----- ----- -----
March 1941
The Room of Requirement was a blessing as the Second Global Wizarding War and Second World War raged on. In the Room, they didn't have to think about Hitler and Grindelwald's sweeping advances across Europe; they only had to focus on sorting the many items to the best of their abilities.
Once they had catalogued all they could, they began to delve into their hoard of books, including History and Traditions of the Autumn Equinox Throughout the Centuries by Ackerley Brickenden, a first edition of Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes by Elmer R. Limus, and The Decline of Ritual Magic by Bathilda Bagshot. They read these books in the safety of their dormitory, away from prying eyes.
One of the more interesting books was A Defense of the Dark Arts by Lucille Arkwright, published in 1913.
"DEBUNKING THE CONTEMPORARY VIEW OF THE DARK ARTS.
The Dark Arts are one of the two branches of Magic, along with the Light Arts. Although the contemporary view of Dark Magic is that it aims to harm and kill, this view wildly misunderstands the topic. To understand Dark Magic, one must first understand Light Magic. Light Spells are only as strong as the caster's magical core, leaving many with the capability of only casting the simplest spells. But Dark Spells require intent, not magical strength, removing the limitation of Light Magic entirely.
Because of this, Dark Spells are, by nature, much more complicated and powerful than Light Spells, leading many to believe that they should be banned. However, the Dark Arts are just as likely to be used by healers as well as Azkaban convicts. Seventy percent of the spells used by St. Mungo's Mediwitches are Dark. It is only through the media's hysterical portrayal of Dark Spells that the Dark Arts are wrongfully stigmatized. Even though they exist, the small portion of Dark Spells primarily used to cause harm pale in comparison to the vast array of Dark Magic necessary for daily life.
Nowhere can the stigma of Dark Magic be felt keener than in Britain's lack of progress, leagues behind Germany and France, countries that encourage the Dark Arts. Germany is one of the most medically advanced countries, having released the Hooting Cough vaccine last year. Paris is the fashion capital of the world. Both feats are only possible through the widespread acceptance of the Dark Arts.
Societal progress is caused by the Dark Arts, contrary to what the British mainstream media spouts."
Harry scowled at the book. It was technological innovation that brought forth chemical warfare in the First World War, in both the Muggle and Magical world. Western values, the so-called pinnacles of human achievement, were used to carry out unimaginable horrors. Innovations in war technology were the scourge of humankind. After all, they had experienced it firsthand in Muggle London.
Harry shoved the book in Tom's direction. "I'm not reading the rest of this, if it's all like this. Technology is meant to be regulated."
Tom raised an eyebrow. "How small-minded of you," he said in a disinterested tone. "Progress is progress, no matter its roots."
"Technology for the sake of it is no progress at all," Harry argued. "The only use of such horrid technology is to torture and kill."
Tom shrugged. "Technology is not inherently good or bad."
"You just don't believe in morality."
Tom sneered. "Total war is an inevitability. In times of peace, these technologies would be used in ways more appetizing to your bland appetite." He held up his palm, saying, "The stain of war will fade from these innovations with time."
Harry shook his head in disbelief. "There is absolutely no reason for the existence of chemical warfare. Mustard gas and Dugbog Pox potions should not have ever come into fruition."
"All technology has some inherent value," Tom said. "Though, I'd suggest finishing the book before making any further assumptions about the Dark Arts."
Fuming, Harry skimmed the next few pages rapidly, growing more disgusted with the bok. But he kept reading, flipping a few pages here and there until he reached a new section.
"LIGHT MAGIC AND DARK MAGIC
The Light Arts are not inherently better than the Dark Arts Magic, nor the reverse. They are both simply the two branches of Magic. But because Dark Magic requires intent, rather than Light Magic's requirement of raw power, the Dark Arts are more accessible to the common witch or wizard. The size of one's magical reservoir—innate reserves of magic set at an unchangeable value—do not limit the capabilities of the practitioner.
The pitfalls of the Light Arts are that many witches and wizards simply find themselves lacking the raw magical strength needed to cast increasingly difficult Light Spells. Although most meet the required amount of magical strength for spells taught in school, many graduates that choose to specialize in the Light Arts drop out.
