Chapter Text
This is shaping up to be the worst Yule in years.
Tom stifled the groan that threatened to escape at the Malfoy Heir’s loud, continuous pouting.
How does one even pout that loudly? Tom grit his teeth as he circled the spacious room, searching for the candles that had his magic lingering in their enchantments. This year, like every year, he’d helped Abraxas out with the spells required for such a large gathering of their affiliated Party members and their families. When it came time to start the ritual, Tom preferred lighting one of his own self-created candles whenever possible, but in these larger celebrations, it could be difficult to manage. Most of the members of their political bloc also liked to light the candles steeped in their leader’s magic, so Tom had learned to plan ahead. Hence, scoping out the room to find the nearest candles he could claim for himself when it came time to light them later.
Once he’d mentally noted all the relevant spots in the room, Tom returned to stand near the settee where Abraxas and his wife were finishing up the last of the preparations. He poured himself a glass of the elf-made wine Narcissa had set out for the family and the few close friends that had arrived early or helped with the seasonal decor. Taking a lingering sip, Tom resolutely tried to ignore the grating hmphs and loud sighs the youngest member of his best friend’s family was releasing amidst the chatter of last-minute rearrangements.
Honestly, how is this boy doing reasonably well in his set tasks for Septima if this kind of behavior is normal enough to not even see him scolded? Pouting should be a silent, emotionally-charged affair and, like any of the other non-verbal tools in one's arsenal, was only to be used in circumstances where your target will actually be convinced to change their actions to suit your wishes. Proper pouting was a skill used to subtly–or even not-so-subtly–shift the mental positioning of those around you. Pouting was only childish if you did it wrong, and it had been years since Tom had seen someone pout so wholly unsuccessfully as young Mr. Malfoy.
Draco was fifteen . This was embarrassing to witness, especially from one of his Slytherins.
“Darling, I can’t imagine why you think your sighs are going to do anything except make your displeasure indecorously apparent,” Narcissa finally said, a sharp reprimand underlying the softly-spoken words. “Even if I could change the invocation order, which, let me remind you, I cannot, this type of behavior, even if only in front of family, which I should remind you it is not ,” she added, with a flick of her eyes towards Tom’s reclining figure, “would not inspire me to do so.”
“But Mother, it’s an insult–”
Even Draco was intelligent enough to cut himself off at the way his mother’s head had snapped up from where she’d been reviewing the seating chart to narrow her eyes on her son.
“An insult to do things the way they are meant to be done? An insult to abide by the rules and traditions that have served as the foundation for our society’s social interactions for millennia?”
Tom kept his face reactionless despite the smirk that threatened to break out at young Mr. Malfoy’s audible gulp when his mother fully turned to face him.
“No, Draco,” Narcissa continued when her son at last had the wit to hold his tongue in the face of that obviously rhetorical question.
“It would be an insult to everything we believe in to overturn those rules for the sake of a teenager.” Narcissa looked regal as ever, wearing her training as a daughter of Black like the crown they always taught their children it was. How anyone ever forgot she and Andromeda were Blacks was beyond him. Bellatrix never let anyone doubt her heritage for a moment, but her sisters didn’t need to be loud about their beliefs, their duties, or their filial loyalty to their birth family.
Only people who weren’t looking could miss the way someone raised by the House of Black held themself, the way they could case a room all while drawing a crowd’s attention or holding a conversation. The Blacks learned sharpness at their elders’ knees. Arcturus in particular had taught his grandchildren how to be piercing. They were stilettos honed to the sharpest point, tipped in poison.
Theirs were also one of the highest-ranking lordships in Britain. From what little he’d gleaned from Orion and Alphard back in school, their duty to Mother Magic was one so crucial to the UK’s magical solvency that the entire family, including all branch families, would have to commit atrocious crimes against Her for their place in the hierarchy to fall.
