The Deal
Tom knew, from past experience, that it took Myrtle about two days each way to fly to his Mum. The poor girl wasn’t as fast as she used to be, after all. So when four days had passed without word from his mum, and then five, he figured Myrtle was still at home – which meant his mum hadn’t thought of a reply yet. Not that he could blame her – it was a hell of a thing he’d asked. But it left him in an uncomfortable limbo, unsure if he ought to find Scho and just try to think of things himself or if he ought to leave it longer.
He'd been in that limbo for a few days now, the vague guilt from skiving off balancing nicely with the trepidation he felt at talking to Scho about it. Who said he couldn’t feel bad about two things at once? But he had managed to push both feelings out of his mind for the moment.
Currently he was seated on one of the overstuffed Common Room couches with his mate Charlie, trying (and failing) to rewrite an essay for Potions.
“What’s a longer way to say ‘I effed it up’?” he asked, chewing on the end of his quill. “I need five more inches on this bloody thing.”
The essay was supposed to be a discussion on the properties of the Calming Draught as made with clockwise versus counterclockwise stirs, but Tom had lost track of the stirring halfway through. The resultant potion would have served well to dissolve most plastics, according to Professor Leslie, but would have been rather ineffective for its intended purpose.
“Here,” said Charlie. “Something like: ‘I endeavored to give my utmost effort to the purpose and object of the lesson whose subject I have discussed in this essay thus far. To my dismay, however, and my everlasting regret, which will remain in my heart until the sun goes out, I did not accomplish the aforementioned object.’ Be really detailed about it. Leslie likes when we admit we’re wrong.”
Tom had begun scribbling down what Charlie was saying, nodding to himself and writing as large as he could.
“Thanks,” he said, surveying his essay with a critical eye.
“Sure,” Charlie said absently. He was frowning at a copy of their Defense Against the Dark Arts book, tracing the lines of words with his finger.
“Says here Harry Potter could cast a Patronus in his third year,” he said, his voice quietly awed.
“Of course he did,” Tom said. “He’s Harry Potter.” He’d be lucky if he produced some glowing mist when the time came.
“I guess his boggart was a Dementor, too,” Charlie said. “Probably a good motivator.”
Tom hummed noncommittally.
“Say,” Charlie added abruptly, looking up from a picture of a Patronus. “Did you ever figure out what that – what your boggart was?”
Tom froze.
“It’s alright, mate,” Charlie said. “No shame in it. Boggarts are supposed to be scary, right?”
“Yeah,” Tom said eventually. “I guess.”
“Do you – I mean – do you know what it was? I couldn’t tell in the classroom.”
Tom looked warily at him. Charlie’s face was open and honestly curious. And yet, something kept Tom from telling him the truth. He couldn’t be sure what it was.
“I – I wasn’t sure, either,” he said. “Been trying to figure that out.”
Charlie’s brow furrowed.
“Huh,” he said. “Um. Any luck with that?”
“A – a bit,” Tom said evasively. “I’ve been getting some help with it.”
He immediately regretted saying anything when Charlie perked up.
“Help? Like, tutoring? Who’s been helping you, MacKenzie?”
“Not MacKenzie,” Tom said, wishing he had a way to change the subject. “Um. Another student.”
“Really? Who, then? Someone in Gryffindor?”
Tom very nearly told him to mind his own business, but – well, that wouldn’t’ve been fair. Charlie was just being a good friend.
“Not in Gryffindor,” he said, hoping that would be the end of it. “Um. Schofield, from Hufflepuff.”
“Schofield?” Charlie repeated, his voice far too loud in the common room. Tom saw a few heads at another couch turn at the sound. “From our year? Isn’t he a bit of a prick? He’s helping you?”
“Well, it’s – he has been, but it’s just –"
“He’s more than ‘a bit’ of a prick,” one of the students from the other couch said. It was Gregson, a sixth-year and one of the Chasers on the Quidditch team. “Jinxed the shit out of my brother and his mates cause he couldn’t take a joke.”
Tom frowned. Gregson was one of Joe’s mates, and had made this distinction rather clear, so it was still a bit awkward talking to him outside of Quidditch practice. “What happened with your brother?”
