Chapter 16: And Nothing is Wrong if Nothing is Right ... We're Happy Now and, Yes, We Practice Magic
PRELUDE TO HOGWARTS ARC (16-19)
The weeks passed and Tom ached for revenge on Mrs. Cole. It would be tricky, especially after the incident with the police and with the psychiatrist. Tom had no doubt that even though he had passed through unscathed after both trials, he was still being closely watched. Once was a mistake. Twice or thrice was a pattern. He briefly considered following through and reporting Mr. Cole's murder to the police, but he couldn't guarantee Wool's orphanage would stand Mrs. Cole being arrested, or if she wasn't arrested, fired. And if Wool's went down, he and Harry might be separated to different orphanages.
Mrs. Cole was decent at running the orphanage, even if she got into her cups on gin a little too often, so it would be most advantageous if she stayed in place for now. Tom would be temporarily appeased with a guarantee of his and Harry's safety.
He needed to figure out a way to merge magic into his voice again; like he had done to Amy and Dennis. He had tried practicing it on Harry, but he quickly found Harry was naturally resistant to being commanded around.
"Come here," Tom ordered, beckoning Harry from across the room.
Harry laughed.
"Why are you saying it like that?" he asked.
Tom glared.
"Like what?"
"All sing-songy," Harry said. "Like come here." He sang it ridiculously exaggerated, his voice vibrato-ing over every syllable.
"I'm not saying it like that!" Tom hissed. "I'm not an opera singer."
"You sound like one!"
"You are challenging my patience," Tom said through gritted teeth.
"You are challenging my ability to not laugh at you," Harry replied.
"Little annoyance," Tom scoffed.
"I'm not little!" Harry protested.
Tom smirked.
"You are so petite," Tom cooed. "So waifish and wee."
Harry lunged at him, and Tom barely dodged in time.
"Nice try, small one," Tom mocked.
"Small one?!" Harry snarled, emerald eyes burning the way Tom so adored. "You call me that again, and I'll give you a matching bite on your other hand."
Tom dissolved into laughter. He loved provoking this side of Harry out. His feisty serpent, fanged and fierce. Wild and wholly untameable.
Harry crossed his arms with great petulance.
"You're so trying," Harry said.
"You're so amusing," Tom replied, wiping a tear away.
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Tom eventually did get the knack of it, though it required weeks of subtle practicing on the other orphans. He cornered Mrs. Cole in her office one evening at the end of summer.
"Leave Harry and me alone and I will never again mention or allude to what I know. You won't have to live in fear of the police turning up at the door for you," Tom said.
Mrs. Cole glared.
"As if I can believe you. You will be a blight on my pious soul until the day I die."
"The only blight on your pious soul was created by your own actions," Tom said coolly.
"Pah," Mrs. Cole said, tossing her hair.
It was time for the important part. Tom fused his voice with magic.
"You will not send any more doctors. You will not try to take Harry away from me or separate us. You will not try to harm us in any way, shape, or form. You will shelter, clothe, and feed Harry and me until we age out of the system. Is that understood?"
Mrs. Cole's eyes glazed over.
"It's understood," she said.
"You won't remember this conversation or me coming here to talk to you, but you will remember everything I told you and continue to act on it," Tom said. He suddenly got a brilliant idea for vengeance. "Also, you will cut your hair short within the next couple of days. You will never let it grow out long again. Do you understand?"
Mrs. Cole nodded.
That's how Tom would really know if it worked. Mrs. Cole loved her hair. She combed it multiple times a day. She braided it and wove ribbons through it, and washed it with expensive products. Her hair was her treasure.
"Good," Tom said.
He left Mrs. Cole's office, checking to make sure no one had seen him.
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Mrs. Cole was sporting a Castle bob on Tuesday.
"I can't believe Mrs. Cole cut her hair," Harry whispered to Tom during breakfast, nibbling on Tom's toast like a little bird.
"Who would've thought?" Tom said innocently.
Harry's eyes instantly filled with suspicion.
"What did you do this time?" he asked.
"This time?" Tom said, pretending to be outraged. "Why, I never! I am the picture of decency, Harry."
