Summer of Salt

"Sweet, do not idealise me. I am only a boy - shy, untutored and awkward in many things. Let us always be honest with each other. There is much before us, but we have each other."

-Idris Davies 19/07/39 (a letter to Winifred)

A sea of tall grass seemed to stretch for miles up to the impossibly blue sky as Tom craned his neck, attempting to find its end. As he squinted into the sun, dozens of the blades transformed into chartreuse grass snakes and they curled in upon themselves, tails swallowed by their own gaping mouths. She sat amongst the wild grasses, sheltered by their sheer height and was picking up ouroboros after ouroboros , blowing them gently from her hands like dandelion fluff, watching them float on the wind she created with her soft exhale. 

He plucked one of the snakes from the zephyr, studying its jewelled eyes. It sighed tenderly around its tail and melted into a thousand tiny orange butterflies. 

“They’ve left their cocoons for us.”

She was standing now, her dark hair growing and growing, spilling out into a river. The white nightgown she wore was backlit by the sun and he could see the silhouette of her legs through the pale fabric. 

“Do you think it leads to the circus?” She motioned to the river and she gently slipped into the coffee colour of her hair. 

“I can’t swim.” He heard his voice echo. 

“I can teach you.” 

“Wake up, wake up! Out of bed!” One of the older orphans, Anne Cuningham demanded, walking to each room, then swiftly slamming the door behind her. 

“Oi, you’re not the boss of us, you cow!”

“Yes I am, Richard! Mrs Cole told me to get your scrawny arse out of bed, so you gotta listen to me.”

“That’s a load of tosh!”

Tom sat up from his thin mattress and scrubbed his face, his dream quickly dissolving from memory like candy floss in water. 

They had a meagre breakfast of a slice of toast and homemade carrot jam and Tom thought longingly back to the sumptuous breakfasts he ate at Hogwarts just weeks ago. What he wouldn’t give for a Full English.

The moment they were finished, the orphans were hastily rounded up to spend the rest of their morning practising their emergency drills. Each of them was handed their government issued gas mask. In the last few months the BBC had stated the masks were mandatory for all citizens as a safety precaution if war should come as there were fears Germany may use poisonous gas on British citizens and memories of the Great War were still fresh. Tom fastened his heavy mask, the weight cumbersome and watched as others helped the younger children place on their Mickey Mouse masks. He couldn’t understand why the toddler’s masks were named after the American cartoon. They looked just as grotesque as his own. 

Tom scoffed from behind his mask as Wool’s rehearsed their bomb drills, sweat beading on his forehead in the summer heat, and his heavy breath fogging the goggles. Headmaster Dippet had hemmed and hawed, but in the end had told Tom he couldn’t possibly spend the summer at Hogwarts due to safety concerns. Only his pride had kept him from begging the wizard to let him stay. 

After finals where he had received top marks in every subject, Tom sat on the Hogwarts Express, mood much duller than when he had boarded in September. He sat with Ixchel and her Ravenclaw friends after a hesitantly positive hour with the other Slytherin boys, annoyed that he had to slip into the polite and accommodating caricature of himself for the journey. 

The mousy one- Peakes, was reading The Daily Prophet, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. 

“Come on, spit it out.” Docherty said around a mouthful of cauldron cake, “A wee bit of bad news?” 

“That’s a mild way of putting it. They’re reporting another mass slaughter by Grindelwald, but this time directly outside of Dresden. He’s been steadily moving West and it doesn’t look like they’re getting any closer to stopping him.”

“How is he managing to get so many people to believe his drivel?” That Diggory boy asked from his seat near the compartment door. 

“Drivel?” Shafiq countered, “His methods are barbaric, but people are so keen on his ideology because there is some truth in it. There are witches and wizards who do believe that they are being suppressed by muggles. Muggles outnumber us and their population is only growing and we’re so tied up in the Statute of Secrecy that our world is going to grow smaller and smaller. We’re going to suffocate one day.”

