Chapter Text
"You'll die young," that old cow Mrs Cole used to snarl whenever Tom stepped out of line. "Straight to hell you'll go, no bleeding question. The Lord won't touch you with a bargepole, you wicked little demon. You don't deserve a crumb of Heaven, and that's a promise."
And Christ, he bought it. Woke up sweating cold every bloody night, fire licking at his heels in the dark. He'd pray, beg for a reprieve, desperate to cling on, but her words were like a brand. She was convinced Tom was just evil, a proper spawn of the devil, and nothing would ever change that.
The other brats in the orphanage, they'd scrap over buttons—an extra pillow, the warmest blanket, a soft bed, the biggest slice of bread, or a pinch of sugar if they got lucky. But he was never one to lose a fight. Any fool brave enough to try it on with him went away with a bloody nose and a face full of bruises.
That was all the evidence that old tart needed to whip him. So Tom always won the fight, and he always paid the price. Even if some little toerag started it, he'd get the stick for defending himself. She'd punish him and tell him he'd be pushing up daisies before he was old, just like all little scoundrels meet a sticky end.
"Those who live by the sword," she'd sneer, "die by the sword."
Funny old thing, though. The kids who kept their heads down, the ones who were good as gold and listened to Mrs Cole, they died just the same. Hunger, cold, or at the hands of some other poor sod. They never touched a sword, but they still met the bloody thing. Tom stopped believing in all that higher power nonsense and divine punishment, but the fear of death—that stayed put. It was deep down, rooted and tethered like a proper anchor. He'd seen too many go, and more than a few had fallen by his own hands. That sheer terror that one day he'd just stop, no more thinking, no more seeing, no more knowing what was going on in the world kept him up at nights.
Living, that was the only ticket. Clawing back what was owed to him, that was all that mattered. And yet, he never gave it a second thought when he threw himself in front of Harry, taking a bullet meant for her.
When it hit him, it wasn't his own end that flashed up, but the thought of Harry being alone. That's what made his chest ache. For a split second, before the lights went out, he wondered why he gave a toss about her feelings. Why the picture of her moving on, marrying some other bloke, having children with some faceless, unknown man made him feel like he was being punished.
Hell wasn't fire and brimstone after all. It was the longing and the sorrow that he wouldn't know Harry any more, wouldn't hear her voice, wouldn't feel her warmth. Tom had never felt this for another living soul, and his very last thought was that the feeling was bloody strange, and at the same time, all he wanted was more of it.
And when Tom thought that the old cow was perhaps right about his fate all along, distant sounds started bleeding into his head. They were muffled and muted, swishing and clanking as though Tom was a passenger on an old train, journeying through worn rail lines. Swaying and queasy, as if gravity had been nullified, forcing the vestibular system in his inner ear to send distress signals to his brain.
In this strange sensory mismatch, he tried to straighten himself, but he couldn't move. His limbs didn't obey. For a moment, he almost felt like he was weightless, swimming through endless void, but then he felt himself startle and the distant muffled sounds suddenly became much sharper, clearer. The first thing Tom felt was numbness. He tried opening his eyes but it was so bright even with eyelids tightly shut. Rust and blood glow fizzled in his retinas when light hit the surface of his eyes.
He was alive. How the bloody fuck was he still alive?
When he tried to inhale, he felt strange tightness in his chest, almost as if something was suffocating him. The familiar pattern of the wallpapered wall stared back at him when he blinked. His eyes watered in response, so he pressed his eyelids together. He had expected to be stuck in hospital, not tucked up in his own bleeding bed.
The door creaked open slowly. Tom tensed, but then the soft scent of blooming lilacs, lilies, and honeysuckles filled the air. Heels clicked against the wooden floor, and immediately he relaxed. It was Harry. He could tell apart the sound of her steps from any other. The bed dipped as she sat by his side, and her dainty hands gently clenched his.
He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to minimise the assault of the light against his sensitive retinas, and found her pretty face knitted in thought. Her eyes were closed as if it pained her to look at him hurt like this.
