Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A boy of four years of age looks on in trepidation into the gloomy and very much worn down structure known as Wool’s Orphanage. Little to no life in sight, no color anywhere and no happiness to be found.

A dead looking place indeed.

Holding in a fearful whimper, Harry James Potter clutches his small bag of ill-fitting clothes that wouldn’t see him through the week under such cold weather and a letter detailing that he was to be a new resident as Uncle Vernon deemed it a waste of time to take him inside himself.

He knew defending himself from Dudley would have consequences, but at the most he assumed he’d be without food for a few days as was the usual. How was he to know that Marge would be there to witness as he kicked Dudley into a nearby bush when the larger boy had come charging at him. The one bush that just so happened to have more thorns and an abundance of berries that soon made Dudley swell far larger than he already was and broke into deep rashes.

Unceremoniously he’d been dropped off at this orphanage, Aunt Petunia’s threats now very much real.

Uncle Vernon had tossed him in the vehicle, talking about him being someone else’s problem, then drove. It was a long drive too. The larger man had made many complaints on the ride over. Ranging from how much they’ll be saving without Harry there. How the food would be cooked properly for once. How there were too many old-fashioned vehicles all of a sudden and how strange the people were dressing.

Vernon’s only spot of joy? That an orphanage had soon popped up after Vernon had yelled at some boys to get out of the road.

With a trembling hand, Harry wipes the cold sweat forming on his forehead and decides to walk inside as he’d been standing out for too long.

While the thought of running away came along, he knew he would not survive a day out there on his own. He knows all about the dangers of strangers and children combined. Or, well, knew what was told to him anyway. Except, that’s not quite right either. He only knows what he heard, unnoticed as Aunt Petunia shrieked in worry over Dudley about the dangers of wandering off alone.

So, he knew enough to know he’d be better off with adults trained to take in children than wandering alone only to get snatched up.

The inside of the building looked far worse than the outside if that was even possible. While clean looking, there was positively no joy to be found in any of the corners of the room. Dull as the outside, colourless, and quiet as a church.

With a shaky nod, Harry decides he’ll take his small chances outside after all, snatched up and all. Just as he moves to go out the door, a woman walks in from a hidden door to the right, pausing once she notices Harry. They both look at each other in surprise.

“Oh no,” Harry hears her mutter. He thinks he wasn’t supposed to as she next puts on a smile so thin and bare that Harry fears next it would sink into her flesh, disappearing. “Are you alone dear boy?”

Harry nods, grudgingly stepping forward to silently thrust the letter to the woman.

She reluctantly takes it and reads, mouth wordlessly moving along.

Harry tries not to fidget but soon he’s clutching the end of his shirt and rolling one of his ankles in place.

“Well,” the woman suddenly speaks, looking down at Harry but he can’t tell if she’s angry or this was her everyday look. “What is your name?”

Coughing to clear his dry throat, Harry mumbles his name.

“You will speak up when spoken to. Again.”

Harry straightens up in fear. “It’s Harry. Ma’am.”

She nods approvingly. “You will call me Mrs. Cole and nothing else. Now follow me so we can write up your new file and then I will have Martha show you to your new room and a rundown of how you will live accordingly while here. There will be no funny business here Harry or you will not like the consequences. Be a good boy and we should get along just fine.” With that, Mrs. Cole briskly turns back to the door where she first came out, Harry following with heavy, burdened feet.

He feels overwhelmed with the sudden changes he was now forced into and the long list of chores he’ll be responsible for before he’s allowed to do anything else. A set of chores and length of no difference when he had been at the Dursley’s.

 After answering the basic questions regarding his full name—Harry James Potter and he only knew of it as of that morning before being dumped there—his birthday—July 31^st, 1927, and he knew that one because of the cat lady next door from Privet Drive—and if he was able bodied. He guesses so, he replies as Aunt Petunia liked him to work in her garden and he knows how to wash dishes, or at least the ones he can reach, and he’s just started to learn to cook.

Mrs. Cole looked a bit disturbed, but Harry couldn’t claim to know why.

She then brought in Martha to introduce before taking him to his new room.

Martha seemed okay enough, not as weary, and exhausted, looking like Mrs. Cole. She even gave Harry a small smile. She does not speak to him however as she leads him upstairs. Harry would go so far as to say she appeared hesitant. The further they went upstairs the tenser she became.

They enter a hallway, passing by a few doors. Harry notices that her eyes linger on one before hurriedly looking away.

She stops in front of a closed door which so happens to be next to the one she lingered on. She waits for Harry to catch up, still quiet. The whole place was silent really, which was odd for a place of children. Panting, Harry stops by her legs, Martha then opening the door.

 Brick flooring and walls, a tiny window that brings little to no light, a bed that has seen better decades and a lonely nightstand that equals into a desk but no chair, precariously standing on three legs and a tiny wardrobe off to the side to complete the set up.

A grown adult only has to take a take six total steps from wall to wall but for Harry it was a great deal many to call his own.

Harry loved it. He double checks with Martha that this would indeed be his room and under her confirmation, elation fills his little heart. He would no longer be stuffed into the cupboard underneath the stairs. Now, he had his very own room!

Martha tells him to settle in and that lunch is at 12 sharp and he better be there if he was hungry because there was no going to the kitchen otherwise unless it was related to chores. Harry nodded, jubilation coursing through his body once more that he’d be getting food!

Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad living here after all and just maybe, Aunt Petunia was wrong!

Happy with his new life choices he’s been allotted, Harry puts away his clothing and lays down in his new bed, wondering if he’ll make any new friends here. Hopefully so! Guess he’ll find out when lunchtime rolls around, and he meets everyone. Humming lightly, Harry rests his eyes, anticipation and nerves running through him all at once.

No more Dudley he thinks to himself, a small smile forming.

~ . * . ~

Tom Riddle felt a change in the air. One he was not sure he would like.

He is seated at his desk, overlooking his new treasures he found in Amy’s room when he felt an unknown presence pass by outside his door. Nothing too noticeable but Tom is special for a reason unlike the other ordinary children residing here.

His ears picked up on the familiar shuffle walk that which told him belongs to Martha, but the second pair of footsteps that follows a ways behind are unrecognizable. Unfamiliar. New.

The pair stops next door, some chatter following and then the sound of a door closing.

A new resident then. How boring but maybe this child would have brought something else for Tom to collect and keep.

He’ll have to make sure this kid knows their place. Their place being at the bottom and Tom at the top or he’ll make them regret it.

Should he assert his dominance now or wait until lunchtime?

He’ll wait, he decides.

The most recent book he read stressed the importance of patience, gathering information before making any hasty decisions.

Besides, important rulings should not be made on empty stomachs. With a firm nod, Tom goes back to inspecting his items, mentally calculating their worth in weepy tears.

~ . * . ~

Lunchtime rolls around, the sound of a loud bell ringing to signal the time.

Harry was already up and ready, making his way to the door, opening it and peering outside to see if anyone else was going by. He sees some shadows along the wall above the staircase railings, hearing chatter ahead. He should be good to go then. As soon as he steps out, the door on the right opens, a dark-haired boy stepping out.

Harry pauses in surprise and though the boy is not looking at him, he too pauses, gaze focused straight ahead before his hand reaches out to firmly close his door. He then walks away, heading to the stairs with no glance Harry’s way all the while.

Unsure but hungry, Harry follows quietly.

From behind, the boy walks with his back straight, small but opposing. Harry silently wonders if he too could carry himself as such.

They reach the foyer where Harry had met Mrs. Cole and head towards an open room that Harry suspects is the eating area.

All chatter stops as soon as everyone gets a look at Harry though he isn’t sure if it is completely his doing at all considering the looks the boy in front of him is getting as well.

The boy chooses a seat and sits down, glancing at everyone before finally taking his own look at Harry.

Meanwhile, Harry is silently panicking about where to sit as the only seat available seems to be next to the boy. Not seeing any other option, Harry takes it, hunched in on himself.

No one speaks again.

Mrs. Cole steps into the room, gazing around at everyone, eyes seemingly tired and stressed.

“Everyone, this is Harry. He’ll be staying here now, and I expect everyone to introduce themselves. You had all better get along. There will be no funny business and no bullying.” With that last statement, Harry watches Mrs. Cole glance at the boy next to Harry before hurriedly looking away.

Harry isn’t sure why, however, as the boy though silent and unsmiling, seems well behaved. He hadn’t even tried anything when he and Harry had been alone for a moment.

 No one says anything until Mrs. Cole leaves the room and gives a signal to get up and grab a tray of food nearby. When Harry waits his turn, watching everyone else, he grabs his tray and sits back down while conversation picks back up.

Lunch goes exceedingly well if Harry says so himself. His tray had a whole sandwich with cold meat and cheese, and a small tin of peaches with a glass of water. The boy next to him didn’t seem impressed but Harry himself is ecstatic as there is no Dudley to complain and no Aunt Petunia to take away his meal while sending him to the cupboard. No Uncle Vernon to yell, red in the face as he made very clear that he was lucky to eat at all.

Harry happily ate and drank his water, finishing quite quickly that he is one of the first to finish as an uncomfortable feeling arose in his stomach. He ignored it to better look at everyone while he could.

There is a girl who looks maybe a few years older, poking at her peaches but then eating them as she listens to the boy talking her ear off to her right. While the girl looks cheerful enough, the boy appears upset, gesturing wildly, and talking with his mouth still full and pointing at another boy who looks older and has bright colored hair. At one glance Harry would say red but then another look and he might answer orange.

All three children are sporting different expressions and seemingly talking over each other, not really caring what the other has to say and more concerned at being heard. Another boy sat on the same side as Harry and the dark-haired boy next to him, but far enough to not touch and sitting quietly as he ate, not paying anyone attention. He looks maybe 8 years old, but then Harry has never really seen any 8-year-olds to compare to, so maybe the boy was actually younger. Older?

 Confused now, Harry patiently waits for someone else to finish their meal so that he can see what he’s supposed to do next. After another few moments, the boy Harry followed gets up and takes his tray to a small table where he then places it there and starts to separate the dishes into their own pile. Done, the boy leaves the room.

No one makes a comment, so Harry assumes this is the right order of things. He gets up and sets everything into the boys’ pile and then wanders out, not knowing if he should be doing anything. Normally, around this time of day, Harry would be outside pruning Aunt Petunias’ thorny bushes and making friends with the garden snakes. With nothing to do, he goes back up the stairs to his room.

A little thrill shoots up his spine at the thought. His room. He has his very own room now with a bed and everything!

Harry barely makes it to the top of the stairs before he’s interrupted with a whispered shout of ‘Hey!’ behind him. Startled, Harry quickly turns around while pressing his back as close as he can against the wall. He sees that it’s the entire group of other children from earlier.

The shout comes from the girl but it’s the bigger boy that steps forward from the bottom steps and gestures Harry to come down.

Harry can’t explain it but for some reason he doesn’t want to.

So far, no one has done anything wrong, but Harry has seen the stares everyone threw his way when he sat next to the boy, never mind that it was the only seat available. Something about this boy’s expression spells trouble and Harry has lived his life in nothing but trouble and he’d like no more of it if he can help it.

Regardless of his thoughts, Harry sees no way out of this situation, so reluctantly he goes down the steps. Perchance, Harry has got this entire situation wrong, and the group just wanted to make friends. With that cheerful and hopeful thought, Harry perks up and picks up the pace, ignoring the fact that his legs can only do so much with the steepness and his height. He makes it though and approaches the group. They had been silently watching the entire time, not saying a word which unnerved him a bit.

“Hullo,” says Harry.

The red-haired boy is the one that steps forward, expression almost angry.

“If you know what’s good for you, don’t go near that demon.”

Demon!? Harry fearfully steps back, Aunt Petunia’s voice ringing in his head.

‘The devil will send the demons back up to bring you down to hell boy, where you belong if you don’t straighten up this instant! We normal folks don’t need that freakish thing you carry!’

What freakish thing Harry knows not, but the threat of demons dragging him to hell made sure not a peep was heard from him for 2 months! And this older boy is saying that there’s a demon hanging all willy-nilly around the orphanage!?

“D-Demon?” Harry manages to squeak out.

All the children lean in, whispering all at once, confusing Harry even more.

“Don’t look him in the eye!”

“He’ll steal your things if you let ‘em, he will!”

“He’s a freak and all freaks go to hell; listen to us kid and you’ll be fine.”

The word freak draws Harry up short, the feeling of unease growing. He doesn’t get a chance to say anything though as another voice cuts in. Small, but firm and coming from above them. The girl and smaller boy startle, wildly stepping back. The older boy, however, glares over Harry’s shoulder.

“What is going on here?” Harry really needs a name from everyone here as thinking ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ is making even him confused.

“Ain’t none of your business freak!”

Harry looks behind himself and sees that it’s the boy he sat next to earlier. Only, instead of looking disinterested, he’s now looking down at everyone suspiciously, eyes unblinking.

The unease grows exponentially.

Harry suddenly finds himself shoved rather harshly, making him trip and fall graceless onto the floor. He looks up at the older boy.

“Remember what we said or you’re a freak too!” With that, all the nearby children make a break for it to the front door where they then pile out.

Harry can only stare in befuddlement before looking at the other boy, as if to ask, ‘now what?’ but the boy merely raises an eyebrow and approaches Harry with far more grace down the steps than Harry had managed.

Thinking the other boy is approaching to help him up, Harry could only scowl when the boy continues to stare at Harry, standing above him.

Getting up requires a bit more coordination unfortunately so Harry’s face burns until he is finally standing, only barely out of breath.

Glowering at the boy, Harry waits.

When still no response comes forth, Harry preemptively introduces himself.

“My name is Harry. Harry Potter. W-what’s yours?” he didn’t mean to stutter, but the unwavering stare starts to make him nervous.

“…Tom Riddle,” the boy replies. Still staring.

“Nice to meet you Tom,” Harry replies. Maybe Tom could be Harry’s first friend. He’s never had one of those before. Not with Dudley being the bully he was and scaring everyone off.

“You may call me Riddle, not Tom until I’ve given permission. Also, if you enter my room, I will make you sorry.” With that, Riddle walks away from a wide-eyed Harry staring in disbelief.

Great. Just what he needs, another berk in his life.

Just what exactly will living in this orphanage bring to Harry?

Hopefully only good things.

With a despondent sigh, Harry trudges back up the steps, wishing longer legs will soon be in his future at the very least. Surely soon enough…right?

Chapter Text

Wool’s Orphanage is maybe slightly better than the cramped and stale air of the Dursley’s cupboard but not by much.

For one thing, the uniforms required are stiff and starchy, irritating the children’s skin, making some spots flare pink and raising harsh rashes for others. Harry unfortunately being the latter.

Another is the fact that the chore list is just as long as it had been living with the Dursley’s. The only difference being that the chores are to be split with everyone and while that may seem like a good thing, that would depend on everyone actually doing their set of chores.

In the three months Harry has been here thus far, not once has any of the other children completed their chores with the exception of the quiet boy named Eric Whalley and Tom Riddle.

The red-haired older kid is Dennis Bishop, the boy with the rabbit is Billy Stubbs and the only girl currently staying here is Amy Benson. Those three stuck together like glue and sometimes Eric would join them and sometimes he would meet with the other neighboring kids around but ultimately those four were found to be near one another.

Harry had thought to do his best with his chores as proof that he would be no trouble and maybe it would impress the matron considering his experience with cleaning, cooking, and gardening that Aunt Petunia had him learn.

That had been his first mistake.

Dennis had realized how good of job Harry was at completing his tasks and thought it unfair that Harry would have more free time than everyone else to do with. So, when the matron wasn’t overseeing the kids to make sure they did as told, Dennis convinced Harry to do his share too.

His second mistake was saying yes.

Soon enough, Billy and Amy weren’t too happy being left out and pressured Harry to do their load too and Harry, remembering how they all ganged up on him his first day here, halfheartedly agreed. At least Dudley wasn’t here.

His third mistake though was not saying anything, which had left Harry feeling tired and achy most days. A near constant set of aches and blisters and a hunger worse than the Dursley’s as any food he ate was near burnt out by the time chores got done. Sometimes, he felt feverish.

To be honest, Harry found himself a little resentful that the matron never even noticed that Harry would still be doing chores long into the day when in that first month here he was first to be done. That his tasks would differ throughout the day, taking him all over the orphanage when their list only ever required them in one room. How does one not pay attention to that fact?

In fact, unbeknownst to Harry, the matron did indeed know but hadn’t wanted to interfere since the orphanage looked in far better shape than ever since Harry’s arrival.

Worst days for Harry though were laundry days that left his hands pink for days and harder than a rock, an absolute agony when he curled them into fists. Laundry here was far different than Aunt Petunia’s. Maybe they couldn’t afford the same detergent and machines?

Harry also though didn’t appreciate how Mrs. Cole regularly left everyone unsupervised to take a swig from a bottle and the occasional smoke while gossiping about the kids as if they weren’t there to hear. And she had a lot to say about Riddle, in particular to Martha who dished out equally about the many shop owners nearby.

The only thing that really made Harry’s day was when it was time to go back to his room. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of thinking that.

Top contender though, was figuring out the mystery of one Tom Marvolo Riddle.

He’d only just yesterday found out Riddle’s middle name because Mrs. Cole was making fun of it, which Harry thought had been really mean of her. Harry anyway thought that the things she had to say about Riddle were far more interesting. So interesting, he thought she was maybe writing a book and using Riddle as a character or something like that.

Though he thinks himself that this was to be very unlikely considering she always pushed anything paperwork related for Martha to handle now that he remembers.

Those curious and strange comments she made nevertheless had Harry leaning in to hear more, as he swept outside of the office door.

For instance, Riddle being able to make those around him obey his commands with no questions asked. That one really seemed to bother Mrs. Cole.

Hurting others without ever being caught. Even so far as getting away with it in front of the adults who knew it was him but having no explanation as to how the boy did it. Uncaring though they were that they could not prove it just that he be punished for it all the same.

Things going missing within a blink of an eye.

And the hissing they sometimes could hear.

The devil’s work Martha had whispered.

The devil’s spawn more like, Mrs. Cole responded, unkind as ever.

Again, Harry thought that really mean-spirited, however he too noticed the hisses when he was on garden duty with Riddle. The rest of the accusations, however, looked to be malicious rumors with no evidence of it going anywhere else, but that didn’t seem to stop everyone from avoiding the other boy with fearful and angry glances.

It was the same looks Harry had received back at Privet Drive because of the allegations spread from his relatives so Harry knew not to take everything by word of mouth. Innocent until proven guilty he thinks.

These three months has taught Harry to listen a bit longer, see what doesn’t want to be seen and stay absolutely still so that he remains unseen. All the better for him to learn, adapt and adjust where needed.  Harry thinks he’s pretty good at it if he can surprise even Riddle on occasion.

With that cheerful thought, Harry finishes up his mopping for the day, humming all the while, and wondering what will be served for lunch. Not once did Harry notice the narrow-eyed stare of another.

~ . * . ~

What a fool Harry Potter is, Tom thought silently to himself.

He sits on the steps, having come down to get a glass of water but stopped to watch the shorter boy as he swept and mopped the foyer.

Ridiculous he sneers silently.

Tom had thought the boy looked like a pushover but not even he saw coming how right that prediction would prove to be. Doing everyone’s chores as if he had no lick of pride. Being overworked day by day with no complaints coming forward and Mrs. Cole noticing but not saying a word to put a stop to it.

And she wouldn’t.

Not when the orphanage has been looking so spotless these days, easier to breathe in every room and giving the illusion of present sunlight slowly trickling in. As if.

There was no such thing as sunlight in dreary London presently. He didn’t know how the boy did it, but somehow everything he touched to clean gleamed as intended, not a dust mote to be found. Dishes washed and dried in record time, food prepped and looking fresh even though the orphanage regularly got discounts for taking the unwanted and unsellable goods. On the days Harry oversaw laundry, the clothes turned out tolerable to the touch, a bit softer and more malleable making it easier on their youthly sensitive skin.

Something isn’t quite right about Potter. In fact, Tom would even go so far as to say that maybe, Harry Potter has a little something special like Tom, but differently worked.

And instead of being in denial about it for only Tom is capable of being special in this ugly place full of ugly people, he is instead angry at Harry for allowing himself to be treated like some common bender.

Tom would do nothing about it though.

 Harry needed to learn to stand up for himself. While he figured that out, Tom would in the meanwhile compile more confirmation to see if Harry Potter was indeed like him. For all he knew, the boy was just simply skilled in cleaning.

He watches still, as Harry finishes up his mopping, putting the supplies away. A tuneless hum reaching his ears but not unpleasant. Watches as Harry grabs the bucket of dirty water and attempts to lift it but can’t seem to. The small boys’ face flushes in exertion, huffing great puffs of air and still the bucket remains on the floor but trembling along with the attempt.

 Martha must have been the one to fill up the bucket and leave it there, thinking Dennis would be on duty and forgetting Harry would be coerced to take over.

 Amusedly he watches the boy breathe in once before perhaps making a final effort and Tom watches as the bucket finally lifts only to spill all over the pristine floors as Harry couldn’t bear the weight of it.

Harry gasps aloud in dismay, eyes clenched completely shut as if in denial.

While Tom has little emotions to spare, he can’t help but frown as the boy will have to once again mop, and even from here Tom can see exhaustion clinging to the small form. Wool’s Orphanage, though holding only a small number of people, isn’t exactly a small building to clean.

That frown then turns to a scoff. It is the boys’ fault for not asking for help. A pity nonetheless that Tom does not feel so he does not offer said help. 

From where Tom sat, he could hear Harry’s frantic fevered whispers of ‘I didn’t mean to,’ ‘please no,’ ‘this didn’t happen, I wish this didn’t happen!’

Tom opens his mouth then, wanting to tell the other boy he had witnessed the entire thing, wanting to see how he would react. Instead, he stares in disbelief as the bucket rights itself on its own. Slowly the dirty puddle of water trickles back into the bucket, defying gravity as liquid climbs up into the basin and gaining momentum, settling in. Soon after the floors were back to looking freshly mopped and not a single drop could be found from where Tom could see.

Harry’s shoulders drop in defeat, his whispered pleas quieting as he accepts the outcome. Opening his eyes with a small sigh that Tom can still hear, Harry looks down at his mess.

Only to be greeted by dry floors.

The boy’s green eyes widen, looking around as if waiting for an explanation. He even peers into the bucket, mouthing a small ‘o’ when he sees what must be dirty water.

The small boy laughs as he says aloud, “must have just seen wrong.”

His sigh of relief could be heard clearly and smile back in place, Harry rushes out of the room in search of Martha to take care of the too heavy bucket. Still not realizing that Tom Riddle had sat and watched everything.

Still stunned, Tom could only stare in wonder as Harry left the area, mind reeling over what he had just witnessed. While others would immediately question their state of mind, Tom knew that the impossible could be possible in the right set of hands. And clearly, he just found another pair of hands to add to his own.

Mind leaping with plans, Tom knew that the treatment of Harry would now have to be stopped. Harry had better things to do now than to prune bushes that Billy couldn’t be bothered to keep at. Better things like answering Tom’s ever-growing list of questions.

With that happy thought and one more glance at the still bucket, Tom heads back upstairs, thirst forgotten as more plans form while discarding others.

Yes, special just like Tom. He’d be willing to share the title…for now at least.

~ . * . ~

Harry is starting to get a bit worried.

It started with Amy and Billy suddenly cornering him and begging to take back their chores and reassuring Harry that he didn’t have to do them anymore. In fact, he’d never have to do them again, they’d even be so happy as to take part of his for a change. He of course declined, unsure if this was a new game to trap him and get him into trouble.

Then out of nowhere, Dennis approaches him aggressively without saying a word, angry but doing his own chores in a huff before leaving just as suddenly, all the while not looking at Harry once.

Concerned but also knowing better than to object, Harry just lets it happen with no questions asked. He can tell though Mrs. Cole wasn’t exactly happy with the development with her thin lips pursing but couldn’t say anything as everyone was still doing as they were told.

What really had Harry concerned was Riddle’s constant staring whenever they were in the same room. He never says anything, but the weight of his stare was ever present.

Not knowing what to do, Harry decides to ignore him.

Another month goes by with Harry having lived in Wool’s Orphanage for a total of four months. In that amount of time, not a single adult had stopped by to adopt any of them, and Harry still hadn’t made a single friend.

For whatever reason Dennis seemed to be on this crusade to exclude Harry from everything and the other three children followed eagerly.

Harry’s crime as told by Dennis when he asked one day?

For daring to say anything against their badmouthing of Riddle.

He had passed by while aimlessly walking about and heard them call Riddle all sorts of bad names as said boy sat alone, reading a book, and doing nothing to anyone else.

Frowning, Harry had approached them and told them it was wrong to say all that they did when Riddle hadn’t done anything deserving of it. At least, not that day.

Angry, it was surprisingly Eric that shoved Harry hard and told him to mind his business. Hurt and not wanting things to escalate, Harry did as he said and since then the other kids included Harry in their taunts of song as they did Riddle.

And while Riddle seemed to care less and Harry used to this sort of treatment, it didn’t mean he wanted things to stay this way. Unfortunately, things didn’t seem any closer to changing any.

Since then, Harry had just kept to himself as best as he could, hoping that he would be adopted one day into a nice family.

Sighing, Harry kicked a foot out listlessly against the pavement in front of the orphanage. Now that he had his free time back, he didn’t know what to do with it.

The little hairs on the back of Harry’s neck prickled suddenly and without turning to look, knew he’d find Riddle there, staring, not caring if he was caught in the act.

With a grimace, Harry turns to look anyway.

Sure enough, there Riddle stood, watching as his usual these many days.

Tapping his foot nervously, Harry looks away and starts walking along the gates of the area. A full minute passes by, which Harry knew how to count and he stops. He looks back again. And again, there is Riddle, a few feet away now, still watching.

Nothing is said for a moment.

Once more, Harry taps his foot, chewing his bottom lip.

He continues walking and Riddles remains following, both quiet but tension rising.

Harry feels hunted and yet already caught somehow.

Few adults were out and about and those that were seemed to be in a hurry.

He absentmindedly notes Uncle Vernon’s comment about strange clothing.

Up ahead Harry sees a bench. With a small, muted breath, he approaches it and sits down, not once looking at Riddle.

Riddle doesn’t wait a second longer, he sits next to Harry and then peers at him straight on. The look is too intense and heavy for Harry to understand.

“You keep following me,” Harry accusingly blurts out.

Riddle only smiles, seemingly pleased.

“Great deduction there Harry. I wasn’t subtle about it.”

Harry silently mouths ‘subtle’ wondering what the word meant. He wasn’t familiar with the word ‘deduction’ either, he soundlessly thought in dismay. 

“What do you want Riddle?” Harry decides to forge on to get to the bottom of this…this…well, whatever it was, Harry wants no part of thank you very much.

“Call me Tom, Harry.”’

“Wh-what? But you told me—”

“—and I’m now telling you that you may call me Tom,” Riddle interrupts, annoyance colouring his tone.

The longer Harry observes Riddle, the more the boy doesn’t make any sense and nor does he talk like any other child. Or perhaps this is an age thing, and the boy is actually older?

“Anyway I—”

“—how old are you?” Harry interrupts in return. A little pleased to see a flash of anger.

“…five but I’ll be six soon.” Tom doesn’t add that soon for him meant waiting another five months with it barely being the end of July currently.

Surprised, Harry looks Riddle over. “You look kind of small…like me.” Harry smiles but knows it’s perhaps a little smug at not being the only one to be small for his age.

Indignant, Riddle splutters, outraged, even though Harry told no lies because Riddle is in fact, quite small for his age, just like Harry.

“I’ll have you know Potter, that I’m still growing and will be hitting a growth spurt soon.” Riddle haughtily looks away, still offended and cheeks splotching in colour. (Harry really likes that word, haughty. A word he learned from a neighbor as he pruned who had shouted at Aunt Petunia that day.) “You’re rude but I have questions and I want answers.”

“Questions?” Harry’s eyebrows furrowed. Was Riddle wanting to get to know him?

“Yes Harry, questions,” Riddle affirms exasperatedly.

Harry huffs in irritation. It wasn’t his fault that Riddle kept giving mixed signals as Uncle Vernon liked to say about the neighbor’s daughter. Whatever that meant but Harry stands by to it applying here too.

“What kind of questions?” Harry asks, curious.

“Hmm,” Riddle starts thinking, which Harry finds himself a little annoyed by. Clearly Riddle came prepared, else why wait until they were away from the others? “I am curious as to why you were dropped at Wool’s.”

Stiffening, Harry looks at Riddle. “What? Why?”

Ignoring Harry for a moment, Riddle proceeds to ask even more questions that start to make Harry uncomfortable even though he cannot express why.

“Who were your parents? Are they too like you? What were they like? Where are you from?”

Dazed, Harry could only listen in dread as Riddle kept asking more and more questions without pause, an intensity growing that quite frankly, scared Harry. He’s only four, soon to be five in 3 days and doesn’t know what to do with this strange boy.

Finally, Riddle stops talking and looks at Harry with an expression as if to say, ‘well?’ and Harry still doesn’t know how to answer any of those questions or even if he should.

“Harry don’t be shy. I am only asking because I care.” Riddle smiles in the face of Harry’s disbelief, or at least attempts to but Harry could only see a wonky pinched expression that made him want to laugh aloud. He didn’t of course, he knew better.

Impatient, Riddle attempts another smile but fails with that one too.

Harry is still unsure but that small part of him, still desperate for a friend pleads he at least try.

“W-well, I kicked Dudley into a rose bush and Aunt Marge saw and told Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon and they decided to take me here the next day.” Harry shrugged, ashamed while swinging his leg distractedly. His foot could not reach the ground without effort.

Riddle gave no clue that he didn’t understand a word of what Harry had said. Who was Dudley and frankly the other names too?

While Riddle thought he was being quite subtle, he tended to forget that he was only five and that his face gave away a lot of what he was thinking. He had a long way to go before he learned ‘masks.’

Either way, Harry continues, wanting to get this over with so he too can ask Riddle questions and then they could go play together or something.

“Erm, my parents? Aunt Petunia said they were no good drunks. And they died from an auto-something, something, they crashed? I don’t know their names and where they came from though.” Harry finished sadly, still quite upset that he knew nothing of his parents and whether they had at one time loved him or not.

“Automobile,” Riddle corrected on reflex, mind whirling in more confusion and disappointment. “Are you sure they died?”

“I’m not a liar!” Harry screeched heatedly, surprising Riddle in the process who flinches.

 Wearily, Riddle looks at him, evaluating if Harry was a threat or not.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, mortified that he yelled. “I’m not a liar,” he repeats sullenly.

Coughing lightly to clear his throat, Riddle replies, “I didn’t say you were.”

An uncomfortable silence stayed between the two, both unsure how to break it. With a hopeful glance though, Harry tries.

“Why’re you here?”

Startled, but not meaning to, Riddle narrows his eyes.

