Notes: There were brief moments in the previous chapter that, er, had a double meaning (i.e., real-world significance), but other than that, I have avoided consciously putting any obvious topical references into this story. Be forewarned that I've broken that rule at the end of this chapter. It's not just for me to use my story to vent my own frustrations; there is a plot reason for it that will become clear in the next chapter.
I also wanted to ground everyone in time, since I haven't been putting dates at the beginning of chapters for a while. This is very late 1958. Madeline is 8 (she was born in October 1950), and Virgil is almost 5 (he was born in early 1954).
Chapter Twenty-One: True Family
The children had not actually been at the Rosiers' for any longer than the usual work day, but it seemed much longer to their parents.
As the little ones rushed toward Hermione and Tom, a weak smile bloomed on her face. The children were innocent and just happy to have their parents home. They did know that something bad had happened abroad, and they were intelligent enough to worry a bit, but in their minds, Mum and Dad were still invincible heroes who could make anything right. Therefore it was no surprise to Madeline and Virgil that, of course, Mum and Dad had put this to rights.
Hermione accepted her baby from Celeste Rosier, Vincent's wife. They had not known each other in school; the other witch—formerly Celeste Flint—had finished Hogwarts three years after Hermione. They chattered briefly about their families, as they usually did when they saw each other, because they did not discuss politics very much. Celeste—and, Hermione would guess, also Vincent—still held a certain degree of blood-purity supremacism. Their default, unconscious belief seemed to be that most purebloods were better witches and wizards than most others, but that there were exceptions to that rule of thumb, the Riddles among them. Although Hermione was sure that the Rosiers did indeed place her family in their "exceptional half-bloods" box, it was frustrating that they could not move beyond this last vestige of blood supremacism. Tom, of all people, had managed to do so. Granted, Hermione thought, cuddling Cynthia, it's because he doesn't consider anyone to be very valuable unless they're intelligent and magically powerful, but within that select group, he's egalitarian about it.
A child suddenly hugged Hermione's legs. She glanced down and noticed, to her surprise, that it was Madeline. Her gaze shot to Tom, and she saw with even more surprise that he was picking up Virgil. That was interesting. Generally their "favorite" parents had been the opposite….
She flashed Tom a pointed gaze as they said their farewells to the Rosiers. He walked to the Disapparition spot at the Rosiers' doorstep, still carrying Virgil, and they disappeared home.
Once inside their familiar town house, they went at once to the family sitting room. Tom set their son down, but neither of the older children wanted to be too far away from their parents.
"We were worried about you," the little boy remarked, sitting down between Tom and Hermione with a simple storybook in hand.
"We were fine," Hermione reassured him. "We just had to take care of the emergency."
He smiled at her, looking in that moment very much like his father, but with the innocence that Tom had probably lost as a small child as soon as his brilliant mind figured out that there was no Mum or Dad for him. Hermione hugged her son and did not immediately let go. She had just come from a place where children had been orphaned and kidnapped, where they would have been pressed into the service of an authoritarian Muggle state. She had saved those children from that fate, but she could not restore the families they had lost. Suddenly, her own children were even more precious to her.
He was such a quiet, brainy, imaginative boy, she thought. Having been bullied for her bookishness, even by one of her friends, she worried a little about how he would do at Hogwarts. Madeline was surely going to be a Slytherin; Hermione would be astonished if she didn't go there, but she rather hoped that the Hat would use the children's own personalities to Sort them instead of the mere fact that they were descendants of Salazar Slytherin. She truly did not think that Slytherin would be good for Virgil. Madeline would defend him there, but he needed to be more assertive himself. Virgil should be a Ravenclaw or possibly a Hufflepuff, unless his personality changed drastically by the time he was eleven. Tom might not like it—but then again, she reminded herself, he did respect the Founders, even if he had thankfully not stolen their artifacts for dark purposes.
They had no clues yet as to where little Cynthia would go, of course, except that she was probably a Parselmouth like her two siblings. She was not at all old enough to speak words, and in fact was still nursing, but she was inordinately fascinated by the grass snakes that inhabited the Riddles' small back yard, drawn to the abode of "speakers," and she seemingly even tried to hiss at them. Even Madeline and Virgil had not done that this early. However, Virgil was a Parselmouth and it didn't mean that he had Slytherin personality traits. Wherever their children ended up, hopefully Tom wouldn't try to shame any of them over their Sorting. She wouldn't allow it.
