Chapter Four: High and Low Society
Tom Riddle had left Hogwarts in a flurry of celebration. He had come top of all his classes, had been Head Boy and prefect, had earned a reward for Special Services to the School, and had generally been touted as born for greatness. Even the notoriously exclusive pure-blood circles of the Blacks had been won over by his charm and his extreme political views. After his graduation, there had been an excited hubbub of gossip around what he would choose to do next. He was described as the next Albus Dumbledore (a comparison that neither of them were too keen on). Several observers, including Horace Slughorn, who had taught Riddle for years and was generally considered a good judge of which students were destined for success, hypothesised that, within a decade, he would become the youngest ever Minister for Magic. When news of his request for a teaching position at Hogwarts got around, several of the more excitable onlookers confidently declared that Riddle was going to open a wizarding school even better than Hogwarts, into which Muggle-borns would not be allowed and half-bloods only on sufferance (already the details of Riddle's parentage were beginning to be obscured). Others proposed a future as a pure-blood lord, with a beautiful heiress as a wife and many handsome, talented children. Whose beautiful heiress of a wife, some people asked significantly, glancing at young Mrs Lestrange.
Instead Riddle had bought himself a small Muggle flat in London, not far from Charing Cross Road, and taken a low-paying and, to one of Riddle's intellectual and magical capabilities, degrading position at Borgin and Burkes. Within six months of his graduation he had all but disappeared from the minds of those who had expected so much from him.
This was, of course, exactly what Riddle had been aiming for. Fond though he already was of notoriety, being so notorious under his given name of Tom Riddle could only be a curse. He had planned to leave the name behind even before learning the truth of who he was and who his father had been. In the orphanage, of course, it had been only his too common first name he had loathed. Now he knew that his surname would have to go too.
On this particular day Riddle arrived at the flat (he refused to think of it as a home) late. Borgin worked his employees to the bone, never having grasped the concept that other people could be anything other than slaves one inconveniently had to pay, dupes to be bought from or sold to, or cunning bastards who must be pleased because they had money and Borgin wanted money more than anything else.
The flat was as bare and featureless as it had been when Riddle had first bought it, using money manipulated out of Abraxas Malfoy (if you had to politely blackmail someone into giving you something, you had earned it, and it didn't count as charity). There were three rooms if you counted the bathroom, which Riddle was disinclined to do, as it contained only a rather chipped toilet, a basin that was more likely to get water on the floor that someone's hands, and a tin bath that Riddle had never deigned to use. The other rooms contained a bed and a small cupboard, and, in what was possibly supposed to be a kitchen and living room combination, a table with one chair that was held together only with magic, a kitchenette that was unlikely to work even if Riddle cared to try it, and another cupboard with mould growing in its corner despite not having been used since Riddle had bought the place. There wasn't even a fireplace.
This was good, as Riddle didn't want visitors.
Despite the hard day's work and the uninviting flat to which he had returned, Riddle wore an expression of grim satisfaction on his handsome face. He slid his faded black cloak off and left it on the chair before opening the door to the apparently empty cupboard. He murmured something. A light flashed and faded into a deep red glow in the back corner and Riddle removed a bundle of letters.
"Ah," he said softly.
The top letter was written in the elegant, slanting handwriting of Marigolda Lestrange. The one below that was in the strong, but equally elegant, hand of Abraxas Malfoy. Below that was a much smaller piece of paper, curling slightly around the edges as though it had been left out in the damp, and covered in the shaky, mismatched letters of a handwriting charm.
Riddle abandoned the other letters. He had read them all before, and besides, he had no real interest in politics at the moment. He sat down at his rickety table, the note still clutched in his hand.
He had puzzled over the letter's contents often enough before. Today he was interested in the letter's author – and he had finally found a potential lead.
One of the most disappointing things about the magical world outside of Hogwarts, Riddle had discovered, was that there was no public library. Most pure-blood families, and even several half-bloods and Muggle-borns, had their own collections of texts, and there were bookshops, but nowhere for a curious wizard to spend a couple of hours browsing through a textbook on ancient, and often Dark, spells. In the end, Riddle had had to write to Arcturus Black requesting access to his family's library.
