Chapter o4
"Had the war ended?" Tom blurted out, surprising even himself.
"The war?.. You mean, with Grindewald?" Harry owlishly blinked. Tom puffed in annoyance. "Oh, you mean Muggle war?.. Yeah, that one ended. Why?"
"You try to sleep under the wailing siren of constant bombing," Tom offered acidly. "They are able to go through even the most potent shield-charms."
"They?" Harry still could not understand. "Oh, you mean, bombs—"
"Stop guessing, already!" Tom snorted annoyed. "Surely, you're not that dense?"
"Listen, it's too bloody early in the morning! And you — being who you are — how was I to know..?"
"Me — being who I am?" Tom parroted. "What should that mean?"
"Well," Harry run a nervous hand through his already messy hair, "you don't seem the type to worry about such things as muggle war, that's all."
"As I said I am not particularly fond of the idea of constantly being under the bombing attack. And that could be the case, as, I recon, this is center of London. At my time bombs were threatening to fall all the time, while I was at the—ahem, — at my summer retreat."
"You mean orphanage?" Harry blurted out. And became white as a sheet instantly.
"How do you know—?" Tom blanched as well and recoiled, lowering his head in embarrassment.
"Sorry. I didn't mean—" Harry averted his eyes for some reason. "If you should know I was raised by muggle relatives of my mother. They absolutely despise magic and me. So I was their house-elf of sorts." Harry collaborated.
Tom arched an eyebrow. He hadn't asked for this bit of personal information, though, it can come in handy at a later time. Tom had understood Harry's logic, though. An eye for an eye, so to speak. Harry admitted to know some very personal things about Tom, so in return he offered something equally personal and embarrassing of his own to Tom.
Tom nodded in acknowledgment, but made no comments. His shoulders, though, hadn't relaxed. Just where had Harry found that bit of personal information on Tom? And when had he the time for it? As far as Tom was concerned, Harry was awoken in the middle of this same night on which Tom arrived at this time, after Tom met with Dumbledore and was brought here. So either Harry is simply a walking library and Tom's life is all out in the open for everyone to learn about, or this stranger is no stranger at all to Tom, which he himself just simply hadn't known yet.
"Think nothing of it, Riddle," Harry suggested. "I am not the type to talk at each and every corner about other's personal stuff. You were talking about the war—"
"I do not want to talk about it. Any of it." Tom pursed his lips tightly. His mood was officially ruined now. He contemplated sleeping for a while, but in the end decided against it, as Harry certainly had something on him and Tom was not going to trust him not to try anything funny while Tom was sleeping.
"So, no more questions?" Harry smirked, certainly relieved.
"On the contrary. But I am not going to ask them now," Tom waved a hand dismissively. "If you'd like you can sleep for a while, and I will turn a back on you, so you won't be disturbed by me watching."
"You are not going to agree to hand me your wand and won't allow me to cast a body-bind on you, right?" Harry raised an eyebrow.
Tom just snorted.
"I am not sleeping then," Harry decided.
Tom just shrugged and turned his back on Harry, looking out of the window once again. He was not going to admit it, even to himself, but Tom was glad that he wouldn't be hearing bombing siren again any time soon. Last time he heard it, during the previous summer, he was out of the orphanage, on the street several blocks away from it and from the familiar shelter, usually occupied only by residents of said establishment. He was completely frozen in place in the middle of the road, when the awful sound came from above, indicating aeroplanes coming in. People were running in all directions, children wailing even louder then the blasted siren. The rain was pouring over them with wind of such force, that road signs were rattling in it, which just made things worse — Tom was already shaken from cold in his wet clothes, even before the start of an attack.
"Don't just stand here, lad! Go-go-go, the shelter's over there!" Some man passing him by roughly pushed Tom towards the opening in the ground near the closest building, inside of which people were disappearing quickly. Tom stumbled on something on his way, while rushing to the safety of the shelter.
"Mommy, mommy!" Some kid was crying right in front of Tom, frantically looking around. The street had not been too wide to begin with, but now it seemed even narrower. Tom tried to go past the crying child, and at the same moment the little demon decided to dive right under Tom's feet. Tom managed to stop at the last second just shy of stomping on the kid's outstretched hand. It won't do to argue with some Muggle over some stray child's injury right under the Nazi bombs, not being able to cast a shield charm, what with being in front of the crowd of Muggles. "Mommy!.. you saw my mama?" The child looked up at Tom with hope in big eyes full of tears. The child was holding dirty stuffed toy, which he seemed to pick up from under Tom's feet a moment ago.
