Notes: This chapter is about several issues. This was almost painful to write, and I should warn that for the first part of it, it depicts negative effects of overwork and stress, including marital estrangement. BUT... there is an M-rated conclusion.


Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Law of Unintended Consequences


1960.

Tom crumpled today's edition of the Daily Prophet and tossed it into the fire in his opulent Ministry office. The edges of the paper caught fire and glowed orange briefly before turning black and crumbling to soot, as the flames consumed them. Tom rubbed his temples. A headache was coming on, brought about not by a lead headline, but by a small article in the "Crime and Unusual Events" section that told of another suspected "Knockturn Alley healer."

That was the term. They were not usually actual healers, and they did not necessarily operate in Knockturn Alley, but that was the vernacular for the shady characters who attempted to practice Healing, of a sort, but all too frequently butchered patients with Dark curses.

What they did was not usually even illegal, as long as the people who put themselves in their power did so freely and the Dark practitioners did not misrepresent their practice as standard, licensed-and-approved Healing. It would have been illegal a few years ago, Tom thought with an eye for the irony of it despite his dismay. There was increased tolerance of the Dark Arts since the National Museum had opened and he, the Minister himself, had acknowledged being a Dark wizard. He had seized on the public mood change to loosen a restriction on the Dark Arts that—in his view—had stifled experimentation and prevented magical advancement from being made. Under his new law, when adults consented to the use of specific Dark magic on themselves, with the risks acknowledged, and said magic was not already proscribed by law—such as the Unforgivable Curses—then the person who did it could not be charged with a crime if injury resulted. In Tom's opinion, this was the most basic kind of restriction to be lifted, the low-hanging fruit. He meant to do more in time.

But he had a problem. Lately it seemed that there were a lot more "Knockturn Alley healers" than there had been even a few years ago… and Tom could not avoid the conclusion that his change in Dark Arts law had something to do with it. He was also quite sure that his Wizarding Renaissance law was the other big factor contributing to the situation, because of the specific type of Dark magic that these… entrepreneurs… were attempting to perform. Taken together, these were very uncomfortable facts to face.

In the most recent incident, a witch had been admitted to the emergency ward of St. Mungo's with severe internal injuries. She had almost died, and she had lost the function of her reproductive system. Healers had confirmed that the curse the "healer" had inflicted to terminate her pregnancy had, in fact, caused severe irreparable damage to the affected organs. This was not the first such case. There had been five this year already.

Why did this have to start happening now? After a tumultuous start, he was finally secure in his seat as Minister for Magic. The public works that he and Hermione had created, especially the National Museum and Hogsmeade Park, drew scores of visitors and strong support from the people. He was considered one of the most important leaders of the modern international wizarding order for his efforts to protect the Statute of Secrecy in totalitarian Muggle states. His faction, his party, was the only one of the three that had strong and serious leadership anymore. Albus Dumbledore could have been a strong opponent, but he had chosen to cultivate a profile of being above the fray and willing to work with any reasonable Minister instead of openly declaring himself a partisan of the Reformist faction. They were stuck with Septimus Weasley and a few other weak functionaries, none of whom had the charisma to seize the leadership mantle, and the disgracing of Abraxas Malfoy last year had left the Isolationists in a similar situation. Tom had the Wizengamot where he wanted it: a solid majority supporting his tenure, between his Wizarding Nationalists' forty-two percent and some crossovers from the other two factions.

Most of Tom's domestic policies had popular support too, and even the Renaissance Law itself—though still controversial, and easily the least popular of his laws—was beginning to bear fruit. He had his Social Welfare office tracking statistics very closely, and there was immediately a small but detectable rise in the wizarding birth rate since he had curtailed private imports of the silphium plant. It's doing what I meant it to do. Why did this have to happen? It wasn't supposed to. He hadn't wanted this.

And more importantly, Tom thought, what can I do about it? The press isn't nagging me about it yet, but if I don't do something to address the problem early, it's inevitable that they will. And after the nagging, then the blame to my policies—and a new round of attacks.


Hermione still had trouble figuring out Tom sometimes. He was a complicated person: a Dark wizard, magic supremacist, silver-tongued politician, but a devoted family man. He had positioned himself—sincerely, Hermione believed—as a champion of wizarding children specifically, while not actually being able to relate to children other than his own. He was a ruthless ideologue who had grand ideas for the greater good, but he cared little for most people individually except his own family. But how he cared about his family!