For Draco to think he could convince anyone, let alone a member of the House of Black, to adjust the welcoming order at the official Traditionalist Yule Gathering simply because ‘he wanted her to’ was ludicrous to the point of hilarity or offense. The tiny, almost imperceptible clench of Narcissa’s jaw indicated that it was definitely the latter.
“I will not hear another word, not even a single sound, out of you about this.” Draco opened his mouth to argue ( fool child ), but his mouth snapped closed and he shrank back at the look that must have been on his mother’s face. Tom couldn’t see it, and he doubted she would have let him even if he’d been in the position to see her face.
“You will not even so much as discuss this again once the event is over.” The boy’s nose crinkled in displeasure, but in the next instant he schooled his face to a more appropriate mien and nodded in acknowledgement. Narcissa looked at her son for another long moment before adding, “And if I find out that you have complained to your friends or mentioned this topic at school, I will put you back in exposure training, and no interference from your father will excuse you from it a second time.”
Draco once again swallowed hard, but outwardly kept his composure. Tom was relieved to see the boy had some sense and the ability to control himself. Maybe he wouldn’t need to reach out to Septima about the validity of the boy’s results.
“It will be as you say, Mother.” The youngest Malfoy said, lifting his left palm up towards Narcissa.
Tom caught the curious sensation of magic condensing in a room that was covered so fully in wards in preparation for the arrival of hundreds of witches and wizards of various power and control levels and was reluctantly impressed. For him to be able to feel any magic in this room meant the magic was significant in some way, or, he suspected, extremely concentrated in intent.
He watched as Narcissa reached down to touch the tip of her middle finger to the center of her son’s palm. A dark grey light pulsed where their skin touched, and Tom felt the magic in the air contract and release as Narcissa moved her hand back. She leaned over to press a kiss to her son’s forehead before straightening up and resuming her previous place on her list of final to-do tasks.
The Blacks really were beyond any outsider’s comprehension, the previous generation in particular.
And now the sitting Lord Black had accepted his invitation to the Party’s Yule celebration for the first time since he’d taken over the mantle from Lord emeritus Arcturus, adding an unexpected twist to this year’s event.
While Sirius Black had not registered the family under the unofficial Traditionalist or acknowledged Dark labels when the mantle of Lord transferred, he hadn’t registered them under the Progressives or the Light either. He’d positioned the family as purely Neutral and had given no overt notice as to his intentions. The past decade of his voting records and bill proposals had shed enough light on his priorities to have an idea of the man’s political leanings, but Sirius Black and his small alliance were playing a long game with patience that Tom hadn’t expected.
That isn’t to say he doesn’t welcome it though.
“Hm, that reminds me.” Narcissa scanned over her list, eyebrows scrunching in her search. “Dobby.” A soft crack saw the Malfoy elf arrive, awaiting his mistress's instruction. “Tilly dropped off pre-prepared Yule candles for the entire contingent accompanying Lord Black tonight. Please set them out amongst the current set up, not completely clumped together but spread out across one area.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Dobby popped away, the box of candles floating into his spindly arms just before he disappeared.
Tom hummed. “Who all is attending with Lord Black tonight, if I may ask?” Better to be prepared in advance or to give in and ask for reminders of the children or partners’ names as early as possible.
Narcissa’s lips curled at the edges into a small smile “My sister, her husband, and their two daughters as well as Nymphadora’s bondeds. Additionally, Lord Black is bringing Lord Consort Black, the elder Heir Potter, the Heir Zabini who is in Draco’s year, and a Mr. Fraser, also a 5th year.”
“And the boys’ respective parents?” Tom couldn’t help but question.
Narcissa shook her head. “Lord and Lady Potter accepted their invites to the Longbottom Ball months ago, and their younger son was already staying with the Longbottoms during the first part of the winter break. Lord and Lady Zabini are back in Italy with the two older children for the holidays, and Mr. Fraser’s family isn’t comfortable attending any of the larger celebrations just yet, according to Sirius. He’s been hosting all three boys while Lord and Lady Potter have been out of the country. They’re returning only hours before the Longbottom Ball.”
