Müller presented his exercise number eight, Bending and Stretching of the Arms, partly Loaded with the Weight of the Body, in four degrees. Tom had reached the fourth, most difficult degree: supporting his weight on his fingertips, and extending one leg up behind him, yet now he found even this variation inadequate. The ache it incited in his muscles lost the battle for his attention, when competing with other demands.

The obvious solution was to make the exercise more difficult. Tom consulted Müller's book. The first degree of this exercise was the easiest. Rather than placing one's hands on the floor, Müller advised beginners to place their hands on a piece of furniture, such as a chest of drawers. From that starting position, one could slowly lower oneself by bending one's elbows, leaning towards the chest of drawers, whilst keeping one's body as straight as a plank, and then rise by straightening the elbows. As one gained strength, one could rest one's hands on lower pieces of furniture, until eventually they were flat on the floor.

That suggested a way to make the exercise more difficult by continuing this progressive change in angle. Tom had no practical way to lower part of the floor of his bedroom to further lower his hands, but he could attain the desired angle by elevating his feet, thus loading his arms with more of his body's weight. To this end, Tom put his feet on the seat of a chair and tried the exercise again. Success! The exercise was significantly more difficult like this.

Tom had barely had time to enjoy his new development, which he would call the fifth degree of exercise eight, when his father ceased his horrid banging on the door and bellowed, "That's it, I'm coming in." He opened the door and charged right in, but did not seem happy to be there. "You didn't say you were indecent," he complained.

"I didn't say you could come in," said Tom, getting up from his exercise position and wrapping a dressing gown around his perspiring form.

"Why is it so bloody cold in here?" shouted his father loudly enough to be heard over the constant ringing of the telephone, which was even more unpleasant now that the door was open. "Close that window. It's February."

"Exercise in fresh air is healthful," said Tom, closing the window. Now he felt even hotter. "You'd know that if you read Müller."

"You're well beyond healthful. You look like a circus strongman," criticized his father. He sighed. "I suppose training for a new career makes sense, considering the sorry state of our finances. About which, I need your help. Don't pretend you don't hear that telephone ringing."

"Anyone who calls over the telephone must surely be calling about muggle business, which is your job," said Tom. "I handle Floo-calls, you handle telephone calls. That's our agreement."

"You know damn well they're calling about the werewolf attack, which is your business."

"We divided our tasks along these lines to ensure a fair—"

"When these telephone calls are your fault, they're your responsibility. Answer them."

"They're ultimately Woolsey's fault, so—"

"I'm not going to invite Woolsey into my office to answer the telephone, so it's up to you. Tom, I'm your father, and I'm changing our agreement. This is an order. Answer the damn telephone."

Tom took a deep breath. "May I at least shower first?"

"I haven't even had time to shower myself yet, but I'm not the one who chose to get himself disgustingly sweaty for no reason." Tom's father paused. "But for the sake of the household, yes, shower. Be quick about it. No lollygagging with those bathtime exercises of yours."

Tom hung his head. "Yes father."

Tom completed his ablutions expeditiously. When he dressed, putting his wand and mirror in his robe pockets as usual, he noticed his mirror was buzzing, so he opened it to see Ignis's troubled face over the collar of a threadbare maroon dressing gown. The color didn't suit him. He looked disheveled even by his standards, like he'd had no sleep last night either. "Tom!" he exclaimed, his voice hoarse. "Are you all right?"

"Fine. And yourself?" said Tom, conversing as he walked through the hallway.

"And your family, are they all right? I heard the howling even in my basement, but I set it up so I can't escape without using my wand, so I was trapped there, not knowing what was happening, and—"

"We're all fine. The Riddle House was completely untouched. Hermione reinforced our wards, so I'm afraid they keep out all werewolves now. She'll have to fix that before you visit again."

"Leave them," said Ignis. "Just in case. So Hermione's all right?"

Tom would have to inspect her in person to give an accurate answer, and that didn't seem safe considering her current mood. "I convinced her to stay within our wards, where it's safe. She wanted to fly out to investigate, not to mention fight, but I was concerned that Woolsey was anticipating that, and had set up some sort of ward to sabotage the levitation spells on her broom. I didn't want her crashing down into the midst of a transformed werewolf pack."

"Of course. Thanks for talking her out of it. Oh thank Merlin no one was bitten!"

"I didn't say that," said Tom.

"What? Who?!"

"I don't believe the Riddle House was the intended target," said Tom. "The howling all seemed to be coming from down the hill. And the screaming." Which would haunt his nightmares. "I suggest you stay away from Little Hangleton, as the Werewolf Capture Unit may finally amble there to capture any werewolves the muggles managed to injure for them."

