Harry Potter & The Hand God

Tom is finally taking action. The only thing prohibiting it is the fact that he didn’t earlier -- and he had reasons, at the time, to keep information regarding Harry close to his chest. They seemed like good reasons. At the time.

Hindsight is twenty twenty. Harry Potter has taught him many things; how to love, what being queer is, what being a Hufflepuf truly means… and on top of this long long list of things Harry Potter has taught him is regret. He has learned regret.

He’s been saying for so long, ever since he realized that he was in love with Harry, that nothing is secondary to him. He’d let his own Knights be punished, let his repetition take heavy beatings -- all for Harry. 

He loves Harry, thinks him his equal (thinks him his), but it is a lie. “Harry Potter is secondary to nothing” is a lie. It is an empty promise; it’s only and just words with no action to back them up.

He had watched as Harry Potter deteriorated and his few actions to push others into discovering the truth for themselves were not, and were never, enough.

It is Tom’s fault that Harry can’t remember anything, and it’s Tom's fault that, now, he stands arguing with Madame Pomfrey, and getting nowhere.

Dumbledore -- ever the nuisance -- sits at his desk with pursed lips. Harry sits, watching Pomfrey and Tom’s verbal duel, with blank eyes and a curious expression.

“He’s showing obvious signs of an Obliviate!” Tom all but snarls. “How can we let him forgo medical treatment?

“I am a Grade-A medi-witch,” assures Madame Pomfrey fiercely. “I myself had served at St. Mungo’s -- why, I must ask, do you think it’s unacceptable that I look after my own ward? If I am able to care for him, I should be able to.”

Tom bites his tongue. Because you can’t help him -- you’re biased, and it’s going to get him killed. “He needs more resources than you have,” he tries, already knowing its futility. 

Pomfrey bristles. “And you are so certain of this fact because? We’ve been too busy arguing all night to give me an opportunity to actually look into the matter at hand!”

Dumbledore sighs and addresses Tom. “I’m sorry, my boy,” says Dumbledore, sounding only somewhat apologetic about it. “As Harry’s guardian, she does reserve the right to deny treatment she does not see fit. Unless there is any reason to doubt that she has his best interests in mind, or that she is unable to provide proper care on her own, this right remains.”

‘Unless there is any reason to doubt that she has his best interests  in mind’? There’s a million of them! This is such an easy thing to prove, it shouldn't even be a question.

… But. But is it, really, so easy to prove?

He could bring up the operation -- the one that started it all, the one that put Lily in Harry’s body in an attempt to fix his memory loss -- just to mention that Pomfrey would be the only one able to ruin it. But it’s not like the book with that information is right here with him -- and even if it was, it’s a Restricted Section book. He’d have to justify how he knew about the operation in some way, alongside why he never brought it up until now, and every possible answer he’d give would only shine the light of suspicion onto himself.

He could bring up that incident with her with Harry, the one where she hinted at all the things she knew, but it’s both circumstantial at best and could be turned against him at worst.

He could bring up how Harry’s father is Merlin and Madame Pomfrey, as a Merliner, could have her judgement clouded because of it. But, to everyone else, James is dead, and not even of the question.

He could, he could, he could. But, but, but.

And Tom realizes he has made not even just one mistake. He’s been busy making a long, long line of them -- he's dug himself a hole and he can’t get out of it. Harry is the one suffering for it. 

Regret, regret, regret. 

And just as Tom is about to open his mouth and ask for Veritaserum, knowing that he will not be just bringing down Pomfrey, but himself (and knowing, all the while, that it would be worth it; would be deserved. For Harry)… an owl swoops into the classroom.

It lands on Dumbledore’s desk and sticks its leg out, expectantly.  

The room simmers to silence. It’s Harry who voices, where no one else will, “Well, aren’t you going to open it?”

(Harry, who is exceptional, even when he cannot remember who he is. He is remarkable. Tom aches with love and guilt and wonders how everyone can deal with so many emotions swarming in them all of the time.)

Dumbledore chuckles. He unlocks his fingers and slowly, methodically, removes the letter from the owl’s leg. He pats the bird on the head, once, eyes still locked the letter. 

