He Is A Thief
Chapter Three: He Is A Thief
London, 1987
With a small amount of regret, Hermione returned James and the Giant Peach. She hadn't finished her read-through, but she didn't want to take any chances that the boy—Tom, she reminded herself, he'd said his name was Tom—might come back and snatch the book away again. Their last meeting gave her hope that they'd reached some kind of mutual understanding, and in a lot of ways she supposed they had, but she wasn't sure if that extended to the book. Tom had been very determined to have it, at first; of course, by the end he hadn't seemed to care either way, but it didn't hurt to be cautious. So she returned it.
Standing at the threshold of circulation, Hermione bit nervously at her bottom lip and wondered if his thievery would extend to any book she happened to have with her. She hated to leave the library empty-handed. Worrying her lip a little more vigorously, she watched as her parents ambled through the periodicals and thought hard. Surely, so long as she was careful, she need not stop reading the borrowed stories altogether.
Mind made up, Hermione wandered over to the familiar shelves of the fantasy section. She'd wiled away many an hour among these stacks. Like a second home, she felt comfortable here—the children's assistants had long stopped trying to redirect her attention and largely left her to her own devices now, only making the occasional suggestion. Her fingers slid from cover to cover, savoring their various textures as she looked for something new.
What she found was actually quite old. A rough, blue/green linen-bound book sat high upon the shelf, looking quite out of place as if someone had set it down in a hurry. The cover-art was nonexistent, save for the entwining cobras stamped around the title: The Magician. It looked a sinister read—like those gothic novels her mum had used to favour—and not at all something she'd enjoy, but the name of the book filled her with curiosity.
Hermione had met a magician, a strange boy who claimed he could control a range of mysterious powers. And if she herself had those same powers, that same magic, then it stood to reason she could learn to control it too. With practice, she could turn those impossible things that had so rarely happened into deliberate action—she could become a magician, like Tom. Perhaps even better than Tom, the competitive side of her whispered, if she worked hard.
With a surreptitious glance to be sure she was alone, Hermione began to focus on the book. It was well out of reach, but she lifted her hand up anyway. Her fingers trembled and she tried to recall how it had felt to levitate the rock. Energy spilled from her as she imagined a string tied between her and the novel; she jerked upon the string and the book came flying into her hands. She stared at it in delight—it had been so much easier this time, had taken much less effort—but she knew that practice made perfect.
She set the book upon a different shelf and called it to her at least a dozen times before attempting to perform the trick in reverse. Trying to put The Magician back where she'd found it was a lot more difficult; the novel wobbled sadly to and fro and she had a hard time getting it more than a few inches into the air before it simply came back to her. For all her previous success with the rock, she hadn't actually made it do any more than rise straight up for a few seconds. Guiding the movement of levitating objects away was proving a bit of a conundrum.
With a frustrated sigh, Hermione stopped her practicing. If only there were textbooks on this sort of thing! Perhaps Tom would be able to explain to her what she was doing wrong; she'd have to remember to ask him the next time they met.
After a quick peruse through the library, Hermione headed home with a fresh stack of books. She left The Magician behind, though—the card catalogue's description was indeed as dreadful as she'd imagined it would be.
London, 1935
Tom watched Billy Stubbs crumple to the floor and heave out great, ugly sobs. It took a lot of self-restraint to keep the pleasure he felt at the sight from showing on his face.
Wool's Orphanage was a desolate place, but for all that it had always been tidy. This was due, in large part, to the fact that there were no pets within the building. There were no rules against animals, per se—Mrs. Cole was willing to tolerate their presence so long as the child that wished to keep them proved responsible enough—but most of the children had learned not to invite them in. To care was folly; you could not fear losing something if you'd never had it in the first place. To love something, to hope that you could possess it always, was a weakness that the stronger children would unerringly exploit.
Amy Benson had tried to explain this to Billy Stubbs when he'd come in off the streets, soot-stained and trembling, still clearly traumatized by the sudden death of his family. He had not heeded her words though, clinging all the tighter to his little white rabbit—the last remnant of the happy life he'd previously led. In all other ways, Billy had adapted to life at the orphanage—learned to curse and spit and bruise his knuckles like the gang of boys he'd fallen into—but he guarded that rabbit jealously as if it might be able to transport him back to a time when his life had been simpler. The others had tittered at this foible and said he'd come around soon enough, but it was coming on four weeks now and the idiot's feelings had only grown stronger. So Tom had taken it upon himself to drive the lesson home.
