son into her care. It had scared him at first, terrified him. But the thought of breaking all contact had not once crossed his mind and that is by far the most telling element in their relation.

He likes that he is improving, he likes that he is making progress. What is important now is that he needs to ensure his feelings for Sophia are not tied completely to that heady sensation of improvement.

Turning back to his paper, Tom plucks up his pen.

‘Dearest Sophia,
It feels trivial to open with such a question, though I wish to know how you are. Is all well in your little cottage home? It is the early hours of dawn as I write this…’

Tom had woken up in his own bed. It had been a jarring experience. Even though he’d known that he was no longer at Wools, waking to a completely different ceiling had been startling.

Now, stomach full from a breakfast of cereal and fresh fruit, he stands beside Sophia at the station of Poppleton, his new hometown. Home-village? He doesn’t think it’s big enough to be a town, it hadn’t looked like it when they had walked through it this morning. The clothes he’s wearing had been the one from the wardrobe he’d found last night, before he’d gone stumbling to Sophia’s room. It’s easier to think of her as Sophia now. Miss Lovegood had been like a princess out of a storybook whenever she appeared in his life. Sophia had been the woman he’d seen in the kitchen this morning, blurry-eyed and with a sleepy smile when he’d hesitantly come down the hallway to join her in the room. The wooden floorboards had somehow been warm beneath his feet. Probably something to do with magic, because his new house is magic and Sophia is magic and Tom himself is magic.

“You’ll like York, I think,” Sophia muses, stroking her thumb across his knuckles from where she’s holding his hand. Mrs Cole had always made them hold hands with another when they were walking to church or the one time he can remember walking to the train station. So they didn’t get lost, she’d said. Tom had hated it, had clung to his assigned partner’s sleeve instead, no matter how much the other whined. But Miss Lovegood— Sophia’s hands are soft and not sticky with mud or what little butter the orphans were given for the week. It’s not unpleasant holding her hand so Tom clings to it.

“What is it like?” Tom asks, cocking his head back to better look at her. She’s dressed pretty again, in a light blue skirt and a warm yellow top, and she’s in those strange shoes that make her even taller. Different from everyone else that passes by them, no other woman looks quite like her and Tom had thought it was because she wasn’t from London before but that can’t be it. Is it because she’s magic and everyone else is not? Will there be other people like Sophia when she takes him to the magic places?

“Well, it still has its castle walls, though some parts were destroyed. We can take a walk along them and look out over the city. There’s a great big cathedral—” she cuts off, frowning before she squats down to meet his eyes. A small smile lights her face and she can’t seem to help pressing the hand not holding his to Tom’s cheek, thumb stroking across his cheekbone and Tom tries his best not to lean into the touch. “Truthfully, Tom, I don’t quite believe in the Christian god, though if you still wish to go to church on Sundays. I’m happy to take you.”

“I don’t want to go.” It’s an easy decision to make; he’d hated going when Mrs Cole had taken them and it’d only become bearable when he thought he was going t run into Miss Lovegood again. If Sophia doesn’t want to go, then Tom’s more than happy to go along with that. He gets a smile and another brush of a thumb across his cheek and then Sophia is standing, looking to the train that is just arriving at the station ready to cart them to York.

“—two of these, Tom can pick the colours, then we’ll move on to finding some shoes.”

Head spinning slightly, Tom does his best to keep pace with Sophia as she whirls around the department store, selecting out tops, shorts, trousers, jumpers, shirts, the list goes on. She does pause, checking that he’s happy with what she’s pointing out to him but all Tom can really do is nod along dumbly, still overwhelmed with the building they’re inside of and all of the choices that are on offer. Even when she had been fresh from her bed this morning, Sophia had looked well-presented so he isn’t worried that what she picks out will make him look silly. The clothes will be the best he’s ever worn, that’s for certain. So, Tom doesn’t pay too much attention to them. Instead, he keeps all his focus on Sophia, trying to decipher if she’s using magic to get the people to pay attention to her, or if it’s just the way she moves and talks that does it. He hasn’t seen her use her wand, which she’d explained every witch and wizard used to direct their magic, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t used it. After all, she’d made his zouwu and must have used her wand for that, though she’d had him cover his eyes. Maybe that’s why she wears such flowy skirts, so people can’t see her wand move in her pocket?

“What do you think, pumpkin?” Sophia asks, gesturing to the two jumpers that the assistant is holding out. One is a soft blue that matches Sophia’s skirt, the other is a grey close to the carpet of his new room. They both look comfortable and nice; he’s not sure which one to pick.

“They both look good,” he admits and Sophia hums in agreement, letting go of his hand to run her fingers through his hair. It feels nice. Shuffling a bit closer to her, Tom reaches out with one hand and grips carefully at the seam of Sophia’s long skirt. He can’t feel her wand in the pocket he knows is there, so it must be in the other one.

“I agree, we’ll take both.” Is she planning to get him as many clothes as she has? He’d seen a lot in the one wardrobe she’d had open and it’s obvious that Sophia likes dressing up to look pretty. Lots of people pay her attention when she walks into places, just like when they’d gotten on the train or when they’d walked into the department store. Tom had stared exceptionally hard at one man in a suit to get him to stop looking. Even then, he’d only stopped glancing when his hat had fallen forward and he hadn’t been able to peel it off his face. He’d performed magic there, Tom’s sure of it, but he hadn’t dared to tell Sophia, not when she’d mentioned it was important they kept their abilities a secret.

“Shall we go see the city walls now, Tom?” Her hand is still weaving through his hair, soothing the waves back into the neatness the wind had messed up and Tom nods.

“What about the clothes though?” Wouldn’t Sophia struggle to carry all of the bags she has?

“I’ll show you when we get outside.”

The moment they are outside, Sophia slips her hand into the pocket he hadn’t had a chance to inspect and draws her wand forth, giving it a quick wave after looking both ways to make sure no one is watching them.

“That one is so people’s eyes slip over us for a moment,” she explains, directing the stick toward the small pile of bags filled with all his new clothes. Another quick wave and Tom watches, fascinated, as one bag opens up wide and begins inhaling all of the others, one after another. It doesn’t get any bigger though, remaining the same size. Even when he picks it up, it’s not heavier than he expects two of the shirts originally inside had made it.

“How did that work?” he asks, peering inside the bag to find all the others lined up neatly inside along with the shirts.

“Honestly, pumpkin, I don’t know the specifics of it. I’ve never needed to. We can only shrink muggle items for extended periods of time because magical items are just that, magical, and it upsets the shrinking charm when if it’s put on them.” Sophia plucks up the bag once she’s done speaking, her other hand offered out to him and Tom slips his own into her grasp, curling his fingers around her palm.

From there, they make for the city walls that they had passed under in order to get from the train station into the town. They’re not as big as Tom had been expecting, nowhere near the height of some of the buildings in London. Still, he supposes if someone were to approach trying to get into the city, they would seem very big indeed. If there weren’t big holes in them that is, like there is now. Sophia leads him up the old steps and they walk along the walls, Tom keeping to the side that looks out over the outside of the city. While he’s curious about what York looks like from the top of the walls, he’s not so eager to get closer to the edge when there’s no barrier. Sophia doesn’t seem scared of it, but she’s much taller than him. Maybe the drop doesn’t look so big when you’re taller.

Standing on his tiptoes, Tom peers out through the little slots in the wall where arrows would have been fired, only all be use one eye at a time with how thin the gap is. Do wizards have castles like this? Did they fire magic from between the little gaps in the stone like normal people fired arrows?

“When can I learn some magic?” Tom asks as they come to a bit where two of the walls join each other.

“Hogwarts starts at eleven. Yes,” she laughs, ruffling his hair when Tom quite keep the upset from his face, “I know that seems like ages away. But you need to learn how to read and write and you need a good grounding in arithmetic before you can learn magic. Your brain isn’t developed enough until you are eleven to start consciously using magic. It’s the same for everyone.”

“Will you teach me that stuff?” He knows it’s a stupid question, knows that it’s not just orphans that go to school but everyone. He can’t think of anyone that doesn’t go to school to learn things and the whole thing doesn’t sound very good now that he’s not at Wools anymore. Anything he needs to learn he can read about, can’t he? Sophia can teach him at their house near the river.

“Oh, pumpkin.” And Sophia is kneeling beside him again, one hand cupping his cheek and Tom doesn’t lean into it. He doesn’t, not when she’s got a sad look on her face like bad news is coming. “I would love to teach you. But I can’t. I have to go to work because otherwise we’ll have no money.” That makes sense. The clothes Sophia has bought him today weren’t free but—

“Can’t you just make it all with magic?” She’d made his zouwu after all. Sophia sighs, a slight sound that brushes across his cheeks, warmer than the slight breeze that can nip at their skin up here on the city walls. Softly, she explains to him that, unless a wizard focuses extremely hard, most transformations aren’t permanent. And even if she were able to do it, that still wouldn’t change the fact she cannot magic up books or other magical objects he’ll need when he goes off to school at Hogwarts. It makes sense, but that doesn’t mean Tom has to like it. What he likes even less is—

“I have to go to your parents?” He has to leave his little house with his nice green room at its bookshelf and draws that will be filled with his new clothes.

“Just while I’m working, darling,” Sophia whispers, her face looking so sad but he can’t focus on that, not when she’s dropped that bomb on him. His fingers curl into fists and the wind whips at the grass that wants to climb the walls, to escape the city. “I’m afraid we’re not like the standard family, Tom. We don’t have a man of the house to go out and earn the money, so I will do that and look after you. I promise, my parents will adore you. How could they not?”

Yes, they’re not like a normal family. And, and that’s a good thing, isn’t it? They’re magic. Sophia has magic and probably has a magic job and she has a house of her own and she isn’t struggling to put food on the table like Mrs Cole had started to complain about before he left. He doesn’t have to share Sophia’s attention with anyone else because if she’s not married, she won’t have her own children to pay attention to.

“Can’t I come with you?” It would be better. He could learn about Sophia’s job and how she uses magic. “I can be quiet.”

She hugs him. Somehow, Tom knows that it’s going to be a no and his lip wobbles, even as he bites down on it to stop it. Tears don’t help.

“I’m sorry, Tom. That’s not how it works. It would solve so many problems but I can’t bring you to work with me.” She draws back, brushing his hair back from his forehead before her thumb swipes at the skin beneath his eye, leaving a wet smudge across his cheek. He hates it, hates that he’s getting upset about it when this is so much better than Wools but it’s not fair. “I have this week off— oh, and I can see if you we can get you into school earlier since you can read. Then I could change my shifts so I am working while you’re at school. How about that?”

He mumbles a quiet, “I don’t want to go to school,” even though he knows it’s stupid. School is how you learn things, school is what he wanted to do when he was at Wools and the only thing that’s changed is that he’s with Sophia now. But Sophia is better. She’s better than Wools and probably better than school too and he doesn’t want her to leave him.

What if she doesn’t come back.

“You’ll change your mind when you see Hogwarts. Now come here, tears need a hug.” Tears don’t need a hug. It doesn’t stop Tom from stepping forward and letting Sophia scoop him up. She wiggles her nose against his before planting a kiss to his forehead. Then, she presses the back of his head ever so lightly and Tom takes the invitation for what it is, burying his face into her neck and clinging tight to her shoulders. He doesn’t want to go to Sophia’s parents or to school, but he knows he needs to. Otherwise, they’ll have no money and Sophia won’t be able to look after him and then he’ll end up at another orphanage; that’s how some of the other children had come in after all. So, he’ll swallow down the part that’s screaming no, squash it down and pretend it’s not there. Right now, he just wants Sophia to keep rubbing his back and holding him close.

Chapter Text

08.09.1930

The silk of her skirt is caught between Tom’s fingers, not quite creasing the fabric but it’s coming dangerously close to doing so. Sophia soothes her hand through the soft waves of dark hair, fingernails scratching idly at his scalp in that motion she’s already realised relaxes her little charge, trying not to focus on the way he’s half hidden behind her skirts. Mother has made herself busy in the kitchen following a quick introduction, not that Sophia can blame her, what with the way Tom has refused to leave her immediate vicinity. Dad, meanwhile, sits on the couch, some project or other sprawled out over the coffee table and she’s relatively sure Mum would be making her disdain for work within the living room very clear if not for the fact she has company.

“Come on, Pumpkin. You can sleep in my old room.” Tom’s hand slides from its grip on her skirt to instead tangle itself in between her fingers, the palm slick with dry sweat. Sophia squeezes his hand ever so gently, steering Tom toward to stairs as her dad offers to get Tom a glass of milk for his bedside. Beneath her feet, the stairs creek and groan, a familiar chorus from her childhood, only this time the accompanying sound is lightly, less glaring. Zander isn’t here to contribute to the noise and it’s Tom instead, his slight weight that causes the grumbles from each step. Her room stands at the end of the hall, the oak door painted a pale pink back when she had been only a little older than Tom. It’s remained unchanged throughout the years, even as her princess phase lost its grip on her somewhere around the age of five. She can’t claim it completely gone, not when she does so love dressing up.

“It’s smaller than your room at home,” Tom notes when they walk in, his eyes flickering around the walls, absorbing the large bookcase to the left, the stack of soft-toys nestled away to the left. The walls inside are cream, the carpet a gentle rose to match the rose-gold accents that the vast majority of the furniture boasts.

“Well, this was my room when I was a child,” she points out, smoothing her hand down the back of Tom’s neck as he leans into her side. Returning to work… it sucks. She doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to leave Tom even though she knows he’ll be perfectly safe with her parents. How could he not, when they raised both herself and Zander? “And I’m an adult now. It only makes sense my bedroom in my own home would be larger. Though I promise the bed is just as comfortable.” Tom eyes the bed in question dubiously, like he can’t quite believe what she’s saying and Sophia cannot blame him. After all, she has complete control of her own home and thus, it is perfectly to her tastes. In this room, she’d had to bow to her mother’s opinion too and it was her mother’s opinion that throws were tacky. Nevermind how delightfully cosy they could be.

“You’ll be back in the morning?” Tom asks, not quite looking at her but the way his hold on her hand tightens is quite telling indeed. Sophia hums, kneeling down beside the boy and taking a gentle hold of his chin with her free hand, tilting it up so that she can look him directly in those dark eyes.

“Nothing on this earth could keep me away, Tom. I promise, once my shift is done, I will be back here for 10 o’clock and we will spend the rest of the day together. Though I may need a nap around dinner time.” Sophia presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, thumb caressing one cheekbone, half-hidden beneath the puppy-fat of youth. He does look so very much alike his father, even the stern, serious set to his face. The wobbly bottom lip is a new sight for her though. “Come on, pumpkin, let’s get you tucked in.”

