He Is Reconsidering
Chapter Five: He is Reconsidering
London, 1935
Tom raged for days. Not even the fact the Billy Stubbs was too terrified to do so much as look him in the eyes improved his mood. His thoughts fairly screamed in outrage. He kept going over the event in his head and the more he reviewed the scenario, the angrier he got.
Hermione had moved toward him initially, a clear sign that she had wanted his protection. He'd done nothing wrong, merely complied with her wishes! And yet she had acted horrified, had moved away from him in the end. Tom couldn't wrap his mind around the whys of it. Why had she reacted like that? Why had she not wanted to see the suffering of her tormentor? Why had she sided against him? Had he earned no loyalty from her whatsoever?
The idea that he might have had more invested in their relationship than her itched uncomfortably. Had she played him? Had she thought she was learning magic without having to pay anything in return? From her point of view it did seem like an uneven interaction in her favour, but she hadn't known that he was getting knowledge of future from her. And Hermione was clever—if she'd sensed that perceived power imbalance, it wasn't unreasonable to assume that she hadn't gotten attached to him at all. He'd merely been a means to an end for her. Not that Tom himself had really cared in return, but he'd still thought that there had been some kind of connection between them. How could she have chosen to stand beside that worthless bully rather than her comrade in arms?
He had wasted weeks of time teaching her parlour tricks when he could have been exploring the London of the future! The missed opportunity practically made him seethe. He had to find a way to reach the future without showing up anywhere near Hermione. It had to be possible; he refused to lose this precious gift to someone so undeserving of his attention.
Traveling through time had become marginally easier each successive instance that Tom had done it, though the void had continued to greet him seconds at a time in either direction no matter how much he concentrated on the bracelets. Still, the point was that it didn't take as much energy and it was getting easier and easier to focus his magic. Unfortunately, these improvements had hinged upon Hermione—thoughts of her had made it possible to direct himself to the future in a matter of moments as opposed to days. On the occasions where he'd tried to reach 1987 without focusing his thoughts on the girl, he'd only succeeded in frustrating himself and causing some sort of painful magical buildup.
The pattern held, much to his ire. He'd hope that having gained so much control over his new power might have made a difference, but it clearly hadn't. No matter how intently he focused, no matter how deeply he dove within himself, the magic simply wouldn't connect. He'd accidentally shattered four different windows, a dinner plate, and at least two of Mrs. Cole's hidden gin bottles, but those were the only results he'd produced. Well, that and the return of his blinding headache—it felt like the entire left side of his head was inflamed, his eye screwed shut more often than not as the intense shards of his own unexpelled magic lanced through him.
The obvious conclusion was that he'd failed to fully understand this power. Clearly time-travel was merely a side effect—it was in fact the girl that he was traveling to for some reason. But Tom refused to think of her. Why give her the satisfaction? He'd lingered near her far longer than he should have in the first place. This resolution did present him with a problem, though. If his time-traveling had only been incidental, then how was he meant to replicate it?
As the season turned wet and cold and the trees finally lost the last of their foliage, Tom was forced to set the issue aside. He'd started noticing a slight thrumming in virtually every room he walked into and he'd nearly immobilized himself with the pain of his repeated failures. It was almost like a magical poisoning—he'd pulled so much of his power to the surface that it was beginning to make him ill.
And so, in the interest of recovering, he'd decided to to temporarily turn his attention elsewhere: fire that could not burn. The idea of having such control that he could change the very nature of something so elemental was fascinating to him. Intellectually, Tom understood fire—his science lessons provided a poor excuse for an education, but they were still enough for him to draw appropriate conclusions. Fire was an energy reaction. His magic could easily provide the catalyst to light a fire, but how to prevent it from burning?
He threw himself into experimentation, barely noticing as the autumn gave way to an early winter. By the time Christmas drew near—a barely observed holiday at the orphanage under the best of circumstances—he'd managed far more than he'd dared dream. Not only could he conjure a non-burning fire, he could turn the flames any colour he wished and was well on his way to creating a variation that would not extinguish without being purposefully banished. It was, perhaps, one of the greatest magical feats he'd achieved to date, time-travel aside. And yet… the sight of a bright purple flame dancing non-destructively through his room left him feeling empty. He had no one to share this new magic trick with—half the fun of that girl had been how impressed she always was with him.
After so staunchly refusing to think of her for so long, Tom found his thoughts lingering on Hermione. He… missed her, in some capacity. She was still the only person he'd ever met with the same gifts as himself. He missed being able to speak freely of magic, of being able to explore the concept with someone who was just as eager to find its boundaries as he was. It seemed a little silly, in retrospect, to completely cut her out of his life just because of a misstep. But what was to stop her from betraying him again, especially when he hadn't really figured out why she'd done it in the first place?
