Notes: So far, so good with keeping to my schedule.
Thank you for your support! In case you are worried about whether a story spanning 4-5 years will actually be finished at this pace of storytelling, know that the pace of this story is going to pick up very soon. I just need to describe certain events as they unfold.
Chapter Four: The Many Forms of Pride
The grand banquet hall had stone walls over thirty feet high and narrow-paned windows. A vast banner bearing the crest of the Gaunt family hung on one wall. Merope intended to design a new one for the new house she was founding, one that reflected the Gaunt and the Muggle Riddle crests but incorporated new elements too. The castle's staff and field workers ate at the common tables, with the family, their honored guests, and their comparatively few vassals—Marvolo and Morfin had driven away many—at the high table. They had eaten there most days since moving in, and naturally they had to eat there for important occasions such as this one, but henceforth they would usually eat in the much smaller private family dining room.
There was real hope among the common folk that a new era was upon them, and to them, their new Lady Riddle's choice to contract an alliance with a family completely unallied (and unrelated) to the deceased Gaunts boded well. It still seemed right and proper to them that the future consort of the heir could do magic—they were accustomed to being ruled by witches and wizards—but neither their new baroness, her heir, the heir's betrothed, or her parents seemed to exhibit the attitudes that had left Marvolo and Morfin with no sincere mourners among the peasant folk. Merope had made her announcement to all her subjects, to much applause from them and a stare of utter malevolence from Tom that, fortunately, no one had seen. Tom's thoughts were entirely different to those of everyone else in the banquet hall.
What good is her bargain with me if she announces this in such a public way? Tom fumed. Over the years, he had had more self-confidence than his mother, so he had used this to get his way about a great many things: the freedom to wander about the wizarding district of London, to read any books of magic that he could understand, to save up his pocket allowance to buy a serpent familiar eventually. He sighed inwardly at the thought of the small pile of Sickles and Knuts in an earthenware jar. He had not saved the necessary amount, and now that they had come into the title, his little bank—which had formerly seemed like so much money—was laughable. He could buy many animal familiars now if he liked; his years of saving had ultimately meant nothing. However, his mother had let him do it, even though he had to talk her down from her opposition to the idea of a snake in the house. Apparently she had bad memories of her brother and father setting adders on people for amusement.
Tom had been good at getting his way for any matter other than luxury expenses that his mother could not afford, but now, suddenly, his mother had revealed that she had a bullying side of her own—and a manipulative one, to boot. How else to explain what she had done, telling him that she would let him out of the contract, and then making a public announcement—and creating the expectation in all her subjects that the marriage would happen—that would make breaking the contract humiliating in the extreme?
He stewed and seethed through dinner. He was seated next to his mother on one side, who sat proudly with the emerald tiara of her regnancy on her head and wearing a gown that he did not recognize, made of rich embroidered taupe linen. Apparently she had finally found her old wardrobe sometime between her conference with the Grangers and dinner. On his other side was Hermione, who was pink in the face and smiling in a way that Tom found insufferable. Happy as a lark in spring, he thought sourly as he shoveled down a spoonful of vegetables. And the blushing of her cheeks—and her reluctance to meet his eye, only to blush even redder when she did—made it clear that her happiness was not only about presumably being permitted at last to attend Hogwarts. It infuriated him.
This frizzy-haired noble brat immediately sinks her claws into me, as if I'm property, he fumed. Though I suppose that is exactly how they see their children. What was it Mother said, that I had to marry to carry on the line? As if all I'm good for is siring offspring—or a means to get someone else into Hogwarts.
He swallowed the last of his main course, which was thoroughly chewed in his steaming anger. While Hermione's face was still hidden by that cloud of hair, he gave her a glare. He may have promised his mother not to take out his irritation on Hermione, but she had promised him something too, and it seemed very much to him that she had not meant it. Well—if Hermione kept her distance from him, he would not be rude to her, but if she started to attach herself to him as if they had chosen each other, then she would suffer the consequences.
