Notes: This turned out quite long, so I hope you enjoy it! There's some heavy MACUSA bashing, in case there is anyone reading this who likes them.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Museum of Magic, Part II: Uncomfortable History
"I don't understand why we can't go to Mr. Fiske's dinner," Madeline groused, clutching her vivid green valise and scowling.
Hermione raised an eyebrow at her daughter. "Mr. Fiske's dinner is going to be very late, past your bedtime. We're going to do all sorts of fun things, though. We're going to see magical Boston. Besides, you'll get to play with Mr. Fiske's nephews that evening."
Madeline continued to scowl but did not protest again. Hermione found that she could not be annoyed. Madeline was of an age where she wanted to do more "adult" activities than she was really able to. Hermione herself had gone through the same phase.
Tom and Hermione had made arrangements to visit Gregor Fiske, a former President of the Magical Congress of the United States, to take notes on the history of some important magical artifacts he owned and to acquire those artifacts for the British national museum. They—or, rather, Advance—now had a building for the museum. It was on Knockturn Alley, because that area was much less expensive, but it would be close enough to Diagon Alley—and out of the dodgier parts of Knockturn—that it should have plenty of visitors. Even now, magical renovation crews were gutting the place and redecorating it.
Because trans-oceanic Apparition was very risky, especially for Side-Alongs, the Riddles had obtained Portkeys to New York from the American magical government. They were set to activate in a few minutes. Annoyingly, they were going to turn up in New York City first, because of bureaucratic requirement, but from there they were going to go to magical Boston and meet Fiske.
Hermione had not met him in person. Tom had corresponded, and apparently the man wanted to tell them some back story about the historical artifacts. It promised to be interesting.
The Portkeys began to hum with magical resonance. Hermione and Tom made sure that their older children were clutching tightly, and as they began to activate, the family collectively closed its eyes.
Hermione heaved her breath as she stopped spinning. Virgil was almost ready to retch onto the floor, and Madeline looked rather sick herself. Cynthia, in Hermione's arms, let out a howl of protest, which echoed throughout the unwelcoming, chilly halls of MACUSA.
The baby's cries continued, even as Hermione attempted to quiet her. The spinning had probably given her a headache. Hermione hushed the little girl, cuddling her close. The outraged cries turned into feeble, infrequent whimpers of complaint, much to her relief.
Tom's head snapped up as a pair of MACUSA officials approached. "We must scan all visitors for dangerous objects," one of them said officiously. She glared at the still-whimpering Cynthia. "And do use a Silencio on that child. Excessively noisy or disruptive travelers aren't permitted to leave MACUSA until they calm down." The pair of bureaucrats proceeded to pat the entire family down with their wands.
Hermione was taken aback at the rudeness. "I beg your pardon?" she sputtered. She gazed around. No one was working who might be disturbed by the baby's sounds. This area was even marked "Visitor Receiving Hall."
Tom glared at the pair. "Excuse me. I am the British Minister for Magic, and this is not the reception I believe we are supposed to have."
The bureaucrats stopped abruptly. "What?" the other one said, aghast.
Tom stepped forward aggressively. "You heard me. Whoever created these Portkeys clearly made a mistake by charming them to take us to the common receiving hall."
The pair quickly cast silent charms to confirm the identities of their guests. Their names appeared briefly in the air in small glowing letters and then faded. With looks of utter horror on their faces, the officials led the Riddles out of the grim hall.
The rude official took off, clearly wanting to be out of the Riddles' sight, while the other stayed nearby and sheepishly avoided looking at them. Within minutes, the current President of MACUSA appeared, a middle-aged witch with dark hair in a pageboy cut. She looked embarrassed. Beside her was an older clean-cut wizard whom Tom obviously recognized. This, then, must be Gregor Fiske.
"Mr. and Mrs. Riddle. Violet Parsons. I apologize deeply for this mistake," the woman said feelingly, shaking their hands in turn. "I have already initiated an inquiry to determine how this happened. You are, of course, clear to move about in this country."
Tom smiled thinly. "Is there a recent problem with people importing dangerous magical objects?"
"It's standard procedure. Your family was not supposed to have been caught in it, though." She turned to the wizard beside her. "This is Gregor Fiske. Mr. Fiske—Tom and Hermione Riddle, and their children."
