A thousand civilians were killed when a German submarine sank a British passenger ship. Official declarations of war from the muggle governments were made. Excitement spread through the corridors of Hogwarts like a disease; it was the first time in decades that muggle and magical wars coincided so exactly, and presaged once-in-a-millennium proportions; and for a few days all believed—perhaps even hoped—that Grindelwald's Freimagier would apparate into the Great Hall at the next moment. Many thought the Germans would imminently fly their bombers over Scotland to discharge the same metallic death that had vanquished thousands in Poland. Warsaw, a city of over a million people, fell before the end of the September. But just as it began to seem that the Germans were truly unstoppable, they stopped—as if they themselves were dazed by the rapidity of their success. What began as a series of menacing thunderclaps thus faded into a gentle, distant shower, albeit one still girded by ugly grey clouds.
It all reminded Mary of a game that was played at Wool's, one which even she and Tom at times indulged in—battleships. Though the world had slowed down, every moment was pregnant with tension. Anything could happen at any moment. Two weeks before the Christmas break, Professor Dumbledore disappeared. It appeared that neither the headmaster nor the other professors had been forewarned of this. A handful of seventh-year students took his place in teaching the first through fourth years, while the other professors sought to fill his shoes for the fifth through seventh years. None of them said a word on where he had gone, or why he was gone, though the Hogwarts rumour-cauldron began to bubble soon enough of his former 'friendship' with Gellert Grindelwald.
Tom received many gifts for the combined occasion of the Christmas of '39 and his thirteenth birthday. His favourite among these came in a black parcel the size of a bible, with neither ribbons nor any of the other adornments proper to gifts. With a tap from his wand, its eerily smooth, silk-like wrapping vanished into strands of inky fog, revealing a black book with silver letters that spelled 'IN VIRTUTE TENEBRAE.' A small parchment note, scrawled in untidy cursive, accompanied the gift and read: 'Riddle - We behold the world with a shared gaze. Wishing you joy and gladness this Yuletide, Thane Mulciber.'
Two months hence, this obscure fifth-year became one of Tom's closest companions. Thin, long-limbed and hunchbacked, Mulciber was reminiscent of the gnarled, leafless trees in the Forbidden Forest, towering monstrously tall despite the lack of sun's embrace. His face, bony and thin, bore a pair of large, green eyes that danced with eternal mirth, and was topped by a tuft of wispy blond hair that resembled a mushroom cap.
One night, as Tom and Mary reclined on a couch in the common room, she whispered to him, "Everyone thinks he's a frightful freak. He hasn't got a single friend in his year—can you imagine?"
"Dear sister," Tom said, putting his arm around Mary's waist. She was in a good mood that night; she not only let him perform this gesture, but leaned into him. "We too were once considered freaks. Popularity at Hogwarts is a fleeting thing, and its absence holds little weight."
"Why not go for Caney instead? If you're so keen on a fifth-year companion, might as well aim for the cream of the crop."
"What does 'Caney' have that Mulciber lacks? He may have been the son of a minister, but now he's just a fifth-year prefect."
"He's dashingly handsome and has connections to boot. Mulciber, my dear brother, is lacking in both departments."
"Have you ever perused the genealogy section at the library, Mary?"
Mary arched an eyebrow in bemusement. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"The Fawleys are a flock of peacocks," Tom explained. "Diplomats, dandies, creators of utterly useless spells—blokes of all sorts of frivolity. But the Mulcibers are quite the opposite."
Mary rolled her eyes. "That doesn't change the fact Thane Mulciber is a creep, and Arcanius Fawley is everyone's idea of a good Slytherin."
Tom ignored her. "A Mulciber was likely responsible for William the Conqueror's demise. Thyrsus Mulciber, a Mageknight in service to a Norman lord, killed said lord and seized his lands. William the Spoilsport then sent an army to quell the rebellion, but by the time they reached Thyrsus' domain, he had already escaped to the continent. We know one fact about his fate—that he fought in the Battle of Mantes in 1087, where William fell from his horse and broke his back. Imagine that—a Mulciber slaying the Conqueror. That's why they call him the first English Dark Lord."
"Well, I still think Caney's more handsome," Mary said insouciantly, shrugging.
"But you don't understand," Tom protested, his eyes gleaming with fervor. "A Mulciber was responsible for William the Conqueror's demise. Thyrsus Mulciber, a Mageknight in service to a Norman lord, killed said lord and seized his lands. And then there was the dragon hunter who believed that devouring the hearts of his quarry would render him impervious to fire, and the deranged duelist who caused a massacre with a single wayward curse during a tournament in Paris, and the merchant wizard addicted to invigoration draught who dabbled in mundane wares, from slaves to opium, only to squander it all in a calamitous night of gambling."
Mary looked at him skeptically. "And you're saying that these wizards are superior to the Fawleys?"
Tom nodded eagerly. "They are, Mary. They were larger than life, living on the edge of magic and madness. They took what was rightfully theirs, damn the consequences."
"Are you out of your mind?"
"I am not," Tom replied, slightly irritated.
"They all led ridiculous, woeful lives!"
"But they lived, Mary," Tom said, his voice rising in intensity. "They lived on their own terms, in a way that the Fawleys never could."
Mary shrugged, her expression one of unconcerned nonchalance. "Well, I still think Caney's more handsome," she said breezily.
Tom playfully hexed his sister's leg, prompting a yelp and a much more severe jinx to the chest in return.
"You don't understand," he stated, rubbing his chest with a look of deep consternation.
"Your explanation falls short."
"What I said is crystal clear. The Mulcibers possessed true power."
"How many Ministers for Magic did they produce?" Mary quipped.
"That's irrelevant," Tom retorted.
"True power lies in devouring dragon hearts and squandering fortunes on games of chance."
"Don't be ridiculous. If everyone were a Fawley, magic would have stagnated for centuries."
"And if everyone were a Mulciber, there would be no wizards left at all!"
"But the world consists of both Mulcibers and Fawleys, and it's better to embrace Mulciber-like qualities rather than Fawley-like ones."
"That's a false dilemma, Tom," Mary declared with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Complete nonsense."
"It's foolish not to see the value in impossible hypotheticals."
"It's also foolish, is it not, for us to linger here so late into the night, jabbering on about such rubbish," spoke Mary softly. "We ought to retire."
"Hold, Mary! You shan't elude me so easily. Have you completed your potions essay?"
Mary shot him a withering look and rose from her seat in a quick, sprightly motion. "Tom, you can be exasperating beyond measure. Goodnight."
"Remember, if you have not finished it, I shall not scribe it for you in the morning. Goodnight, then."
Mary skipped away, while Tom, entirely awake, fixed his gaze upon the hearth. With a skilful flick of his wand, he summoned afresh the flickering flames.
In the Slytherin Common Room, on the afternoon of the next day, Mary held aloft a magnificent, multicoloured butterfly, her arm steady and her dark eyes fixed upon the creature with the precision of one who endeavours to lift a spider's web without causing it harm. She murmured a word, and it fluttered to life, its motions so graceful that one could scarce believe it was a wooden creation rather than a butterfly awakening from slumber upon a leaf. The butterfly flew towards Tom, who, in an automatic gesture, extended his hand to provide a perch.
Translucent and without any internal organs, the butterfly was a masterful combination of every colour in the rainbow, its appearance like that of shattered glass from a stained-glass window. Two symmetrical streaks of ruby red, like intentionally carved wounds, adorned its wings. Mary, her voice ethereal by the sense of her own magical prowess, whispered to her brother, "It's yours. It's the biggest one I've made yet."
When winter melted into spring, the air of the Slytherin common room had changed; during the cold season several fireplaces had burned around the clock every day. When the flowers came back to bloom and the trees saw nascent leaves sprout on their defrosting branches, most fireplaces in the common room fell into disuse; even the big one was only used at night. The result was that there was, in the extended wardrobe by the big fireplace, a great surplus of firewood.
The boys of Slytherin were the first to make use of this abundant resource. A group of enterprising third- and fourth-year wizards, led by the otherwise bookish Amos Nott, transfigured and constructed a massive crossbow which they tested by launching shafts of enchanted, explosive wood into the trees along the borders of the Forbidden Forest. A remarkable diplomatic occasion then occurred when Arcanius Fawley joined forces with Gustavus Goodwin, his fifth-year counterpart from Gryffindor, to delight the younger boys of both houses. They crafted small wooden boats, adorned with their respective house colours, imbued them with magic, and sent them afloat upon the Black Lake, where they waged fierce naval battles in the name of Slytherin and Gryffindor. Out of three such encounters, Slytherin emerged victorious twice.
It was Mary who first made 'feminine' application of the wood. With transfiguration now being taught by uninspired seventh-year students in the absence of Professor Dumbledore, Mary passed her time in these classes transforming the wood into a variety of beautified insects. The creature she most excelled at contriving was the butterfly, and soon enough, word of her artisanal activity spread. First- and second-year girls, first from Slytherin, and then from all houses, came to her, requesting their own pet butterflies. Mary obliged, and not only transformed the wood, but also imbued each insect with many decorative spells, so that they seemed to be crafted of shimmering, coloured glass.
"Thank you, Mary," said Tom, as the butterfly climbed upon his outstretched finger. "What should I do with it? Have you made one for yourself?"
"Do as you please," Mary replied with a shrug. "They'll live as long as I do. I've made a dozen for myself—they keep me company in my dormitory.
Despite her scrupulousness and magical acumen, there was no denying that what Mary presently did was a frivolity. But Tom could not condemn this whimsical inclination, for the butterfly in his hand, so intricate and beautiful, was more than a mere trifle. Mary indulged in countless other trivial pursuits, spending an hour each day imbuing her robes with a spell, so that the hem would ripple softly as she walked, protected from the winds and capturing the surrounding shadows' hues. The magic behind such enchantment (useless though it was) was beyond Tom's comprehension, but it showcased Mary's power in a manner reminiscent of Bacchus Mulciber's consumption of dragon hearts. Flowers pointlessly bloom and wither, yet they bring beauty into the world. Tom could not find fault in his sister's whims.
He was brought back to reality by the harsh voice of an older girl.
"Tom, Mary," said Beatrice Sommerfield, the dour brunette fifth-year prefect. "Professor Slughorn requests your presence post-dinner."
Tom and Mary exchanged a look.
"For what purpose?" asked Tom.
With characteristic irritation, Beatrice replied, "I'm not privy to the particulars. However, rest assured, you haven't run afoul of any rules. At least, that's the impression I gathered from the sound of his voice."
Later that evening, as the twins dined, they noticed the absence of Professor Slughorn from the staff table, a phenomenon not uncommon; he was known to entertain guests within the privacy of his office. These guests ranged from accomplished students, primarily from Slytherin house, to fellow professors and notable figures from wider society.
"Are you quite certain you haven't managed to earn some form of discipline?" queried Florence, her consumption of cheesecake far from refined.
"Quite certain, Florence. We are probably to be introduced to guests."
"But who might they be? Udham Singh, perchance?"
Mary laughed heartily. "I highly doubt it. I'm afraid I don't know."
Two weeks prior, the shocking news of Singh's assault upon the British colonial officer, Sir Michael O'Dwyer, had reached the ears of all within the walls. The event was of such magnitude that it quickly became the topic of much discussion, even surpassing the discussions of Grindelwald's war. Though many of the purebloods were unfamiliar with the muggle British Empire, their reactions were diverse and varied, ranging from vicarious pride to disgust. It was the muggleborns, who were of both extreme political persuasions—be they tory or revolutionary—who were the chief disseminators of both these sentiments. The Gryffindors, in particular, took the matter to heart; for an entire week, their table in the Great Hall was divided, one side adorned with Union Jacks, the other with the enigmatic Swaraj of the Indians. Mary, for her part, found both displays equally ludicrous.
The sudden sweetening of Florence's voice interrupted Mary's musings and drew her attention to the arrival of a particular boy.
"Tom," Florence breathed, as if his name was 'Merlin'.
"Good evening, Travers," Tom greeted with a sly smile, tapping Mary's shoulder. "Mary, it's time to go."
"And a jolly good evening to you too, Tom," Mary sneered. "I've been wondering where you've wandered off to."
"I was occupied with Mulciber and Lestrange," Tom replied tersely, readjusting Mary's robe at the shoulder. "Come now, we must hasten."
"But it's still early!" Mary protested. "Slughorn won't expect us for some time."
"It will take time to reach his office," Tom countered, as if he knew it to be true.
"I've hardly eaten!"
Florence, whose loyalties tended to capriciously ebb and flow between the twins, gave her opinion. "You should go, Mary."
"Quiet, you!" Mary sulked and took a large bite of a baked potato, scowling at both her friend and her brother as she chewed.
"Slughorn shall provide us food," Tom said confidently. "But it will take time to reach his office."
"Alright then. If he doesn't deliver, you owe me."
As it turned out, Tom was proven right. It took time indeed for them to reach their Head of House's office. Most of the castle's classrooms were located on the lower floors, leaving the stairs of the higher floors bereft of the footsteps of hurrying students. When Tom and Mary roused these stairs from their slumber, they found them unyielding and fickle—they shifted so violently that the twins were forced to cling to the handrails for dear life. After three minutes of being tossed about between the fifth and sixth floors, Mary saw that Tom's patience had run thin. "Enough," he snapped, drawing his wand and pointing it firmly at the platform where they were meant to disembark.
Mary's dark eyes shone with surprise as the stairs submitted to Tom's command.
"I'll lead the way. I've gone to his office before."
Walking behind her brother, Mary felt a strange mixture of pride and self-consciousness. She had grown taller than Tom and could see over his head. It seemed that, where she had grown by leaps and bounds in the past year, he had hardly grown at all. Though she knew it was common for girls to mature faster than boys, she couldn't help but think of Tom as a little boy at times. There was nothing of adult masculinity in him; his skin was smooth, unmarred by facial hair; his cheeks, though handsomely carved, were still round and often pink; and his overall appearance was that of a child. It was a strange and embarrassing feeling to see Tom as a child, a categorically inferior being to her, who was unambiguously 'adolescent', a feeling she couldn't have imagined before Hogwarts. Back then, he had always been taller than her.
Mary patted her brother's head.
"Stop," he swatted her hand away.
Yet his appearance was utterly at odds with every other aspect of his being. His prodigious magic; his severe manner of speech; the subtle trembling of his hands when he touched her sometimes—none of these were childlike. But neither were they adult. Tom was restless and obsessive; he had a mortal fear of wasting time. Neither adults nor children appeared so desperate before the fact of mortality as he did. It was something unique to him, in the way some spells required wand movements that were not analogously found in any other spell.
"We have arrived," Tom declared, tapping gently on the door. It immediately opened.
"My dearest, dearest twins!" bellowed Professor Slughorn, swaying towards them, his figure an unsteady mass, draped in a billowing ocean-blue robe. A magnificent cocktail, glowing with a luminous aura, was tightly grasped in his hand, embellished with two little glittering golden flowers. "Come, come in! The house-elves will conjure up a little something for you. Ah, would you fancy some strawberry turnovers? Nay, perchance you crave something more robust. How about some roast quail, with caramelised figs? Marvellous with fruits, quail is."
"Good evening to you as well, Professor," replied Tom with a smile that reflected some semblance of the giddy delight of their Head of House. "Fruit juice will suffice for now, thank you."
The rumours were true; Professor Slughorn's office was very luxurious. It was as large as a classroom, but otherwise entirely unlike a classroom. The floorboards, dark and gleaming, were covered by a tapestry of red carpets, and the furniture, ancient and ornate, filled the room with splendour. Even the quill holder upon the Professor's desk was encrusted with sparkling diamonds. The highlight of the office, however, was the marble balcony-veranda, a vision plucked from a Grecian palace, offering a panoramic view of the distant snow-capped mountains and the starry sky above.
Two house elves, dressed in matching attire, appeared before the twins, bowing as they presented tall glasses of guava juice, a delicacy served at the Slytherin table only on occasion.
But of all the wonders in Professor Slughorn's office, it was the two men at the table who captured Mary's gaze. The younger of the two, were it not for his elaborate cravat, would have appeared as a well-to-do muggle businessman. His suit was simple and black, his greying dark hair neatly trimmed, and his cigar only produced a dull smoke. But to Mary's amazement, she realised that he was none other than—
"Minister Spencer-Moon!" she called out. "Pardon me, sir—I've never had the pleasure of meeting a Minister before."
Tom squeezed her hand in warning.
"Ha! Leonard, may I present to you two young prodigies who may just succeed you someday—Tom and Mary Riddle," Professor Slughorn declared with great pride.
The Minister for Magic rose to greet them, his smile surprisingly warm for such an otherwise ascetic man. "Twins, are you? I've always longed for a twin myself, being the eldest of four."
Tom, with a bow so deep that his head almost touched the floor, greeted the Minister in a comically obsequious tone. "It is an honour to make your acquaintance, sir."
Mary, not to be outdone, curtsied deeply, though her posture was not as graceful as she intended. The Minister, a man of economy, did not take notice of her lapse in ceremony.
Across from the Minister sat another man of striking presence, though not as immediately apparent as his companion. Where the Minister was short and dark, this man was tall and slender, with long, symmetrical white-blonde curls that cascaded down his shoulders. The Minister dressed as a muggle, but this man was resplendent in a green-black robe, adorned with accoutrements ranging from his five necklaces to his three bracelets on each sleeve, reminiscent of a sixteenth century warlock in a painting.
"And this illustrious mage here is Longinus Malfoy. The seventh-year Prefect, if you will, of the Slytherin section of the Wizengamot."
Mary, upon hearing the name, could hardly contain her surprise, for Longinus Malfoy was one of the preeminent subjects gossip among the young witches of Slytherin. He was rumoured to have divorced his first wife after the passing of their only son Cassius, to have brought the two ministers from power and two ministers to power (including the one that sat at his side), and to be the wealthiest wizard in all of Europe. It was difficult to imagine such a striking figure the father of a feeble a creature as Abraxas.
To Mary's amazement, the Minister heartily laughed at the Professor's jest, and even the senior Malfoy allowed himself a slight chuckle.
"And finally, allow me to present to you your new transfiguration professor," announced Professor Slughorn as he gently stroked the head of a small yellow bird perched on the armrest of a nearby chair, "Miss Dalia Lovegood!"
In an instant, the bird transformed into a young woman of great beauty, with fair blonde hair and a complexion as pure as freshly fallen snow. Dressed in a loose-fitting light blue robe, as bright and clear as a summer sky, Miss Lovegood appeared to be no more than a few years older than the seventh-year students of Mary's house.
"Tom and Mary! Such delightful names!" cried Professor Lovegood, her warm sincerity a contrast to the proud voices of the men. "Professor Slughorn has sung your praises; I am eager to make your acquaintances in the classroom."
"Your kind words are much appreciated, Professor," replied Tom with an air of equanimity. "I am most eager for your instruction."
But the merry Slughorn wasn't having any of it. "Nonsense, my boy! Why should the future rob us of the present? Dalia, you must see what they can do right now. Cast a spell, Tom, will you? Transform something into something else!"
"I defer your request to Mary, sir," returned Tom. "She's better than me in transfiguration."
"Ah yes, yes, quite right."
"Me? I suppose I am," Mary sipped her guava juice and wiped her mouth. "Allow me a moment, please."
Mary drew her wand and scanned the room. Slughorn had a large bookshelf; the covers of many of his books were worn and loose. Mary swished her wand several times, and the books flew out of their shelves as droves of pigeons. Very quickly there was a great mass of them cooing with symphonic dissonance. Giggling in spite of herself, Mary directed them out the balcony to fly in circles. She thought about choreographing their flight into even more complex patterns, perhaps squares or zigzags, but decided against it; if even one pigeon fell, her Head of House would lose one of his books.
Her magic was met with applause and amazement, not the least of which came from the Minister himself. Slughorn breathed a sigh of relief as each bird-book was returned to its proper place. Professor Lovegood approached, her hand resting softly on Mary's shoulder. "Your magic is marvellous, my dear, but remember this," she whispered. "Never let the flattery of wizards go to your head."
Though Mary blushed at the compliment, she cocked her head at the professor's warning. She did not understand it.
Longinus Malfoy spoke for the first time. His voice was slow, sonorous, and full of certainty. "What about you, Tom? In which discipline are you superior?"
Tom did not falter at the question. "Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"I see," said the senior Malfoy. His tone seemed approving.
The twins took their seats. Mary sat between Professor Lovegood and Tom, while the three distinguished men sat on the other side. Although Mary was present, only the men engaged in discourse, with Slughorn and the Minister, pipes and cigars in hand, artfully navigating the themes of the War, recollections of old acquaintances, the intricacies of both the British magical and muggle economies, South American advancements in potion-making, the state of endangered magical species in Australia, and even the state of magical education in Grindelwald's Germany. In a nutshell, they debated all the matters of significance to the magical world of the adult. Longinus Malfoy, a man of few words, never wasted them when he contributed to the conversation.
Although the Minister was inebriated like Slughorn, he carried an inherent gravity that kept him steady, supporting his conscientious nature that urged him to include Tom in the conversation. "Tell me, Tom, what are the opinions of the boys at Hogwarts on this matter?"
The Minister never asked Mary her thoughts.
Despite this, Mary was content to simply observe the conversation of the men, finding it more enlightening than the nightly conversations at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. As one of the two spectators of this discourse, along with Professor Lovegood, she relished the luxury of having house elves attend to her every need, continuously replenishing her glass of guava juice and plate of pan-fried potato slices.
Mary softly nudged the plate of potatoes to Tom. "They're scrumptious, you must have one," she told him, but he, utterly absorbed in the world of the grown wizards as if he himself were one, did not respond.
"Forgive me, Minister," Tom interjected, his smile gentle yet curious. "I must ask, out of sheer curiosity—may I know your thoughts on your predecessor, Minister Fawley?"
"Fawley," The Minister's gruff voice replied. "I have not had the pleasure of a prolonged acquaintance with him. The Wizengamot was not satisfied with his performance."
Mr. Malfoy, as if summoned by the word 'Wizengamot', interjected. "Ah, Hector's a dear old friend. He was my dormmate, half a century ago. His chess set was the envy of all our house. While he served admirably in times of peace, he is not fit to lead in times of war."
Minister Spencer-Moon scowled. "A Minister who cannot lead in war is not a Minister worth a damn."
"Leonard, please," Slughorn gently rebuked. "Hector did keep the country in a state of flourishing during his tenure."
Tom calmly posed another question. "In your opinion, Minister, is Chamberlain performing well on the muggle front?"
"Absolutely not!" the Minister exclaimed. "Even the muggle press refers to our current predicament as the 'phoney war'-"
"Leonard, do consider," interjected the senior Malfoy, with a tone of gentle reproach, "the Germans have not given Chamberlain a chance to take action. One cannot expect him to launch an offensive. Recall the 'Great War' that his kind fought twenty years ago."
"The man lacks fortitude," retorted the Minister, as if this entirely nullified Mr. Malfoy's argument. "In any case, the muggle liaison office predicts that he will be replaced soon, as he is not well-liked."
