Chapter 1
It takes every single ounce of Tom's willpower to make himself get away from the window and into bed. Even then, his eyes remain on the small piece of sky still available for his perusal.
As if on cue, a small burst of light sparks off in the night sky, one that is immediately followed by a much brighter, more orange glow of an explosion in the distance.
The worn-out wooden legs of the bed frame rattle against the screws holding them together, and Tom almost lets out a whimper before he presses his lips tight and clenches his jaw shut.
No, he won't die, not like this. He refuses to let himself become just some collateral damage in a war he wanted no part of.
The next tremor feels almost mocking, as if Tom's thought had been a taunt it had no choice but to respond to. Another pulsing, eerie glow of bright yellow and orange envelops his room, only this time it is too close.
Tom feels the ambient heat of the surrounding air seep into his room, beating back the chill of a snowy December night the week before Christmas.
Less than two weeks until he's back at Hogwarts—safe behind the castle walls.
The paper-thin walls of his own room rattle in response to another burst of heat and flame, farther away this time but significantly more destructive.
Every beat of his uneven racing heart echoes through him in the silence that follows, and his eyes never leave that tiny window to the outside, even if the view only adds to his dread.
He employs all his usual methods to calm himself down, but they remain equally as unsuccessful as the first day.
Sleep is entirely out of the question.
The only thing holding steady tonight is fear, and it has clawed itself through his being, through his very bones, rearranging all of Tom's priorities.
Survival. It is Tom's only goal.
The nightly explosions leading up to Christmas and beyond change something fundamental within Tom.
It's like his body and mind have somehow disconnected and he keeps screaming demands at himself that remain unmet.
The only reason Tom had come back to Wool's for Christmas was so he could search for any remaining members of his family. Instead, his fear had far outweighed his curiosity, and now it was too late to change his mind.
He was to remain in this hell despite his wishes, and the fact that he didn't care to find them anymore only stung further, like salt in a wound.
What did some filthy Muggles matter to him anyhow, when he could've been spending this time in the Hogwarts library instead?
It is not a comforting thought.
As much as a raging tempest Tom is behind the doors of his mind, however, his body does not betray him. Well, except for the way his hands shake, and the way his eyes dart around the corners and the way his—
He curls his fingers into fists and remains in bed as the distant bells sound the hour—twelve rings, marking another year of Tom's existence.
Twelve rings that are overheard, drawing the very worst kind of attention. Twelve rings that are too close.
The window he cannot take his eyes off shatters in a single second, showering him with bits of glass and dirt and other debris that forces itself through.
The sharp acrid fumes of chemicals and smoke threaten to clog up the way to his lungs and Tom tries his best to hold his breath as long as possible.
He gets off the bed and reaches for the trunk that remains almost spotless underneath it—well, as spotless as it had been when Tom had bought it in first year, which is to say lightly worn but entirely worth the eight sickles he had paid for it.
Then he snatches his wand from under his pillow and tucks it into his waistband, straightening up to investigate what lay outside the window now.
No more explosions follow the last and Tom gathers the last vestiges of his nonexistent courage as he turns to the door.
Yes, he would be a day early, but Tom would rather be found sleeping on a bench at platform nine and three-quarters than be blown apart for crimes he had no hand in.
Mrs. Cole and Martha turn to him with as much surprise as Tom feels himself at finding them here instead of cowering away alone. The kitchen window has remained intact. Tom looks away from it and to the door.
"I'm leaving," not that he owes them any explanation.
Not that they're expecting any.
Neither says a word as Tom closes the gap and reaches for the handle, but as he takes a step over the threshold, Martha calls out to him.
"Tom?" He turns around. She has a strange look on her face he cannot decipher. He hums as he waits for her to continue.
"Happy birthday, Tom."
Not entirely surprising, she had always been a sentimental fool.
He nods once in acknowledgement and continues into the street, the soles of his shoes landing unevenly over the debris.
