Chapter Text
And Don't Look Back
Tom lounges on her couch, a spread of old newspapers all around him. News on Matilda's disappearance are highlighted; circled in red ink. He's determined to follow this mystery to the end, even if he has to do it the old-fashioned way.
Lavender has offered to help on several occasions, but Tom is adamant she rest.
"There'll be more important issues to look into," he says. "Don't overexert yourself to satisfy my curiosity," he tells her.
"It's me who is curious," she reminds him.
"Then I'll satisfy you," he promises.
And they have to take a break and head straight to bed, because he just shouldn't say these things.
Tom's investigation advances slowly. There isn't much anyone knows about Matilda Walker's parents, and they're nowhere to be found. He really, really doesn't want to resort to muggle means – the so called "police".
"Do you hate muggles?" she asks him one day.
"I hate weakness," he answers.
It's both unexpected and strangely fitting. Tom despises uselessness and disdains ordinariness. He wants Lavender because she can do what he can't – in Tom's book, that is the highest possible merit.
"I've never met a muggle," she admits. "But the most talented witch I ever knew was muggleborn," she tells him.
"A friend of yours?" he asks, not raising his head from the newspapers.
"Not really," she says. Because she and Hermione had a tumultuous relationship in their best moments, and once fought for the same man. They were just too different to understand each other.
He finds her answer amusing.
"You're always so honest," he says.
It's not true at all, but it's better if he thinks so.
Lavender and Tom spend most nights together, and open up their respective shops in the morning. With the excuse of convincing Madam Cassandra, he visits her often – Mr Burke is very interested, after all.
Tom actually manages to run into her, at last. The Madam comes out from behind her curtains and surprises him. He's learnt to not expect her.
"Are you still charging him?" Madam Cassandra asks her.
Tom can't tell at all, but the Madam sounds terribly amused.
"Madam Vablatsky," he says. "A pleasure meeting you. I'm here to offer you a deal on –"
"No, you're not," she says, and walks past him to pick up one of the tiniest boxes on the top shelves.
Tom sighs.
"As expected of Lavender's grand aunt," he says, and bows lightly.
"Blood is thick," the Madam lies.
"The Inner Eye is stronger when passed down," Lavender agrees.
Tom gives up and sits down. They all know he's here for Lavender now. Well, all but Mr Burke, a fact the Madam finds hilarious.
"Old fool," she says. "He's never had an eye as good as he likes to think," she then tells Tom.
He smiles, charming, at her. It seems Madam Cassandra can feel his darkness too.
A week later, on their day off – blessed Mondays – they're cuddling on Lavender's couch. Tom is, as always, re-reading old articles. He's patient when it comes to research. He flips pages and pages with a cup of tea by his side and only pauses to drop a kiss to Lavender's forehead when she rests her cheek on his shoulder.
Then he flips another page, and Lavender sees a picture of Matilda's father for the first time.
Huh, she thinks.
William Walker is by no means a remarkable man, but he was desperate enough when Lavender met him to have made a lasting impression.
It's the man who, months ago, asked her to let him speak to his daughter. "I need to talk to her. Please – please help me talk to her." And she, silly Lavender, sent him to the necromancer hag two streets down.
It seems the old thing might have other skills, besides speaking to the dead.
"I know who it is," she says. "The Queen."
She glances at Tom, who looks thoroughly impressed. Well, it won't hurt to let him think she's that good a seer.
"What would I do without you?" he asks, reverent.
Lavender knows exactly what he'd do without her.
"Not a single good thing," she answers.
Tom laughs.
They leave immediately. Tom follows Lavender as she walks towards the hag's shop – it must certainly look striking, in his eyes, that she can tell the exact place.
A few clients mistake the hag's shop with hers, and so she's used to giving directions. She's never been inside before, but when she stands in front she can see the similarities. It's exactly as the Madam's business was before Lavender prettied it up: decadently dusty.
She walks in, and Tom follows her with heightened curiosity. Their luck has it that they find William Walker inside, dropping a considerable bag of galleons on the counter. For one single instant, Lavender considers changing her business to necromancy. But, she decides, she should stick to her talents.
"I'm sorry for your loss," she tells William, and takes his hand within hers. "Only one left now." And Gifford will follow soon.
His face is hollow as he nods in acknowledgement.
"Thank you," he tells her.
And he means for leading him to the hag, but he doesn't say it. Good, she'd rather not have Tom know. He'd just find it droll – but she wants him to be awed, not amused.
"Seer girl," says the hag, coming out to view.
She looks like an old woman that forgot to die when it was her turn some two-hundred years ago. She's not comely, to the physical eye. To the Inner one, she looks even worse – a blob of inhuman, shifting darkness.
"Have you come to banish me?" she asks, looking at Tom.
"Not at all," he says, approaching the counter. "I just want to know how you did it."
Lavender sits with William Walker and asks him questions about the muggle world while Tom and the hag discuss a price. William tells her of discovering magic, of trying to fit into a world that doesn't want them and which they can't understand. Of failing to protect their little girl. Of not being taken seriously by wizarding authorities.
Lavender thinks she can understand eleven-year-old Hermione a bit better now. Perhaps, she thinks, she had it harder than she'd initially assumed.
"Wicca is the only one who would listen to us," William tells her. "We paid her, of course – But she let us talk to Matilda, you know? After she was gone. Our little girl –" his voice breaks. "She could tell us the names of the men who hurt her."
And then Wicca had taken care of the rest. Whatever curse she used, it's a rare one. To Lavender, it appeared inescapable – the hag is a fearsome being, indeed. No wonder Tom is so interested.