Though the request had hurt his pride, Riddle couldn't deny that it had had the desired results. He had met Black briefly earlier in the day, ostensibly to arrange a hefty discount on one of Borgin's most prized 'trinkets'. Now, sitting in his kitchen, the young half-blood slipped a thin, leather-covered book out of his pocket and set it on the table beside the note. Delicately he leafed through the thin pages until he came to the one he was looking for. The book was in Latin, but Riddle had always been good at languages.
"'In the victim's native tongue'…" he translated aloud. "'Recite the incantation below. The lack of wand usage will prevent the magical signatures from being obscured.' Well. That seems simple enough."
Carefully, Riddle set aside his wand. He smoothed the letter out, placed his right hand upon it, and began to chant.
"Wherever you hide I shall find you, wherever you run I shall follow you, wherever you live I shall visit you, wherever you are there I shall be also. We are joined by magic beyond the knowledge of mortals. You live in my heart and there shall be your prison. Wherever you are I shall be also, wherever you live I shall visit you, wherever you run I shall follow you, wherever you hide I shall find you."
The note blazed beneath Riddle's hands. The heat of it scorched him but he did not move. He could feel the magic fighting him, trying to escape the shape he was forcing it into. He refused to give in. He would not be defeated by a simple spell for runaway brides. They had made a grave mistake when they had dared to cross Lord Voldemort.
"You want me to go to Borgin and Burkes?" Malcolm Prewett asked, incredulity dripping off every word.
"Why not?" Kevin Bagman asked, sounding rather surprised at Malcolm's reaction. "You've been just about everywhere else."
The two young men were sitting in a dark corner of the Leaky Cauldron, tall glasses of Firewhisky in front of them. Kevin, oldest and least wanted son of Hempworth Bagman, looked almost as seedy as the pub in a grey cloak that had been inexpertly patched with a much darker grey. Malcolm, who would one day be Lord Prewett, looked much more out of place in a dark green, very expensive cloak and a pointed hat worn at a jaunty angle that would have looked terrible on his friend but suited the dark horse of the Prewett family.
"Never anywhere Dark," Malcolm was saying. "Don't give me that look. I know it's not legal or even moral – never tell me those are the same things – but I've never done anything Dark. I couldn't look my family in their faces if I went to Borgin and Burkes."
Kevin sighed. "I'm not happy about it either, Mal. I don't choose the routes or the merchandise or any of that. I just get the orders and decide who'd be best at running it. You're the best runner we've got– "
"Stop flattering me," Malcolm murmured, taking a sip of Firewhisky in pretend embarrassment.
"–And we've got a run for Mr Borgin. He's paying good money," Kevin said, ignoring his friend.
"That he's bled out of the poor saps who try to pawn their treasures with him," Malcolm pointed out. "He's worse than a vampire – at least vampires are honest about what they do and don't try to pretend they're doing you a favour."
"I hate him too," Kevin said. "But I can't afford to say no to a job, Mal, you know that. We're not all you. We're not doing this because we think it's a bit of a laugh, a way of passing the time before you inherit your father's estate."
Malcolm winced and took another gulp of his drink, this time actually to hide his embarrassment. He always forgot, in the easy camaraderie of his and Kevin's close friendship, that they came from drastically different backgrounds. At Hogwarts, it hadn't been nearly so noticeable. Now, out in the real world, it was blatantly obvious that Kevin's childhood as the son of half-blood and his penniless but pure-blood wife, neither of whom had loved their son as he deserved, had left him with little chance for success and a desperate desire for financial security. Malcolm himself had never known anything other than unconditional love and had never had to worry about how he was going afford his next people. He had taken up smuggling because Kevin was doing it and it seemed rather more interesting than politics, which had always seemed to be his future.
"There are plenty of other jobs that don't involve Dark objects and slimy bastards," Malcolm argued.
"No," Kevin said, "not really. You complain about getting Borgin some fairy eggs, but what if I suggested running for Lestrange or Malfoy? How about that young Lord Black? You say you know this isn't moral, but it seems to be that you're trying to make it moral – you're trying to impose your morals on it, refusing to do the things you think are bad and ignoring the parts that don't affect your rivalries and your sensibilities even if you know they're just as bad. I know what we're doing is bad. I know that. I'd give it up in a moment if I thought I had any other choice. You're doing this for fun. Why is it only bad when you don't want to do something?"
Guilt spooled in Malcolm's stomach like the alcohol. Kevin seemed to have a unique ability to make him feel like a scolded child.
"I'll do it," Malcolm said. He sighed. "Only for you, Kev. I just hope no one finds out."
