1937 [In A Sea of Memories, I Only See You]
"A soulmate is someone who is willing to grow with you, who chooses to be with you until the end, and will love you through good and bad. It's not about sunshine and laughter, it's about mundane moments filled with unknowns."
-T.B. LaBerge
March 18, 193
[In A Sea of Memories, I Only See You]
They were inevitable. There was no doubt about it.
Years and years flew by, the both of them enduring thick and thin together. They’ve seen sides of each other that they’ve never shown anybody else, that they’ve never wanted to share with anybody else. Both of them belonged to each other, two lone planets in the same orbit. They were the inevitability of stars, of falling rain, of the tides and cycles of the moon.
They were inevitable, plain as that.
Their tentative relationship started like the accidental meeting of the eyes, connecting with each other in the middle of a coffee shop. They were as unavoidable as the drooping of the lids, making way for a peaceful slumber. They were a pattern, as necessary to each other as the seasons were to the Earth.
They simply were.
Unbeknownst to the two of them, their ineluctability was like the myths of millennia, known by the people and told only for the Gods. Their relationship was built on the cultivation of caring kindness, soft words, and whispers, reassuring touches, and questions. Their inevitability grew into a bond of trust, a bond of partners, a bond where they both could find peace in each other and feel known. It happened so naturally, both boys wouldn’t be able to tell when it started.
All because they found common ground between each other, a language that only they shared with each other. It was as if they were made to be.
They learned that their language might be called Parseltongue, a dialect of olde. The etymon, Tom theorized, may have links to the French. He had reached this conclusion through his own studies of French and Latin, lessons the nuns had them complete at St. John’s.
Even if both boys loathed the nuns and everyone associated with them, they were rather grateful for having two more languages under their belt.
December 31, 1932
Wool’s Orphanage, London, England
Tom could only gape as he stared at the newspaper-wrapped gift held out in front of him. Looking between the small box and Harry’s face, he took in Harry’s determined expression. Cautiously, he took the gift from Harry’s outstretched hands and to his own chest.
Tom had never received a proper gift before, the exception being when Mrs. Cole told him the date of his birthday out of pure spite when she was drunk. Tom had never counted that as a gift. Not like Harry’s gift. This gift was physical and there.
This gift was purely his.
Tom snapped out of his thoughts as there was a sudden hand waving in front of his face. Looking up, his view was obscured by the concerned face of his best friend. “What are you thinking about?”
Tom blinked as he came back to his senses. How long had he been blankly staring at the other boy in front of him?
“Nothing,” Tom sighed, rubbing a hand on his face “I haven’t received a gift before, so thank you.”
“That’s what friends are for right?” Harry asked. Both boys paused and stared at each other, Tom with sardonic amusement and Harry with shocked embarrassment, which unsurprisingly surmised both of their personalities. They both knew that they were each other’s first friends, but Tom couldn’t hold back his mirth and full-on laughed at Harry’s statement.
The other boy flushed at the sight of Tom laughing, and at the realization of what he was laughing about.
They were friendsnow.
Another direct result of their bond was the discovery of their powers, or magic, as Harry called it. It only affected them in the way an artist covers up a mistake by making it part of the whole masterpiece. They cultivated the magic, they practised it, they even tried triggering the magic to make it react.
April 16, 1934
Wool’s Orphanage, London, England
Harry and Tom stood still, processing what just happened.
“How did we get down here?” Tom questioned; hysterical disbelief etched on his face, clutching the shorter’s forearms. If Harry wasn’t thinking the same, he would be laughing his ass off to Hell at the reaction of the other boy. Getting Tom to react this way was a rare event, and he relished in those few memories. But now, he was panicking and as hysterical as Tom was.
“I- I don’t know,” Harry stammered, in the same boat as Tom, trying to figure out how the bloody hell they ended up in the storage room when they were just in their bedroom mere moments ago.
It left a twisting feeling in his stomach.
“Wait,” Tom realized, comprehension dawning on his face. It looked angelic; Harry noted, which was ironic in and of itself. “I think,” Tom said slowly, “this was like the time I first met you and saw you asleep, the objects around you floated.” Harry froze in the position he was in, barely holding himself up through his hold on Tom’s forearms and the other’s exact same hold on him.
“Tom, best friend, the most important person in my life, probably sociopathic-” Harry listed off, voice getting higher and higher. Harry’s list of descriptions was amusing, but Tom knew that it was leading up to the inevitable question. Wincing slightly, he braced himself. “When were you going to decide to tell me that you knew about my magic?” Tom’s poor best friend all but cried, distress clear on his face. Tom should probably feel bad, but he didn’t. It didn’t take much apathy to be greatly amused at the expression.
