08.09.1930

The silk of her skirt is caught between Tom's fingers, not quite creasing the fabric but it's coming dangerously close to doing so. Sophia soothes her hand through the soft waves of dark hair, fingernails scratching idly at his staple in that motion she's already realised relaxes her little charge, trying not to focus on the way he's half hidden behind her skirts. Mother has made herself busy in the kitchen following a quick introduction, not that Sophia can blame her, what with the way Tom has refused to leave her immediate vicinity. Dad, meanwhile, sits on the couch, some project or other sprawled out over the coffee table and she's relatively sure Mum would be making her disdain for work within the living room very clear if not for the fact she has company.

"Come on, Pumpkin. You can sleep in my old room." Tom's hand slides from its grip on her skirt to instead tangle itself in between her fingers, the palm slick with dry sweat. Sophia squeezes his hand ever so gently, steering Tom toward to stairs as her dad offers to get Tom a glass of milk for his bedside. Beneath her feet, the stairs creek and groan, a familiar chorus from her childhood, only this time the accompanying sound is lightly, less glaring. Zander isn't here to contribute to the noise and it's Tom instead, his slight weight that causes the grumbles from each step. Her room stands at the end of the hall, the oak door painted a pale pink back when she had been only a little older than Tom. It's remained unchanged throughout the years, even as her princess phase lost its grip on her somewhere around the age of five. She can't claim it completely gone, not when she does so love dressing up.

"It's smaller than your room at home," Tom notes when they walk in, his eyes flickering around the walls, absorbing the large bookcase to the left, the stack of soft-toys nestled away to the left. The walls inside are cream, the carpet a gentle rose to match the rose-gold accents that the vast majority of the furniture boasts.

"Well, this was my room when I was a child," she points out, smoothing her hand down the back of Tom's neck as he leans into her side. Returning to work… it sucks. She doesn't want to go, doesn't want to leave Tom even though she knows he'll be perfectly safe with her parents. How could he not, when they raised both herself and Zander? "And I'm an adult now. It only makes sense my bedroom in my own home would be larger. Though I promise the bed is just as comfortable." Tom eyes the bed in question dubiously, like he can't quite believe what she's saying and Sophia cannot blame him. After all, she has complete control of her own home and thus, it is perfectly to her tastes. In this room, she'd had to bow to her mother's opinion too and it was her mother's opinion that throws were tacky. Nevermind how delightfully cosy they could be.

"You'll be back in the morning?" Tom asks, not quite looking at her but the way his hold on her hand tightens is quite telling indeed. Sophia hums, kneeling down beside the boy and taking a gentle hold of his chin with her free hand, tilting it up so that she can look him directly in those dark eyes.

"Nothing on this earth could keep me away, Tom. I promise, once my shift is done, I will be back here for 10 o'clock and we will spend the rest of the day together. Though I may need a nap around dinner time." Sophia presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, thumb caressing one cheekbone, half-hidden beneath the puppy-fat of youth. He does look so very much alike his father, even the stern, serious set to his face. The wobbly bottom lip is a new sight for her though. "Come on, pumpkin, let's get you tucked in."

.

Her father comes up just as she's finishing tucking the duvet covers around Tom's arms, his zouwu cuddled tight to his chest and her old occamy toy occupying the bedspace that Tom himself does not take up. It's a clever little charm, filling the space available without growing out from the covers; it'd been the closest thing to a hug Sophia had gotten from something that was not living and had been a toy Mother had brought with her from her own family, one she herself had used as a child.

"Milk, in case you get thirsty in the middle of the night," Dad declares, present the glass to Tom before he places it on her old beside table. Tom eyes it carefully, snuggling down further in the soft fluff of the pillow.

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't be ridiculous, Tom. It's Edmund, or Gramps if you want." The look on Tom's face makes it abundantly clear that the word 'gramps' shall not be passing between his lips any time soon. Instead, he offers a small nod, wiggling deeper into the he comforts of her old bed. He looks tiny on the mattress, even though it's smaller than the bed she has got for him at the cottage.