Each and every single Light Lord and Lady are magical prodigies, holding vast magical cores. It is, quite literally, impossible for those with mediocre magical cores to become the most skilled Light practitioners. However, such large magical reserves are comparatively rarer in Dark Lords and Ladies. The Dark Lady Aleksandra Kruhlak, the most feared Dark practitioner in modern history, was famously known for her inability to perform Light Spells above the OWL level. Both Light and Dark Lords and Ladies are equally matched in prowess and skill, yet Dark Lords and Ladies use grit and perseverance instead of natural talent to prove themselves."
Harry grunted, putting a bookmark in before turning to face Tom once more. "I suppose Dark Magic isn't so bad for the common folk, then," he relented.
Tom scoffed, "Quite elitist of you."
Harry harrumphed, crossing his arms. "Quit acting like you're a populist. Merlin knows you're more elitist than I am." It really makes no sense since we're both dirt poor.
Tom shook his head impatiently. "No, no, don't you see? Just think of all the great things we'll do with Dark Magic."
"We're not planning to go into fields that require Dark Magic."
"You don't know that for certain. And I wasn't talking about future job prospects. I meant our status in Slytherin. If we can show them our superiority in the Dark Arts, I guarantee you we'll have this house under our fists."
Harry stared doubtfully at Tom. "Slytherin is a Dark House. Most of its students have been tutored in the Dark Arts since they were young."
"Dark Magic is based upon intent, not talent or accumulated skill. We will catch up easily."
Harry sighed. Great. Another obsession Tom is dragging me into.
And with Harry's reluctant agreement, they began reading Introduction to the Dark Arts, thirteenth edition, also found in the Room.
"The five branches of the Dark Arts are Blood Magic, Mind Magic, Elemental Magic, Necromancy, and Dark Charms. Each branch is classified by its unique effects.
The most well known branch of the Dark Arts is Dark Charms, which includes the subcategory of jinxes, hexes, and curses. Jinxes are the easiest to execute well and require the least intent and concentration, while curses are the hardest and require expert training, focus, and skill.
A new student can cast the Knockback Jinx with a little practice because it is easy and intuitive. However, a new student can not cast the Killing Curse without many months or years of intense practice. It is immensely difficult to focus on casting the six syllables of Avada Kedavra while maintaining precise spellwork and consistent intent.
Dringler's Law of Incantation states the difficulty of a Dark Spell roughly doubles with each added syllable, a hexasyllabic spell being sixty-four times more difficult than a monosyllabic spell. Light Spells, such as the Levitation Charm are not affected by this rule, as they do not require intent to be cast. Otherwise, Wingardium Leviosa would be impossible for any but the most talented of the talented to perform.
The classifications of Dark Magic practitioners are as follows: the Untrained are able to complete one to three syllable spells; the Beginner four syllables; the Intermediate five syllables; Masters six syllables; Dark Lords and Ladies upwards of seven syllables."
While learning theory was fun and dandy, they could not practice Dark Magic until they could find a suitable location. A quick conversation in their dormitory with Alphard killed that wish.
"Forgive me for being so abrupt, but where is the place you usually practice Dark Magic?" Tom asked Alphard, twirling his wand as he leaned back into his seat.
Alphard hummed softly, placing his hands on his thighs. "I don't practice at Hogwarts."
"What do you mean?" interjected Harry.
Alphard turned his half-lidded eyes on him, slowly kneading his robes. "Don't you know about the Trace?"
"Yes..." Harry trailed off, uncertain. "But I thought it only detects magic around Muggles, making it useless at Hogwarts."
Alphard sighed, shaking his head a little. "If only. The Trace is more than that, unfortunately. Much more. In addition to what you stated, the Trace also detects the type of magic cast—Light or Dark. The danger arises because the Trace alerts the Ministry if your magical signature becomes too tainted."
"Tainted?" Tom asked carefully.
"Yes, tainted. Each time you practice Dark Magic, it imprints upon your magical signature, 'tainting' it."
Harry exchanged glances with Tom, who was pursing his lips.
"Could you explain what a magical signature is?" Harry asked.
Alphard waved his hand around carelessly. "Oh, you know, it's basically a reflection of the sum of your interactions with the environment around you. You understand that the magical core is split into an inner and outer layer, yes?" Not bothering to see if Harry and Tom had responded, he continued, "Every time you draw upon your magical reservoir—the inner layer—you affect the magical signature—the outer layer."
Harry nodded slowly. "Yes, but how do spells factor into this?"
"Think of your magical signature as a cauldron of water and Dark and Light Spells as the dyes. Whatever spells you cast leave imprints on your magical signature, either darkening or lightening it. This, in and of itself, doesn't mean anything, but the Ministry sounds the alarm when your signature becomes 'too dark'. By Merlin, it's an artificially defined value!" Alphard spat.