The Grangers needed to rest after their travel, so Tom did not have the chance to see Hermione again that evening. He expected that he would continue to fume in his bed late into the night, but to his surprise, he realized upon getting under the covers that he would fall asleep quickly. The bed was not ideal; it was one discovered in an otherwise empty room and temporarily moved into his new bedroom until the grand oak bed he had requested was finished, but it was good enough for now. He could not imagine why he was tired, but perhaps anger had exhausted him. He was dreaming soon.
The following day, he awoke and immediately remembered the previous day's events. By now, his memories of the enjoyable moments with Hermione were becoming corrupted by his anger at his mother. Even thinking of Hermione's face brought a renewed surge of fury with the entire situation, and at that particular moment he was utterly certain that nothing would ever allay it. Proximity to Hermione would only annoy him further, since it was obvious to him that she believed she liked him, but distance from her would further rewrite his happier memories.
So although it was not usually in Tom's nature to openly pick a fight—he preferred subtlety and cunning—he rather welcomed the interaction with Hermione that their parents blatantly arranged mid-morning for them, by going into the grand library once again and the adults pointedly secluding themselves.
Suppressing the visible signs of his anger, Tom gave Hermione an impassive, utterly emotionless look and turned to the bookshelves before him. He perused the titles with no intention of actually selecting a book.
Hermione was confused for a moment, but then she gave Tom a tentative smile and attempted to move closer to him.
He grabbed a book at random and yanked it from the shelf. Holding it as though it were a precious gold goblet, he carried it to the nearest chair and sat down without a word to Hermione. To his exasperation—but, he had to admit, mean anticipation—she followed him, affront and hurt spreading over her face.
Finally he met her eyes. He raised an eyebrow and said, with the haughtiest air of annoyance that he could muster, "Do you want something?"
Hermione was taken aback. "I wanted to read with you. What's the matter? Are you unwell today?"
"I am perfectly well," he declared icily. "I prefer to read in solitude. Find a book of your own if you must."
Her eyebrows narrowed. "You read with me yesterday. Are you sure you feel well?"
"I am certain. If you want to read, I am not stopping you."
Hermione gazed at the book he had opened in his lap. He was not looking at the pages. She then noticed that the chair he had chosen to sit in did not have a match. The closest chair for her was twelve feet away.
"If you are well, then I don't understand why you're being so impolite to me and wanting to avoid me. We should spend time together, considering the situation between us," Hermione explained officiously.
Tom felt pettily satisfied that she had brought it up herself, in such a pedantic tone, and with a personal accusation into the bargain. Perfect, just the provocation I wanted, he thought. "That's a long time from now," he objected, "and I didn't ask my mum to pick a girl for me to marry."
Hurt filled Hermione's face. "You don't like me?"
Irritation surged momentarily in him at what he first took to be an insincere sympathy plea, but then he realized that she really was upset. His face grew stormy as conflict entered his mind. "It's not that. You're a powerful witch, and I… enjoyed your company yesterday," he admitted. "But I don't want to think about getting married to anybody… and she chose for me." He gazed at her with narrowed eyes. "So did your parents. Doesn't that bother you?"
"I always knew it was probably going to happen," she said haughtily. "I was born when my mother was thirty-one, and now she's too old to have any other children—so my cousin is going to inherit from my father. At some point… I won't be able to live in the castle unless it's on his charity, so I had to marry somebody."
"That's stupid," Tom sneered. "There are plenty of witches who inherit. My mum, for one."
"Well, then I'm glad that I'm a witch, because I like the wizards' and witches' tradition better. But I will inherit. I will get my parents' personal property—but not the estate, family gold, or title. My cousin already had a fiancée, and he is my first cousin through my father and my mother, so I couldn't marry him. I have to be provided for somehow."
"You're a witch. You can provide for yourself."
"They would consider it wrong for a person raised noble to have to do that."
"My mum was raised noble, and she did," he retorted.