Her father comes up just as she’s finishing tucking the duvet covers around Tom’s arms, his zouwu cuddled tight to his chest and her old occamy toy occupying the bedspace that Tom himself does not take up. It’s a clever little charm, filling the space available without growing out from the covers; it’d been the closest thing to a hug Sophia had gotten from something that was not living and had been a toy Mother had brought with her from her own family, one she herself had used as a child.

“Milk, in case you get thirsty in the middle of the night,” Dad declares, present the glass to Tom before he places it on her old beside table. Tom eyes it carefully, snuggling down further in the soft fluff of the pillow.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tom. It’s Edmund, or Gramps if you want.” The look on Tom’s face makes it abundantly clear that the word ‘gramps’ shall not be passing between his lips any time soon. Instead, he offers a small nod, wiggling deeper into the he comforts of her old bed. He looks tiny on the mattress, even though it’s smaller than the bed she has got for him at the cottage. 

“I won’t be gone long,” she promises, stroking Tom’s cheek once more. Heavens. How do mother’s of newborns actually leave them alone for the first time? She’s had Tom all of a week and having to leave him here with her parents is excruciating. Her father’s knowing smile is not helping matters either. “You’ll go right to sleep, wake up, and you’ll have a fantastic breakfast in the morning. Much better than my cooking.” Mother is quite good with household charms, after all. “Have a lovely night’s sleep, Pumpkin.”

Doctor Bones has been the family physician for some year now, has become a close friend to the family, but Tom is rather certain the man had no doubt been more than a little disgruntled at being called into the hospital before the sun had even risen. Despite any misgivings the man has, Tom doesn’t not hesitate to linger by his office door as the man escorts his mother from the examination table to the threshold, even if he should be returning to the Humber that is parked upon the road outside. Now that his mother has been pronounced of good health and the sharp pain she had experienced in her chest ‘nothing to worry about’ by Doctor Bones, another matter has begun working its way into the forefront of Tom’s mind. 

“Something on your mind, Tom?” Mother pauses, halfway out into the corridor and looking over her shoulder toward him, but Tom shakes his head, gesturing for her to carry on, the implication that he shan’t be long lingering in the air. Mother fires him a frown and there’s every possibility that she has worked out exactly what he wishes to discuss with Doctor Bones. Physically, he is as healthy as he can possibly be— there’s only one other reason he could wish to speak with the good doctor.

“Have you spoken with Sophia lately?” He pitches the question low but there is no hiding the fact that Tom wishes for an answer different from the one he is expecting.

“A single letter so far, I’m afraid,” Doctor Bones states, grey eyebrows rising from the unfortunate, stern set of his face. “And I rather have the feeling she has been writing to you a sight more than she has to me. She didn’t move far from our little town; I am quite certain that she would be willing to entertain you if you were to darken her doorstep, Tom.” Well, he does suppose that Doctor Bones has not yet met her new charge then, not with the way he seems so certain Sophia would welcome his company at the moment. Tom could not possibly intrude upon her home at this point in time. Within her letters, she seems to be dancing around the topic of the boy, of his son. If it is in consideration for his own feelings, or in an attempt to keep the two parts of her life separate from one another, he is unsure.

“Thank you, Doctor Bones.”

“The entrance to her place of work is still York Hospital,” Doctor Bones says, slotting what Tom assumes to be his mother’s papers into a folder, “despite the very specific wing she will be working on.” Right, a magical wing because Sophia, despite being a doctor, is also a witch. Heavens knows what sort of unnatural ailments she would be dealing with there. Still… this does give him the chance of potentially finding her without the boy. Surely she would not take him to a hospital, filled with infectious diseases? It does bring to mind the question of where his son stays when Sophia is working, for he highly doubts she would leave him home alone. But then, she can travel across the country in the blink of an eye. Perhaps a friend or members of her family watch him while she works?

When he gets to the end of the corridor, Mother is waiting for him, her winter coat wrapped tight around her from the sudden onset of the autumn winds that leak in through the open windows.

“Tom, darling. What was all that about?” She is already aware, Tom is sure. He answers regardless.

“I was asking Doctor Bones if he has seen Sophia lately.”

“She hasn’t been by the manor in a while,” Mother muses, lips pursing as she gives him a once over. “Is she upset with you?” And there it is, his chance to lie. He could claim that yes, she is upset. It would prevent his mother from chasing that line of questioning for a while, would possibly prevent her from seeking Sophia out herself. But he has no desire to lie here, even if telling the total truth is not an option either. Mother would march him right back around to the Doctor if he did so, sure he was falling back into old patterns.

“Sophia adopted the boy a week ago,” Tom admits and watches as, after a moment of confusion, understanding washes over his mother’s face. “I have been keeping a respectful distance as she adjusts to the new challenges such a situation gives, especially given the fact I am connected to the child.” He keeps his voice low, unwilling to be overheard as they exit the hospital’s grand entrance, making for the Humber where Henry waits for their return.

“She has— your son is nearby then?” Mother looks to and fro, as if expecting a three year old child to suddenly appear from around a corner. This is exactly why he has not told either of his parents where exactly Sophia has moved to, other than that she resides within one of the nearby villages. While not as disgruntled by the boy’s existence as Father is, Mother would not hesitate to point out any qualities that the boy has (or hasn’t) that qualify him as a disappointment. And while Tom is quite certain that Mother would struggle to find anything on the child that is lacking (heaven’s sake, the boy could read and write at the age of three, he’s clearly very intelligent) there is something she could potentially find that is very… unnatural. The thought of Mother trying to enforce a distance between himself and Sophia (and the boy) because she comes to realise he had been truthful on the fact he’d been enchanted, if she tried to keep him away because she comes to realise magic does indeed exist… The thought is not one Tom wishes to linger on.

“Yes. Sophia has written little as she is understandably quite busy.” Or he assumes so. He knows mother has received exactly one letter from Sophia, a simple explanation that, due to her move and the new job, she will not be able to attend afternoon tea for the foreseeable future. She’d not mentioned the sudden adoption of the child (of his child) to her and, for that, Tom is thankful. It’d given him the chance to get use to it himself before having to explain it. The last thing he wishes is for his mother to assume he is incapable of handling the fact that the last living evidence of the tramp is suddenly in the nearby vicinity.

“Tom, darling.” Mother reaches out with both of her hands, taking one of his and cradling it between her palms. “Are you quite certain you wish to keep courting Sophia?”

“Yes.” She makes him happy; for the first time in years, he has been able to reach out and trust another human being, has felt like he is making progress from those dark months when he had first returned from London. He has not had an episode in over a year now. When a reminder of those hazy, frightful months had struck him, when he has locked himself within his room and destroyed anything within the immediate vicinity that reminded him of the tramp (and some things that did not and had just been unfortunate enough to be close at him when the mood took him). “Without question.”

“And the boy will be part of your life then.” That goes without saying, Sophia has taken him in and she will not give him up, that much is evident. He can respect her for putting the child before her own wants, even if it has put him within the uncomfortable position of weighing up his own past against the future he wishes to chase.

“Yes. I am afraid I do not wish to speak more on the matter, Mother. Not right now. I’m afraid I have business in York to attend to, if you are willing to have Henry drive us through before you return home?”

York Hospital, despite being several decades old, is a rather attractive building. For what it is, anyway. There are large windows across the entire length of the building, no doubt for the patients to get a sense of the outside world. It is here that Tom finds himself, sitting upon one of the few benches dotted outside, mind running far faster than it has any right to. Will the doctors inside even be aware of the magical extension to their hospital? Will Sophia be down as a member of the staff, or will they be oblivious to her connections to the building? There is nothing that prevents him from inquiring after her; if she is not a known associate, then he needs not visit again. It does not matter in the slightest what they think of him if he is not to visit York’s hospital again. It does not— That is Sophia leaving the hospital doors.

Startling, Tom shoots to his feet, craning his neck to better see over the shoulders of a passing couple but his eyes have not deceived him; it is indeed Sophia leaving the hospital doors in her usual light pastels and outrageous shoes. Tom’s feet take him forward without any conscious thought until he is but a few feet away from her, they exact moment when she too realises who stands before her.

“Tom.” Not Mr Riddle, but a soft, delighted whisper of his name as she approaches, smile on her lips despite the exhaustion hat mars her eyes.

“Sophia.” And it is utterly ridiculous that he wishes to do nothing more than just bask in the fact they are once again close to one another. Instead, he offers out one hand for her, drawing her close when she places her palm within his, until there is but a handful of inches between them. Then, with more daring than he had expected to feel, he draws her completely into his arms, cradling her close in a hug that she is swift to return.

“It’s only been, what? Three weeks since we last saw one another?” she says it with good humour, but Tom does not miss how her own arms tighten at his waist for a moment before she steps back, looking up to meet his gaze with a soft smile and tired eyes.

“Just abouts,” he agrees. “Are you well?”

“Only tired. I’m afraid I just finished a night shift, my first one since I got… my new charge.” At that, Sophia pauses, rummaging around in the bag she has hanging from one of her shoulders. She retrieves a small vial from within and, after a quick glance around, downs the bright orange concoction. Tom watches with a mixture of worry and fascination churning within his stomach as her cheeks flush a bright red for a few moments but then return to their natural state, taking with them the dark shadows that’d lingered under her eyes. “A wake-me-up,” she explains, tucking the vial away with a frown.

“And how is my— your new charge?” Should he be calling the boy his son when Sophia, his primary caretaker, is addressing him as her charge? Will she be offended if he states as such?

“He’s fantastic. A little unsure still which I completely understandable what with being in a completely new place with different people.” Sophia tucks one loose strand of hair behind her ear, drawing attention to the duo of simple silver studs that currently reside within the lobe. “He’s currently staying with my parents; I’m going to pick him up shortly.” With her parents who live down South. He had been thinking along the right lines then, even if acknowledging the boy is perhaps even further away than he was before does nothing to soothe the discomfort within him.

“Writing to you is just not the same.” She blinks, bleu eyes wide as she turns to look at him, an understanding sort of expression filtering across her features.

“I agree. I miss you.” He misses her also. Yet, there is the boy and Tom’s own hesitance that needs to be conquered before they can even begin to approach the idea of spending time together again in the same manner that they once had.

“How is— Tom coping living with you now?” It is a bit of a struggle, getting the child’s name out. It’s only after he’s finished the sentence that Tom realises he has all but repeated the same question. This time, however, it seems Sophia believes him willing to listen in more detail about what his son has been up to this past week now that he is in Sophia’s care. He listens as she recounts that first night, how the boy had fallen asleep while reading, how she had carried him back to his bed and tucked him in. He listens as she recounts their journey to York for clothing, how they spent a day exploring the back garden, then walking through Poppleton pointing out all the key buildings and locals that Sophia has made her acquaintance with since she moved in. It is blindingly clear that Sophia is already very much attached to the boy. In the same respect, it is becoming more and more evident that, in order to remain in her life, his son will very much be a condition that Tom shall have to grow used to.

Once again, a burning hatred for the tramp rises within him. Were it not for her, had Sophia and he been lucky enough to cross paths in a different world where different choices were made, then it is very much possible that he would have already proposed to her, would have lowered himself to one knee and presented her a ring in the Russian gold she so favours. There would be no hesitation resulting from the damage his own mind has suffered, no deep sated ache over something so desperately desired but just out of reach for no tangible reason. And yet, the tramp’s ghost does not haunt him. When he looks upon Sophia now as she recalls her young charge’s work toward mastering reading, he almost has to actively make the links between Sophia, his son, and the tramp who so ruined him. How long will he allow her this too? She took months from him, stole them with an unholy creation and then continued to linger far past her own death, it turns out. She has ripped years of his lift from him— can he walk along the streets of York beside Sophia as he does now and knowingly let go? Can he knowingly push away the persisting traces of that vile woman, acknowledge that all that remains is a son she never raised and continue on with his life? How long will he allow her to continue stealing his own life from him now that she has wasted hers?

“taking him up to Hogsmeade to meet Zander… Tom? Are you well?”

“Sophia. Is there any chance you would make time for me within the week? I am aware you have your responsibilities and I am more than willing to work around them. I miss spending time with you.” She stares, cornflower blue eyes wide, no evidence to the dark smudges that had sat beneath them but minutes ago.

“I can ask my parents if they would be willing to watch Tom for a few hours. Though I can’t say when it would be.”

“Write to me,” he requests, reaching for her hand, one finger tracing the curve of her knuckle before she closes the space, twining her fingers with his own. “You are on my mind far too often. I miss a time when you walked beside me instead of through my mind.” Her smile is butter soft, eyes wistful.

“Of course. I’ve missed you too. We…”

“I want to meet my son,” Tom states, even as discomfort crawls over his skin. He pushes it down, forces himself to continue because he wants this, despite the hesitation, the ache that tries to insist something will go wrong. “Not this month. The next— if he is willing.” Because it is not just Tom whose life the tramp ruined. She brought a life into the world and then abandoned him. She stole months, years of Tom’s life and condemned his son to an orphanage, parentless and alone.

“I will ask him after he’s a bit more settled,” she promises, her gaze drifting to his lips, her grip upon his hand tightening ever so slightly. Tom leans down, close enough that their lips are but a breath away from one another, every exhale ghosting across the skin. “And I will write you. Always.” He presses his lips to hers, a gentle brush that presses harder as he seconds tick by, as Sophia returns the pressure with a gentle exhale, sucking ever so slightly against his lower lip and it doesn’t make him flinch. His forehead rests against hers when they part, one of his hands at her side as the other continues to rest against hers, fingers tracing the thin tendons on the back of her hand.

“Thank you. You are on my mind perpetually, Sophia, darling.”

Tom wakes in a bed that is not his own. It takes a moment but his brain produces the answer; it is Sophia’s old room. She has had to return to work to earn the money needed to keep them afloat. His zouwu is still tucked up against one side, Sophia’s strange old toy occupying the rest of the bed, even though it’d been much, much smaller before it’d been tucked under the covers. Tom draws the quilt back, watching the strange snake-bird thing shrink until it is once again no larger than his arm. It takes a moment of sitting upon the bed, but Tom manages to drum up the courage to get up, to approach the bedroom door that leads out into the corridor. These are Sophia’s parents and, while her mother had not much spoken to him, her father had. Edmund, he’d said his name was. He’d even invited Tom to call him gramps, to address him as family. It is… startling to think about.