"Yes, the very pinnacle of it," Harry said sarcastically. "If one looked up decency in an encyclopedia, they would see your perfect, smug face, wouldn't they?"
Tom's lips twitched. Harry thought his face was perfect.
"Of course," Tom said. "I'm happy you know me so well," he added, with an honesty so keen it almost cut.
"How did you get her to chop her hair?" Harry asked.
"First, tell me, are you very cross about it?"
Harry frowned.
"No way! She tried to send you away from me to somewhere you'd hate. And she cuts everybody else's hair whether they like it or not, so it's fair that she has a turn."
"I used my new power," Tom said.
"The singing?" Harry asked.
"It's not singing!" Tom protested.
Harry giggled.
"Sure, it's not," he said.
"You absolute menace," Tom said, wrinkling his nose.
"A menace? Why, I never!" Harry teased, cradling his teacup with the most adorable look of mischief in his eyes. "I'll have you know I am the picture of decency, Tom," he said, putting on Tom's voice like a coat.
Tom burst out laughing, in stitches at Harry's impression of him.
"Again," Tom insisted. "Say something else. Please, Harry."
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Autumn sunk into Winter.
Tom fell sick at the beginning of their Christmas break.
If Harry had thought Tom was fussy about Harry's health, then Harry had absolutely no self-awareness. He was the dictionary definition of a fusspot. Tom was drowning in cups of honey tea and hot salt water to gargle. Each night before sleeping, Harry gently applied Vick's vapor rub onto Tom's throat and chest. He brought Tom a glass of orange juice every morning without fail, asking anxiously if it was "too cold" every time Tom took a sip. He held Tom close at night when they slept, his magic enveloping Tom, warmer and more soothing than any blanket could be. Even Lucy had taken to sleeping curled on Tom's arm, instead of his preferred spot by Harry's neck. Harry barely left Tom's side during the day, except to get them meals or to fetch another cup of tea for Tom. He spent most of the time knitting or reading and listening to the radio.
Tom loved having Harry all to himself, even though it came with the terrible attached strings of feeling absolutely wretched.
Harry did go out once to get their Christmas branch, and they decorated it in bed with frosted light bubbles and paper ornaments they colored with crayons. Harry still stuck a few of his dried flowers on for a pop of color, but much less than the last couple of times. Lucy kept pouncing on the branch again, batting at the ornaments until Harry set him down on the ground so it was out of reach.
Tom missed Christmas dinner, still too sick to be allowed down with the other children. Harry made plates for both of them and brought them up, but it wasn't the same. At least they didn't have to go to the Christmas service at church.
He and Harry had never quite gotten in the habit of going all out for Christmas. Their presents for each other were usually small. An anatomical drawing. A knitted bookmark.
Mrs. Roberts had still saved a Terry's Chocolate Orange for them, and they had it four days after Christmas when Tom was finally feeling alright again. Mrs. Roberts let Tom break the orange on the counter. She even had a special treat for Lucy. Harry gave Mrs. Roberts a knitted pink scarf from both of them.
Harry had been planning Tom's eleventh birthday present for a while. He had been working on it since August, hiding it whenever Tom was awake or around. Tom had been undeniably curious, but since it was a surprise meant for him, he had not pushed.
When the clock struck 12 on the 31st, Harry eagerly brought it out from under the bed. It was wrapped in newspaper.
"Happy birthday," Harry said. "Now open it!"
Tom ripped the newspaper wrapping.
A turtleneck sweater, a rich shade of black, knitted with a corded pattern that looked like the rippling bodies of serpents. The knitted fabric shone like velvet. It was stunning. There was even a little green snake stitched subtly near where a breast pocket would be. It was a striking detail.
"You made this?" Tom asked in awe.
"Yes," Harry said. "For you. I knew it had to look posh, or you wouldn't wear it."
Tom would've worn it even if it looked like a potato sack, but he decided to keep that to himself.
"You made this?" Tom repeated, the shock setting in. "You? It must have taken you ages."