Kevin smiled at him. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. You're our best, after all."
It had started snowing during the day. So far it hadn't done much more than dust the city in blanket of purity that had already been soiled by the tarnished souls who trudged through it to whatever sin they had decided to dedicate the night. In Knockturn Alley, the snow had turned to a brown and yellow slush within seconds. Even the flakes that fell reluctantly past the dim torchlight looked dirty. The shadows looked like hunched figures, and indeed, some of them were. Many of the denizens of Knockturn Alley could not afford to sleep anywhere more sheltered than the doorway of Madam Caractus's spider shop.
The smuggler moved cautiously through the Alley. He wore a dark cloak and shimmered with glamour charms. Since he did not look much different from the usual nightlife in this part of London, he only attracted some disinterested looks as he passed by. As he moved without impediment he appeared to grow in confidence, straightening his shoulders and striding along now.
Borgin and Burkes had closed for the night and Mr Borgin, trusting completely in the capabilities of his assistant and eager to get home before more snow fell, had already left. The cloaked figure approached the back door, regaining some of his wariness as he knocked softly on the old, slightly rotten wood of the door.
The young man who opened it was breath-takingly beautiful, but there was an edge to him that made the smuggler wary. He was clearly not long out of Hogwarts, yet he gave an impression of having practised more Dark magic than most wizards would manage in a lifetime, even if they were not inclined to avoid it.
"Yes?" the assistant said.
"I have a delivery for Mr Borgin," the smuggler said, his voice slightly blurred with a modification charm.
"Give it to me," the young man said.
"I'll need the money first," the smuggler said. He felt more on edge than he had during the whole journey. Something about the boy before him made him very glad he wasn't wearing his real face.
"I'll get it."
The door closed briefly. Though left in the snowy night, the cloaked man could not help but be relieved that he had not been invited inside. His decision seemed more foolish than it had in the warm pub with the burn of whisky and guilt in his stomach.
The young assistant returned. He handed the money over silently and the smuggler retrieved a package from inside his cloak. They nodded, politely, as though they were not both hoping to never see one another again, and the smuggler turned back to the night. As he walked back through Knockturn Alley, feeling the coins in pocket, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Tom closed the door behind the retreating figure and sneered, weighing the package the smuggler had left in one hand. It was foolish of the man to think that his disguise could fool Tom – although it would probably have worked on Mr Borgin. Malcolm Prewett was lucky that Tom had no interest in how the Heir chose to occupy his time.
He left the package on the only uncovered space on Borgin's accounting desk, just beside a cursed bracelet and a pearl washed with the tears of a grieving mother (or so Borgin claimed). He felt mildly disgusted towards his employer, less because of the man's desire for illegal drugs and more due to his willingness to shell out an exorbitant amount of cash for them when he couldn't even bring himself to pay a fair price to a young woman for a priceless treasure.
No, Tom was not bitter. She had deserved it for not knowing the worth of what she had. Borgin was still just a small-minded, grabbing, weak man with little magic of his own.
He gave the backroom of Borgin's treasure of Dark artifacts. Piles of old, scuffed, priceless pieces of furniture threatened to fall on tables of small, delicate trinkets, ranging from jewellery to crystal balls to paperweights carrying enchantments to allow them to bash someone's skull in with even the flick of a wand.
Deciding that he was done for the day, Tom used his wand to extinguish the gas lamps that had provided the poor lighting of the shop, removed his cloak from its hook near the door, and stepped outside, pausing only briefly to throw a locking charm behind him.
The snow had increased dramatically. The frozen grey droplets pelted Tom's face, stinging viciously. Prewett's footprints had been obscured, either by the fresh coating of slush or by a spell cast by the smuggler. Tom contemplated simply Apparating directly back to his flat, but decided against it. There was a visit he needed to pay.
He strode through the dark Alley, leaving a trail in the slush behind him. The witches and wizards who called Knockturn Alley home, or at least their workplace, faded deeper into the shadows as he passed. They all knew to fear him.
Tom came to a halt at the furthest point from Diagon Alley. The building here was boarded up, though a drip of something viscous and green had oozed through the cracks between two boards nailed over what might once have been the door. During the day, it was possible to make the faded word Sharmon's across the stones above the door. Beneath what had once been the window, surrounded by a smattering of broken glass currently hidden by the snow, was a small, dark opening. Heavy stone steps led down.