Tom makes his way down the stairs, inspecting the photographs that line the walls. They’re black and white, just like the ones he’d seen in the papers on the walk to the church with the rest of the Wools orphans. The difference is, these document the growth of the Lovegood family, a little girl who gets older and them a boy who joins her, both with hair so light the pictures make it near white. Sophia and who Tom can only assume is her brother. (Maybe in the future he will be in one of these pictures too?)

Arriving at the bottom of the stairs, he looks to the kitchen, finding Sophia’s mother sitting up to the table, a slice of toast in one hand and a wand in the other. Is she performing magic? Tom takes a hesitant step forward, pausing after that first move when Sophia’s mother looks up and meets his gaze. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t duck his head because this is Sophia’s family and Sophia is… kind. She’s kind to him and families are supposed to be like each other, aren’t they?

“Come on then. Don’t dally at the bottom of the stairs. There’s breakfast to be had.” Sophia’s mother sniffs, tipping her head back so her nose is in the air and Tom frowns at the action. That only draws a smile from the woman though. “So there is some fire to you after all. Come eat some toast and I will show you a real work of magic.”

The roar of the fireplace interrupts them a half hour later, forcibly drawing Tom out of the absolute fascination he had been neck deep in while watching Aurelia Lovegood work. He’d had no idea magic could be planned out, could be set to turn on when certain conditions are met or to activate when certain people crossed the boundary line. Wards sound fascinating and Sophia’s mother is very smart. That she had offered to begin teaching him the runic alphabet that most wards almost makes him want to come here. Almost. Because while it hasn’t been horrible, there has been no Sophia here. It’s why he abandons the table the moment he hears the sudden burst of flames (the floo, which witches and wizards like him use to travel to each other’s homes instead of walking).

Tom skids around the door into the living room, feeling his heart leap up into his throat as he finds Sophia standing upon the living room floorboards, brushing the last few sparkles of green powder from her dress. She looks up, her eyes catching on his and lighting up. Then, she’s crossing the distance between them before Tom can think to get his own legs moving, scooping him up into her arms and Tom doesn’t even care that he’s now resting against her hip like a baby who can’t stand up, too busy wrapping his arms around her neck and pressing his face to her shoulder. She still smells like her, even if there’s an odd, medical like smell to her as well. Probably from the hospital, not that Tom has actually been to one himself. He doesn’t plan to either, not unless they’ll let him come to work with Sophia. He could probably learn a lot there. Not that Sophia’s mother hasn’t offered to teach him either, but Sophia’s work has Sophia. That instantly makes it better.

“I’ve missed you too, pumpkin.” He doesn’t even care that Sophia’s taken to calling him a vegetable instead of his actual name. It’s a nickname, it’s nice and it’s warm and comforting and he wants to be a pumpkin forever. No one at Wools gets called a pumpkin, not where Tom had heard it anyway. Nuzzling his face up against Sophia neck, Tom only half-heartedly registers Aurelia asking Sophia how she is. He’s not sure what a ‘wake-me-up’ potion is, but it’s something Sophia has apparently taken. He can make a good guess at it, but if Sophia’s here, he’s… happy. It’s odd, knowing the bubbling feeling in his stomach is happiness. There’d bene brief moments at the orphanage where he’d had this, but it’d never lasted this long. It’d never been this… strong.

“Ready to go home?”

“Yes,” Tom breathes, drawing back from Sophia’s neck to look into her eyes. They’re a lighter blue than his, the kind you can tell the colour of from a distance. If he wanted to play-pretend, it wouldn’t be too difficult to say Sophia is his actual mother. The absent father would have to have dark hair like Tom’s, his eyes would have to be darker, but he’d still share the same waves as Sophia has in her hair, the same blue in their eyes, even if hers is so much lighter. “Aurelia said she’ll teach me the runic alphabet.”

“Well, don’t be going putting up wards around our house. The last thing we need is to be changing into monkeys if you get it wrong.” Tom smiles, returning his head to rest on Sophia’s shoulder. Even though he’s excited to be going home, he still has enough thought to thank Sophia’s mother for breakfast and smile at her goodbye.

After Sophia changes clothes (she’s wearing trousers! The kind the workmen use that’re thick and Sophia’s are covered in paint splodges), they both end up in the garden, finishing up the tree-house that they started two days ago. Sophia uses magic to build it, the materials weaving together at her command even as she keeps asking Tom what to do, where to put things, what colour it should be. Because it’s going to be his treehouse. His little space to hide or to explore from or to just relax in. And she says that he has to give her permission to go up there and there’ll only be a handful of spells on it to keep him safe and warm. There’s a rope with thick knots in it every so often to climb to get up and a twisting slide that runs from the treehouse around the trunk to spit him out at the bottom, on the opposite side of the roots to the swing that hangs from the thickest branch. And there’s something Sophia had called a zipline that’d carry him from the very top of the treehouse halfway down the garden, close to the cottage. Sophia had promised him it was safe but the only thing that’d be holding him to the thin bar on the metal wire would be his own hands. Hands that have not had much practise holding his whole body up. Even if she’s used a sticking spell that doesn’t come off, Tom’s not going to risk that. Not until someone else has tried it anyway.

“Want to go test it then?” Sophia asks, her wand stuck between the bun of hair she’s got atop her head and Tom looks back to his treehouse, something he’d never have imagined last month. The thick rope is rough under his fingers and it takes him three goes to figure out how to move up the rope with it wiggling around like that. But he manages, getting to the top and pulling himself in with a lot of effort. Inside the treehouse, there’re cushions in the soft yellows he’d picked because it reminded him of the Miss Lovegood who came for him at Wools, a thick blanket in the same grey that his room’s carpet is. There’s a working tap that draws on water from the river and cups that’re charmed to wash themselves after he uses them. He only needs some snacks here and then it would be the perfect place to hide away if he wanted to. Like his room at Wools where no one had dared come in unless he let them, but only better. Because this has been built for him, he’s been able to make decisions about it.

“Can I come join you, Tom?” Sophia is standing by the rope, smiling up at him and the distance between her being able to climb up here and his own climb doesn’t seem very big at all. Tom nods, watching as Sophia shimmies up the rope like she’s done it plenty of times until she’s in the treehouse with him, not having to duck because she’d used magic to make the room taller on the inside than it is outside.

“Happy?” He nods, not wanting to put it into words because he’ll spoil it. Instead, he flops down on the cushion and Sophia joins him a moment later, right next to him but not touching, not yet. She lifts one arm in a silent invitation for him to join instead and Tom does so, pressing his face against her chest to feel every breath she takes.

“What did you think to staying with my parents then, pumpkin?”

“They’re nice,” Tom settles on after a moment of thought, swallowing as he hugs closer to Sophia, sinking into the warm hand she places on his back and then begins stroking back and forth. “Aurelia thinks I’m clever.”

“That’s because you are,” Sophia says with a little laugh. It’s a warm sound, the kind that makes him sink into her side deeper. “Mother is a little odd with some of the things that she can think, but she is very good at recognising talent. It’s why she married my dad. And you have talent by the bucket, Tom.” He does, doesn’t he? And because he’s talented and clever—

“You’re nicer though.” Sophia giggles again, her eyes slipping closed. Yeah, a nap sounds like a good idea right now.

Chapter Text

12.09.1930

—don’t leave me waiting too long for your reply, Bronson. I know you have yet to sign yourself up for your exams, though why you are dallying is beyond me. Your dear sister will be begging you to patch up her quidditch injuries the moment you’re qualified.

Best regards,

           Sophia

“Tom, sweetheart, are you ready to go?”

Setting down the quill and sprinkling a dash of pounce powder upon the letter, Sophia has it folding away into an envelope with a brisk swish of her wand. Bronson’s address sinks into the front once it’s sealed, the ink black and thick, accompanied by the little swishes at the end of each word that she’d place upon them had she written it by hand. Bronson’s owl, nestled in a little crook upon the windowsill with its chestnut feathers not looking a bit out of place among the dark wood of the window frame, gives a soft hoot before it begins clicking its beak. Awaiting the envelop in her hands, the bird cocks its head to a side and coos again.

“You are far too good for that man,” Sophia declares, offering up the letter and smoothing two fingers down the crown of the owl’s head. It pushes up into the contact for a mere moment, then turns and takes off out of the open window. Sophia spends a single moment watching it go, the near silence of its flight hidden behind the light breeze and the rustle of the trees’ leaves. The heat of late summer is beginning to drain from the world now, bringing the autumn chill that September so often delivers. For Sophia, it means cardigans of thick wool or thin trench-coats (the stylish, sleek variety of course) and that she should perhaps begin to shop for some thicker tights.

“I’m almost done.”

Turning from the window, Sophia cannot hope to stop the smile that spread across her face if she wished to. Standing at the door to the living room, Tom is wrestling the remaining sleeve of his charcoal grey jumper down his arm, cheeks puffed out with the effort as he wiggles the limb down to the cuff. While his shorts (he’d insisted upon them, as if clinging to summer-wear would mean the heat of summer would remain with them longer) are neatly pressed, his shoes shone within an inch of their life… the same cannot be said for the absolute rat’s nest that has taken up home on his head. There are still a few droplets of water dripping from the dark strands, one trickling down the bridge of his nose in spite of how his head shakes with the motion of pulling on his jumper. A triumphant noise comes dancing out from between his lips as he finally pushing his hand out of the jumper’s sleeve, fingertips wagging in an affirmation of his success.

“Come here, pumpkin. Let me fix that hair of yours.”

Tom’s eyes, the same dark blue as his father, flicker up to assess her, though what on earth he as to be suspicious about regarding her offer escapes Sophia. With a mutinous pout, he adjusts the hem of his jumper until it resides smoothly across his torso. Ah— he’d been so very insistent that he could dress himself, he probably thinks she’s trying to help. But no, he’d proven himself independent enough to dress and she won’t force her help upon him. Though mentioning he’d gotten his shirt on backwards yesterday had been a must.

“Just the hair?” he asks and Sophia hums, drawing her wand and giving it a single, contraclockwise flick. Instantly, the boy’s hair begins to dry, water droplets collecting in the air beside him until Sophia directs them out into the garden. Only when all the liquid is gone does she close the window, sealing it with the latch before she turns to Tom and does her best not to smile too much at his hair. He has the same issue as her, waves that, when dried incorrectly, can become… quite the sight.

“Just the hair,” Sophia promises, patting at the seat of her desk and, after a moment of deliberation, Tom makes his way over and smoothly hops up. He is quite tall for his age, for all that his cute little face is still only just rising from the era of toddlerdom to that of a small child. Running one set of fingers through his hair, Sophia gently scrapes her fingernails against Tom’s scalp, the same motion that has resulted in him nodding off on her at the end of the night during story-time. With her other hand, she traces the curves of Tom’s skull. Obediently, his hair begins to smooth out into the usual sleek waves without any of this muggle styling nonsense that they’d started to try training into him at the orphanage.

“Done?”

Instead of answering verbally, Sophia conjures up a mirror, offering it to her young charge as she makes for the cupboard under the stairs, pulling out the cream bag that matches the soft petal-pink of her dress and the delicate off-white of her cardigan. Her shoes are next, straps magically weaving behind her ankles as Tom makes an appreciative noise over his own reflection before placing the mirror down and making his way into the hallway to join her.

“Walking or carrying?”

“Walking,” Tom confirms, little hands balling up into small fists before he relaxes them, one reaching out towards her. Sophia catches his hand in her own, threading their fingers together while a quick bit of wand work confirms that all the doors and windows of the cottage are locked, barring the one she’ll be leaving from. Not that locking the place up is much of a problem with Mother’s wards but it doesn’t sit right, leaving and knowing the place is unlocked in some respect.

“I’m sure the schoolmaster will be suitably impressed with you,” Sophia begins, stepping out onto the flat stone before the front door, taking a moment to smooth the shoulders of Tom’s jumper before locking up. “But please don’t get your hopes up too high.” After all, most children begin school at the age of five. While the memories of a past life inform her children younger than five did attend school, that was for nurseries or reception; true schooling did not start until the age of five and even then, that was not in the time period she currently exists in. There’s every possibility that the schoolmaster will turn his nose up at the prospect of accepting an additional pupil before the assigned time, even though Sophia knows Tom will be no bother academically.

“Can Aurelia not teach me instead?”

“Mother probably could,” Sophia admits, running her thumb across the back of Tom’s hand as they make their way down the street, waving to Mrs Merrypenny, the old woman who lived two doors down. “Being in a school is a completely different experience to learning one-to-one though. While Mother could undoubtedly teach you everything academic that you need to know—” And then some. “—there are things you can learn in school that wouldn’t come about from learning at my mother’s feet.”

“…Aurelia wouldn’t make me learn at her feet,” Tom states with confidence, though the slight gleam to his eyes showcases that he isn’t as assured by his own statement as he is pretended to be. Which, fair enough. Her mother can be a bit… off putting at time. Part of the Malfoy charm, she supposes.

“It’s a turn of phrase, sweetheart. Besides, you would be my mother’s only student whereas in school, you will be able to measure your progress against others in your age bracket, in addition to exercising social skills that will end up underdeveloped if you don’t interact with anyone else your own age. I can promise you, Tom, that’ll only come back to bite you later down the line.”

Tom frowns, brows creasing above his cute little button nose as he mulls over her words, though if that is down to the context or the actual words she was using, Sophia isn’t sure. Regardless, she doesn’t believe in dumbing herself down (at least in terms of vocabulary) when conversing with Tom. He’s a quick study and she knows he’ll pick things up soon enough; it is better to give him the opportunity to learn at his own pace than to try and set one for him.

“What does bracket mean?”

Besides, she’s going to be here to answer any questions he has.

Poppleton’s schoolhouse is perhaps only twice the size of their cottage, though that is undoubtedly a result of it being a village school. There are only two teachers on record (Sophia had done her research prior to arriving; she’s hardly going into this blind) along with the schoolmaster, one Mr William Coleman, a fifty-something professional academic who’d retired to the countryside at his wife’s insistence following the brutality of The Great War. She has Mrs Merrypenny to thank for all that information; the woman’s an unrepented gossip.

“Well,” Mr Coleman states, just a shade shy of being utterly perplexed, as he watches Tom close the book he’d been reading from with an air of finality. “I cannot say I’ve had many children come to school capable of reading that fluently already before five.”

