Chapter Text
The incredible artwork above is by Elaia, PLEASE check out her fics, she is an incredible writer as well as artist and I am ENAMORED by her much nicer rendition of my original art below:
Now off to the story! ❤️
Everything hurts.
Everything.
Tom tries experimentally to move his fingers, and finds that he can’t. Helpless, he lies on the warm grass and stares at the blue sky.
Of all the miscalculations Tom has made in his short life thus far, putting on the sorting hat sitting in Dippet’s office was by far the stupidest one. Worse than the time he asked his fellow Slytherin what a mudblood was. Worse than the time he allowed himself to be found alone in the common room by the fifth-year bullies in his house. Worse than when he raised his hand one too many times in Defense and Abraxas Malfoy pinned a note reading bollocks on his back in retaliation for being “an insufferable know-it-all freak.”
Tom tries again, craning all the muscles in his neck to allow him to look at something other than the white puffy clouds floating above him.
Nothing.
He’s still paralyzed when he hears rustling in the bushes and a female voice say, “What’s that over there? Ron! Look!”
Eventually, a pair of heads loom over him. One boy with bright red hair and an offensive number of freckles, and one girl with a heart-shaped face and an offensive amount of hair.
“Is he dead?” The Red-Haired One asks.
Tom finds he is able to speak.
“Do I look dead?”
The boy and girl jump.
The Girl with The Big Hair speaks first.
“Are you alright? What’s happened to you?”
“I’m fine, if you ignore the fact that I can’t move my body.”
“What happened?” she asks again.
“None of your business!” Tom snaps. “Take me to the headmaster. He ought to fix this, the senile old fool!”
The Red-Haired Boy jumps again, but this time he looks like he’s poised to punch Tom rather than try to get away from him. The Girl with The Big Hair pulls his arm and makes a face as if to say calm down.
“We can get the headmaster,” she tells him carefully, “just… wait here.”
“Wait?!” Tome panics, “You can’t leave me here! What if some half-breed shows up and tries to kill me?”
This time, the Red-Haired Boy pulls back The Girl with The Big Hair.
“Listen mate,” The Boy starts, “You’re too big for us to carry, so you’ll just have to wait while we get Dumbledore.”
“Dumbledore? No, get the headmaster! Not Dumbledore!”
The Boy and the Girl look at each other.
“What’s your name?” The Girl finally asks, eyeing him suspiciously.
Tom looks from The Boy to The Girl, as he can move his eyes just fine. From their expressions—The Boy, worried, and The Girl, guarded—he can tell something is not quite right.
“What’s your names?”
They seem to think for a moment, and then after exchanging yet another look, The Girl decides to answer him.
“I’m Hermione, and this is Ron.”
“Nice to meet you.”
They seem surprised by his manners. The Girl—Hermione—finally answers him with a “Nice to meet you, too.”
“What’s your name?” Ron asks again.
Tom’s usual instincts kick in.
“T—Tim.”
“Tim what?”
“Fiddle.”
“What house are you in?”
“Slytherin.” He sounds more bitter than he means to. “What houses are you in?”
“Not Slytherin, that's for sure,” Ron deadpans, sneaking a glance up at Hermione. She simply looks at Tom, concerned.
Tom rolls his eyes. “Are you twelve?”
“Nah, we’re fourth years.” Ron answers quite literally.
Tom ignores Ron's blatant stupidity, and says, “I’m a fourth year, and I’ve never seen either of you in my classes.”
“Er… now that we’re all introduced,” Hermione interrupts, “I think we’d better get the headmaster now.”
“No! Don’t leave me here.”
Ron turns to Hermione, and they do that thing again where they seem to be communicating without words. Tom wonders with excitement if they are both legilimens.
“We could use mobilicorpus,” Ron suggests.
The Girl—Hermione—casts the spell. Tom has trouble adjusting to her name—must be pureblood, they always use the strangest names—but her charm work is quite good. Tom feels a light floaty feeling fill him until his body lifts off the grass. He can’t say it’s unpleasant, but he’d rather be able to walk on his own.
On the way to the castle, Ron again asks him what happened.