“That’s none of your business Potter.” And with that, Riddle promptly gets up and walks back to the orphanage, leaving a slack jawed Harry behind.

Shaking his head slightly as if to clear it, soon anger and betrayal swarms him. So, he was Potter now when it suited Riddle? Fine then, Harry didn’t need him or anyone else here!

With an outraged huff, Harry stomps off as any righteous four-year-old was prone to do.

~ . * . ~

Tom Riddle can only stare in bafflement as Harry ignored him and went back to reading the picture book in his lap.

It wasn’t even a good book. Pages were missing!

He could tell that Harry was aware of his presence as his eyes weren’t moving along with the words anymore and his mouth was beginning to frown.

Staring pointedly, Tom sets his gift to Harry on the floor, pushing with his foot, closer to the boy who was sitting on the floor of his room.

Again, Harry ignores him. Tom could not unfortunately narrow his eyes further or they’d be useless to see with, so he instead concentrated his efforts into mentally making Harry acknowledge him.

Still, he was snubbed. An unwilling chuff leaves him before he looks around to make sure no one was there and then sits on the floor, not able to hold back a sneer.

“Are you ignoring me Harry?”

Harry flips a page, eyes still unmoving and lips still.

Tom can feel his face heating, hands clenched, fuming.

“Harry,” Tom starts, “you don’t want to ignore me when I’m being nice.”

An unwilling snort leaves Harry before he gasps, eyes rushing to Toms’ before he goes back to the book.

“Ha! I knew you noticed I was here!” Tom shouted, before quickly looking around and settling down once more. It wouldn’t do to have anyone notice Tom’s slip. He doesn’t shout. “Anyway, stop ignoring me you twit.”

“Hey! I’m not a twi—”

“I got you a present…a birthday present. See? I’m being nice.”

This was after all what nice people did. They gave gifts, so says the book about proper etiquette anyway. Tom had yet to finish the book as there were many words he didn’t know, but nevertheless he got the gist of it. He’s almost sure he has. 

“You got me a present?” Book forgotten now, Harry looks at Tom, surprised and a bit touched. “Me?”

Feeling uncomfortable with such a stare, Tom raises his chin and nods.

Excited, Harry picks up the small lumpy gift, never having had one at the Dursley’s.

His first gift! And by Riddle no less! Hesitating for only a second, Harry rips the newspaper used as wrapping apart carefully, then stares down at his gift.

Tom watches in confusion as Harry’s smile is replaced with a frown.

“What’s wrong? You don’t like it? It’s the thought that counts.” Tom says, silently willing Harry to speak up.

“Riddle—”

“—call me Tom. I’ve already said.”

“Riddle,” Harry continues, “what’s this?” Harry holds up the gift, still partially in the paper.

“It’s a gift, Harry,” Tom says slowly.

“Nooo,” Harry says just as slowly, “this is Amy’s.” Shaking the item as if to make his point, they both look at the crocheted doll with a missing arm staring emptily back at them.

Tom looks away from it first to stare imploringly back at Harry. It fails widely of course because they both know the truth. “Harry dear—”

“I’m not a deer!”

“Harry, that is a toy I saw, and thought that you might like it and so I grabbed it and gave it to you because today is your birthday.”

“You mean you stole it, Tom!”

“You can’t prove it.” Tom says dismissively, but also gives Harry a smug smile for using his first name aloud for the first time.

“Riddle,” Tom’s smug smile drops just as fast as it appeared, “Amy was crying all day yesterday and now I know why.”

“That unpleasant child is always crying,” Tom flippantly says.

“You’re a child too Riddle. Me too. Als-also, no one talks like you!”

Hissing like some offended cat, Tom quickly gets up to stand over Harry.

“Don’t call me a child! I’m different! Special! I’m better!”

Harry can only watch in surprise as for the second time in a row in as many days, Riddle stomps off.

~ . * . ~

Harry had to track down Amy to give back her stolen doll, feeling bad for having been the cause it was taken in the first place. By Riddle no less! Who practically hates everyone!

Finding Amy sitting outside in the back with Dennis, Eric and Billy, Harry tries to mentally calm his racing heart that this was not his fault and that hopefully he won’t get beaten for this.

When he gets close enough, they each turn to stare at him. Breath shuddering a little, Harry forges on, it’s the right thing to do after all.

Stopping a foot away from them, Harry pulls out the doll and with Amy’s little gasp of recognition he gives it to her.

“Erm, sorry, I found it and heard you crying yesterday.” Harry fidgets a bit, willing them to believe him even though he hadn’t really found it. But he didn’t want Tom to get in trouble when he was trying to do a nice thing either. Tom just went about all of this wrong.

Amy was too busy squealing in delight, getting up and pouncing on Harry without notice, surprising the shorter boy and stiffening up in alarm for it. The other boys just looked on in distrust and confusion.

“Thank you, Harry!” With that, Amy trounces off, humming under her breath while swinging her doll to and frow. 

“Hey, wasn’t that Sarah’s doll?” Eric asks loudly.

Surprised, Harry looks at him, puzzled. Who was Sarah?

Scoffing, Billy replies while walking off.

“Don’ you ‘member?  Amy stole it from Sarah night before Sarah got adopted by tha’ mister.” Shaking his head, Billy goes to find something else to do.

Shocked, Harry watches as they all walk by him and sees Riddle off in the distance, sneering at everyone as he left around the corner.

What? What!?

Was everyone here a thief?

No one looked surprised or dismayed by the news. Not like Harry who’s just had his world flipped. Was everyone here another Dudley? If that was the case, then…well Harry isn’t sure what to think to be honest.

Baffled, Harry wonders if it’s his morals that are all wrong, reflecting on past examples to make his case. He’d been pressured to take on everyone’s chores only for them to take it back as if they’d done nothing wrong. The adults knew but didn’t seem to care.

 Kids steal and lie, and no one bats an eye.

 Just how exactly is Harry supposed to feel when he’d been told all his life that thieves got sent to hell and burned alive. Was he to open his arms, welcoming?

With a heavy sigh too great for a newly five-year-old, Harry decides to go look for Riddle to apologize, his body drooping in shame.

Hopefully Riddle will be nice enough to accept it and if not, then Harry will just have to make do.

This adapting business sure is hard.

Chapter Text

The day is gloomy and wet, representing the perfect mood for one sullen five-year-old.

Harry glances in the room where the orphans hang out to learn or play when the weather outside proves to be too much. Riddle doesn’t glance back. Sighing despondently for the umpteenth time, Harry imploringly looks at Riddle again, silently begging for forgiveness.

Riddle had not in fact accepted Harry’s rather rushed apology three days ago and had taken it upon himself to act like Harry’s never existed.

He had not realized how much attention Riddle gave him until the staring stopped.

A part of Harry had felt uncomfortable with the stares at first but a bigger part of himself couldn’t help but feel happy. Happy that someone out there had noticed Harry and thought him worth the effort and attention when he’d been shoved to the side for others for so long.

A loud shriek cuts through Harry’s thoughts.

Billy was stomping his foot in agitation while Dennis laughed loudly, slapping his knees.

Riddle’s eyebrows furrow.

Annoyed, Harry silently notes. He learned to spell that word yesterday when he’d been standing over Riddle’s shoulder and been ignored. Again. 

 Riddle flips a page in his book, actually reading unlike Harry.

Sitting with his knees drawn into his chest as he leaned against the wall, Harry took another look at Riddle, pouting. He flicked away a piece of lint that fell from his jumper, sniffling dejectedly.

A book slams shut, jolting Harry enough to have him bump his head against the wall. Wincing, Harry sees Riddle get up from his spot before walking out the door but not before giving Harry a look. 

Blinking while absently rubbing the back of his head, he scrambles up to follow.

Riddle ended up going back to his room with Harry only a few steps behind. He hesitates at the door, remembering Riddles warning but ultimately decides it doesn’t apply now. After all, Riddle clearly gave that look for Harry to follow. Right?

He finds Riddle already sitting at the foot of his bed, watching the doorway. Waiting. With that, Harry steps in and without thinking about it, sits next to Riddle on the bed.

This surprises and infuriates Riddle, but he does not say anything about it.

There’s a moment of awkward silence before Harry decides to just get it over with.

“Erm, I wanted…,” Harry trails off. How does one apologize for being rude to someone who steals a gift from another who also did the stealing in the first place?

Riddle’s unblinking eyes do not help Harry solve this unfortunately.

“Well, I, erm, I just wanted to…thank you?” Harry can feel his face heat and getting hotter the longer Riddle stares with his judging eyebrows as witness.

“You’re thanking me?” Riddle asks to get Harry to talk some more seeing as Harry sat there in mortified silence.

“Yes.” Harry nods, unsteadily. “Yes, I am.” Gulping in a large breath, Harry rushes out, “Thank you for stealing me a birthday present! And sorry I didn’t ‘pre-shite it!”

 With that Harry flounders off the bed and takes off, but he trips over his own feet, lying face down on the floor, unmoving and breathing poorly.

Harry feels like his face alone is warming the floor and so not wanting Riddle to see him anymore, he just simply rolls himself into Riddle’s under bed space all the while keeping his eyes closed. He’ll just sleep here for tonight and will wait for Riddle to fall asleep before he sneaks out where he then plans on never leaving ever again. He’ll build himself a nice nest under his own bed and hibernate there until Riddle forgets Harry or gets adopted.

Whichever comes first really.

Eyes still closed, Harry doesn’t see Riddle peering under the bed, but he does hear him say, “the word is ‘appreciate,’ not shite and, what are you doing? Get over here, Harry. Now.”

Moping, Harry drags himself from under the bed, uncaring of the clinging dust nor Riddles’ unhappy face at the sight.

“You’re not sitting on my bed like that,” Riddle frowns.

Harry sullenly thinks he doesn’t want to sit anywhere anymore. But all the same he finds himself sitting crossed legged on the floor.

Now what?

Another moment of awkward silence. Harry would really love it if it stopped actually.

“What made you decide to thank me? You were really upset last time,” Riddle mutters.

Harry debates telling him how he found out that the doll was not really Amy’s, but he gets the feeling that Tom would be angry. So, he shrugs his shoulders, looking anywhere but the other boys’ face. It was the thought that counted.

An annoyed huff leaves Tom’s lips.

Huh, so he’s Tom now in his thoughts, Harry absently thinks.

“Can we be friends now?” Harry asks suddenly, startling Tom.

“I suppose I’ll allow you my friendship.” The ‘for now’ does not go unnoticed by the two of them.

Regardless, Harry is immensely happy with himself. His first friend!

“What do we do now Tom?” Harry asks, looking at Tom with a hopeful smile.

Tom straightens hearing his name come from Harry willingly this time.

A strange gleam enters Tom’s eyes, Harry notes with slight dread, his happy thoughts sinking faster than a cake under Dudley’s watchful gaze.

“I do have something in mind,” Tom urges, those dark eyes focused intensely.

~ . * . ~

“Tom, I don’t like this.”

“It’s fine Harry. And stop trembling.”

Harry does not in fact stop trembling. In truth, he’s trying to come to terms that he might very well die this day.

Was this to be his penance for befriending one Tom Riddle? If that was the case, Harry takes back every nice thing he’s ever thought about the other boy. He can’t think of what nice thoughts he did have but surely there was some. Surely.

“Harry,” Riddle snaps. “We don’t have all day. Do it.”

Harry wants to sit himself down from where he’s at just to spite Riddle. He’ll make time to spend all day here if he must. He doesn’t but the thought alone cheers him up enough to pause his trembling form.

“Harry!”

Huffing, Harry throws a nasty scowl at the other boy who is safely several steps away from him. Was this friendship? If so, Harry no longer wants it.

“Har—”

“Alright! Alright already. Just—let me pray!”

Blinking in surprise, Tom asks, “You’re religious?”

“Erm, well no. But isn’t that what ‘ur supposed to do? Before you die?” Harry asks wide eyed.

Tom would roll his eyes if he could but doing so hurts his head, so he doesn’t bother. Instead, he stares at Harry until the other boy lets out another rude huff and his trembling begins anew as he looks down.

Tom looks with him.

The boys were on the roof of the shed that housed the tools for gardening.

Harry stood on the perch peering down every so often and shuddering with every look.

Tom has no idea why Harry is scared when the shed isn’t even the same height as the building of the orphanage. He doesn’t bother to reflect 10 minutes ago where Harry told Tom to do it then, when Tom had pointed out that detail. Tom of course declined as this had to be done by Harry.

For reasons obviously.

Getting visibly annoyed at how long this was taking, Tom takes one step forward which has Harry noticing immediately.

“Harry,” begins Tom, “just do and think as I said, and you’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Of course, I do.” He doesn’t.

“Tom…why do I need to do this? I’m scared.”

“Harry, didn’t you just say we’re friends? Is this all our friendship means to you? Giving up? On us?”

Harry wants to whack that fake sad face from Tom. He means to do it too but instead his eyes clench shut, and he leaps off the roof, arms windmilling about and thinking that haunting Tom as a ghost will be revenge enough. Ghosts have to exist. They have to!

He can’t hold in the startled shriek when he falls and expects a very painful meeting with the ground.

After what feels like long minutes but really only takes a few seconds, Harry does meet impact but not in the way he expects.

Breath expelling in force when he comes to a sudden stop but no pain of any sort touching him, Harry slowly pries open his eyes, inhaling in shock when he’s greeted by the impossible.

Harry is floating above a few inches from the ground.

All is silent at first and then Harry hears from directly above himself, “I knew it! I knew I was right!”

And with that, Harry crashes into the ground, concentration lost.

Groaning in discomfort, Harry rolls himself onto his back to blearily look up and see Tom staring back with a feral looking grin.

It scares Harry enough that he sort of questions his decisions that led him here. Perhaps friendship isn’t everything. Perhaps Harry should reevaluate a few things. He was only five after all, he’s too young for such a commitment.

It’s what Martha said to the grocer and she’s way older than Harry.   

He doesn’t get a chance to reflect any further though as Mrs. Cole’s voice pierces the air from the distance, shrilly looking for Eric.

Worryingly, she sounded like she was coming close by.

Harry’s panic meets Tom’s.

Scrambling up from the dirty floor, Harry scurries away from the scene of the crime, his crime and barely makes it inside the storage when a large shadow passes by, still yelling. Terrified, Harry hopes Tom wasn’t seen from the roof.

He waits for what feels like forever before opening the door, peeking out. Somewhere in the far distance he can hear Eric shouting and Mrs. Cole right after.

Relieved, Harry steps out of the storage to meet back with Tom.

“Tom!” He whisper shouts.

For a moment, there is only the sound of Mrs. Cole, then Harry sees Tom poking his head out from above the roof.

 Grinning and heart thumping erratically they both laugh. Another yell in the background has both boys quieting fast however where Tom then gestures back to the orphanage.

Once safely in Toms’ room, their laughter picks back up. Contagious and joyous as they’d just discovered that the impossible is in fact, possible.

After a few minutes, they settle down some.

Harry thinks back on what just happened. He’d jumped off of a roof and did not die. He’d jumped off of a roof and floated in the air instead of flattening like a pancake and did not die.

 He sends a silent ‘thank you’ to whoever is listening and turns to face Tom who was already staring at him with a smug grin.

Harry has the compulsion to slap it off. Once that thought trickles in, he regards his right hand in betrayal for just the thought alone. Since when did he start thinking it okay to go around slapping people? Or just thinking of doing it. He’s no Dudley. Embarrassed, Harry focuses instead on what he had wanted to ask since he jumped.

“Tom? How did you know?”

“Know?” Tom asks, quirking a brow. It took him many months to get that to work.

“Yea, know that I wouldn’t die.”

Tom stays silent, admiring his space while ignoring Harry. Then he smiles, glancing into Harry’s eyes and says, “because I’m a genius.”

Something about that statement unsettles Harry some. Head tilting, he stares hard at Toms’ still smiling face. A smile that looks a bit wonky if Harry’s being honest. Which he is. Because unlike Tom, Harry is always honest. Well, he’s more honest than Tom. 

“Tom?”

“Hmm?”

“How’d ya’ know?”

“Like I said.”

“Tom—”

“Look Harry, it’s getting late—”

“It’s not even dinner—”

 “Let’s meet back up later after we’ve both calmed down.”

“Tom!”

“Night Harry. Don’t look under your bed or you’ll get snatched.”

“Whaa—”

“Also, wipe your face. It’s dirty.” With that, Tom shoves Harry out the door, crises averted. If Harry knew that Tom did not in fact know that Harry would live, he’d have a crying boy latch onto him.

Tom did not like tears.

Harry stares at the closed door in disbelief.

With no other option left to him, Harry walks to his room, thoughts on the day and what they’d just witnessed. He’s gone through too many emotions far too quickly and now feels overwhelmed. Like he could nap forever.

He’s also pretty sure Tom just lied to him, but he doesn’t feel any anger about it.

As he lies down, waiting to be called for dinner, Harry wonders what else Tom knows and what other surprises are in store for Harry.

What he did earlier felt like…well it felt like magic!

He immediately looks around himself to make sure he is alone. Just thinking the word has Harry feeling giddy as it’d been banned in the household under the Dursley’s. Harry never knew why until now.

Had they known all along about Harry? About what he could do?

If so, why hate it? That did not make any sense to Harry as even young as he was, he knew that above all else, the Dursley’s loved having what others did not. Even normal folks would be envious and the Dursley’s would have taken every opportunity to rub it in people’s faces if it had been Dudley floating about.

Was that it then? The fact that it was not Dudley who could float but Harry?

They did tend to overreact and scorn the very sight of him so maybe that was indeed it.

He checks again to make sure no one is sneaking around his space, his paranoia getting the best of him. Logically, he knew an adult couldn’t hide here without his notice and the other children tended to avoid Tom’s and Harry’s rooms.

He lays back down, scowling.

He knew there was no one sneaking in, but he couldn’t stop the cautious part of himself anyway. Just his thoughts alone felt like it was enough to summon the Dursley’s. He would say that wasn’t possible but after what happened today, he wasn’t going to rule anything out.

With that last thought, Harry closes his eyes, resting uneasily but hopeful that Tom has other plans he’ll share with Harry.

Only if it doesn’t spell Harry’s death anyway.

~ . * . ~

In the weeks that followed the roof incident, Harry and Tom have grown closer. Along with that closeness were more tests and events that had left both boys in awe, excitement, and at one point, fear as miraculous feats came to be.

They’d discovered together in secret—Tom did not want the other children to know as they’d be jealous of them and Harry saw the logic in this, agreeing—that they could appear at new spots or places nearby if they thought and wished really hard.

They’d only been successful three times, however and each one left them beyond exhausted and cranky and at one point, Harry had lost a finger, so they took a break from that avenue.

Harry had unfortunately cried so much he fainted, a panicked, pale but curious Tom peering over said boy while poking and prodding. So, Harry had shortly come to, with Tom holding his hand covered in blood, with a crazed sort of look.

Frightened, Harry had had to shove Tom where they then clumsily wrapped Harry’s hand a moment after. He had skipped dinner—Tom did not which hurt Harry but at least Tom would explain about the blood to Mrs. Cole—where he then passed out in his bed, wishing that they had never tried this sort of magic. 

Harry though, woke up to a brand-new finger, Tom’s envy obvious though equally glad it had been Harry this had happened to.

Tom though could not help but allow his jealousy to fester when it had been Harry who discovered their traveling ability first instead of Tom.

Tom who was smarter and more capable than anyone else in the orphanage.

And so, Harry discovering their healing abilities afterwards did not help appease Tom. He could say nothing though when Harry had already put his small foot down that they would not be experimenting on missing body parts.

Vexed, Tom had gone off to sulk, Harry left to sigh in relief.

In the end, he came back that night to try out what Tom knew he could already do.

Tom for one always knew he could make others do as he wanted and convinced Harry to try it on Dennis as he was being particularly mean. Reluctantly, Harry gave it a try. While he succeeded, it did not come as natural to him as it did Tom. Harry was always left a bit achy and brain foggy afterwards while Tom seemed to be energized. Of course, the other boy seemed smug about this when they later pieced it together.

As the days moved on and their days grew shorter, colder, they found other things to try. One that Tom eagerly accepted without much envy this time when Harry discovered this one too. Warmth.

While the orphanage provided blankets for each child, they were moth bitten and threadbare, providing little to no protection.

On a particularly bad night, Harry had wished desperately to be warm and in the next breath it happened. Ecstatic, Harry had barged into Tom’s room to share the knowledge.

Harry had to learn to reign it in however as they found out his joy and enthusiasm for this trick rose and with that, so too did the warmth. At one point, Tom thought he would pass out, never having known so much heat and had made Harry promise to use it sparingly.

With this though, they found clues to discovering more.

They both could light their fingertips when it got too dark, make soap last longer when they needed and be in a room with everyone without being noticed unless they wished it so.

Tom then found out he could levitate things to himself, could create a sort of shocking pain that had made Eric pass out—Harry none too pleased—and could make himself appear sick to get out of church by the insistence of Martha.

All of this of course made Tom happy, the discovery playing field equaling out.

All of these came with a lot of trial and error, Tom being the more determined one out of the two and pushing Harry to catch up and do more. Harry didn’t mind so much as Tom had had a lot more practice and was aware he was special long before Harry.

Harry was just glad that Tom decided to include him at all.

Currently Tom is adding more things to their written list for them to try while Harry lazily doodles into his new journal, given to all the kids by a friendly elderly woman visiting from the nearby church.

Tom had yet to use his, thinking it beneath him to use what everyone else had even though Harry knows Tom wants to. He’d roll his eyes but then Tom would see, and another argument would arise.

Regardless of how close they’ve gotten, the two still very much argued and fought, both quite opinionated and both refusing to back down and proven wrong. Though, Harry finds himself acquiescing a bit more these days if it means Tom being in a better mood.

So far, they’ve been able to go largely unnoticed by the adults and the other kids with their activity, but Harry is wondering if things will change because of what tomorrow holds.

He looks to Tom who is still scribbling, handwriting looking like gibberish to Harry who is still learning to read and write slowly. Martha tells Harry that it’s okay to take it slow, but Tom calls him a baby to not yet be at Tom’s level.

Harry ignores him though as not even Dennis is on Tom’s level.

Again, he thinks about tomorrow and feels his stomach flutter. He lets out a short, happy giggle. Flutter! Martha taught Harry that word this morning when he went to her, panicked.

Tom had told him his stomach was starting a rebellion and would eventually settle after a winner was chosen upon Harry’s death when he had gone to him, curious as to why his stomach was doing somersaults.

Needless to say, Martha was not pleased with Tom and consoled Harry that no he wasn’t going to die, and it was simply nerves making his stomach flutter with butterflies. Appeased, Harry left with a smile but not until he threw a vicious scowl at an unrepentant Tom.

Harry wonders if there are actual butterflies in his stomach. He thinks not but then remembers what he’s been up to with Tom and so thinks, well perhaps there very well could be.

“Hey Tom?”

“Hmm?” Tom doesn’t look up.

Harry sees that he’s now making some type of diagram.

“What’s going to happen now?”

Tom doesn’t answer for a while, still scrawling away. Glowering, he opens his mouth to ask again. Tom then looks up with a confused furrow between his brows.

“What do you mean?”

Confused himself, Harry elaborates, “What do you mean what do I mean?”

Sighing, Tom jots down a few words. “What are you asking Harry?”

“Oh,” Harry flushes. “Tomorrow Tom!”

Tom peers up from his notes, baffled.

Huffing, Harry decides to elaborate. Honestly, Tom is both smart and foolish.

“We might get adopted Tom! Tomorrow, one of us is leaving and never coming back and then what will we do?” Harry throws up his arms, frustrated.

Meanwhile, Tom looks disgusted and is full-on frowning, shoving away his notes.

“What do you mean one of us? There is no adopting us now, tomorrow, or ever Harry. Don’t be daft.”

“Wha’s thats s’posed to mean?”

“Anyway,” Tom snubs Harry’s question, continuing, “we have much more work to do. We’re not divorcing. Besides if you got adopted, they’d just bring you right back,” Tom smugly claims.

He smirks as Harry’s face flushes deeper.

 Harry really wanted to ask what ‘divorcing’ meant but he’s stuck on the more important issue Tom brought up.

“I’m adoptable!” Harry squeaks out, outraged at such slander. “They wouldn’t bring me back! In faks—”

“—fact.” Tom flicks away his pencil.

“In fact! They’d never let me go and they’d love me and buy me new clothes and—”

“—and bring you right back after you show them what you can do even accidentally and call you a demon and maybe even bring you to a church to exorcise you to save your soul.” Drawls Tom, unimpressed.

Incensed and feeling the impact of truth but not wanting to accept it, Harry barrels on. “You’re just jealous cause I’m more lovable than you.” Pointing his finger in Tom’s face who looked like he sucked on a lemon (Harry engraved this look into his memory) he finishes with an “I bet you I’ll be first choice!”

With that, Harry is the one to stomp away this time. He chances a glance back only to see Tom stabbing his pencil into his paper before he’s forced to face forward lest he smacks into a tree. Just in time too.

He’ll prove Riddle wrong; he’ll prove the Dursley’s wrong and anyone else who thinks he can’t have his very own family.

Sniffling, he roughly wipes his face from the inside of his arm and steps into what little warmth Wool’s provides.

Tomorrow will be different, they’ll see!

Harry sees the other kids finishing up their chores, chattering about the rich couple visiting tomorrow to maybe adopt one of them.

They were all told that morning during breakfast that a married couple were looking to adopt someone small as they couldn’t have any children of their own and would be stopping by tomorrow to have a look around.

Anticipation thrummed through everyone but Tom and unsurprisingly Dennis who as the oldest was always overlooked and ignored anyway. The rest though held out hope that their day would come soon. Harry being one of them.

As much as he had enjoyed his time so far with Tom, Harry wanted a family. He wanted parents that would love Harry for Harry and not lock him under the stairs nor take away his right to eat. He wanted that with Tom too if he could.

He was planning on suggesting the idea of being adopted together so they wouldn’t lose each other but Tom wanted to be a big meanie and say that Harry was unadoptable and now Harry has no choice but to prove otherwise!

Sniffling, Harry turns his back on everyone and goes up to his room, not in the mood to socialize. When tomorrow comes, Harry will be ready. He’ll get adopted and have his own room and let Tom stew in his own wrongness and then Harry will convince his adoptive parents to come back for Tom. Then Tom will apologize, and everything will go back to how it was again.

Yea, exactly how he imagines it.

Not even five minutes after he’s settled into his bed did Tom come bursting through the door, very much upset still.

“You won’t you know.”

“Won’t what?” Harry demands, entirely done with Riddle for the day.

“Get adopted. You shouldn’t.” Riddle’s tone changes slightly enough to have Harry pause. “We have things to do still. I’m the only one who’ll understand you. Befriend you. Care.”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat, eyes wide. Tom’s scared of losing Harry!

“Besides, there’s no way they’d pick you with me standing there too. I’m after all the best looking one of the lot. I’m always the adults first choice.”

What little regard Harry gained in Riddle storming in is now lost among the outrage he feels seeing that haughty smirk.

“Oh yea!? I bet they won’t even look at you when they see me!”

Bewildered, Riddle asks, “Are…are you betting against me?”

“I’m picking me, Riddle!”

The use of his last name enrages Riddle. Harry is the one now smirking though a proper one it isn’t.

“You cannot seriously think they’ll pick you over me.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be adopted?” Harry taunts.

“I do not. But seeing the look on your face when they pick me instead will make me happy. And when they do, you’ll forget this adopting nonsense and we’ll go back to following my plans.”

Riddle didn’t give Harry a chance to reply as he turned to head back to his own room.

Harry’s done talking anyway.

Furious, Harry roughly fluffs up his thin pillow, settling in.

Ha! He’ll show Riddle. Just he waits!

~ . * . ~

The next day all the children were lined up by tallest to shortest in the main room after having had their breakfast. They were each wearing their best to entice the couple to adopt them instead of the other. Even forlorn Dennis did not pass up the chance even though he’s passed the age the couple were looking for. You never know, Harry had heard him whisper to the wall earlier.

Amy had forgone her shoes, leaving thinly placed socks on her feet. Harry knew her shoes were still fine, no holes yet, and wondered why she wasn’t wearing any. Riddle looked like he knew though as he sneered in her direction before leaving the kitchen.

As for Riddle, Harry hates to admit but he really is the best-looking child Wool’s has. His hair was fluffed up nicely enough to settle around his face unlike Harry’s uncontrollable mess. Riddle’s clothes looked no different than Harry’s own, but he made it look shabby and oversized compared to Riddle’s slightly fitted look.

Eyes narrowed, Harry takes a closer look and blows out a small, surprised breath.

Riddle had used magic to fix them! And he didn’t even bother to teach Harry!

As if knowing his thoughts, Riddle chanced a glance, Amy between them and gave Harry a gleeful grin before facing forward again. The nerve!

Harry’s not happy with Riddle. He’s not happy that his food barely stayed down because of butterflies, and he’s most definitely not happy that Martha placed him at the end of the line for being the shortest! How is Amy taller than him but shorter than Riddle!? They were the same height a few months ago.

Riddle throws another smirk his way and now Harry was thinking Riddle knows how to read minds. He glares at him and viciously thinks, ‘You’re not much taller than her, you barely made it!’ Riddle’s face doesn’t change but that doesn’t matter as now Harry feels a little better about himself.

The clock strikes 8 am exactly and in walks a couple dressed in finery that Harry has only ever heard second hand.

All of them stand a bit straighter than before, including Riddle.

The wife was wearing thin but still noticeable jewelry that catches what little light there was expertly enough to get all of their attention. Harry notices Mrs. Cole sneaking covetous looks at the woman’s gold necklace.

She pulls off her gloves, tucks them into her handheld bag and wraps her arm into her husbands’ all the while smiling gently at all of the children.

Harry hears Amy give out a whimper.

“Mr. and Mrs. Coalsworth! So very nice to have you this morning. Here are all of the children. If you’d like to get to know any of them solely, we’ll be happy to set that up for you in the office.” Mrs. Cole gestures to them all.

The man, husband with a large mustache Harry has ever seen, smiles. Harry watches as that smile whittles down to almost nothing when noticing the selection of children. Even Mrs. Coalsworth’s gentle smile disappears and in its’ place is disappointment. That was until she noticed Riddle.

Upset, Harry sees the resignation in the other children’s faces when they too notice where the wife’s gaze rests at. Riddle sees it too and smiles softly, further ensnaring the wife to take a closer look.

Harry didn’t even know Riddle could smile like that. That faker!

Mrs. Coalsworth tugs on her husbands’ arm and takes a step in Riddle’s direction. They weren’t even here for three minutes and already decided only Riddle was worthy of their attention.

Distressed, Harry feels an unwanted hiccup climb his throat and out. Small but easily enough within hearing for all in the otherwise quiet room.

Everyone’s eyes swivel to Harry. He can feel his face burning in mortification. Another small hiccup leaves his mouth.