"I told myself I wouldn't let my heart get involved in this life," Harry murmured softly. "But my heart decided to get involved, Tom. Merlin, it doesn't matter what universe we're in, you'll always make me feel the worst things. Either hatred that eats me alive, or whatever this thing is that kills me slowly inside because I am scared you won't open your eyes."
She was bloody odd, but God, what would Tom do if she didn't have his heart in her hand?
"Is that your way of saying you fancy me, doll?" he asked, his voice all raspy despite the teasing.
When she opened her eyes and stared at him, Tom smirked in response, because she was so bloody stunning to watch. Her eyes widened, and she leapt into his arms.
"Tom," she exclaimed, hugging him tightly, and Tom wrapped his hands around her slender back. "Merlin, you... you... you scared me. Why did you do that? Why did you jump in front of that bullet?"
Tom couldn't answer that question with reason, because it was irrational why he'd done it. His heart gave a little jolt when her lips found his, and she kissed him.
"How are you feeling? Does it hurt anywhere? Can you breathe?" she asked between her soft, tender kisses, hands running down Tom's face, and the blanket he was covered in slid down, revealing his bandaged chest.
"I'm fine," Tom said, cupping her cheeks, his thumb tracing the outline of her lips. "How long have I been out?"
"It's the second of October," she said. "It's been almost a week since you've been..."
Tom closed his eyes and heaved. The air didn't feel enough. Harry's face scrunched up in worry right away.
"Is it your breathing?" she asked, touching his face. "The bullet has damaged part of your lung. It's been repaired, and it will completely go away now that you're awake and can... um... drink medicine. Give me a second."
Tom was surprised he was alive at all. "I'm fine, doll," he said, trying to sit up. "Nothing a fag can't fix. Where are my cigarettes?"
"You're not smoking," she said, alarmed, looking like a sweet little kitten that hissed at the snowflakes because they froze its little paws. "Not when you haven't even recovered."
Tom tilted his head and looked at her worried face. "Alright," he said with a sigh.
Her tense shoulders slumped down, and she hurried to the bathroom and then came back with a small little bottle in her hand. "Here, drink this," she said. "It will make you feel better."
Tom glanced at the bottle, grabbed it, and swallowed down the strange-tasting liquid. The moment he drank, he felt the tension in his chest instantly vanish, and he inhaled with ease. She smiled in relief when she noticed that he didn't clench his chest in discomfort anymore.
"What was this?" he asked when she took the bottle from him.
"It's for repairing the damage to your lungs that the medicine I gave you before hasn't managed to fix," she said as if he was meant to know how it all worked. Tom knew that his wife was educated at a good school, but some of the things she said at times stumped him.
Feeling much better, he leaned against the pillows and closed his eyes. If it had been almost a week, his business would be in total fucking chaos. The news of him being shot must have emboldened his enemies, and while he trusted Barty to run things in his absence, the man was no leader. His men needed him to keep things in check with their business partners, and with him out of the chessboard, every fool must have tried to scrape something.
He needed to see Barty, find out the status of things, find out if they've bagged the dirty little sod who took a shot at him. Tom would wager it was that cunt Montford's lot. No one was as brazen and mad enough to try to take him down publicly. The papers must be harping about it by now. He'd bet Atherton was over the moon. He'd probably try to spin it as something political.
"I need to see Barty, doll," he told her, trying to get up.
"Barty can wait," she said with a sigh. "You've been out for days. Barty knows that you are recovering, and things are running smoothly, I promise, so you don't need to worry about anything. You can see him after you've taken a bath, had breakfast, and rested."
"If my sweet little doctor says so," Tom laughed.
She cuddled into his arms and held him tightly. "You scared me, Tom," she murmured. "I thought I lost you, and it hurt... You just threw yourself in front of it, saved me..."
What was this strange feeling Tom was feeling? He couldn't even describe it with proper words. It was all over his head and heart, and it made him feel strange.
"I'll always take a bullet for you, doll," he said, and his words were honest. He'd never let his pretty doll get hurt. She was his and his only, and he wouldn't let any living soul lay a finger on her. "I've told you I won't let anything hurt you."
Harry wiped her eyes and looked away from him like she didn't want Tom to catch her crying. Such an odd girl!