Gregson scowled. “They were messing around with some Ravenclaw swot, I guess – just having a laugh, you know? Then Schofield comes in all pissy and jinxes them all to hell. I don’t know how the hell he ended up a Puff; he belongs with the fucking Snakes, if you ask me.”
Tom’s first thought, against his own better judgment, was that he definitely had to ask Scho for help with martial spells.
“How many were there?” he asked.
“Five,” Gregson said grudgingly. “Took them by surprise, is all. But – like I said, he completely freaked. And of course he barely got punished. Probably got his parents to pay the damages or something, the shite.”
“He’s such a prick,” another Gryffindor said. “You know, I asked him for help with my Potions once – he tried to charge me! Like the bastard isn’t rolling in Galleons already. I thought Hufflepuffs were supposed to be nice, you know?”
“That’s about the only thing they’ve got going for them, isn’t it?” a third snickered. “That and their plants.”
Tom frowned. Even if he wasn’t sure how to feel about Scho, it didn’t seem right to talk about him when he wasn’t there.
“I heard his family’s a bunch of – blood purists,” another Gryffindor said. It was Siddon, a seventh-year, and he had a dark look on his face. He might as well have said Death Eaters for the scowls that term garnered. “Wouldn’t surprise me, the way he acts. Michael was in the infirmary for a whole day because of him.”
There was a moment of tense silence.
Gregson turned to look at Tom with a skeptical look on his face.
“There’s no way he’s helping you,” he said. “Certainly not out of the – the goodness of his effing heart or some rot. What’s in it for him?”
He looked suspicious and almost – concerned? Tom would have been flattered were it not for the sudden, unnerving sensation of everyone’s eyes abruptly fixed on him.
Tom blinked rapidly. After a moment of panicked silence, he tried to smile disarmingly. It probably came out more like a rictus grin.
“W-Well, I – I’m helping him, too,” he said quickly. “It’s like a – quid pro quo, or however you say it. It’s not – not for nothing.”
Never mind that it practically had been for nothing, thus far. A tendril of guilt thrummed inside him.
Gregson raised one eyebrow. “What are you helping him with, then?” he asked. “I mean – no offense, Blake. But you’ve said yourself you’re, uh, not big on studying.”
Not like Joe, he did not say.
A few muffled whispers could be heard, and Tom felt himself flush. He scowled.
“Just cause I’m not a – a Ravenclaw doesn’t mean I can’t get good marks,” he retorted.
Doesn’t mean I can’t be like Joe.
“I-I’m helping him with Herbology, as it happens,” he continued. “I’ve top marks in it, and he – well, he hasn’t. So. Quid pro quo.”
Tom savored the stunned look on Gregson’s face. Herbology might have been a ‘Puff class, but it was still a class, and top marks were nothing to sneer at. He could tell without looking around that the looks from the others were different too – he felt a bit less like a bug pinned to the wall.
“In fact,” he said, making a show of looking at his watch, “it’s about time I met up with him now. I’ll see you lot later.”
And with that, he got up, grabbed his rucksack, and left the Common Room without looking back. He hoped the others couldn’t hear the pounding of his heart.
---
Needless to say, Tom was not going to meet up with Scho – and he attempted to brush away the guilt in his chest at the thought. He could meet with Scho after figuring out how to defeat the boggart – that was what they’d agreed to, after all. But he couldn’t do anything until his mum responded, and the essay took priority, anyway.
The guilt, however, remained, even as Tom sat at a lone desk and managed to get two more inches of his essay written. He was just staring at the piece of parchment, wondering how to cover those last few inches, when he felt something rub against his leg and jumped in his seat.
His inkpot wobbled dangerously but remained upright.
There was a cat winding itself around the legs of the desk. When it looked up at Tom, he saw that it was Tenny; the blue and green eyes were unmistakable. She looked at Tom and mmrped softly.
“Oh,” Tom said. “Um. Hello there.”
He wondered, briefly, if that meant Scho was nearby. The thought was both hopeful and stressful.
Tenny leaped onto the desk and looked at Tom with her wide, multicolored eyes. The cat’s gaze was oddly piercing, like Tenny could see what he had done – or hadn’t done, rather. Another tendril of guilt twanged in Tom’s chest.
“I’m gonna meet with him,” he said in a hushed voice. “Really. I just need to figure out this boggart thing first.”
