1937 [Resist Much, Obey Little]
"And I'd chose you; in a hundred different lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you."
- Kiersten White
August 15, 1937
Wool’s Orphanage London, England
[Resist Much, Obey Little]
Harry all but sobbed into Tom’s arms, as his best friend tried to comfort him. He buried his face in Tom’s chest as tears rolled down his cheeks while he tried to process what happened.
He was going to kill that exorcist.
Tom’s hold tightened on Harry when his hands curled on Tom’s ratty cardigan, gripping them tighter. Harry only sniffled and burrowed his head further, trying to avoid the onslaught of snot in his nose dripping to his shirt.
Why was it always him?
First, it was Dudley and his cronies, who chased him around the neighborhood without letting him rest. Then there was Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon who were the worst of the worst. They beat him, they starved him without reason, and they made him do chores. While the last one alone wasn’t a big problem, they beat him when he didn’t do it perfectly when he was just five! The matron didn’t even do that to them or the other kids.
Harry would have rather stayed in Wool’s for 18 years than spend even two more years with the Dursley’s.
Wool’s Orphanage was a bit tamer compared to the Dursley’s. Now, it was Billy, Dennis and Amy.
They didn’t matter anymore; they weren’t that important to warrant Harry’s worry. He had Tom now, he’d rather worry about Tom’s health and well-being than drive himself insane thinking about those low-lives that keep annoying the two of them.
Tom. How did Harry ever deserve him?
Harry turned over on the bed to properly face Tom and removed his hold on his cardigan. He wrapped his arms around Tom instead, tucking his face under Tom’s chin.
Tom only let out a noise and held Harry.
Tom didn’t know how long they stayed in that position but he didn’t care. All he cared about was Harry, nothing and no one else, even himself.
He didn’t care about the extra welts and bruises that littered his arms and legs. He didn’t care about the bloody lip he sported, nor did he care about the ache in his bones. His mind only focused on the boy in his arms that had tears in his eyes, sniffling and burrowing his head in Tom’s chest.
It should have been Tom instead.
No. Tom shook his head. Harry would hit him for thinking that. Harry didn’t like him thinking he should take every single burden that was put on Harry but Tom couldn’t help it. It was his best friend he’s talking about, of course Tom would rather die ten times over than even hear the slightest chance that Harry was in danger.
Things that were his should never be hurt. Tom would rather burn the whole world into ashes than see Harry in pain.
June 14, 1936
Wool’s Orphanage, London, England
The scars on Tom’s back didn’t sting that painfully anymore, it was a dull pain that covered his whole back yet didn’t overcome his senses yet. Tom thanked the high heavens, no matter how ironic it sounded, that Harry didn’t have as much scars as Tom had. They were severe, yes, but it was a miracle that they were few and far between each other compared to Tom’s.
When they’d leave the orphanage, Tom would do anything in his power to have his and Harry’s scars treated.
“Are you alright now, Tom?” Harry asked, already at the windowsill of their room to fetch the already dried t-shirt from last night. “I can treat it again for you.”
Tom shook his head. It wasn’t necessary in the slightest. He can handle the pain, he already did so for how many years at this point. He appreciated the gesture, though. He’d be forever grateful for Harry.
“Are you sure?” Harry pressed and, once again, Tom shook his head. He walked over to where Harry was and gently pried the t-shirt from his best friend’s hands, making Harry pout at the silent dismissal.
Tom folded the shirt and put it on their desk as he said, “100 percent, Harry.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Absolutely, completely, fully, entirely, perfectly, whatever other word there is, sure,” Tom listed off, making Harry laugh as he did so. “I’m alright now. Promise.”
Harry held out his left pinky finger and Tom sighed at the silent demand before answering, “pinky promise.” He held out his left pinky finger too and Harry immediately latched onto it, a giddy smile full of triumph stretched across his face. Tom felt his mouth stretch to mirror Harry’s and internally wondered if Harry was always going to affect Tom this way.
Nonetheless, Tom didn’t care that much about it.
August 15, 1937
Wool’s Orphanage London, England
Tom burrowed his face into Harry’s curls and tried to even his own breathing. He licked his lips, tasting the metallic taste of blood on his tongue.
He hated the dull aching of his lip. The only thing it added up to was the skull splitting headache he had.