Virgil opened his book and started to read aloud, being in that stage still. Hermione listened fondly, wondering—with a pang—how much longer he would do this. It would not be long, she guessed, before he read his books silently, and she would not hear the hesitant but increasingly confident little voice sounding out his words….
Hermione's black cat, the very one Tom had given her twelve years ago, stalked elegantly into the room. As a part-kneazle, Sable was quite spry and healthy still. The cat rubbed against her legs, intelligently recognizing that she needed affection at the moment. A smile came to her face.
Madeline spoke. "I wish we could go to the park again."
Hermione raised an eyebrow mildly. "You would be cold."
The girl pouted. "We could wear coats, and you and Dad could put warming charms on them. We haven't been there in so long," she pleaded. "I want to use my birthday broom and I can't do it in the Muggle parks."
It was true enough, Hermione thought. For her eighth birthday a month and a half ago, Madeline had received her first "real" flying broom, but she hadn't had the chance to try it out. Hermione exchanged a glance with Tom. He shrugged. She turned back to her daughter and gave her a smile. "We'll go this weekend, then."
Hogsmeade Park was one of Hermione's own pet projects, established only last winter by Tom's Ministerial declaration. She had long had the opinion that the wizarding world did not have nearly enough public facilities, and that it was monumentally unfair to city children to be unable to play magical games out-of-doors unless they had a friend or relative who lived in the country. It was no wonder that Quidditch players so often came from families that had isolated country homes.
Hermione had lobbied the Wizengamot heavily to set aside a parcel of land on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, on the side of the village opposite the one bordering the school, as a public wizarding park. There were three small Quidditch pitches and one full-sized one, as well as children's play areas and well-maintained natural scenery. Benign magical creatures were permitted to make their homes there, and Muggle-Repelling Charms protected the facility. It provided jobs to security and maintenance staff, as well as offering a place for witches and wizards to enjoy the outdoors. Although the Departments of Magical Creatures and Magical Games and Sports had each really wanted to have authority over the park, Tom had instead created a new Office of Magical Parks under the Minister's direct control. He only permitted Magical Creatures staff access to matters directly concerning the ecology of the magical wildlife, and Magical Games and Sports could only get involved if the Quidditch leagues played official games there.
Magpie-like tendencies indeed, Hermione thought that weekend. The family had just Apparated to the park, and Tom was surveying it with a rather possessive smile on his face. Sometimes his inclination to take ownership of things unsettled her a little. The park was actually her idea, but she certainly didn't consider the facility to "belong" to her. She quickly brushed the thought aside as they headed toward one of the smaller Quidditch pitches, Madeline excitedly clutching her new broom.
Near the pitch was a pleasantly situated grove of trees overhanging picnic tables. A stream that apparently flowed into the Hogwarts lake rippled close by, icy cold in the winter. Although no snow currently covered the ground, it was frozen solid. She held Cynthia close. The baby was wrapped warmly in charmed clothing and a blanket, but one could not be too careful.
Hermione pulled Madeline's black hair back and tied it up. She covered her ears with a warm cap, which she then charmed to stay on the child's head. Bundled up, Madeline bounded onto the pitch, where several children were already playing. To prevent injury, children at the park were not allowed to play Quidditch with regulation Bludgers. These Bludgers were mere stuffed round bags charmed to fly about as the real thing would do, but they were quite good enough for the budding athletes. A few of the children, whom Madeline knew from the daycare at Hermione's workplace, welcomed her and admired her broom. She kicked off and took flight as her parents kept an eye on her.
"Where on earth did she get it from?" Tom murmured as the little girl scored a goal against a child who was at least two years older and possibly Hogwarts age.
Hermione chuckled. "This is her own talent. Not everything is inherited—or even taught."
"I suppose not."
Virgil tugged on Hermione's sleeve. She glanced at him inquiringly. "Do you have any paper, Mum?" he asked. He produced a box of crayons from his satchel. "I forgot."
