"Where are you from?"
"Australia."
"Where in Australia?"
"Lighting Ridge, New South Wales."
"What does your father do?"
"When he was alive, he was an opal dealer."
"Oh. Have you ever seen a kangaroo?"
"I would rather not discuss any Australian wildlife."
"How about a wombat?"
"I will not discuss any Australian wildlife."
"Koalas?"
"No."
"Budgies?"
"No."
"Kiwis?"
Mark paused. "No," he concluded.
"Very good," said Tom's father. "That was a trick question; kiwis are from New Zealand."
"I didn't remember them from the book."
Tom's father resumed his quiz. "What's Australia like?"
"I'd rather not discuss anything that reminds me of my parents."
"Do Australians play cricket?"
"I don't like playing sports. I like playing chess."
Tom, eyes on the road, heard pride in his father's voice. "Your performance is perfect. There will be no statute violations whatsoever. Prove Miss Granger wrong."
"Yes sir," said Mark. Tom could hear pride in his voice as well.
Mark had made great strides in the last month. He quickly grew tired of beating the Riddles at chess (Tom let him win of course), and Hermione had no interest in playing, so Tom took him to Threepworple Square Park to pass the time with muggle chess aficionados. After losing to several, Mark concluded that muggles were, in fact, people.
Thus this outing to the Hangleton Progressive Day School, (which was not in Great Hangleton proper, but in the cheaper outskirts.) Today, the school was holding an open house for prospective students and their families. The Riddles had explained to Mark that he could attend or not, as he preferred, and he'd expressed willingness to at least go look at the place. It felt odd to drive on a road that Tom had so often taken by bicycle.
"I'm sure you'll enjoy school as much as Tom did," said Tom's father.
Tom hoped so. School options in the area were limited, and the Riddles didn't feel safe sending Mark off to boarding school so soon. The state-funded Little Hangleton school, while adequate for the children of farm laborers, was of course completely unsuitable for a child of their class. The Great Hangleton area offered a wider selection, but of limited types. No new schools worth considering had been established since Tom's childhood, which left Tom's alma mater, an independent day school inspired by the ideas of Froebel. Indeed, the school obtained many of its teachers from Froebel College in London, after they'd been trained in the most modern educational ideas by kindergarten teachers exiled from Prussia for their hedonistic, anti-authoritarian tendencies. Tom suspected that the school's primary appeal to his parents had been its convenient location.
"Now Mark," said Tom. "There's something you should know. Anything you see at the open house today could change tomorrow. Having experienced this myself over my years at this school, I have some perspective. Headmistress Triplehorn is indiscriminately receptive to new educational ideas. Some of them are quite good and some are quite silly, but you can be assured that they are all new, for nearly every holiday she goes off with a large notebook and much enthusiasm to educational congresses and conferences and summer schools and gets more."
"But the important thing," said Tom's father, "is that this school enrolls both girls and boys. I wouldn't be so cruel as to send you to a boys-only school. As long as there are girls there, the rest is unimportant, and this school has had both girls and boys since its founding."
"There are a few constants," Tom conceded. "The specifics of the uniform change frequently, but Headmistress Triplehorn has a natural proclivity towards bare legs, sandals and hatlessness, and does all she can to take her students out of the classroom and into the open air, as if children, like flowers, mainly need fresh air and sunlight to thrive. The weather in Yorkshire does not always cooperate, but I have many happy memories of the winter chill seeming to vanish during a session of outdoor calisthenics."
Tom wondered how to tactfully phrase an important point. "The school advertises that it teaches students about the natural world. In practice, many of the teachers seem to lack an adequate education in the sciences. I recall a 'lesson' that consisted of students throwing various objects into the air and watching them fall, which was meant to teach us about gravity by experience. I suppose it served its purpose in that regard, but I have since become aware that there are calculations that can be made regarding gravity. My science teachers tended to gloss over those details as unimportant trivia." Tom mulled that over. He still resented being denied the answers he wanted about how the universe really worked. Yes, yes, he knew that things fell down, but why? "Gravity" was a wholly inadequate answer to the question, "Why do things fall down?" just as "The force that makes things fall down" was a wholly inadequate answer to "What is gravity?" Such arguments were circular, thus unsatisfying. Labeling a mystery didn't solve it.