Harry blinked. "And that's an issue because... ?"
Alphard curled his lip. "Those caught by the Ministry have their wands broken, and they are forbidden from getting another wand for five years. Moreover, their magic usage is strictly monitored for the rest of their lives."
Harry felt his words die in his throat, while Tom muttered, "How barbaric."
"Of course, there are many ways around the Trace," Alphard conceded. "But many of those are just too impractical to be carried out at Hogwarts, making Dark Magic practice at Hogwarts an impossibility. That's why I do all of my Dark Magic practice in the summer."
"Theoretically, how would you get around it?"
Alphard smiled wryly. "Oh, do tell me if you figure out a way. The easiest, quickest method for purging the taint from a magical signature is a cleansing rite. Be warned though that cleansing rite doesn't totally purify your signature, rather, the rite's materials absorb only up to a certain amount of the taint."
"That doesn't sound so bad."
"Well, you can only use a cleansing rite every few weeks because the materials leave their own imprint—like depositing salt in the cauldron of water. Add too much salt, and it'll eventually refuse to dissolve and will pile up in the water. This will alert Ministry officials that you've been using Dark Magic. Because of this, after a cleansing rite, it is recommended that you refrain from magic usage for a few weeks to allow the cleansing rite's imprint to fade."
"Then why perform a cleansing rite in the first place?" Harry asked, perplexed.
"As much of a hassle as cleansing rites are, they are much preferred to cleansing rituals." Alphard shuddered, apparently remembering a past experience. "Let's just say, ah, that the ritual's thoroughness in removing the taint of Dark Magic stems from a great deal of pain. Its advantages to a cleansing rite is that the ritual leaves no imprint of its own and has no detox time."
"What materials do both need?" Tom asked.
"Cleansing rituals require a magically inert room, as the room absorbs the taint. But there aren't any of these rooms at Hogwarts, as far as I'm concerned. Cleansing rites require many items, some of which are notoriously difficult to find—magically treated crystals, and a ceremonial knife."
"And how much would a ceremonial knife cost?"
"At least fifty galleons."
Tom nodded, lost in his thoughts. "Thank you for your feedback."
Alphard stretched his arms out. "It was my pleasure," he said.
As soon as Avery shut the door, Tom broke into a heavy scowl.
"We've got to wait before practicing Dark Magic, then," Harry said diplomatically. Thankfully.
Tom crossed his arms. "Merlin, what I wouldn't give to be filthy rich," he muttered.
Harry shrugged, pleased that he wouldn't have to delve into Dark Magic, at least not now. "I'm sure we'll figure something out in these coming months."
The weeks passed, and soon, it was the weekend before Ostara Break.
"Do you want me to write your name?" Harry asked Tom, gesturing at the slip of paper that would determine if they remained at Hogwarts for break.
"Harry," Tom said quietly, "let's go to the dorm."
Confused, Harry did as he was told. When they shut the door and silenced their room, he turned to face Tom. "What was that all about?" he asked, alarm growing rapidly as Tom remained silent.
Tom clasped his hands together and sighed. "I'm not staying at Hogwarts for Break, this time."
"What?" Harry reared back, furrowing his eyebrows.
Tom cleared his throat. "I'm going to Giles' house."
It felt as if Tom had slapped him.
Something must have shown on his face because Tom remarked coolly, "I didn't have a choice in the matter."
Harry barked a harsh laugh. "You always have a choice." He crossed his arms.
Frustrated, Tom let out a long sigh, and said, "I swear, this is the last thing I'll do before I break things off with her."
Harry narrowed his eyes, feeling his lips twist into an ugly snarl. "That's what you said back then when you told me you'd let her kiss you."
"I promise you," Tom said placatingly, raising his palms to face Harry, "that this is the absolute last thing I will do. I won't be able to sweet talk her father if I don't go to her house."
"Because Giles is so incompetent that she can't get the records for you?"
"She asked her father twice and was rebuked both times." Tom scowled.
"It's funny to me that you always chastise me for associating with 'useless' people, yet you chose the most useless of them all," Harry said.
Tom sneered. "Don't start an argument you can win."
Harry poked Tom in the chest with his index finger. "You're a fucking asshole."
Tom flared his nostrils, but remained silent. Seeing that Tom wouldn't respond, Harry goaded, "I'm beginning to think that you love her, what with all the time you waste on her!"
