He Is A Wizard
Chapter Seven: He Is A Wizard
The Seaside, 1937
Tom wanted to drag his feet across the beach, but it seemed a ridiculously petulant gesture. He had appearances to maintain among the other orphans after all, so he refrained. But he wanted to.
This whole trip was working his every last nerve, as these summer trips always did. In theory, they were an excellent idea—give everyone the opportunity to get out of London, get some fresh air. In practice, however, it was idiocy—dozens of angry, city-dwelling orphans crammed together and then released upon the foreign reality of the wilderness. It was a recipe for disaster. Tempers ran high on the best of days, adding in a new environment was akin to flicking matches at a powder-keg. Before the end of the day, there would be shouting and tears and probably a few injuries.
Had Hermione been there, Tom might have felt differently about the whole thing. The beach was fascinating in its own way—cold waters bursting with life, tide pools creating their own little worlds, a craggy cliffside waiting to be explored—they might have had a lot of fun together in a place like this. But she wasn't there, he reflected bitterly. Two years he'd known her, two years he'd been slipping in and out of the future and he still wasn't powerful enough to bring her with him. His ability to travel had gotten exponentially smoother and easier since his eight-year-old self had first done it, but in no other way had the nature of his power increased or changed. It rankled him, particularly since it felt overwhelmingly like failure. He clearly did not fully understand this power if he could not control it as he wished, and there was no way for him to further his control. Why could he not affect the girl when the girl was the whole reason he was traveling in the first place? Two years of passive observation and small experiments had yielded few useful results; in a situation like this he might have sought outside help, but there were no books to consult and no teachers to ask.
It was a strange endgame, if he really thought about it. Bringing Hermione to his time had the potential to backfire in a big way. The orphanage would be like hell for her, he had no doubt; not to mention that the life she might lead in her own time would be decidedly more exciting and liberated than what she would be treated to in the past. The 1930's and coming 40's could very well crush the spirit right out of her. He couldn't stop himself from wanting her there, though; the idea of having unimpeded access to her, of being able to fill every hour of every day with their magic made him feverish with the desire to secure that reality at any cost. It made him fume that he could not conceive of a way to achieve this goal—he was at a dead end for now.
Which meant his only course of action, as far as Hermione was concerned, was simply to visit as often as he could. And the fact that she had restrictions on her time only seemed to spite him further. He had to share her, and between school lessons and family obligations Tom rather felt that he'd drawn the short straw. She was on holiday right now—someplace exotic and interesting that he'd never be able to travel to on his own—and there was no way to get to her without drawing the unwanted attention of her parents. Tom couldn't help but resent the elder Grangers and how deeply they monopolized their daughter's time. They provided an excellent life for her—comfortable, secure, if a bit dull—and he knew he had not the means to do that himself. However, he was convinced that the price was not truly worth it—enduring their constant presence when she could be surrounded by magic instead seemed like a poor trade off. A part of him realized he was operating under the uniquely biased view of someone without any family connections, but that did nothing to diminish his belligerent thoughts.
His temper was a living thing, building inside him, stoking his magic, searching for an outlet. What had always been an explosive and fierce disposition had only gotten worse as he gained strength from his magic. But Tom prided himself on his control, and he refused to slip up here where Mrs. Cole could so easily see if something unusual happened. He grit his teeth, choking his anger back, bitterly aware that it was thoughtlessly easier to do this when Hermione was around. He needed something to distract himself from thoughts of her, something he might not have been able to indulge in had she been there.
Turning, Tom let his dark eyes scan the cliffside, brightening when he noticed the opening to a cave. There might be someone to talk to in there, a snake or two to whisper secrets with. He regarded his ability to talk to snakes as one of his most interesting and impressive powers, yet in all the time he'd known her he'd never mentioned it to Hermione. Something had stayed his tongue, some peculiar awareness, much like the one that had led him to give her a false name and still refused to tell her he was visiting from fifty odd years in the past.