“Tom turns four in December.” If she stresses his name just a little bit, then so be it. Her hand is on Tom’s shoulder from where she stands behind him, having given the boy the seat opposite the schoolmaster’s desk when it became clear the man wouldn’t think to fetch one for Tom to sit upon. It takes a fair bit of effort to hold her tongue further, torn between regaling the man with Tom’s general academic prowess and not needling the man by continuing to talk. Not when the first thing the man had asked her is if her husband would be joining them at this meeting. If she had been purposely vague on the subject matter, then who was to know? Yes, she’s just old enough that it is socially acceptable for Tom to be looked at and considered her own biological child, but only just. Certainly, it’d be enough for others to frown over. But it would bring a kind of social stigma upon him if the school were to be informed she had adopted him.

“And he can write too?”

“He can.” She passes over an example that Tom had written up just that morning, groggy-eyed and half hunched over his breakfast, but he had done it. Yes, there are multiple mistakes, spelling errors and other such issues. But for a child not yet four years old? It’s very impressive indeed. Well, to Sophia anyway. Given the low hum that Mr Coleman allows to pass between his lips, he’s suitably impressed too.

“A year early isn’t a bad thing.”

Tom doesn’t agree. The school building hadn’t been what he was expecting, but he hadn’t really had any true expectations for it either. To Tom, school represented a time-period in his life where Sophia wouldn’t be there, where there would be other children again, just like Wools, only these others wouldn’t know him. He would have to establish himself all over again and it’s not something he wants to spend his time doing, not when he could be walking through the village with Sophia or learning magic with Aurelia.

Really, it would be much better if he could spend his days with them; why does he even need to go to school when he’s capable of teaching himself most things, when he can learn the rest from Aurelia or Sophia? He says as much out loud, knowing that they had already discussed this it this morning but… he doesn’t want to accept it. It can’t be that important, getting to know other children his own age. When he grows up enough to need those skills, the other children will be adults too with adult jobs so really, he only needs to know how to interact with adults, not with other children.

He doesn’t expect Sophia to stop walking down the street, doesn’t expect her to step ever so slightly in front of him and then crouch down so that they are near enough eye to eye. She’s balanced on the tips of her strange shoes, the thin heel the only thing that appears to be supporting the weight other than the toes.

“Pumpkin… Tom,” she corrects herself, reaching out to stroke her fingertips across the side of his face, carefully avoiding the hair she had styled before they left. “I promise you, if this wasn’t something that wouldn’t help you grow as a person, that if school truly was a waste of time that you could spend engaging in other ways, I wouldn’t be pushing for it. Yes, you may find it a bit of a bore and it might be nicer spending time at home— and yes,” she says, a secret little smile as she looks right and left before leaning in ever so slightly to share something that shouldn’t be overheard, “some of the things the muggles will tell you is completely wrong. I mean, they only discovered Pluto this year. But you will learn so much more than just the information they feed you.”

He pushes down the instinctive urge to ask after Pluto (whatever that is), instead pushing out his bottom lip just like Amy used to do with Mrs Cole to try and get her own way (it worked half of the time) before letting his eyes water ever so slightly. It doesn’t take much effort; he’s not happy about this school business, he’s not happy that Sophia has to go to a job and can’t take him with her, and he’s not happy with his own inability to accept it all because it is still better that Wools.

“Come here.” Tom steps into Sophia’s embrace, letting her scoop him up, both her arms wrapping around his back to hold him close as she stands back up. It’s childish because no one carried the almost four-year-olds back at Wools, but Tom can’t find it in himself to care right now, too busy worming his arms over Sophia’s shoulders. He rests his head on her shoulder, an invitation to do so not needed. She’d let him do it before and… and the closeness is nice. It’s nice to get a hug, nice to have Sophia’s arms around him like she can’t bear the thought of letting him go. He stubbornly pushes back the tears that come with the irritation of not getting his own way.

“Tell you what,” Sophia whispers, rubbing one hand up and down his back, the motion slow and smooth. “Why don’t I pop us up to Hogsmeade? You can see Hogwarts from there. Then you’ll know what school for us looks like.”

For all that it had felt really bad (the pressing on all sides, like he can’t breathe and never will again but only for a second), Tom is completely sold on apparition. They’d been in Poppleton in England and now they’re apparently in Scotland. He’s never been so far from where he lives before, though he’d not sure exactly how far Scotland is from Poppleton. But it must be far given it’s another country and everyone speaks with a funny accent, like they haven’t learned how to speak properly. And Hogwarts!

Even now, standing on a funny little stool in a shop for wizard clothes that Sophia has taken him to, Tom cannot get the image of the castle out of his head. The ancient grey stone, the towers that rose around the main building made it look like it was a fairytale castle only better. That’s where he’s going to learn about magic, to learn how to do real magic once he’s old enough. He’ll learn how to turn something into another thing, will learn apparition and he’ll never be stuck in once place again.

Sophia has said that he can’t learn apparition unless it’s from a professional instructor who’s been assessed in how they teach things. That’s something Tom can understand now that he’s had it fully explained to him; he’s hardly going to try using it on his own when there’s a chance he’ll leave part of himself behind. Quite frankly, he’s pleased Sophia had agreed to his request to return home in different way, through the floo instead of apparating. Yes, she might very well be a healer capable of reattaching whatever part of him is left behind but, if they can avoid the splinching of an arm or leg to begin with, well, that’s better then, isn’t it?

Sucking on his lower lip, Tom tilts his head to a side, watching Sophia watch her friend work. The lady who owns the shop is apparently Sophia’s friend who she helped before she had even met Tom, Miss Twilfitt who has twin boys that’re younger than Tom. Children that were born into the magical world and who’re only a year and a bit younger than him, but…

“—obviously very proud, but I just wish their first bout of accidental magic was a little less, destructive, you know?”

Sophia won’t know, not about Tom anyway. Sure, Tom may have popped a lightbulb or a window or two back in Wools, but that was last year (or so he’d been told). Every bit of magic he’d ever done, even knowing it was just a power, even when he hadn’t a name to put to it— every last one had been done on purpose. And he’d done it so often! Miss Twilfitt is talking about their twins and their one bout of accidental magic like it’s wonderful. Sophia is nodding along, clearly pleased to hear the story and… she doesn’t look worried about the amount they’ve done. It’s nothing compared to what Tom can do but she’s acting like the twins’ magic is normal which… that has to mean Tom’s special, doesn’t it?

“What do you think, Tom?” Sophia asks, coming to stand before him, both arms straight with one thrown out to a side, the other up and over her shoulder. But the pose is only the second most ridiculous thing about her. It’s some kind of jumpsuit, make of some kind of fluffy material and it does look admittedly warm for the coming winter months. That the entire design is based upon a cute brown bear is just… silly.

Sophia must read his thoughts from his face because she laughs, pulling down the hood so that her blonde hair once again tops her head instead of the ridiculous hood with the bear’s eyes, nose and top of its mouth. “It’s not for going out in,” she says, dismissively wafting one hand through the air, either not noticing or ignoring the shallow giggles of Miss Twilfitt. “It’s for snuggling up on a nighttime, or for sleepovers in your treehouse—” She looks to him, smile warm. “—if you will allow such a thing, that is?”

“Why would we sleep in the cold?” Tom asks because it doesn’t make any sense. There’s a reason people live in houses after all.

“I’ll charm it warm enough to be comfortable. It’s an adventure, sleeping out under the stars after a little picnic, having a little campfire to toast marshmallows. Just me and you, pumpkin.” Well, it sounds better than going to Sophia’s parents anyway. “I’ve got you one too.”

When Sophia had said about a sleepover in the treehouse, Tom hadn’t assumed she had meant that night. Yet, here they both are, laid out on the treehouses usual cushion along with all the blankets that are usually on both their beds, the roof charmed into nothingness so that they can stare up at the array of stars that dot the sky. He wouldn’t have been able to see them all in London, not when the sky there was covered in thick, clogging smoke that curled up out of the factories. The silly bear suit is stupid-looking, but he’ll begrudgingly admit that it’s very warm.

“What do you think then, Tom?” Sophia asks, one arm thrown out to a side where she’s lying down. Tom’s got his head resting on the arm in question, looking up at the sky even as his eyes beg to close, ready to drop off to sleep because it is nighttime. Mrs Cole probably called lights out at least an hour ago but he doesn’t need to follow her rules now because he’s not there to hear them. Instead, it’s Sophia who makes the rules and Sophia’s the one who came up with this sleep under the stars idea. Not the stars in his own room, but the actual genuine stars that’re in the night’s sky.

“This is nice,” he admits, fingers woven together and resting over his stomach and he clenches them together. It’s nice and he could stay here forever. Hogwarts looks amazing, sounds amazing, but he’d be happy to stay here, to live in Sophia’s house forever.

“You see that small, fuzzy patch of light up there?” Sophia points into the sky and Tom squints, trying to follow her finger until he’s half-certain he can see what she’s singled out.

“Yes?”

“That’s Andromeda. I don’t suppose Wools got around to teaching their toddlers about the Greek myths?”

When Tom shakes his head, Sophia hums, the sound soft and warm and comforting. She draw him closer to her and Tom shuffles over willing, resting his head against her collarbone so he can feel the vibrations of her voice when she begins talking, telling him the myth of Andromeda and the hero, Perseus. He’s tired, but a thought nags at the back of his head, unwilling to leave him.

“Are the sea monsters real?” After all, if magic is real and, while Tom isn’t sold on the concept of gods, there’s nothing to suggest monsters also can’t exist.

“We have sea serpents that live in the ocean. But I don’t think there’s ever been a recorded case of them attacking humans before.” Okay. That doesn’t sound too bad then. Yawning, Tom snuggles into Sophia’s side, no longer attempting to fight the losing battle of his closing eyelids. Sleeping under the stars isn’t too bad after all.

Chapter Text

14.09.1930

“You’ll have to tell me everything you learn from Mother. It’s been a while since I’ve reviewed the runic alphabet.”

Standing by the fireplace, one arm clutching a too-big notepad to his chest and the other holding a self-inking quill, Tom peers back at her with a hint of suspicion in his eyes. Like he believes she’s condescending him or something. She supposes to Tom Marvolo Riddle, genius who remembers almost everything, forgetting a whole concept is beyond him. It probably won’t help if she coos over his cute little face, so Sophia holds herself back, brushing a gathering of illusionary lint from his shirt instead. She’s aware her parents are hovering in the background, no doubt watching the entire interaction, but Sophia cannot bring herself to care; there’s nothing to their relationship she wants to hide. Tom is her little pumpkin now and she won’t be giving him up without a fight. Even if it’s the boy himself that wants to go, she’ll do anything (everything) to make sure that it’s what he really wants before she lets him flutter out of her grasp.

“You’ll be fine,” Sophia says, though she’d quite unsure who she’s reassuring. Herself most probably. It’s been more than a week now since he first stayed the night at her parents’ home, and he’s taken to it like a snitch takes to the air, swiftly and without any further hesitation. He’s comfortable there, for all that he’s already tried insisting that he would be perfectly fine home alone. It hadn’t taken Sophia long to dissuade him of the notion, though she still feels quite guilty for instilling a hint of terror in the boy by reciting all the different things that could go wrong with accidental magic, magical objects, and potions ingredients. Perhaps the recount of spontaneous exploding potion ingredients had been a bit too much; Tom had still eyed the door to the lab warily as they left home earlier and the first thing he’d done upon arrival was to ask Mother where she kept her own ingredients. He’d been most satisfied to learn they resided in a completely separate building at the bottom of the garden.

“Of course I will be,” Tom says, eyeing his shirt as she she’s purposefully messing it up instead of brushing it down. His eyes flittering over her dress (a deep rose pink, sweetheart neckline and accompanying rose-gold jewellery) before they drift up to her face, inspecting the light dusting of eyeshadow and lipstick she’s put on for the night. Subtle amounts of course because it is a midday lunch date, not a night out or a meal among the upper class. But it’s Sophia so she must dress in a lovely manner; it’s her thing now. Tom does not say whatever sits upon his mind, but Sophia already knows all too well what would pass through his lips if he were to speak. He had made himself heard before they had left home, after all.

It’s not like she would lie to Tom by saying she was popping out to see friends, or that she was going to work. She’s made it quite clear that she’s going to meet his father for lunch; the expression of pure disdain that had thundered across Tom’s face upon learning that particular tidbit of information had been a sight for the ages. She should probably feel quite touched that his first declaration had been that she couldn’t give him to that man, that he wanted to stay with her, that she’d promised he could stay. He hadn’t seemed entirely settled with her declaration that she’d sooner scoop him off and run into the Scottish countryside than allow his father to take him away from her. As if he cannot comprehend just how damning quickly an adult can grow attached to a child. It had pressed a little seed of doubt into the grounds of her own mind though; is Tom as attached to her as she is to him? Sophia had been quick to banish the thought before it could truly take root though. Tom’s upbringing isn’t a stellar example of how children should be raised; it would be perfectly normal for him to have developed some form of attachment issues. All Sophia can do is be patient and understanding with him, and to not let the tendrils of hurt show on her face whenever they strike out.

“Four hours at most,” Sophia promises, tapping at the small wristwatch around her wrist, the leather strap charmed to match the colour of her shoes (a delicate light lavender today).

“Then you’ll read with me?”

“For the rest of the night.” She reels Tom into a hug, feeling something warm and soft uncurl in her chest when he hugs back just as tightly, thin little arms thrown over her shoulders and stubby, toddler fingers getting caught up in her hair. She smooths the flat of her palm down his back, patting twice before pulling away, reluctant but well aware she’s on a timer now. It’s ten to twelve now and she had a lunch date in exactly ten minutes. Quite frankly, it’d be rather rude to turn up late (the one fashionable thing she’s never been able to bring herself to consent to) and turning up just before the agreed upon time may seem overly eager but… she is eager.

“Be good,” Sophia says, pressing a gentle kiss to Tom’s forehead before she steps back and away, spinning on the spot because smooth though the floo may be, she will not be chancing soot on her dress.

Sophia has been to The Rose a handful of times, each funded by Oliver as a treat, barring their final meal in which Sophia had treated the man as a thank you for his time as her mentor. She hasn’t been back since, not until now. The interior is as splendidly exorbitant as she had first seen it; the large chandelier that hangs in the centre of the room, the great expanse of lawn that the back of the building looks out over, the extensively stocked bar off to the side. The whole thing drips with its intention to cater to the wealthy, hence why she has only ever been within the place of her own choice because it was a treat for another. Even now she does not intent to pay, if only because Tom had made it clear within his letter that he would be doing so. A date had to be paid for by the gentleman, he’d stressed when she tried to propose the idea of splitting the bill. Yes, it’s somewhat chauvinistic but, given the prices, Sophia wasn’t about to fight too hard over his insistence.