He says, featherlight, “It’s from Hermione Granger.”

Tom’s eyes widen. Dumbledore turns the envelope over in his hands and says, looking up at Tom, that strange look still in his eyes, “It’s meant for Mr. Riddle.”

And then Tom feels hope swell up inside him. The timing, the timing of it all. This is no coincidence. Has Tom ever felt grateful to her before? He can’t remember. She’s the same age as he is, the same year, and her blood -- something Tom has long since forgiven, all thanks to Harry -- is hardly separating them at this point.

Tom gets, finally, why Harry keeps her around. He will thank her later. (Perhaps, also, it’s time to have more than one genuine friend.)

Dumbledore takes the letter out of the envelope and reads it over, eyebrows steadily rising further rup his forehead. Tom is distantly aware of Madame Pomfrey at his side, stiff and nervous. She is likely assuring herself that though she was panicked, there’s nothing out there that can be used against her. There just can't be.

And Tom knows well enough by now that nothing, and nobody, is infallible. (He has learned regret.)

“Madame Pomfrey,” Dumbledore finally says, voice soft… soft but accusing. “You do stand firm in the suggestion that young Harry here has yet to visit your infirmary on this matter, yes?”

Pomfrey sticks her chin out, radiating confidence. (Arrogance, the word he is looking for is arrogance.) “Of course,” she says. It is not like she can deny it now.

Dumbledore drops the envelope on the desk bringing his hands up to rub gentle circles into his temples. “Oh, Poppy,” he says. It is barely a whisper.

Madame Pomfrey freezes, her eyes on the now exposed letter. Tom follows her gaze and realizes that, no, that’s not a letter at all.

It’s the surveillance charm he gave Ron and Hermione. It is clear proof that Harry Potter visited her at the infirmary and it is clear proof that she lied about it.

And for every lie out there, there is a reason behind it. There’s no good reason to lie about this -- there’s only bad ones. Suspicion, suspicion, it’s the very thing that Tom needs.

Tom hadn’t realized that while he had dug himself into a hole incapable of escape, Pomfrey had, too. 

Tom buries his growing grin. Pomfrey may not know what this means for her just yet, but Tom does.

And soon, she will, too.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Tom gathers a bag of Harry’s things -- a change of clothes, including his god-awful Weasley sweater, and Harry’s journal -- and looks one last time around his room.

He decides, because he is remorseful, because he has hurt Harry with his selfishness, because he owes Harry something and because he owes Harry everything, to send a letter to each of Harry’s friends.

Yes. Even Blaise. Harry, for Merlin knows why, loves these people. Tom does not get it -- but this is not about Tom. It’s about Harry. Like everything should have been.

Tom cannot change the past, but he can make sure the future isn’t something that he wants to. 

Harry’s guardian is in custody of Aurors and Harry is at St. Mungo’s. Tom’ll be on his way to join him -- and he is overcome again with relief.

Everything will be okay. Harry will be okay. Everything is okay, because Harry will be okay. 

It’s okay.

Tom… is okay.

He leaves the Hufflepuff dorm, returns to the Headmaster’s office, where the Floo fire is already raging.

He takes one last look at Dumbledore and wonders, vaguely, what Dumbleodre is making of all this. He recalls, from Harry's journal, that Pomfrey had all but begged to take custody of Harry. And Dumbledore… Dumbledore had said yes.

Is he regretting that now? Should he be? 

Does it hurt, knowing that such a close associate is not what she seems? (Is this the same type of hurt Harry will experience, if he ever comes to know the truth about Tom?)

And then Tom sweeps those thoughts from his mind, because he doesn’t care. Dumbledore reserves no space in his mind, in his heart.

No. That’s all taken up by Harry -- as it should be, as it should have always been. 

Tom nods his head to Dumbledore, grabs a handful of Floo powder, and says, loudly, “St. Mungo’s!”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Everything is okay.

That is what Tom would like to believe. He sits with no nervousness in the waiting room; legs crossed over one another, watching the door to the room in which he was told Harry was in with a careful eye.