“Oh husband! Look at his eyes! Have you ever seen such green gems? Oh honey, here. Come here dear.” Mrs. Coalsworth gestures for Harry to come closer.

Surprised but happy, Harry does.

He can feel the angry stare from Riddle but doesn’t turn to look. Another hiccup escapes.

He shyly approaches the couple and looks down at their feet. Mr. and Mrs. Coalsworth crouch down so that they’re at eye level. The woman nudges his chin upwards, so he has no choice but to stare back at them.

“Oh yes! Such precious eyes. Why, I’ve never seen such a colour on a person before. Right Jim?”

“Indeed wife. Fine pair of eyes you got there, son.”

Son. Harry gives them a cautious smile.

Mrs. Coalsworth coos at him, completely focused on him and forgetting all about Riddle. His smile blooms fully which pleases the couple by giving such large smiles back. Their smiles look nothing like the Dursley’s, pleasing Harry.

“This here is Harry,” interjects Mrs. Cole, smiling widely. It doesn’t exactly look welcoming.

“Harry is a good, strong name.” Replies Mr. Coalsworth.

“Would you like to spend some time with him in the office?”

“Oh yes, we would!” Mrs. Coalsworth replies for the both. Harry feels like he’s floating, so happy was he. He quickly checks that he’s not actually floating though and gives a quick sigh of relief. “We’d also like to get to know that other one.”

The happy bubble Harry felt forming around him bursts into nonexistence. He sees Mrs. Coalsworth pointing at Riddle and Mrs. Cole’s happy smile falls, her face paling rapidly.

Riddle’s stare feels piercing, eyes glittering dangerously.

Another hiccup.

“Are you sure you don’t want to just take Harry?” Mrs. Cole rasps out.

Frowning, Mr. Coalsworth replies sharply, “You heard my wife. Both children. In the office.”

“Of course, of course. Just a moment please.” Mrs. Cole tugs her apron with shaking hands. “Martha will show you to the office while I bring you the boys.”

Martha quickly steps out and gestures to one of the doors to her left, guiding them to it while talking softly as she reaches them.

The other children take this as a dismissal and leave, all frowning and upset. Amy starts to cry, dragging her shoeless feet away as Mrs. Cole reaches Riddle and grabs his arm to lead him to Harry.

Harry can tell Riddle despises Mrs. Coles’ touch. If she notices, she doesn’t seem to care.

When they reach Harry, Mrs. Cole whispers callously, “You’ll behave yourself this time Tom. Don’t go doing nothin’ of those freakish sorts you have in that head of ‘urs. Ya hear me boy? Or else.”

Riddle looks annoyed but doesn’t say anything.

Harry feels the butterflies in his stomach growing, another hiccup drops. Then another a second after. Riddle glances at him, forgetting to be annoyed and looking pleased instead at Harry’s discomfort. Harry tries to maintain a glower, but a hiccup disrupts that, so he gives up, ignoring the other boy instead.

Mrs. Cole leads them to the door the couple walked in. Riddle, annoyed again at being ignored, tugs suddenly on Harry’s ear. Breathing in harshly, startled, Harry doesn’t get to do or say anything in retaliation as they’ve already reached the door and gestured to step through.

Mr. and Mrs. Coalsworth are already sitting down in front of the desk with steaming teacups in place. They looked like they were whispering to each other before being interrupted by the door opening.

Harry stares in awe at the couple while Riddle looks like he’d like nothing more than to throw them out. There are two empty chairs in place next to them and without hesitation, Harry takes the one closest to Mrs. Coalsworth. Riddle glances at Harry before taking the other seat. Mrs. Cole doesn’t linger and closes the door.

“So, boys, tell us a little about yourselves.” Mr. Coalsworth demands in a jovial tone.

Unsure of what exactly to say but wanting to please, Harry opens his mouth to the expectant adult’s joy.

“We’ve been summoned by Hell and sent to punish those who sin.”

A moment of silence.

Harry stares wide eyed at the slack jawed adults before twisting his head to look at Tom who spoke. What was he doing!? For a moment there, Harry had been sure it had been his own throat that sentence left from. Of course, it was Riddle.

Swallowing the lump forming in his throat, Harry tries again.

“The devil knows you prey on the young ones and awaits your arrival soon.”

Harry can feel his eyes stinging with unshed tears. Mr. and Mrs. Coalsworth look pale and guilty and don’t bother saying anything at all before getting up and just rushing out, leaving the two boys still sitting.

They can hear shouting from the other side of the door. The two sit in silence for a moment before Harry breaks it.

“Why?” he croaks out.  

Riddle doesn’t bother pretending to not know what he’s asking.

“Because your place is with me. You can’t leave Harry. They’ll never accept you for you. Not like me. We’re special and they’re not.”

Harry doesn’t let the tears fall with everything he’s got holding them back, but it comes close. He says nothing and Riddle doesn’t offer anything more. He just stares back, quiet and determined and not for the first time, Harry wonders if he’s made a mistake befriending this boy.

That night Mrs. Cole punishes both boys by locking them together up in the cold and dark attic with no dinner.

Much more space than the cupboard but no less depressing to Harry. And he’d just learned that another adult is willing to starve others to make a point.

Tom does not apologize, but he settles next to Harry for warmth and Harry lets him.

Chapter Text

The air is sharper and the nights colder as three months fly by. It is now December and Harry has learned a lot. First of all, Harry ended up forgiving Tom, but he tells the other boy he still wants to be adopted and he will. He will. Tom does not know everything, but Harry will say that he was right about the Coalsworth couple.

A month after they left the orphanage, screaming about demonic children and freakish behavior, found them front news and center on paper about their side gig of taking little children and doing the most horrible things imaginable. They were caught and sentenced for a hearing and found guilty soon after.

The news left Harry reeling and looking to Tom for support. Of course, Tom walked around smug for days for being right.

Turns out that Tom could in fact read minds, or at least get impressions of them. Mrs. Cole had been far too close to the truth.

Harry pleaded to be taught the same thing and hopefully, eventually learn to protect his mind too though he’s got a long way to go. He isn’t naturally gifted in this area as Tom which only made Tom haughtier any time Harry wanted to talk about it and practice. He’d been practically unbearable, so Harry had had to cool off elsewhere at times. While he adored his friend, there were also some days he’d like nothing more than to trip him on occasion. With minor injuries involved of course.

After the Coalsworth, Wool’s Orphanage saw several more couples walking in their doors, demanding to adopt one of the children and every time, they ran screaming from Harry and Tom.

Harry had been absolutely devastated and brokenhearted the few times it had happened. Then, he started getting suspicious, angry, that Tom had been the cause, that maybe if magic existed then so too did curses.

He hadn’t come up with the idea on his own though, no it had been Amy when she’d been playing princess and towers with the other children.

So, Harry had outright asked Tom who denied being involved to which Harry grudgingly accepted as truth. For Tom had looked downright sulky that he had not been the one to think to do so in the first place.

Harry had had to distract Tom soon after so he wouldn’t get any ideas, but Harry had still been upset because it certainly felt like a set up to him. He just didn’t know who to blame for it.

Still, he continued to try his chances with the adults as they always came to him or Tom.

The Rossini’s were happy to take Harry home with them, but they’d barely left the office doors before Mr. Rossini’s gloved hand had caught on fire. The same hand gripping Harry’s shoulder. They left soon after in a panic, leaving Harry behind.

Tom had stepped away from the large, plotted plant he hid behind, gleeful.

Harry doesn’t think he ever felt this level of anger at the Dursley’s. It almost felt like any and all emotions he carried belonged solely to Tom, feeding the other boy. Always hungry for what belonged to Harry, demanding. And Harry gave it. His anger, his frustrations, his joy.

Two weeks after that incident, a gloating Tom was the one leaving with a couple out of Wool’s door. Tom having successfully capturing their attention from Harry. He had made it no more than a few steps outside before they were soon chased out of the gates by a ball of blindingly bright light. Tom had been right furious to discover Harry from a nearby tree, but Harry had been unrepentant.

Tom hadn’t wanted to be adopted anyway, only making the point that he could.

From there, things began to escalate between the two, both trying to prove that they were adoptable and better than the other with minor differences to be found. Those differences being that Harry truly wanted a family and would happily have Tom be in it and Tom wanting Harry for himself, declaring that no one was worthy to parent them because they were too different, too special for the mundane.

Obviously, they were at an impasse and the only way to break it, to prove to the other they were wrong, was to walk beyond those gates for a full day and night at the very least.

Today, Tom isn’t talking to Harry because they just learned that Harry too, could talk to snakes.

How did they find this out? Well, Harry was being walked out with what was supposed to be his new parents when he noticed a little head peeking out from a nearby shrub. He recognized the little snake as the one Tom was always hissing to in some dark, dank corner away from everyone, including Harry. Excited to make it past the entrance doors, Harry had said a cheerful bye to the snake when he was unceremoniously let go of, to screams thrown at him about a hissing demon child.

What sounded like English to him was in fact a whole new language for snakes. Tom explained it to him based on his own experiences. While Tom seemed pleased to have found another common link between the two, he also found himself jealous of the idea of sharing his language of snakes with another, even if it was Harry.

This was yesterday’s incident to which carried to all day of today that Tom’s ignored him. Of course, the other children picked up on this and harassed Harry as soon as they could, making him even more upset as Tom did nothing.

They’ve already had their dinner and are just now getting settled into bed.

Harry had tried to talk to Tom with no results. Fine then. If Tom wanted to be that way, then Harry has no choice but to go all in tomorrow. In three days, it’ll be Tom’s birthday and by then Harry wants them to be on friendly terms again. That way they’ll celebrate together and make plans to get adopted at the same time while experimenting with more magical things.

With this in mind, Harry gets comfortable in bed, snuggled as he possibly could in the thin, torn blanket he holds. Eyes closed and breathing in deep, time passes with every minute clicking away, closer to Harry being lulled to slumber.

He doesn’t notice the eerie quiet when all falls silent under the spell of sleep. Does not hear his door opening, nor the usual squeak it gives, everything feeling quite muted. Harry is seconds away from a deep slumber when suddenly, he feels another body slamming on top of him.

Panic driven and terrified, Harry starts to struggle. The body is only a bit bigger than Harry but still manages to keep him pinned though just barely.

Fearful, he attempts to scream with everything he’s got but nothing is heard. Harry can feel his throat vibrate, his tonsil moving, the burn that comes with overdoing it and yet, no sound makes it to his ears. A shift of the body above creates a minuscule enough breeze for Harry to recognize Tom’s scent.

Tom is the one keeping him from screaming aloud and moving.

The fear and panic melts away, adrenaline making Harry fall limp and mind moving sluggish after.

What in the world was Tom doing?

Something glints off to the side.

Not recognizing the object but feeling in danger, Harry attempts to block it from coming closer, but he forgets his arms are trapped under the blanket with Tom successfully trapping him from the top. So, when he tries to bring his arms up but can’t, he shifts enough with the force to tilt him sideways, his forehead exposed when his hair shifts with him.

Whatever it is that Tom holds, touches a part of his forehead and cuts into his skin in a sharp, jagged line before it’s moved away. The pain had been unexpected and intense and had Harry immediately sobbing, trying to curl into a ball.

Tom doesn’t let him, continuing to muffle Harry’s cries and screams and just watching in weighted silence.

It is only when Harry quiets down after what feels like forever, that he hears Tom speak.

“With this mark we share all. You belong to me, not those people.”

Flinching when a cold finger prods at his scar non gently, Harry feels the finger glide. Blood, he answers his own silent question.

The adrenaline and pain being too much for him, Harry closes his teary eyes, finally seeing Riddle in the dark, staring with such cold but greedy intent.

What did Tom mean? He thinks, before slumber cocoons him.

~ . * . ~

“You’ll forgive me eventually. Stop moping and come help me.”

Glaring over his shoulder, Harry grunts a noncommittal answer while setting down the heavy brick before him. Sweating mildly from the brief struggle of carrying, Harry pants out a relieved sigh and goes to sit on it for a bit of a break.

“Harry!”

“No!”

“Stop being unreasonable.”

“That’s not a real word.”

Indignant, Riddle hisses, far beyond annoyed and sounding like a tea kettle, making Harry smile and not in the least hiding it.

“It is too a word you—”

“Why do you need help? I already did everything.”

Taking in a breath that Harry assumes is meant to calm, Riddle continues even though he can’t stop his left eye from twitching ever so slightly.

He says nothing more and looks at Harry, steady.

Sighing, he gets up and moves over to Riddle, looking at the heavy bag of random dried beans. Grumbling in displeasure, Harry grabs the other side of the bag, straining as both boys heft it in the air, carrying it off to the side of the bricks.

Harry thinks it’s a huge waste really, what Riddle is planning with the beans when they could instead eat it. But what does Harry know anyway?

They get the heavy bag there eventually after a lot of shuffling and heaving.

“Well?” Riddle demands after a moment.

“Well, what?”

“Are you still mad?”

“Really Riddle?”

“So, you are.”

“Huh?” Harry scratches between his eyebrows.

Riddle doesn’t answer, just looks at him. Waiting.

Shrugging, Harry looks away for a moment then glances back.

“I mean, I s’pose.”

“Suppose.”

“Anyway!” Waving away another correction, Harry points in Riddle’s face, now angry all over again.

“You cut me!”

“It’s a mark of my—”

“On my face!”

“Yes, well—”

“My face Riddle! My fa—”

“Alright already. Just yell some more and get over it already. I can’t take it back.”

“You basta—”

“Where did you learn that word?” Riddle interrupts, affronted beyond belief.

“I heard it from Billy who used it on tha’ other kid from Barksin Burgs.”

“Well, don’t use it again. You sound poor.”

“But…I am poor. And you are too.”

Flicking away his little sway of hair on his forehead, Riddle only grunts in reply.

Shrugging his shoulders, Harry looks to Tom, feeling a little better. Tom will have what’s coming to him soon. Harry will make sure of it.

The idea of revenge used to make him squirm in discomfort, preferring the act of karma than to engage in never ending retribution. That was, however, past him. Past him who never had any friends. Past him that never met anyone quite like Tom. Plenty of similar bullies for sure, but never any other kid who has the level of intelligence nor the patience and skills to carry out some of the things Tom is capable of. And well, he’s also never met anyone else with the special magical touch both boys have.

Also, the most important part, is that he’s never met anyone as petty as Tom Riddle. Let it never be said that Tom doesn’t ever pay back in two-fold, what’s been dealt. Harry would admire it, but he can’t help but want to roll his eyes instead.

“What are we even doing with these beans? We could be eating them, Tom.”

“Why would you want to eat these?”

Harry does not appreciate the judgmental look he’s receiving. Food is food. Anything filling his belly makes him happy.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Huffing in agitation, Tom replies quite snappily, “We’re going to see if we can change them.”

“Change? What needs changing?”

“The beans Harry. I found a book about the idea of change and transformations if humans were capable of it.” What Tom does not say is that the book had been a mere jest for adults.

“Oh! Like magic!” Harry is proud to no longer flinch with the word magic and that he’s now comfortable to use it aloud without having to check behind his back every time.

“Yes, like magic. We are different than everyone else here Harry. Magical. And so, we’re going to change these beans.”

“What about the brick?”

“We have to compare the material. So, the brick gets changed too. And Martha was watching the corn bag too closely.”

“What if nothing changes though?” Harry doesn’t bother to point out that they could have easily used rocks and paper if they wanted to try this experiment. Because no matter how you look at it, these materials were completely random.

“I have a feeling that they will. Do you see anybody else around?”

Looking carefully, he turns back to Tom, smiling. “Nope! We’re good to go.”

Pleased, Tom gestures for Harry to sit nearby. They made sure to secure a location to drag the items, hence Harry still sweating profusely. He’ll catch his breath soon. Hopefully. He thinks.

They both sit there, just staring at the brick and bag of beans, not saying a word.

“Well, who goes first?”

Sitting up straighter and mulishly sticking his chin out, Tom thrusts a hand out for a handful of beans.

Harry then proceeds to watch Tom, watching his hand with full concentration. The hand still contains a handful of beans. Five minutes go by in silence.

“Is it working?”

“Not now Harry, I’m concentrating.”

“Well, nothing is happening and I’m getting bored.”

“You should be learning.”

“…” Harry looks to the sky for a change of scenery, taking in a deep breath then peers down into Tom’s hand.

Sighing resignedly, Tom looks to Harry who is staring intensely. “What. Are. You doing Harry?”

Not looking away, he replies, “Learning. Like you said. Tho’ still waiting for something to happen.”

That’s it.

Harry soon flinches away in surprise as the beans are flung at him. Scattering everywhere, Harry looks wide eyed at a red faced, angry Tom.

“Then you do it! Let’s see you do something you insuff—”

“WHERE ARE MY BEANS!?”

Both boys gasp, their heads whipping in the direction of the shout.

“She can’t find us here…right Tom? I mean, we have this nice shrub covering us.” Whispering, Harry crouches and peers into said plant.

“…right. We should be fine…”

Looking behind his shoulder, he sees Tom grabbing another handful of beans, ready to try again.

“Are we just going to ignore Martha?”

“Yes. Now be quiet.”

Huffing, Harry looks around him to see if there’s anything to entertain him. No such luck, so he admits defeat and goes back to staring at Tom.

“I don’t think it’s working Tom.”

“Be quiet Harry!”

“Hmph! I was just saying.”

“Well, don’t.”

Sighing, Harry goes back to looking around, hearing in the distance more shouting from Martha. They can’t even eat the beans as is unfortunately, otherwise this torture exercise might have at least been worth it.

More time passes with no results to show for it and Harry fidgeting some more, picking out the few stragglers of beans in his hair from the throw.

“Maybe we just can’t do it.” Harry chimes in.

Tom looks ready to throw the beans in his face again but barely holds back. Harry, wished he did, would have been more entertaining than watching him do nothing. In fact, was kind of fun.

“You try then.”

“Me?”

Frowning and making a show of looking around, Tom replies snarkily. “Who else?”

“You’re being mean.”

Tom just looks at him and then looks at the beans. After a silent stare down, Harry resignedly grabs one bean out of the many. Satisfied, Tom goes back to his pile while Harry is left staring down at his hand, despondently.

Was he supposed to just stare until something happened?

Pinching the bean between his finger and thumb, he brings it to his face, turning his hand around every which way but still, the bean remains unchanged. Frowning, he looks around himself for inspiration.

Piles of stones scattered across the floor greets him, rustling branches from the trees and shrubs, some dried twigs lying next to him, a discarded wrapper from a chocolate caramel bar, and a crushed eggshell. Most likely left over from a recently hatched bird. He looks up as if to see the nest but only branches meet his gaze.

Looking down at his bean once more, he suddenly feels sad. He’s never seen a bird so close before, let alone a baby one. He thinks he’d have liked it. Unfortunately, they’re quite skittish. Would be nice to meet a bird that isn’t.

Staring but feeling miles away, he imagines a spectacular blue bird, with purple feathers and green eyes. Like him! He’s unsure if such a bird even exists but decides it doesn’t matter. This bird would be fast and his claws perfect for scratching predators. Maybe even gold sparks when it flies. Like Magic!

He can feel the bean in his hand start to warm then getting hot but Harry’s so stuck in his imagination of what a perfect bird would look like up close, he doesn’t notice. But Tom does, who stares at Harry’s hand with the bean, wide eyed. It starts to warp and expand, colours rapidly swirling around the malformed shape before a beak forms, clear as day and looking like it’d been dipped in gold. Soon an eye is added, an intense and piercing green that swivels to look straight at Tom, intelligence in its gaze.

Startled, Tom drops his beans, scooting back and braced to run if need to. But fascination and jealousy holds him in place, wanting, no, needing to see more. Wings protrude from the back, a navy blue with brushed purple feather tips, reaching high and fluttering in the breeze. The rest of the body forms, claws latched onto Harry’s forearm properly, gold sparks speckling the air when it emerged fully.

It's the sharpness of the claws, followed by the ear-piercing squawk next to his ear that Harry is thrown out of his head, and notices the bird.

For a moment, both boys are quiet, staring reverently at the bird who gives another squawk, then takes off, more gold sparks trailing behind. Tom reaches a finger to touch one but feels nothing, however his fingertip looks like it’s been dipped in glitter shards.

They then look at each other in amazement.

“Did…did I just do that?” Harry rasps, eyes glued to the spot where the bird was last seen.

“You did,” Tom replies, also looking at the same spot. Then he looks to Harry and then back to the sky. After a moment, he sits up and looks at his abandoned pile of beans. He picks one up again and tries once more.

Harry finally takes his eyes away from where the bird had been and stares at Tom.

Breathing shakily, he gets up to move closer, brushing his arm in support of Tom who pushes back but otherwise stays silent. Then they watch together as the bean finally starts to warp and form, same as before. Then they’re staring wide-eyed as another bird forms, looking an exact copy of Harry’s except for the eyes. Instead of green, these eyes are coloured red.

Breathlessly they watch the bird clutching onto Tom for support, its size a bit larger, preening its feathers when they finish forming and fluttering them out and about, as if shaking feeling into them. Then it screeches before taking flight. The squawk from earlier joins and they watch as the two birds they’ve just made meet in the air, joined in song and dance in the sky before flying off together.

Laughter next to him startles Harry out of his thoughts. Tom is clutching his stomach and laughing. Harry is left feeling speechless. He’s heard Tom laugh on occasion, but usually it’s in answer to mockery and condescension. This one sounds from pure joy and the look that Tom gives Harry sears into his heart as piercing and impacting as an arrow would have but no less dangerous. Face heating but not understanding why, Harry saddles closer to Tom.

“Thank you, Harry, I think I figured out why it wasn’t working for me earlier.” At Harry’s questioning gaze he elaborates. “I was trying to make gold, but when that didn’t work, I then tried to form a steel dagger. I think the answer is somewhere in the type of material. I won’t know for absolute sure of course without more study and practice but I have no doubt I’ll figure it out myself.”

Harry feels like he can float, heart so light and feeling so happy he practically beams.

Tom thanked him and he even helped Tom! Of course, this doesn’t mean he hasn’t forgotten his intention to retaliate from Tom’s attack, just that he’s one step closer to forgiving him. And all will be over and done with when he’s able to leave his own mark on the other boy. Fair is fair after all in the world of Tom and Harry.

For the rest of the day, the elated boys continued to transfigure all manner of things, alive and inanimate until they exhausted themselves so much, they begged off dinner and went to go sleep. They had ended up adding more birds to the sky, each finding each other with happy trills ringing the air. Some mice, a rabbit that looked like Billy’s, a stone so smooth it gleamed from the little sunlight peeking through, a cup, a wonky looking shoe, the brick formed into a statue of a snake with beautifully shaped scales and a bowl made of iridescent glass.

Tom wanted to make more but when his eyes started drooping, his words slurring, and Harry not better off, he suggested they sleep and try again tomorrow. For once, Tom didn’t argue so they slipped inside, told Martha they weren’t hungry even though their stomachs gurgled in protest, and went to go lay down for the night. Martha of course followed them with suspicious eyes, knowing full well that someone stole her beans but couldn’t prove it.

Though beyond exhausted, Harry knew this would be his only chance to retaliate, so he waited an extra 10 minutes. Those last four minutes felt excruciating though as he kept nodding off, head leaning against the wall sitting up in his bed, wrapped comfortably in his blanket. Never mind that every other day the blanket felt stiff and rough against his skin.

When he marked that enough time had been spent, he sleepily gets out of his bed and opens the door a smidge, peering through to see if anyone is nearby. Coast clear, he sneaks out, blanket trailing behind him as he slips through Tom’s door on silent feet, closing the door behind him.

Tom is fast asleep in his bed, lying face down, which Harry finds amusing. He always pictured the other boy sleeping on his back with arms crossed and for some reason, imagined this to hold true. Apparently asleep, Tom’s like any other child, which pleases Harry to some extent. Stepping closer, he can hear light snores which he will use later to tease him about but right now, onto more important matters. Namely, his revenge.

He's now standing by the bed, carefully lifting himself onto it, trying not to jostle Tom all the while. With some fair amount of struggling, he makes it. Sitting behind Tom with his back against the wall, he pokes the boy for a reaction. When none comes, he deems himself safe and promptly, without any warning, lunges for Tom’s right shoulder, biting down with all of his strength. He can taste something metallic and something that rings as Tom before he’s shoved to the side, smacking into the wall and Tom’s enraged but confused shout bearing down.

Still quite sleepy, he sees that Tom finally noticed it was Harry that bit him, hand clutching the injured shoulder and glaring down at him. Harry simply smiles sleepily and then swiftly falls asleep right there, no fear of retaliation from Tom because he knew that the other boy would understand.

Sure enough, when Harry falls asleep right then and there, Tom stares mulishly, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion and shoulder bleeding.

He grins sharply into the dark, pleased that Harry gave him a mark of his own but then frowns, staring down at the other boy. He’ll need to be more careful less Harry gets anymore ideas that include harming Tom. He supposes he can be gentler as they’ve both made their points. Finally, Harry is learning to fight back in his own version of retribution.

With a smile still on his lips and blood seeping through his shirt, he snuggles in closer to the warmer boy and falls back asleep. He’ll kick the other out of his bed later, when he has the power to do so. Right now, he needs sleep.

~ . * . ~

Three years pass by with Tom and Harry seemingly closer than ever and magic thrumming through their veins as they discovered everything imaginable their minds could grasp, draw, and conclude.

Tom being the ringleader of making plans and experiments and Harry being the more daring of the two to come up with the riskier magical tries. They’ve already found that Harry’s magic felt warmer, brighter, explosive while Tom’s was cool in feel, darker and intense. While they seem as different as night and day, they found that they were very much equals, both finding their strong and weak points.

Tom practically thrived on the mysteries of their capabilities every time they saw an experiment to success while Harry flourished on Tom needing him as they got older. They still did things independently but for the most part the orphanage saw the two far more together than apart. It was universally acknowledged that when you found one boy the other was not far behind, and it would be best to just avoid them at all costs.

You see, it was not just their magic that grew in these three years but also their reputations that followed them in the very halls they walked.

Tom was always the more vengeful of the two and for a time it stayed that way but the older they grew the more the residents of Wool’s realized in horror that Harry wasn’t far behind.

That is not to say that the boy was malicious but the moment you found yourself treating Tom unfairly, adult or child, you’ll later find yourself waking up in some nightmare of true horror that clung to you for days at a time, no conscious thought awake enough to bring you out if it until just on the verge of a breakdown.

Mrs. Cole had found herself once in a situation similar to this when she took a cane to the back of Tom’s knees when Dennis framed him for stealing the orphanage’s emergency funds. Upon Harry finding out, indignant on Tom’s behalf, his mind clouded and next thing he knew he stood before Mrs. Cole, asleep at her desk with a bottle of whiskey and where he whispered dark things in her ear to which she screamed for a full day, locked in her office. Dennis soon followed her example, not once leaving the safety of his room three days later even after the ordeal.

Everyone knew who it was but feared retaliation if they said it aloud. They did not have just one boy capable of unknown feats, they now had two.

Tom couldn’t be more pleased of course but Harry had made sure the other boy knew he retaliated sparingly. It didn’t matter to Tom, just that Harry retaliated at all made him happy.

Perhaps, if there had been better examples of adults in Harry’s world, he’d have learned more compassion, learned to forgive and let go. Known love or at least the examples of it if he’d been allowed to go to school. However, the times being what they were and the orphanage struggling as it had always been, this was not the case. And so, Harry learned that kindness made you susceptible to others’ greed and rectification had them leave you alone.

The only thing that had not changed over the years was the fact that Harry still wanted a family. Tom had not been pleased, Harry consoling Tom that he will of course not be adopted without the other, but hope remained that there was a family out there, just for them who will take them in, away from the orphanage, and accept them with oddities, and all.

Scoffing, Tom had shot the ridiculous notion down, but Harry wouldn’t be Harry without his stubborn streak. He tells the now taller boy that the day will come, just wait, even if he had to search for the family himself, it will happen.

This conversation took place two months ago, the current month being April and Tom has yet to see results as he smugly tells Harry.

Not in the least affected, Harry got a bright idea, having no perception into the future that his idea would not only change their lives forever, but the lives of others they’d yet to meet.

Harry told Tom that night of April 16, 1935, that maybe all they had to do was wish together, for a family to adopt them, and that tomorrow they would wake up with a family walking in, ready to take them home on the spot.

It was very reluctantly done that Tom agreed just to shut Harry up even though he’d been quite content to just have Harry. He could humor the smaller boy, however.

So, that very night, both ready for bed in Tom’s room where they’d since stayed that night Harry marked Tom, clasped hands, wishing for an adult that would accept them as they were, together always. They soon after, fell asleep, hands still clasped and dreams featuring their ideal family.

Harry and Tom’s ideal family, however, were vastly different from each other, unknown to the two as Harry shyly kept his close to his heart and Tom stayed silent, in denial.

Magic took notice, unseeing but feeling. Unthinking but moving. Always moving.

A light so bright and powerful embraced the two small bodies, still asleep and very much unaware, whirling them away from the world and time they knew best.

They will wake up in the morning with different trials set in place for them, but no less determined and ready for anything as long as they had each other to guide them through.

It is quite unfortunate then that their idea of a perfect family warred with each other, differing to an extent that they will wake up tomorrow, confused and distraught, miles from each other.

This is where their story truly begins.

Tom, fast asleep in a dark alley, hidden only by a worn, damp box, cold, and unknowing of a predator that will soon change the course of Tom’s perception of life and death and his search of Harry for the smaller boy wasn’t allowed to live without Tom. Not anymore.

Harry, snuggling into grass, twitching from a few stray insects, trees abound and the night encompassing and heavy, will soon battle with Tom not being there to comfort and console, his darker thoughts growing newer heights unreached.

And both, ready to face what they will need to until they meet again, because as sure as their magic exists, they know they’ll find themselves reunited as they belong, no matter the cost.

Chapter Text

Tom has his eyes closed, pretending to still be asleep. His heart is racing as he doesn’t hear Harry’s familiar breathing next to him but does feel the presence of someone unfamiliar. It smells awful and the cold nipping at his exposed skin tells him he isn’t inside anymore. The floor stiff and hard, wet.

Where is he? Where is Harry and why isn’t he next to Tom?

The strange presence comes closer, Tom tensing in preparation as he frantically thinks about what to do, afraid that Harry is close by near the stranger but cannot say anything. He lets his magic sweep around gently, searching. The coils of his magic wrap around a tall, hunched figure nearby, but comes empty from the similar presence he’s grown used to, the warmth and brightness of Harry’s magic, not here. Not anywhere nearby.

For a breathless moment, Tom feels panic. A sort of erratic and irrational feeling he cannot remember ever harboring. Not in the years before Harry and not after. Impossible when Tom has made careful efforts to always have Harry with him. Did this stranger do something to Harry? His bright-eyed, too nice, Harry?

