Eldritch

Notes: Gratitude owed to Heart of Spells for the beta-work she is doing for the story.

A routine of sorts set in over the next few days. I would wake up around seven o' clock in the morning and put the kettle on. Breakfast usually consisted of toast and scrambled eggs. Aberforth's cookbook, helpfully titled 'An Idiot's Primer to Basic Cuisine', had explicit instructions and moving pictures illustrating the preparation of the simple fare it contained. The author's tone was so contemptuous and superior that I could not help wondering if the man might be Severus's ancestor. Once one overlooked the author's sarcasm, the book proved to be a treasure-trove of helpful hints and shortcuts to a beginner in the culinary arts.

Once breakfast was prepared, I would embark on my most difficult activity of the day: waking Tom. He had appropriated the attic for himself once he had finished cleaning it, turning down my suggestion that he could take Aberforth's old room. A cot had been set up by the arched window on the eastern side of the attic. His choice of room, his penchant for reading in bed by moonlight and his reluctance to be up before midmorning made me conclude that he had more in common with owls than snakes. To wake him before nine o' clock, I usually charmed his bedclothes to start singing 'Ring a Ring o' Roses'. This often earned me sullen glares and incomprehensible muttering. It was reassuring to see him like that, so unguarded and ruffled.

Today was no different.

As he rubbed his eyes and mumbled under his breath, I teased him saying, "You speak in tongues in the mornings, dear boy."

He shot me a glare as he stretched in the warm sunlight streaming through the attic window. It was surprising how he could sleep so solidly with the sunrays toasting him at this hour of the morning.

A few minutes later, he joined me downstairs for breakfast in a clean yellow cardigan and black short pants. When he had first seen the clothing I had purchased for him, he had smiled wryly at the profusion of lime-greens, marigold-oranges and canary-yellows. However, he had made no objections and wore them without qualm. It was strange to see him so attired in bright, vibrant colours when my memories of him were in shades of grey and black. Sunny colours did not become him well. I realised that as soon as I saw him in the clothes I had chosen for him. I had offered to change them into browns and greys but he had refused. He was probably waiting for Aberforth to arrive and rail at me upon seeing what I had clothed the boy in.

For the first two days, despite having The Idiot's Primer, my culinary attempts were spectacularly horrible and I had not been able to stomach more than a bite of what I had cooked. Tom, however, had made no complaints and had eaten everything I set before him. That had made me wonder what sort of food he was used to.

"It is very good, sir," he said, between bites of breakfast.

I pushed the jug of orange juice towards him. The Idiot's Primer had decreed that children were to be given a large glassful of milk with breakfast. Tom had taken his milk without making a face on the first morning. I had been impressed. Mother had had to bribe me with sweets to make me drink milk during my childhood. Even as I had been about to mention this to the boy, he had shot up from the dining table and rushed to the sink, where he proceeded to vomit out his guts.

"What happened?" I had asked him, stroking his back to help ease his heaving, frightened that my cooking had harmed him.

"Nothing," he had rasped. "It is the milk, sir. I can't-"

"Hush!" I had told him. "Now take a deep breath and get cleaned up, will you? No more milk, then. You shouldn't have had it, my boy."

From the next day, I had substituted milk with orange juice. I wondered why he had drunk the milk despite knowing he could not keep it down. Had he been trained to eat anything set before him, regardless of quality and preferences?

"Whom do you talk to in the mornings?" Tom asked, pulling me from my musings.

I frowned. Then I remembered.

"Ah, my boy, it is the cookbook shouting its instructions aloud! I hope it did not disturb your sleep."

"I find it strange," Tom said quietly. "Books are not supposed to talk and pictures are not meant to move. It is very distracting to see the pictures move when I am reading the text."

The first magical book he had seen was my old copy of Beedle the Bard. He had leapt back like a startled colt when the grim figure of Death materialised on the first page of the Tale of the Three Brothers. The boy's panic had immediately made me draw an unpleasant parallel with Voldemort's fear of death. It had taken all my control to rein in my impulse to find out what exactly he had been thinking when he saw the portrait of Death.

Tom's fingers still trembled whenever he opened a magical book. More than once, I had to unfreeze the pictures after he willed them frozen and still.

"Aberforth will be coming today evening," I told Tom. "He will be quite surprised to see the house is still standing."

Tom's eyes flashed in mirth as he continued sipping his juice.

His eyes were his most expressive features. Though careful scrutiny could reveal his feelings from the curve of his lips, it was easier to observe the emotions dancing in his dark eyes. So unlike Severus, whose eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts and feelings. Did this mean that Tom did not have Severus's natural flair for Occlumency? Perhaps that was why Severus had managed to hoodwink Tom during those years of spying.

"We are going to visit the orphanage tomorrow," I told the boy.

"Mrs. Cole will ask what your occupation is," Tom remarked. "She writes down details like that in a file. She has to show the file to the benefactors who come for inspections."