"Why do you always react like that?!" Harry grumped. "It's like you can't quite believe I managed it. I've been knitting for years now, Tom. I did have lots of help from the Knitting Club—they gave me the pattern and helped me find the right yarn, and they taught me how to embroider the snake—but I did every stitch by myself, you numpty."
Tom rubbed the sweater against his cheek. He could feel Harry's magic permeating the stitchwork. It was perfection. Wearing it would be like a neverending embrace from Harry.
"Oh, Harry, it's stunning. I love it," Tom said, pulling Harry into a close hug. He kissed Harry's forehead. "I'll try it on right now."
Harry cheered up immediately.
"I was so excited, I was almost tempted to give it to you as soon as it was done, but I'm happy I waited, so it's a proper birthday present."
The sweater was loose, but that was a good thing, since it meant Tom could wear it for more years. He rolled up the sleeves. It was even more comfortable and warm than Tom thought it would be. He never wanted to take it off.
Much to Tom's surprise, Harry was not the only one to give him a birthday gift. Some of the other orphans that Tom tutored gave him a drawing or a folded paper frog. It was a strange, but gratifying experience.
Tom decided he quite liked not being despised by the other children. If he were to fulfill his political ambitions he would have to learn to be likeable. He didn't think he would ever be charismatic the same way Harry was—he didn't have it in him to be nice all the time or to make others feel like they belonged—but there were other ways of being charismatic. Power drew people in. Intelligence. Attractiveness. Some people were even drawn in by austerity and discipline. All of which Tom had in spades.
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School resumed, the comforting rhythm and domesticity of their everyday lives ever unfolding. Breakfast in the morning, Harry sleepily drinking Tom's tea. Braving the cold together, snow dampening their stockings. Snowflakes in their hair and eyelashes, piling on the scarf they shared. The whirlwind of their classes and studies. Sandwiches for lunch in their toasty classroom. Visits with Mrs. Roberts. Crosswords and newspapers. Evenings spent on homework and their hobbies, letting their occupied silences weave together into something serene and intimate. Playing with the kitten and listening to whatever was on the radio. Building galaxies as they fell asleep.
Tom imagined if he could spend his whole life just like this, gradually achieving the fulfillment of his ambitions and Harry's dreams, he would be perfectly content for all of his days.
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One weekend early in June, he and Harry were listening to the radio and playing Scrabble, a new donation to Wool's which Harry kept calling "upside down crossword" when they got a most peculiar visitor.
Mrs. Cole knocked on their door. She had the characteristic flushed look that meant she'd been drinking.
"Tom, Harry, you have someone here to see you. He says he's from a school."
Tom was instantly on his guard. What if the magic commands he'd given to Mrs. Cole needed to be renewed every so often? Was this another doctor? Was the "school" really an asylum?
Tom shut off the radio, and Lucy retreated from the floor where he was playing with some of Harry's yarn to under the bed.
The man standing by Mrs. Cole looked nothing like Dr. Morris. He had auburn hair, and his beard was unkempt. He was wearing a pair of half-moon spectacles and a long floppy brown trenchcoat with a patterned scarf.
Mrs. Cole walked away. Tom and Harry stayed still as poised serpents.
The man entered their room, sitting on Harry's cot. Tom tried to bury his irritation. Adults always intruded as they wanted, occupied spaces however they liked, but they were never called "rude." No, that word was only for children. They hadn't given him permission to come in.
"Greetings, Harry and Tom," the man said. "How do you do?"
"How do you do?" Harry replied automatically. He sat up and shook this Professor's hand.
Tom followed suit more cautiously, also shaking the man's hand.
"Are you a doctor?" Tom asked.
"No. I'm a professor. My name is Albus Dumbledore."
Tom didn't believe him.
"What are you a professor of?" Harry asked.
"Transfiguration," Dumbledore said, adjusting his scarf.
Harry looked confused. He glanced at Tom, who shook his head. That didn't sound like a real subject. Further evidence for Dumbledore being a doctor trying to trick them both into an asylum.
"Have either of you ever noticed anything different about yourselves?" Dumbledore asked.
"No, Professor. Harry and I are completely normal," Tom said sharply.
"Really?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes twinkling. "You've never noticed special abilities you can do that other children can't?"