"Let's go," she said, getting to her feet. "I'll help you wash up."
Tom placed his feet on the ground and tried to get up, but it seemed he was still a bit weak from lying straight for so many days. Harry reached out and held him, helping him up. Tom leaned into her and was surprised by how steady she was. She looked like a breeze could knock her over, but nothing about her seemed to be what met the eye.
They headed to the bathroom, with Tom leaning against her, taking each step slowly, holding onto what he could, not wanting to put his weight on Harry. And then, when they were inside, she helped him lean against the cabinet and hurried to draw the bath for him. Tom had never had to rely on another person for simple things, and yet, he didn't even feel vulnerable with her here with him. Harry made him feel at ease. He tried to remember how he was so reluctant to even meet her the first few times when he and James Potter came to an agreement about the marriage, and suddenly, it all seemed absurd.
Harry was like a fairytale heroine, plucked out of the stories she liked to mention. She had told him she wouldn't let him die, and she didn't. His fierce little doll had the strength of a winter storm—mad and unruly, beautiful and divine. Tom didn't believe in divinity, but Harry was divine, odd and familiar in her very being.
"The bath is ready," her sweet voice brought him out of his thoughts. Tom looked at her wave her hand over the steam in the bath and check the temperature with the tip of her fingers. "We will need to be careful with your wound. It is completely closed, but I don't want to risk it anyway."
"How can a gunshot wound be closed so soon?" Tom asked, groaning when he tried to move, but his muscles protested. "Are you sure the bullet hit me in the lung, or is it your way of trying to dissuade me from smoking, sweetheart?"
She snorted, but her lips curled into a smile. "Believe me, Tom," she murmured, walking up to him sweetly. "If I wanted to dissuade you from smoking, it wouldn't be through a lie about you getting hurt. I just happen to have very good healing skills."
Her soft hands ran up and down his chest, then she slowly undid the bandages. Tom placed his palms on the marble surface of the wall and the wood panelling of the cabinetry, letting her handle him. No one had ever touched him with such care before, and that was doing something to the inner child inside Tom. He'd been sick with fever and with a scraped-up knee or broken lip, but no one had ever looked at him like he deserved tenderness and attention.
The bandage came off easily, and Tom saw a small trace of pink scarring left behind. His eyebrows knitted in surprise. She must have been his little guardian angel if he'd come alive after being hit right where he was. Harry opened a small jar and scooped some kind of blood-red salve out of it and rubbed it against the wound. The salve was cool and made him feel a strange tingling sensation.
"What is that?" he asked, curious.
"It's for healing," she explained casually, placing the jar on the windowsill and massaging his chest. "It will help you heal faster, and since you're about to get in the water, it'll protect against the moisture. We can't have it get wet."
"How do you know all of this, doll?"
"You learn things when you have to," she said, helping him remove his undergarments. "Besides, didn't I tell you, Tom, I have magic and all?"
"You sure do," Tom laughed. "Must be some kind of pretty witch to have bewitched me."
Harry laughed, sounding amused, and Tom had to admit he liked the sound of her laughter. She helped him into the bathtub, and when Tom sank into the warm water, he felt instant relaxation. His pretty wife sat at the edge of it, running her hands over his body with a washcloth in her hand. She was so careful with him, and even though Tom knew he could wash himself alright, he felt a giddy little part of him wake up and bask in the warmth of her hands.
Tom closed his eyes and relaxed.
Harry massaged soap into his scalp and then washed it with warm water. The tension he was feeling in the back of his neck slowly went away, his muscles relaxed, and he felt like he could fall asleep as every bit of her touch was lulling him into sweet bliss. He could feel the warmth of her body pressing against his own. He could hear her heartbeats, the scent of spring and flowers looming over him as total and utter peace surrounded him.
Then he felt the touch of a brush on his face and the sound of soap bubbles fizzling. He was so relaxed, he didn't even bother opening his eyes. The touch of the razor felt smooth when she pressed it against his face. Tom tilted his head as she guided the blade along his jawline, soft puffs of her breath tickling Tom's neck. Tom smiled, realising that he felt safe with Harry despite her having the sharp blade run so close to his pulse.