She had long known what she meant to him, and it had been clear for years that he felt the same devotion to their children, but some aspects of their family life still surprised her when she took the time to ponder them. In 1945, when she had first committed herself to being with him, she had not thought he would make a good father. She had believed that he would pressure his children to use Dark magic and would not approve of their interests unless he personally shared them. That second fear, at least, had turned out to be unfounded. He supported Madeline's interest in Quidditch, and he had made peace with Virgil's quietly imaginative personality and apparent "selection" by the diadem of Ravenclaw—though she had a feeling he was still hoping the Sorting Hat disagreed in several years. And now, two-year-old Cynthia—who was definitely a Parselmouth like her siblings; she had made hissing sounds before she even spoke English words—was obsessed with magical plants and creatures. Although she could not read, her favorite book was the illustrated edition of Newt Scamander's famous text. She loved to look at the pictures. Tom was not overly interested in Herbology or Magizoology except for snake lore and organisms as sources of potions ingredients; his favorite types of magic involved what Severus Snape had once called "foolish wand-waving," but he was happy to provide his youngest child with picture books and charmed miniature models of creatures.

Hermione was grateful that Tom often took the lead in the evenings to read to the children and get them ready for bed. He had done so this evening, specifically wanting the temporary distraction of being with them after apparently getting some sort of report at the Ministry that he didn't like. She was glad he had taken the initiative today, she thought, taking a sip of wine that evening to calm her nerves. There were days, like today, when she just needed the time to herself. Lately it felt that she was being stretched to the limit. Being president of her organization and chair of the National Museum's board of directors left her feeling hollowed out and exhausted, but she did not want to turn either entity over to someone else. They were hers. She could handle both. The organization was running smoothly, its in-house research, external grants, and policy analysis divisions doing what they were supposed to do. And the Museum of Magic was as popular as it had been the previous year. Didn't success prove that she was handling things?

Still, she had been growing concerned that her family and marital life would suffer first, in fact that the latter already had in one regard. It was Tom's job to take care of the children sometimes, and she was not yet delegating an unfair proportion of parenting duties to him… but lately, most nights, she had been falling asleep with barely a good night kiss for him, let alone more. She was just too tired for intimacies, but that was not a situation that she should allow to become normal….

She finished her glass of wine and glanced at the clock. A frown passed over her face. It was eleven o'clock; the children should be in bed now—the younger ones, anyway. If Madeline wanted to sit up late, she was old enough to use her own judgment, but she was to keep to her bedroom and the bathroom if she did. In any case, Tom ought to be finished reading to them. Where was he? Hermione rose from her desk and went to look for him in his home office.

He had cast a sound-muffling spell from the inside, so she did not hear the music until she cracked the door open. Her eyes widened in unmitigated shock at the crooning of Frank Sinatra. Tom, listening to Muggle songs? Having grown up in the forties, Tom preferred swingy music, but the wizarding world had its own musicians. Even at a low volume, clearly meant for background noise, his choice of audio was unbelievable to her—but she was not about to comment on it to his face. Hermione gazed at the old-fashioned phonograph that he had on his desk, where he sat, brooding, a series of text-filled papers spread out on the desktop before him. She entered the office and closed the door behind her.

He met her gaze with his, turning the knob on the phonograph with one hand and silencing the record. His eyes were tired and faintly bloodshot. An empty water glass sat on the desk. Hermione's heart suddenly went out to him. He really has had a long day, she thought. She moved toward the desk, glancing around the room for a spare chair, but there was none. Tom noticed her eye movements and whipped out his wand, making a chair suddenly appear that Hermione recognized as belonging to their dining set. She pulled it close to his desk chair and sat down.

"What's the matter?" she asked, glancing at the papers on his desk.

He sighed heavily. "I'm sure you know."

She frowned at one of the documents, recognizing it as a Ministry case file about an incident of magical street crime—no, she corrected herself in thought as she looked more closely, it's… a Dark wizard practicing Healing without a license… after a fashion…. She craned her neck to try to skim the introductory paragraph.

"You don't know?" Tom asked, eyebrows knitting in surprise. "The incidents have been in the Prophet periodically. I assumed you would have taken notice, given the content…."

