Snap

In the very first moments, the world strikes Tom as strangely blurred. With a flicker of surprise, he notices his hand — slender, fragile — stretching outward, the cold rim of spectacles brushing against a face that feels curiously unfamiliar. The bleak, unforgiving space of the room takes shape around him, as if he has seen it all before. His legs move of their own accord, carrying him toward the door, down the stairs without a sound — steps toward departure — fingers brushing the brass latch. And there it is: the door to a realm of wonder. The heavy sweetness of summer air makes his head spin. He knows, with utter certainty, that he must finish the work in the garden, or once again go without food. He knows it, yes, but how? His calloused hands close around the suffocating scent of green stems, tugging the stubborn weeds until they come up whole, roots and all. The earth — warm, almost burning from the relentless sun — fills his senses. Tom breathes in its sweetness, a fragrance that seems both new and long forgotten. With a kind of hungry delight, he digs his fingers deeper into the dark, damp soil, until a sharp, shrill voice cuts through the air: “Boy!” Without thought, Tom drifts toward the sound, and at the threshold collides with a thin, sharp-faced woman. She hisses like a snake, and for some reason that fleeting image — slithering, venomous—makes the “boy” stifle a laugh. “How many times have I told you, Potter!” Snap. The soil-stained hands suddenly feel foreign, not his own. The woman’s mouth opens in silence, then she vanishes into darkness. Only the rich, earthy scent lingers, pursuing Tom for a few heartbeats more, until it too dissolves into nothing. Snap. At night, Tom cannot understand why he hears feverish mutterings so near his bed. He clenches the blanket in his fists, grasping for the unseen companion, but remains alone in the room. And then comes an echo — not in his ears, but deep inside his head — someone cries out, broken and absurd: “Don’t kill Cedric!” Almost unconsciously, Tom’s hand rises to the strange scar on his forehead. The touch brings a burst of laughter — carefree, mocking. Really, what childish nightmares. He knows no Cedric. Yet something stirs within his chest, unpleasant, heavy. Moonlight spills across his bed, silvering the bedside table with its wand and photograph. With a swift, thieving movement, Tom seizes the picture and lifts it so close that his nose bumps against the glass. Closer still. A man and a woman. A dance. A kiss. He studies the red-haired woman’s face with mounting unease, and again the whisper comes: Mother. He shakes his head violently, as if to banish the insistent vision. Now he raises the wand. The woman screams, desperate, sacrificial, just like the voice pleading for Cedric’s life. A green flash and — Snap. He is certain he has not set foot outside in ages, yet there she is again, the gaunt woman at the open window, complaining to her husband that “the boy is always sneaking off to who-knows-where.” He lies in the shadow of a low bush, drinking in its saving coolness. From the television drifts the calm tone of a newsreader, and Tom feels startled by the absence of news. He craves it — for some reason, he craves word from another, magical world. He tries to recall why he must not leave Privet Drive, why he must wait for September, when a heavy hand seizes him by the collar and hauls him upright. “What are you skulking out here for, you ungrateful boy!” The man’s spittle flecks his face, and Tom barely restrains the urge to wipe it away until he is released. He has known since the orphanage: never provoke those who are stronger. A blow can always be returned later, when the moment is right. His feet carry him far from the house, out into the sweltering, empty yard. Evening. Solitude — how he loves it. He listens to the rustle of leaves in the trees, tips his face to the warm gusts of wind. He longs to merge with the elements, to live inside them, to make sense of this strange, unfamiliar body. A foreign body. And there is that feeling again — that it is not Tom who speaks, but someone else, when the heavyset boy (like his uncle) leads his gang. He feels anger when a Muggle mentions Cedric. He feels anger when a Muggle mentions mother. The other — Tom senses it more sharply than ever — carries a knot tightening in the hollow of his chest. The other threatens the Muggle, half in jest, yet why does it ache so bitterly? The living murmur of the linden alleys falls silent. Tom listens to the taut stillness. In his mind, a whisper spreads: “Dementor, dementor, dementor.” He runs. Breath tearing in his chest. Stops. Behind him, a hooded black shape looms over a boy. And beside Tom — another. Some memory of a Patronus. A Patronus? Nonsense. He never knew how. He hesitates. Watches helplessly as the vile, shadowed creature presses close, drawing him inward. Snap. “Harry, thank goodness you’re awake! You frightened us so badly!” He turns bewildered eyes upon the beautiful girl with the wild, bushy hair. “I’m not Harry. I’m Tom.”