Crack. In the hallway, Hermione swirled the invisibility cloak off herself and the broom, tucked them into her beaded bag, then entered Marius's room. "That went well, I think. I stayed to see the aftermath. Cassiopeia is a good actress. Her family don't seem to suspect a thing. She plans to burn Marius's name off their tapestry before their parents notice there's no date of death."
"Good," said Tom. He turned to Marius. "You're safe."
"You need a hug," prescribed Hermione.
Marius looked terrified.
"Perhaps later," said Tom, putting out a hand to block the muggleborn from coming any closer. "We also need to choose a new name for your new life."
Marius looked at him.
"Any preferences?"
Marius shook his head.
"I thought perhaps Mark Grey, a common name. Unless you'd prefer something else."
The boy shrugged. "It doesn't matter."
"Well, Mark," Tom tried. "Welcome to the Riddle House. Is there any particular comfort or entertainment we can provide for you?"
Mark shrugged. "No sir."
"Would you like to go out for ice cream?"
"With muggles?" Mark's voice quavered.
"All right, we can postpone the ice cream outing," Tom conceded. "Familiarizing yourself with the house and grounds might be sufficient entertainment for your first day. I'll introduce you to my parents. But first, I will tell you how seriously we're taking this." Tom knelt by the bed to look Mark in the eye. "You must learn to live as a muggle. My parents and I will set a good example for you by performing no magic in your presence, but instead doing things the muggle way."
Mark's pale grey eyes widened. "You don't have to—"
"We choose to," said Tom firmly. "This isn't completely for your sake. The Riddles do a lot of business in the muggle world, so we need to stay in practice so we can pass as muggles. Now come meet my parents. Perhaps tidy yourself up in the ensuite first."
The boy nodded and did as told. He came back out in a few minutes, his face washed.
"This way," said Tom. "My parents expect us in the back garden."
They apparently weren't expecting Tom and company so soon, for under a pergola draped with red roses, they were considerably closer together than propriety would permit when entertaining guests.
Tom cleared his throat pointedly.
His mother pushed at his father's chest with a playful hand, and they separated. Tom's mother, her lips flushed nearly as red as the roses surrounding her, turned to face her guest. She smiled.
"Weren't you watching Tommy?" snapped Hermione.
"Oh yes," said Tom's mother. "I just set him down to play on the lawn here…" Her gaze followed a trail of crushed grass to some suspiciously swaying flower stalks. "And here's the little sprout." She swooped down to extract him from the depths of a flower bed. "You may bring the flower with you, that's fine, dear." She hoisted a grass-stained Tommy to her hip. He swatted her with a pink xeranthemum. "Yes, what a lovely idea, let's pick some flowers. Dobby, fetch a vase and flower shears."
"Yes mistress." Pop. Pop.
"Now Tommy, put the stem in there, yes, just like that! How pretty! We'll pick some more together soon, but first I must meet our guest."
Tom did the introductions. "Mother, father, Tommy, this is Marius Black, who will go by the name Mark Grey from now on. Mark, this is my mother, Mrs. Riddle, my father, Squire Riddle, and my son, whom we call Tommy, although his name is Tom, after me."
"Pleased to meet you," said Mark almost inaudibly.
"It's our pleasure, Mark," said Tom's mother. "Welcome to the Riddle House. I hope you enjoy your stay here."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"So, this is the squib," said Tom's father. "I'd better not hear any lip from you, boy. Don't go prancing around like being a pureblood makes you better than anyone else."
"Yes sir," said Mark quietly.
"What are you good for? Can you do sums?"
"Sums? You mean, adding numbers together, sir?"
"Of course, boy."
"I think so, sir."
"Good. I could use some help with accounts for my muggle business. I'll check your work carefully to see that you're worthy of the job."
"Yes sir."
Tom's father nodded gruffly. Tom felt his heart swell with love for his father. How many happy hours of his childhood they'd spent together, Tom learning the intricacies of business at his father's knee!
"But for now," said Tom's mother, "perhaps you'd like to help Tommy and me pick flowers."
"All right, ma'am," said Mark.
Tom's mother, Tommy, and Mark drifted through the garden, slowly filling the vase Dobby held.
Hermione confronted Tom's father. "That wasn't very welcoming."