Harry’s sobs slowly turned into unlabored breaths and his sniffling turned into occasional sniffs to keep in the snot from dripping. Tom sighed in relief and tried to get some rest too but all it did was wake Tom even further despite his weariness. He moved his body a bit to fully lay down on his back and adjusted Harry’s hold on him too, careful not to wake his best friend.
Despite being in a more comfortable position, the prospect of Mrs. Cole barging in and taking Harry from him made Tom stiffen with unease and paranoia. The matron didn’t usually do that to any of the kids here, especially them. That woman was overbearing but she respected boundaries, for some odd reason.
Tom was thankful for that at least.
But even knowing that information, Tom didn’t relax in the slightest. The matron was unpredictable when drunk and Tom didn’t want to know the possibilities of her actions. She was too erratic, too spontaneous, for Tom to predict her.
Tom hated that fact since before Harry came into his life.
Tom laid in the cold, dead silence for a few more minutes, listening to Harry breathing on his chest, before he gently adjusted Harry’s arms around him and sat up. He reached for the glass of water that sat on the desk to the right of him and drank a few gulps. Tom didn’t even know he was thirsty in the first place; he was too wrapped around Harry’s wellbeing to even realize his own needs.
Tom blinked owlishly and tried to feel the exhaustion seep into him. It arrived in a slow wave that overcame him and drenched his bones with an ache that was all too familiar to Tom. It was the same feeling of reluctant restlessness plaguing his body, the same quiet ghost that came to haunt him at night after dealing with the matron.
The ache was a bit more bearable now that Harry was beside him. It didn’t solve Tom’s problems, it probably never will, but it soothed his nerves to know that his best friend was beside him, safe.
Tom rubbed his eyes and sank back into the comfortable warmth of his bed, into Harry’s arms again.
He’ll have to deal with their cuts and bruises tomorrow, but that wasn’t an immediate problem. Tom didn’t want to wake Harry, his best friend already suffered enough.
August 16, 1937
Wool’s Orphanage London, England
Harry groaned as he turned around the bed. Everything hurt. His bones were aching, his skin was practically on fire and Harry had to struggle and pull off the covers of the bed off of him. The bed was damp to the point that it was cold yet suffocating at the same time. His arms and legs were tingling something akin to pins and needles sticking him to the bed.
The room was quiet, only disturbed by Harry’s rustling and moving. It was so cold last night, what happened in the few hours Harry was out cold?
With slight difficulty, Harry managed to sit up and take off the sweaty shirt clinging to his skin like a soaked paper sticking to a concrete wall. He sighed in relief at the cold air the room gave him.
Harry’s shorts were damp too. He shuffled out of them and quickly went to the closet for a change of clothes. He pulled up the pants and buttoned it up before hastily grabbing a short-sleeved shirt and buttoning it up too. Harry only absently realized it was Tom’s shirt not his.
When Harry finally buttoned the last button of the shirt, Tom quickly scrambled in, a medical kit, water bottles, and a small plastic tub in hand. He looks both exhilarated and panicked.
Harry didn’t even notice Tom was absent from the room until now.
“Where were you?” Harry asked and silently sat down on the head of his own bed, near the pillow, at Tom’s silent request.
Tom set the medical kit down and opened it, getting a towel from their cabinet in the process. “I was in the storage room, getting this.” He gestured at the kit beside Harry and continued to soak the towel with some water. “I forgot to get it last night.”
“Oh.”
Tom squeezed the cloth and went back to Harry. He set the plastic tub and the bottles of water on the desk and took Harry’s cut littered arm. He let it sit on the edges of the tub and opened a water bottle, pouring the water on Harry's forearm and cleaned it with a damp towel.
Neither of them talked, they both knew the conversation they were going to have.
Tom went back to the medical kit and took out some items. Antiseptic, rolled gauze, gauze pads, scissors, and medical tape. He walked back to Harry and moved the plastic tub, setting Harry’s arm on a clean shirt Harry didn’t notice was there on the table and started treating Harry’s cuts and wounds with the antiseptic.
He dressed Harry’s wound with gauze and wrapped it in a few areas on Harry’s arm before taping it off with the medical tape.
Tom did that again a few more times, for Harry’s other arm, his face, and both of his legs.
Tom stood up from his place in front of Harry’s legs, snipping the tape from the now wrapped gauze. “Are you alright now?”