Treading carefully to avoid slipping on the wet snow, Tom descended.
He was never sure if the dank, dimly lit room into which he entered was supposed to be a bar or a drug den. Possibly it was both. Tom passed disdainfully by the recumbent bodies of those lowlifes who had come to Sharmon's to use the illegal substances that seemed to be in ready supply here or to drink themselves to death with the sorts of alcohol Tom at the Leaky Cauldron would never dream of selling.
The bar was little more than a row of overturned crates manned by a pair of terrified house-elves. Tom approached it and said, "Get me Alf."
"Now, that's hardly polite, is it, Tom?"
Tom turned. The man – although half-wizard, half-goblin might have been a more accurate, if less kind, description – known only as Alf was lounging on a small three-legged stool, a bottle of something so strong it made Tom's eyes water held loosely in one long-nailed hand. Tom gritted his teeth. He loathed Alf, and he loathed how necessary the little criminal was even more.
"It's Voldemort," the young wizard said tensely.
"Not yet," Alf said with an insolent smile. "Perhaps not ever. You've brought me it?"
Reluctantly, Tom reached into his cloak pocket and pulled out a small golden ring wrapped in a silk handkerchief. He was careful not to touch the metal. Alf's eyes followed it greedily as Tom held it gingerly towards him.
"Excellent," he said quietly. "You will find that Signor Bello three doors down will be able to procure what you need. He will expect payment."
"What will I need to give him?" Tom said, a little ironically. The disdain Alf had laden on the last word had seemed more than a little hypocritical to him.
"Oh," Alf said, with a nasty smile. "Nothing, I should think. He is… far more susceptible to threats of violence than I am."
Tom smiled. "Excellent."
As he turned to leave, he heard Alf call out behind him, "Next time treat my staff with a little more respect, Tom!"
The Heir of Salazar Slytherin left the seedy cellar, rage bubbling inside him like the potion he had once brewed with the first of his followers.
It was two days until Christmas and the member of high pure-blood society who had chosen to reside in London for the holiday were gathered in the drawing room of the Goyles' London residence. The older ladies, whose children were at Hogwarts or had married one another, had spent the evening get steadily more and more drunk and gossiping. Their husbands, pure-blood lords whose only purpose in life was to sit in Wizengamot meeting, keep the old families in power, and drink Firewhiskey, had retreated to the smoky cardroom. They were joined by some of the younger wizards whose pretty young wives were gossiping in the drawing room or meeting secretly with young men who were not their husbands.
Marigolda Lestrange, beautiful in shifting silver robes which clung tightly to the curves of her body, had slipped out of the hot, clammy drawing room as soon as she could make her escape without seeming too rude. She found her way to the library easily, walking as though she own the tall, luxurious townhouse. She carried a glass of elf-made wine in one hand and trailed her wand absently from the other.
The Goyles didn't have much of a library, keeping it more for show than anything else. Marigolda wasn't entirely sure that old Lord Goyle could read, and his son, who like betting and booze, certainly couldn't. Still, there was a room full of old spellbooks, and its small size would mean it was unlikely anyone would interrupt.
The lighting was dim. Balls of light unattached to any source flickered to life as Marigolda passed, her wand stowed and her finger trailing lightly across the spines of leather-bound tomes.
She found the volume she was looking for quite easily. It was small, bound in red leather with a title in Latin written in peeling golden letters. She flicked through the thin pages, smiling in tolerant amusement at images of people's bodies contorting into strange and painful shapes.
Footsteps startled her and Marigolda turned, the book disappearing as she did so.
Arcturus Black was approaching, dressed in black robes, his hair slicked back, carrying his own wine glass.
"I saw you slip away," he said. She could smell alcohol on his breath. "Do you mind if I join you?"
"Not at all," she said. "It gets so terribly stuffy at these gatherings, doesn't it?"
She reached out to take his arm and he drew her to him. They moved slowly through the dark shelves. Marigolda smiled to herself. She did so like Arcturus. He was so easy to play with. No matter how many times he told himself and her that he was going to be faithful to his wife, Marigolda could always bring him to her with the barest crook of her fingers.
"How is dear Cedrella?" she asked now. "I don't think I've seen her since dinner."
Arcturus shrugged. "She slipped away earlier in the evening. I believe she was with your husband."
"So you have nothing to fear," Marigolda summarised, amused. Rabastan was the only one of their little circle who remained constantly faithful, though to his lover, Abraxas Malfoy (who was distinctly less consistent with his affections), rather than his wife.
