Chapter Text
Tom watches Harry burn down the Orphanage and thinks, somewhere forbidden and distant and foggy in his mind, that even God once flooded the world.
A moment ago, he had been taken gently by Harry Potter -- a cruel and kind and confusing man, finely dressed and with greying hair, who had taken one look at him and done what no other adult had before -- adoption paperwork tucked under his arm, and led into his new life.
Tom was grateful. One might even say happy. For a moment, at least. But only for a moment.
Harry stops them on the sidewalk outside of Wool’s. He sticks out his palm, says quietly to Tom, “Watch this.” And Tom stared at that palm with the same devotion that Moses did to God’s burning bush.
But nothing happened to the palm. Harry snaps his fingers and lets his arm fall to his side and Tom is sure that’s not what he wanted to show him. Is any act of God so minor, so tame?
Tom almost opens his mouth to comment. Then his gaze moves from the hand to Wool’s Orphanage.
And there it is, among the flame. God’s touch.
“Harry,” says Tom, recalling somewhere distant in his mind that that is this man’s name. Though the fire itself is mystifying -- created, certainly, with the snap of his guardian’s fingers, for could such a thing be a coincidence? -- it is not the most concerning thing about the situation. “There are -- there are people in there.”
Is that Tom’s voice? It doesn’t sound like it. Harry’s hand places itself on his shoulder and that, too, feels so distant it’s hard to believe it’s real.
It’s hard to believe any of this is real.
Harry bends down to his level. He glances at Tom and back at the building, crumbling in all its glory. “There are,” and he sounds almost fucking happy about it. He is like God, Tom thinks, vaguely, with his instinct to rejoice upon the death of the unworthy.
Tom’s voice is small when he speaks. “Why aren’t they leaving the building?” And why doesn’t this feel real and why are you doing this and why, why, why -- and why does Tom feel afraid ?
Tom never feels afraid. He supposes Harry is a lot of things, and on the top of that list is terrifying. Even to Tom.
Especially, from the looks of it, to Tom.
Harry’s eyes, which earlier Tom had almost thought kin to shimmering, precious, emeralds ripe for the taking, now reflect the raging inferno in which Tom once lived. “They’re not going to, Tom. They’re not going to come out.”
But Tom didn’t ask that. And maybe Tom doesn’t want to know. He asks again anyway: “ Why ?”
Harry licks his lips, the angles and lines of his face highlighted with that distinct orange hue, marred with death. Tom thinks that if he concentrates too hard, he can smell flesh burning.
“I suppose,” says Harry, lightly, his voice sounding impossibly loud against the surging flame, still roaring in the backdrop of the falling apart of Tom’s life, “because I wanted to.”
Tom feels tears roll down his cheeks and feels -- distantly, falsely, impossibly -- warm, calloused hands wipe them away. Tom lets his eyes fall shut. Tom lets Harry wrap his arms around him and Tom lets him pull him to his chest.
Tom listens to the soft thud of his heart.
The fire smolders on.
Tom has never been a religious child. He sits through sermons with the blank, polite, and contemplative expression that is expected of him. He repeats his memorized Bible verses with a practiced and admirable efficiency. To all others, he is spirituality inclined -- but when prayer time comes, and he bows his head with all the other orphans, he keeps his eyes cracked open. He thinks that if he keeps looking long enough, he’ll finally see this ‘God’ everyone is always talking about. When he sees nothing, he comes to the doubtless conclusion that there is nothing; there is no saviour coming to save him from this hellhole, there is no one all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing.
And there sure as hell isn’t anyone all- forgiving. On a smaller scale, he thinks that forgiveness is as fleeting as holiness; all in the eye of the beholder and, in actuality, inconsequential as long as it is allowed to be.
And forgiveness ? It isn’t real. No one wants to forgive and everyone wants to be forgiven -- it is the sanctimonious non-currency currency of the world, and like God, Tom recognizes its falsiality. Like God, Tom does not kneel to it.
Tom believes in no higher being -- other than himself -- and no angels, no deities. He is resolute in these facts, all of them.