So the boy wanted to know what I did for a living. How like Tom to couch his question so! I suppressed a smile and replied, "I will give the details to her when we visit her this weekend."

Tom's eyes reflected his chagrin. He knew that I had seen through his ploy to obtain answers. I waited patiently.

"What is it that you do, sir?" he asked after a long silence.

A direct question. Curiosity must have been burning him from within. Tom did not shy away from asking questions about magic. However, he preferred to obtain his answers in an indirect manner when it involved personal matters. I was determined to cure him of this habit. He ought to ask his questions frankly. A little voice in my mind pointed out that I was in the habit of gleaning information from others in none too direct a manner.

"I am a teacher at a school for magic, Tom," I answered. "I teach a subject called Transfiguration. It is the branch of magic which shows you how to convert buttons into pumpkins."

"Do they teach how to make the potion you used to change the way you looked?" Tom asked, enthusiasm lightening his mien.

I chuckled. Then I said, "Of course they do. It involves chopping worms and bugs, Tom. I don't think it will suit your fastidious nature."

"I am not fastidious!" he protested, even as he daintily mopped his forehead with a neatly-folded handkerchief.

After entering Hogwarts, I had become obsessed with cleanliness. In our naiveté, Elphias Doge and I had believed that the intellectualism we so dearly aspired to called for fastidiousness. We had hated Herbology and Potions because of the stains of mud and worm left on our fingers and uniforms after those lessons. There had been no more mud-fights with Aberforth or building sandcastles with Ariana. It was only after Gellert's arrival that I had loosened up from my prim nature to enjoy a spot of tussling or a game of lawn-tennis.

I carried the dirty plates to the kitchen. As I charmed the plates to wash themselves, I glanced out the nearest window. I could see Tom lying on his stomach on a sunny spot of grass in the backyard and devouring my father's copy of Robinson Crusoe. I Summoned his cap and sent it to him. He grabbed it right before it whizzed past his ear, then shot an acknowledging glance towards the window by which I stood and returned to his reading.

In the afternoon, after a light lunch, I conjured for myself a yellow beach-umbrella, a plush armchair and a purple footstool right beside Tom's spot. He was frowning intently as his eyes flicked rapidly over the words on the pages before him. I wondered why. I had quite liked Robinson Crusoe in my childhood. Deciding not to interrupt his reading, I closed my eyes and settled in for a nice afternoon siesta.

"I see the house is still standing!" Aberforth's hearty voice exclaimed.

"We thought you might say that," I replied, half-asleep. "Have you seen Fawkes, Abe?"

"No, I haven't seen your chicken," he said dismissively. "Dear me! What possessed the boy to choose such a ghastly colour?"

"You know very well that I chose for him," I muttered. Abeforth opened his mouth to utter a bon mot but I hastily cut in saying, "Not a word. I was going to change the colours to browns and greys but Tom wanted to keep them until you had seen them."

"Quietly," Aberforth ordered. "The boy is sleeping."

I sat up straight and looked down. Tom's slender body was curled in a foetal position about my footstool on which lay Robinson Crusoe and his cap.

"He crawled into the shade," I remarked. "That is unusual. He usually seeks out the sunniest spots to bask in."

Aberforth waved his wand briskly and Tom's frightful orange apparel turned a cool dark blue. "Robinson Crusoe, eh? Isn't it the book where that man raises goats on an island?"

"I wish the cannibals had eaten him up," Tom murmured, his eyes still closed. Aberforth bent down to tweak the boy's nose. A smile flickered on Tom's lips and when his eyes opened, they contained true gladness as they beheld Aberforth.

"Why do you want the cannibals to eat Crusoe?" Aberforth asked as he sat beside Tom on the grass.

"He was more of a savage than they are, isn't he?" Tom mused. "He was on their land and he interfered with their customs."

"They were eating prisoners, Tom," I argued. "How can anyone civilised stand by without trying to stop that?"

"It is not his land," Tom said passionately, rising to his feet and pacing up and down with a frown on his features. "He does not have the right to make a colony out of that island. He does not have the right to proclaim himself master of Friday. He certainly does not have the right to convert his servant to his religion. He saved Friday's life. True. Does that mean he owned Friday from the moment of rescue? Wouldn't it have been kinder to let Friday perish?"

"My boy," I began, "he was trying to redeem Friday by gifting him religion, which Crusoe believed was salvation. He meant well."

"How could he be so narrow-minded?" Tom argued. "If he had been rescued by Friday and if he had been given some ridiculous name, and if he had been forced to convert to another religion, would he have liked it? I doubt that."

There were high spots of colour flushing Tom's cheeks now. I had never seen him so affected. In the earlier timeline, when I had visited him to give his Hogwarts letter, he had not been this passionate. After that, he had scarce shown emotions at all. I wondered if this was how he had spoken at Death Eater meetings. It would explain why so many had been lured in by his charisma. He stood now, a lithe statue of passionate argument in the evening sun, flushed with righteous indignation at what he perceived as unfairness. Had he taken up the cause of the Purebloods with the same righteous anger?