Hermione finished reading the first paragraph of the file. It was enough for her to comprehend the situation, but—

"I haven't been aware of this," she admitted to him. "Have these been page one headlines?"

"No, mainly items in the back pages."

"Then I wouldn't have paid attention," she said, somewhat embarrassed. "I haven't had the time in months to read the Prophet through." She fixed her gaze on him. "So. These"—she scanned the document again—"'Knockturn Alley healers' have been performing illegal Dark Arts abortions on witches—"

"Not illegal," Tom admitted grudgingly.

Hermione raised her eyebrows.

"Not illegal yet," he amended, his features suddenly hardening. An idea had occurred to him. "As long as their 'patients' know what is being done and what the risks are, they are allowed to do this under my Magical Innovation and Human Subjects Act, because the curses aren't explicitly banned elsewhere."

Hermione forbore from rolling her eyes at that aseptic name. As she had grown older, she had become more inclined toward personal freedom. She now generally supported the principle that the law should allow adults to assume personal risks as they saw fit, so she had not wanted to fight him when he had pushed for this. Besides, this really could further magical innovation and sometimes have personal benefits for the recipient of the magic. She could have that view, while also believing that it would be very bad if Dark wizards began widely and carelessly experimenting on people simply because they had the proper legal forms "explaining the risks."

Still, more important was his clear implication that he believed the solution to this specific problem was to outlaw the spells that these people were using on witches—or, she suspected, witches on themselves, if they had the skill. She had not been aware of these incidents, but now that she was, she was not surprised in the least that some women were resorting to such measures. The only thing surprising was that it had taken almost three years for it to happen regularly. And were they truly consenting to the risk of the Dark curses if they felt that they had no other option? That, she thought, was an important issue to consider.

"That won't work, you know," she said.

He looked defensive. "I didn't suggest anything."

"You didn't need to say it outright. You obviously think that the answer is to ban these spells. Tom, why do you think witches are resorting to this in the first place?" Without waiting for an answer, she continued, looking him in the eye. "Do you think this is something that any witch would want done to her? If these practices really are legal, then these 'healers' have been giving their patients truthful information about the risks, and the women choose to accept those risks anyway. They do it because they're not allowed to get the potion anymore." The potion, Hermione thought wryly, like "the Pill."

Tom scowled. "It's amazing no one has died yet, and I'm sure it is only a matter of time."

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, then—"

"The point of my law is to raise the birth rate, so it's quite bad enough if people become sterile. Still," he considered, "that might be reversible. It might be that we just don't know how to do it yet. But if women start dying, that's that, isn't it? No reversal." He smiled darkly at her. "Yes, I have a dodge, but it's not one I can promote to the wizarding world." He paused and added under his breath, "And it would sicken me if some stranger did it but not my own family."

Hermione glared. "Tom!"

He stared back defiantly. "So this is undermining my law's success already, even without deaths. If this continues, or if people do start to die, then the Daily Prophet will come for my head—again. I have to do something."

"If you outlaw these curses, these women will just find another loophole—especially if you continue with your 'Dark Arts legal reform' policies. They do it because they don't want to be pregnant, just as—" She broke off. He would not like the phrase "just as I told you." No one did.

But he had completed the sentence in his own mind. His eyebrows narrowed in irritation. "Does this make you happy?" he sneered.

"Of course it doesn't. This is a terrible situation, but the solution isn't to ban something else. Besides," she added, "do you really want to make more Dark Arts spells illegal? You?" That might persuade him, she thought.

He met her gaze with a level look of his own. "I know that you don't care as much as I do about the legality of Dark magic."

"Well, it's extremely important to you, so few would," she said diplomatically. "But Tom, think about what I said. You want to lift several restrictions on Dark magic, so it will look capricious and hypocritical if you add restrictions for Dark spells that inconvenience a political agenda of your own. And I'm serious: If you make these spells illegal, witches will just find something else, probably something even riskier. They've already shown that they will take on terrible risk, seeing incompetent Dark wizards. What will be next, poisons? I suppose you could throw women into Azkaban for anything that does the same thing as the banned potion, but is that really what you want to do?"

Tom sighed and rubbed the sides of his head. He appeared to have suddenly given up, which surprised Hermione—and alarmed her. Tom did not usually shift from half-furious determination to pessimistic defeat so quickly.

"Tom?" she asked, her voice gentler. She leaned toward him.