With half-opened lids, he caught a glimpse of her focused face, then sank back into the soothing calm. Taking a bloody bullet into the chest was almost worth all this tender fussing.
The kiss on his forehead snapped him back, and Tom wondered if Harry was human at all, with the way he'd lost the sense of time and reality under her soothing touch. "Do you want to relax in the water a bit more?" she asked. "The water is getting cold, but I could heat it up a bit."
"No, darling," Tom shook his head, reaching out and holding her. Her dress was already wet, as were the tips of her hair. "I'm not a bloody fish to sit in the water. You just have the right kind of touch to make me drowsy."
"You flatter me, Tom," she laughed. "Here, let me help you out."
She placed the towel around his shoulders and helped him up. His muscles were no longer tense, and he felt much more relaxed now. Harry was right to insist on taking the bath. He managed to stand on his own, the water droplets shattering down into the tub, then stepped out and hurried to dry his hair with the towel she'd given. The salve she had put on his chest was gone, but Tom swore the pink scar left behind was a bit brighter, more raw before, than now.
When he walked back into the bedroom, she had somehow already changed into a cosy dress and was tying her hair up.
"I have your clothes here, Tom," she said, walking back to bed and grabbing what she had laid there. He hurried to dress, and his wife stared at him with a smile on her face.
"Are you admiring me, doll?" he asked, amused, even though the sight of her happy eyes staring at him with want made him feel all kinds of bloody odd warmth inside.
"I am," she admitted, not one bit ashamed. Tom found her honesty, her cheek so amusing.
He chuckled, as if she was being absurd, but his heart gave a little jolt and swelled inside his chest. "You fancy me that much?" he teased, watching her pretty face give him the faintest of smirks.
"Shouldn't I fancy someone who takes bullets for me?" she joked, striding to him like a little kitten that spotted something interesting in the grass patches of the garden.
"Is that the only reason you fancy me, then?" Tom asked, his voice getting a bit raspier and graver when her hands wrapped around him, and she went on tiptoes, trying to reach his face, but was still too short.
Tom inclined his head and kissed her. Harry's sweet, soft scent filled his nostrils, making him float in that strange soothing feeling that only she elicited in him. She pressed closer against him, her warmth enveloping Tom like a cloud of comfort.
"You're a good kisser, too," she said with a little laugh. "And very, very handsome too, but you must know that already."
Tom felt like a boy being praised for things he did. It was bloody ridiculous.
She pulled back from him, and the smile on her face faded, her face becoming more serious.
"Though, it's really hard to say why we like someone," she said thoughtfully. "If you turned tomorrow into a man with a snake face and slits for a nose, and your eyes became blood-red, but you remained yourself, I'd still feel the same way. I think there is a Tom behind the way you look and all the things you like or hate—a sense of you that is not bound by earthly matters, and I think I feel strongly about that sense of you."
"Doll, you've got a little bit of the poetry in you, haven't you?" he scoffed, but a smile touched his lips. "All I hear is you saying you fancy me."
She shook her head and laughed, then reached out for his hand. "Let's go downstairs," she said. "I'll make something to eat. You haven't had proper food in days."
The living room was brimming with flowers when they went down. White lilies, tulips, roses, daffodils, and carnations were everywhere. Harry must have placed them in vases with water. The room looked like a bloody garden at this point. Tom didn't know much about flowers, but he could tell some of them weren't in season and must've cost a pretty penny. He'd come to learn they weren't cheap, especially since it was one of their side operations. Though, it was Malfoy who had suggested they run a flower shop, and until recently Fletcher was handling it. Tom stayed out of it mostly, as he wasn't interested in bloody flowers.
"Some of them are from Mr Atherton and the others at the party," Harry explained as they headed to the kitchen. "He's called a couple of times to ask about your recovery. Everyone has been very worried about you."
"I'm sure they were," Tom chuckled.
Atherton probably couldn't wait to spin this as some sort of political bollocks.
They made their way through the kitchen doors, and Harry helped him to sit. The room was bright and filled with so much sunlight. The walls were mottled with specks of bright glare from the sun, streaking through the glass panes. Harry reached out over the counter and pushed the window open. A cold, fresh gust of autumn air flowed inside, bringing the scent of burnt sugar and rain-soaked fallen leaves.
