Tom Riddle & Madame Pomfrey
“You’ve been having trouble sleeping, I take it?”
Harry groans into his arm, resting his forehead on the dinner table.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” says Tom.
“You should go back to bed, Harry,” suggests Neville.
And although Tom hates him, he can’t help but agree. “It is a free day. Winter break and all.”
“I’m cursed, Tom. Time is not a friend.”
“So melodramatic,” says Tom, endeared. “I have some sleeping potions brewed, if you’d like one.” Having leverage over Snape always did have its perks -- unlimited use of his classroom was just the start of them.
And then Harry says something irregular, unexpected. And worrying. Blaise might call it foreboding. Tom… Tom, who knows better, calls it telling. “I’ve tried. Poppy says they’re not working because of a mental issue, probably.”
“A mental issue,” repeats Tom. The words are dry in his mouth.
Now. Why doesn't that sound right? (Probably because it isn’t. It isn’t right.)
Neville’s going on, supportive blindly and uselessly as always, about things he can do to relieve Harry’s stress load. It would be sweet if Tom wasn’t blistering with hate.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Tom says, interrupting whatever nonsense Neville was saying.
Harry, the kind soul, lets him. Perhaps he is called in by Tom’s sharp tone… and perhaps (hopefully) he is called in by Tom himself. “What doesn’t, Tom?”
Neville’s face contorts, smally, almost missable. And then it smooths over, any suspicion wiped clean.
Tom ignore sit. Neville is inconsequential. “That a mental issue would call this,” he states.
“Well, people do have troubling sleeping due to personal issues,” says Harry, shrugging. So slow sometimes, thinks Tom. What would you ever do without me? “It’s not all that far-fetched.”
“Sleeping potions do not adhere to the same boundaries.”
“Huh,” says Harry, furrowing his brows. “Really?”
Tom nods. He’s studied magically theory as long as he’s known about it and knows that the beauty in magic is the very reason it's called magic: what is considered a problem in the normal body is something not to be jumped over but merely stepped. No matter how anxious you are, a calming draught clears your head. No matter how tired, a pepper-up will do the trick.
… And usually (normally; all the time), a sleeping potion puts you under. Ot does so swiftly, effortlessly, and without fail. Every time.
It’s not only weird that Harry is the exception, it is suspicious.
“It’s a magic issue,” says Tom. “Mental problems do not affect how the potion works--”
“But Madame Pomfrey said--”
Madame Pomfrey says a lot of things, doesn’t she? And most of them aren’t true. Here, they aren’t. They can’t be.
She is lying. That’s not the question. The question is why? (Though Tom has some top ideas already.) “She must have gotten some wrong,” Tom says, far too forgiving. It is best to be on the same side as Harry’s friends, at least as a pretense. “Maybe she should run some more calculations.”
Harry sighs, sinking back into his arms. “I’ll ask her about it later,” Harry says.
Later? Later and, presumably, alone? He’ll forget. He’ll forget, or, if he doesn’t, he’ll go there and will be lied to. Written off. Assured newer magic theory disregards the basics, and it is Tom who has miscalculated.
Tom will not let that happen. “Well, why not now?” Tom suggests. Before Harry can protest (“I don’t want to bother her this early in the morning,” he’d say, the fucking sap), Tom quickly continues, “So you’d have the whole day to sleep, if things are cleared up quickly. I’ll come with. What do you say?”
Harry bites his lips. He sighs, relenting. “It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do.” He addresses Neville, still standing, “You wanna tag along?”
Your kindness and attachments are cute, dear, at times. But most of the time, it is just fucking annoying.
Maybe Neville feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise-- courtesy of Tom’s magic -- and maybe something in Tom’s face gives it away, try as he might to hide his loathing. Or maybe, Neville is not as dependent as Tom (and Blaise) is on Harry. He can go to the infirmary alone. It is okay. (Tom will never understandable loving someone like Harry and agreeing, even at times, even for a moment, to let go. He never will.)
“No, Harry. Got -- an essay, I think. For Snape.”
Harry winces. “Good luck with that,” he says. “I can proofread it before you turn it in?”
Neville smiles, his cheeks lighting up. (So easily pleased. Tom cannot take just a piece without wanting it all.) “Uh -- yes, thank you. I hope Poppy finds out what’s wrong.’”
“Of course,” says Harry. “She’s the best Healer around.”
