Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Tom

Four days after the adoption ritual, Tom was finally deemed recovered enough to end his Lucienne-mandated bedrest and join the rest of the family for lunch in the dining room. 

The scent of warm bread reached him first, then the aromatics – rosemary, garlic, thyme – and a blend of other herbs that melded into a richness that made his mouth water. He took another slow inhale to savor the mix of familiar and unfamiliar scents and did his best not to impersonate Dove’s stupid cat that drooled rivers at the implication of a treat.

He had more control over his body than a half-kneazle, surely.

Though, that wasn’t always true anymore.

His lips tensed as he walked to his usual spot at the table across from Abraxas. His mind and body were near strangers to him since the eclipse. Lucienne promised the feeling would pass as he adjusted to the absence of the obscurus.

Once Lucienne and Nikolas sat down, steaming plates and dishes of food started to appear along the table. A deep, wide bowl of some sort of rich beef stew appeared before him, then a steaming grilled ham and cheese sandwich. Two glasses appeared next, one of cold water and the other with whatever the day’s wine-alternative was for him and Abraxas. He’d investigate the fizzy pink concoction at some point, but the sandwich had a siren’s hold on him after days of only eating broth, bread, and tea.

Nikolas spoke as Tom reached for his cutlery.

“Thank you, beloved, for freeing our youngest. I was quite certain you planned to keep him jailed above stairs for the rest of his holiday.”

Lucienne’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. “He suffered extreme magical strain, Niki. He should still be in bed, but I don’t want him to get stir crazy.”

Tom glanced at Nikolas, who winked, then said, “Of course not, dearest.”

Lucienne huffed a sigh before sipping her wine and pointedly not responding to the bait Nikolas laid before her. Nikolas, in turn, chuckled.

“Now that the heat is on me,” he said, sliding his gaze between Tom and Abraxas. “How’s your little lady today, Tom?”

Tom’s mouth twisted, but the Malfoy patriarch’s attempt at getting a rise out of him wasn’t going to work when he’d made it so painfully obvious. “She’s on Easter holiday, so she’s probably trying to finish all of her coursework for the year instead of resting.”

Abraxas snorted. “She only does that to spend more time with you, you know.”

Tom shot him a look. “That was one time. She’s just a masochist.”

Abraxas glanced briefly at his father, who – poorly – hid a smile with a spoonful of stew, then raised a brow. “Have you really not noticed all the other times she’s overworked herself to stay ahead on her school work so she could spend more time in the Room?”

Tom cut and ate a bite of his sandwich to buy himself time to respond, and entirely forgot about the conversation at hand as he stared at his food in disbelief.

It wasn’t that he didn’t expect the sandwich to be delicious. He did. He hadn’t been presented with a bad meal a single time this summer. The problem was the memory it triggered, seemingly by taste, and the volley of emotions that raced through him as a result.

Hot sandwiches were a rare treat at the orphanage. His first grilled cheese had been a luxury. Porridge, soups, overcooked pots of canned vegetables and the like were the palate of his childhood, but one of the rare times the kitchen staff insisted on doing something special for the evening meal, they’d made three different soups for them to choose from and grilled cheese sandwiches.

The sandwich before him now was a far cry from the toasted stale bread and cheap cheese of the past, but that old sense of delight-tinged wonder still coursed through him as he savored the symphony of flavors dancing over his tongue. When he finally swallowed the first bite, three thoughts came to him all at once.

The first was the urge to wrap the other half of his sandwich up in his napkin and layer stasis charms over it to keep it warm. To hoard it like the bread and pastries he used to steal from bakeries across London when food was scarce, though… this time not for his own consumption. Secondly, there was the unmistakable and irrefutable certainty that Dove would enjoy this sandwich at least as much as he did, which was more than enough reason to not eat all of it himself despite how much his stomach ached to do so. And lastly, how neither of those things mattered, because she wasn’t here. 

He wouldn’t be going up to the Room of Requirement to see her, he couldn’t bring her dinner from the Malfoys’ kitchens anymore than he could bring her food from the school’s. He wouldn’t see her again until the beginning of October. The whole of August and September loomed in front of him and seemed, somehow, utterly eternal in their duration.

He blinked at the sudden clink of his silverware against his plate. The utensils trembled against the china as his hands shook.

“You alright, mate?” Abraxas asked. “Do you not like your croque monsieur?”

Tingles of pain feathered under his cheeks as dreaded pinpricks of discomfort made his eyes tighten. Tom blinked hard a few times, desperately willing the sensation away, helpless to stop his breathing from straining to quicken in response to the miserable pulse beating in his ears.

Unable to reign the unwanted cascade of responses flooding his control, Tom’s gaze leapt to Lucienne. She was already watching him with a familiar frown and crease between her eyes.

What is this? He pushed the thought towards her like she’d been teaching him in their bedside tea sessions the last few days. That had been their trade. He’d submit to her desire for him to rest and she’d teach him advanced legilimency.

Her lips pursed. “Will you allow me to make a judgement call?”

He clenched his teeth to hold in a groan and nodded.

“I will answer your questions, and you may ask them silently, but anything I do not feel you should be ashamed of, I will answer aloud. Is that acceptable?”

If it must be. Help me turn this off. I refuse to cry over a bloody sandwich.

“You miss her.”

Tom recoiled, then jumped when he collided with the back of his chair. Missing people doesn’t hurt.

“Missing people does hurt,” she countered. She said it so simply, the words nearly dry in their delivery, and he almost risked whatever pathetic version of his voice would come out of his too-tight throat to tell her exactly how wrong she was.

But Nikolas spoke up before he could. “Missing someone you hold dear is one of the acutest miseries I’ve ever felt.”

Tom didn’t trust his voice enough to respond.

“You’re allowed to miss her.”

Lucienne raised a brow at him when he glared in her direction. I do not miss her. 

