Third Term
Now that their friendship issues were worked out, they had time to focus on bigger, better things.
Grindelwald's and Hitler's attacks continued over the year, but Harry and Tom didn't let that prevent them from realizing their ambitions. They tirelessly networked, but not a single Slytherin approached them with a partnership or acquaintanceship. Tom seethed and simmered, but Harry supposed that their current treatment—as if they didn't exist—was better than being bullied or harassed.
Harry was sure that some Slytherins, especially Avery, were angry that they had to halt their attacks, but Black had more power than them, and they had to reluctantly accept that. It would be a fool's move to attack a Sacred Twenty-Eight's acquaintances.
They continued to meet with Black, helping him with his assorted assignments, usually for Potions and Transfiguration. Harry grew to appreciate Black, who was much less formal than the other Sacred Twenty-Eight families.
"Hm," Black said, peering down at his essay, notes and textbooks scattered around him. The three of them—Harry, Tom, and Black—were sitting together for their weekly study session in the library. "Dumbledore strikes once again."
"What did you get?" Harry asked.
"What did you get?"
"Exceeds Expectations," Harry responded.
"You?" Black asked Tom, tapping his quill against his desk.
"Exceeds Expectations," Tom said as he reached into his bag to pick out his essay.
"Mmh. I got an Acceptable." Black frowned. "How do you two do so well?"
Harry sighed. "Hours and hours of writing, rewriting, editing, and proofreading. An EE in his class is a straight Outstanding in any other class. Has he ever given a Slytherin an Outstanding before?"
Black scowled. "Of course not. I wish we could get Dumbledore fired. My uncle, who is on the Board of Governors, tries every year but is always declined."
"That's annoying. Have you tried anything else?" said Tom carefully.
"Indeed," Black sighed. "But it isn't that easy. The most we can do is hope that Dippet accepts the request for a formal inquiry."
Harry drummed his fingers against a blank piece of parchment. "I didn't know Dippet liked Dumbledore that much."
"Oh, yes. You'd be surprised at how much power Dumbledore actually holds, mostly from his discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood. He was only twenty seven when he discovered it. But his relevancy faded after he accepted a teaching role at Hogwarts. Everyone was baffled when he chose Hogwarts over a tenured position at the British Alchemy Institute."
"He's got more status than I thought," said Harry finally, mulling over Black's words. Tom was nodding thoughtfully. I would have never pinned Dumbledore as being in academia.
"It makes sense then that he's able to get away with what he does," said Tom.
Black jabbed his quill at a marked line on his essay. "Anyways, I need to make revisions. Tom, can I see your essay first?"
"Of course." With one smooth motion, Tom gave Black his essay.
And they fell into an easy conversation, talking and chatting about this and that as they worked.
The sessions piled up, and a few weeks later, they helped Black ace an exceptionally difficult Transfiguration exam. Black had shown them his test, marked with a bright circled EE, happier and more smug than Harry had ever seen him.
During dinnertime in the Great Hall, with every Slytherin witnessing the encounter, Alphard Black stood up from his seat at the far end of the table and began walking over to Harry and Tom. The conversation hushed, all eyes trained on the pureblood. When he reached Harry and Tom, Black first clasped Tom's hand.
"I, Alphard Black, give you the respect of my house. I offer my hand in friendship."
Tom dipped his head gracefully. "I, Tom Riddle, give you my respect. I offer my hand in friendship," shaking and clasping Alphard's hand.
Harry repeated the handshake and statement, forcing himself to contain his smile.
Obtaining an offer of friendship was the next important development for any muggleborn wishing to assimilate to wizarding culture. A step up from acquaintances, a friendship provided the basis for pledges, oaths, and eventually, various vows, including a vow of fealty, used in high wizarding society. It was a formality and a sign of etiquette that not many people gave casually.
A friendship provided greater advantages than an acquaintanceship, but also required greater risks. Sworn friends expected more of each other and could be called to help when there wasn't an immediate benefit. Both parties placed more trust in the other, which was high risk, high reward. Friends weren't entitled to play the Slytherin games between themselves.
Friends could develop genuine friendly relationships with the other party, since friends were entitled to casually relax their public mask and don their private mask. While still a mask, it was a mask only shown to closer associates, a mask never shown to the public.