Eyes snapping open, the figure above him lurches away in surprise, a dirty, tall figure of a man who had been leaning over for a closer look at Tom. A quick read of the man’s surface thoughts though when their eyes met tells Tom something different.

Snarling, Tom thrusts one of his hands out, magic gathering in quick seconds before it’s urged to slam into the man who goes flying back, slamming into a nearby wall.

Heart pounding, Tom scrambles up, for the first time since he awoken, getting a close look at his situation. It’s dark out, chilly, Tom and the stranger in some draggled, foul alley with mud in some places and trash in others. Worn, soggy cardboard lines against the walls, Tom dry heaving when he notices that he’d been lying on one next to a dead carcass of a rat, its stench clinging to Tom.

Off to the side, he spots a glint from the nearby post of light, wearily stepping closer to see that it’s a knife. He wastes no time in swooping it up, his gaze never leaving the groaning figure who makes an attempt to stand. He holds the handle with the blade pointing downwards.

If the thoughts he read bore any truth, the man had no qualms with putting his hands on children, nefarious thoughts swimming between fantasy and memories.

Disgusted, Tom sweeps his gaze around briefly, hoping he could spot Harry in a hurry, but there are no other prone bodies lying around, no green gazes pleading to Tom. There is no Harry at all.

“If you’ve done something to Harry,” Tom hisses, holding the knife in a tight vice like grip, pointing at the now standing man. “I will kill you.”

“...yourv’ a weird accent,” the man slurs, turning around with the help of the wall. “Where’re you from boy? How’d you do tha’?”

Blinking, Tom scrambles his brain for where this man could possibly be from. This man had the strange accent, not Tom, one he isn’t in the slightest, familiar with.

“Ey! You hear me boy?” The man stumbles forward, his gaze unfocused. “I said—”

When the man lunges closer, Tom doesn’t hesitate, he slashes upward, nicking his own wrist in the process but he pushes on, the man crying out, his hands attempting to protect his chest and face. Not that Tom could reach in the first place, but the man is panicking too much to notice. The older stranger hits the wall for the second time before he pushes away in a roar, startling Tom into stumbling back, dropping his weapon.

Heart in this throat as he’s grabbed by the shoulders, being shaken, Tom catches the man’s eyes, pouring his rage into the man’s mind as much as he is able.

Wailing, the man loosens his grip enough for Tom to slip through, shoving the larger figure away.

Tom almost trips in his hurry but thankfully recovers without injury. He turns around to see that the man is now cowering in the middle of the alley, his sobs getting louder. The sight brings a rumbling motion of pleasure to Tom, appeased and wanting more but the loudness of the man worries him.

Are there police nearby? Would Tom find himself arrested over a dirty, foul minded of a man when he has yet to find Harry?

Incensed at the thought, Tom finds himself suddenly in front of the man, the bigger figure flinching away. Grinning, Tom uses every ounce of his magic to slam into the man in sporadic hits, breaking bones and crushing lungs, the man’s screams caught in his throat, unable to escape in nothing more than a low whistle of breath.

Panting from the effort, Tom picks up the fallen knife, driving it with force into the man’s chest, blood spurting out in vigor then trailing down, the fabric of the shirt being soaked within seconds.

Tom is able to watch the man’s eyes roll upwards, any coherency or presence gone within a few seconds. The throat of the man then suddenly gurgles blood, pooling before it spills down the sides of the gaping mouth. Alarmed, Tom yanks the knife out to put some space between him and the broken body, still huffing for breath.

There’s blood on his hands, the knife slippery in his slacken, aching grip. He suddenly feels colder, tired, but his heart does not slow down and neither does his mind.

He’d just killed someone.

Tom has just taken a life and does not feel an ounce of regret for doing it.

Blinking down, the sight does not change.

He’s now glad that Harry had not been here to see. For while Tom could not feel it within himself to carry the insipid sense of guilt nor regret, he knows Harry would have done so for him if only to spare him.

The question now though remains for Tom, where in the bloody hell is Harry?

Head snapping up, Tom spots a figure facing him, feeling pinned on the spot, unable to move. His instincts scream that something isn’t quite right. That he should have remained unseen, hidden, he’s too exposed.

He’s already starting to feel lethargic from his erratic use of magic, his physical strength nothing to write home about against an adult. Against this adult.

This man looks taller than the one from the floor but that’s about all Tom gets. Tensing, he’s forced to stay still as the man chooses to walk forward, the lamp never reaching the man’s face, Tom unable to know if this is purposely done or just a mere coincidence and bad lighting.

The new stranger stops in front of the lifeless body, Tom’s thoughts frantically searching for a way out. He sees none, not without putting himself between the dead body and the one at full strength. He could, however, use the last of his magic to compel the man to take the fall.

Tom refuses to be arrested at only 9 years old. He’s better than that. He and Harry have plans which did not involve Tom being locked up with Harry on the other side, only able to visit.

Pointing the knife up at the man, arm trembling in exhaustion, Tom grits out threateningly, magic coating his tongue, “You killed him. You will confess to the police that you took this man’s life and accept your punishment.”

A long moment passes by in silence, Tom clinging to the knife in pure spite, his trembling building painfully.

“…pointing is generally considered rude. What’s to be done about that?”

The man did not shout. He did not sound angry. If anything, the man sounded inquisitive, his faceless silhouette tilting a degree as he asked his question. It did not seem he wanted an answer either. 

All of these observations meant nothing though as the tiny hairs on the back of Tom’s neck arose in warning, his breath stuttering, arm finally dropped in a show of weakness that infuriated him. The small amount of magic that had covered his tongue slithers back into his core, hiding, humiliated.

It did not work.

His compelling magic did not work on this man.

Why?

What is he? Is he like him and Harry?

No. Impossible. No one else is like them. They were better.

However, this man is something else.

He felt it. He felt his magic briefly touch the man. Mind confirming that the body is human, breakable, ordinary. But the mind is something else entirely. Had to be to reject Tom’s cultivated gift of persuasion, unvoiced promises.

A crawling, trickling of fear makes its way to surround his carefully crafted mental walls. This isn’t allowed. Tom refuses to allow it!

He did not recognize this man’s accent either. It isn’t like the other, nor did he sound like he’s from London.

Just where exactly is Tom?

Two different accents were two too many for this to be a coincidence. If he is no longer in London, then where is he and where did Harry end up?

“I am quite curious,” the stranger drawls, not moving a muscle. “How one such an age is able to render flesh at rest, ostensibly a cutter his only muniment.”

Blinking, Tom wracks his brain for meaning, not understanding what the man is saying. Face flushing, Tom glares in the dark, displeased and sore. The man’s accent had gotten thicker, the words lilting in a manner that came off as arrogant. 

“Tell me, do you have a plan? Or were you hoping to flee from the scene, leaving your DNA for the police to find.”

DNA? What was that?

In the face of this new danger, he found himself in, Tom could say nothing.

The man hums, Tom wearily eyeing the space between them. What seemed like ample enough of a gap now seemed stifling, uncomfortably small. He could not get his brain to think of a solution, not when he could not stop from feeling fear.

“Do you have somewhere to stay?” The man asks at last.

Hesitating, Tom takes a step back, his gaze kept on the man for any sudden changes.

“I can help you but not for free.”

“Why?” Tom croaks, his throat parched. What could this man possibly want?

“I have questions. If you’re good, I will give you, my assistance.”

The man says nothing about what would happen if Tom weren’t good. It didn’t need to be said aloud anyway. This is an exchange Tom could understand. One he’s struggled a while to explain to Harry who at one point, would have given you his shirt on his very person if you’d simply asked.

They stand there in silence. One frantically thinking. The other as if he had all the time in the world. After 2 minutes, Tom nodded, his teeth clenched in frustration. He will use this man to find Harry then leave. Once his magic recovered, Tom would be the one with the advantage.

It is cool outside, the dark lifting a smidge but none of this stops the sweat trailing down his neck, his heart thudding painfully against his chest.

For the first time in his life, he believed Mrs. Cole.

It felt like he’d just made a deal with the Devil.

~ . * . ~

Hannibal smiles into the dark, peering down at the much smaller figure compared to his own. What a find he’s made after taking a drive back home. He might not have heard anything strange if he hadn’t decided to roll down his window to toss out a spec of lint that should not have been on his suit.

The boy looked no more than 8 or 9, perhaps 10. Hannibal isn’t sure as he makes efforts to stay away from children. Not because he did not like them. How could he when they were never in his thoughts to begin with. On occasion he might take them in as a patient but for the most part, they remained boring, their thoughts always in the clouds, easily distracted, directionless. There is no fun in manipulating them when they gave no challenge. So, he ignores them until he’s forced not to.

He remembers distantly of one child he’d decided to try his games with but he’s yet to see anything come from it.

Presently, he could freely admit to being surprised. He’d parked his car, silent and smooth as ever, allowing him to remain invisible until he wished otherwise. He crept up the sidewalk, wondering what would greet him. Perhaps the houseless individual that lurked in the neighborhood? Or the occasional sex worker who sometimes got one of the wealthier clients to take an adventure in the sordid world of brick walls.

His ears then picked up the familiar gurgle of a throat working its last breath. Death.

An intriguing sight, the boy holding a knife over a clearly broken body of a man. Expert eyes taking in the limbs displayed in a manner only achieved by the fractured.

The audacity of the child to make demands of him. The other side of him that always lurks, prowls beneath his skin, clenching to teach this boy a lesson. There would be no need, however. He is more than his urges. He is the one in control.

The boy could not answer his question. His clothing worn, his frame on the smaller side. Defensive. Clearly an orphan as the boy made no move to call out for help.

Perfect.

The boy is weary, tired looking, his defenses sloppy. He offers a place to stay, to help. The boy’s guard is back up, tenser. His opinion rises higher. Nothing in the world is free unless you’re ready to take it for yourself. 

He will bring the boy in. For now. If he proved to stay interesting, Hannibal might give him the opportunity to live in more, favorable conditions. If the boy did not, well, Hannibal could be merciful and allow the child a chance to run.

The better to grow as they say.

~ . * . ~

Sniffling, Harry rolls over with a frown, his face scrunching up, upset. “Blanket Tom,” he mumbles, shivering. He sniffles again, absently scratching his knee. Huffing, he throws his arm over, blindly searching for the blanket. He pauses in his search to scratch his stomach, then smacks around. “Tom!” He snaps, his teeth clenched down hard to stop them rattling.

Prickling awareness seeps in, the wisps of slumber pulling further and further away. Annoyed, Harry scrambles to sit up, whipping his head to bite out, “stop being stingy you—”

—it’s dark out, large and small shadows enclosed in around himself. Trees, his mind fills in the unasked question silently. So many trees. His ears pick up the sounds of croaking, crickets singing, water trickling somewhere nearby. He rubs the itchiness of his arm, his mind blank.

“…Tom?” Harry whispers, standing up carefully. He’d been sitting on grass.

No one from the dark answers back. He wraps his arms around himself, unsure.

“Tom?” he calls out, louder this time. A careful step taken, there is still no answer.

Lips wobbly, Harry swallows the lump forming in his throat. It’s too dark to see properly. A shaking hand lifts up, the tip of his finger flickering for two full seconds before light reaches the fearsome shadows. There is no other body to be seen.

Shuddering from both the cold and worry, Harry takes a few more steps, turning slowly in a loose circle, eyes flickering over every nook, arch, stump, desperate for the familiar coil of dark hair and eyes to greet him. There is no Tom.

“This isn’t funny Tom!” Harry wails into the night, his voice being eaten by the many branches and trunks of trees. The nearby crickets go quiet. The croaking screeching from before also falling silent. Teary, he aggressively wipes his eyes with his arm, walking towards the sound of water.

He walks on and on, periodically calling out for the other boy but never getting anything in return. After ages, his feet tired and shoeless, he breaches a clearing to reveal fast moving water. It’d been a lot further than he thought. The water ripples over large, embedded rocks, the sound loud to an otherwise quiet environment. At the sight of his light, frogs jump into the water, the sound of splashes startling Harry to stumble, his light going out along with his concentration.

Eyes adjusting, he realizes there is a moon present, the large round planet and stars illuminating the clearing. Breath catching a sight which Harry has never before seen. He didn’t even know there could be so many stars. So much natural light. Tom would have to agree with Harry on this surely. At the thought of said boy, Harry quickly looks around, so sure that Tom has been simply playing his usual tricks.

Still, there is no one else. Just Harry.

Sniffling, his eyes well with tears. They fall. Then he remembers what Tom taught him to do, one of their favorite games to play. Tom had called it training but Harry knew that the other boy enjoyed this activity as much as Harry therefore, it’d been a game.

He gathers his magic outward, persuading it carefully to brush outwards, feeling for the familiar, comforting presence similar to his own. Tom’s magic always felt reassuring to Harry, the sensation cooling, refreshing, strong. Dependable. He has his magic sweep out as much as he is physically able to withstand but he comes up empty. 

The crickets and croaking resume.

Did they not understand that there is an emergency to be had!? Tom is missing! Someone clearly kidnapped him and is now holding him hostage, Tom waiting for Harry to come rescue him.

Sobbing, Harry tucks himself in between a large rock near the water bank and a half-formed trunk of a tree that looked like it’d been cut down at some point. He didn’t know what to do, where he could possibly start in the search for Tom. However, he is sure of one thing. Wherever Harry is, Tom is somewhere near, Harry just couldn’t see him yet. But he will. He will find Tom or Tom will find him, whichever came first, it didn’t matter.

At some point, his sobs settle down, hunched in as he is, he rests his head on his knees and must have fallen asleep as he suddenly feels too warm. Sniffling, he blinks, scrunching his face at the sudden brightness. Stumbling up, he now notices how pretty the water looks under the heat of the sun.

Insects with long bodies and wings whip by on the surface of the water, their colours blue. Harry does not know what they are, just that they look pretty. A fish flops out of the water to snatch one in its mouth, disappearing back into the water. There’s suddenly so much sound from both the water and the trees but he cannot name them. Surprisingly, he isn’t afraid.

He is thirsty though. Really thirsty but he doesn’t know if he can get sick from drinking this water so grudgingly, he doesn’t, reminded by Tom’s many lectures. Sighing, he approaches only to rinse his face, as it feels dirty and tacky from his tears that dried overnight.

Better but now cold, he looks around to decide on his next step.

After a few minutes he impulsively just starts walking back into the cluster of trees, hoping for the best. He has no idea what he’s looking for, just that he doesn’t think it’s a good idea to stay here in one spot.

Tom would have already come up with a plan or two and known what to do but Harry relies on his instincts and it tells him to move, so that’s what he’ll do.

He randomly chose a direction, walking on and on, trying to avoid pebbles, holes, and branches as his feet hurt from last night. Whoever or whatever put him here could have at least given him shoes, he thinks sulkily, kicking a dried twig away but soon regrets it as it pokes him aggressively underneath.

His thirst only builds, the sunlight and walk warming him up further for him to build up a sweat. Huffing, he spots a nice tree with plenty of shade, so he ambles up next to it to sit down, needing a rest.

Not only is he thirsty but he’s now hungry as well. As a distraction he starts to make guesses as to where he’s currently at. He doesn’t remember any forests nearby in London, let alone the orphanage. He knows about some drive away there’s a beach as Martha once took all of the children there but no forest. He then wonders if this forest has his and Tom’s birds as they haven’t seen them since the day, they made them. Would be a nice sight after this ordeal.

Absentmindedly he scratches his hand then picks grass from the ground in a moment of boredom. From a distance Harry then hears loud noises bunching together. He listens carefully but it isn’t clear enough for him to tell what exactly is making it. Uprooting more grass, he hopes whatever it is will be friendly and help him find Tom or an adult or something.

He beckons his magic to do another sweep around, already knowing it wouldn’t find Tom. He’s right so with a sigh, he gets back up, tossing the grass away to walk some more. As he continues for another 15 minutes, the noises he heard now sound clearer, coming from somewhere from the right of him.

Dogs. Many of them.

Panicking, remembering Marge’s demon of a dog, Harry frantically looks around for a tree he can climb to safely. He spots one at the same time as a large brown dog breaks into the clearing, its tongue lopsided and its dark eyes latched onto Harry. It barks loudly, making a run for him with no hesitation in its movements.

Screeching, Harry makes a run for it, not looking behind himself as he only has eyes for the tree, he deemed safe. He doesn’t make it however as another dog comes barreling straight towards him, fast, this one black and brown with longer fur.

Harry finds himself tackled to the ground in seconds, the breath knocked right out of him in a loud whoosh, coughing up dirt and grass into his mouth, gagging when he tries to get it out while getting air back in.

More dogs come onto the scene; Harry soon surrounded by all of them. He’s still trying to get air into his lungs, so he isn’t able to scream or do much of anything other than allowing the dogs into his space, hoping he isn’t about to be eaten.

Heart pounding and blood rushing to his ears, it takes a moment for him to get his breathing in order for him to pick up that the dogs are not attacking him. They’re licking!

Long tongues and short ones, wet noses, and snuffling touches every part of his exposed skin as much as possible, excited yips piercing sound back into his ears.

Panting, Harry lies there in confusion as he’s stepped on by two, much smaller dogs, one fluffier than the other, and both peering down at him, over the top of his head, curious while another small one, this one white with weird teeth stops by his face. By a white, medium dog he’s then turned over onto his back, displacing the two smaller ones, exposing his belly which is attacked in more tongue baths and curious sniffs at once.

He peers up at the sky, wondering what is happening and if he should be concerned. Carefully, he picks himself up, wearily eyeing the dogs who scatter away in seconds only to come back running up to him when he fully stands. The brown one almost reaches his face, the black one close enough and the white one standing back to see what Harry will do.

He’s never seen so many dogs at once nor sizes any larger than Marge’s pug. They looked and smelled clean, their bellies round, well fed. Perking up, Harry whirls around in a circle as if he could see from here, where the dogs’ home is at, because there is one. There had to be if the dogs here did not look like strays and were well cared for.

“Where do you live?” Harry asks aloud.

A pause. Huffing in annoyance at himself, Harry thinks, right, dogs could not talk.

“Er, well, you seem nice enough…I think,” Harry mumbles aloud. He misses Tom.

The dogs sit down, peering up at him, some of them tilting their heads to the side in question when he speaks. It’s actually pretty cute, he thinks. Tom would certainly disagree but then, they did not always agree on many things, did they? After all, Harry had worked a long time to get Tom to make a wish with him.

…huh?

Wish…a wish!

Breathless, Harry takes a longer look at the dogs, memorizing each of their faces.

Suddenly, each of the dogs’ ears perk up as one, then they’re off in the direction they came from, running, this time silent.

Heart lodged into his throat, Harry runs after them in confusion, not wanting to lose sight of them. This had to be the work of his and Tom’s wish. It is the only thing that makes sense!

They’re fast. If it wasn’t for the smaller dogs, specifically the small brown and white one, he’d have lost them all together. Up ahead, the trees break in a large clearing, Harry finally getting a glimpse of a house. Stumbling over a branch, he winces in pain but ignores it, keeps going as he knows, this is what magic gave him.

He slows down, panting for breath as the dog’s yip in joy, a man coming into view where he bends down on one knee to greet all of them.

Trying to settle down his breathing, Harry hides himself behind one of the trees, looking on. At first, he’s only able to get a good look at the dogs as they completely cover the man in their excitement, the man’s laugh reaching Harry’s ears.

It sounds like brightness, pureness and light, a noise unfamiliar and one Harry did not know he wanted. Needed. The dogs move away, allowing Harry to get his first clear view of the man with the joyful laughter.

His hair is brown, curly, the ringlets wild and untamed. Harry cannot see the man’s eyes from here, but he imagines them to be just as bright as the laugh, just as intense as the curls. He’s wearing flannel with a jean jacket and hasn’t a care that the dogs are putting their dirt covered paws all over them.

Harry is in love.

Magic brought Harry to this man and so this man is no doubt Harry’s new dad. Harry’s and Tom’s. For if Harry is here and the man hasn’t a wife, then obviously, Tom is where the other partner is. Breathing out a sigh of relief, Harry knows they will all come together soon. They have to! Because their wish came true and now, they have parents! He just needs to be patient for Tom to find them with the other person.

Harry and Tom will finally have their dream of being unconditionally loved and living peaceful, and happy lives in their new home and grow up together like they wanted.

Not wanting to waste another moment, Harry leaves his hiding spot, bounding out into the clearing like the dogs before him, his smile wide.

He clearly startles the man when he’s caught as the man stumbles into a stand, his eyes wide in disbelief, a hand reaching out as if to stop him or help him as Harry trips. He gets right back up though, embarrassed and needing to let the man know that he’s fine.

“Hullo,” Harry pants, his heart beating too fast, the butterflies back to dance in his stomach. He’d reached the side of the man who still looks surprised and hasn’t moved. Harry is able though to see the man’s eye colour and he’d been right. They’re bright just as he thought, like the forest and sky combined and they’re staring right back down at Harry. “Hullo,” he repeats again, softly, shy.

The man is silent, his mouth open in a small ‘o’ shape.

“…are you my dad mister?” Harry decides to outright ask, wondering if he too felt the magic that brought them together. At a closer glance, Harry even thinks they look a little alike. Distantly…they could pass.

Unfortunately, his mind is scattered, his heart still too fast for him to clear his mind enough to read the other’s surface thoughts as Tom had taught him. He is still nowhere skilled enough without loads of concentration, not like Tom who always strikes as fast as any snake when he latches onto his target.

In other words, he has no idea what the other is thinking right now.

“Ho-how did you get here?” the man finally rasps out, his hands reaching over as if to check on him but stopping midway through. The man does flick his gaze into the distance, as if the answers he sought were within reach there in the leaves. “Did someone bring you here? I don’t-where are-oh god, um, let’s…yeah let’s bring you inside. Is that fine?”

He’s frantic and clearly panicking.

The man had a strange accent.

Frowning, Harry steps back. Isn’t the man happy to have Harry here? Or maybe the man didn’t know because he isn’t magical like him and Tom. Would he get rid of Harry if he knew? He didn’t want that at all.

Lips wobbly, feeling stressed and overwhelmed, Harry on the spur of the moment, decides to use one of Tom’s manipulative ploys until he can figure out his next move. He puts his arms out, raising them to the man, not saying a word. Just makes sure that his eyes are clearly seen with tears forming, his lips pouting. Tom is better at this though he rarely tries it as he cannot stand anyone looking at him as a child…even though that’s what they are.

The man hesitates, his movement fearful but eventually he gently picks up Harry, settling him in his arms carefully. The tears fall for real; Harry never having felt anyone’s touch that did not mean harm unless it’d been from Tom. So used to the pain and discrimination he and Tom had gone through from the people in the orphanage, that he did not know others are able to be this soft, this gentle, careful.

He wants more of it.

~ . * . ~

Will is trying not to panic, knowing damn well he’s failing. He picks the small child up who looked at him with such stunningly, bright eyes, tearful and scared.

Where in the world did this kid come from? In fact, how did a child who is clearly not from here, what with his British accent, get here when Will is miles away from his closest neighbor.

He had the day off and wanted to spend some time with his dogs, thinking nothing of their excitement as he’d been pretty busy what with it being grading season. Imagine his shock to find a small child just running out from the trees, happy as can be, making direct course to Will.

‘Are you my dad mister?’ The question runs through his mind for every few steps he takes to the house, the dogs happily following. Will, a father?

Shit. He might have a bigger problem on his hand other than the obvious.

What does he do? Should he call Alana? No. Veto that. At least, not yet. First, he’s going to need some answers. A lot of them.

It’s just…for a moment, when the child had asked, happy at the sight of Will, his heart had jumped a little in pure joy before reason came crashing down.

The child clings tighter, Will doing his best to support the smaller figure. He’s so light! And the most adorable kid he ever did see. Those eyes are something else, the boy’s hair a right mess and those adorable small round glasses. If he had to take a guess, he’d say the child is no more than seven in age.

Stepping inside, the boy peers up to take a look around, curious.

Will suddenly feels embarrassed at the sight as it isn’t like he’d been expectin’ guests. His bed is right there in plain view for all to see, the space darker than the sunlight outside suggested. The dog’s beds taking up many of the spots you’d do best to avoid.

It’s cluttered but not obscenely so. Currently his fishing pole is resting against the fireplace, Will pulling it out as he’d meant to hit the water that morning but got distracted playing with the dogs. The boy eyes it in interest.

The boy is in need of a bath and a change of clothes, dirt and grass stains clinging to all sides of the fabric of top and bottom. Is it rude to suggest it?

…maybe his dad is somewhere near a phone to ask for help. No, no, that isn’t a good idea either. His neighbor on the other hand, a small, older woman, she might know. If things aren’t looking too well, he decides he’ll ask her for assistance.

Setting the boy down who reluctantly allows it, they stare at each other. Or more like the boy stares and Will focuses on the boy’s forehead. There’s a strange scar there.

How should he do this?

“I’m thirsty,” the small, accented boy speaks.

A moment after, the silence is pierced by the gurgle of the boys’ stomach, the small child flushing in embarrassment as he fidgets in place.

“Right,” Will says, his thoughts scattered. “Right, let’s feed you shall we,” he mutters under his breath. Well, he’ll feed the boy then get his answers. Easy. Yeah. Easy…right?

Chapter Text

Tom had watched as the strange man with the weird accent left the alley for a moment, telling Tom to wait and to not touch anything. The only reason he had acquiesced was because once again he had had the strange sense that the man was far more dangerous than he let on.

After several long minutes passed, he thought the man had just decided to leave Tom there. Enraged at the thought of being fooled, fearful that at any moment someone else could stumble upon the scene, he made the decision to move just as the man came back, dressed strangely. He was covered in some form of clear like material, crinkly sounding. Tom’s never seen anything quite like it. In the man’s hands is the same material as well as a dark cloth thrown over his arm as he makes long strides to stop near the crumpled body.

His hands were covered which Tom notices after the man calls him over. Frowning, Tom hadn’t wanted to but steps forward, hands clenching tightly, waiting for the man to do something.

Vulnerability had opened its maws to consume him, so weak he had felt after using his magic so roughly and quickly. He had never thought he’d be forced into a situation such as this nor that he’d be confronted with another challenger. A mistake he would not repeat again if he were to make it out of here alive.

In the end, the man had had Tom dressed similarly, explaining he needed to before he could be in his car. He had had to have help, embarrassed, and frowned distastefully when the noise of the ‘plastic’ grew in intensity every time he shifted. It’s far too large to be comfortable. He feels a fool. Then he’d watched as the man who then introduced himself as Hannibal, used the dark fabric to cover the body, picking it up with quick and efficient movements with no sign of hesitation that it was then Tom understood, this was not Hannibal’s first body.

How many bodies had been carried by those hands? How many of those had fallen because of them?

Tom was then introduced to Hannibal’s automobile which had thrown Tom as he had never seen one up so close. Harry and he had tried once but had been scared away by the owner’s shrieking wife who had left the grocer early. Needless to say, this motor looked far better in every way, and sitting in the front seat had been a thrilling experience of its own, though the center of the car was unsettling. So many lights and so many buttons. He doesn’t remember hearing automobiles having any of these features though it wasn’t like conversations about vehicles were really ever brought up either. Not when you’re an orphan anyway.

The ride had been silent but not awkward, Tom thinking of Harry and where he could possibly be at this very moment. He would find the other boy as he belonged with Tom in every which way and no other outcome could be accepted. Not after already spending this long with each other. However, the mystery remained. How did they get separated, how did he wake outside undisturbed, and why an alley?

At first, he thought perhaps Billy and Dennis had been involved, upset with what he did to Amy but then dismissed the idea as they did not just fear Tom, they learned to fear Harry as well. Harry had thrived under Tom’s careful watch. Had grown under Tom’s care and was all the better for it, even when they disagreed about Tom’s methods sometimes.

Then he thought maybe Martha or Mrs. Cole was up to this but that didn’t make sense either, not when Tom had been able to fully convince the woman that Tom and Harry were innocent of past behaviors and going forward, they could do no wrong. She’d been completely under his spell of persuasiveness. Of course, the other kids had been suspicious, rightfully so, but that didn’t matter to Tom. Unless he willed it himself, Mrs. Cole could not act out without his say so, and Martha was too much of a coward to act out herself without the other woman’s support.

What then happened? Impossibly, the only thing he could think of was the wish Harry had convinced him to make. The wish itself had been halfhearted at best and a downright joke at worst, Tom unconvinced that it would ever be granted.

His competitive side though had made sure he committed to match Harry, unwilling not to have this be their next shared moment with each other. He needed every moment to count to make sure Harry would never leave after all.

They make a wish together. They’re then split from each other. Tom wakes to then be discovered by this man who calls himself Hannibal. A strange name with a strange accent. 

Glancing over at the man who drives onward, his gaze straight, expression unreadable, Tom could see how this man might be a contender for his half-arsed wish if he’s inclined to believe it. He still couldn’t get a good look under the cover of night but the fact that he owned an automobile, the fact that he hadn’t flinched at the sight of a dead body, hadn’t fallen under Tom’s spell of persuasiveness, fit all of Tom’s requirements to be his temporary guardian.

His conclusion? If they indeed got their wish fulfilled, then Harry was somewhere else that aligned best with his version of a parent.

He will use this man then to find Harry.

In the meantime, if Hannibal passed all of Tom’s tests, he would consider staying, allowing the man to act as a parent for him and Harry. This man will then pay for his and Harry’s future, opening doors that were previously shut as an orphan.

That night, after being introduced to the older man’s home, expensive looking home, he had Tom bathe, showing him to a room for the time being, and said they would talk in the morning. Tom had made sure, in his borrowed shirt, that the door to his room remain locked, and did very little sleeping, his guards raised against the man familiar with death.

Tom would get his answers, then they’d search for what rightfully belonged to him.

~ . * . ~

Hannibal made himself a cup of coffee with his favorite roast and pour over set, amused and knowing that in just a bit, it would only get more interesting once his little guest awakened.

Beethoven’s symphony no. 4 plays in the background, Hannibal pulling out that morning’s ingredients. Sausages made from his own hands are crisped around the edges and center perfectly cooked, saving the grease to prep the eggs along with seasonings. He cuts up fruits, icing the ones more likely to brown with a squeeze of lemon, then starts on the waffles.

As he prepares the batter his ears pick up the sound of a door opening slowly under the tones of no. 4’s second movements. After that it’s silent. He continues with his preparation, curious to know what his little guest will do now that night could not hide away his transgressions. Not that he personally thought the boy did anything wrong.  

Would the boy cry though in light of what he’d done? He hadn’t last night but that very well could have been because of shock. Or would the boy play coy? Too many possibilities when children are involved, unpredictable they can be.

He’s just made several waffles by the time he catches movement off to the side. A bed of dark hair peeks over from the wall, dark eyes latched onto Hannibal’s movements.