“Well, now that you mention it, I have been planning to tell you for a while-” Tom cut off abruptly when Harry gripped his shoulders and shook him panickedly, distress twisting his features. Tom stood there for a moment, stunned yet amused at his gall, and then shook the other boy’s own shoulders back in retaliation.
“Tom!”
“Alright, alright,” Tom tried to sooth, the other boy’s distress not fading in the slightest. The taller of the two stared into the shorter’s vivid green eyes, “I can do stuff like that, too. I did it,” magic, he reminded himself, “when we first met Loki together.”
That statement finally relieved Harry’s nerves, but they shot right back up again at the implications of the admittance.
“You’ve been keeping this from me?!” Tom got a whack at the back of the head for that.
March 18, 1937
London, England
Harry and Tom were sitting underneath a large tree in a park, the frequented haunt a small distance away from the orphanage. Tom was wrapped up in a book, his pointer finger tapping against the book’s spine. Harry was busy sketching the park’s view in front of them.
It was the perfect spot for them to hide themselves from the world, and from the other kids in the orphanage. It hid them well enough from the sun, but their view overlooking the park kept being interrupted by the falling leaves from the tree above them. They would have stayed at the library, but Harry had decided to stay at the park today, claiming that they needed the fresh air. Tom was under no circumstances to deny Harry of that.
Looking up from his sketch, Harry observed his surroundings and the park itself. It was quiet, which was weird considering it was a Friday afternoon, but he could still hear distant laughing from the other kids. He knew that when he and Tom decided to stay longer, the other kids from the orphanage would eventually decide to show themselves. Considering the fact that the other kids wouldn’t want to stay cramped up in their room or the front yard of the orphanage, they were going to be seeing the other kids fairly soon.
Maybe the laughter Harry heard had been coming from the petite girls across the lake. Harry had finally been able to sketch them after a long while of playing around the trees.
“It’s not paying too much attention if you know it’ll turn out the way you want it to.”
Harry didn’t look up from his sketch, avoiding Tom’s eyes, but wholly agreeing to his point. “It still feels like it is.”
It was weird how quickly Tom and Harry grew closer together in the past few years. It wasn’t that Harry didn’t like it, he loved having Tom as a best friend, it was just weird to have a friend after all the years. In his younger years, when his pig of a cousin prevented him from having such relationships, he would’ve never thought that what he had now, with Tom, was possible.
Speaking of Dudley, Harry remembered his game he had made called ‘Harry Hunting’.
Harry scrunched his nose and erased a mistake he had made in his sketch.
Harry had to constantly hide from Dudley, Piers, and his cronies in school, fearing for his safety (he had even teleported to get away before! Harry just forgot where).
He hated feeling powerless in front of his cousin. He stood up to Billy Stubbs thankfully, a few years back. It didn’t deter him whatsoever after a few weeks, but still. At least they got revenge on the fat arse.
October 7, 1932
Wool’s Orphanage, London, England
Harry and Tom watched with a sadistic sense of accomplishment at the sight of Billy Stubbs wailing over the unfortunate death of his poor, poor rabbit.
They weren’t lying when they said they’d get revenge on Billy Stubbs; a promise was a promise wasn’t it?
When the matrons finally got the rabbit from the rafters, Billy immediately found the duo in the mass of kids trying to see the rabbit. He cried and declared that Tom and Harry were the ones responsible for the death of his rabbit, but the boys weren’t stupid.
They knew they would be blamed for the rabbit; it didn’t take that much common sense to figure that out (at least they finally knew how stupid Billy Stubbs was, though). They staged a fight between Billy and another boy his age. It was a mere quarrel, but the other kids seemed only too keen to have drama around here.
“Tommy and Harry did it!” Billy wailed, fat tears rolling down his pudgy cheeks in the ugliest way. The nickname Billy gave Tom made him sick. It was an insultto his first name, no matter how much he hated it.
When news reached Harry that they had found the rabbit’s body hung from the rafters, he had no hesitation when telling the other kids that maybe Robert Jones was the one that had slaughtered the small animal. It was no secret that Robert and Billy had a fight the other day. Robert being the culprit was entirely possible. After all, Jones had very weak impulse control, and enough cronies in his circle for the rabbit’s death to be made possible.
