The Lightning Market

And one of the books I used to research this piece was called London, A History. Coincidence? I think not. Thanks, of course, to my lovely beta-readers – Emily, Karina and Laura.

 

THE LIGHTNING MARKET

(A side story to Dreamwalk Blue. If you haven’t read that series… Well, I suppose you could look on this as an appetizer. Mange, mange…)

The Battle of Britain was pure theatre, like a series of medieval jousts carried off at 25,000 feet, and it made folk heroes of England's best airmen. Then the enemy's bombers gave the people an even closer look at war: they started striking at the heart of London.

The London blitz of 1940 began when an errant bomber, aiming for some aircraft factories on the outskirts, mistakenly hit the central city, destroying a church and killing people emerging from the pubs at closing time. Churchill responded by striking the core of Berlin, and in turn, Hitler unleashed wave after wave of planes in an all-out assault on London's East End…

Entire blocks of row houses were leveled; factories were gutted, left for smoldering ash… The sound of air raid signals became as familiar as police sirens, the smell of burning wood as common as kerosene… More than 177,000 camped out in the London Underground stations each night… Awful though the shelters were, people found it a comfort to share disaster. Londoners played cards and joked and made dates to meet at the same curve in the tunnel wall, as if it were the corner pub… There they found camaraderie and freedom from the harsh light of reality at street level. The subway was their cave, proving that Churchill was right when he said Hitler could drive things into a new Dark Age. In some ways, he already had.

(from the century peter jennings and todd brewster)

 

The girl came in again today… She told me her name is Enola and that she's working for the WVS, running one of the mobile canteens that are sent to the fires… She and her brother Tom are still sleeping in the tubes. I asked her if that was safe and she said probably not, but at least down there you couldn't hear the one that got you and that was a blessing.

(from fire watch connie willis)

 

London, 1940

There had been a time, he knew, when London wasn't burning. It was hard to remember sometimes, what it had been like to live without the wailing of the sirens and the grief-stricken, without the smoke and thunder and daylit nights - what it had been like before the summer turned to blood and ink and the whine of falling bombs.

Tom walked along the cramped, rain-slicked streets, away from the market, where the poor and desperate merchants struggled to carry on a semblance of life as usual. From a run-down newspaper stand, the headlines screamed that British bombs were falling on Berlin. Somehow, Tom couldn’t feel any of the triumph his fellow Londoners were surely indulging in.

He rounded a corner, closing in on the place he’d called home since he could remember. The building - tucked in among the leaning, gritty buildings of Rosemary Lane in Whitechapel’s industrial district - was close enough to catch the faint chimes of St. Mary’s bells along the High.

Antiseptically clean and painfully ordered, the place wasn’t harmful so much as it was empty, an aching gash of nothing across his heart, in the place where light and love and safety should have dwelt.

Tom ran lightly up the steps and slipped in through the front door. He headed straight down the hardwood-floored hall to the Assistant Director’s office. Michael O’Connell, a bearded, blond-haired man in his late twenties, sat hunched over a ledger, his feet hooked on either side of a much-abused stool.

O’Connell kept the place together and they all knew it. Galvin, the director, was too often in his cups; a sad, rumpled man who would have been removed long ago if not for O’Connell’s soft heart and quick thinking. And, so, the boys respected him as the one who insured they had food and blankets enough, and who kept the heat and electricity running when it got cold. As such, Tom respected him as well, but couldn’t seem to summon any affection for the man.

"I'm back, sir," Tom said, softly.

"Oh, good. Did you do as I asked, Tom?" O'Connell asked distractedly, his attention still focused on the books.

"Yes, sir," Tom said, straightening his posture.

"Right then." O'Connell laid aside his pen. "Did Mrs. Collins give you any trouble about the coupons?"

"No, sir." Tom handed over the stack of ragged papers. "And she said to tell you Mr. Collins has got hold of some special items you might be interested in."

"Did she now? Good." He smiled at Tom. "Don't go mentioning that last bit to anyone now, you hear? And maybe we'll have some tinned salmon for dinner this week."

"Of course, sir."

"Good lad," O’Connell tweaked Tom’s cap and shooed him out the door.