Slughorn shook his head in disbelief. "Muggle politics, my dear fellows. Who do they plan to replace him with?"
"Unfortunately, we do not have that information," replied Mr. Malfoy. "Nor are we, alas, permitted to aid them in the process they appellate 'democracy'."
Mr. Malfoy cast a playfully chastising gaze towards the Minister, suggesting it was he who prohibited such an obvious and practical course of action.
Tom, looking at Mr. Malfoy, spoke thus: "They're going replace him with Winston Churchill, the first admiral of the navy."
"Winston Churchill? The muggle liaison office made no mention of such a figure," the Minister pondered. "Explain, lad."
Tom, basking in the sudden attention conferred upon him, smiled graciously, straightened his robes, and began to speak.
"Before the war, Churchill shouted loudly at the public about the dangers of Nazism. The newspapers and parliamentarians called him a fool, but when Germany attacked Poland, they started to think that maybe they should have listened to him. On the naval front, which is the only part of the war where anything is happening right now, as you likely know, he has proven himself as the first admiral of His Majesty's Navy. They have given the Kriegsmarine a very hard time indeed. In short, Minister, Churchill has gone from a laughingstock to one of the most popular boys of the courtyard at Westminster."
A hush fell over the room as the men pondered Tom's incredible words.
"Very well," said the Minister, breaking the silence. "And what is your opinion of Churchill, Tom?"
"I welcome him," said Tom. "He reminds me of yourself, Minister. Both of you are men of action, unlike those who came before."
Mary struggled to contain her laughter at the transparent flattery, but realised that everyone present believed it to be genuine.
"Now, now, let us be reasonable," said Professor Slughorn, sinking into his armchair like a bag of beans. "I have a fondness for the Fawleys... Ilus, Hector, Arcanius... They may not be fit for war, but they will always have a place in society."
Mary put her hand on her mouth to stifle laughter as her brother, who hated the Fawleys, gave his head of house a thoughtful nod in agreement.
As Slughorn increasingly escalated the heavens of inebriation, the conversation sailed back to calmer waters. While Minister Spencer-Moon and Longinus Malfoy were intimately allied, neither men were nearly as disposed to speech as the potions professor.
"I want date pudding," said Mary, snapping her fingers to summon one of the elves. "Serve it with cold, thick cream and butterscotch sauce."
"Yes, Mistress," the creature said compliantly.
However, before the elf could depart, Professor Lovegood interjected with a raised hand. "Mary, my dear, do show some kindness to the creature. Observe his eyes, see the exhaustion therein."
Mary glanced at the elf's silver eyes, filled more with embarrassment than sadness as far as she could discern from being made an object of pity. Mary was momentarily at a loss for words, not wanting to offend the whimsical and charming Professor. Finally, she whispered, "And that will be all for tonight, thank you."
Mary was served her dessert, and though she longed to feed Tom, she knew he would be quite displeased being the object of such a show of childish affection in the company of the esteemed wizards who sat across them. Slughorn also made a request of the elves; he was given a small vial of blue liquid, which, to Mary's great amazement, restored her Head of House's sobriety within ten minutes of his drinking it.
"The morning-after potion," Slughorn muttered with a cough, holding his head in agony. "A terrible substance. It should not be consumed until after a night's rest, but we still have important matters to attend to."
The final topic of discussion for the evening was the mysterious phenomenon known as 'portals.' When Tom posed the question of their nature, none of the wizards present were able to offer a satisfactory explanation. Slughorn attempted to clarify, "They are doors that transport one from one place to another instantly, no matter the distance between the two," but the manner in which this was achieved remained shrouded in mystery, and the use of such magic was viewed with suspicion in Europe. The twins learned that portals were to be installed throughout the castle, primarily in common areas, to allow for the swift escape of students in the event of an attack by Grindelwald.
"The Unspeakables caution that they are fragile," the Minister declared in conclusion. "We must test them as soon as possible to ensure their reliability."