Hermione shook her head. She glanced pointedly at Tom, who had brought along a briefcase. He set it on the table, opened it, and brought out a single sheet, which he passed to his son.
Hermione frowned at the table, which was rough on top. "Wait," she said, brandishing her wand over the surface. It smoothed out, providing Virgil a nice drawing surface. Happily he began to draw a picture of the winter landscape that surrounded them.
After a while, Tom glanced at the picture that Virgil was drawing. His eyes widened. "You know," he said, "this is really good. Maybe you should take art lessons from a wizarding painter someday. I know they don't teach it at the school."
Virgil beamed.
Tom gazed at him admiringly for a moment before he withdrew a book from his briefcase—a book bound in dark blue leather that Hermione knew very well indeed. Her skin prickled, and her features momentarily turned down in profound disapproval as she met his eyes. What the bloody hell was he about by bringing the thing to a public place?
He peered challengingly back at her and opened the book, defying her with his gaze. He tapped its pages with his wand. At once a figure appeared on the page facing him, an ink drawing. It was a very good one, too—a picture of Hermione herself, holding her pet cat. Since it was a wizarding drawing, her hands moved over the purring cat's fur, and the cat's tail flicked back and forth. Hermione's eyebrows shot up to her forehead. Since when can Tom draw?
"Mum and Sable!" Virgil exclaimed exultantly. "I didn't know you drew, Dad."
"I taught myself. Would you like me to show you some things about drawing someday?"
The boy nodded assertively, reaching over to touch the picture.
Tom quickly pulled the diary away. "Don't touch," he said. "This is Dad's private book."
Oh, is that your latest euphemism for it? Hermione thought. But Virgil understood the notion of privacy, even if he thankfully had no clue of the reason for it in this case, and he did not attempt to touch it again.
"How can I save pictures in a private book?"
Tom's mouth curled upward in pleasure, but Hermione was not going to let him answer that, even though she knew he would not give the full truth. This had gone quite far enough. Immediately she cut in, "You should just keep them in scrapbooks. I can use Permanent Sticking Charms, or you can glue them yourself the Muggle way. It's advanced magic to save memories"—she emphasized the word pointedly, glaring at Tom—"in books. You don't learn how to extract copies of memories from your mind until sixth or seventh year in school," she explained hurriedly as Tom closed the diary and slipped it into his heavy winter robes, smirking.
Fortunately, her innocent child accepted this explanation.
A bit later, the impromptu, informal Quidditch game ended, and the children went their separate ways. Madeline's face was red with the cold, and the hair that stuck out from under her cap was mussed, but she was very pleased with the afternoon.
"That was great!" she exclaimed. "I can't wait to go to Hogwarts. I'm going to play Chaser. It's so good that Professor Slughorn convinced the Headmaster to let first-years have their own brooms like everyone else." She had heard this from children at Hermione's office, who had older siblings at Hogwarts.
Hermione smiled fondly at her. "You still have several more years, but keep practicing! There's no reason a first-year couldn't be on the team if she's the best."
That night, after the children had had their baths, the doorbell sounded. It was very unusual for the Riddles to have personal guests, especially at night. They shuffled out of the family sitting room and to the front door, where a small, discreet, elegantly framed magical panel mounted on the wall next to the door announced the identity of the visitors—one of their joint inventions and patents. Hermione's organization sold the panels, though at no profit. Like the Marauder's Map and Tom's list that he had used in school, they used tracking charms that could not be fooled by Polyjuice Potion. Hermione remembered the war days in her old life and the concerns over impostors gaining access to private homes. There was no reason for any such thing to happen now. At this moment, it was Vincent Rosier who was visiting.
Tom scowled as he jerked the door open. The other wizard stood in the frigid air, bundled up in his overcoat and hat.
"What are you doing here, Vincent?" Tom said coldly, letting Rosier inside and closing the door behind him to avoid letting cold air in. He glared at his deputy. "You know I don't bring work business into my own home." He spared a glance for his children, the older two of whom stood barefoot in the foyer, gazing at the man whose family they had recently stayed with for a few hours during the day.