"She shouldn't have had to," Hermione said decisively. "Your lady mother's family was horrid to her. They never should have treated her as they did. She didn't make a bad match. They dispossessed her only because your father wasn't a wizard… and now she has the title, so ha! to them."
"I still don't see why that means your parents had to pick for you… or my mum for me."
"That Lord Malfoy wouldn't have let me go to magic school unless I was pledged to someone, and your mother wanted to help my family… and they wanted to help her." Hermione's lower lip quivered. "Our parents are nobles. It's just what they do. Many families don't care if their children are friends, or even know each other, but my parents promised me that they would not send me to someone I disliked…." She trailed off. "You said we were friends. I thought you liked me."
Tom scowled, well aware that she was trying to manipulate him into saying it. "What if you meet a boy at Hogwarts that you like better than me?"
Hermione was shocked. "It would be wrong for me to consider other boys now!"
"That's not what I asked. What if you did anyway?"
She stood up haughtily and glared at him. "I won't like any boy better than you, because I am a lady, and ladies are honorable and keep their word."
"It wasn't your word."
"Yes it was. I went to them after we left the library and told them I wanted this… and I would bet that your mother asked you and you said yes!"
Tom glared back. He really wanted to tell Hermione about his mother's bargain with him, but she would tell her parents, and that would get him in serious trouble. "It was only because she pressured me," he said cuttingly. "She said if I didn't, Lord Malfoy wouldn't let you into Hogwarts."
Hermione sniffled and looked down to try to hide it.
"She also said that I would need to marry someday because she had the estate back and I was the only possible heir. And I guess since I am half-blood, no pureblood witch girls would consider me, especially not the noble ones. You're less than half-blood, though, so it's no wonder that you're so happy at this prospect."
Hermione was on the verge of crying. "Why are you being so hateful?" she exclaimed. She turned away as the tears fell from her eyes. "You liked me until our parents made their agreement, so I think you still like me and you're just angry at your mother." She wiped her eyes and whirled back around to face him. "I'm going to tell your mother about this, so what do you think of that, Tom?"
"I think you're acting like a brat," he sneered. "You keep saying that I like you. I liked the girl who read a magic book eagerly in the library and wanted to try spells with a wand. I don't like whiny brats who tattle."
Silent, irregular tears still coursed down Hermione's face, to her clear embarrassment. She was flushed red, and her eyes fluttered shut at his words.
Tom suddenly realized that her parents might be able to see this. Nervously he looked in the direction of the Grangers and his mother, across the large library. Indeed, they were gazing at him and Hermione. It was not clear to Tom if they could tell that Hermione was crying, or if they had heard the argument—surely not—but he did not want them to walk over. Hermione's parents would think ill of him for hurting their daughter's feelings, and his mother would be furious with him. Whatever else he might think of the situation before him, he did not want others to see him as unfit or uncivilized. He had too much pride.
Hermione's words suddenly registered in his brain, and he realized the truth of them: He was just angry at his mother and was using Hermione as the target for it because she had been happy about the circumstances. Now that he was thinking about it, he realized that he felt no pleasure in making her cry.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I did not actually mean that bit about 'less than half-blood.'"
Hermione wiped her face and nodded wordlessly. She would not look at him. That… bothered him, though he could not say why.
"Hermione," he finally said, "let's go to a different part of the library, where we both have seats." He offered her his arm.
She took a deep, shaky breath. "All right."
Merope did not comment to Tom about what she was sure she had witnessed in the library. The Grangers—fortunately—had not interpreted it rightly, and had believed that Hermione was simply embarrassed, but Merope was quite sure that Tom had said something to her to make her cry. However, a moment later he was extending his arm to her to walk her somewhere else in the library, and then they were taking their seats in a cozy little nook. Before long, they were conversing—inaudibly to Merope, but obviously not in a hurtful way—presumably about the content of their books. Whatever had happened between them, they had patched it up. That was a good sign for the future, she decided. Logic and duty were all very well, but she did not wish a miserable marriage on her only child.