Dinner had already started, so Tom hurried to take his place at the table. The spartan dining room was nearly half-empty now, the number of children dwindling slowly, anemically, from the youngest to the eldest. Now, at thirteen, Tom was one of the youngest that remained.

In a panic, they'd begun sending the children to the countryside, loading them onto train after train, hoping vainly to keep them safe, to protect them from the bloody realities of a world intent on self-destruction.

For the entire summer, Tom had been afraid of being packed off to some farm in Sussex or Lancashire with no way of getting to school for the start of term. Now, with August drawing to a close, it seemed he’d lasted it out.

Soon, very soon, he would be sitting in Hogwarts’ magnificent Great Hall, watching clouds skitter across the enchanted ceiling, and eating bread with real butter, and drinking scalding, black tea from those thick porcelain mugs… Tom licked his lips, pushing away the remnants of his potatoes and the dregs of warm milk in his tin cup. Oh, the food alone made leaving London worth it. He hadn’t drunk a proper cup of tea since June.

From the head of the table Galvin said firmly, "Don’t waste your milk, Tom. It’s all you’ll get."

* * * * *

The next day found Tom at his chores, scrubbing the hardwood floors of the corridor outside Galvin's office. It was menial work but not entirely unpleasant; it gave Tom blessed solitude to dream about Hogwarts. Only six more days before he would board the train back. The sudsy floor polish smelled of soap and lemon, and Tom watched the rainbow reflections in floating soap bubbles as he worked.

He cocked his head. There were voices coming from the office, unusual at this time of day. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but couldn't very well move and abandon his work. Stirred by curiosity, he peeked through the crack in the door. He could see Galvin, fully sober for once and looking very serious, reflected in a dingy old mirror on the far wall.

"I didn't expect you to agree with me, Mike," he said to someone Tom couldn't see. "But that doesn't change my mind."

"You're bloody right I don't agree." O'Connell's voice came from an unseen corner of the room. "It's a far more dangerous proposition…"

Galvin, his wrinkled, sad face set in unusual resolve, said, "If we've the opportunity to send them all to Canada, we should. They'll certainly be safer there."

"Once they get there, yes. I agree with that. It's the getting there that worries me. Or haven't you heard what happens to ships these days? Given the choice between the Luftwaffe and the U-boats, I'll take the Luftwaffe. At least we know when they're coming."

"It’s done, Mike. I sent the applications last month. I have made up my mind."

"Miles, I understand why you must feel this way. Seeing those boys, faced with idea of them going off to fight. I know…" Galvin had lost a son in the Great War and a wife not long after, driving him to seek solace in drink.

"You know nothing!" Galvin said suddenly, his face twisting with raw emotion. "How could you? You were still a babe in your mother's arms while young men just like ours were marching off to breathe the Kaiser's poisoned air and die in his barbed wire no-man's land. Don't tell me you know. If I can spare these children those horrors, I will do it. And you won't stop me, Mike."

"But, this isn't the Great War," O'Connell said gently. "It's not the same."

"No, it isn't the same. It has the potential to be something very much worse. How can you not believe it after what we saw last weekend? The Hun bombed civilians - defenseless, everyday people. Do you understand what that means? Even in the horrors of the last War no one dared to do such a thing! Matters are only going to get worse, Mike, and you know it as well as I."

Galvin crossed the room, moving away from the mirror and out of Tom’s line of vision. "Mike," the older man said softly, "I owe you so much. I’m a broken old man. I know that, and these children owe their very lives to you. Now let me save them in my way."

Tom couldn’t hear O’Connell’s response, but scuttled away as the door to the office began to creak open.

Apparently lost in thought, O’Connell paused in the corridor, hands shoved into his pockets. He stared down the long hallway, not even noticing the boy crouched, a scrub brush in his pale hand, not four feet away from him. Tom was invisible as always. All the boys were invisible, like they were part of the fixtures and the furniture of the decrepit, old building – skinny, smudged shadows moving wraith-like through Whitechapel’s slums; living and dying their quiet, desperate lives as others like them had for centuries. Tom found he was clutching the wiry-bristled brush so tightly it felt ready to snap. He was not invisible, he would not die here and he would not be silent any longer.