The wailing drew a crowd, a sea of bright eyes taking in the swaying mop of fur that hung from the rafters and the grieving boy below. Some eyes were merely curious, others full of pity; many were simply resigned—word had gotten around about the scuff out in the play-yard, and everyone knew you didn't cross Riddle, particularly not if you had anything left to lose.
"What's going on?" Mrs. Cole demanded a bare minute later, no doubt drawn in by the terrible racket that Stubbs was making. No one answered, but then no one needed to for the Matron had quickly caught on. A gasp escaped her at the macabre spectacle. Stubbs' rabbit, that precocious ball of fluff which had unerringly sustained the boy through these trying weeks, was dead—hung from the ceiling, some ten or twelve feet up where no child could have reached.
Tom felt a little thrill go through him when Mrs. Cole's eyes met his. She clearly suspected him, and yet there was confusion there. How could he have done it, and when, without being caught? There were no other suspects, but the woman's limited understanding of the world offered her no tangible evidence that he was indeed guilty—and Mrs. Cole was many things, but clinically unjust was not one of them. Without proof, she would never dare to punish him. He had effectively rendered her powerless.
He pondered abstractly that her fear of him was seemingly in complete inverse to his age. Not even the teens gave her as much trouble as him—though, to be fair, there weren't many teens left at the orphanage. Few lingered long enough to age out. Most children jumped ship as soon as they could, usually by fourteen or fifteen, finding jobs that could take them away from Wool's loving embrace. No sense in old dogs sticking around when the punters only ever wanted puppies.
Tom took one last look at Stubbs' face. The blond was inconsolable in his grief, his features tearstained and twisted, a perfect mask of pain. He sobbed as if the world had ended, and Tom soaked in his cries like a cruel god at the most ancient of altars. Once he was sure that he'd seen the best of Stubbs' anguish, Tom slipped from the crowd and headed outside. It would look guilty, he knew, but he didn't care. He was guilty and no one could prove it.
The streets of London welcomed him with open arms—one more body added to the crush. He could go anywhere he liked, do anything he liked so long as he returned to Wool's before dark. Usually he wandered for the mere sake of it, learning the streets and the sights in an ever expanding map of familiarity. Today, however, he had a goal; fresh off his success with beating down Stubbs, he felt invincible. It was a good day to experiment.
The book had been able to travel through time with him, both backward and forward, but not Hermione. Was he restricted simply to inanimate objects? He burned to know the limits of this power so that he could figure out how to push and expand it.
With practiced ease, his fingers slipped into the pockets around him. London was hurting—the whole world was hurting—from the economic depression, but it had made pockets inversely full. Money was hardly worth a damn anymore since no one had it; people were back to bartering, carrying around their few precious items of worth in hopes of trading them for food of specified, if ignoble, origin. Watch fobs and pretty hair combs were fast becoming a new sort of currency, and Tom found himself with a handful of each by the time he reached his destination.
His harbor was an old fountain, sequestered and forgotten. Somehow, the city had grown around it until the fountain had ended up in a dingy old back alley—the building to its side had probably once been an avenue, but now it blocked the little stone structure in. No one ever visited the sad basin, no one seemed to even know it was there, and Tom had found that it was a handy place to go if he ever wanted to be truly alone.
As he settled upon the lip of the pool, Tom made some quick judgements. He estimated that his pockets were burdened with about twice the weight of Hermione's book and he'd managed to snatch a mouse on the way over. If the trinkets didn't come through it was perhaps a problem of weight or volume; if the mouse didn't come then it was more likely that the problem had something to do with living creatures. He wasn't quite sure what it would mean if nothing came through with him, except that maybe the book had been somehow special.
Tom held the mouse in one long-fingered hand and took a deep breath, clearing his thoughts. He focused intently on Hermione, rather than nebulous ideas of the future, and drew purposefully upon his magic. The pressure at his temple built and subsequently snapped almost instantly—no week-long struggle to grasp at it, so either he was getting better at this or it helped to have a specific person to think upon. But unlike before he was greeted by a momentary darkness, a stretching void that unsettled him greatly.
London, 1987
Hermione snuggled into her pillows, wiggling and burrowing into their warmth as she read a copy of The Witches.
It was a dreary Saturday; a cold rain had been pounding at the windows since before dawn, putting a stop to any ideas of going outside to play. With her homework already finished and revised and nothing much else to do, Hermione had given in to the inevitable. Not that she minded, a gloomy backdrop always put her in the mood to read. She was halfway through the novel before a familiar crack startled her.