He makes sure his hands are visible from the counter space as he preps another waffle, his gaze focused so as to not spook the child. The waffle browns where he wants it to and is then plated when the boy comes walking in with faux confidence, his borrowed shirt chipping away the poise some more. Hannibal would almost think it an adorable sight if he’d been so inclined to such feelings but all he feels is amusement.

Perhaps the better recipient of such emotions would have served Alana Bloom more appropriately had she stood in his place. It is quite unfortunate that it is Hannibal then, instead.

The boy falters some when he comes to the counter, eyeing the tall, placed stool suspiciously. He settles the matter by dragging one then making several attempts to climb it, his face pinkening all the while with his many failed attempts. Hannibal does not offer his help, knowing rightfully that’s he’d just be spurned.

For a while, Hannibal continues in silence, the boy watching his every movement carefully, brows pinched when the music picks up in pitch before smoothing out. Several times he’s caught the boy trying to catch his eyes and each time leaves the boy frowning, lips pursing into a small pout.

Efficient enough waffles, Hannibal finally speaks as he begins to plate. “I’ve introduced myself last night, it is only polite courtesy to do the same.” Waffles are placed onto a separate plate. When he glances up, the boy’s expression is closed off. It’s not a bad attempt for one so young in fact. The promised potential he stood witness to the night before, looms over the boy, promising an awakening.

“Tom,” the boy introduces himself imperiously, his chin raised, jaw set.

So, the boy named Tom had some form of abhorrence to his name but is too proud to admit and too young to hide.

He sets down the plates in front of Tom whose eyes widen a fraction, his mouth opens just a smidgen to be noticeable. Accompanying the food are glasses of orange and carrot juice along with a separate glass of milk and water. Far too much for the boy but there all the same.

Tom hesitates until Hannibal has served himself, choosing to remain where he stands to eat so as to not spook Tom, though he’d be surprised at this point if the child were to act so. In so far Tom has only been suspicious but nothing in his manner suggests that he is frightened as of yet.

Taking a bite of crisped sausage, he watches as Tom swallows a carefully cut up portion of waffle without any butter nor syrup. His eyes shine, pleased, before it’s swallowed with caution once more, small face unusually reserved for one so young. 

The boy had been polite enough to wait for Hannibal to partake in his meal first. His expression revealing to Hannibal that this meal had never been had before. Sure enough, when Tom watches Hannibal pour only a small amount of syrup the boy mimics, only to scrunch up his face in distaste.

An aversion to too much sweetness, he silently notes.

They eat in more silence, Hannibal observing everything he could to later ask his questions. He can tell the boy is quite ravenous, but Tom takes his time to finish everything, including the waffle with the syrup. He avoids the juice to drink the glass of milk, seemingly savoring the taste, his gaze fleeting to take in the entirety of the room.

Hannibal then picks everything up, washing meticulously, enjoying the boy’s discomfort. He’s sure that the boy has many questions, holding himself back from the uncertainty and wondering what Hannibal had done with the body.

Drying the last dish, he frowns. It was a shame that the body could not provide any decent cuts to his stock as he had found the man to be in the first stages of kidney failure as well as questionable rashes on the stomach and chest, so he had had to dispose the body elsewhere when he’d left the boy alone.

He’d been a bit disappointed that the child had stayed put as nothing had been touched when he’d returned. It is no matter, however, as he would create plenty of opportunities for the boy to be tested and observed. 

“Let’s move to the drawing room shall we after you’ve changed. I have left your clothes in the hall on the table. When you’re done, I will show you the way and we may resume our conversation.” 

Tom lightly jumps down from his seat, his unwavering gaze locked on Hannibal’s every movement as he heads back up the stairs until out of sight.

A wisp of a smile forms onto Hannibal’s face for a brief moment as he dries his hands.

Yes, the boy would adequately do for the time being. Preferably, he’d have had more fun with an adult, but he supposes one must settle for other choices until they could grasp what they truly wanted.

~ . * . ~

Boy and man stare contemplatively at each other, minds searching and noting weaknesses to later exploit.

Not that that puts Tom in any advantage considering there is very little to exploit except for the glaringly obvious. Or perhaps not really obvious to someone other than Tom anyway.

He can see the curiosity for Tom lurking beneath those strange eyes that for all intents and purposes should really be burgundy. They remind Tom of Mrs. Cole’s favorite wine she keeps beneath her desk.

Tom knows curiosity, he breathes it. His mind always turning, always at the ready. Even with the inclusion of magic he considers his mind to be his greatest weapon.

Now whether, this man meant to have shown it to Tom is another matter entirely and one that really mattered.

The man who calls himself Hannibal, smoothly brings his cup to his face to take a sip from, his gaze never once leaving Tom’s own. There is no falter in his grip, the movement itself steady, confident, his stare seemingly open for engagement.

For all looks and purposes, the scene to any other looking in would only seem joyously domesticated. Parent and child enjoying each other’s presence.

Tom knows though that he is standing at the edge of a cliff, being herded like some wounded animal until he’d be forced to give everything to this man until there was nothing left to give. The night before showed who held actual power.

Teeth grinding minutely, Tom breathes in deeply to steady himself though knows he’s one comment away from snapping with an attitude. He could not afford to, however. He had been so confident this morning, too confident that he could read this man as he always had done with so many others. So sure, that the night before had been only a fluke of his exhausted magic making his attempts folly.

This morning proved otherwise.

A low hum of fear pooled beneath his stomach, churning for every sip the man took, relaxed, as if he knew Tom’s thoughts and found it all amusing.

“It seems almost…criminally regretful to break this peaceful tranquility this morning. Alas, one must do what one thinks best. Why don’t I start with my questions, and we will finish the morning off with answering yours?”

It was only a suggestion implying that there were options Tom could take. He opens his mouth to demand that he go first but he clamps his mouth shut in a resounding snap that painfully rackets his jaw.

“Oh dear, that seemed painful. Are you alright there, Tom?” Hannibal sets down his cup, waiting for a response.

It had only been a second. Too quick for someone other than Tom who collects information as a dragon hoards its gold. Always ready to collect more.

That second, however, was all Tom needed to freeze in place, mind racing, shivers wracking his back as he stiffly murmurs, he’s fine.

Tom had caught something huge and dark in the older man’s mind when Tom had made his move. He’s seen plenty of strange and unusual things in people’s heads they didn’t want others to see, to know. So many questionable images that Tom didn’t always have a name for.

This was the first time however that what he saw looked back.

He should never have agreed to step into this man’s home.

~ . * . ~

What a curious child Tom has proven to be thus far. For some reason, the boy froze, terror making his eyes widen and his breathing stiff.

Hannibal had been looking forward to hearing what the boy had to say, his frown daring to be denied. Hannibal had been ready. Embarrassingly eager in fact.

Only, the boy never said a word. Just paused, his breath stuttering before his teeth clattered against each other painfully.

The boy mumbles a stiff, ‘I’m fine,’ which is laughably anything but.

That part of him he keeps hidden is pleased with the showing of fear, a platitude to subservience even in its falsehood entirety. He will have the boy submit for real in given time. While he’s intrigued now it would not do to allow the boy to think he held any power in Hannibal’s presence.

Internally smiling, Hannibal takes another careful sip from his mug, waiting for Tom to settle down a bit more before he starts asking his questions.

~ . * . ~

It takes Tom a full five minutes to crush down his fear into a sliver of a ball and toss in the back of his mind to mull later. He finds this unacceptable and decides right then and there that Hannibal will have to go. However, he finds himself able to carry this deed out, Tom will find a way as no one who can strike such discordance, such uncertainty in his own mind can be allowed to live in only a short breath away from Tom.

It is inconceivable that there could be anyone out there who could successfully intimidate Tom when he’s never been fearful of any person since the moment, he could use his brain at three years old.

He’s not sure how but someday Hannibal will meet his end by Tom’s own hand.

Mind settling down at the assurance, Hannibal smiles softly, the smile widening just a bit when Tom glowers in return.

Then the questions begin, Hannibal starting off first as suggested, a leg casually crossing over a knee.

“How old are you, Tom?”

“I’m eight soon to be nine…sir.” It couldn’t hurt to be polite until he could stab the man surely. He’ll make sure Harry isn’t present for it.

A pale brow raises as the only indication of surprise before it is brought back down.

“Where are your parents?”

“Dead.” Well, one of them anyway, Tom thinks silently, scoffing all the while. If the older man finds this to be tragic, Tom isn’t able to find it in the man’s expression.

“Why were you in the alleyway all by yourself Tom?”

“Just happened to find myself there sir.”

“An odd choice to find oneself. Anything remotely catching?”

“Not at all,” Tom grits from a forced smile, remembering the awful smells.

“Did you know the man whose life you took?”

“I have no idea who that man was or why he chose to lay there.”

Silence.

Hannibal cocks his head to the side, eyes unblinking. For some reason, Tom is reminded of those blasted bloody lizards Harry fonds over sometimes.

“Are you implying you had not been the one to kill that man Tom? Surely you don’t expect me to believe that.”

Tom has to carefully try not to clench his jaw, to keep his smile on his face.

He tilts his head as Hannibal has just done before responding.

“Did you perhaps see something sir?”

Tom expects to see anger, disappointment, maybe even confusion from the older man. Instead, it is Tom who finds himself disappointed as Hannibal just continues to smile, unruffled and seemingly unsurprised. As if he knew that Tom would respond this way.

“I did not,” Hannibal tips his chin down for a brief second. “How then did you find yourself standing above the dead body, looking tired and overwhelmed?”

Biting his tongue at the last second, Tom breathes in angrily through his nose, his face flushing all the while, unwillingly. He doesn’t bother to reply.

They both know that Tom had been the cause and they both know that Hannibal asking is only a farce being brought to light as a reminder that one knew the secret of the other and therefore held all the power.

Tapping a finger gently, just once against his cup, Hannibal continues to smile.

“What foster home are you from? Is it nearby?”

Huffing, confused, Tom wonders if this is a trick question. He remains silent, not able to voice his ignorance voluntarily either way.

“Do you not know the name of the place?” Hannibal asks instead, waiting.

When Tom still doesn’t answer, Hannibal changes direction.

“Did you run away Tom?”

As much as he hates the gesture, Tom takes a page from Harry’s book and shrugs in response. If Harry had been there, he would have certainly been in for a shock.

He expects the man to be upset with Tom for refusing to answer but Hannibal merely pushes on to the next question.

“A curious accent you have I’ve noticed. Are you from the U.K.? Abandoned in the uncertainty? It’s not quite the time for tourists nor is this Florida so I doubt that that should be the reason though I find myself intrigued nonetheless.”

What? Flo-what?

“There’s nothing wrong with my accent,” Tom snaps, mind trying to piece what had been given. He knew distantly that the U.K. meant United Kingdom, but the implication of the statement is what’s throwing him off.

“I did not say that there was,” Hannibal murmurs softly. “Is this too, a question difficult for you to answer?”

Implying that the other ones unanswered were done so because Tom found them to be challenging. The nerve of this man. Who does he think he is? He would rue the day he decided to humiliate Tom once given the chance.

“You need only say Tom if you are unable to answer my questions.”

What little patience Tom harbors is hanging by only a single strand of thread, strung so tight and straining, he’s surprised with himself for not just throwing a massive tantrum by now. He’s eight already, he isn’t a baby, and he wants to be treated like an adult so he scrambles his mind into some semblance of an order to answer what he can. Then, he’ll be able to ask his own questions.

He’s not familiar with the name ‘foster’ but he does understand that he’s being asked about where he’s from, where he lived so that is easy enough to answer though the man’s intentions for knowing is another matter that concerns him.

Straightening up the slightest more, ignoring the ache in his back in doing so, he asks suspiciously, “are you planning on taking me back if I tell you the name?”

Hannibal’s smile remains the same, but Tom nonetheless feels as if it widened just a bit though he could not reasonably explain why he thought so.

“That remains to be seen Tom. Quite frankly, I have no designs on raising a child. Not now and certainly not anytime in my future. As intriguing as you may be, there is no reason for me to keep you here.”

A lie, Tom catches. If only barely. The rest of the words spoken by Hannibal are definitely true, but the lie hid in ‘keep’ and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the threat. Hannibal has no intention of seeing Tom back at the orphanage. Not when Tom saw him carry a body, and he’d given his name to Tom.

Tapping a finger lightly on his knee, Tom nods, relieved. He can work with that.

“Wool’s Orphanage,” Tom murmurs.

Hannibal pauses in settling down his cup, blinking before he sets it back down with a soft clink of glass.

“I was not aware that the States kept any establishments with the name of orphanage for children for quite some time now.”

“States?” Tom blurts, internally chastising himself for asking aloud.

“Yes,” Hannibal murmurs, sounding only a little distracted. “United States of America, U.S.A. for short, U.S. for even shorter and so on. However, which you prefer.”

“What?” Tom chokes, stunned. “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me,” he hisses next. “That isn’t funny.”

“I was not aware I was trying to be,” Hannibal replies, eyebrow raised.

The bloody damn States!

Horror floods Tom in a flash. If Tom is indeed in the states, what did that mean about Harry? Did he too get tossed here or is he back at the orphanage still, wondering what’s happened to Tom?

Of all the bloody damn luck and he’s not entirely ruling out that this is somehow Harry’s fault with that foolhardy wish.

Harry had better hope that when Tom finds him, he’s of one mind.

“Am I to assume you have no recollection of living here?”

“London,” Tom says instead, pushing his worries to the side for the moment. He had answers to get after all. “Wool’s Orphanage in London.”

Hannibal does not say anything, just pulls out some strange, rectangular contraption and fiddles with it silently, a strange glow illuminating the older man’s face.

Peering over from his seat, Tom attempts to get a closer view, breathless. Is it magic then? What does it do? What exactly is it and how does he get one for himself?

Images and words flash by, letters being typed faster than Martha’s self-gloating Royal typewriter, she refused to allow anyone near.

Fascinating.

Hannibal then looks up, a small frown barely discernible, replacing his earlier smile.

“Tom, if we are to work together, trust each other, we cannot allow lies to come in between. Why did you lie?”

“I don’t lie,” Tom lies. Indignant, he glares. “Why do you think I’m lying? I told you where I and Harry live. What is that in your hand?” He points, changing the subject. As angry as he is at being called a liar, he really wants what’s in Hannibal’s hands. If he can’t have it, he’ll just have to take it for himself. Later.

“Who is Harry? Your brother?”

Brother? No. Something more, something less is Harry to Tom’s eyes. He’s just Harry. He’s Toms. He needs to be in one piece or all that effort he put into raising Harry will fly out the window, like that one-time Harry tried and failed. The fool. He’s lucky it had only been the second floor or there’d have been a bigger mess to clean up.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Tom snaps.

“I’m the one doing the asking,” Hannibal replies faster but his words carrying the same pace, same tone as when this all started.

Well ask them faster, Tom thinks mulishly.

“We’ll get to Harry later,” Tom says instead. “Why do you think I’m lying?” He asks so they push forward to the more interesting parts. Not to say that finding himself in the States isn’t exactly interesting in itself but not one he wants to pursue just yet either.

“Wool’s Orphanage has not been an orphanage since the 1950’s. It’s now been rehabilitated as an office. Where do you live Tom?”

It takes a few moments for the words to actually process but when they do, disbelief wars in his head, then panic tries to grasp what is left of his sanity, his patience.

Harry! He rages, internally.

But wait. If what is being implied holds true, is this not the perfect opportunity its presented itself as? What better way to start over with a clean image than one where time chooses the when and how, forging a path unknown but well sought.

“The date,” Tom asks slowly, softly, the words being spoken as if in a dream.

Hannibal waits a beat to reply, curious, but answers. “August 14^th, 2008.”

Breathless, Tom feels a drowsy moment of lightheadedness.

Tom and Harry had made a wish under the stars of April 16^th, 1935. 73 years. He’s traveled 73 years into the future with not a single wrinkle to show for it.

Euphoria, glee, anxiety, questions, so many questions war with himself he can hardly contain it all. Something for all of it must show though as Hannibal gives him a strange look he cannot interpret at the moment.

“I see,” is all Tom can manage to say, sort of winded sounding. “My mistake,” he then forces himself to say. “I must have been confused and mistakenly said what I’d heard.”

Whatever that strange thing is in the older man’s hands, allowed him to receive information he can verify somehow. Until he understood what Hannibal wanted with him, what sort of transaction they can hold each other of, and what parameters that rectangle can perform, he will tell as little information as he can possibly get away with for the time being.

Tom will make sure he gets the best deal out of this exchange and walk away with all of his cards close by so to speak.

A strange turn events he finds himself but not one he minds. Not really. 

~ . * . ~

Harry gratefully takes a gulp of his water, almost choking with how thirsty he feels when a soft but panicked voice tells him to slow down. Huffing for breath when he’s done, Harry continues to stare at the clearly flustered man.

If only Tom was here to tell him how to win this man into being his father.

Flashbacks of their bloody competitive adoptee pursuits and he decides on second thought that he can figure this one out on his own.

“Do you…like fish?” The man asks when Harry is able to get his breath back to normal. The man is avoiding eye contact this time, which Harry finds himself sad about. They were bright and kind and in Harry’s life, you didn’t get a lot of that so it’s nice to treasure when you can.

The man waits but Harry cannot remember the question when he has something else more important to ask.

“Mister, if I can’t call you dad, what’s your name?”

The man blinks down at him, for a second their eyes meeting before they flit away in a hurry as he runs a hand through his hair.

“Names, of course because that’s a thing. It’s Will,” Will says much to Harry’s delight.

“I’m Harry!” Harry replies because Will hadn’t asked for his name yet but that’s fine.

“Harry,” Will repeats. “Any last names? What about that fish?”

“Couldn’t afford fish before so I don’t know if I like it,” Harry combs through his mind for any fish related memories. Aunt Petunia might have made it once, but she hadn’t offered any to Harry so he could be wrong.

“That’s okay,” Will murmurs, grabbing the empty cup, careful to not come any closer to Harry than he needs to. “You can try it for now and let me know if you don’t like it. It’s all I have at the moment but I’m sure I can scrounge something.”

Will walks into the nearby kitchen to refill the cup with water just in case while Harry latches onto his form with all his might just in case he disappears. He can’t have that. He brings the cup back to Harry and then heads back into the kitchen.

It’s a lot nicer looking than the one at the orphanage. 

Will is then grabbing things from cabinets and a white and blue box off to the side by the counter where a large fish comes out, cubed ice falling here and there and one of the dogs swooping it up before it could melt onto the floor right proper.

“Last name?” Will asks again, his voice more surer sounding.

“Potter,” Harry replies distractedly, a little grossed out. He didn’t know that’s how you cut a fish and he’d have been happy not knowing.

“Harry Potter,” Will murmurs to himself though Harry hears it just fine.

“That’s me!” He chirps, wearily keeping an eye on one of the dogs that decides to come closer to take a sniff at him again. He’s just really glad these dogs are a lot nicer.

“Is there a phone number you remember to reach your parents?”

Distracted, Harry softly rubs the top of the head of the brown dog who calmly stays still.

“My parents are dead. Aunt Petunia said they were no good drunks who killed themselves in an automobile accident. Mis-Will, what’s a phone?”

The brown dog pants softly, giving a large lick of Harry’s hand while nudging for more pats which Harry happily obliges. Though he could do without the licks honestly. He thinks he hears a soft ‘Jesus Christ’ but he’s not sure. Martha would have thrown a right fit for anyone throwing ‘God’s’ name out in vain, but Tom has told him countlessly to ignore the zealots. He never did explain what that word meant which told Harry that Tom also did not know.

“Who brought you here?” Will asks, his voice a bit funny sounding now. Harry glances over but Will is just doing the same thing as of a few minutes ago. He goes back to the dog.

“A wish,” Harry hums. He won’t tell Will about the magic yet, not until he’s officially adopted but he can let Will know that it was a wish that brought them together.

“…a wish?”

“Mhmm. By the way mister—”

“It’s Will—”

“Will, your voice sounds funny. Is it magic?” Harry then eyes the man suspiciously, wondering if maybe they were one and the same and he didn’t have to hold any more secrets. That would be nice.

“My voice sounds funny?” Will chuckles softly.

Something sizzles in the background when Harry goes for another drink, the brown dog walking away to the corner of the room to meet with the others.

“Yea,” Harry hiccups, putting his water back down. He drank too fast again.

“What about yours? Yours sounds kind of funny too.”

“It does?” Harry’s never been told his voice was funny! Tom would have said something…unless he had, and Harry had chosen to ignore him? “But everyone in London sounds like me…I think.”

“Oh? London? Is that where you’re from?”

“Yea, it’s real big! So many buildings and stuff but I’ve never seen so many trees before. I much prefer this than the city! Tom will like it too!” He won’t but Harry isn’t giving him a choice in the matter. This is where they’ll be staying.

“Hold on a second, who is To—”

“And so many dogs! I always thought they were all mean but yours are pretty nice—”

“Yes, I’ve trained, wait no I mean who is To—”

“Tom!” Harry cries, startling the nearby dogs to shuffle back. “We have to find him soon so we can be together again and then—”

“There’s two of you?” Something clatters in the sink, but Harry can’t pay attention now that plans are starting to form.

“The wish must have taken Tom somewhere nearby so he should be fine, but we can’t stay separate from each other too long. We’re n’surpable.”

“Inseparable,” Will automatically corrects, moving a pan from the stove away to look closely at him. Harry thinks he looks flustered. Another word he likes. “So, Tom, your brother? Also, from London?”

“We’re not brothers, Tom is more than that.”

“What’s more than brothers?” Will can’t help but ask.

Harry sits there, stumped because what does more than brothers mean.

“So, Tom is…?” Will trails off, his arms crossing across his chest together, pondering.

“Tom is Tom,” Harry decides, nodding.

“Right, Tom is Tom,” Will repeats, shaking his head. “So, a wish brought you to my property?”

“A wish brought me somewhere,” Harry agrees, nodding. “And then I slept by the water and then your dog’s found me and then I followed them and then found you!”

“You what?” Will chokes. “You slept by the river!? Last night? You were in the forest overnight?”

It’s not an outright yell or shriek but somewhere in between.

“It’s fine!” Harry rushes to say, seeing Will looking a bit overwhelmed the same way Tom does when his hair isn’t in the right order. “I was scared at first, but this will give me character. Tom says building character is what makes a man a man and something, something else, but I wasn’t listening anymore. Er, don’t tell Tom though please.” He laughs nervously.

“Harry, this…wish, what did it look like? And where were you staying before your um wish?”

Harry feels like he’s missing something. Is it that Will doesn’t believe him which, fair, because he doesn’t want to show Will magic just yet. Not until he’s officially adopted, and Will won’t leave him. Or is it that Will is asking him something else but not outright asking what that ‘thing’ is like Tom does when he’s trying to be mysterious. If that is the case, Harry would rather that Will just outright asks but he doesn’t want to say anything in case he’s wrong. Eurgh, adults.

“Well, the wish was,” what does a wish look like anyway? “Er, it’s um something hopeful?” He tries, uncertain. “I don’t remember any colours, but Tom and I went to sleep and now we’re not together anymore and I woke up to trees. Lots of them.”

“And before that? Let’s try to stay on track here Harry. Where were you staying before that?”

“Before what?” Harry asks, confused.

Will sighs, but it’s small and doesn’t make Harry angry like the adults sometimes do when they aren’t listening. “Before your wish, where were you and Tom staying and what were the people like? You mentioned an aunt.”

“Oh, yea, there. Wool’s Orphanage in London and the people are…erm well, they’re people? Martha is okay sometimes. She likes me better than Tom anyway. Mrs. Cole though doesn’t like anyone the way she likes Whiskey. I’m pretty sure that’s the name for alcohol but it could be the name of Leather and Turns’s owner down the street. They sometimes meet up when they think no one is looking. I don’t think Mr. Cole knows though. Never even met the bloke really. As for Aunt Petunia, her and Uncle Vernon didn’t want me anymore, so uncle dropped me off at the orphanage when I was 4.”

“Okay, I don’t know what to do with all of that,” Will sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Has this Martha or Mrs. Cole ever harmed you or Tom?”

“Harmed?” Harry asks, wracking his brain for the word. “Like what?”

Harmed after all meant different things to different people. Tom doesn’t consider scarring him as harming so much as it was a claim and Harry retaliating only solidifying that statement. However, what Tom had tried to do to Billy’s rabbit was indeed an act of harm which thankfully had not escalated but only just barely.

“Has anyone ever put hands on you? Leaving marks like bruises or scratches? Drawing up blood?”

Will now has a worried frown on his face, choosing to sit down nearby instead of finishing the fish Harry had been promised.

“Oh yea, plenty of times,” Harry decides to say honestly, his memories bringing up their claiming’s and experiments. They’d been lucky so far that Martha and Mrs. Cole never caught on to them or they might have been in that attic permanently.

“Oh god,” Will exhales faintly. “And this Tom was nowhere near you when you woke up?” He says louder.

“No,” Harry sighs out sadly. However not too sad as he knows Tom is fine on his own. What he’s really worried about is Tom not having Harry there to restrain him from things getting bloody. Too many times has Tom expressed wishes to just murder anyone who upsets him as if there aren’t any laws regarding that act and too many times Harry has had to say he doesn’t want Tom to be a murderer. They don’t live long in prison and they’re too young for that. He knows if Tom gets caught, Harry will too as an accom-acomcit? “Accomcit?” Harry repeats aloud.

“What?” Will blurts, confused.

“That word, I can’t remember. Acomplish? Compcit?”

“…are you trying to say Complicit? Accomplice?”

Will looks downright worried now when Harry nods eagerly. “You sure know a lot of words mister, it’s nice.”

“It’s Will,” Will tries again, tiredly.

“Can I call you dad instead?”

“Um…we’ll come back to that later.”

Harry sighs, knowing he’s got his work cut out for him, but he’ll win eventually. After all, the wish brought them together for a reason. Unless there’s another person hiding around somewhere. He eyes the room suspiciously but only finds the dogs napping around the space.

“Right, so this Wool’s Orphanage is in London?” At Harry’s nod, Will continues. “At four years old, your aunt and uncle released you to this orphanage and you have not seen them since?” Again, Harry nods. “And so, until now, that’s where you’ve been staying with Tom and were there any other children? Have you seen anyone get adopted there?”

“There are other children there. Not a lot though. Dennis left a month ago, just disappeared so we’re not sure where he’s gone but that’s the norm they say. And I haven’t seen anyone get adopted, though the others mentioned Sarah had but I’ve never met her.”

“I see,” Will says, voice sounding strange to Harry. “And how old are you now Harry?”

“Erm, seven?”

“You don’t know?”

“What’s the date?”

“Just a sec,” Will mutters.

He pulls something from his pocket that’s thick and rectangular, lighting up when Will touches the surface, surprising Harry.

“Woah! What’s that Will?”

“This?” Will gestures to the phone. At Harry’s eager nod, he chuckles softly. “It’s a phone. A cell phone, from Apple. I think they call it 3G? Also, the date is Agust, 16^th, 2008.”

Apples make…phones? Harry thinks, baffled.

“Erm…August? 2008?” Harry tilts his head to the side. “August!? Wow, my birthday has already passed. Sooo, I’m 8 now.” Harry nods, still stuck on the 2008 part. He’s not sure why though as he never knew the date anyway when he’d been at the Dursley’s, and he had never asked for the date at the orphanage when there were more important matters to take care of. So, he shrugs it off as no concern for the moment.

Instead, he’s more focused on the thing in Will’s hand but it’s sadly put away back in Will’s pocket.

“Alright, so this orphanage is in London. How then, did you make it to the U.S., specifically, in Virginia? In the middle of nowhere?”

“U…S?” Again, Harry tilts his head to the side, the brown dog nearby who’d been watching silently the entire time this exchange has been happening, doing the same. 

“America?” Will tries.

“I’m in America?” Harry gasps, shocked. Was there no parent for him in London?! No wonder he and Tom failed so many times. Huh. Made a lot more sense. America. Who would have thought. If Harry is here, then surely so is Tom. Somewhere at least.

He’s unsure if he should be upset or happy but decides ultimately it doesn’t really matter so long as he has Tom and Will in the end.

“Can’t say how I got here but I’m glad I did!”

“Of course, you are,” Will huffs but it’s said equally softly.

Harry beams, hoping they’ll be done soon so they can eat.

“Right. When was the last time you saw this Martha and Mrs. Cole?”

“Last night,” Harry hums, distracted when he notices the table by the fireplace. There are lots of colours there he hadn’t seen when he stepped in at first. They looked fun.

“Were they acting any different than usual?”

Harry ponders this question as seriously as he is able but again, he’s easily distracted and very much still hungry.

Were the older women acting differently? As a matter of fact, he does recall Martha looking a bit shifty eyed before Tom and Harry had gone to their rooms. As for Mrs. Cole, she seemed to be the same though she had ushered the kids to their rooms an hour earlier than usual.

“Yea, a bit actually.” Harry tells him what he had just been thinking, the older man nodding as if in agreement.

“Good. I mean not good that they were…um right. Actually, never mind. Still hungry?”

“Yes please,” Harry beams.

“Okay, food first then I think a bath is in order. Um, you are old enough to wash yourself, right?”

“I’ve been bathing myself since I can walk mister. Aunt Petunia made sure cause she didn’t want the police over if I drowned, it’d upset her Dudders.”

“It’s Will, Harry…what’s a Dudders?”

“You sure I just can’t call you dad? It’d be a lot easier to remember.”

“Dudders, Harry,” Will sighs out, almost fondly. He walks out of sight, the sound of cupboards opening and closing, a moment of silence before he’s back in sight with a plate in hand which he hands Harry who eagerly accepts it.

“It’s Dudley, my cousin. I’m real glad Aunt Petunia never gave me a nickname, or I’d have been right proper embarrassed.”

Will chuckles out of sight once more as Harry looks down at his plate. He assumes it’s the fish Will mentioned and some type of bushy looking vegetable that looks like mini trees. Intrigued, he tries one of those first, spearing a portion onto a fork. He finds that he actually quite likes it, there’s a sort of a buttery taste to it similar to the biscuits at the orphanage. Humming to himself, pleased, he then tries the fish, this bite more hesitant. The flavor that bursts onto his tongue has him humming louder, delighted at the odd texture and tang.

“I’ve discovered I quite like fish,” Harry sighs out, happy with this information.

“That’s great,” Harry hears Will say from the kitchen.

Finishing up his plate, Harry starts to wonder what Tom is doing and if he’s searching for him or researching his surroundings. No doubt that when Tom finds out that they’re now in the States instead of London, the older boy would be making plans upon plans before taking a move.

Either way, he hopes they meet up soon so he can show Tom where they’ll be living from now on. He just needs to win Will over and they’ll be set. So far, he really likes the man.

His dogs are nice too, he silently adds as he munches away.

~ . * . ~

Jesus Christ he’s just found a trafficked child, Will thinks, beyond stressed and concerned as he cleans up the kitchen.