Perhaps Tom had already learned his lesson. He obviously did not like the immediate consequences of harboring anger—not even any punishment that she might inflict, but just the shame of upsetting a girl whom, Merope was quite convinced, he did respect and like in some way, and who was not even the real source of his ire. Merope resolved to be patient. Eventually—and it might not be very long—his anger at her would dissipate too.
Dinner that evening was different. They ate in the banquet hall again, since they had the Grangers as guests, but Tom felt more… tranquil, he supposed… about being seated next to Hermione. Her appearance was back to normal too; gone were the flushed cheeks and incessant smiles. That helped. Although he knew that the choice of seating was deliberate and rather heavy-handed, part of their parents' apparent plot to make them spend as much time with each other as possible during this visit, it somehow felt less obnoxious now that Hermione was responding in a way that he could respect.
It had hurt his pride to apologize to her earlier in the library, but he did not regret doing it. He wanted her to back off, to stop acting like an infatuated young girl when they barely knew each other, but he had not actually meant to insult her. It had slipped out, perhaps because he had heard such things from his own schoolmates directed at himself for a year. Immediately after they had come to that accord, and they had resumed reading books and discussing magic together as they had the day before, he had remembered again why he had enjoyed her company. It really was nice to be able to share this interest with someone close in age who was clearly very talented. While he was talking about scholarly matters with her, he could almost forget that their parents had devised a legally binding contract that—unless his mother let him off, or he did what she had done and ran away—would compel them to marry in a few years.
Perhaps his mother was correct, and he would come to see Hermione that way by then. It was possible, he supposed, when he thought about the matter rationally. But that was beside the point. She should not have done such a thing to him, noble or no. Tom knew that—as she had said—wealth and power brought new responsibility, but in his view, that only encompassed matters like ruling a village, planning defense strategies for the castle, or overseeing a household. It did not include any "responsibility" to marry the person his parent told him to. That still irritated him.
He tried to push the thought out of his head for now. It would do no good to pick another fight with his mother, since he had already wrung a concession out of her and he did not expect she would offer him more. Besides, even if she did, the only concession she could make above the existing one would be to repudiate the contract now, and such a shocking reversal—after that public declaration last night—would undermine her when she was just starting as baroness, as well as hurting Hermione deeply and preventing her from going to Hogwarts. He was not overly worried about the Grangers themselves; a pair of Muggles could do little in retaliation, but he realized he didn't want to harm Hermione—or his mother, or by extension himself. It certainly would do no good to continue targeting his anger at Hermione, who—rightly, he thought, with not a small degree of arrogance—was pleased to be engaged to him, and was a person he respected and… liked, he supposed.
He glanced at her as she sipped her watered-down wine delicately. She met his eye and gave him a shy, hesitant smile. He tilted his head slightly and returned a half-smile.
The following day, Merope herself was waiting in the hallway outside Tom's bedroom just after he got dressed. Inwardly he sighed. She wanted something else, did she?
"Tom, please come with me," she said in tones that were mild but still brooked no argument. "There is something that you need to do—in my office."
Wordlessly he followed her into the room that she had set up for administration, ruling, and study. She closed the door behind him. He wondered what this was about; why all the secrecy? A house-elf could have relayed a message….
She gestured at a writing desk on which assorted shiny items gleamed in the morning light. Tom walked to it and peered at them, his suspicions rapidly growing as he drew near.
An assortment of rings lay on a piece of black velvet. There were several that, in Tom's opinion, hardly counted as jewelry. One, in fact, looked very much like a piece of heavy wire bent into a circle and sealed together at the ends by magic. Another was badly scratched bronze. There were a couple of plain bands, one with a smooth cabochon of what looked like glass, and one that was actually quite nice—silver with a patina, and an emerald encircled by two snakes.
"These are the rings that I have found in the castle—other than the family crest ring, of course." She was wearing that one, Tom noticed. "You must select one for Hermione. You should place it on her finger today when we seal the contract. Don't worry if it's the wrong size; I'll adjust it with magic—or you can if you are confident."