"That did not happen, Tom," I contended. "We cannot speculate on what he would have done."

"He would have been outraged, sir." Tom stood his ground implacably. "His character had him dominating those he thought beneath him. It is just as they do in London. The benefactors will pat us on the heads only as long as we are less clever, less talented and less pretty than their children. They see us as tomorrow's labourers, working under their children's dominance, as slaves to masters. The other inmates in the orphanage look down upon those living in the streets with the same derision that the benefactors and their children show us. Those living in the streets look down upon the coloured children in the docks. They are all wrong, just as Crusoe was wrong. Our place in the society, given to us by those who consider themselves our betters, does not make us. It cannot."

I stared at him, flabbergasted by the way he had spun his argument. He reminded me of Amelia Bones, who had been a powerful speaker in our Common Rooms from her First Year. None of us had been surprised when she grew up to become one of the most respected speakers of the Wizengamot.

I gathered my wits and said, "Be that as it is, Tom, Crusoe's narrow-mindedness still does not dictate such a harsh punishment as being killed by cannibals, does it?"

"He doesn't deserve to live, sir," Tom said simply. "People like him worsen the situation. They are bullies. They don't benefit society in any way. They must die. Only then will things change for the better."

I clutched the arms of my chair as I looked up at the boy's fevered features. He meant what he said. This was not the adolescent angst exhibited by children. Tom believed every word he spoke.

"Really!" Aberforth interjected, preventing me from expressing my horror and disgust at Tom's words. "It is just a story. Come in for tea and we shall talk about something more interesting than cannibals and religions. My Billy chewed off a young man's beard! Come in, now, and I will tell you all about that."

Slipping easily into the role of pacifier, Aberforth led us back into the house and fed us tea and tales. Determinedly, he kept us well away from the topic of Crusoe and cannibals.

Later, after Tom had retired to the attic, Aberforth and I sat by the fire sipping the excellent mead he had brought along with him.

"Out with it, Albus," he told me. "Let us get rid of your righteous fury which has surely been stewing in your head after Tom's little speech advocating genocide of the narrow-minded."

"He meant it, Abe," I whispered, haunted by the spectres of Grindelwald who had taught me about the Greater Good and Voldemort who had caused bloodshed with his movement to purify our world. What chance did Aberforth and I have with Tom? Nothing, my mind lamented.

"He lived in an orphanage, Albus," my brother ruminated aloud. "He has fought for his right to survive all his life, against bullies and benefactors alike. He looks for flaws in men before he looks for virtues. That has saved him so far. You cannot expect him to see differently all of a sudden merely because you have been feeding him thrice a day."

"Right to survive?" I set down my glass of mead heavily. "Why does he think that he has to kill everyone else in order to survive, Abe? How easily he spoke of murder!"

"He has spent more time with snakes than with children his age," Aberforth said. "He has imbibed some of their ways of thinking, Albus. I have been reading up on the nature of snakes. They have to kill their own kind to survive. It is in their nature. The boy needs friends of the human sort."

I shook my head in disbelief at my brother's naive explanation. Did he sincerely believe it? Tom was not influenced by the opinions of men. How could he then be influenced by the ways of the snakes? He was, and always had been, utterly self-reliant and had no use for others' counsel.

"There was a book that our Ariana liked. It had a little boy who was raised by wolves. He was influenced by their ways and acted more like a wolf than like a human."

"Mowgli," I remarked, with a wistful smile. I was grateful to Slughorn for this. My relationship with my brother had healed enough to the point where we could raise Ariana's name without an argument erupting between us. "It was The Jungle Book, Abe. It came out in 1893 and you walked all the way to town to get the book for her because you knew how much she loved animal stories. She liked Baloo the bear the most. You used to say his lines in a false voice to get her to eat."

"Yes, yes." Aberforth stared into the fire. Then he said, "We had model parents, Albus. Even then, we did slide down the wrong path after Mamma's death."

We did not slide down the wrong path. Only I had. My brother had evened the blame, even though there was no cause to.

"Tom didn't have anyone in his life to look up, unlike us," Aberforth continued. "We cannot expect him to adhere to a conventional child's way of thinking. We are here now. We must do the best for him, without judging him."

"Aberforth-"

"No, Albus. We can only do our best and hope that it is enough for him to make his choices wisely enough when the time comes. We cannot manipulate him to our way of thinking. We cannot command him or force him. All that will only lead to woe."

I did not reply. His words did contain a kernel of uncomfortable truth: manipulating Tom had never got me anywhere in the past. Perhaps a new approach was indeed called for. How had Slughorn managed with students from such backgrounds?

"He needs playmates his own age," my brother remarked.

"We are in hiding," I pointed out. "I can't conjure playmates for him from thin air, can I?"