Excited now, he picked his way across the beach. The cave would take a little bit of climbing to reach, as it was part way up the craggy cliffside. High tide wouldn't touch it, but Tom suspected that a fierce storm could potentially flood the place. Panting with exertion, he slipped into the waiting darkness, giving his eyes a moment to adjust. Unlike the rocks along the beach, the stones in here were polished smooth like glass, but they had the weight and fractal beauty of crystal. He'd been right though, the deeper he went into the cave the more flooding he encountered—damp and cool, it wasn't exactly an ideal place for snakes.
Yet not more than a dozen steps after making that assessment, find a snake he did. It was a pale grey colour with a black zigzag pattern stretching down its back and, though it was difficult to tell while it was coiled in upon itself, he suspected that the lovely thing was just about as long as he himself was tall. No mean feat, considering that he generally towered over his peers. Despite their environment, Tom was sure this was an adder; he'd never seen one in person before. They tended to avoid the city, unlike grass snakes who confusedly slithered in and often needed rescuing.
Somehow, serpents always appeared to know he could speak to them and they were drawn to him because of it; grass snakes in particular seemed increasingly susceptible to the call. Although, once he'd met an escaped python that had desperately wanted to stay with him—he'd considered it for a few moments, thrilling at the rush of power it would give him over the other orphans, but had eventually sent the snake on its way. Keeping the sweet serpent ultimately wouldn't have been worth the trouble and attention that it would draw. One day though, when he was older…
The adder lifted its blunt head and regarded him carefully. Hissing quietly, it asked, "Snake-Speaker?"
Tom nodded, "Yes." He wasn't sure what gave him away. People certainly couldn't guess that he had this ability, and yet snakes just knew. Why? Not that he was complaining—he loved the scaly little beasts—but it was strange.
"What are you doing here?" The adder uncoiled itself lazily and bridged the gap between them, scenting the air cautiously.
"I could ask you the same," Tom replied pointedly. "Aren't adders supposed to favour woodlands?"
"And mountains," it countered. It was strangely cognizant for a common snake—they usually spoke more in sentiments than actual phrases and had little regard for the human structured ebb and flow of conversation.
He smiled, though he wasn't sure how well the gesture translated to a creature that mostly relied upon its sense of smell in order to see. "This isn't a mountain."
"No," the serpent conceded agreeably, rising up to scent his hand, "but the cave is strong."
"Strong?" Tom stroked the adder's flat head and puzzled at that statement. Snakes had their own unique worldview and it deeply informed their language. Strong was strange choice of word, though—territories were generally assessed for their access to sunlight and prey, and were usually described as either lively or barren. Strong was a word that snakes sometimes used in regard to themselves, but never places. How could a cave—which was arguably the worst possible environment for the adder before him—be strong?
"There's power here, old power." The adder hissed out a laugh. "It leaks through the crystals, makes me more than just a snake. Come, I will show you." And without waiting for a response, he slithered off into the darkness.
Tom followed as best he could, avoiding stagnant puddles as his eyes began to fail him in the deeper recesses where the sun could not reach. Yet just as he was about to command the adder to slow down, he began to perceive a faint glow. They crested a small incline and stood at the lip of a plateau, taking in the sight laid before them. The crystals there pulsed with a sickly yellow light, illuminating a placid lake and the tiny island at its center. The water seemed quite deep as far as he could tell, probably fed by an underground river rather than being the result of successive floodings. There was a hot metallic tang in the air, like lightning, and he could feel his magic respond to it. Yet it was different than his own, or even Hermione's—more concentrated somehow, more disciplined. Someone else with magic had stood here and done something so great that it had left traces behind.
"There's a story here," he guessed, soaking in the feel of the atmosphere, allowing it to coax his own magic closer to the surface. "What is this place?"
The adder coiled itself and gazed longingly at the little island. "Legend says…"
Bemused, Tom couldn't stop himself from interrupting, "Snakes have legends?"
The adder made an indulgent sound, not quite a laugh, and admitted, "Perhaps not, but I am more than a snake now, and the cave speaks to me." It gave him a pointed look, almost impatient, before starting again, "Legend says that long ago, years beyond counting for the snakes, an Evil Man came here. He was a weak man but he had a powerful object, and he used that thing on the crystals in order to make himself strong."