Hmm, if Tom recalled correctly, the International Charms Guild was hosting a four-day gathering in Torino this past week. He’d have to keep an eye out for Lady Potter’s upcoming publication. Tom doubted the Potters would have attended during Hogwarts’ winter break, thereby missing out on time with their sons, unless Lady Potter were presenting what was likely a breakthrough in her research. And her last article in Charmed Correspondents had been a fascinating exploration of the protean charm as an emotive communicant via temperature-sensitive metals.
“Please remind me, what’s the name of your niece’s bondeds?” Tom cast his mind back to the invitation he’d glimpsed a year or so back when he’d been invited to their post-bonding celebration, but he couldn’t quite recall both names beside Nymphadora’s. One might have been a Weasley? He thought the other might have been the son of one of his Slytherins.
“Isaac Dearborn and Charles Weasley.” Narcissa said, confirming both Tom’s suspicions. “Although they took her last name since she and Persephone are carrying the house.” Tom nodded. Both the Dearborns and the Weasleys had plenty of other children to hold their name this generation, and the addition of two wizards would be a boon for the settling of the Tonks family magic.
“Thank you, Narcissa.” A consummate hostess, Abraxas’s daughter-in-law.
Tom knew the answer would be no even before he spoke, but his courtesies demanded he ask, “Is there anything I can do to help you with the last-minute details?”
The lady’s smile was soft and amused as she said, “No, but thank you for offering. Everything is as it should be. Please make yourself comfortable until the other guests participating in the invocation arrive.” Narcissa gestured to a chair off to the side that had a glass of Tom’s preferred cognac breathing on a side-table, and Tom thanked her before taking the offered seat.
He appreciated the time to put his thoughts in order. The news about the makeup of Lord Black’s party was unexpected, and Tom was intrigued about getting his first real look at two of his more confounding snakes.
The young Heir Zabini was a boy he saw multiple times a year, even if they only had a perfunctory conversation at whichever holiday event they were both in attendance at. The same could be said for most of his snakes. He even saw Persephone Tonks at a handful of gatherings throughout the calendar year. Potter and Fraser, on the other hand, had always either celebrated the holidays privately or accompanied whichever invitations the sitting Lord and Lady Potter chose to accept.
That’s not to say he hadn’t seen them both before. Tom had caught glimpses of both boys at various times since their sorting, be it the newblood in Diagon, the Heir Potter at a Ministry charity ball two years back, or both boys at the presentation of the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup last year. But he didn’t introduce himself to students in his capacity as Lord of Slytherin House until after they had completed their OWLs. Any earlier and many students panicked, or tried to tailor their behavior to appease him or gain his favor. Also, for all that he and Septima (and Maliflua and Horus before her) asked much of the students of Slytherin House, they were all just children. Be they titled or new to the wizarding world or anywhere in between, every wixen was considered a child, beholden to their elders, until they passed at least one OWL and proved their proficiency to wield their magic safely and securely.
The tasks he assigned the students were teaching tools as much as they were evaluation tools. They were habit builders, suggestions couched as a challenge that encouraged building connections, widening perspectives, reconsidering relationships and learning negotiation.
Both Heir Potter and Mr. Fraser had done very well the past five years in his house. While not a surprise, as Tom knew better than to assume a child would falter or succeed based on their birth circumstances, both of them had approached their tasks with a thoughtfulness and steadiness he hadn’t expected.
Most of the children who sorted Slytherin nowadays had immediate family members who prepared them for the social elements of Slytherin that the other Hogwarts houses didn’t place an emphasis on before their charges were preparing to sit their NEWTs. Those parents were able to be a listening ear for their children, provide stories of their own challenges and how they navigated the shifting political nature of wearing green and silver at school. The Potter boy didn’t have that and neither did Mr. Fraser. Even the younger Tonks daughter had a mother who had sorted Slytherin while it was under his purview.
