Eldritch

"You cast the charm?" Aberforth demanded.

"Yes, I did," I said impatiently. "I cast the charm properly. Are you going to ask me again? It would be the sixth time then."

"We can't take any chances," he muttered.

We were standing in the alley behind his inn. Aberforth had a firm grip on Tom's shoulders and I looped my arm through my brother's. Knowing that Aberforth would do anything to delay our journey, I closed my eyes and focussed on the destination.

"Dear God," whispered Aberforth. I opened my eyes only because I couldn't keep them closed forever.

We were in the backyard of our house in Godric's Hollow. Ariana's lemon-yellow frock hung tattered on the clothesline, torn by the winds and bleached pale by the sun.

"It is like going through a pipe," Tom said thoughtfully.

"Have you been through a pipe, then, young man?" Aberforth looked down at our charge, clearly grateful for the distraction.

Tom stiffened. I chuckled and said, "We will forget that you mentioned anything of the sort."

"We had best get this out of the way," Aberforth said bleakly.

My eyes punished me with the image of that tattered frock once again. I clenched my fists. Aberforth shifted uneasily. Tom cried out in surprise and ducked from my grip on his shoulder. My brother's palm came to rest on my forearm as Tom ran to the tattered frock lying limp on the clothesline and let his hand slip into the neck of the dress.

"Tom!" I called out, my voice low and furious.

Aberforth's grip bit into my forearm but he said nothing. I could feel the sadness, guilt and regret rolling off him in waves of misery.

A garden snake, about two feet long, slithered out of Ariana's frock onto Tom's wrist. I shuddered as its forked tongue flicked the delicate skin as if measuring the boy's pulse. Tom was hissing at it, his face alit with the joy that only children are capable of. I had not thought that Tom would be capable of such a pure emotion as happiness.

Aberforth laughed weakly and asked, "Well, my boy, what is it saying?"

Aberforth had a phobia of snakes. He had killed more snakes than flies or mosquitoes with his wand. I was surprised by his forced calm now. I could smell his sweat on the morning breeze. I was glad that I had warned him earlier about Tom's peculiar ability to communicate with snakes. Tom, I noticed, did not seem perturbed about his ability. Was he used to speaking with snakes? Was he under the impression that this was, perhaps, yet another quirk of the magical world Aberforth had told him about? Despite everything, despite second chances, despite the benefit of doubt I swore to give Tom, I wanted to force open the doors of his mind and read his darkest secrets.

Perhaps the boy was right not to trust me.

The green coils of the snake formed a bracelet around Tom's thin wrist, contrasting sharply against the dull white of his shirt. We needed to buy him proper clothing, I reminded myself.

"He told me that he is sleepy," the boy informed us. He dropped to his knees and coaxed the snake to slither away. The care he took to untangle the looped body of the snake from his wrist unnerved me. I could not help thinking of Nagini and the Horcrux she had been made into.

Tom rose and patted the soil off his clothes. "I hope I will see him again," he said, his eyes following the snake into the thickets.

Aberforth had once rescued a little sparrow from a stray cat and mended its wing. It had flown away after the wing had healed. As Aberforth had watched it take off into the spring sunshine, he had had the same expression as Tom was wearing now.

"He didn't want you to keep him, then?" I asked, trying to sound indulgent.

"Why will he want someone to keep him, sir?" Tom asked, puzzled. "He can take care of himself."

Self-sufficiency. That dratted self-sufficiency which Tom wore like a cloak all the time. I knew his brilliant mind would have moved quickly to his own situation by now. I braced myself, expecting him to demand to be returned to his orphanage since he did not want anyone to keep him.

Aberforth must have known it too, since he asked, "Snakes take care of their young ones, don't they?"

"Rarely," Tom said pensively. "Most eat their young ones."

"Well, goats take care of their young ones," Aberforth stated.

"I am not a goat," Tom pointed out.

"Nor are you a snake," Aberforth said firmly. "You are a human. Humans take care of their young ones. Now come along. Let us enter the house."

I found myself standing on the porch, as Aberforth fiddled with the large brass key. Tom was observing me with a measure of wariness.