Tenny looked at Tom. Her nose twitched.
Then, still looking at Tom, she carefully lifted one paw and held it right next to the half-filled inkpot.
Tom’s heart skipped a beat.
“No,” he said. “No, no no no no—"
Tenny twitched her paw and sent the inkpot rolling on its side, spilling ink everywhere.
“Fuck!” Tom jumped up and began frantically moving papers off the desk. “You stupid cat, that was my third draft!”
Despite his best efforts, half his essay was soaked in ink, saturated to such a degree that the Smudge Removal Spell would be all but useless. His hands and clothes were similarly stained.
“I hope you’re happy,” he muttered sourly. “Bloody menace.”
Tenny ignored him and began licking her paw. Tom could have sworn she was purring. He dragged his hands down his face, then remembered the ink and cursed again.
And, because things hadn’t been shit enough already –
“Tenny?” came a voice that was all too familiar. “Tenny, where have you – oh.”
Tom looked up to see Scho standing awkwardly near one of the bookshelves. The other boy’s eyes flicked over Tom quickly, lingering for a moment on the ink stains.
Scho pressed his mouth together oddly. It reminded Tom of something, though he couldn’t say what.
“Oh dear,” Scho said, his voice slightly strained. “Did something – explode?”
Tom shot him an annoyed look. “It did not explode,” he said irritably. “Your bloody cat decided to knock over my inkpot. It was my third draft, and now I’ve got to rewrite it again.”
“Oh dear,” Scho said again, his voice still sounding odd. “That’s – that’s very unfortunate, Blake.” He coughed suspiciously. “Um. Did you – want – help?”
He sounded like he was forcing out the words by the end.
Tom looked at him narrowly.
“I can also fuck off,” Scho suggested, sounding almost hopeful.
That settled it.
“Help,” Tom said, “would be great. Thanks so much for offering, Scho.”
Sure enough, a flash of annoyance passed across Scho’s face, though he came closer.
“Alright,” he said more brusquely, “what do you suggest, then?”
Tom looked down at his robes and frowned.
“Maybe just a Scourgify or two,” he said cautiously. “Nothing too much.” He didn’t want to admit it, but he couldn’t afford to treat his robes too harshly – they were hand-me-downs from Joe and had already seen more than their fair share of cleaning spells. And it was really the sleeves that had seen the worst of the ink.
“How about a Tergeo?” Scho asked.
Tom paused. “Is that a –”
“Cleaning spell, yes, it is,” Scho said impatiently. “Takes longer than Scourgify, but it’s gentler.”
“Um – sure,” Tom said.
Scho nodded. “Hands out.”
Tom extended his hands and watched warily as Scho pointed his wand at them.
Jinxed the shit out of them, came Gregson’s voice from before.
“Tergeo,” Scho said. His eyes were narrowed in concentration as ink disappeared first from Tom’s hands, then from the sleeves of his shirt.
Then Scho’s wand was pointed at his face, and Tom nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Fuck!” he said. “Watch where you point that, would you?”
For a moment Scho looked as if Tom had slugged him. He also looked – guilty? But it only lasted for a second, and then his face was closed off again.
“I was trying to help,” he said stiffly. “You’ve ink on your face as well, if you didn’t know.”
“I know there’s ink on my face,” Tom said irritably. “Just – warn a bloke next time before you go poking your bloody wand at me. Could’ve taken my eye out.”
Scho muttered something like “nowhere near your eye,” but raised his wand again with an exaggerated slowness.
He peered closer at Tom and hummed thoughtfully.
“Be easier if you closed your eyes,” he said, glancing at Tom.
Michael was in the infirmary for a whole day because of him.
“I’m alright, thanks,” Tom said stiffly.
Scho rolled his eyes, but Tom saw his jaw clench slightly.
“If you’d rather do it yourself,” he said in a voice as dry as the desert, “I’d gladly conjure you a mirror. Or you could ask someone else.”
“Merlin, fine,” Tom muttered, shutting his eyes. “You’re difficult, aren’t you?”
“Only for you, Blake,” came Scho’s voice. “Now hold still. Tergeo.”
There was a feeling like a wet cloth wiping his face, if it was neither wet nor a cloth.