He mumbled something under his breath that was indecipherable to her.

"Tom?" she asked again. "What did you say?"

"I don't want to do that," he muttered. "I won't do that. I don't want more witches and wizards in Azkaban for Dark magic." He met her eyes with his, and once again they looked weary. "I know what you want to happen. You want me to repeal the law. You never liked it, even after my compromises. But Hermione, it does have a purpose. You saw the population analysis. This is not an imaginary problem that we face, and the law is working."

Hermione gazed skeptically at him. "I'd like to see evidence of that. People find ways to sidestep laws they don't like, as we have seen."

His eyes flashed. "Fine." He began shuffling through the papers on his desk, looking for particular ones. Finding them, he presented them to Hermione. She took them out of his hands and began to read them, focusing on the tables and charts. Somewhat to her surprise, the papers did show a rise in birth rate.

"This is not a long period of time," she began, passing the documents back to him, "but I see what you mean."

"How could you have read them that quickly?"

She stared at him, nonplussed. "I didn't need to read all the print. The tables and graphs told me what I needed to know."

He looked as if he wanted to say more, but then changed his mind. "Fine. You see for yourself, then, that this is causing our birth rate to tick back up. I don't want to reverse that."

"So you've changed your mind about these witches? Their sufferings are acceptable for the greater good?"

He started, and for a moment his eyes flashed. "You know I didn't say that. I've said the opposite. I am trying to think of a solution that stops this from happening and keeps the law in place. You're not being helpful."

Irritation flooded Hermione's body. "I came here because it is late and it's time for you to turn in," she said hotly, "not for you to drag me into the problems that you created for yourself. That's what really troubles you, isn't it, the awareness that the press will go after you if this doesn't stop?"

Tom drew back from her as if she had slapped him. "Good night, Hermione," he said coldly. "I'll join you in a bit."

Hermione recognized that as the dismissal it was. She suddenly felt terrible. She had meant to urge him to set work aside for the night and come to bed, and she had felt sympathy for him upon seeing his exhausted appearance. Now he was basically ordering her out of the office because they were narrowly avoiding having a fight. What had gone wrong?

We both should be in bed, she thought sadly, leaving the room and closing the door behind her. We're both under too much stress, and are too exhausted, to have a productive discussion right now. She went the short distance into their bedroom, took a quick shower, and collapsed through the green drapes of their large canopy bed onto the mattress. Her conscious brain seemed to slow down almost as soon as she touched the pillow, and within minutes, she was dozing.

She was not quite asleep, so she heard him enter the shower in a little bit and vaguely understood what the sound meant. To her semiconscious mind, the passage of time was compressed. It seemed almost immediate that he was out of the shower, throwing the draperies back, and climbing into bed with her. The mattress shifted with his weight. Hermione began to ease out of her half-asleep state.

He paused for a moment before leaning over her. The warmth his body radiated enveloped her, and then he began to rub her shoulders and plant light kisses on the side of her neck.

It was pleasant, but Hermione—now awake and aware—knew it could not go as far as he probably wished it to. She was just too tired. She let him continue for a bit, even allowing him to roll her onto her back and hover over her, but it was primarily because she did not have the energy to put a stop to it. But when he took hold of her wrists and started to lift her arms above her head, she spoke up.

"Not tonight, Tom."

He paused but did not release her arms.

"I'm too tired. I was almost asleep before you came in." As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted how they sounded—she had not meant them to cast blame at him for disturbing her rest—but she was not even herself enough to formulate her words with the connotation she wanted.

He drew away at once, like a snake recoiling. "I beg your pardon, then," he said, hurt and rejection seeping from his words. Immediately he settled himself on his own pillow, not touching her at all.

She missed his touch at once, and she felt bad for offending him. "Tom, I didn't mean it that way. I'm sorry, really. I wasn't blaming you. I just… can't tonight."

He was silent for a moment, apparently considering her apology and deciding what to say. Finally he spoke again, and his voice was low and tight. "It's been—what? Three weeks? Four?"

"Tom, I'm sorry. I've been mentally exhausted for a while now, what with work."

There was another silent pause. "I see. Well. I hope your relationships with Advance and the Museum improve," he said pointedly. "Good night." He turned on his side, away from her.