"She's hardly even flirted since leaving Hogwarts," Arcturus admitted. "Either she's taken on a steady lover I know nothing about or motherhood is taking up all of her energy."
"I really couldn't say," Marigolda said. She smiled flirtatiously at the young Lord. "But this is rather dull conversation. I can think of much better things to discuss than your wife."
"Oh?" Arcturus said. "And what would that be?"
"Well," she said, looking carefully away from him. "Me, for a start."
"And what do you have to say about yourself?" he asked, leaning closer. She could feel his breath against her jaw and was briefly disappointed that the Goyles had put locking charms on the bedrooms.
She glanced at him under her lashes. "A witch never speaks about herself. That is a wizard's job."
"Well," Arcturus said, pretending to think. "Charming, beautiful, talented… am I missing anything?"
"Many things," Marigolda said. "But I suppose I can always educate you."
She leaned up to kiss his jaw, feeling the soft stubble there, the movement of his throat against her lips as he swallowed.
"Here?" he whispered. "The party is only outside. It's so public…"
"No one will see," Marigolda breathed. Except for your pretty young wife, sitting in that corner over there, she added mentally. I suppose my darling husband must have abandoned her there.
"Well," Arcturus started reluctantly, but Marigolda swallowed the feeble sound, setting her drink down so she could wrap her arms around his neck. Perhaps they would have to remain clothed, but that could be even more fun. And Cedrella ought to know that her husband would never return her sudden fidelity.
"Will," Ernest Prewett greeted, leaning against the doorway of the room he and his wife were staying in.
It was early on Christmas morning. Ernest and Hortensia had arrived at Potter Manor with their children, Malcolm and Phyllida, two weeks ago; Ernest's younger brother William and his wife Deborah had been there almost four. Ernest and Hortensia had had to wait until their seventeen-year-old daughter returned from Hogwarts, while William's only child had died on holiday over a year ago. He'd claimed he couldn't stand the quiet and Gertrude Potter had been only too eager to have her brother and sister-in-law come to stay with her early.
They'd settled easily into their familiar holiday routine after the turbulent few years during which Edmund, Fleamont, and Euphemia had been in Europe fighting Grindelwald. Potter Manor had been the scene of family festivities for years. Both Ernest and William had soon fallen into their old, comfortable roles, helping Gertrude and Edmund with the preparations and keeping the children from making too much mischief. Today would be the culmination of their hard work.
"Good morning, Ernest," William replied. He was dressed already, in simple, smart black dress robes, red hair smoothed down. "Looks like you're not quite ready yet."
Ernest glanced down. His robes were also black, a sober colour he'd been planning to offset with a brightly coloured Prewett-orange tie. He hadn't yet put the tie on, having been just starting to when he'd heard his brother's footsteps in the corridor.
"No, Horty and I are rather behind the Snitch today," he agreed. "I suppose we're making up for all those early Christmas mornings."
Will laughed, though a little sadness crept into his voice as he said, "Ah, yes, Phil and Mal are rather too old for jumping on the bed now, I imagine. I suspect they'll still be in bed."
"Mal certainly will be," Ernest agreed. "He likes sleeping far too much, that boy. I don't know about Phil. She's usually very disciplined."
"I'll see when I get down there," William said. "Debbie will likely be with them already – I only wanted to see if you'd got up yet or if I was still an earlier riser than you."
"You're nearly ten years younger than I am," Ernest reminded him. "When you get to my age you'll see."
William answered with another laugh and strode off, leaving his brother to tie his tie and help his wife with her hair. The Manor was coming alive; shrieks of laughter from the main parlour indicated that the children had found their presents already and would likely have opened them by the time any adults arrived to stop them. From the bedrooms came the rustling and muted conversations of relatives and friends dragging themselves out of the Potters' luxurious beds and preparing themselves for the celebrations. Will found himself humming as he made his way through corridors and down stairs to the breakfast room, where Debbie and some of the others had gathered for breakfast.
"Hallo, William, old chap," Will's uncle, Gideon Prewett, boomed as William strolled into the room. "Nice to see you up and about, eh? Where's Junior?"
William's father had also been called Ernest, and growing up, Gideon's oldest nephew had been known to his family and most of his friends as Junior. As he'd grown older and risen in the Ministry, and after old Lord Prewett's death 1926, the nickname had faded out of use, reserved for his siblings in their more nostalgic moments and for his favourite uncle.