Still.
Still, when two and a half weeks before the end of Wool’s Orphanage and Tom’s subsequent adoption, he meets Harry Potter, Tom takes one look at him and feels the word sacred ring in his chest, feels like he is, all of a sudden, a believer. He looks at Harry Potter’s eyes -- a treasure to behold; the urge strikes him to pluck them right out of his head to tuck away with the rest of his stolen goods, to give them a place among the only things that truly belong to Tom -- and thinks that this is what Jesus’s disciplines saw when the angel of the Lord beckoned them down the mountain.
Be not afraid, it’d said -- and Tom isn’t. He watches the man -- a man, surely, far past a boy; he is in his mid to late thirties, and even that is a lenient assumption, given the greying tips of his hair -- enter into the Orphanage with his long cloak billowing behind him ( every angel needs his wings, thinks Tom), and Tom thinks that, no. He is not afraid.
(He is not afraid -- but he will be.)
His hair is ruffled in such a manner Tom cannot tell if it is purposefully styled, or if it naturally sets itself that way. It surrounds the man’s head and Tom cannot help but think it a halo; it single handedly declares that he is simply more.
It is a shame, then, that Tom has gone through all of this before. The man will scour the selection. He will coo at Tom’s face -- his adorable little cheeks -- and marvel at his grades. He will listen to the poisonous tales of the matron and, just like that, his admiration will be replaced by fear, by disgust, and his reputation will prove too fragile to withstand it.
Harry Potter is beautiful. He would be a fine toy to have, to own, to possess -- and, eventually, when the time did evidently come, break. But Tom knows what will really happen. And Tom has come to terms with it. He is content to watch the deity in the room, just as he will be content to watch him leave, with some inadequate snot-nosed child stored under his wing.
But it doesn’t happen like that.
Harry Potter walks through the door of Wool’s and, ignoring the swarm of children that flock to him like they are sheep and he their unwilling shepard, walks right up to Tom.
Tom glances up at him, bookmarking the book in his hands and placing it atop the table in front of him. He is not usually so quick to abound his reading in the presence of a potential guardian -- but this man is different. This man is like him.
“I’m Harry Potter,” he says, voice smooth and velvety, but aged, too. He has lived a life -- and a part of Tom wants to join that, his life. He ignores it. He knows how these things go. “You don’t like other children.”
It is a casual observation, a statement and not a question.
It could be more than that, though. Does the man already have other children? Is he planning to adopt more?
Does it matter? Harry Potter will not take him home.
(Still, he takes his time, wrapping the possibilities around in his mind before supplying an answer he deems sufficient. Something about Harry Potter makes him allow himself, minutely, some form of hope.)
Lying outright would come off as rude. Or desperate. Tom does not want to appear as either. Tom licks his lips. He tries, “Just these ones.” Not denying his observation, and not making himself out to be someone who would be adverse to siblings, either. It’s clever. It should work.
Harry Potter smirks and Tom gets the distinct impression that he sees right through Tom’s attempt at chivalry. Oddly enough, he doesn’t comment on it.
“I’ve never adopted a child before,” Harry says, quiet, under his breath. Intimate. Tom thinks it’s not intended for him, the scene laid before him; the way his pupils dilate; the way his smirks transforms into a soft smile, twinkling that familiar possessiveness Tom himself has felt so many times before; the way he ducks his head, shyly.
If it is not intended for him, Harry should certainly be more careful. Giving away sick valuable sights for free is -- certainly -- unwise.
Tom tries not to let the sudden dryness of his mouth give him away when he says, just as quiet, “No?”
“No,” Harry repeats. “Are you eight or nine, Tom?”
A warm feeling in his chest. The unadulterated yearning to worship. “Eight,” says Tom, evenly -- though it is a near thing. “But I will be turning nine tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow -- that’s right. I do forget the exact date, having been so long since I’d learned it…”
And though that is a thing of mystery all on its own, Tom is not focused on that. He did not tell this man his name -- nor give any indication of his age -- and that, he ascertains, can only mean one thing.