“She misses you,” Abraxas said, his brows pinched together much like his mother’s. “You were uncharacteristically patient with her when we said our goodbyes and she kept getting upset. Why can she miss you but you can’t miss her?”

Tom snorted and glared down at his food. There was a very easy answer to that question but hell would freeze over before he volunteered to explain it. 

“You have many misconceptions about what is and isn’t allowed when it comes to her,” Lucienne said. “But we’ll discuss those another time.”

The sharp spike of anger and apprehension helped ease the stinging in his eyes. A small mercy, he supposed. I’d rather not.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Lucienne said sweetly. “But we’ll discuss it before you’re off to school again, so prepare yourself to face the music eventually.”

I just want to know how to make it stop. My throat hurts.

“Suppressing tears can do that,” she continued. “But Niki is better qualified for helping you find ways to ease the pain of missing her. When we were separated, he didn’t have military operations to distract him like I did.”

A bright – if not out of place –hum came from the other end of the table. Tom withheld another groan.

“I know just the thing for easing the loneliness left behind by an absent friend,” Nikolas said, eyes shining with delight. “We’ve been meaning to take you shopping. How about a gentlemen’s day out?”

Tom’s gaze flicked between Abraxas and Nikolas as he set his fork and knife away from his plate. He pulled the stew closer instead with a small shrug.

“You’re going to suggest presents, right?” Abraxas asked. “Becuase I promise you, he was going to invent that conclusion within ten minutes of getting to the shops anyway.”

Tom’s spoon paused in midair as he slowly looked at his brother with a glare that could melt stone.

“What?” Abraxas asked. “You go out of your way to find something to make her happy anytime she’s upset but you’re mad at me for stating the obvious?”

Tom sipped his water and winced. “It’s how you said it,” he muttered roughly.

Abraxas raised his brows. “I’m simply stating facts.”

Tom hummed as innocently as he could with the discomfort in his throat. “In that case, how many cauldron cakes did you buy last year? Since we’re being factual.”

Abraxas’s fork scraped his plate and they both winced at the sound. The crumb of victory, even at the expense of his eardrums, still tasted sweet.

“Let me get this right,” Abraxas said slowly. “You’re emotionally aware enough to notice me buying snacks for a crush but you can’t figure out you’re in love with Hermione? How does that work?”

“I am not–”

“Lie to yourself, mate, but spare me.”

They stared at each other until Tom got bored and looked down at his stew with a sniff. “If she was male, no one would be trying to convince me it’s love.”

“Agree to disagree,” Abraxas parried. “It’s how you behave.”

Tom glared while chewing a tender, delicious, chunk of carrot. “And how do I behave with her, exactly?”

Abraxas’s features pinched with barely-contained laughter. Conveniently, he chose that moment to shove a massive spoonful of stew into his mouth, letting his smug little smirk talk for him.

Would Lucienne change her mind and take him back to the orphanage if he punched her son? Probably not, but given how few meaningful possessions he owned, he didn’t want to inspire any sort of punishments. He didn’t know what he’d do if she tried to take his diary, but it’d surely be violent regardless of whatever truces they’d established in the last few weeks.

Tom waited for Abraxas to chew his food – which he did so intentionally slowly and thoroughly that Tom had to console himself by imagining throwing pieces of baguette at his stupid blond head. Then, before he could take another bite, Tom said, “Well, go on then.”

“We finally get a break from drama this summer and the first thing you do with our peace is try to goad me into upsetting you?” Abraxas asked, all false innocence and an admittedly decent mimicry of his mother’s playful tone.

“I wouldn’t talk to you if you weren’t capable of critical thought and the occasional valuable perspective.” Tom took another sip of water. It went down easier. “But I’m humoring this train of thought so we can fix whatever glaring bias you’ve developed that’s tainting your usually invaluable skillset.”

Abraxas squinted at Tom, then at Lucienne. She was smiling at her food instead of making eye contact with either of them. “It’s his fault if he does not like what you have to say, mon coeur, but you’re also not required to say anything if you do not wish to.”

Abraxas shook his head in disbelief, then leveled a steady expression on Tom. “You like her.”

Tom scoffed. “Of course I like her. I wouldn’t talk to her so often if I disliked her, would I?”

Abraxas rolled his eyes. “You know it’s more than that, mate.”

“It really isn’t,” Tom said flatly. “So unless you have some sort of proof to the contrary, you’re wrong.”

Abraxas nodded, fighting off a smirk again. “Oh, I can prove it, but I don’t think you can handle it.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed and he rested his spoon against the edge of his bowl. “This should be entertaining. Try me.”

“To be clear,” Abraxas began, “you want proof aside from the fact that you go out of your way to bring her food and snacks because she’s overworking herself this term and she forgets to eat if you don’t make her–”

“Am I supposed to watch her starve herself to death?” Tom demanded.

Abraxas ignored him. “–and you hug her every time you see her, upon arrival and before she leaves. You claim this is solely for her benefit, but I’ve seen your face when you hug her and you are lying to yourself.”

“She was actively falling into depression before I started the hugging thing,” Tom snapped. “I saw a problem, I found a solution.”

Abraxas widened his eyes mockingly. “Right, of course. What problem does sniffing and playing with her hair solve, again?”

Tom’s cheeks started to tingle. “‘Her hair products smell nice’ is your evidence?” he snarled. “And that she relaxes if I massage her scalp?”

“So does Crookshanks, but you aren’t nearly as diligent about petting him.”

Tom scowled. “I do not pet her.”

Abraxas made a disbelieving noise as his face scrunched together. “You kind of do. But I’m not done with my list. May I continue?”

Tom sneered in response and Abraxas took that as permission to carry on.

“You’ve all but abandoned the Knights. Her hair scarves were your idea, which took her from a bit tomboyish to absolutely fetching–”

“Which dramatically improved her confidence,” Tom deadpanned.

“You invented a spell to let you be her knight in shining armor through time–”

“She almost died. Twice. And Dumbledore is her headmaster.”