"They suffered," Lavender assures him. "I saw."
He nods.
A few steps away, Wicca shows Tom an old book on blood magic. He busily takes notes as she speaks. He looks like Christmas has come early, and Lavender can't help but look on fondly.
"You lot have thick skins," William tells her, looking a bit green.
Tom and Wicca aren't shy with the gory details.
"No," Lavender says, "we're not the norm."
William looks at her, eyes dull and dry and empty.
"Could you read my future?"
Lavender takes pity on the poor man. She won't even charge him. She asks the hag if she's got something strong to drink. The old thing looks at her like she's a foolish, little child. She spats something at her in a foreign language that Lavender takes to mean her liquor is, indeed, strong.
The bottle she hands her sublimates green fumes when open. Lavander hopes it's drinkable for humans. She takes a swig, and she sees stars. It's good stuff. She gives William tea – with a drop of the liquor, because he can certainly use it.
She turns his cup once.
"Plough," she sees, "hard times, a struggle."
She turns it again.
"Stars," she says, "hope."
And a third time.
"Oak. Strength in a long life," she says. She looks at him, then. "You'll make it through this."
He thanks her, looking more sad than relieved. William leaves the shop and Lavender goes to join Tom and the hag. He's convinced her to let him borrow the book, and looks pleased with himself.
"Where do you buy this?" she asks Wicca, holding her green bottle.
"You're tough, for a little human girl," the hag says. "You can buy it from me."
Greedy old hag, only thinking of profit. But well, Lavender can somewhat understand.
They leave the shop, both with their respective prizes. Lavender thinks she should start charging the hag a commission – she's brought her a lot of good business.
Tom takes her hand as they stroll through the unsavoury streets around Knockturn. It's a terrible neighbourhood, but Lavender's learnt to find beauty in it. In the way the Old Magics live, hiding in those dirty, dark corners. In the way everyone who truly needs something finds a solution behind a rundown door.
There's more power flowing through these alleys than most think.
Tom brings her to his flat for the first time. It's not hard to guess why he's never done so before. It's practically bare, unlived and uninviting. It's not Tom's home – just a place to sleep in. Knowing him, he probably thinks it's temporary. Tom aspires to more.
There's a room hidden at the back, though, that's crowded with rare books. Lavender walks in and is displeased when not a single one deals in her arts.
"I, too, know my limitations," he tells her.
She supposes he has a point. She'll have to buy her own books.
On top of a desk lays a single, leather-bound diary. Lavender doesn't need to approach it to see the sevens. She frowns. Tom picks it up with nostalgic fondness.
"You don't approve," he says.
"I don't know what that is," she admits. "But I told you to stay away from sevens."
Tom laughs.
"I will," he says. "I trust your judgement – I'll get rid of it."
Lavender really hopes he does.
"So what's a good number for me?" Tom asks.
"One," she doesn't hesitate. "You're the King, remember?"
His eyes gleam red. He's pleased with her answer.
"One," he says. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps there's more strength in the whole than there is in seven pieces."
It sounds reasonable to her. Why split something that works whole? That's what she tells him, and he laughs again.
"Why indeed," he says. "I'll have to find another way."
Lavender is confused.
"To what?" she asks him.
"Ah – you'll see," he assures her. "I plan to share, after all."
Well, if she'll see then she'll see. She's never had a problem with waiting. What she has a problem with, however, is the state of Tom's flat. She can't stand the sight of such emptiness – it reminds her of when she arrived to the forties with nothing to her name.
"You need to redecorate," she tells him, "or I'm not coming back."
"Why bother?" he asks. "Let's just move to your flat."
She shakes her head.
"It's too small for two. It'd be cramped."
"Then to a new one," he suggests. "The two of us."
Well, with both their salaries, they could afford something decent. It's not a half-bad idea.
"Sure," she says. "Why not."
They practically live together already, anyway. It's nice to have someone to come home to, and no one can deny Tom would make one delightful roommate. He'd make better decoration than anything she owns, at the very least.
And she does like the way he looks at her.
"Let's get married then," he says.
Huh? She doesn't remember agreeing to that.
"Married? I'm too young for that," she says, waving the idea away.
Tom is taken aback.
"Live together… without getting married?" he asks slowly, as if he isn't sure he understood her.
Ah, of course, the dreadful forties.
"Yes," she confirms. "We've done worse things," she reminds him.
Tom frowns. It's easy to see he's not convinced by the idea. He gives up, for the moment. But Lavender knows he'll bring it up again.
"Worse things," he says, "whatever could you be talking about?"
Lavender snorts.
"You're a terrible man," she says.
"I am," he agrees. "Do you mind?"
Does she? It's a good question. She minds when little girls get murdered. She minds wars fought by children. She minds brutish cruelty and power in the hands of talentless idiots like the Carrows. She doesn't want a world like the one she comes from.
"I don't like your friends," she summarizes.
Tom nods.
"They'll change," he promises. "Or else."
Lavender sighs. She supposes the key to cohabitation is compromise.
"I want windows facing a nice street," she says. Tom is confused. "In our new house, I mean."
"Windows," he repeats. "Anything else?"
"A bigger shower," she adds. "I'll adapt to the rest."
Tom laughs again and, as always, it's a sound that makes her melt.
"You'll have the biggest shower in London," he promises.
She laughs now.
"Don't make promises you can't deliver."
Tom sits next to her and takes her hand. He caresses her fingertips with his lips and drops a kiss in the middle of her palm.
"I never do," he promises.
She knows he's telling the truth.