"I won't be gone long," she promises, stroking Tom's cheek once more. Heavens. How do mother's of newborns actually leave them alone for the first time? She's had Tom all of a week and having to leave him here with her parents is excruciating. Her father's knowing smile is not helping matters either. "You'll go right to sleep, wake up, and you'll have a fantastic breakfast in the morning. Much better than my cooking." Mother is quite good with household charms, after all. "Have a lovely night's sleep, Pumpkin."

Doctor Bones has been the family physician for some year now, has become a close friend to the family, but Tom is rather certain the man had no doubt been more than a little disgruntled at being called into the hospital before the sun had even risen. Despite any misgivings the man has, Tom doesn't not hesitate to linger by his office door as the man escorts his mother from the examination table to the threshold, even if he should be returning to the Humber that is parked upon the road outside. Now that his mother has been pronounced of good health and the sharp pain she had experienced in her chest 'nothing to worry about' by Doctor Bones, another matter has begun working its way into the forefront of Tom's mind.

"Something on your mind, Tom?" Mother pauses, halfway out into the corridor and looking over her shoulder toward him, but Tom shakes his head, gesturing for her to carry on, the implication that he shan't be long lingering in the air. Mother fires him a frown and there's every possibility that she has worked out exactly what he wishes to discuss with Doctor Bones. Physically, he is as healthy as he can possibly be— there's only one other reason he could wish to speak with the good doctor.

"Have you spoken with Sophia lately?" He pitches the question low but there is no hiding the fact that Tom wishes for an answer different from the one he is expecting.

"A single letter so far, I'm afraid," Doctor Bones states, grey eyebrows rising from the unfortunate, stern set of his face. "And I rather have the feeling she has been writing to you a sight more than she has to me. She didn't move far from our little town; I am quite certain that she would be willing to entertain you if you were to darken her doorstep, Tom." Well, he does suppose that Doctor Bones has not yet met her new charge then, not with the way he seems so certain Sophia would welcome his company at the moment. Tom could not possibly intrude upon her home at this point in time. Within her letters, she seems to be dancing around the topic of the boy, of his son. If it is in consideration for his own feelings, or in an attempt to keep the two parts of her life separate from one another, he is unsure.

"Thank you, Doctor Bones."

"The entrance to her place of work is still York Hospital," Doctor Bones says, slotting what Tom assumes to be his mother's papers into a folder, "despite the very specific wing she will be working on." Right, a magical wing because Sophia, despite being a doctor, is also a witch. Heavens knows what sort of unnatural ailments she would be dealing with there. Still… this does give him the chance of potentially finding her without the boy. Surely she would not take him to a hospital, filled with infectious diseases? It does bring to mind the question of where his son stays when Sophia is working, for he highly doubts she would leave him home alone. But then, she can travel across the country in the blink of an eye. Perhaps a friend or members of her family watch him while she works?

.

When he gets to the end of the corridor, Mother is waiting for him, her winter coat wrapped tight around her from the sudden onset of the autumn winds that leak in through the open windows.

"Tom, darling. What was all that about?" She is already aware, Tom is sure. He answers regardless.

"I was asking Doctor Bones if he has seen Sophia lately."

"She hasn't been by the manor in a while," Mother muses, lips pursing as she gives him a once over. "Is she upset with you?" And there it is, his chance to lie. He could claim that yes, she is upset. It would prevent his mother from chasing that line of questioning for a while, would possibly prevent her from seeking Sophia out herself. But he has no desire to lie here, even if telling the total truth is not an option either. Mother would march him right back around to the Doctor if he did so, sure he was falling back into old patterns.

"Sophia adopted the boy a week ago," Tom admits and watches as, after a moment of confusion, understanding washes over his mother's face. "I have been keeping a respectful distance as she adjusts to the new challenges such a situation gives, especially given the fact I am connected to the child." He keeps his voice low, unwilling to be overheard as they exit the hospital's grand entrance, making for the Humber where Henry waits for their return.