Tom poked back, and it felt more like a stab. His eyes darkened as he spat, "Sometimes, I wonder why I tolerate you. You know how I feel about love," he snarled. "And friendship. Both concepts are conjured by the weak to satisfy their pathetic existences. The actions people take in the name of both is nothing more than reckless folly."
Harry gulped, suddenly wishing he hadn't goaded Tom.
"—Look at how Giles believes in the concept of love. I tell her all the right words, do all the right actions, and she falls for me, swooning and weak-kneed. Who is to say that I don't do the same with you—"
Harry's heart froze. He flinched, eyes burning, and he clapped his hands over his ears, muffling Tom's cutting words. But still, the cold, clinical detachment of his words speared him through his skin, then muscle, then bone, leaving sharp pains to reverberate through his body.
Does our friendship really mean nothing to you?
Harry could feel a sob try to tear itself free from his throat.
Tom wrenched his hands off his ears. "Get a grip on yourself," he said, curling his lip in disgust. Tom turned around, and promptly drew the covers around himself.
Harry did the same, but sleep couldn't reach him through the wall of frozen anxiety clawing at his chest from within his ribcage.
The remaining two days before Ostara Break passed in icy silence, both Tom and Harry ignoring each other. (Even still, Harry found himself reluctantly curled at the edge of Tom's bed). On their last day together, Harry couldn't help but sneak longing glances at Tom every few minutes, all too aware that their time together was running out.
When Tom left, his missing trunk was a conspicuous sight at the foot of his bed. Harry couldn't bear it. In their lives, they had never been apart more than a day, and now Tom had left him. For Giles.
I'll make her suffer, Harry promised himself ominously.
Through Ostara Break, the castle had never seemed emptier, even as it was filled with the most students—even more than Yule Break's record breaking number. But Harry put his spare time to good use, fantasizing and drawing up plans of revenge against Giles. He barely ate, barely drank, barely slept (especially as he didn't have the warmth of Tom's comfort), but those were not necessities of life. Not in the way that making Giles suffer was.
----- ----- -----
Third Term
When Tom and Giles returned from their vacation together, Tom looked murderous. A vindictive part of Harry purred in satisfaction. Clearly, Tom had not found what he was looking for.
Harry watched with crossed arms as Tom entered, shut the door, and muffled the room. As soon as Tom had dropped his trunk at the foot of his bed, Harry opened his mouth to raise a barrage of insults against him.
But Tom beat him to speaking. "My legacy is filth! FILTH!" he roared.
Harry felt a nasty smile spread across his face. "What were you expecting, hmmm?"
Tom clenched his fists, turning to glare at Harry so harshly that he thought his hair might catch fire.
"MORE THAN MUGGLE FILTH!" Harry swore he saw a vein on Tom's forehead throb, and he barely suppressed his cackle, gesturing for Tom to continue.
"Her father gave me access to the private court records for an afternoon." Tom was shaking, shoulders heaving from the intensity of his heaving breaths. "A court date on July 31, 1925, stated that 'Marvolo Gaunt' and 'Morfin Gaunt' previously attacked a muggle named 'Tom Riddle.'"
Harry carefully took a step back.
Tom seethed, "Marvolo and Morfin's charges included: assault against an Auror, resisting arrest, obstruction of justice, attempted assault on a witch, and contempt of court. Marvolo was sentenced to six months imprisonment, and Morfin three years."
Harry took another step back.
Tom swept his hands in the air, gesturing to the room. "This is it. This is where the search for my legacy brings me," he growled, and he kicked the footboard with all his might. It wobbled, swaying back and forth as though it had experienced an earthquake.
Harry remained silent, knowing it was best for Tom to get it out of his system.
"MY LEGACY IS A FILTHY MUGGLE FATHER AND TWO PETTY CRIMINAL RELATIVES!" Tom thundered, kicking the footboard again. It wobbled even more, and Harry wondered how it hadn't broken from the stress yet.
Even as Tom finished kicking the poor footboard, the quills on their desks began rattling, their schoolbags slumped over, and the hanging lights were swinging back and forth dangerously. Their chairs were skittering, and the carpet was rustling, tickling Harry's feet through his socks.
Harry held steady eye contact with Tom. "Stop rattling the room," he said cautiously. "Calm down. At least the Gaunts are a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. You know you're a half-blood."