"The boy needs to earn his keep somehow," Tom's father retorted. "I won't have him lazing about the house."
"That's child labour." accused Hermione. "It's absolutely Victorian."
Tom and his father bristled at the insult. "I'm not sending him into a coal mine," said Tom's father.
Once Tom's mother, Tommy, and Mark had collected a seemingly random assortment of flowers, and the company had come to the consensus that a break from the hot sun would be welcome, they went inside.
"This way to my office, Mark," said Tom's father. "I've set up Tom's old desk for you. Dobby, deliver two glasses of lemonade to my office."
"Yes Squire Riddle." Pop.
The group dispersed, Tom to his office. An increasing number of customers were buying wolfsbane, still at a loss, which meant that Tom had to move some money out of more immediately profitable investments to sink it into potion ingredients. He was patient, although it pained him to pull anything out of the stock market, which was shooting skyward like a rocketing pheasant.
Before lunch, they reconvened in the drawing room, which was decorated with the morning's chaotic bouquet. Hermione chased Tommy as he crawled around the room. She'd insisted that all fragile objets d'art be raised out of his reach, but still fretted that he'd manage to smash something and cut himself on the fragments. Tommy laughed as he explored the room. Tom's mother knitted yet another little garment, for Tommy had outgrown his first sets of clothes, but her attention wasn't on her work, as she beamed at Tommy's exploration.
Tom's father arrived and ushered Mark into a seat. He reported, "The boy has a sharp mind. He'll be useful."
Mark's expression looked brighter than it had been that morning. "Squire Riddle says I've a good head for numbers," he said to Tom in amazement. "And attention to detail. I'm good at something!"
"You put the poor child to work doing sums?" scolded Hermione. "That sounds dull."
"I don't mind," said Mark uncertainly.
Tom's father, with a twinkle in his eye that had Tom cringing in anticipation, leaned close to Mark to address him with a conspiratorial air, and a sidelong glance at Hermione. "You know the old saying: No taste for accounting."
Mark looked uncertain, but when Tom's father started chortling, Mark joined him a moment later. Tom suppressed a groan.
Hermione took a deep breath. "The point is, he's eleven. Eleven-year-old children don't need to earn their keep. They need unconditional acceptance."
"If he were useless," said Tom, "we'd be having a different conversation, but as he is, in fact, a perfectly competent fellow, we'll treat him as such."
Fiona knocked and entered. "Luncheon is…" she trailed off and turned pale as her gaze settled on Mark.
"Served, presumably," said Tom's father. "Come along, Mark."
They entered the dining room, Hermione lifting Tommy into his high chair.
Fiona, with unprofessional hesitation, followed them into the dining room.
Tom's father directed Mark to the seat beside him, then started eating his salad.
Mark, after a careful glance at Tom's father's hands, selected the correct fork for his salad. He ate with initial trepidation, then with good appetite. "This is good, thank you."
"I should hope it's good," said Tom's father. "Otherwise the cook would hear from me. I have no tolerance for incompetent servants."
When it was time for Fiona to serve the next course, she hesitated at Mark's place, but did eventually remove his salad bowl and replace it with a plate for the roast lamb, new potatoes, and runner beans.
Mark, after a quick glance at the fork Tom's father was using, selected his own and tucked in with enthusiasm.
"We'll go to Great Hangleton after lunch," said Tom's father.
Mark, who's been eating steadily and with impeccable manners, froze.
"Hermione and I need new clothes for the fall season," said Tom's mother.
Hermione sighed and wiped another smear of strained beans off Tommy's chin.
"And Mark needs a haircut," said Tom's father, terrorizing Mark.
"I could use a trim as well," said Tom. "I'm getting unkempt."
Hermione looked at him skeptically, which gave Tommy an opportunity to lob a spoonful of beans into her hair. "Scourgify," and the green goo was gone, along with the potions that had held that section of her hair in control, so it puffed out of her head asymmetrically.
"I thought we'd agreed—" started Tom.
"I said I'd do things the muggle way when possible," huffed Hermione. "You try cleaning up after a baby without magic."
Tom nodded his concession.
Dessert was simply a bowl of fresh greengages. Tom's father offered the bowl to Mark before taking one himself. "I apologize for the spartan fare, Mark, but Miss Granger here is opposed to pudding."