In the heavy, rich air of the cave, Tom almost felt as if he could see the story unfolding before his very eyes. An ugly man, gnarled and gaunt, stood upon the island, wielding an unassuming bit of polished white wood. But that little piece of wood was stronger than he, and it amplified his power a thousand fold, bouncing off the crystals as he strengthened his magical core. When he was finished, a powerful man stood in his place—still ugly, still twisted, but stronger than he'd ever been. He was still no match for the object in his hand though, it radiated magic so intensely that the very crystals around them had become suffused with it.
"His power lingers still, pulsing from the very cave itself now." The adder jerked its narrow head, indicating the tiny landmass as it told him, "If you rest on that island in the middle of the lake, it will change you. Make you more."
Tom scoffed at his little friend. "I'm already more."
But the snake merely scoffed back, "You think you are greater than the Evil Man?"
In fact, he did. Even without the benefit of whatever training the Evil Man had received, Tom knew he was simply better—smarter, more basely talented, and he was still young yet. "You said it yourself," he pointed out, "the man was weak—it was the object that was strong. I am already powerful, and I do not require assistance to become even more so." Not like that, anyway; not if he had to compete in order to prove that it was his own might and will that made him powerful rather than some preternatural artefact.
"You are prideful, Snake-Speaker," the adder accused. "Accepting help is sometimes a sign of cunning rather than weakness."
Tom was about to reply that it wasn't really the help itself he hated so much as the implication—that he was incapable of doing it on his own, or that he would have to debase himself before someone with greater authority. He would have to be truly desperate to resort to such measures. The sentiment never had the chance to departed his lips, however.
Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson had stumbled their way up to the little plateau and were both staring at Tom incredulously. Dennis recovered first, laughing nastily as he exclaimed, "I knew you were a freak, Riddle, but this really takes it. Are you talking to that snake?"
"Mental," Amy muttered quietly, for once not holding her tongue in his presence. "Absolutely barking mad."
"What does it tell you? Eh?" Dennis threw out an elbow, trying to rib him as he teased. "Hisses in your ear and tells you to strangle us all? Wait until Mrs. Cole hears this," he crowed delightedly. "Maybe she'll finally have you carted off to an asylum, where you belong."
Tom regarded them both for a second. He'd lost face here—he'd very quickly gone from being the most dangerous person at Wool's to a harmless looney in their eyes. That wouldn't do at all; he would have to remind them why it was unwise to speak so freely in his presence. "You've got it the wrong way 'round," he told Dennis calmly.
Thick as he was, even Dennis knew trouble when he heard it. He stiffened, taking an involuntary step back, as if only just realizing who he'd been attempting to bully. "What?"
"The snake doesn't command me, I command it." He hissed a quiet direction to the adder and, bless it, it immediately snapped to attention. The serpent uncoiled itself and slithered threateningly close to the two other orphans. "Do you know what this lovely create is?" Tom asked conversationally. "It's an adder—the only native venomous snake in all of England. And right now, the only thing standing between you and its deadly bite is my good humour, which you've quite spoiled."
The adder bared its teeth, making an exaggerated lunge. It was not in its nature to attack humans unless thoroughly provoked, but it seemed to have sensed Tom's shift in mood. It play-acted at the whole thing, attempting to make it look good even though the snake clearly had no intention of biting anyone unless ordered to.
Amy squealed and threw herself away from the snake, nodding frantically when Dennis barked out a terrified, "No, please!"
"Why? Give me a reason," Tom replied evenly. They both attempted to scramble away, but with his magic provoked so close to the surface by the unnatural atmosphere of the cave, Tom almost thoughtlessly held them in place.
Trapped by invisible snares, the pair became frantic. Amy had already dissolved into tears, yet it was her voice that bit out threateningly, "Mrs. Cole will notice, and don't think she'll brush it aside like she did the rabbit! This is murder, and she'll know it was your fault even if it's the snake that does it."
"Do you think I'm frightened of her?" Tom laughed at the very idea—Mrs. Cole was about as dangerous to him as a wet blanket. "If I'm capable of killing the two of you right here, what makes you think I couldn't do the same to her?" Practicality stayed his hand in that matter, but there was no need for either of them to know that.
Dennis blubbered as he attempted to dodge the snake once more, making sounds like a dying cat as he screeched, "Riddle, please!"