And then the reason finally struck him, and it was so simple that he could have laughed at himself for not realizing it sooner. For all her cleverness and aptitude for magic, Hermione was still a girl. Even the girls at the orphanage—hardened and bitter hags trapped in the bodies of young children—were gentler and more emotional than the boys. Hermione had done only what the instincts of her gender had asked her to, which meant she hadn't consciously betrayed him. She'd still been angry with him though, and that'd had nothing to do with her being a girl. Loathe though he was to admit it, he knew it was his own fault—he had been approaching Hermione in completely the wrong way.
Tom had known from a young age that certain people just had to be handled differently. Take Mrs. Cole, for example: she held a tenuous position of authority over him and though he could challenge that, it wouldn't gain him anything significant in the end to do so. In fact, if the Matron tipped over her delicate precipice of fear, she could make Tom's life marginally more difficult and certainly more painful. Their relationship was a constant balancing act, keeping her on the knife's edge of anxiety and fear, but never giving her so much of either that she felt the need to properly react.
He'd failed to balance his relationship with Hermione; he'd given her extremes of profit and pain without any plateaus between. She had to be compelled to want his presence, and that meant showing her a personality worth being around. Tom had never been obliged to charm someone, but really how hard could it be? Hermione was usually agreeable enough on her own, and she'd fairly glowed with pride on the rare occasion that he'd complimented her. A few extra kind words here and there, maybe a smile or two, and there was no reason to assume she wouldn't become attached. And once he had her by the nose, her wayward behavior could be corrected over time. She was shy of using her power, but he could build her up to it slowly, particularly if she didn't realize that's what he was doing.
But how to initially bridge this gap between them? He needed something to ingratiate himself, to make her want to invite him back into her life. A gift of some sort, perhaps? That didn't seem quite enough, though. He hated to manufacture pity, but he to admit that Hermione's heart was foolish enough to eclipse her reason in the face of such emotion. And nothing would induce more pity than an unsubtle reminder that he was a lonely orphan. A Christmas visit, perhaps—a time when the rest of the world was surrounded by luxury and joyful loved ones? She would likely be more forgiving in the spirit of the season. But no, he knew there was one day that might inspire more tender-hearted nonsense from her than Christmas. New Year's Eve—his birthday.
London, 1987
Hermione kept a constant eye out for Tom, but he didn't return and the days crawled by sluggishly without him. She still practiced her magic, of course, but it wasn't quite as exciting in his absence. The thrill of discovery paled when there was no one to share it with. She had become rather listless in response.
Her parents had asked several times if something was wrong and Hermione had thought long and hard about telling them everything. They were her family, after all, they deserved to know the truth. But, in the end, fear had stayed her tongue. What if they didn't believe her? What if she panicked and couldn't prove to them that she had magic? Or worse, what if they did believe her and were frightened of her unusual power? Would they send her away to be studied by doctors? Hermione loved her parents—above all, she considered them to be calm and rational people—and the idea that she might lose them, physically or emotionally, tied her stomach into ugly knots. She'd already lost Tom, she could not afford to be separated from her family as well!
Without her taciturn almost-friend, the holiday season was shaping up to be rather gloomy this year. The idea of being proactive had struck her at one point; she need not wait on him, after all. To be honest though, she wasn't sure what they would say to each other after such a fight. But she refused to think on it. One problem at a time; first, she had to locate him. Tom had said he lived in London, so perhaps she might be able to find him; it would be easier than searching the whole of England, anyway. But, unfortunately, London was still a big city, and she wasn't sure if Wool's was the name of a district, street, or building. Her search had dead-ended almost immediately since there wasn't much else to go on—aside from his name, of course, but Tom Davies was far too common a name be at all helpful in locating him.
She was bitterly disappointed at this turn of events, her already black mood souring further. It wasn't fair that he controlled when they met! Hermione had tried to ask him about how he traveled, but each time he'd waved her off with a vague excuse—I'm still experimenting, it's too soon, you're not ready, learn the small stuff first—and eventually she'd stopped inquiring. Now, she was completely at the mercy of his whims, and it wasn't at all pleasant. If Tom ever came back, they would have to figure out a way of communicating over distances; she needed a way to contact him until he finally taught her how to travel. Hermione was momentarily surprised that they hadn't thought to exchanged telephone numbers—it would be such an easy solution—but then realized that, as an orphan, he might not have access to a telephone.
