The Truth
Sitting in the fifth-year dormitory, Tom looked over at the clock and took a deep breath. He had plenty of time before he needed to head out to the greenhouse to set up.
He looked down on his bed where the letter lay, deceivingly innocuous.
Plenty of time.
Tom did not move. She never would have done it – he could count on one hand when she had so much as raised her voice at him or Joe – but he almost wished his mum had sent him a Howler. At least then he wouldn’t’ve had the choice. It could’ve yelled whatever she’d had to say, screamed the whole ugly truth out for everyone to hear – and then it’d be done. It’d be done, and he wouldn’t be sitting like a lump and looking uselessly at an effing envelope like it would bite him.
But she hadn’t done that. She would never. And so he sat with his hands clenched into fists, trying to work up the courage to open the letter.
He wondered if it’d be easier with someone else there. Charlie would sit with him – but he’d want to know what the letter said, so he was out. His Quidditch teammates might humor him, but they’d be cracking jokes the whole time and he’d never hear the end of it. Not for the first time, he wished Joe was there.
For a single, insane moment he considered finding Scho. Maybe – maybe it’d be easier to open the letter if he was in the Hufflepuff common room, and Tenny was curled up on his lap, reminding him of where he was. But he shook the thought away in an instant. It was a stupid idea – Scho was probably busy, and the common room was likely to be full of Hufflepuffs who would undoubtedly stare at the lone Gryffindor in their midst. And besides, he didn’t want Scho to look at him like that again – like he was made of glass.
No, it was better that he was alone. And he had plenty of time, anyway. How bad could it be?
He opened the envelope, still half expecting – half hoping – it would burst open of its own accord. Maybe they could put Howlers in normal envelopes?
But the letter inside was folded up and forebodingly silent. When he carefully took it out and unfolded it, setting the envelope aside, the paper was slightly crinkled and warped.
Just a piece of paper, that was all it was.
He took a deep breath and began to read.
My dearest, my darlingest, my youngest boy,
How are you? Have you been getting enough rest? Please take care of yourself. Fifth-year is difficult for everyone, and I know things must be different with Joe graduated. I hope you’re keeping in touch with him as well.
I want to apologize for how long this took to write. And also for any mistakes this letter might contain, I can’tdon’t think I can write this more than once. Poor Myrtle was terribly confused when I didn’t have a letter for her straightaway; I don’t know how she occupied herself, but hopefully she got some rest. I wish I could be there to tell you this, it’s not right sufficient to put it in a letter. But I’ll do the best I can. You deserve that.
Tom swallowed hard. The next section of the paper was written with a different pen, and it was almost illegible, in contrast to his mum’s usual neat print. Half of it seemed to be crossed out with hard, violent slashes he could barely read through.
You were four when it happened, and Joe was six. Michael Your father was driving home after work when he was in an accident. A drunk
Someone called the hospital and your father was taken to Broomfield. I remember I was hanging out the wash to dry when I got the call – it was a lovely sunny day. I took you and Joe over to the neighbors and rushed to hospital. I thought it would be a broken leg at worst. We could manage that.
Michael was Your father was It was bad. I can’t They weren’t sure if he would make it, even after surgery. I tried getting him transferred to a Wizarding hospital but St. Mungo’s refused the Statute of Secrecy meant it didn’t work.
I don’t know if it would have made a difference, but
The surgery was mostly successful, but your father didn’t regain consciousness. The doctors said he might never. I thought I knew better
I shouldn’t have
I knew people in comas and such could still hear, sometimes. I thought if he heard his boys talking to him he might come back. So I brought you both in to see him right after the surgery. It was a mistake
Tom’s breath caught in his chest. He desperately wanted to put down the letter, to rip it into shreds and never think about it again – but at the same time he had to keep reading.
Please believe me, Tom, I never wanted to frighten you. Your father would never have wanted that either. But you were only four years old, of course it was scary. I’m so sorry. Dreadfully dreadfully sorry.
Tom’s eyes were stinging, and he had to scrub at his face.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck.”
He had only the vaguest memory of that day, a few images burned into his mind: the long white corridor of the hospital, the confusion on Joe’s face, his mum’s tears. And, of course, the sight of what he now knew to be his father, wrapped in bandages with a multitude of machines attached to him. Something featureless, eyeless, that he could yet feel watching him.
Beneath the grief and the fear there was a steady undercurrent of another emotion, one he could not yet ascertain. He let it sit in his bones and at the tips of his fingers before he recognized it as anger, seeping into his blood and sending a staticky feeling across his skin.