Also, the use of the forename, instead of the respective position in the family, indicated that the person was open to further developing relationships. For Alphard Black to state his own name instead of Scion Black meant that Alphard was throwing his weight behind Tom and Harry, highlighting his bets that Tom and Harry would become powerhouses of Slytherin within the next few years.
It was truly the ambitious gamble to toss his hat in the ring this early in the game. Now the question remained if Alphard Black had bet correctly, since it also elevated Harry and Tom from third caste to the bottom of the second caste.
With Alphard becoming a friend, greater scrutiny fell upon them, especially for their family names (or rather, lack thereof). Ever since Tom and Harry had first stepped foot in Hogwarts, they had quickly learned the power of names and having a respected name in Wizarding Britain. Slytherins were obsessed with names: students with respectable names received greater privileges. Students without respectable names, like two mudblood orphans in Slytherin, had to fight twice as hard to receive half the results as others.
Moreover, Tom had always been fascinated with the idea of names, with the innate power of a name. At the orphanage, he was obsessed with finding out who his parents were, and he was always disappointed when his searches turned up nothing useful, except that his father's name was Tom Riddle and his grandfather's name was Marvolo. The emphasis the Wizarding World placed on names only fed his desperate obsession to find his surname and family, to see if he had a legacy, which he was convinced he did.
Harry didn't care much for the names or the idea of names. He didn't have any clues like Tom did, and quite frankly, having a pureblood name would not change him in any significant capacity. And nothing about his name was certain. "Harry" could have been a nickname, and his surname "Peters" was chosen for him. Even if he wasn't "Harry Peters", Harry could care less.
But Tom was obsessed, and he did everything he could to curb his obsession. In Hogwarts, this took the form of dedicated research. Tom had discovered the existence of the Lineage Ritual. The ritual specified that the drinker had to brew a complicated, three-month-long potion.
Ultimately, they were not able to pursue the ritual, since many of the potions ingredients were illegal.
The Goblins also offered their own version of an inheritance ritual, but it cost an exorbitant amount of money—twenty Galleons per person! Although it was an enticing idea to entertain (at least for Tom), Harry was unwilling to spend eighty percent of his money from the orphan fund on an inheritance ritual with an almost guaranteed outcome of disappointment.
In spite of this setback, Tom made it his priority to explore the school to see if he could glimpse his elusive father's existence, elusive in both definitions of the word.
During his spare time, Tom explored the nook and crannies of Hogwarts in his quest. He searched the shields in the trophy room. He perused the lists of prefects in the old school records. He even scrutinized the books of wizarding history, hoping to find the name "Tom Riddle" inscribed on the battered, yellowing pages. But his searches turned up nothing, bearing no fruit.
After one-too-many crazed rants from Tom seething about his inability to find his father, Harry finally broke it to him.
"Have you ever considered your father wasn't a wizard?" he said gently.
Tom refused to look Harry in the eye for the rest of the night.
Of course, Tom had known there was a large chance that his father wasn't a wizard. But even as his searches remained fruitless, he rejected the only remaining conclusion because he could not bear to think he was born from a muggle or a squib.
Eventually, reluctantly, Tom accepted the truth that his father must have never set foot in Hogwarts.
Sometimes, Harry wished Tom wasn't so fragile about his own ego. He had come to peace with being a muggleborn, but unfortunately, Tom had to be dragged kicking and screaming to this conclusion.
And Tom's acceptance was superficial at best. Harry knew that deep down, Tom thought it was untrue, that he just hadn't searched hard enough, that there was still a chance his father was a wizard, albeit a mediocre one. Moreover, Tom believed only his father could have been magical, as otherwise his mother wouldn't have died giving birth to him.
"No magical woman would die giving birth," Tom sneered when Harry tried to reason with him. "There's no way my mother is a witch."
Harry sighed.
Because of Tom's flawed logic, he refused to accept the most plausible conclusion that he was born from two muggles, instead clinging to the belief that his father was magical. Because if his father was magical, that meant there was a possibility, no matter how small, that he was out there and alive. When Tom had been little, he had wanted nothing more than for his father to take him from the orphanage. As the years passed, however, Tom sneered at that childish folly of his. But finding out about the magical world reinvigorated his old interest. Even if Tom would never admit it, Harry knew that Tom secretly wished for his father to still want him as a child.