Tom stood next to her window looking shaken, his dark eyes wide for a moment until he regained his composure. He glanced to one of his hands—pale digits closed loosely around air—and frowned in disappointment.
"Did you lose something?" She asked curiously.
He patted at his bulging pockets and hummed noncommittally, but didn't actually answer. Instead, he took in his environment.
Hermione wondered what her room looked like through his eyes. It wasn't very large, she knew, but it was well appointed. She had a bed, chifferobe, nightstand, desk, and bookshelves—all painted white with brief accents of more vibrant colors. There weren't many toys, but she'd never found much use in idle playthings. Other girls her age had dollhouses and little chests stuffed with frilly costumes to play pretend in. Though she had an active imagination, she'd never liked those sort of things and her parents respected that; they bought her books and puzzles and quiz games instead. Hermione had never once felt bad about her inclination toward the practical and yet, all the same, she found herself worried about Tom's opinion. Would he think her strange? Would he find it distasteful that she wasn't more like 'proper' girls?
But Tom seemed merely curious as he ran his fingers over her clock and the line of blue faeries stenciled into her windowsill. He prodded experimentally at her radio, fascinated by the collapsible antenna and the set-in dials. "We aren't at the schoolyard," he noted softly, speaking at last.
Hermione raised a brow at this. Had he assumed she lived at the school? Why would she be there on a weekend? "It's Saturday, silly."
He nodded carefully, as if filing this information away although she didn't understand why the day of the week should be so important to him. After another quiet moment of fiddling, he finally looked up, eyes briefly drawn to The Witches. Nervously she shoved the book under a pillow, but he only rolled his eyes at the obvious move. Instead of commenting, he gestured around and asked, "Is this your room?"
Another strange question but, after all, he was a strange boy, so she indulged him. "Well, where else would it be?"
Tom drifted from the window, eyeing her fluffy duvet for a moment before he settled at the foot of her bed. "Since we met both times at your school, I thought perhaps it was the location that was significant," he explained. "Then again, I tried very specifically to find you this time, rather than just travel in general."
Hermione felt her heart speed up with excitement. She'd been bursting to talk about magic to someone—anyone—but she'd held her tongue and swallowed the impulse. Somehow, she got the feeling that no one would believe her except for Tom. But now he was here and talking about the fascinating way he moved about.
"Where is it that you come from?" The question spilled from her lips before she could stop herself because, in truth, the boy was just as mysterious as the magic they seemed to share.
He looked out the rain-speckled window and shrugged. "London."
"Oh." She deflated a little, having to remind herself that it was still impressive he'd traveled by magic at all. "Well, you're still in London. Are you from the Boys' Home?"
Tom frowned in confusion and turned back to her, dark eyes pinning her down like a butterfly. "What?"
"Dillant's Home For Wayward Boys?" Hermione gestured vaguely, suddenly sorry she'd brought it up at all. "It's a couple of streets over, and you said you didn't know your parents so I thought—"
"No," he cut her off, frown disappearing. Thankfully, he didn't seem quite so touchy about the subject as he had before. "I'm from a place called Wool's, down by the East side."
She pondered that news for a moment. "Never heard of it, but the East side's quite far." Then, unable to help herself, "Can you travel to places outside the city?"
"Yes, I rather think I could eventually, but this trick is still quite new to me, Hermione," he replied. "So far, it's only brought me to you."
"How curious! Do you think it's because I'm magic as well?"
"Could be," he shrugged easily. However, in the space of a heartbeat, he stiffened once more and added in a stilted voice, "Although, it seemed… more difficult to find you this time. Almost as if you were further away. Perhaps, if I had something of yours to focus on—"
Hermione had an idea where this was going so she immediately told him, "I've already returned the book, so there's no point in asking."
But Tom shook his head and moved closer. "I don't think it has to be the book," he admitted, licking his lips. "Anything, really, so long as it's yours."
She wasn't sure how to process that thought. On the one hand, it did make a certain sort of sense—having something to focus on, a starting point of some fashion, seemed practical. On the other hand, there was no reason to believe it was true no matter how logical it sounded. Still… she wanted Tom to keep visiting and, on the off chance that something of hers might make that journey easier, she was happy to help.
Mind made up, Hermione slipped off the bed and began examining her shelves. What sort of thing would work best? She was loathe to give him a book, selfish as that sounded, and she didn't think he'd be terribly enthusiastic if she tried to hand him a stuffed animal. Her eyes finally landed on a white lace kerchief—she used it sometimes when it was windy out in a sorry attempt to keep her hair from tangling up any further.
Snagging the scrap of fabric, she held it out to him and asked, "How about this?"