The news spread like wildfire. While Billy (and Mrs. Cole, by extension) wanted to blame Harry and Tom for the death, the other kids already indirectly had an alibi for the two of them. Multiple kids had come to their defense, claiming that they saw both of them in the park near the orphanage when the rabbit was supposedly hung.
They also, inadvertently, of course, blamed Robert Jones for the crime. With that, Mrs. Cole’s hands were tied. She had to punish Robert instead of Harry and Tom.
While Mrs. Cole was a smart and sharp woman, they had to give her that albeit begrudgingly, she was too biased against the pair and all rational thought fled her mind when it came to the two of them.
Oh, the joys of not being a stupid person. They don’t know how Billy does it honestly, being like that.
It was like stealing candy from a child, the whole revenge plan, and quite literally. The duo found some sweets Billy had hidden in his own cot while getting the rabbit. It was all too good, and while getting away with the murder was the best thing they accomplished, the urge to steal the candy and get away with it was all too sweet to ignore. The oaf will be too busy mourning his poor pet rabbit to notice the candy going missing, anyways. He’d just assume that he’d already eaten it.
“It’s only murder, mon cher, if they’re my equal. As far as I know, I only have one of those.”
March 18, 1937
London, England
At least Harry had Tom now; he wasn’t going to be lonely anytime soon. Billy Stubbs was truly a mark on both of their histories, stupid excuse of an adversary or not.
Feeling eyes on him, Harry turned to his right where the subject of his thoughts was staring at him. Tom’s own book was closed and disregarded on his lap. He had an intense look in his eyes while staring at Harry, a flurry of emotions raging in them. The emotions flickering in his eyes were too fast to decipher all at once, like a storm in an ever-growing night.
“What is it?”
“What were you thinking about?”
Harry gave Tom a fleeting smile before breaking eye contact and surveying the park.
The trees were swaying in the wind, giving the park an eerie and lonely atmosphere despite being able to hear and see other kids from the immediate distance. He wondered what was taking them so long to arrive at their little niche, not that he minded. He liked that the two of them were the only people here. Other than the lovely couple in the clearing, or the girls across the lake flying kites (he always loved sketching those), they were wonderfully alone. The colors of the cheap plastic kites always either contrasted to the sky, like a fire burning in the arctic or blended with the trees. Whenever that happened, it was like they were meant to be there. He almost had to draw the scene, Harry’s imagination bringing the lovely sight to life, despite being in a perpetual state of standstill. It was a masterpiece of the world that Harry had forever ingrained in his head, so it was a huge miracle for Harry not to draw the boisterous kids in his sketch.
“It was nothing.”
Tom didn’t say anything when Harry felt arms wrap around his torso. He was dragged backward to lean against his best friend’s front before Tom hooked his chin on Harry’s right shoulder.
Harry didn’t mind though.
After Billy Stubbs’s sad attempt to hurt Tom and the small fight the two boys had, Tom explained that the hugs that he initiated were caused by a primal urge to comfort Harry. An urge to just make Harry’s crying stop. Tom had also explained that it was just a natural instinct for him to hug Harry, despite not having the urge to do so for any other person.
May 21, 1935
Wool’s Orphanage, London, England
In the cold dead of the spring night, the two boys were lying in bed. It was quiet in their room, only the soft rustling of bodies and whispers of breath interrupting the silence.
Harry’s thoughts were swirling in and out of coherence. He was growing restless, picking his own fingers in thought, while his best friend was relaxing next to him. Judging from the slow, labored breathing and the lack of noise from the rustle of sheets, the other boy was already asleep.
While Tom was in the gentle arms of sleep, Harry was stuck awake. He was thinking of insignificant things, things that had only happened in the past and shouldn’t be leaving such a significant impression on him. The ache in his bones from staying in such a still position was gaining on him, his mind a dark spiral of thought that Harry couldn’t control.
His whole body was stuck in a cycle of freezing and overheating. There was no in-between.
Why was he reliving his own memories, trapped in his own thoughts? It was almost like he was stuck in that awful, awful cupboard and living with the Dursleys again. He felt the ache in his head worsen like he’d taken another beating from Uncle Vernon. He hadtaken a beating from Uncle Vernon. His head was swimming like the first time he had attended school, his vision a blurry haze. The chill overcoming his whole body was exactly how he felt when Dursley and Dennis and Gordon and that annoying rat Piers attacked-
A hand suddenly rested on Harry’s forehead, causing Harry to flinch violently. He backed up to the corner of his headboard skittishly, twisting the fabric of his thin comforter between his fingers.