"I never said I was opposed to pudding," said Hermione. "All I said was that a sugary pudding course needn't be part of every meal. It's fine as a special treat."
"Müller agrees," said Tom. "Fresh fruit is a more wholesome option than elaborate puddings."
"And better for the figure," said Tom's mother before nibbling her greengage.
Tom's father sighed and leaned in close to Mark. "So you see why we have to escape to get some real food. We'd waste away to nothing on this meager fare."
Mark looked at him uncertainly. Tom's father was obviously in no imminent danger of wasting away.
"You'll get used to my father's sense of humor soon enough," Tom assured Mark. "Don't worry. I wouldn't wish to anger your sister by starving you."
"I like greengages," Mark assured Tom. "And ice cream," he added for Tom's father's sake.
Tom wondered if he and Hermione could team up to convince his father to do Müller system exercises. Perhaps later. Tom would have to convince Hermione first.
After lunch, Hermione vanished the evidence of Tommy's culinary adventures. Tom wasn't convinced that Tommy had eaten anything, but he certainly seemed to have enjoyed the meal. Then Hermione, at Tom's suggestion, left to freshen her hairstyle and don a muggle summer dress in dusty rose.
Once they were all suitably attired as muggles, they set out. "We should all fit in the car," said Tom, "with me driving, my father beside me, and the ladies and children in back, with Tommy on Hermione's lap."
"I volunteer for the middle seat," said Tom's mother, which was good, as she served as a spacer between Hermione and Mark, who seemed particularly uncomfortable around Hermione, although he also seemed frightened of the car itself.
Tom's father opened the car door for Tom's mother. "I do enjoy muggle skirts on you," he said as she got into the car.
"Oh Thomas." She blushed and arranged her periwinkle blue skirt demurely. "Now Mark, sit beside me. You'll have a good view out the window."
"Not as good as the view I just got," said Tom's father.
"Not in front of the children, Thomas. Now Mark, just sit right here." She patted the seat beside her.
Mark seemed frozen in fear.
"It's a beauty, isn't it?" said Tom as if Mark had simply stopped to admire the car before getting into it. "A Bentley 3 Litre saloon, a high-quality motorcar. It's not completely muggle, as we added magical safety features. It's considerably safer than a broom or flying carpet. Want to roll the windows down?"
Mark looked at him.
"Like this," said Tom, demonstrating how to turn the crank on the open car door.
Mark cautiously put his hand on the crank, and when it didn't bite him, turned it as Tom had demonstrated. The window lowered smoothly. Mark let out a giddy laugh. "It works! I can do it!"
"I would hope it works," said Tom. "We spent enough on it. Roll down the other windows while you're at it." Tom opened the door for Hermione, who had her hands full of Tommy, who was trying to restyle her hair. Hermione got into the car and sat Tommy on her lap to be cooed at by Tom's mother.
Mark opened all the windows as asked. After circumnavigating the car, he worked up the courage to enter it. Tom closed the door behind him and got into the driver's seat.
"Thank you, Mark," said Tom's mother. "Of course, if you find that there's too much breeze, feel free to close the window partway."
Thus, Mark's window underwent many small adjustments during the entire ride to Great Hangleton.
"Park near the barber shop," said Tom's father.
Tom's mother and Hermione, with Tommy in a sling, set off to shop for clothes for autumn, leaving Mark, Tom, and his father to face the barber on their own.
The three of them doffed their straw hats and put themselves at the barber's mercy. There were no casualties. Mark's tendency to freeze in terror was helpful, as he sat perfectly still through the ordeal. He neither gave an opinion on what style of haircut he wanted nor met the barber's eyes, but Tom could provide the barber with all the guidance necessary.
Mark didn't speak until the shop was a good distance behind them.
"Doesn't your new haircut feel great?" Tom asked. "I can't stand feeling long hair on the back of my neck in the heat of summer."
There was such a long pause after this, Tom thought that Mark might not answer, but he eventually did. "I look like a muggle."
"Yes," Tom congratulated him. "A very fashionable muggle."
They arrived at the next station of their adventure, the best toy shop in Great Hangleton. Tom's father gestured expansively at the display visible through the large plate glass window. "Choose whatever toy strikes your fancy."