Anger at the drunk, at the hospital, at the doctors, at the boggart, at his mum – and at himself. One of the worst days of his mum’s life and he couldn’t fucking hold it together for even half an hour? He’d been a chatterbox even back then, but when it would actually have been helpful he couldn’t help his dad? Maybe it wouldn’t’ve worked, but he could’ve tried, at least. Things had been hard enough for his mum already. Why the hell should she have to apologize?
His hands clenched around something that crinkled – the letter. He hastily loosened his grip and smoothed it out, breathing heavily. He could feel tears in his eyes, but he forced them back and refused to let them fall. Instead, he continued to read.
Your father held on for a few more days, but I didn’t try bringing you again. Maybe I should haveAfter that I thought it best not to talk about it. I couldn’t
You seemed to have forgotten about it and I didn’t want to remind you. The funeral was hard enough. But now I see that was a mistake too. You deserved to know what happened – maybe not then, not all the details, but before now. I’m so sorry for not telling you sooner. I hope you can forgive your foolish old mum and her grief. I never wanted to frighten you, not then and certainly not now.
The words were spotted and smeared, like something had been spilled on the paper. A little way below it, a single sentence was written with a new pen, in a slightly steadier hand.
It wasn’t your fault.
Tom’s breath caught again. He tried to scoff, but the sound wouldn’t come out. Despite his best efforts, the anger in his chest cracked open, just a bit to show what was underneath. He heard a little, pained noise, like a wounded animal, and it took him a moment to realize it had been him.
He kept reading, his lips pressed together hard. His eyes were stinging.
Tom, I know what you’re probably telling yourself. But IT WAS NOT YOUR FAULT. I’ll send you a bloody Howler if I have to to get it in your head. If you need to blame someone, blame me. It’s alright. I can take it. You’re allowed to be angry. What happened was awful and unfair. But do notblame yourself. IT WAS NOT YOUR FAULT. You were a child and you saw something horrible because ofme. You’re still a child and you have that horrible image in your head because of me. I can’t tell you enough how sorry I am.
There was more to the letter, but Tom’s vision was too blurred to continue. He put aside the letter and let out a shaky breath, rubbing at his eyes. The anger was still there, but it was muted by grief. The whole affair – the boggart, the nightmares, the meetings with Scho – had a new weight to it, pressing down on his chest.
Christ – Scho. Tom would have to tell him about it – an abridged version, at least. The thought filled him with new dread. He desperately did not want the other boy to look at him like he had before – like he was someone to be pitied.
He picked up the letter again and his eyes scanned over the words until they landed near the bottom, at a new paragraph.
You said your friend recommended pleasant memories for the boggart rather than trying to make it funny. Perhaps you were too young to remember, but your father always loved playing with you and Joe in the dirt. Your magic had started showing around then and your father was utterly entranced by you and Joe making flowers bloom and grass grow when you focused on it. He loved you so so much. Please don’t forget that. I know he’d be bursting with pride at the fine young men you and Joe are growing into. I know I certainly am.
I’ve sent along some photos of us from back then – mostly Wizarding photos, but there are a few Muggle ones in there too (your father had to help me with the camera). Maybe that will help. I hope so.
Take care of yourself, my dear.
Much love,
Mum
Tom picked up the envelope and shook out its contents onto the bed. A small pile of photographs tumbled out, some static and some moving.
He picked up the first photo and looked at it. It was a Wizarding photo, with a man and two boys in a garden, next to a row of flowers. There was no sound, but Tom could see the man – his father – laughing as he watched the boys. The older boy was kneeling with his hands in the dirt, looking up gleefully at a beanstalk that stretched far above his head, almost to the top of the photograph. The younger boy was standing on his toes with his arms stretched high above his head, like he was trying to reach the top of the stalk. He had a look of great concentration on his tiny face.
Tom turned over the photo to look at the back. He recognized his mother’s print.
Summer ’17, the description read. J read “Jack & the Beanstalk” & just had to try for himself. T was very helpful.
Tom let out a wet chuckle and brushed his finger over the photograph. He peered closely at the image of his father. The laughing man looked remarkably like Joe – or rather, Joe looked remarkably like him. The thought made something in Tom ache. He wondered, briefly, if his mum ever saw his dad in him or Joe. Did they share any interests? Did they smile the same way, or make the same jokes? He felt lonely, missing someone he had never really known, and oddly irritated at himself for feeling it. What exactly had he lost?
After a moment he glanced back at the clock. He still had time before the meeting, but he wanted to get there early to set up, so he carefully gathered the photos and letter and placed them back in their envelope. After ensuring the envelope was safely tucked away in his trunk, and taking a few bracing breaths, he grabbed his rucksack and went down the stairs. He was vaguely aware of Gregson and some others glancing over at him as he made his way through the Common Room, but he paid them little mind.
He had a lesson to teach.