Naturally, it was never going to happen now that Tom was a teenager. Harry wisely never stated his true opinion on the subject and let it slide. There was no need to enrage Tom by reminding him of his weaknesses.
The Daily Express headlines on May 10th read, "NAZIS INVADE HOLLAND, BELGIUM, LUXEMBURG. FRENCH TOWNS BOMBED!"
Harry clutched his copy in public, fear straining against his will to bubble out and present itself as mass hysteria. The unsettling relative peace in muggle Britain was over. The grinding gears of war were now in full swing.
The Nazis were getting closer and closer to Britain.
By May 28th, all three countries had surrendered. Grindelwald had continued his invasions in Europe, as he had used Hitler's advances to cause chaos and take over the ministries of those countries.
Closer and closer.
On June 14th, the Daily Express read, "GERMAN TROOPS IN PARIS, COLLAPSE OF FRANCE IMMINENT!"
Just eight days later, on June 22nd, France surrendered to Germany.
As the headlines only spoke of Hitler's multiple victories and Grindelwald's innumerable advances, Harry felt fear creep into the crevices of his mind. He feared that Germany would bomb muggle Britain. He feared that upon returning to the orphanage, he would be bombed to death, with no way to protect himself. He feared that he would end up an unnamed casualty of war.
June 23rd found Harry begging Professor Dumbledore to allow them to remain in the castle at Hogwarts.
Harry knocked on the door, silently hoping that Dumbledore was alone.
"Come in."
Thankfully, Dumbledore was alone when Harry opened the door. He walked in and found a spot by the wall to wait as Dumbledore finished his prior tasks. Dumbldeore was sitting at his desk, leaning forward and writing on a document. Harry waited for Dumbledore to acknowledge him, and a few threads of impatience grew as the minutes passed. Dumbledore finally looked up from his document and waved his hand for Harry to begin. "Professor, I had a request to ask you."
Dumbledore tapped his wand against the desk, putting his document away. Harry caught sight of the Ministry seal before it disappeared under the desk.
"I was wondering if Tom and I would be able to remain at Hogwarts for the summer."
Dumbledore stroked his chin, motioning for Harry to continue. He gave no indication of his opinion.
"Hogwarts is the safest place Tom and I could possibly be. The Nazis are primed to attack Muggle Britain at any moment. I know there's a war with Grindelwald right now, but there's no possible cause for Grindelwald to attack Hogwarts."
Harry took a breath.
"Please."
Professor Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I cannot grant your request. There is just as strong a chance Grindelwald will attack Hogwarts as Germany will attack Muggle Britain. Also, there are many complicated warding rituals that will be performed this summer to protect Hogwarts, and they require a vacant castle."
Harry felt himself deflate. "Please consider it, Professor. I can guarantee that Tom and I would be exposed to much less danger if we remained at Hogwarts." At Dumbledore's burgeoning expression, Harry hastily added, "We're helpful, I promise! We can do chores and other menial tasks, we'll earn our keep." Just don't send us back to the orphanage.
Professor Dumbledore spoke in a clipped voice. "None of that will be necessary. I am sorry for the inconvenience, but you and Tom will not be able to remain at Hogwarts over the summer."
Harry felt his heart sink to the bottom of his gut. "Yes, sir," He muttered, turning away as his lips screwed into a bitter scowl. Unable to keep a calm facade, Harry stormed out of Dumbledore's office, too resentful to care for the eyes cutting lasers into his back.
In his dorm, he ranted to Tom. "The fucking cunt! I asked Dumbledore to let us remain at Hogwarts. I practically begged on my knees for that man! And you know what he said?"
"Nothing good," Tom said.
"Bastard said, 'I am sorry for the inconvenience' when our lives are at risk. Our LIVES! He doesn't care for our wellbeing at all. Not. One. Bit. I bet he wouldn't mind if we died," Harry seethed.
Tom placed a hand on his shoulder slowly, startling him out of his pulsing rage. He didn't realize he had been shaking and quivering from the pent-up anger.
"We'll show him once we're old enough. Show him how badly he fucked up."
Harry leaned into the hand and mumbled, "I just wish we could stay." He clenched his fists helplessly.
With a bitter mind and heart, Harry packed his trunk and returned to Wool's Orphanage on the 31st of June.