“That may be the case, but I would have hoped people would care more about how they’re killing innocent muggles, weans even!” Docherty exclaimed. “It makes me want to boke; they’re powerless.”

Tom couldn’t hide his scorn and the others in the compartment turned curiously towards the customarily quiet and polite Slytherin. “Muggles are just as capable of creating their own evil. Probably more so than us. Don’t think they wouldn’t do the same if given the chance.”

He saw from the corner of his eye Ixchel cast a worried look his way. 

The others mulled over his words. After some time, Docherty spoke softly, “I suppose you would know.” 

An hour or so later, Docherty had fallen asleep in her seat. A quick kip she had said, bunching up a jumper and using it as a pillow against the glass of the window and a lock of her red hair fluttered in time with her breath. Shafiq and Diggory were laughing quietly over a game of exploding snap, mindful of the sleeping girl. The cards were laid out between them and they were bickering good humouredly. Peakes had left their compartment to speak to her brother in a different carriage. 

Tom gazed out of the window until the rushing of the earth and trees near the railway forced him to look back to his lap before he became motion sick. Ixchel was sitting next to him quietly. Whenever the train jostled, her leg would brush against his own but he made no effort to move away. 

“Do you think war will start?” 

“With Grindelwald?” Ixchel asked, scrunching her nose in confusion.

“No...with the muggles, with what’s been happening in Germany.”

Ixchel sighed, the sound weary for her age. “I hope not, but yes, I think it will. It sounds like too much has happened, too many promises broken.”

She shifted to look at him directly, brows tented in worry before she smoothed her expression. “Will you be okay?”

He shrugged off her question, warring between pleasure she was concerned for him and feeling affronted that she doubted he’d be able to take care of herself. “Of course.” He said. “My Defense grades were better than yours, you know. Worry about yourself.”

“Prat.” She said, fondly, and bumped her shoulder against his own.

Ixchel fell asleep as well a few minutes later, head lolling on her shoulder, letting the quiet noises of the train and it’s rocking carry her off into slumber.

Tom took a surreptitious peek at the others in their compartment before scooting closer to her, the side of his body pressed against her and he enjoyed the quiet contact with no expectation. 

When they arrived at King’s Cross, Ixchel and Tom stood near the brick wall that led back to the muggle world. Ixchel had changed out of her school uniform into periwinkle robes and Tom had returned into his handed down muggle clothes. The sleeves didn’t reach his wrists and he had to roll them to his elbows as he had grown since he had last worn them the previous year. Ixchel looked hesitant before she encircled him in a brief hug. It was still too long, and he felt claustrophobic, suffocating on her hair. 

“You’ll write, won’t you?”

Tom nodded, “If you can sort out your own journal, I suppose.” 

She gave him a final wave and he watched for a moment as she walked back to her sister and mother, disappearing from view in the crush of the others. 

He adjusted the grip on his trunk and steeling himself, walked through to muggle London to Mrs Cole who was sure to be impatiently awaiting him.

Mum had brought them along to Margate, promising lunch after she had presented a completed piece to a client.

Ixchel and Socorro had been excited to tag along to the popular seaside town, and gladly donned their more subtle “muggle friendly” robes. They whispered dares to each other to wander off and enter Dreamland to test out the muggle amusement rides and made a pact not to squabble, at least in front of mum, in the hopes she would feel generous and purchase them seaside sweets to take home. However, their cheerful chatter quickly muted and they exchanged unsure glances and they set out at a brisk pace amongst the muggles. The normally bustling and colourful mews, usually filled with summer tourists drawn to the sand beaches and funfairs, were a different sort of busy. The atmosphere was tense, apprehensive, and people looked anxious, worry lining their faces and they made purchases of canned milk and powdered eggs, hurriedly dropping them in their paper shopping bags before taking quick steps back home.

Behind their mum, Ixchel turned to her sister, sharing a worried look. Socorro mouthed to her, “You ask.” whilst Ixchel responded just as silently, “No, you ask.” 