Harry only nodded, twisting his arms and dangling his feet from the edge of his bed to test the gauze wrapped on his body. “I’m alright.” Harry’s nose crinkled in confusion at Tom’s gauze free arms and legs. Why didn’t he treat his wounds first? Harry could have waited until Tom finished treating him to treat his own. Harry wasn’t a baby to be taken care of. Most especially Tom, who was in practically the same state as Harry, maybe even worse. “Why didn’t you treat your wounds first?”
“Yours were more severe compared to mine,” Tom claimed but they both knew that was a lie. They didn’t lie to each other most of the time, and if they did, it was mostly about things like that. “And you looked in worse shape than me when I woke up.”
“Lies,” Harry immediately said, standing up from his bed and dragging Tom to sit there instead. He copied Tom’s actions from before and cleaned Tom’s wounds before he dabbed the wounds with a bit of antiseptic and wrapped it in gauze.
Harry did that again with the rest of Tom’s body.
“Did I do a good job?” Harry asked. “Or are you not satisfied yet, my liege?”
Tom huffed and adjusted a bit of the gauze but didn’t do anything else. Harry smiled. Success.
An incessant bell ran through the orphanage, signaling the lunch period.
“We have to change,” Tom said suddenly, surprising Harry, and walked towards their closet. He grabbed a long-sleeved shirt and removed the short-sleeved one he was wearing. “Mrs. Cole was drunk last night and probably didn’t remember what happened. We can’t give her any ideas.”
Nodding, Harry stood beside Tom and changed the short-sleeved shirt he was wearing into a similar long-sleeved shirt.
The bell rang again and both boys sighed.
When they entered the dining room, Mrs. Cole was nursing a mug, probably Seidlitz powder as its content.
Tom didn’t care what the matron looked like. If Tom knew she suffered through the hangovers like they did when she was drunk, that was enough for him. If Harry being happy wasn’t on top of the list that made him happy, the matron suffering through hangovers would surely be on the top of that list with no doubt.
They sat down near the end of the table, far from Billy Stubbs and his cronies. They laughed and snorted like pigs, food flying everywhere and landing on some poor kids that decided to sit near them.
Pity.
Harry took two pieces of toast from the plate in front of them and gave one to Tom. Tom whispered a quick thank you before he spread his own with chipped beef while Harry didn’t spread anything with his.
Tom, during the whole meal, would glance at the matron while he ate. It was mostly to check if the woman realized what she had done last night rather than to check if she was still suffering but Tom still enjoyed the frequent temple rubs of her hangover.
Fucking hag.
When the matron dismissed them, Harry quickly dragged Tom upstairs to their room and got his satchel full of sketching supplies. It was clear Harry didn’t want to talk about what happened last night, that he’d rather sketch his problems away than talk about it.
Tom didn’t mind. Harry would talk about it either way, either when they get back, during their time at the park, or tomorrow, when Harry’s nightmares come and bite him in the back.
As long as Harry was alright now, Tom didn’t have any problems. He’d deal with the upcoming problems when they arrive.
When Harry finished getting ready, he sent Tom an anticipating look, Tom’s ratty cardigan in his hands for him to take, and Tom could only sigh in response. He took the cardigan from Harry’s hands and slipped it on before he took a random book from under the bed. He also got a sweater and stuffed it in the messenger bag Harry got for him a few years ago.
“I hate you, you know,” Tom said, lacing his and Harry’s outstretched hand. “I hate you more than Billy Stubbs.”
Harry only grinned at his best friend. “You love me more than you love my sketches, Tom,” Harry claimed and led them out of their bedroom to the building’s hallway.
Tom rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”
Harry only grinned even more.
The weather was a bit cold when they exited the orphanage’s building. The wind ruffled through the boys’ clothes and Harry suppressed a shiver. He was thankful that Tom suggested changing clothes, even if it wasn’t for the weather.
Tom, feeling Harry’s shivers, gripped his hand tighter and led them to the park.
The wind swept through the air again and whipped through their hair, making Harry shudder again. Harry knew he was the reason why both of them were outside and not in the safety of their room but he didn’t care. He couldn’t bear to think that Billy Stubbs and the matron were in the immediate vicinity of them, he’d rather run from them around London than be trapped in the orphanage.
Harry gripped the strap of his satchel harder when Tom stopped walking and turned to face Harry.