"Sir?" He cringed away a bit at the sound of his own voice, as O’Connell turned and noticed his presence. The boys were not hit often. In fact, Tom himself had only been struck once or twice in his entire life, but the threat of it was still there: the knowledge that his fate lay entirely in the hands of these men. They could beat him, kill him even, and no one would ever know. Galvin and O’Connell were good men, moral men, who had never taken advantage of that power. But that didn’t keep it from being true; from coloring every decision, every word, every movement in Tom’s young life.

"You’re to send us away, sir?" Tom blurted, unable to stop himself.

"You heard that then?" O’Connell shook his head. "Yes, Tom. You’re to go where it’s safe."

"But when?" he pressed, surprised at his own impudence.

O’Connell didn’t seem to mind. "There’s a ship sailing from Liverpool in four days. All you boys are to be on it."

"But I can't go!" Tom exclaimed, jumping to his feet, nearly knocking over the pail of soapy water. "I'm to go back to school… I-"

"You'll go where we tell you, Tom," O’Connell said firmly, but not unkindly, taking the brush from Tom’s nerveless fingers. "Go on then. You’re done here."

Tom fled up the stairs without another word.

* * * * *

He knew it was dangerous to be on the roof. One never knew when the "nuisance" raiders, as the Press called them, would be back. They had been every night for five nights and counting. These lone German bombers would cross the Channel, occasionally dropping their bombs, but mostly just as a simple reminder of what they could do if they chose.

But it was early yet, and Blodeuwedd hadn’t returned, so Tom braved the roof. From the sooty rooftop, London was his vista. He could see the smoldering fires and bombed-out shells of factories and the broken, burning warehouses of the Docklands; he could see other young men on other rooftops scanning the horizon, listening for the hum of aircraft engines. From somewhere he could hear a radio, turned up too loud, the announcer jaunty but serious, telling his fellow Londoners to chin up and keep on with "business as usual."

"Here is the news and this is Alvar Liddell reading it…" The program changed, and the familiar voice of the BBC newsreader began to recount the day’s events. Leaning back against the gritty wall, Tom caught the scent of frying potatoes and cabbage on the hot, heavy air. Somewhere across the alleyway, he heard the sounds of a young, impoverished family - the giggling children and the half-hearted scolds of their weary mother, accompanied by the clank of heavy pots on an electric cooker.

He sat up straight, catching sight of a hazy shadow against the pinks and oranges of the smoke-addled sunset. From so far away, it was impossible to judge – was it an RAF Spitfire? A Hurricane? Or a German Dornier? It wasn’t yet close enough to hear the whine of its engines, sometimes the only way to tell friend from foe. Tom began to move toward the stairway, half-listening for the air raid sirens that would likely come too late, then paused. The silhouette was closer than he’d thought at first, swooping with the gliding arcs of a bird, not the machine-driven insistence of an aeroplane.

‘Blodeuwedd,’ he breathed, his heart pounding erratically in his chest. The tawny owl circled once before dipping down to land on his outstretched arm.

"There you are, girl," he said softly, stroking the bird’s soft feathers. "Do you have any gifts for me? A ticket out of this place, maybe?"

The owl hooted softly, a melancholy admission that she’d returned without anything for her master.

"That’s all right," he said. "I’ve got a job for you anyway. You’ll have to go now, though. I don’t want you out in the Muggle world once night falls. It’s not safe for anyone anymore. Even you, Blodeuwedd." He fed her a few stale, brown bread crumbs he’d managed to conceal in a napkin at dinner, then handed her a small scrap of paper. "Make sure the Headmaster gets that, all right? It’s urgent. I need a reply back as soon as he reads it."

Blodeuwedd hooted, looked her master over with concern and took to the air again.

Tom watched her go, then turned back to the stairs, before the next shadow on the horizon had time to materialize.

* * * * *

Two days later, he realized no one was coming to get him. There would be no letter from the school saving him from boarding that ship and crossing the Atlantic. He knew that wizards were more than reluctant to intervene in anything even remotely connected to the Muggle war, but he’d thought this would have been an exception. It wasn’t as if Tom were a Muggle himself. But apparently he was as good as one where this war was concerned. He would have to take matters into his own hands then.

If he waited until they were to leave for Liverpool it would be risky. There would be adults, watching them and taking stock. But there would also be confusion, and large crowds.