Those words cut. He obviously thought that he was competing with her work for her time and devotion—and losing. This was wrong, so wrong. She was correct earlier that the exhaustion was hurting their marriage… but what was the answer? It wouldn't solve the problem if she just lay there and let him do what he wanted. He would want her to participate. And there was still the fact that they had almost had an argument a little while ago. She wasn't angry at him, nor he at her. It was exhaustion… but she couldn't hand off Advance or the National Museum to anyone else. There was no answer. They'd just have to get through this. At least she didn't have to worry about infidelity or a sudden serving of divorce papers. Not from Tom Riddle.

Still, she could not stand to look at that lump on the other side of the bed. "Tom," she said softly, moving closer to him. She pressed against him and draped an arm around his waist.

He had been coiled into himself, like a snake, with tension and more than a little hostility, but when he felt her touch, she felt him relax. A small smile formed on her face as she curled against him. She placed a chaste kiss on the space between his shoulder and his neck. "It'll get better," she whispered.

He didn't respond.


The next morning, they awoke at the same time. She was still pressed against him. The memories of the previous night's unpleasantness filled her immediately, and when he stretched and got out of bed with nary a greeting, she realized that her cuddling had not bridged the distance. It was better than nothing, surely, but it was not enough.

As they prepared for work that morning, she noticed that he did not seem to be harboring noticeable anger toward her anymore. Instead, his brow was faintly furrowed, and his eyes had a distracted look in them. He was preoccupied too, then, whether with the Knockturn Alley healer problem or with concern for their relationship—or both.

She went to get Virgil and Cynthia out of their rooms and brought them downstairs. She did not usually bring Madeline to work anymore. She was almost ten, and she had clamored to be allowed to stay at home now, with her push for independence that all older children went through. Hermione had felt a pang upon doing it, and she had made sure to lock certain rooms in the house, but her daughter was very responsible, and after all, she would be going to Hogwarts in a couple of years.

Tom gathered his wand and briefcase. He shrugged on his overcoat lined in green satin, and gave Hermione an intense look—and a faint smile—before Apparating to the Ministry. It made her heart thump with hope. Maybe things were about to get better.

But first, she had a board meeting with her vice presidents. She had known it was coming, and she had prepared obsessively, reading all the briefings about the issues that they wanted to address concerning their departments. She had to know just as much about matters as they did.

The central topic of discussion was, in fact, the direction that the organization should take in relation to the Minister's recent law permitting experimentation with Dark magic. Should Research start performing studies in that field of magic? Should the organization award grants?

"Personally," her Vice President of Research opined, "I do think we should have some people working on it internally. The safest setting is controlled research, with credentialed and competent people. It's going to happen anyway, what with the Minister's new law, so better that it happen in a safe environment."

"We don't have a standard way of measuring competence in the Dark Arts in Britain," the VP of Policy pointed out. "Hogwarts doesn't teach it."

Hermione knew quite well that changing that was part of Tom's master plan. She also knew that this particular vice president was a political supporter of his.

The Research VP shrugged. "Hire them from Durmstrang until we figure it out. It's taught there."

Hermione spoke up. "We would want to be sure that we didn't duplicate anything that was taking place in the Department of Mysteries."

All of her board stared at her in surprise. The Policy VP spoke for them. "But, Madam President… the Department of Mysteries doesn't study the Dark Arts… does it?" The witch trailed off hesitantly, aware that Hermione might have inside information that they were not privy to.

Hermione felt heat rush up her cheeks. She honestly did not know the answer. Quickly she tried to remember what the Department of Mysteries studied. Time, space, death, thought, precognition, clairvoyance, love…. "I… don't actually know," she admitted, embarrassed to betray ignorance before her board.

"You're quite right that we should find out, though," the Research VP agreed. "But assuming that they don't, I still think we should take the lead…."

Hermione almost tuned out the rest of the meeting. Her vice presidents clearly all supported initiating an in-house research group focusing on the Dark Arts, and as the meeting wore on, the consensus grew that the organization should not award grants to outside researchers, because of the risk associated with the research and the inability of the nonprofit to supervise outside wizards and witches.

The meeting ended, and Hermione dismissed her vice presidents. She remained in the boardroom to contemplate what had happened. They don't actually need me to hold their hands, she thought. They can reach a conclusion without being directed by me.

The implications of that slammed into her mind immediately.

