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It was as if a shadow had crept across the classroom that only Tom could see. Behind him, his classmates were rushing out in excited groups, moved by the prospect of freedom at last—the end of their first day of classes after the summer.
Outside, the leaves had yet to turn, and the sun shone brightly with the vestiges of summer. But it was as if every entrance, every window was an impenetrable chokehold on its warm rays.
Tom remained in his seat, his desk long cleared before him. At the front of the classroom, Dumbledore gathered the last of the students’ summer reports, sending them into a neat stack on his desk with a wave of his wand. Lucretia had already left with Walburga in tow, though not before giving Tom a quick glance to assure herself of his well-being.
He wasn’t. Doing well, that is. Because he could feel it in the too-clear air, unnaturally still and lifeless.
Something had changed.
Only yesterday he’d been shivering with excitement at the thought of seeing Dumbledore again after the long summer months. All the ideas he had, all the research they could conduct together, the late nights they would spend discussing all manner of subjects at length, the sheer majesty of it…of magic , and revelling in it. Sharing it.
He’d thought he’d never fall asleep the night before. He’d tossed and turned, but in the end, he did manage, because it would not do for him to underperform on the first day back, but it came close.
So very close.
It only took a single step inside the Transfiguration classroom to know that something had gone terribly wrong in his absence.
Dumbledore would not meet his eyes. He welcomed the class with his usual cheer, led the lesson with his signature endless patience, and answered questions with just the right level of detail to draw his students’ interest. But when it came to Tom, he was, inexplicably, avoidant.
There was an emptiness there that Tom did not like.
It was not that Dumbledore refused to speak with him. When it came Tom’s turn to answer, Dumbledore dutifully acknowledged his response, which was flawless as always. He even awarded him points.
Five meagre points.
(In the Great Hall, five green crystals clinked into place.)
But that was it. The bare minimum, only as much as Dumbledore would afford any other student besides Tom. He was indifferent to Tom’s presence in his classroom, not cold indifference but something tepid, something effortless and not faked, which would be far preferable (though it had to be, it had to be ). And that was unacceptable.
Tom wanted to be furious, but more than anything, he was scared.
He was determined to regain Dumbledore’s favour, and so he had opted to stay behind after class. They would speak, and he would discover what had gone wrong. Why Dumbledore was treating him so. He would tear the truth from him with force if need be.
But he didn’t know how, not really. Dumbledore was unapproachable. Answering questions during class was rote by now, unlike speaking one-on-one, heart-to-heart. And that was assuming Dumbledore was even willing to listen, which was looking more and more unlikely by the second.
It’d never been like this before. Dumbledore had always taken care to welcome him back personally after each summer, taking him aside after class once the other students had gone and Tom could act freely. Dumbledore had always looked so very pleased to have him under his tutelage again, always so eager to praise, noting every little change that occurred in their months apart.
“Oh, Tom, how you’ve grown…”
Ever since that first summer Tom had begged Dumbledore to let him stay, his face red with shame and indignance…
It’d become the norm for Dumbledore to check up on Tom. At first, Tom had found the attention irritating. After all, he’d done just fine on his own in the past—at the orphanage—so why would it be any different at Hogwarts? It wasn’t as if the adults ever had anything nice to say about or to him anyway. Prying eyes only lead to trouble, and so Tom did his utmost to drive Dumbledore off.
Tom was unpleasant. Sharp and barbed, like a cornered porcupine. When no one else was looking, of course. It was like their mutual secret, Dumbledore who saw the truth before all others. To the rest, Tom was kind, capable, modest.
It was a relief not to have to play pretend around him, if Tom were to be honest.
But the professor stuck to him like a counterless curse. Doggedly and of his own volition, that endless patience making itself known again. No one would know if Dumbledore surrendered and gave up hope. No one would care. There was no cause to watch Tom so closely, after all, not when he was the perfect student, as far as everyone was concerned. Yet still he did.
Knowing his shame, Dumbledore never told a soul. So Tom spun lies about the orphanage, pretty lace nothings to conceal his weakness. The status quo was maintained.
Eventually, finally, Tom became accustomed to it. Their interactions. The frequency. The attention and care. It was hardly as if Tom could get away from him while attending his classes.
Tom became attached.
And when Tom became attached, he became jealous. Possessive. He hid them all away, stowed in the back of his dresser, his dark feelings, that sinking threat of rejection, for fear of Dumbledore finding out and being repulsed. The child with the mangled heart, whose emotions would not stay in line.
So what had he done? What had Dumbledore discovered at last? Had he caught wind of Tom’s numerous misdeeds? Who among his trusted had dared to tell?
The uncertainty weighed heavily upon him. But soon Dumbledore would head off for the day, no business remaining to be done in the classroom, and Tom could not stand for Dumbledore to pass him by as if he were not even there. A mere speck of dust, no different from those motes drifting mindlessly.
Finally, he stood, the sound of his chair being pushed back startlingly loud in the near-empty room. Yet still Dumbledore would not look his way.
“Professor?” Tom asked. But his voice seemed to catch in his throat. Hoarse, barely more than a whisper. Almost painful, like a forced confession.
He tried again, louder this time. He would not go unheard.
“Professor.”
Dumbledore looked up, surprise colouring his features. Like he truly hadn’t noticed Tom staying behind. As if the tumult of Tom’s emotions, the storm of them was contained only to himself. As if Dumbledore were a ship unruffled by the crashing of the ocean waves.
It couldn’t be. Dumbledore had to be doing it on purpose. How could he forget how much Tom meant to him? What was it that he wanted from Tom? If Tom had done something wrong, Dumbledore should say it to his face so he could fix it.
Across the room, their eyes met; finally, finally.
And all Tom could feel was a scorching anger.
Simmer, boil.