Tom liked their kitchen now. It felt cosy inside with Harry with him there. He watched her chop vegetables, and it fascinated him how precise she was with the knife. It amused him to think that she had a better handle of it than some of his men.
The oil in the pot sizzled when she dropped the chopped carrots, onions, and celery inside, then a second later, the scent of garlic filled the air. When she went to the pantry, Tom looked around for the morning paper, but his sweet doll must have got rid of them while he was unconscious. He wondered what the papers wrote about him. Perhaps some were already celebrating his early demise.
"What happened to the newspapers?" he asked when she came back, carrying a whole bunch of ingredients, including a large piece of ham with the bone sticking out.
"I didn't let anyone bring anything home, including papers, while you were recovering," she confessed. "After you eat and rest a little, I'll call Barty to come here and ask him to bring all the papers you need."
Tom nodded. It was cautious of her, but Tom didn't blame her. In fact, he would probably be just as strict with what went into the house if he was not lying in bed out cold.
Harry started scraping off the ham from the bone and then dicing the pieces, and Tom reached over and stole a piece off her cutting board. She paused and stared at him, shocked. Tom only grinned. Harry's expression was almost scandalised, and it amused Tom because of how hard it was to startle her.
She grabbed a handful and held them out for him. "You know it's really salty, right?" she said when Tom took them off her hand.
"I am not a peaky eater, doll," he said with a smirk. "As long as it's not cold or nine days old."
She raised an eyebrow, sighed, but when she turned around, Tom noticed her face break into a giant grin as she rinsed split peas in a bowl. The scent of bay leaves and thyme permeated the air when Harry added everything to the pot and let it simmer.
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Barty moved the glasses on his face as he signed the papers and placed them onto the desk for Malfoy to take care of the rest. The day was nearing its end, which happened sooner in October. It was mostly overcast outside, mottled with sparse drizzle and a bit of sunshine. The sound of Antonin throwing a knife against the morning issue of a paper he'd pinned on the wall with Bloody Baron's face on the cover must have been therapeutic for him, but it was beginning to frazzle Barty.
Rodolphus was playing chess with his brother, while Yaxley was face-deep inside some women's magazine. Malfoy was running late, and the others were out on errands. There was silence amongst them, mostly because everyone was worried to breach the topic of Tom's current state. Mrs Riddle had told Barty that he was still unconscious and recovering, and while the rest of the lads were happy, if not a bit confused, about her coming and taking charge with the Griphook situation, many thought the woman was mad and that the boss's corpse was rotting in her bed.
Barty refused to think about it.
"You reckon she'll be running things now?" Yaxley asked, licking his fingers to turn the page on his magazine, his eyes still glued to the pictures in it. "Potter's daughter seems to have inherited her father's temper and apparently his strong-arming skills."
"Why would she run anything when Tom's going to wake up soon?" Dolohov demanded, turning his knife to Yaxley and waving it in his face.
"Sure," Yaxley murmured, and Barty detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice. If Yaxley was a smart man, he wouldn't aggravate Dolohov, who was always happy to use that knife in his hand.
"You should focus on catching the cunt who shot the boss, not bloody chitchat about his wife," Antonin spat, sending his knife straight into Yaxley's magazine.
"You absolute lunatic," Yaxley shouted, jumping back and holding the magazine with the knife stuck in the middle. "The bathing suit page too!"
"Say what you like about the bird," Fletcher, whom Barty hadn't even spotted in the room, said, lifting his head from behind the pillow on the sofa where he must have been napping. "But she sure knows how to handle 'em—negotiations, what with Montford and Griphook, had 'em both by the bloody balls. I wouldn't cross that woman if I were in the business, you know. She took the kid and the wife no problem, and threatened Montford with 'em, and then had Griphook in her fancy little grip."
"Watch the words you are using, Fletcher," Barty warned. "She is Tom's wife."