The rattling reluctantly abated as Tom took a deep inhale and inspected everything in the room with intense hatred. "It isn't much of a concession when I've never even heard of the Gaunts before today. Earlier today, I asked Alphard about the Gaunts. He wrinkled his nose at me and told me that the Gaunts were a destitute, inbred family. He said that most purebloods hadn't associated with the House of Gaunt since the late 13th century, around the time they had stopped being influential. Hell, a Gaunt hasn't attended Hogwarts for the past three centuries!"
Harry, again, remained quiet, not daring to breathe, for fear it would set Tom off again.
"When he mentioned the rumors that the Gaunt family was related to Salazar Slytherin, I laughed. The Gaunts are stark raving mad and poorer than paupers. What family with such a grand ancestor would let their legacy go to DOG SHIT?" Tom raved, slashing his hand through the air.
Harry barely restrained a flinch. "Can't you make a new name for yourself? Riddle isn't a wizarding surname, but you can make it one."
Tom sneered. "I'll kill that filthy muggle when I find him. He's no father of mine. He had no part in raising me."
Harry swallowed. "Why not take the Gaunt name?" he asked tentatively.
"I can't, at least not yet. I found Marvolo Gaunt's death record, but not Morfin's. If I chose to be known as the heir of House Gaunt, it would ruin my reputation. I need to become the Head of House Gaunt to repair its standing, and I can't do that while Morfin lives."
"And you can't claim the Gaunt lordship anyways until you're a legal adult."
Tom nodded curtly. "Not until my seventeenth birthday in sixth year."
Uncertainty overtook Harry as Tom inspected him with a neutral face. His skin crawled with goosebumps.
Having cleared up their relationship, they were lulled back into a comfortable peace, and the next day, Harry told Tom his ideas for revenge against Giles. And they agreed upon a plan that would be executed throughout the entire month of April.
The third day of classes, Harry initiated the first phase. When Tom and Giles left Defense, Harry stayed back a little bit and slipped a note onto Giles' desk—the same desk of one of her friends in the next class. He walked to Charms, feeling the low stirrings of satisfaction rise.
When lunch rolled around, Harry noted with great satisfaction that Giles and Tom were sitting alone, her usual gaggle of friends absent. Handwriting spells were absolutely wonderful.
The following day, Harry told Tom to go with Giles into the Ravenclaw Common Room and slip a half-finished letter, in her handwriting, complaining about all of her friends and Tom.
The next morning, her friends were sitting where they usually sat, Giles' absence a gaping hole in their group at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They gossiped and scowled, leaning in to conspire about her. But what was even better was that Tom finally could sit full-time at the Slytherin table. Right beside him. Where he belongs.
The second week of third term, Harry ramped it up, beginning the second phase. With Giles' credibility destroyed by his fabricated letters, Harry spread rumors about Giles herself. Stories told to the other gossiping Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, Slytherins, anyone who would listen.
As many disliked her, it wasn't hard for them to believe his lies. He told them that a friend of a friend told him that Giles peed herself at least once a week, that he saw Giles break down crying in Herbology, that Giles had three botched teeth surgeries that failed to fix her buck teeth, that Giles was addicted to Pepperup, that Giles had tripped a disabled first year outside the Charms classroom on the first day of school, that Giles stole her friend's wand and used it as a dildo.
It was increasingly hard to catch sight of Giles, who scurried in between classes with her head tilted down, hair hiding her face as she clutched books close to her chest.
When the third week arrived, Harry commenced phase three. It was time for his plans to come to fruition. With the cover of the cloak, he pranked her relentlessly. He waited outside the Ravenclaw tower until someone entered and set off a dungbomb in the girl's restroom. He made her trip in the crowded hallways, laughing internally as her books fell to the floor. He spelled her to experience uncontrollable allergies, causing her to cough and sniffle and sneeze. He subtly cast an eye-reddening spell, adding credence to the rumor that she did drugs. He jinxed her to blubber and stammar, unable to mutter full sentences.
And on the weekend of the fourth week, the event Harry had been desperately craving came to pass.
On Saturday morning, Harry slipped his invisibility cloak on and followed Tom and Giles. Tom, with much coaxing, had convinced Giles to walk with him. They reached the edge of the Black Lake, far away from the view of the other students, and Tom sat down, gesturing to the grass around him. Giles tentatively followed suit, flattening her skirt as she sat on the springy grass. She stared down at the dandelions, caressing their petals with her fingers, refusing to look into Tom's eyes.
Good.
Harry crept closer to the point where he could hear Tom talking in a low murmur.
