A muted thud startled Harry from his brooding, nearly spilling the half empty bottle of wine across the dining table. A few droplets splattered themselves against his rolled up sleeve and the table as he caught it, appearing ominous against his white shirt and the light wood. He gazed up at the painted ceiling that was bathed in a soft yellow halo from the dim light bulb, unable to squash the sudden worry that Tom had either injured himself or was up to something. He wanted to think the best of him, he really did. He was only a child after all, but it seemed his mind attached the image of sleepless nights and waking terrors to the troubled boy like a spider's web. No matter how he might convince himself otherwise, like a shroud of netting, it refused to fully untangle to let the biased assumptions go.
A defeated sigh sailed past red stained lips as Harry shifted his grip on the neck of the wine bottle he'd found at the back of the liquor cabinet and brought it forth for another long glug. It was an issue he'd have to address, deal with and get over. Like all the others, it was no different but at this moment in time it seemed impossible to conquer. Not that getting plastered would reveal any answers but the sweet enticement of intoxication and a lack of worries was hard to refute. He let gravity guide the alcohol back to the table with a satisfying thump. Much like in tribute to the one from upstairs. The fuzzy thought was amusing and the vague solidarity bullied a wry edged smile across his flushed face, consequently he raised the bottle of wine in a foolish mock of companionship.
He'd figure it out, he always did. He was resourceful when needed and a type of brave that boarded on suicidal, paired with his brand of dumb luck things usually worked out. Only, know he didn't have Hermione to help him research or Ron to help him plan. Sombre realisation curdled below his navel and the wine was no longer an escape but a prison of his darkest thoughts. He set the bottle back on the table roughly, shoving it away in a sudden display of disgust. What was he doing? The hysteric sentiment echoed like a caved scream at the base of his skull (despairing; rage filled; addled with grief) as it travelled to the forefront near his eyes, bringing forth a throbbing headache and the swell of tears that watered his vision of the bottle's faded label to illegibility.
"What am I doing?" Harry whispered, head cradled in scarred hands and fingers digging into his scalp. A lone tear tumbled over, gliding unhurriedly to meet a wobbling mouth. He'd promised. He'd promised he'd fix it, fix everything. He hadn't expressed those words exactly but the sentiment was there, it was the most comfort he could offer when he'd decided to be the one to go after — and perhaps in spite of — their disagreements when he had brought it up months prior. He hadn't meant to do so behind their backs but they would have stopped him 'playing hero' as they would say and he'd refused to witness another burden taken on by one of his few remaining friends when he could prevent it. They deserved to have what little happiness they could obtain in that messed up world together, as a couple. So he'd left them, left them with nothing but a hastily written note and the hope that their reality would change. And what if it didn't? What if it couldn't? It would all be for nothing because this timeline would never have his Hermione, or his Ron, or his Neville or his Luna or his—
A soft rap swept the tides of despair to untouchable shores and his body reacted instinctively despite the alcohol. He stood and spun in a deadly pirouette, knocking the bottle of wine to the floor with a deafening smash. Drawing his wand like the weapon it had become he aimed it at his lifelong nemesis while magic danced across his skin, so very eager to be used. A curse perished on his tongue when he belatedly perceived that it was Tom (young Tom, child Tom, seven year old Tom) who had flinched back to cower behind the door frame — eyes wide with fear and small hands bunched into his worn wool slipover. The sight was pitiful and a swarm of guilt spread its icy tendrils, lining his stomach with frost and searing his throat shut. A roaring deafened his ears like the aftershocks of a bomb and nausea bloomed — inadvertently sickened by himself
This was his present now, his reality; it would be unfair to Tom to forget that.
Harry observed the sleep ruffled child with a thundering heartbeat that was slow to calm. His hands were consequently clammy and his breathing was shaky and erratic from unused adrenaline. For Merlin's sake, was he that much of a loose bludger? That he'd strike at any sudden movement? He was worse than a feral Crookshanks. The thought was deprecating but humorous, yet despite being coupled with lighthearted impressions of brighter times it couldn't dispel the stubborn squeeze of self-loathing nor the accompanying bitter ache of longing that had heavied his heart. Another unbidden tear slipped down his face which he hurried to wipe away under the wary watch of Tom, nearly bumping his glasses off as he did so. Deep breaths, act normal.
"Tom, hi, did you need something?" he asked gently, trying his hardest to appear non threatening after his momentary bout of Being An Idiot. His wand buzzed within his marginally outstretched grip, prompting a hasty return to his damp spotted sleeve and a forced loosening of his shoulders now that the imagined threat had evaporated. Tom seemed to relax slightly in response and he shifted, less cowering and more unsure as he carefully stepped into the kitchen.
"I'm, I'm thirsty," he said in attempted nonchalance, the shadow of a frightened child in the face of accidental aggression portrayed as a faint happenstance. It solidified, perhaps more than anything, that he was but a child.