Harry knew them beforehand. Harry knew about him beforehand.
Harry’s come here -- for Tom . Harry is here for Tom.
Tom has never harbored, unlike his peers, the desire to have a family. He is a naturally solitary creature and yearns for the outside world only for the fact that it isn’t the inside one. A world where meals come freely and routinely, where his clothes fit well, where he has access to a proper education. Though he knows he has the wits about him to survive Wool’s and eventually, one way or another, leave it behind -- Harry Potter presents an interesting opportunity.
He is rich. That much is obvious. Furthermore, he is open -- open with his desire to adopt Tom, open with the observations he’s made, open with his awe and quiet passion -- and people so open, Tom’s gathered, are the most vulnerable.
Tom has always been an actor, when he has needed to be. Give Harry Potter what he wants and, with time, he’ll be tucked so securely under Tom’s thumb, they’ll be no escaping.
Show interest, Tom decides. He will show interest; most everyone is disarmed best when asked to talk about themselves. He’ll show interest, get adopted, and explore Harry’s money and saintliness, all for himself.
“Children,” Tom notes. “You said you’ve never adopted a child before -- have you adopted anything else?”
Harry smirks again -- and it nearly makes Tom frown, because that’s not the revenant gaze of a future parent impressed with his cleverness, his attention to detail. It is far too knowing. Tom imagines that he once more sees right past the act Tom is putting on, and then Tom clears the thought from his head. Because it is impossible.
“Pets,” Harry answers, lips curling around the answer. Like it is an inside joke of a lie -- but what an odd thing to lie about, Tom thinks. Having pets. “I’ve many. I do consider them… family, though, in a way; much would be appreciated if they were to go unharmed.”
Harry… hasn’t the time yet to have spoken to Ms. Cole. But if Tom didn’t know any better, he might say Harry is warning him. Like he knows Tom is violent, like he’s telling him that he can’t be anymore.
If Tom didn’t know better… (and he might not. Is not God all-knowing?) Tom keeps his panic hidden when he asks, lightly, “Whyever would you say that?”
Harry’s amusement falls from his face and Tom’s arms tickle with goosebumps.
The light catches on Harry’s eyes.
“You know why, Tom.”
“I don’t--”
“You do, ” Harry repeats -- and it’s a definite accusation, but it’s not unkind. Why isn’t it unkind?
Then again… God is known for his mercy, is he not?
Harry soaks up Tom’s incredulous expression. He chuckles -- the sound low and coarse in his throat -- and sticks his hands in his pockets, leaning back on his heels.
“I have things to do.” It is apologetically said.
Tom blinks. “You’re leaving,” he states. Confused -- and betrayed. Why had he ever hoped, ever allowed himself to?
“It was more on impulse, really.”
“What was?”
“Coming here,” says Harry, a sort of absent look entering his eyes. “Talking to you.”
“But,” Tom ventures -- summoning all the bravery he has left, nestled between the space of his chest. “You don’t regret it, do you?”
But impulse, on second thought, doesn't make much sense. Harry knew Tom before. Harry is here now for Tom.
Right?
Harry’s eyes snap back to him. He grins and Tom thinks it is trying to be predatory. “No,” he says, happily. “I don’t. In fact, I’m glad.”
“Really?”
“I hadn’t realized the date -- the implication of it all -- but, coming back here.” Harry takes in a deep breath, like he is absorbing the memory of this place into his lungs. “Coming back here reminds me of you, Tom. And all that we could do together.”
Tom stores the information away for later. Coming back here, Wool’s? A former orphan, too, then, and for the better; Tom’s found they’re the easiest to manipulate. Being reminded of Tom? It feeds back into the theory that Harry had been researching Tom with the intent to adopt, but works against the impulse one. Unless…
“Did you know my parents?” Perhaps Harry had known his mother; perhaps Harry is the reason she chosen this orphanage to walk to, so close to what she probably knew would be her imminent death. And perhaps Harry’s returned, all these years later, on impulse -- how funny -- on the anniversary of her death, intent to pick up where she left off.