On the other hand, if he were very daring, he could wait until the sirens went that night, and escape in the panic of a raid. No one would dare to follow him out into that danger and chaos, but the risk was great. He would have to be not only brave, but also lucky. Faced with the prospect of life in some Muggle, Canadian orphanage, escaping through the streets of the East End during a German raid seemed preferable.

So he gathered the few things he could carry without attracting any notice, and waited. The first raid came early that evening, and everyone headed down to what little shelter the ancient basement provided. In the confusion, Tom slipped out; blending into the crowds headed for the tube shelters.

It was dark and cool underneath the city, the mechanical galloping of the trains all that could be heard, as if there were no bombs exploding overhead or sirens shrieking like banshees in the twilight. He followed the crowd, surging around the metal gates as though they were rocks in a rapids. Tom slipped around the queue, using his innate invisibility to good advantage – just another shadow in the dim, electric light. When the train arrived he detached himself from his chosen clump of shadows and slipped soundlessly aboard. No one noticed him.

And so, he rode the Tube all the next day. Trying to move slowly westward, further into the city and away from the devastation of the East End and the Docklands. It was slow, painstaking work – the trains ran at uneven intervals and not as frequently as before the bombing. The new security measures and need to use many of the platforms as shelters played havoc with the trains and schedules, and even when a train did arrive in the station, Tom couldn’t always reach it unnoticed. He spent long hours waiting in the sooty shadows of different stations with held breath. Until, at last, he found himself at Leicester Square station, mere blocks from Diagon Alley and a world untouched by this fire and brimstone.

Tomorrow, he thought. I will go there tomorrow and get money and food and things for school. All I must do is survive the night.

* * * * *

‘Surviving the night’ proved a common sentiment in the land beneath London. Like some bleak future in a novel by H.G. Wells, the refugees from the world above shunned stars and moon and fresh air to huddle together in the bowels of the city.

Tom staked out his patch of platform and leaned wearily against the wall. His head throbbed from a day filled the ceaseless, electronic clack-clack of the trains. His clothes smelled of grease, and he had nothing to eat. Once more he forced himself to think about Diagon Alley, so close at hand, and the small trust left for him by his mother. He would be able to buy cheese and bread, and perhaps the bartender at the Leaky Cauldron would give Tom a pint as he’d done in the past. Tom’s mouth watered at the thought.

The boy next to Tom, a few years older perhaps but not much more, offered him a cigarette, which he accepted. He didn’t normally smoke, but just now he felt he must do something with his hands.

The match flared, sending the acrid scent of sulfur into the already stale air. Tom inhaled, looked up and, through the lazy spirals of blue smoke, saw the last person in the world he’d expected to find there.

A girl, dark-haired and pretty, a year younger than Tom himself, stood on the platform, surveying the scene helplessly. Her blue dress was slightly too long to be fashionable and her hair hung loosely about her shoulders when any other girl, any Muggle girl, would have it pinned neatly back. Tom clambered to his feet and caught her arm. She whirled to face him, recognition blossoming in her expression.

"I know you," he said, surprised. "You shouldn't be here." The full implications of her presence registered in his sluggish brain. "What the hell are you doing here?" he cried, shaking her by the shoulders.

Tears sprang into her dark blue eyes. "Please, not so loud." She was trembling beneath his touch, her cold hands braced against his collarbone. "Someone will hear and ask questions."

He laughed bitterly. "Nobody asks questions down here. We've got very good at ignoring one another. We've had to, haven't we?" He leaned closer to her, still gripping her shoulders. "For example, I could say that you're a witch and no one would bat an eye."

"Don't."

"Witch," he spat, his eyes flashing. "Did you hear that? Did anyone hear that?"

Her knees buckled and she slumped in his grasp. Tom had to hold tightly to keep her from falling to the crowded platform.

"You go to Hogwarts. You’re in Ravenclaw." It wasn’t a question. She nodded.

"And you… and you…" she began.

"I’m a Slytherin. My name is Tom."

The girl seemed to regain her balance. "My name is Metis. I’ve seen you many times before at school."

"Likewise." He pulled her to sit with him. "Why… what are you doing here?"

"Why are you here?"

Regaining his composure with an effort, Tom almost smiled. "I asked first. But since you asked… My father was a Muggle. I live in the Muggle world when I’m not at Hogwarts."