Tom let go of Harry’s hand and unclasped the lock on his messenger bag. He took out a grey sweater from the bag and gave it to Harry, who tentatively accepted it. What was Tom doing?
Harry’s best friend clasped the lock of the bag and took the sweater and Harry’s satchel from his person. Harry stood there awkwardly as Tom slung his satchel on his other shoulder and pulled the sweater over Harry’s head. As soon as Harry’s hands reappeared from the sleeves of the sweater, he adjusted Harry’s shirt, sleeves and collar before giving him back his own satchel.
“What was that for?” Harry questioned. He tugged the sleeves of the sweater down to the tips of his fingers, thankful that Tom got his sweater instead of Harry’s. Harry didn’t want to feel the disappointment he knew he’d feel when he realized that the sleeves couldn’t reach his fingers.
“You kept shivering,” Tom simply said, shrugging and taking Harry’s hand back in own. Harry smiled at the gesture and gripped it tighter. “I told you that you should’ve brought a sweater with you.”
“You did not!” Harry laughed. He walked a bit faster to catch up with Tom before he matched his best friend’s pace. “You literally didn’t say anything and just got your things.”
“It was implied.”
“Was not!”
“Were too.”
“But still.” Harry heavily leaned into Tom’s side, hands still connected, and said, “thank you.”
Tom huffed and looked in the other direction, away from Harry’s gaze, cheeks and tips of his ears reddening. Harry figured it was because of the cold. “Just remember to bring one next time,” he muttered before walking faster, making Harry struggle to catch up with him, even with their linked hands.
Harry laughed but he didn’t mind Tom’s words. He loved Tom when he acted like that. “Alright.”
They sat down on the same grassy hill they always sat on and Harry got out his sketchbook while Tom took out the book he blindly chose from his bag.
It was a coming-of-age novel Tom didn’t get around to read yet, Little Women. It was an interesting story so far, far more interesting than the other books Tom read before. It changes the way he thought when he read it, it was nothing like the male protagonist stories he read, hence why Tom liked it.
He was still in chapter 11, ‘Experiments.’
As he turned the page of the book, Tom remembered why he didn’t finish the book. As always, Harry was the reason why. More specifically his sketching.
His best friend, on this very spot, a few months ago, distracted Tom from his reading. He was sketching a sunnier version of the park in front of them before his mind started wandering and Tom just had to point that fact out. And because of the worry he held for Harry, Tom fell into the trap and listened to Harry’s rambles, said boy being oblivious that he was distracting Tom at all.
The problem was Tom couldn’t call it distracting when it was with Harry, merely more like changing his attention to something- someone- else. It was always so different with Harry. When it’s with Harry, Tom lets the things he usually holds grudges against go.
When it’s Harry, everything just feels different. Tom wanted to know why but it was low on the list of priorities.
The wind slowly calmed down but it still rushed through Tom’s clothes and made Tom let out a shuddering breath.
Tom looked to his right, where Harry was. His best friend’s face was practically tucked into his sketchbook. He occasionally muttered the parts he was sketching but other than that, stayed quiet. Tom observed Harry a bit more before his gaze turned back to the view in front of them.
Tom sighed and paid attention to the words in the book. He shouldn’t worry about Harry that much; he’d turn old just thinking about the stuff Harry got themselves into.
Tom blinked as he slowly pulled himself out of his mind. Harry peered at him expectantly when Tom met his eyes, sketchbook pressed into his chest.
Tom sent him an inquisitive look but only got a head shake in response. He slipped the random piece of paper between the pages before he closed his book and gave Harry his full attention. Harry grinned, always the contagious one, at the gesture and Tom’s lips slowly quirked to mirror the other boy in front of him.
Harry leaned back again against the trunk of the tree behind them and handed Tom the sketchbook, slight apprehension clear in his actions.
Tom’s left eyebrow raised in question at Harry’s behavior but didn’t say any more about it. Instead, he took the sketchbook from Harry’s hands and opened it. He thumbed the only sketches he passed before he came across the page Harry wanted to show him.
Tom smiled.