"Little Hangleton," repeated Ignis faintly. "But… only muggles live there."

"I need to answer some telephone calls to check if present tense is the correct one," said Tom.

"They bit muggles?!"

"Yes. That's what they did last month in London too, so they seem to be making a habit of it. I'll investigate and let you know. Please, stay home until I tell you it's safe to come out."

"But muggles can't become werewolves. Transforming takes magic."

"Yes, so I've heard."

"Do muggles even know how to seal Dark injuries?"

"I doubt it."

"We have to tell them!"

"Tell them what?"

"Werewolf bites can't be healed, but they can at least be sealed with a mixture of powdered silver and dittany, so they stop bleeding. My mother has a pretty big stock of dittany, since she grows it on the farm, and I don't need it anymore, so we could—"

"You're not planning to break the Statute of Secrecy over this!" exclaimed Tom.

"It's already broken!"

"You have to lie low until the Werewolf Capture Unit finally starts and then stops snooping around. You can't appear in a muggle hospital with specialized knowledge of werewolf bites."

"But think of all those people bleeding from unhealable wounds! I mean, Deirdre lives in Little Hangleton. Do you know if she's all right?"

"Who?"

"You know, Deirdre? She works at Thelma's Pastry Shop? I've been buying pastries there, sometimes, now that I can't go to normal shops. Pity about her missing tooth, and of course it wouldn't be right to give her some Denta-Gro, not that I could go into an apothecary now to buy it anyway, but the point is, she's actually quite nice. She bicycles into Great Hangleton to go to work, and she was surprised when I told her I live in Little Hangleton since she'd never seen me here, and she said if she'd known I was here she wouldn't have been so determined to get a job elsewhere. And she suggested I join the Morris dance team, and I don't even know what that is, but… Anyway, if she's bleeding from Dark wounds now that would be terrible. Muggles are just innocent animals. They don't deserve to suffer like this. I have some powdered silver and dittany left. I haven't needed it since I've been on Wolfsbane, so if I could get it to her—"

"It's a moot point, as you aren't going anywhere."

"Then who's going to help the muggles?"

Tom sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you."

"Now I have to answer some more calls. I'll talk to you soon."

"Please let me know as soon as you learn anything."

"I will." Tom snapped his mirror closed as he reached his office. At his desk, he got a bit of scrap paper and a pencil and wrote "powdered silver and dittany to seal werewolf bites." Then he picked the telephone receiver up off the switch hook. "Hello?"

"Tom! Are you all right?!"

Tom recognized the voice. "Mrs. Prewett, oh, sorry, but you're Lady Bootle-Fluornoy now. Yes, I'm fine."

"Never mind my name, I heard the BBC radio news program! They said most of the residents of Little Hangleton are dead!"

That wasn't a question, so no response was called for.

"Is it true?" demanded Lady Bootle-Fluornoy.

"That seems likely," said Tom. "I haven't headed down the hill to check, myself."

"Is your family all right?"

"Yes. The attack was completely focused on the village down the hill. Our household remained perfectly safe."

"Oh thank Merlin. But was it really werewolves? The BBC said that some muggles are saying it was werewolves!"

"I didn't go look at them in person, so I can't say."

"This is terrible!" said Lady Bootle-Fluornoy as if Tom had need of this information. "If there's anything I can do—"

"Sorry, I'm getting a Floo-call," said Tom, who was not getting a Floo call, but whose pocket mirror was buzzing. "I'll talk to you later. Goodbye."

He hung the telephone receiver on the switch hook and opened his buzzing mirror to see Briar's troubled face. He looked clean-shaven, unlike Ignis, but perhaps that had more to do with the faint shimmer around his perfect skin than with a razor.

"Tom! They're talking about Little Hangleton on the muggle wireless! Are you all right?"

Thus, Tom had to repeat his assurances that the Riddle household was fine, and his confirmation that yes, as far as he knew, the muggles down the hill were not. "Now the telephone's ringing, so I'd better answer that. Goodbye." He snapped his mirror shut and lifted the telephone receiver to his ear. "Hello."

"Is this the Riddle house?"

"Yes, Tom Riddle speaking."

"Is this Squire Riddle, or his son?"

"His son."

"I'm calling from the London Times with some questions about the Little Hangleton massacre. Do you have any idea why your household was the only one to be spared?"

Ignis didn't have a telephone, and for Tom's purposes didn't exist at the moment, so that left Tom to answer as best he could. "Well. I mean. We aren't really in Little Hangleton proper. Our house is a bit outside the village center, and up a steep hill, so I assume the wolves just didn't find it."