"Oh, I see," she said, shaking herself as if trying to wake from a bad dream. "We came to London to get my school things. My aunt lives here, and we wanted to see…" She broke off and took a deep breath. "We wanted to see the aeroplanes. So we left Diagon Alley. It was only supposed to be for a minute. But then everything…"

Tom found himself laughing bitterly. "You decided on a bit of sightseeing? In the middle of a raid? That's just too rich."

She looked miserable. "We didn't know. We had no idea how it was… I had no idea how it was out here. Then, when the sirens went, we got separated." She stopped, holding onto the sooty tiles of the wall for support. "My mother and my aunt… I don't know what happened to them. The man from the Fire Service sent me down here." She took a gulping breath. "They told me to stay until morning…" she faltered, then trailed off.

Tom didn’t know what to say to that. He just watched as Metis battled with tears and won. All around them, people were curling up to sleep or spreading out their modest provisions.

A plump, motherly woman came over to them bearing a cup of weakly brewed tea and a small crust of bread, spread with thin, runny margarine, for each of them. Metis thanked her politely, while Tom nodded his gratitude, but privately thought the woman was foolish. She had her own family to provide for, after all.

The long, night hours would pass slowly, Tom knew. Every moment in this darkness felt like two. At least the sounds of the battle above couldn’t penetrate their safe cave. To pass the time, Tom talked to Metis about nothing and everything, telling her all about himself – things he’d never told anyone else at school. He wasn’t sure what moved him to spill his heart to this girl, but he talked until her eyes began to droop and her head bent heavily like a rain-dashed daisy. Something about her presence seemed right, familiar somehow as though he’d known her over a thousand lifetimes. He remembered a Chinese puzzle box he’d seen last Christmas at a wealthy schoolmate’s house – Tom had picked up the lacquered curiosity and intuitively slid the pieces into place. This feeling was the same, a subconscious knowing how things were meant to fit together. He’d been told later that no one had been able to solve that puzzle, though it had been in the family’s possession for hundreds of years.

Tom leaned back against the tiled wall, guiding Metis' head onto his shoulder. They clung together, hungry, dirty and frightened, like urchins in Dickens' London.

"Thank you, Tom," she whispered into his shoulder, her breath hot against the cloth of his shirt.

"Why?" He leaned his mouth against the top of her head, speaking quietly against her soft hair.

"I was afraid before. You helped me."

"No, I didn’t." He turned her head toward him with one hand, tipping her face up, softly prying her mouth open with his fingers. She didn't resist, simply watched him with wide eyes, as he pressed his mouth softly over hers.

He'd never kissed anyone before, and he wasn't sure what possessed him to do it now. She tasted like salt tears and honey and spiced tea. His heart pounded against his ribcage, feeling as though it would beat out of his chest. He should have been awkward, unsure, but some instinct took over and he kissed her harder because it was just so right. She made a soft, bruised noise in the back of her throat as he pressed against her. Her hair tangled in his hands as he rolled onto his side, as he tasted her with quick darts of his tongue.

And suddenly the world blew apart.

The moment shattered, sharp, deadly shards of time splintering and screaming before fusing back together with a clap like thunder. Tom felt himself thrown against the platform and sat up, blinking dazedly, his head and chest feeling as though he’d been pinned to the ground with dissecting pins. All was darkness. Dimly aware of faint screams and groans from the dark, Tom fumbled in his pocket for his wand and lit it.

"Tom?" a small voice said from somewhere to his right. Metis levered herself up on one elbow, slivers of ceramic tile in her dark hair and blood trickling down her cheeks like tears.

Tom swallowed, trying to ignore the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. A direct hit. What were the odds of that? He’d heard once – something like a million to one? Which was why the Tube stations had been chosen as shelters in the first place. He stifled a hysterical laugh, clamping his teeth together and forcing himself to look around for a way out. The ceiling had caved in; slabs of stone listing drunkenly against the stairway, blocking any chance of escape that way.

"Tom," Metis said again, this time reaching to touch his shoulder. "You’re hurt."

She reached up, soft fingers probing the corner of his mouth. "I can fix…" she began, but

Tom cut her off, turning the light of his wand on the far end of the station.