"Are you from a church?" Tom asked, a new fear taking over him. Was Dumbledore here to exorcise them?
"No," Dumbledore said. "I'm from a school called Hogwarts. It's a place children go to learn magic."
Yeah, right. Tom glared mistrustfully at the "professor." Harry reached for Tom's hand nervously. Dumbledore glanced at their interlocked hands.
"If you're a professor at this school, are you saying that you can do magic, sir?" Harry asked.
"Yes. Shall I demonstrate?"
Tom's wardrobe caught on fire. Tom felt his heart catch in his throat but he didn't say anything or react in any way. If Dumbledore was trying to scare him, Tom wouldn't give anything away. This man really could do magic too. They had found another person like them, and one much older.
Which meant they no longer had the upper hand.
"I think there's something in your wardrobe trying to get out, Tom," Professor Dumbledore said.
Harry looked frightened at Dumbledore's words like he thought it was a monster. Tom had a sinking feeling he knew what Dumbledore was getting at.
Tom stood up, letting his hand slip from Harry's. He opened the blazing wardrobe, trying not to let his fear of being burned show.
His biscuit tin of trophies. Mrs. Cole must have told the Professor about his unscrupulous past. Of course. She had to besmirch his good name to every single person she could, didn't she? Tom should've commanded that she stop.
"Thievery is not tolerated at Hogwarts," Professor Dumbledore said.
"I understand," Tom said angrily, dropping the tin on the bed.
"Tom hasn't taken anything in ages, Professor," Harry said sharply, narrowing his eyes. "And he only took things from those who hurt him or said awful things to him. He can't return most of the things he took now because most of the children have already been adopted, sir, but we'll return what can be returned."
Tom stared at Harry in shock.
Harry had known? For how long? Why had he never said anything?
"I see," Professor Dumbledore said, sounding unimpressed. He opened the tin casually, staring at the hair ribbons, pretty stones, and the small treasures Tom had accumulated. Seven of each, carefully curated. But barely anything of true worth. Tom should have gotten rid of most of it ages ago, so there wouldn't be any evidence left.
Dumbledore paused.
"Why are there teeth in here?" he asked.
Tom flushed red all the way to the tips of his ears. He slammed the tin shut on the box and snatched it back, even though it was probably rude to do so.
"Those are Harry's baby teeth," Tom mumbled, humiliated.
Harry gave him the simultaneously amused, bemused, and fond look again. The "you're so weird, and I love you" expression that always made Tom feel a little giddy.
"Tom?" Harry said, sounding far too delighted for his own good. "Have you been my tooth fairy all this time?" he asked.
"Hush, you," Tom said, sitting back beside Harry, his face still red.
Harry laughed and reached for his hand again. Tom's face went even hotter.
Dumbledore looked amused.
"What have you kept your friend's teeth for?" he asked, not sounding half as suspicious as his question was phrased.
Tom mumbled something.
"What was that?" Dumbledore asked, lips twitching.
"I thought they were cute," Tom snapped, covering his face with his free hand. "I didn't do anything wrong by keeping them. Harry was practically throwing them out. And I always left something behind."
Tom peeked through his fingers. Dumbledore was genuinely smiling. It made him look very different. Less untrustworthy.
"Apologies, Tom. My intent was not to embarrass you. In fact, I find your close regard for your childhood friend admirable," Dumbledore said, sounding sincere. "Two children of magic in an orphanage is rather unusual, though. When did you meet?"
"I was seven, and Harry was six," Tom answered, no longer bothering to deny that he and Harry could do magic. "Harry was transferred from another orphanage."
"Had you already done magic when you met?"
"Yes, Professor," Harry said.
"Mrs. Cole told me something most interesting. Well, actually, I inferred something interesting from what she said. She mentioned that you both can use magic intentionally. Is that true?"
"Is that unusual?" Tom asked, eyes narrowed.
"It depends on the child," Professor Dumbledore said. "Many children need a wand to channel their magic."
"Harry and I have never needed a wand, sir," Tom boasted.
"What sort of things can you do?" Dumbledore asked, not looking as impressed as Tom hoped.