The shop window displayed a wonderland of toys. A train ran on a round track, circling a miniature grand piano. A doll with a bisque porcelain head sat on the small piano bench, her huge eyes gazing dreamily ahead. She was apparently unperturbed by the aeroplane, its propeller whirling, flying in circles (opposite to the train's circles) over her head, the diameter of the circles constrained by a string affixed to the ceiling.
Mark stared, his eyes nearly as wide as the doll's.
"Come on," Tom's father urged, opening the door to the sound of a tinkling bell.
The shop was bright with electric lights, and a ceiling fan took the edge off summer's heat. The grey-haired shopkeeper greeted them. "Welcome! Can I help you find anything in particular?"
Tom's father looked at Mark expectantly, but speaking to a muggle was clearly beyond him, even if he'd had anything to say. "I'm looking for a gift for this boy," Tom's father explained. "Go on boy, look around. Don't concern yourself with expense."
Mark wandered around in a daze. He peered confusedly at a mechanical yacht racing game.
When the train and aeroplane in the window stopped, the shopkeeper rewound them and set them going again, giving the aeroplane a push to launch it. Then he addressed Mark, who seemed frozen. "Do you like trains?"
Mark said nothing.
"Building sets?"
Nothing.
"Here's a jolly mechanical goose. Waddles just like the real thing!" The shopkeeper wound it up and set it on the floor to waddle menacingly towards Mark, who backed away in horror.
"Mind you don't bump into the music boxes," said the shopkeeper.
Mark spun to face this new threat.
The shopkeeper caught the goose and confined it to a corral otherwise occupied by cast iron horses, cattle, camels, and a giraffe, leaving it to bump futilely against the fence.
"Like music boxes?" the shopkeeper tried. He selected one and wound it. A pretty little tune played while colorful carousel horses bobbed up and down as they circled.
Mark was at least looking at the music box. The shopkeeper wound another. "Like dance tunes?" A couple in evening dress, the man with hair as glossy black as his suit, the woman in a dress with silver fringe that swayed as she moved, held each other close and spun as music played. The carousel music box was also still playing, its tune slowing to a dirge as the motor wound down. The couple's dance wasn't in time with either tune.
Mark said nothing.
"Well, what do you like?" the shopkeeper asked patiently. He waited for a little while, then set off to wind his train and aeroplane again.
Mark looked up at Tom's father. "I like playing chess," he said almost too quietly for Tom to hear. "I don't know muggle games."
"The chess sets are here," Tom observed. "Here's a beautiful one; look at these carvings! What stone is this, agate?"
Now Mark's eyes really did rival the doll's. "Muggles have chess?"
"Of course," chortled Tom's father. "Where do you think wizards got it?"
Tom wasn't certain about this, but saw no reason to dispute it.
The shopkeeper hurried over. "The finest selection of chess sets in Great Hangleton, to be sure! Chess pieces carved from semiprecious stones, and see these beautiful boards and cases!" He pulled some more off a shelf to show Mark.
Mark reached out a cautious hand and picked up a knight. It was heavy black stone, with green felt on the bottom. "It's nice," he admitted.
The door jingled. "I'll let you make your choice then," said the shopkeeper before leaving them to greet the new customer.
"Muggles made these?" Mark asked quietly. He examined the chess pieces, each a work of art.
"Of course," said Tom. "Muggles make a lot of things."
"We do already have a chess set at home," said Tom's father. "I think. Somewhere. But feel free to get another one to be your own. Oh, this one's magnetic. That's clever." He picked up a pawn and set it down off-center on a square of a small board. It slid itself to the exact center of the square under its own power. Tom's father picked up the board and turned it upside-down. All the pieces remained in their places.
"That must be magic," whispered Mark.
"Not magic," Tom's father corrected. "Magnets. Good use of them, too. You could play this on a train or in a car, and the pieces wouldn't fall off the board."
"What are magnets?" asked Mark. "How do they work?"
Tom and his father looked at each other. "Perhaps you're learning enough for one day," Tom's father said. "You can learn how magnets work later."
Tom felt relieved.
"You've chosen this one, then?" Tom's father asked, holding out the magnetic chess set.
"Yes sir." Mark nodded.
They purchased it, declining the offer of wrapping, as it was in a convenient travel case already. "Enjoy it!" said the shopkeeper. "And do you know about the people who play chess in Threepworple Square Park on Saturday afternoons? I'm sure they'd welcome a new player."