----- ----- -----
Summer 1940
Harry and Tom spent their summer days much like the previous year, noting that the challenges to their reign markedly decreased after Tom may or may not have overreacted to a small prank by Jason Worster. Harry felt trapped in the orphanage, anxious to know that something could happen to them and they couldn't do anything about it. He hated it. At least at Hogwarts, they had some power over the situation. Opting to take whatever comfort they could get, the boys escaped to Diagon Alley in the daytime and returned to the orphanage at dusk, only staying to receive breakfast and dinner at Wool's.
Morale was low, rations were strictly enforced, and the feeling of impending doom hung over every step they took. Harry mused that it wouldn't have been so bad if they at least had some bacon or ham to eat, but unfortunately, the orphanage was too destitute to buy meat. He missed the Sunday bacon bit breakfasts. Moreover, he missed the meals at Hogwarts: meat was plentiful and juicy, and it was served daily, even though there were rations.
Wartime conditions had further beaten down the other orphans, as their attacks and schemes were fewer and more subdued. They faced little outward resistance to their rule, but Harry could tell the inward resentment only grew as the others wondered why they weren't able to attend a safe private school in Scotland, far away from the slums of East London. Far away from the docklands.
The bombings in Cardiff, Plymouth, Birmingham, and Liverpool loomed over Harry. Sometimes it felt like he couldn't breathe, with how thick the tension felt in London. Many Londoners seemed defiant and patriotic, inspired by Churchill's speech that "this was their finest hour", but Harry felt the opposite. He was terrified.
And he hated every moment of it, hated everything that reminded or was remotely related to the war. He hated the gas masks Mrs. Cole handed out almost a year ago, hated the way it looked with the dark, round lenses for his eyes and hated the cardboard box it came in that collected dust in the far corner of his closet, hated the way it smelled of rubber and disinfectant, hated the way it constricted his head when he was forced to wear it in drills. He hated the wireless, the way it droned on and on about the news and the Nazis and the war, but he still listened to it because there was nothing else to do—
The air sirens blared and blared and blared.
Harry clapped his hands over his ears, diving onto his bed and smothering his face in the covers. It was a practice warning, but it still scared him half to death every time the high pitched tone, then low pitched tone sounded.
Screaming into his pillow, Harry was glad that Tom was absent from their room.
----- ----- -----
September 7, 1940
In the darkness of the evening, Harry woke to Tom smothering his body and the deafening noises of war. And the heat; it was indescribably oppressive.
Air sirens blared in the background while a deafening boom resounded through the city, sending shockwaves through the core of his being and splitting his eardrums open. The tinkling of shattering glass and thumps of buildings falling down petrified him and Tom. The deep vibrations from the bombs shook the building, and everything was shuddering and shaking from the impact. The clanging of metal against metal added to the cacophony. Through the unbearable heat of the fires, Harry felt icy fear creep along his spine, the cold spreading further every time he heard the cries of utter terror around him. The sharp sound of gunfire rattled the foundations of the orphanage, while the tearing noise of shrapnel barraged his senses.
As each bomb hammered the surroundings of East London around them, Tom clutched Harry harder, digging his sharp nails into his shoulder. Harry hugged tighter, ignoring the pinpricks of pain.
Surrounded by Tom, Harry still couldn't ignore the low whoosh of Nazi war planes. They flew low over London, causing the great noises that infected Harry's eardrums like an insidious virus.
"I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't-don't—," Tom whispered over and over, his voice thick with his Cockney accent. Tears dripped liberally from his eyes.
The rumbling roar of bombs falling across the river accompanied that unforgettable, belly-turning rumbling, crackling, cracking sound of a building crashing.
London was on fire.
The sky glowed an angry blood red, smoke from the burning buildings obfuscated his vision, fountains of flames bellowed out of factory windows, and wall structures came crashing down.
Harry couldn't tear his gaze away.
The worst part was the cries of terror. The shrieks and sobs and pleas emanated from the poor souls caught in the crossfire, inevitably trapped and doomed to die, as well as those who were burnt alive, and those like Harry and Tom who woke to the scene around them. In a brief moment of relative silence, a shrill scream echoed through the ruins of Bethnal Green.
Amidst the rough barrage of gunfire, another bomb hit close to Wool's, silencing the scream.
Tom tackled Harry in his attempt to hold him closer, the bed creaking under their combined weight.