And for all that James Potter seemingly supported his sons in absolutely everything they did despite neither of them sorting the Potter-traditional Gryffindor, young Harrison Potter didn’t have former Slytherins as parents to guide him. And Dorea Potter had been a few years above Tom when they had both been at Hogwarts, so she wouldn’t be of much help to her great-nephew in the way of advice about how to navigate Slytherin as it was now . So the seeming ease with which Harrison Potter handled the nuances of sorting Slytherin was confusing.
Tom took a longer sip of cognac, shifting his focus to once again go over the list in his head of who he needed to talk to and who he needed to keep an eye on tonight. He made a late addition to pay attention to how the Black party interacted with the rest of the guests and another to add Potter, Fraser and Zabini to the list of children to observe. Tom always used the gala to take note of how the cliques and tensions of his in-school Slytherins played out in public, but until now, he’d been unable to dissect the dynamic of his fifth-years as a whole.
A soft clearing of the throat drew his attention to Abraxas, who had leaned up against the chair opposite Tom.
“My apologies for interrupting your social strategizing, my Lord Slytherin,” his old friend said, his tone perfectly serious and polite but his light blue eyes teasing, “but my daughter-in-law sent me to collect you for the much-discussed receiving line,” he added, pursing his lips slightly in chagrin about his grandson’s behavior.
Tom rolled his eyes so his friend could see that Tom wasn’t holding his grandson’s whining against him before taking a breath, swallowing the last sip of that delightful cognac, and letting the calm poise he utilized for these events wash over him as he stood.
“Then we must not keep Narcissa waiting,” he said. “Lead on, my friend.”
Lucas Fraser greeted him with a measured nod and slightly narrowed eyes, “Well met, Lord Slytherin.”
“Well met, Mr. Fraser.” Tom let the corners of his lips turn up in a small smile. “It’s a pleasure to officially meet any of my Slytherins for the first time, especially those who are excelling within my house. I hope you have been enjoying the gathering thus far,” he said, lilting upwards at the end to turn the statement into a query.
“I’m very pleased to be attending with Lord Black’s party. It was kind of him and of the Malfoy’s to include me” the boy said, stepping around his question with courtesy and poise. Ah, Tom did so enjoy it when he got to see his snakes in action.
“From everything I’ve heard about you so far, Mr. Fraser, there can be no doubt that you belong here. As the hosting Party’s leader, thank you for attending and joining us as we give back to Mother Magic tonight. It is always a blessing to have additional wixen shoulder this gift and responsibility.”
“A second thank you to you, Heir Potter, for joining us tonight as well,” Tom said, shifting slightly to share his attention between the newblood and the young Heir who had stood a step back and to the left of his friend while he made his introduction. “I know both of you typically lend your strength at the Longbottom gathering, and I’m sure your presences are missed tonight.”
Harrison Potter’s lips twitched for a moment before he schooled his expression to a more neutral but still pleasant one.
“As I recently reminded my younger brother, they can do without us for one night.”
Hmm, the Potter boy speaks of himself and Mr. Fraser as a unit. Interesting. That bears watching.
Two pairs of eyes, one green and one blue, observed him intently as the Potter Heir continued, “Regardless of where we gather–here, Hornwood Hall, or at our hearths with just the members of our immediate families–we would still be offering our strength and promising our fortitude for the rest of the holiday season to Mother Magic tonight. But thank you for the kind welcome nonetheless, Lord Slytherin.”
Tom smiled pleasantly at them in return, keeping the amused respect he felt at their attempt at political maneuvering off his face. “Too true, boys. I thank you for the reminder, although that one is a lesson I learned long ago” he said, raising his eyebrows just enough to get his point across.
“Magic is magic, there is no good, no bad, only those who are either strong enough or too weak to respect it in all its terrible power. Wherever or alongside whoever you shoulder the responsibility of being under Mother Magic’s protection doesn’t matter so long as you do .”