What is that sound? And then he saw it: water - a roaring, sucking flood from a broken water main. They would all drown. He cursed viciously, his gaze darting around. People stood, some dazed and bloodied, some panicking, all around them. The cold water swirled around their ankles now. Tom looked down at it in shock.

"Tom!" Metis' frantic voice brought him back to her, fear and tears echoing behind her words. "What are we going to do?"

"Come here!" he snapped, his voice taut, fighting the trembling that threatened to take control of his limbs. Fumbling, her hand found his, cold fingers clutching tightly. He looked around desperately. What could they do?

He looked back again. A woman holding a squalling infant met his gaze, hopelessness in her eyes. She sank to her knees in the black water and began to sing to the child. Tom stumbled backward, water splashing around his feet, suddenly unable to breathe. It took all of his strength not to gather Metis to his chest and give up as well.

Somehow, through the haze of panic, he remembered a time when he was young. A time when he’d been in fear of his life and he’d managed to Disapparate. He hadn’t meant to do it, of course. That often happened with magical children. If he could remember the pattern of that thought, if he could feel it again, perhaps it would work…

"Metis." The water was up around her hips; her lips were blue and her teeth chattering as she turned her face up to his. "Will you trust me? I’m going to try but I don’t think it will w-"

"I trust you. Whatever you’re going to do… Just hurry." She flung herself into his arms. He held tightly to her, trying to envision perfectly where he wanted to take them.

This won't work. I'm not strong enough. But what do we have to lose?

He remembered being chased down a dark alley, knowing he was going to die but refusing to accept it. He remembered closing his eyes and digging in his heels. I will not die here, not like this. I will not.He opened his eyes, watching the woman cradle her now-silent child, the pale, frightened face of the boy who’d given him a cigarette, the grim determination of the woman who’d shared her tea with them. He couldn’t help them, but maybe, just maybe he could save himself. He closed his eyes again, and something caught… an elusive tendril of thought, of power, of familiar magic, snagged in his mind, and he felt the world shift. He tightened his hold on Metis; squeezed his eyes more firmly shut, and when he opened them again he was looking out onto Leicester Street.

* * * * *

"It’s cold," Metis murmured against his chest. "Is it supposed to be so cold?"

Tom stared around the street in shock. A huge crater stood where the entrance to the station had been. Men scrambled over the scene wearing the uniforms and metal helmets of the ARP, Home Guard and the Fire Service.

Metis lifted her face from Tom’s shoulder and gazed around them in disbelief. "Tom, you did…"

A man wearing the badge of a Warden hurried over to them. "Are you two quite all right?" He motioned to another man who gave them blankets and directions to the nearest shelter.

Following the other blanket-wrapped survivors toward the shelter, Tom turned to Metis and said softly, "We’ve got to get out of here. Out of the Muggle world, I mean. Diagon Alley isn’t far from here."

"Do you think we should?" Metis said, looking stronger. The color was returning to her face. "Do you think we can make it?"

"We’ve got to risk it. We can’t go to any of the shelters. We have to try for Diagon Alley. It’s the only place we’re sure to be protected." He looked Metis in the face. "It will be very dangerous."

She didn’t reply, just slipped her hand into his. He looked down at her questioningly.

"You saved us. I’ll follow where you lead, Tom."

A curious thrill coursed through him, and he gripped her hand more tightly, before pulling her behind him and out into the wailing night.

The sky was on fire; squads of bombers emerged from the night like horsemen from the heavens. Tom and Metis moved slowly through the London night, inching closer to safety with each step. The streets appeared twisted and disjointed, like a distortion of the familiar in a dream. The air and ground were filled with smoke and glass and fire, but somehow, by some miracle, the two found themselves on Charing Cross road.

In the midst of the chaos, a tiny, run-down pub stood oblivious to it all. From the small windows, lights burned welcomingly into the blacked-out night. The only light that didn’t come from the fires, it cast golden squares onto the pavement, but no one seemed to notice.

Tom reached the door, his hand trembling with reaction, and pushed it open. The old pub smelled like cooking food – both salvation and torture to Tom’s empty stomach.

Inside two women sat at a table with Tom, the bartender. One appeared to be crying. The old bartender looked up at the children in the doorway, and said something to the weeping woman. She leapt to her feet and crossed the small distance between them, followed closely by the second woman.