"Are you worried that I will snoop into your mind if you turn your back to me?" I asked him.

That part of me which had always revelled in easily gaining and holding the trust of others was hurt by his wariness. I told myself that this was Tom. Trust was not a word that figured in his vocabulary.

Tom's eyes darkened further and he said, "I can't afford to be weak, sir."

Since his weakness had led to his suffering at the hands of that gang, the logical part of me was not surprised that he would cling to his suspicions. Yet, the sentimental part of me felt wounded by the notion that there was a person who did not trust the word of Albus Dumbledore. Grindelwald had called me a man of honour. I wanted to tell Tom that even my enemies trusted me. I wanted to demand that he trust me unconditionally, for how else could I know how deep his darkness was?

And wasn't it the same issue of trust which had caused our enmity the first time around?

"The snake said that there is a graveyard nearby," Tom said, a spark of curiosity lighting his eyes.

My mother was buried there. Ariana was buried there.

"Yes," I said tersely. Then I changed the subject. "When did you become aware that you could communicate with snakes?"

"I could understand their tongue before I could understand English," Tom answered, a true smile curving the corners of his lips. "There is an ill-tempered adder in the bushes around the playground near the orphanage. Oh, you should hear some of the comments she makes about humans! The snakes speak a well-developed language, sir."

"I am sure," I said wryly. "The thickets in the backyard are infested with snakes, Tom. Not all of them are going to be as friendly as the garden snake. You will make sure that they are non-venomous before you play with them, won't you?"

He said politely, "Yes, sir."

I was sure that he was merely humouring me. I would not be surprised if he sought out the venomous snakes simply because I had asked him not to. I had taken particular pleasure in doing the forbidden at his age, much to my mother's dismay and my father's amusement.

Aberforth had finally managed to turn the key and the door cracked open with a weary groan.

Tom looked at Aberforth who was leaning on the door-jamb. My brother's expression was hollow. Bile rose in my throat. Shoving my dread into a tiny little box deep within my mind, I mopped the sweat off my forehead and strode forward to join Aberforth. Tom had already entered the house, betraying the typical curiosity of an eight-year-old.

"Wait," Aberforth muttered. "It must be dark in there, Tom."

"It is very dark and musty," answered Tom. "This place smells like time and tears."

Aberforth flinched and I gripped my brother's shoulder trying to draw from him the strength I sorely lacked. Before I could conjure light at my wand-tip, there was the tell-tale clatter of the living-room window being forced open and bright morning light streamed in. Tom stood by the window, a pale ghost in this mausoleum, unaware of our plight as he blew the dust off his palms. Then he turned to look at us and his eyes widened at the stricken expression on Aberforth's face.

He offered quietly, "My cot at the orphanage smells like time and tears."

That jerked Aberforth out of his despair and my brother said firmly, "We are going to make this place smell like goats and roses, Tom, my boy." He strode to join Tom by the window. "Albus, don't you keep standing there, lazy man. Come in and use your wand for something useful. I'll make us some tea. Tom, stay here with Albus."

I was relieved. I did not want to be alone right then. I also did not want Tom going upstairs. Ariana's room was upstairs. Time and tears. How had he known? Aberforth would not tell anyone of our sister. Our family was a taboo subject for us. Tom was too perceptive and I did not want him finding my secrets before surrendering his own. Dear me, was I afraid of an eight-year-old boy dressed in Aberforth's castoffs and dependent on our goodwill?

After Aberforth had trudged away into the kitchen, Tom looked up at me expectantly. I glanced about the room. The shattered teacups and the books strewn on the carpet testified to the bursts of destructive magic which had erupted during my quarrel with my brother after Ariana's funeral. The room looked as if a hurricane had passed through.

I sat down heavily in the nearest armchair. It was the ratty affair that my father had been so fond of. My mother had brought it with her all the way from Mould-on-the-Wold because she believed he would return to us one day and lounge about in his favourite armchair while regaling us with tales of how he frightened the Dementors with his wit and merry ways.