“I don’t know,” Tom answers. Ron seems to miss his bitter tone.
“Likely a spell gone bad,” He surmises casually.
Hermione questions this theory. “Bad enough to catapult him 100 metres from the castle?”
“Er… one time Seamus got blown out of the potions classroom because he added flobberworm when he was supposed to add bubotuber pus.”
“Yeah, but he only ended up in the hallway. Plus, there haven’t been any explosions today.”
“’Spose you’re right about that.”
“Who is Seamus? He must be stupid if he didn’t realize flobberworm is the worst substitute for bubotuber pus.”
“He’s an alright bloke.” Ron defends.
“He would have been better off using dragonweed sap,” Hermione suggests.
“Or at the very least Murtlap oil.” Tom adds.
Ron asks Tom if he plays quidditch. When Tom says no, Ron doesn’t seem to care, and changes the topic of conversation to quidditch anyway.
“Shame quidditch will be canceled this year. Harry is devastated, you know.”
“Who’s Harry?” Tom says right before Hermione accidentally bumps his floating body into a tree, “Watch it!”
“Sorry!”
“He’s our friend,” Ron explains, “You alright, Tim?”
Tom almost asks him who the hell Tim is.
“I’m fine. Just be careful,” He remembers to add, “please.”
They enter the castle in an uneasy silence, Hermione being extra careful not to bump Tom against the stone walls as they climb the steps to the headmaster’s office. There are no students around, thankfully. The last thing Tom needs is for his housemates to witness the situation he’s in. They’ll never let him live it down. If possible, the bullying will get worse.
“What do we do now?” Ron asks.
They are standing in front of the headmaster’s office, but they obviously do not know the password. If Tom could have, he would have puffed up his chest and grinned.
“I know the password. It’s gargoyle.”
Nothing happens.
“That’s strange, it worked just a bit ago.”
“When were you here?” Hermione asks him.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, maybe the headmaster changed it?”
“The term only just started!”
She shrugs. “You did just wake up on the lawn with no memory of how you got there.”
“I know how I got there!” Tom snaps. He does not like Hermione’s know-it-all attitude.
“How?”
“I was in the headmaster’s office when… anyway, I just woke up on the grass outside.”
“So… you have no memory of how you got there.”
Oh, she is insufferable.
“Sherbet lemon.”
“What?”
“Might as well guess some passwords instead of arguing,” Ron shrugs.
“Chocolate frog.”
“Bertie Bott’s every flavour beans.”
“Caput Draconis.”
“Exploding Bon Bons.”
“Fizzing Whizzbees.”
“Bloody Baron.”
“Peppermint Toads.”
“Licorice wand.”
“Ragnuk the First.”
The door does not budge. Tom is still floating, and getting increasingly nervous that someone will run into them.
“Why are you two only guessing candies?” he asks, but his question goes unanswered because at that moment, footsteps can be heard coming down the stairs behind the door.
“Shh, it’s him!” Ron says just as the door opens.
“Good morning, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger.”
Tom freezes. He knows that voice and it is not the headmaster. It is probably the last professor he’d want to catch him in such an act of wrongdoing.
He curses his luck as Dumbledore says, “And who is this?”
He watches as a silvery head of hair comes into the periphery of his vision. Hermione must be moving her wand to levitate him closer to the floor, because bit by bit, more of the silvery head becomes visible, until Tom sees a mass of wrinkled skin, penetrating blue eyes, and a very, very long white beard.
It is his transfiguration professor, that is for certain, but he is old.
Dumbledore stares at Tom with the same astonishment Tom feels.
“Tim Fiddle, sir.” Ron answers.
“We found him paralyzed in the quad, by the Black Lake. He said he was in your office before it happened, Professor.” Hermione adds.
“He can’t move, but he can speak.” Ron tacks on needlessly. Tom tries not to roll his eyes, but really, he’s too horrified at the sight of an aged Dumbledore to say or do much.
“Well,” Dumbledore finally speaks, “I suppose we’d better head inside.”
He gives Tom a calculating look.
“We have much to discuss.”