The first woman reached them and flung her arms around Metis. This had to be Metis’ mother – she wore her long hair loose and gypsy-like about her waist. Her faced was tear-stained and she clasped the girl to her.

The second woman shared their coal-black hair and dark blue eyes, but her hair was pinned up tightly, respectably. She had the look of a professional woman – a teacher or a librarian. She turned her attention on Tom, who still had hold of Metis’ hand.

"Are you all right, young man?" she asked with concern.

"Thank you," Metis’ mother said through silent, pretty tears. "Thank you for bringing her back." She released Metis long enough to hug Tom fiercely. Tom froze, realizing abruptly that he’d never been held like this before – and just as quickly she let go.

Somehow, Metis explained the night’s events to the two women, the story tumbling forth from her hurried and jumbled. Tom found himself so bone weary that he could no longer concentrate on the words. He leaned against the bar, taking every effort just to remain upright.

"Tom? It is Tom, isn’t it?" The second woman – the one with the librarian’s spectacles – who had to be Metis’ aunt, was smiling down at him. "Metis suggests that you come with us for the night. Is that what you would like to do?"

Numbly he nodded and followed the little group, Metis’ mother still clinging to her daughter, out the back of the little pub and into Diagon Alley. It wasn’t long before they were in a far section of the Alley Tom had never seen, dotted with blocks of modern, art deco flats and wizard cafes.

The aunt’s flat, when they reached it, was nicely appointed, though modest. Tom stood awkwardly in the doorway, afraid to touch anything for fear of dirtying the chintz covers and spotless hooked rugs.

"Well, we're quite safe now." The aunt touched his arm. "It's quite all right. We're very protected here."

She moved into the small kitchen and began making preparations for tea. "I expect you could both do with a bath and a good night’s sleep." She looked at Metis’ mother. "You too, Macaria. You’re wrung out. Now, enough of those tears. Really. Metis is quite fine as you can see. No sense worrying yourself over it further." She handed her sister a crisp, embroidered handkerchief and made her sit in an overstuffed chair.

The aunt removed her spectacles and rubbed the bridge of her nose wearily. Tom decided that he liked her no-nonsense ways. She wasn’t like most older women he’d seen. He had trouble imagining her organizing jumble sales or sitting as a fourth at bridge. She seemed likely to be more comfortable in the cap and gown of a St. Anne’s scholar, arguing passionately with the Bursar of some men’s college over whether Branwell Bronte actually wrote Wuthering Heights.

The kettle whistled and she stationed Tom in another chair with a cup of scalding, black tea, while she shooed Metis off to have a bath.

"Now," she said, taking off her suspiciously Muggle-looking, lace-up, brown Oxfords and sinking gratefully into a chair. "What are we to do about you, Tom? Is there someone we need to contact regarding your whereabouts? Shall we send to them for your school things?"

"I don't have any things," he said, feeling a hot, shameful blush creep across his face. "Everything I owned was back…" He stopped short. "It's likely burnt to ashes by now."

"No matter then. We will simply have some new things sent up to school for you," she replied sensibly.

Tom started up out of the chair, nearly splashing hot tea down his already filthy shirt. "I can't allow you to do that! Thank you, but I just can't."

"Well, we’ll at least pick you up some proper robes tomorrow morning before you go."

"I have money," Tom said, almost defiantly. "But thank you."

Metis’ mother looked at him, her eyes soft with understanding. "All right, Tom."

"And," he said quickly, "I can let my guardians know where I am. I don’t want to trouble you…"

"All right, Tom. You must do as you see fit," the aunt said, but with a hint of concern in her eyes. "Just be sure you do it, and in a timely manner. I shouldn’t like to be responsible for causing unnecessary worry."

Thankfully, Tom was then able to escape to the safety of the bath. Metis’ mother took him gently in hand, showing him where he was to sleep and where he could wash up. He thanked her and set about scrubbing his face.

When he got back to his room, he found Metis sitting on his bed. She wore a long, white nightdress, her black hair loose around her shoulders. Her face was still very pale, but she met his eyes evenly and said, in a steady voice, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"You saved me. If not for you, I'd be dead."

He shook his head. "Don't thank me. I did it more for me than for you."