"So you think they were wolves?"

"That's what the dogcatcher said about the ones the police shot. He said the corpses didn't look like dogs to him. I defer to his expertise."

"Did you see any of these alleged wolves alive?"

"No. We telephoned the police when we heard the commotion down the hill, and stayed indoors until sunrise. We remembered that recent incident in London, and were concerned about a repeat."

"So your doors are still intact?"

"Yes. Our house is untouched."

"Have you any idea what could have blasted all the doors off their hinges in the village?"

"I couldn't begin to speculate. That sort of destruction is completely outside my experience."

The fire blazed green, and Serpens's head appeared in it. "Tom! Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry, I have very little time to talk at the moment," said Tom into the telephone receiver. "Goodbye." He hung the receiver on the switch hook and knelt at the fire. "Serpens, hello. Yes. The Riddles are all fine."

"Merciful Circe! I have reporters monitoring police activity, and could hardly believe when they said they were heading to Little Hangleton."

"Are your reporters showing up in person?"

"Of course. This is a huge story."

"A lot of muggles are still alive you know, although wounded. I hope your reporters are capable of being discreet. The Statute—"

"I know my business, Tom. I keep muggleborns on staff to handle these excursions to muggle territories."

"Of course. Forgive me."

"The Statute is pretty thoroughly violated by now, though. I never thought I'd agree with Henry Potter on any subject, but I'm starting to think he has a point about needing to permanently solve this werewolf problem. Sirius Black's efforts in the Wizengamot to block Potter's anti-werewolf legislation are untenable. What's that ringing noise?"

"The telephone, like a muggle version of Floo-calling. I should answer that. Goodbye."

"Goodbye. You'll be hearing from one of my reporters later." Joy. Serpens withdrew from the Floo and the flames turned back to orange.

Tom lifted the telephone receiver to his ear. "Hello."

"Thomas?"

"No, this is Tom. My father asked me to answer telephone calls today."

"Is Thomas all right?"

"Yes, the Riddles are all fine. Is this Squire Bosworth?"

"Yes. We heard the news on the radio this morning. Terrible business! Is Mark all right? Sue's asking about him."

"The whole household is fine. We had no trouble at all up here, probably because we're up the hill, some distance from the village center…"

After answering several more calls of this type, the fireplace blazed green. "Riddle household? Is anyone there? I'm calling from the Daily Prophet with a few questions."

Tom said goodbye, hung up the telephone, which immediately began ringing, and knelt by the fire. "Hello. We're all fine. The real story happened down the hill, in the village center, not here. There's no news to report on up here."

"Nice for you. Our readers will want to know who installed your anti-werewolf wards."

Tom sighed. "Our wards weren't challenged. The werewolves never even attempted to enter our property. I can only assume that our house is too isolated for them to have noticed. I'm sorry, I need to answer the telephone now. Goodbye."

"I have just a few more questions! Why—"

Tom stood to flip the switch to close the Floo to calls. The fire abruptly turned orange as the reporter let out a squawk and disappeared.

Next, Tom lifted the telephone receiver off the switch hook and brought it to his ear. "Hello."

"Mr. Riddle?" asked a stressed-sounding man, although Tom had little sympathy to spare at the moment.

"Speaking," said Tom. "Who's this?"

"It's Professor Waxwigge. Am I speaking to the elder or the younger Mr. Riddle? I usually speak to the elder, so if you could fetch him—"

"My father isn't available now, and asked me to handle all telephone calls for him today. What can I do for you?"

"It's about the antibiotics business I'm afraid. You heard about that trouble with the dogs from that illegal dogfighting ring getting loose and biting all those people in London last month?"

"Yes," said Tom. "Terrible business. Pity they haven't caught the people responsible."

"It keeps getting worse. All the people who were bitten suffered from some sort of infection, so their doctors called me, hoping these new antibiotics could perform their usual seemingly-magical cure."

"They're not magic," interrupted Tom.

"Of course, that's just a figure of speech."

"It's vitally important you never refer to them as magic, even metaphorically. We're saving lives with modern science, not old superstition. Give credit where credit is due."

"I see your point. We don't want these antibiotics associated with charlatans performing magic tricks. I'll watch my language from now on."

"Thank you."

"Anyway, their doctors called me for guidance on which, if any, antibiotics might help their patients. Of course we tried some bacterial cultures, but didn't discover anything out of the ordinary, so we decided to just try several different antibiotics, and combinations, on different patients, in the hope that something would work."

"Oh," said Tom, for he had to say something. The trouble with acknowledging someone's speech was that it just encouraged them to talk more, and in this case Tom knew he would not like what came next. "And nothing worked," he predicted.