Harry and Tom looked toward each other, communicating silently. Harry mimed cupping his hand, and Tom nodded.
"Well, we can make these," Harry said, letting a light bubble condense into his palm. He blew it off his palm, and it floated towards Professor Dumbledore.
Dumbledore reached for it, something beyond detachment finally in his eyes. He shook the light bubble, and it made a crystal clear sound like a bell.
"You both can do this?" he asked.
Tom made his own light bubble.
"Harry taught me how, sir," Tom said, proud of Harry's magic. "He came up with it himself."
Dumbledore finally smiled at Tom.
"A powerful bit of Light magic. Not just a light but a protective orb," Professor Dumbledore said. "Very clever."
"Er, Professor, what does Light magic mean?" Harry asked. "Or did you mean Light magic, as in magic that makes light? It sounded like you put a special emphasis on it, though."
"Very astute. It's a classification of the types of magic. Different spells and charms fall into different categories. Light magic is good magic. Magic fueled by warm emotions like love, devotion, loyalty. It also includes spells that do not require prices, as opposed to Dark magic."
"So if Light magic is good, does that mean Dark magic is bad then?" Tom asked.
Dumbledore looked troubled by the question.
"It's not quite as simple as that. But the current theory is, Dark magic needs darker emotions or terrible costs to fuel it, so it's often used by individuals with a predilection for evil—those willing to make those sacrifices. So, for the most part, yes, I would say Dark magic is bad."
Tom didn't believe Dumbledore. He recognized the rhetoric that bad thoughts or bad emotions lead to bad people from church. He hadn't believed it then, and he didn't believe it now. Dumbledore was trying to trick them into thinking a certain way.
"Is healing people Light magic or Dark magic, sir?" Harry asked.
"It's generally Light magic, though there are some healing spells which are undeniably Dark."
"But if you're healing someone, don't you need good emotions to make them feel better?" Harry wondered.
"The Dark healing spells are not usually emotions based. There are other arts characterized as Dark arts, including blood magic and ritual magic. Those are the ones with terrible prices that I mentioned before."
Tom would bet that Harry's method of healing, the one that required him to feel the pain of the one he was healing, probably fell into those categories of spells.
"What about making things float?" Tom wondered.
"Light magic," Professor Dumbledore said. "One of the first spells you will learn in Hogwarts as well."
"So, er, just out of morbid curiosity, what about bringing something back to life. Would that be Dark magic or Light magic?" Harry asked nervously.
"The Darkest magic," Dumbledore said immediately. "It should never be done, child. It's an immoral unholy act."
"Oh," Harry said, looking nauseous. Tom subtly squeezed Harry's hand. He wished he could reassure Harry more vocally, but he would have to wait until Dumbledore left.
"I know, as orphans, you both have experienced more loss than most children, but necromancy is not a path anyone should walk down," Dumbledore said, not unsympathetically. "I would suggest putting it out of your mind."
"Can it be done by mistake?" Tom asked. "Or with good intentions?"
"Never," Professor Dumbledore said. "The kind of skill it would take to retrieve a passed soul, human or otherwise, requires intense, Dark cultivation. By that point, the necromancer's soul is usually corrupted."
Harry looked even more nauseous. He clutched Tom's hand in a death grip.
"What about talking to animals?" Tom wondered to distract Dumbledore from Harry. "I'm very fond of snakes, so would it be possible to talk to them?"
Dumbledore furrowed his eyebrows, looking between both of them.
"Another act of Dark magic," he finally answered. "Talking to snakes, in particular, is known as parseltongue. Being a parselmouth is the mark of a Dark wixen."
"How many wixen are parselmouths?" Tom asked. "Is it a common ability?"
"No. It's exceedingly rare in Europe," Dumbledore said. "There are families in South Asia, Southeast Asia, and Oceania that maintain the language, but the ability in the Western World has all but vanished."
"Um, can people learn parseltongue, or are they just born with it?" Harry asked.
"They're born with it," Dumbledore said. How did that make any sense? Was Dumbledore implying some people were just born evil? "I'm not sure if it's possible to learn. If it is, the rituals have long been banned by the Ministry. I don't recommend that either of you follow down that course either."
