Chapter 2
His eyes flicker open before he realises he is awake.
For a second, Tom is so disoriented by the whitewashed walls and soft mattress that he thinks he's in heaven.
Then the fog clears, and he laughs at the thought—or he tries to, at least. Even that slight hint of movement tugs at something within his chest with a sharp twinge.
At once, the memories of his last moments of consciousness come rushing back. His journey through the London streets, which had inevitably ended in his death.
Or almost death, rather, he realises.
Some unnamed sort of gratitude rises within Tom for his saviour—something connected to the life debt he now owes this stranger, most likely.
And yet, he cannot bring himself to feel any kind of anger for the predicament he now finds himself in.
He'd been saved from near certain death with only seconds left to spare.
Curiosity has him looking around, trying to find his saviour, but he is quite alone in the rather large room.
He pushes himself up against the pillows and reaches for the glass of water collecting condensation on the table beside his bed.
Cool and crisp, it is everything Tom's parched throat has been begging for, and it is gone faster than he would have liked.
When he looks around for a pitcher to pour himself another, however, his eyes catch a movement by the door.
It opens inward to admit a rather tall, broad-shouldered man, likely in his early twenties, with short, messy black hair and the most beautiful green eyes Tom has ever seen.
He wears a smile brighter than any Tom has ever received, and it is more disarming than he would have expected it to be.
He looks away after only a few seconds—it is too much like what Tom imagines staring into the sun at noon would be like, perhaps even more blinding.
"Good morning, Tom. Or should I say 'good afternoon'?"
His words have the opposite effect—Tom is at once closed off and suspicious.
"How do you know my name?" His tone is brash, bordering on rude, especially if this was indeed his saviour, but Tom soldiers on. "How did you find me? Where am I?"
The man seemingly takes no offence, instead letting out a chuckle. "I suppose you don't remember telling me your name last night, but you were quite out of it, I don't blame you."
He studies Tom intently, his eyes assessing every available inch as he continues, "As for your other question...I guess you could say I was passing through King's Cross at just the right time, and thank Merlin for that! Did you know you were only seconds away from dyi—" he cuts himself off.
Tom says nothing in response, even his blinks are even and measured, and the man finally continues unprompted. "You are at Potter Manor, in infirmary room number two. How are you feeling?"
"Fine," his chest twinges as if in retaliation for his lie and the man smiles at him in a sad, almost knowing way that doesn't help with the original pain at all.
Tom wants to get angry at how easily this stranger detects his lies, but his face is so full of worry it disarms Tom much like his smile had. "Mum's brewing a specialty healing potion for you, it should be ready soon. I can also give you a pain-relieving potion or a sleeping potion if you want, but you have to promise me you're not the type to get addicted."
The end of his sentence is so absurd Tom wants to laugh, and before he realises it, it breaks through. It brings a fresh wave of that stabbing in his chest, but the man smiles again in response.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you." He pauses, then narrows his eyes, "You're not, though, are you?"
"No," Tom replies, more amused in the company of another than he has ever been. "But I don't need either, I can wait for the healing potion."
The man smiles again, just as bright as before, "Would you like something to eat then?"
Tom wants to say yes, but what about his answers? "What caused the wound? How did you heal it so well in just a few hours? And where is my wand? I was holding it last night. And the Hogwarts Ex—"
"Tom," the man cuts him off, one hand reaching out for a bedpost, as if to brace himself. He takes a deep breath before he starts to reply. "It was the jagged ends of some rebar, and I used a spell. It stitched you together just enough for me to apparate you here and spell as many blood-replenishing potions into you as I could. Your wand—" he reaches into his robes and pulls out a familiar, ivory-coloured wand, "is right here," he presents it to Tom handle first.
Sparks fly off the tip as he lets go and Tom feels his stomach react in an unpleasant manner. Maybe he should have taken the man up on his offer for food.
But what about Hogwarts?
The man responds as if he were reading Tom's mind. "It's about eleven forty-five, so you missed your train by just a little bit, but don't worry. Mum's already fire-called Dippet and he's fine with you staying here until Sunday night. That should give you four days to recover, which is not a lot, but still better than rushing off at this very moment."
Tom replays his last words to himself a few times, but they don't make sense. "I don't understand what you mean, Mister...Potter?" He hesitates over the name, but it's the only clue Tom has been given.
"Harry, please," the man is all smiles again, but it fades to curiosity as he responds to Tom. "And I'm not sure which of my words are confusing, Tom."
"All of them," Tom decides but his stomach intrudes into their conversation with a sound loud enough that they both freeze into place for a second.
Then Harry laughs, a wonderful sound that echoes through Tom and forces him to look away again, and reaches out a hand towards him. "Your questions can wait until I've fed you, don't you think?"
The words unravel something within him, something Tom cannot identify, and he takes the hand before he can overthink the action.
Tom can almost feel the sparks again, even if they remain invisible and his wand remains secure in his other hand.
Hauling himself off the bed is the limit of his activity for today, or at least so it seems, when Tom is unable to keep up even with the support Harry's arm provides.