"God forbid! You might conjure purple-clad, pumpkin-like boys and girls who eat sugar-mice for breakfast, dinner and tea," Aberforth said solemnly.

I let the insult pass since I was still floating on the high of our renewed fraternal affection.

"Someone Castle Albus doesn't know," Aberforth mused. "Someone Castle Albus isn't likely at all to meet in the normal course of things. I will have to think on it, brother. Meanwhile, what of tomorrow? We need to show proof that we are the boy's relatives. I have brought along Morfin Gaunt's hair. No, don't ask me how I procured it. One of us can drink the Polyjuice and pass as Tom's uncle. Morfin does have more than a passing resemblance to the deceased Merope."

How had Aberforth obtained Morfin's hair sample? It did not matter, I decided. Aberforth seemed to be just as resourceful as I was. His schemes had proven themselves less prone to martyrs and sacrifices.

Then came the more important concern. Who was going to drink the potion?

"I am not drinking Morfin's Polyjuice!" I shuddered. "I can pass as a nondescript, boring government official who will say that the papers are all in order."

"I am not doing your dirty-work," Aberforth said firmly. "Too often have you sat back on your throne and watched others do your bidding. You aren't going to do that with me."

His stern blue gaze allowed no mercy. When Aberforth was stubborn, he was as immovable as the most stubborn old goat on earth. I sighed and waved my hand in surrender saying, "I will take the Polyjuice."

"Good. I cannot imagine you acting the part of a boring government officer. You are too colourful a character."

"I can dress plainly," I protested.

"You would still cause a stir. You always have," Aberforth said dismissively. "Now that we are agreed on tomorrow's agenda, I should get to bed. How can the boy sleep in the attic? The wind howls on nights like these."

"He is an owl," I remarked. "Every morning I ascend to wake him up, I expect to see him perched on the rafters."

"He wasn't entirely wrong, you know," Aberforth said, his eyes gazing into the flames. "So many become victims of the careless cruelty of their betters. Saving yourself from being a victim is not easy, and is almost always done at the expense of others."

I had abandoned Aberforth and Ariana for pursuing fame and glory with Grindelwald because I had felt overlooked and unappreciated. In the earlier timeline, Tom had tortured little children to intimidate the bullies in his orphanage before they could harm him. Severus, friendless and called ugly, had been humiliated by a spell of his own invention by four boys I had dearly loved. Witches who refused to give up their magic had been burned to death at the stake by Muggles during the Spanish Inquisition. A little man from Corsica had torn apart a monarchy, made himself an Emperor and died alone a madman on an island.

The right to survive, Aberforth had called it. Tom believed that the Crusoes of the world did not have the right to survive.

Aberforth pensively rolled his rosary beads. I replayed Tom's passionate words in my mind over and over again. A log shifted in the fireplace, Aberforth's fingers passed from one bead to the next, my mind continued its miserable musings, and above in the attic slept a young boy who believed in his right to survive.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You are his mother's brother, you say?" Mrs. Cole was staring at me suspiciously. "So she wasn't in the circus, then?"

"Bad business," I growled in Morfin Gaunt's voice. "It was bad business, I say. We searched high and low for the lass after she ran away with that toff who came to the village."

Mrs. Cole looked torn between her doubts and her wish to be rid of Tom. Finally, she scowled and said, "We have had him since he was born, Mr. Gaunt. Where were you all these years? How dare you spirit him off without a word to us? It isn't done, sir. No, it just isn't done!"

"It was his eyes, Miss," I said earnestly, waving a hairy hand towards where Tom stood. The boy's eyes were sparkling in mirth though his face remained blandly composed and I hoped that Mrs. Cole would not see through the act. "He's got my father's eyes, you see. I forgot myself when I saw him. All I wanted to do was to take him home and raise him well. I don't know much about right and proper. So I thought, Morfin, my man, you need someone clever to help you when you go to the orphanage to make things right and proper by the government. So I brought along Abe. He's a good man, our Abe."

"Abe?" Mrs. Cole raised her eyebrows in a manner eerily reminiscent of Minerva.

"That would be me, madam," Abe bowed and proffered a little rectangular card. Mrs. Cole looked relieved as she took the card from him. She assiduously placed the card in her file and waited.

"Abe Whitney, Solicitor. I assure you that I shall take care of the paperwork and other matters," Abe said confidently. "Though Mr. Gaunt here behaved right boorishly by taking Tom home without your permission, I can vouch for it that he meant no harm. As he said, he was reminded of his father and his sister upon seeing the boy and in his emotional turmoil outstripped his sense."

Right boorishly, indeed! Aberforth would pay for that. I was not the one who lived in a goat-pen.

I shot a look at Tom who was still the epitome of composure. His eyes were cast down modestly. I knew better. He was hiding his amusement at Aberforth's speech.

After a few more minutes of persuasion, Mrs. Cole rubbed her nose and said, "Two weeks, Mr. Whitney. After a trial period of two weeks, if both Tom and Mr. Gaunt are agreeable to the arrangement, I will endorse it and you may then file the papers with the government."