“Miss Lovegood?”

“Yes, that’s me.” The waiter offers a dip of his head, gesturing wordlessly that she should follow him to the back of the room and she does so quietly, inspecting the rest of the clients. They’re all dressed well (unsurprising) though there are a handful that are a season or two behind the current trends, people who are starting to suffer financially from the state of the economy but are too invested in keeping up pretences to not come out to dine. It seems silly to her, but then what does Sophia know about the minds of the rich and the famous?

“Sophia.” The pleased exhale of her name steals all her attention instantly, the venue and its occupants falling to the wayside in favour of Tom Riddle’s presence. He’s dressed smart in a suit of a brown so soft that, had they not dressed in separate locations, one could assume they’d dressed to match. Not that the colours are the same, but the shade of brown compliments her own pink dress rather fetchingly.

Sophia offers Tom her hand, well aware that their current environment is far removed from a not-quite-chance meeting on the streets of York and that their previous greeting of a hug would no doubt invite others to gossip.

“Hello, Tom.” And she knows she should be asking how he is, knowing she should be inquiring after his health, but that is not what comes out. “It’s wonderful to see you again.” A smile lights up his face, his brow smoothing ever so slightly, and it is such a sight that Sophia forgets herself for a moment, only able to stare as he presses a light, dry kiss to the back of her hand in greeting.

“Something that is well reciprocated, I assure you.”

Once they are both seated up to the table, once orders for sandwiches that are far too pricey have been given, Sophia finds herself smiling at nothing at all, a teacup cradled in her grasp for lack of anything to do with her restless hands.

“Tell me about your horses,” Sophia implores, setting her teacup down with a quiet ‘chink’ ringing out when the porcelain base meets the saucer. “How is Dapple?”

“You never did get those riding lessons, did you?” He’s right of course; life had rather gotten in the way of that; she had slotted the concept of learning to ride down her list of priorities, the utmost of which is to look after the Tom. Her little charge takes priority over everything within her life, even the Tom sitting across from her.

“A concept to be revisited at a later date.”

“One would think you’re just avoiding your lessons,” Tom teases, his voice light as he flicks a smile at her, looking up from beneath thick lashes. Were it not impolite for elbows to be on the tables, she’s certain he’d be resting his chin upon his hand, his attentions focused solely upon her. He’s doing a good job of portraying such a thing now. Sophia shuffles ever so slightly in her seat, getting comfortable as Tom begins to speak about his hobby.

By the time they’ve dined, drank the last dregs of their tea and accepted that to linger longer in their seat would be highly improper, Tom has shared all about Zeus’ improved temperament, Sophia has spoken at length on her latest case (after ensuring no one would be around to hear about how a child had managed to break their leg by relying too much on their accidental magic to catch them mid-fall), and they are both unsatisfied with the amount of time they have spent within one another’s presence. With two hours left and having just spent a fair portion of time talking of magic (even if it is relation to her job and healing, it had been a key part of the topic), Sophia sucks in a breath and speaks before common sense can still her tongue.

“Do you think it would help if you were to be more informed about potions?”

To jolts. “I beg your pardon?” He hasn’t quite stilled beside her, but he certainly missed a step as he was walking. Not enough to draw attention with his misstep or words, not enough for Sophia to repeat herself, but enough to show her sudden turn of topic has startled him.

“There is a shop in Hogsmeade that sells potions. If… You see, I was mulling over the idea that, if you were to have more knowledge about the subject, if you were capable of identifying some potions, then you may feel a bit more…” secure. She doesn’t finish the sentence though, trails off just before she can vocalise the last word. Too busy taking in the sight of Tom’s wide eyes, the straight line of his spine and the tense horizon of his shoulders. Hesitantly, Sophia reaches out and places one hand upon his, only wrapping her other hand around his arm when he doesn’t flinch from the action. “It was just a thought.”

“And a good one,” Tome breathes after a second. The bob of his Adam’s apple prevents any other words from escaping until it settles. By then, he has a hand of his own resting over hers, crossed over his torso and Sophia doesn’t miss how it’s a gesture halfway towards hugging oneself. “Let’s do it, before my mind can have a chance to change, Sophia darling.”

Well aware of her self-imposed timer (there are two hours and ten minutes left before she is overdue on her promise to her young charge and Sophia has never failed to return a library book, nevermind her actual self to someone dependent upon her), she apparates them to the outskirts of Hogsmeade. They’re just around the corner of the village, the sight of it half-hidden behind the great stone walls of the train station. The tracks themselves are absent of any form of transportation, what with the Hogwarts Express having made the journey a fortnight prior. No other train truly visits the station, not when those who would otherwise travel to the magical village have easier methods of travelling across the country.

“Alright?”

“That is still exceptionally unpleasant,” Tom breathes, not quite hunched over but certainly no longer standing with military precision. Sophia gives him a moment, conjuring a warming charm for herself (she had hardly bothered to pick up a jacket on her way out given their sudden trip to Scotland is most certainly a spur of the moment thing) before asking if Tom himself would like one. The look of gratitude he shoots her is mixed with something else entirely, something far removed from the fear and terror that’d been there when she first offered him magic in the early days of their acquaintance. When he turns down her offer, she knows it is because he genuinely believes his suit jacket will be enough to keep him warm and for no other reason. And though they are about to head in, though he has allowed her to apparate them to Hogsmeade, she still feels the need to check.

“Still happy with this?”

There it is again. Sophia checking in with him, the cornflower blue of her eyes reflected in the crisp autumn blue of the clear sky above their heads, the pale pink flesh of her lips creasing ever so slightly with her worry. It’s a far cry from the half-dimpled smile she’d watched him with over lunch and yet, it is one of his favourite looks upon her. Because she is considerate in a way none have been with him, especially not since the wretch.

“Of course,” he states, even though he is not utterly certain. It does not matter because he is with Sophia and he trusts her, more surely than he has perhaps trusted another person at all. She hums, tucking one loose strand of blonde hair behind ear, escaped from the classic updo she has contained the rest of her hair within.

“Well, let’s head in then. We’re not going to advertise the fact you’re a muggle, so try not to stare at anything too blatantly.” Her words are spoken with a teasing lilt, lips curving upwards in a little smile as she steps around to stand by his side as opposed to being in front of him as they begin to walk. There is perhaps a part of him that internally confesses the thought that a love potion will do little to change how he feels now, that it shall only led him quicker up a path he already traverses. Why else would he be here, upon the outskirts of this unnatural town with this woman if not for the fact emotion swirls within his chest, frothing as it explodes against the sides of his ribs, cresting over his muscles like sea foam upon the pier?

He cradles her hand ever so gently, not drawing it up to rest in the crook of his elbow as would be appropriate, but instead twining their fingers together, smoothing his thumb across the rises and falls of her knuckles. But, even with the presence of Sophia beside him, he cannot forget where he is, cannot leave the oddities unacknowledged. There is a man levitating his shopping behind him, talking idly with the little girl that walks beside him. There is a cloth working its way across a mud-slathered window independent of any human, cleaning through a power beyond Tom. The buildings are whimsical though, at first glance, there is little to separate them from any other small, old town that Tom has visited. It is painstakingly older than Little Hangleton, made clear in the traditional style of the buildings. He’s quite certain most of these buildings will predate the majority of buildings in London; half of them lean in one direction or another, not quite to the extent he would say they are precariously unstable, but it is enough that he would not dream of purchasing the property, no matter how appealing a charm the architecture holds.

“Potions shop is on the left, up ahead,” Sophia breathes beside him, taking a half-step closer, so that their arms brush, his knuckles scraping up against the fabric of her dress. Despite her lack of verbal question, he can hear her unspoken one, the final offer to back out now. But he wants this. He wants a life with this woman beside him and that means he needs to find a way in which to accept what she is, all that she is capable of. It means confronting the very thing the wretch had heaped upon him, the devil’s concoction that had been presented to him as refreshment and, like a fool, he had taken it. There had been little reasoning to it; for the life of him, Tom cannot recall what thoughts had rolled through his mind upon accepting the brew. Only the stark acknowledgement that it had smelt like Cecilia’s perfume and queen’s pudding. No, he can recall being surprised something produced within that hovel could smell so good. He knows better now though, knows that it is not what it had seemed.

As they walk into the shop, the bell over their head goes off, what should have been a single chime ringing out a soft melody that has no business being as pleasant on the ear as it is. No one within the shop glances to them, too busy inspecting the wares. Tom allows himself the opportunity to look around, wandering to the nearest shelf and Sophia follows after him with the ease of a ship guided only by the waves. She makes no move to steer him toward something specific, even though he is well aware she is keeping an internal track of the time. She has agreed to meet his son at a set time and has made it abundantly clear she will be keeping to the promise.

There are several potions lining the walls that could be used in a multitude of ways; he imagines the Manegro Potion that claims to be capable of growing the hair upon the drinker’s head at a rapid rate could be used for both beauty treatments and as a prank on unsuspecting peers. It’s remarkably… non-threatening. In fact, most of them are. There are potions to enhances the drinker's memory, to cure mouth itching, one that claims to remove even the most stubborn of stains— he doesn’t doubt the help would appreciate such a concoction around the manor.

“We’ll have to speak to the proprietor for the one I suspect was used by—” Sophia cuts off, coughing ever so daintily into her hand in lieu of saying the Gaunt witch’s name. “It’s a controlled substance, so Mr Oddpick only keeps it in the back and brings it out as kind of a ‘what to watch out for’ if you ask it of him.”

“You warn others about this potion?”

“Of course,” Sophia says, hold gentle as she tugs him toward the counter. “It can ensnare witches and wizards as easily as it can a muggle.” Well, that makes sense then. Whoever thought up this potion was an imbecile of the highest degree.

Mr Oddpick is deceptively normal, given his name. The man appears to be in his late forties, with a full head of brown hair that has yet to be graced with any of the salt and pepper colouring that has begun to catch up to his own father. It is the shallow lines that bracket his eyes and mouth that indicate his age, in addition to the fact he speaks as if he has smoked forty cigars every day of his life. When Sophia asks him for a reminder of what Amortentia smells of, the man chortles light-heartedly, lifting a single brow in Tom’s direction. “Want to know if it’s changed, ‘eh?” He’s turned his back upon them before Tom can inquire exactly what that is supposed to mean. And, when he is presented with the potion in question, any thought to ask after those words leaves him.

It looks exactly the same; that same odd sheen to its surface, the swirling smoke that had led him to concluding it was some form of hot drink. Only now, he can see that the swirl is too consistent, a tight spiral that rises into the air above the potion in uniform rings. How on earth he had looked upon this substance and thought it to be anything other than unnatural, anything other than magical is beyond him. Yet, when he leans closer—

It is not Cecilia’s perfume he smells. It is not the scent of sweet queen’s pudding that rises in tandem with the spiral of steam.

Instead, the scent is of the seaside, the tang of saltwater on the lips, and there’s something crisply herbal in the smell. It’s about as different as it possibly could be while still remaining pleasant. He does not wish to doubt Sophia’s expertise, but perhaps it isn’t the right one after all.

“The smell is different,” Tom states, quiet enough that Mr Oddpick cannot hear him. Sophia turns to look at him, her eyes wide and how is it that he is only just noticing the light dusting of glitter that spans across her cheekbones? He’d thought she looked lovely earlier, but he hadn’t been close enough to register there’s some form of sparkle to her cheeks, dusting down from the rose gold powder that she’s rimmed her upper eyelids with. Of course he had not noticed though, there are hardly keeping a proper distance between them now; the kind of closeness that exists between them now comes only before the grazing of lips, the gentle press of a kiss.

“Course it’s different, lad.” Well, clearly he hadn’t been as quiet as he had believed.

Tom jolts back ever so slightly, head turning to look upon Mr Oddpick again and all too aware that the entirety of his body is angled toward Sophia, his other hand having somehow found its way to cradling hers too.

“Bet the first time you smelt Amortentia you had your heart set on some other, less bonny lass; am I right?” The last time— yes, he had thought himself in love with Cecilia, that is true. But what on earth does that have to do with it?

His confusion must be visible upon his face for Mr Oddpick laughs, tipping his head to Sophia and whispering conspiratorially, “did this one not take his potions NEWT?”

“No,” Sophia replies, matching the man’s tone, a teasing smile plucking up the corners of her mouth, “he did not.”

“One of the selling points of Amortentia is that is reminds each person who smells it of the things that they find most attractive, laddie.” Had he not imparted such important information, Tom would have been offended to be addressed as such.

“I see,” he says, mind elsewhere, somewhere south of here, to the east and the deep south where he’d spent time on beaches in Cornwall and by the cliffs in Whitby, where the sharp zing of the ocean’s spray had graced his skin. His mind lingers on a small townhouse where herbal scents sit heavy in the air, remedying spellwork even though his trust had been non-existent and all that time, there had been one consistency, one key factor linking those scents.

Palms dry, Tom squeezes the hands that are ensnared within his own hold, gentle enough to be nothing more than a plea for attention. And because she has spent so much time in his company, because she seems to be capable for reading him like an open book, Sophia draws him to the door, out into the street of the magical little village that has no right to be the site of his epiphany but has claimed it anyway.

And there, not even six feet from the door to the building which holds a potion that once stripped him of his wits, he takes a careful hold of Sophia’s face and angles his lips against her own. His other hand runs up the length of her arm, curls around at the elbow to instead cradle the small of her back against him. There is no taste of the ocean to her skin, but he can still imagine it regardless, the scent tarrying in the recesses of his mind, scorching and searing. Perhaps it is a folly to believe so, but he is quite certain the potion shall not be able to capture him with its scent alone again. Not when it reminds him so distinctly of Sophia, of their time together and this slow build of trust, drafting foundations to a relationship that he can stand upon to weather any disaster.

Parting from the kiss is a reluctant action; it feels as if he has not been able to express all that throbs behind his breastbone sufficiently, though he doubts any amount of kisses could ever express it. Instead, Tom rests his forehead against Sophia’s, inhaling the soft scent that coils off her form, mixing with whatever gentle perfume she had put on and the underlying herbal smell that isn’t quite what the potion gave off, but close enough to it.

“That was a surprise,” Sophia says, her eyes still closed, her lips still tilting up in the little smile that he’d felt through their kiss. He draws back unwillingly, enough to be able to see her open her eyes to look up at him, smile growing impossibly wider and softer. “Good surprise, but a surprise nonetheless.”