Hermione introduced the children to Fiske. Cynthia, fortunately, had stopped whimpering. Madeline and Virgil were still distressed from the aggressive magical scan that MACUSA had begun, but they were relieved to know that things were moving along as they should now.
After the usual niceties, and after the Riddles' diplomatic credentials had been fully established, Fiske turned to the family with a wry smile on his face. "Let's get out of this wretched pit," he said in an undertone once President Parsons was gone. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled a large piece of what looked like tattered sailcloth from it, evidently another Portkey.
Hermione was surprised at the heavy upper-class Boston accent that he exhibited… but it was interesting, not unpleasant. She nodded and took hold of the banner. The children and Tom followed suit. Fiske said the password and the unpleasant whirling sensation began again.
They landed in a pleasant foyer of a private home. Hermione glanced around and saw teal-green walls, darkly stained wooden flooring, a many-paned double door, and furniture that appeared to be eighteenth-century Muggle style. A large magical painting of a stately, elegant black-haired witch in 1600s middle-class clothing gazed airily at the guests.
"So these are the ones who are here for my wand," the painting spoke as Fiske appeared in the hall. "I hope that the entire wretched tale doesn't become fodder for gawking English."
Fiske raised his eyes to the painting. "The Minister and the President understand perfectly well what is not suitable for public release, Cordelia."
The painted figure stared back impassively. Hermione could not help but smile at being referred to as "the President." It was true, after all—she was the president of her organization—but it sounded at least as prestigious as Tom's title, used in the same sentence.
Fiske showed them into his parlor, which was also made up in the style of Colonial America. Hermione could not help but gaze admiringly at the furnishings. She cast an idle glance at her own valise and suddenly gasped.
"Mr. Fiske," she said at once, "if you don't mind—I brought my kneazle in this case. He's twelve years old. May I let him out? He's well-behaved."
Fiske laughed. "You smuggled in a kneazle! Well done. Of course you can let him out."
"I wouldn't call it 'smuggling,'" Hermione said, opening the case and summoning Sable from the magically expanded depths. The fluffy black cat emerged, looking very aggrieved. He promptly jumped into Virgil's lap, snubbing Hermione. The little boy was delighted and began to pet him.
Fiske smiled. "The customs officials would have had a big problem with that. There was an incident a few decades ago with a British wizard smuggling magical animals into this country. It was a good thing that your husband put a stop to that search at once. If I may say so—and you mustn't repeat this—they're out of control." He shook his head.
"What were they searching for?" Tom asked.
"Animals, plants, and anything Dark."
He looked immensely relieved. "I see," he said.
Hermione shot him a look. Surely he didn't bring—but she stopped that thought at once. He had brought it. Of course he had.
Fiske offered them refreshments, which they accepted. An elf brought them bowls of clam chowder. Hermione tasted it. It wasn't bad, she thought. She glanced up and saw that Tom seemed to like it as well. Encouraged by their parents' reactions, the children began to sip theirs.
"My other elf is getting my nephews from my sister's house," Fiske said conversationally. "I don't know when they'll arrive, but in the meantime, I can show you the artifacts." He set the empty bowl and cup on a side table and rose from his chair. The Riddles set theirs aside and followed him to another room in the house, Virgil clutching the cat.
This room, Hermione observed with delight—and, she noticed, so did Tom—was a library. Fiske directed them to a particular locked cabinet. He withdrew his wand and flicked it, opening it, and lifted out a wooden box.
"These are the artifacts from the bad times," he said, carrying it to the nearest table and setting it down. He took out a thin, yellowed flyer advertising a bounty for witches, dated from 1670.
Tom was glaring blackly at it. "Is that a Scourer advertisement?"
Fiske nodded. "Fragile as it looks, it's magically preserved. I understand that your country has suppressed this part of our history."
Tom clutched his own wand. "Yes," he said tightly. "I have done my utmost to fight it politically, but those who persist in promoting a pro-Muggle narrative of our history still have considerable power."
Fiske raised an eyebrow. "We call them No-Majs."
"We have some linguistic differences," Tom said. "What else is here?" He peered over the side of the box.
Hermione strode forward. She could not say she was surprised, but Tom was already taking over this. It was his idea to meet this wizard, but this was still her museum, and she did not want her authority to be diminished in Fiske's eyes. She gazed into the box next to him and saw a collection of sundry items: more papers, a book of magic that appeared stained with blood, a dusty wand, a set of clothing very similar to the dress painted in the foyer portrait….
