Mr. Tom

Heart beating with newfound excitement, Albus ran down the halls oh Hogwarts, his brother got on his tail. He’d bumped into many students prior, one character having been his poor professor Longbottom. He spluttered many apologies before engaging back into his escape. There was no way he would ever let it go.

“Albus, you prick! Get back here!”

Laughter filling his lungs, his sense of pity and remorse ran empty at the thought of his dearest brother. Map in hand, he made the effort to keep his legs moving as he made a bee-line sprint to his father’s office.

Chase gave way when he’d snatched the cloak out of his brother’s luggage before boarding the train, and weeks later, sneaking his way into the Gryffindor common room. It was a fair trade, really. Their father had never outright confessed, but it was clear he have no outright comment on whether or not he and James could tell each other the passwords or secret entrances. It was never like he could argue though, as far as he and James knew, their dad had been in both. From the common room, he bore witness to by far the grandest form of blackmail that any Potter or Weasley could ever comprehend to imagine.

James, in circle of his friends and fellow housemates, drunk off his arse on muggle alcohol, waving around their family map and boasting of its wonderful powers. He was smart as to not reveal the password, but with how loosely it flew around his brother’s hands was enough for him to grab it. The moment he did, the cloak had fallen from his shoulders, revealing his black and green robes in the house of red. All eyes were on him, and the chaos begun.

Stealing the Marauder’s Map right from the heart and hands of Gryffindor as a Slytherin would be enough to bright up any prankster’s day. He had honestly believed liquid luck and possibly a feathered potion to be running through his veins, as the number of times he’d nearly fallen or jumped stairs was enough to send any sane parent to St. Mungo’s. When he’d finally reached the corridor, it was nothing but a straight sprint to the classroom.

“Dad! Dad!” Albus was hollering down the hall, “James’ got butterfingers! No wonder the hat gave him Gryffindor willingly if his security is as-”

Barging through the doors of Muggle Studies, he expected to see his father hunched over his desk, marking papers. Or at the very least, helping one of the female students and educating them on the economics of muggle shopping districts. Maybe even teaching some of the more brutish students the laws of proper form.

The very last thing he’d been expecting was an unannounced visit from the Director of Hogsmeade Primary.

“Ah. Albus, was it?”

“Y-Yeah…”

From the moment he met him, that man was an enigma. Catching him on the steps of his school, speaking to his father. When they met, he stuck out his hand as a greeting, and something shifted the second he took it. The man had not been dangerous, but that did not mean there was no potential for him to become one. After the man’s apparent first meeting with the elder Potter, he was quite adamant on speaking with him often, the excuse of ‘exchanging information on the topic of study and education’ being thrown around more than once.

By all means, there was nothing wrong with the two conversing. His father desperately needed new friends, as most of them were either no longer in his his direct orbit, or were simply just too busy. Professor Longbottom and his wife were seen often talking to him, but that could not count. They were co-workers, after all.

Aurelio Tom was newfound territory, with their only visible connection being their desire surrounding the education of magical children. He usually only fled for Hogsmeade to visit Mr. Weasley to catch up or help with his shop. Mr. Tom ran an institution on the opposite side of Hogsmeade that practically hugged the outer boarders. They shared no similar interest in quidditch, and as much as he’d hate to admit it, they neither shared each other’s level of magical prowess. For all intents and purposes, those two men should have never met. Yet, the universe deemed it so.

• • •

Tom had been seated at the edge of Harry’s desk, reading aloud a muggle book on motherly instinct and parental guidance, while the former copied those words onto a chalkboard by hand. It was with the purpose to teach Harry’s students the possible value of raising one’s child outside the realm of magic. Why hadn’t decided on using a wand, he did not know. Then again, it was Muggle Studies. He’d noticed the child at the door from the beginning, briefing him with a quick, but light opening with room for conversation. The boy hadn’t answered the first time, only staring at him like a wild creature. He would have been offended, if it had not been the alluring parchment clenched in the boy’s hand.

It was a safe bet, he assumed, as it was a topic of discussion a mere half hour ago. There was no harm in asking. As much as he wished to be left alone, it was impossible to do so as long as evidence, or paths to such evidence, remained within muggle and wizarding hands. He needed to understand the inner workings of that damned paper, otherwise all his meddling with Potter were all for naught.

“Your father was telling me of that interesting map you’ve got there. May I see it?”

Albus looked at him as if he grew another head. It was drilled into him and his siblings’ heads to never reveal the secrets of their heirlooms to a stranger unless it could be proven that they could be trusted. In the boy’s eyes, he had barely known him for a month. Albus locked eyes with Harry’s, the two entering a privatized conversation of the snakes.

§You told him of the map? What about your rules? The ones you drilled into mine and James’ head for years? Where did those damn warnings of ‘never let anyone know or even see this map’ go?§

§He’s alright, Albus.§ Harry assured his son, §He won’t do anything to the map, I’ll make sure of it.§

Tom had done his best to mask the fact he understood their tongue, and had followed their hissed speech with furrowed brows and a scratch of his head. He had to become as unassuming and confused as possible.

“That was parseltongue, yes? I’ve never had the chance to hear it in person.”

“We spoke of nothing important,” Harry dismissed it as well as possible, “Albus was just informing me of a rather embarrassing event that happened to a classmate of his.”

“How intriguing,” Tom shuts the book in hand, placing it down on the man’s desk, “have you delved further into this matter? There is very little on the subject, but do you think it possible for the langue to be taught and learned rather than remain hereditary?” He had asked himself that question once before, but due to his name being buried knee-deep into politics the second he left Hogwarts, he’d all but abandoned the study.

“Well, one can certainly try.” Harry sighed, reminiscing on his days with Ron, “My best friend, Ron Weasley. While he’s definitely not good at it, he’s certainly taken a somewhat natural skill towards it. He managed to stop a snake by saying ‘no’ and had also opened the chamber just before it’s destruction. Most of his skill comes from mimicking my voice, but I can’t say that to be considered a way to properly learn a language. He tries, but he’ll pass on before learning a proper sentence.”

“Truly?” Interest peaked, he added, “What are my chances at learning?”

Having finished his work, Harry stepped around his desk and offers a light pat on his son’s shoulders. “Who knows.”

“I shall take that as a challenge, then.”