"Yes!" exclaimed Professor Waxwigge. "These antibiotics have been miracle cures, sorry, scientific cures for all sorts of infections up until now, but against these dog-bite-induced infections, they were completely useless."

"How disappointing," said Tom.

"The doctors tried Pasteur's rabies vaccine too, although the symptoms of the infection weren't really indicative of rabies, but that was useless as well. Every victim died within a month, the last of them yesterday at sundown, like clockwork. It was gruesome. It was as if their bodies disintegrated. There wasn't even enough of a recognizable body left for a funeral, not that such would be advisable, considering the likelihood that the remains are infectious. I've been up all night dealing with the aftermath, advising hospitals on cremation and thorough sterilization of sickrooms."

"That's terrible," said Tom, not knowing what to say besides the obvious.

"Do you know what this means?" Waxwigge asked.

Better than Waxwigge did, not that he could say it. "No."

"It could mean that deadly bacteria are evolving resistance to our new antibiotics already!" cried Waxwigge. "I thought we'd have more time, but this is terrible news."

"Huh."

"I tried to get some bacterial cultures from the remains, but I haven't found anything that would account for these sudden deaths. All the bacteria we've found have been just the usual sorts, vulnerable to our antibiotics. We'll keep looking. There must be some new infectious agent—"

"No."

There was a pause in the conversation, but it was not quite long enough for Tom to organize his thoughts into a coherent, informative, yet Statute-honoring statement. "No?" repeated Professor Waxwigge.

"Don't waste your time trying to isolate the infectious agent," urged Tom. "But don't concern yourself that you brought it into being with our antibiotics. It really has nothing to do with you at all."

Professor Waxwigge paused, then asked "What do you mean?"

"You know those dreams you can't remember well enough to tell anyone?" tried Tom. "It's like that."

"Of all the… This has something to do with your 'dreams'?" Professor Waxwigge's quotation marks were audible.

"Yes," said Tom.

"Have you conveniently written the science of the future in the calligraphy of the past again?" asked Professor Waxwigge. "Since I'd really like to read what you dreamed about those dog bites."

"I'm sorry," said Tom. "There are hard limits to what information I may share. You'll have to take my word on this. Those people weren't killed by some newly-evolved strain of antibiotic-resistant bacteria. I know that for a fact. Don't let that idea trouble you at all. What killed them… Please believe me when I say I can't tell you. I'm working on solving the problem from my end, but it has nothing to do with you."

The professor sighed. "It has something to do with me. The families of the deceased have somehow got it in their heads that our antibiotics were what actually killed the victims, and the bites themselves were harmless. Several bereaved family members have said that they'll never take antibiotics themselves."

"Bloody hell." Tom slumped back in his chair. "Well, at least we have information. Don't waste any antibiotics on the victims of last night's attack."

"There was another attack last night?"

"Yes," said Tom, feeling very fatigued.

"Sorry, I've been so busy with last month's victims I'm not up on the news. Where was it?"

Tom had to rally some strength before he could answer. "Here."

"Where?"

"Here. The village of Little Hangleton. Where the Riddles live. Nearly everyone in the village is dead or bitten."

"Egads! Is your family all right?"

"Yes, everyone in our household is fine. We live up the hill from the village center, where the attack took place, so that explains why we were spared."

"Do you know who's responsible for these attacks?"

"The injured have been taken to Great Hangleton Hospital, so I suggest you contact the doctors there to advise them not to bother with antibiotics. The only thing that might help even a little bit is a mixture of powdered silver and dittany, so advise them to try that, but it's vitally important that you tell absolutely no one where you got this information. Tell them you discovered this through your own research."

"Powdered silver and what?"

"Dittany. It's an herb."

"What's the botanical name?"

Damn. "I don't know. I know someone who grows it, though. If I delivered some to you, could you mix it with powdered silver and deliver it to Great Hangleton Hospital? It's of utmost importance that you tell everyone you developed this treatment yourself. The information must not be traced back to me."

"Er… There's certainly a precedent for herbs being useful to combat diseases, quinine against malaria and the like. You're saying you have a cure for this mysterious disease?"

"No. All it does is help close the seemingly unhealable bite wounds inflicted by the, the creatures. The disease itself, I'm powerless against."

"Well that's better than nothing."

"I'll get the dittany and deliver it to your office in, perhaps, an hour. You'll combine it with the silver and bring it to the hospital."

"Aren't you in Yorkshire? The train must take… Never mind. I'll see you in an hour. I don't suppose you'd give me a lift to Yorkshire via whatever conveyance you're using. It's apparently faster than the train."