“–You’ve taught her magic above her year–”

“She’s clever.” He dragged an unimpressed gaze over his new brother. “She’s recently been promoted to the cleverest person I know, come to think of it.”

“Of course,” Abraxas agreed. He ignored the jab. “Those are all the reasons why you aren’t in love with her, naturally.”

Tom huffed a sigh. “What else could you possibly have to say?”

He sliced carrot and onion and potato with the edge of his spoon, trying to get an even bite of all the primary ingredients onto it before Abraxas spoke again, all traces of mockery gone from his voice.

“You smile when you look at her.”

Tom’s spoon froze in his bowl. 

“You also relax, more than I think you realize, if she’s with you.”

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Dumbledore can’t try to kill her if she’s up in the room with us. Of course I can relax.”

“Dumbledore has nothing to do with it,” Abraxas countered. “Not really. You just like having her nearby. If you didn’t, you’d have conjured a different seating arrangement for the Room after the night you introduced her to me and Flynn. But you like sharing a couch with her, so you didn’t.”

The thought had never crossed his mind.

“You flirt with her constantly, which tortures her.”

Tom’s frown deepened. “Flirting can’t be torture.” Not for normal people anyway, unless they were bad at it. It was for him, of course, but he always presumed pretending had something to do with his perception. It wasn’t genuine. If he’d wanted to flirt with someone beyond manipulating them, surely it would be fun, like it seemed to be for those of his peers with any talent in the art.

“She knows you aren’t doing it on purpose,” Abraxas said. “She just wishes you meant it.”

“I don’t flirt with her,” Tom insisted. “I’ve been extra charming once or twice, maybe. For my own amusement. Nothing serious.”

“There’s a difference between banter and what you two do,” Abraxas said, then, with a raised brow, he pushed a thought in Tom’s direction. The difference is sexual tension, if you’re pretending to be obtuse.

Tom rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you think so.”

Abraxas smirked, razor sharp. “There’s nothing wrong with fancying her.”

“I don’t fancy her,” he snapped.

“Says the bloke who spends every available moment writing to her if he isn’t up in the Room talking to her.” Or thinking about her in the shower.

His blood turned to ice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Abraxas lifted a shoulder. “Sure you don’t.” You didn’t invent the shower wank, mate.

“I have more self control than that,” Tom said through clenched teeth.

You’re stronger than me then. “You put her needs above your own even when you don’t get anything out of it. Which I’ve never seen you do.” If I was you, I’d be snogging her every chance I got by now and the engagement necklace would’ve been a legitimate declaration of intent.

Tom’s grip on his spoon tightened to the point of pain, but he hardly noticed it. “Again, I see problems, I find solutions. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“Selfless solutions,” Abraxas countered. “You aren’t in the habit of inconveniencing yourself for other people, Tom.”

He scoffed. “Her problems are minor inconveniences.”

“Ha!” Abraxas’s eyes shined. “You liar! We spent weeks on vigilio and the necklace. Worrying about her is a massive inconvenience for you. It makes you moody, it gives you nightmares, it’s been a nearly endless distraction for months.”

A spasm ran through Tom’s shoulders as they tensed. “Most of them are small. There are exceptions to every rule.”

“Tom.”

He shrugged and did his best to ignore the little glints of purple specks on the edges of his vision. “All you’ve proved is that I want her alive, which I’ve told you myself and admit freely.”

Abraxas dropped his utensils and put his face in his hands. “You cannot be serious.”

Tom forced the muscles in his hand to relax as he took another bite of his food. “Don’t go into sales.”

“My points are sound. You’re just the most stubborn person alive,” Abraxas muttered from behind his hands.

Tom snorted. “You couldn’t convince me to breathe and my life depends on that.”

Abraxas dragged his hands down his face with a groan. “You’re running out of time to be stubborn about this.”

“Running out of time…?” Tom repeated. “We’re fifty-three years behind her, Abraxas, I have almost half a bleeding century before she exists.” He’d contemplate the unease that thought brought him another time.

Abraxas sighed hard enough to erode a mountain. “You’re going to lose her. The universe handed you a witch who would gladly tolerate your nonsense forever, your perfect princess fairy tale happily ever after, and you’re blowing it because you’re allergic to sentiment.”

Tom reached for the mock-sparkling wine drink next to his water and sniffed it. Raspberries. “Peter Pan,” he said, before taking a long drink to distract himself from the purple specks in the air and the presence now standing behind Abraxas.

“What?”

He set his glass back down and leveled an exhausted stare across the table. “Our fairy tale. It’s Peter Pan. It’s not a love story.”

There were several moments of silence that Tom took advantage of, savoring his food while also eating as quickly as he comfortably could. Whatever energy he had at the start of the meal was dwindling and the longer they sat here, the more likely it was that he’d accidentally make eye contact with Evangeline. He wanted to go to the shops, if that offer was still on the table, but maybe after he took a nap and convinced the ghost of his former caretaker to go back to wherever the dead lingered when they weren’t– for some bleeding reason –bothering him.

“The Knight of Pentacles.”

“Pardon?” Tom asked.

“Her true love card from her tarot reading. It was the Knight of Pentacles.”

Tom quirked a brow. “And? So she'll have the misfortune of meeting the ‘love of her life’ while she's in school. That's a tragedy, if anything.”

Abraxas stared at him. “She knew who he was immediately. That's why she got upset when you laughed at her. I imagine she thinks you also recognized it and were rejecting her.”

“I was laughing at the irony,” Tom said. “She barely pays attention to those sorts of things.”

Abraxas slowly shook his head. “Sure. What's her sign?”

“Virgo.”

His brows rose. “You didn't even have to think about that.”

“We had a disagreement about her birthday,” Tom said. “It's easy to remember.”

Abraxas chuckled. “That's right. She hid it from you because she thinks you don't care about her.”

“That's not–”

Damn him. That was close to the reason. She had thought he wouldn’t care. She thought her birthday would bore him. His brows pinched together. 