"One week is already over," Aberforth pointed out.

"Two more weeks," Mrs. Cole said briskly. "If the welfare inspector comes along, he may see the file and take it upon himself to pay a visit to Mr. Gaunt's home to see how the arrangement is faring. He fetched Tom from an adoptive home once during the trial period of two weeks when it looked as if they wanted a servant-boy instead of a child."

So Tom had not harmed the couple. My suspicions calmed. As for this welfare inspector, we would have to place wards on Morfin Gaunt's shack to prevent the Muggles from visiting him.

"I would like a word alone with Tom," Mrs. Cole requested.

"Of course, of course!" Abe Whitney agreed readily.

He gave me a curt nod and we departed the room. As I crossed the door, I cast a spell to eavesdrop. Tom might feel the magic but he would not understand what it signified. It was not powerful enough for him to feel threatened by it. Mrs. Cole would not feel a thing.

"That is very rude, Albus!" Aberforth hissed.

I did not reply. I knew it was very rude, but I had to find out what Mrs. Cole was going to tell Tom. For all I knew, it might have some bearing on the unnatural things Tom used to cause at the orphanage.

"You are looking well," Mrs. Cole was saying. "I hope you are not giving your 'uncle' any trouble."

"He is taking care of me," Tom replied.

"He will send you to school, won't he?" Mrs. Cole enquired in a tone of grudging concern. "If all he wants is a good-looking servant-boy, we needn't agree to this, Tom. God knows that you caused no end of trouble here, but if he isn't going to see you educated you may as well as stay here. We will manage."

"Mr. Whitney is an educated man, Mrs. Cole, ma'am," Tom answered. "He promised me that I will be sent to school. My uncle listens to Mr. Whitney."

"I don't know, Tom. There are no women in the house. You know what happened to Gary Miles who was adopted by his maternal uncle. It isn't the sort of situation I wish to see you in."

I frowned and told my brother worriedly, "The shrew isn't convinced, Abe. We might have to place a Confundus Charm on her."

"Will you stop eavesdropping?" Aberforth growled. "If the boy discovers it by chance, he is going to do the same whenever we talk behind closed doors."

I hushed him irritably and concentrated on the conversation going on between the woman and Tom.

"Ma'am," Tom was saying, "you know that I wouldn't let anyone harm me. If I find myself in trouble, I'll make a run for it, I promise."

"You do have a cat-like knack for falling on your feet whatever happens," Mrs. Cole admitted. "It is just that uncle of yours has slipped me a hundred pounds. I don't trust any man who gives such an amount without blinking once."

Aberforth had warned me not to give the amount. I had not paid heed. Hadn't I given the same amount to the woman in the earlier timeline? She had graciously accepted then. Of course, the war had already started and she had been hard pressed to make ends meet. She had begun drinking heavily and no longer had the welfare of her charges foremost in her mind.

"I promise to take care of myself, Mrs. Cole," Tom said. I could well imagine the charming smile he must have had in place as he spoke those words.

"Oh, very well, Tom," the shrew relented. "Write to Father Sebastian or to me if you are in trouble. We will do what we can, not that it will be much. Three new children have come after you left. Girls. Jews fleeing from the Continent. I don't know how long we can keep things as they are around here. The donations have been going down over the past four years, what with the depression cutting hard into the benefactors' pockets."

"Mr. Whitney says that another war is coming," Tom murmured.

"He seems an all-right sort of fellow," Mrs. Cole opined. "But I don't know about your uncle. See, he reminds me of your Ma, he does. Circus types. You can't trust them at all. His father's eyes indeed!"

Tom did not say anything. Mrs. Cole sighed and said, "Come here, then. Take this, will you? It is the Douay-Rheims Bible. Father Sebastian wanted you to have it. He can't see you today. Someone in the parish is dying and needs the last sacrament. Speaking of churches, who knows what sort of church your uncle goes to? You will be true to what Father Sebastian taught you, you hear me? Make sure you read a few pages of this Bible every night before you go to bed. Say your prayers at meal-times. Don't get up to anything unnatural. You have only been caned by the school-masters and me. That is nothing compared to a whipping. Your uncle looks like one of those who whip children. So don't cross him, all right?"

I had sympathy for Tom if he had spent his whole life restricted by this woman's ordering about. There was concern in her voice. There was also relief at finally seeing Tom about to leave the orphanage. What sort of trouble had the boy caused her?

The door opened and Tom walked out clutching a black book.

He looked at Abe and said wryly, "I don't know what your brother was doing but I could feel his magic in the room. It was itchy."

"Never mind him," Abe said. "By now, you know well that he is touched in the head."

"I am not touched in the head!" I exclaimed. "Tom, what did the shrew want with you? Can we leave now?"

"Mrs. Cole has agreed for now," Tom said. "If you give me a minute, I will fetch my things from the dormitory."