Also the only Healer around. But Harry doesn’t think to consider that, or want to. The duality of Harry is that his loyalty is easy to gain and hard to lose. (Though the truth about Tom could change that. Would. Which is why it will stay a secret; the dead remain dead.)
Harry and Tom walk side by side in silence. Tom… has so much to tell him. So much that he should. But he holds these secrets (that aren’t really his to have, to hold close at all) about Harry close to his chest. He needs more time, evidence, solutions before he presents the problems. Excuses, excuses. He is drowning in them. He is not the only one.
“The Ministry is on my side,” says Harry, quietly.
“Hm?”
Harry glances at him. “I know an unfair trial when I see one. And it was unfair in my favor. It wasn’t without probing, questioning, dissecting… but it was minimal.”
Tom recalls what Draco had told him. How the Potters were sent a letter (a warning before warnings; something stupid not to be heeded) and the Church of Merlin was sent one, too. Tom, nor Harry, is not dumb enough to not catch the connections between the trifecta, between Merliners, the Ministry, and Purebloods.
The Ministry is on your side, because they know your father. They killed him.
And they know, on some level, what you have inherited from him. They are wary. Like father, like son is not always true, and it is my guess that they are waiting to see if it is. Which outcome they prefer, however… why, I can’t quite say.
“How odd,” says Tom, simply, dumbly.
Harry says nothing, lost in thought.
Their feet carry them to the Medical Wing. Inside, Madame Pomfrey (that insufferable woman who hurt Harry; whose reasons why are vague and yet to be clarified) is handing a vial of medicine (for cold sores or mono, from the color of the potion, it’s hard to say) to second year Chalrie Lane.
Her face lights up when she spots Harry. She pats Charlie on the back and tells him to take it twice a week until the vial is empty (so it is for mono) and approaches Harry.
It is weird, this charade, thinks Tom. She is lying to him. Erasing his memory. And yet she talks and walks and acts like she loves him… and she might. It doesn’t mean she isn’t hurting him.
“How are you doing, Harry?” she asks. She looks at Tom and adds, “And your friend… Mister Riddle, is that correct?
“Oh, please,” says Tom, sticking out his hand to shake. “Call me Tom.”
“Alright, then, Tom.” She shakes his hand, a pleasant smile on her face. Tom figures that even if she does not have Harry’s best intentions in mind, it will do him so good to get her blessing. She is his legal guardian. “What brings you both here today?”
“It’s the sleeping thing again,” says Harry, sheepish. “I told Tom what you told me, but he thinks--”
“Knows,” corrects Tom, holding eye contact with Pomfrey, trying desperately to read her expression. You’ve got to have a tell. Everyone does. “I know that the explanation given is -- outdated,” he finishes. “And I think it best more tests are run. Don’t you, Madame Pomfrey?”
“I can’t agree, Mister Riddle.” Her hands are held together tightly, her voice just a tad breathless. She is looking right over his shoulder.
Why not? “I told you,” says Tom. His smile is too-pleasant. “To call me Tom.”
“We, then, Tom. What is it you are studying?”
A change of pace. Likely correlated. Tom’s eyes narrow. What are you playing at?
More importantly, why? “I’m between ideas at the moment,” he answers, careful. “I’ve been fond of Alchemy for a while, but I think I’ll be going in to poltics.”
Harry snorts and rolls his eyes. This is one issue that never seems to settle between them.
Pomfrey looks at Harry’s response with a small frown. “Albus Dumbledore,” she says, still avoiding Tom’s eyes. “Was once a great alchemist, too, you know. And a great politician.”
Do not be so abhorrent as to compare me to him. “Why do you mention this?’ asks Tom.
She shakes her head to herself. “No reason. It’s just that Mis… Tom. You’re not a trained medi-witch --or, in your case, wizard -- are you?”
“No,” says Tom tightly. “That’s not to say I’m ignorant to--”
“It is to say you’re underqualified to give your opinion.” She tilts her head. “Professional or not.”
Tom grits his teeth and Harry chuckles nervously, grabbing Tom by his levee. “It’s not a big deal, really, I can deal. I think we really should be going--”
Tom steps forward, dragging Harry with him. “Teach me the spell,” he all but demands. Pomfrey may not want Harry checked over or fixed -- having to do, likely, with her connection to Lily -- and it is for a reason, surely. You do not harm the child you’ve been raising for a decade like this needlessly. At least… Poppy wouldn’t.
Whatever that reason, though, however convincing it sounds to Pomfrey -- whatever she has been promised or told or is promising -- it is not Tom’s problem. It shouldn’t be Harry’s either.