"What was your ancestor's name? Cordelia something?" Hermione asked.
"Cordelia Orne. She was from a very prominent family in Salem. She…." Fiske trailed off uncertainly, glancing at Madeline and Virgil.
"They know her fate," Hermione said at once. "They know about persecution. It's quite all right."
"Yes, well, there are aspects of the story that are rather disturbing and dark," Fiske said uneasily, in a voice too low for the children to hear.
Hermione considered. Things did get rather grim in New England during the seventeenth century for magical people. Perhaps it might be too much for them.
"We can discuss the history later, then," she said. "What about the rest of the artifacts? What do you have here?"
Fiske summoned the contents out in turn. "These were letters by my ancestor to members of her family," he said, lifting out a bound parcel. "The ones on top talk about her fear of the Scourers. If you don't object, I'd like to keep the ones that don't make any reference to the persecution."
"Of course," Hermione said. "Your private family history is just that."
He withdrew the heavy clothing, which consisted of a black full-skirted gown with a large white lacy collar. "This was hers, too—no real connection to the persecution, but something to maybe humanize her a bit. There's also a non-magical portrait of her with her husband and son…." He summoned a small oval frame. "It's been preserved too, of course, but this was public, for the benefit of any No-Maj visitors. Couldn't have moving portraits when they came sniffing around." He took out the damaged book, which Hermione could see now was a text about magical plants. "This—now this is bad."
"Is that her blood?" Tom asked.
Fiske shook his head. "We don't think so. There's reason to believe that she… well, no, it's not just 'reason to believe'; she definitely used Dark Magic."
Hermione and Tom glanced into the box. It was now empty except for something that appeared to gleam. A knife? Hermione wondered.
Fiske covered the box and pasted a false smile on his face. "Not now." He glanced at his wristwatch. "My elf should be here with the boys any moment now—"
The pop of Apparition echoed through the house, just outside the library.
"That'll be them," Fiske said.
The library doors opened, revealing a female house-elf flanked by a pair of boys, one who looked about Madeline's age and one who looked a little younger than Virgil.
"This is the British First Family," Fiske instructed his nephews. "Greet them."
The boys mumbled greetings.
"We're glad to meet you too," Tom said briskly. He glanced at the children, then at his own. They all seemed eager to get to know each other. "I understand that your house-elves were going to supervise the children?"
"Yes," Fiske affirmed. "They set up a room with magical toys and interesting books… some Gobstones and wizard's chess, in case yours play. And your cat! My sister's boys don't have a pet." He directed the house-elf to lead the children away at once, to the satisfaction of everyone in the room. Tom was intensely curious about whatever the "dark and disturbing" story might be, especially since it concerned a Dark witch. Hermione wanted to know it as well. Fiske's nephews were fascinated by the strangers and their part-kneazle cat, and Madeline and Virgil clearly wanted to get away from all the adults and spend time with other children instead.
Once the children—including the baby, now sound asleep in a crib—were all safely in the care of the elves, Mr. Fiske resumed his story. He opened the box again and withdrew the shiny items, of which there were two. One of them was a knife, a sinister Baroque dagger. The other was a necklace that Hermione guessed was probably a ruby, but it was horribly damaged. The stone had been shattered from the center outward, looking rather like a piece of glass that had suffered a projectile impact. It also was darkened unevenly, as if it had been somehow burned.
"I must ask both of you to respect my family's privacy on some details of this," Fiske said as he laid the objects on the table next to the rest. "I don't mind if you put in your museum that Cordelia practiced the Dark Arts, but… well… I am sure you can use your judgment."
Hermione suddenly had a really bad feeling about this story.
Fiske set the dagger next to the damaged book. "First, you should know that she was very politically prominent in Colonial America. That in itself was like painting a target on her own back, because among the No-Majs in seventeenth-century Massachusetts, it just wasn't done for women to be… forward… in society. Cordelia Orne was a civic leader. You won't hear about it in No-Maj history, but she tried to get witches to lead the community, and that put her on the list. I don't think she practiced the Dark Arts at that point, the late 1660s. But then she had to go into hiding, because the Scourers came after her. The No-Majs thought she had moved away, and basically said 'good riddance,' but the Scourers knew better."