Heir Potter mostly succeeded at stifling his reaction to the subtle chastisement embedded in Tom’s agreement. Only the way he forcibly swallowed gave him away. Mr. Fraser also did admirably in taking Tom’s response with grace, but his complexion was too pale to hide the slight flush that ran up his neck as the boys nodded and said, “Yes, Lord Slytherin,” almost in tandem.
Mr. Fraser appraised him again, this time with approval, something Tom’s inwardly preened about but still hoped the boy could learn how to disguise in the coming years if he has any interest in entering the political scene post-Hogwarts.
Heir Potter’s expression was placid and just slightly deferential, not more than befit an Heir to a Lord though–which Tom could only approve of–but surprisingly, it was the boy’s magic that gave away the fact he wasn’t unaffected.
Tom couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows as he felt static collect in the air in front of him. The older man could taste an acidic sting on the back of tongue, like unripened kiwi or apple-cider vinegar, and on his next inhale, the smell of burnt silk lingered. A quick glance at Heir Potter revealed a slightly singed cuff and frantic fingers ignoring the sparks coming off of them as they tapped at the side of the boy’s leg.
As quickly as the surging magic had filled the space the three of them occupied, it dispersed. Or rather, Tom realized with as much surprise as he’d felt when it manifested, Heir Potter collected himself and drew the wild magic back within his core. Impressive for a fifteen-year-old. Or, it would be, if the boy hadn’t let his magic loose in public in the first place.
Heir Potter’s eyes scanned around, frantically looking to see if anyone else had noticed the magic surge. Even as he calmed slightly at the realization no one else had seen what had happened, Heir Potter stood before him, rigid and tense and clearly about to make his excuses.
Before he could, Mr. Fraser, with an air of nonchalance that even Tom found remarkable in the wake of the little scene, exclaimed, “Oh, I love this song!”
It was the les patineurs valse , and it had already been playing for at least two minutes.
“Harry, you must dance with me! Excuse us, Lord Slytherin.” The boy sent a full-teethed, false smile Tom’s way and pulled his friend away as quickly and inconspicuously as he could.
It only took a few steps before Potter processed the exit strategy his friend had employed and matched the other boy’s pace instead of allowing himself to be towed onto the dance floor.
Tom snorted to himself too softly for anyone else to hear as he watched both boys move into the lead position before a mutual narrowing of eyes led to Mr. Fraser sighing and switching to the follow position.
It hadn’t even been a full thirty seconds since Heir Potter’s magic had surged, and his two snakes were already waltzing in perfect time with the other couples moving about the ballroom as if nothing had happened.
Tom followed their progress around the dance floor. The pair moved gracefully, as if they had done this often enough for it to be as comfortable and routine as riding a broom or making a water-soluble potion base. Mr. Fraser responded immediately to every shift in pattern that Heir Potter instigated, and the way they held each other was elegant in a way that Tom didn’t often see two men move together who weren’t—.
Soulmates .
Tom went from casually observing the pair to narrowing in on each place where they touched, searching for–yes, there.
A soft golden glow emanated from between where the boys’ palms were clasped together. If he hadn’t been specifically seeking it, Tom would never have noticed. He also wouldn’t have seen the way Mr. Fraser’s other hand was pressing heavily onto Heir Potter’s shoulder or the way pieces of Heir Potter’s hair were moving in ways that didn’t make sense with the momentum of their steps and turns.
None of the other couples out on the floor were taking a second look at the young pair of Slytherins, telling Tom that Heir Potter was keeping his magic contained to his body this time. A quick scan of the other partygoers watching the dancers showed that the only other people with an eye on either Heir Potter or Mr. Fraser were Persephone Tonks, who looked like she planned to take advantage of the fact her male friends had shown a willingness to dance tonight, and Lord Black, who didn’t betray a single worry for his charges in the way he held himself or his expression but who also didn’t stop watching the pair rise and fall to the swells of the count.