Maybe he should have changed out of his night clothes, but these were the only clothes he was willing to sacrifice; threadbare as they were from years of continuous use.
His hand creeps under his shirt, and his fingers tighten around the hilt of his wand as he surveys the streets, deciding on a route.
Waterloo bridge wasn't reopened yet, but taking Westminster would make this trip longer than Tom was comfortable with, especially considering the urgency of the situation.
Just a few meters closer and Tom would have been...
He refuses to dwell, instead focusing on moving quickly through the littered streets devoid of any signs of life, his footfall breaking through the oppressive silence.
His wand is his only source of any solace in the desolation that surrounds him. Buildings crumbling to bricks in the aftermath.
It takes him only five minutes to reach the pedestrian entrance to the bridge, through empty streets that embolden him with each step.
While it still remains close to public use, Tom finds his way across it without much difficulty, his footsteps steady and efficient.
Forty minutes later and he is almost there, just passing Russell Square when a low humming cuts through the brisk winter air.
Tom looks up reflexively, hoping against hope that the next flash in the sky would be far away, but he is not so lucky.
Three streets behind him, the walls of the once fancy Queen Victoria Tea House crumple as if hit by an invisible force. As if the earth had punched through the very heart of it. A few seconds pass before Tom sees the flames engulf the remains of its frame.
He tightens his hold around his trunk and wand and begins walking once more. Ten more minutes and he would be safe.
He does not make it.
Fire rains down towards Tom, only meters away from the entrance to King's Cross, and his foot slips on a bit of debris at the worst possible time.
His trunk slips out of his hand, falling beside him with a thud. A sharp, stabbing pain pierces his chest, tearing through his ribs.
His fingers rush to his side as he attempts to get up but he only lets out a groan as he falls further onto his back. They come away damp and sticky, but even without that familiar rusty-iron smell, Tom would recognise blood anywhere.
He had spilled far too much of it not to.
His other hand is still clutching his wand, and Tom pulls it out in an instant even if he doesn't know a single healing spell that would work on a wound as debilitating as his.
Too close to his internal organs for comfort.
His eyes fall shut as he feels his nightshirt grow damper by the second and the chill of the night starts numbing his extremities.
He clutches his wand to his chest instinctively, willing his Magic to come to his aid, to heal his wound, to no avail.
He cannot feel a single spark.
Maybe his wand already knows he's dying, maybe it had finally understood what Tom had been trying to hide through the years, the truth of just how weak he truly was. Maybe it wished it had chosen another, this one 'thing' that had truly chosen Tom.
A tear escapes him despite his wishes and he clenches his jaw again as hopelessness courses through him.
It is no help as a sob escapes his chest anyway, bringing with it another stab of pain. That he would still see King's Cross in his periphery were he to open his eyes does not help either.
Another sob escapes him, much more wrecking, much more painful, and Tom succumbs to the tears.
So hot they almost burn him, they flow in rivulets down his temple and through his hair and scalp—the remnant moisture freezing the back of his neck in stark contrast.
It is only when his tear ducts have been all but dried up does he notice the unfamiliar warmth that still surrounds him. Most likely from the blood that still leaks sluggishly from his side.
It would have been better, he decides, if he had died before turning fourteen; then, at least, he wouldn't have wasted all that time hoping.
The thought of that wasted time ignites a familiar burning rage, but it is quickly dimmed; anger only raised a person's blood pressure and Tom hadn't a lot of blood to spare.
His eyes flicker open as his heartbeat gets louder and slower, much like the strike of those bells from before.
...eleven...ten...nine...
The world darkens on the edges, but Tom's eyes remain only on the night sky.
...eight...seven...six...
Tom knows the name of every constellation in this sky. It had become almost tradition to spend his birthday with it, and if for nothing else, for this he is grateful.
...five...four...three...
Something tries to demands his attention but Tom is too far gone for any remnant of what he assumes is that instinct for survival from earlier.
...two...
So what if he lets go? As if his existence had been anything but pain?
...one...