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Her hands finding his were how galaxies were made; or to put it simply as she tucked him and found purchase along the bed, lying bent beside her child while holding him near her chest, this was ‘warmth’ as she knew it when she traced his little hands, healing every callus that would soften to her pads; this was ‘soft’ and she couldn’t help it but smile as she did it, as she fondled a bundle more tender than a nectarine, feeling him wiggle at her breath and upon the kisses at his seams when she held him like the world — as to her, he was everything; and this was ‘love’ if she could say it, this was ‘care’ when she meant it, when she gathered her little one and rocked him beneath her magic — his core finding hers while hers had found his and as the lights began to dim, this was Tom’s bit of magic. Whether he willed it or if he didn’t when he yawned into the pillow, shallow breaths come and going while Merope held him close.
For there was little she wouldn’t do to peg the world underneath him, to watch it burn at his feet and grow anew to his image; and there was much she would’ve done to have willed this to happen and to show it to her child — just the depths of how she loved him. But none of that could compare to what she could do for him here, as she cuddled at her little one and breathed into his hair; and none of that could come close to the care he felt around him, as Tom began to sink into the softness of this bed.
As Merope drew the blanket and snugged it to his person, clothing every finger and the slivers of his toes until they were pink to her touch and were reminiscent of the sun, peeking out from the horizon and bearing with it its warmth. As she nuzzled at the pillow and fluffed it with her head, cushioning it for her child when he sagged along the bed; and when he stirred so he could face her, she brushed at his curls — she wandered them behind an ear and wound a few around her finger. So that the heat of it there could allow the strands to remain, not tumbling towards the eyes of her little one as he laid; neither scratching at his nose or tickling at his cheek because every smile from Merope had reserved these precious things. And before she could kiss him or coax him into sleep, she felt him murmur near her neck and he asked her if she could sing.
“The one you sung me when I was little,” as if he had grown up already, “The one about — ” he trailed off before humming the melody, hissing a few words that came to him in memory. And when the honey in his eyes met the inkwells of her own, there were whispers and a few hisses bonding a mother with her child.
Merope corrected a few words and said them slowly for him to follow, exaggerating all the flicks that seemed to teeter from her tongue. And within minutes of him practicing, Tom was fluent with his words and tried again with his humming while his mother beamed at him. And as the hissing began to crown and found its way from his mouth, a few more words from that song started to dance within his mind. Just enough for one verse and with time, he would know the others. Especially if he heard them and worked them into the night, forming the words with his mouth as Merope sang to him. And she did it slowly for him to follow and ennuciated every word, carving the meaning into his body when she squeezed him like a treasure. And in return, as he flopped and felt heavy beneath her words, Tom shared his bit of blanket and draped it over her shoulders. Leaving his back well-exposed; but to the youth, it didn’t matter.
Knowing he could share this with his mother struck a fireceness into Tom — in that everything he could gather and conquer from this world, he would give a portion as homage to celebrate Merope. For she deserved it and much more, within the eyes of this child, as he reached beneath the blanket and mapped the scars along her hands. Brought upon by a past she couldn’t share with him yet, brought upon by the garden bordering their cottage, brought upon by the potions she would brew for the market, and brought upon by the things she had taught him when he was little — when he was starting to take notice how strange he was from others.
In that he didn’t have a father nor a family beyond his mother, that he could speak in a language others feared and would shudder, that peculiar things would occur when he was angry or upset or scared beyond belief, and that it felt like there was something quite animal inside of him. Something vicious in his body and threatening to break skin, something wild and unyielding when he spotted a bird or a rabbit, and something fickle when it came to company or with the warmth he was receiving. And along which, there were urges that could snap his body in half. As whatever this beast was wanted to tear from his chest, wanting to strangle and to consume what Tom loved in this world.
And he knew that these scars — that the one’s knicking his mother’s wrists and sprawling down to her elbows after they bloomed along her hands — that these were his when he was younger, when he couldn’t control it like he could now. And that him touching and caressing and softening these marks were his way of apologizing and even now, he couldn’t say it. Because a part of him would never forgive for what he did to his mother, even after she told him it was natural because of who he was. Because for little snakes and hatchlings, it was instinct to strike back until they grew older and knew the ways of how warnings could be done. So she was just glad that he struck her, instead of a child of someone else's, because snakes of similar kin were unaffected by each other’s venom.
Whether that was figuratively or literally, it was probably both as he thought about it. Now that he was seven and no longer four, tracing the scars along his mother. And as she sang to him and held him, like he was still a hatchling within her arms, Tom burrowed beside her neck and felt the pitter-patter of her fingertips. Winding slowly from his hair and towards his back like a snake, settling like forgiveness as she lulled him into sleep.
“You are much more than the circumstances this world has flung at you.” She said it once in English and then again, in Parseltongue. So that the instincts within her son would be branded with this message, and so that the instincts within her would find it clear that she meant it.
Because no one had ever said this when she was around her Tom’s age and for a long time until recently, it felt like she was a human in snake skin. And after experiencing it for herself, she wanted better for her little one. It was the very least she could do because through her, Tom inherited this — this language, these instincts, these urges beneath his skin. And while not as potent as her own, they were still unyielding for any human. And that was what her Tom was; even though at times, he didn’t feel it. And that was who she was; even though at times, she’d often forget. Because when you’ve lived your life from a certain angle, you forget the legs you’ve been born with. And it was only after she had Tom, having held him within her arms, that something clicked inside Merope and she wanted to grow and become better, right alongside her child.
This was everything she thought impossible, but it was reality with her little one. And as her Tom began to sleep and was fit with peaceful dreams, brought upon by her magic when she eased him from thinking, Merope kissed him on the forehead before she sang into his ear. Softly in Parseltongue and then, again in English — humming when she finished and drifting along with him.
“Oh hush, little one
May you find your fortune when you
Lull, little one
May you chase it in your dreams
Oh, my little one
May you rest, may you sleep next to me.”