A glimmer of hope flitted through Brax's eyes. “Merlin, you are listening.”

“Of course I'm listening, we're having a conversation,” Tom said blandly.

Abraxas hummed and gestured in Tom’s direction with his spoon. “But that got through to you for a second.”

The depth of relief in his voice raised Tom’s hackles. “What aren't you telling me?”

The tiniest hint of panic crossed his eyes, then Abraxas blinked and it was gone. “What do you mean?”

Swirling, thick discomfort coursed through Tom’s chest. He pressed at it with the heel of one hand. Maybe the stew didn’t agree with him? 

“You said I’m running out of time and you’re oddly invested in my personal affairs all of a sudden. I know you, Abraxas. Something’s changed. And instead of telling me, we’re doing this–” He gestured vaguely between them. “–nonsense.”

To his credit, Abraxas didn’t immediately try to fill the space between them with another lie. Instead, he held Tom’s gaze and chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“...I can’t tell you anything more specific than what I already have,” he said eventually. “She’s still working up the courage to tell you herself.”

His spine stiffened and the discomfort in his chest became a searing fireball. “Explain.”

Abraxas winced under the heat of his glare. “I’ve checked on her a few times when you were asleep after panic attacks or knocked out on potions. One of those times, she was in a position to use vigilio in tandem. She needs to talk to you about something but it makes her nervous…that’s really all I can say in good conscience.” 

Unease joined the maelstrom in his chest. He took a shaking breath in an attempt to douse the burn, but it didn’t help.

“Why would she have an easier time telling you what’s bothering her,” he said slowly, “than me?”

Abraxas moved vegetables around in his stew. “She knows you better than you think she does.”

Tom ground his teeth. “And that’s supposed to mean what, exactly?”

With a groan, Abraxas muttered something under his breath, then louder, said, “I didn't say this. You never heard this. Agreed?”

Tom flashed his teeth briefly. “Isn't that what siblings do? Share secrets amongst themselves?”

Abraxas blinked, his features contracting in a flash of emotions too quick for Tom to decipher. “I've mostly been trying to spare your feelings. I will no longer be doing so.”

Tom rolled his eyes again. “By all means, cease, if it means you'll get to the bloody–”

“She needs emotional clarity and validation that you're too stubborn to give her because you're afraid of your own feelings, and that's going to ruin your friendship with her.”

Tom flinched at friendship. “You don't know what you're talking about.” 

The specter tsked. “Tommy…”

He kept his eyes on his brother.

Abraxas’s brows climbed high again as he leaned forward and sneered. “That right there is why she was more comfortable talking to me than you. What are you so afraid of? What could possibly be so bad about fancying a pretty witch?”

Against his will, Tom’s eyes found Evangeline’s. Her sad, knowing smile made his skin crawl. He looked away again. 

“I don’t fancy her.”

He huffed, head shaking. “You’re beyond that, my mistake. What’s the harm in loving a pretty witch, then?” 

“No,” Tom growled. “That is most certainly not an option.”

Abraxas’s head thunked against the back of his chair as his hands carded through his hair in exasperation. “How are you so bloody brilliant in every other way, but Birdie turns you into a complete prat?”

Tom started to answer, but froze when Evangeline spoke again.

“Everyone you’ve ever loved died, that’s true. But do you really still think it’s your fault?”

Please go away.

“When you don’t stand to reinforce your own negative beliefs in my absence, I’ll leave.”

Abraxas squinted at him. “Are you okay?”

Tom clenched his teeth. “I’m fine.” 

Lucienne was watching him again, he could feel her eyes on him, and tried desperately to act normal. He didn’t understand why he could still see Evangeline, why he’d been able to see her since the ritual, nor did he particularly want to admit it. If he was going insane, he’d do so in private. If the hallucinations were a result of stress, they’d fade with time.

Evangeline gave him a look. “You know I’m not a hallucination, Tommy.”

He glared at his plate instead of at the specter. Can we talk later? Lucienne is going to notice and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life locked up in St. Mungo’s.

“She already knows. She’s afraid to tell you the truth when they’re still figuring out how to keep you safe.”

Why are you telling me this?

“Because I know what my boy can handle and you’ll do better with the knowledge than without it.”

“Tom?”

He jolted, head snapping up to Lucienne on reflex and belatedly remembering he didn’t want her to figure out he was talking to a dead woman. 

Lucienne’s lips pressed into a tight smile. “Perhaps she’s right.”

A stone sank low in his stomach. “I'm not going mad?”

Lucienne shook her head. “No, mon chou. You’re not hallucinating.”

“He knows about mages,” Abraxas said softly. “At least a little.”

“Mages?” Tom echoed. “Like Merlin and Morgana and Circe?”

“Most of the beings we now consider old gods were mages, yes,” Nikolas said. His subdued expression worsened the ache in Tom's gut. 

Merlin was proficient in more magical disciplines than not, according to history, and Circe was thought to have been exceedingly proficient in transfiguration and protective magic – wards and the like. He couldn’t remember Morgana’s specialties, but Professor Slughorn once mused on about whether or not Dumbledore might just be the Merlin of their time, given his great proficiency in most magics. Tom sincerely hoped he was not.

“You think I'm a mage, then?” he asked Lucienne. Evangeline's hand came to rest on his shoulder, but he didn't startle despite not realizing she'd moved across the room.

“I have no doubt,” Lucienne said.

Tom squinted at her. “A necromancer.” Born, not taught. His existence was illegal. A death sentence awaited anyone caught hiding him.

“Yes.”

His pulse thickened in his ears again. “Why didn’t you let it kill me?”

“Tom!” Abraxas snapped. 

Tom met his glare with exhaustion. “My mother died in childbirth. The last woman who wanted to be my mother died in a plane crash. Are you willing to risk your mother’s life for mine?”