Tom considered it. The Statute of Secrecy might be teetering already, but Tom would not be the one to deliver the final blow. "I'm afraid that's impossible," he concluded.

"I wasn't aware that was an obstacle to you," said Professor Waxwigge. "Sorry, never mind. I'll see you soon, and get more powdered silver while I'm waiting. What's the ratio of silver to dittany?"

"I'll find out," promised Tom. "See you soon." The phone started ringing again as soon as he hung the receiver back on the switch hook.

Tom ignored it and opened his mirror. "Ignis," he called.

Ignis answered promptly. "Tom?"

"What's your family's Floo address these days? I need to buy your mother's whole stock of dittany."

Soon, Tom Flooed to McKinnon Farm, where Mrs. McKinnon was eager to sell him a sack of a pleasantly lemon-scented dry herb, although worried about why he wanted it.

"Ignis said that none of the Riddles were bitten," she fretted. "So why—"

"We have no need of it yet," said Tom. "But in light of last night's events, we decided to improve our first aid kit, to prepare for any situation."

"That's wise," said Mrs. McKinnon. "But I'm sure this is more than you'll need. Well, I hope it is. Anyway, you know to mix it with an equal amount of silver by weight, right? And keep it cool and away from sparks. This is fresh from this season, still full of volatile oils, so you don't want it bursting into flame. When you're grinding it, make sure you move your pestle in your mortar slowly."

"Thank you," said Tom. He stuffed the sack into his wallet to protect it from Floo flames. After exchanging the minimum pleasantries with the rest of the McKinnon family (Mirabelle was growing huge), he Flooed home.

On his way to his bedroom to change into muggle clothes, his father intercepted him. "There you are!"

Unfortunately. "I am on urgent muggle business, by your order, so must change into muggle clothes and get to Professor Waxwigge,"

"Why?"

"So I can deliver some dittany to him. He will claim he discovered its efficacy healing animal bites, and deliver it to Great Hangleton Hospital, there to relieve some of the suffering of our surviving tenants."

"Oh. Well, go then."

Tom did. Dobby Apparated him to the middle of a dark clump of shrubbery on Oxford's campus. Tom strode into the building that housed Professor Waxwigge's office, wasting no time examining his reflection in the lobby's dioramas. He already knew he looked terrible. He knocked on the professor's office door, although it was open.

"Come in," said Professor Waxwigge.

Tom did, and closed the door behind him. Then he drew the sack from his wallet. "Dittany has a tendency to burst into flame," he cautioned, placing it on the professor's desk. "So keep it cool and away from sparks. It should be slowly ground with a mortar and pestle, and mixed with an equal weight of finely powdered silver. It should help to close wounds that seem otherwise uncloseable."

"I have the silver," said Professor Waxwigge, indicating a jar on his desk. "Silver has a long history of use for its antimicrobial properties. I tried it on last month's victims, to no effect. This dittany stuff is new, though." He opened the sack's drawstring and peered inside. "Smells nice," he observed. "Sort of lemony. The trouble is, if I show up with something I claim is a medical treatment, people will want information about it. Even if I can't point to controlled studies demonstrating its efficacy, I should at least be able to name what it is."

"Say it's a new antibiotic," said Tom. "Actually no, don't say that. People expect better from antibiotics that the little bit of help this provides. I don't want to dilute the antibiotic brand."

Professor Waxwigge sighed. "I'll give a sample of this to a botanist. Hopefully he'll be able to find a match in the herbarium. Then at least I'll be able to call this by its proper name." He tightened the drawstring and stood, carrying the sack and jar of powdered silver. "Then I'll head to my lab to grind and mix these, carefully."

Tom nodded, although he didn't have much hope that a sample of this plant would be in a muggle herbarium. "If your botanist can't identify it, make something up."

Professor Waxwigge sighed and headed out the door, locking it behind him.

Tom followed him through the hall. "And give him my telephone number. Tell him to call me as soon as he knows, or as soon as he gives up trying to figure it out. I'll meet you at the Great Hangleton train station to give you a lift to the hospital, and tell you whatever the botanist told me. I brought a train schedule." They took a moment to choose a train, and where to meet. "There I'll take my leave of you, for I mustn't be associated with this."

"Understood," said Professor Waxwigge. "And I assume you don't want me asking how you pulled this large sack out of a pocket of that tailored suit."

"I don't mind you asking," said Tom. "That was sleight-of-hand. Silly little hobby of mine."

"Of course," sighed Professor Waxwigge. He headed to the herbarium, so Tom bade him farewell and looked for a secluded spot from which to call Dobby.

Back in his office, Tom got back to work answering telephone and Floo calls. The Riddles were fine. They must have been spared because their house was up the hill. They hadn't seen the attack, and so had nothing informative to say about the attackers.

Finally, he got to discuss something else. "Hello?"

"Is this Tom Riddle?"

"Yes."

"This is Professor Malva. I'm calling from the Oxford Herbarium."

"Oh good. Could you identify the plant?"

"Well, of course I could immediately tell it was a Rutaceae."

"Thank you for figuring it out," said Tom, pleasantly surprised. "How do you spell that?"

"But that was just the start!" exclaimed the professor. "Rutaceae is a big family."

"Oh."

"It contains a hundred and sixty genera, and over sixteen hundred species!"

"So you couldn't narrow it down."

"I didn't say that! I looked at the lenticels under a microscope, and—"

"I'm sorry, but could I please just have your conclusion?"

"Dictamnus albus," grumbled the professor.

"Thank you. Could you spell that please?

So, after promising to send any more unidentified plants his way, Tom ended that call and suffered several more while waiting for his office clock to finally give him permission to leave for the train station.

Unfortunately, the drive to Great Hangleton required passing through the remains of Little Hangleton. All the doors lay in broken shards around the doorframes, to be photographed by newspapermen, flocking like vultures. Tom hurried through quickly.

He parked and found Professor Waxwigge by the concession stand, as arranged. He was eating a packet of biscuits. He offered one to Tom, who declined.

Tom picked up the professor's valise and led him to the car.

"Nice car. How fast does it go?" asked Professor Waxwigge.

Tom laughed. "I drive at a safe speed, I assure you. I'm a very cautious man." Once the valise was in the boot and the professor was in the passenger seat, Tom handed him the scrap of paper. "Good news. Your botanist identified the herb. I wrote it down. Now you know what you'll be treating people with."

The professor read it and nodded. "Rutaceae," he mulled. "No wonder it smells lemony. Lots of interesting aromatic compounds in that family, many with antimicrobial properties. It's perfectly believable that I'd test them against whatever this is. I'd have to be a lucky guesser to try combining it with silver, but it's within the realm of possibility that I'd have thought of it." He put the paper in his pocket. "Thank you."

Professor Waxwigge sat in silence for a while as Tom drove. He finally said, "And thank you for driving at a safe speed. You do appear to drive as cautiously as you claim. And yet… I mean, you clearly know more about this attack than you're telling me, which makes me wonder if your village was targeted because someone thinks you know too much. Angering someone capable of this sort of violence is not an act of a cautious man."

"Goodbye, Professor Waxwigge," said Tom, for the hospital wasn't far from the station, and they had reached it in a perfectly reasonable amount of time. Tom parked, and got the valise from the boot and handed it to the professor.

"Thank you," said Professor Waxwigge. "Not to waste Professor Malva's efforts, but I wonder if Dictamnus albus is too much of a mouthful. Dittany works as a common name, and is easier to say."

One of the passers-by on the crowded pavement stopped dead and turned to look in their direction. "Did someone just mention dittany?"

"I did, yes," said Tom, positioning himself between this stranger and the professor, whom he silently wished would take the hint and make his escape to the hospital posthaste. Tom was cheered by the sound of shoe leather tapping hurriedly away behind him.

"Funny you should mention that, the day after the full moon," said the stranger. His eyes were shadowed by a fedora in a shade of brown that did not work with that of his rumpled overcoat, but he looked passably muggle.

Tom looked at the muggles hurrying along the pavement, then addressed the stranger. "Perhaps we should discuss this in private."

"I agree. Wouldn't want to violate the Statute, right?"

"Wouldn't dream of it. I know just the place. This way." Tom led the way around the block. Then he sprinted into an alley. "I believe I can fly."

He rematerialized in his office, the feeling of whirling disorientation almost comforting in its familiarity.

The ringing telephone was not comforting, but Tom answered it anyway. "Hello."

"Oh Tom, there you are," said Algie's usual cheerful voice. "The telephone rang for so long, I thought you were out."

"I was. I just got back."

"Righto. I was just wondering if you had any plans for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Tom could barely get through today. "Nothing in particular, why?"

"I'm planning on going to Savile Row to get a new morning suit to wear to my wedding. 'My wedding,' just listen to that! My wedding to the most delightful girl in the world. I should be singing such a wonderful phrase as that, but really it has its own melody, so it's perfect as is. Anyway, I need a new top hat too, and perhaps some new cufflinks, to make my wedding day absolutely perfect, so I wondered if you could come along to help me pick things out. And if you're planning on getting a new suit to wear in your role as best man, you could get it at the same time."

It took a moment for these words to register in Tom's brain.

"Are you there?" asked Algie.

Tom wasn't sure, but he said, "Yes, sorry. The line cut out for a moment. There is nothing I would rather do than go shopping on Savile Row with you tomorrow."

"Hot socks!"

"When and where should we meet?"

"Let's start bright and early with breakfast at the Drones Club first thing in the morning, say around eleven. We'll go shopping right after. Do the trains run that early?"

"Yes, the train schedule shouldn't be a problem," said Tom. Eleven seemed a bit early for lunch, but considering that he hadn't remembered to eat today, it might be good to compensate for that tomorrow. "I'll meet you at the Drones Club at eleven, then."

They said their goodbyes. Tom returned the telephone receiver to the switch hook. It rang immediately.

Tom took a deep breath and lifted the receiver to his ear. "Hello."

After serving several more years of his sentence that afternoon engaged in this hard labor, he looked at the fading light of the window and realized he'd rather drive the car back in daylight. He abandoned his post by the telephone and headed in search of his father to explain the situation. Surely the elder Riddle could take a turn answering calls. Tom found him in his office, listening to the radio, although he turned it off as soon as Tom appeared.

"Where's the bloody car?" his father said by way of greeting.

"Parked by Great Hangleton Hospital. I gave Professor Waxwigge a lift from the train station, then had to make my escape via Portkey, as an undercover Auror was stationed by the hospital to prevent any Statute violations. I hope I distracted him for long enough to enable Professor Waxwigge to deliver his treatment for werwolf bites to the hospital and explain its use. I prefer to do my driving in daylight, so I'll have Dobby Apparate me to Great Hangleton now so I can retrieve the car."

"You'll need to do the shopping while you're at it," said Tom's father. "For food, I mean."

"What?" The cook bought the food. The Riddles did not waste their valuable time on such chores. "Isn't Hester supposed to—"

"Hester usually walks to the shops in Little Hangleton, or has things delivered from there. Well, she used to. There are no shops in Little Hangleton anymore. Now you'll have to drive to Great Hangleton to do the shopping if we're to eat. Go to the kitchen and talk to her. She wrote up a list."

"Right," said Tom.

"And when I say I'm sending you shopping, I mean for food only," said his father. "I absolutely forbid you from buying any new clothes, or cufflinks or any such nonsense. You have plenty of that sort of stuff already."

"But… I'll be best man at Tessie and Algie's wedding. I must look the part. Of course I'm not planning to buy clothes in Great Hangleton, as the shops there are insufficiently fashionable, but Algie and I are going to Savile Row tomorrow to—"

"All of our rental income vanished overnight!" bellowed his father. "Woolsey knew exactly how to ruin us. We're not going to starve, as our investments can support us if we manage them carefully, but I won't tolerate any frivolous, unnecessary expenses."

This was not the time for Tom to mention his need for a new top hat. "Yes father. I already promised I'd advise Algie on his purchases tomorrow, so I'm committed to that, but I'll buy nothing for myself. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll get that shopping list from Hester."

It was worse than just a shopping list. She handed him an actual shopping basket, woven out of wicker. This coarse accessory didn't go with his suit at all. Walking around carrying this, he'd look like a cad who'd stolen some servant's shopping basket for a lark. Tom had to accept it graciously. Did Hester have family in Little Hangleton? He didn't know. The Riddle House servants had survived last night only because the servants' quarters had been ignored by Woolsey's werewolves just like the rest of the house.

Shopping was slow, and driving back in the dark was nerve-wracking. Driving in the dark like this, Tom would probably hit pedestrians, and try to save them by giving his bleeding victims a lift to Great Hangleton Hospital, but all the hospital beds were full, so they'd die, and those deaths would also be Tom's fault. He drove slowly, thus managing to go several minutes without killing anyone else.

Dinner was late, which no one could fault Hester for. Drawing room conversation was not diverting. Tommy was upset, so Hermione took him to his room and asked for their dinner to be delivered there. Mark looked as pale as moonlight, and said nothing all evening.

When dinner was finally served, Tom wanted no credit for it, for it had no flavor. Neither did breakfast the next morning.

His second breakfast, or early lunch, was better. Algie had never been one to pay attention to the news, a trait for which Tom was grateful. Instead, Algie was abuzz with plans for his wedding, so Tom could dip toast in his egg while listening to Algie's cheerful babbling. The wedding would be at Inchfar Hall, for Lord Bootle-Flournoy was delighted to find himself relieved of his stepdaughter so soon after acquiring her, and was determined to give her away with all possible pomp, befitting his station.