"I don't want to die—I don't want to—I want somewhere safe," Tom croaked. His body reeked of old, stinking sweat and his stale breath peppered Harry's nose as he hyperventilated. Harry reached up to his own face while his body shook uncontrollably. His face was wet. Blindy, Harry realized he had been crying.
"I don't!" Tom screamed, eyes wide and frantic. He curled in on himself, crushing Harry in his weight.
"Tom—Tom!" Harry grabbed Tom's face in his hands, fingers curling in the wavy locks by Tom's ears. "Get a hold of yourself!"
He slapped Tom in the face.
Tom stilled, his lips slightly parted. Hopelessness was written across him, his eyes puffy and inflamed, dark brown orbs watering, his glistening cheeks highlighted by the reddish-yellow glow of the flames.
"We'll die here," Tom wheezed.
Harry wanted to say something, anything to reassure Tom but he hesitated.
There wasn't anything he could say.
When the din abated slightly, the persistent scream was silent. Only the air siren remained steady, amidst the low crackling of the flames. The low whoosh of planes roared back up. The motors seemed like they were grinding rather than roaring, and angrily pulsating, like a bee buzzing in blind fury.
In the distance, the sound of gunfire was soft and muffled. It still felt as if it was ripping Harry's eardrums apart.
"We won't die. We're wizards," Harry said, trying to convince himself. He hugged Tom's form as tightly as he could.
Through the window, huge batches of incendiary bombs fell. They flashed terrifically, then quickly simmered down to pinpoints of dazzling white, burning ferociously. Other pinpoints burned on, and a yellow flame leapt up from the white center.
The greatest of all fires was directly in front of him. He could feel the heat all around him. The fire whipped hundreds of feet into the air, licking the buildings around them. Pinkish-white smoke ballooned upward in a great cloud, blocking the structure from clear view. Their bedroom felt like it was boiling.
Tom was still sobbing, sobbing, sobbing—
His nails ripped holes through Harry's threadbare clothing. Grabbing Tom's hand, he noticed it was exceptionally cold and clammy, paradoxical to the thick, choking heat. But Harry's own hand was dry, dryer than could be. The sweat had evaporated.
The streets below were semi-illuminated from the glow. Overhead, making a ceiling in the vast heavens, there was a cloud of smoke all in pink. Up in the pink shrouding were tiny, brilliant specks of flashing light-anti aircraft shells, which were bursting. After the flash he heard the sound.
Up there, too, the barrage balloons were standing out as clearly as if it were daytime, but now they were pink instead of silver. And now and then through a hole in that pink shroud there twinkled incongruously a permanent, genuine star—the old-fashioned kind that has always been there. Harry shuddered at the great terribleness of it all.
Below, the Thames grew lighter, and all around below were the shadows—the dark shadows of buildings and bridges that formed the base of this dreadful masterpiece.
Mrs. Cole rushed into their room.
"Tom, Harry, get down under the tables!" she yelled.
Harry struggled to get Tom to move.
"Let's go," he pleaded. He pushed Tom off of his body and held his trembling hand out. "Come on, hurry!" Harry begged.
Tom clamped down on his hand like a vise. Harry hurriedly maneuvered Tom down from his top bunk, working as gently as could in the rush to a safer area and wishing that Tom would relax his grip a little.
With his help, Tom stumbled downstairs into the mess hall. His eyes were glazed over, the exact opposite of their usually alert and sharp state. The other orphans didn't even glance at them as he helped position himself and Tom under the table, too busy shivering and grabbing at the legs of the tables shuddering from the impact of bombs. Tom's eyes were darting from place to place before rapidly glazing over. Harry pulled Tom closer to himself.
Through the night, Harry huddled together with Tom as tightly as he could, embracing the other with a death grip. The discordant harmony of war tore at him, at his senses, at his sense of self.
And the bombs rained and rained and, oh, they rained!
----- ----- -----
When they went outside the next day to inspect the remains, they didn't speak. The ruins of Bethnal Green greeted them in their full glory. Collapsed buildings and houses stuck out like sore thumbs amidst the rest of the city. Shrapnel littered the streets. Crumbling bricks and partially destroyed beams and upturned dirt decorated the site of bombed buildings. They took great care to avoid the scattered shattered glass from windows.
Adults were inspecting the site themselves, muttering at the destruction, hopeless, weary, resigned, somber, and infuriated expressions on their faces.
