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syntheticsoulmates · 4 years

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Day 17- Director

Tom was expecting the air raid sirens. The bombs. The orphanage shaking down to the foundations as they all crammed in the bomb shelter besides the eyed potatoes. He was expecting the stale fear sweat scent as they all huddled together. He was even expecting Mrs. Cole to down a flask of gin without even sharing with the other matrons.

He was not expecting a polite rap against the bomb shelter door, and an even voice calling “Hello?”

The whole room hunkered down further. They couldn’t open doors during a raid. No matter that they shouldn’t even be able to hear that mild mannered voice.

The orphanage shook again. “Well, that won’t do,” the voice said, sounding cross, and then Tom felt a huge wave of magic course through the room, through him, enveloping everything. Suddenly the orphanage was terribly still and quiet, the air raid sirens gone. Tom hissed at the sheer power of the shield charm as it fizzled and sparked inside him.

The Muggles around him side-eyed him. They couldn’t feel that wash of pure power.

“I’m terribly sorry,” came the voice, completely unassuming considering what Tom had just felt. “I know this is alarming, but I’m afraid I’ll have to come in.”

Mrs. Cole, surprisingly, put down her flask. “‘Ain’t no one coming in, no how!” She called.

“Er, yes, apologies, but, er, I’m afraid there’s a time constraint?” And then the door and the cross bar just unfurled themselves, exposing a slight man wearing a hideous maroon jumper with a big goldenrod ‘H’ and a short black wand in his hand.

Magic. The orphanage turned as one to stare at Tom. Tom put his chin up under the scrutiny, refusing to be intimidated.

“I’m looking for a Tom Marvolo Riddle?” called the man, smiling crooked and self-deprecatory, obviously trying to put them all at ease. He was utterly clean, too clean to have been wandering around London. He pushed thick black (what material was that?) spectacles up his nose and peered around, looking slightly anxious and embarrassed for having broken in. Tom could tell it was an act to case the entirety of the room.

Amy shoved Tom in front, even as he hissed at her, uncaring. He hadn’t quite hit his final growth spurt and she was still stronger than him from all the time she spent making bread with the matrons. He straightened his clothes best he could. He did not pick at the holes on the sleeves of his depressingly grey jumper. He pretended like he’d meant to step forward and gave his best cool, unconcerned look.

“Ah!” The man obviously knew Tom on sight, smile tinging with relief. His shoulders dropped a little. “Oh good! You’re still alive.” Tom’s gut chilled and he carefully did not snarl, did not let himself fall into the well of that familiar rage. Yes, he was still alive, no thanks to the goddamned magical world, or these bleeding Muggles, so determined to kill themselves and take him with them.

But then Tom stopped, and re-regarded the man in the doorway. Obviously a wizard, although not as tone deaf as Dumbledore in his banana yellow suit. Tom’s heart skipped a beat. Had they sent someone to rescue him? His throat felt tight.

The man strode forward, broad, confident strides. He held out his hand, although kept his wand ready in his left. “Harry Potter, Director of Magical Law Enforcement.” He paused. “Well, I will be, I suppose. Or won’t, maybe, if this goes right.” He murmured to himself, almost inaudibly. Then, a brightened: “Pleasure to meet you.”

Potter wasn’t directly looking at him, scanning the room still, almost for a threat. Was this a trick, trying to get him to violate the Statute of Secrecy and get him kicked out of Hogwarts? Had Dumbledore sent this man? Tom looked at Mrs. Cole, who was gaping at Potter. Would it be worth it, anyway, to get out of this sad excuse of a bomb shelter and away from these bombs?

Tom held out his hand, tentatively, not sure how to take that pronouncement. Potter’s hand was small, but warm, and the heat sapped into his cold hands and made joints he didn’t even know were aching stop. The buzzing strength of Potter’s magic pulsed obviously under the skin. Potter pumped his hand, once, twice. “Pleasure,” Tom forced out, running this scenario through his head. Could he dare to hope for a rescue?