"Oh sure, sorry, I'll get that for you," he spoke in a rush, unaware that he'd apologised unnecessarily, as he stumbled (still slightly woozy from the surprisingly strong wine) towards the floating cabinet opposite the dining table. A jolt of pain encompassed his right foot at the same moment Tom made an aborted cry. A hiss escaped gritted teeth. Harry clutched his bare foot, (now damp with red wine and blood), violently bumping his hip into the table as he stole away from the shattered glass, his grey trousers catching against the rough wood. Tom had moved forwards, expression distraught and hands twitching helplessly at the bloody scene before Harry held up a palm.
"I'm fine Tom, just… stay there, there's no point in you getting hurt too," he said haltingly, grasping the table tightly as he gently lowered his foot to the ground while he awkwardly fumbled to unsheathe his wand with his sight spinning like a muggle record player. A simple vanishing charm to the floor righted the grisly mess. After doing the same to his foot and then performing a wordless Episkey, it was as if it never happened. It would have appeared so, if not for the subdued horror papered across Tom's pale face and his own wild heartbeat.
"So, water," Harry said tentatively in a poor attempt at distraction, walking forth on his tender sole and obtaining a glass, this time, without injury (well done, points to Potter) "is there any other reason you're up at—" he ventured, glancing at the kitchen clock then did a double take.
1am. He'd been drunkenly ruminating at the dining table for five hours.
"No," came the defensive response. In contrast to his tone, he stood hovering just past the threshold with all the presence of a Demiguise. Turning off the tap, Harry came forward to place the cup where he'd been seated before lowering himself opposite — a peace offering. The twinge of pain centered at his hip was unimportant. Tom hesitated but succumbed to the lure, seating himself on the very edge — as if to bolt at any second — and drank from the glass greedily, momentarily uncaring about having an audience. Harry couldn't help his scrutinising. Despite the conscious attempt at separation, knowing who it was who sat before him, no matter the age, was a skin crawling type of strange. Tom peeked up at him for a fleeting moment and that's when Harry noticed the red rimmed eyes and faint tear tracks. Unexpectedly, a soft sense of empathy rose like an ocean crest; he couldn't imagine that he looked any better.
"Do you like your room?" It was a cloddish attempt but he was trying. Finishing his water Tom scoffed, the fear now absent or at least concealed.
"It's fine, better than the orphanage," he mumbled vaguely, hands clasped around the empty glass and gaze discreetly wandering the room. Probably seeking a means to escape his loopy companion; Harry's lips thinned, disheartened at the thought.
"Good, I guess," he replied, an atmosphere of words unsaid stifling the meagre small talk. Tom fiddled with the glass nervously, noticed he was doing so and pushed it away with an annoyed frown. Harry couldn’t help but mirror the expression. It rubbed Harry wrong to see Tom so ill-at-ease. He hadn't expected to not only witness the blatant tells and ticks of feelings but read them like lines from a well loved play. Again, he had to remind himself, this was a young boy. Not some mastermind, not an emotionless dictator, not a murderer that couldn’t fathom love — at least, not yet. And that was Harry’s purpose wasn’t it? To stop that, but the question remained as to how. Well, being brutally honest was surely a start, right? He'd certainly been so when he clumsily addressed Tom's thieving tendencies and that hadn't ended too terribly. The thought was painfully optimistic and was more suited to a Ron pep talk. The reminder brought forth another soul churning ache as he watched Tom’s movements (alive, movements made him alive unlike—) with a worrying dependency likened to a parched man grasping at morning dew.
More than anything, Harry was just relieved that he wasn’t alone.
"Look," Harry broke the tender silence that had settled like London smog, capturing Tom's critical attention which was strangely intense. His eyes were a sharp sheen of steel blue. Not the unnerving crimson (alight with malice, hate and triumph) that he'd come to unwillingly know. Harry very nearly quailed, the sudden comparison effectively jarring, but somehow persisted like only a Griffindor could. "I'm not going to be the best guardian, I'll try — that's the least I can do — but… I'm going to make mistakes. I'll mess up, and I'd prefer if you told me when I did because I can be a bit clueless sometimes." Downturning his gaze, he confessed to the table, "I don't know what I'm doing."
Tom could only stare, and stare and stare. This adult and apparent wizard, who could probably make him disappear with a thought, was asking his opinion. On what he wasn't sure, but it didn't change that he was asking Tom: a child. It was so against all he'd come to know — of adults and their behavior — that it felt as wrong as chalk on stone. A soft scrawp entered his ears before he realised it was his fingernails scratching the wood in another wordless show of nerves. Clenching his fists tightly enough to make the bones ache, he attempted to respond without really understanding the statement.
"Well, some clothes would be nice."