Tom was freezing cold and dripping wet, the bombs could begin falling any second, and this cry-baby was looking for toys in dirt!
"Mama—" The kid sniffed, it looked like he was going to start crying again. Tom rolled his eyes and sidestepping this nuisance of a child ran for the shelter. He was not going to risk his life for some stupid kid's—
The first bomb was falling already, making a recognizable nightmarish sound, when Tom was at the entrance of the shelter. He was going down the short stairs to the door, still open, but rapidly closing in his face.
"Wai—" His voice was muffled by the sound of fallen bomb exploding and one of the nearby buildings collapsing with a loud crashing sound.
The child, who was a split second before still crying loud enough to be heard even over the explosion, had abruptly shut up. Tom reluctantly turned around: the child was lying in dirty puddle with his eyes closed, still tightly clutching the toy to his chest. It looked like the kid was dead—
No! Small chest has risen and fell again, then the child opened his eyes and met Tom's gaze. Next second he averted the gaze, but caught sight of the child' eyes opening even wider, the boy scrambled to his small wobbly feet: "Mommy!" and tried to run towards the shelter.
With the corner of his eye Tom noticed, that the door to shelter was fully opened, and turned to it: there was a young girl, not much older than Tom himself, standing at the doorstep, with her eyes wide open with fear and full of tears. She was whispering brokenly: "Tommy—"
Tom shuddered upon hearing his own name in such caring and desperate tone and turned his head to the street for the last time, ready to enter the shelter. The child was running to them. Tom turned away, raising his hand to push the shaking girl aside to clear his way. She made small sound of distress and began to slowly slide down to the ground along the door frame, her legs giving in under her. Tom was not going to look back—
The child was once again lying on the ground, his leg was bent under strange angle, but he was still trying to crawl to the shelter door, to his mother.
Tom was shaking violently —the second bomb had fallen on the parallel street just moment ago, and he was hearing the unmistakable sound of yet another bomb going down right this second. There was now way of knowing where it will land—
"Tommy—" he heard behind him.
Cursing under his breath, he drew his wand almost fully out, leaving it covered by his sleeve, but clutching tightly —just like that kid was holding his stuffed bear —and pointed towards the child: "Acci—" he changed his mind at the last moment, sprinting on his long legs to the child and raising him up, holding with one hand, and casting complex shield charm with another hand, already heading back to the shelter.
The girl at the door gave out a shout of joy, stretching her arms out for the child in Tom's grip. Right at this moment the next bomb, which had been stalled by his magic for several moments necessary to get to the child and return back, finally went through the invisible barrier overhead and exploded behind his back. Tom managed to cover the child and the mother with his body, falling on top of them at the doorstep of the shelter from the aftershock of the explosion behind and the hit of some stray stone from the crashing building.
He came to his senses shortly afterwards, still lying face down, when he heard the familiar crying sound and tenderly spoken "Tommy—" somewhere near him. His head was hurting, as was his back, even the back of his legs was stinging with dull pain. He was not freezing anymore, but that, possibly, was because he was lying in another person's lap and there definitely were many people around him: he was hearing constant low murmuring, quiet sobs and other sounds usual for the bomb-shelter during the attack. Tom raised to his feet slowly, trying to ignore his sore back and growing headache.
"Lay down, kiddo! You were hit pretty hard there!" A man with thick Irish accent said to him, patting him gently on the shoulder. Tom winced at the discomfort — even small touch and even not directly to his back brought a fresh wave of stinging pain. "Sorry, kid, it seems, you've got pretty nasty burn on your back," A man apologized, "but we don't have anything for the burns here, you need to wait for after the attack to get treated. Just bear for a while more. I know you must be in a lot of pain, but—" Tom just shrugged dismissively, immediately regretting to have moved his shoulders, as stinging sensation now did turn to "a lot of pain", as a man had put it. Tom bit his lip, trying to swallow the scream. It seemed that this in turn had awoken his receding headache, so he felt as if someone was trying to break free through his temples with hammers. His vision became blurry with dark and bright spots here and there. He swayed on his feet.
"Hey, you better sit down—" the same Irish man suggested. Tom reluctantly agreed, though his back was protesting: he felt another wave of stinging pain when he tried to bend his back so he was forced to held his back absolutely straight. And no wonder, that his headache was not going away, as some child was still crying loudly very close to Tom. He winced, looking around in search for the source of this annoying sound.