Tom eyed it critically, as if debating something. After a long pause, he cocked his head to the side and returned, "Have you used it often?"
"Does that matter?" It belatedly occurred to her that the kerchief was one of the very few distinctly girly things in her room. No boy would have willingly taken it.
"I don't know," he replied, and he seemed to have trouble getting those simple words out, "but it might help to have something that's been exposed to your magic."
Hermione frowned at that. She didn't think she'd even known about magic—let alone practiced it—long enough for anything to have truly been exposed to her. She thought hard about her last meeting with the boy, about her explorations in the library. Had she worn any of the same clothes? A pair of socks maybe, or…? An idea flashed through her mind and she quickly began rolling up her sleeve. Her bracelet! How had she not thought of that first? She'd worn the thing everyday since she'd got it.
Taking the bracelet off quickly, she handed it over to him with a quiet, "Here." It was not an intricate creation by any means—a string of bright glass beads that she usually had to loop around her wrist twice. "I won this at a funfair," she explained. "It's not worth anything, but I've always liked it."
Tom did not hesitate this time. He took the bracelet immediately, running the smooth beads through his fingers before he looped it around his wrist. The innocuous piece of jewelry looked even brighter on him, presented as it was on the backdrop of his grey uniform. When he finally looked up, his eyes glinted with an emotion that she couldn't quite interpret.
The glass baubles fairly burned against Tom's skin. He was awash in a riot of envy and covetous desire. Hermione's world was richly textured; her room was cozy, a bastion of light and warmth that kept the bitter rains at bay. It was a sharp contrast to his own room, a barren and sterile cell that he spent as much time out of as possible. God, how he wanted this place, wanted this life! It was cruel that he knew he couldn't stay, that eventually he would find himself in his own time.
One day, he vowed, I will live in this sort of luxury.
He shook the thoughts away and returned to the matter at hand. Though he hadn't cared for its results, his experiment had been successful; something about his power made it impossible to carry other living creatures through time with him. He'd also found out that there was something very specific about Hermione that seemed to guide his movements—perhaps, as she'd suggested, it was because she too was magic.
Either way, he knew now that he could not bring her with him but could continue to visit her. It wasn't nearly as convenient as having her at Wool's, but it was still something. And he thought, maybe, that the traveling was getting easier, but he wanted to avoid the blankness at all costs. The abyssal nothingness had lasted only a brief second, but he hadn't liked it and it made him nervous. What if Hermione continued to move further and further away? Would there come a point when he would no longer be able to access her? The thought was unacceptable.
Tom dug through his pockets, fingering an especially unique hair comb before he abandoned it in favour of a watch fob. "Here," he motioned for her to hold out her arm, carefully winding the fob around her delicate wrist. It took a moment of fiddling with the latch hooks, but he finally managed to secure it in place, and he sat back to admire his handiwork. The double-stranded, beveled links of silver had likely once been part of a lady's ensemble, and stood out sharply around Hermione's wrist. "I don't know if it'll come back through with me though, so don't get too attached," he warned her. "If it stays, I figure it might act like a beacon. Something of yours to get me through and something of mine to guide me."
The girl was struck momentarily speechless, he realized with a bit of pride. As well she should be, seeing as he never shared anything. When she did speak, her voice was quiet and low, "Why wouldn't it stay?"
"I get pulled back," he shrugged, trying to find the right words without telling her point blank that he was from the past, "I think because I belong there. Your book stayed with me though, so things of yours can come and stay, but I don't know if things of mine can. It might get pulled back with me when I go."
Hermione nodded absently, running curious fingers over the makeshift bracelet. The heavy chain was probably worth something—the fine filigree and careful etching fairly screamed that it had been someone's family heirloom—but it was more useful around her wrist than in his pocket. Back home it would fetch him little more than a mouthful of bread, whereas here it could at least establish some connection between him and the girl.
She seemed briefly flustered that the bracelet she'd given him was not of equal quality, but then she didn't quite understand what it was he valued. The monetary worth of the bracelet didn't interest him—his London would only be impressed by a handful of pure gold, so what did it matter how much something actually cost?—it was the idea of it that mattered most. She'd given it to him, this little treasure that she'd won with skill and cunning; she'd relinquished it to his keeping. Now he'd done the same for her, given up a trinket of his own; he could think of no better way to tie them together. And it was a thrill to see the twin ropes of silver flash upon her arm, to know that in some small way he was affecting the future—almost as much of a thrill as seeing her beads at his own wrist and knowing he was carrying at least some part of Hermione back with him.