Abraxas threw his silverware down, making the utensils clang against each other. He was vibrating with emotion when his gaze turned to his mother. “Puis-je partir, Maman? Avant de lui faire du mal?”

Lucienne’s smile was a little sad. “Vous avez vingt minutes avant que nous prenions le thé en famille.”

“Je serai là, j'ai juste besoin de temps pour me calmer.”

Other than flinching at the sound of metal against metal, Tom watched in confusion as Abraxas ripped himself out of his chair and left, viciously muttering to himself in French as he went.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Finish your lunch, mon chou,” Lucienne said, her expression gentle despite the sorrow in her eyes. “We’ll talk over tea.”

Tom reached for a chunk of baguette from a dish in the center of the table and ripped it into pieces that he dropped into the remaining broth of his stew. It gave him something to do, but it also showed him that his hands were shaking slightly. Adrenaline or anxiety slowly built up in his veins as they finished the meal. He didn’t know why Abraxas was so upset. He also didn’t know why Lucienne and Nikolas decidedly weren’t upset with him when their actual son certainly was.

He’d miscalculated somewhere, misunderstood something. That much was clear, but he couldn’t parse out where he’d misstepped. 

“You’re not in trouble, you know.”

Nikolas’s voice startled Tom so badly, he almost choked on a mouthful of broth-soaked bread, which earned him an apologetic smile.

“A great many changes have swept through this house in a remarkably short span of time. Everyone adjusts differently. Everyone responds to stress differently. Compared to some of the fights I had with my brothers as a young man, you two are remarkably tame,” Nikolas continued.

An amused sound came from Lucienne. “Oui. Not to give you ideas–” She gave Tom a look. “–but I recall trying to drown my sister in her soup once.”

Nikolas chuckled so suddenly he had to wipe away the wine that dribbled down his chin. “Wasn’t that at our wedding?”

Lucienne shrugged and innocently moved a pearl onion around her bowl. “Engagement dinner, I think. I flicked wine on her at our wedding.”

“And hers,” Nikolas said into his wineglass, only just loud enough for Tom to hear.

Lucienne widened her eyes, much like her son had a few moments ago. “It was white wine at her wedding. You’re making it sound like I ruined her bridal robes with red.”

“Do you even like her?” Tom asked.

“Of course I do, she’s my best friend in the whole world,” Lucienne said. “She was the first person we allowed to visit me after I had Abraxas, not counting Maman, of course, since she hardly left my side.”

Tom and Abraxas tolerated each other, so he didn’t know how this whole sibling business would pan out for them. But if ‘attempted murder at weddings’ was the standard to beat, they probably stood a fair chance at success…

Abraxas

He was already in the tea parlor when Tom followed Maman and Papa into the room. He shared a tense glance with Tom until the frustration from supper started to burn back to life, then shifted a glare out the window. He folded his arms together and squeezed his biceps to stem some of his frustration while taking in the perfect sunny summer day beyond the glass.

Gods, he wished Flynn were here. All of this would be so much easier to bear if Flynn was back in the country. They could cope with their anxiety for Tom’s wellbeing – and Hermione’s – with humor like usual, and then maybe Abraxas wouldn’t be utterly failing to be a good friend to Birdie while also being a good brother to Tom.

Nevermind that Tom was already throwing their new relationship in his face as a manipulation tactic, but he’d have to ask Maman how to address that. Assuming Tom ever stopped having crises long enough for them to have a proper conversation. Though that felt less likely by the day. 

“Should Niki and I start?” Maman asked. “Or would either of you boys like to say something to begin?”

“I would,” Abraxas said, his voice hollow even to his own ears. “But I'm struggling to find the right words.”

He cast his gaze to Maman, blinking two times just a hair too fast to be natural so she knew he wanted his thoughts read. She’s deeply insecure about their relationship and hides it reasonably well. I don’t know how to explain to him that he’s hurting her without being blunt to the point of cruelty or betraying her trust.

A sad little half smile pulled at Maman’s lips. It is not an easy choice, but I understand why you’re tempted to make it. “Would you like me to interrupt you if you're about to say something untoward?”

“Oui, please.”

He shifted his focus back to the window and chewed his lip for a moment, then cut a harsh look to Tom.

“I'll let you choose, brother dear,” he said, hoping Tom felt the venom in his chest. “Do I betray Birdie and show you the truth or do I betray you and keep her confidence?”

Would Flynn be disgusted with him for showing Tom the memory Hermione had shared with him? Possibly. For all that Flynn claimed to have a crush on her – not that Abraxas blamed him if he really did, it just wasn’t necessarily good for his health with Tom in the picture – it was clear that Flynn saw his late sister in the witch, and he was certain Hermione was starting to fill some of that void in Flynn’s life. 

Was he about to drive a wedge between himself and every other important member of his social circle? The odds weren’t zero, of that he was certain, but perhaps Fate would grant him clemency. His intentions were noble. Surely that counted for something?

To his immense surprise, Tom answered without any visible signs of hesitation. “If it's that bad, and I need to know, then it wouldn't be the first time I've feigned ignorance. We both know she has a habit of understating the severity of events happening around her and I can't fix things I don't know about.”

Abraxas’s brows flicked upwards briefly. If Tom could hide vigilio for almost three months without tripping over himself, then he could certainly pretend not to know about Hermione’s boggart whenever she finally addressed it with him. Merlin, the pair of them had a nasty habit of keeping secrets from each other… Both with good, if not slightly askew, intentions, too. 

Soulmates. They bloody had to be. Still…

He shared another glance with Maman, letting her read his anxiety. Every part of him was equally for and against his plan. He wanted to do right by his friends, but in order to do so, he had to do the objectively wrong thing, for a good reason. But would it even matter why he’d done it, if Birdie found out and was furious with him? She’d confided in him, trusted him, and he didn’t want her to think he took her openness for granted…

“There is no perfect decision,” Maman said gently. “But I believe you know your friends well enough to judge the situation. And worst case scenario, you make amends if you're wrong.”