Aberforth fussed about in the kitchen. Tom remained standing by the window. Ariana's frock fluttered in the breeze like the tattered pennant of a fallen nation. In a fit of angry energy, I waved my wand and the room rearranged itself into perfection.

"Why do you need a wand to do magic?"

Good, the boy's curiosity was strong enough to override his natural distrust of others. Now, how would I answer him? What exactly had Aberforth told him about magic? While I was glad that my brother had handled the boy's first exposure to the magical world, it left me at a disadvantage. Muggleborns usually gave their loyalty to the person who introduced them to their first taste of the magical world. Tom would always look up to Abeforth. On the other hand, I thought wryly, I had been Tom's gateway to the magical world in the earlier timeline and it had done neither of us any good. He certainly had not looked up to me.

"You need a wand to direct your magic, Tom," I told him. "The tip of the wand is like the tip of a matchstick. Your magic comes out through that tip to do your bidding."

"If all it does is directing this force you call magic," Tom mused, "then a matchstick and a needle can serve equally well as your wand."

I racked my brains for a suitable example.

"Electricity," I told him, trying to remember what little I knew of the Muggle sciences. "Your wand is like an electric wire for your magic. Only some materials can carry electricity. It is so with your magic too. Only some things, like a wand or a staff, can carry magic."

"That makes sense," admitted Tom. He looked down at his thin fingers and said, "I think my magic comes from my fingertips. Sometimes, when I am really frightened, magic comes from every part of my body. Is that dangerous to my health?"

How quintessentially Tom to worry about his health before being concerned about how those around him might be affected! Benefit of doubt, commanded my conscience. I had sworn to give the boy the benefit of doubt. In the darkest corner of my mind bloomed a gnarly flower of envy for the command he had over his mind and magic at such a young age.

"Sometimes," I told Tom. "Your magic can be dangerous to you when it is uncontrolled." Poor Ariana. I pushed my grief and guilt away as I continued, "That is why there are schools for teaching young people how to use magic without harming others or self. You will go to one of them when you are eleven and you will learn to control your magic through a wand."

Tom looked doubtful. Perhaps he did not believe that he needed a wand to control his magic. Too confident for his own good, I told myself.

When I looked up again, his curiosity had taken him to the large piano-forte which occupied the entire length of a wall of the room.

"Go on," I told him, conjuring a stool for him. One of Ariana's bursts of magic had broken Mother's stool into smithereens.

"I don't know how to play, sir," Tom said, letting his fingers wistfully hover over the ivory keys smoothened by use and time.

"You are a good singer," I said. "So you should find this easy once you start learning."

Good singers do not necessarily make good piano-players. I knew that even though I had not learnt music the way my mother had. Neither had Aberforth. Perhaps Ariana had been the inheritor of our mother's musical acumen. I would never know. Yet, as I watched Tom's fingers flutter over the keys with a touch as fine as gossamer, I knew instinctively that he had music in him. It must have been his Muggle father's contribution, for I did not think that the Gaunts were likely to be musically inclined at all.

"I have to be a good singer," Tom said in a matter-of-fact tone. "We sing for our supper on Sundays when the benefactors visit us."

"You are not returning there, Tom." I said sharply, upset by the notion of the boy singing for his supper. "So talk about it in the past-tense, won't you?"

His eyes shifted from the piano keys to the sunlight streaming through the window and he remarked, "I will have to talk about it in the present-tense once I return there, once your brother tires of me."

"Must you be so suspicious of every man and his motives?" I asked, frustrated beyond words at his lack of trust. "Not believing what I say is one thing. Not believing what Aberforth tells you, that is stupidity, Tom! Has he lied to you?"

"Not yet," Tom replied calmly.

Not yet? Did that mean he expected Aberforth to lie to him in the future? How many times should a man prove himself before earning the wretched boy's trust?

"Tom!" It was Aberforth, calling from the attic. "Can you spare some time to arrange the books here?"

At the word books, Tom's eyes lit up and he called back, "Of course, Abe."