Socorro conceded defeat and spoke up, “Mum…?” 

Rosalía didn’t even look back and kept walking. “I’ll explain later, darlings.” 

Her earlier festive mood dissipated and Ixchel stood close to her sister as they dropped off the painting to an appreciative Rowle. She picked at her fish and chips pensively in the magically expanded chippy on Lombard Street, letting the conversations from the other patrons wash over her. Neither she nor Socorro brought up visiting Dreamland and they didn’t ask their mum to buy them sticks of rock candy. 

The three of them floo’d back home, shedding their shoes and cloaks which were quickly magicked to their proper places. The curtains fluttered softly in the sea-salt scented air, and Tully declared it was such a nice day he wanted them out of the house. 

Good humour slowly returning, Ixchel smiled at the house-elf and obeyed him, stepping out of the house and joined her sister in the back garden. 

Socorro was laying on her back and her dark hair which was quickly losing its curl was fanned out on the sweet smelling grass. 

Ixchel dropped to the grass as well with a put upon groan that made Socorro roll her eyes.

They lay in the lazy sunshine, head to head, enjoying the warmth on their faces. 

“Don’t you think that one looks like a Hippogriff?” Socorro mused, pointing up to a cloud overhead. 

“Maybe if it was wearing a cowboy hat and had a hunchback.” Ixchel supplied, squinting. 

“Hmm, now I can’t stop seeing it.” 

The cloud slowly pulled apart in the wind and lost its shape.

“You know my friend Nicola?” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

Socorro was quiet for a moment and Ixchel heard her sigh. 

"Coco?” 

“I got a letter from her the other day. Her parents have sent her to Yorkshire to live with her grandparents because of what’s going on with the muggles. She doesn’t know what it means for her, if she’s coming back to Hogwarts.” 

“I’m so sorry, Coco.” She reached up to squeeze her sister’s hand. 

“Oh, don’t move!” 

They both turned their heads at the sound of their mother’s voice. Rosalía was standing on the back patio, wand in hand as she summoned a blank canvas and a piece of charcoal for sketching. Familiar with their mother’s bouts of inspiration they stayed where they were and turned back to the sky. “It’s later, mum.” Socorro prodded.

“Yes, I suppose it is, mija.” 

Ixchel asked plainly. “Is the muggle war coming here?” 

Her mum stilled for only a moment before returning to her drawing. “They’re preparing. I can’t say when it will happen, but it will. The Channel won’t deter Herr Hitler for long.”

“Muggles have bombs right? They drop them onto towns, and did it in their last war.” Socorro asked.

“Yes they have bombs, and they are an innovative people, so their weapons will only get stronger. But you have nothing to worry about, darlings. I have already placed the necessary protection spells. I need you girls to know you will always be safe.”

Rosalía answered any questions they had and reminded the two they could always speak to her. Ixchel nodded at her mother’s explanation and felt selfish relief that she would be okay, but worry for Tom in that muggle orphanage ate at her. Her mother had promised to look after her and had cast magic out of love to keep her safe, but who was there to do the same for him? Would he have to leave magic entirely like Nicola might?

She went to bed that night, worrying the feeling like a loose tooth. Under her sheets and staring up at the shadowed ceiling above her, Ixchel- the ever patient Ravenclaw, decided that rather than worry, she would do her research. 

The next morning with the sun streaming through the open windows of the house she greeted Tully in the kitchen with a drowsy hello. She had woken up earlier than the others and sat at the small dinette, the tabletop painted in a floral and geometric pattern of bright colours. Tully set out a small breakfast of tea and toast and poured them both a cup, sitting next to her and they enjoyed the sleepy morning together.

“Tully, if I asked you if we could start getting the muggle newspaper, is that something you could do?”

Tully cocked his head, “Littlest Miss wants Muggle news? Tully doesn’t see why not.” 