Why did he feel like he was suffocating? Why did he feel like he was drowning miles away from shore and all he could do was try to breatheand panicand flail -
“Harry,” said a hushed voice, thick from sleep. Harry felt himself come down to the shore from the sea, his breathing calming down slightly. “You’re alright. I’m here.”
Harry whimpered and pulled his legs towards his chest, hearing the voice but not quite registering what it said. He rested his forehead against his knees and tried to calm down.
He’d dealt with this before and he’d deal with it again; one more attack was nothing in the grand scheme of things.
“Breathe,” the voice ordered and Harry tried his best to listen to them. Breathing through his nose and out his mouth, Harry took deep intakes of air even if he stuttered halfway through.
Two hands cupped the underside of Harry’s face and tilted it upwards, the fresh tears still streaming down his cheeks as he hiccupped. The thumbs of the hands cupping Harry’s face wiped the tears away.
As his vision cleared and his thoughts calmed, Harry’s glasses were given to him. He blinked rapidly as he put them on, not quite used to the sudden change from blurred to crisp. Focusing on the figure in front of him, only illuminated by the moon, he squinted.
“Are you okay now?” Coming into view was Tom, slight hysteria and concern etched on his face. It warmed Harry’s heart that the fully confident and arrogant best friend of his pushed aside his pride and warmed his own cold heart to help Harry.
Harry stuttered out a breath. He was okay. While that panic attack wasn’t the worst he experienced, it wasn’t mild either. He was fine though; he was sure of it this time. “I’m fine.”
Tom didn’t believe him, but he let it slide. He would know what happened in a little while. "What happened?” Tom asked sternly, fully sitting beside Harry at the head of the bed.
March 18, 1937
London, England
"Harry," Tom scolded gently. "What are you thinking about so intently? You're not even paying attention to me." Harry raised his eyes from the image he was sketching, a confused expression on his face.
He tilted his head slightly, "How could you tell?" Harry blinked in surprise when Tom laughed at him. Harry didn’t know if he should feel offended or not.
"Whenever you're focused on something, if something holds your attention, you get a certain… look on your face." Tom rested his chin on top of his palm. "It's not hard to notice if you look."
Harry glanced upwards and gave the other boy an inquisitive look. How did he notice that? Harry was pretty sure Tom wasn’t aware of him blanking out often. Harry paused momentarily as reality hit him in the face. “I- if you noticed does that mean you’ve been?" You've been staring at my face? Harry turned away, embarrassed. “I don’t blank out .” Harry had the feeling he was speaking out of his own ass.
“Of course, you don’t. When I first met you, you weren’t so spaced out you didn’t even notice me. Of course, that didn’t happen.” Tom scooted closer to him, a smug quirk to his lips. “That was so silly of me to hallucinate that of you. I do hope you find it in you to forgive me.” Tom’s small smirk slowly morphed into a sardonic grin at Harry’s pouting face.
“You know what I mean, Tom!”
“I know. Also, I-” Tom looked away, “I don’t look at your face often .” he said defensively, hands laced together. “I only pay attention to you because all the other kids at the orphanage are all carbon copy annoyances.” Tom’s face grew serious. Well, serious enough for a face like Tom’s. It just made Harry think of the pouting snake he saw in Mr. Scamander’s book. “Now, what were you thinking about?”
Harry leaned back on Tom’s hold, relishing in the warmth the other boy gave him from the windy weather. He genuinely didn’t know why he was thinking about their friendship.
Admittedly, he hadn’t been in a lot of friendships (see: none at all) before Tom. The only examples of such a relationship had been from the children around him and the books he had read in his leisure time. Considering the time he had to read, which wasn't a lot given how he spent it (French Homework, chores, sketching), he still knew normal friendships weren’t as close as Tom’s and his were.
“I don’t know, really. It’s nothing,” He admitted reluctantly.
“But what you’re thinking right now isn’t nothing. You answered me after a few minutes of spacing out,” Tom pointed out. Harry hated Tom now (not really); he was too observant of Harry. But then again, Harry was very observant of Tom, too. Harry then remembered the both of them were eleven. However…
July 31, 1935
Wool’s Orphanage, London, England
“Happy Birthday,” Tom greeted. Harry was too sleepy to register the full force of the statement. It was early in the morning, way too early for Harry’s tastes. He usually stayed up the night before his birthday to count down, but this year he fell asleep as soon as their clock hit midnight. It was like Tom was trying to torture him or something, waking him up this early.
Either way, this was a badbest friend thing for Tom to do on his birthday.