"Blimey. Blimey, I was saying nothing bad, Crouch," Mundungus protested, running his hand through his matted hair. "You've seen her. She was covered in boss's blood head to toe, shakin' like a leaf in a gale, and then she came into that boozer we met with that rat-mugged git and shook him like he was a whore late on her pimp's cut. You all saw it. And Griphook's face when she told him she'd send his dirty little secret to his boss."
Fletcher laughed, irritating Barty. The others exchanged looks and nodded in agreement, only Dolohov looked like he was itching to murder Fletcher, too.
"Still waters run deep," Yaxley nodded, pitifully running his finger over the hole in his magazine. "Potter didn't raise her to be a flower in a vase, that's for sure."
"Mr Crouch," Goyle's son shouted, opening the door and sticking his head inside. "A woman has called and wants to talk to you. I told her you're busy, but she said it was urgent."
Barty dropped his pen on the desk and rubbed his tired eyes. He wondered why Goyle brought this kid to Walpurgis. The place wasn't a kindergarten, after all. Getting up, he followed the boy out and picked up the phone sitting on the phone desk.
"Crouch speaking," he said, wondering if this was that daft cow from Daily Politics, Skater, Skeeter, he couldn't remember her blooming name, trying to get a comment on Mr Riddle's health.
"Mr Crouch, it's Harry," her soft voice came from the receiver, and Barty felt his heart skip a beat in fear. Was she calling in with the terrible news of Tom's passing? Heat passed through his entire body before a wave of cold sweat covered him, and his heartbeat peaked in a struggling beat.
"Mrs Riddle," he muttered, gulping and adjusting the phone on his ear. "How can I help you? Is everything alright? Is everything alright with... with Tom?"
"He's fine," she said softly. "He's just woken up and is feeling much better. He wanted to see you and the others."
Barty almost screamed like a little child who'd received one too many presents on Christmas morning. His hand trembled, and he had to use his other hand to steady the one holding the phone for fear of dropping it.
"We will be there right away," he managed to mutter.
When he ended the call and rushed back to the office, the others had all stopped what they were doing and were staring at him, waiting to hear the news. From the sullen look on their faces, Barty could tell they expected to hear terrible news.
"Tom's awake," he said, not managing to hide the shaking in his voice. "He wants to see us."
Antonin dropped his knife, and Rabastan got up from his seat so quickly he knocked over the chessboard, sending the pieces flying. Barty was sure one of the rooks hit Mundungus straight on his already battered mug.
"Hurry up, lads," Barty yelled. "Let's not keep the man waiting."
They scrambled to get their coats and hats and hurried out of Walpurgis to the cars parked outside. The air was wet even though it wasn't raining or drizzling, and the sun had hidden behind thick clouds. Rodolphus took a long drag from his cigarette before dropping it onto the puddle on the ground and opening the door to the Bentley.
"Is he alright, though?" Rabastan asked as the car moved. "Did she say anything?"
"She said he's feeling much better," Barty told him, his heart swelling with relief that Tom was fine. "We should have trusted her to know what she was doing. Clearly, the numpty doctors at the hospital didn't know how to care for Tom as well as she did."
"The wound was really bad," Rab whispered. "He'd lost a lot of blood. You saw it—the whole place was covered in his blood... what I'm trying to say is, do you think he'll be fine?"
"We shouldn't doubt what Mrs Riddle," Barty declared in a tone of finality.
He didn't want to make any judgments before they saw Tom. Mrs Riddle had shown herself to be a fierce woman and didn't lose her cool even for a second. There was no reason to think she would have them come see her husband if he wasn't well enough for visitors. Something about the way she conducted herself told Barty she was a lioness and would take charge if the need arose. They were in good hands if Tom needed time to recover. All the lads needed to be worried about was catching the sod who shot Tom.
The rest of the drive went on quietly. Rodolphus was never chatty, and thank God, Fletcher was with Yaxley and Dolohov in the other car. Barty didn't need to hear the git's tosh. Fletcher would chat away a man's ear.
When the car entered the street where Mr Riddle's flat was, it had to do a small turn and park away from all the other cars around it. Barty spotted Rowle and Avery from the window of his car. They were pacing about and smoking. It didn't seem they knew that the boss had woken up yet. Their faces tensed up when they saw all of them exit the cars, but Barty waved his hand.