He nodded to me politely and left the room. I picked up the nearest object, which turned out to be a table-lamp and threw it across the room where it smashed into the glass-face of the dishware cupboard and showered the room with shreds of broken glass.

"Temper, temper!" Aberforth scolded me as he entered the room and sprawled into the armchair across mine.

They believed that Albus Dumbledore was a cheerful man incapable of the least measure of violence. Only Aberforth knew better. Once, in a fight with him during our schooldays, I had snatched his school-bag and thrown it into the Lake at Hogwarts.

We could hear the boy singing Silent Night, his clear voice refusing to be muffled by the attic-floor. I reminded myself to teach the boy something other than carols and hymns. He would sing for himself from this day. Sing for his supper indeed! Did he think that Aberforth would make him return to such an awful place? Why was he so confident that we would tire of him? Had he been adopted before? Perhaps he had frightened the couple who had adopted him. They must have returned him to the orphanage. What might he have done to them?

Benefit of doubt, counselled the most reasonable part of my mind.

"It worries me how easily he accepted my explanation about magic," Aberforth said thoughtfully, deep frowns marking his forehead.

"Yes," I agreed. "It was so the first time too, Abe. He accepted the existence of magic because he felt it made him special and he had convinced himself that he was the most special boy."

"He is confident," Aberforth admitted.

"He isn't easily frightened. He is too confident. He is exceptionally perceptive. He questions everything." I shook my head. My suspicions quelled the benefit of doubt principle. "He doesn't care a whit about rules, Aberforth. Such an attitude will lead him down the wrong path."

"Pshaw!" Aberforth ejaculated. "Don't be an idiot, Albus! You were equally bad. You were overbearing, overconfident and very clever. With all that you have done in your life, I don't think you have a leg to stand on when it comes to enforcing rules on others."

"There is something dark about him," I insisted. "I wish it weren't true, Aberforth, but wishing isn't going to change the truth."

"Billy likes him," Aberforth said calmly. "You need to stop regarding him as an enemy. He is a boy, just like he was the first time around when you antagonised him."

"He had stolen from the others," I said, exasperated. "I was trying to warn him."

"You cannot relate to him because he resembles you too much for your comfort," Aberforth muttered. "Let us drop the subject, shall we? We aren't going to see eye to eye on it. Why don't you take a sip of Polyjuice and take him shopping?"

"What do we do about the Castle Albus, Abe?" I clutched at my beard in frustration. "We must remain hidden here until he is no longer a factor. How shall we explain it to Tom?"

"As I said, stop worrying about that," my brother said sternly. "There are three years to spare before Tom's letter comes. It is going to require some thought. You should be positioned at Hogwarts at least a year before he starts there. It won't do any good if both of you are trying to fit in. Besides, you need to be the one who writes Tom's letter from Hogwarts. We cannot afford anyone noticing our involvement." He pinched his nose. "For now, why don't you concentrate on hiding properly and getting the boy to trust you?"

"I don't suppose lemon-drops will do the trick," I lamented.

Aberforth raised his eyebrows, but did not grace me with a retort. The soulful strains of 'O Come All Ye Faithful' in Tom's clear voice wafted down from the attic.

An invisible imp of mischief bit me right then and I conjured my voice to resound in the attic demanding, "Say, my boy, I am the spirit of the house! Can you sing anything else? Anything magical?"

"Albus!" Aberforth hissed.

The boy's voice stuttered away into silence and I chuckled. It felt immeasurably good to scare the boy a wee bit. He was far too composed and blank-faced and that unsettled me. Aberforth groaned in vexation at my mischief. Then the boy's clear voice took up a familiar Irish strain of my childhood days with renewed confidence.

Ó imreas mór tháinig eidir na ríoghna,
Mar fhíoch a d'fhás ón dá chnoc sí,
Mar dúirt an tSídh Mór go mb'fhearr í féin,
Faoi dhó, faoi dhó ná 'ntSídh bheag.