"She has— your son is nearby then?" Mother looks to and fro, as if expecting a three year old child to suddenly appear from around a corner. This is exactly why he has not told either of his parents where exactly Sophia has moved to, other than that she resides within one of the nearby villages. While not as disgruntled by the boy's existence as Father is, Mother would not hesitate to point out any qualities that the boy has (or hasn't) that qualify him as a disappointment. And while Tom is quite certain that Mother would struggle to find anything on the child that is lacking (heaven's sake, the boy could read and write at the age of three, he's clearly very intelligent) there is something she could potentially find that is very… unnatural. The thought of Mother trying to enforce a distance between himself and Sophia (and the boy) because she comes to realise he had been truthful on the fact he'd been enchanted, if she tried to keep him away because she comes to realise magic does indeed exist… The thought is not one Tom wishes to linger on.

"Yes. Sophia has written little as she is understandably quite busy." Or he assumes so. He knows mother has received exactly one letter from Sophia, a simple explanation that, due to her move and the new job, she will not be able to attend afternoon tea for the foreseeable future. She'd not mentioned the sudden adoption of the child (of his child) to her and, for that, Tom is thankful. It'd given him the chance to get use to it himself before having to explain it. The last thing he wishes is for his mother to assume he is incapable of handling the fact that the last living evidence of the tramp is suddenly in the nearby vicinity.

"Tom, darling." Mother reaches out with both of her hands, taking one of his and cradling it between her palms. "Are you quite certain you wish to keep courting Sophia?"

"Yes." She makes him happy; for the first time in years, he has been able to reach out and trust another human being, has felt like he is making progress from those dark months when he had first returned from London. He has not had an episode in over a year now. When a reminder of those hazy, frightful months had struck him, when he has locked himself within his room and destroyed anything within the immediate vicinity that reminded him of the tramp (and some things that did not and had just been unfortunate enough to be close at him when the mood took him). "Without question."

"And the boy will be part of your life then." That goes without saying, Sophia has taken him in and she will not give him up, that much is evident. He can respect her for putting the child before her own wants, even if it has put him within the uncomfortable position of weighing up his own past against the future he wishes to chase.

"Yes. I am afraid I do not wish to speak more on the matter, Mother. Not right now. I'm afraid I have business in York to attend to, if you are willing to have Henry drive us through before you return home?"

.

York Hospital, despite being several decades old, is a rather attractive building. For what it is, anyway. There are large windows across the entire length of the building, no doubt for the patients to get a sense of the outside world. It is here that Tom finds himself, sitting upon one of the few benches dotted outside, mind running far faster than it has any right to. Will the doctors inside even be aware of the magical extension to their hospital? Will Sophia be down as a member of the staff, or will they be oblivious to her connections to the building? There is nothing that prevents him from inquiring after her; if she is not a known associate, then he needs not visit again. It does not matter in the slightest what they think of him if he is not to visit York's hospital again. It does not— That is Sophia leaving the hospital doors.

Startling, Tom shoots to his feet, craning his neck to better see over the shoulders of a passing couple but his eyes have not deceived him; it is indeed Sophia leaving the hospital doors in her usual light pastels and outrageous shoes. Tom's feet take him forward without any conscious thought until he is but a few feet away from her, they exact moment when she too realises who stands before her.

"Tom." Not Mr Riddle, but a soft, delighted whisper of his name as she approaches, smile on her lips despite the exhaustion hat mars her eyes.

"Sophia." And it is utterly ridiculous that he wishes to do nothing more than just bask in the fact they are once again close to one another. Instead, he offers out one hand for her, drawing her close when she places her palm within his, until there is but a handful of inches between them. Then, with more daring than he had expected to feel, he draws her completely into his arms, cradling her close in a hug that she is swift to return.

"It's only been, what? Three weeks since we last saw one another?" she says it with good humour, but Tom does not miss how her own arms tighten at his waist for a moment before she steps back, looking up to meet his gaze with a soft smile and tired eyes.

"Just abouts," he agrees. "Are you well?"

"Only tired. I'm afraid I just finished a night shift, my first one since I got… my new charge." At that, Sophia pauses, rummaging around in the bag she has hanging from one of her shoulders. She retrieves a small vial from within and, after a quick glance around, downs the bright orange concoction. Tom watches with a mixture of worry and fascination churning within his stomach as her cheeks flush a bright red for a few moments but then return to their natural state, taking with them the dark shadows that'd lingered under her eyes. "A wake-me-up," she explains, tucking the vial away with a frown.