"Easy, boys," he said. "We are just here at Mrs Riddle's request. Tom has woken up."
"Really?" Rowle asked, surprised. "We haven't heard a thing."
She might not have deemed to let them know since Rowle was a blabbermouth.
"Continue the watch for now," Barty told them and headed for the door.
He knocked, and a few moments later, it opened, and they were greeted by Mrs Riddle's pretty sight. She looked happy, like the sun, her green eyes shining and lips curled into a smile. She was wearing a simple dress, her hair loose on her shoulders in pretty waves.
"That was fast," she said, stepping aside and opening the door wide for them. "Please come in. Tom is in the drawing room."
"Thank you for calling us, Mrs Riddle," Barty said politely, not sure what else he could say, because she always made him feel a certain way. At first, he thought it was because she was from another world altogether, a proper girl with proper education and manners that were too fancy for Barty not to embarrass himself around her, but now, it was the wild, almost feral intensity in her that made him become a fumbling fool.
They walked inside, and Barty turned around to motion for Fletcher to close the door behind him. The git had a smile on his face as wide as a bloody dog who'd been chasing stray cats all the way up the roofs. The house smelled like coffee, cinnamon, and sugar. There were other scents too that reminded Barty of his nan's garden.
They followed her into the sitting room, where Tom was resting in the armchair. He looked well, healthy. His hair was combed, the suit was pressed, and he even had his tie on. The moment they stepped inside, Tom's head snapped to them, and he tilted his head to smirk at them. They gawked at him because there was not even a hint of a sign he was at death's door a few days ago.
"Would you like some tea?" Harry's voice pulled them out of the awkward, wordless staring. They all turned to her and nodded.
"Alright," she said sweetly, and Barty would have never guessed that this was the same woman who looked at Griphook a few days ago and told him that if she wanted to threaten him with force, she would have kidnapped his wife and children. "Please take a seat everyone, and I'll be back with tea and sweets."
She left, and then they heard someone clearing their throat. Barty realised that they were staring after Mrs Riddle, and it was Tom clearing his throat, clearly not happy that they were being absolute twats, staring at his wife.
"I was expecting a few more faces to come and see me," he said, crossing his legs, his well-polished leather shoes glinting under the light of the chandeliers.
"They are out on errands," Barty explained, moving the pillows on the sofa and taking a seat. The others hummed in affirmation.
"It's great to see you up, boss!" Yaxley said with a grin, pulling off his leather gloves and shoving them into his pocket.
"It isn't so easy to put me in the box, is it?" Tom said in response, his voice so low and cold that the timbre alone could send shivers down someone's spine. "Now that you are here, have you caught the cunt who tried to kill me?"
The lads all shifted in their seats in discomfort.
"We are still looking into it. We reckon it's Bloody Baron, but he hasn't taken any credit, and the papers are all saying it's political. So, it's our guess that Montford has bitten off more than he can chew, and he's keeping it quiet 'til it's safe to start bragging about it."
"Bloody disappointing that you can't nail down one puny little bastard," Tom grumbled. "How are things in the business end? Everything running smoothly?"
"It's been a bit of a struggle since the news spread," Barty said, his voice hesitant.
"Meaning?"
"Things are running smoothly now, no need to worry, boss," Fletcher chimed in, patting himself on the sides.
"But?" Tom's gaze became sharp. It was hard to hide anything from the man. He could smell a secret from hundreds of yards away.
"Well, we have a bit of a disagreement with Griphook about the opium deliveries," Barty spoke, his lips pressing into a thin line. "He withheld what we'd already paid for when he heard about what happened and wanted to cut ties and go with Bloody Baron."
Tom's grip tightened on the armrest, and his jaw clenched. There was anger in his eyes that Barty had seen often—anger that resulted in someone getting shot or Tom beating them into a bloody pulp with his bare hands.
"The rats are the first to jump the ship they think is sinking," he said through gritted teeth. "But they usually just end up drowning quicker, don't they? I s'pose a lesson in how I do my business is needed because it seems these rats think nothing of disrespecting me the second they think my back's turned."
"Yes, he was being cocky, the smarmy little git," Dolohov growled, nearly sending Fletcher off the sofa.