Tom's irritation surged once again. He "must" select a ring? And put it on Hermione's finger himself? It was perfectly obvious to him that, protocol or not, this was another way for his mother to bully him. So much for trying to forget about it and thinking of Hermione only as a friend, as she had said when she had first told him of the plan.
Scowling, he gazed at the rings. So she insisted that he pick it out himself and put it on Hermione's finger? Well, then, in that case she should not have included the ugly, cheap, or damaged ones. He would pick one of those and embarrass her. His gaze paused at the scratched and tarnished bronze ring, then the one that looked like wire.
But if I do that, I'll look like a savage boor, he realized. I might humiliate my mother, but I would also humiliate myself. And if Hermione does attend Hogwarts, everyone will see the ugly, cheap ring on her finger and ridicule me for giving it to her.
He glanced at the silver-and-emerald serpent ring. It must be fairly recent, since Parseltongue had entered the family line through Salazar Slytherin. That would explain the better condition of it, too. He sighed. As much as he hated to look compliant with all this, that was a ring that no one would be ashamed of. With a resigned scowl, he picked it up and held it between his thumb and index finger, gazing at his mother through narrowed eyes.
She nodded in approval—almost, he realized, as though she had planned this. He wondered if she had created that wire ring herself. She flicked her wand and summoned a box from the depths of a drawer somewhere.
"An excellent choice," she said, taking it from him and placing it in the box. "It belonged to your great-grandmother. Come, let's present it to Hermione." She handed Tom the box and ushered him out of the office.
The Ceremony of Betrothal was ultimately a private affair, involving the two families and witnessed and recorded by Severus Snape. Tom was relieved that his mother had not summoned the entire staff—or village—to bear witness. She and Lord Granger affixed their signatures to the document, which detailed the terms for reciprocal defense of each other's property—though Tom expected that that was rather one-sided, since the Grangers were Muggles—the amount of gold for Hermione's dowry, specific property terms, a deadline for a wedding that was two months after they both completed their magical education, and language giving the young couple the authority to designate the primary heir from their future children as they saw fit. Tom nearly choked at that clause and the picture it put into his head.
They were also going to have Hermione fostered at Parselhall for much of the time that they were not at school—assuming that she was, in fact, allowed to go to Hogwarts. There, she would get accustomed to the castle and the distinct business of the barony of Hangleton.
Prior to the private ceremony, Merope had taken Tom aside to explain this to him.
"I remember some details from my girlhood," she had said, "but I have much to learn about the art of ruling, and I think it best that you learn it with me. Lady Hermione probably knows more than both of us about that subject, based on something her father said to me… so it would be sensible for her to be here for that reason too during the summers."
Although the legally binding signature was her own, Merope had also determined that, as heir to the title, Tom should sign the contract too. Nobles who were witches or wizards kept information about their family affairs and the administration of their holdings largely within their own circle, so they were somewhat secluded from the doings of the Muggle nobility… but the Grangers were not magical. The protections—and as prejudiced as they were, Malfoy's Wizards' Council did at least offer protection to the magical community from Muggle laws that countered their own traditions—did not apply to them. There was the possibility that, in the confusion of the ongoing Muggle war of succession, some greedy Muggle might not consider the signature of a woman valid and would try to force the issue with Lord Granger. That, after all, was part of the rationale of Stephen's supporters, that Matilda had no right to rule the Muggles due to her sex. The idea of some absconding Muggle pervert getting his hands on Hermione disgusted Tom.
He wondered for a moment if this was a magical contract… but when he brought his quill to the parchment, he could not detect any magic at all. A good thing. He would have been outraged at his mother if she had done that to him. Trying to keep his countenance and not betray his frustration at his mother outmaneuvering him—and manipulating his pride and his sympathy for a person of magic—Tom signed his name to the document. His mother and Lord Granger pressed their family seals into wax drops at the bottom.