The Blind Carolan was one of my father's favourites among the Irish composers. My mother would sing only Carolan's songs on bonfire nights. 'Si Bheag, Si Mhor', the lay that the boy was now rendering in his child's voice, evoked memories of my mother's low, velvet tones spinning the tale of the war between the two fairy armies. The army of the little fairy hill and the army of the big fairy hill, Father had explained one bonfire night after my mother had finished the song. Ariana had been a three-year-old golden bundle nestled in Abeforth's lap. I had been sitting with my legs drawn to my chest and my head resting upon my kneecaps.

"Dear God, Albus," Aberforth whispered, even as he rolled the rosary beads between his fingers. His eyes were shadowed by grief as the boy's song relived our memories of our family before the Muggle boys had destroyed everything with their thoughtless cruelty.

I did not reply.

"It is good to know that there is one person who won't be charmed by you," Aberforth muttered.

"Abe, your house talks," Tom announced as he entered the room. Dust covered him from head to toe and his eyes twinkled in mischief as they held my gaze. The imp looked like one of those fairies he had been singing about : elfin and eldritch.

"Do you know Irish, then?" I asked, deciding to be graceful in defeat for now. Once Aberforth was out of the house, the true battle of wits would start. Ha, the boy would rue this!

"No, sir. Not a word," he said, a puckish smile playing on his face. "The cook in the orphanage is Irish. For every song I learn from her, she smuggles me a meal on the days I am grounded."

"You sang the Irish lays in your benefactors' presence?" Aberforth asked, amusement playing on his features. "It is a sensitive issue, Tom. Many of our folk still believe that we shouldn't have signed that treaty in '21."

"I have heard them speaking about it, Abe," Tom answered. "So I make sure to sing the Irish songs only when I know English patriots are attending the dinners. It puts them off adopting me or recommending me to other patrons of the orphanage for a trial stay in their homes."

"There is a book somewhere in my collection which has translations of a few popular Irish ballads," I told him, impressed despite myself by his excellent parroting of a language he did not know at all. "I can lend it to you if you are interested."

"It will be an improvement on singing the verses blindly," Tom said, failing to hide his excitement behind his usual mask of stoic composure.

I would have the boy eating out of my hand soon enough. Then, he would trust me and I would learn his secrets. Aberforth's cough punctured my little balloon of hope.

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"The two of you will behave," Aberforth commanded. "Albus, you are not to frighten the boy with your amateur skills at magical ventriloquism. Projecting your voice from the attic-walls, indeed!"

"He wasn't frightened," I reminded my brother. "If anything, he frightened me with his fairy song. The imp!"

Aberforth seemed torn between gleeful mirth and his newfound adherence to imposing discipline. He cleared his throat and continued, "Teach him something useful. I will be back on Friday night. Don't try to kill each other, please."

"I am taking him shopping for clothes today afternoon."

"Remember to take the potion. Remember to Apparate away at the first sign of trouble. Remember-"

"That is quite enough, Aberforth!" I exclaimed. "Go play parenting with your goat."

"Billy is my soul-mate," Aberforth said with such a serious mien that I did not know if I should believe him or not.

Aberforth was still in his parenting role when he bid Tom goodbye. They stood in the little courtyard, forming a quaint picture of the solid and the slender.

"He is mischievous but I promise that he won't cause you harm," Aberforth was telling the boy. "You will listen to him while you are outside, Tom. Remember what I said. The market is a dangerous place for little children."

Tom bristled near imperceptibly when he was classified into the category of little children. However, he nodded politely and promised Aberforth that he would listen to my instructions while in Diagon Alley. Tom had an innate knack for pulling off subservience when it suited him to be obedient. I snorted at his fine act and turned my attention to the cookbook Aberforth had given me. A little voice in my mind reminded me of the benefit of doubt. I sighed.

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After two Cleaning Charms, Tom's resemblance to a brown fairy was considerably reduced. With a swig of the Polyjuice Potion, I turned into an unremarkable wizard with mousy brown hair, drooping eyebrows and beady, brown eyes.

"How do you make it?" Tom asked, as he peered, fascinated, at the little vial of the potion. I was glaring at myself in the mirror I had conjured. I looked normal. How dare Aberforth make me look so plain and so dull? I missed Severus, who had a knack for picking out the oddest choices for me. Once, his potion had turned me into David Bowie. It was the only time I had given him a raise without being haggled into it.