Children, curious to interact with the ruins, played in the streets amidst the damage and destruction, skirting around large craters and bits of debris.
As they watched, Harry stood back from everything. A mangled, bloodied body was pulled from the wreckage. A jolt ran down Harry's spine as he realized who he was looking at. He'd only been able to identify her by the bright blonde curly hair that covered her face. Bile ride to this throat, and Harry barely swallowed it down.
"That's Ms. Martha," Harry whispered, feeling pins and needles run all over him. To his side, Tom looked grimly onward.
Ms. Martha was one of their schoolteachers before Hogwarts. Harry remembered her as being the nicest teacher, always smiling and eager to help the students. She even gave the children lollipops on their birthdays.
Seeing her in such a manner brought profound sadness to Harry. Ms. Martha deserved it least, yet she was the one that was hit. Harry's chest tightened as observers turned in great numbers to solemnly observe her.
"That could have been me," Tom said quietly. "Could have been us."
Standing side by side, Harry leaned into Tom. Whether it was for Tom or his own comfort, he didn't know. Quite frankly, he didn't care.
"But it wasn't."
Tom exhaled softly, watching a car roll up, wobbling amidst the littered debris. Two men exited from the car, walking over to Ms. Martha's body with meaningful looks on their faces. The crowd quieted. Struggling to lift the debris off of her, at last, they managed to extract the body out of the wreckage. Then it was even quieter still with everyone staring on. The men put her body into the car and disappeared into the vehicle.
While the car drove away, tears welled in Harry's eyes.
Over the next few days, the children were evacuated to the countryside. The orphanage felt empty without them; no Billy Stubbs, no Amy Benson, no Dennis Bishop, no Eric Whalley. The orphanage was a ghost town, only the matron and staff remained. Where there had once been dislike and hatred, the war stripped them of that, and it left all with grim understanding. Tom and Harry had barely avoided the evacuation: they were granted the weekly stay until they left for Hogwarts.
As the days passed, they lived in fear of future bombings. It had happened once, and what was to say it wouldn't happen again? (And again?)
He couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't stop dreaming about it. They were always the same: horrid flashbacks of Tom's haunting cries as he clutched him and rocked back and forth, the heat so intense that Harry wanted to scratch his skin off. Harry couldn't look at his bunk the same way, and physically getting into his bunk made him retch.
Concerned at his behavior, Tom asked Harry how he felt. Harry refused to answer, repeating over and over that he was "fine", that it would "go away", but he knew Tom didn't believe him. He didn't believe himself either.
He couldn't stand to have the gas mask in his room. Where once he hated it, now it triggered memories of the bombing. He threw it out, cardboard box and all, trembling all the while he did so.
Tom watched on with a stony face. Harry snapped back, trying to make him understand, but he felt bad immediately afterwards. Tom, too, was dealing with the after effects. Tom was more closed off, he was constantly irritable, ready to verbally fight Harry at the slightest provocation. Tom became overly paranoid, eyes and ears snapping this way and that at the slightest noise, suspicion written clearly across his face.
Heavily concerned, Harry asked Tom how he felt. Tom's eyes narrowed in anger, but he responded tightly with "Nothing. I feel nothing." Harry knitted his brows, unable to help him but wanting so badly to make it better and return things to normal. Any semblance of normality was better than none.
When Harry realized he couldn't get into his bunk, viscerally shaking, he moved his blankets onto the floor, trying his hardest to sleep. He couldn't. His mind kept rerunning the memories over and over. Worse, Harry didn't know whether the bombs would strike or not.
They did. Every night, he was greeted by bombs. Each night was an exercise in survival. Needless to say, Harry didn't sleep; he couldn't sleep.
A small, miserable part of him thought that it would have been kinder to have been killed than continually bombed, over and over. The pain of waiting for the next attack, unknowing if this night would be his last, was agonizing, soul-wrenching. Excruciating.
Two nights later, Tom joined him on the floor, his blankets tucked under his arm. Harry wordlessly made room for Tom, turning onto his side and extending his arms. Tom crawled into the space between Harry's open arms, making himself snug.
They lay there every night, swaddled like newborns and leaning against each other. Sharing warmth in the hopes that maybe, maybe they would find peace.
(They didn't. But they found something in each other's arms.)