Potter kept his face smiling, but his slight eyebrow twitched, like he could tell Tom was lying. “Well, anyway, we need to get out of here right now,” Potter said, urgent. He started to herd Tom to the door. “I cast a shield, but it will only work against Muggle weaponry. Do you have your wand?” He looked Tom up and down. “Pull it out. Don’t worry about the Trace. I’m giving you dispensation to-”

Then Mrs. Cole. Melted.

“Traitor!” The melted morass of Mrs. Cole shrieked, growing taller, eyes glowing. A thick rope of stuff reached out and grabbed Tom around the wrist.

“Bugger!” Potter shouted, and sent a burst of spell-fire at Mrs. Cole, catching her across the torso and arm, blowing Tom free. The top half of the Mrs. Cole-that-wasn’t splattered across the wall and Billy Stubbs like so much mud. The bottom of half of Mrs. Cole kept moving, and Tom felt a pull in the air, like being squeezed, and the bottom of Mrs. Cole seemed to attract itself back in.

Billy Stubbs screamed and then choked as the sludge of Mrs. Cole sucked itself out of his mouth and reformed.

Potter grabbed Tom by the shoulder and yanked him towards the door. Tom blinked like an idiot, watching Mrs. Cole’s flesh writhe and restructure itself. Her chin opened, a giant maw, revealing a morass of uneven jagged teeth and a thick black pulpy tongue. Potter made an exasperated sound, and then seized Tom by the back of the neck and physically hauled him out the door.

Potter sent the door crashing shut with an non-verbal flick of his wand, and Tom caught up to himself enough to draw his own wand out of his pocket.

Potter didn’t stop, continuing to pull Tom out of the orphanage basement roughly. Tom could see the thick sludge that comprised Mrs. Cole squeezing itself out through the door’s sill and almost gagged.

“What the hell is that?!” Tom shrieked.

Potter grunted, and hauled him bodily up the stairs. Tom tried to get his legs underneath him, but they felt like a baby faun’s, struggling but still collapsing. “Homunculus of some sort, I imagine. It’s been sent to kill you. Keep up.”

Tom looked down at his wrist, a bright red from the not!Mrs. Cole’s grip, and puzzled that over. He hardly seemed important enough to kill, as much as that pronouncement flattered. “And you?” Tom asked, feeling crazed.

“I’m here to help,” Potter clipped. “Which would be easier if you would move on your own.” Tom flushed red with embarrassment and anger, but managed to get his legs underneath him and keep pace.

The morass of Mrs. Cole appeared on the stairs, stretching unnaturally like pulled taffy, and Potter flicked his wand again. She froze, literal icicles dripping from her. Tom shivered at the sudden drop of temperature. The mass of Mrs. Cole began to crack. He wondered whether to shatter her, if that would help or hurt after she’d drawn herself back together. He did nothing.

Potter got them to the door of the orphanage, and Tom pulled up short, suddenly washed with cold fear, more than the mess that wasn’t Mrs. Cole could ever hope to inspire.

“There’s an air raid out there,” Tom hissed.

“I am aware,” Potter clipped, as he threw Tom through the doorway into the utterly empty street. Tom fought like a cat being thrown into a bath, but it was no use. How could a man so small be so Merlin-damned strong?

“Can’t we just Apparate?” Tom asked, terrified. He knew the second they’d stepped out of the protective shield of Potter’s casting. Potter’s magic left his skin with a sensation not unlike a soft kiss, and the blaring of the air raid sirens took up again. They were deafening him after that thick safe quiet. Tom heard the thick crash and boom of bombs in the distance, and the thunder of planes. The scent of burning was thick in his nose. His skin crawled, exposed, and he burst into sweat. The very sky was terrifying.

“Can’t. That thing has proximity wards. We need to get far enough away.” Potter said, too utterly blasé at the death awaiting them all around. “Hurry.” He paused, looked at Tom, did a double take. He drew Tom close to him, close enough to sort of knock their foreheads together. Tom felt his sweaty skin press up against the man’s forehead and fought to breathe. “Relax. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” He said. His breath smelled slightly of mint. “I swear.”

Tom nodded and stumbled behind, shell-shocked and shaking.

#day 17: director #tomarry d&d-athon #terminator!au #don't be rough on tom #he's a poor terrified 15yr old

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