“What? S’too early to talk…” Harry mumbled, pulling himself to Tom. It was a bit difficult because Tom was standing, but Harry managed to burrow himself in the other’s stomach. Tom was fully dressed, pristine as always, and ready for the day. In comparison, Harry was still in pyjamas that were formerly owned by the boy in front of him.
Tom ran his fingers through Harry’s messy bird nest before he told Harry, “Get up your lazy arse. I have a surprise for you.”
But Harry didn’t budge one bit and only burrowed his head further into Tom’s stomach. The other boy sighed and furrowed his brow as he focused his magic (“Is this magic?” “Of course, it is, what else would it be?”) to levitate Harry’s gift off his desk. Tom might as well make himself comfortable, he knew that Harry wouldn't be budging from his spot in a verylong time.
The gift shakily levitated from the table before floating into Tom’s waiting hands. He nudged the sleeping boy who was clinging to him like a koala, sleeping soundly.
Harry blinked drowsily and rested his chin on Tom’s stomach, looking up at the older boy. “Mm?” He hummed, looking like an angel in Tom’s holy opinion. Lightly laying the gift on Harry’s nose, he grinned at the way his counterpart’s face scrunched up at the gesture.
Tom then sat down beside Harry and let him lean heavily against him before handing Harry his gift for him.
March 18, 1937
London, England
Harry, when shaken out of his stupor, easily realized his counterpart’s point. Damn Tom and his accurate thinking. He looked down at his sketch and continued drawing the scene in front of him, ignoring his traitor of a best friend’s attempts to get his attention.
“Harry,” Tom groaned, hooking his chin on Harry’s shoulder. The point of his chin dug into Harry's muscle slightly as he peered down to see the sketch his counterpart had made.
It was a beautiful graphite sketch of the park view in front of them, drawn in a black and white scene. It was beautifully done, despite the monochromatic color scheme Harry had to work with. The trees were made with love and attention, so much so that it seemed to sway in the still state it was in. The grassy knoll in front of them was drawn precisely, including the small couple sitting on a blanket (Tom absentmindedly hoped that one day he’d be able to experience that too). The lake just beside them glimmered in the warm sunlight, and the masterpiece Harry had drawn was an exact replica of it (Except it was better, of course. It had Harry’s own brand of style and magic to it).
It amazed Tom to be friends with someone so talented (he knew his worth, but he didn’t think that someone like Harry would be friends with someone like Tom. Despite his intelligence) and it would never cease to amaze him.
July 31, 1935
Wool’s Orphanage, London, England
Harry, in his somewhat awake state, managed to open the wrapped present with a distinctive carefulness. Opening it fully, he gasped softly at the gift in his lap.
It was similar to the dark green leather journal he saw on the corner store near the orphanage. Harry supposed Tom got it there, but it surprised him. How did Tom save enough to buy something like this? His grin widened when he felt a pencil beside the journal’s spine.
He was surprised to see tears dropping onto the cover of the book. He didn’t even notice himself crying, or him gripping Tom like a lifeline. All Harry knew was the overwhelming feeling of happiness and fulfillment crashing into him like waves, and the comforting presence his best friend gave him. It was so overwhelmingly heartwarming, and Harry revelled in it.
Tom, on the other hand, was fretting over Harry’s reaction to the gift. “Harry, are you okay?” He cupped Harry’s cheeks, frantically trying to wipe the tears off his best friend’s face.
Harry only cried harder, making Tom fret even more. Tom wasn’t used to emotions (or fretting) of any kind and thought it was stupid. This wasn't stupid, though. Nothing was stupid when it came to Harry.
Nothing.
Harry grabbed Tom’s wrists and Tom stilled, an awkward grimace etched on his face. It made Harry giggle. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine!” Harry reassured with a grin, quickly wiping his tears in the process. He didn’t like people worrying over him, but Tom just amplified his emotions to a state of no control. Harry wasn’t really usedto that, but he was too happy and grateful to be bitter.
March 18, 1937
London, England
“That’s a really nice one,” Tom murmured. He already knew that because of Harry's stubbornness, he wouldn't be budging until later. He knew the waiting game well enough. Being friends with Harry for 5 years did that to Tom. “I think that’s your best one yet.”
Harry gave him a rogue smile, full of the narcissistic and confident qualities that the two of them normally saw on Tom. “Of course, it is.” He boasted, lifting the leather journal in triumph. He held it like it was a prize that he had just won. “But I think the one with you reading in the clearing, down there, was my best one yet.”