"The Ministry?" Tom wondered.
"We have our own form of government separate from the Muggle world. It's known as the Ministry of Magic."
"What does Muggle mean, sir?" Harry asked, still looking pale from the earlier revelations.
"It's a word for non-magical folk," Professor Dumbledore explained.
"Is there a Prime Minister of Magic?" Tom asked.
Dumbledore nodded.
"Yes. The current Prime Minister is Hector Fawley."
"Is he well-liked?" Tom wondered.
"Well enough. Still, many people think he'll likely be voted out in the next election cycle," Dumbledore said. "Though we're not here to discuss politics. Can you children do any other magic?"
Tom and Harry glanced at each other like petrified trees. Most of the magic they could do, Dumbledore had already labeled as evil.
"Not really. Well, I can make bandages from bits of paper or grass," Harry mumbled. He rifled through his backpack, finding an old French verb conjugation assignment. He ripped a piece off to demonstrate. Harry had gotten much better at making bandages. Now they were the right shape and color, in addition to being functional.
Dumbledore examined the bandage, raising his eyebrows.
"Marvelous," he said.
"We can make things warm," Tom said, demonstrating with the bedsheet that Dumbledore was sitting on. If he made it a little too hot because Dumbledore had upset Harry, then it was an honest mistake. He didn't want to float anything in case Dumbledore got the idea that they could do the other things they had asked about. "But that's about it."
"Very good," Dumbledore said, standing up. He leaned by the window.
"Where is Warthogs located?" Harry asked. "And can we bring our cat?"
Dumbledore laughed.
"Hogwarts, child," he corrected. "It's a boarding school located in Scotland. Meals and housing will be provided. Your cat is welcome. Toads and owls, too, for that matter."
Not snakes, Tom noted.
"We don't have the money for tuition," Tom said grimly.
"Tuition is free," Dumbledore said. "There is also a fund for students like yourselves to buy school supplies."
"School supplies?" Harry enquired. "Like what?"
"Wands, robes, textbooks, a potion set, a telescope," Professor Dumbledore listed. "I have a letter to give you that will list all of it. It's traditional to have a parent or guardian accompany you when you go shopping for the first time. If you would like, I could accompany you."
"I think we'll be fine on our own, Professor. If that's okay," Tom said.
"Usually, I would insist, but both of you seem responsible enough to handle it. Go to the Leaky Cauldron and approach the bartender. His name is also Tom. Ask him if he can show you how to enter Diagon Alley, and he will help. Once you're at Diagon Alley, go to Gringotts Bank and ask for Burgock so you can access the funds for wards of the school. After that, it's just a matter of finding the right shops and buying the things you need. I recommend Ollivander's for your wands."
Tom reached for his journal, scribbling the information down so they wouldn't forget later.
"What kind of classes will we take?" Tom asked.
"First-year students take Herbology, Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, History of Magic, Astronomy, and Defense."
"No French?" Harry asked. "Or Latin?"
Those were Harry's favorite classes.
"Unfortunately not, child," Professor Dumbledore said gently. "If you're interested in foreign language study, the Study of Ancient Runes is available from your third year on. All students have to study foreign and ancient languages as part of the class."
Harry frowned.
"What about math?" Tom asked.
"Arithmancy is also available from your third year," Dumbledore said.
"Do we have to go to Hogwarts?" Harry asked.
Both Dumbledore and Tom looked at Harry in surprise.
"Yes, child," Dumbledore said. "You need to learn to control your magic somehow. Students who opt not to attend Hogwarts usually come from families that can afford to hire tutors."
Tom bristled a little at Dumbledore's subtle jab at their pennilessness.
"I want to be a doctor," Harry said. "I don't want to be a wizard."
"One need not make a choice. There are magical doctors too. They're known as Medi-Wizards or Healers. One of the largest hospitals in the Wizarding World is actually located in London. It's known as St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. If you want to pursue the path of healing, there is a selective internship and training course that you can apply to in your last year at Hogwarts. The most important classes for healing are Potions, Defense, Charms, Herbology, and Transfiguration."