Rosier scowled. "It's not work, Riddle. It's about my family."
Tom's face instantly changed, as did Hermione's. "I hope they're all right," she said at once.
Rosier nodded. "Celeste and Evan are well. It's my uncle." He scowled again. "I should clarify. That old wanker—I'm sorry," he muttered, remembering the children. "I said a rude word. Don't repeat it." He addressed himself to the adults again. "He's well enough too. Unfortunately."
"Why don't you come in and have a nightcap?" Hermione suggested. She glanced at Madeline and Virgil. "You two should probably go to the sitting room and read or play for a bit while we talk."
Once the children were settled in the sitting room, the adults filed into the formal dining room. Tom brought out a bottle of brandy and three glasses from the side cabinet, pouring the drink into two of them. Hermione filled hers with cold water, since she was still nursing.
"So what's the matter?" she asked as they sat down. Crawford Rosier, Vincent's father, was in the long-term resident ward at St. Mungo's with severe curse damage, sustained on a recent visit to an ancient South American magical site. His legal documents were last updated when Vincent and Druella were young children, so they had declared Crawford's significantly younger brother, Florian, head of the family during his incapacity. The uncle had lived in France for all of his adult life, and Hermione was sure that the situation rankled with Vincent.
Rosier scowled again, this time at his drink. He picked it up and took a deep swig, blinking his eyes rapidly as he swallowed. "Well, I always assumed that Uncle Florian was just a useless tosser. He lived in his bachelor pad in Paris and never got married—"
Hermione tried to avoid letting Rosier see what she thought of judging someone for being a bachelor.
"—but I suppose he was actually doing something the whole time… but I'll get to that in a bit." He took another sip of his brandy. "He's bloody excommunicated us from the family—Celeste, Evan, and me—for my political affiliation."
Tom glowered. "Are you going to be cut off? Can he change your father's will?"
"No, Father set aside sums for me and Druella—and by the way, she's joined our uncle in disowning us—and only a part of it is going to Uncle Florian. It's not about the money, though. Druella is my twin… and Florian's always been a bit of a wanker, but he is still my uncle." He gazed at Tom and Hermione. "You want to know what he said?"
"I doubt I do," Tom said, angry menace in his words, "but let's hear it anyway."
"He said that my wife and son and I were even worse than half-bloods and… Mudbloods," Rosier spat. "His word. Said that wizards and witches like you at least couldn't help what you were, though you should be 'put in your rightful place' or 'sent out entirely'… but that I'm choosing to work for you and be in our faction and that's 'infinitely worse.'"
Tom clenched his glass. "Repulsive as it is to be told that Hermione and I, of all people, have no place in the wizarding world, it's nothing new. I hope your father recovers and curses the prick back to France. What were you going to say he did there?"
"Well, first he made reference to some arsehole in Russia who was going to 'cleanse' the wizarding community there—"
Tom smirked. "Did he now."
Rosier blinked. "It wasn't just my uncle's drunk talk. You took him out—the Russian. That's what the problem was."
Tom smiled. "Classified information, Rosier, but yes. Unfortunately for your uncle."
Rosier chuckled. "Good. He won't be happy to hear that at all."
"You know," Tom remarked, a glint of menace in his eye, "I could easily have him detained as a collaborator with foreign criminals, based on that information. That would solve your problems." The very tip of his tongue almost imperceptibly slid out of his mouth, as if to lick his lips.
"I don't think that would be wise, politically," Hermione put in at once, before that idea took hold of Tom.
He blinked, and a look of disappointment came over his face as he realized she was correct.
"I think the blood-purity movement is growing on the Continent," Rosier continued. "He said that he's good friends with Abraxas Malfoy, and you know Malfoy knows people everywhere. He made this veiled threat about Malfoy—Malfoy apparently wants to 'restore the wizarding world to its former greatness,' or some such rubbish."
"You think Malfoy is going to back another challenger?" Tom asked. "Or is that why Crouch never resigned? He's going to have another go?"
"Oh, if my uncle is representative of them, Crouch is in the doghouse with the blood Isolationists now. They think he should have tried to peel away the 'renegade' Isolationists who support you instead of seeking votes from the Reformists. I think it's going to be Malfoy himself… but… you said no politics," Rosier remembered.