Tom had to agree. Not that he was a hardcore narcissist, Tom just appreciated the time and effort Harry gave when he sketched Tom. If Harry agreed, he would pay millions, if not billions of pounds to just see his artwork. However, he already saw them every day for free.
He felt like he was scamming Harry, who had the talent to make masterpieces. Harry's drawings deserved to be in art galleries of the highest class, auctioned and preserved religiously (not that Tom knew about being religious in any right).
“Now,” Tom started as he closed the sketchbook. “What’s on your mind?”
“Billy Stubbs.”
As Tom’s face soured at the name, he tightened his hold on Harry. It was no secret that they both hated Billy Stubbs with a burning passion. That git deserved to rot in hell for all they cared. While the two of them weren’t martyrs or saints of any kind, they only sought out revenge when someone wronged either one of them. Other than that, they weren’t the ones actively seeking a fight. Quite unlike Mr. Righteous over there. His fat ass couldn’t handle not picking a fight with someone every single day; every time the duo saw him, he was constantly bickering with someone and wailing to Mrs. Cole when it was over.
“Why him?” Tom all but growled.
Harry rushed to respond; he didn’t like dealing with an annoyed Tom at any time of the day. “Well, not really Billy Stubbs. More like us, in general, but us, really.” Harry scrunched his face, lost in thought as his eyeglass pads dug into his nose. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
Tom visibly slouched in realization. “Oh,” he replied before the thought suddenly came to him. “Why are you thinking about it?”
Harry shrugged.
“I just…” He trailed, not knowing what to answer to the boy behind him. He was just thinking about it while sketching, so he didn’t really notice that his mind had drifted off to the two of them.
“Just?”
“Just nothing?” Harry replied, his mind working overtime to understand why. He absently realized that only Tom made him think like this. “I just feel like I’m missing something important, but the only important thing I care about right now is behind me, so…” Harry shrugged again, careful not to disturb the chin on his shoulder. A grin broke out on his face when he heard Tom mutter under his breath about Harry’s charm and quick thinking to avert the question.
Harry leaned back against Tom’s hold as he said, “Well, I learned from the best.”
He was laughing as Tom pushed him from his hug, rolling away to lay on the cool grass.
“Prat,” Tom muttered as he flipped through Harry’s sketchbook, ignoring the way Harry was outright laughing at Tom’s put-out expression. He was literally like a grumpy cat.
“I’m not wrong!” Harry claimed, but Tom was too busy admiring the traitor’s sketches to pay attention to the actual artist of the book. He continued to ignore Harry even when the boy hung on to his side and kept pleading for Tom to stop ignoring him. After all, traitors aren’t forgiven. Especially if they keep laughing like a lunatic.
“Come on Tom,” Harry whined, a cramp-inducing grin still ever-present.
“No.”
Harry whined even more, if possible. “Come on!” He rested his chin on Tom’s shoulder before intently staring at his counterpart, making the pouting and droopy-eyed face he knew Tom would instantly cave to.
Tom glanced at Harry before instantly looking back to the sketchbook. If even comprehensible, at this point, Harry whined even more. Damn Tom and his self-control, but it didn’t deter Harry. Five years of being friends with Tom made him know, with much certainty, that Tom would cave to him. He knew it wasn’t that long in the grand scheme of things, but it was long enough.
Harry pouted even more, and that was when Tom looked up to stare at him again. They had a short staring contest, Tom with narrowed eyes and Harry with faux innocence.
Tom growled and looked back down again to the sketchbook. At that moment, Harry knew that he had won the argument. He knew there would be a catch, though. There always was with Tom.
Tom was turning the page to the sketch of a Bowtruckle when Harry heard it. “Get me that Magical Theory book we saw down in the hand-me-down bookstore.” His counterpart said, absentmindedly thumbing the sketch. “It had practically the same design as your Fantastic Beasts book. I want to learn more about it. Maybe we’re not just the freaks Mrs. Cole claims we are.” Harry’s hold on Tom tightened at the mention of the word freak but nodded determinedly in understanding. He could easily get that book for Tom.
Dutifully accepting his sketchbook back, he continued drawing the scene before him while Tom continued reading his book. Harry couldn’t help but think about what Tom had said a few moments ago; he had a point. Maybe they weren’t the freaks the orphanage claimed they were. Maybe they weren’t the devil incarnated, as the matron kept insisting.
Harry sighed and continued on sketching, notably missing the glance Tom shot at him.
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;
Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears:
What is it else? a madness most discreet,
A choking gall and a preserving sweet.
- William Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet