1945
.
.
Tom gave her a ring at breakfast.
He'd saved her a place at the Slytherin table, right next to his, of course. He'd put a napkin over her empty place setting, and the ring sat on top. Neither too delicate nor cumbersomely large, it was a simple and sturdy band of cast silver, tiny rune engravings encircling the inner band, above a prominent maker's mark, AS.
Tom watched her inspect the ring with a blank expression. "Well? Aren't you going to put it on?"
"I was just looking at the engravings. What sort of enchantments does it have, do you know?" Hermione held out the ring, letting the light catch the runic phrases.
"As a helpful reminder," Tom prompted her, "the ring goes on your left hand."
"Alright, Tom," said Hermione. She slid the ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. It looked like it might be too tight, but then it slid on smoothly. "Oh, look, it's a perfect fit. That's odd. It almost feels... warm."
"Those must be the enchantments," said Tom. "The tag said, what was it... Durability. You can wear it in Potions and Herbology, and you won't have to worry about it getting scratched. Size-to-fit. It must be warming to expand around the circumference of your finger; that's useful for when a witch is expecting and her fingers swell up. And last, Neverlost. If you take it off and misplace it, it'll find its way back to you. Clever work, isn't it? I knew this kind of ring was better than the heirloom jewels the others kept trying to turn me to. This ring can't be passed down to daughters-in-law and relatives, because it's meant for one wearer, and one wearer only. A lifetime ring, not an heirloom. You're meant to wear it for the rest of your life."
"Tom," said Hermione, "you make it sound so ominous."
"Do I?" said Tom. "I'm pleased by it. You're going to be my wife, why would I be anything but satisfied about it?" He patted her hand reassuringly. "Don't worry, Hermione, you can take the ring off if you want to. It's not going to meld itself to your flesh or anything. Another good thing about not buying an heirloom ring—this one is guaranteed brand new and without weird curses laid on by the previous owner. I wouldn't give you a hand-me-down from someone else's failed marriage. That'd be a terrible omen for the start of our blessed union."
"So, Riddle and Ante-Riddle," said Nott, "have you set a date yet? Traditionally, wizards use a celestial calendar for the joining of two astrological houses. But the most fortuitous time of the year, in general, is in spring and summer. Sometimes early autumn if one wants to draw on a bit of the, ah, ritualistic fertility magic."
"It would have to be after we finish school," said Tom. "The sooner the better, I think. I've been thinking about December, to mark the day of our tenth anniversary together—that way we'll never forget the first time we met. Being half a year away, it gives us time to write our families and announce the glad news. Hermione, you should tell your mother as soon as you can. She needs as much time as possible to acculturate herself to the theoretical idea of it before she has to face the reality. As for me, my family already knows my intentions, so I shouldn't need to explain my decision any further than, 'Yes, I asked; yes, she said yes; and no, we don't need the nursery yet'."
"December!" Hermione exclaimed. "Surely that's too soon? There's no reason to rush things. It's 1945, not the Middle Ages. We don't have to go as fast as possible because the only alternative to a quick wedding at a young age is being left on the shelf forever. Wizards can live for centuries. Why must you be in such a hurry to be married, Tom? You're only eighteen!"
"Because I know I can live for centuries," said Tom. "And I've already decided that I want to spend those centuries with you by my side. I simply don't see the purpose in delaying the inevitable. We were going to spend that time together, marriage or not, and I'd rather we do it married." He gave her a pointed look.
Nott coughed, and tea dribbled down his chin to his plate of eggs. He snatched up a napkin to cover his face.
Travers cleared his throat politely.
"What?" said Avery, through a mouthful of bacon. "What did I miss?"
Lestrange waggled his eyebrows, glancing at Hermione, then at Tom.
"Oh," said Avery. "Well. That's right and proper, intercourse within the marital bower. What's the scandal there?"
Hermione's face reddened; she could feel the burn up to her ears. "The breakfast table is neither the time nor place for such a discussion."
"Why not?" asked Tom, his smile sweet and guileless. "I wasn't saying anything inappropriate—did you assume I was? How unkind of you, Hermione. I'd have expected better of the Head Girl. From Avery, however, I couldn't hope to expect anything at all." He gave a consoling pat to her knee, under the table. "There, there. I don't mind a bit of sauciness, I'm sure it will make our marriage very exciting in the future, won't it? Let's discuss something slightly more appropriate for mealtime, then. How about a Lavatory Freshening Charm?"
Hermione was grateful that he'd changed the topic, so she clung to the life buoy he'd thrown her. "Why use a charm?" she asked. "What benefit does it have over a simple vegetable essential oil, or a condensed scent-removing potion dispersed through the mechanism of a perfume atomiser? These potion recipes already exist for woodcraft and sport hunting, when you want to prevent animals you're tracking from smelling humans in their habitats."
"Spontaneity, naturally," said Tom. "You never know when the urge to use the WC overcomes you while you're out calling on a friend. It would be embarrassing to leave a souvenir even when the rest of the business has been flushed away. You can Vanish the mess, of course, so what about Vanishing the smell? Isn't it just tiny particles floating in the air? The solution, I believe, must be some sort of selective, filtered Vanishing charm that removes minute amounts of disagreeable substances from the air, without removing the air itself."
"Yes, I see what you're getting at," Hermione nodded. "If you remove the air entirely, you create a vacuum, and that produces a loud noise that you wouldn't want a host to hear. Not to mention accidentally suffocating yourself in a closed room. The standard Vanishing spell has a discrete subject boundary directed at a solid object, so you want an area-affecting Vanisher that can remove many thousands of object particles on a molecular level. Vanishing, like most Transfiguration-adjacent charms, is reliant on mass-power ratios, so the mass itself should make it feasible for a single caster..."
"Exactly," Tom said approvingly. "The issue is creating a spell with both variable boundaries and reasonable energy requirements. It wouldn't be a particularly good spell if it couldn't adapt for bathrooms of various sizes and ambient temperatures, or even outdoors. Woodcraft, picnics, or even outhouses—there's plenty of country houses that still have those."
The eyes of the Slytherin boys had glazed over by now.
Nott, however, had not become distracted by the technical discussion. He just shook his head, muttered, "Insufferable" under his breath, and continued eating his breakfast. And when the mail owls arrived, he retreated to the safety of his newspaper, which featured yet another headline article about the mysterious Prince of Charming.
After breakfast, Hermione was stopped in the corridor outside the Great Hall by a pack of Slytherin girls, a few years younger than herself.
A dark-haired girl separated herself from the rest of her group. "Good morning, Granger," she said. "So, he asked you? May I see the ring?"
"How do you know?" Hermione asked suspiciously. She didn't have much contact with students of other Houses beyond the Slytherin boys of Tom's group, and partner assignments or other school-related work. "I'm afraid I don't recall your name."
"Druella, Druella Rosier," said the girl. "You know my brother."
"Oh," said Hermione. "You must be Sebastian's sister. I don't believe he's ever introduced us, formally or informally."
"Yes, I know, he's so lazy and annoying, isn't he? His manners need more work," agreed Druella. "So? Can I see it?"
With some reluctance, Hermione held out her left hand, which was eagerly grasped by Druella, then turned this way and that. "Oh. Simple but tasteful. Everyone can look at Riddle and see the man's got taste. He knows the meaning of subtle. Laurel, that's a choice. Has it any personal significance, if you're willing to divulge?"
Hermione accession to having her ring inspected was the cue to permit Druella Rosier's friends to flock around her. They hummed and murmured in their quiet, polite Slytherin way, and Hermione couldn't tell what they made of the ring, or even her engagement to their Head Boy, Tom Riddle.
"Laurel symbolises honour, glory, and triumph. Achievements in academics or athletics, thus the term 'laureate'," Hermione explained. "In wandlore, laurel wands choose owners of diligent character and strength of purpose. But my wand is vinewood, so perhaps Tom simply liked the design." She reached into her pocket and showed the girls the handle of her wand, with a carved leafy design. "Triumph and glory are odd choices of blessing to invoke for a marriage, don't you think?"
Another girl piped up, "Odd for an average marriage with an average wizard or witch. It would be seen as arrogant. But Riddle is better than average."
Druella nodded. "And he chose a simple design, with no gems, so he understands the limits of what's acceptable to say aloud, and what is best whispered. See, I told you he was subtle. Glory, without ostentation. Not like Walburga, the cow!"
The girls tittered.
"Do you mean..." Hermione ventured, "Walburga Black? I heard she was engaged to Orion Black."
"Yes, Walburga's father asked Orion's father, so they're pledged in troth," said Druella. "It's permissable for me to call her a cow because she's my future sister-by-marriage and cousin-by-marriage in one go. Walburga's ring is an ugly old thing, a family heirloom because of course it was; she made such a crass to-do about taking it from the vault before Lucretia could claim it for herself, as is her right as the oldest daughter of the main line. Not that Lucretia wanted it; she has a sense of style, and she knew that a ring of jet stones to match the Black heraldry is ill-starred for a wedding. Jet is for mourning!"
The other girls nodded along with their little ringleader. "Lucretia chose Hortensia Selwyn, the 1943 Head Girl, as bride's witness and bonder. Such a cut to Walburga, who's in the same school year, and Lucretia's own eldest female cousin."
Another girl added, "Lucretia's wedding is first since Orion won't graduate until next year. When Walburga is married, everyone will be comparing her wedding to Lucretia's."
"Have you chosen a witness and bonder, Granger?" asked Druella.
Hermione frowned. "It has to be a witch or wizard of magical majority. If you're making yourself available for such a position, I'm afraid I'll have to refuse."
"No, no," said Druella quickly. "I was going to offer Sebastian for your bonder. You're friends, aren't you? I know it's traditional to choose a witch for the bride and a wizard for the groom, and you've probably picked one of the girls from your own House and year. But the Rosier name means something. And if my brother's part of the ceremony, my papa won't be able to say that it's proper for him to attend and not me."
"I haven't chosen anyone," said Hermione. "Good golly, Tom only gave me the ring this morning! You sound as eager to rush to the altar as Tom is."
"Marriage is a blessing, especially one to a husband as devoted as Riddle!" said Druella. "And just think of how funny it would be if we had a Head Boy Riddle and Head Girl Riddle in the same year. If you married as students, maybe the staff would allocate you a room together in the Slytherin dorms. Then you could invite us in and we could show you how to dress your hair in the proper way!"
"Yes, funniness and proper hair, the best reason to marry," Hermione said in a neutral voice. "Thank you, Druella. If I'm in need of wedding advice, I suppose I know whom to ask."
"Ooh, first names," Druella said with excitement. "Write me if you like. Or you might send a letter through my brother, if you need to speak privately, witch-to-witch. I know all sorts of things." She gave Hermione a sweet smile. "If you jinx the parchment, Sebastian's usually too lazy to figure out how to crack it."
After that brief exchange, Hermione went to class, and to her relief, no one else accosted her for a peek at the ring. In fact, no other students noticed it other than the older Slytherins. And the Slytherins refrained from commenting on it; they just looked at it and said nothing. Hermione was glad about that, even though she was old enough to know that Slytherins saying nothing in public didn't mean they thought nothing about it in private. That was Tom's problem to sort out, not hers.
The only non-Slytherin who detected the one non-standard feature of Hermione's rule-perfect uniform was Professor Dumbledore, when he'd returned her essay on energy-optimised Transfiguration, based on her experiments with Transfiguring sedge grass to flax thread, and flax thread to wire. If the first step involved a minor alteration to the thread produced, wherein the thread was wasn't made of multiple strands of spun fibers twisted together, but one single continuous length like a strand of nylon, then it would cost less energy to Transfigure it to metal wire—another chemically continuous structure. A small but creative change in visualisation requiring a knowledge of material properties, it resulted in a stronger, more permanent, and less effort-intensive final product.
Dumbledore explained his comments and listed a few textbooks Hermione might find useful for her upcoming N.E.W.T. theory exam. Tom, in the next seat, gritted his teeth for Dumbledore's remarks on his own essay on partial human-animal Transfiguration. He had his attentive schoolboy smile fixed on his face, but she could tell he was tense by the way his foot jiggled and fidgeted under the table, and his knee pressed insistently against hers. Tom was too distracted to notice Dumbledore's eyes lingering on Hermione's left hand, which Hermione quickly hid under the table after she'd taken back her marked essay scroll.
But just like the Slytherins, their Transfiguration professor didn't comment on it—nor was it his place to do so!—and Hermione continued on with the rest of her day, until the afternoon. Then it was time for her appointment with Travers to go have tea with the friendly Auror duo, Trombley and Wilkes.
Hermione had ordered a box of tea samplers as her calling gift, small tins of different varieties of exotic tea leaves: black tea, green tea, white tea, red tea, and purple tea, which she didn't know existed and had never seen in any Muggle shop. She also observed that Travers had not bothered to bring a gift. They were setting out from the East Courtyard when Rosier came haring out between the colonnades at great speed, his cloak flapping behind him, panting and shouting, "Wait, wait!"
She and Travers turned around.
"What is it?" Hermione asked. "Did you forget to copy down the Transfiguration homework questions from the blackboard?"
"Travers—" he gasped, "—mentioned—" another gasp, "—going to see the—" a deep sigh for breath, "—Aurors for tea."
"Yes," said Hermione. "And we oughtn't to be late! It sets a bad impression if we can't keep to an agreed time."
"I want to come," Rosier puffed. He reached under his cloak and proudly held up an enormous wine bottle, a dark green glass Jeroboam sealed with a cork and wire clasp. "I brought a gift!"
"Put that back in your cloak," hissed Hermione. "Alcohol outside dormitory rooms is technically contraband, even if you're of-age."
"Gallon perry," observed Travers. "I thought you said you were never touching that stuff again after what happened last New Year's Eve."
Rosier shoved the bottle back under his cloak. It was not much of an improvement. "It's not for me; it's for them. The Aurors. You can introduce me, can't you, Travers? You did it for Granger."
"It was a favour," said Hermione.
"So I'll owe him a favour," said Rosier, making an odd, fish-like pouting face. "I thought we were friends, Quentin."
"We're not friends," grunted Travers.
"Why do you want to join?" Hermione asked.
"I thought I'd try for the Auror training programme," answered Rosier. "Pater says the outlook's poor for the Department of Magical Games and Sports. The British League's dead until next year at the very least, and I've no interest in officiating permits for local lawn bowls tournaments. Nor do I want to moulder in the house all day after graduation, else Mater will see it as a cue to invite a whole chorus line for every meal and try to make me pick one for keeps." He shuddered. "And I can't tell her that I'm busy if I haven't a job. If I'm already at the Ministry, I can transfer with commendations when old friend Grindy gets sorted."
"Um," said Hermione, "are you implying that your alternative to working is marriage?"
"Of course it is," said Rosier with a nod. "If I don't have a job, I won't be out on the streets and begging for bread or anything. I'd be sentenced to an even worse indignity: nuptial bliss."
"You sound like Nott when you say things like that," said Hermione. "He's expressed similar thoughts about marriage in the past."
"Well, he's got a point, hasn't he?" Rosier replied. "That's his special talent, to make you hate him but agree with him at the same time. No idea how he does it, it's like he's a reverse court jester or something."
"Travers, it's up to you," said Hermione. "Rosier scores Outstandings for Defence, Exceeds Expectations for Arithmancy, and can probably pull three more Exceeds Expectations from his N.E.W.T. subjects. If you don't help him now, you may end up having to see him around the office next year regardless."
Travers scowled, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don't like this. An Auror position isn't a step in another direction, it's a solemn duty we take up for Britain. That's what it means to join the civil service. If you don't want to serve, then don't."
Rosier sent a speculative glance at Hermione. "Granger, you've been out calling with Travers. Does this mean you're planning to tough out the three years as the lowest order of servant—oh, sorry, I meant to say trainee, in the Auror Office?"
Hermione was put on the spot, and she hesitated, trying to find the most suitable explanation. She hadn't initiated the arrangement with Travers because she truly wished to be an Auror. It was a favour exchange. She hadn't known him that well, and he the same for her, so his true thoughts about the responsibilities of a civil servant came as somewhat of a surprise. It was unexpectedly... principled. Then she felt a touch guilty for the unflattering thought. She had gotten to know them after two years, and learned that it wasn't true that Slytherins were un-principled—they just had different principles than hers. She didn't agree with them most of the time, but they weren't non-existent. That was a far sight better than Tom, at least.
Another touch of guilt came from the ambiguous assumptions she'd cultivated through her Auror association. Hermione hadn't explicitly told Travers that she didn't want to be an Auror, but he appeared convinced she was leaning that way. The terms of their original agreement had been for information on the Aurors, and to a practical-minded wizard like Travers, one wouldn't care for collecting such information unless she cared about Aurors.
And to be honest, the more she learned of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement from her own research and speaking to Travers, the more interesting it seemed. There were few Ministry departments as prestigious as the DMLE, or as meritocratic as the Auror Corps when it came to entry positions. The son of a former Head had to work to get in; that spoke something of its culture of egality that she hadn't seen from any other employment situation in Wizarding Britain.
Rosier's questions continued: "What does Riddle think of it? Is this why he wants to race through the banns before graduation? It's not usual for unmarried witches to join the Auror trainee programme; the applicants are eight out of ten men, so the odds are you'll be assigned a young, unmarried wizard as a training partner for most of those three years. Close quarters, long hours, overnight shifts. One can see why a formal attachment would be useful and necessary."
"That's between Tom and myself," said Hermione firmly. "And I'm aware that marriage makes a witch or wizard respectable in certain lines of work. I would like to work at the Ministry. Tom knows this, is supportive of my choices, but understands that such a serious decision means more to me than... than convenience and practicality!"
"You'd best keep your nose out of Riddle's business, Rosier. It's for your own good," agreed Travers. "You can join us, but you owe me a favour. Make that two favours, actually. And the rule is that you don't embarrass me. These are Father's professional associates. Finally: whatever you do, don't mention the book."
"What book?" said Rosier innocently. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Out of curiosity," said Hermione, "did Tom ever read 'the book'?"
Travers and Rosier exchanged a glance. Rosier jabbed at Travers with his elbow. Travers dodged it and kicked Rosier in the shin.
"Hypothetically..." said Rosier, trailing off evasively, "if ever a book existed, and if Riddle did indeed drop a peek at it, then no, he glanced at it but didn't read it. He might have described it as... 'a tawdry entertainment befitting the crude and boorish appetites of peasants'. But since this is all speculative, we may never know."
"Don't worry, Granger," Travers reassured her. "I doubt he'd describe his appetite for you as crude or boorish."
"Oh," said Hermione, blushing hotly. "Haha. Well, I certainly hope he wouldn't."
They reached the door of the teachers' staff room with four minutes to spare, according to Travers' pocket watch. Travers knocked. Hermione and Rosier got their gifts ready, Rosier tapping his wand to his wine bottle and muttering a Cooling Charm. The one thing worse than having wine served tepid was the wine's tepidness attributed to being clamped under a young man's questionably hygienic armpit.
The door opened soundlessly, with no one on the other side. When Hermione peeked inside the staff room, she noticed Madam Trombley sitting in a squashy armchair with her feet propped up on an ottoman; she had her wand drawn and pointed to the door. Mr. Wilkes was arranging a tea tray, and turned over his shoulder to murmur a curt greeting to the guests.
"Young Travers, Miss Granger—good day to you two. And who's this last fellow? I'm afraid you've caught us at a disadvantage."
"Rosier," the boy introduced himself. "Sebastian Rosier, Seventh Year Slytherin. I should hope to put myself forward for next year's Auror trainee intake."
"You must be Jocelin Rosier's oldest," said Madam Trombley, returning her wand to her robe pocket. "Outgrown the Quidditch dream already, have you? Happens to the best of us, I'm rather sorry to say."
"Unfortunately, my original career plans have somewhat... fallen astray," said Rosier. He offered her the bottle of wine. "I have an O in Defence, and thought it a good idea not to let my marks go to waste. If you could spare any advice for a candidate hopeful, I quite graciously see myself in your debt."
"With manners like that," said Mr. Wilkes gruffly, bringing around a tea tray loaded with cups, saucers, and a steaming pot emblazoned with the Hogwarts crest. "You would be more suited to the Department of International Magical Co-operation."
"He's got a point," said Madam Trombley. With a loud pop, she uncorked the wine bottle and poured a dollop into a tea cup that Mr. Wilkes had handed to her. "You know how to behave as a guest; your father taught you that properly. Excellent perry, is this last year's reserve? Mmm, you honour us. There is only one family in England whose orchards produce an English perry pear that rivals the French estates. Simply effervescent. Do tell me, Rosier, did your father ensure your gentle education also included French instruction?"
"Oui," said Rosier, throwing a sly wink in Hermione's direction, "je suis connu pour avoir bon goût en littérature française."
Hermione understood the gist of his statement. He claims to have good taste in French literature.
She bit back a groan. Was this about Le Jardin Parfumé, that book Lestrange had mentioned during the Homework Club meeting, wasn't it? Someday, she was going to find herself a copy of that book and discover what all the fuss had been about. Glancing around, she saw that Travers was blank-faced and clueless. He had no idea that Rosier had evaded his promise not to mention the "forbidden" book.
Madam Trombley smiled approvingly, and answered, "C'est bon de voir que le sang normand coule pur dans ce pays étranger."
The Auror spoke too quickly, and Hermione tried to puzzle it out—something good, a compliment perhaps, about Norman blood, but was interrupted by Mr. Wilkes speaking.
"If we're done with the formal introductions, we ought to focus on what our guests are here for. The job requirements of a professional magical law enforcement." Mr. Wilkes waved them over to a settee by a low table, on which was arranged the tea accoutrements. He offered them tea cups and poured the tea, giving them a minute to delegate the milk jug and the sugar bowl. Hermione took the opportunity hand him her gift sampler, which he accepted with a nod of acknowledgement. "You've seen this morning's newspaper, I hope?"
"Yes," said Hermione. "The Ministry has maintained the stance that they have the Montrose situation under control. But it's more than the Montrose situation now. I don't think the Ministry can claim, not in good faith, that Britain is uninvolved with the wizarding war that has overtaken Europe for the last six years. They could try, certainly, but would people believe them? The Daily Prophet has changed its tune."
She picked up the day's newspaper, laid out next to the tea tray. The Aurors must have been reading it before their arrival.
Trouble in Tinworth: Unlikely Heroes' Daring Discovery
Undesirables Apprehended, Aided by Aurors!
Goodness, did they really have to write headlines that, more than not, resembled installments of cheap serials passed around in her Muggle primary school? Sensationalised diction, a number of shocking twists at every turn, a photograph that only barely scraped by as company-appropriate, and the reminder that the reader had to buy the next edition to ascertain the uncertain fate of the brave protagonists.
The animated cover photograph depicted a squad of burly Aurors, shoulders squared and hands behind their backs, posing behind a row of rectangular black sacks lined up on a cobbled street. Six sacks in total, around the length of a human body. Hermione realised, with a stab of horror, that they were human bodies. The two Aurors on the far left and right sides held the arms of two standing figures, smaller black sacks over their heads, trussed up with the thin black cords typically manifested by the Incarcerous spell.
.
Tinworth Village, Cornwall, 11AM.
The sleepy seaside village of Tinworth was rocked by the news that one of their own was not what he seemed. The proprietor of the well-known Tinworth Village Foundry, Master of Magical Metallurgy Ansgar Schmitz, 46, was arrested early this Saturday morning in a DMLE-sanctioned raid led by Head Auror Evelyn McClure. Master Schmitz, the sole licensed magical farrier in the West Country, was a German-born British citizen of good standing and solid repute, whose certificate of naturalisation was granted by village poll in 1939.
Tinworth's mayor, Mr. Telemachus Dentlin, 78, told The Prophet, "The previous forgemaster, old Master Turnstall, retired in 1934. His apprentice daughter took over the shop, but soon left it to marry into a woodwork enchanting family, the Ollertons of Cheshire, owners of the Cleansweep Broomstick Company. She couldn't work for them and Tinworth both. The village, the nearest way station for the famous Bodmin Stakes, needed the forge fires burning full-time. We had no choice but to accept the application of Master Schmitz; there was no other as qualified as he. In fact, he was overqualified for the position, but due to a fortuitous state of wizarding bylaw in relation to his non-British birth, could not attain the status of sole owner-operator of a historical British business. Schmitz consented to a lease contract, an excellent deal for the village, wherein he provided the sales stock, but Tinworth retained the building with a reasonable consideration. This would help the village, we thought. I suppose we were wrong."
Master Schmitz was none other than an Undesirable, the leader of a secret cell with clear connection to the Montrose affair of last month. It was revealed to us, through a keen and first-hand insight to which we were made privy, that the conspiracy goes deeper than a single rogue agent. Through the tireless efforts of the Prince of Charming and the Green Knight, six culprits were dispatched forthwith, and an additional two suspects formally apprehended by members of the Auror Office summoned to the scene, and impelled to attend a full Wizengamot trial scheduled for the second week of June. The criminal charges, we are given to understand, are...
.
Travers leaned over her shoulder to read the article. Hermione passed the newspaper over to Travers and sipped from her teacup.
"Finished already?" asked Mr. Wilkes, who had been watching her intently. "Fast reader. Here's a challenge for you, Miss Tactician: what deductions can you make from this information?"
"The lead article had two angles," said Hermione. "Who caused the problem, and who solved it? It's clear that someone has decided the village leadership are the ones to blame for... well, if not an express case of dereliction of duty, a careless minor oversight from turning a blind eye where they shouldn't have. I noticed that they didn't place any responsibility on the Ministry's shoulders, the entity with ultimate approval powers over the registration of foreign-born citizens and public leases. If the foundry property belonged to the village of Tinworth, and not a private owner, then that's the Ministry's jurisdiction. By British magical law, public land—including wizarding townships—is under governance of the public service. The village voted, yes, but the Ministry could have refused.
"And the second item of note: what exactly was the division of labour between the Prince and Knight, and the Aurors? The article obfuscates on who did what, and implies that the job was a co-operative effort between both groups. But this doesn't seem right to me. In pre-Statute English law, there is precedent for the rôle of the 'thief-taker', an independent agent who captured wanted housebreakers, fraudsters, and waylayers lurking at popular Apparition relays. This was before the Ministry of Magic's establishment in 1707, so their payment came from town bounties, and the thief-takers were eventually replaced by salaried offices in Magical Law Enforcement, post-Statute. The concept of independent bounty chasing still exists to the present day. What puzzles me is why the Ministry authorities are openly collaborating with them. That has no precedent, as far as I'm aware."
Madam Trombley and Mr. Wilkes exchanged a wary glance. Madam Trombley said, "The various departments have been known to work with independent agents in reconnaissance, intelligence, and the diplomatic corps. And of course, we work with foreign law enforcement personnel across jurisdictions, if a crime merits international attention. It's unusual, but not unheard of."
"How unheard of is it for the DMLE to publicly acknowledge the contributions of free agents?" Hermione asked. "Not bound by the formalised and incontestable legal process undertaken by a Ministry authority or endorsed contractor, for a public safety situation as dire as this one? The last thing the Ministry would want to do is admit that the situation was out of their hands, even partially. It just doesn't seem like something they would willingly sanction."
"It isn't," said Travers. "Father would never have allowed it, when he was Head Auror. And when he headed the DMLE, his own Head Auror would never have countenanced the possibility."
"McClure's Aurors are different," said Madam Trombley enigmatically. "'Right lives by law, and law subsists by power'. Your father believed in Right, while Mr. Rawlins, the current head of the DMLE, trusts in Power. It's a political game he and the Minister play; your father was never fond of how the game came at the unfortunate expense of efficacy."
Travers nodded in understanding. "The paper implies that the Prince and the Knight were responsible for the six bags in the photo, and the Auror Office caught the two live ones. Do you know how close it is to the... what did you call it last time, Granger? The 'unofficial line'? Why would Rawlins even consider allowing the public implication that a pair of unknown thief-takers did thrice the work of his own people?"
Mr. Wilkes scrutinised the three students sitting on the settee: Travers, Hermione, and Rosier. Rosier fidgeted under the Auror's stare. "Can you be trusted to be discreet?"
"Yes, sir," they echoed. "Of course."
"His own people did no work at all," pronounced Mr. Wilkes. "The Prince caught them, all eight of them, single-handed. The Knight Floo-called the Dispatch Office for reinforcements, but had no involvement whatsoever in the action—his duelling vest was pristine. The Prince fought the Master Metallurge and his apprentice. He beat them both, two on one, at great personal risk."
"If the Prince is so extraordinary a wizard, why does he need the Knight at all?" Rosier asked. "Granger, you mentioned bounty chasing. If they're after bounties, then having two people instead of one means splitting the prize two ways. Why would the Prince not want to keep the gold to himself, if he's capable of doing the work by himself?"
"We spoke of the purpose of Auror partners the first time Travers brought Miss Granger to visit," said Madam Trombley. "The partnership isn't about who does the most the work, it's about how each person contributes to the group as a whole. The Prince is the prime spellcaster, but we believe the Knight is his wardmaster. It's suspected that the Knight subverted the Fidelius Charms the saboteurs have been using to secrete themselves. It was he who delivered the runic warding schemes and other documents to be used in building the case against them when they're brought to trial."
"Are you allowed to share this information, Madam?" Travers asked nervously. "We won't tell anyone else about it, but surely you ought to protect yourself first from any accusations of impropriety. You might be asked if you spoke outside the proper chain of command, and your truthful answer would not flatter."
"Applications open in August," Madam Trombley replied. "If you three intend to apply, you should know what it means to be an Auror." In a softer voice, she continued, "And your father wouldn't want you to walk into the Office on the first day, only knowing the job of the Auror from what you've read in the manual. I also promised him that I would protect you—me and Wilkes both—and that's how we ended up with the Hogwarts assignment. Good turn that it worked out to be, in fact. Being on guard duty the whole time, it'll be the active Aurors under McClure who will take fire from the Minister's office for this affair, not us."
"Either way," added Mr. Wilkes, "the department leaks like a sieve. Doesn't help that the Prince has been feeding The Daily Prophet directly. Rawlins has no choice but to admit that the Prince is an essential asset, because the paper has access to prime evidence: the Prince's memories. And the Prophet's staff is under no legal obligation to keep quiet about an upcoming criminal case. A civil case might be made to bring them in line, but the suspects are not very likely to sue for their reputations."
"If there is a direct line of contact, does that mean the Prophet knows who he is?" asked Hermione.
"No," said Mr. Wilkes. "No one knows the identity of this Prince. It's as if he came out of thin air. But that's fair impossible; first-rate wizards don't pop out of the aether. It takes years of training to become that good, and such training always involves other first-rate wizards. Yet no one is willing or able to speak."
"He's self-taught, perhaps," theorised Madam Trombley. "They think he's a Master of Charms, or equivalent certification. He knows how to manipulate spell boundaries and standard effect configurations, magical theory related to the advanced discipline of spell-crafting. But there have only been six successful Charms Mastery certifications in the past twenty-five years, and all six have divulged under oath that they don't recognise his wand or voice. Legilimency as well—that's how he's been questioning the suspects. The Mind Arts are a restricted discipline; the only certified teacher in the country is the elderly Mr. Claudius Prince, the Chief Interrogator for the Wizengamot, and he knows every student he's ever taken. Most are Mind Healers, bound by vow not to harm their subjects. This Prince is too aggressive, too unfettered, to be one of them."
"There's a theory floating around the office," said Mr. Wilkes, "that the 'Prince' title comes via the Prince bloodline. They are the only family in Britain who openly claim that particular natural aptitude as their birthright. The Prince of Charming—a Charms Master from the Princes' blood."
"It could be an illegitimate son of the line," Rosier suggested. "The Princes would hardly be eager to make such an admission."
"Mr. Prince denies his own responsibility," said Mr. Wilkes. "He took the traditional vows with his wife. It is a physical impossibility for him."
"Well, what about before he was married?" said Rosier. He let out a light cough. "Some wizards, er, do that sort of thing. Or so I have heard."
"He married last century," Madam Trombley said. "This Prince of Charming is not a day past thirty, if McClure's judgement is to be trusted. 'A beardless boy hiding under a black scarf', he said. 'Calls himself a Prince because no one would take him for a King, even if Merlin himself handed him the sword in a rock.'"
"You're making the assumption that this Prince of Charming is British," Hermione pointed out. "Yes, he claims to be a hero to the British people, but one doesn't have to be British to support that."
"It's been reported that he speaks with an Englishman's voice," said Mr. Wilkes.
"Anyone can learn English, just like any Englishman can learn German or French or any other language," said Hermione. "And plenty of Englishmen can have foreign blood. You, Rosier—" She turned rather suddenly to Rosier, sitting beside her with a biscuit in his mouth.
Rosier jumped. Shortbread crumbs pattered onto his lap. "Me? What did I do?"
"You have Norman blood. Madam Trombley mentioned it earlier."
"So do the Malfoys!" Rosier said. "And the Lestranges. The Trombleys from the village of Tremblay, in Normandy. The Peverells too, dead in the male line, but filtered down by the female line into half of the best families in England."
"I'm just venturing the possibility that this Prince may not be as British as assumed, and acquired his lineage or learned his skills from sources outside of Britain. Britain isn't the only nation in the magical world where talented teachers reside," Hermione explained. She herself had been taught extra-curricular magic by a Durmstrang alumnus. "It would be narrow-minded to limit oneself to such a possibility. Perhaps a foreign origin could explain why he holds such a grudge against the agents of Grindelwald."
Mr. Wilkes studied Hermione carefully. "Hmm," he grunted.
Madam Trombley glanced at him, then put on a pleasant smile. "Enough of this business talk. Tell me how your little study group is carrying on, young Travers. Wands at dawn? I'd never have thought you'd be capable of it; your father was plenty amused when he got the report. He reminds you to be more careful next time. This time, you were lucky that the Deputy Headmaster thinks so well of the Head Boy and came to the rescue on his behalf. Probert is no friend of ours, but he won't take his chances going up against the likes of Albus Dumbledore. Definitely not!"
The rest of the discussion focused on their outdoor training, academics, and the approaching iceberg in the distance: their career-making exams in June, two months away. Hermione was sure she would receive full marks for the written portions of exams, and was nervous about the practical demonstrations, while Rosier felt the opposite. Travers was anxious about both.
"There are secret bonus marks the examiners may award you in the Defence practical," Madam Trombley told him. "If you can cast a spell while maintaining another spell passively, that's an extra mark. They usually ask to see the layered shield—a perfect symmetrical Shield Charm cast within another Shield Charm. Another extra mark is the corporeal Patronus. This one is vital for Aurors, and taught during the traineeship. Wouldn't be able to take an Azkaban assignment without it."
"I can't do either," said Travers glumly.
"It should theoretically be possible," said Hermione, "if the examiners believe a student wizard capable of it. I've read about the Patronus Charm. A good part of willing it into existence is the belief you can do it. The other parts are clarity of visualisation, strength and appropriate choice of focal memory, and intensity of focus. It's one of the more primordial species of magic, based on pure intent, similar to certain other specialised disciplines: Animagy, rituals, and divinatory dreams." She remembered Tom's words. "'If you want it strongly enough, then you can make it real.'"
It was nearing dinnertime when a pocket watch chimed, notifying the Aurors of a change in shifts. The students were promptly escorted out the door.
"Come back another day," said Madam Trombley, waving them farewell. "Goodness knows we won't find better company while on this particular assignment."
"Goodbye," said Mr. Wilkes gruffly, shutting the staff room door in their faces.
While making their way to the Great Hall, they encountered other students guided with urgency, by their rumbling stomachs if not a respectful nod to punctuality, to the prospect of dinner. The afternoon classes were letting out, and the corridors were awash with black robes and excited chatter. Their exams may have been looming for the Fifth and Seventh Years, but the rest of the school had regular subject exams, which were seen as nothing but a brief inconvenience to enjoying the freedom of the summer holidays.
A group of Slytherin Fifth Years bumped into them while exiting a classroom; a heavy, swinging schoolbag, tossed carelessly over a shoulder, smacked Hermione in the arm.
"Ouch!" she gasped.
The Slytherin boy with the bag glanced backwards, took one glimpse at Hermione's blue Ravenclaw robes and turned away without saying a word in apology. His friend grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him back, hissing, "It's her!"
Sheepishly, the boy turned around and realised in an instant that he had taken the wrong impression: he had slighted the Head Girl, who was accompanied by two Slytherin upper-year escorts: a frowning Travers, and Rosier with his brow raised in wry humour.
"Uh... My apologies, Granger," he said. "I didn't see you there. Congratulations to you and Riddle. Erm... May your union be greeted in abundance by gentle hours and sublime days. Rosier. Travers." He gave her a polite incline of the head, followed by nods to Rosier and Travers, then ducked away into the crowd, disappearing around the next corner. His friends followed him just as quickly.
"That was odd," Hermione remarked. "I've never spoken to him before, and he must know I wouldn't have taken House points for bumping into me in the hall. An accident isn't against the rules, even if it hurts." She rubbed her sore arm. "People have been really strange about it all day. Does everyone in Slytherin know that Tom and I are engaged? Did he announce it in the Common Room or something?"
"Something like that," muttered Rosier. "My sister... Ugh."
"Oh, Druella!" Hermione exclaimed. "She stopped me after breakfast this morning, with her friends. They wanted to look at my ring. Another person I've never spoken to before today, yet she offered to write to me. Slytherins aren't usually this friendly. Not to students of other Houses. And... not to someone like me." She let out an apologetic laugh, looking at Rosier's unhappy expression and Travers' dour face. "No offence intended!"
Travers glared at Rosier. Rosier shrugged and lifted a brow. Travers grunted. Rosier made a face.
"Is this some sort of secret Slytherin code?" asked Hermione.
"You tell her," said Travers. "It's your sister."
"No, it's Riddle's job. It's his responsibility to explain how the rules work," Rosier retorted.
"Good luck trying to make Riddle do anything," said Travers with a scoff.
"What's going on?" said Hermione. "You know that I wasn't raised a witch; I haven't any familiarity with the obscure cultural subtext that you Slytherins speak as your native tongue."
"Right," said Rosier, looking both ways down the corridor, which had thinned of traffic while the dinner bell beckoned. "The classroom. Should be empty now."
The classroom that the Fifth Year Slytherins had evacuated had one student occupant, a Hufflepuff, slowly packing his overloaded bag with a stack of textbooks and a large bundle of parchment scrolls.
"Get lost," snapped Rosier.
The Hufflepuff snatched up his scrolls and held them to his chest protectively, and without a word, scurried out of the classroom.
"Dear God, I'll miss doing that when we graduate," sighed Rosier. He shut the door and cast the Locking Charm, then threw himself down on a table, undoing the top button of his collar and letting his necktie knot hang loose in a debonair manner. "Look, Granger. I'll put it as delicately as I can, but when Riddle announces his formal intentions to marry you, you can no longer be treated as yet another irrelevant Muggleborn."
"'Irrelevant Muggleborn'?" Hermione said. "Excuse me!"
"It's not what we think of you. You're clearly a relevant Muggleborn!" said Travers, speaking quickly. He settled in behind a desk and neatened his robes, choosing his words with care. "'Irrelevant' is how most of our House thinks of Muggleborns in general. Nothing personal against you or anything. It's just that... in Slytherin, it's believed witches and wizards need to earn their standing in our House, if they came to us without name, connection, or advantage. But Riddle did it. He earned every scrap of good-will the House affords him today. And since he's claimed you, and you've accepted him, you'll be a Riddle yourself. To slight you is to dishonour his name."
"Ordinarily, small slights can be overlooked," Rosier added. "It didn't matter that no one had kind words or any words at all for Ignatius Prewett, Lucretia's man and Gryffindor's Head Boy in 1935. Riddle's a different beast, on the other hand. He takes, um, great pains in ensuring his reputation in our House is immaculate."
"Oh," said Hermione. "I had thought the apology was simple courtesy. It would've been, in Ravenclaw."
"No," said Rosier. "Not for Slytherin. For us, it's a matter of self-interest."
"What about your sister?" Hermione asked. "I wouldn't say she 'slighted' me."
"Self-interest, again," Travers grumbled. "Nott had the right of it. Mouthy."
"Can you enlighten me as to what exactly Druella is interested in that would benefit herself? I'm sure she already has a future husband picked out; I don't see why she's bothering with mine." Hermione didn't dwell on her thoughts of Tom as My Husband, or why she prickled at the prospect of other witches planning out his future. "Tom is a half-blood, anyway. Your lot are always so pernickety over blood status."
"Riddle is a half-blood, but he has uncommon power," said Rosier. "And no one could deny that you, Granger, have uncommon intelligence. Even stodgy old Wilkes was impressed by your knowledge and analysis of wizarding law. Any daughter that Riddle sires on you should have power and intellect both. Decent looks, too. Riddle may be the only man alive who appreciates the hair, but the rest of us can tell that you don't exactly have the face of a dog."
"Hey!" said Hermione, self-consciously brushing a hand through her curls.
"Take it as a compliment, Granger," whispered Travers. "It'd be improper for him to say it straight that Riddle's wife cleans up nicely."
Rosier continued, "And here's the substance of the issue: your daughter by Riddle will be highly eligible, even if she's only a half-blood. Because if she marries into a pureblood house, it doesn't matter that her surname is Riddle. It's only a maiden name. Any child she bears by a pureblood husband will be pureblooded by technicality, with all four grandparents of wizarding ancestry. Nott would demand great-grandparents, but he's a hardliner, and most of the rest of our families will accept three generations of magic if it's powerful magic. Even Malfoy. He'll never admit it, but it's a known secret in our circles that Abraxas Malfoy's family will lower themselves to accept brides of unknown blood if the dowry's good enough. They prize the title of richest family in Britain that much. And a whopping great pile of gold can convince anyone, even Cantankerus Nott, to keep his opinions to himself."
Hermione could understand the logic, though she couldn't say she agreed with it. A year ago, she'd met Tom's uncle, Morfin Gaunt, and Nott had proclaimed the man a result of excessive inbreeding. This strategy might be a rational response to maintaining the health of a pureblood line as well as its name, but it was essentially a "laundering" of the pedigree to keep that asinine label of pure. She tried to keep the discomfort from showing in her expression. "Was your sister trying to convince me that our children should marry? Is that what all of this is? First of all, Tom and I aren't even married yet. We're still school students. So why is Druella even thinking about our non-existent grandchildren!"
"She's a pureblood witch of superior fortune and circumstance," said Travers. "They don't work or need jobs. Her husband will provide servants to wait on her and keep house, so what else would she be doing all day? Cygnus is the youngest child on the lesser branch, so she probably thought it a tenable idea. Alphard is the eldest; the matches of his children would bear the greatest scrutiny. Walburga, however, certainly wouldn't abide it, not even for a second son."
"If you asked her directly, she'd deny it, naturally," said Rosier. "But it's the long game, and we all play it. Well, Slytherin House does. Riddle should have explained it to you. Why else would you marry him, if you didn't know?"
The logic of Druella Rosier was clear now. It was laundering. This hypothetical grandchild would have "pure" blood, backed by the Black name and fortune. A half-blood Black-by-marriage would not find herself named a nonpareil hostess in the upper echelons of wizarding high Society, but her Black-by-birth child was different. That blooded surname was the ticket into marriage within other wizarding lines, and after that, those lowly origins would disappear into the annals of historical irrelevance like an unfashionable hat.
"Perhaps it's because we like each other," said Hermione with a sniff.
Rosier and Travers looked at one another.
"I see," said Rosier, but his expression was one of polite bafflement.
"Here's another question, since you're an expert on this long game business," said Hermione. "You only mentioned what plans there were for a future daughter of mine. What if I didn't have a daughter, but had a son instead?"
Rosier smirked. "You'd best hope he takes after you and not after his father. Slughorn would like it, but he'd be the only one. I can't imagine Slytherin would enjoy such a propect of having another Riddle in the House, identical to the last one. They'd probably wonder what they'd done to deserve Salazar's ire and punishment."
On the way to dinner, Hermione thanked Travers and Rosier for their advice. She also confirmed whether or not this information could be found in a book.
"Not likely," Travers told her. "And not in the Hogwarts library."
Dinner had already begun by the time they'd arrived, but Tom had saved her the seat next to his. He'd also gone to the effort of putting aside a plate, loaded with a healthy medley of vegetables and the choicest slices of roast beef. It was kept warm under a Stasis Charm and guarded from the desirous gaze of Lestrange, who had devoured his first serving of supper and was casting around the Slytherin table for his second and third.
"How was tea?" asked Tom, watching Hermione spread her napkin over her lap and pick up her fork. "You were gone for ages."
"It was excellent," said Hermione. "The Aurors are well-informed conversationalists. We talked about the arrests in Cornwall, and the Prince of Charming. The Aurors seem to be under the impression that the Prince is British, though no one in Britain knows of any wizard with his particular set of talents."
"Do they," said Tom, his eyes narrowed. "Why would you not think he's British?"
"'Le Prince Charmant' is a French folk story," said Hermione. "And Madam Trombley heard from Head Auror McClure that the Prince is a young man; a 'beardless boy', reportedly. Wizards favour beards more than Muggle men, ever since the air raids meant Muggle city-dwellers had to be fitted for gas masks; they need a clean-shaven face to fit air-tight. This Prince must be relatively young, if he's truly beardless. And every young wizard in Britain attended Hogwarts. If the Prince of Charming went to Hogwarts, then he would have been at Hogwarts during our tenure here." She sliced up her beef and took a bite. "If someone that good was a student here, I'm sure I would have noticed. And I'm sure you would have, too, Tom. You wouldn't be able to stand the existence of another boy swaggering about the halls, calling himself a prince of magic."
"No," Tom agreed. "You're right. I couldn't stand for it. Hogwarts has only room enough for one of us."
Tom walked her up to the Ravenclaw tower after dinner, casting a silent Conjunctivitis Curse on the bronze eagle guardian before pressing her up against the door and kissing her as if a hearty three-course dinner had not done the slightest to relieve his hunger. He regretfully tore himself away when he heard voices coming up the spiral stairwell, and greeted the group of Third Years bouncing up the steps with eager cries of, "Good evening, Riddle!"
"Good evening, Miss Sutcliffe, Miss Linney, Miss Brackenburne, and... Miss Redmount. Tell me, have I got it correct?"
"Yes!"
"He knows our names!"
"Ahhh!" they squealed. "I'll die happy!"
Hermione mumbled the answer to the blinded eagle's puzzle and slipped up to the girls' dormitories, lest the girls wonder what the Slytherin Head Boy was doing at the entrance to the Ravenclaw living quarters. She got ready for bed, the first one in her dormitory group to turn in; her other dorm mates were still at dinner or writing essays in the Common Room library, while she'd finished hers the previous week. In her nightgown and damp hair, she sat down on her bed and examined the silver ring on her left hand.
Tom wanted to marry her, because he wanted her, because there was no one else he wanted as much as her. She believed in romance, and Tom didn't, but how was Tom's explanation that much removed from 'romantic'? He could Conjure endless bundles of red roses to meet the definition of 'romance' that other people understood, but she understood him too well to know that it would be an empty gesture devoid of truth. For him to say he wanted her, and only her, for the untrod centuries of their lives... That was the truest attestation of his regard for her than any number of flowers. She knew he cared for her, and when she confronted the state of her own heart without the circular thinking to which she often found herself immured, she admitted to returning his sentiment.
She cared for him. She... wanted him.
It was scarcely a great leap to join herself one step further to him than she already was.
The next step wasn't nothing, on the other hand. Tom had expressed his intention that their marriage should entail all that she understood marriage entailed, and despite a broad range of distinctions between the Muggle and the wizarding world, certain things were identical. Rosier—major and minor—and Travers expected her to produce Tom's children. And Hermione had learned enough about both worlds to know that Muggle children were assembled in much the same process as wizard children.
Marital congress.
Such a subject was beyond her personal experience.
And beyond Tom's as well, she thought. He tolerated others' touch, only barely; she couldn't imagine him, as he described it, wanting anyone else. Let alone doing that sort of business. But it was different for Hermione. Tom sought her touch, climbing into her bed at the Riddle House even when she tried to lock the door to keep him out. Warded locks with a variable moon-phase puzzle did little to dissuade him. She'd woken up with his arm wrapped around her waist so many mornings that she'd eventually conceded to him a victory by attrition.
His lack of education in these intimate affairs wouldn't discourage Tom from informing himself on the details and mechanics. She, therefore, ought not to retreat from the prospect either. When did Hermione Granger ever admit defeat when faced with a self-study project of such monumental size and importance? She was personally invested. And somewhat willing to confess that she had enjoyed the charade of "walking out" with Tom that they'd perpetuated over the course of the school year. With some resistance, she also confessed not minding the thought of Tom Riddle as her future husband. (Furthermore, she did mind the thought of Tom Riddle as someone else's husband, and some selfish corner of heart had thrummed with self-satisfaction to hear that Tom would rather be alone than belong to anyone else.)
She had wanted a husband one day, and if that day came sooner than she'd expected, it was more of a solution to her close-approaching post-graduation concerns than a problem. Besides, she could hardly think of anyone else who could fit that title of husband, other than Tom Riddle. Tom would be smug about that, but it was true, and Hermione wasn't so dishonest about her character as to deny it on principle.
She cared about Tom. For most of each other's lives, they were first in each other's thoughts. She didn't mind the thought of having him as her future husband. Or the thought of... having him. Perhaps she shouldn't, perhaps it was too forward of her, too unseemly to say aloud. But then again, what could anyone say about it if they were husband and wife? Nothing.
Lying down on her bed, she dimmed her wandlight and set her vinewood wand on the nightstand table. Then, after a moment of consideration, she tore the ring off her finger and flung it across the room. It pinged off the far wall and rolled under the skirts of Twyla's empty four-poster.
In the morning, when Hermione was dressing in the day's clean uniform robe, she saw the silver ring on the table sitting next to her wand. It had returned to her during the night.
Neverlost, she remembered. Tom wasn't lying about the enchantments. This ring was meant to be worn for the rest of my life.
.
.
A few days later, Hermione visited the Hogwarts library.
She had expected Tom to be browsing the Transfiguration reference section of the library. It was the most logical choice, with their exams closing in, the Homework Club's application of creative Transfiguration for self-defence, and Professor Dumbledore's recent remarks on Tom's essay she'd overheard during their last class session. Tom had given a textbook answer for his essay, entirely correct, but of course Dumbledore expected more of Tom than the ordinary student. The professor had gone so far as to say that to Tom's face, quite candidly, as if he knew that Tom could be motivated to go above and beyond when his work was described as, "Perfect proficiency to the N.E.W.T. examiner's rubric. A good, satisfying O effort, Tom".
It had made Tom very upset to hear this assessment of his work, although she didn't fully understand it herself. But she allowed him to hold her left hand with his wand hand under the table until Professor Dumbledore wandered off to talk to the next row of students sitting behind them about their essays.
Hermione hadn't expected to find him in the deserted section where wizarding culture met wizarding literature, reading novels. Novels! What happened to his indifference toward fiction, his lack of comprehension toward characters and their illogical motivations? Each character's defects of personality that he claimed made him despise the human condition instead of appreciating its myriad complexities?
Yet he sat in a dusty corner of the library, brow furrowed, immersed in literature that even Hermione, lover of all books, might call frivolous light reading: The Mysterious Mister Maximillian. It was a romance novel, the wizarding version of the classic bodice-ripper, complete with a handsome portrait on the front cover.
When Tom heard nearby footsteps, he shut the book with a brisk snap and stood up from the desk. "Hermione?" he called. "I know you're there."
Hermione peeked out from behind the bookshelf. "How did you know it was me?"
"Only girls walk that lightly. It's not chauvinism, it's physics. And you have a distinctive gait. Step, step, step, pause, 'Oh, that book sounds interesting', and then the following steps become slightly heavier because you added the book to your reading pile."
She glanced down guiltily at the stack of four, no, five books in her arms. "It seems like you know me too well."
"Not well enough, I find," said Tom, coming over to her and dropping the book pile on the table. He had a book in his hand, and flashed her the cover, depicting a man with firm pectorals under a flouncy poet's shirt. "I've read it cover to cover, twice, and I still don't understand..."
"Understand what, exactly?"
"Witches," said Tom. "What is the explanation for their fascination for vampires? What is it about those barely-human, mostly-dead creatures that witches believe is so enticing? What do they have that I don't?"
He began pacing back and forth, opening the book back up and flipping through the pages with frantic speed, his words pouring out. "Mister Maximillian, or the Ritter von Aldersbach in his past life. He lives in a big fancy house and has money. I have money. Pale skin, shiny dark hair. Mine looks about the same. Mind control powers. Same as me. He plays the piano and can live forever. I don't have that... not yet. Is that what witches like? Pianos and immortality?"
"Tom, you're taking this too seriously," Hermione said, patting him on the shoulder. "It's just fiction."
"It's not just fiction," Tom insisted. "I looked it up in the creature manuals. A vampire's intelligence combined with their mental abilities places them in a similar category to Veelas. The skills and abilities they learned as humans carries over to their undead un-lives. That part of their nature may be stylised for creative purposes, but it's based on something objectively real."
"Assuming it is true," said Hermione, trying to humour him with what she assumed was the latest of one of his odd obsessions, "every witch is different and has different preferences."
"Not too different," said Tom. He flipped to the back cover of the book and showed her the library borrowing card tucked in the back, filled with a long row of red numerical stamps marking the return dates. There were eight borrows for the school year of 1944–1945. For a library the size of Hogwarts', that was a fair number for a non-reference or supplementary text. "A lot of witches like vampires."
"When did you start caring about what strangers thought? You never cared before, unless you knew you could use it in some way," Hermione mused. "You must feel that the preferences of witches is somehow relevant to your personal quality of life."
"Something in that vein," Tom said. "I thought that it was in the interest of a wizard to know best how to seduce his wife. If he was clueless at it, then some other wizard—or not even a wizard—could swoop in, literally even, and take his job. That would never do. A husband ought to know what makes his wife's heart flutter and swoon, what she desires, what keeps her satisfied in every facet of her life. The logical course of action was to research the subject. I went to look for books that explained how it worked, what exact trait or character made a man so irresistable that a witch couldn't help but want to spend eternity with him."
He turned his head to look down at the hand Hermione had laid on his shoulder. Nervously, Hermione tried to draw it away, but Tom put his hand over it, the one not holding the book, and kept it where it was. His hand slid down to her wrist and gripped it firmly. Not painfully, but with no indication that he wanted to let go of her soon.
Tom leaned close, his eyes glittering. "I want to know what makes a witch feel want. I want to know what makes her gasp and tremble and ignore the quiet, sensible voice of her foremothers echoing in her mind, telling her she shouldn't want someone so formidable, so dangerous. So wicked."
Each sentence of his was punctuated with a step forward, which pressed Hermione to take a step backward, until there were no more steps left and Tom had backed her into a bookshelf. Hermione could feel book spines digging into the back of her jumper, Tom's hold around her wrist, and his attention fixed solely on her.
"I had my theories on what Mister Maximillian possessed that made him so desirable. But they were only that, empty theories without practice or substance," Tom continued. "It didn't seem reasonable to me that all Maximillian had to do was sneak up on Heloisa in the rose garden to make her tingle with his very presence. How is that possible? It sounded far too unrealistic. An indulgent pinch of narrative conceit. But no, there is something to it, isn't there?
"There is something about me that has such a visceral effect on you. What is it? Is it my presence? Is it my voice, my magic, the power that resonates with each word and each touch?" Tom leaned in close, forehead brushing against hers, that tidy little front curl of his dangling over her brow. Hermione's eyes widened; this was abnormal. Tom often forgot himself and his manners when he was caught in the grips of his latest madness. But his eyes didn't have the telltale distance of gears whirling several fathoms beneath the surface. They were fixed on hers, and looked... mostly lucid. "It's difficult to believe that my wife could be seduced by something as unintelligible as what was described in the book as 'raw masculine sensuality'. How fanciful a notion."
He was too near. Their chests brushed, their robes so closely overlapped that blue facings met green linings, and Tom's lips traced a journey from her cheekbone down her jaw and finally to his goal, her mouth. He chuckled, and the rumble of his quiet laugh kindled that coy tingle that she didn't like admitting she got when Tom embraced impulsivity and disregarded every rule she'd learned and been taught about public propriety. Then his mouth caught hers and any seedling of complaint she could muster withered on the vine.
His teeth grazed her lip. The hand that held the book pressed against her side, the corner of the cover nudging her ribs. Tom took his time exploring, eyes half-lidded, enjoying the rare private moment of holding Hermione without the constraints of his flawless reputation holding him back. His mouth swept back to her cheek, her earlobe, down to her throat...
Then he bit her, right on the neck.
Hermione let out a muffled squeal, unable to keep the giggles from bursting free. "Tom, that tickles! What on Earth are you doing?"
Tom pulled back and gave her a reproachful look. "I'm doing what Maximillian did in the book, when trying to explain to Heloise why he's a disgusting monster who would ruin her life. Heloise is supposed to like it; her internal monologue goes on and on saying that she wanted him to throw her down and have his way."
"I can't believe you're following the advice of a romance novel, Tom!" Hermione said, laughing. "This is ridiculous!"
"It's worked so far," said Tom grumpily, not pleased at her quiet peals of laughter. "You're not supposed to laugh at this. You're supposed to feel what the narrator describes as, ah, 'a dark, throbbing want'."
"It's fiction," she told him. "I'm sure the author made it all up."
"There's one way to test it..."
"What is it?"
"Try it on me," said Tom. "You can't form a significant conclusion with a sample population of one."
"Tom..."
"Please?"
"Ugh." Hermione huffed out a breath and tugged her wrist out of Tom's grip. She loosened the knot of his necktie, unbuttoned the first button on his uniform shirt, and peeled down the starched collar. "If this makes you laugh, then it's no harm done, I suppose."
She placed her hands on his shoulders, pulling him down to an accessible height. Then she ran her lips from his jaw down to his throat and the side of his neck. Tom was silent, but she could feel the jerk and thrum of his pulse under her mouth, the short puffs of controlled breath. He was agitated but trying his best to hide it.
"Here it goes," she murmured, opening her mouth and biting him gently, barely discernably. When he didn't react, not even to laugh, she gripped the flesh of his throat firmer between her teeth, and left him a pink ring of a dental imprint.
"H-Hermione," Tom stuttered, his voice hoarse. It came out more like Hnng-mione.
Hermione let go and attempted to push herself away. "Sorry, Tom, I didn't mean to hurt you—"
"No," said Tom, "you didn't hurt me. I liked it."
It was Hermione's time to gasp in surprise. "Oh!"
"That was dangerous," said Tom. Then his eyes flashed. "Do it again!"
He bent down again, baring his throat to her. "Sample size of two, sample population of two. You know that such a result can't be counted as meaningful evidence of anything."
"Tom..."
"I permit you to use me as the subject of this vital research," said Tom. "No, not permit. I beseech you."
With a sigh, Hermione leaned over and sank her teeth into his flesh. The muscle of his shoulders tensed under her hands, and he crushed her against the bookshelf, the press of his weight over hers somehow becoming less stifling and more... tantalising.
"Ah," he breathed. "Now I understand it. Why Heloise refused to leave no matter how many times Maximillian tried to order her away." His voice dropped, and almost inaudibly, he said, "It became addiction."
Ruefully, he removed his weight from her and took a step back, smoothing down his rumpled collar. "One can't rely on books directly, I see. I thought it would be so easy to follow the steps and seduce my wife. But it's not that easy, is it, Hermione?"
Hermione wiped the wetness from her lips with her robe sleeve. "Need I inform you that I'm not your wife, and you haven't seduced me?"
"Not yet."
"To the wife part, or the seduction?"
Tom laughed. "They're the same thing. But if you're so concerned about it, then you should refute my efforts with countermeasures of your own. There's one way to do it, if you haven't figured it out yet."
"What way is that?"
"Seduce me first. You've a natural talent and a good head start. I could hardly hope to compete."
"This, whatever this was, wasn't seduction. I wasn't doing it with the intention of seducing you, and you know it."
"But if I was seduced in the end, does that matter?" Tom said innocently. "Perhaps you're so skilled a temptress you could do it without effort. An innate superiority, as I've always admired—"
Soft footsteps drew nearer; Tom took a few paces away from the bookshelf, retreating to the table and Hermione's stack of reading material. He sat down and pulled the edge of his robe over his lap, then set his book, The Mysterious Mister Maximillian atop the pile. Hermione cleared her throat, turning around to face the books on the shelf and pretend she was browsing.
A girl with round, high-prescription eyeglasses and braided pigtails entered the section and began hunting through the shelf of wizarding fiction. She poked around at a gap between the books, and after a minute or two of furious rummaging, whirled around and studied the stack on Tom's library table. The top book's cover bore a distinctive animated portrait.
"You have The Mysterious Mister Maximillian," she said. Hermione noticed she had a rather prominent pimple on her chin, almost glowing with its imminent eruption.
"I do," said Tom absently. His expression was the pleasant mask he usually wore in public, though it seemed less forced than usual.
"Are you done reading it? I want to borrow it," said the girl. She had a Ravenclaw tie, and her robes were lined in blue crêped wool.
"You can have it."
"Thanks," she said brightly, taking it from the stack. "Did you know the sequel's coming out in December? In the next book, there's supposed to be a werewolf who moves into the village of Aldersbach." She let out a little squeak of excitement. "He's apparently Maximillian's half-brother. And he thinks Heloise is his mate."
"Fascinating," said Tom.
She turned to leave. "Oh, and good luck on your N.E.W.T.s, Riddle and Granger. They're only weeks away!"
"Thank you, Warren," said Hermione. "Good luck on your O.W.L.s."
When Myrtle Warren was gone, Tom and Hermione exchanged a glance.
"Do you think she suspected anything?" Hermione asked.
"No," said Tom. "Utterly clueless. She believes that Heloise would consider throwing over Maximillian and taking on a werewolf. If that's not a sign of her complete obliviousness about romance, then I don't know what is."
.
.
Translations:
"Oui, je suis connu pour avoir bon goût en littérature française." = I am known to have good taste in French literature.
"C'est bon de voir que le sang normand coule pur dans ce pays étranger." = It's good to see the Norman blood flows pure in this foreign land.
Notes:
— In Black family history, girls were kicked off the tapestry for marrying low, but this didn't happen to boys. Pottermore confirms the Malfoy family married talented and connected half-bloods, but they deny it.
— Druella's long game never plays out. She and Cygnus have three daughters and no sons.
— Tom is an emotionally stunted boy with no idea how human motivations work; this is why Voldemort is betrayed over and over in canon by Snape, Regulus, and Narcissa. Dumb, overconfident Tom needed to get ego-checked by reality, and reminded that he is not the effortless Seduction God that he thinks he is. If he wants to sell it, the boy's gotta work for it!