You Can't Con a Con Man (Part 2)

You Can't Con a Con Man

"Read," Larissa told Julian, followed by a noise like she was pushing papers into his hands.

"Fine." Julian's word started out confident but trailed off as he was already reading.

There was a small interlude of blessed silence. Unexpectedly, a laugh pierced the general noise of the Great Hall. Everyone was amazed by the sound seeing as Julian wasn't exactly known for his attracting any kind attention—a couple of people near Tom even jumped at the unexpected sound. Tom could feel the vibrations in the bench. Julian continued, undisturbed, though he did lower his voice slightly. How much that helped in a completely silent Great Hall, remained to be seen.

"Dear Tom, I am well," Julian began, quoting Harry letter. He looked at the photograph. "Obviously," he sniggered.

Tom sighed.

Julian went on, his eyes widening at the ridiculousness that lay before them. "Here is quiet..." he paused, overwhelmed by laughter, "and a bit bor—boring." His chuckles soon became guffaws again and he gave up on trying to contain them. He talked in between peals of laughter. "To end, I would... like... to assure you that... I—I am in gre—gr—great health." Julian took a huge breath in. "And I am a—a—a—as safe," his voice cracked, "as possible."

A chortle escaped Larissa as well, though Tom could tell she was doing her very best to be supportive. Julian was, confirming his suspicions, much ruder than anyone might have expected. Their laughter didn't bother Tom, surprisingly enough, especially considering what his reaction might have been not even a year earlier. But a lot of things happened since and he didn't begrudge their amusement; he knew they weren't laughing at him, but at Harry—a difference he wouldn't have made by himself.

Someone was guilty, though, guilty for telling the Ministry and the press about Harry's real age. Guilty for Harry not being in the castle and relatively safe. Hell, guilty for Tom not being there when Harry was injured. And Tom knew who that person was, though they were never able to prove it.

Dumbledore.

Harry tried to explain how he wasn't sure that Dumbledore behavior was bad. That he had his reasons for doing everything he did. That he was always thinking of the greater good. That his actions had the lumbering figure of a war shadowing them. Harry, himself, wasn't feeling too well at the end. He had awful nightmares, found himself avoiding certain hallways, food became optional. It was like once his job was done and Tom understood his warnings, Harry could let go.

Only letting go for Harry wasn't pretty or peaceful and until he started seeing a Mind Healer that summer things didn't get any better. With Harry not certain about how to proceed, Dumbledore and his traitorous ways fell on the wayside and Tom was caught between helping Harry prepare for his NEWTs or combat his Combat Stress Reaction—which served as a warning wrapped up in guilt, because it mostly consisted of Harry telling him horror stories about Tom's would-be actions.

Now, it was October and—though Tom had planned on waiting until Harry was more comfortable in his position as curse breaker before reopening the Dumbledore conversation—things had just changed drastically. Harry had been injured and Tom had not been there. Harry could have died. And Tom would have found out days later. Dumbledore would pay for it, there was no doubt about it. Tom wasn't interested in the greater good or some such nonsense, those were Harry's reasons, Tom happened to think he should include in the planning stages the one who Dumbledore raised to die. But not anymore.

When Tom lifted his head, the mirth disappeared abruptly from both Julian and Larissa's faces. It was almost hilarious. He didn't know what they could see on his face, but judging by his thoughts it wasn't the sanest expressions. Looking for a quill, he scribbled 'Twat' on the picture of the article after making a copy. He sent the edited picture with the return eagle that they used for intercontinental flight and folded the copy carefully to put it in his pocket.