"And how is my— your new charge?" Should he be calling the boy his son when Sophia, his primary caretaker, is addressing him as her charge? Will she be offended if he states as such?

"He's fantastic. A little unsure still which I completely understandable what with being in a completely new place with different people." Sophia tucks one loose strand of hair behind her ear, drawing attention to the duo of simple silver studs that currently reside within the lobe. "He's currently staying with my parents; I'm going to pick him up shortly." With her parents who live down South. He had been thinking along the right lines then, even if acknowledging the boy is perhaps even further away than he was before does nothing to soothe the discomfort within him.

"Writing to you is just not the same." She blinks, bleu eyes wide as she turns to look at him, an understanding sort of expression filtering across her features.

"I agree. I miss you." He misses her also. Yet, there is the boy and Tom's own hesitance that needs to be conquered before they can even begin to approach the idea of spending time together again in the same manner that they once had.

"How is— Tom coping living with you now?" It is a bit of a struggle, getting the child's name out. It's only after he's finished the sentence that Tom realises he has all but repeated the same question. This time, however, it seems Sophia believes him willing to listen in more detail about what his son has been up to this past week now that he is in Sophia's care. He listens as she recounts that first night, how the boy had fallen asleep while reading, how she had carried him back to his bed and tucked him in. He listens as she recounts their journey to York for clothing, how they spent a day exploring the back garden, then walking through Poppleton pointing out all the key buildings and locals that Sophia has made her acquaintance with since she moved in. It is blindingly clear that Sophia is already very much attached to the boy. In the same respect, it is becoming more and more evident that, in order to remain in her life, his son will very much be a condition that Tom shall have to grow used to.

Once again, a burning hatred for the tramp rises within him. Were it not for her, had Sophia and he been lucky enough to cross paths in a different world where different choices were made, then it is very much possible that he would have already proposed to her, would have lowered himself to one knee and presented her a ring in the Russian gold she so favours. There would be no hesitation resulting from the damage his own mind has suffered, no deep sated ache over something so desperately desired but just out of reach for no tangible reason. And yet, the tramp's ghost does not haunt him. When he looks upon Sophia now as she recalls her young charge's work toward mastering reading, he almost has to actively make the links between Sophia, his son, and the tramp who so ruined him. How long will he allow her this too? She took months from him, stole them with an unholy creation and then continued to linger far past her own death, it turns out. She has ripped years of his lift from him— can he walk along the streets of York beside Sophia as he does now and knowingly let go? Can he knowingly push away the persisting traces of that vile woman, acknowledge that all that remains is a son she never raised and continue on with his life? How long will he allow her to continue stealing his own life from him now that she has wasted hers?

"taking him up to Hogsmeade to meet Zander… Tom? Are you well?"

"Sophia. Is there any chance you would make time for me within the week? I am aware you have your responsibilities and I am more than willing to work around them. I miss spending time with you." She stares, cornflower blue eyes wide, no evidence to the dark smudges that had sat beneath them but minutes ago.

"I can ask my parents if they would be willing to watch Tom for a few hours. Though I can't say when it would be."

"Write to me," he requests, reaching for her hand, one finger tracing the curve of her knuckle before she closes the space, twining her fingers with his own. "You are on my mind far too often. I miss a time when you walked beside me instead of through my mind." Her smile is butter soft, eyes wistful.

"Of course. I've missed you too. We…"

"I want to meet my son," Tom states, even as discomfort crawls over his skin. He pushes it down, forces himself to continue because he wants this, despite the hesitation, the ache that tries to insist something will go wrong. "Not this month. The next— if he is willing." Because it is not just Tom whose life the tramp ruined. She brought a life into the world and then abandoned him. She stole months, years of Tom's life and condemned his son to an orphanage, parentless and alone.