Mark's eyes bugged out.
"We'll keep it in mind, thank you," said Tom.
"Here you go, Come again soon." The shopkeeper held the chess set out to Mark, who looked at it, then looked up at Tom's father, then at Tom..
"You don't expect me to carry it for you, do you?" asked Tom's father. "I'm not your servant."
"Sorry sir," said Mark, rushing to take it from the muggle's hand. "Thank you sir," he said to the chess set.
"Now," declared Tom's father, "ice cream." He led the way with the determination of a general leading his troops to battle.
They entered the bright pastel ice cream parlour. "Order whatever you like," said Tom's father. He proceeded to order a cone triple-topped with chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry ice cream for himself. The sight of that excess prompted Tom to order only a small lemon Snofrute, which, he justified to himself, wasn't too far off from Müller's diet advice, being fruit-based.
Mark stared at the posted menu, overwhelmed.
"How about a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a cone?" Tom suggested.
Mark nodded gratefully and accepted the treat.
They sat under a brightly-striped umbrella at one of the outdoor tables, with an empty table beside them, in readiness for the rest of their party.
"Mind the drip," said Tom, indicating Mark's cone.
"It doesn't… do anything to you?" Mark asked timidly, suspiciously eyeing his untasted ice cream. "Eating muggle food?"
"It satisfies," Tom's father proclaimed. "And cools." He was efficiently working his way through his three scoops.
Tom, eyeing his father's girth, felt that Tom's father had left out one of food's major effects, but knew that now was not the time to mention it. "It's delicious," he said simply. He ate his Snofrute out of its prism-shaped wrapper.
"But, the mud… Muggles are dirty."
Tom and his father laughed. "This is a perfectly sanitary establishment," said Tom. "Do you see any mud in that ice cream?"
Mark could delay no longer, for a drip was advancing inexorably towards his hand. He braved a lick. "It's good!" he exclaimed in surprise.
"Of course it is," huffed Ton's father.
At this outdoor table, they had a fine view of shoppers strolling by: ladies in their bright summer dresses, gentlemen in their light summer suits enlivened with pinstripes and checkered patterns. Dobby had cast a dirt-repelling charm on Tom's ivory suit, so Tom had no fear of drips from his Snofrute. The subtle cooling charm he'd had Dobby apply to the suit, although appreciated, was hardly necessary, as his fashionably cuffed trousers were wide enough to admit cooling breezes.
Tom's father raised his non-cone-holding hand to greet a pedestrian. "Orvin! How are you?
The gentleman greeted Tom's father with equal enthusiasm. "How are you, Thomas?" Tom recognized the gentleman as one of his father's friends, Squire Bosworth, out with his wife and young daughter.
"Join us for ice cream!" Tom's father invited them.
The little girl looked up hopefully at her parents.
"Capital idea," said Squire Bosworth, striding forward and setting his armful of packages on the empty table beside theirs.
Mrs. Bosworth looked at Tom, then looked nervously at her husband, who paid her no mind. She pulled her daughter a little closer to her. "We do have some more shopping to do," she quietly urged her husband.
"We have time for some refreshment," her husband argued.
"Please, Mum," said the daughter. "It won't take long."
Mrs. Bosworth sighed. "Oh all right." They went in, then came out with ice cream.
Tom's father did introductions. "This is Squire Bosworth of Southstye, his wife, and their daughter Sue. This is Mark Grey."
The Bosworths waited for the rest of the introduction.
"Mark just arrived from Australia," elaborated Tom. Australia was a useful country. If it hadn't already existed, Tom would have made it up. It occurred to him that someone may have done that already. It wasn't as if Tom had ever been there himself to verify its existence.
"Australia!" exclaimed Squire Bosworth. "That's very far away, isn't it? Did your parents send you here by yourself?"
"He's a recent orphan," Tom explained. "And he'd rather not talk about—"
"Oh, it's a tragic tale," expounded Tom's father. "His parents were dragged off by dingoes, you see. Terrible business."
"Dingoes! Why that's horrific!" exclaimed Squire Bosworth. "I'm very sorry for your loss, young Master Grey."
"Thank you," said Mark almost inaudibly.
Sue squealed. "Did you see them get dragged away?"
Poor Mark looked up at Tom and his father while Squire and Mrs. Bosworth glared at Sue.