Of course, since then, Tom had been subjected to experiences much more worthy of resentment, so it was funny that this relatively minor annoyance he'd suffered as a child still rankled. Presumably, physicists had worked all that out, even if they hadn't conveyed their knowledge to Tom's teachers. If Tom still cared, he had only to find the right books and tutors, and he could finally acquire the knowledge he'd coveted as a child. Tom was good at maths, so applying his skills to physics would be easy.
Tom felt an unfamiliar twinge of self-doubt. As a child, he'd had mainly his father's assurance that he was good at maths, and his father now assured Mark of the same thing despite the lack of evidence, so… At any rate, his father's honesty or lack thereof was immaterial, for surely Tom was now good at maths by any objective standard. He could learn physics with no trouble if he set his mind to it. Tom felt the sword of Damocles over his head, for at any moment, Mark could again ask him to explain how magnets work. Of course, Tom had numerous other demands on his attention, so learning physics wasn't a high priority. He could just tell Mark to go read a book, for presumably there were books to explain this.
Then again, did muggle physicists really understand how the entire world, including the magical portion, worked? Tom might not understand how gravity worked, but all of his prior experience had given him the impression that it worked with absolute consistency. He now knew that was wrong. Many things, magical brooms and Hermione's hair for example, seemed immune to gravity. Any true explanation would have to account for both muggle and magical phenomena. Perhaps Tom hadn't missed much, for even if his teachers had taught him the view that prevailed among muggle physicists, that might not be the whole explanation.
"Isn't that right, Tom?"
Tom realized his father had been speaking for a while. "Undoubtedly," he agreed. "What were you saying? My attention was on the road."
"Public schools," he father grumbled. "Teaching the sons of gentlemen that their high status is simply the natural order of things. Making boys memorize the same old boring classics their ancestors did, for no better reason than to impress others who've been through the same ordeal. Bah! Such schools produce men like that friend of yours, what's his name, Algie? I could carve a better man out of a banana."
Tom didn't have a good argument against that. "Bananas have their uses," was all he could say.
"That's why I couldn't stand going to such a school," said Tom's father. "I decided to leave, and a good thing, too. I learned more from the real world than I did from any professor."
As Tom recalled from earlier discussions on this topic, his father's departure had been expedited by his expulsion for, among other things, repeatedly escaping from his dormitory at night in order to roam about town in a false mustache, and upending a bottle of ink onto his headmaster from a second-storey window. Tom saw no need to mention these particulars now.
"You're quiet back there, Mark," said Tom's father. "What do you think of all this?"
"I'm trying to get the window just right," said Mark.
"Good lad," said Tom's father.
Conversation ebbed for a moment, then Mark said, "You both went to muggle schools?"
"Of course," said Tom's father. "Best way to learn to pass as a muggle. And it's a silly custom of most of magical Britain not to start school until age eleven. Mrs. Riddle and I certainly appreciated having young Tom out of the house for a good part of the day."
Tom chose not to think about that. "School is an enjoyable experience in its own right," he said. "I was bored when the schools closed for the Spanish flu."
"The what?" asked Mark.
"Muggle plague," explained Tom's father. "You wouldn't remember it, so no need to memorize how Australia fared."
Mark sighed in relief.
They arrived at the school soon enough. "Now we'll see what's the same and what's different," said Tom.
Headmistress Triplehorn, greeting prospective families with enthusiasm, seemed the same. Her hair, still shorter than Tom's, was greyer, but her upright posture and energetic stride spoke of the value of Müller system exercises at any age.
Tom endured Headmistress Tripplehorn's enthusiasm over how he had grown, Tom's father introduced their Australian orphan, Mark accepted the standard condolences, and they joined the tour, mostly of families with children old enough to enter kindergarten this September.
While Headmistress Triplehorn blathered on about the latest educational trends, with a presentation geared more towards five-year-olds than eleven-year-olds, Tom and company hung back to admire the decor. Just as Tom remembered, the school was full of bright colours and Art Deco patterns. The woodwork was still stained a pleasing green and perforated with heart-shaped holes. The library was still decorated with obscurely symbolical colourprints by Walter Crane, yet the art studio was finally free of the medieval revivalist influence of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. The reproduction of one of his paintings of a drooping woman in a tragically medieval gown had been replaced by a Tamara de Lempicka print of a cubist nude, which was an improvement, although Tom would have found it distracting had it hung there in his youth.