What does he do now? Obviously, he needs to contact the Bureau that deals with these cases and perhaps the local authorities. However, he’s not sure if that’s the right move knowing that the conflict between the two forces always arises as personal affronts when charge of command is questioned, and this has the potential to blow up considering the child in question isn’t even from here.

They’re dealing with someone that clearly has a lot of money to move two children internationally without questions being raised overnight, and someone who hadn’t thought twice about dumping them. This individual might have the means to cover up if they decided they couldn’t bother themselves with making sure the children couldn’t speak out.

Drying his hands, Will goes over everything he’s learned so far.

He found a child who had been roaming his property since last night. Said child comes from an organization calling themselves an orphanage even though the name hasn’t been around for many years when the movements for child welfare began rising, so the name has to be a front. This organization allows adults to visit but children do not leave and when they do, they’re treated as an act of disappearance, leaving the other children to be unaware or thought of as the norm.

This thought leaves him sick and angry.

Harry and the other child, Tom, have been abused and neglected as hinted by Harry and said child does not find this distressing, signaling that this is a normal occurrence. Again, the thought is sickening.

Harry did not have shoes; he’d been covered in scratches whether from the forest itself or his captor. His aunt and uncle sold him off and made sure that Harry would not be able to make contact with them.

He does a quick search of Wool’s Orphanage and isn’t surprised to find that the only thing mentioned is a remodeled office building. If the people in charge told the children that they were living at Wool’s Orphanage, of course they would believe the adults, not questioning whether that statement held true. 

Sighing tiredly, he roughly puts the phone away and takes a deep breath to settle himself some. He didn’t want to scare Harry.

He’s glad that the boy seems happy, that whatever trauma he’s faced he’s still able to smile and laugh. For now, he’s only able to make sure that he feeds Harry and make sure that his captors are caught and punished severely. And that they find Tom. He’s also going to do a perimeter check around to make sure no interloper is squatting, having mistakenly letting the child go free.

As much as he wants to have Harry take a bath to feel clean, all evidence would be needed to catch these sick bastards.

Having calmed himself down enough, he goes out to see that Harry has finished his meal and is now cuddling with Harley, making for a cute sight.

Will never considered himself the right sort to be around children, knowing he’s settled with enough emotional damage and traumas to scare even the most experienced individual. He’s worried that he’ll mess up and taint the happy-looking child if Harry sticks around much longer.

“Alright Harry, we’re going to take a trip before you can clean up unfortunately.”

Harry frowns, looking up with his head tilting once more in question. It’s honestly an adorable sight to take in, the boys’ eyes looking almost illuminated in the low light.

“Where are we going?” Harry whines, running his small hand on Harley who looks too pleased with the attention.

“To the station. We need to make sure that people will be on the lookout for Tom.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes out in surprise. “That’s a brilliant idea! Let’s go.”

Sighing in relief, Will honestly hopes that they’re able to find the other child and that Harry will be treated right and that he’ll be in well taken hands.

Only, that’s not what happens 45 minutes later.

Harry had been ecstatic to be in a car even as beat up as Wills, happily chattering away about Tom this and Tom that. Will honestly thinks that this Tom might be a closeted sadist for one so young. He’s quite concerned.

When they make it to the station, he’s unimpressed to say the least.  

Not only did the local police station seem in disarray, but the chief had come out himself to tell Will to head on over to the Child Protection Services with a form in his hand to request temporary custody.

Apparently, a local school shooting had taken place, and the perpetrator has taken a hostage several blocks away, rendering the police force to be overwhelmed and unable to spare two or more of their officers. They only did the bare minimum in Will’s opinion to ask a now shy Harry questions. Sloppily done as well.

Will understands that things can be hectic but c’mon, it shouldn’t be this bad. Honestly, he’s going to make sure he remembers to vote properly.

Agitated, Will makes sure that the chief sends out two of his officers, orders be damned, to look for another missing child on his property with a helpful description from Harry. Though, Harry had to be reminded to stay on track as Will finds that the boy can easily be distracted.

Reluctantly, the chief agrees, Will making a silent note to check on the solve rate cases in this area and Chief Burns when he’s able. Something is clearly not adding up here.

He then makes his way to the offices only several doors down from the station, carrying Harry as the child still hasn’t any shoes. Hopefully this place goes better as he isn’t sure what to think so far. He’s just glad that Harry’s been a really good sport about it all.

Chapter Text

Hannibal makes them lunch, Tom having to decide how to proceed with the little bit of information he’d been able to gather. From what he knows, he can determine that he needs to be very careful around the older man as much as it pains him to do so.

The level of unease Hannibal invokes in him leaves his throat parched and his heart racing at an unhealthy speed. He needs the man’s weaknesses and much sooner rather than later. He regrets showing his hand too early. Perhaps things would have been far easier if Hannibal truly believed Tom to be a non-threat. It is unfortunate that he cannot erase time.

Muttering under his breath, he instead focuses on Hannibal’s every movement while seeming interested in his sandwich. It’s a good one to be fair. He’s never tasted anything quite like it and thankfully, isn’t on the sweet side either. While he still felt quite stuffed from breakfast, he knows better than to turn down free food. Even from strange men.

He then wonders if Harry’s had anything to eat in this new world view.

Soon enough, he finds himself back in the room from earlier, seated in the same spot, though this time there are no drinks to be had.

“I took the liberty of arranging a delivery for a few clothing items you might be in need of.”

While Tom wonders if he should thank the man or demand a ‘why’ Hannibal continues to speak, face still unreadable.

“I hope to continue our conversation. No doubt tedious and wanting to do other things as boys your age are prone to want but I think a necessary matter.”

Even after everything, this man thinks Tom is still like other boys? Ridiculous.

“What would you like to be done Tom? Do you envision something specific taking place because of this incident? I’d like very much to know how you’re feeling. This is a space where you are free to express yourself.” Hannibal opens his arms to encapsulate the room in question. 

Shifting in his seat, Tom’s guard is up. Did the man have a trick up his sleeve? Is he expecting something specific from him? He has no idea what the man is thinking. Though his earlier…fear had him near frozen when he’d attempted another glimpse into the man’s mind, he still needed to know. Whatever glimpsed back at him could have been a fluke or could very well be now lying low. Whatever else, Tom needed to try again before labeling this a lost avenue.

While Hannibal waits patiently, Tom stares right into his eyes once more, willing his intent to show him what he wants most at that moment. Concentrating carefully, he can feel little tendrils of his magic probing carefully, almost cautiously around, seeking an opening.

Not blinking, Tom frowns as finally an image appears but not one, he understands. It’s a door. An elaborate door that is closed and refuses to open when his magic nudges the handle. It does not budge in the slightest.

Breathing in carefully, he pulls back, his thoughts quiet. Something to think about later.

“I am unsure of my options…sir.” Tom replies at last. “As for how I feel, well…,” here he bites the bottom of his lip in a familiar gesture, eyes lowering in faux subservience. Harry had a tendency to bite his lip when anxious, unsure, and lastly, when he wanted the adults to stop being mad at him. From Tom’s own guidance had Harry learned to use it to his advantage.

If this worked on Hannibal though, Tom doesn’t see an opening, so he changes tactic only slightly. He worries his lip a bit more but raises his gaze to the man’s forehead, making sure his eyes are unfocused just a smidgen.

“I suspect I might be in shock sir if I’m to be honest. It was all sort of sudden.”

“Honesty is a good place to start Tom. Would you like to talk about it?”

“I’m not sure what happened exactly,” Tom feels out, beyond the point of frustration from not being able to read the man but also a tad excited as he hadn’t a challenge in a while. “You see, the man spoke of ill intent. He meant me harm and well, there’d been a knife there for me to use. So, I defended myself.” He lowers his voice in feigned shock. “I hadn’t meant to kill him sir. Was only trying to scare him away a little. But then he came at me, threatening me. Next thing I know, he’s dead.”

Shifting his gaze to the side, Tom exaggeratedly bites his lip with more force, piercing the skin, tears welling but not falling. “I’ve never seen a corpse before,” he says truthfully. “I just wanted to find Harry.”

He keeps his gaze away, hands clenching the fabric of his now clean shorts. He waits, pacing his breaths. He hears Hannibal shift, but the man does not yet speak.

The silence grows and the unease he feels begins to make him uncomfortable. Did it not work then? Must he try the next stage?

“I see,” Hannibal murmurs softly, that strange accent picking up in weird slopes aloud. “It must have been quite the ordeal for you Tom.”

Nodding, Tom faces forward slowly, as if reluctant.

“In fact, I suspect you must have been in a greater state of terror than you are able to freely admit. A common occurrence young Tom that you will find when confronted with a path that leads to death so suddenly. I commend you. In fact, color me surprise that one your size was even able to pierce the stranger’s chest even under the state of adrenaline and then being able to yank it back out.”

“What do you mean by that?” Tom snarks, forgetting to mask his expression.

Now staring at the man forwardly, Tom sees that Hannibal had not bought the act at all. He isn’t so obvious though that you could exactly point out where he revealed himself. While Tom could not barge through Hannibal’s closed door, he is still able to pick up small notes of emotions.

Hannibal is clearly amused. At Tom.

“I only meant to express my admiration. I had been able to recover the knife lest anyone should find it and notice how blunt the tip had been. I imagine it is why the nick you gave yourself isn’t in need of stitching, so shallow it had been.”

Blinking, Tom glances down and sure enough, there is a thin line on his wrist. He had completely forgotten about it. The cut had stopped bleeding sometime before his bath and is already in the stage of scabbing. He frowns, not wanting any scars on his person but for the bite that Harry gifted. He’d have to heal this later. 

“We should disinfect that soon,” Hannibal then says. “Would not do to have you come down in ill health from an infection because of carelessness.”

Tom opens his mouth to decline but then promptly snaps it shut when he can think of no reason to give as to why.

Rightly taking his silence for agreement, Hannibal speaks once more. “This Harry, do you know where he is? You seemed quite concerned for his wellbeing.”

“No,” is all he can manage to say. After some thought, he grudgingly adds, “we separated sometime that night, unwillingly. He isn’t the type to just disappear without telling me.”

“Then am I to assume rightly that you did not run away from your last…home?”

Shaking his head, Tom takes a glimpse of the door in Hannibal’s mind. Still sturdy and standing. While he cannot at the moment look inside, he’s thankful to have at least a read on the emotions seeping through, small as they are. Right now, Hannibal is amused and curious, but both are fairly faint.

He has no idea if it is because of the door or boredom or something else. Just that, it might not bode well for him in the end.

“Sir,” he asks aloud, his mind whirling for answers he cannot yet see. “You asked what I might expect but I think I should be asking what you might want from me instead.”

Letting go of his earlier attempt at manipulating sympathy that he now knows he will not get; he decides to try a more challenging approach.

He has no choice but to make bolder moves at the start if wants to get something worth value at this point before he’s left without shelter or worse, death. And he knows, his instincts warning him, telling him, that this man would bring him a worse outcome than death could give.

~ . * . ~

Hannibal refrains from smirking. What a bold child. His nose picks up the very faint buildup of perspiration from the nervous boy. Outright challenging him. Instead of invoking irritation at the audacity, he’s finding himself entertained.

The image is nothing more than an unruly scruple of a pup, practicing baring its fangs at anyone and everyone, learning how to use them before its first hunt.

He can appreciate canines and their loyalty. This pup, however, looks like he’d chew the hand that feeds if given the chance. Or perhaps instead of waiting, the boy might just create a situation that allowed him to take what he wanted. 

Potential.

Promise.

“A week trial,” Hannibal finds himself replying. “Show me you can behave. That you can listen well, and I will personally take care of you in whatever manner we decide suits us both.”

“That’s not a promise.”

Outwardly smiling, Hannibal replies, “It is not but you knew that.”

Nodding, Tom stares back unflinchingly. He then looks down at his lap in contemplation for only a moment before his face raises. For one so young, it’s cold, resolute in its strength. “We don’t know the name of the place. Just that they take in children from time to time. I was in London that morning before that man-well, now I’m told I’m somewhere else. What do you think that means sir?”

“I cannot say with full confidence Tom, but I’m sure the answers are somewhere close by, just waiting for us to discover them.” His smile is still there but inside, he’s frowning, unsure if the boy is being completely truthful with him. Although Tom had seemed shocked when he’d been told of the date and location, he could not forget the boy’s expression when he stood over the body.

There is something just a bit off about the boy.

While seemingly appearing shocked at the sight of the cut on his wrist, exposing how fragile he is, the boy seems angered at it. The nervousness he can note has nothing to do with the cut or the stranger from last night. No, indeed, Tom can recognize the bigger threat in the room.

What did that mean exactly for them both, however?

While he amuses himself from time to time with the law and its enforcement civil workers, he isn’t looking for anything too complicated that would result in his image being tossed just yet. Not when it still had its uses.

Well, if the week proved too much, he would just dispose of the boy. Whether that means waiting until the boy grows older or shipping him to another country, he hasn’t decided. He doubts an establishment bent on fostering would care too much if one child were to go missing for any length of time, expecting nothing more than a runaway case as per usual. The other boy, Harry, would also prove to be no threat if he’s the same age as Tom and far more incompetent to get himself lost.

Society would like to think themselves saviors, advocates for the children’s voices but so long as it isn’t their own, they’re all too willing to look the other way, away from the cameras, because the child was nothing more than an orphan anyway. No one in life wanted to inconvenience themselves. Not when it meant they’d have to give up their own comforts in return. 

He’s absolutely certain that this would be no different, but he did not get by in life relying on only perfectly reasonable deductions. His knowledge has always counted for the truth. His truth. Man who relies only on instinct could expect a shorter life expectancy as his only possession. One must also be willing to put in the work.

“Is anyone looking for you Tom? Are you missed?”

~ . * . ~

“Are you, are you taunting me?” Tom hisses.

Hannibal’s expression remains unmoved, but Tom could feel the amusement rolling in waves off the man, so smug as he sits there, patient.

Tom hated being so small. So young. Hated the moments he could not control his temper and frustrations as well as he’d like.

“You seem upset Tom. I did not mean to cause you harm. I will refrain from asking again.” Hannibal says this as he purposely glances away.

A mockery of privacy. 

Hannibal’s amusement spikes, Tom having to stop the impulse to throw one of the expensive looking books at the man.

Something about the man’s amusement unsettles him. It’s nothing like his own. Harry once described that it felt cold if you could touch it, almost like when night clears and the breeze picks up, fresh and familiar.

He’d have said Hannibal’s is similar had it not actually stung. It hadn’t been intense when he first felt it though he’d been surprised. However, the longer Hannibal’s enjoyment remained, the harsher it felt. It seemed to gain weight, felt burdensome, pitiless. It is a delight best witnessed from afar, the viewer praying to remain unseen all the while.

Tom’s magic coils tight as it feeds him this information.

“You did not hurt me,” he manages to say at last, his patience waning with a final snap. “No one important will be looking for me. I don’t need them!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake. You don’t tell the monster pinning you down with its gaze that you’re all alone. That no one will be saving you.

The look Hannibal gives him after is chilling, having understood his blunder.

Tom is better. He is. He’s different. However, he isn’t the strongest. Not yet. That will take time, time that he needs to secure and one that Hannibal can easily provide.

“What does this trial include?”

“There is no reason to have your guard up so high Tom. You are safe here.”

No, he isn’t.

As if reading his mind, Hannibal smiles at him. It looks smug, condescending, pitying.

“Just an exchange of words for now. Nothing strenuous on your end. If I ask you to do something, you have the choice to oblige me. If I give you a warning, I expect you to heed it. So long as you remain polite and respectful, I see no issues in the week to come. If we are both pleased after the week, we can then discuss what to do moving forward.”

Nodding, Tom sighs as he studies Hannibal who pulls out that same strange rectangle, his fingers dancing over its shape in fast, sharp motions.

“Let’s get to know each other well Tom,” the older man says, still looking at the thing in his hand. “I will take a few days off of work and from there we will see how you fair.”

A bell like sound rings around the home, Hannibal pocketing the rectangle.

“That should be your clothing. I did not order a lot. If things change after the week, I will take you shopping. Let’s have you try them on, get your wound looked at, then you may ask your questions after.”

Standing, Hannibal stares down at him, Tom shakily following as he draws his magic back in from reading the other’s emotions.

He needed to train his magic to comply better. Exerting himself from merely a mind read attempt seems foolish and downright weak. He’d already showed nothing but weakness in front of this man. How many blunders must he make before he learns? 

They walk down the stairs, Hannibal leading him to take a seat in a different room as he leaves him to walk to the door. He’s soon back with two bags in his hand.

“Go ahead and take a look, let me know if something does not fit. I’ll be back with the supplies to treat that cut in the meantime.”

Frowning, Tom really wants to decline the offer. His wound didn’t need to be treated. Looking away from the retreating back, he instead focuses inside the bags. He pulls out two jumpers, two pairs of trousers, a few shirts, and one jacket. The other bag had a pair of trainers in a box along with some socks and underpants and two pairs of sleepwear.

Pleased with his new items, he waits for Hannibal who has yet to return. Looking around, he studies the space he’s in. There’s green everywhere but not a shade he particularly likes. The wallpaper is dreadful and the couch far too stiff to be comfortable. Everything in this room appears too dark. If not for the sunlight peeking through the partially opened curtains, he’d have a hard time seeing anything. Far better than Wool’s but less welcoming than the outside hinted.

As the thought finishes, the wooden brown door off to the side opens to reveal Hannibal with a box in one hand and a case in the other.

Confused, Tom sits there in silence, not knowing what to voice.

The older man sets down the small box and case on the table nearby, not bothering to look at Tom. He bends down on one knee, opening the box carefully while he pulls out a clear bottle, cotton swabs, and he thinks, a band aid. Setting those to the side, he then pulls open the case where instruments unfamiliar to Tom lay.

Frowning, he watches cautiously as Hannibal pulls out a small metal looking object that isn’t entirely thin, and where a small blade sits atop. It gets set down to be replaced with a tube of something which also gets placed down. The older man then pulls out some type of material to which he covers his hands in before he turns to face him, an expectant look about him.

“I worry I may have to cause a little bit of pain. My apologies Tom.”

Stiffening, Tom bares his teeth in a flash before he arms his control back, his nails biting into the palm of his hand. “What do you mean? What do you intend to do?”

“I must reopen the wound to properly disinfect and treat it. I will also need to have you tested for any ailments that may be hiding if you’d be willing to cooperate. It’s just a precaution for both our sakes.”

Mulling it over, Tom agrees in the end. He’d have reopened his wound himself anyway as it’s far easier to heal it fresh rather than one scabbed over. “You will explain the testing,” Tom imperiously demands, eyes narrowed in contemplation. “I want to know what you will do.”

For a moment, Hannibal stays silent, neither smiling nor frowning. His gaze heavy as he simply stares back at him. In fact, it sort of looks empty at a glance. Then he smiles, nodding his head as he says, “of course.” His eyes though are hard as steel, that sort of emptiness, growing.

Swallowing, he looks away, deciding in the end to not apologize.

“This here is a scalpel, have you ever seen one before?”

“No,” he says, eyeing the strange blade wearily.

“Well, I suppose you should count yourself lucky to not have encountered the end of one,” Hannibal smiles as he moves a little closer to him.

He holds his hand out, Tom having to force himself to give the man his wrist.

Hannibal turns it over with a firm grip, his thumb running across the scabbed cut.

Tom opens his mouth to ask what is next but doesn’t get the chance as he witnesses the small blade slice into his skin fast and steady, not a mistake to be seen. It’s perfectly exact, blood oozing lazily in small red beads before it builds up steadily, exposed to the air.

Shocked, the pain is slow to register, his heart jumping to his throat as he attempts to jerk his hand back, but it’s held fast in Hannibal’s grip, who tightens it in warning.

“None of that now,” the older man murmurs. “Let us remember our manners.”

A warning. One that grips his heart in its cold clutches. Unwilling tears form but he does not let them fall, too angry to allow the man the satisfaction though a feat lost cause when Hannibal smiles serenely at him.

“You are angry. I apologize, but this is a necessary evil Tom. I feared, if I had given you warning, you’d have involuntarily pulled your arm back in fear. A normal reaction mind you. No fault of your own when you’re just beginning to experience life at this age.”

Biting his lip, Tom kept his mouth shut as he watches Hannibal grab some of the cotton swabs and the bottle of clear liquid. It smells something awful but not unlike Mrs. Cole’s concoctions. It also really stings when it’s then poured onto his wound. He cannot stop his body from reacting, not having expected it. The surface then gets wiped but not covered.

“This is rubbing alcohol. It’s meant for light disinfecting.” Hannibal starts, turning Tom’s arm from side to side. “I would not normally recommend it as a solution as it can delay healing. However, you did come into contact with a sharp object that had been uncared for. If your skin reddens any worse than this, tell me. If your temperature rises, you will let me know about that as well.”

Tom then expects that to be it, but instead, he’s forced to clench his teeth when Hannibal squeezes his wrist into a painful grind. His blood seeps out faster, pooling onto the top.

He’s doing it on purpose. He has to be. All because of his comment. He will remember this and for this too, he will have his comeuppance when the older man least expects it.

“How does that feel?” The older man has the nerve to ask.

“Just fine, sir,” Tom grits out, gaze fixated on his blood.

“That’s good,” Hannibal murmurs with a small smile. He then reaches for a cylinder tube which he uncaps after letting go of Tom for a bit. Holding the tube up to the wound, he resumes his grab to squeeze out more blood to pour in. “Almost done,” Hannibal says.

Tom feels uncomfortable but also strangely tranced as he watches his blood pour and pour into the small tube, blood dripping steadily over his wrist and arm that doesn’t quite make it into the object. It’s soon capped and set to the side to be replaced with cotton swabs which are then tossed into some little clear, mini bag.

The things covering Hannibal’s hands which he thinks may be gloves are smeared with his blood. Hannibal has to remove them to put into a bag to don another pair.

Soon enough, Tom’s wrist is wiped clean, with some sort of ointment covering his wound and then wrapped.

“You do not need stitches so this will do fine. I will check on it tonight.”

Scowling, Tom curses in his head, frustrated. He has no choice but to comply, his earlier made plans to do away with the scarring crumbling. He’ll just have to wait. Just one more thing to add to his ever-growing list.

Hannibal is cleaning up when he says, “that will do for now. Now, let’s have you try on your new things.”

Sniffling, Tom complies, simultaneously uncomfortable and grateful that everything fit perfectly. Hannibal had stepped out to take with him the aid box and case, returning after Tom had finished.

 “Shall we finish up our conversation here? I’m sure you have your own questions for me.”

Still upset, Tom mulishly peers around the room once more as Hannibal finishes up. “I do,” he finally responds. “That thing you had in your hand, the one you were able to find information on Wool’s. What is it?” His eyes dart to Hannibal who pauses in mid stand, blinking. It had only been for a second, but Tom is smug for even that to get the man to react.

Hannibal hums under his breath softly, peering down at Tom who waits. Hands free, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out said object Tom is intrigued by. “Are you referring to my cell phone?”

“Cell…phone?” Tom muses aloud, eyebrows scrunching. Like the telephone? Was the man mad? How could this small object be anything like the enormous hunk of noise he’s used to.

Without prompting, Hannibal hands over said phone to Tom’s eager hands. He wastes no time in running his fingers over the thick but sleek looking object, bewildered. Where were the buttons? The dials? How did one speak or hear? How odd.

It seems he somehow amused the older man for he decided to show the mechanics of the phone, completely changing Tom’s world view. He’s absolutely captivated by the possibilities this future held. This, this was nothing like the familiarity of London, 1935.

What other changes could he expect to see?

Satisfied and all the keen to have a phone for himself, he halfheartedly hands it back, ready to ask his own questions.

“You said you have a job. What is it that you do?”

Hannibal sat himself in one of the one seated settee nearest Tom, leg once again crossing over in a well-practiced move.

“I am a psychiatrist. I help navigate patients with their ordeals and mental wellbeing. Do you know what a psychiatrist is Tom?”

New fear seeps into his pores, Tom not able to hide the widening of his eyes. His mouth, however, replies with a resounding, “no sir.”

Hannibal pauses, immediately noticing the shift. Graciously, he answers with, “that is fine. Can you read?”

“I can,” he huffs, put off, burying his fear down. 

“If you’re still interested in my profession then I can lend you a book that will tell you anything you need to know. If you’re still confused, you may come to me with your questions.”

In other words, he has nothing more to say on the matter and wanted Tom to find the answers himself. Typical of an adult, Tom snarkily thinks silently. That happens to be just fine with him anyway as he doesn’t trust this man to tell him the complete truth.

“What is it that you expect from me this week?”

“That entirely depends on you. It’s too soon to set, certain expectations in this stage.”

How many times has his anger risen from this man alone in such a short span of time?

“Do you disagree?” The older man presses.

The man is insufferable. His taste in décor is atrocious and so is his fashion sense. Perhaps he could find better out there than this man…though his curiosity for one thing specifically has him remain seated.

“Depends,” he quotes back.

“On?”

He smiles back at the man, lips pressed firmly closed.

“You asked me earlier if there is anything I’d like done. Do you remember sir?”

“I do recall.”

“I’d like a promise that if I do well, you will help me find Harry.”

Unlike Tom, Harry’s mind is as sharp as a marble though also unlike Tom, Harry’s luck reigned far supreme. He’s quite confident that Harry can hold out for an entire week until he can get Hannibal’s help, who is far more familiar with this world. If the man is unwilling, he will just have to build up his magic to do it for him.

“So you’ve mentioned,” Hannibal starts. “This Harry, do you expect me to take him in as well?”

“Harry belongs beside me,” he replies, mentioning nothing else.

“Ah. I see,” Hannibal murmurs, his gaze direct.

When he makes no other move to say anything else, Tom has to withhold his sigh of frustration. This berk. He’s unsure though if he can get away with pressing for a clearer answer.

The silence grows.

“Is that a, yes?” He decides to ask in the end, breath withheld.

“We shall see,” the older man smiles back. “Any other questions for me?”

One day, one day, Tom chants in his head over and over. Then he thinks about the only other question he’d like to ask, his heart thumping erratically in response. How does he start it? Should he just come out with it?

“You seemed…,” he starts, his heart practically lodged in his throat he has to swallow down. “I’ve noticed,” he tries again. “That you seemed quite comfortable with that body.”

Hannibal continues to smile at him. When Tom stays silent, he taps a finger on his knee, keeping eye contact. “That is not a question Tom.”

The very air around him stills, charged with a sort of frenzy energy just waiting to be used, prickling the tiny hairs of his face, neck, and arms. The prickling worsens. Feeling lightheaded, he can feel a sort of cold sweat beginning to bead underneath his shirt.

He has to swallow again and again before he can murmur anything.

“It is not,” he manages to mumble.

They sit in the pressing quietness, neither feeling the need to break it. When the five-minute mark strikes, Hannibal stands in one fluid grace, towering over Tom whose cold sweat never receded.

“Perhaps a bit of a break. I have some calls to make. I will show you the books you are allowed to touch if you choose to read to pass the time in your room.”

Taking it for the suggestion that it is, Tom agrees, needing time to himself. He sighs quietly under his breath before following, wondering if feasibly it isn’t too late to run.

~ . * . ~

“This is insane. What exactly are you trying to say?” Will demands, trying but failing to not raise his voice. He guiltily glances over his shoulder, but Harry remains distracted in his seat with a leftover puzzle for children. Sighing in relief, he turns back around to face an equally agitated and harassed woman who glares back with a ferocity that spells trouble.

“Sir, we are overwhelmed, overstaffed, underfunded, you name it, and we have it situation. I do not know how much clearer I can be. I am sorry, but so long as you qualify, which you do, and that the police are in agreement, which shows that they are, I am going to have to ask you to keep the child in your custody until I can send someone out to take him from you. He does not seem distressed, and if what you say is true, he is no safer anywhere else than in your care for the time being. There is nothing else we can do at this time. Please be patient and we will get back to you at the next availability!”

The last words are shrieked into his face, the woman clearly having lost her last thread of patience as she stands from her seat, finger pointing in his face, mouth twisted into a snarl.

Before he can snap back, another woman rushes over, gently grabbing the other woman’s shoulder to guide her away, murmuring softly under her breath to which he cannot hear. They both disappear behind a door, leaving him and Harry alone in the reception area.

“I think she’s upset,” Harry says from across the room.

“Who would have thought,” Will mutters under his breath, calming down some.

The same woman who took the other away comes back out, an apologetic smile aimed his way. “I’m so sorry for Debrah. She isn’t even supposed to be here, she’s supposed to be on maternity leave, but they called her back in at the last minute because of an emergency. She just had her daughter three days ago you know? Poor Debrah,” the woman sighs sadly. 

Grimacing, Will mutters a curse under his breath, the woman catching it unfortunately. She gives him a nasty glower though smiles kindly at Harry when he goes to hand over his completed puzzle.

“May I have another?” He beams, those bright eyes enchanting the woman to coo down at him, going to pat his bed of hair.

Surprisingly, Harry dodges the touch. His smile, however, remains fixed.

Clearly disappointed, the woman sighs, grabbing another small block puzzle under the desk to give to Harry. He thanks her before heading back to his seat. She then turns to face Will, her gaze stern, though not as hostile before.

“As Debrah mentioned, we really don’t have the staff at the moment to give Harry the attention he deserves to place him in a good home. Our usual go-to’s are at max capacity unfortunately. Besides, if the police are involved, this might require protective custody or the like, so for the time being, we have no choice but to take this route until further input from the police is provided in an active investigation.”

The woman starts rummaging around the desk—sitting down as he remains standing—starts pulling out some forms, then clicking on her keyboard for a few minutes before the sound of a printer goes off. “What we can do for the time being,” she starts, walking away to grab whatever it is she printed. “Is putting you down for temporary custody until we have clearer instructions going forward. I imagine this arrangement will be no more than a few days at most before someone with more experience can take him off your hands.”

She’s back at the desk, highlighting sections on the documents, signing her name a few times then hands it over to him along with a clipboard.

“Just sign those, I will need a form of Identification and a number we can reach you at, then you can be on your way until we call.”

When Will opens his mouth, frowning, she smiles brightly back at him. “Thank you.” She says, turning away from him to head to a different desk.

Sighing, he grabs everything to sit next to Harry, watching from the corner of his eye as a different employee rushes into the room to grab a file only to head back out. He signs what he needs to, Harry working silently beside him, oblivious to the entire ordeal.

Guilt continues to eat him, but this is for the best, he reasons with himself. He’s not suited for child rearing and Harry is at an age where he’ll remember everything going forward. The good and the bad. What he can do though, is help find the culprits who abandoned the kid.

He’s soon back at the desk, handing over his driver’s license and completed forms to the woman where she prints a copy of everything. Eyebrow raising, he judges as she just hurriedly throws everything haphazardly into a file as she answers the phone, ignoring his existence entirely.

Rolling his eyes, he goes to grab Harry. As he turns around, he hears a crash along with a curse, both Will and Harry whipping their heads to the commotion in surprise.