It was a sketch of himself. It was still fresh so he was careful not to ruin it. His features were almost perfect, save for a few elements he knew Harry hadn't mastered yet. Nonetheless, he enjoyed every single sketch Harry showed him, especially of himself. They always showed something Tom hadn't seen in himself at all, there was always something that stood out but at the same time didn’t. It both fascinated and scared Tom at the same time, how Harry’s vision of the real world was fuzzy but when it came to his masterpieces, Harry was sharp and attentive to the smallest of details.
Tom thought that described Harry perfectly.
Tom glanced up to see Harry staring at him. It was clear he was waiting on Tom’s opinion. “Do you like it?” He asked, and Tom could see Harry playing with the hem of the sweater he wore. Tom’s sweater.
Where did that thought come from?
Tom shook his head and smiled at Harry, only calming the boy slightly. Of course, Tom loved it. He loved every single thing Harry showed him, even if the things he showed Tom were things Tom despised. It didn’t despise him that much anymore, anything that made Harry laugh or even smile was tolerated by Tom.
“I love it,” Tom said and Harry let out a shaky breath. He leaned his head against Tom’s shoulder as he watched Tom stare at the details again. “Your attention to detail is amazing as always, Harry.”
Harry huffed and adjusted his head against Tom’s shoulder. “It’s not,” Harry claimed and pointed to parts of the drawing. The hair, the clothes wrinkles, and the nose. “I’m not happy with those. They look off to me.”
Tom let out a laugh and Harry pouted at the reaction. It made Tom laugh more.
“I promise they aren’t as bad as you think it is,” Tom said. He pointed to his sketch self’s hair. “The hair looks like it’s been annoyed by the wind-” Tom pointed to the nose. “If you make my eyes squint a bit, it’ll look like I’m frustrated about something instead of it being unnatural-” Finally, Tom pointed to the clothes' wrinkles. “Only some parts look awkward. Small, very miniscule parts of it look off. The rest of it looks as good as it always does when you sketch it.”
Harry still continued to pout.
Tom sighed and turned to face Harry. He squished Harry’s cheeks and leaned in, making Harry whine at Tom’s actions. Tom didn’t care. He had a point to make to Harry
“You should stop rejecting my compliments and just accept them. It isn’t the end of the world if it doesn’t come out in the way you wanted it to.”
“M’not rejecting it though,” Harry said, speech slightly muffled because of Tom’s hands on his cheeks. “M’jusht saying.”
“Good.” Tom let go of Harry’s cheeks and Harry pouted as he rubbed them. Tom handed the sketchbook back to Harry as Harry adjusted his position to sit neared to Tom. Tom smiled at the gesture.
Tom rested his head on Harry’s when Harry laid it on Tom’s shoulder, almost the exact position as they stayed in before Tom squished Harry’s cheeks. Tom heard Harry sigh as he opened his sketchbook again. Tom only shook his head and continued reading the book.
He could stay in this position for hours with Harry and he won’t even notice time go by.
Harry sighed as he snuggled deeper into the bed. The exhaustion was seeping into him like water did to a towel. His eyes started to droop and the sweet escape of falling asleep enclosed him too like he was being coddled.
He heard Tom adjust his position on his own bed and Harry felt a pang of sympathy and regret for dampening up the bed with his sweat. Tom reassured him earlier that it wasn’t as damp as Harry thought it was but Harry still apologized profusely nonetheless. He saw the scrunched up face Tom did.
Tonight, it was surprisingly cold compared to the sweaty and suffocating day Harry woke up to.
The rain Harry expected just started to fall just as they rounded the corner of the orphanage’s street earlier and the downpour hasn’t stopped yet. The only thing Harry was thankful for was that his fear of storms subsided significantly now that he saw them.
Harry sighed as the darkness closed in on him.
Outside the bathroom, he pressed his ear against the door. He couldn’t hear anything. He very quietly pushed the door open.
Malfoy was standing with his back to the door, his hands clutching either side of the sink, his white-blond head bowed.
“Don’t,” crooned Moaning Myrtle’s voice from one of the cubicles. “Don’t… tell me what’s wrong… I can help you…”
“No one can help me,” said Malfoy. His whole body was shaking. “I can’t do it… I can’t… It won’t work… and unless I do it soon… he says he’ll kill me…” And Harry realized, with a shock so huge it seemed to root him to the spot, that Malfoy was crying— actually crying— tears streaming down his pale face into the grimy basin. Malfoy gasped and gulped and then, with a great shudder, looked up into the cracked mirror and saw Harry staring at him over his shoulder.