They toured the dining hall, as airy and bright as Tom remembered, now decorated with modern art that may have represented fruits and vegetables, or perhaps flowers or landscapes. At any rate, it was colorful.
It seemed that Headmistress Triplehorn was on one of her vegetarian kicks again, judging from the sample lunch menu she presented to the touring families. Tom quietly assured Mark that one vegetarian meal per day would do him no harm, and if he wanted meat at lunch, he need only be patient, for the school would undoubtedly change its practice within months.
The tour ended at the school's playground, now with some new equipment that Tom itched to climb. He refrained, leaving it to the five-year-olds swarming it like a besieging army. "What do you think?" he asked Mark.
Mark looked dazed. "It seems… nice. I didn't know there were such nice things, here. In England." The Riddles had taught him to avoid the word "muggle" in earshot of muggles.
"England has many charms," agreed Tom. "So that's a yes?"
"Yes!" said Mark giddily.
"I'll sign the paperwork then," said Tom's father, heading to the picnic table laden with papers weighed down by lumpy paperweights, clearly crafted by children who'd had the good taste not to take them home. Egads, was that one Tom had made?
On the drive home, Tom told Mark, "Of course, you won't usually need me to give you a lift to and from school. Once you get better at riding your bicycle, you can get yourself wherever you need to go, weather permitting."
"Yes sir," said Mark without enthusiasm. True, his first experiences with his bicycle could not be counted as complete successes, but Dobby was quick with healing charms and made short work of mud. (The Riddles were not absolute in their adherence to muggle methods.)
Thus, the remainder of August was Mark's opportunity to master his bicycle. Tom helped. Unfortunately, Hermione did as well. She'd put Tommy in a sling and accompany them as Mark walked his bicycle down the long, steep Riddle House drive, to practice on the more forgiving flat area around the Gaunt shack. This was perfectly safe because the Gaunts were all dead. Tom had filed all necessary papers and parchments with the muggle and magical authorities, so now the shack was officially property of Tommy, the only remaining heir of the Gaunts. Tom would maintain the property for him until he came of age of course. It was no longer the Gaunt shack. Tommy's shack didn't sound right. Tommy's playhouse? Once Tommy was old enough to express an opinion about architectural styles, Tom would have that hovel razed and replaced.
At first, Tom ran alongside Mark, with one hand on the handlebar of his bicycle to stabilize him as necessary, but as Mark gained experience, Tom could no longer keep up, so he instead stood by, ready to assist as needed.
"Good job!" cheered Hermione as Mark managed to wobble along for several yards.
Mark toppled sideways.
Tom darted forward to help him up. "That was your best run yet."
Mark nodded shakily.
"Want some water?" offered Tom, fetching Mark's wicker-wrapped canteen from the shade at the side of the road and pulling the cork from the glass.
Mark did, drinking thirstily, then handing the canteen back to Tom, who corked it and put it back in the shade with the others. They were perfectly safe there and would not be spiked by any Gaunts. Hermione, sitting with Tommy on a blanket in the shade as well, would undoubtedly guard them.
"Ready for another go?" Tom asked.
"Ready." Mark determinedly pushed off.
Tom didn't like to judge someone by his fake corpse, but the nightmarish feel of the soft, cold clay-flesh that Tom had hurriedly stuffed into wizarding robes had given an accurate impression of the boy's musculature. It was about what one would expect of a boy who rarely went outdoors and whose main entertainment was chess. It was nothing that couldn't be cured by healthful exercise.
Mark was receding further into the distance, getting less wobbly by the moment. He finally stopped and put his feet down, and awkwardly turned the bicycle around to face Tom. "I did it!"
"Of course!" shouted Tom.
Mark rode back, his grin wide enough to be seen from a distance. When he reached Tom, he was breathing hard. He stopped, again by choice.
"Want to take a break?" Tom asked.
Mark laughed. "Not now when I just got it!"
"I'll leave you to it then," said Tom. "Turning is another skill to master. You need to lean into turns a bit. You'll figure it out."