"The Scourers," Tom said angrily, "were the vilest of blood-traitors. Selling fellow witches and wizards to magic-hating Muggles for bounty!"
"Yes, indeed, they were," Fiske agreed.
"As you might know, Hermione and I had to handle something very much like that in the Soviet Union last year."
"Yes," Fiske said, shaking his head. "I'm very glad you took care of that quickly." He continued with his narration. "In those days, there were two in particular who had their sights set on Cordelia. Both men, who, I am sorry to say, thought the No-Majs had the right of it about women—or just didn't like a strong witch and pretended to agree with the No-Maj reason for it. Anyway, this is in her letters to her cousins, which are in that stack. We—the family—think that she only turned to Dark Magic after they killed her husband, the first Gregor Fiske."
Hermione's eyebrows shot up. It was revolutionary that this woman had not taken her husband's surname in the 1600s, even as a witch.
"All the indications are that he put up a fight," Fiske continued. "She says in one of the letters that he wouldn't let himself be taken alive. The book is something they took off him to offer to the No-Majs as evidence, but he cursed them and that's supposedly their blood on it. They got him with the Killing Curse, though. And that was when Cordelia… turned." Fiske looked quizzically at the Riddles. "This next part—this needs to be private," he said.
"Of course," Hermione assured him. "We have no desire to embarrass your family, even though no one should judge you for what someone long dead may have done."
"It would provide aid and comfort to the pro-No-Maj viewpoint, though, I expect," Fiske said, looking down. He cleared his throat. "All right. Well, after she was widowed, Cordelia decided to take her revenge on the Scourers. They had made off with her husband's favorite book, too, and she didn't like that either. So she went after them and caught one of them, the book thief, alone. I'm sure you can guess what she did to him… except that she used that very knife to finish the job."
Tom leaned in, gazing hard at the destroyed ruby necklace. His eyes were wide. Hermione suddenly had a premonition of what was coming.
"Then… there is a certain Dark ritual," Fiske said uncomfortably. He glanced at the necklace. "She wrote about it in one of the letters—which I also want to keep. She was very disturbed by the fact that her husband had been killed by the Killing Curse, and she vowed that it wouldn't happen to her. What she did after killing that Scourer—it doesn't nullify the Killing Curse, exactly, but it's… not permanent anymore."
Tom was suddenly looking very sick, his eyes huge and fixed on the necklace. He appeared unable to speak. Hermione was sure she knew how this was going to end too, and she felt for him—but at the same time, someone had to respond. Fiske might become suspicious himself if they didn't.
She breathed deeply. "You're referring to a Horcrux, I presume."
Tom jerked at the word, still unable to take his gaze away from the ruined pendant.
Fiske, who fortunately had not noticed Tom's movement, grimaced. "You know about it. Of course you do, both of you. Yes, that's what that necklace was. I don't mean to justify it, Mr. and Mrs. Riddle—but she meant to kill all the Scourers. She intended to join her husband, so according to her letter, her plan was to… undo it… after they were all dead. She expected that in itself would kill her. She just thought she needed to be protected against the Killing Curse temporarily, since the Scourers were wizards and witches—mostly wizards. That was her plan, and… if she had succeeded, history might've been very different. She would've been seen as a hero."
Tom finally spoke. "I take it one of the filthy, despicable Scourers destroyed it instead," he said, his voice like ice.
Fiske raised an eyebrow at Tom curiously. "Yes," he continued. "She took out three more of them first, but the partner of the one whose throat she cut with that knife was on the scene when she slew one of them, and he saw her wearing it. Apparently when it was… active… there was a white gleam in the middle of it, and he guessed what it was."
"And he killed her, too?"
Fiske nodded grimly. "She was there with her son. The final fight took place in a barn. The Scourer had summoned a group of No-Majs to reinforce him—just like those vile Russians did—but they got there earlier than he expected and saw him doing a spell. When they saw that he, too, was a wizard, they shot him dead. Cordelia's son escaped, taking this with him. He fled to Boston, hiding behind safety of numbers… and the family has been here ever since."
"I'm glad the Scourer was killed," Hermione said. "And I see why you didn't want the children to hear that."
"It's a grim history, Mrs. Riddle. My family does not come out looking so great."