"Still wrangling with his tie," Will said, kissing his wife on the cheek and sitting down. "He's really struggling."
The table laughed. Gideon's son, Anthony, shook his head.
"I don't know why he's worrying about his tie," he said. "It's his hair I should be concerned with."
More laughter. It was rather a running joke that Ernest, though only forty-four, was already going bald on top. Anthony and Gideon, who were both in business, insisted that it was due to his Ministry career. Edmund, who also worked for the Ministry but showed absolutely no signs of going thin on top, maintained that it was simply bad blood and often loudly sympathised with his sons that they might catch the 'Prewett baldness'.
Fleamont, whose messy black hair had certainly showed no signs of receding as he hit his thirtieth birthday, leaned forwards and said, "I may have a solution for him. I've been working on a potion in my spare time, nothing major, just something to help with appearances on formal occasions – you know, the Curse of the Potters. I don't think it'll reverse balding, certainly not as it stands, but it would certainly allow him to hide it better."
"You've created some sort of hair tonic?" William asked. "Forgive me for asking, but why? It seems like rather a waste of time."
"A waste of time?" Gideon asked incredulously. "My dear boy, you could make millions! No wizard has ever bothered to create a potion for one's hair – the idiots at the Ministry or in academia have always thought it beneath them. You must allow me to introduce me to some people I know. Do you have a brand name yet? You must have a brand name. Something snappy, something memorable. My boy, you've found the dragon's hoard here and no mistake!"
"Really, Father," Virginia Fortescue said in a mildly reproving tone. "It's Christmas. Not everything has to be about money."
"Well, alright," Gideon sighed, his eyes twinkling slightly. He had never been able to deny his daughter anything. "You're to come to me after the holidays, Monty, understand? I'll set you on the right path."
"Thank you, Great-Uncle," Fleamont said.
"I didn't know you were interested in potions," Anthony said. "You were always dead set on being an Auror, I remember that."
"Potions is more of a hobby," Monty said. "Law enforcement has always been my dream and I'm not giving it up, not at all. It's just that, considering my recent years, both Mia and I have decided to take a step back, raise a family, and return to the Auror Office when we've had a bit of break."
"Good decision," Edmund said approvingly. "I'm pleased. The Auror Office is all over the place at the minute, scrambling through paperwork and hunting out the last of Grindelwald's supporters. I know neither Gertrude nor I want to have the two you running across the globe hunting strays, not when we've all just got back."
"And a family?" Hortensia asked, missing nothing. "I know you've left it rather later than most people, for the best of reasons of course, but you want to start one now?"
Euphemia, who had drifted into the room in red robes lined with white fur halfway through Monty's explanation of their future plans, answered her.
"We've always wanted children," she said, smiling. "With the war in Europe, of course, it wasn't an option – we weren't married at the beginning and it would have been too dangerous in any case. Now that Grindelwald is where he belongs, we have the peace and the security to settle down. I've always felt so welcome, so at home with Gertrude and Edmund and this family, and I want to have a full house of my own, full of children and cousins and aunts and uncles. My career has never been an attempt to build a legacy for myself, merely to do what's right – I don't want to be remembered as an Auror or even, God forbid, Minister for Magic, but as a kind and loving mother. I want my children to be my legacy as your children, all of your children, are yours."
"Well said," Deborah whispered, her eyes full of tears, her hand on Mia's.
"Yes, you are wise beyond your years, my dear," Gideon said, sighing rather theatrically after Hortensia's heartfelt grief. "Our children are our legacies and their children are theirs. I hope you are pleased with yours," he added, turning to his children. "Really, Anthony, I've told you again and again, a good thrashing is what that boy needs."
"It seems to have no effect," Anthony said. "Hector is rather wilful. I suspect he takes after his grandfather."
"Cheek!" Gideon cried.
"I might have been talking of Honesty's father," Anthony said, shrugging innocently. "But if the Sorting Hat says so…"
Secretly quite proud of being compared to his favourite grandson, Gideon joined in the laughter after only a few minutes of good-natured grumbling.
The door swung open and Edmund's niece Trisha Abbott entered with her husband, Atticus. Trisha's mother Natasha, not yet in her forties but already ill enough that it was doubtful she would see another Christmas, leaned on Atticus's arm, beaming around at the table. Edmund sprang up to pull out a chair for his sister-in-law.