Mark nodded and set off again, so Tom joined Hermione and Tommy in the shade and drank some water.
Tommy hissed at him.
"Yes, I'll get a bicycle for you too, when you're ready," agreed Tom. "I recommend learning to walk first. That's also fun."
Tommy slithered to Tom to slobber on his knee in gratitude.
Tom looked to Hermione. "Would you like a bicycle?"
She looked at him.
"We could go on muggle outings together," Tom explained. "We can set a good example for Mark and Tommy." He was troubled as a thought occurred to him. "Do people still ride bicycles in the future?"
"Oh yes," she assured him. "For transportation, for sport, for recreation, they stay very popular. The basic design doesn't change all that much. I think." She squinted at Mark in the distance.
"You've ridden one yourself?"
Hermione looked cross. "I don't need a bicycle. Tommy, what are you doing to your father's leg? He is not food."
"I don't mind," said Tom.
Hermione picked Tommy up anyway. "There's no milk there. You want milk? Here." She undid a few buttons of her dress.
Tom looked at Mark in the distance. "Have you tried to ride a bicycle?" he asked Hermione.
"What does it matter?"
"It's fun. I'm sure you'll learn once you set your mind to it."
"My mind," she scoffed. "I learn from books. That doesn't help with this sort of thing."
"You don't give yourself enough credit. You learned to ride a broom, didn't you? This can't be that different, the way you balance, and steer by shifting your weight."
Hermione laughed. "What do you know about flying a broom?"
"I've seen it done," Tom explained patiently. "I'll buy you a bicycle."
"You can't buy me the ability to ride it," she grumbled. "I've never been good at physical things like this."
"And you're one to simply accept things the way they are. Fate is inevitable, so we must accept our lot in life, and not attempt to change—"
Hermione, with the hand that wasn't supporting Tommy's head, punched Tom's shoulder, so Tom threw himself backwards with theatrical exaggeration.
Hermione gasped gratifyingly.
Tom rolled onto his back, then swung his legs forward to reverse direction and bounce to his feet, drawing his wand from a pocket of his shorts and aiming it at Hermione in one fluid motion. "Surely the famous athlete, Hermione Granger the Australian duelist, understands the importance of cultivating both physical and magical skills, and needs no encouragement from me."
Hermione's hand twitched towards her pocket, but she stopped, laughing giddily. "You're ridiculous, drawing that wand as if you could do anything with it."
Tom sheathed his wand with a twirling flourish. "I thought that was the game we were playing, attacking each other with our weakest weapons. You throwing a punch at me, I mean really."
"Hey! You're calling me weak just because I'm a woman—"
"Not at all. I'm calling you weak because you don't do calisthenics."
"Oh look," said Hermione, pointing over Tom's shoulder at the woods behind him. "A Witch Weekly photographer documenting your win of this year's Most Infuriating Smirk Award."
Tom didn't take the bait, keeping his gaze (and charming smile, thank you very much) firmly fixed on Hermione. "Really? I thought that was a Dueling Illustrated photographer documenting how Australia's champion duelist has really let herself go since arriving in England."
Hermione nearly hit him again, but restrained herself at the last moment. "You're terrible. And your cook is making me fat."
Tom, as a rule, tried not to ogle the fairer sex, or at least not be too obvious about it, but Hermione's claim was practically an invitation. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was fishing for compliments. The wet nurse potion's effect was still apparent, but now that the rest of her figure had filled out a bit, the result didn't look so disproportionate. Her legs were no longer the sticks they'd been when she first arrived and were much improved by the addition of shapely curves. Thanks to the high hem of her tawny exercise dress, Tom had an unobstructed view of her legs, an expanse of beauty that started at her knees and ended abruptly at her brown canvas flats. Müller might nitpick about a lack of athleticism, but Tom, when he wasn't searching for things to tease her about, could find no fault with Hermione's physical form. "Hester does excellent work. Perhaps she deserves a raise."
Hermione's eyebrows bristled at him.
"This Australian duelist is obviously proficient in martial arts," said Tom. "Your quick reflexes and grace belie your claim of physical ineptitude. Whenever I need someone to slam me against a wall and hold a wand to my throat, there's no one else I'd rather do the honors."