“Oh no! I’ve spilled my coffee everywhere!” The woman cries, holding up a stack of folders, dripping. “This has been the worst day for everyone,” she mutters darkly, then curses again. “Ma’am? Hello? Are you still there? I’m so sorry for the inconvenience,” she replies into the receiver, holding the landline into the crook of her neck as she frowns down at her mess.

Wanting away as he has his own frustrations to deal with, Will grabs Harry, worried about his little feet that still have no shoes. He’s soon out the door, unknowingly leaving fate into the wrong pair of hands as a tired, overworked, and underpaid employee bins’ the entire files as she deals with an angry woman on the other line, completely forgetting her spiel of temporary custody and whatnot. It’s not her fault that her lazy of a husband kept her up all night. Really.

A breath of fresh air greets the two, both blue and green meeting in silent question before Will looks away first. 

“Well,” he starts, unsure. “I suppose we can just go ahead and grab you a few things and you can have that bath.”

“Alright,” Harry grins, holding onto Will with more confidence than before. “You have warm water?”

“Are you use to only cold?”

“If you’re not first, it doesn’t last very long. I’m never first,” Harry frowns, his little eyebrows scrunching, making his scar raise.

“You can be first this time; I’m sure you’ll find that the water stays warm much longer.”

“Brilliant!” Harry beams, tugging on the back of Will’s hair in excitement. “What’s next?”

Settled into the car, they drive off, Will humming under his breath as he tries to recall any store that sells anything remotely for children. “Let’s get you those shoes for starters.”

Harry is soon back to doing all the talking. Will can’t help but notice that for every sentence the kid gives about how nice the scenery is out the window there’s another two for the boy named Tom. That earlier sentiment that perhaps the other child might be a closeted sadist is only reaffirmed and he is very much concerned for both children.

On one hand, Harry seems pretty well adjusted, able to still smile freely, can still laugh, seems mobile enough and seems to enjoy others’ presence. This Tom, however, sounds the complete opposite and that could very well be because of the circumstances surrounding their upbringing. What is even more concerning however are the signs of co-dependency between the two presenting.

“Yea and one time, Tom caught this couple who wanted to adopt us. Turns out that they were child predators or something. The lady seemed nice, so I was sad to see her go.”

Blinking, Will almost misses his turn, shocked.

“I didn’t believe Tom. He really didn’t want us adopted but then the papers showed the same couple. Turns out Tom had been right all along. That’s fine though, I didn’t give up that someone much nicer would take us away from there.”

That is not fine! Will silently fumes in his head. Just what horrors did these children face? Was there really no one who noticed such a shady establishment and did nothing? He’s about to find out for himself.

Memories of his own childhood try to resurface but he forces them back into the far reaches of his mind. He’s soon brought out of his thoughts when he feels a heavy stare on the side of his face. He can’t help but find himself amused as well as a bit sad.

“Is that right bud?”

Making another turn, he sees the store he’s looking for up ahead, relieved. Now hopefully, they’ll have what he’s looking for.

“Are…are you calling me, a flower?”

“What was that?” He finds the nearest parking spot, turning in and putting the vehicle in park before he can safely face the kid. “A flower?”

“It’s a flower, before it blooms? Aunt Petunia never liked it when her florals weren’t blooming all season. Said the neighbors would talk too much…or something?”

Chuckling, he fondly runs a hand through the thick, messy hair, Harry eagerly leaning into the touch. Surprised, he quickly pulls his hand back, nervously rubbing it against his thigh before remembering to shut the ignition. He’s not fond of touch. Adults or children. Not if he isn’t familiar with them and even then, he isn’t entirely sure he’d be comfortable with it. For some reason though, he’s been able to handle Harry without any problems. In fact, he hasn’t once hesitated which is unlike him.

From the corner of his eye, he’s a witness to Harry pouting before he’s soon back to grinning, peeking through the window at their new surroundings.

“Right, let’s head in.”

Harry is safely back into his arms, head swiveling left and right at the many people strolling by with their full carts and mundane chatters.

“Amazing! Will! I’ve never seen so many automobiles. Why do they look so different?”

Just as he’s about to answer, they reach the doors of Target, Harry shrieking in his ear in surprise as he clutches to Will tighter.

“The doors! They opened on their own! Like magic!”

Grunting, Will tries to pry Harry’s fingers from the back of his neck to no avail. A passing old couple laughs fondly at the sight as Will gives up. Just tries one handedly to grab a cart as Harry jostles about for every new thing.

With some effort, he puts Harry into the cart to sit, quickly putting down his coat for extra cushion. While Harry is too big for the front, he didn’t take up too much room in the cart itself. Holding on, Harry goes on to ask more questions as Will averts eye contact with several curious bystanders.

He’s sure it’s because of the accent. The more excited Harry got, the thicker and jumbled it grew, Will having to struggle to catch up to make any sense of it. Not that Harry actually gave him time to answer before he’s moving onto the next topic. This energy is sort of making him feel old at 33.

Randomly choosing an aisle, Will searches in vain for anything remotely resembling child clothing or shoes. They’ve only just started but already he’s feeling confused and overwhelmed with the multitude of colors and by all the people out shopping who seem to be giving them double glances.

At first, he tries to ignore the stares as he searches and searches as the people seem mostly amused, charmed, but the double glances had him mentally pausing. They looked closer and saw the unkemptness of Harry’s hair, the stained tear tracks left over that had not been wiped completely, the scratches while shallow, seemed to illuminate under the bright fluorescent lights the store installed, highlighting all the misdeeds done to poor Harry. His shoeless feet, dark from walking so long in dirt and grass.

Their eyes would then shift over to him, appraising him, finding him lacking, the weight of their judgment choking him internally. They would see him avoiding their stares. How he hasn’t once groomed his facial hair into any semblance of neatness, preferring to look gruff, unapproachable. His clothing well used, lacking in quality in preference of usability.

His mental walls are cracking, holding back the images that want to barrage him of his own child self, waif thin and hungry, always hungry, the cold glares following him as—

“Will?”

Small hands are holding each side of his face gently, abruptly bringing him back to the present with a shaky breath. They’d stopped at the nearest clothing rack of women’s blouses. He hadn’t known they stopped.

Harry is eyeing him in concern, his hands still holding his face in his grasp as he stands awkwardly in the red cart. A glimpse around shows that they are the only ones in the section, leaving behind the condemnation. Breathing more controlled, he gently pries Harry’s hands away, giving him a small smile.

“Looks like we’re almost there.”

For a while, they stand there in awkward silence, Will waiting for Harry to ask his questions as any child would do. Instead, Harry nods his head, sitting back down as he smiles back up at him.

“Brilliant!”

Relieved, he cowardly takes the opening for what it is, rolling the cart away, stumbling upon the section reserved for children finally. He balks at the price but decides he rarely splurges anyway if it isn’t for his dogs or fishing so it’s fine.

Gathering a few items, he hopes they finish fast as he can’t stand being here for too long.

~ . * . ~

Harry watches as Will grabs a few flannels, his thoughts wandering, questioning what just happened. He’d been happily commenting about how much stuff the store seemed to hold when his magic prickled into awareness in the back of his head. Then the cart had come to a complete stop by clothing that did not seem to fit him or Will.

When he’d turned around to find the source of disturbance, he saw Will standing there, seemingly lost in thought.

Calling out to him, he waits, worrying the bottom of his lip when he receives no response. Shakily standing up, he reaches over, his magic carefully prodding around to find the problem. The only thing he can find is the shakiness of Will’s mind, but Harry doesn’t want to read it. He had no problem doing it with Martha on occasion and Mrs. Cole but he lacks the level of control that Tom is naturally gifted in so he may unintentionally harm Will.

When they first experimented with getting Harry to learn to read minds like Tom, they found that the person would get massive headaches or nausea depending on how fast he can enter the mind or leave it.

Picturing Will in the same state has him frowning.

Will with his overly thick glasses and awkward smiles and kind eyes.

Face scrunching up, he grabs onto Will’s face with both hands, calling out to him softly so as to not spook him. Eventually Will pulls himself out of his own thoughts and is brought back, giving one of those smiles Harry is starting to treasure and hoarding for himself.

With some effort on both their parts, they move forward, Harry laughing aloud when Will has to shuffle to his side, stiffly explaining he doesn’t know what size suits him best. After several, painful long minutes most certainly for Will, he ends up with 3 flannels, 2 packs of 5 shirts in white, black, and beige, a pack of undergarments, socks, and four pairs of trousers, two pajamas sets, they head to the shoe section. That in itself ended up being an ordeal because Harry found himself immensely amused at the difference in shoes compared to Wool’s standard leather browns worn down by the previous occupants.

There were shoes for running, walking, hiking as Will points, and what got his stomach in stitches, were the ones made for swimming.

“Makes no sense,” Harry laughs, holding one floppy shoe up to his face. “Do they make you swim better? Can’t imagine it really.”

Chuckling, Will grabs it to put back. “Do you imagine a lot of things?”

“Oh yea, all sorts of stuff. Just can’t imagine any folk wearing those bang-a-bonk without being laughed at. Though I won’t say anything if you need them.”

“What did you just say?” Will halts, a box of shoes falling from his hands. Flustered, he’s quick to catch it before it hits the floor.

“You know,” Harry grins. “When you sit near water. Or something. Tom and I learned it from Martha’s beau who worked at the pier. He uses it a lot when he mentions going with his friend. Though, that relationship didn’t last long I think.”

“You…” Will starts, chuckling nervously. “Have a way with words.”

“Thank you! Tom would disagree. Says that I pick the strangest and out of date things but he’s a stickler for the right and proper if it means getting the right sort to pay attention.”

“And who is that exactly? The right sort?” Pulling out the shoes from the box, he gestures Harry over to take a seat, handing him one of them hiking looking ones.

“The money sort,” Harry huffs, shaking his head in the negative when he couldn’t get his foot in. Handing it back, he waits for a different pair.

“Ah, yes. That would do it. Maybe Tom is onto something.”

“Sure, but Tom is just picky like that. I don’t mind not having money. It does all sorts of strange stuff to people.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?” Will helps him into another pair, this one fitting much better with just a bit of room to grow into but not too big to have him trip around. Two shoes picked, Harry is then picked up to go back into the cart, both ignoring an older man who scoffs at the sight.

“Dudley.”

“Your cousin?” Will prods when Harry stays silent.

“Mhmm. Dudley cried and cried whenever he didn’t get his way and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would buy him whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Spoiled.”

“Hmm, I see.”

This time, Will is the one who stays silent, Harry frowning when his magic prickles up again in warning.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, watching more people pass by as Will searches for something only he knows a few aisles down.

“Is Dudley the same age? Older?”

“Same age…why?”

“It’s just, well, I’m sure it can’t be helpful for Dudley to have parents like that.”

Eyebrows scrunching, Harry frowns harder, not liking where this is going. “What do you mean? He’s a bully, just like his parents.”

Will avoids his eyes, shrugging as he pushes the cart forward until they reach an aisle with many colourful bottles. Normally he’d have been distracted by the many different scents he could already smell in the air, with the labels that looked enticing, calling to him. Right now, however, all he can feel is a pool of dread as he listens to Will.

“I’m not saying Dudley wasn’t a bully, Harry. I’m just…” a second later a curse falls from Will’s mouth. Harry watches, upset, as Will rubs a hand over his face, knocking his glasses askew before he fixes them. “Look, maybe I’m wrong in saying this. I don’t know Dudley. I hardly know you. Maybe you’re too young to understand and I have no business saying this. Parents are responsible for guiding how their children will grow up. Sometimes you can make all the right choices and it doesn’t matter. In this case, Dudley’s parents have made sure that Dudley will always be a bully, that he will make all sorts of wrong decisions, but he won’t know why. As you said, spoiled.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry whispers. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like Will defending Dudley, he wants to revert time and never bring him up ever again. Dudley already has everything while Harry has only Tom. Who isn’t even by his side right now. He wants Will. He wants Will to adopt him and Tom and grow old and laugh together all the time. He doesn’t want Will saying nice things about the family that wasn’t really family who stuffed him into the cupboard under the stairs. A space that was always cold and dark. Where he was always hungry while Dudley never went without.

“All I’m saying is that Dudley being a bully at four years old is not his fault. It’s his parents. Dudley is going to find out, the older he gets, that the world doesn't function the way he thought it would. That he isn’t the center of the world. He’s going to have a hard time adjusting.”

“So what?” Harry snaps, eyes stinging. “Maybe he deserves it.”

“I don’t think you mean that,” Will says softly.

“Maybe I do,” Harry whispers, bringing up his knees to wrap his arms around.

“I’m sorry,” Will huffs. “I’m really not good at this. My line of work though…”

While still majorly hurt, Harry can’t help but be curious. He can’t ask though. He’s trying really hard to not cry as it feels like his dream of having Will adopt him is collapsing and fast.

Sniffling, Will’s head snaps in his direction after grabbing a blue bottle from the shelf. “Are you crying?” The older man croaks.

“No,” Harry cries, stuffing his face into his arms and knees.

Another curse leaves Will’s mouth.

“Mister, you curse a lot,” Harry can’t help but say, rubbing his face into his arms from the inside.

“One of my many faults I’m told,” Will replies.

Harry feels a presence beside him, but he chooses to stay as is.

“I’m sorry,” Will says gruffly. “I’m not trying to invalidate your experience, Harry. In fact, you don’t even have to forgive Dudley. I only wanted to let you know that sometimes what we see, what we think we know about someone, can be something else.”

After a moment, Harry feels a hand pat the top of his head, petting him clumsily. Waiting it out a bit, he sniffles once more then raises his head to see Will standing there, staring off into the distance.

“I thought you said you weren’t good at this stuff?”

Blinking down at him, surprised, Will says, “I’m not.”

“Liar,” Harry quips. After a pause, he shyly glances up. “You’re not mad at me?”

“What? Of course not.”

Suddenly feeling bashful, Harry just smiles but internally he reminds himself to never, ever bring up Dudley ever again.

While Will still seemed embarrassed about the whole situation, they gladly moved along, Harry getting to pick out scents for his bath along with his own set of puzzles. Then they were soon checking out of the store and back into the car, on their way to Will’s place.

Now that he knows Will doesn’t hate him for his outburst, he’s all the more eager to win the man’s favor for a lifetime commitment of parent and child. Tom always said he’s never met anyone more stubborn than he so surely that meant it would only be a matter of time before he won Will over.

Back in the car, Harry remembers to ask about his job. “Will, what’s your job?”

“I’m a teacher at the FBI Academy.”

Tilting his head, Harry can’t help but raise an eyebrow. At least he thinks he is, he isn’t sure, it’s not like he can actually see himself. “I know what a teacher is but unsure what the rest mean.”

Instead of explaining, Will chuckles.

“What’s so funny?”

Will coughs out an apology though it’s rendered useless as he’s still chuckling. “Sorry. Your accent, it’s cute.”

“I’m cute,” Harry declares boldly. Did Will like cute things? Surely, he does, he’s got a ton of dogs doesn’t he? He can just add Harry right in with them.

Will’s chuckling picks up in volume, his hand right back in Harry’s hair.

See? Harry thinks to himself, he’d fit right in. Will should really pick up on his obvious hints and just adopt him already.

“You sound like a little old man with that accent, it’s cute.”

“Hey!” Harry cries, offended. Like a cute old man? Old men don’t get adopted though.

Grumbling to himself, he pushes his glasses aside to get a feel for his face. Dirty but otherwise smooth skin greets him, his only casualty being his scar as gifted to him from Tom. “I’ve don’t got any wrinkles though. Honestly Will, you jest too much.”

Will makes a weird choking like noise, his laughter deepening. It makes Harry feel warm inside but also, just confused. Who really understood adult humor?

“Your accent…your accent is…?”

“You can tell me, what is my accent like?”

Pondering, Harry gives up. He doesn’t know the equivalent of Will’s accent. While stubborn, he also knows from time to time, just which battles he has a chance of winning and this isn’t one of them. So, he replies with honesty instead.

“It’s warm,” he grins up at Will. Well, mostly honesty and 10 percent chance of manipulating the man into opening his arms. He’ll be waiting for that opening.

“What a charmer,” Will grins back though his flushed cheeks tells Harry he’s pleased.

Faster than he wanted as he’d been enjoying the car ride, they made it back safely to Will’s place. He does not let Harry help carry in any of the bags, just sets him down at the entrance as he goes back to bring in everything himself. 

They’re swarmed by all the dogs for a few seconds before Will tells them to sit down in their beds, so he has space. This tells Harry that they’re really well trained as none of the dogs complain or look too sad about it.

“Let’s have you take that bath now.”

He points up the stairs, Harry internally thankful that he’s grown taller. He’s tired of stairs though it beats being under them he supposes.

Harry eagerly watches as Will pours in the stuff that he said made bubbles. It smelled like fruit. Not like bruised apples either. The liquid is blue, but the bubbles are white and building fast as the water fills up the tub. When Will turns his back to grab a towel, he sneaks in a finger to test the temperature and is pleasantly thrilled that it’s warm, almost bordering on hot.

Quickly wiping his finger on his clothes, Will turns back around to set the towel on the countertop, his face frowning a little.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, wondering if Will’s changed his mind about the bubbles.

“Are you sure you can take care of this yourself?”

“Absolutely,” he replies fast, embarrassed. While he wants to win the man over, he doesn’t want him to think that Harry’s some sort of baby who can’t wash himself. “Been doing it for ages now.”

“Ages. Right. Okay, well…I guess, call out if you need anything? Or I don’t know. I’ll be downstairs.” Will rushes out, already out the door before Harry can respond.

Shrugging, Harry happily chucks away his clothing, dipping himself into the tub with a happy sigh as he’s surrounded by so much warmth. He sets his glasses to the side and dunks himself fully in, blowing into the water then rising back up, giggling.

An image of Tom surfaces up, all the joy drying up in seconds. Poor Tom. Does Tom get a bath too? He hopes he does. It’s now going to be one of his favorite things to enjoy and he wants to share that with him. He has to be with the other partner. Will made no mention so far about a wife or children so surely that meant that Tom is with the other half.

He pictures Will’s partner to be sophisticated, maybe delicate? If Tom is there, then she’d have to be really smart. Maybe too smart? Perhaps she’d like the more expensive things like Tom’s always dreamed of. Although…that sort of person probably wouldn’t be happy here with so many dogs. Pondering on the idea some more, he then pictures someone entirely different. Tom obviously got stuck with a baker. Someone, who loved children, who wanted to adopt more than one. She’d always have a smile for them and have welcoming arms. Yea, that sounded much better. She’d like the outdoors, wouldn’t mind messes, not a violent bone in her body. Exactly what this family to be needed.

Happy with his thoughts, he spends the next 40 minutes being a prune as he thoroughly washes himself and plays with the bubbles until they sadly start to dissipate. Changing into his new clothes, feeling a bit peckish, he makes his way downstairs after he drains the tub.

He’s greeted by a pacing Will who jumps at the sight of him.

“Oh,” Will stiffly says. “Good, good, all is well. Right. I need you to stay here please while I check a few things out.”

Alarmed, Harry scampers the rest of the way down the steps, making sure to not trip. “Check what out? Where are you going?” Don’t leave me, he doesn’t say aloud.

“A look around for Tom. You’re concerned about him, right?”

“Oh, Tom.” Relieved that he isn’t about to be abandoned, Harry shrugs his shoulders. “Why look though? He’s not here.”

“You can’t know that for sure Harry. It’s a big area.”

“Erm, but I do know? We’re…connected?”

Hand paused at the door, Will glances at him. “What does that mean? How?”

How does he answer that, Harry asks himself. He hasn’t a clue how to respond without saying that magic is involved so obviously he would know if Tom was climbing trees or sleeping under rocks. When no obvious answer jumps out at him, Will just tells him not to worry and he’ll be quick then they can have a late lunch.

Harry has no choice but to stay quiet, Will taking a few dogs with him but leaving the rest for Harry. Maybe he should just tell Will sooner. He didn’t get mad at him about Dudley so maybe he’d understand about the magic. That way, Will wouldn’t need to leave him behind again. Like Tom.

Stupid Tom. He better hurry up and bring Will’s new wife. Sighing mournfully at the thought, he flops backwards onto his seat, waiting.

He’s always waiting.

Chapter Text

Harry watches Will Come back inside with the rest of the dogs, face unreadable. He knew though that he wouldn’t find anything when Tom wasn’t even here. He’s obviously with Will’s future wife. If only there was a way to track the older boy, then all would be good. For now, he is going to have to rely on his luck that they would soon find each other.

As promised, Will starts on lunch after telling him that there had been no sign of anyone else and that the police had also stopped by to do their own look around.

Harry thinks they may still be out there as Will seemed tense. In the end, he decided against revealing his magical talent. While Will has been really understanding so far, he didn’t want to chance anything so soon. There is still plenty of time to share that side of himself later.

For lunch, they did end up having to go back out to the nearest grocer, Will sheepishly stating that all he had really was coffee and more fish. Harry though hadn’t minded as the trip only lasted a total of half an hour, Harry getting to browse this next store with more food than he’s ever seen in his entire life. Though, he did wonder if he was somewhere where magic is connected as once again the store doors, opened on their own and no one seemed concerned or amazed. Is he perhaps missing something?

Without too much trouble it went without incident after Will added more than he had intended to their shopping cart just because Harry happened to look at and be intrigued at the cartoon-ish packaging.

Soon enough they were back at Will’s house. After Will had ignored the cashier’s questions about Harry anyway. Will had only grunted in response. The woman didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed quite pretty and interested in Will and if Tom wasn’t already with Will’s future wife, Harry would have asked if she wanted to be his new mum. Too bad.

Will gets to making sandwiches for them after groceries are put away and dogs get another bathroom break.

Harry happily enjoys his food, mimicking Will as he’s never had anything so large before or filled with so much meat, but decides he likes it less than the fish but more than anything else he’s had before this. Will seemed worried when he’d only been able to eat half, but Harry shows him his stomach, bloated and quite full, patting it in satisfaction.

It’s when all food is done with that there lingers an awkward silence without any of Harry’s usual chatter to fill it in.

Will is sitting down on his bed, which Harry does silently question why it’s placed here of all places and Harry sits on the only other available chair in the living space.

They look at each other, Will’s gaze fleeting just as quickly as it arrives before doing this dance all over again as Harry racks his brain for anything else to say. He can’t think of a single thing however as his days had always been spent either doing chores or running with Tom to look for new hiding spots away from prying adults to have their little experiments…oh no!

“Birds!” Harry squeaks, hands clasping and squeezing his newly bought trousers in excitement! “I can reach Tom with birds!”

“…huh?” Will chokes out, fixing his glasses to peer at Harry, those bright blues looking mighty concerned.

Though Harry isn’t noticing anything right now because he feels so flustered, so dumb because of course he had another way of reaching out to Tom. The surest way of finding him if the other wasn’t within range of magic. They plainly practice it all the time when one can get away but the other cannot from chore obligations. After all, Tom had been completely fascinated with the colourful birds they’d been able to make their very first time together.

Laughing he beams at Will but his smile wanes when he finally notices Will’s expression. Oh, right, he’s certainly made a mess of this, hasn’t he?

 Erm, how does one fix this exactly?

~ . * . ~

He had been hoping this wouldn’t be the case but of course his hopes are dashed and rightly so. No child could fully escape the cruelty of their abusers without some cause of concerning behaviors showing sooner or later. He had assumed incorrectly that Harry had escaped the same fate of others his age and overlooked any signs just because Harry had been so eager to give out his smiles and laughter to someone like Will.

He's going to need to inform Harry’s foster parents to sign him up for therapy because this doesn’t bode well. Heart aching, Will tries to put on a smile but must have failed as for the first time, Harry narrows his eyes at him in suspicion for only a split second before he’s beaming innocently but Will caught it, nonetheless.

This action does make him pause despite the fact that Harry has never done anything so far as to be the suspicious sort.

The cog wheels of his brain turn regardless and keeps turning as it always does, information coming and going where they need to. Something…isn’t quite adding up and he doesn’t mean the birds. He shuts those thoughts away for now however, because right now, Harry doesn’t need distrustfulness aimed at him when he’s just been through an ordeal.

Instead, he tries harder to return Harry’s smile, asking again about the birds.

“Erm,” Harry fidgets, his hands running up and down his knees in nervousness. “I was just joking. I reckon you don’t talk to birds?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.” Will hesitates before deciding to ask, “would you say they make great conversation?”

This question throws Harry off, not entirely but does as expected, distracting the kid. Though he doesn’t want to overwhelm or be suspicious towards Harry, he cannot stop the part of himself that collects what he notices to file away for later use.

“Conversation?” Harry stops rubbing his knees as he ponders the question. “No, not really. They’re really good at passing messages though. And finding what you need them to. I’d say snakes are far better at conversations.” Harry quickly looks up to read Will’s expression, telling the other man that he’s said something he hadn’t intended to share.

What that is exactly, Will hasn’t a clue. Not yet at least. He doesn’t think Harry is maliciously hiding anything meant to harm anyone, but he is keeping a secret. A big one and if it has anything to do with his abusers, Will might have to get it out of Harry if it meant helping him escape from them fully. 

~ . * . ~

Harry looks away first, upset. He hadn’t meant to say any of that aloud. He doesn’t want Will to think of him any stranger than he must already. He just can’t help it. Will is a great listener, gives Harry all of his attention and gives him dazzling, small smiles, is warm and welcoming, and he doesn’t want to give that up.

“Do you talk to many things?”

Harry faces towards Will again, trying to read his expression alone.

“…do you find me strange?”

“Not any stranger than anyone else.” Will is quick to say.

Before Harry can frown, processing the older man’s statement, Will continues on.

“I find many people strange, including myself. Is there such a thing as normal? I don’t believe so. There is nothing wrong with being strange. It’s how other people react that tells you much about that person.”

“Like what?” Harry muses, intrigued. Will doesn’t think him strange! Er, well actually, maybe he does? But he doesn’t consider it enough to get rid of him…he thinks. Is that what Will is saying?

“Well, like someone telling you that you’re strange for liking the color pink as a boy. Do you think boys shouldn’t like the color pink?”

“Pink is a great color! Though…it’s for girls, isn’t it? That’s what Martha says.”

“And I say Martha is wrong. It’s a marketing strategy actually.”

“…a what?” Harry tilts his head, frowning some more. He thought they were going somewhere with this but finds himself lost elsewhere instead. Adults really need a book for children, he thinks silently to himself. Maybe he should invent one if there isn’t already one.

“Um, never mind, that’s not really important for you right now. What I mean, is that someone in charge said that pink should be for girls and blue for boys to make money. But before that, no one had a problem wearing any color they liked. Because they liked it. Right?”

“So, you’re saying…if that someone who wasn’t in charge hadn’t said anything…boys could like pink?”

“Right. They can like any color. It didn’t matter before, so why does it now? What do you think Martha means when she said that to you?”

“Erm, that she liked pink more?”

Will chuckles softly, getting more comfortable in his seat. Harry relaxes a bit at the sound, some of the tension he’d been holding being released he hadn’t noticed before.

“You can say that. But I think it says that she feels that girls and boys belong in boxes.”

At Harry’s dismayed gasp, Will backtracks hurriedly.

“I mean figuratively, there’s no actual boxes.”

“Fig, figurturly,” Harry repeats, finger rising to fix his crooked glasses from tilting to the side too much.

“Close enough,” Will murmurs. “Martha and people like her find it more comfortable to know where they think people should belong, they can’t see themselves going outside those invisible box lines. Therefore, they find it strange, because to them it’s easier to follow along. There’s no sudden change. There are rules to follow which makes their day to day lives easier.”

“Oh! I see now,” Harry grins, leaning forward excitedly. “Tom’s mentioned something like this before. So, it’s not that I’m strange, it’s that they’re too scared to want to understand,” Harry beams proudly. “Like cattle!”

“Um, yes, exactly that,” Will smiles before it crumples in shock. “Wait, no, go back. What? Cattle?”

“Yeah, Tom says cattle only follow because it’s all they know until someone much smarter comes along to distrupt that—”

“—disrupt,” Will adds, unable to help himself. It’s too cute for any reason.

“Yea, that, disrupt that comfort? He might have said something else after that but I stopped listening.”

“You mention that you do that a lot actually,” Will adds, a bit unsettled honestly.

“Yea, Tom talks too much. I reckon if I listen to him any longer, I’d be an adult by now.”

“Right,” Will agrees as it seems expected out of him when Harry stares beseechingly. “Um, Tom sounds really smart,” he adds for something else to say.

“He is,” Harry nods in agreement. “But don’t tell him that, his head is already big enough.”

“It’ll be our secret,” Will chuckles. He then fixes his expression, looking almost serious, hesitant, as he’s now the one who fidgets with his trousers leg. His finger taps to an imaginary tuneless tune that only he can hear as he gazes out of his window. “Harry, do you ever find Tom aggressive or frightening? Have you ever found yourself scared of him for any reason?” Will is still looking out of his window, waiting a beat before turning back to Harry.

Surprised, Harry adopts Will’s expression, treating the question seriously. He’s not sure why it’s important or why Will seems so serious, but Harry finds that he’s not too concerned. After all, Will hasn’t said anything about getting rid of Harry as of yet.

“Well, maybe at first,” he hedges. He can be a little honest, he thinks, but not too much. He might need to play up all of Tom’s qualities so Will thinks Tom is a great catch. Tom does need to be adopted too or he might just pull his hair out of frustration at this point. “Tom is only scary because people don’t understand him.”

“Do they understand you?”

Blinking, Harry shrugs. “No, not really. But Tom does. And I understand him now too. Tom taught me a lot of things I didn’t know before. And I think I’ve taught him some things too though he might not agree aloud. That’s fine, I know he cares.”

“Did you know Tom before…the orphanage?”

“No, we met that first day when I was dropped off. He was a bit of a berk. It took months for him to be nice to me. Since then, we’ve been really close.”

Will hums under his breath, his thoughts elsewhere. “You mentioned you have a connection with Tom, what’s that like?”

Here, Harry’s thoughts came to an erupt stop, his lip caught between his teeth immediately as he scrambles to think of an answer. Any answer. The bird and snake talk can be explained as an overactive imagination, right? It’s the angle Tom gives to strangers when their hiding spots have been discovered at random and they’re being questioned what they’re up to. But how does he explain this one? He thought Will hadn’t really remembered or heard correctly since he had been fine without an answer earlier.

What is he supposed to say!?

“Is it hard to explain?” Will asks after another long silence ensues.

“Erm, maybe? Mister I think—”

“It’s Will,” Will huffs, though not unkindly.

“Right, Will. I reckon that what I feel can’t be explained because it’s simply impossible. Not unless you’re special too.”

Harry eyes the man up and down, gaze narrowed before flicking his gaze away in a second, his nose upturned. “And Tom might just say, you don’t have it.” Quickly bringing his attention back to Will, he hurriedly rushes out, “not that you’re not special mister!” Harry talks over Will’s protest. “I mean, I think you are just not the kind that matters. To Tom of course.”