It was the familiar child who had just recently interfered with Tom's escape. The boy was screaming in pain, Tom realized, remembering how unnaturally the child's leg was bent after his fall on his way to the shelter. There was no way the little monster will stop crying anytime soon, Tom understood, scowling in annoyance. He raised to his feet again, swallowing his own cry of pain in the process, and came to the child who laid to the other side of young girl — it was her lap where Tom woke up. Tom didn't know what he was going to do — just that he wanted these screams to end, so he needed to do something, anything. He went down on his knees beside the crying child, but still haven't decided what he was going to do.
His back was killing him. Headache was stronger every minute, growing with each scream of the child. His clothes were still very wet, if not for the crowd around him, he would already be shaking with cold—
Something was sliding from one of his shoulders, falling to the ground near him. Tom realized that for some reason he now felt the draught along his injured back, when just minutes ago he was warm. He stretched his hand and touched the thing on the floor.
It was shawl. That girl's shawl, he had seen this piece of clothing on her, when he met her at the entrance to the shelter. Her child was crying from cold and pain, lying on the stone floor, but she had lent her last clothes to some stranger—
Not some stranger, Tom realized. He remembered running under the howling of falling bomb and understanding dawned on him.
Muggles, he thought with disdain. She was just standing there looking with crocodile tears in her wide eyes at her own son, but now is throwing away the last piece of warm clothing for some stranger. And all because this stranger happen to save her little monster, when she could not.
Tom scowled and once more drew his wand out, this time not even bothering to cover it with his sleeve. Anyway the only light in this hole of a shelter were coming from a little bulb in far corner, and even that light was dim and unsteadily blinking every now and then.
Tom moved closer to the child, putting the tip of his wand to the injured foot of the boy. He knew enough Healing charms to single-handedly run a hospital in the middle of war-torn London and was creative enough to invent even more of them, replacing other means of magical healing, which were unavailable to him while being in Muggle world during war times — like potions, for instance —so mending a broken bone was a small matter to Tom. He slowly led the tip of his wand up along the broken bone, muttering quiet incantation and channelling his magic through his wand—
Only to find that he didn't have any magic left in him. He felt a surge of cold coming from his very core, swayed, while still kneeling above the child, and instinctively put his hands in front of him, trying to prevent landing face first on the broken leg of the boy underneath. At the end he managed to steady himself on one of his hands, but pressed another hand to the boy's leg accidentally, causing him to cry out in pain. This acrobatics disturbed Tom's own injuries, forcing him to bite his lip hard to stop the embarrassing whining sound coming out of his mouth. He felt wet warmth at his chin, possibly from splitting open the lip with his own teeth. But that was nothing in comparison to his back and head, which was still throbbing with such intensity, that it was hard to breathe evenly. Tom felt another surge from inside of him, this time it was blazing hot and left him totally empty and shaking violently with abruptly returned cold, which he felt not only on the outside, but inside, as well. As he was still almost lying atop of the child, this surge of hot energy, the remnants of his magic, Tom presumed, went through his hand, still pressing against boy's leg, doing exactly that, which he could not achieve just moments ago— successfully mending the broken bone, although Tom hadn't seen this, already turning his head away in shame.
Feeling totally drained and weaker than a newborn mouse, now wet not just because of rain-drenched clothes, but being from head to toe in cold sweat, breathing only every other time, either from panic of loosing his magic or from magical exhaustion, Tom managed to crawl to the dark corner nearby before anyone understood what was happening.
There, in the corner, he was laying on his stomach, not feeling strong enough to raise to his feet yet, and hiding his face, which was covered in tears, in the crease of his elbow. He had lost his magic. He became a Squib. And all because of some crying baby! How stupid one should be! That was only some Muggle child! And to think that he risked his precious life for this garbage! Tom was still violently shaking and his head was spinning, vision darkening now and again, his weakness was so overwhelming, that he thought he was going to be sick, feeling the bile rising in his throat at the mere prospect of living as a Squib at the dreaded and hated orphanage, never again returning to Hogwarts.
"Tommy— Oh, Tommy! You're all cured, my little baby! How—?" Tom heard the familiar voice behind him.
What? 'All cured', she says? How, indeed—
Tom froze on the spot. His magic. He hadn't lost it. Not completely, at least. Some of it remained, enough to cure the broken leg and any other injuries that boy had.
Tom smiled, than grinned more widely, laughing to himself, firstly quietly, then louder, as understanding fully settled in. He began shaking with laughter, but immediately stopped, feeling familiar stinging pain at his burnt back. His head, too, was still aching, so much so, that he felt nausea rising again in his stomach.