Tom knew he had other intrigues to unravel tonight, but something about the pair of soulmates working to remain undercover on the dancefloor as their magic bounced back and forth and out of their bond had captured his curiosity. He still had a handful of people he needed to speak with, and a quick glance to the right showed Tom that a relocation to another area of the ballroom would help him in his continued avoidance of that particular Yaxley cousin who was such good friends with Mr. Cornelius Fudge, a man who Tom wanted to speak to approximately never, if he could manage such a feat.
And yet still, he couldn’t force himself to look away from the sight of Heir Potter weaving himself and his soulmate between the other couples, spinning the slightly shorter boy under his arm with sure, practiced movements. They moved together with such ease and comfort that Tom felt the faint traces of envy he got from being around happily-bonded couples begin to stir in his chest.
Tom could admit they made a striking pair together out there on the floor. Their robes were not complimentary, but the shades each boy wore worked well with the other’s. The white and grey jacquard print of Heir Potter’s overrobe, trousers, and waistcoat was bright and eye-catching but balanced by the deep plum shade of his undershirt and in the brocade of his dress shoes. Mr. Fraser wore robes of a green so dark it would have appeared black if not for the many candle chandeliers keeping the room illuminated. The greens of his paisley undershirt were only a shade or two lighter, but the softness of the pattern prevented the outfit from looking too solemn, even for the winter solstice. He also had a silver grey collar chain connecting his lapel to his outerrobe breast pocket. The animated thestrals on each end of the chain splayed their wings in time to the instrumental as the boys continued to waltz. That piece was likely a Yule gift from Lord Black, which only reinforced how close Mr. Fraser was to his soulmate, if even the boy’s godfather included the newblood in the family celebrations.
They’re fifteen , he seethed as he watched Heir Potter’s shoulders relaxing and Mr. Fraser’s smile widening into something truer than Tom had glimpsed all night as the pair completed a complicated turn to avoid a less-practiced couple out on the floor. Fifteen! I’ve been waiting for my soulmate for almost 70 years, and these children just stumble upon each other on the train ride, again .
Tom still regretted the loss of the set of plates that his magic had shattered back when his informant had told him that the then-Heir Potter had loudly proclaimed a young Miss Evans to be his soulmate of their first journey aboard the Hogwarts Express three decades ago.
His jealousy had been all-consuming.
Like father, like son, Tom sneered internally, keeping a charming smile plastered on his face as he exchanged greetings with Lord Cornfoot and forced himself to keep his eyes from once again drifting to his two fifth-years.
Even half an hour later as he spoke with Rodolphus and Bellatrix about the recent publication about ancient Sumarian battle magic that had been discovered in a tomb raid this past summer, Tom couldn’t prevent his mind from turning over everything he knew about Harrison Potter and Lucas Fraser’s public interactions.
The fact that he hadn’t heard about a pair of soulmates finding each other during Hogwarts, let alone within his house, told Tom that no one, other than their families (considering Lord Black’s gift), knew of their bond. If residents of Hogwarts merely suspected an open bond, the wider British wizarding world would have heard whispers about it.
If he hadn’t seen Heir Potter’s magic fluctuate, or Mr. Fraser’s magic respond out on the dancefloor, Tom would have assumed they were nothing more than friends, as the pair were more circumspect than some adult couples he’s seen at these events. No matching robes, no covert looks, no teasing touches, no jealousy when they switched partners (as he had seen when Persephone Tonks followed through on claiming Mr. Fraser for the next song and Heir Potter bowed over Heiress Greengrass’s hand when she agreed to partner him). They were remarkably poised considering one wrong move would leave them the talk–and not a wholly positive one–of the night.
Whether their circumspection was due to their ages, considering Heir Potter–thanks to his own parents–must be keenly aware of how frowned upon it was for soulmates who found each other young to progress the stage of their bond during their school years, or whether it was to do with the fact that two men being romantically involved was much less accepted in the non-magical world Mr. Fraser grew up in, Tom couldn’t know. He suspected a little bit of both.