"Go on, then," I waved him off.

"You really should rein in your desire to know everything about everyone," Aberforth told me sternly. "It is only going to make the boy equally curious. Who knows what skeletons he will find in your closet?"

A little girl entered the corridor just then, and paused, looking at us wide-eyed. Her hair was tugging loose from its fat pigtails and her blue frock was creased by plump, little fingers kneading the material nervously.

"You are taking Tom away?" she asked, her voice lisping words adorably.

"I'm Tom's uncle," I told her. "You are his friend?"

"Amy," she lisped. "Tom isn't my friend. He isn't anyone's friend. He sings for us if we ask him nicely."

"Why isn't he anyone's friend, Amy?" I enquired.

"Mathew says Tom is dangerous!" Amy said in a hushed voice. "We aren't supposed to talk to him alone. He will do something nasty to us, Mathew says. Only, I don't think so because Tom can sing really well."

"I am ready," Tom called, as he approached us carrying a shabby suitcase.

"What do you have in there?" I asked him. He had no need of clothes. Had he stolen something from his dormitory mates?

"You wretched Doubting Thomas," Aberforth muttered. "Tom, you needn't."

Tom looked up at the ceiling as if to implore patience. Then he set the suitcase down on the floor, knelt to open it and sat back on his heels to watch me inspect the contents. There were about two dozen books and a few exercise notes.

"Father Sebastian bought some of the books for me," Tom said. "The rest are from the school. They award a book of choice every year to the student who scores the highest in the examinations."

"Tom always gets that award," Amy piped up. "The boys in my class say that it is because he sucks up to the school-master. It isn't true, though. The school-master doesn't like Tom at all."

Tom looked pleasantly surprised by her defence and he asked me quietly, "May I close the suitcase, sir? It is nearly lunchtime and the children will soon be all over the corridors."

I nodded. So the boy had expected me to ask him about the contents of the suitcase. Did that mean he knew he did not have my complete trust? Did he care about gaining my trust and goodwill?

"Pick a song, Amy," Tom said as he set the suitcase by the wall. "Quick now, I have to leave."

"You will sing any song I want?" Amy squealed in shocked delight. "Any song?"

"Yes, yes, pick a song soon." Tom rolled his eyes as she squealed again.

"The one that keeps ending with rosemary and thyme!" Amy decreed. "Please, Tom? Please? It is just that you sing it so nicely! Benny has been singing for us last week. He can't get the tune right."

Tom leaned against the wall and cleared his throat before beginning to sing softly the old English riddle song Scarborough Fair.

"Are you going to Scarborough Fair?

Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,

Remember me to one who lives there,

For once she was a true love of mine."

Little boys and girls came creeping into the corridor where we stood. Silent and still they remained as Tom's young voice sang to them the challenges issued by the mischievous man to the woman who loved him. Aberforth was tapping a shoe in accord with the song. I felt a degree of possessive pride as I watched the boy charm us all with his merry ballad. It was not the usual warmth that I felt whenever I saw a favourite student performing well. No, this was different. This was akin to the pride I had felt when Ariana had spoken her first word. I shot a worried glance at Aberforth, who was still immersed in the song.

Mrs. Cole had joined us and was now keeping a careful eye on the young girls, led by Amy, who were executing an impromptu dance to Tom's song. I caught Tom's eye then and did not begrudge the smug amusement in his eyes as he performed with a flair equalling that of the legendary Piper of Hamelin.

He winded down with one last refrain of And then she will be a true love of mine. The spell was broken and the children stood uncomfortably now. Only Amy felt courageous enough to whisper, "Thank you, Tom."

He nodded curtly and picked up his suitcase. Most of the boys and girls shuffled away into the dormitories. Only the older boys and Amy remained. Mrs. Cole had left for her office. One of the boys, whom I recalled from the playground incident, came forward and spat at Tom saying, "You are a pansy boy, Tom. You sing like a pansy and dress like a pansy. Good riddance! We don't want any of us catching your ways."

Aberforth stepped forward, but Tom shook his head and turned back to the other boy saying, "You will regret that, Mathew."

"What are you going to do? Sing us to death?" Mathew drawled, looking so very like young Sirius Black right then that I was overwhelmed.

"I might," Tom said mildly. But the darkness in his eyes gave away his deep hatred for the boy who was bullying him.

"You are a freak!" Mathew shouted. "A freak and a pansy! Now get lost. When we see each other again, I'll teach you your proper place.

I could see Tom's fingers trembling. Mathew gasped suddenly and his hands flew to his throat. Gurgling and choking on his spit, he reeled backwards and slumped limply against the wall.

Tom said quietly, "Goodbye, Mathew. If we see each other again, it will go worse for you."

Little Amy was crying silently. Mathew's pack of friends carried him down the corridor. Tom's fingers were shaking badly. Aberforth went across to the boy and clasped his shoulder saying gruffly, "Come along, Tom. Idiots like him talk filth all the time. You shouldn't bother to listen to such. We will be leaving now. Say goodbye to Amy and we can go."