“I’m afraid it is far above your level, Tom.”
Tom scoffs. You have no idea what I’m capable of. “Try me.”
“It is not necessary.”
“Teach me, or I’ll figure it out myself.” It is a promise. To her… it is taken somewhat as a threat.
Harry glances between the two of them and Tom feels bad. (He’s been doing that a lot lately. Feeling guilty. Regretting the consequences of his actions he is too raveled in to work out. Harry thinks he is so in control of the life that’s only partly his.)
It is Pomfrey who breaks first. “Fine,” she says. She gestures to the bed. “Harry, sit.”
“You’ll teach me?” asks Tom.
“No,” she says, tapping her wand against her palm. “I’ll do it myself.”
Tom narrows his eyes at her. Harry lies on the bed, looking confused and conflicted. Tom cannot blame him.
She waves her wand, whispers an incarnation too quietly for Tom to hear, and watches, patiently, tensely, as a long list appears in front of her, writing itself into existence. Tom angles his head, trying to get a good look, but she angles herself, too, so he can’t. The tell tale sign of someone with something to hide. He wonders if Harry sees it, too, or if Harry has ever seen this side of her. If he has, it’s likely he doesn’t remember.
When the list finally ends, Pomfrey glances over it, vanishes it, and clears her throat. “It seems,” she says slowly, “Harry, that you have a high tolerance for sleeping potions.”
“Oh,” says Harry. He looks relieved. For the solution to his sleeping problem or for the end to this weird power play that he’s caught in the middle of isn’t clear. “So, that’s an easy fix--”
“You’re lying,” snaps Tom. Does she think he’s dumb? She must. “Harry’s new to these potions, isn’t he? Why would he build up such a tolerance so quickly?”
“They were rather high concentration, Tom,” tries Harry.
“Not high enough.”
Pomfrey blinks at him. “Then it’s likely my potions have been laced with something. I’d better have Professor Snape look over them.”
Harry starts saying, “Oh, just need an antidote, then--” and Tom thinks he loves this boy, but he is so blind for those he loves. Too blind.
“What do you mean likely?” asks Tom. “Didn’t you just read over the reports? Or have you forgotten already?”
“Must you criticize my wording?” says Pomfrey.
“Okay, guys, what the fuck is going on?” snaps Harry. He glares furiously at the two of them. So caught up in themselves they are neglecting the real issue here. “Are you lying to me?” he asks Pomfrey. “Why does your answer keep changing? What the fuck are you guys going on about?”
“It,” says Pomfrey slowly, “is a difficult situation, Harry.”
“Cool,” says Harry. “Too bad I don’t care. It’s my situation.”
Pomfrey sighs deeply. “Grab your things, Harry.”
“Wha--”
“You will be staying overnight for observation.” She turns to Tom. “And… Tom and I, in the meantime, will share a word.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“I will. In time. But, first, you need to grab your things real quick. Alright?”
Harry stares at her blankly. He growls and walks out of the room, simmering to himself.
Tom watches him leave, then turns back to Pomfrey.
“So,” she says, something in her voice different now, “you know?”
“That I do.” He doesn’t know everything -- some of the most important things, actually, are still in the dark -- but ignorance is not a weakness he can afford to be exploited. “Will you fix him? Considering you are the one to hurt him. It only seems fair.”
She shakes her head. “It is not that easy--”
“Why not?”
“... Some of the damage is not reversible.”
Tom breaks. “Then why would you inflict it? Why do you continue to inflict it?”
“Likely the same reason you haven’t told him.” Tom freezes. Hypocrisy. Of course. His other Achille's heel. “Because him knowing will change nothing. I will do all the damage control tonight that I can, but even that will change nothing.”
“Why are you doing this to him? Hurting him and healing him?”
Pomfrey smooths down her robes. “I’ve made my peace with God. I am resigned to my place.” She looks at him. “Perhaps you should try that, too.”
“I’ll tell him what you’re doing.”
“If you were going to do so, you would have done so already.” Tom starts to respond but she holds up her hand, silencing him. “Whatever your reasons for your silence, they are just as valid as mine.”
Which is to say, thinks Tom, that they aren’t.
Tom swallows. “What,” he says thickly (so easily defeated), “are you going to tell him? About why he can’t sleep?”
“That’s the great thing, Tom.” She sounds tired and weak. Upset with her situation but unable (or unwilling) to change it. “I won’t have to.”