"Your father is very silly, Tommy," said Hermione, smiling at Tom's son, who unlatched in order to hiss agreeably at her. Hermione put her dress back in order.
"I can only imagine the travails you endured before you arrived in Little Hangleton," said Tom, unfortunately clearing the smile off Hermione's face. "While the experience was undoubtedly unpleasant, it seems to have functioned as a calisthenics program, as you apparently acquired sufficient physical skills to survive while being too concerned with other matters to notice their acquisition. It's well past time to update your opinion of your physical skills."
Hermione considered that. "You may be right."
"Of course I am. Speaking of things I'm right about, Hester deserves praise, not criticism, for putting some flesh on your bones, as I infer from your appearance at your arrival that your past lacked adequate nourishment. It's up to you what form your new flesh takes. Maintaining physical fitness will surely help with your dueling, in addition to muggle activities such as bicycling. Now that you're no longer obligated to exercise to ensure your daily survival, you'll need to schedule non-life-threatening activities into your day to get the same results, as I do."
"I did learn to ride a broom," mulled Hermione. "And a thestral. And a dragon. And a carpet. I suppose I could learn to ride a bicycle too. But then you'd say 'I told you so,' and you're insufferably smug when you're right."
"Then I must always be insufferable. I was certainly right about you having no reason to avoid athletic clothing. You led me to believe that you had some sort of physical deformity that needed to be covered up to spare the sensibilities of any observers, yet in reality," he gestured at her graceful form, "it's a pity there aren't actually any Witch Weekly photographers lurking in the underbrush to show you modeling these clothes. You'd start another fashion trend."
Hermione let out a bitter laugh. "This isn't reality, you fool. I glamoured over my scars. I don't really look like this."
"You certainly do look like this, because I'm looking at you, and this is what you look like."
"Aargh! Tom, that's not reality! That's just your perception!"
"Reality is what we make it. You of all people should understand that. Your previous reality, from what I can tell, was quite intolerable. Glamoring over your scars is nothing compared to everything else you've changed."
Hermione ran her right hand over her bare left arm, as smooth as anyone could wish an arm to be, although now that Hermione mentioned it, Tom detected a subtle shimmer in the sunlight, similar to Dobby's disillusionment. It added to her charm. "But this isn't real."
"I beg your pardon. Of course it is. Next you'll be telling me that Tommy's really being raised in some awful orphanage, I'm still living in terror that my wife will return to me, and you're still starving in some war-torn dystopia."
Hermione closed her eyes, and for a moment, Tom feared that she was back in that dystopia. Fortunately, Tommy took advantage of her unguarded moment to grab her hair, pulling her back to reality by one curl. "Ouch. Tommy, let go." She gently pried his hand open and freed her curl. Of course, now that it had a taste of freedom, there was no easy way to confine it to her hairdo again. She gave up and let it dance in the breeze.
"I'm glad you're with us, Hermione," said Tom. "Not just because of all you've done for us, uniting me with my son and so on, but for your sake. It's about time you got enough to eat, proper clothes, safe housing and such. In addition to the bicycle, I'll get you Müller's book of calisthenics for women. Although I hear it's pretty much the same as his book for men; he just wanted to sell twice as many books."
Mark rode up to them, flushed, perspiring, and grinning wildly.
Hermione shook herself out of her dark memories and applauded as he approached. "Yay Mark! You did great! I'm so proud of you!"
Mark's grin collapsed into the sullen look he always acquired when Hermione attempted to interact with him.
Tom handed Mark his water bottle, then checked his Rolex. "This is a good time to head up for lunch. Shall I push your bicycle up the drive?"
"I'll do it," said Mark.
Tom packed the water bottles and blanket into the rucksack and put it on, and Hermione put Tommy back in the sling. "You'll be pedaling up this hill soon enough," Tom said, although today, Mark got only halfway walking before he stopped, breathing hard. Tom tried to take over the job of pushing the bicycle, but Hermione insisted on taking on the task herself. Mark grudgingly yielded his bicycle to her, too tired to resist. Tommy reached a hand out of the sling to hold onto the bicycle's handlebar, which required Hermione to walk in an awkward position, but Tommy was so delighted, there was no way to refuse him. Mark barely managed to get himself up the hill.