“There,” came Scho’s voice again, sounding farther away. “Now you don’t look so much like you ruined your mascara.”
“Thanks,” said Tom, blinking.
“Did you need help with the desk, as well?” Scho continued briskly. He crouched down to scoop Tenny into his arms with the ease of practice. “Only I’ve got to get back to studying.”
“Um – no,” Tom said, looking back at it. “It’s not that bad – just got to rewrite the essay. Um. Thanks again.”
Scho nodded and turned away.
There’s no way he’s just helping you, came Gregson’s voice at the back of his mind. What’s in it for him?
I’m helping him with Herbology.
Tom felt a sudden swell of guilt in his chest.
Merlin’s beard, why had he thought that was a good thing to tell them?
“Wait – Scho,” he called out, before wincing at the loudness of his voice. He saw Scho turn back around, still holding Tenny. He had a suspicious look on his face.
“What is it?” Scho asked.
“It’s – well,” said Tom, “it’s – I – I wanted to say – I’m sorry.”
For a moment, Scho looked genuinely bewildered. He blinked rapidly. Then his eyes narrowed.
“You’re sorry?” he asked. “What for?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Tom struggled with it for a moment.
The guilt grew in his chest.
“I’m sorry for – for not helping you sooner,” he said. “For – skiving off. Um. It’s not – it wasn’t fair of me.”
Scho was still looking at him suspiciously, but he didn’t say anything.
“Yeah,” said Tom. “Um. And I – if you still wanted, I could help you.”
Scho’s eyes were practically slits.
“Really,” he said skeptically.
Tom nodded. “We could – I mean, I’ve got to rewrite this, and I have Quidditch most afternoons, but we could schedule around that. And – whatever you’ve got, of course. That’s – I mean, that probably takes priority. Definitely.”
He forced himself to stop talking – he was already starting to babble, and that wouldn’t help anybody.
Scho looked at him for a moment more, then pursed his mouth. He seemed to be looking for the right thing to say.
“Why?” he finally asked. “Why now?”
“It’s – it’s only fair,” said Tom, and Scho scoffed at that.
“It’s been a week, Blake,” he said flatly. “You’ve had plenty of time to ponder on the ‘spirit of fairness.’ What actually changed?”
Tom blinked.
“Jesus,” he finally said. He felt he might have caught an inkling of the reason why Scho was – well, the way he was. “Been burned in the past, have you?”
“That’s none of your business,” Scho snapped, which was as good an answer as any. “And you didn’t answer the question.”
“Well, I don’t know what to say, do I?” Tom said defensively. “I – I thought at first it’d be better to finish up stuff with the boggart before starting with you, but it’s been taking longer than I thought for my mum to respond and it was like –”
He made a frustrated, abortive gesture, then sighed.
“You don’t – make it easy to want to help you,” he said in a smaller voice. “So it’s – it didn’t bother me at first. But now it does, and I want it to stop bothering me. That’s why.”
He looked up after a moment to see both Scho and Tenny looking at him. Tenny had a speculative look on her face (or as speculative as a cat could look), while her owner looked surprised.
Scho opened his mouth, then closed it again. He cleared his throat.
“I see,” he said after a moment. “Um. Fair enough.”
He let out a long breath.
“Your offer would be – appreciated,” he said reluctantly, like the words were painful to speak. “Shall we say – eight? As before?”
“Sure,” Tom said, mentally running over his schedule. “Tomorrow, in the practice greenhouse?”
Scho frowned. “Will it be open that late?”
“Oh, Professor Longbottom lets me use it,” Tom said easily. “We’ll be fine.”
Scho’s eyes narrowed.
“Here,” Tom said. He stuck out his hand. “Shake on it?”
Scho looked at the hand as if it would bite him, but took it warily, shifting Tenny’s weight to his other arm.
His hand was larger than Tom’s, and cooler. After two firm shakes he let go. There was an odd tingling in Tom’s palm as he drew his hand back.
He had the sense he was being weighed or tested as Scho shifted Tenny in his arms again.
“Alright,” Scho finally said. “If you say so.”
“Right,” Tom said. “I’ll – see you there?”
Scho nodded and turned away. Over his shoulder, Tenny looked back at Tom and mmrped again.
Tom checked to be sure Scho wasn’t looking, then flipped her off. Bloody menace.