Christmas came and went with its usual fanfare—a whirlwind of gatherings and parties that had her setting aside her tumultuous thoughts in favour of celebration. However, all too soon, the joy faded. With Christmas behind her, the winter stretched before Hermione like an endless sea. She wasn't even looking forward to the start of the new term as her classmates had become meaner than ever. True to his word, Andy had not told anyone what he'd witnessed Tom and Hermione do that fateful afternoon, but he'd taken to calling her a witch whenever they crossed paths. The new nickname had spread through the school like wildfire. Secretly, she thought that this was better than being compared to a beaver, but the spirit of their teasing was still hurtful. Tom had briefly provided her with a safe bastion away from the cruelty of her peers, but she had little hope that he would reappear before the new term began.
Which was probably why she was so delightfully surprised on New Year's Eve.
Her parents had gone out to a party, leaving her behind. Hermione didn't usually mind the lackadaisical teen they hired to look after her, but she'd been quite morose all day and had decided to go to bed early.
Her bedroom was barely lit, the small bedside lamp washing a tiny corner of the room in a pool of light. But there he was in that pool, sitting on her bed as if he hadn't a care in the world. Tom had not changed at all in the intervening months—his dark hair was still neatly cut to accentuate his even darker eyes, and he was still wearing the drab grey uniform that made him look unearthly pale. He was attempting to read in the minimal light, and it made her wonder if he'd been there for quite some time.
Excited, Hermione carefully shut her door and fairly bounced over to her bed, climbing up beside him. "You're back!"
Tom marked his page and slipped the book into a pocket. When he finally looked up to her, she couldn't quite read his expression—it seemed somewhere between apathetic and contrite. With a nonchalant shrug, he replied, "I try to stay away from the orphanage on my birthday."
"Oh," the little exclamation fell automatically from her lips as she processed the thought. He'd wanted to escape his orphanage, to find a familiar and friendly face on a day when no child should ever have to be alone. He had missed her, and that loneliness had driven him to seek her out! "Today's your—"
He cut her off, voice lilting enticingly, "I have something for you."
Hermione frowned bemusedly. "People don't usually give gifts on their own birthday, you know."
"Well," he drawled, a rare smile curling his lip invitingly as he shimmied to the floor, "I missed Christmas." From beneath the bed he produced a glass jar. It was narrow and tall, with a heavy lid that was clamped down tight by a metal buckle. What was really extraordinary though, was the little blue flame dancing inside it. "So here."
She took the jar hesitatingly, studying the curious wonder within. There was no way for the flame to breathe in that enclosed space, yet it burned bright, throwing an azure glow across her bedspread. Although, perhaps, burn was not the right word to use—the jar was no warmer than her own hands were making it. "Amazing!"
Tom's smile widened at the praise and he explained, "It's cold to the touch, it won't burn anything, and I don't think it can go out on its own." He climbed back onto the bed, sitting opposite her as he eagerly took in her expression. "It's been going for nearly a fortnight already."
Hermione looked up and studied him in turn. He was different, somehow. Before, he had always given off the impression of silent misery or ruthless disdain, but tonight he seemed… pleasant, happy even. She couldn't help but wonder what had caused this change in behavior. But, as her eyes were drawn back to the caged fire, she thought that it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He was back and sharing magical discoveries once more, that was really all that mattered. "You figured this out yourself?"
He cocked his head, smile nearly splitting his face, and murmured, "I'll show you how if you apologize."
Unlike levitation, she had not been able to replicate fire on her own no matter how hard she'd tried. His offer was tempting, but one thing nagged at her. "Apologize for what?" She hadn't done anything wrong.
His expression became guarded, lips turning down slightly as his dark eyes bored into her consideringly. Voice soft, he finally replied, "For not letting me help." And he sounded hurt about that, as if she'd refused some wonderful gift. But what other option had she been given? His violence had been terrifying.
"What you did wasn't helping, Tom," she said as gently as possible, wanting to heal this wound between them rather than reopen it. "You were using an unfair advantage. Besides, are you sorry?"
Tom frowned at that. "Should I be?"
His staunch refusal to take proper responsibility was frustrating. And yet… in light of all his other social inconsistencies, it made sense. She was beginning to see a clear pattern. He had isolated himself so deeply that he'd never learned how to properly behave. "People are supposed to care about those sort of things," Hermione offered dismally. This was a huge block between them. They were so close to being friends, but if they couldn't find a way to navigate through these rough waters then there was no point in reconciling. "You don't think twice about inflicting pain, and that isn't right."
"Look," he sighed, running a frustrated hand through his hair, "it's different where I'm from. My whole life I've been taught over and over that you must strike quick and hard. There's a hierarchy at the orphanage, and if you don't hit first you'll end up under someone's thumb." His black eyes glittered, begging her to understand. "Your life is softer Hermione, but the principle is still the same."