"Good morning, Natasha," Harold Potter, Edmund's only living brother, greeted. "Good morning, Atticus, Trisha. Girls already up, Trish?"
Trisha laughed. "Oh, they've been awake for hours, badgering me to let them open presents. I sent them downstairs when I heard the other children starting to wake up. They're probably already surrounded by piles of presents and are only interested in the wrapping paper."
"Oh, yes," Edmund agreed. "I remember the year I got Charlus his first toy broom – he must have been two or three – it was a lovely thing, same maker as the Shooting Star models, and he wouldn't look at it. Just wasn't interested. Monty wanted it," good natured laughter came from around the table, "but all Charlie wanted was to play with the paper it came in. Wasn't even anything special about that paper – it was red, so maybe it called to the Gryffindor in him, but we had a lot of colour-changing paper that year and he didn't seem interested in any of it. Just wanted to play with his red wrapping paper."
"It's so sweet, though," Deborah said. "When they're that age, even the smallest things seem so special to them. The colour of someone's robes, the pattern of a curtain, a bee landing on a flower. They take pleasure in so much, and as we grow older, we seemed to lose the capability to see the world through a child's eyes: all the wonder of it that gets lost in the dullness of adult life."
"You're so right, my dear Deborah," the lady of the house said, sweeping into the room and settling down as though she had been the first at the table. "I always think that the best reminder of how privileged we are always comes when we witness a child from a Muggle family seeing the true wonders of magic for the first time. Every time I show Olive something new she lights up and I feel something of her wonder and pleasure."
Albus Dumbledore, who until then had been steadily eating his way through a plate of kippers, now joined the conversation.
"Yes, it's a very special thing to introduce a child to a new world as surprising and exciting as ours," he said. "It's one of the reasons I became a teacher. To shepherd young souls, to guide young minds through the beauty and awe that is magic, is the greatest honour I know."
"Will you take it, when they offer?" Gideon asked.
"Wil I take what?" Albus asked. "You must excuse me – I'm not in the habit of talking as obscurely as a businessman."
"Come, come, don't be modest," Gideon said. "We all know you could be Minister by now if your taste ran to politics. The word is old Headmaster Dippet isn't long for his post – I should say he wouldn't be, he was headmaster in my day – and you'll be next on the list when he's gone. Will you do it?"
"If they offer it to me, which I have no certainty they will," Albus demurred, "then… yes, I think I might accept. I can think of none of my colleagues who would care to do the job or be fit for it if they did, and it's always dangerous, for a school such as Hogwarts, to hire an external headmaster who is unfamiliar with the running of the school."
Gideon threw back his head to laugh, but it was Edmund who said, "Come now Albus, you can just say you want the job. We're none of us opposed to a bit of ambition."
Albus, who until now had been looking thoughtful, even a little anxious, now smiled. "Ah, but Edmund, you forget that ambition is a Slytherin trait. I would hate for such a staunchly Gryffindor family to suspect me of plotting my way to my goals."
The laughter and cries of affirmation or protestation that greeted this jest almost drowned out the arrival, delayed by a malfunctioning necklace, of Ernest and Hortensia. Only Natasha and William noticed.
"Ernest! My, that took some time," William said. "I'd almost thought you'd decided to join the children."
"I was tempted," Ernest replied. "Unfortunately, no one has seen to fit to provide them with food yet. When you reach my time of life food becomes more important than presents."
"Nonsense," Edmund said. "Presents always win over food. You aren't thinking straight, Ernest."
Ernest laughed. "I'm not sure you're one to talk, Ed. How much scrambled eggs have you already had?"
"You forget," William said, "Edmund didn't eat enough on the continent and he has to make up for it now. Eh, Ed? The same goes for Monty and Mia – they're making up for lost meals."
Monty laughed. "That, and Mum always provides the best food."
"Yes, very true," Gideon boomed. "My compliments to the house-elves. I hope we can expect more of this standard for dinner."
Before Gertrude could reply, the door opened and her daughter Lucinda slipped into the room with the news that her second cousin Declan had eaten too much chocolate and been sick. Virginia dragged her husband Giles out of the room to see to her son and Gideon followed, alternating between roaring anger and roaring laughter. Gertrude and a few of the other witches went to help and slowly the breakfast room emptied as the extremely extended Potter family's friends and relations moved on with their day.