"I don't know," Tom said, his accent still clipped and icy. "I wish she had managed to kill all the Scourers as she intended." His gaze flickered once more to the necklace, but as he did, the fury left, that sick expression came over his face once more, and he looked away immediately.
"Tom," Hermione said quietly, putting her hand unobtrusively on his arm.
"Well, magical history would've been very different if she had," Fiske agreed. "But I don't pretend that her methods are something to boast of. Of course, these are people who are long dead… but those people in New York would see it as a reason to look down on my family, and the Boston area in general, even more than they already do. They think we're all enamored of the Dark Arts. For your museum, you can say that Cordelia Orne sought to eliminate all the Scourers but they killed her first. The other bit… I'd rather not have that public."
"Of course," Hermione assured him at once. "I understand perfectly." More perfectly than you can imagine, Mr. Fiske. "It will go no farther."
Tom did not recover from the appalling story until they were almost ready to leave for their room at the inn. Fiske apparently attributed his shocked, upset demeanor to the disturbing nature of the tale, much to Hermione's relief.
I suppose, though, that "he's upset about it because he created one himself" would not be the first assumption anyone else would make about the British Minister for Magic, she thought as they gathered the children and the cat. She had summoned a pram out of her suitcase, and Cynthia was nestled safely into it, secured with stability charms.
"You're staying at Boot's Hotel?" Fiske asked. Hermione nodded. "It's a fine place," the wizard continued. "It's located in the Back Bay neighborhood. This is Beacon Hill. It's walkable, but I can show you a map if you want to Apparate directly there."
They glanced quickly at the map he presented before meeting each other's eyes and coming to the same conclusion. "It would be more fun to see the city," Hermione suggested.
The children looked up eagerly. "Yes!" Virgil exclaimed. "I want to see the city."
Fiske duplicated the map, then rolled up his copy and banished it. He handed the copy to Hermione. "Here you are, then. Now, you might want to put your cat in a carrier."
Hermione promptly summoned one from her valise. The protesting animal was shoved into it, but he became quiet once they made their farewells and stepped outside into the sun.
Tom took a deep breath, glancing up at the scattered clouds and blinking. He seemed to be trying to gain command of himself. Hermione moved close to him and touched his arm gently.
He met her eyes. "That history," he said in an undertone, "could not have been more upsetting to me if it had been personally crafted for me. That witch lost her spouse… her… item… was destroyed by a blood-traitor… she failed at her goal of protecting magical people…."
Hermione squeezed his arm. It had not occurred to her that part of Tom's nearly catatonic reaction had been over the fact that Cordelia Orne's husband had been murdered. "It's not going to happen to us," she said. "Things are better now."
He shivered once more, his motions incongruous with the bright sunlight, but then he took another deep breath. "You're right," he said in abrupt tones. "We have the Statute of Secrecy, and I've strengthened enforcement of it. There are specific new dangers in this time… but as we proved last year, we can handle them." He reached for her hand and squeezed it.
They began the long walk toward the Back Bay. The children insisted upon walking around in the Common, to which their parents had no objection—as long as they could control magical outbursts. Madeline and Virgil solemnly promised that no such disaster would occur. Ignoring the occasional admiring glances—they were, Hermione realized, a rather handsome family—they entered the park and stood beside the pond as the children pointed out the wildlife.
"Did you bring it?" Hermione asked in a low voice while the older two children chattered.
Tom looked startled. "Well—yes."
"Why? MACUSA probably would have found it if that search had continued."
"We weren't supposed to be put through that. And I wasn't going to leave it at home. I would have worried. Especially after that story we heard…."
Hermione sighed in resignation. In her opinion, that story should have been a discouragement against the act at all, but it appeared that, typically, Tom was going to take an entirely different lesson from it.
The sun began to sink in the sky, and Tom and Hermione reluctantly had to pull the children away from the park and keep going. It was not a hardship. Although the sights along the path were all Muggle, they were still scenic and attractive. Even Tom found himself admiring the architecture of the most historic buildings, although he would not have admitted it freely.
They reached the part of Boston known as the Back Bay. "This," Hermione remarked, gazing at the copy of Fiske's map, "says that this neighborhood was created by filling in an existing bay. Interesting. We're walking on manmade terrain."
"Muggle-made terrain," Tom groused under his breath. "I hope this hotel is stable."
Hermione shook her head, not saying a word. He was still unsettled by the story of Cordelia Orne. He would be in a better mood once they were at the hotel.
As they approached the western end of the area, Hermione felt her magical senses prickling. There was magic somewhere not too far away. It was vague, but it was definitely magic. She supposed it must be because they were approaching Boot's Hotel, the area's only wizarding inn.
"You feel it too?" Tom asked, frowning.
She nodded. "It has to be the—but no, we're off the path," she said, gazing at the map. "We've gone too far to the west of the hotel and we'll have to backtrack. This, whatever it is, comes from even farther west. I don't think the hotel is the source. How odd."
Tom reached into his inside coat pocket for his wand. He quickly cast a spell making the family unnoticeable to Muggles so that they could have a conversation in private. "It feels almost like… Felix Felicis in reverse," he remarked, frowning thoughtfully.
"It does," Hermione agreed. She glanced at Tom, suddenly alarmed for his state of mind. He was already upset about the story that Fiske had told them. If there was some sort of "unlucky curse" somewhere nearby….
He seemed all right, though, perhaps because he knew that this vague sense of looming misfortune was from an external source. "This definitely isn't coming from the hotel," he said after waving his wand. "We should investigate. Apparently no one with magic lives in this area or even comes here, or surely they would notice… and the hotel is too far east for the guests to detect it… but MACUSA needs to know about this." He led the way as the family continued westward.
At last, following their magical senses, they left the main thoroughfares and entered a side street. A large stadium structure loomed to one side. It was unmistakably the source.
"I feel it now," Madeline chimed in. She looked unhappy. "It makes me think something bad is going to happen."
Virgil gazed balefully at the structure. "What is that?"
Hermione tried to think of what she knew about American Muggles, which admittedly was not a lot. "It's some type of American Muggle sport facility," she said.
"That is truly odd," Tom said, gazing at Fenway Park in perplexity. "Why would a Dark curse be on that?"
They did not have time to consider the mystery. Madeline and Virgil were getting hungry and wanted to settle themselves in at the hotel, so the family turned back east to try to find it this time. Hermione did not stray from the map again, and before long, they found themselves in front of Boot's Hotel, a converted pair of townhouses. The few Muggles who were walking around passed it by unseeing.
The charm that Tom had cast on them was still in effect, so he did not have to wait for the Muggles to leave the area before entering the building that was invisible to them. They climbed the steps and went inside—and instantly the children gave gasps of awe.
A beautiful magical lobby was before them. A glittering chandelier hung from the ceiling, and benign magical plants decorated the sides. A small colony of fairies hummed and buzzed around the plants. In one corner, an ornate sign with fancy letters flashed the greeting: "Welcome to Boot's Hotel of magical Boston!" Below that, a series of moving lines offered this description: "Our hotel is named for the Boot brothers of Ilvermorny School! Did the historic artifacts in our famous ballroom belong to them? Debates occur nightly in the Lobby Lounge, sometimes featuring eminent academics from Ilvermorny and around the world."
Tom rolled his eyes at that. "It means that there have been drunk professors arguing over it at the bar," he muttered to Hermione. "Pity we can't get these objects and discover the truth, though I'm sure I know already what it is."
Hermione did not choose to respond to his cynicism. It was difficult for her to tell right now how much of this was Tom's parochialism, how much of it was still his reaction to that account from Fiske, and how much was simply his own tiredness. At home, they should be getting ready to go to sleep, and yet it was still light here. She felt a pang of guilt about dragging the children to the Muggle sporting field. They had not been able to identify the specific curse, and she was increasingly of the opinion that it was not any known named spell, but rather, a general wish of ill-will—a cloud of raw Dark magic.
The clerk gushed over the fact that the hotel was receiving the custom of such distinguished foreign guests, but Tom and Hermione cut that short. The children were grumbling at each other, hungry and sleepy. The cat was adding his own complaints to the mix. It was time for the day's activities to end.
That night, Tom clutched Hermione under the covers as if his life depended on it, falling asleep that way. He had that diary of his under his pillow, too. Hermione did not want to roll onto that pillow, but neither did she want to push him away. It was obvious that it was a response to the account he heard today. He probably would have wanted to hold the children too—and had, earlier, when they had sat on the sofa in their suite to hear their bedtime story.
As much as I wish he wouldn't double down on dark things, Hermione thought, I cannot fault him for wanting to hold us close. It's a good thing.
Although they slept in, the family had a free day in which to further tour magical sites in New England. Fiske, with his nephews in tow, escorted them to see Ilvermorny School, as a crucially important magical site in the region. Although this was spring break, the school was still partially staffed, and those on the site were pleased to put together a little party for the Riddle children and Fiske's nephews, one much like the cozy Christmas dinners at Hogwarts for the students who stayed there. The Riddle children were impressed but wise enough not to allow themselves to become too envious of the young American wizards they had met. Although their parents could send them abroad for their education, they still knew that they were going to attend their own country's school in Scotland.
That evening, the dinner with Fiske that Madeline had so wanted to attend would be held in the ballroom at Boot's Hotel—the one that boasted of having artifacts on display that the sons of the Ilvermorny founders had owned. President Parsons would also be present, as it was considered an official matter of state, and she would bring with her a few of her political subordinates. However, the dinner was still going to be small and private.
Tom and Hermione had had another strategy in mind for their sweeping tour of magical New England: exhaust the children so that they would not care as much about the evening event. After they had returned to the hotel, as they were preparing for the dinner, Hermione observed out the corner of one eye as her oldest child yawned.
"Why can't I go?" Madeline pleaded, her voice changing pitch as she stifled a follow-up yawn in the middle of the question.
An amused smile formed on Hermione's face, but it was Tom who answered first. "Because you need to rest. Listen to yourself."
"I'm not that sleepy," she protested, her voice modulating once more.
"You're yawning," Virgil chipped in. He knew that he had no chance of going to the dinner, but it would be all right as long as his older sister didn't go either.
"We've already discussed this," Tom said. "You had loads of fun today with those boys, including a party of your own with them at the school they'll be attending. This is the party for your mother and me… and yours was probably much more fun than this one will be."
Madeline scowled, but she was unable to hide yet another yawn. Somewhat resigned, she took a book about Quidditch out of her suitcase, sat on the sofa, and tried to read it. The cat sat between her and her brother, his intelligent eyes flickering back and forth as if guarding them.
He's part kneazle, Hermione thought, so maybe he is. Although Fiske had loaned one of his elves to sit the children—and tend to the baby—while Tom and Hermione were at the dinner, it was nice to know that the large cat would also be there.
At last they descended the stairs, arm in arm, and entered the ballroom. Hermione considered it. It was not at all Colonial-style… but then, the townhouses that encompassed this hotel were built at least a century later. She scanned a long cabinet along one wall, which was full of magical artifacts. The items did look old, and from the right era to have been the property of Ilvermorny's founding family. It was possible. An idea passed through Hermione's mind… but she quickly discarded it. Fiske's ancestor's possessions had a connection to the events leading to the International Statute of Secrecy. There was a justification for them to appear in a British museum. There was no such justification for these items, if their claimed provenance was true.
Fiske, Parsons, and a pair of people that Tom and Hermione did not know—presumably Parsons' officials—were in the ballroom, which had been set with a single candlelit table in the center. The small, elite group sat down and soon began a regionally appropriate meal of fresh seafood and more chowder.
At the end of the main course, Violet Parsons leaned forward, a gleam in her eyes, and glanced at the Riddles. "So," she began, "Gregor told you about what's-her-name and is going to loan you some artifacts related to that."
"Yes, his information was very useful, and of course we greatly appreciate his generosity," Hermione said. She did not trust the look in this woman's eyes. There was animus between Parsons and Fiske, real dislike rather than mere political rivalry, and she did not want to be caught in the middle of it.
Fiske did not appear to like being called by his given name by her. "My ancestor's name was Cordelia Orne, President Parsons," he said pointedly.
Tom raised his eyebrow—evidently this was interesting to him too—but only Hermione saw.
"So what did you think about her?" Parsons pressed Hermione and Tom.
Tom clearly wanted to answer. Don't say anything stupid, Hermione willed him in thought. Please don't say anything foolish. Not here. She may not know all the details, but Fiske does, and he did observe your reactions during his hideous story.
"I think it's a shame what happened to her," Tom shot back at the MACUSA President.
"Oh, well, the Scourers were a menace, certainly," Parsons agreed, "but vigilantism…."
"What other options did they have in those days, though? No real government existed. Everyone else was either hiding, running, or betraying their fellow wizards out of fear. At least she wanted to attack the problem itself."