If Hermione let him make amends… His jaw ached as he ground his teeth. He knew Tom. He’d seen more of who he suspected Tom actually was in the last few months than he’d seen in five years of knowing him. If Tom reacted even half as strongly to this information as he did when he realized he had to fess up about vigilio, then this had to work out for the better.

Gods, I hope this isn’t a mistake. Aloud, he muttered, “I don’t see an alternative.”

He silently cast vigilio at the wall, but didn’t think of Birdie or Flynn, only of himself and Tom, and was momentarily surprised when the spell reflected the room like a mirror. 

“I didn’t know it did that,” Tom said. 

“I thought it’d be blank.” Abraxas shook his head. “Anyway…”

He put his wand to his temple, then gave Tom a look that was half pity and half grim determination.

“I feel like I’m betraying her to torture you,” he admitted, shoulders tight with agitation. “But you haven’t reacted well to hurting her by choice, so I can’t imagine you’ll be any more pleased to find out you’ve been doing it by accident.”

Tom’s frown deepened, his unnaturally blue eyes swimming with confusion. “I have?”

Did he know why his eyes were that intense shade of blue? Abraxas couldn’t remember. But he didn’t want to reveal the unhappy truth to him either if he didn’t already know.

“Yeah, mate. Just…let me show you.” He pulled a strand of memory from his temple and directed it towards the wall. 

As the memory fragment of just that segment of his conversation with Hermione played out in the spell, he focused on Tom, watching for the tell-tale signs of fury or any other not ideal reaction that would signify Abraxas had judged poorly.

At one point, Tom’s mouth moved, and Brax swore he barely caught his strangled mutter of “No, Dove”, but he wasn’t certain.

When the wall went silent, Abraxas returned the memory to his head. 

Tom stood, his eyes full of the tears he was so unwilling to just let fall, and his hands trembled at his sides. When he spoke, his voice was the harsh whisper of someone desperately trying not to cry. “I miscalculated.”

Abraxas’s lips pressed together, though he couldn’t quite offer Tom any sort of smile. “A bit, mate.”

Tom shook his head in short, jerky movements. “Massively.”

Stupendously even, but Abraxas wasn’t trying to rub salt in the wound. “You can still fix it. Like I said earlier, she’s building up the courage to tell you herself…”

Tom squinted at him, breathing hard. “That was in September. She’s been stewing for months already. I…am running out of time.”

Brax shoved his hands in the pockets of his lounge pants. “And instead of being blindsided, now you can prepare.” 

Giving Tom a chance to fix this new Birdie-centric disaster might ruin Abraxas’s relationship with her but maybe, just maybe, it would lead to Tom getting over himself instead.

“Can I ask you something?” He kept his voice as gentle as he could muster.  

Tom grunted while he blinked at the ceiling, trying to trick his tears – of overwhelm, probably – away. 

“Do you really feel nothing for her?”

Tom’s eyes pinched shut as his entire face twisted with agony. 

What the hell happened to you?

“I can’t,” Tom rasped. “She’s good and I’m…not.”

Abraxas frowned. “I know the feeling.”

Tom exhaled a soft snort through his nose and shook his head. He wiped his eyes, scowled at the moisture on his hand, and turned towards Papa.

“Can we still go shopping?” he asked.

Maman tutted at his voice, hoarse and weak as it was, and summoned an elf to bring him a cup of tea.

Papa gave Tom the gentle, reassuring smile Abraxas couldn’t muster. “Once you boys have your bearings again, I think that’s a fine idea. I even have some ideas for ways to show your little bird how much she actually means to you, if you’re interested.”

Tom nodded, a little bit of tension easing in his posture. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he said to Maman. “Usually I have some idea…”

Maman frowned. “Rest your voice, mon chou. I would prefer to speak for you until you’ve had something for your throat.”

Tom’s shoulders hiked up again defensively. “I’m fine.”

Maman raised a brow and said nothing – aloud, anyway. Tom broke their stare first, but quickly and unhappily returned his gaze to her a moment later.

“He would like your suggestions, Niki,” Maman said. “And yours, if you have any, Abra.”

“Of course,” Abraxas said. “Don’t worry. Maman’s home remedies are potent and you’re one of us now, so your voice should be back to normal in a few hours if you drink the whole cup.”

Tom nodded in Brax’s direction, then darted his gaze back to Maman. 

“You may after you’ve had your tea,” she said, as the house elf returned just long enough to set a steaming teacup and saucer on one of the tables. “I agree, you should leave it here for your shopping trip.”

“Telling Birdie we’re going to be out?” Abraxas guessed.

Tom’s mouth opened to reply, snapped shut as he rolled his eyes and looked to Maman again.

If not for a twitch at the edge of her mouth, Abraxas wouldn’t have known she was amused at Tom’s frustration. 

“He doesn’t want her to worry if he doesn’t respond. Since she’s on holiday and Dumbledore has been away on business for a few days, she’s been writing to him during meals, so she’ll notice he’s gone,” Maman said.

“With everything that’s been going on, she probably will think the worst,” Abraxas agreed. “Good call.”

Tom made one of his stupider faces as he crossed the room to pick up his tea and began blowing on it. The of-course-I-made-a-good-decision-I’m-not-you face. Abraxas took a breath and reminded himself that his new brother had been through hell for most of his life– especially the last few weeks. He would give Tom grace he probably didn’t deserve because they were family now. And that meant he had all their lives to repay him for every headache Abraxas had ever suffered due to his Tom-ness.

With that blindingly bright thought, Brax finally managed a smile.

They established a system within minutes of entering the store. Anything he thought Birdie would enjoy, Abraxas would pull just out of place. If Tom agreed, the item went in the trolley. If he didn’t, he ‘fixed’ whatever Abraxas disturbed. It took them less time than Abraxas anticipated to gather a respectable hoard of fabric bolts. 