"And how was this settled?" Tom asked, narrowing his eyes. "Don't tell me you allowed some scoundrel to rip me off."
"Well, um... he was being very uncooperative," Barty started, shuffling his feet, not sure how to break the news to the man who already seemed on a proper short fuse. "Saying that his boss had the agreement with you, and since you were... well, out of the picture, he didn't want to honour it. But then..."
Barty gulped and looked at the others who were staring anywhere but at him.
"Then what?" Tom demanded.
"Then Harry came in and straightened him up, and now things are back to normal," Barty said.
"Who is Harry?"
"Your wife, Mrs Riddle..."
"My wife?" Tom's face knitted in confusion, and then he screamed. "You absolute fuckers, why would you involve my wife in this? Do you need your bloody hands held in every situation? Why would you risk her safety and drag her into this?"
"She came on her own, boss," Yaxley chimed in. "We didn't even know how she knew that we were having a meeting or that Griphook was withholding the purchase of the product."
"And what? She came in and then what? Are you lot slow? Why am I asking a fucking question for every bloody three words out of your mouths? Go on, tell me why the bloody fuck you needed to involve Harry in this shitfuckery."
"She came by herself and told Griphook that if he doesn't honour the agreement, she'll send his accounts to Blind Pig. Griphook has been ripping off Garlak, and Mrs Riddle had somehow found out and had the evidence to boot, so she told him to honour it or he's dead," Barty told him, keeping his eyes on the floor, worried Tom would lose it.
"She was bloody terrifying," Fletcher added, sounding like he was half-begging for forgiveness, half-bragging about what he'd seen. "Griphook was sweating like a pig and must have shat his knickers."
"So you idiots couldn't handle one bloody solicitor on your own, and it was my dainty little wife who came in to threaten him?"
"Is everything alright?" Harry's voice made Tom's angered expression instantly fade away and be replaced with a smile when he turned his head to her. Barty and the others watched, proper struck by how odd and abrupt it was.
"Doll," Tom said as she approached with a huge tray of sweets, teapot, and cups arranged on top. "My men here are telling me all kinds of odd things, like that you've gone and talked with Griphook, threatening the bastard. How could you be so reckless?"
Barty noticed the tiny puff of air leave her nostrils in almost amused nonchalance before she smiled sweetly at the boss.
"I heard from the girls that a man called Griphook was refusing to hand over something that you've paid for," she said casually as she started pouring tea into teacups. "And that made me upset, you see."
Tom's eyes followed her, his expression betraying his puzzlement.
"I told everyone that you were fine, that you were recovering," she continued, setting the teapot down and grabbing the cake shovel, "but it seemed everyone, including Mr Griphook, had fancied themselves to have a superior knowledge about my husband's health. Such things can rub a woman the wrong way, you know."
Her lips curled into a smirk as she lifted her eyes to let her gaze sweep over the crowd. Barty shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"So at first, I thought, how crass not to honour an agreement he's made. Maybe I should go and see how his family is doing. But when I went there, something told me Mr Griphook values a different sort of treasure rather than his family. Dragging them anywhere would be no use."
Tom lifted an eyebrow, but Barty saw something else there, something like delight that Tom rarely expressed. It was barely noticeable, but he knew Tom very well. A pretty woman like Harry talking about dragging someone's family out of their home just to make it known not to cross her husband must have ticked something in Tom's brain. Barty respected Tom, would take a bullet for the man, but he knew Tom was an odd sort—kind of not right in the head. Nothing fazed him, and here he was holding himself back from showing pride and joy at his wife implying she would threaten people with force for him if she needed to.
"But as I was there," she handed Tom the cup of tea, "I realised just how lavish this man's lifestyle was, so I looked around, found evidence of his little scheme and went on to confront him. No big deal, really. The boys told me where the meeting was, and I had them drive me there."
"You think it's no big deal?" Tom chuckled in disbelief, his eyes firmly on her as he sipped from the cup. "You could have been hurt, doll."
She handed a cup to Barty and then turned to Tom.
"I told you, Tom," she said softly. "I won't let you die... even in other people's minds."