Tom took a deep breath and nodded.

Amy said softly, with her big blue eyes tearful and frightened, "You really are unnatural, aren't you? Mathew was right. I kept telling him that he was wrong, that you were a good boy, but he was right all along."

"Amy-" Tom began. He took a step closer to her, lifted his hand as if to tuck a curly lock of hair away from her face. She shrank against the wall and cried out in fear.

"No!" she shouted. "Don't touch me, freak!"

Crying, she ran away down the corridor and into her dormitory. The door banged behind her and Tom hid his fingers in his pockets. Aberforth gripped the boy's shoulder and steered him outside. We walked silently down the street and Apparated home from the eastern corner of the playground where I had first met Tom.

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Tom was pacing in the backyard. His hands remained in his pockets. I stood by the kitchen window and watched him sadly. Hearing Mathew's cruel words and seeing how they had affected Tom had struck an unfamiliar chord in me. I had never bullied anyone or been a part of a gang that delighted in such an activity. Nor had I been at the receiving end of bullying. As a teacher, and later as Headmaster, I had assumed that this was part and parcel of a teenaged child's school-life in these modern times. I had not devoted much thought to it and had always supposed that students like Severus and Myrtle were overreacting to their fellow students' teasing. For bullying was simply good-natured teasing, wasn't it?

After coming upon Tom's predicament in the playground, and after witnessing today's altercation between Tom and Mathew, I knew I would have to revise my opinion on bullying. It was not harmless. It was hurtful to be on the receiving side.

Why hadn't I recognised that before, despite seeing so many instances of it? Why hadn't I ordered Tom to stop hurting Mathew?

"You are a strange bird, brother," Aberforth said as he joined me by the window. "This moment, you want nothing more than to prove that he is a murderer in making. The next moment, you are a quiet, blazing torch of protective fury. I wonder what the boy makes of it. It must be terribly confusing for him."

"I am not protective," I muttered.

"Then?"

The boy was pacing, his hands still in his pockets. It was a cold evening and he was not wearing anything over his cotton shirt and short pants. I Summoned the winter-cloak Aberforth had bought for him and sent it outside to the boy. He clutched it and stood still, his face hidden in the evening shadows. His knuckles were taut and white against the charcoal-grey of his cloak. I wanted to drag him inside, make him wear brightly patterned socks and seat him by the fire.

"I don't know, Abe," I said hoarsely. "I want to trust him. For that, I must know everything about him. I must see everything in his mind."

"Will you satisfied with that?" Aberforth wondered. "Perhaps you will want to know what he is thinking during every moment of his life."

"How else will I trust him?"

"You don't simply wish to trust him. You want him to yearn for your trust. You want him to surrender his secrets and his deepest thoughts so that you will grace him with your trust. Dear God, Albus, it is very well that you are not a parent. Your children would have had the hardest time what with your desiring to know everything about them."

"Abe-"

"Don't be a fool, Albus. If you know every last one of his secrets, then your trust in him is not a blessing. It is simply payment."

The kitchen-door slid open and the boy walked in. He hung the damp coat on the cloak-stand by the door.

"What do you think of trust, Tom?" I asked him.

He cast a wondering glance Aberforth's way and then answered me, "It is usually the excuse for people's curiosity, sir."

Aberforth chuckled, I gripped the window-sill tight and Tom looked bewildered.

"Tom, why don't you go up and change?" Aberforth suggested. "I'll put the kettle on. There are scones."

"I liked the scones you made yesterday," Tom said.

"Those were pumpkin scones," Aberforth said. "I have made cinnamon scones today. These taste even more delicious. Hurry up, before they go cold."

After Tom left, Aberforth turned to face me and said solemnly, "I am going to chisel on a fine piece of wood: Trust is usually the excuse for people's curiosity. Then I am going to give it to you for Christmas. What do you say?"

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Most mornings found Tom in the backyard poring over his basic algebra textbook and scribbling furiously on the sheets of parchment I had given him. I had only known his passion for magic. It seemed as if he was equally ardent about Muggle subjects. He was able to hold his own in arguments about history and politics. He said he owed his knowledge of history to Father Sebastian. Politics, he wryly remarked, was because of the orphanage benefactors who had little else to discuss during dinners. While he could find his way all over London, he was woefully ignorant about the geography of the world. Aberforth had tried to show him with the help of a globe, but the tutoring session had devolved into a debate on Robinson Crusoe and colonialism again.

"Really, my boy," I had said incredulously, "today's bullies of the schoolyard do make tomorrow's invaders of lesser countries!"

"It would only be logical," Tom had argued.

I had not continued the debate. I had decided to study the issues which led to bullying and the consequences afterwards in depth before coming to a stand on the matter. My lack of comprehension about the subject echoed my ignorance on the subject of marriage. I had never done it. I had never had the cause to think about it.