My board of vice presidents can work collectively, and perhaps I should let them do that, she thought, clarity breaking through her mind. The organization is not singularly focused anymore, and they would know more about their own divisions than I could. I can't know every little detail about everything in an organization this large. I can veto if they go in a direction I don't like, but otherwise maybe I should just let them take the lead. My position has become a corporate management role more than anything else, too far removed from the interesting work. The museum is not so unwieldy. Maybe I should focus on that now.

It really wasn't a bad idea to move to a sort of senior advisory position as president. She had needed to take a firm hand when first starting the nonprofit, but she had competent, trustworthy people as her vice presidents. She didn't need to micro-manage everything. As a perfectionist, she had difficulty letting go to any degree whatever… she had that entirely in common with Tom… but it could be counterproductive if she took on more than she could handle.


Tom pondered the situation all day at the Ministry. Fortunately, it was a relatively slow day, so he had the time to think.

He was very unhappy about the state of his relationship with Hermione. She was tired, yes—he could see that in her eyes every day—but she was choosing her work over their marriage. She wasn't neglecting the children; she was putting him last, as the one claim on her that could be taken somewhat for granted. Rationally, he supposed it made a certain kind of sense. The children needed parents, whereas he was a grown wizard. She also knew that he would not consider putting her aside or—ugh—turning to someone else. Even if the idea had been tempting instead of disgusting, he was above debasing himself thus. He wanted Hermione. His feelings for her were unique, and he would have her—or no one.

That's enough of that, he reprimanded himself mentally. I do have her. I'm not alone. She regretted the "incidents" last night, and she spent the night curled against me. I should have turned around and held her too, come to think of it. She is not about to leave me. She just has this tight-fisted control over her two big work matters, and between that and being a mother, it leaves little time for me.

He understood that she did not want to turn over her organization or the museum to anyone else, and he sympathized, but he had learned some time ago as a Department Head—let alone as Minister—that he had to cultivate underlings to handle some things. Surely she had such people.

If she did not, he would suggest it to her. This had to change. She might think she was functional with regard to her work, but he had seen in her eyes how tired she was. It was a matter of time before everything she was trying to do collapsed.

Tom filed that resolution away in his mind. If Hermione came home bleary-eyed and snappish again, he would—diplomatically—suggest that she give more responsibility to some of her people, and he would do his best not to take offense if she got angry. He turned then to the other matter before him, the Knockturn Alley healer situation.

That… was a more difficult problem. Tom really did not want to repeal his law. It was working, and some sort of pro-natalist policy was necessary. Hermione had hit on something last night, though he would not admit it: A part of this was his own concern about being attacked if this situation continued. Most of the rest of it was dismay at the harm—however small—to the magical population if people became sterile or died early. He could not really muster that much individualized pity for people who knowingly put themselves in harm's way under these circumstances. There were options available if they were poor or did not want to raise children themselves.

Still… maybe Hermione had a point. Maybe there were always going to be people who were so determined on something that they would find a way, however dangerous. Maybe if he banned the Dark Arts curses that these pseudo-healers were using, the witches would resort to poisoning themselves. All sorts of potions, including many that did not even qualify as poisons in the usual sense, could harm developing fetuses if a mother-to-be did not take an antidote quickly enough. He actually would have to target pregnant women themselves rather than specific activities. He would have to create a law to throw witches in jail. The idea was incredibly distasteful to him—and, yes, it would be incredibly unpopular. He might not even have his own faction behind him for that.

Tom squeezed his eyes shut in consternation as he arrived at the logical conclusion of this line of thought. He would have to make some changes to his law if he wanted to put an end to women seeking out dangerous curses from incompetent Dark Arts practitioners. If they were that bloody determined, then… maybe they should have access to the potion after all. At least it wouldn't put their lives or fertility at risk. They might change their minds later; at least they wouldn't be sterile that way.

But how to single out the most desperate for an exception in the law? It was one thing to identify the women with medical risks, the rape victims, the students at school, the mothers of three, and the ones who declared that they never wanted children. How could he identify the truly desperate? How could he single them out from the people who would take the potion if it were available, but would not risk going to a shady Knockturn Alley healer if it weren't? As he pondered this, he came to realize that… he couldn't. If he let them have it, he'd have to open the doors again.

And yet, those statistics. The law was achieving its aim.

I do not want to undo the progress, he thought determinedly—and then, at once, he had a brilliant flash of inspiration.