"Oh," Harry said, not reacting.
Tom wrote the information down in his journal for Harry later. He wondered what the most important classes for being a politician were.
"How many years will we be attending Hogwarts?" Tom asked.
"Seven. The wizarding age of majority is Seventeen."
"Were our parents wizards, sir?" Tom asked.
Dumbledore shrugged.
"I don't know. There are three types of inheritance patterns for wizardry, but before I explain them to you, you should know that all three types of wixen are equal in magical ability, and there is no practical difference, though many will try to tell you otherwise. Muggleborns are wizards born from Muggle parents. They make sure magic is continuously kept alive and brought into our world. Half-bloods have one magical parent and one Muggleborn or Muggle parent. Purebloods have two magical parents and typically a full set of magical grandparents."
"Do Purebloods and Half-bloods get to live their whole lives with magic?" Harry asked.
"Most of the time, yes," Dumbledore admitted.
"And you think they don't have an advantage?" Tom asked. "Sir," he tacked on last minute, to not be seen as rude.
"Muggleborns catch up quickly. And so will the two of you, for that matter."
Dumbledore handed them their letters. He gave an extra one to Harry. It was from the Ministry of Magic. A branch called The Department of Mysteries.
"What's this?" Harry asked.
"I'll admit I don't know myself," Dumbledore said. "The Department of Mysteries safeguards the contents of their mail very carefully."
Tom narrowed his eyes. Did that mean Dumbledore had tried to read Harry's letter?
"If we have any more questions, is there a way we can get in touch with you?" Harry asked.
Professor Dumbledore conjured a gold-colored whistle shaped like an owl on a cord. He passed it to Harry, who looped it around his neck instinctively.
"If you blow on this, the nearest owl who is available and trained to take your message will come to you. For the sake of not startling any Muggles, I recommend you only use it when you're alone. Just tell the owl that I'm the intended recipient, and it will deliver the letter."
"Did you say, owl, sir?" Harry asked, wide-eyed.
Dumbledore smiled.
"Yes. Owl messages are our primary means of communication in the wizarding world. Just tie the message to the owl's leg with a bit of twine."
"There aren't any telephones?" Tom wondered.
Dumbledore shook his head.
"You will find, my boy, that the wizarding world tends to be a couple of decades behind technological advances in the muggle world, except in rare instances."
"I see," Tom said thoughtfully.
There was so much to think about. Tom felt like his and Harry's sailboat had been flipped over in the middle of an ocean, and they had been plunged in the waves headfirst.
"I must be on my way now to greet other students, but it was a pleasure to meet you both."
Dumbledore shook their hands again. He stood up, glancing at Harry's row of letters in Scrabble.
"I do believe you can make WHIZBANG with your remaining letters, child," he said, then left.
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Author's note: (ao3)
Ok lots of notes this time because I made myself laugh a lot writing this chapter haha.
Dumbledore (mistrusting Tom): Man o man, what do I do with this child?
Tom: *keeps his best friend's baby teeth like the weirdest little gremlin in a box with all his treasures*
Dumbledore: Wow, this child has such a tremendous capacity for love. He is so trustworthy.
Dumbledore already believes love is the greatest power in the world and oh gosh are these boys in love. Also, he might be projecting a little haha.
Not to say he's not a little suspicious of all these children's "theoretical" questions.
We will be switching to Harry's pov soon (after about five chapters), but I will tell you now Harry labored over that sweater. It's not supposed to take five months to make (at least not at the pace Harry was working at)!
Meanwhile, Tom will never believe Harry is good at knitting. Harry could win the national championship for knitting and Tom would be like: "how did you manage that, you clever thing? The judges must have been persuaded by how adorable you are. If I was a judge, no doubt, I would have passed the ribbon right along to you as well once I saw your cute face." And Harry would give Tom his *very unamused* face, which Tom would still think is cute bc Harry is always cute to Tom.
Also, I hope Mrs. Cole's punishment seemed fitting. As someone with long hair, I have cried getting haircuts before when they chopped too much off, so I believe it struck the right balance between subtle and ruthless, which was what Tom was going for, but I'm curious to know what you think.