And it is obvious enough that Harry turns to him just before they reach the doorway, his brows coming together in worry. He whispers from only inches away, with a voice soft enough to take the sting out, "I'm going to have to carry you, Tom. Whether it's to the kitchen or back to bed is up to you, but either way, you're eating something within in the next five minutes."
"Kitchen," Tom rasps, not even bothering to consider arguing. What would be the point, and he is quite curious.
Harry nods in response and bends down to hook his other arm under Tom's knees, swooping him up in one defined and graceful motion.
It makes Tom's heart beat faster for some reason, being carried this way, but he ignores it. Until Harry gets to the stairs, that is, and starts going up instead of down.
His confusion wins against his better judgement, however, and his question slips out. "Why are we going up?"
Harry looks at him curiously as he responds, his breathing as even as if he were lying in bed and not climbing stairs while holding another person; Tom's light weight notwithstanding. "You've been here before?"
"No," Tom wants to laugh again, but although he controls himself better this time, a smile still breaks through. "I just assumed the kitchen would be on the first floor." It had been that way at Wool's.
Harry smiles back. "It is, we're just going to the smaller one in my room. Better view."
Tom is not sure just how to respond to that, so he just says, "I'll take your word for it," and focuses instead on the questions he would ask Harry after.
Harry just keeps smiling as he continues up the steps, until they're on soft carpet again.
The stairs lead up to an open area without any windows or doors. The only obstruction in the view are the four marble pillars holding the roof up.
And what a view it is, miles and miles of grass surrounds them, slowly turning into a dense forest on the edges.
For the first time Tom wishes he had enough money for a broom. Surely these grounds rival even Hogwarts'?
"This is your room?" Tom finally asks when Harry remains in place, as if to let Tom take it all in on his own time.
Harry turns down to look at him, "Yes, I designed it all myself. What do you think?"
"It feels like a palace in the sky," Tom answers rather truthfully, then looks away before Harry understands just how much this room makes him feel.
Compared to the kind of prison Wool's had been, this feels like the very epitome of freedom.
Harry seems to understand his reticence towards continuing this conversation, so he starts walking again—this time to one of the open sides of the room.
As if on command, a large kitchen counter rises up from where it had been blending into the floor. Harry reaches one end, and murmurs a spell even when both his hands are busy with Tom.
It works all the same, and Tom is set on a surprisingly soft counter as Harry steps away and flicks his wand out, likely from a hidden arm holster.
In an instant, there are pots and pans flying around Tom's head with equally as much flare and accuracy. For some reason, Tom feels quite sure Harry will not let them hurt him.
He lights the stove with an incendio, placing a pan on before he turns to Tom. "Shit, I don't think I asked you if you wanted something specific. Full English or something sweet?"
Tom lets his feet dangle in the air as he considers it. Then, almost hesitantly, he picks, "Sweet?"
"Sweet it is," Harry grins. "Crepes with fruit and cream? I think I even have some maple syrup around here somewhere."
"Yes," he replies almost instantly, unwilling to let Harry find out he doesn't know what crepes are. "That sounds good, thank you."
It is the last thing he remembers before he loses himself in the performance.
Harry's movements are no less than a perfectly choreographed dance as he calls all his necessary ingredients towards him and mixes them just right with a silent twitch of his wand.
Performance art, Tom would label it, in the privacy of his thoughts.
How else would one describe the way all of Harry's actions flow into the next with fluidity, each act building upon the last.
The way his knife moves, to carve away the juiciest parts of the fruit.
The way he pushes the sleeves of his robes upwards before he uses his wand to whisk together the liquid cream until it fluffs up into clouds.
The smell that hits Tom when the liquid batter hits the hot pan is beyond compare.
Even the food at the welcoming feast had not stimulated his appetite like this.
His stomach lets out another growl of impatience and Harry holds back his humour as he plates four rolled up crepes filled with cream and topped with the fruit he had prepared earlier.
Then he summons a fork and holds both of them before Tom with such a flourish Tom can't help but laugh.
Harry joins in as he reaches out for a small ceramic pitcher he places on the counter next to Tom. "Maple syrup, as promised, although I'm sure it's pretty sweet as is. What do you think?"
In response, Tom sets down his wand—he hadn't even realised he'd still been holding it—and reaches out for the plate and fork, wasting no time at all as he spears through one end of a rolled-up crepe, fruit and all.
They both pretend not to notice the tremor that runs through Tom's fingers when he applies even that minute amount of pressure through the fork, although Tom can't help but notice the way Harry's face clouds with worry again.
Not that he has to pretend for long—as he forgets even his name when he takes that first bite.
It is an explosion much like ones he had witnessed last night, only one contained within his cheeks, though no less destructive.
"That," he cannot help but say after that first bite, "is amazing! The best breakfast I've ever had." Harry smiles in response, but it is mingled with the re-emergence of that earlier sadness.
Once more, this strange new man reads between the lines so easily, Tom regrets saying anything.