They were good. Very good , he admitted to himself as he watched them mingling with their yearmates. Mr. Fraser was speaking to Cassian Lestrange, gesturing covertly towards where Draco had his arm captured by the ever-chattering Miss Parkinson, and exchanging amused smirks at the way the youngest Malfoy was cringing at how shrill her voice must be so close to his eardrum. Mr. Potter was talking with the young Miss Shacklebolt, leaning over into her space just slightly to hear her better in perfect contrast to what Mr. Fraser and Mr. Lestrange were chuckling about.
Tom watched as Lucas Fraser cataloged the soft blush on Roslin Shacklebolt’s face as she smiled up at Harrison Potter and didn’t even so much as frown about someone else’s infatuation with his soulmate. He just continued his conversation with Lestrange and drew young Mr. Nott into the discussion. Potter, in turn, stayed focused on Miss Shacklebolt and never glanced over to see his soulmate laughing with two other young men. Thus, Tom understood exactly how these two had managed to keep their status as soulmates under wraps despite the literal sparks he’d seen flying between them earlier.
He’d be happy for them if he were a better man, but he is not.
Envy was the first emotion he ever understood during his decade at the orphanage, even before anger and fear and determination. And it is envy he feels when he looks at the teenagers clustered together and the pair of soulmates hidden in their midst.
Tom was thankful for the clasp of Abraxas’s hand on his shoulder, as the physical contact pulled him from his spiraling thoughts.
The scent of sandalwood that Abraxas had been wearing for the past few years put him at ease even before his friend asked, “The night treating you well so far, Tom?”
He nodded and smiled as Abraxas breathed deeply, taking a moment to release the stress of hosting such a large engagement. “You and your family are consummate hosts, Abraxas. Everything has been impeccable, as it always is.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Abraxas said, pausing slightly before he smiled wryly and added, “As glad as I am to see you’ve successfully avoided the introduction Mr. Yaxley has been trying to make for, what is it, three public events now?”
Tom’s deadpan expression had Abraxas chuckling under his breath before Tom’s reply of “It’s very peculiar. Whenever I catch a glimpse of the Yaxley boy I suddenly find myself deaf in both ears and blind in both eyes. I should likely see a healer about that,” had his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“Yes, definitely would be good to get that looked at,” Abraxas said, obvious mirth in his tone. “As worrisome as your bizarre medical condition is, I actually came your way to warn you we’re about to call for the lighting of the candles, so you’d best get into position in whichever part of the room you decided earlier would be least bothersome.”
“Ah, thank you. So I shall,” Tom said, tilting his head toward the other end of the room where Abraxas’s wife was covertly waving her husband over for them to call the room to attention.
Abraxas followed his gaze, saw the signal and excused himself, leaving Tom to make his way to the western side of the ballroom where he’d seen one of his candles a little further away from the others. Using that one would hopefully give him a little bit of a buffer from some of the wixen who usually tried to crowd near him during the invocation.
He made it to the spot he’d picked out earlier just as the Lord and Lady Malfoy called the room to attention. Tom found his pre-made candle easily and reached for it. But just as he did, he felt his magic flow more densely down his arms and pool in his palms. He paused, expanding his senses to seek out whatever it was that had his magic reaching outwards, and let his hands drift to the right to a short, wide candle made of emerald green wax rather than the long, skinny black and white marbled candle he had intended to use tonight.
The runes carved into the outer layer of wax were not the mix of duty, light, and enduring promise that he inscribed on his candles each year. Instead, whoever had created this candle went for a more specific, poetic message than Tom’s chosen reminder of purpose to the members of his Party. Taken together, the green candles’ runes invoked the idea of a weight carried by shoulders united in determination and gratitude, and the imagery struck him as particularly poignant.
Ever one to trust in his magic, Tom picked up the green candle and prepared for the annual lighting ceremony, not noticing the way, twenty feet to his right, in the middle of Lord Black’s party, Harrison Potter’s hands shook around a black and white marbled candle as the teenager tried to contain the way his magic surged the instant he saw his soulmate pick up the candle he had prepared for himself.