“Of course,” Will dryly repeats.

“Yea,” Harry agrees. “And so, I can’t explain it if you don’t have it because it can’t be understood by the mundane.”

“Never heard me being mundane before,” Will mutters, fixing his glasses. “Who even uses words like that at your age?”

“Exactly what I’ve said to Tom,” Harry nods decisively, glad someone else understood.

“Right,” Will murmurs, eyeing Harry some more. “Right,” he repeats more slowly, as if to himself.

“Are you sure you’re not my dad? I think we look a bit alike,” Harry mutters after a bit when they both reach for their glasses at the same time.

Will coughs, bringing his hand back down in a rush, then stands.

“Can’t say I’ve ever been with—ah, nope, I don’t think so. And no, you can’t call me dad.” Will adds as an afterthought.

“You hesitated,” Harry grins. “Don’t worry Will, I know what I’m doing.”

“….sure.” Confused, Will watches Harry rise from his seat as well, only to move to the table near the fireplace.

“What’s all this?” Harry points down at the swaths of colours he’d noticed earlier.

“Fishing lures…would you like to learn?”

“Absolutely!”

Chuckling, Will goes to move closer, bending down on one knee to show him everything on the table that’s to do with fishing and what they’re intended to do.

Like that, the day passes with Harry learning everything his brain can about fishing, excited because Will seemed excited to share it with someone. He makes his first one right then and there, Will using his much bigger hands to guide his movements, unintentionally making Harry flush with a pulsating warmth that he wishes to keep forever. It’s a warmth that spells family. A warmth that means ‘welcome’ and ‘love’ and ‘acceptance,’ everything he’s ever hoped to have and it’s right here, showing him how to cast an imaginary line and chuckling at his failed exaggerated attempts. Harry yearns like never before, his eyes stinging. He wants so badly.

That night, tucked into a bed far larger than he’d ever hoped to touch, he knows he’s going to have to bring his all to win Will over. And for that, he’s going to have to adopt more of Tom’s persuasive attempts…without magic clouding the mind of course. He'd be absolutely devastated if he learned Will only kept him because his magic told the older man to do so.

Waking up felt like sunshine and not because the sun had actually been beaming down at him in a steady stream of heat, warming only one side of his body that’d been exposed. This is his first bed to have ever felt soothing, no awkward lumps to be found nor creaks to sting one’s ears. “Fantastic,” Harry breathes groggily, rubbing his eyes.

In the daylight, the room looks a bit cozier but no less bare of items, not that he minded too much. It had been a tad lonely however without Tom and now Will. Putting on his glasses, Harry hums to the sound of the birds he can hear chirping right outside, moving to open the door to head down when he snaps his head to look out right at the flighty animals. “Birds!” Harry gasps in a whisper shout.

Stumbling, he makes his way over as he searches around the room for anything he can sacrifice that won’t be noticed or missed. Reaching the window, he spots one of his newly bought socks he’d tossed off of him sometime in the night. Grabbing it, he concentrates in the familiar breathing pattern that allowed him to mold it into the bird he needs. As soon as a beak appears, he hears a knock at his door before it opens, revealing Will who gets a sock thrown at his face for his efforts.

“Good morn—hmpgh—” Is all Will manages to get out, stumbling from taking a step.

Harry stands there, mouth agape as he registers what he’s just done, now wide awake. Heart in his throat, as soon as he heard that door open, Harry only thought to get rid of the evidence but instead of anywhere else like under the bed or the window, for some reason, his brain thought Will’s face had been the more obvious choice.

Flushing in embarrassment, Harry rushes to Will’s side who is looking down at the sock in his hand, puzzled.

“Did you just throw your sock at me?”

“It’d been an accident, I swear.”

“How do you accidentally-no, never mind, it doesn’t matter. Breakfast is ready if you’re hungry.” Will tosses the sock onto the floor then makes his way back down.

Sighing in relief, Harry kicks the offending sock away as he follows after Will.

Harry enjoys what Will calls a classic American breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and bacon while the older man only serves coffee for himself while munching on a bacon or two. Harry thinks the syrup is a bit too sweet but having fluffy pancakes makes it the perfect combo. He’s also a fan of the crispy edges on the pancakes while Will seemed embarrassed. Sadly, it’s after he’s cleaned his plate of food that Will tells him he’s to be dropped off with a neighbor for a few hours because of work.

Apparently, he couldn’t call out as he’d already used his days off a few weeks ago from being sick. To say he’s devastated is a massive understatement. In fact, Harry would go so far as to say he’d been ready to throw his first ever tantrum.

Harry pouts, his eyes stinging as he gets dressed as slowly as possible, Will’s frown matching his mood as Will seems a little sad too. Harry perks up a little on the inside at the sight though guilt deflates the emotion just as quick. He doesn’t want to make Will feel bad, but they’ve just met, they needed to get to know each other so that he could win Will over. And he didn’t get to send out his bird to search for Tom!

They drive in silence, Will starting then ending his sentences to get Harry to talk but Harry has no words to give at the moment as he’s trying not to cry.

In the end, as the car drives on a long stretch of a paved dirt pathway, he can’t help but ask in a whisper, “will you come back for me Will?”

For a moment, Will stays silent, just keeps driving as he stares ahead.

Swallowing painfully, a lone tear drops from the corner of Harry’s eye.

“Absolutely,” Will croaks out, not as soft sounding but just as fragile.

Rubbing his eyes, Harry sighs in relief through muffled tears, using the nearest hand to grab onto Will’s sleeved blazer that isn’t on the steering will and stays like that until they reach a farm-looking house.

Will introduces him to Betty who owns a horse, several goats, a few pigs, some chickens, one dog, and two cats. Wide eyed, Harry hides behind Will as he takes in the sight, the morning a bit chilly compared to when he first woke up in the forest.

He warmed up to Betty some as she seemed like a nice, elderly sorta woman. Vaguely, he recalls another elderly woman as Betty’s two cats twine themselves between his knees as Betty and Will talk softly amongst themselves. An elderly woman who smelled old, whose house had been littered with pictures and cats. Cats everywhere. He’s not sure of her name anymore. Remembers that she’d been the nice lady next door to the Dursley’s who’d told him of his birthday when he asked.

He then completely forgets about her as he has to watch Will say bye and drive off, Betty patting the top of his head as she lets him know that Will will be back soon.

Sniffling mournfully, Harry has no choice but to accept this. At least he can make that bird now to send to Tom so they can figure where they were both at and find a meeting point or something and then Tom can finally help him win over Will. Sighing again, he turns around to face Betty who looks down at him with a bright, toothily grin.

Trepidation kicks in, Harry taking a step back.

“How about helping an old woman herding in the chickens eh?”

Like that, Harry is left with no time to himself, let alone his thoughts as he’s busy chasing chickens to their coops, fighting goats from eating his new trousers or his wild, unmanageable hair. The dog tripping him in excitement every time he had to run and making sure the pigs only picked the flowers Betty deemed safe that they liked to decorate their pens with.

By the time he could catch his breath, it’d been time for lunch, which Betty had prepared some type of casserole dish with the little green looking mini trees Will had showed him. Betty called it broccoli but Harry much preferred tiny trees. The food had been warm and filling then he’d been sent out again so Betty could show him how to brush a horse.

Excited at the prospect, Harry had agreed eagerly, following as Betty told him to always stand in front of the horse, never too fast as to spook, and never, ever approach from the back unless he wanted to be kicked from six ways to Sundays, whatever that meant. Now more cautious, Harry, standing on a three-tiered foot stool, got to brush the beautiful coat of a warm chocolate brown horse named Ruster.

From that day forward, Harry promised himself he would one day ride a horse just because Betty filled with talk for the rest of the day about her younger years spent in rodeos of Arizona’s before moving here.

What was an Arizona? Harry hadn’t a clue but decided he would rather not be near one if the heat she recalled held any truth. Betty might not be entirely human, he thinks to himself later that evening. For no human should be able to withstand heat like that and survive.

Around 5 p.m. as Betty said aloud, lounging around the rug in front of her lit up fireplace with a mug of cocoa and snuggled between the cats and dog, Will rings the doorbell.

Excitement and earlier betrayal simmering beneath, Harry rushes to the door before Betty, throwing it open to greet the flustered man who’d been about to knock afterwards.

“Mister!” Harry calls out, grinning up at the sighing man.

“Harry,” Will says, looking to Betty afterwards. “Thanks Betty, what do I owe you?”

“Not a darn thing. Little Harry here has already paid in labor. Now shoo, reruns of Golden Girls are about to be on soon.”

Will doesn’t get to respond as Harry had thrown himself at the man, making him stumble a few steps back with a grunt as he’s forced to pick Harry up. Just as Harry had planned of course. And well, because he’d been really happy to see that Will kept his word and had come back for him.

On the drive back to Will’s, Harry tells the older man all about the animals he got to meet, what he did, how much he had ran throughout the day, asking what was an Arizona, and when they stepped inside the house, Harry flopped himself on one of the dog beds, claiming that he’d just sleep there instead, thanks.

Chuckling, Will made them dinner, asking questions when he remembered to do so, but mostly, just letting Harry fill in the silence as they spent time with the dogs and ate.

Then, beyond tired, Will ended up carrying Harry to bed as he’d dozed off at some point on ‘Russel’ and like that, three days had passed in a similar fashion with Harry completely forgetting about his bird mission.

In fact, most of his days were spent not being chased by the dog but by David, the unrelenting goat who had a penchant for his hair for some reason.

On his fourth day at Betty’s, Harry is struggling and yelling at David to let go of his hair even though his hair has thus far, remained unscathed for the most part. David of course, promptly refuses, bleating in glee as he got a good hold with his stingy teeth.

Grabbing a hold of each side of David’s face, his own flushing from exertion, he hears a strange hissing sound. Both Harry and David turn as one, the goat absentmindedly chewing with his eyes bulging out the sides as they’re confronted with the sight of a bright bird who landed on a nearby stump, clutching a snake who then eagerly hisses, “feed me green eyesss!”

~ . * . ~

The second night spent at Hannibal’s, Tom ends up spending all of his time in the older man’s library where it was deemed okay for him to touch as the man himself spent his time cooking their meals and teaching him a bit of etiquette. Not that he minded really as this will only help him pave the way to the future he wants. He does find it a bit odd nevertheless how meticulous the man is about food.

It isn’t even that the man is making extravagant meals but that the details included how he sourced his food as he had explained that night after wrapping his wrist from cutting it. He did not make it into a big deal, did not enunciate the importance of it, but nor did he needed to for Tom to understand that for some reason, this process was and is, important to the man. Did it count as a weakness, however? He isn’t too sure, and thus, he is spending his time in the library, away from the man’s steady gaze as he decides on his next move to make.

Most of the books in Hannibal’s collection had been written in languages Tom hasn’t the faintest clue of reading. He isn’t even sure if he wants to learn them either. Hannibal had had to show him earlier the section in which he keeps his English written work of collection and told him to let him know if he had any questions.

Tom internally scoffs at the very idea of going to that man to ask anything. He might lord it over him or something. It was after all, something Tom would do, even held in silence. It was all in the gestures. Besides, the man had outright declared himself a psychiatrist. Tom knew better than to ever trust those sorts.

Mrs. Cole always promised he would be sorry if he were ever caught doing anything nefarious. That he’d be hauled straight to the psychiatrists who would gleefully show him better, never to be seen again. His time is better spent gathering knowledge.

In the end he found himself intrigued by the books written by Dante Alighieri and ended up picking The Divine Comedy, though he could understand none of it yet. Frustrated, he did find himself a dictionary from the shelf though it did little to help after all of his efforts. Hannibal’s offer came back to him to remind him, but he pushes the thought away. He refuses. He detests the very idea.

The memory of Hannibal slicing his wrist in a perfect, practiced, motion still enrages him as much as it sends shivers down his spine in a silent regard of warning. All he can think of, is how many times has Hannibal practiced slicing into flesh as one does a cut of butter. How many bodies fell from those particular hands, unaware of the danger that lay before them? He still has so many questions but knows he will not get an answer until there is mutual trust.

Sighing in frustration, he has no idea on how to go on about getting it. Hannibal is ever observant, and his usual set of trickery isn’t going to cut it here. He needs a plan.

It’s then it comes to him in a moment of clarity. In fact, he feels a right fool for not thinking of it earlier. Has he not other options than reading the man’s mind at every attempt? Of course he does, but for some reason, had completely forgotten all about them because of this strange twist of fate.

He gets up from where he had holed himself in the corner of the room instead of the table offered in the room to check where Hannibal is at that moment. Leaving the space, he walks to the end of the stairs, peering down them carefully, straining his ears for any sound. After a moment, he can hear the soft trails of music playing nearby, the harsher sounds of pans clanking onto the stove following.

Heading back inside the library, he softly closes the door until there’s only just a slight gap of an opening. Hannibal had asked that he keep it open, but the man had not clarified by how much. With that, he goes back to his corner of the room he’s claimed for himself, sitting back down. Curling his hand until his palm faces him, he concentrates on the air around it, gathering enough energy to conjure his desires into a form. The very air in the space above his hand stills, very small particles sparking and smoking so faintly until a small form appears.

Curling in his hand, sat a small, brown, upturned nose of a snake, with beautiful dark patterns decorating its back.

“ What ’ sss the meaning of thisss you two-legged sssspeck — ”

“Quiet,” Tom hisses in a low whisper, eyeing the door ahead suspiciously. Nothing jumps out and no shadow lingers so he looks back down at the serpent, whispering even lower. “You will do my bidding, I’ve a job for you.”

“ A ssspeaker! Yesss, ssspeaker, adventuresss for meee, pleassses me sssoo. ”

Rolling his eyes since there are no witnesses to gape, Tom concentrates back onto the snake. “Yes, yes. I need you to be my eyes, but you must not get caught.”

“ I am quietessst, most fassst, I am bessst sssspeaker. ”

Refraining from sighing, Tom just waits for the snake to finish its silent monologue, continuing as if it never even spoke.

“ It is very important that you not get caught. You will watch the man ’ s every movement. Remember it all very carefully, then come back to me tonight, when all is still. ”

Getting up from his seat, Tom carries the pleased serpent out the door but as he walks halfway’s through the room, the door opens, revealing a frowning Hannibal.

Heart thudding painfully, Tom curls his hand away, the serpent falling silent without any prompt as it stills so it doesn’t slip from his grip.

“Tom, I said the door is to stay open.” Hannibal steps in, his eyes immediately zoning to the hand Tom is hiding away.

Tom is also frowning, almost downright petulant as he replies, “The door wasn’t closed all the way. It still counts.” His hand curls even further away, his fingers tugging the back of his shirt to open a small enough of a gap.

As if reading his mind, the snake crawls into the space, its coils gripping almost painfully against his skin to not fall or slide. Tom does not flinch as he’s used to the feeling after honing this skill perfectly after many, many attempts to conjure things without the use of transfiguration.

“While you are correct that I did not specify exactly what constitutes as a fully opened door, you know I did not need to Tom. Now. What is in your hand?”

Bringing his hand back, Tom shows an empty palm, upset that Hannibal had zoned in on it as the problem without any insight as to why. The man is far too observant for his liking but also intrigues him as he’s used to being the only intelligent one in the room.

Hannibal is silent, still staring at his hand before slowly bringing his gaze back to Tom, slowly, purposefully.

“I see,” Hannibal says, his expression smoothing out to something Tom cannot read. “I came to tell you dinner will be ready in 10. Come down soon with your hands washed thoroughly if you will.” Without waiting for a response, Hannibal turns around, walking back out, the door opened in its entirety.

Clenching his hand once, twice, then releasing, relaxing, Tom walks out the same door, only to turn the opposite to head over to the loo to wash his hands. He’s upset because Hannibal had somehow known that something was up without any insight as to why, but Tom will soon find out how because he knows, it hasn’t a thing to do with magic. At least, not the kind he yet understands.

Washing his hands, he feels the small snake trail down until it reaches the floor. Bending down, he tells it to stay behind, but then pauses, hesitant.

For as long as he can remember, his affinity with serpents is as natural to him as breathing is for one having done it all their life. It’s intuitive and practice that leads him to then ask, “did the man smell strange to you in anyway? What does your instincts tell you?”

“ Not prey, ssstrong, too ssstrong for me to eat at thissss time ssspeaker. Will get bigger, then, eat. ”

Withholding a sigh, Tom stands up. He already knew that and didn’t need a snake’s opinion to know that Hannibal is more than strong enough to take on a small, brown-nosed snake of all things, no bigger than his palm. This particular snake isn’t even venomous for human beings. He should know as he had once tried to off Amy. Creating a venomous one hadn’t worked much in his favor yet either. Once he got his hands on a book to tell him the deadliest serpent, however, that would change. He digresses though, he’d been expecting a more telling answer.

From what he could tell, for the most part, snakes have poor sight from his many a night observation, although their sense of smell could be superior to that of most canines. Not that he knows many but if one of his snakes could remain unnoticed by many of the strays that sometimes passed by the orphanage, but the snake long knew a canine was passing by, did that not attest to that very theory?

Again, that intuitive kinship for snakes had him leaning over the swaying serpent, sniffing for a few breaths of moment.

It’s faint, almost unnoticeable but present all the same. The brown-nosed serpent smells of something damp, earthy, like when rain hits soil and permeates the air. It’s a distinct smell and one that has saliva pooling in his mouth in faint remembrance.

Harry had once accidentally transported them to an abandoned building in the country, rain pouring heavily down, before they could figure out how to get back to Wool’s. Back in the city, rain smelled nothing like it, just fowl and dirty in some areas because of the factories and nearby garbage. Nothing earthy about it. He recalls his mouth watering when he got a whiff of rain meeting rich soil, not understanding why and still doesn’t.

Could Hannibal somehow smell the little serpent? Even from that distance? What if that wasn’t even it. What if Tom was just being too obvious or Hannibal had some other way of finding out everything he needed to know.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, he gnaws the inside of his cheek, debating. In the end, he bent down once more to tap onto the wiggling snake. He supposes the easiest and fastest method of finding out what Hannibal knew was to eliminate what he didn’t.

“Wait till I am out of sight, then count to 10 and come down until you see me but remain unseen all the while.” He then had to teach the snake how to count. He’s not sure that the serpent completely understood but he knows he’s already spent enough time in the restroom to be suspicious. This will have to be enough for now.

Going down the steps, he taps his own shoulders to hide away most of his scent but for his hands that used Hannibal’s hand soap.

The older man is already seated at the head, standing as he pours himself a glass of wine. When he catches sight of Tom, Tom gets the deep satisfaction of seeing Hannibal’s brows furrow for just a split second.

If he had blinked, he’d have missed it. He gnaws the inside of his cheek some more to prevent himself from grinning like mad.

“It smells lovely,” Tom murmurs, seating himself down where a plate was set down nearby. And it did, the smell of oranges and sweetness. He withholds a grimace, anticipating something overly sugary. “What are we having?”

Hannibal looks away, setting down his poured glass as he grabs utensils. His movements are a bit slowed down than earlier or even yesterday. Was it because of Tom’s questionable discovery?

“Duck à l'orange. I wish to better read your palette as I’ve noticed you’ve a slight intolerance to sweetness. How much, well, we will find out.”

His plate is soon filled with duck and glazed in a sticky, thickened sauce, some type of greenery placed on the side, and a small bowl of more greenery with flecks of orange.

“I imagine your previous care was found lacking in nurturing your body into some semblance of health,” Hannibal murmurs as he pours Tom’s own glass with cold water.

“You could say that,” Tom mutters, embarrassed for some reason though he shouldn’t be as what Wool’s served was out of his hands.

It’s when Hannibal seats himself down that Tom gets to witness the man whip his head over to where he knows where the steps are. Where his snake should be. Heart pounding, he watches as Hannibal stands. “Excuse me for a moment Tom,” the man murmurs distractedly, walking away.

Heart pounding, Tom bends his head down, the table covering his face at that angle. He can’t help it, cannot even stop the pleased, almost manic grin that takes over. It had been a gamble; one he was so sure would give him nothing but one he wanted to eliminate as a possibility just the same. After all, nothing was truly impossible when Tom was the one who could conjure serpents on a whim.

Breathing in deeply, he wills a small trickle of his magic to wind through furniture, bypassing Hannibal who made it near the steps, his magic finding the tightly coiled snake, whisking it away to wherever snakes go when they’re conjured.

Hannibal stops in his tracks, Tom imagining confusion warping that otherwise smug, condescending face. Gleeful, he takes in a shaky breath, willing himself to calm down, to not be so obvious, but he got his answer. So quickly too. He’s not even sure he’d have thought anything of the interaction earlier if he hadn’t been so used to Harry’s bout of randomness when they did their experiments. They got too used to questioning every little thing just in case. Tom because of practicality, but Harry because he had hoped to bump into someone like them eventually. For surely, they could not be the only ones capable of such feats, and though Tom would enjoy disagreeing, he also knows Harry may have a point.

Eventually, Hannibal makes his way back to his seat, his back ramrod straight, all of that elegant looseness since they’ve met, gone.

To hide away his expression, Tom looks away to a somewhat large painting over the fireplace, the woman naked, lounged about with a swan near her—grimacing, Tom looks away, his face hot and uncomfortable. He then eyes the man suspiciously when Hannibal sits down.

“Why is she naked?” he blurts out, unable not to.

Hannibal had his mouth open, as if he had intended to say something before Tom interrupted. The man then looks over to the painting, before turning back to Tom as he places a napkin onto his lap.

Unintentionally, Tom copies the movement.

“Leda and the Swan by François Boucher, painted sometime in 1740.” Hannibal then carefully makes small cutting motions, mentioning nothing of why he had stepped away from his seat in the first place. “What do you think the painting means?”

Raising a judging brow, Tom does not bother to look at the painting, his face still uncomfortably hot. Paintings had meanings? Whatever for? He shrugs, not having a clue.

“An answer of, ‘I’m unsure,’ will suffice Tom. Refrain from shrugging your shoulders if you will,” Hannibal informs him, taking a small bite of both the duck and the glaze.

His face hot for a different reason, Tom scowls, still copying the older man’s movements. “Of course, sir.” He takes a bite, the texture of the meat crispy around the edges, parting in his mouth delicately, juicy from the center, the glaze bitter with only a hint of sweetness to balance out the flavors as one. It is almost too many flavors to cope with, his tongue struggling to catch up, but his stomach pleased, nonetheless.

“I take it that Duck à l'orange suits your tastes just fine,” Hannibal says, watching him.

Reluctantly, Tom nods, saying, “it does sir. It’s delicious,” and leaves it at that, not wanting the man to be too pleased with himself.

"That is good, I feared it may have been too sweet for you.”

Huffing under his breath, Tom continues to eat.

“It was written that Leda was the Queen of Sparta in Greek mythology, and Zeus, the god of sky and thunder admired her beauty so much, he visited her, masquerading as a swan. What he did after, well, I suppose that will have to wait until you’re a bit older, I imagine.”

“It’s inappropriate, a sin,” Tom declares, listening carefully.

“Are you a believer of God?” Hannibal asks, curious.

As if, Tom internally scoffs. “No sir. Are you?” he asks, equally curious.

Hannibal takes another bite, the something green, Tom hesitating in following but wanting to know what it tasted like. It’s crisp, giving life to his tongue once more from the duck and orange, as if cleansing. He resumes eating, waiting for an answer.

“God is howling, terrific, powerful,” Hannibal finally answers, taking a sip from his glass, looking at the painting above the mantel, contemplative.

Tom, confused, does not ask any questions, and thus, nothing else is said for the remaining time they finish their dinner.

Going to bed for the night, after washing up, Tom reviews everything said and still doesn’t find an answer. What makes God powerful exactly? Did that mean Hannibal is a believer? He cannot grasp that concept. How could Hannibal, strong and surely familiar with death from his own hands, believe in a higher being that no one’s seen? It would certainly explain the bible in the library, several different versions in fact, but Tom is hesitant to say for sure that the strange man is a follower of any kind, let alone one that zealots bend over backwards to please in churches. If Hannibal is indeed a pious man, what makes him one exactly? 

With that last thought, he settles down to sleep, waiting for tomorrow to act out more of his plans to figure out the older man.

~ . * . ~

Hannibal lounges in his bed for the night, his pencil making soothing, scratching sounds as it colors over paper, his mind cataloging today’s events.

He stores the memory of smelling soaked soil in the library, coming from Tom, or at least the hand he had hidden. Though nothing came of it, the scent did not go away, almost saturating the air. His pencil continues to chafe in well-practiced motions. While the scent smelled of rained on soil, it also smelled of forest, not one native to Baltimore. Not even the soil smelled of anything familiar, not exactly. With so many diverse crosses of vegetation and trees, of course no one forest could ever smell the same. 

Shading over the figure on paper, he then goes over dinner, where the scent of musk and something similar to skunk but not quite greeted him somewhere at the bottom of his stairs. Of course, he went to check but as soon as he turned the corner, nothing had been there, the scent lingering only for a moment before it slowly started to dissipate. He had not imagined the scent. Right now, he is meticulously going through his memories to match the scents of what he knew as he continued to sketch before bed.

The boy persisted in his unrelenting strangeness. Something is afoot and he will soon find out, the boy too eager to prove himself which will only guarantee a slip.

The final sound of his pencil scraping across the page resounds. He sets down his tool to stare down at the broken body as he remembered, the glaring irregularities staring him in the face. A feat to which one Tom’s size is impossible to achieve with such little body mass, malnutrition coloring the corners of the boys’ eyes, his limbs shaky and breath labored under the stress and adrenaline. He did not need to know Tom his whole life to understand that the boy could not have possibly fractured bones not caused by the only weapon around. You could put a grown man before the body and demand he replicate the scene and not even achieve half of what Tom had done.

The unnamed man’s lungs had clearly been crushed as if a hand had reached in itself which is impossible as no mark had been found around the skin, the body then mangled sometime before the boy’s final stab. Clearly the boy had done it as no one else had been around, but Hannibal cannot let go that something else is going on.

Tom, having never seen a cell phone could be explained away as rural and anti-electricity areas still exist and will most likely continue to preserver.

What could not, however, was the image before him or the fact that somehow, Tom had been able to sneak in snakes. His mind cataloged the scent and made a match but of three different snake species. He admits to not knowing them all, but he’s read up on some recipes he at one time wanted to try. He knows of at least a few species in each category of scent but isn’t aware that a one could possess the scent of all three.

He could find no traces however that a serpent of any kind had roamed his home which both intrigues him and has him mildly annoyed.

For now, he will wait for any other variables to play out before he decides on how to move forward. What he does know for sure is that he no longer needs the entire week to make a decision that he will ultimately keep the boy and raise him himself.

He still has no interest in being a father in any capacity. What he is interested in, is reaching the end to finding all of little Tom’s secrets.

Getting up, he heads downstairs with his drawing clutched loosely between his fingers, walking pass Tom’s closed door. He tests it. Locked. He moves on. While he could easily open it if he wanted to, he doesn’t need to. He does not scent anything out of the ordinary.

The dining room fireplace is still lit which he tosses his sketch in as he’d already stored it into his mind palace. He then goes about putting out the fire, wondering if Tom will surprise him with anything else in the next few days before he tells him the news. He should get a look around for the best private school and book appointments to get the boy looked at from the hospital. He’s also going to need another look at Wool’s as he’s going to need paperwork and will need to know if he has to falsify them himself.

This week will certainly prove to be busy. Should he look for the other boy?

~ . * . ~

Hannibal is amused and Tom hasn’t an inkling as to why. Over the next few days, Tom has tested all manner of scents around the home to get a read on distance and strength that will affect the older man. So far, nothing except a glance aimed towards him occasionally but no getting up to check out the source or any direct questions.

Tom had had toads straight from the swamps conjured, chilling on the table in the library before he wills it away, leaving no traces but Hannibal would pass by, a glance at the spot where it had rested before staring at Tom, then going about his day.

Annoyed, he then conjured a large amount of foul smelling, bruised apples into the kitchen, waiting a full two minutes before they’re whisked away, and he’s seated at the dining table. Once more, Hannibal’s gaze is locked onto the spot in question then is back to looking at Tom, knowing that ultimately, he’s the culprit. Which, fair, seeing as there are only two people around the lot.

Frustration mounting, he then tries lavender, tobacco, alcohol, skunks, garbage, and even the smell of petrol, not knowing what sort of reaction he was looking for but wanting one all the same. Hannibal does not give him what he wants. His stares, however, as well as the color of his eyes grow heavier, steadier, waiting for something.

Swallowing, he wakes up on day four, ready to throw hands. Instead, he takes deep breaths to calm himself, knowing he’s being erratic and showing his hand too soon. It’s when he’s thinking of the next phase of his plan that he almost slaps himself for not thinking of another important fact he’s completely forgotten about because of this new obsession of his.

Muttering under his breath, he looks around, finding a stray pen on his bedside table. Grabbing it, he warps the pen into one of the birds he and Harry made that first success in London. Its brilliant colours are still truly eye catching, the red eyes glaring at him in mild annoyance. He then conjures one of his snakes, the little thing hissing and spitting in agitation before it soon calms down at the scent of him.

The bird perks up at the sight, eyeing the serpent in interest and what he suspects, hunger, the size enough to swallow the snake whole if it wanted. Wanting to avoid that, he sends out a mouse for the bird to screech at, swooping down to enjoy its meal. He then faces the serpent who seemed jealous it too wasn’t being fed. “Do not eat the bird, it will take you to find Harry. When you find him, tell him to tell me where he is.”

Looking around for the book he’d been reading last night, he finds it under the bed, pulling it out to look at the cover which has Maryland written across.

He’d asked Hannibal exactly where he was and instead of telling him, he had him read this book, to better familiarize himself with the city of Baltimore. While he’d been exasperated at the thought, he still did it because of curiosity. He’s glad he did.

Finding the page he needed, he swipes a hand across, making an exact copy. Folding it neatly, he conjures string to tie the image carefully around the bird’s leg, then tells it to not eat the snake. That another boy with green eyes would give him a treat.

“Harry will feed you; you will be too heavy for the bird if you eat now.”

Grumbling, the snake makes a few threats as the bird picks it up without a care, then they’re both gone out the window, Tom sighing at himself that he didn’t think of this sooner as he watches the snake sway and dangle then turns to a speck as they’re out of sight.

Harry had better answer.

Sleep still coating the corners of his eyes, he gets up to wash his face but startles at the sight of Hannibal outside his door.

Blinking up at him, Tom’s heart races as he wonders if Hannibal heard anything or knows what he just did. Hannibal smiles down at him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Breakfast then conversation Tom as I’ve something to tell you.”

“Yes sir,” Tom answers reflexively, bewildered.

Was he getting thrown out?

Grumbling to himself as he locks himself in the loo, doing his business, he hopes that Harry answers soon before things change too much out of his control.