"I will ask him after he's a bit more settled," she promises, her gaze drifting to his lips, her grip upon his hand tightening ever so slightly. Tom leans down, close enough that their lips are but a breath away from one another, every exhale ghosting across the skin. "And I will write you. Always." He presses his lips to hers, a gentle brush that presses harder as he seconds tick by, as Sophia returns the pressure with a gentle exhale, sucking ever so slightly against his lower lip and it doesn't make him flinch. His forehead rests against hers when they part, one of his hands at her side as the other continues to rest against hers, fingers tracing the thin tendons on the back of her hand.

"Thank you. You are on my mind perpetually, Sophia, darling."

Tom wakes in a bed that is not his own. It takes a moment but his brain produces the answer; it is Sophia's old room. She has had to return to work to earn the money needed to keep them afloat. His zouwu is still tucked up against one side, Sophia's strange old toy occupying the rest of the bed, even though it'd been much, much smaller before it'd been tucked under the covers. Tom draws the quilt back, watching the strange snake-bird thing shrink until it is once again no larger than his arm. It takes a moment of sitting upon the bed, but Tom manages to drum up the courage to get up, to approach the bedroom door that leads out into the corridor. These are Sophia's parents and, while her mother had not much spoken to him, her father had. Edmund, he'd said his name was. He'd even invited Tom to call him gramps, to address him as family. It is… startling to think about.

Tom makes his way down the stairs, inspecting the photographs that line the walls. They're black and white, just like the ones he'd seen in the papers on the walk to the church with the rest of the Wools orphans. The difference is, these document the growth of the Lovegood family, a little girl who gets older and them a boy who joins her, both with hair so light the pictures make it near white. Sophia and who Tom can only assume is her brother. (Maybe in the future he will be in one of these pictures too?)

Arriving at the bottom of the stairs, he looks to the kitchen, finding Sophia's mother sitting up to the table, a slice of toast in one hand and a wand in the other. Is she performing magic? Tom takes a hesitant step forward, pausing after that first move when Sophia's mother looks up and meets his gaze. He doesn't flinch, doesn't duck his head because this is Sophia's family and Sophia is… kind. She's kind to him and families are supposed to be like each other, aren't they?

"Come on then. Don't dally at the bottom of the stairs. There's breakfast to be had." Sophia's mother sniffs, tipping her head back so her nose is in the air and Tom frowns at the action. That only draws a smile from the woman though. "So there is some fire to you after all. Come eat some toast and I will show you a real work of magic."

.

The roar of the fireplace interrupts them a half hour later, forcibly drawing Tom out of the absolute fascination he had been neck deep in while watching Aurelia Lovegood work. He'd had no idea magic could be planned out, could be set to turn on when certain conditions are met or to activate when certain people crossed the boundary line. Wards sound fascinating and Sophia's mother is very smart. That she had offered to begin teaching him the runic alphabet that most wards almost makes him want to come here. Almost. Because while it hasn't been horrible, there has been no Sophia here. It's why he abandons the table the moment he hears the sudden burst of flames (the floo, which witches and wizards like him use to travel to each other's homes instead of walking).

Tom skids around the door into the living room, feeling his heart leap up into his throat as he finds Sophia standing upon the living room floorboards, brushing the last few sparkles of green powder from her dress. She looks up, her eyes catching on his and lighting up. Then, she's crossing the distance between them before Tom can think to get his own legs moving, scooping him up into her arms and Tom doesn't even care that he's now resting against her hip like a baby who can't stand up, too busy wrapping his arms around her neck and pressing his face to her shoulder. She still smells like her, even if there's an odd, medical like smell to her as well. Probably from the hospital, not that Tom has actually been to one himself. He doesn't plan to either, not unless they'll let him come to work with Sophia. He could probably learn a lot there. Not that Sophia's mother hasn't offered to teach him either, but Sophia's work has Sophia. That instantly makes it better.

"I've missed you too, pumpkin." He doesn't even care that Sophia's taken to calling him a vegetable instead of his actual name. It's a nickname, it's nice and it's warm and comforting and he wants to be a pumpkin forever. No one at Wools gets called a pumpkin, not where Tom had heard it anyway. Nuzzling his face up against Sophia neck, Tom only half-heartedly registers Aurelia asking Sophia how she is. He's not sure what a 'wake-me-up' potion is, but it's something Sophia has apparently taken. He can make a good guess at it, but if Sophia's here, he's… happy. It's odd, knowing the bubbling feeling in his stomach is happiness. There'd bene brief moments at the orphanage where he'd had this, but it'd never lasted this long. It'd never been this… strong.