"Yes, wizarding anarchy was the source of the ill," Parsons reluctantly agreed, her expression disappointed even as Fiske looked smug. "I hope that in your museum"—she turned to Hermione with a false smile—"you mention something about how vigilante justice such as hers was one contributing factor that gave rise to MACUSA."
"I am sure there will be a mention of that," Hermione said smoothly, "although the focus will necessarily be on the Statute of Secrecy." She smiled a false smile of her own back.
The remainder of the meal was rather subdued, but no one at the table complained.
Late that night, when Tom and Hermione were back in their room in the privacy of their bedroom suite, she turned to him to ask him the question that had been bothering her all evening.
"What's the issue between those two? Is it political?"
Tom stretched as he sat down on the bed. "Mostly political… and maybe ten percent this odd Boston-New York rivalry that they seem to have here. But I always thought that was more good-natured, so in their case, the politics soured it too. Fiske was their President before I became Minister. I wish I'd had the chance to work with him; it would have been a partnership to change our world globally. He tried to reform the Americans' criminal justice system—which is about as bad as ours was—"
"Yes, I'm aware of that," she said darkly.
"—and also attempted to loosen their excessive restrictions on issues like 'wand licensing' and so on, saying that their laws punished the magical community for things that Muggles—though he used that ugly American term—did to them long ago. MACUSA called for his head on a platter, politically speaking. And she was leading that charge. Yes, there's a lot of dislike."
She considered that. It was about as she had suspected. "Well, I don't want us to be mixed up in it."
"Neither do I. I think we handled it well, though."
The next morning was time to return home. Fiske had left the artifacts that he was willing to loan—not, of course, the damaged ruby necklace or the dagger—and they had been clearly marked. Hermione did not really want to pass through MACUSA again to leave, but it was required.
The family Portkeyed to New York without incident, this time appearing correctly in the corridor for diplomatic guests. There were no petty tyrants waiting to spring on unsuspecting visitors there, which was fortunate, because the baby did not like this any better than she had the first time.
Parsons appeared before them momentarily, just as Hermione had managed to hush her child. Her smile was obviously forced. Evidently she had realized that the British Minister was more sympathetic to her ousted predecessor's views about wizard rights than to her own—not that that should have come as a surprise, given Tom's political faction and agenda, but perhaps she had not paid close attention to overseas politics.
An official did have to examine the box of artifacts from Fiske to make sure that its contents were what they were declared to be on the attached parchment. While that was going on, Hermione remembered something else she wanted to mention to the President.
She shuffled through her leather folder. "When we were in Boston, we passed by this Muggle sport facility and detected a curse in the vicinity." She held up a photograph of Fenway Park that she had taken.
Parsons raised an eyebrow skeptically. "On a No-Maj sports field? What curse was it?"
She hesitated. "I can't put a name to it, but if you know how it feels to be under the influence of Felix Felicis, then imagine the opposite of that."
"Well, Mrs. Riddle, I don't know what you believed you felt there, but there is no recognized spell that does that."
"A Dark curse relies heavily on intent, so it could come into existence if someone wanted it to do that. President Parsons, I'm certain that Tom and I detected something there. It wouldn't hurt to send someone to look into it."
"If you can't identify a specific spell and didn't see any activity that's potentially a result of magic, I'm not sure what to put in the report… and you should know, that region has a history of the Dark Arts. It is very likely resonance from past activities, the very sort that caught the attention of No-Maj fanatics in the bad old days."
The Riddles recognized that they were not going to get any further. As Parsons turned away, Hermione turned to Tom, frowning. "She's not going to do anything about it."
"It's not our problem," he said. "This mutual regional contempt is as bad as English versus Irish. Anyway, that curse is diffuse enough that the Muggles won't sense it as magic. At least we got the artifacts. Now let's leave this place."
The entire family took hold of their Portkey and closed their eyes as it sent them home.
End Notes: As a Red Sox fan, I decided to have some fun with their legendary "curse." Babe Ruth famously "called" the location of a home run once, indicating some Divination ability in a Potterverse AU. He was never discovered as a wizard, because he channeled his magic so subtly through baseball that it wasn't obvious even to him. He didn't know that he truly did wandlessly curse his old team, but Dark magic relies heavily on intent, so it worked. And MACUSA is incompetent as always.