“I have told you and it was nothing but the truth; I want to get better, cannot face a world where I don’t because…” He swallows. He cannot face a world where he cannot get better because to not get better would be to not have Sophia within his life. His son is going nowhere, so it is down to Tom to stride forward, to reach out to him, to extend a hand because the boy is his own person, has only the genetics of the wretch and none of the exposure to her as she’d died bringing him into the world. His son has spent more time under Sophia’s care, had from the moment he met her and there is no one in this world that Tom trusts more, that much is now painfully clear.

“Tom—”

“I cannot imagine a day waking and knowing we will not speak again,” Tom admits, knowing it is bad form to interrupt but it needs to be said, he needs to breathe life into this truth before it ends up crushed, buried in the depths of his lungs and he cannot risk that, cannot risk this. “I cannot imagine a world where I am not receiving letters from you. I don’t wish to face a day where I know I shan’t be graced with your presence in my life, and I need to be better for this. And not just for your sake, Sophia, but for my own as well.”

Sophia peppers a kiss to his cheek, one hand resting over his heart to steady herself so that she may reach and Tom’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks for a breath.

“I hate to break this moment, but I have an appointment to keep.”

Sophia drops him off at the stables. The teleportation thing is just as unpleasant as ever, though he cannot tell if it is more so or less so following a near full stomach. What he does know is that he’s now within his own office, sitting behind his desk and just, existing. The day hadn’t quite gone how he’s expected it to, if only because he hadn’t thought he would be visiting a magical town, wouldn’t be exposed to the very substance that had once robbed him of his autonomy.

Reclining back ever so slightly, Tom lifts a hand to brush over his chest, right where Sophia had pressed her hand against as she kissed him. The slight crumple of something that is most certainly not fabric has him pausing, reaching into the pocket of his shirt to draw the slip free. Upon unfolding it, Tom finds himself staring down at a picture.

It’s Sophia and the boy, his son. He had known, of course, that the boy favoured him. It is all the more clear in the image that the child takes nothing from his mother other than the magic he has and the lack of curls; it is Tom’s eyes, Tom’s face, Tom’s everything on there. Only, his parents would never have dressed him in a not-quite-romper that resembles a bear. It is all the odder that Sophia herself wears something similar and it should be ridiculous.

But it’s not. There’s something about the picture that has wrapped a tight hold upon his heart, that has his eyes unable to look away from the photograph. It must have been taken when the sun had descended, when the night was rising because there are multiple candles within glass jars (he assumes they are candles, though he cannot quite make it out so perhaps they are not) around them, cushions littering the floor and he does not recall a room such as this in Sophia’s cottage so he cannot fathom a guess as to where they were when photographed. But he does not linger on the mystery too long, far too absorbed in the emotion the image stirs within his chest.

“Tom, darling? What on earth has caught you attention so?” He has every opportunity to hide the image, has ever opportunity to secrete it away in the bowels of his desk draw. For all that Mother is curious, she would not invade his privacy like that… but he does not wish to hide this.

Instead, he places the picture upon the surface of his desk, pushing it across to his Mother’s approaching form with one long finger, right on the corner to ensure his own prints do to mucky the image. Slowly, his mother plucks it up, her eyebrows lifting as she inspects it.

“My goodness,” she breathes. “He does look like you. There’s nothing of… Well, he could pass as Sophia’s child, that’s for certain.”

Tom coughs into his hand, refusing to think too much upon such a notion, for it would be all too easy to get lost in the potential ‘what ifs’.

Chapter Text

27.09.1930

“And it’s an all-wizard village?”

Tom peers up at her, dark eyes round and it’s not quite suspicion in his voice, but a relative of it, one that hasn’t yet bred with distrust. Doubt, perhaps. No matter the name, it coats his face with a wash of emotion, one he’s not yet old enough to go about hiding. The very sight of him has Sophia’s innards softening, chocolate that’s lingered in the gaze of the sun far too long and now she’s nothing but sweetened goo beneath her creamy-golden wrapping.

(It’s the last few days of September; she won’t be able to get away with this particular shade come October; the creamy gold of her dress would clash something terribly with the vibrant orange of the pumpkins. And she has every intention of making sure Tom enjoys a proper All Hallows Eve.)

“It’s an all-wizarding village,” Sophia confirms, reaching out and smoothing an errant wavy lock back into formation atop Tom’s hairline. His lips pucker, dark eyes heavy on her face as Sophia squats down to meet his gaze. One palm cradling his bony (far too bony) shoulders, Sophia tips Tom’s chin up ever so slightly so she might appreciate the entirety of his cute little face. He is just darling; it’s no wonder an alternate version of this boy had managed to woo so many to his ideals. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” Tom insists, mulish, chin jutting forward in a physical declaration of his intent. In his Oxford blue sweater, knee length grey shorts and smart shoes, he’s the perfect picture of a much-loved, nineteen-twenties child. Sophia continually dies just a little bit inside over the insistence upon shorts for boys, no matter the weather nor season; it’s just not practical for them (well, for the muggles that is; your average witch and wizard can perform a warming charm). Still, he does look rather darling in the whole get up. 

“Okay, pumpkin. We best get moving if we want to be back in time to enjoy our tea properly.” Holding out her hand, palm up, Sophia gives her fingers a gentle wiggle as she waits for Tom’s hand. Sure enough, after just a moment of hesitation, Tom’s little fingers slip along hers, up over her palm until his nearly trimmed nails (she should know; Sophia cut them herself) are scratching ever so slightly at her inner wrist. Only when his thumb settles, wrapped as far around the side of her hand as he can manage, does Sophia allow her own fingers to curl and capture Tom’s. “Right then. We’re going to apparate in. I’ll count down from three, there’ll be that squeezing sensation, and then we’ll be there. Ready?” 

Tom nods. Sophia counts down, tucking Tom a little closer to her side, and she twists on her heels at ‘one’. 

Hogsmeade, as always on a Hogwarts visit weekend, is a riot of noise and teenage hormones. It’s a world away from the Hogsmeade that Tom visited weeks ago and that’s made obvious by the way he clings to the fabric of her dress, wide eyes taking in the sudden abundance of adolescents that’re streaming through the streets. They flood across the cobblestones, eroding away the confectionary and other teenage delights that’re set out specifically for them, all before meandering on to their next destination.

“Alright there, pumpkin?” Sophia asks, threading her fingers into Tom’s hair and smoothing it down, the tip of her forefinger tracing the delicate shell of his ear. He nods, face still buried in her leg, fingers clinging tighter to her dress before he draws in one sharp, quick breath. Then, face set in an approximation of a soldier mentally bracing to cross the Somme, he turns his dark eyes upon her and holds both hands aloft. Even at three-years-old (nearly four), Tom Marvolo Riddle holds too much pride at the core of his being to verbally request she pick him up because he is overwhelmed by the presence of others. Sophia makes no comment on it, simply scooping Tom up into her arms and settling him against her hip.

“Keep your eyes peeled, sweetheart,” she breathes against his dark hair, eyes sweeping along the flood of children, some of whom are no less than two years her junior. It is so very difficult to believe that she is an adult in comparison when such a small age-gap persists between her and the others on this street, though admittedly, it would make quite the difference if she were to count the number of years that she actually remembers having lived. “Zander should be about somewhere in this mess.” She hadn’t exactly told her brother of her intentions to visit, hoping to keep his introduction to Tom a surprise. Her darling little dependent, on the other hand, knows exactly why they are here; she’d thought it terribly unfair to drop such a thing on him when he’s already been overwhelmed more than he should have done this month, no matter how all those surprised had been with his best interests at heart.

“Will we be here long?” Tom asks, the words carried more on his breath than spoken aloud, as if he would rather, they be carried then march out into the world for all to hear.

“Just a little bit,” Sophia promises, running a soothing hand up Tom’s back, taking small but sure steps out into the main street and continuously scanning the crowds for any hint of her brother’s distinctive hair. She highly doubts it’ll be hidden beneath a Ravenclaw hat; firstly, it is not yet cold enough to warrant knitted headwear. And secondly, Zander is in total agreement with her that hats should only be worn when the resulting hat-hair can be attended to in privacy. Therefore, she can hardly see her little brother adorning a hat for his Hogsmeade trip when there’s every possibility that he’ll be removing it upon entering some establishment or another.

“Sophia?”

The delighted gasp of her name has Sophia turning, not totally, but enough that she can look over her shoulder and that’s when her eyes find Zander. The crowd has shuffled enough that she can see him now, his arm entwined with that of a girl who is most certainly not the same one she’d last spoken to him about (the hair colour is wrong— oh, her brother is a terrible flirt) and a beaming smile upon his face. He turns quickly, whispering something to the girl who gives a tight smile but nods her head in agreement, slithering free of her brother’s side and meandering off to the Three Broomsticks, hopefully to go join up with some friend or another. Part of Sophia does feel sorry for the poor girl, interruptions to a date are hardly pleasant. But if Zander doesn’t feel the need to bring her over and introduce her, then it’s clearly not terribly serious a relationship anyway.

“Hello Zander,” Sophia greets, stepping forward to shorten the distance between them and she tries ever so hard not to coo when Tom reflectively hides his face up against her neck. It doesn’t take him long to gather his wits though; by the time Sophia has finished stepping forwards to greet her brother, Tom has taken a deep breath, forcibly pulled his own face from the shelter of her collarbone, and has turned to look at Zander.

Sophia wonders just how they appear to her brother; she with her champagne-coloured hair and fair features, Tom with his dark waves and aristocratic lineaments only half-hidden beneath the layers of baby-fat.

“Sophia. And this is Tom, right?” Zander tips his head to a side, a pleasant smile on his face and then he holds out his hand, looking remarkably serious, to the point Sophia has to bite back the teasing question of just where her real brother is, and which imposter has taken his place. “It’s nice to meet you, Tom.”

Slowly, Tom reaches out to take her brother’s hand, shaking his arm slowly. He doesn’t shrink back against Sophia, but she can feel the slight shift in his body that implies he would very much like to do so.

“Have you been looking after my sister in her new house?” Zander asks seriously, tucking his hand back into his pockets (because while it might not be cold enough for knitwear, this is still the Scottish Highlands), but never once looking away from Tom.

And Tom, bless him from the top of his dark head to the tips of his tiny toes, gives a shallow nod and settles a bit more into her arms. “Yes,” he says slowly, though it’s obvious (to Sophia in the least) that he doesn’t understand Zander’s question at all. He’s probably wondering just how a three-year-old could be looking after an adult, because that’s what Sophia is to Tom. His adult, even if she most certainly doesn’t feel like one herself.

“Come on, Zander. I’ll treat the both of you to something sweet from Honeydukes.”

As they weave through the throngs of students and shoppers, Zander begins to regale the two of them with all that he has been learning since she saw him last. Despite his initial reluctance, Tom settles more comfortably against Sophia’s side to listen to him, dark eyes wide as Zander describes his most recent painting, a Welsh dragon that he’s trying to charm into breathing fire when specific people walk by it. He’s had no luck yet, but Sophia is quite certain it’s only a matter of time before he manages it.

When Zander begins talking about how he’s very much looking forward to Christmas now that he’s not the youngest, recounting all the ways they spent their holidays throughout their childhoods, Tom leans his head on her shoulder. It would be exceptionally cute if not for the fact his tiny hands have clenched slightly into the collar of her dress, a little frown creasing his features. For a moment, the idea that Tom is perhaps unwilling to celebrate the holidays crosses her mind before she discards it; he’s only three-years-old, potentially can’t recall the last Christmas he experienced, and he’s a child. All children love receiving presents, don’t they?

But then, Zander provides the answer.

“—suppose I’ll be rather jealous that you’ll have all of my big sister’s time.” He heaves a dramatic sigh, plucking up a sugar quill that he twirls between his fingers before pointing it their way. “You won’t forget about me now that you’ve got a cuter model, will you, sis?” Of course. Tom’s jealous. It makes absolutely no sense, but of course he’s feeling insecure about meeting another member of her family who she has history with. No doubt he’s trying to figure out how Zander slots into her life and if his return from Hogwarts will displace him.

Running a hand through Tom’s hair, Sophia tucks him a little tighter against her side, even though her arm is starting to ache from supporting his weight now.

“Of course, I won’t forget about you, Zander. But Tom comes first now.” Sophia tips her head to a side, firing off a winning smile towards her brother. “Sorry, not sorry.”

Zander laughs, waving it away and nibbling on the tip of his sugar quill, tucking the bag of the rest of them into his pocket as they make for the door. “I suppose you don’t have much time left to spend with me now?”

“Funnily enough, baby brother, adults have to buy groceries and other necessities. And I have to do it all before Tom’s bedtime.” They exchange pleasant enough goodbyes, and Tom even initiates a handshake with Zander, much to her amusement. His little face is very serious, much to both her and Zander’s amusement. It’s only as Zander disappears into the mob of students, no doubt in a (probably vain) attempt to try winning his date back over, that Tom turns to look at his with his big, dark eyes.

“Are we really going to get gro- groc- groceries?” It takes him three attempts to say the word correctly, the repeated failure drawing a frown across his brow and Sophia reaches out to smooth his pale skin with her thumb.

“Good job pronouncing that word, it’s a hard one, isn’t it?” Her heels click against the ground as she makes for the appointed apparition point, stepping aside to allow a group of rowdy Hufflepuffs to bumble past them. “And yes. We need to get some fresh vegetables in. I was thinking about making some soup, if you are willing to help me?”

“I’ll help,” Tom says, insists really, face crinkling with his determination.

“Thank you, Tom.”

The walk into the village from their cottage isn’t particularly long, but Sophia would certainly have had to change her shoes if it weren’t for magical comfort charms. Even so, her toes are starting to ache a little with just how long she’s been walking by the time they reach the market.

Upon arriving in the little village square, Tom had insisted upon being put down, squirming in her grasp until he was standing on his own two feet, one of his hands curled up in hers and standing right next to her when the odd person gets just a little close for comfort. Wools, it seems, at least appears to have instilled some form of stranger danger in the orphans within their care, though Sophia rather suspects Tom will be perfectly capable of dealing with those who have unwanted intentions in a few short years. The point is though, he won’t have to. Not while she’s here.

“Right then, Tom. I need you to pick out two vegetables that look extra delicious for me. We might have to ask the grocers to teach us how we can know if a vegetable is perfect for soup. So, are you ready to learn something new?”

“Yes,” Tom nods, so serious that Sophia dearly wishes she were somewhere magical and carrying the camera, just so she could get a snapshot of how he looks. When he’s older and as devastatingly handsome as his father is, it’d be good to take such a photo out to reminder herself of just how cute he was, how precious.

“And can you see well enough standing down there?”