After breakfast, Tom was pulled along to Savile Row in the wake of Algie's enthusiasm. Algie had made an appointment with his tailor, and arrived early for it, so he and Tom sat in the tailor's tastefully-furnished waiting room, chatting.

"Do you want to get yourself measured, while you're here?" Algie asked. "We could ask if the tailor has time."

"I'll hold off shopping until you have your entire ensemble, to ensure that mine doesn't overshadow it."

"You're such a good man! The best, what?"

"That is a job requirement."

"Sorry this wedding's so confusing."

"How so?" Tom knew that this wedding would pose unique challenges, but hadn't known that Algie knew, Wedding etiquette books, thorough as they were, lacked guidance on the complications of this particular union. Muggle books, of course, lacked information about wizarding customs, while wizarding books lacked advice on how to conduct a mixed marriage. Presumably, wizarding families concerned with etiquette knew better than to let their child marry a muggle. Tom would have to wing it.

"Here I was looking forward to marrying Tessie Prewett, but then she changed her name to Tessie Bootle-Flournoy. So is she really the same girl?"

"A rose by any other name," quoted Tom.

"Is just as red, of course," agreed Algie. "My father's certainly happier about me marrying a girl who's now technically of a noble family instead of a commoner. But I don't want people to think that's the reason Tessie changed her name. She would never be so calculating. The real reason was to assure her mother that she supported her second marriage. Her mother was obviously worried about this, the way she eloped. Tessie's name change was a sweet gesture to let her mother know she had no reason to worry about family strife, on Tessie's account at least."

"Try not to concern yourself about what others think of your wife," advised Tom. "Name-changes aside, there are those who'd say she married you for your money, without thought to the personalities involved. They'd say that about any marriage between people of such different backgrounds. You'd best get used to ignoring such gossip now. The important thing is that you know what a guileless girl Tessie is."

"I suppose you're right," said Algie. "And it's not like her family's money-hungry in general. Can you believe how badly Axel's taking this?"

"Having met him, yes," said Tom. "But he's unbelievable in general."

"I mean, the man had the opportunity to be the heir of the Earl of Inchfar, and he turned it down! On the one hand, I suppose I respect his loyalty to his deceased father, that he'd make such a fuss over his mother remarrying, but hasn't he any loyalty to his mother? She should be free to move on with her life, after years of widowhood."

"That seems perfectly reasonable to me," said Tom. "But Axel has his own ideas about things."

"And it's not just Axel," fretted Algie. "Poor Tessie is distraught, with so many of her relatives and supposed friends declining their invitations to our wedding. She's mentioned that she has a large family, yet they don't even want to meet me! I wondered if perhaps they couldn't get time off work to attend the event, but Tessie said that wasn't the problem. Best I can figure, her whole family disapproved of Tessie's mother remarrying at all, no matter how respectable her new husband, and now they're driving the point home by refusing to attend an event at his manor. It's strange."

"Yes," said Tom.

"With Axel refusing to be his stepfather's heir, the Earl of Inchfar now has no heir, and he's not taking it well. It's hard not to see this as a huge insult."

"It may not have been intended as such," said Tom, "but yes, it has the effect of one."

"At least the Earl has us as family," said Algie. "Quite an agreeable chap. He even offered to make me the Earl of Inchfar after him, as I'll be his son-in-law, but that would require changing my name, and I couldn't do that."

"Why not?" asked Tom.

"I daren't offend my father by changing my name, especially now that I've finally got on his good side by getting engaged to a girl he approves of."

"You needn't worry about your father disowning you if you're trading your birthright for a larger inheritance from your stepfather," advised Tom. "It's a good deal. I'd drop that old name like last season's trousers if I were you."

Algie laughed. "Good old Tom, always the joker. But anyway, Lord Bootle-Fluornoy didn't even ask me to drop my name. He suggested hyphenating the names together. That's a whole can of worms. I daren't risk offending either the Clamdowne or the Clamdowne branches of my family, so I couldn't put the Clamdownes at the end, but neither dare I risk offending my new father-in-law by putting his name last, not when Tessie has made such an effort to ingratiate herself with him. That would run counter to her efforts, which is hardly the key to marital bliss."

"A conundrum," agreed Tom. "What if you put a Clamdowne on each end?"

Algie sat dumbstruck for a moment. "Clamdowne-Bootle-Fluornoy-Clamdowne. Brilliant!" he concluded. "A solution worthy of what's-his-name, Solomon? Trips smoothly off the tongue, what?"

"What?" agreed Tom.

—

Author's Note: I leave the construction of the Clamdowne-Clamdowne family tree as an exercise for the reader.