Cursing under his breath, Tom hurriedly raised to his feet, ignoring his aching back and head, as he didn't want to lay in his own vomit, if it came to that. It appeared, his magic had cured the boy, but bypassed Tom himself, leaving all his injuries in place. Such bitter irony!
He was weak, swaying lightly, and the world was trying to spin in front of his watery eyes, his vision still unstable, but he desperately needed some air, preferably more fresh than the air in this hole full of sweating dirty Muggles.
Tom made unsteady step towards the closed door.
"Wait! You saved my son! You saved us! Thank you! Thank you!" The girl was kneeling at his feet, clutching quietly sniffing child to her chest and looking up at Tom with huge eyes at the brink of tears.
Tom scoffed in hardly conceived disdain. "I didn't do anything. Move, girl!"
"No, no, you can't go there! They're still throwing bombs on the town! It's dangerous! And you're injured!" The girl gripped his leg, or rather, the cloth of his trousers, trying to stop him.
He sneered without coherent words, as the abrupt movement caused a new wave of pain shooting through his back, then tried to shake her hand off, but the girl was not going to let go of his clothes, despite her child' quiet sobs getting louder again.
"Please, let me help you! That's the least I can do! For my child!—" She held out the child to him for the reason beyond his comprehension. "You cured him!—"
"Hush, girl!" Tom hissed, clasping a hand over her big loud mouth. Why should she cry like that, and at the place full of horrified, injured people, at that! He shook his head, immediately regretting the gesture, as it caused another surge of nausea rise in his throat. He coughed, suppressing the sickness, mortified of the prospect of vomiting in front of so many people, embarrassing himself even further than before. The cough caused a new wave of hot pain spreading along his burnt back, and his knees gave under him, throwing him down, right in front of the girl, and next second he was violently throwing up almost at her feet, desperately trying to support himself with one hand so as not to land face-first in his own mess and frantically hiding the wand up his other sleeve, before someone else with soft heart decided to help him hold 'the strange stick' or better yet to throw it away or to take it to the bonfire.
The girl had put the child down and tried to help Tom, but only managed to make things worse: she patted him soothingly on the seemingly uninjured shoulder, and, like before, this caused the twitching of the muscles on his burnt back, bringing him even more pain. Lost in this pain, Tom, not being able to hold it in any more, didn't even register his own piteous whimper, barely standing on his wobbly knees and one hand, pressing the other — with the wand up the sleeve — to his chest. His vision, already blurry before, had now become almost pitch black, his nausea had finally stopped, and he collapsed on his side in exhaustion, loosing consciousness even before his head touched the cold stone underneath.
When he woke up the next time, he saw the familiar wall of the medical ward at the orphanage, and at first he decided, that all this was some nightmare, his subconscious telling him to get away from Muggles and their wars, before it became too late. And then he saw a familiar form lying on the bed beside him — the girl with the child in her arms, quietly sleeping in her embrace. The girl, though, was laying with her eyes open, staring at him.
When she saw that Tom had woken up, she smiled hesitantly and shyly.
"You're awake! Someone recognized you, said you're from this place, so others helped me bring you here, after the bombing ended. You've been sleeping for almost three days. Another hour and they were going to throw your comatose body out on the street. I feared that, so stayed here, to take care of you if this happens." The girl was rambling so fast, he thought he lost some of the phrases she had spoken.
"Go'way," Tom rasped, his throat dry and voice rusty from three days of sleep. "I did nothing—"
"Here," instead of leaving, the girl got up, put the sleeping child at the bed she'd vacated and brought him a cup of water. "Drink this," she offered tenderly. "They said your name's also Tom," she looked at the child, "just like my son's," she smiled gently, holding a cup to his lips — Tom was lying on his stomach, presumably, because of the burn on his back. The burn in question, it appeared, had been lubricated with some ointment, and he felt some bandages put on it, too.
Tom managed to swallow some water, before choking on it and feeling a familiar sensation of nausea, rising in his stomach. He swallowed hard, suppressing the urge to throw up, red creeping up his neck and cheeks from embarrassment. He remembered the last minutes before he collapsed at that bomb-shelter, throwing up right in front of this girl, and in front of other people, too.
"Here," the girl once again brought him something. Blushing even redder, than before he glared helplessly at the bucket in her hands. "If you're going to be sick—" the girl half-explained, then abruptly stopped, "oh, you need—" coming to the absolutely wrong conclusion, the girl exclaimed, also blushing. Tom coughed more violently, which brought his back on fire with pain, and, like before, at the bomb-shelter, the pain had caused more nausea. He uncontrollably whimpered, not being able to tolerate both the pain and sickness, bit on his lip hard, once again splitting it open with his teeth and squirmed his eyes shut in absolute embarrassment, giving in, at last, to nausea, as it threatened to overwhelm him completely, even pushing aside the pain he had been struggling with.