“I can see.” Tom has to rise up onto his tiptoes to do so, but he’s telling the truth as far as Sophia can see. With his small hand wrapped up in her own, they begin to walk up and down the market stalls. Sophia takes note of the butchers shop and the slabs of beef that’re on display, mentally making a note that they’ll have to pop in their before they leave, so she can make get the meat needed for a Sunday dinner tomorrow.

They approach one of the three vegetables stalls, the one at the very end of the market once they’ve walked the whole length of it, and Sophia can feel the eyes of the townsfolk on her. It’s not the first time their gazes have followed her, and she knows how it looks: she’s new to the village; she’s young and has a young child with her; her left hand is missing a very important piece of jewellery given the presence of said child; and did she mention the fact she’s new? A handful of months isn’t going to make much of a difference to them, not when there’s the potential for gossip.

It is the first time that Tom’s been out with her and aware enough to register the looks. His dark eyes bounce about from person to person. No doubt his brain is ticking over behind those dark eyes, trying to figure out the reason why they are looking. But he’s young enough that the implications of a young woman being new to town with a young child but no wedding band with flying right over his head; it probably won’t even register. If he’d been two years older, maybe he’d have realised, especially given where he grew up. Orphanages are no doubt ripe with the evidence of many unmarried mothers’ mistakes.

But Tom’s not a mistake. Not to her.

So Sophia holds her head high, greets the grocer who, after several discussions already, knows her well enough to tip his head to her and offer Tom a shallow nod in greeting. For Tom is only three years old, tall for his age or not, and children are still seen, not heard away from the big cities. Depending on the location within the city, that still might be the case.

“Look Tom,” Sophia whispers, crouching slightly so that they’re on a similar level to each other, so that she can ensure Tom’s gaze follows her finger correctly as she points to each vegetable on offer. “We could buy onions, or swede, or cauliflower, or even some mushrooms. What strikes your fancy, pumpkin?”

On his tiptoes, Tom shuffles a little bit closer to the stall, looking between the array of vegetables. How many of these will he have actually seen in their raw form before he came to live with her? His dark eyes dart up to the look at the grocer and Tom allows a smile to bloom across his face, one that looks almost natural and certainly passes as cherubic.

“Will you teach me how to see if the vegetable is good, sir?”

They leave with swede, mushrooms and onions, in addition to an apple the grocer slips Tom on the sly because he’s ‘such a polite young man’. Of course he was impressed; Tom is terribly advanced for his age.

After collecting the beef for tomorrow and picking up an additional bag of flour, they spend the rest of the morning making their dinner. It is perhaps accurate to say that Sophia spend the rest of the morning making soup and baking bread with a little help from Tom on both ends; he drops the little chunks of (sliced by magic) vegetables into the soup pot and helps to roll out the dough for the bread.

The point is, there activities all cumulate in the two of them sitting up to the kitchen table, Sophia with some flour dusted up her forearms and Tom with floury fingerprints smeared across his cheeks, with a bowl of homemade soup before them and a stack of freshly cooked bread place between them, fresh from the oven. It’s still warm, cooled only enough so that it won’t burn their fingers when they touch it; just perfect.

Tom double-dips a portion of his bread into his soup, the viscous orange substance dripping from the softened crust. It’s peaceful, the window open to let in the autumn breeze and brining with it the birdsong from outside. Sophia finds herself utterly content. Yes, in an ideal world, Tom would also be sitting at this table alongside them, alongside his son. Perhaps he too would have some flour dusted across his skin, perhaps a playful handprint upon his cheek, or a smear across his brow as he wiped it free of the sweat that’d have accumulated from close proximity to the oven.

But just because the man she’s rather taken with isn’t here, doesn’t mean she hasn’t enjoyed herself. Yet, it is not just her, is it?

“Tom, darling?”

Tom blinks, his little cheeks rounded as he chews on the bread he has just bitten into. He looks tired, but not in a sad way. Tired in the way that children get when they have had a buy day which is in fact the truth. Tom has gone around Hogsmeade, met her brother, helped her with the groceries, and then ‘helped’ prepare their lunch. He’ll be due a nap shortly, won’t he?

Now that she has his attention, Sophia dips her own slice of bread into the soup, though her eyes do not slip from Tom’s form. “Are you happy?”

She can see the way he considers her words; is he happy? She likes to think he is, likes to think he enjoys the time she spends with him, and not just because it is an improvement on the life he had prior to moving in with her.

“I’m happy,” Tom mutters, no longer looking at her but instead gazing into his soup, as if it holds answers to questions he has left unvoiced. Still, his response is enough for Sophia. She exhales, delicately peeling the crush from the next slice of her bread.

“I’m glad.”

They are sitting up to the dining room table, having finished their tea and progressed to tea and coffee, when Tom finds he can no longer hold in the thoughts that have been circulating for far too long. Undoubtedly, his mother is already aware of this to some extent, had witnessed the way he had looked upon that little picture Sophia had slipped him near a fortnight prior. It is a thought, near obsession, and he cannot willingly set it aside, can ignore it no longer, and it simply must be said for it will otherwise drive him to madness. He is tired of simply exchanging letters, of reading the same words again and again and attempting to guess at the intention, the meaning behind each word. He is tired of having only moments stolen between work and commitments to a child that, by all rights of morality, should be in his care, of sitting and daydreaming of interactions both past and potential.

It is why, with a cup of coffee balanced between his palms and held before his lips, he looks upon his father sitting across from him at the table and calmly states, “I intend to start pursuing Sophia seriously now.” This is it. It’s said, spoken into being so that it might sit within the air between them, lingering and forcing his father to acknowledge it. Yes, he had been courting her. But therein lies the significance of the word. Courting implies he is simply seeking the affection of a woman. Pursuing makes it explicitly clear that he intends to further this, that he is looking upon Sophia and witnessing the potential future that they could have together.

Previously, he had believed this would be Cecilia— his parents had also been under the impression that Lady Cecilia would be their daughter-in-law too. Sophia does not hold the same social class as Cecilia does; she is a doctor, a woman who works and has taken in a child that just so happens to be related to him. She is the kind of woman that, prior to the wretch and her transgressions, he would not have looked upon twice.

Now, Tom finds he cannot look away.

“And the… child?” Still, his father cannot call the child his son. Tom himself struggles, has spent every morning so far looking upon the picture Sophia had given him and calming annunciating ‘my son’ until it no longer felt like poison on his lips. Now, he looks upon the picture and acknowledges it, does not see the ghost of Merope Gaunt in his features in the slightest. It is made easier, given the waves in young Tom Riddle’s hair are similar to how Sophia wears her hair in that picture.

“I intend to meet the– my son—” He stumbles upon the words only ever so slightly, but Tom forces himself to continue before either of his parents can interject. “—in the coming month. It is not the fault of the boy who his mother is, and she has, quite frankly, wronged him enormously by dying and leaving him in squaller within an orphanage.” It’s easier to think about it this way, easier to take the boy and remove him from the category of being associated to the wretch and instead think of him as another one of her victims. Tom has been wronged, has been… marred by his forced association to the Gaunt witch. But so has his son. The boy had no choice in who his mother was to be— if only life were that simple.

If given the choice, Tom would pick Sophia to be the mother of his child without hesitation. He can only hope the boy himself would do the same.

His parents share a look, their expressions somewhat grim; Tom ignores it as best he can. He has set his course now and he shan’t stray from it. He knows it within his very bones that this is right and pure, that this is how he should be progressing if he wishes to continue reclaiming himself. No matter how he scrubbed himself raw following his return, no matter how he shut himself away an avoided any and all outside company… this is the thing that will banish the wretch’s ghost.

The more he believes it, the better he feels.

Because Tom Riddle wants. He wants to be more than just the man who was ensnared by the local tramp, he wants to have Sophia Lovegood look upon him and see something more than the squire’s distant son, and… and he wants the boy that shares his face to know him, in whatever way he can be known. And that all starts with stepping forward and introducing himself.

He just hopes the boy will agree.

Chapter Text

Tom has found he rather enjoys making soup.

Standing steady on the stool that Sophia has magicked into existence for him, he carefully stirs the wooden spoon through the orange broth within the pot, watching the liquid swirl with the motions he makes. He knows Sophia has done something with magic to ensure he cannot put his own hands in the bowl, knows she has ensured he is safe while stirring the soup as she collects the bread from the oven, but he hadn’t really been paying attention to how she’d done it. He’d been too busy putting the vegetable chunks into the pot, one after another.

Suddenly, Sophia’s face is right next to his, planting a kiss upon his cheek and Tom tips his head ever so slightly away from her to give her better access, feeling the warmth spread through his chest again when she places both hands on his shoulders and inhales.

“Smells amazing, pumpkin. You’re getting good at this.”

Of course he is – Tom is good at everything he does, and if he isn’t, then he works until he is. Besides, making soup isn’t that difficult, is it? Just throw everything in the pot and make sure to keep stirring. This soup is orange again, not like the green one they’d made last time, but that’s because of all the pumpkins they’re using. Yesterday, Sophia had brought in two of the huge orange vegetables, plants that were bigger almost than Tom himself, and they’d spent the day designing the scary faces on the bright flesh, ready for tonight. Because it’s Halloween. Most people here call it souling, but Halloween is what they call it at Hogwarts, so that’s what Tom’s going to call it too because he’ll be going to Hogwarts someday soon. Why should he learn the wrong thing only to then have to change it?

“How long do the pumpkins stay outside?” Tom asks instead of responding to Sophia’s comment, giving the soup another stir and breathing it in. She is right though, it does smell delicious.

Sophia hums, her hands still on his shoulders, her thumbs rubbing gentle circles into his back in a way that makes Tom relax into her hold, savouring the feeling.

“That depends on you, I guess. How long would you like to leave them outside? One day Three? Five? Anymore than that, and they’ll start to really rot and stink up the place.” She pinches the tip of his nose, muttering a low ‘phew’ as she wafts the other hand before his face and Tom smiles, trying to squirm out of her arms (though not to hard, he doesn’t want to knock the soup over).

“Will it keep people away?”

“Will it—” Sophia cuts off, her arms suddenly wrapping outright around Tom and hoisting him up off his stool. She turns off the stove, plants a lid over the top of the pot, and then places him on the countertop beside the cooker. It’s the closest to eye-level he can manage with her right now, especially, when Sophia squats down ever so slightly to look him in the eye. And it’s not that Tom’s uncomfortable with Sophia being so close, not that he’s uncomfortable with the way she’s looking him in the eye now… but he already knows where this conversation is going and he swallows, mutinously looking away.

“Tom, are you worried?”

At that, he does snap around, feeling his lips press together in spite of his desperate attempts to keep a straight face.

“No.”

“Are you sure? Because we don’t have to do this today,” Sophia murmurs, reaching out to brush his fringe back and off his forehead, transforming that touch into a gentle caress of his cheek, the tips of her fingers curving around his cheekbone until she’s gently cupping his chin, guiding him to keep looking at her.

Tom stubbornly stares over her shoulder instead.

“I’m not worried,” Tom repeats, testing the words out on his tongue and feeling like they both taste of truth but are also… not as sure as he’d like them to be. “You’re only friends. But you adopted me.” He stresses that word, gives it weight, like it means something. Because it does. Sophia had promised to take him from Wools, had promised to look after him— she had promised. Which means she can’t leave him, not like the other adults that would sometimes bring the orphans back. She won’t take him back because Tom has magic, because Sophia has magic and they’re both special.

But why wouldn’t his father want Sophia? She’s magical too, and she’s too nice and she’s friends with him. Worse. What is he wants Tom? What if he realises Tom is magical and powerful and decides he wants him after all? What if he tries to take him away from Sophia and the police let him because he’s Tom’s father, and children should be with their parents? What is—

“Hey, pumpkin, you’re worrying me a bit now,” Sophia coos, pulling him into a hug and Tom clings to her, hands fisting into the loose cotton sleeves of her shirt. She smooths a hand through his hair, a light hum leaving her lips again before she continues. “Your father is coming for a visit. Not to take you away, no matter how impressed he’s going to be with you, which he will be because he’s you, but even then, I won’t let him have you. Both as the adult in charge of your care, and as a healer.”

“Because he was hurt by magic,” Tom repeats, exhaling into Sophia’s shoulder, slowly loosening his grip as he reaffirm the facts, recalls all the information that Sophia has been feeding him over the last few days, ever since the letter arrived requesting they meet.

“That’s right. Even if your father wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to. If he really tried, we could just disappear, go live with my parents for a few days… years.” Sophia laughs, a light thing that makes it clear she’s not really worried about it and that is what relaxes Tom the most, how sure she is of this. “But I can’t see it being a problem regardless. Your father… he might have bene hurt by magic, but he’s trying to get better. And he’s my friend. Do you think I’d be friends with someone if I thought they’d bring you any pain, Tom? Physically or emotionally?”

That has Tom scowling. He knows, roughly, what those words mean, knows roughly what Sophia is referring to, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. Because he’s a child but he’s not stupid. He knows men and women are rarely friends, knows that there’s probably more to this, and that’s why he’d agreed in the first place. He needs to meet this man to make sure he isn’t really trying to take Tom away, to make sure he isn’t trying to take Sophia away from him.

“I wanna meet him,” Tom grumbles, resting his head on Sophia’s shoulder, scoffing to himself. Of course he wants to meet him. He needs to know what he’s dealing with, doesn’t he?

He spends far too long standing outside of the cottage, right by the Humber he’d driven across country roads and down little winding lanes.

Sucking in another fortifying breath (which proves to be as useful as the last seven he’d tried drawing in), Tom Riddle holds the bouquet of flowers (pastel, as is Sophia’s favoured palette) a little tighter, other hand drumming a subconscious beat against the fabric of his trousers, on the outside of his thigh.

There’s no going back now, is there?

Somewhere behind that door, perhaps down a corridor, perhaps up a staircase, there is a small human that only exists because Tom himself walks upon this earth. There is a boy in the house before him that shard his blood, shares his very face. And, Tom suspects, the boy also shares his affections for Sophia Lovegood, though he knows they will not look upon her with the same eyes. 

The young Tom Riddle who lives here no doubt looks to Sophia and sees a woman who can and will hang the moon, who will fashion starlight from nothingness for him. A woman who can and did scoop him up from the abject poverty of an East London orphanage to whisk him away to this place, a charming cottage nestled in the Yorkshire countryside, where he doesn’t doubt the boy will want for nothing. After all, what is money in the face of magic? What is learning how to ride a purebred horse in the face of chasing winged-steeds of old across the country for a mere glimpse of their majesty?