"What does it taste like? Can I try some too, later, after we get back? Can you teach me to make it?"

The boy was fascinated by the vilest tasting potion ever in the history of mankind. A pack of Exploding Snap, I decided, would set his priorities right. I was sure that we had had a pack or two in the house. I would search tomorrow.

I chivvied him outside, turned the old brass key in the door and warded the place thoroughly. Even Castle Albus would not be able to easily break down my protection magic. Feeling inordinately pleased with myself, I beamed at Tom (who looked worried by the return of my effervescence) before pulling him close and Apparating. We ended up right before the Leaky Cauldron.

"This, my boy, is the entry to the market!" I announced to the boy who looked rather queasy. A side-effect of Apparation. I patted his head condescendingly, chuckled when he ducked away from my palm and then I led the way through the busy Leaky Cauldron to the wall beyond. Tom hurried after me, obeying Aberforth's instructions to the letter.

"It doesn't need blood," Tom sounded disappointed as I tapped the brick with my wand. I stared at him suspiciously.

"The spinning loom fairytale," he explained, fidgeting uneasily under my stare. "The princess pricks her finger on the needle and falls asleep. Magic needs blood as payment."

"That-" I stated firmly "-is a fairytale. Real magic doesn't need blood to work. It needs only your energy and intent. There is little scope for symbolism."

"Symbolism?" Tom was now jogging to keep up with my long strides.

"You don't need to conduct rituals on full-moon nights that involve sacrificing little children or pets on ceremonial altars to create magic. Those acts represent symbolism. It is a branch of abstract magic but what it achieves can be more easily done by plain, everyday magic with your wand. Would you rather sacrifice a snake or wave your wand?"

Tom looked thoughtful. I sincerely hoped that he was not contemplating ritual sacrifices.

"Why do the fairytales describe this symbolic magic than the normal magic?" he asked after a few minutes of silence.

"That is a discussion to be had after we return home," I said hastily. "Now, here we are! Madam Malkin's. We will get you some proper clothing. Since you are too young to know what suits you, I believe I will be choosing for you on this occasion." I resisted my urge to rub my hands in glee.

He shot me a leery glance before nodding assent. Paranoid imp! I would astound him with my selection.

We entered the shop and a bright-eyed young woman came to serve us. Halfway through her recital of the shop's many salient features, my attention drifted away. I was thinking about Fawkes when I heard Tom saying, "You will have to forgive my uncle, Madam. He was in the Muggle War. He finds it difficult to sleep at nights. So he is always weary and distracted."

"Poor man!" the woman sympathised and her buxom torso heaved in accord. I cringed. Tom's lips were curved upwards indicating his mirth.

"You are a kind woman," I told her weakly, hoping that she would not come any closer. Her perfume smelled like rotten cabbages. Quite overpowering it was. "Tom, my boy, you should not bother such a fine lady with your prattle."

"My good sir, he is the most well-behaved boy I have seen since I started working here!" the woman protested.

I conceded the round to Tom.

"Two sets of robes for the most well-behaved boy," I ordered briskly. "Six sets of day-clothes. Three sets of nightwear. That will be all."

"Come, Tom, we will get you fitted in no time." The woman dragged him to a stool. With a motherly cluck, she picked him up by the armpits and made him stand on the stool. He squawked in protest and I chuckled.

"How thin he is!" the woman lamented. "Sir, you should feed him more and work him less."

"I intend to, my dear," I promised her. Tom was quite unnerved. Perhaps his exposure to her perfume would turn this game in my favour.

His eyes widened in horror when she drew a squirming measuring-tape from the depths of her ample bosom.

I was torn between sympathy and glee. I decided not to interfere. He was quite capable of taking care of himself, after all. Besides, I wanted to see how long his tight rein over his composure would hold. Divine retribution for the insomnia suggestion, I told myself.

"Stand still!" the woman was scolding him. "How can you expect the tape to get your measures right if you wriggle about so much?"