Tom chuckled, pouring himself another glass.
Hermione decided to speak up. "You're feeling betrayed by your father, I suspect."
Rosier glanced at her briefly and then burst out, "I can't believe he was that careless! He hadn't updated his legal documents since the early 1930s! I cannot imagine that this is what he wanted for the family now. But Druella too. Father was just careless, but she—I hate using the word 'betrayed,' but…." He trailed off, looking miserable. "And she's my twin, Herm—Mrs. Riddle. I know you never got on in school with her, but she is my twin sister. Even when we had our disagreements, we always had that. We were family, no matter what… but I guess it was a lie. She won't even acknowledge me as her brother now, all because of politics. We've been uninvited from the holiday dinner this year. We'll have to do it alone now, and Evan doesn't really understand why his aunt and cousins won't be seeing him. I can't—" He broke off.
Everyone at the table remained silent for a moment, as Hermione contemplated what he had said. It must be very disorienting for someone from such an old pureblood family to be disowned and no longer claimed as family, even though it was a temporary situation, limited to the lifespan of the uncle or the mental incapacity of the father.
To Hermione's surprise, it was Tom who spoke next. She was even more surprised by his words.
"Real family is different," he declared. He reached for Hermione's hand and took it, tracing tiny circles on her palm. "My original 'family' all left me. Only my mother wanted me to exist at all, and she wouldn't bother to stay alive for me. My true family is here, in this house… and your true family is composed of the people who haven't turned you off. They're the ones you should think about. If your sister changes her mind, then readmit her, but otherwise you have to let her go."
Rosier sighed. "I know you're right, but it still bothers me. She's my sister." He sipped his drink, apparently not expecting an answer to that.
Tom considered something. "Are we about to have trouble from the Black family yet again?" He paused, briefly smirking. "Politics, but since I asked, you're allowed."
Rosier smiled momentarily as well. "I can't speak for Orion and Walburga, but you can't assume that Cygnus obeys their dictates. He might choose to act alone, if he gets involves with my sister's political business at all. And he might not even do that." He leaned back in his chair and regarded Hermione. "You know… a lot of the old 'rules' are different now about witches in that kind of family, and it's probably down to you, Mrs. Riddle. When we were in school, pureblood wives still didn't get involved in political business with or without their husbands—even though witches in other strata had been involved for decades. Now, it's a lot more common, and I think it's because of the example you have set as the spouse of a Minister."
In spite of everything, in spite of the fact that it might mean more political frustration for them and a recurrence of Merlin knew what from her old nemesis Druella, Hermione managed a smile at that.
"I really would like to get Abraxas Malfoy for collaboration with foreign criminals in defiance of Ministry policy—and anyone who works with him," Tom growled. "He won't go away. You would have thought that the exposure of his affair with that Muggle woman would have finished him, but those people"—he glared at Rosier almost accusingly—"appear to consider it his prerogative as a wizard from an old family to have his little personal foibles."
Hermione sighed, looking down at the table. "Tom, you cannot prosecute your political opponents. You would be the one to look bad if you did that. You'd have to prove that Malfoy knew of the Russians' plans, and I very much doubt you can. He's far too smart and careful."
"Rosier's uncle—"
"—knew, and seems to have admitted it," Hermione acknowledged, glancing at Rosier. "But do you really want to pursue that either? The blood-purity movement in Britain and Europe is much bigger than just two wizards, so it would be only a symbolic act if you even got a conviction. Do you want to put Vincent on the spot of publicly having to choose between his family and loyalty to you?"
Rosier shot Hermione a grateful look.
"If they continue this—if Malfoy mounts a challenge and they declare support—he'll be in that position anyway," Tom said defiantly.
"Then you won't have been the one to force that. They will."
He finished his drink and scowled, aware that she was right.
They sat in silence for a minute before Rosier began to shuffle about in his seat, clearly deciding that it was time for him to leave. Tom noticed the movement and started to rise. Hermione glanced at Rosier.
"If you like, our families can do something for the holidays together."
Rosier managed a weak smile. "I'll certainly think about it. Thank you."