The thrill of the power he held over them—the very idea that their lives were held so securely in his hands, that he alone would decide right now whether it all ended here for them—left him feeling strangely magnanimous. He could kill them, he wanted to kill them, but their terror was amusing, and explaining away their deaths—though not difficult—would be troublesome. "Tell you what," he purred, soothing if not for the hint of underlying malice, "I'll spare you, if only so that the poor snake doesn't have to dirty itself with your filthy blood." A smile split his face, crooked and hungry, as he demanded, "But first you have to beg."
They pleaded raggedly around ugly sobs, not so dissimilar to the sounds Billy Stubbs had once made, if a bit more desperate. Still, it didn't quite seem enough.
Taunting, he asked them, "Is that the best you can do? It's a very poor effort—you're fighting for your lives here." He instructed the adder how to rear like a cobra—not a natural motion for the English-bred serpent—and though it was understated since the adder had no hood to flare, it still had the desired effect. The orphans' wailing reached a fevered pitch—a frenzied sound of terror and desperation. "That's better," Tom nodded patronizingly. He waved the snake subtly back as he approached Amy and Dennis, drawing too close, invading their space as he threatened, "Just remember: I can talk to any snake, anywhere. If Mrs. Cole hears so much as a shaky whisper of what happened today, I will send them after you. And there are zoos in London. So unless you want to wake up to a boa constrictor swallowing you whole, eating you alive, I suggest you keep your lips shut. Understood?"
The two nodded mindlessly, fleeing as soon as their invisible bonds released them.
Tom watched them go with a warm sense of accomplishment. Once they were out of sight, he turned back to the adder and hissed, "Thanks for that."
The serpent seemed thoroughly amused by the little act they'd just put on, though it readily admitted, "I probably couldn't have taken them both, you realize."
"I know," he shrugged, breathing deeply of the rich air. "But sometimes fear goes a lot further than actual strength."
London, 1990
Hermione openly stared at the woman sitting in their kitchen. She knew she was being rude, but she simply couldn't stop herself. The woman was a commanding figure, stern-looking, though not unkind; she wore a green tartan dress, which was either unfashionable or simply outdated, and few adornments aside from her square-framed glasses. Her bearing was one of unmistakable authority, and that quality was likely the only reason the Grangers had let her into their home after she'd introduced herself as a witch.
In fact, the woman wasn't just a witch, she was also a professor at a school—for Witchcraft and Wizardry!—and was inviting Hermione to enroll. The conversation had gotten a bit fuzzy after that as the elder Grangers asked all sorts of probing and increasingly skeptical questions. For her part, Hermione was mostly just imagining how Tom would react to this news; she had no doubt that he would be invited as well, perhaps someone was even speaking to him right now. They could go to school together, and learn about this curious talent that they had both struggled to control!
Her father's voice broke through her elated thoughts, reminding her that her parents still had to be convinced. "What did you say your name was, again?"
To her credit, the woman was patient. "Professor Minerva McGonagall," she replied evenly, despite the fact that this had to be the third time she'd been obliged to introduce herself in less than ten minutes.
Her father nodded, carrying on, "And this school—"
"Is a well known and respected establishment that caters to students who share Hermione's particular attributes." Professor McGonagall was very careful and deliberate with her words. At a guess, Hermione would have bet that this wasn't anywhere close to the first time the older woman had had to soothe confused parents.
Mr. Granger, however, was a rational man and could not let the obvious strangeness go. "That attribute being magic," he countered with a disbelieving frown.
The professor sighed, and in her defense she really didn't have a lot to work with. "I know it is a lot to take in for muggles—which is to say that your family has no direct history of witchcraft or wizardry. However—"
Hermione knew her parents well, though. Short of some sort of indication on her part or a practical demonstration, no amount of words would convince them. Bearing that in mind, she interrupted the professor, loudly declaring, "I believe you."
Professor McGonagall gave her a small smile, a knowing look in her eyes as she guessed at the truth of the matter. "Accidental flares of magic are not uncommon among untrained adolescents," she explained, "particularly if emotions are running high."
And Hermione, always one to impress, couldn't stop herself from saying, "It's not always accidental. I've gotten quite good at making things move whenever I want them to." She concentrated on the table's centerpiece, easily using her magic to slide it from one side of the table and back again. "See?"