"He would really rather not discuss it," said Tom.
Sue looked up at her parents. "Could we please go to the zoo? Are there dingoes there?"
"No," said Mrs. Bosworth.
"They should get some dingoes then. They sound very interesting. I'll write to the zookeepers and ask."
"What Sue means to say, Mark, is that she's very sorry for your loss," said Mrs. Bosworth. "As am I."
"So, what brings you to Great Britain?" asked Squire Bosworth. "You wanted to get as far away as possible from any dingoes, I imagine?"
"That's part of it," Tom's father said. "You see, in their will, the Greys left their son in the care of their friends the Grangers. Unfortunately, the Greys didn't have time to update their will after the Grangers died. My dear friend Leo Granger and his lovely wife were both killed by venomous snakes, you see."
"Venomous snakes!" exclaimed Sue. Her strawberry ice cream dripped unattended down its cone.
"Dangerous place, Australia," observed Tom's father.
"Could we visit Australia?" Sue begged her parents, who ignored her. "Please?"
"How do you know Australians?" asked Squire Bosworth after a hasty lick of his dripping ice cream.
"I diversified my investments several years ago," said Tom's father. "Having everything in Great Britain seems so provincial, don't you think? I did well speculating in the Australian opal market, although the inconvenience eventually discouraged me from continuing in that field, especially after the death of poor Leo. Anyway, the death of the Grangers meant that by Australian law, Mark became the ward of the Grangers' daughter, young Miss Hermione Granger, who joined us in January. I mentioned that before. It's fortuitous that Miss Granger arrived at nearly the same time as my motherless grandson. She's taken on his care as a project to occupy her attention. Thus we are unexpectedly hosting not one, but two young Australian orphans. Ah, and here's the lovely Australian jewel now," said Tom's father, spying Hermione and Tom's mother through the crowd and waving them over. He introduced Hermione and Tommy to the Bosworths.
"I told them about the dingoes," explained Tom's father, "so there's no need to repeat it."
There had been no need to say it the first time either, but too late for that. Tom wondered if Hermione could manage a subtle obliviation, not for the sake of the Statute of Secrecy, but simply in the service of good taste. Tom had finished his Snofrute by now, so he got up to discard the wrapper in the bin and move an empty table and a couple of chairs closer, so his mother and Hermione could join them. They set their packages down.
"I'm pleased to meet you," said Mrs. Bosworth to Hermione. "And I offer my most heartfelt condolences for your loss. Oh bother," for her ice cream had dripped onto her hand.
"Thank you," said Hermione. "Oh, they have chocolate? I'll be right back."
"I'll hold Tommy," volunteered Tom, so Hermione handed him over. "Did you enjoy your outing, Tommy?" Tom asked. "What are the most fashionable autumnal colors this year?" Tommy gazed at him with absolute attention.
Hermione and Tom's mother soon returned, Hermione with a chocolate cone, Tom's mother with a cup of vanilla, two spoons, and a stack of paper serviettes. "Would you like to try some ice cream, Tommy?"
He would. His expressions were so delightfully varied, he attracted the attention of the entire party, to Tom's relief, and there was no more talk of dingoes. Tommy mouthed the spoon, losing at least as much ice cream to the serviette (attentively held by Tom) as he managed to consume, but he clearly enjoyed the experience. With his round pink cheeks, dark eyes (now more black than blue), and chubby little arms waving in excitement, he was absolute perfection. He excitedly bounced on Tom's lap, which made his mouth a moving target for Tom's mother's spoon, while he made his usual adorable hissing noises.
"Your baby's so cute!" squealed Sue.
"Thank you," said Tom.
"Why's he making that noise?"
"Babies babble," Hermione explained. "They learn to talk by experimenting with different sounds."
"Did I hiss like that?" Sue asked her parents.
"Not quite like that, no," said Mrs. Bosworth.
"Mother, Hermione, I trust your shopping was successful?" said Tom.
His mother told them all about it as Hermione finished her ice cream. Mrs. Bosworth joined the discussion of fall fashions as Hermione stared into the distance. Hermione roused herself enough to tell Mark, "Your new haircut looks great."
Mark said nothing.
"And what's this?" Hermione asked, looking at their toy store purchase.