“There’s trims and ribbons and buttons and things over this way,” Brax murmured. “Do you want to look at those before we go look at the premade styles to find something you want made?”

Tom nodded. He was heeding Maman’s advice and using his voice as sparingly as possible so the medicinal tea could heal it properly, though it was already much stronger than it had been earlier, when he’d been on the verge of losing it entirely. 

“Ribbons?” he whispered. 

Abraxas led them to that corner of the store. Thick silk ribbon hems and waistlines weren’t exactly the standard in muggle fashion at the moment, but wizarding twists on modern styles were certainly more accepting of experimentation. Maman had several muggle-inspired dresses she was favoring at the moment and he hoped Tom’s imagination was good enough to figure out how well the silhouette would suit Hermione on his own.

Tom ended up putting a few bolts of patterned silk in the trolley along with several spools of ribbon and lace trims. When Abraxas stared at the lace in confusion, Tom said, “Sleeves.”

He desperately wanted to know what Tom was imagining. Thankfully, Papa and their usual brother-sister stylist duo were approaching and met them in the middle of the store.

“I understand we’re shopping for a young lady first and foremost?” The brother looked between the boys with barely-veiled excitement.

“A friend of ours,” Abraxas agreed, desperately trying to remember the stylists’ names. “My brother knows her tastes better than I do, so he’s picked out some fabrics she’d like.”

 The sister – El- something. Elora? Eloise, maybe? – beamed at him. “May we see?”

Abraxas and Tom stepped to the side so the siblings could investigate Tom’s selections while they threw questions at them.

“How old is she?”

“Fifteen,” Abraxas answered. It was a half truth considering they wouldn’t see her again until she neared her next birthday, but the specifics didn’t concern strangers.

Abraxas answered what he could on Tom’s behalf, but there were many things he didn’t know yet, and more still that he hadn’t expected Tom to know, given how adamant he was about not holding romantic interest towards the witch in question.

“Her favorite color?” The brother’s name was Callum…possibly. He’d have to ask his father when they were out of ear shot.

Tom answered slowly, keeping his volume low. “Blue, but she also likes green and purple. Gem tones. Metals. Some orange, but her half-kneazle is a bright fluffy carrot, so that makes it difficult for her to spot his fur on things.”

The brother had a notepad and self-inking quill in hand. It wasn’t clear whether he was taking note of Tom’s answers or his own ideas, but Abraxas supposed it didn’t matter.

“She sounds pretty. Is she clever?” Maybe-Eloise asked next.

“She’s brilliant.” Abraxas winced at the defensive edge to Tom’s voice, but the stylists either didn’t notice, or had the decorum to keep their thoughts from showing.

“Easy, mate,” he muttered. “They don’t mean offense.”

Tom waited until the siblings were talking in low tones about one of his fabric choices to lean over and mutter, “Apparently, most of the gifts they make are for pretty girls of average intelligence at best. But you sang her praises, so they assumed she must not be very smart if she’s pretty enough to charm a Malfoy. Have they not met your mother?”

“Maman prefers her modiste in France, but she shops here on occasion," Abraxas whispered. “Once or twice a year. Their work is quality, but they expect her to act like other sacred twenty-eight matriarchs and she doesn’t believe her social standing should matter when indulging in the artistry of fashion.”

Tom exhaled a laugh through his nose. “I should not be surprised by anything I learn about Lucienne at this point.”

“She likes being wholly transparent and yet impossible to predict,” Abraxas said.

“Dove’s the same,” Tom murmured. “Every time I think I’ve figured her out, I haven’t.”

Abraxas had to physically hold his tongue between his teeth to stop himself from noting that exact sentiment was how Papa felt about Maman. He’d pushed Tom enough for one day.

Well. Pushed him enough on the Birdie issue, at least.

“Are you angry I showed you?” he asked softly. “I still feel weird about it. I’ll have to own up to it eventually…”

“No.” Tom said. “I don’t know how I would’ve taken it from her directly. Badly, most likely. And losing her isn’t an option.”

Abraxas scratched the back of his neck and nodded. “Apparently Flynn’s back in the country, so depending on how long she takes to tell you, we can put three brains on the problem instead of just two.” 

A letter, short and written quickly, had arrived just before they left. It had been dated a few days prior and sent via a hired express owl. He was glad Flynn was coming home earlier than previously expected, but he was apprehensive about the circumstances. 

“When will he join us?” Tom asked.

“In four or five days? They got back yesterday. The riots were making his mother nervous and his parents decided not to stay another fortnight in case tensions got any more out of hand in the big cities.”

Tom hummed an acknowledgement, but couldn’t say more as the stylists turned towards them again.

“Do you have any silhouettes you prefer?” asked the sister. “Maybe we have something on the mannequins that matches her current style?”

Considering her ‘current style’ consisted almost exclusively of their school uniforms fifty years in the future, Tom had to lie through his teeth as he followed the stylists to the showroom side of the store. Abraxas and Papa fell into step a good ways behind them.

“Do you remember their names?” he whispered.

Papa cut him a sidelong glance. “I was about to ask you.”

Abraxas had to look at the ceiling so he wouldn’t laugh and draw attention to them, while Papa chuckled under his breath.

“Elara and Castor,” Papa said. 

“Thank you.”

“How’s little brother?”

He snorted. “This is as close to distraught as he gets in public.”

Papa hummed. “Every time I think he’s finally reached his limit, he keeps marching.”

Abraxas smiled. “Yeah. I hate how he gained that strength but it’s still admirable.”

Before Papa could say something else, Tom called Brax’s name, and they met him by a mannequin.

The dress on display was a similar cut to many of the others present with its A-line silhouette, but instead of the plaids, polkadots, and solid colors making up most of the displays, this one was made of a bolder fabric. White cotton with great wide periwinkle chevrons falling down the skirt that switched directions at the waistline. It had a modest neckline with rounded lapels and a relatively small– compared to some of the other dresses on display– petticoat layered underneath. The skirt swished lightly when it was rotated back and forth on its platform by Castor, who was explaining features of the dress to Tom.

