Lesser Virtues, Greater Goals | Tomarry

Chapter 6: Trauma goes well with chamomile

Harry did not sleep well.

Perhaps it was the pasta with the tomato sauce he had for dinner. Perhaps it was the nerves. Whatever caused this, gave him one hell of a night.

Visions of Voldemort behind Quirrel's head, red eyes, screams and green lighting, his mother laying lifeless on the floor, huge snakes...

He was screaming again, without being aware of it, for his mind was still stuck inside the nightmare.

The screams ended up waking the Slytherin.

___________

Tom was always a light sleeper.

With most of his summers spent in a building that was always a breath away from being a target of falling bombs, he couldn't help but ordering himself to wake up every two hours, just to check if Wool's was still in one piece.

He might not have cared enough about the other children, but he did care for himself. And if a bomb were to fall... that was it. They would all die.

By some miraculous design, bombs never fell on his orphanage.

He had heard about others in the area though that had been rendered to dust. And the kids there? Dead, a great deal of them.

But he couldn't know that. So he was always prone to worry every time the local sirens were ringing to alert everyone into shelters - these being an underground room or the nearest train station.

And so, we go back to the problem of the light sleep... He hears very clearly the boy's screams when they do happen.

He opens his eyes at once and forces his limbs to move. His arms bend into an angle to support the rest of his back and head. He sits up. Then the legs move. First the one, then the other.

He really cannot get used to the substantial, both in himself and the world around him. Even the brightness of colors surprises him.

He stands up, puts a pair of simple white slippers on his naked feet, and dressed in a grey set of winter pajamas, he opens the white door of the room.

Harry's bedroom is six doors away, for the house is considerably big.

(A little secret. It wasn't his, like he had misinformed the Gryffindor. How would he find money to buy a home, after being in a bloody journal for half a century?
He had enough to afford food, but that was pretty much about it. And he couldn't return to Riddle manor in England. Dumbledore would find him immediately.
A newly married couple had owned the tasteful little house before him.
Nothing an Imperio couldn't fix. He ordered them to move along with the rest of their property, besides the lodging to... somewhere in Hawaii. They didn't seem upset when they heard that. He had done them a favor. Please. Hawaii is an excellent destination.)

He opens the door to the boy's room slightly, so not to startle him.

Though, from the way of things, it doesn't seem like the boy can listen to any outer source of noise. He is too absorbed in his dream.

Tom arrives near the bed. He puts a hand on the other's shoulder, shaking him briefly. "Harry. Harry, wake up, come on."

The boy is still tossing and turning. Sweat runs down his throat. He does not appear to be listening.

"Focus on my voice." Tries Tom again. "Can you do that? My voice."

Harry opens his eyes and sits up with a gasp.

Tom is relieved, if he were to be honest with himself. Hearing that for more than five minutes was agonizing.

"It's alright." He says and sits by the bed. His hand hasn't been detached from the boy's shoulder yet. "None of these things can hurt you."