She had never asked what his life at the orphanage was like. A part of her simply hadn't wanted to know, and his own silence on the matter was answer enough. Tom did not lead a happy life, and the terse way he was now describing his home situation painted a grim picture. He acted as if the world was against him; perhaps that was how it always seemed. And Hermione couldn't find it within herself to really chastise him about that view—the sudden mental image of Tom fighting just to survive was sobering. "Defending yourself is a different matter," she allowed quietly, never so keenly aware how different their lives were. "But taking revenge… that wasn't right."
Tom's eyes popped open incredulously as he pointed out, "I was defending you! That boy shouldn't have teased you and he needed to know it."
"And that would be a very sweet gesture," Hermione nodded, biting her lip, "if it weren't for the fact that you might have really hurt him."
His shoulders slumped a bit, almost defeated, but intellectually it seemed as if Tom would not let the argument go. "How else would he get the message?"
"How can you care so little?" She snapped loudly. The distance between them was staggering, insurmountable. And in the back of her mind, she kept wondering if she was asking too much of him—her classmates certainly exhibited some of the same cruelty he possessed. Perhaps she simply cared too much.
Tom stilled at her outburst, but he didn't seem upset. He gave the question due consideration before replying. "There's been nothing to care about in my life. But Hermione," he reached out and grasped her hand, gently cradling her fingers like she might shatter if he gripped too tightly, "if you want me to be sorry I will be. I don't want you angry with me; you just have to understand that I'm not used to this."
Which, of course, she'd suspected. He didn't really seem the type to have any friends. However, he was reaching out to her—in his own way he was trying to fix what laid between them. That had to count for something, right? It wasn't even really his fault that he didn't understand how awful he'd been—his upbringing could not have been terribly informative on this matter. Yet she couldn't stop herself from asking, "Are you actually sorry though?"
"I won't lie to you, I feel worse for what was said than done," he replied baldly. "I'm not sorry for what I did; he deserved to be taught a lesson. But I am sorry that I snapped at you—I shouldn't have said that you didn't deserve your magic, that wasn't right." And he did seem genuinely apologetic that he'd hurt her feelings; she'd clearly come to mean something to him. Was that enough to set them back on track?
"Thank you," Hermione nodded, unable to quiet the little voice at the back of her mind, "but that isn't really what I want to hear, Tom. You have to learn to be more tolerant."
He seemed a little put out at her response, but he didn't give up. Lacing their fingers together, he explained, "We come from very different worlds, and I don't think I need to say more to justify my actions. He might not have raised a hand to you, but he still hurt you." Those hard black eyes that had so often been full of mockery suddenly softened, gazing at her sadly. "I don't understand why defending you against that was wrong. But for you, I will try."
"It's not defending me that I'm upset about, it's that you used magic on someone who couldn't have possibly protected himself against it," she told him, but her tone had lost some of its thunder. His words, though sparse, were unbearably sweet; he wanted her to like him and he was willing to change in order to ensure that she did. "I don't want to fight with you. If you promise to make an effort, then I'm sorry as well." Then, unable to stop herself, she blushed and offered him a shy smile, "No one's ever stood up for me before."
Tom seemed to like that idea, pride stealing over him ever so briefly. He quickly wiped the look away and gave her a cautious smile of his own. "Are we… back to normal?"
There was certainly a lot of work ahead of them, but she didn't think they were any worse off than they'd been before the fight. It was best to focus on the future now, so she rested her free hand on the jar and asked, "Will you teach me how you made that colored fire?"
His smile widened, satisfaction relaxing his tense posture. "Yes."
"Then I suppose we are," she nodded, beaming. "Happy birthday, by the way. How old are you turning?"
His joy dimmed slightly at the question—birthdays were apparently a sore subject with him—but he still answered, "Nine."
He was older than her now, and the occasion ought to be celebrated. He deserved a happy birthday as much as anyone else. "I wish I had a gift for you," Hermione fretted. "If I'd known… But then, I wasn't even sure you were ever coming back." She jumped off the bed, looking around the room for something that might suit.
But Tom quickly stopped her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Did you miss me while I was gone?" There was something strange about how he asked that question, but she couldn't place her finger on why. It was almost as if he'd purposefully threaded a shot of desperation into his voice to cover up a note of covetous desire.
Hermione cocked her head and frowned. "Of course, but—"
"No one's ever missed me before," he cut her off, "so that's probably the best present I've ever been given." And then he hugged her.
Tom had not exactly kept his distance over the course of their acquaintance—he'd often held her wrists or hands as they practiced magic—but he'd never been demonstrative. This was the first truly overt sign of friendship between them and it left Hermione feeling awed. The tough little orphan boy who had held himself so tightly aloof was opening up for her, inviting her into his life. And she wanted the chance to be there for him, to provide the stability he'd obviously lacked; he deserved that much at least.
She hugged him back for all she was worth.