"Sh-sh," the girl ran a gently hand through his hair, easing some of his headache, while he was throwing up into the bucket, which she was holding in front of him. His vomiting stopped rather quickly this time, as his stomach had been almost empty after three days Tom was lying unconscious, only eventually getting his lips watered with damp cloth, and with no food at all getting inside of him. He was horrified to see blood, coming out of his mouth just before his nausea ceased.
"Water," the girl removed the offending bucket from under his nose, and brought another cup of water, "gently, gently," she helped him hold his head up, putting tender hand under his wobbly chin. His teeth rattled on the brim of the cup, as he slowly began to shake from the after-effects of being sick. Tom didn't want to open his eyes, as tears filled them, as he was afraid that she would see his yet another weakness.
Damnit! Last time he had cried was when he was four and other boys from his bedroom tried to take away his tiny baby-snake. That time Tom bravely fought protecting his pet, managed to break three arms and one rib of his opponents before they finally put him out hitting him on his head with a thick wooden stick. Even then Tom was merely distressed over the loose of his pet, not minding his own injuries, before the boys had gone to the stern Matron with their complaints about him being the bully. Of course, that landed him in detention, never mind, that he, too, was beaten up badly, and just lost his pet! He spent a night kneeling on the cold floor of the chapel, and two days with only piece of bread and cup of water for a meal after that, but those boys just landed in the medical ward and that was it. That night, while kneeling on the hard cold stone floor of the chapel, Tom cried because of this absolute injustice, and that was the very last time he'd shed even one tear for something or somebody, especially himself. It had been eleven years since then, and never once he had broken his own promise.
Tom took a shaky breath, trying not to move any more muscles of his back that was absolutely necessary. Then he suddenly remembered: his wand! Surely, they've taken it, as he had not hidden it very well, had simply put it inside his sleeve and then fell on that same side—
No! What if it was broken? He did fall on top of it, after all. And was in no condition to care—
"Oh, by the way, I've found something in your clothes, when I was throwing them away," the girl said. "Here— I saw you poking my son with this thing before you healed him," the girl took something from under the mattress of the bed she had been lying on earlier. "I thought maybe I need to hide it," she added. And hold his wand out to him. Tom breathed a deep sigh of relief, quickly grabbing his wand and trying to put it into his now absent sleeve, out of habit. Realizing his own mistake he huffed in annoyance and tried to hide his wand under the mattress underneath him. The girl helped him, but even then the effort and acrobatics had left him sweaty and panting, barely suppressing the shudder from pain in the disturbed burn on his back. Worrying his already wounded lips with his teeth, Tom dropped his head on the mattress in front of him, turning away from the girl, and tried to steady his ragged breath, before the movement would cause yet another wave of pain.
"You know," the girl offered, "I've seen people with the less severe burns screaming their lungs out in pain. But you—" she trailed off.
"I've high tolerance," Tom answered through gritted teeth, not bothering to turn his face back to the girl. "Leave… please," he added as an afterthought. She was witness to his humiliation. Thrice, already. Firstly, when his magic had defied him, and then with him being weak as a mouse and throwing up in front of her. He didn't want to do something nasty to her, for the first time in his life, maybe, he wanted not to kill or maim or hurt her in any other way, but simply that she would leave and would never see him again. He was afraid of what he'd do if she won't leave, though. She was still a potential threat to him and to wizards, in general, having seen him perform magic and having even touched his wand. But, he thought, I would rather see her smile like this again, than shed even one tear from those huge green eyes of hers, and I definitely don't want her to see me this weak and humiliated. I wonder, what's… her name? At that thought Tom intentionally moved, hissing immediately, as sharp pang of pain shot through his burnt back, successfully distracting him from this dangerous path of thought. He didn't want to know. He needn't know. "Leave!" he barked, this time more fiercely than before, trying to scare her away.
Heavy silence was deafening to his ears. At last, Tom heard rustling of sheets—she took the sleeping child from the bed and left, slamming the door behind her in annoyance.
Tom drew shaky breath, pushing the ghost of that old heartache to the back of his mind, once again thoroughly forgetting the embarrassment and humiliation he'd endured that time together with the deeply rooted fear of loosing the only thing that mattered to him — his magic, more precious to him, than even his life, though, that, too, he could have lost during that attack and its aftermath for the life of a mere Muggle's child.
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