The professor's smile froze, and though she hid it well her surprise was still apparent. "Well done," she praised in a strange tone. "Although I should warn you that until you are of age, using magic outside of the school and its grounds is not only prohibited but punishable."
Hermione felt her own smile falter. "Oh." Perhaps it was a good thing she hadn't decided to summon fire, then.
"You will not be held accountable for what you've already done," McGonagall assured her quickly "seeing as you did not know—at your age, wandless magic is not generally considered controllable—and there is always a bit of a grace period before you start your first year. However, once you do begin your lessons, you will be monitored for magical activity whenever you are not at Hogwarts or its neighboring village."
"Grace period?" She latched onto that phrase, knowing for a fact that in their excitement she and Tom would likely not be able to stop themselves from trying something. "So I can still experiment before term begins?" Her parents made twins sounds of surprise, reminding her of their presence, but Hermione studiously avoided looking at them. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know what their reaction to her… unique talent was.
"It is typically allowable as most students are not capable of doing more than producing sparks without any schooling." Professor McGonagall gave her an assessing look, glancing briefly at the centerpiece before she added, "However, in your case, I would recommend sticking to smaller spells and only practicing in absolute privacy."
It was wonderful to be understood and encouraged. The professor genuinely seemed to want her to start studying at the first opportunity. However, something about the way she'd phrased her caveat gave Hermione pause—in her case. Could other witches and wizards her age not do as she had? Tom outstripped her in terms of control, so she had simply assumed that their capabilities were normal. Was that not the case? Would she be considered different even among an entire society of people who were different? Tom will be with you though, her thoughts soothed; so different, perhaps, but not alone.
Her father pulled himself together first, all seriousness as he asked, "What sort of education can this institute supply?" And Hermione didn't think she'd ever loved him more than in that moment—he was willing to believe, to take this strange and somewhat frightening possibility seriously because he knew she wanted to attend.
"Hogwarts is widely considered the most prestigious school in Europe, if not the world," Professor McGonagall assured him. "Hermione will receive the dedicated instruction of our diverse and deeply skilled staff, and be provided with the tools and knowledge necessary to understand, control, and nurture her talents, both magical and otherwise."
"And there are career opportunities after that," he pressed, so close to acceptance. "It wouldn't set her apart or behind to go to Hogwarts as opposed to any of the other, normal schools that have reached out?" Given her grades, Hermione knew that she had a lot of options, and her parents had been setting aside a good amount of money in the hopes of sending her to a first-rate school.
"There is a whole world of magic that has been hidden from your eyes, and the opportunities our society could afford your daughter, especially with the benefit of a Hogwarts education, are innumerable," the professor nodded. "Given her aptitude and educational career so far, we feel that Hermione will be an excellent fit for both our school and culture." Perhaps sensing that the conversation was finally reaching a tipping point, she further explained, "And her choices post-graduation are not so different as you imagine—she could still follow paths into politics, medicine, philosophy, literature, mathematics, not to mention the entrepreneurial opportunities. Magic simply adds an extra dimension to these fields. If anything, she will be greater prepared for the future."
Her father's resistance was on its last legs. "And even if she went to a normal—muggle?—school…?"
"She would remain different," McGonagall told him bluntly. "Even untrained, her magic would always be a part of her. In fact, I daresay that if left untrained it is likely your daughter could unintentionally become a danger to herself and others."
For the first time since the whole fiasco had begun, her mother finally addressed her. "Hermione," she crouched down to look her daughter in the eye, smoothing her wild hair back as she said, "it's your future, darling. What do you want?"
There was no question in her mind. "I want to learn magic," she replied. "Really learn it, with books and proper teachers."
"She will be among children facing the exact same difficulties as herself," McGonagall assured them, "surrounded by peers capable of understanding her for perhaps the first time in her young life."
And as far as anyone in that room was concerned, the matter was settled. Come the new term, Hermione would be attending Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
London, 1938
Tom stared at his own hands as if he'd never seen them before, hyper-aware of the older man in the room watching him but unable to stop his reaction. Though the news did not come as a particular surprise, some part of him was still shocked to hear it.
He was different.
He was special.
He was a wizard.