"—Marya, I don't think this is going to work out—" Tom said carefully, interlacing their fingers.
Harry smiled viciously, tears springing in Giles' eyes at his words, although she still refused to look up. As Tom continued to speak in low tone, tears streamed down Giles' unattractive face, forming ugly, shiny tear tracks.
"I didn't do it, not any of it, I swear!" she cried, lips forming a miserable pout. Tom didn't react, staring at her with the same blank expression.
Giles pushed weakly at Tom, getting her dirty tears on Tom's robes. Tom stiffened, but otherwise remained emotionless. She sobbed, blubbering at him, trying to get him to say something, but he remained silent. She wiped her eyes as she hiccuped, smearing mascara around the rings of her eyes.
It's what she deserves.
"—Tom, I'm sorry!"
Harry couldn't stop himself from cackling, never gladder that he had silenced himself in the cloak before walking out.
Eventually, after more minutes of unrestrained wailing, she realized that Tom wasn't going to respond. Humiliated, she picked up her schoolbag and stumbled away from him. She ran back into the castle, probably seeking a quiet place that she could bask in her misery.
His insides rumbled deeply, satisfied at the carnage. She had gotten what she deserved. It was justice, it was a fair punishment, it was righteous.
No longer would he have to deal with Giles. She was out of his life forever.
Harry removed the cloak and stashed it away, waiting for Tom to walk over to him. The corners of Tom's mouth curved into his sadistic smile, smug in the knowledge that he had gotten what he wanted and with very little downsides to show for it.
"Never do that again."
"I hope I won't have to."
Harry punched Tom in the shoulder, feeling frustrated for some reason. "Promise me," he ordered.
"You understand just as well as I do that I can't make promises like that."
Harry scoffed. "You're telling me the most brilliant wizard at Hogwarts can't figure out other solutions to his problems?"
Tom cocked his head, his intense gaze cutting into Harry. The hair on his neck prickled. "Is this about our conversation before Ostara Break?" Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Tom barreled on. "—You do know that our relationship transcends the meaningless concepts of friendship or love, right?"
Harry twitched, his words dying in his throat. Anger bubbled in his chest. But then, suddenly, like a wet, polished stone slipping from between fingers and dropping into clear water, Harry understood why Tom didn't believe in love or friendship. Tom didn't need to. Somehow, by virtue of connecting with him and seeing him for who he truly was, Harry became the category of other to Tom. Being Tom's exception and all it entailed was wildly opposite from how Tom treated the masses, stemming from his general contempt of them.
Heat bloomed in his chest, warm and soft, but also burning, burning, burning. How could something be so mellow yet so harsh? Harry inhaled shakily. His voice was soft as he muttered, "I know."
Tom gazed at Harry with that glint in his eyes that sent tingles cascading down his limbs. "Of course," Tom said, curving his lip.
Well, Harry had always been a terrible liar anyways.
Through the next few weeks, their time was split between classwork and homework, tutoring sessions with Alphard and Lawrence, and exam prep sessions. They managed their busy schedules by the skin of their teeth, chugging Pepperup Potions more than strictly necessary to get through the busiest weeks.
Giles wasn't seen again by Harry or Tom in that time, becoming the most ostracized student at Hogwarts. Whereas once she had been semi-popular, she had fallen spectacularly from grace and now hid her face, rarely talking to anyone anymore. Her friends hated her, her classmates gossiped behind her back, and her enemies tormented her at every opportunity. But Harry stopped bullying her, as he did not want to devote more time thinking about her than he had. The Giles affair was over with, and there was no need to revisit such memories.
But even as he could choose not to remind himself of Giles, he had no choice in relieving the war in his dreams and in his daily interactions. Ms. Martha still haunted him, although he learned to stare unflinchingly into the void eyes of her rotting carcass. Even Parliament had not been spared from the bombing, as the Luftwaffe had bombed the House of Commons. With the widespread destruction hanging heavily over his mind, Harry seriously wondered whether Wool's was still standing. Really, it wasn't likely. East London had been hit the hardest by the bombs.
And even so, there wouldn't be anywhere for him to return. The orphanage had been closed down and the children evacuated to the countryside, where they would remain for the war. Harry and Tom would have to find alternate summer arrangements.
But they chose to ignore that pressing issue and focused on the other pressing issue—final exam week. When the dreaded week rolled around, Harry didn't know how to feel: relief that third year was almost over or anxiety stemming from the uncertainty of the future.