Once it became clear that Mark wasn't going to answer, Tom replied, "A chess set."
"Oh!" Hermione resumed staring into the distance, her eyes shining with unspilled tears which did not seem justified by the view.
"Where do you go to school?" Sue asked Mark.
Mark fidgeted with his chess set.
"We haven't decided yet," said Tom's father. "He's only just arrived."
"Is that really a chess set?" Sue asked Mark. "It's so small."
Mark said nothing.
"When I finish my ice cream, will you play chess with me?" Sue asked.
"You did tell your mother that this break wouldn't take very long," teased Squire Bosworth.
"It won't take long," promised Sue. "I'll beat him fast."
Mark abruptly picked up his chess set and took a few steps away, his back to the party, his shoulders shaking.
"Tommy is tired," said Tom's mother, . "We should take him home for his nap. It was so good to see you, Portia, Sue, Orvin. Please come visit us at the Riddle House."
"And you're always welcome at ours," said Mrs. Bosworth.
They said their goodbyes. Tom's father gathered their packages, Tom's mother gathered Mark (offering him the serviettes that hadn't been needed for Tommy), and they left the Bosworths to gossip, hopefully, about how mad young Tom didn't seem quite as mad as his reputation, so in fact there had been no need for Mrs. Bosworth to clutch her daughter so protectively at the sight of him, and she would refrain from doing so in future.
They reached the car. Tom handed Tommy to Hermione so he could drive.
Once they were underway, Tom could restrain himself no longer. "Dingoes?!" he exclaimed.
"Of course," chortled his father. "Brilliant idea you had, Australia."
"What's a dingo?" asked Mark quietly.
"Some sort of wild dog, aren't they?" asked his father. "From Australia. You played your part well, Mark.I'm sure the Bosworths believe us to be as muggle as they."
When they got home, Tommy was asleep. Hermione silently carried him up for his nap.
"Would you like to simply rest in your room until dinner as well?" Tom asked Mark. "I know this is a lot to take in at once."
"Yes sir."
"I'll show you your room's amenities in a bit more detail." He led Mark to his room and opened the drawers of the writing desk. "I stocked your desk with parchment, quills, and ink, so feel free to write to Cassiopeia, although of course don't send her anything until September first. I'd offer the use of my owl, but considering her distinctive appearance, it would be wiser to instead hire a post office owl, a different one each time. I've collected several advertising brochures, for cosmetic potions, fashionable robes, and the like, such as a girl might be expected to receive, so you can hide your letters inside those. Your correspondence should go unnoticed."
Mark nodded. "Thank you sir."
"This section contains muggle writing materials, paper, pencils, a fountain pen and appropriate ink. You'll need to learn how to use those too, in time. There's no rush. I'll tell you now, though, don't try to use regular ink meant for quills in the fountain pen, as it would clog the nib. You can just keep this section closed for now."
Mark nodded again. "Yes sir."
"Can I get you anything else?"
"No sir."
"Well, if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. Call Dobby, my elf, at any time. Fiona, our human maid, may be less useful to you, but she's at your service as well. We mainly keep her around to give the right impression to muggles. Also feel free to ask me, my parents, or Miss Granger for any advice on how to find things in the house or do things the muggle way. Dinner is at six, so you have time to write, or rest, as you wish."
"Thank you sir."
"I'll see you in the drawing room before dinner." Tom took his leave.
As he'd suspected, the others were already in the drawing room, discussing Mark. It was a good thing that Tommy wasn't present, for the emotions in the room were not the sort that should be channeled into accidental magic.
"We can't send him to school so soon," Hermione argued. "He's a walking Statute violation."
"He need only stay silent," said Tom's father. "He has the simple excuse that he'd rather not be reminded of his dead parents by talking about his past."
"While he's certainly capable of staying silent," Tom contributed, "he lacks other skills that may be required in a muggle school, such as speaking to muggles."
"He won't even talk to a muggleborn," grumbled Hermione.
"There is no need to rush him into a muggle life," decided Tom's mother.
"At least we needn't worry about him falling behind in maths," said Hermione.
Tom needed clarification about that, considering he had only his father's word for it. "Does he actually have any skill at maths?"
Tom's father snorted. "Hardly. But he can learn. Wizarding education is apparently atrocious."
Hermione gave Tom's father a grudging smile. "On that we agree."