Ixchel smiled and refilled his cup of tea before he could scold her for doing so. “Thank you Tully. Now do you happen to know if we have any maps of London in the house?”

 She wrote to Tom using their twinned journals. They were nowhere near ready, the magic that linked them blinked in and out and the writing was sometimes too faint to read but at least the pages no longer combusted. They practised with the journals, but anything more than a paragraph or two they exchanged letters through Hecate like the summer prior. She wrote to Tom to ask him where his orphanage was and its nearest tube station, and after a few suspicious questions of why, he reluctantly answered. 

It was a few weeks later- after dinner, and she had pushed her plate away, content. She contemplated journeying to the beach in order to feel the water lap against her ankles before the sun sank beneath the cliffs when her mum turned on the radio and the broadcast of WWN came sounding through the static. 

“Throughout the day, WWN has reported to the Wizarding World that the muggle war has crossed the Channel. We have arranged these reports to present a picture of what has happened in muggle England. Minutes after Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain declared war on Germany, their sirens wail in London, warning of an imminent air raid. Is this but an opening phase of the war between Germany and the United Kingdom? Here is Simon Snagge to introduce tonight’s muggle war report and what charms to use to keep you and yours safe whilst still secret.”

Ixchel stiffened and Thistledown sat in tense silence. 

“Mija…” 

“I’m going to go to bed, mum.”

She quickly exited the dining room, taking the steps with a deliberate calmness, and shutting her door with a shaky hand. Ixchel strode to her desk and flung open the drawer to where the small little lay. “Tom,” she wrote, her normally looping handwriting scratchy and the ink dripped onto the page in unsightly splotches, “Are you okay?”  

An hour later there was still no answer. 

Ixchel sat cross legged on the floor of her room and deliberated. She took a deep breath, letting the anxiety seep from her mind like water through cupped hands. It was important to think critically, she decided, and considered her options. 

Tom was capable of looking after himself. He didn’t need a keeper and most certainly didn’t want one. He had been right, his grades in Defense were the best in their year, and he had survived as a muggle long before she had ever known he existed. What would she even do?

But… but the rules were stricter for muggleborns or those like Tom living with muggles. The Statute of Secrecy meant those living in muggle areas were more closely monitored, their magic more likely to register, and whilst she thought Tom would choose self-preservation above reprimand, it was entirely possible he didn’t even have his wand with him in the chaos of German bombs. 

She shot a quick glance to the maps and books she had neatly placed on her now ink-stained desk. Information on public floos near the orphanage and safety spells. Would she be able to forgive herself if she did nothing?

Ixchel waited until the house was heavy and still with sleep. Dressed in her nightgown, a cloak, and Wellingtons, she clutched her wand as she crept through the house to her mother’s studio. On the mantle was the oyster shaped ceramic bowl that held the floo powder. Grabbing a handful, Ixchel whispered “Vauxhall Street” and prayed it was clear enough.

She stumbled out into London, clutching her ears hastily as the air raid siren wailed its ululation. The city was still in one piece, no building collapsed and their remains burning, but the streets were chaotic, loud and unorganised, and Ixchel felt fear seise her throat. 

Reminding herself to take steady breaths she gathered her bearings and thought back to the maps she had studied. The floo she had used was two streets away from the address Tom had provided for Wool’s. She just needed to turn left, take a right onto Kennington, and…

“Little girl! What are you doing out here?” An officer who had spotted her cried. “We need to get you to safety with the others.” He placed a hand on her elbow and began pushing her towards the Tube Station. 

“Wait, no, I’m-” 

He didn’t listen to her and steered her quickly, Ixchel had to jog to keep up with his pace, and she held tightly to her wand.

“Sir, I’m looking for someone, please!” 

The muggle slowed and seemed to take stock of her for the first time. “They’ll be in the station, somewhere. I promise. Everyone within a quarter mile radius without an air raid shelter will be in there. Now please.” 