I was busy with my origami project when Tom burst into the kitchen and joined me by the table.

"Why are you making paper swans?" he asked, curiosity lighting up his eyes.

"Origami. The Japanese art of paper-crafting," I explained. "I could teach it to you, if you like."

"No, sir," he said hastily. "I would rather learn to play the flute."

"Origami is equally art and science, Tom. You need nimble hands and sharp eyes for this. Perhaps you will understand its significance one day. What brought you here now?" I asked him.

"I am going out," he said. "Hero said he will show me around the village."

"Hero?"

"The garden-snake, sir," he explained. "His name is Hero."

I recalled the sleepy green and yellow striped snake and asked dubiously, "Who named him?"

"He named himself, of course," Tom replied. "It is the way of the snakes. They can't really wait around until their parent names them. They will get eaten up."

That made sense. Had Tom renamed himself in the earlier timeline because of this reasoning? I had thought it a follow-up of teenage grandstanding.

"Don't speak to anyone," I told Tom. "And make sure you aren't seen when leaving and entering this place, will you? The place is under a charm, but we wouldn't want to take risks."

"Yes, sir," he agreed. "May I leave now?"

"Bring your books in," I reminded him.

"I am taking them along. Hero said there is the cosiest place in the graveyard grounds where it is most enjoyable to sun yourself. I will be back before lunch, sir."

With that, he set out. I remained engrossed in my thoughts about names and the power invested in them.

"Why are you making paper swans? Where is the boy?" Aberforth asked, towelling his hair dry after his Sunday bath. He was clad in a musty brown bathrobe that smelled strongly of goat. He bathed only on Sundays. It was just as well that he had never married.

"He went on a guided tour of the village," I remarked. "That garden-snake, remember? It seems the snake named itself Hero. When I asked Tom, he said it is the way of the snakes. It explains a lot. Well, he has taken along his algebra books. He said there is a sunny spot in the graveyard and that he is going to work there till lunch. Some walking will do him good."

"Graveyard?" Aberforth rasped, his eyes wide and his towelling coming to an abrupt stop.

I blinked. Then I remembered. I had been so deep in my musings about names that I had forgotten the rest of Tom's words. Cursing, I grabbed my cloak and rushed out.

Tom was there in the graveyard, right beside Ariana's tomb. His books were spread all over the tomb and he was chatting with his serpentine companion. When he saw me striding towards him, he stopped his conversation with the snake.

"Why this grave?" I asked him hoarsely. Of all the graves scattered about the place, why this one?

"Hero was telling me the story of the girl," Tom said quietly, his eyes limpid pools of contemplation in the bright sunlight. "Are you replacing her with me, sir?"

I let my fingers hover over the granite of her headstone and whispered, "You are nobody's replacement, Tom."

He looked disbelieving, but he nodded anyway and rose to his feet. Then he gathered his books and hissed something to Hero who slithered away into the thickets.

Tom looked up at me. I tried to stop my frame from trembling. There had been flashes of spells cast. There had been shouted recriminations. There had been Gellert, righteous and fiery. There had been Aberforth, frustrated and angry. There had been me, foolish and proud. And there had been a little girl who ran into our midst begging us to stop.

A note of unusual gentleness marked Tom's voice when he said, "Let us go home."

Was he putting on a facade to lure me into a false sense of trust? Was he smug because he had unearthed my wretched secrets buried in this grave with a little girl who had begged three boys to stop shouting?

A flicker of uncertainty passed through Tom's eyes and his fingers swept over mine rapidly in a clumsy gesture. I relaxed. He hated physical contact. If he had initiated it now, it meant he had done it for me. To comfort me. His eyes were grey and solemn in the sunlight as they held my gaze.

"Sing for me, will you?" I rasped, casting an improvised sound-containing envelope charm on us both. Together with the Disillusionment Charm I had cast on myself, the spell would sap my energy. I did not care. "Something to lift my mood. Something flighty. Something improper."

Tom cocked his head in thought before nodding. Then he began.

What'll we do with a drunken sailor,

What'll we do with a drunken sailor,

What'll we do with a drunken sailor,

Earl-aye in the morning?

I laughed out loud at the ridiculous sea shanty he had chosen. Then I cleared my throat and joined his high, clear voice with my baritone.

Shave his belly with a rusty razor,

Put him in the long boat till he's sober,

Put him in the scuppers with a hose-pipe on him.

Put him in bed with the captain's daughter.

Tom's teeth flashed white despite his best attempts to not grin. We had reached the house. I stopped the spells and shot a daring look at him. With good grace, he joined me in the last chorus.

That's what we do with a drunken Sailor,

That's what we do with a drunken Sailor,

That's what we do with a drunken Sailor,

Earl-aye in the morning!

"Consider yourselves grounded, gentlemen," Aberforth decreed when he heard us.

I laughed and hugged my brother before making for the teapot and the pie. Tom was left to answer a bewildered Aberforth's queries.

I was home.

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