Her eyes widened at this strange confession. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

"I'm not quite sure myself." He sat beside her. "I just knew that I couldn't let us die. Something in me wouldn't let that happen. That's how I managed to do what I did. I shouldn't have been able to do it if you hadn't been with me."

"Are we pawns of some great destiny then?" Metis laughed, but Tom did not.

"Perhaps," he said, watching her very intently.

"You can't be serious… Can you?"

"We believe in magic, don't we? How far is it from that to believe in fate?" He leaned in toward her, resting his hands on the clean cotton of the quilt. "I believe in this feeling. You are essential to me somehow."

"Essential?" she began, but wasn't allowed to finish. He kissed her for the second time, reveling in her taste, her scent - so different than it had been in the Tube, but still fundamentally the same.

He fell back against the mattress, exhaustion aching through every joint in his body. Metis leaned over him, her long hair dragging across the cotton undershirt he’d pulled on in favor of the filthy shirt he’d worn for the last two days. "Thank you, anyway," she murmured again. "Whatever your reasons." She pressed her soft mouth to his again, looking down at him in wonder, and then slipped from the room, leaving Tom to sink into the depths of sleep.

* * * * *

It was 11 a.m., Sunday, September 1, 1940, and King’s Cross station was plunged in chaos. Throngs of weeping mothers and excited or stoic children clogged the queues and platforms. The way to Platform 9 3/4 was completely blocked.

Surely these can't all be for Hogwarts, Tom thought before realizing that was ridiculous.

Metis’ mother and aunt led the two children through the crowds, commenting softly to one another on the unusual activity. They passed a mother kneeling, pinning crude nametags to her two young children, swaddled in coats far too heavy for the fine, late summer morning and weighed down by luggage too heavy and bulky for their small bodies.

"What is this?" Metis asked softly. "Do you have any idea, Tom?"

"I’m not sure but I can guess – they’re sending them out of the city before the bombing gets worse."

"Worse?" Metis said in small voice.

Tom checked his watch and began to shoulder his way more quickly through the press of the crowd. They had swept through Diagon Alley that morning, just long enough for Tom to pick up some wizard money and a few other things. So now they had no time to spare. He would send for the rest of his supplies from school. Consequently he felt light and incomplete entering the station without his trunk or Blodeuwedd’s cage.

Tom lost sight of Metis on the way through the barrier, and once he was through himself, he stopped and looked around for her on Platform 9 ¾. He couldn’t find either Metis or her mother and aunt. They must have gone ahead and boarded the train. Tom sighed resignedly, as a little further down the line he glimpsed the women emerging from a compartment without Metis.

Standing on the platform, the carefree chaos of these children a stark contrast to those beyond the magical barrier, Tom paused taking a last look around. It felt like an age since he’d made his desperate flight from the East End. In reality it had only been a little over two days. Already the memory felt fuzzy – dreamlike and surreal. Except, of course, for Metis. He watched as she emerged at last from the train and crossed the platform to where her mother and aunt waited.

Sighing, Tom carelessly slung his borrowed bag, containing a set of new robes and a few other essentials, over his shoulder and moved to board the train. He’d hoped that she would… A soft hand on his arm stopped him in his tracks.

"There you are. I thought I’d lost you." Metis looked up into Tom’s face, her dark blue eyes soft with affection, gratitude and something else. "Unless," the blue eyes clouded, "you’d rather sit with your friends…"

Tom laughed softly. "I’d rather be with you."

Metis laughed in return. "You know just what to say, don’t you?" She laced her slender arm through his, then allowed him to hand her up into the train. He followed her up the steps but paused as she looked back at him and said, "You’re really too charming to be allowed. How will I ever resist you?"

* * * * *

There is nothing glamorous about this war. It is not a war. It’s a mass butchery. In the olden days the civilian population was far removed from the scene of battle, they were respected by both sides. Now the Germans think it fit to rain down their loads of death on harmless, defenceless civilians…I suppose one day the sirens will cease to wail – but I cannot imagine it.

-from the diary of Colin Perry, age 18, 2 Sept., 1940

 


Oh, and Mike O’Connell is a real-life friend of mine who hasn’t the first idea that I even write fanfiction, so he’ll likely never see my immortalization of him. *raises a pint of guinness to mike anyway*