Malfoy wheeled around, drawing his wand. Instinctively, Harry pulled out his own. Malfoy’s hex missed Harry by inches, shattering the lamp on the wall beside him; Harry threw himself sideways, thought Levicorpus! and flicked his wand, but Malfoy blocked the jinx and raised his wand for another—
“No! No! Stop it!” squealed Moaning Myrtle, her voice echoing loudly around the tiled room. “Stop! STOP!”
There was a loud bang and the bin behind Harry exploded; Harry attempted a curse that backfired off the wall behind Malfoy’s ear and smashed the cistern beneath Moaning Myrtle, who screamed loudly; water poured everywhere and Harry slipped as Malfoy, his face contorted, cried, “Cruci —”
“SECTUMSEMPRA!” bellowed Harry from the floor, waving his wand wildly.
Blood spurted from Malfoy’s face and chest as though he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the waterlogged floor with a great splash, his wand falling from his limp right hand.
“No—” gasped Harry. Slipping and staggering, Harry got to his feet and plunged toward Malfoy, whose face was now shining scarlet, his white hands scrabbling at his blood-soaked chest. “No— I didn’t—”
Harry did not know what he was saying; he fell to his knees beside Malfoy, who was shaking uncontrollably in a pool of his own blood. Moaning Myrtle let out a deafening scream: “MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDER!”
The door banged open behind Harry and he looked up, terrified. Snape had burst into the room, his face livid. Pushing Harry roughly aside, he knelt over Malfoy, drew his wand, and traced it over the deep wounds Harry’s curse had made, muttering an incantation that sounded almost like song.
The flow of blood seemed to ease; Snape wiped the residue from Malfoy’s face and repeated his spell. Now the wounds seemed to be knitting.
Harry was still watching, horrified by what he had done and barely aware that he too was soaked in blood and water. He knew it was just a vision, nothing else. Moaning Myrtle was still sobbing and wailing overhead. When Snape had performed his counter-curse for the third time, he half-lifted Malfoy into a standing position.
“You need the hospital wing. There may be a certain amount of scarring, but if you take dittany immediately, we might avoid even that… Come…”
He supported Malfoy across the bathroom, turning at the door to say in a voice of cold fury, “And you, Potter… You wait here for me.”
It did not occur to Harry for a second to disobey. If he was in control of his vision’s body, he would’ve already ran outside. He stood up slowly, shaking, and looked down at the wet floor. There were bloodstains floating like crimson flowers across its surface. He could not even find it in himself to tell Moaning Myrtle to be quiet, as she continued to wail and sob with increasingly evident enjoyment.
Snape returned ten minutes later. Harry was still pissed at himself that his vision self didn’t move at all. He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
“Go,” he ordered Myrtle, and she swooped back into her toilet at once, leaving a ringing silence behind her.
“I didn’t mean it to happen,” said Harry at once. His voice echoed in the cold, watery bathroom. “I didn’t know what that spell did.”
But Snape ignored what Harry said. It made Harry’s blood boil. “Apparently I underestimated you, Potter,” he said quietly. “Who would have thought you knew such Dark Magic? Who taught you that spell?”
“I— read about it somewhere.”
“Where?”
“It was— a library book,” Harry invented wildly. “I can’t remember what it was call—”
“Liar,” said Snape. Harry’s throat went dry. He knew what Snape was going to do and he had never been able to prevent it…
The bathroom seemed to shimmer before his eyes; he struggled to block out all thought, but try as he might, a copy of Advanced Potion-Making swam hazily to the forefront of his mind.
The haze started to overcome Harry’s vision, rushing to fill his gaze of Snape with nothing but water. Harry staggered, absently realizing with surprise that he had control of the vision’s body, before a force knocked him forward.
Harry landed on his front, cold and wet concrete squishing his face.
Harry groaned and tried to regain his senses but immediately got grabbed by the collar and lifted up until Harry only saw the disgusting face of Paul Stevens. He blanched, realizing what happened when he got thrown against the wall, ears ringing.
He hated this. He oh so hated this. Where was Tom to save him now?
Harry was somewhere Tom couldn’t even manage to save.
“Another secret of the universe: Sometimes pain was like a storm that came out of nowhere. The clearest summer could end in a downpour. Could end in lightning and thunder.”
― Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe