Saturday, 25 December 1993
Granger Home, East Farleigh, Kent
The days immediately following Yule were, indeed, better than Yule itself, leading Mary to suspect that there might have been some sort of magic in her wish, despite the fact that she hadn't felt any magic at work. She also more rationally suspected that Emma had found the time and privacy to give her daughter a stern talking-to about a necessary attitude adjustment while Dan and Mary had been out gathering the ingredients for the Christmas Supper they had planned. Though Hermione awkwardly refused to acknowledge her previously horrid behavior, or the fight that they had had at the Moons', her attitude did improve. She joined her parents and Mary as they braved the hordes of last-minute Christmas shoppers at the local mall, and she seemed to be having as much fun as anyone, switching groups and attempting to buy gifts for the others without any of them seeing their presents.
Mary had gotten a stereotypical Christmas tie for Dan, on Emma's advice. It had little reindeer in Santa-hats on it. Hermione had gotten him a "matching" (horribly clashing) tie-pin shaped like a candy-cane. Dan had advised both Mary and Hermione on a set of bath-bubbles and candles for Emma that smelled like baking sugar cookies. Much as she knew Hermione didn't mind getting books from almost everyone, Mary wanted to get the older girl something completely frivolous, like last year's scarf. She ended up debating between a pair of dangling earrings with little gold stars, and a tiny painting of an owl in flight, against a backdrop of the moon, only the size of her hand. She eventually decided that the owl was more Luna than Hermione.
She had almost forgotten that she picked up a muggle fountain pen for Lilian over the summer. When she remembered, she bought the American legal thriller bestseller she had been considering for her birthday instead. After a bit of dithering over whether she ought to get something for Ginny, she decided yes, if only because she had picked up the painting for Luna. Nothing she had seen had really shouted Ginny at her, though, so eventually she settled on a ring with a reddish orange stone, on the assumption that it had to be more or less appropriate, since Ginny had given her a ring as an Egyptian souvenir/birthday present.
Catherine received a much more expensive cameo-brooch from the same store, and the Professor a silver locket with an ornate M picked out in tiny amethysts. Mary was fairly certain Catherine would have mentioned it by now if she was expected to send "Belated Yule Gifts" to the elder Urquharts, but she hadn't thought to ask about the younger kids. She put together a collection of muggle sweets to be passed along to them, anyway, if Catherine thought that was appropriate.
She had already exchanged similar packages with most of her acquaintances in Slytherin, since most of them didn't know where to send an owl. Her circle had expanded again when she wasn't looking, to include Blaise and Theo, Dave, Alex, and Nora alongside the new and current members of the Quidditch team, former team-mates who were still at school, and the other members of the Conspiracy (including Aerin, but not the twins, with whom she was still not on friendly terms). Everyone had strictly agreed not to open them until Christmas, even though they all knew they had gotten each other more or less the same things. She had taken her best guess as to who would actually wait when she was writing notes to go along with them, and had already gotten a thank-you from Dave, who had apparently opened his as soon as he got home, only to discover her 'I knew you wouldn't be able to wait, but Happy Early Christmas anyway.'
She had wavered on sending Remus a little painting like the one she had found for Luna, but with a wolf howling at the moon, instead of an owl, before she decided that he probably didn't want to be reminded of his 'Furry Little Problem' at Christmas. She sent him a 'World's Best Uncle' mug stuffed with Swiss chocolate instead. Snape received a mug that said 'You don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps.' (Anonymously, both in reference to the potions knife she was almost positive he had sent, and so that he couldn't technically hold it against her if he didn't like it. She thought he would, though. She could just see him sipping his usual morning coffee in front of Dumbledore, making sure the old wizard saw the phrase and pretending he wasn't doing so as a deliberate comment on the state of the school.)
Neville's grandmother invited the elder Grangers over for tea on Thursday. Neither Emma nor Dan said much about the experience, other than describing Madam Longbottom as 'very formidable' and the house itself as 'somewhat intimidating.' It must have gone well enough, though, because they did agree to allow Mary to accompany the Longbottoms to St. Mungo's on Christmas day. She was to floo to theirs at ten, and then they would all head to the hospital together. She would return well before Lilian came over for dinner. Aerin had decided not to attend, since her friend Lara was free to visit the Moons' over the weekend.
Mary realized at the last minute (after opening all of her own gifts on Christmas morning) that she hadn't gotten anything for Neville, and frantically re-wrapped some of the candies and chocolates from her stash, reasoning that she would have bought the same sort of things for him anyway. Dan thought this was hilarious, since he had been tasked with finding a proper bottle of wine for her to take for Madam Longbottom after the adults' meeting. Mary had even accompanied him on that hunt, so there was no reason she ought to have forgotten that she needed a gift for Neville, but she had anyway. She was absolutely kicking herself over not asking whether there was something she could bring for Alice and Frank as well. It sounded like they weren't well enough to appreciate most gifts, but it would have been polite to ask.
Opening presents around the Christmas tree the morning of the holiday was a novel experience. Mary had expected that Hermione's gifts would far outnumber her own, much like Dudley's had always done, but she hadn't accounted for the fact that most of the Grangers' family lived abroad. Dan's mother had sent a box of cheeses and wines from France for the family, and a first edition of a novel called La Chartreuse de Parme for Hermione. Emma's nephew Mike had sent a very nice basket of cakes and biscuits down from London, along with what Mary understood to be an expected note declining to join them for dinner, citing unexpected work demands.
The Grangers themselves had given Mary more or less the gift she had expected: three new jumpers and denims with room to grow. Hermione had given her a green hairband with little silver snakes embroidered on it, which had to have come from Hogsmeade. Luna had sent both of them friendship bracelets, knotted from different colored threads. Mary could feel magic tingling through hers as soon as she put it on. The note said that it would keep her safe from torvoluds, whatever those were supposed to be, and help her find light in the darkness. Whether this meant literal or metaphorical darkness was unclear. Ginny had given the girls hand-made cards and packages of fudge, which had Mary kicking herself again: she knew that the Weasleys didn't have much money, and hoped that the younger girl wasn't embarrassed about the fact that Mary's present to her had been much more expensive.
Catherine had sent a small bottle of perfume that shifted its scent according to the wearer's mood, and Remus had given her a very well-annotated copy of The Enchanter's Handbook. His note said that she might find it useful, as she started trying to apply the Runes she was learning in class, but the real gift, she was sure, was the notes scribbled in the margins, from 'I think Tockley was high when he wrote this whole chapter – L' to the tiny doodles of three four-legged creatures that might have been… horses? Dogs? There was a slash where the quill had been dragged away from the page, and it was captioned 'Jamie can't draw for shite,' signed with a hasty sketch of a winking dog.
Remus was, she decided, still winning the award for best gift-giver ever. Lilian and the Professor hadn't sent anything, because she would be seeing them in person later that evening and on Monday, respectively, but she doubted they would top a book full of notes for and about her parents. Plus it was useful. She still needed to put together wards for her bedroom next year.
Clothes and books featured prominently in Hermione's gifts, too, and the adults had gotten presents from the Weasleys, the Lovegoods, and the Tonkses: hats and scarves knitted with warming charms, a box of migrating glass tree ornaments, and a bottle of elf-made wine. The Lovegoods' ornaments were a particular success. Two of them established a nest near the star, and the others slowly expanded their range over the course of breakfast. By the time Mary was ready to leave for the Longbottoms', they were beginning to explore the living-room at large. A floating snowflake had taken up residence in the new Flutterby bush, and was defending its territory from all the others, much to the Grangers' amusement.
Uncertain of what to expect when she arrived, but very certain that she wanted to meet her godmother, regardless of whether the witch could recognize her, Mary threw her winter cloak over her nicest every-day robes (black, but with a more dress-like cut than her school robes) and marched out the back door, across the porch and the garden, and into the Floo Shed. Dan waved encouragingly at her from the kitchen window as she closed the door firmly behind her. She held the bottle of wine tightly in one hand as she tossed the floo powder with the other and enunciated 'Longbottom Manor' clearly as she stepped up and into the green flames.
Longbottom Manor
She tripped, of course, on exiting the Longbottom's fire, stumbling over her cloak-hem. Neville was waiting to welcome her, and tried to help, but she ended up pulling him down with her.
"Bloody hell," she grumbled, as he scrambled to his feet and gallantly offered her a hand.
"'s okay," the boy said with a self-depreciating smile. "I do that all the time. At least Gran's not here to see."
"Well, I guess there is that," Mary flushed, dusting off her robes with a few sweeps of her wand. "And I didn't drop the wine. There has got to be a trick to that, though."
"Uncle Algie says it's just practice," Neville shrugged, and Mary belatedly recalled her manners. This wasn't Hogwarts, after all, and there were adults around somewhere.
She bent her knees, sweeping her skirts free of the floor with her free hand. "Greetings, Heir Longbottom," she said, nodding smoothly.
Neville gave her a funny little half-smile, but he clicked his heels together and bowed properly. "Welcome to my family seat, Heir Potter. My grandmother eagerly awaits your meeting." Then he dropped the pretense. "She'll appreciate the bowing, too, but you don't have to with me. I mean, we're friends, aren't we?" He added the last bit slightly hesitantly, as though he really wasn't sure.
"Of course we are," Mary said firmly. "I brought you a Christmas present. Or, um… 'Belated Yule' if you don't celebrate Christmas." She pulled the bag of sweets from her pocket and held it out expectantly.
The Gryffindor flushed. "Yeah, um… we do. Happy Christmas," he said, pulling a rather untidy package from his own robe pocket for her. She felt a surge of relief not to have overstepped. They exchanged gifts, and Neville offered to take the wine as well.
"Oh, yeah, of course. Here. It's from the Grangers, as a holiday gift to the Longbottom Household."
"Thanks. I'll send them a note. Or Gran will. She really likes the sculpture, by the way." Mary had no idea what sculpture he was talking about. Something Emma had brought for their first meeting, maybe? "But yeah, um… Poppy!"
An old elf appeared, wearing a pillowsheet with the Longbottom crest worked over one shoulder. It bowed low, and Neville handed over the wine, then hesitated. "Would you like her to take your cloak? I mean, we are leaving soon…"
Mary wavered. It wouldn't be polite to look too eager to go, but she didn't want to trouble the elf to pop in and out too often. "I can just leave it here, if that's alright?" she suggested. Navigating a proper visit to another Noble house without Catherine's immediate guidance was hard.
Neville nodded almost too quickly. "That's fine. Here!" he helped her out of it, laying it carefully over a bench, folded so that the damp, trailing end wouldn't touch the upholstery or the collar. "Shall we go through, then?" he offered, holding out an arm.
She laid her hand atop his, as though he was escorting her to dinner or a ball, and nodded determinedly. He led her through long, under-lit corridors, paneled to waist-height with dark, heavy wood, with lightly-striped green silk wallpaper rising to crown molding, and a ceiling lost in shadows. There were long, plush rugs laid along the center of each hallway, dampening the sound of their footsteps, and both the walls and the floorboards were polished like nice furniture. Everything about the atmosphere screamed understated old money, rather like the Urquharts' mansion, but less lived-in.
After a moment, the wizard smiled shyly. "Do you mind if I ask… who's been teaching you etiquette and such?"
"Well, I think it's supposed to be somewhat of a secret," Mary smirked, "but almost everyone knows anyway. Professor McGonagall arranged for me to be fostered with the Urquharts. Their daughter Catherine has been my primary tutor in the arts of society these past two summers," she added, falling smoothly back into the structures of the formal dialogue Mrs. Urquhart and Lady Urquhart demanded of her. She was certain Madam Longbottom would want nothing less, if even Emma described her as formidable.
"Please extend to her my compliments, then, for the polish she has added to your natural charm," Neville said, then made a face. "The problem with these lines is it always sounds like I'm insulting someone," he complained. "Like I'm saying you needed the help, or like she hasn't done anything for you. Or both. I'm no good at it at all. What I mean to say is, you're doing way better than I did on my first formal visit, and I'm impressed."
Mary smiled, his irritable attitude putting her a bit more at ease with the whole situation than his blatant nervousness had done. "Thanks, I think. I just hope your grandmother is as impressed."
"You'll be fine," he reassured her. "Just as long as you don't show any weakness. This is it." He stopped in front of a closed door, knocked twice, and opened it with a sweeping motion that indicated she should go ahead of him.
The room was a parlor, much better-lit and more lightly decorated than anything she had seen thus far. The furniture was just as dark and heavy as the paneling, but there were two large windows with open curtains, catching the morning sun. Two people who had to be Madam Longbottom and Algernon 'Uncle Algie' Longbottom were seated before one of these. He was reading the Prophet. She had just laid her napkin across her plate. Mr. Longbottom didn't look up, but Madam Longbottom fixed her with a gimlet gaze as she waited for Neville to close the door and resume escorting her.
"So you'd be Mary Potter, would you, girl?" she said in the slightly-too-loud voice of an old lady whose hearing is going. She couldn't have been more than about sixty or seventy, which wasn't very old for a witch, but there was something about her that made her seem much older and frailer. "Come here and let's have a look at you!" She held out a hand expectantly, though she did not deign to stand.
Neville wasn't at her side again, yet, but Mary didn't dare disobey, and he had said to show no fear. She straightened her back and strode up to the table, looking down her nose at the intimidating old woman and dipping into the appropriate curtsey, bowing her head over the extended hand. "Greetings and glad tidings, Madam Longbottom," she said, shoving aside her nervousness. She was almost positive it didn't show in her tone.
"Heir Potter," the reedy old voice acknowledged her.
She rose and made a much more perfunctory bow toward Mr. Longbottom, who only grunted from behind his paper. By that time, Neville had arrived, and he helped his grandmother to her feet. Mary tried not to fidget as the woman circled her, examining her dress and hair, her posture and poise. It was all correctly demure and proper, except for her hair, which she had cut off sometime in November, when she had gotten tired of sitting on the end of her braid. It was now short enough that it had reverted to wild curls, and she had taken to piling it on top of her head as Hermione had done after the night they had spent in the Great Hall. It was still a riotous mess, but at least it was out of the way.
"I suppose you'll do," the stern witch pronounced at length. The girl thought she heard her fellow third-year give a sigh of relief. "You'll not be joining us, Algernon?" she asked.
The man, jowly and balding, finally turned down his paper to glare at her. "No, Mother, I have no desire whatsoever to join you in paying court to my brother's living corpse!"
Mary had to work hard to keep from gaping at his blatant rudeness.
It seemed Madam Longbottom was equally offended. "Don't mind my son, Miss Mary," she said sharply. "He always did resent Franklin's greater talent and skill. Took after my Angus, Franklin did. Pity neither Algernon nor Neville here seems to have inherited the same natural talent."
Algernon grumbled, and Neville kept his head down, as though he hadn't heard. Mary wracked her brains for a suitably inoffensive reply. "Your husband sounds like a great wizard," she offered weakly. She would have liked to come up with a subtle snub to defend Neville, but she was rather at a loss.
The dowager harrumphed, but nodded, and took up an absolutely horrid hat, pinning it sharply in place. The stuffed vulture mounted atop it wobbled precariously. "Poppy, my fox!" she nearly shouted, and the elf popped in with a rather battered fur stole.
Mary silently thanked the powers that they could take the floo directly to the hospital, because she couldn't imagine being seen in public with Madam Longbottom in that getup.
"Your muggles, those Grangers, they seemed to be a decent sort, for muggles, of course," the old woman said, apparently intent on carrying on with the conversation come hell or high water. Or more likely, extreme embarrassment for all parties other than herself.
"The Grangers have been very gracious to me," Mary replied evenly.
The witch cackled as her grandson escorted her toward the floo. "Very gracious indeed! I like this one, Neville! You could learn from this one! My boy tells me you're his potions partner? Must say, I'm impressed you're still in one piece, half the letters I've had from that professor of yours!"
Mary was finding it rather difficult to keep her temper. Madam Longbottom reminded her of Madam Urquhart, picking at the little flaws without even trying to be polite. It wasn't constructive criticism, just criticism. "Neville and I have only been partners for a short time, but he has held up his end of the brewing perfectly competently." That wasn't true at all. Neville knew a lot about the ingredients, and he could probably brew competently outside of the classroom, but Snape's presence clearly unnerved him enough that his timing was almost always off, and he often switched the steps around in his head, even if he had just written them down. "Perhaps the difficulties stemmed from his former partner. It's well-known that certain of his fellow Gryffindors… have a gift for exothermic reactions."
That was true, but unfortunately Madam Longbottom caught the look of thanks Neville sent at Mary, giving away the lie. It seemed, however, that she was not offended. On the contrary, she cackled again. "Hold onto this one, Neville-boy!" she grinned. "Any girl who'll lie to your family for you is a keeper!" Mary felt her face go scarlet as the old woman turned back to her. "Right silver-tongued little serpent, aren't you? But then, I suppose that's expected of the Heir of Slytherin. Do you know, I was at school when the last Heir of Slytherin came about? Not one of us students actually believed it was that Hagrid bloke, of course. He was a Gryffindor for one, and a half-giant to boot!"
"Who did you think it was, Grandmother?" Neville asked politely as she fumbled for the floo powder.
"Hah, well, that was the question, wasn't it? Slytherin tried to put it around that it was one of the seventh-years, those that graduated that year, because the attacks stopped, you see. But the smart money was on one of the boys in my year, dapper chap called Riddle." Mary had to stop herself flinching under the old woman's sharp eyes. "He was always a bit unnerving, Riddle. But until that year, he'd been sort of an outcast. Whip-smart, and everyone knew he was a Parselmouth, but he was an impoverished orphan, and a half-blood at best, so there was always talk that he'd got it from an Indian wizard somewhere down the line, or American – not Slytherin, see? But then after the Chamber, the rest of Slytherin became a bit deferent to him. Not that he had the time of day for them before or after. Awfully stuck-up, he was. No idea what happened to him after school. I expect he was killed in the war." If only you knew, Mary thought. "Anyway, shall we, boy?"
Neville nodded, and she stepped forward into the fire, calling for "St. Mungo's Reception" as she did.
"I'm so sorry about that," the boy flushed, holding out the tin of floo-powder, every bit as red as Mary had been before the discussion. "Erm, both the Heir of Slytherin thing and, um… before."
"It's fine," she replied, too quickly. "She's just, um…"
"Old," he finished. "And awful. Don't tell her I said that," he added, eyes wide at his own daring.
She giggled slightly. "Oh, I lie about your potions skills, so you think I'll lie about anything, do you?" she teased.
"Well, that was a much bigger lie… this is just a little omission, right?"
She took a pinch of the powder, still laughing, and threw it into the fire. She thought she heard him calling "Right?" again behind her in a more worried tone as she stepped into the spinning flames.
Neville followed her through so closely that he nearly bowled her over, as she was still stumbling over her feet. Madam Longbottom tisked at their mutual clumsiness, muttering something about three-footed jackalopes, but led them up to the fourth floor and the Janus Thickly ward without further comment.
"Healer Patil!" she announced, as they stepped off the lift. "I'm here to see my son and daughter-in-law!"
Healer Patil was a tall, smiling blonde woman, perhaps forty years old. Mary wondered if she was related to Padma and Parvati. If so, it had to be through marriage, because she certainly didn't look Indian. "Madam Longbottom, of course! I know Alice is expecting you. Frank is having a good day, too! Hello, Neville, and" (she did a double-take) "that can't be Mary Potter?"
Mary nodded. "Hello, Healer Patil," she said stiffly.
"Are you here to visit the Longbottoms as well?"
"Of course she is," Madam Longbottom interceded. "Our Alice is her godmother, after all!"
"Oh, oh! Yes, of course! I had forgotten that Lily, well… Never you mind. Go on in. It's Healer Chesterfield on duty at the moment, and Trainee Healer Pye. It's his first year, so do go easy on him, won't you, Madame?"
"I… shall consider it," she said magnanimously, then swept toward the locked door at the end of the hallway, opening it with a quick alohomora. The children hurried to follow.
There were ten beds on the ward, but only eight were occupied. An older wizard was tending to a woman who had fur covering her face. She seemed to be responding to questions by barking once for yes and twice for no. They could see the trainee's bright green trousers moving around behind a curtain with another patient, in the next bed down, and it seemed that the two closest to the door were asleep. Mary couldn't tell what was wrong with them, but there was a wizard who was completely blue, with weeping purple pustules on his face and arms, in the fifth bed. His fingers were in his ears and he was glaring at the barking woman. The sixth bed had its curtains closed, too.
Madam Longbottom waved to Healer Chesterfield as she led the way as quickly as she could to the very end of the room, past the blue wizard, and took a seat between the last two beds. There was a too-thin, white-haired witch in one bed, struggling to escape the covers in her lilac bathrobe, her limbs obviously weak, either from her ailment, or disuse. She didn't look at them. The other bed held a wizard, obviously worse-off than his wife, propped up on a pile of pillows. He was drooling slightly, but his eyes tracked his mother when she sat down.
"Hello, Frank, my dear boy," Madam Longbottom cooed. "And Alice – you look as lovely as ever. Happy Christmas!" she pulled a pair of small boxes from her pocket with overdone cheer, handing one to Neville and moving her chair closer to her son's bed to unwrap his for him.
"Stay in bed, mum," Neville said softly, placing a hand gently on his mother's shoulder and easing her back down to sit, then joined her on the edge of the bed. "No need to get up on our account. Look, we've brought you a Christmas present."
Mary saw him swallow hard as Alice plucked feebly at the ribbons on the box, then handed it back to him. He started untying them carefully, setting them aside one at a time. "Mum, we've brought you another visitor as well. Do you recognize her?"
Alice looked up, first at Neville, then Mary. A flash of hatred crossed her face.
"This is – Mum?!"
Alice had moved faster than Mary had thought her capable, pulling herself to her unstable feet and fumbling at Neville's pockets. He didn't fight her – probably afraid he would hurt her accidentally.
"A – Alice?" Mary said hesitantly.
The woman attempted to say something, but all that came out was a low, "Nnnnn."
Madam Longbottom's head whipped around. "Alice?"
Mary took a step forward, holding her hands out in the universal gesture of I-mean-no-harm, but the witch only grew more agitated. She fumbled Neville's wand from his pocket and tried to push him behind her, holding the weapon between the two of them and Mary defensively, despite her hand shaking and jerking wildly. "Nnnn. Nnn mmmm nnnn."
"Mum! What's wrong?"
"Alice?"
Mary took a step back. "I – I'm sorry! I'll go!"
The witch brandished the wand at her, a bright green light glowing at its tip. Mary didn't know what spell had that particular shade, but she had a feeling it wasn't good.
"Alice, no!" Madam Longbottom shouted, trying to hobble around the bed. Her eyes were wide and frightened. "No, Alice! It's not her! It's not her! Chesterfield!" Her own wand was out, now, and Alice was wavering between Mary, still hastily backing away, hands in the air, and her mother-in-law, batting at Neville's hands as he tried to take his wand back without hurting her. Mary's wand was still uselessly stowed in her pocket. "Chesterfield!" Madam Longbottom shrieked again.
A rather lanky young man who looked barely older than a seventh-year sneaked around the half-drawn curtain on the other side of the bed, and sent a disarming charm at the disturbed patient. Neville's wand went flying, and the witch made another horrible, "Nnnn!" sound, pushing Neville away from Mary with both hands, while looking fearfully over her shoulder. "Nnnn! Rnnn!"
Healer Chesterfield was closing in on the two of them, now, making soothing noises, but it didn't seem to be helping.
"You should probably go," the trainee healer said quietly, taking Mary's arm and pulling her away, toward the door. She looked back once to see the weak, cursed witch glaring fiercely at her under Chesterfield's arm, blocking Neville in as he attempted to follow her. Healer Patil brushed past them, hurrying to assist.
"What happened?" Mary asked desperately. "I – I don't understand!"
"Just… keep walking. Don't make a scene, it'll set more of them off."
"What did I do?" Mary sniffed. She hadn't thought she had done anything wrong, but Alice had seemed to hate her.
"Hey, now," the young healer said gently, handing her a tissue. "You didn't do anything. Here, sit down." He guided her onto a bench near a rubbish bin. "To be honest, Chesterfield and Patil are probably having a field day in there – that's the most activity we've seen out of Alice in years."
"But she – she looked like she hated me!"
"Well…" the healer – Pye? – hesitated. "Do you know what happened to her, to the Longbottoms?"
"I – Bellatrix Lestrange used a torture spell on them? Cruciartus, I think Neville said?"
"The cruciatus," Probably Pye corrected her.
"But what does that have to do with anything?"
"Well," he hedged again. "You see, there's a bit of a… resemblance, between certain members of the Old Families…"
"Oh, just spit it out, Pye!" Madam Longbottom said, finally catching up to them, slightly out of breath. "You look just like Bella Black, when she was your age. I went to school with Dorea, your grandmother, you know. Her face was rounder. Bit more Lestrange to her, around the eyes. You've got Lily's eyes, but that's easy to overlook when the rest of you is, well…" she motioned vaguely at Mary.
"Erm… if you don't mind, Madam Longbottom, I'm going to see whether the healers need my help," Pye excused himself awkwardly.
Madam Longbottom ignored him. "I'll show you a picture when we get back to the manor – I think I've got a copy of her debutante photo somewhere. It would have been '64 or '65, the same as my cousin Eddie, anyway – I remember because his mother wanted him to escort her. I should've seen it myself, but it's been – Powers, nearly thirty years…"
"God," Mary muttered. "I'm so sorry! I had no idea! I just – I just wanted to meet her. She's my godmother, and she can't even stand the sight of me!" She tilted her head back, willing her tears not to fall, but it was no good. Madam Longbottom transfigured her tissue into a proper handkerchief.
"Mop your eyes, there's a good girl," she said. "You couldn't have known."
"Wh-why are you being so n-nice to me? I – I ruined your visit a-and…"
"And you just gave my grandson the best Christmas gift he's ever likely to get from his parents," the old woman said sharply.
"I… what?"
"Alice tried to protect Neville. She knows who he is. It's the only sign we've had in twelve years that the people they once were are still in there, somewhere."
Mary didn't know what to say. Honestly, she thought it was even worse to know that they were still in there, trapped in their own minds. She sniffed again, trying hard to get herself back under control before Neville reappeared.
It was a good thing she did, because he came down the hall a few seconds later, looking torn between excitement and sadness. He kept shooting longing looks back at the door to the closed ward.
"None of that, now, Neville," Madam Longbottom chided. "We can come back tomorrow, after they've had time to settle a bit."
Neville nodded slightly. "I'd like that."
"Come along, then," his grandmother said, clutching at his shoulder. He winced.
Mary followed them back to the lifts and through the floo in silence, save for shouting the name of the destination. Once they had arrived, she made her excuses to return to the Grangers' almost at once. Neville looked a bit disappointed that she was going so soon, and Madam Longbottom insisted Mary stay long enough to at least have a look at the photo, which turned into rather a longer wait than she had expected, as the photo Madam Longbottom was thinking of was not in fact, in the book she expected, but the one from the year prior.
"Ah! Here it is!" she finally said, tapping a gnarled finger against the page. Two girls were dancing together, spinning wildly before flashing breathless, triumphant grins at the camera. Bellatrix Black could have been Mary's sister: pale and lean, with wide, deep-set eyes, and a riot of black curls piled on top of her head. Her dress was black as well, and flared out in layers when she spun. Her friend wore red, setting off a deeply tanned complexion and golden-brown hair. She was more curvaceous, wearing very high heels so that the girls would be exactly the same height, and had startlingly bright, violet eyes. She winked when they paused for the photographer. "Bella Black and Bella Zabini, age fourteen. They were too young – shouldn't have been there, but no one was about to tell them to leave."
It was disturbing, Mary thought, to see these two girls who would grow up to be murderers, just a year older than herself, dancing as though they hadn't a care in the world. But not nearly as disturbing as the tall, pale, dark-haired man, with the bright blue eyes and the enigmatic smile who stood in the background watching them. He raised his glass toward the camera as though in a toast when the girls stopped to grin at it. She scowled at him, and closed the book with a snap. "Thank you for showing me, Madam Longbottom. I agree, the resemblance is uncanny. Now please, if you'll excuse me, I really do have to go," she added abruptly.
"Of course, dear," Madam Longbottom said, oblivious to the tension singing through Mary's veins, but apparently satisfied to let her go now that the picture had been found. "You are welcome back any time. Neville will see you out." She extended a hand, and Mary curtsied over it, before nearly dragging Neville out of the room.
"I'm sorry," she said, as soon as they were alone.
"What for?" He looked genuinely confused.
"What – for getting your mum all worked up, and making you sit through all of those pictures to find the one of Black and Zabini and the Dark Lord!"
"Wait – what? I mean, it's fine – mum will be fine, and she tried to save me from, well, you, but it's the thought that counts, you know? More than fine. And that's honestly about the least awful hour I've ever spent with Gran. But did you just say You Know Who was in that picture?"
Mary nodded sharply. "He was the one in the black and silver robes. Looked like he was about twenty-five. Dark hair, blue eyes. He raised his glass when the girls stopped spinning. That was him. Tom Riddle. I'm sure of it."
"That guy Gran said was the last Heir of Slytherin? How do you know that?"
She froze as she realized that there was no reasonable answer she could give to that question, without admitting that she had come face to face with the young Dark Lord in the Chamber of Secrets. "I probably shouldn't tell you," she admitted, squirming slightly under his scrutiny.
"Why not?"
"I've already said too much. Honestly. I promised Snape I wouldn't tell anyone."
"Is this something to do with the Chamber of Secrets?"
Damn, he was smart for a Gryffindor. "I'm not saying it doesn't, because that would be a lie, but I can't confirm your supposition," she nodded.
"Ah… got it. I think. It's true, though? You Know Who's real name is Tom Riddle? That kid who went to school with my Gran?"
"And you've got a picture of him, now. Not sure how much good it will do, but… yeah, that was definitely him."
A grim look passed over Neville's face. "I don't know either, but it can't hurt to know, can it? I think I'll see what I can do about connecting the dots a bit more solidly, and start passing the word around about You Know Who's illustrious origins."
Mary sniggered. "Do. It's bound to at least tweak a few noses in Slytherin." And Dumbledore's, she realized, recalling that the old man hadn't wanted to tell her Riddle's real name back in first year. "Maybe look into the connection between Riddle and Dumbledore, too, while you're at it," she added, on a whim.
"What? Why? Is there one?"
"I don't know, but he knows Riddle's secret identity, and he's not telling anyone – there has to be a reason for that. And I bet you'll get further asking about it than I would. No one trusts the Heir of Slytherin, you see." She pulled a woe-is-me face, then smirked.
"Mary… No one trusts any Slytherins," Neville said in a tone suggesting she was mentally deficient. "It's just good sense."
"You're actually quite snarky, aren't you?"
The boy blushed. "Not – not usually. It's not polite. But, well… politeness isn't really highly valued around here."
Mary nodded understandingly. Subtle sarcasm had been her friend at the Dursleys', but Madam and Mr. Longbottom were far more blatantly rude than Aunt Petunia ever had been. "I really should go. The Grangers had plans for this afternoon."
Neville nodded understandingly, but then, as she stepped toward the floo, he said, "Wait!"
"What is it?"
"Your cloak," he pointed.
"Thanks, Neville," she sighed, retrieving it from its bench.
"And, um… are you planning to keep up with dueling club next term?" he added, before she could turn back toward the fire.
"Of course," she grinned. Dueling club was currently one of her favorite things about Hogwarts. She was looking forward to getting back to school, and seeing how open practice sessions went.
"You should go to Piecemail's over the break and get a dueling knife. It's down Knockturn, but only like, one or two shops in. And then talk to Mallory Prince or Sheena Davis about how to use it."
Out of all the things he might have said, that was not one Mary had been expecting. "A knife? Why?"
"You're a seeker, and you take after the Blacks," he said, as though this meant something.
"So?"
"So, you're small and quick. Agile. You're better suited to a knife than a longer blade. And if you ask the Urquharts or McG or, hell, even Malfoy, and they'll tell you that all the Black ladies know how to use a knife. It gives you more versatility – wand for long and middle range, and then the knife for up-close fighting."
"Um… thanks?"
"Don't thank me yet," he smirked, looking supremely confident for the first time since she had arrived. It looked surprisingly good on him. "Wait and see if you feel that way after our first blade-match."
"You're… not a knife-fighter, are you?"
"Nope. Infantry sabre," he grinned. "It's one of my better useless pureblood skills."
"Useless pureblood skills?"
"You know, knowing when and how to bow, dancing the gavotte, speaking Welsh – that sort of thing."
Mary laughed at the face he made. "Knowing when and how to bow impresses scary old ladies – it's not completely useless."
"That's true. You did impress Gran. I think you're the first person she's ever said could come over whenever they like. Of course, the only other person I've tried to have over was Ron, and that was a disaster." He rolled his eyes, and Mary winced.
"Yeah… I don't imagine that would have gone over well," she smirked.
"Whatever you're imagining, I guarantee it was at least twice as bad," he said drily.
"I don't know… what I'm imagining is pretty bad…"
"He tried to talk me out of Runes in front of her, in favor of Care of Magical Creatures with Hagrid."
"Did you know it was Hagrid?"
"No, just some nutter who assigned a biting textbook."
"Merlin, that thing was awful. I think my copy might have died. It's still sitting in a cage under my desk at school. I never got around to trying to pawn it off on Pince."
"Can books die from neglect?"
"Maybe?"
They both broke down into giggles at the absurdity of their conversation. "Listen, Neville," Mary said, after a minute of helpless laughter. "This, talking, has been… fun. Despite, you know… If you want to hang out, back at school, the girls and I will probably be in the Library most Saturdays, for at least part of the day. Not sure exactly what hours, yet, but you should come."
"I – yeah. Okay. Um. I'll… think about it?" The shy smile was back. It seemed Neville was only funny and confident when he wasn't thinking too hard about it, or else being overly-formal to the point of sarcasm.
"Cool. I'll… see you around, then."
"Yeah."
"Alright." At a loss for what else she ought to do, Mary dropped into a curtsey. This time, since she wasn't holding anything with her left hand, Neville caught it and bowed over it, brushing a kiss across her knuckles.
"Until we meet anon, fair maiden," he said, with a courtly sincerely that he couldn't possibly have meant.
"Heir Longbottom," she smirked.
"Heir Potter."
He did the honors of tossing the floo powder into the flames for her, and with a shout of "Quibbler Associate's Auxiliary Office," she was whisked away.
Granger Home, East Farleigh, Kent
Lilian arrived at the Grangers' a bit later than Mary and Hermione had gone to her place – around five in the evening. After their awkward fight over Yule, none of them were eager to spend too much time together too soon, and they had tacitly decided that it was for the best if Lilian didn't come over hours before dinner just to hang out, with nothing in particular planned.
Mary felt ridiculously vindicated seeing that Lilian, who had been using the floo since she was old enough to walk, also tripped out of the Grangers' elevated grate.
The Grangers' house was much smaller than the Moon's property, and there were no puppies to distract them, so in no time at all, Hermione and Mary had given Lilian a tour, and all three of them were sitting on the girls' beds (pushed together, for the moment, to form a king-sized monstrosity). There had been some uncomfortable moments, especially as Mary showed Lilian the newly-dubbed 'Entertainment Room' and Hermione had to visibly restrain herself from saying anything, lest they stray too close to the argument again, but they ignored it, and had nearly fallen back into their usual pattern of casual familiarity.
They exchanged gifts (Hermione had gotten Lilian a sketch-diary to go with her new fountain pen; Lilian had brought the others a pair of Spanish fans that she must have been saving since her summer trip. Mary was thrilled: the green and grey silk would go perfectly with the fancy dress-robes she had gotten for her birthday, if and when she ever had occasion to wear them), and Mary had shared out the packet of peppermint-flavored sugar quills Neville had given her. This, of course, raised the topic of how her morning visit had gone: Lilian and Hermione proceeded to grill her mercilessly.
"Was Madam Longbottom awful? I heard she's awful."
"Yeah, even mum called her 'formidable' – that's what she calls Grandmère, and Grandmère's awful."
"What did you think of St. Mungo's?"
"Did you get to talk to Alice, like you wanted?"
"What's Neville like outside of school?"
"Did you meet the infamous Uncle Algie? He sounds even worse than Madam Longbottom!"
Mary sniggered at their rapid-fire interest. "Um… yes, Madam Longbottom's awful, and yeah, 'Uncle Algie' was really rude. Like, at least Madam Longbottom has the excuse of being old, right? I've been to St. Mungo's before, Lils, and yes, Maia, I did get to see Alice, but, um… It didn't go very well. She kind of freaked out because, um… I guess I look like Bellatrix Lestrange. Like, a lot."
"I guess that makes sense," Hermione said, "given the degree of intermarriage between the Noble Families."
Lilian was just cocking her head to the side, staring.
"All right, there, Lils?" Mary asked, vaguely amused.
"Yeah, no, it's just. Wow. I never even thought about it, but yeah, you do look like her."
"What's she look like?" Hermione asked. "I've never seen a picture. Well, other than her mug-shot, and Lizzie doesn't look like that at all."
Lilian sniggered. "Um, pretty much exactly like Liz? When she was younger, at least. But her eyes are darker. Almost black. I'll see if I can find a photo for you. Mum has tons of old Rosier family albums that she never looks at." Then she smirked broadly. "Good news, twiggy – you're going to grow up to be a real looker!"
Mary punched her in the arm as hard as she could, which only made the taller, stronger girl laugh. She couldn't help but feel a bit pleased with that assessment, though. "Madam Longbottom showed me a photo from the 1964 Festa Morgana," she admitted. "Bellatrix and Blaise's mum were dancing together. She did clean up nice."
"Wait – Bellatrix Black and Isabella Zabini – that was like, a thing?" Lilian asked, grinning. "I wonder if Blaise knows."
"I vaguely recall him mentioning they were friends," Mary shrugged.
"I think Lilian is implying that they were more than friends, Lizzie," Hermione said, clearly fighting a smile of her own.
"Um, yeah. Girls don't dance with girls at that sort of thing. It's just not done."
"I thought the wizarding world was open to gay and lesbian relationships," the Ravenclaw objected, confused. "No one seems to care about Sean and Carter, or Aerin and Lara."
Mary felt like a complete idiot for not having realized that Aerin and Lara were actually dating. Well over two years in the magical world had inured her to the strangeness of seeing two girls or two boys in a relationship, but she was clearly still a bit slow on recognizing when "best friends" became "more than friends."
"Yeah, or like, half of Ravenclaw. And I'm pretty sure every single Hufflepuff plays for both teams. I think it's a rule. But the whole point of going to those big society balls is to find a husband, you know, for the purposes of marriage and baby-making. Carrying on the family name, and all that jazz," Lilian explained.
"Even if you're gay?" Mary was starting to hear the note of ire that preceded a full-on crusade for equal rights in Hermione's tone.
The blonde shrugged. "Before you get all up in arms, Jeanie, bear in mind, this really only applies to the Old Houses, the ones that care about continuing the House line with an actual blood heir, and even then, unless you're the only possible heir, most of them will let you opt out of the succession, or you'd just appoint a sibling's kid as your heir. Some people, like Grandmother Rosier think of it more like… a job, I guess. She actually told Sean last time we saw here that you don't have to enjoy it to do your duty. There's potions and stuff to help if you're really not attracted. But even then, it's not like fidelity is expected in an arranged marriage, once the heir is out of the way. It's not really that big deal, but dancing with girls at the Festa would be like… seriously frowned at by all the old matchmakers. It would hurt their chances of making a good match. The Old Families care about things like that."
Mary just nodded along. In a way, it had made sense when she first found out that no one in Magical Britain cared about two boys snogging in the corridors, because in Little Whinging, gays were in the same category of weird and freakish as anything to do with magic. To Mary's eleven-year-old self, it had only made sense that wizards would see such relationships as normal. Catherine had eventually explained that the reality was a bit more complicated, since almost all families strongly valued the idea of having children, but the past two years had done little to disabuse her of that initial impression.
Hermione huffed. "Fine."
"If it makes a difference, Madam Longbottom said they were only fourteen, and they weren't even supposed to be there," Mary volunteered.
Lilian shrugged. "It still gives a pretty strong impression. Like if you were to go next year and spend all your time with Daphne, I guarantee Rita Skeeter would write something speculating about it, even though you're not old enough to really be looking for a match." Then she changed the subject back to its previous course. "Anyway, it was just interesting because most of the rumors were that she was with the Dark Lord, like some kind of crazy, evil power-couple, even after she got married – definitely not that she was into witches."
She smirked and Hermione rolled her eyes, asking "How do you even know that?" but Mary shivered. "He was in the picture, too."
"Who?" Lilian asked, answering Hermione's question with only a teasing, I-know-secrets-and-I'm-not-telling grin.
"The Dark Lord?"
"Yeah. He looked about twenty-five, and I'm pretty sure he should've been older by then, but it was definitely him. I told Neville who he was."
"Really? Why?" the brunette demanded.
"It just kind of slipped out. I wasn't expecting to see him there!"
"What did Neville say?" Lilian leaned forward intensely.
"He wanted to know how I knew."
"You didn't tell him, did you?" Hermione again, her tone slightly chiding.
"No, he guessed that it was something with the Chamber of Secrets, and I pretty much confirmed that, but I didn't give him any of the details."
The others considered this for a long moment, then Lilian asked, "Did he say what he'd do with the information?"
Mary grinned. "He was talking about spreading it around that the Dark Lord's real name is Tom Riddle, for all the good it will do. I still don't know why Dumbledore was ever keeping it a secret in the first place. I told him to look into the connection between the two of them, too, and see if he could figure out what that reason was."
Hermione nodded decisively. "Good. I'll look into it as well. Maybe see if I can track down any other aliases he used to use, or the like. Do you think you could get me a copy of that photo? His picture's blacked out in his yearbook in the library, and there aren't any in the reports on his Award for Services to the School."
"Sounds like someone went to pretty extreme lengths to separate his name and his face," Lilian noted.
"That's kind of what I was thinking," Mary agreed. "I mean, I don't know what it accomplishes, but if he cared enough to hide it, I don't see why I shouldn't let Neville reveal it. He is supposed to be 'the Chosen One' after all," she smirked. "Maybe that's his role in this, that key thing that leads to the Dark Lord's downfall."
Silence settled in as they contemplated this latest development, the stupidity of prophecy, and the role Neville would be forced to play if and when the Dark Lord managed to make a comeback.
After a time, Lilian asked again, "So what was Neville like, outside of school?"
Mary shrugged. "He's alright. A bit odd, really. It's like he knows how he should act, and he's actually smart and witty, but only if he's too irritated to be nervous or if he's standing on, like… false ceremony. Like he's being so formal it's obviously sarcastic, you know?" Lilian nodded. "I invited him to hang out with us on Saturdays in the library," she added.
"I was planning on spending Saturdays dueling," the other Slytherin nearly whined.
"You still have to do your homework sometime," Hermione pointed out.
Mary shrugged. "If it turns out we end up dueling on Saturdays, I'm sure he'd be willing to hang out there instead. He told me I should get a dueling knife so I could join in the bladed matches."
Lilian cocked her head to the side again. "Yeah, I can see it. I've never used one myself, but I saw a demonstration a few years back at Unparalleled. They have tournaments in the summer. It was wicked awesome. But you learned left-handed casting when you broke your arm, didn't you?"
"Yeah, why?"
"You should give dual casting a shot. It's harder to concentrate on two spells at once, but if you can get the knack down, it'd be way cooler."
"Maybe," Mary said hesitantly. She kind of liked the idea of a knife more the more she thought about it, but the idea of being able to cast shields and attack at the same time was also very attractive. "Are you going to start coming with us, Maia?" Hermione hadn't been attending the regularly scheduled dueling club meetings so far, but Mary still thought that magical fighting was an important skill that she should learn.
"I've been thinking about it," the older girl admitted. "It's not that I don't want to learn how to defend myself, it's just, well… if we get into a real fight, how likely is it that it will follow proper dueling rules?"
Mary actually thought it was quite likely that she would have to participate in a duel or two at some point in her life, probably even before the end of the year, if the thing with Dave sparked off again, but before she could say so, Lilian snorted. "Hermione Granger isn't participating in Dueling Club because she doesn't want to follow the rules?"
"Well, it's not like I have any status to challenge, and I'm certainly not planning on starting a fight, so yes – that and by the time we got the MSA meetings moved, you all had several weeks' advantage on me. I didn't want to show up just to lose in front of everyone."
"So you'll come to the extra practices, and figure it out with us there?" Mary asked hopefully.
Hermione hesitated, but then nodded.
"Brilliant!" Mary exclaimed. "This is going to be so much fun – you'll see!"
Lilian rubbed her hands together and cackled maniacally. Hermione's protests that it wasn't that big a deal, and it wasn't like she was ever really against joining the club, were completely ignored, and then interrupted by the adults calling them to dinner.
Like opening presents as part of the family, actually joining them to eat a holiday meal she had helped prepare (in the hours between her return from the Longbottoms' and Lilian's arrival), was a novel event for Mary. They used Emma's nice china, and Dan said a prayer in French before they tucked in. The food was delicious – and there was far more than the five of them could possibly have eaten if their lives depended on it. Mary could already see leftover ham sandwiches in her future until she returned to Hogwarts. Lilian and Hermione carried the conversation with an animated discussion of the differences between their families' respective Christmas celebrations.
The Grangers (and Mary), who couldn't really be considered religious, outside of the holiday season, had attended a Midnight Mass the night before, at a spectacularly decorated little cathedral in Maidstone. It had been all in Latin (which was brilliant, because Mary realized halfway through that she had picked up just enough of the language over the past couple of years to follow the basic idea of it), and there was a lot of singing.
Mary had never been to church before, or at least not that she could remember. She knew Dudley had been baptized, but the Dursleys were more the sort of people who tended to their lawns and washed their cars of a Sunday than the sort who made a point of being seen at the local church. She chimed in with a description of the music, which had been amazing. She wasn't sure she had ever heard a chorus perform before outside of her primary school – and certainly never like that.
Lilian was in the middle of describing the symbolism of the ash faggot when they reached desert, and Mary brought out their version of a Yule Log. She had used Dan's mother's family's recipe, and the cake, decorated with chocolate buttercream icing and powdered sugar, had turned out better than Aunt Petunia's ever did. She was immensely pleased with herself.
After dinner, they bundled up and took a short walk around the neighborhood to see the lights and other decorations. They ran into a group of carolers, which they stood and listened to for a couple of songs. Lilian and Mary joined in with them, though Hermione, still tone-deaf as a post, most emphatically did not, despite her parents' teasing. When they got too cold standing still and moved on, girls told the adults (discretely) about the Singing Orbs from the train, and the prank where Ginny had been forced to communicate only in carols all day. They appeared to be torn between amusement and horror, until Dan said, "You know, I've been wondering about magical music. Do wizards have anything like a Walkman?" and the conversation meandered away in another direction.
Eventually they made their way back to the Grangers'. Their house itself was only minimally decorated, with a few strings of lights around the doors and outlining the eaves, but the Christmas tree was visible through the front window, and the whole thing gave off a sort of homey, holiday glow.
The upset at St. Mungo's and dealing with the Longbottoms aside, it was easily the best Christmas Mary had ever had. Hogwarts was certainly beautiful, with its over-the-top recognition of the day, but it was nothing compared to actually being included in a familial celebration for the first time in her life.
Arkham, Massachusetts, United States
Harrison Evans (Tom Riddle)
Tom (or Harrison Evans, as he was known these days) had never liked Christmas.
In the orphanage, there had never been much to celebrate, and after several years at Hogwarts he had learned that the proper, magical holiday was Yule. He found 'holiday cheer' to be both baffling and slightly uncomfortable (Why should everyone spend the better part of a month pretending (poorly) that they weren't every bit as miserable as they were for the rest of the year?), and despite the previous night's diversions, he was still rather put-out over his enforced idleness, for so arbitrary a reason as the birth of a single person roughly two millennia prior.
He had spent a not-insubstantial part of the day dealing with the consequences of his previous evening's encounter – he had returned home rather late, after several hours erasing his presence from the scene of the crime, dealing with the body, and destroying the murder weapon, and therefore had slept correspondingly long into the morning. He was satisfied that Security would not be able to connect him personally with the disappearance of that particular vampire (despite his complete lack of an alibi), if they took an interest in the case at all. Their job was more along the lines of keeping the peace and the Statute of Secrecy than actually solving mysteries or tracking down murderers. As long as he hadn't inadvertently managed to strike up some sort of blood feud, they probably wouldn't care very much about his victim's disappearance.
If they did, there really wasn't much more he could do about it, anyway. It would only look suspicious to do anything out of character at this point. He had put the final death of Margolotta Lyntz out of his mind a few minutes after he had woken up, and filled his day as best he could.
He had cooked lunch. He had tidied his apartment. He had tried to read a pointless novel which he did not recall acquiring, sorted the post, and outlined a list of projects to work on once he had access to the Library again.
He went up to the Library and examined the seals which had been placed over its doors, and was summarily electrocuted by an interesting (very painful) variation on a Greek lightning hex concealed within a false weak-spot. Security had revived him and had a hearty laugh at his expense before informing him that he should consider that his only warning. He (wisely, in his own opinion) had decided to forego another attempt to even examine the veritable Gordian knot of locking enchantments, wards, and hexes, and returned to his apartment to lick his wounds.
He had spent an hour or so trying to slip into the shadow-plane, but only managed to magically exhaust himself, and he couldn't figure out what he was doing wrong. He had taken a nap, and made a very late dinner, after which he found himself at loose ends again, damn-near climbing the walls for lack of any stimulating activity. (He found that it was even more difficult to do nothing now that he was free of the diary than it had been before he had trapped himself there, despite what amounted to years of practice.) He lasted less than half an hour before he decided he absolutely must get out of the apartment.
Thus he found himself wandering the empty streets of Arkham again, for a second night running.
Arkham was, by the standards of someone who had grown up in London, a very small city, with only a hundred thousand residents. Nearly a quarter of them were associated with the University, which, to his immense surprise, was apparently one of the most exclusive muggle universities of Liberal Arts and Philosophy in the United States as well as the most notorious center for the study of the Dark Arts on three continents.
By the standards of someone accustomed to Magical Britain, its concentration of magical inhabitants – over two-thousand wizards, witches, and sapient creatures, most of them ex-patriots or exiles from their birth-countries – was absurdly high. The vast majority of them, including Tom, were associated in one way or another with the College of the Arts (or as it was known to the mundanes, the College of Art and Design), though the lands and territory of the Miskatonic Valley Magical Cooperative (an "upstanding" member of the League of Independent American Magical Settlements) included not only the campus, but the entirety of Arkham.
The mundane inhabitants of the Valley, he had quickly discovered, had a rather unusual, credulous-but-wary attitude toward the wizards'… less than perfect concealment of the existence of magic. They all knew there was something strange and possibly dangerous about the University, but they did their part (for what reason he could not fathom) to stop what should be the occasional (read: depressingly regular) major breach of the Statute of Secrecy from escaping the boundaries of the town and looked the other way when, for example, a high-energy trans-dimensional portal rotated unexpectedly, displacing the entire city into a parallel universe for three days, or an elephant-erumpet hybrid escaped its containment chamber and rampaged across campus, (temporarily) killing five undergraduates and a Visiting Scholar, and resulting in the city boundary wards being locked down, cutting off all outside communication for six hours.
Dealing with the mysterious 'events' and communications blackouts, and the higher-than-average "natural" mortality rate that plagued the small city seemed to be accepted as a normal part of the cost of living in Arkham, and despite his best efforts, he had not managed to discover any direct evidence of mass mental tampering in play.
He had been looking for it, too, after he had been drafted to help cover up the escape of the Elerumpet.
The major part of the cover-up had involved a pair of post-docs, conscripted from Thanatology by Campus Security to resurrect the dead undergraduates and arrange for them to 'die' off-campus in a series of tragic 'accidents' over the course of nearly a week. He himself had been ordered to help alter the memories of witnesses to both the actual and false deaths.
He had, of course, complied: The Director of Security, a somewhat less-than-human female with the disturbing ability to selectively nullify any magic around her, seemingly with no effort at all, could probably knock him arse over teakettle in five seconds flat, if she didn't just destroy him outright. She was the most terrifying creature he had ever met – and quite possibly the most powerful as well: she did, after all, keep two-thousand mad, dark wizards from destroying the town and its mundane inhabitants with a force of only fifty or so auror-quality officers at her command (not to mention dealing with mundane security matters as well). Naturally he had been only too willing to fulfill her 'request' to assist with the memory alterations – regardless of the fact that he still had no idea how Security had discovered that he was a natural legilimens.
(It was slightly thrilling and equally irritating, having to watch his step at all times, lest he piss off someone who could crush him like a bug. It reminded him a bit of his first days at Hogwarts, but unlike Dumbledore, most of the Miskatonic Research Fellows were more than willing to leave him alone if he did the same, and the remainder seemed to actively approve of him, so he found he didn't mind their existence as much as he otherwise might have done.)
What he hadn't realized until he was fiddling about with the memories of random citizens (rather than simply absorbing their surface thoughts in passing) was that no one had done anything to disguise the Alternate Universe Incident which had occurred only days after his arrival at Miskatonic.
The entire town was aware of it, and for the most part… didn't seem to care.
He had realized, thinking back on it, that during the incident, there had been inexplicably little panic, and now that it was over, the locals seemed to find it all vaguely intriguing, but not worth thinking on too much – a new story to tell their grandchildren, one day, perhaps, but nothing to worry about. Even the out-of-town undergraduates seemed to conform to the ubiquitous attitude of acceptance, albeit with varying degrees of reluctance. The few he had found to be genuinely disturbed by the whole affair hesitated to say anything to anyone after their friends – who had actually experienced the incident – dismissed their concerns as irrational: they clearly expected that they would be thought mad by Outsiders.
(Even the most uncomfortable and reluctant of Arkham residents seemed to begin to think of non-residents as 'Outsiders' who weren't to be entirely trusted after only a few weeks in the town. Presumably this disinclination to share their experiences at the University remained if and when they left, for he could not imagine that the school would not have come under some kind of investigation by LIAMS or the American Board of Magical Governance by now if it didn't.)
It was weird.
He suspected that there was something in the water, or perhaps a very subtle curse woven into the town wards or its lands, because muggles – mundanes – simply weren't okay with things like that.
Not that he minded.
Between the unusually tolerant mundanes and his natural inclination toward freeform magic, he hardly needed to take care to disguise his magical status at all, which was… nice.
As was being surrounded by Dark Wizards with intellectual curiosity and ambitions to equal his own at all times.
He doubted that he would stay forever, but for the moment it was… comfortable.
It had taken almost no time at all for Harrison to gain a meeting with the Dean of the College of the Arts and the status of a Visiting Scholar, and even less to establish himself in the Department of Applied Metaphysics. He supported himself by compelling the occasional muggle (not from Arkham – it was against the few laws of the MVMC to prey too openly on the locals) to give him all of their savings, and spent most of his time in the Library or conducting experiments in the extensive, underground AM labs. He had even managed to wrangle a slot in the lecture halls, and had acquired a determined following of undergraduates who regularly attended his talks on freeform magic and enchanting. (Most of his fellow AM Researchers were neither interested in nor very good at teaching.)
Even the Department of Applied Metaphysics, however, took a day off, on occasion, and Christmas was apparently one of them.
Stupid muggle holiday.
The muggles didn't even celebrate it religiously anymore – they hadn't, really, even back in the 1940s, and the understanding that it was now more about renewing the bonds of family and a sort of manufactured nostalgia for better times that had never really existed (rather than an actual holy observance) had only grown more prevalent since his childhood.
He rather thought he disapproved.
Even now, when he had a family member to claim as such, he didn't quite understand why he would want to. Well, he understood why he wanted to – the little Potter girl – 'his' granddaughter – she had a great deal of personal fame, wealth, and social status, and therefore potential with which he should automatically be entitled to align himself due to their familial connection. She had been clever enough and admirably flexible in her moral outlook, which had made her tolerable company, as well.
In short, she could be useful, if she could be brought around to supporting him as the true Heir of Slytherin… not to mention he had bound the two of them together through their shared blood, anchoring himself to the living world through her in lieu of another horcrux.
(She was, in a very tangible way, his, even if she hadn't followed his advice to get her wards tuned, which had resulted in her Yule gift (an introductory book on the mind arts) being returned. He hadn't decided yet whether to send it to her at Hogwarts. He wasn't certain she deserved it, as she hadn't followed his instructions in the months since Mabon.)
What he didn't understand was why most people, whose families were largely useless, would bother with them. Plus, sometime in the past fifty years, the mundane world seemed to have replaced even their magicless, pro-forma acknowledgment of the 'miracle' that was the supposed incarnation of their god in human form with over-indulgence in revolting, mass-produced consumerism. On the one hand, he found this far more relatable than the familial bond – he had been raised as an orphan during the Great Depression, and therefore understood keenly the attraction of money and possessions – but on the other, he could think of no more profoundly muggle attitude than replacing mysticism with commercialism. He was fairly sure that he would have found it distasteful on principle, even if it didn't inconvenience him personally.
Which it did.
He could be designing spells to arrest the formation process of ghosts for the Petrification Ghost Replication Experiment, or seeking out information on the intangible aspects of humans in pursuit of an explanation of how, precisely, his alter-ego had managed to split his life-spark, or even working through the arithmancy that defined his new body, just to verify that it was as stable as he had hoped when he had jumped into his off-the-cuff plan to create it (which fact he was beginning to doubt, for various reasons).
Instead of working on any of the very important projects on his list, however, he was trudging through the snow-covered streets of Arkham, musing on the strangeness of the place and complaining to himself about the inconvenience that was being forced to recognize this thrice-cursed holiday.
It was one of the strangest things yet about this town that it could be dressed up with twinkle lights despite the darkness lurking at its heart; its citizens' lives a perfect parody of Christmas joy through their windows, when he knew that they experienced as much tragedy and horror as any other town in the world, if not more. Surely it was another aspect of the city's weirdness that it could seem so completely peaceful on this night alone, when destruction and chaos lurked, normally, around every corner. Had he not been stalked by a vampire only the night before?
It was, he thought with a sudden stroke of inspiration, rather as though the entire town had agreed to a truce – a cease-fire of sorts – for a single night: The University shut down (despite all reasonable expectations) and for a single twenty-four hour span, the town was the (rather uncanny) picture of mundane normality. Doubtless it was part of the reason the townspeople were so accommodating of the University the rest of the year.
Yes, he decided. That made sense. Well… a sort of sense: he wouldn't be surprised if it was necessitated by whatever spell protected the city, that they have one day of peace each year, when there was nothing for the average Arkham citizen to conceal from the outside world, or something of that ilk. They wouldn't tell newcomers, lest they find some way to damage the protection once they knew about it – this must be a major clue as to its function. It would explain everything, or at least everything about the lack of information he had been given.
He found that he felt better about the mandatory time off, having finally managed to explain its purpose to his own satisfaction. He walked on feeling substantially more settled as he convinced himself that the University and the city would return to business as usual come morning, and made a mental note to investigate whether his suppositions might, in fact, be correct, and not just idle self-reassurance.
Snow had begun to fall, glazing the bare branches of the trees and the light-bedecked houses like something out of a postcard. Somewhere in the distance, a clock tolled midnight.
It was not, Tom decided, the worst first Christmas Harrison Evans could have had.
For more details on what, exactly, happened with Tom and that vampire on Christmas Eve, check out 'The Night Before Christmas': s/12325004/1/The-Night-Before-Christmas