“The neckline is cute,” Papa said. “Do you like the style or the fabric?”

“Both,” Tom answered. “Is the collar a specific style?”

“It’s a Peter Pan collar,” Elara said.

Tom’s eyes snapped to Abraxas’s, a smirk already pulling at his mouth.

“She’s going to hex you,” Abraxas deadpanned.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Tom said. Then, before Abraxas could demand details, he asked the stylists, “Does this one have those tailoring charms you mentioned worked into the fabric?”

Elara smiled. “It does. Shall we take it down for you? It can wait at the counter while we finish exploring options.”

When they apparated home hours later with their purchases, Tom went rigid.

“Something’s wrong.” 

Then he was gone, sprinting through the house.

Normally, Tom and Hermione were the only ones capable of sensing the low magical resonance from their shared diary when it was in use, but Abraxas was certain the wrongness silently buzzing through the air was coming from Tom’s diary.

He dropped his bags and chased after Tom.

The diary was on a coffee table in the family room when he followed Tom inside. Maman was pacing behind the sofas, one hand pressed over her mouth, her brows furrowed in concern.

“I have not touched it except to bring it closer for your return,” she said.

Tom’s hastily muttered “Thank you” was almost inaudible compared to how frantically he flipped to the relevant page. Papa joined them, hot on Abraxas’s heels apparently, and asked what was going on.

Tom was shaking, but Abraxas couldn’t tell if it was from their sprint through the house or because of what he was reading as he skimmed a page and flicked aggressively to the next.

“How much did she bloody write?” 

“It’s not all her,” was Tom’s clipped reply. “Some of it–”

He cut himself off, grinding his teeth so hard Abraxas could hear it. 

“Is she okay?” he asked next. She had to be, right? They had fifty-odd years to plan for whatever crisis was happening in the future.

Tom’s breathing, already labored from running, shifted dangerously close to hyperventilating as he started searching his pockets for the wand he’d left upstairs. “I need–”

“Biskey!” Brax called.

When the house elf appeared, his ears instantly flattening in concern, Abraxas asked him to get their wands as quickly as possible, which the elf did in an instant. The second Tom had his, he silently cast vigilio on the walls and finally tore his eyes from the diary.

Abraxas heard her before he made sense of what he was seeing, but even then, it took him a minute to realize he was hearing a person and not a dying animal.

Curled up in a ball on a bed in her Gryffindor dorm room– in near total darkness except for faint ambient moonlight from her windows– Hermione was in hysterics, muffling her near-screaming sobs in the blankets. She had a quill fisted in one hand that rested against the diary’s open pages from her efforts to write Tom. 

“Biskey, will you also get me a quill and ink please?” Tom’s voice was so level that it sent chills down Abraxas’s spine.

The elf came and went again with two quick pops. Tom crouched down to use his knee as a table, rather than turn away from Birdie’s pitiful state, and wrote furiously.

She was uncomfortably slow to respond to the change in her diary’s magical signature, whimpering when she moved the tiniest bits to sit up and pull the book closer. A constant grimace of pain twisted her face, swollen and red from crying at the very least. Not that Abraxas could pretend she was only in emotional distress. There were scratches on what little of her skin he could see. Her jumper was torn. There was dried mud in her hair, she had cuts on her face starting from the skin surrounding her mouth to her lips and ending at her chin, little bits of rock were embedded in scrapes on her hands and face, and something in her posture screamed violence without taking into account fresh bruises only just visible in the low lighting.

Maman made a soft noise of distress. “Oh, petite.”

Birdie’s eyes were nearly lifeless as she shook with the effort to lift her head enough to read the diary. They watched her struggle to push herself onto her knees, groaning in pain all the while, until a spasm temporarily halted her progress.

Tom went perfectly still.

“Surely not,” Abraxas said, but the words were weak to his own ears. 

When it ended, taking most of her limited strength with it, she sat back on her calves and struggled to breathe through the tremors. Fresh tears spilled over her cheeks and dripped off her chin, but she managed to lift a hand up to one of the curtains on her bed and silently cast the spell.

He could only see the side of Tom’s face from this angle, but Abraxas was fairly certain he was seconds away from exploding. If anything, Birdie managing to cast vigilio only wound Tom tighter.

“Breathe, Dove.” 

Brax didn’t know how he sounded so gentle when his tendons were standing out of his skin like they were ready to snap. The main things in Tom’s way of getting to Hermione were time and the fabric of reality. If there was ever anyone capable of defying both, Tom would, probably in the next few seconds.

Hermione was breathing, albeit poorly. It was impossible to tell if her distress was causing her to shake so badly or if she was truly in that much pain. Abraxas feared both were equally true, especially when she choked out a heart-twisting cry of Tom’s name.

The quill snapped in Tom’s hand, splintered pieces falling to the carpet.

“Breathe, little bird. You made it to your dorm. You made it to me. It will be alright, you just have to tell me who’s life I’m ending and I’ll make whoever hurt you go away, I promise.”

She lifted her head with a sniff, blinking slowly as her lips trembled. Her intent was clear the second she started moving to stand in spite of the pain and spasms that twisted her expression. 

“Dove, wait–”

He expected the focus point of the spell to move with her as she tumbled off the bed, but she didn’t. It rippled out of her way as she ran directly into the room. Tom dropped everything the second her fingers were visible on their side of the spell, met her halfway, and caught her when she stumbled from another violent spasm. 

Only one spell caused aftershocks as violent as she seemed to be suffering from. 

Tom was going to go on a murder spree in fifty years and Abraxas would gladly be an accomplice.

“I’ve got you,” Tom murmured, her cries muffled against his chest. “Brilliant little bird, I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

On the wall, her cat paced a circle on her bed where she’d been a moment ago. Abraxas frowned. 

Safe wasn’t the word he’d use…