"Do listen to the lady, Tom," I said sanctimoniously.

"Can't we use a normal tape, please?"

Then he squealed, as the tape slid under his kneecaps.

"A normal tape?"

"He means a Muggle tape," I said helpfully. "He is unused to our ways."

"We don't use them here!" the woman said, scandalised by the very idea. "How improper!"

"Certainly," I agreed.

The tape was sidling up Tom's spine now. I could not help my laughter as he danced like a marionette. Then suddenly he cried out in alarm and all the clothes in the shop went up in puffs of smoke. Well, well, well, the dear boy had proved that there could be smoke without fire. Flamel's wife had accidentally caused every flower in her vicinity to droop when Nicholas had kissed a Veela. It had taken him six months and six thousand galleons before she had forgiven him. However, this was no time to take a trip down my memory lane.

I cast swift Disillusionment charms on Tom and myself, a rapid Obliviation spell on the poor woman and dragged the boy outside the shop into a rundown alley which probably led to the main street of Knockturn market.

Tom and I stared at each other. The terror in his eyes was too potent. Feeling very, very guilty, I said gruffly, "We need ice-cream."

Tom blinked.

"It solves everything," I promised him.

Alcohol would have been a better suggestion. However, I was reasonably sure that children Tom's age were not supposed to imbibe whiskey. Ice-cream it would have to be, then. Sighing, I dragged him along to Fortescue's. There was massive hue and cry on the streets. I thanked my stars for the Polyjuice and I thanked my former Charms Professor for my adroitness at casting Disillusionment Charms.

Fortescue's was empty. Florean was closing down his shutters when he saw us at the entry. He looked quite displeased. He must have been planning to go down to Malkin's to see the disturbance for himself. He never could resist a crowd. Being the jovial man he was, he quickly got over that and ushered us in. In between telling us about the Special of the day and ratting off the ingredients, he asked excitedly, "Did you hear? A little child single-handedly made half the clothes in Madam Malkin's disappear."

"How strange!" I said dutifully, even as Florean went on about the wild magic display.

"It seems there was a large spike in the magical activity in the Ministry records because of this. The child must have such potential," Florean finished. "The Aurors wanted to investigate but the woman doesn't remember anything. A powerful Memory Charm. Do you suppose the child cast an Obliviation spell without being aware of it?"

I resisted the urge to preen at the mention of the Obliviation Charm. I had always been rather good at that one.

"Don't they teach it in school, sir?" Tom asked, and those were the first words to come out of his mouth after the ordeal.

"Why, yes, they might be teaching it at the higher levels of classes!" Florean exclaimed. "This was a little one, though. If it was a school student, the Ministry would have immediately found the little culprit by tracking his or her wand."

"I see," Tom said shakily.

"What ice-cream shall you have, my boy?" I interjected in haste.

"Whatever you are having."

"Two Specials, please."

Florean showed us to a little table and set off to fetch the ice-creams. Tom was staring at his fingers. I was left wondering how to address the topic. Placating him saying that everyone loses control one time or another was not an option. He treasured his control and if I implied that he had lost control in the shop it would end our temporary truce. Strangely, I did not want the fragile truce to end.

Taking a deep breath, I said, "I turned my mother's hair purple after she tried to give me a haircut. I think I had been nine years old then."

Mother had refused to make my favourite carrot-cake for months after that. It had taken that long for her hair to return to its original lustrous auburn.

Tom did not look up when I told him the anecdote, but the trembling of his fingers calmed. I congratulated myself.

Florean came to the table and placed our ice-creams before us. He ruffled Tom's hair and asked the boy why he was so gloomy with an ice-cream before him. Tom gave him a wan smile and Florean strode off to the counter.

"He is right, you know," I told Tom as I shoved my ice-cream into my mouth with large spoonfuls. "Ice-cream is supposed to perk you up. Now eat quickly, before it melts."

Tom picked up his spoon half-heartedly and dug it into his ice-cream. He brought the spoon to his nose and sniffed cautiously. Even Mad-Eye Moody would have screamed in outrage at Tom's paranoia. It was ice-cream, for mercy's sake! Did he expect it to be laced with drugs or poison?