He then presented the silver ring to Hermione, holding his wand in his other hand. He was perfectly capable of shrinking it to fit her delicate fingers, and he did not want his mother to embarrass him further by doing that in his stead. His great-grandmother must have worn this ring into her old age, when her fingers would have grown arthritic and the joints knobby, because it seemed far too large to fit a woman's fingers otherwise. He had already shrunk it a bit, in fact, so it would at least appear to fit—mostly—on Hermione's ring finger.
She was smiling broadly once again as he slid the ring on her finger and resized it, a white smile of genuine pleasure. In that moment, the thought flitted through Tom's mind that she was… rather pretty. Perhaps it was the green gown she was wearing—he always liked green—but still, that smile….
He knew protocol, so he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles lightly and quickly. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and then her smile shifted slightly, with one corner of her mouth a bit higher than the other. It was lopsided, but somehow this looked even more genuinely happy than the previous one.
I hope she does go to Hogwarts, Tom thought.
The Wizards' Council.
Armand Malfoy and the other members of the Wizards' Council were not especially happy to see either the Grangers or the Riddles again, and to the credit of his intelligence, he apparently deduced why they were there together before being told, based on the sour look on his wrinkled face.
"My lord," Merope said, her voice carrying a new confidence, "we come before this Council to inform you that Lady Hermione Granger, whom you previously declared a witch, has fulfilled the terms of both the Council and the law regarding admission to Hogwarts School. Her family and I have entered an agreement involving our children. As you may notice, Lady Hermione wears the betrothal ring that my son selected for her. We request a reversal of the Council's previous decision concerning her acceptance at Hogwarts."
Malfoy turned to his son Abraxas and to the other members of the Council, utter fury written on his face. Abraxas stepped forward, seeing that his father was too angry to respond.
"Lady Riddle, we will confer in private and inform you of our decision forthwith." With no further comment, the Council huddled in a circle and cast spells making their discussion inaudible to the Council attendees.
The Riddles and the Grangers stood unafraid. The worst that could happen was that the Council would arbitrarily change the law, and if that happened, it would be unfortunate for Hermione—unfortunate that the young people could not attend school together and have that experience in common—but Hermione could still be educated in some manner at Parselhall.
Although they could not hear, they could observe. Armand Malfoy was gesticulating wildly, a blood vessel throbbing visibly through the thin aged skin of his neck. He was furious, and apparently advocating to change the law despite the Grangers' fulfillment of its requirement.
This is more than just the decrepitude of aging, Tom thought as he observed the old wizard's pinched face and withered skin. Dumbledore doesn't look this bad and he's about the same age as Malfoy. It is meanness that did that to him.
Abraxas Malfoy, who was elderly in his own right but did not yet display the kind of visage that his father did, bore a more reasonable and conciliatory expression on his face. So did Arcturus Black. Rodolphus Lestrange, by far the youngest member of the Council, looked displeased but resigned. Unless the old man overruled all of them, it appeared that Hermione would go to Hogwarts.
The Council broke apart and returned to face their petitioners. Armand Malfoy did not go to the podium to speak; he was still too visibly angry. Instead Abraxas Malfoy came forward.
"It is the decision of a majority of the Council that your petition will be granted," he said curtly.
Hermione burst into that pretty white smile again.
"Do be aware," he said in severe tones, "that her continued study at Hogwarts School is contingent upon the continued existence of this betrothal agreement. Should it be voluntarily renounced… or should young Riddle die—"
Tom could hardly believe his ears. Was that a threat? Instinctively he reached for his wand, just to feel its reassuring presence, though he had no intention of using it at this moment.
"–then Lady Hermione Granger will no longer be permitted to be tutored at the school. Furthermore, if she fails to be declared a master by the instructors of the school, she will not be permitted to bear instruments of magic in public places unless she is a widow with one or more magical children that would need to be controlled. But your petition is granted, and as such, she will be permitted to acquire her own wand and any other personal tools of the art that she needs. And now, this session of the Council is concluded. You are dismissed." Abraxas turned away abruptly, followed by the rest of the Council.