Ixchel nodded, accepting the logic in what he said as she couldn’t imagine the orphanage had an air raid shelter large enough. She hoped she would be able to find him in the crowds and put on a brave face at the idea of descending down into the muggle-made tunnels. 

The officer walked her down the steps of the station to the underground platform before he returned to the street to help any other stragglers. Ixchel’s gaze darted across the crowded station, taking in the hordes of people seated on the platform, children asleep in their worried mother’s laps, and women walking around the other muggles, handing out cups of tea with soft words and kind eyes.

Ixchel stood amongst the frightened Londoners, looking for Tom, or anything familiar. She stepped further into the crush, tiptoeing between exhausted families and finding her voice to call out “Tom? Tom Riddle?”

“Ixchel?” It was faint and to her right, far down the platform. 

Tom was on the outskirts of a group of children, sitting on a thin blanket. A terribly hideous contraption hung around his neck and he had lost weight since Hogwarts. 

He looked startled, and relief flashed across his face. When she pushed closer, he reached out before catching himself and putting his arms back down.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He hissed. 

“I didn’t know if you were okay. You didn’t answer my message.”

“We’ve been here for hours, I wasn’t allowed to go back to my room when the siren sounded.” Tom glared. “That was a stupid reason for coming here.” 

Feeling embarrassed and angered he was being so ungrateful, she raised her chin defiantly and crossed her arms. “Well, then, next time you’re caught up in a war, I’ll leave you to it!” Ixchel sat down in a huff on the mucky platform, as far away as she could from Tom in the crowded space. 

They sat in stiff silence for a few moments until Ixchel could hear Tom sigh and a rustling noise. He moved to the end of the blanket he was seated on and looked at her expectantly. “Well are you going to come over or not? You’re going to get filthy over there.” 

She gave him a small smile that he ignored and she moved to the proffered blanket. The faint noises of the siren stopped and everyone on the platform held their collective breath. Ixchel was startled to feel Tom shaking beside her. She studied him, watching his brow furrowed, his lips a thin line, pale face drained of colour and his arms wrapped around himself defensively. It struck her then, Tom was afraid . 

 “Up three quarters the length of your wand, a flick to the left and then a sharp diagonal slash down to the right. Protego.” 

“What?” 

“It’s a shield charm. It’s fairly advanced, but I know you’ll pick it up.”

Tom’s furrowed brow smoothed, and he nodded his understanding. 

“Professor Slughorn sent me a letter inviting me to his Slug Club. Did you get yours yet?” 

Ixchel was pleased he immediately assumed she would be invited. “It came in yesterday. We don’t get to go to any of the parties until third year though which is a bit disappointing.”

Tom wrinkled his nose. “What’s the point of the parties?”

Ixchel laughed lightly. “To network of course.”

Ixchel kept Tom talking. She and Tom discussed various topics, anything that came to mind, and she watched the tension ease from his shoulders as she intended. Every time he tensed up again at some noise real or imagined, Ixchel distracted him anew. 

It must have been the small hours when Ixchel started nodding off, her arms wrapped around her legs and head resting on her knees. Her eyes were heavy, and she didn’t say anything when Tom fell asleep, pressed heavily into her.

Ixchel tiptoed back into Thistledown whilst the sunlight was still pale and misty and walked straight into her mother. Her mum had been furious in a way Ixchel had never before experienced, and she was thoroughly cowed. Her wand was taken away for the rest of the summer and she was made to knit socks and make bandages for soldiers every day from her room the muggle way. Ixchel was just relieved the sirens had been a false alarm. She couldn’t imagine what sort of trouble she would have been in if she had been in any more danger. The following night when she had been sent to bed without dinner and Tully wouldn’t hear a word about sneaking her even a morsel, Socorro peeked into her room and let herself in when she saw Ixchel sitting on her bed, still awake. 

Socorro’s hug knocked the breath from her. “That was the most stupidly Gryffindor thing I have ever heard.” She hit her younger sister’s shoulder hard and Ixchel rubbed it with a whine. “Idiot.”