Harry’s friends eventually start filing in -- unexpected. But not exactly surprising. If Tom had been told what they had, even so close to Christmas, he’d be rushing here as fast as he can.

That is what it is like, being friends with Harry Potter. 

Ron sits next to him with a strange, anxious look on his face. His leg shakes where he sits and he asks Tom, voice nearly cracking, “How is he?”

Tom is gentle when he responds, “He’s here.” And is that not enough to bring comfort? The fact that he’s getting help for something he should have long ago fixed? It’s enough for him, but not for Ron, so he continues. “He arrived a little over an hour ago. I’ve asked to receive regular updates on his condition and, since I’ve received none, I’d assume that nothing has changed just yet.”

Ron swallows. “Alright,” he says quietly. 

Why is he not reassured? (Why is Tom?)

When Hermione soon enters the waiting room, walking toward the Melting Pot’s little corner of the room, Tom can’t help it. He rises from his seat, wraps his arms around her in a hug so tight that it is breathtaking.

Hermione makes an oomphing noise, and pats Tom on the back awkwardly. Tom pulls back and she looks at him, a confused smile on her face. “Hello, Tom,” she says. “I didn’t think we were the hugging sort.”

“You saved him,” Tom says, breathless. “You saved him.” Even though the surveillance charm was his idea, and this result could have been achieved via truth serum…

It can be better said that Hermione saved Tom.

Hermione smiles at him. It is pained.

Neville enters next, looking all the nervous wreck he usually is and more.

Blaise is, surprisingly, the last to arrive. 

He stops right in front of Tom’s chair. Tom raises an eyebrow, looking up at him. “Blaise,” he greets, pleasantly -- fighting with Harry’s lover while he’s in the hospital is no way to get brownie points. “It’s good to see you.”

Blaise does not seem to share the sentiment. A dark look in his eyes and he said, strained, “It’s not working.”

Tom does not like the despair in his voice. He shifts in his seat and says, sharply, “What?”

“The spells -- the diagnostic spells, Tom, they’re…” Blaise places both hands around the back of his neck and frowns, deeply. “They’re not working, Tom.”

“What are you talking about, Blaise?” His tone is a little too harsh, but Blaise takes no offense. He raises one shaking finger toward the door that Harry is behind.

“It’s black, Tom. It’s black and it’s pink and it’s not working.”

And it’s then that Tom looks at the clock on the wall and realizes that hours have passed since Harry’s admission.

Too many hours. 

He rises from his seat and swiftly walks to the front desk. “What’s going on?”

“Excuse me, but I--”

Tom holds back the urge to bangs his hands against the desk. “What’s going on with Harry? Harry Potter. It’s been too long.”

The lady winces. “I’ve been instructed to keep that information classified until more has been sorted out?”

“Why?” Tom demands.

“We don’t know what we’re dealing with, sir.”

Tom does not know what that means, but he doesn't like it. He turns on his heel and barges toward Harry’s room.

“Sir, you can’t do that--” But this is Harry and with Harry, no one can tell him what he can and cannot do.

Tom throws open the door -- and then he stops in his tracks.

There are about a dozen healers surrounding him. Some are whispering in the corner, trying with clear desperation to figure out what is going on. Each is wearing the same unique look of horror. Tom is sure he’s wearing the exact same one right now. 

Because, floating four feet above his bed is Harry -- Tom thinks that it must be Harry, even though he cannot see his face or his body -- and surrounding his body, running in waves, are a thousand hot pink hands.

“Lily,” he whispers. “Lily, what have you done?”

Better yet, what is she doing? And if all these healers -- all of wizarding Britain’s best healers -- cannot figure out how to stop it…

Then what type of chance does Tom have?

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

This problem is fixed by chance. It’s fixed by good timing and long standing preparation, events that have been in the works for months coming to light, but most importantly, it is fixed by chance.

It is fixed by Petunia Evans, finally having enough of the constant howlers. It is fixed by complete and total chance. There is destiny in coincidence. 

There is destiny in the beginning of the end. And this is how.