No. The Tom Riddle who lives here will look to Sophia and see her for what she is to him; a miracle, spun of sugar, sprinkled with glitter and gloss. 

But that is not how Tom sees her.

Sophia Lovegood to him represents healing. She has no time to hang the moon, as she is too busy pressing her tender attentions to his wounds, both metaphorical and physical, soothing the hurts and aches that none have truly considered to be festering as they were. Not until she had come along. Not even he had considered the state he was in, not truly. He had not reflected upon the torments for he had not considered them as such. How can a man be wounded by—

Well, it matters not right now. 

What matters is that he is still standing before the door to Sophia’s cottage, still with his feet planted upon the little cobble-stone path that winds from the dirt-path of a road up to her charming little house. That he hasn’t moved a muscle despite being here, being present, being ready—

And he is ready. As ready as he feels he could ever be. Yes, this will be discomforting. Yes, he doesn’t doubt his body will be imbued with anxiety for a great duration of time while he interacts with… with his son. But he can see no other method of moving forwards with his life, no other way of chasing after that what he wishes to have and hold. And he does not wish to stay as he is, does not wish to revert to how it was a year past. 

He wants to more, wants to be more. And they can only come if he takes a step forwards. 

It feels like an eternity and a snap second for him to cross the distance between the Humber and the front door, but Tom is soon rapping his knuckles against the wood, the crinkle of paper signalling that he is once again clutching too tightly to the bouquet of flowers, is once again visually displaying the discomforts that he’s trying to overcome. He sucks in a deep breath, fills his lungs with all the countryside air he can capture. 

And it’s just in time, for the door opens and then there is Sophia, in all of her pastel sweetness, the very sight of her stealing all that air from his chest with an enviable ease. Her hair is tucked up in some sleep kind of up-do that he does not have the mental capacity (overloaded as he is with the thought of what is about to occur) to try and fully comprehend beyond the fact it looks nice. She looks nice, as she always does. 

“Sophia,” he breathes, for there is little as important as acknowledging her existence before him, for he can inject so much more emotion into his voice when annunciation her name than if he were to go with something as banal as a ‘good afternoon’ or that dreadful ‘hello’ that is becoming so common now. 

“Tom.” And the way she says his name, as if she has captured her smile and woven it into the word, a deep-rooted affection to the single syllable, is a balm that soothes every jagged edge, that reinforces just why he is doing this. Because it turns out that he does not wish to live without this, without Sophia. Because since she came and graced the halls of Riddle Manor, she has pushed him into developing, into evolving beyond the man that Merope Gaunt had left broken. And he rather finds that he wishes to become something more.

Her lips part, no doubt to welcome him, as she has always done, only for her to pause before the first vocalisation can leave her lips. She looks down and Tom follows her gaze, past the soft wools and cottons of her jumper and skirt, right to where a small, palm hand is tangled in the tanned fabric, where a hand leads to an arm which leads, unsurprisingly, to a body.

Tom had been aware the boy looked like him. He had seen him from a distance too, that day in London, has looked upon the pictures that Sophia sends him many a time. But to see him this close in the flesh, for those same eyes to look up and into his, burning with some kind of stubborn indignation— it is altogether a different shock to the system than what he has previously experienced.

Tom Marvolo Riddle looks up at him with a stubborn pout to his mouth, a fury to the crease of his brow, and his small hand curls that much more possessively into the fabric of Sophia’s skirt.

“I’m not leaving with you,” the boy says, his voice crisp and clear, and it is only the childish lilt to the words that let Tom know that it’s even the boy speaking at all and not some trickster from another room, throwing their voice in a way he knows the rare performer to be capable of.

“I have no intention of taking you,” Tom says after a moment’s pause in which Sophia had, for some inexplicable reason, left him to handle this alone. It is only after the words have left his mouth however, that Tom can acknowledge how… cold they sound. And though it is blatantly obvious that the addition comes as an afterthought, he still tags on a clarifying, “Away from Sophia.” As if that is any aid in this situation at all.

His young son, Sophia’s ward, frowns that much harder at him and Tom would swear, within the house of a God he no longer believes in, that there is a rising pressure to the air, a kind of heaviness that threatens to press down upon his shoulders, that is lingering there and just waiting for the wrong word to be said, for the wrong movement to be made.

“And you’re not staying,” the boy continues, his hard frown becoming more pronounced, looking far too severe to be expressed upon a face so young. Were it not for the immense necessity that this meeting go well, Tom may have made mention of it to the child. As things are—

“Only for dinner,” Tom promises, peering down at the boy as he tips his head to a side, considering this. It sends the gentle waves of his hair trickling across his forehead, unbridled with a lack of product to the locks. And why should he have pomade styling his hair and present, when this is but a relaxed dinner between two adults and the child that is so intrinsically linked to the both of them?

“Only for dinner,” the boy repeats, stepping ever so slightly to the side, so that he may hide behind Sophia’s legs, as if all of his courage has been exhausted in ensuring Tom has no intentions of infringing upon his life here. The boy who shares his name (Junior, Tom realises with a start, is what he would have been referred to if things had been… different) huffs a little beneath his breath and tips his head against Sophia’s thigh. And it is like an unspoken signal, like a well practised, wordless request, for Sophia absentmindedly bends at the knee, twists at the torso, and then scoops Junior up into her arms to rest against her, his head cradled upon her shoulder.

“The soup’s ready to be served,” she says to him, not acknowledging the fact his child has sought comfort in her, has such a closeness with her that he doesn’t hesitant to allow her arms to envelope him. And Tom doesn’t miss how the boy stares at him from his peripheries, somehow never lifting his head from where it resides against Sophia’s collarbone, but always retaining a constant watch over Tom. He sees it now, that high level of intellect that Sophia had bragged to him about. The independence, not so much, though perhaps that is a direct result of his invasion upon the boy’s world, which has for the past few weeks consisted only of Sophia and her extended family. 

Walking through into the little kitchen-dining room that the cottage boasts, Tom allows his eyes to sweep the additions that have appeared since his last visit back in August; the small step by the counter-top, the chair specifically adapted for a smaller body to reach the table top without any unnecessary strain, the pictures.

There are only two (two more than Tom knows any of the working class would ever be able to display, never mind display within the kitchen of all places), but on a caramel wall of nothingness, they’re impossible to miss. The most startling thing is, of course, that the images move, as has every wizarding picture that Tom has come across since he first darkened Sophia’s doorstep a year past, following the Gaunt tramp’s attack upon his person. 

There is one of Sophia and Junior, taken in an unfamiliar kitchen that Tom can only deduce to be located within the home of Sophia’s parents. The two of them are sitting up to table, Sophia leaning slightly into Junior’s personal space, and the boy’s dark eyes flick up to look at her warily. Nonetheless, he blatantly follows along as she reads, gaze tracking the way her finger moves across the page until they suddenly flick back up to look upon her and start the cycle all over again. 

The next image is Junior alone, a look of astonishment upon his face as he glances up from where he’d been inspecting some outrageous stuffed toy (has to be a magical creature; it’s not one Tom’s familiar with) that’s slowly lightening in colour.

“A colouring charm,” Sophia explains from beside him, having clearly noticed where Tom’s gaze is, sliding up beside where he’s stopped to inspect the photographs, one of her hands now threading through Junior’s hair. “What colour was it, pumpkin? Yellow?”

“Green,” the boy corrects almost immediately, perceptive but guarded. The blatant suspicion in his eyes is making Tom himself wary, and he’s not missing the fact that Sophia is acting a little off herself. He supposes that it makes sense; she wishes for this to go smoothly, and he can already see how possessive the boy is with her affections. If he thinks Tom is a threat to his current way of life? Well, Tom knows how self-centred he was as a child (and a teen… and when he ventured into adulthood) and he can say with certainty that it will cripple any chances they have of getting on if Junior realises that Sophia cradles some affections for him also.

“Take a seat, Tom,” Sophia says, gesturing to the table, placing his son down in the modified chair and threading her fingers through his hair, rubbing at his temples and giving no indication that she sees the pout that’s plastered across the boy’s mouth as she does so. “I’ll just grab the soup.”

It leaves him at the table with the boy, who doesn’t make a single pretence at masking his disdain for the current situation. Tom likes to think it’s because of the intrusion into his life as opposed to who exactly he is. He’s aware Sophia has explained to the boy that he’d been hurt by magic (digging no further in her explanations, and for that, Tom feels both relieved and some lingering offense – but then, how does one go about explaining all that Merope Gaunt was), has explained that they are father and son… yet, how much weight does that hold to a three-year-old orphan? Admittedly, the boy is nearly four and frighteningly intelligent, but still.

“Are you happy here?” Tom asks quietly, even though he already knows the answer to that – how can he not when he sees how easily Junior accepts Sophia’s affections?

The younger Tom Riddle at the table blinks, nose scrunching up; surprised that Tom has spoken, or surprised that he has spoken to Junior himself.

“I was.” Before you showed up. The words aren’t spoken aloud, but it’s clear from the boy’s tone exactly what he means. But it doesn’t hold Tom’s attention for as long as he would prefer it, for as long as it would take for a response to formulate in his mind. Not when the cutlery starts to rattle. It’s not just the one spoon, but all three begin to shudder, the metal plinking off the wooden table in perfect harmony with Tom’s suddenly racing heart.

He flicks his gaze towards the boy, whose face is scrunched up with blatant concentration, brows heavy and a frown smeared across his lips.

He wants to push his chair back, wants to get away from the table, but his legs won’t cooperate, his body won’t move other than to send his heart hammering in his chest, ribs a cage that conceals the organ that wants to flee and quick and a far as possible. It’s—

“Whoa there, pumpkin.” And suddenly Sophia is there, plucking the boy up from his chair, three bowls of soup floating into the correct place at the table, a plate of sliced bread following after them to take pride of place in the centre, but both she and Tom do not pay them much of any attention. Not when the spoons are only just spilling, not when the water in the glasses that’d been set up on the table is only just stilling, the ripples dispersing from their surface.

Palpitations still thundering about in his chest, Tom watches as Sophia tucks the boy’s head up against her neck, watches as the child wraps his arms around her neck and clings to her. He says something, too muffled by the distance between them for Tom to hear, but he does see the way Sophia’s face softens, how she strokes at the boy’s dark hair, though her eyes are only for him, her gaze flickering between his clenched hands (when had he clenched them?) and the stiff set of his shoulders.

‘Are you well?’ she mouths, pressing a single kiss to the crown of Junior’s head once she’s done, and that is enough of an encouragement for Tom to force a nod. He is well. He hadn’t been expecting the spoons to start rattling, hadn’t been expecting things to start moving on their own (or perhaps, not on their own, as the case may be, but the point stands). He hadn’t been expecting it, but he’d know the boy might not be open to the idea of his presence. Probably not open to any visitations, come to think of it. The cottage is his safe space, and to understand the concept of that, Tom needs only look into his own past where, upon returning home from London, he had secreted himself away in his rooms for weeks on end.

It had been even longer before he left the manor.

Junior suddenly pulls his face back from Sophia’s neck, turning to look at him, his eyes red-rimmed by dry.

“I’m not going with you,” he states, clear and precise and repeating the exact same topic they’d covered early. Clearly it is weighing upon the boy’s mind and Tom charitably doesn’t point out that, of the two of them, he’d be more willing to take Sophia home than the child. “I’m staying here. With Sophia.”

“And for that, I cannot fault you.” Tom clears his throat, locking eyes with the boy, dark blue meeting dark blue. “I do not wish to separate you, but to be a part of your lives, in any way that I can.” And he whole-heartedly means it. Yes, were it not for Sophia, he would not have looked twice at the boy, would not have looked for the boy had he been informed he lived, except for perhaps sending some money, maybe even employing a nanny to care for the boy in secret, but keeping the single connection to Merope Gaunt from ever being associated with him.

But now he sees that it is not Junior who is sent to torment him— the boy has suffered for the tramp’s actions as he has. They are both victims of a misuse of magic, one Sophia has assured him to be against their laws. It brings some comfort, for all that it does not fix.

From there, the meal goes somewhat smoothly. Sophia opens the conversation by enquiring after his horses, recalling how wonderful the experience of seeing the herd of aethonans earlier in the year. That had immediately caught Junior’s attention, who had demanded further explanation upon the magical creature, and then listened with a startling level of intensity as Tom pointed out all of the differences he could recall between the horses he owned and their magical cousins. It had been… pleasant.

Still, when the boy had, despite his best efforts, succumbed to slumber, he won’t lie and say it wasn’t a relief.

It had felt surprising domestic to open the doors for Sophia as they took the boy upstairs to his room, to stand by the threshold as she’d tucked him into bed. He cannot, for the life of him, ever recall either of his parents doing such a thing for him – that had always been the responsibility of the nanny. Yet, he knows that even if Sophia had the means to produce a nanny to look after the boy, she would not do so. With the same confidence he has in the sun forever rising in the East, he knows that Sophia would always choose to tuck Junior into his bed whenever she is able to.

And then it’s just the two of them, Sophia quietly closing the sitting room door, and something inside of his chest aches over it all. Over the boy upstairs, over the woman before him, with her silken hair and soft pastel colours and her slight smile as she turns to look at him. And he knows – or, thinks he knows – what that ache is, what is represents in its entirety now, but he won’t put a name to it, not today.

Instead, he takes a single step forward, Sophia closing the rest of the distance, and when he holds his hands out ever so slightly before himself, she’s quick to slip her own into his grasp, just as he wastes no time in lifting them, in pressing a kiss to each of her knuckles, one after the other.

“Tom?”

He lingers over the last of her knuckles when he’s done, just cradling her hands, trying to keep his mind on the here and now while his thoughts wish to tear away from him, to descend down pathways of potential ‘what ifs’ and ‘could bes’.

All there is, is the surety that he can never go back, and he has never been more certain of anything in his life than he is within this moment.

“You did not need to remained here, did not have involved yourself in the tangled mess of my life, Sophia Lovegood,” he breathes, rubbing his thumbs across her fingers, drawing her that little bit closer, so that the only thing that his nose is perhaps a half-foot from being buried within her hair. It means he needs to tip his head quite far down to meet her eyes, that she needs to tilt her head back a significant amount to continue holding his gaze, but she does so, squeezes his hands ever so softly and offers him the most delicate smile he has ever seen upon her face, upon the face of anyone.

And it is that which inspires him to continue, to avoid leaving words unspoken.

“But I would attend the house of a God I no longer believe in every day, for the rest of whatever life I have, to give my eternal thanks, if it came with the assurance you were to never leave.”