"Ready to go home?"

"Yes," Tom breathes, drawing back from Sophia's neck to look into her eyes. They're a lighter blue than his, the kind you can tell the colour of from a distance. If he wanted to play-pretend, it wouldn't be too difficult to say Sophia is his actual mother. The absent father would have to have dark hair like Tom's, his eyes would have to be darker, but he'd still share the same waves as Sophia has in her hair, the same blue in their eyes, even if hers is so much lighter. "Aurelia said she'll teach me the runic alphabet."

"Well, don't be going putting up wards around our house. The last thing we need is to be changing into monkeys if you get it wrong." Tom smiles, returning his head to rest on Sophia's shoulder. Even though he's excited to be going home, he still has enough thought to thank Sophia's mother for breakfast and smile at her goodbye.

.

After Sophia changes clothes (she's wearing trousers! The kind the workmen use that're thick and Sophia's are covered in paint splodges), they both end up in the garden, finishing up the tree-house that they started two days ago. Sophia uses magic to build it, the materials weaving together at her command even as she keeps asking Tom what to do, where to put things, what colour it should be. Because it's going to be his treehouse. His little space to hide or to explore from or to just relax in. And she says that he has to give her permission to go up there and there'll only be a handful of spells on it to keep him safe and warm. There's a rope with thick knots in it every so often to climb to get up and a twisting slide that runs from the treehouse around the trunk to spit him out at the bottom, on the opposite side of the roots to the swing that hangs from the thickest branch. And there's something Sophia had called a zipline that'd carry him from the very top of the treehouse halfway down the garden, close to the cottage. Sophia had promised him it was safe but the only thing that'd be holding him to the thin bar on the metal wire would be his own hands. Hands that have not had much practise holding his whole body up. Even if she's used a sticking spell that doesn't come off, Tom's not going to risk that. Not until someone else has tried it anyway.

"Want to go test it then?" Sophia asks, her wand stuck between the bun of hair she's got atop her head and Tom looks back to his treehouse, something he'd never have imagined last month. The thick rope is rough under his fingers and it takes him three goes to figure out how to move up the rope with it wiggling around like that. But he manages, getting to the top and pulling himself in with a lot of effort. Inside the treehouse, there're cushions in the soft yellows he'd picked because it reminded him of the Miss Lovegood who came for him at Wools, a thick blanket in the same grey that his room's carpet is. There's a working tap that draws on water from the river and cups that're charmed to wash themselves after he uses them. He only needs some snacks here and then it would be the perfect place to hide away if he wanted to. Like his room at Wools where no one had dared come in unless he let them, but only better. Because this has been built for him, he's been able to make decisions about it.

"Can I come join you, Tom?" Sophia is standing by the rope, smiling up at him and the distance between her being able to climb up here and his own climb doesn't seem very big at all. Tom nods, watching as Sophia shimmies up the rope like she's done it plenty of times until she's in the treehouse with him, not having to duck because she'd used magic to make the room taller on the inside than it is outside.

"Happy?" He nods, not wanting to put it into words because he'll spoil it. Instead, he flops down on the cushion and Sophia joins him a moment later, right next to him but not touching, not yet. She lifts one arm in a silent invitation for him to join instead and Tom does so, pressing his face against her chest to feel every breath she takes.

"What did you think to staying with my parents then, pumpkin?"

"They're nice," Tom settles on after a moment of thought, swallowing as he hugs closer to Sophia, sinking into the warm hand she places on his back and then begins stroking back and forth. "Aurelia thinks I'm clever."

"That's because you are," Sophia says with a little laugh. It's a warm sound, the kind that makes him sink into her side deeper. "Mother is a little odd with some of the things that she can think, but she is very good at recognising talent. It's why she married my dad. And you have talent by the bucket, Tom." He does, doesn't he? And because he's talented and clever—

"You're nicer though." Sophia giggles again, her eyes slipping closed. Yeah, a nap sounds like a good idea right now.