It fits. Tom hides a smirk of his own. If only Harry knew what he was really getting into.
Harry hums, considering the answer. “I wouldn’t say that,” he concludes after a moment.
“What would you say?” For is hesitance ever there without purpose?
Harry huffs. “Quite the questionnaire, Tom.”
“I’m sorry,” Tom says, though he doesn’t feel it.
“No, you’re not,” says Harry. He doesn't appear all that bothered around it. “I will return soon, Tom.”
“What for?” Tom asks, even though he knows. He just wants to hear the man say it.
Harry notices. And Harry obliges him. “For you, Tom. To adopt you.” He does not ask if Tom would want that -- Tom supposes it is because it’s evident that he does.
“When?” Tom asks, and it is a demand.
But Harry does not submit to him, not that easily. Harry sees him for what he thinks Tom truly is -- and whatever he sees, he’s deemed deserves forgiveness… but not the luxury of this knowledge.
“When I’ve sorted things out,” he answers.
“Soon?” Tom tries.
“Soon enough,” Harry allows.
He will visit Tom again a week later. He is deserved in a different, finely made suit. Tom is sitting on the porch, cradling his hands to his chest with a sour expression, when Harry sits down beside him.
Tom schools his expression into a blank one. “Harry,” he says, as a greeting. He breathes in Harry’s clonage, closing his eyes as he does. “You’re back.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t be?”
DId he? Tom had been promised many times before by aspiring parents that they would return for him, take him next -- and he had never believed him, if only not to feel the aching sting of disappointment when it is revealed they were lying.
But -- and there is always a but with Harry, never a straightforward moment, and Tom can’t tell whether or not that is inconvenient or thrilling -- he never had that sort of doubt.
“No,” says Tom, opening his eyes. “I knew you’d be back.” There is something about Harry that makes him believe that this devotion goes both ways.
Harry chuckles. He glances down at Tom’s hands, still bleeding. “You’re hurt,” notes Harry. “Who was it?”
“Billy,” says Tom, trying to be calm, to not let his anger show. “And some of his friends.”
Harry sees his anger anyway. “What did you do?” Harry asks, tilting his head.
“What an odd question to ask a victim of bullying,” Tom notes dryly.
“Children act most vicious when they are afraid. Did you make them afraid, Tom?”
“I didn’t do anything.” It isn’t true. Harry doesn’t need to know that -- and even if he does anyway, Tom doesn't need to say it. “It’s their fault I’m hurt.”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is,” snaps Tom, too harshly. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I am hurt,” says Tom, calmer. “They hurt me; I am hurt. It is their fault.”
Harry shifts so he is leaning back, perched on his palms. Not even looking at Tom, eyes fixated on the clouds above them. Tom wonders viciously why he ever wanted to be adopted by this degrace of an angel, this fallen Lucifer -- and he wonders, somewhat downtrodden, why he still wants to be now.
“Now, Tom, I don’t know if I believe you.”
“I told you, I didn’t do anything to--”
“Not that,” says Harry. “I’m not talking about that.”
“Then what?”
Harry glances back over at him. Tom reveals in his attention being right where it should be; all on Tom, entirely on him.
“You were hurt, Tom, because you allowed yourself to be.”
Tom frowns. That’s not what he was expecting. “What are you talking about?”
“Could you have beaten them?”
“Not without consequence.”
“Could you have avoided that consequence?”
Tom takes his time in answering. “Not without great difficulty,” he says slowly.
Harry sits up. “But you didn’t. The weakness of your will overpowered the strength of your body -- ergo, Tom.” He stands from the porch and stretches his arms above his head. Tom drinks in the sight.
Harry looks down at him. “You deserved to be hurt.”
“That’s…”
Tom looks down at his injured hands and feels the blood rush to his ears. He is angry and conflicted and confused -- because Harry’s gentleness is kind and yet his words are exceptionally and intentionally cruel -- but… not, he thinks, wrong.
“Think about what I said, Tom. I’ll be back soon.”
When Tom looks up again, Harry is gone.