"I'll help you pick out clothes to wear to lunch," Tom offered to Mark, which got rid of an eye-rolling Hermione. She set off to change out of her athletic wear without guidance.
Once Tom and Mark were safely in Mark's room, and Tom had selected an outfit for Mark, Tom addressed the real issue. "Mark, I would like this whole household to get along."
"I need to shower," said Mark. "I'm too hot."
"I know. I do as well. This won't take long. I want this dealt with before lunch," Tom insisted. "Miss Granger has been nothing but welcoming to you. I'd like you to make an effort to at least be civil to her."
Mark looked out the window.
"You've come remarkably far since joining us," said Tom. "You willingly associate with muggles, at least to play chess, and you'll soon attend a muggle school, so you're well on your way to overcoming your prejudice against muggles, yet your irrational dislike of Miss Granger continues. Admittedly, she can lack social graces, but she always means well. And remember, she made the portkey that saved your life. Some gratitude would be appropriate."
"I wouldn't have needed a portkey if some muggleborn hadn't stolen my magic!" cried Mark.
Tom needed time to consider this, so he said nothing as Mark grabbed a handkerchief and wiped at the tears running down his dusty cheeks.
Tom had, of course, attempted to read up on what made some people magical and some not, but had gotten nowhere. As far as he could tell, researchers at the Department of Mysteries were studying the subject, but hadn't come to any conclusions, at least any that reached the popular press.
"You think that muggleborns stole their magic?" clarified Tom.
Mark looked at him as if Tom were an idiot. "Where else would they get it?"
"Where did Cassiopeia get hers?" asked Tom.
"She was born with it!" exclaimed Mark exasperatedly.
"Just as Miss Granger was born with hers," said Tom.
"But—"
"Shower," said Tom. "I expect you to be presentable by lunchtime. That includes being polite to all members of the household, including Miss Granger. Do I make myself clear?"
Mark nodded grudgingly, and Tom left, troubled. It would take more than a firm order to make someone overcome a deep-seated prejudice.
As they gathered in the drawing room before lunch, Tom reflected that his time would have been better spent advising Hermione on proper dress. He was starting to regret buying her those canvas flats.
—-
Come September, Mark was not quite ready to bicycle to school, which made getting him there Tom's job. Fortunately, the day dawned damply, providing the perfect excuse to give Mark a lift.
Aside from the haircut and uniform, Mark resembled the excited boy Tom had first met in Diagon Alley.
"Hey, Marius!" Tom tried over breakfast.
Mark didn't speak for a moment, then said. "Excuse me?"
"Aren't you Marius Black?"
"No. I don't know a Marius. What an odd name."
"But you look just like a boy I knew named Marius," insisted Tom.
"You've clearly mistaken me for someone else," said Mark.
"Where do you live?"
"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers. Good day. And then I go hide in a lavatory or someplace and use my portkey."
Tom nodded. "Good. You are very unlikely to run into anyone who might recognize you, but if you do, stick to your story, then report back to us."
"Yes sir."
"But Mark, don't get caught up in worry over unlikely events," said Tom's mother. "I'm sure you'll have a lovely time at school today."
Tom's mother was proven correct. That day, and in subsequent weeks, Mark came home bubbling with excitement over his new school and his new friends, who were all very considerate of the mourning Australian. Some of them even played chess.
—-
In late September, the weather was still fine for al fresco dining. The Prophet's restaurant reviewer praised the creative presentation of traditional pub food at The Pickled Salamander, a new waterfront pub on a bank of the Tamesis, a magical tributary of the Thames. The Prophet's restaurant reviewer did tend to extol the virtues of whichever restaurant purchased the largest advertisement in that newspaper, but Tom and Serpens decided to see for themselves whether the reviewer's praise was justified. As it was a casual place, neither brought an elf.
They read the short chalk menu posted behind the bar.
"I'll have a butterbeer and the bubble and squeak," said Serpens to the barkeep.
"I'll have a butterbeer and the toad in the hole," said Tom.
The barman's smile looked, perhaps, too gleeful to seem strictly professional, but Tom supposed that maintaining the correctly attentive facial expression throughout a workday might be tiring for someone new at his job.