Silence. Then an undignified sound escaped the green eyed man (Harry, Tom reminded himself sourly) before it was quickly aborted. He'd muffled the sound behind a pale hand and from the short distance Tom could see what looked like writing upon the flesh but that failed to matter when he realised with mounting horror that he'd been laughed at.
"I couldn't think of a better reason to go Christmas shopping, it is the season after all," he said with a sudden easy smile, the mirth shining in his eyes highlighted by the slight glare of his ridiculous glasses. The image was strange, not a bad strange but different nonetheless and Tom might have brushed the thought aside if it didn't appear with a sudden clarity. It was strange because Harry didn't really smile, not truly and none so far that illuminated his face so brightly.
"C'mon, off to bed. I want you up bright and early — we've got a lot to do tomorrow." Still smiling and with a decisive double palmed pat on the table, he picked up the empty glass and went to rinse it in the sink. Tom didn't need much convincing (he was still mortified that he'd said something unintentionally amusing) and stood from the chair with a palpable eagerness that had no hope of being subtle. Yet with one foot into the living room he paused, looking back at the man who was now his supposed guardian until adulthood. It was an uncomfortable reality to ponder. He hadn't fully comprehended his situation — it didn't feel real. Tom didn't doubt that he'd be dragged back to the orphanage if he did anything to anger Harry (or worse; the end of a stick and a freezing green glare stuck to his mind like treacle). However, he was grateful that he no longer had to live in that understaffed and overworked building overcrowded with imbecilic children while draughty windows, threadbare blankets and never enough food remained a constant companion. Tom was indeed grateful for the respite and for that reason and that reason only did he attempt civility beyond questions asked of him.
He was also a bit curious.
"Are you not sleeping?" He mused aloud, his voice not quite strong enough to be heard over the running water (couldn't he just magic it clean?). Harry looked back, obviously surprised to see that Tom hadn't disappeared yet and turned the tap off, setting the glass on the metal drying rack.
"Sorry, what was that?" He asked warmly, absentmindedly grabbing a faded tea towel from the oven handle. His eyes sparkled with a soft fondness that Tom was uncomfortable being the recipient of.
"I said, are you not sleeping as well?" Tom repeated, uneasy frustration curling his words into something sharp.
Harry’s bright expression faded like an eclipse.
Water dripped steadily onto the tiled floor, each gentle splatter a shout in the still house.
"Er no, not yet — too much on my mind," he said stiffly, a strained smile tacked on the end to soften the rebuttal (it was obvious to Tom now just how strained it was) as he turned to the sink like a cut marionette, somehow bumping the drying rack with an elbow. A muffled curse followed as he leaned over the sink in obvious discomfort and proceeded to tap his left foot to the floor in an off rhythm. If Tom were more sympathetic he would have discreetly left the kitchen and went back to bed.
But he was simply too curious.
"Why did you point your wand at me?" Harry stilled, appearing statuesque when a long moment dragged its heavy weight across the kitchen floor. Tom wasn't deterred and pursued the apparent impermissible topic with a sly eagerness.
"Did you think I was someone else?" The same brand of silence greeted the inquisition like the sturdiest of walls.
"Who?"
"Go to bed Tom." Harry intoned frostily, his icy disposition unwavering and Tom knew he'd lost whatever foothold he'd possessed. No matter, there was always tomorrow.
Harry was trembling as he heard the soft footsteps leave the room. There was a break of nothing but his own harsh breathing. Then the creaking of the stairs sounded, signalling his ward's departure for the night. He held the edge of the countertop in a death grip, while another hand rose to press against his face. He breathed deeply, enough to fog his glasses against the barricade of his palm that remained the only obstacle to the world. That world being Tom. Of course, instead of fearing his regretful reaction Tom instead sought to unravel every reason as to why it occurred. He didn't care for boundaries — preferring to push and prod until cracks occurred all because it was amusing; the imagery knotted his stomach with deep distaste. A severely troubled child indeed. Better yet, he didn't know how to clean and bind the infested wounds inflicted by a bullied childhood nor soothe the ever-present bitterness of being an unwanted child. Tom had never had a childhood friend — no one to trust or connect with and Harry hoped it wasn't too late to kindle an echo of something similar between them; it was a dying wish.
Harry exhaled heavily, his legs suddenly unwilling to hold him and all of his burdens any longer while his hip ached punishingly. He should go to bed as well, even if he was guaranteed to lay awake until dawn — eyes sore and body unrested. At least it would provide undisturbed time to think, a task he'd been resolutely avoiding since he'd arrived in this time of approaching World Wars and economic depression. He dragged himself away from the kitchen sink, mind overtaxed and soul weary, and sought the light switch. With the brief thought that tomorrow ought to bring a brighter day, the house was immersed in an encompassing darkness.