Cedrella drifted through the halls of her townhouse. Though she looked every inch the mistress of the Black Family in her deep green dress robes and cloak of shifting silver, she felt like a stranger in her own home. She'd begged Arcturus to let them hold their Christmas dinner in the Black Manor. When he'd suggested that they should stay in London for their first year outside of Hogwarts she'd been thrilled. The thought of languishing in a country house while her friends from Hogwarts threw parties and gatherings and had fun had been unbearable. But after…
Her thoughts skittered away from the memory. That was dangerous territory and she could not think of it, especially on an occasion when she had to play hostess.
Cedrella sighed, rubbing her fingers against her temples. Perhaps she shouldn't have had that last glass of elf-made wine – but it was a party, after all, and she loved that particular vintage. A brief lie-down in her room would restore her, she was sure.
The master bedroom was at the top of the house, far from the kitchens where the house-elves lived. Incautiously, Lady Black opened the door.
The room was dimly lit; the curtains had been drawn and the lamps were all out aside from a handful of candles in the corners of the room. The grand fourposter bed where Cedrella and Arcturus slept loomed out of the gloom, the blankets untidy and lumpy. It was clearly occupied and Cedrella stepped forwards to scold whoever had been impolite enough to use the master and mistress's room for their lovemaking.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, however, Cedrella realised who it was she had walked in on. Her steps faltered. There, lying in the bed, quite obviously naked, was her husband and Marigolda Lestrange.
They looked up at her. Cedrella stood frozen, the light from the open door behind her, laughter and chatter from the party below drifting up the stairs. Arcturus's face showed horror – though quite acceptable for a well-bred young pure-blood to have an affair, to use one's marital bed during an occasion when one was supposed to be entertaining with one's spouse was not done – and he opened his mouth, possibly to defend himself, before closing it again. Marigolda, on the other hand, merely smiled, a slight trace of smirk showing around the edges of her mouth, her glittering in challenge.
"How could you?" Cedrella breathed.
"'Rella–" Arcturus began, but his wife wasn't looking at him.
"I trusted you," she said. "I warned you about the little half-blood you like so much. This is how you repay me? Have you no sense of discretion, of decency? And in my bed, with my son sleeping next door!"
She was crying now, tears catching at the edges of her eyes and smearing her makeup. It was said that the Blacks had a streak of madness in their blood and Cedrella looked wild, her hair dishevelled, her face streaked with mascara, her wand clutched uselessly in one hand.
"Tom and I have never been lovers," Marigolda corrected calmly. Despite her nudity she showed no signs of discomfort, merely reclined as though she were a queen on her barge. "Though I would certainly take him should he ask."
"My husband," Cedrella whispered. "My husband. Is there nothing you leave for me? You must take my husband too? I thought I was mistaken," she continued with a wild laugh. "When I saw you at Madam Goyle's I thought I had mistaken your meaning. Surely, I thought, Marigolda cannot mean to humiliate me so completely, being so intimate with my husband in such a public setting. Were not the corners enough for you? Is Rabastan so useless between the sheets that you must take my husband from me so openly? Could not you find any number of handsome young men who would have you as a lover, only not my husband, not the father of my son?"
"You've hardly been faithful yourself, Cedrella," Marigolda said coolly. "I'm surprised you can even be sure Orion is Arcturus's – although I will admit that he is very like him, so probably does have Black blood on both sides."
"How dare you," Cedrella said quietly. She screamed, "How dare you?!"
She raised her wand, but Arcturus, who had been hurriedly dressing, lunged and grabbed her arm.
"Cedrella, no! There are still people downstairs!"
"That didn't stop you!" she screeched.
"You'll wake Orion!" Arcturus propelled her firmly around to sit on the bed, where she collapsed, sobbing. Marigolda stood fluidly, hair drifting around her naked body, and slipped on her robes. The witch regarded her friend contemptuously, smiled archly, and left the room. Arcturus stayed just long enough to call up the house-elf to tend to his weeping wife, then followed his lover, to put it about that the party would have to end early as the lady of the house was ill.
"I didn't think she looked quite well, poor dear," Lady Lestrange said in a carrying whisper to her daughter-in-law as they were leaving. "It's the stress of that little boy." Marigolda smiled and murmured acquiescence.
Meanwhile Cedrella sat in her room and cried and cried. Something had been irreparably broken within her and she knew she would never get over it.