Tom and Serpens took their butterbeers to the deck overlooking the river, sat at a round table under an umbrella, and watched small magical boats drift by.
Serpens seemed to have something on his mind, but Tom didn't pry. He trusted that his friend would unburden himself in his own time. They sipped their butterbeers and praised the fine weather and scenery, and even spared some praise for the restaurant reviewer who'd inspired this outing.
The barman delivered their food with, again, a slightly unsettling grin. Tom wondered if perhaps the barman had some unfortunate facial condition that put him out of the running for any Witch Weekly awards.
Tom's toad in the hole looked and smelled like a perfectly ordinary toad in the hole: the Yorkshire pudding was appetizingly puffy and browned, and there was a vague suggestion of dark meat lurking under the onion gravy.
This was disappointing compared to Serpens's dish, which consisted of a small iron cauldron, noisily bubbling despite the lack of any flame underneath it. An iridescent bubble containing an animated, frantically-squeaking mouse slowly floated up from the cauldron. Serpens, laughing, stabbed the bubble with his fork, which was armed with unusually needle-sharp tines. The bubble popped and the impaled mouse soon stopped twitching, revealing it to be a sort of automaton constructed of fried beef and cabbage. Serpens stopped laughing long enough to stuff the now inanimate mouse into his mouth, but another frantically squeaking bubble was rising from the cauldron faster than he could chew. It soon floated out of his reach and drifted over the river, iridescence shining in the sun.
A massive disturbance in the water attracted Tom's attention. Concerned for the hygiene of their lunch, Tom instinctively shielded the table with his robes as some large invisible creature leaped out of the water. The bubble vanished, and Tom's robes were lightly sprinkled with water as the creature splashed back into the river.
Serpens and Tom both laughed in delight. "Lunch and entertainment!" exclaimed Serpens. "What beautiful scales!" for the creature was apparently visible to him.
"Impressive," said Tom.
Another squeaking bubble rose from Serpens's cauldron. He stabbed it, but another soon followed. "Help yourself to these, Tom, I can't eat them as fast as they bubble."
Tom stabbed the next mouse, and enjoyed the familiar satisfying flavors of beef and cabbage, with the novel twitching sensation from the fading animation spell.
"Corvus would love this place," said Serpens. "I'll have to come back with him. Next school holiday…" His thoughts distracted him from his hunt, and he missed the next mouse. It drifted out over the water. Tom again shielded their table as the mouse was claimed by the mysterious aquatic creature.
"Thank you," said Serpens. "Aren't you going to charm your robes dry?"
"It's refreshing on a warm day. And part of the experience," said Tom.
Serpens nodded and focused his attention on the next mouse to bubble up from the cauldron. He stabbed it accurately.
Tom poked at the crust of his boring toad in the hole with his sharp-tined fork. The crust tasted like reasonably good toad in the hole crust. He dug through it in search of the meat.
A toad jumped out of the crust, making a break for freedom over the railing. It reached the water, but Tom suspected that its enjoyment of its newfound freedom was short-lived, as the water churned with invisible creatures in, Tom presumed, a feeding frenzy. Tom and Serpens laughed.
Tom flung a forkful of the Yorkshire pudding portion of his dish out over the water, and was rewarded with some spectacular splashing. A wizard paddling by in a coracle wobbled on the waves generated by the aquatic creatures, and had to Accio his dropped fishing rod out of the water. He paddled a safer distance away from the pub.
"Help yourself to this dish as well, of course," said Tom. He gestured towards the river. "Those aren't the only creatures I share with."
Serpens accepted the offer. "Pretty good," he said. "I've had better."
"I think the chef puts more effort into presentation than flavor," said Tom, flinging another forkful over the railing. "Those diners don't seem to mind."
Serpens blew at a levitating mouse to steer it away from the table without popping its bubble. It got pretty far before Tom had to protect their table from splashes again.
"If Corvus were here," started Serpens… He looked out at the water.
"Malfoy Manor must be quiet without him," said Tom. At Serpens's dejected sigh, he quickly added, "I'm sure you miss him."
Serpens sipped his butterbeer. "The manor seems so empty with just me in it."
"And Abraxas," remembered Tom.
"Well, yes, he's there too of course."