Tom was now peering at his spoonful as if he could divine every ingredient by sight alone. Then he brought it to his mouth and his tongue made a quick flick of the fast-melting ice-cream before retreating. It reminded me of the garden-snake's antics on Tom's wrist.

He was a strange boy. I frowned. I had been called a strange boy in my youth. I had been awkward and strange and socially inept until Grindelwald had come along to the sleepy hollow where we lived. As the moon shines in the sun's reflected glory, so had I basked in Grindelwald's shadow. I would not be what I was without his influence in my life. He had seen an equal in me where others had only seen an awkward, clever eccentric.

A sigh broke me from my musings.

Tom seemed to like the savour for he had now closed his eyes and was savouring his mouthful in quiet contentment. As quickly as it had appeared, the expression fled his face and he was now staring at the ice-cream with increased suspicion.

I looked at him quizzically.

"Anything that looks good is probably dangerous," he informed me. I resisted the urge to pinch my nose.

"It is melting," I warned him.

He took the next spoonful with equal care, and the next. His suspicion had fled away by the third spoonful and now his pleasure showed as he lingered over each spoonful with such devotion that it was as if he believed each spoonful would be the last he was going to have in his life. My heart wrenched at the sight as I realised something.

It was his first ice-cream. I could not ask him to confirm it. He would only withdraw into his mind and hide himself behind his cold mask of polite charm. Yet, I felt that I had to say something to assure him that he would eat an ice-cream again.

"We will come here regularly," I told him gently.

"Then it will not be as special as it is now," he pointed out, though his eyes had lit up at my words.

The trick was to pay only nominal attention to his words while focussing on his eyes. I nodded to myself and resisted the urge to rub my hands in victory. I had finished my ice-cream and was watching him eat. Florean was doing the same. I could see the pleased astonishment in the shopkeeper's eyes as Tom worshipped each spoonful. I made a silent wager that we would not have to pay for the ice-cream today. Florean seemed to be basking in Tom's appreciation of his ice-cream.

"Is the shop insured?" Tom asked abruptly, his eyes on the receding ice-cream level before him.

"Malkin's is insured," I assured him. "All the shops in Diagon Alley are insured."

Tom's stiff form eased visibly. So he had been worried about losses, hadn't he? Of course, I would have preferred him to be more worried about people's lives than property insurance. That was not the point. The point was that he was capable of concern.

"We are going to Twilfit and Tattings," I told him. "It is the only other clothing store nearby. You need clothes, Tom."

"Do they use dancing-tapes there?" Tom enquired, his tone carefully made bland.

"If you come with me to the shop and let them take your measures, I will teach you Irish."

"You will teach me to play the piano, too," Tom stipulated.

"Very well," I acceded.

Tom was as pliable as putty in the hands of the tailors at Tattings. He even stayed put with a charmingly shy smile while two young women clucked over his thinness and ruffled his hair while I chose his clothing materials and colours.

As soon as we entered home after the adventure, he went over to the piano and gave me a calculating look. Though every part of me wanted to go to bed, I went to join him and began teaching him. It would not do to unravel the fragile link of trust we were building by refusing to teach him now. The bargain had to be honoured. He should know that I was worthy to hold his trust.

"No, no," I told him as his skittish fingers got the C Major wrong again. "Here." I held his hands in mine and arranged his digits over the keys. To my surprise, he did not stiffen at the touch. Had he begun trusting me? Perhaps he was simply too excited by the piano lessons to take note of my actions. That was more likely, I admitted to myself ruefully. Tom Riddle's eagerness to master anything new had been legendary in the earlier timeline, after all.

The old house creaked and Tom immediately shot a suspicious glance at me. I resisted the urge to bury my head in my hands. Dear Alastor had nothing on Tom when it came to true paranoia.

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External source text: Si Bheag, Si Mhor is available with a rough translation at http://suburbanbanshee.net/irishptr/iresongs/sibeagsi.html. It is a hauntingly lovely song, just like most of Corolan's works.

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