He took up his quill immediately and began writing notes for himself.


That evening, Hermione came in looking, once again, tired—but also resolved and more at peace than he had seen her look in quite some time. He wondered if she'd had a revelation as he had.

Well, best to ask. They could not begin bridging the gap between themselves too quickly. "How was your day?" he asked. "You look happier."

Her gaze fluttered to his. A faint smile formed on her lips. "It was… an illuminating day," she said. "I had a board meeting, and something occurred to me then."

"Oh?"

She nodded. "Yes," she said. "I've decided to take a more hands-off approach to Advance in the future. My vice presidents proved at the meeting that they are perfectly capable of deciding things without being told what to do."

Tom's face was breaking into a smile. This was exactly the realization he had hoped she would come to herself.

"I will keep my veto powers," she clarified, "so that I can say no if they want to do something I don't like, but I'm going to loosen my grip on this otherwise. I think it's the right decision. It'll free me up to focus on the museum more, and… our family. And us."

He closed the gap between them and kissed her on the cheek. Her face flushed, and she regarded him with silent pleasure.

He hung his hat on the stand and gave her a very familiar smirk. "I thought of a solution to my problem too," he said.

Immediately she tensed in apprehension. "Oh?" she inquired, some of the warmth replaced with worry. "And what is it?"

"You'll be glad to know that I am lifting all restrictions on who can get the potion," he began. A triumphant smile appeared on her face at those words. He continued, "However, they have to go to St. Mungo's to receive it. I am not putting the plant back on the private market. It's still a Non-Tradeable Substance."

Hermione stared at him, considering this. At last, she nodded. "All right," she said. "I guess I see your reasoning."

"There will probably be some people taking it who otherwise would carry the pregnancies to term," he allowed, "but… going to the hospital is an additional step they have to take. It's not the same thing as having the plant or the potion itself widely available for anyone to buy at the apothecary. And policy-wise, it still sends the message that the Ministry favors family growth."

"It sends the message that the Ministry favors family growth, but also respects personal choices and values the safety of witches," Hermione added.

Tom nodded curtly. "I suppose it does, at that."

She smiled. "I am all right with this version of the law."

"I'm glad I have your approval, dear." He drew forward and placed his hands on her waist. His dark eyes gazed greedily at her.

She breathed deeply. "Later," she said softly.

"'Later.' You mean it this time?"

"I mean it."


Late that night, after they had had their baths and were standing near each other in the master bedroom, he turned to her with that dark, desirous gleam in his eyes once more.

Her heart thumped. It had been a while. She had been too tired for weeks now, but it was as if the desire she had missed during all that time had accumulated without her awareness and was now about to burst forth. She took deliberately tentative steps toward him, aware of the effect her delay would have on him—

It was instant. An almost inaudible moan escaped his throat. He strode forward, grabbed her aggressively around the waist, and walked her backward to the bed, shoving her down and immediately getting on top of her. His hands got busy with her sleep robe, pulling it off her. He shed himself of his own satiny robe in two seconds, the fabric sliding off his arms and shoulders in shimmery waves.

As he had done the previous night, he took her wrists in hand and raised them above her head.

"I think," he murmured, reaching toward the nightstand for his wand, "that I'd better ensure you follow through, this time." He cast Incarcerous, binding her wrists to the bedpost. "Am I right?"

She gazed at him with lust in her eyes. "You don't have to 'ensure' it tonight."

His fingers touched her hips lightly, fingertips slipping underneath her knickers. "I'm going to anyway," he growled, taking them off with a single sweep. Her breath caught in her chest as he descended upon her.

Everything was intensified—every touch, every light kiss. At one critical moment when he drew his hand away from her core, he leered at her with a smirk across his face. In the next second, he was in her to the hilt—no careful, slow movement needed, not tonight. She was more than ready for him. He kept his hands on her waist, long fingers reaching her hips, bracing himself against her as he moved aggressively. They found their release quickly, hot and satisfying. Then, half an hour later, they wanted more. The second time was more deliberate and tender.

Finally, when he was lying on his back, breathing deeply and gazing with dark eyes open wide at the canopy of their bed, she climbed halfway over him and placed a kiss on his cheek. She lay down and curled against him. In a minute, he turned on his side and wrapped an arm around her.

For the first time in almost a month, they fell asleep feeling close, intimate, and at last, relaxed.