"How's he doing?"
"Fine, I suppose. I have a nurse looking after him."
Tom flung another forkful of Yorkshire pudding with onion gravy out to feed the creatures. It vanished about a foot over the water. "That was a big one," said Tom appreciatively, for a particularly large splash indicated that a large creature had attempted to win the prize.
"Hm. I thought the bigger one would get it," said Serpens.
"I suppose the smaller one was hungrier," said Tom.
"Hm." Serpens gazed at the slowly calming water for a while. It still swirled with activity from the depths.
Tom waited patiently.
"Corvus was sorted into Gryffindor," Serpens admitted.
"So he's at Hogwarts then."
"Of course he's at Hogwarts!" exclaimed Serpens. "The arrival of his letter was no surprise! He was showing accidental magic even as a baby!"
"Of course," said Tom. "I thought only that he might have some interest in attending Uagadou, his mother's alma mater. I've also heard good things about Durmstrang. But he's content to attend Hogwarts, yes?"
Serpens took a moment to compose himself, his ruddy face fading to his usual pallor. "Yes. And you're right of course. It helps to keep things in perspective. Gryffindor is far better than some alternatives. And he seems happy at Hogwarts, possibly because he hasn't considered any other schools, and you'd better not give him the idea. I want to keep my heir close."
"Of course."
"Gryffindor, though." Serpens shook his head. "I know how it happened. Corvus heard a rumor that Cassiopeia Black pushed his friend Marius out a window. That prejudiced him against all of Slytherin House. He said he didn't want to be in the same house as a murderer."
Tom considered that. "Gryffindor seems like the best option, then, as it puts some distance between him and Miss Black."
"He could use even more distance," grumbled Serpens. "His letters are half taken up with complaints about everything young Miss Black does, and he rarely sees her outside of mealtimes. She can't even receive a fashion catalogue without Corvus criticizing her vanity. His letters would lead one to believe that she receives such frivolous advertisements every single day, and pores over them obsessively."
Tom shrugged. "An innocent pastime. Shall I get another round of butterbeer?"
"Yes, thank you."
Tom quickly obtained and brought them back to the table. Serpens was vivisecting a mouse on Tom's plate.
"Clever animation charm," said Serpens.
"Indeed."
"I suppose it's natural that Corvus misses his friend," said Serpens. "It will take time for him to get over it, I'm sure."
"Did you hear what happened to Marius?" Tom asked.
"The usual sort of story," said Serpens. "You know. The poor boy was so excited to receive his Hogwarts letter, he leaned too far out the window as he let in the owl, and fell out to die on the pavement below. Somehow his accidental magic wasn't strong enough to save him." Serpens shook his head. "Not the best story of that sort I've heard, but still, we must believe these things, if we expect our stories to be believed in turn."
Tom nodded and sipped his butterbeer. This matched the story he'd heard in breathlessly scandalized tones over the telephone from Tessie. She similarly found the story doubtful. She'd heard the rumor about Cassiopeia, but believed that it was a vile, unfounded aspersion cast against the unfortunately ugly child. Either that or an attempt to improve her marriage prospects among those who valued purity of blood above all else. The Blacks wanted to brag that Cassiopeia had the will to do whatever must be done to ensure the purity of her family, a valued trait in their circle. Of course, the official story was that Marius's death was nothing other than an unfortunate accident; the Aurors wouldn't dream of investigating such an important family.
"Eleven," marveled Serpens. "The Blacks kept up hope for eleven years before realizing. He visited us at the manor so often, I just assumed he and Corvus would attend Hogwarts together. He was such a well-behaved, polite boy, I often told Corvus to follow his example…"
Tom flung some more tidbits at the aquatic creatures, but was less careful about blocking splashes, which explained Serpens's need to wipe at his face with his serviette.
When there were no more tidbits to fling, Tom said, "I see that this place also offers a selection of puddings. Shall we?"
"I find I have room for pudding, so yes, let's."
Tom ordered the blackcurrant flummery. Serpens chose the gooseberry fool.
The pale green gooseberries honked and flapped their wings defensively at Serpens, darting their long necks around like striking snakes, or perhaps wiggling worms, considering their size, but Serpens wielded his spoon expertly to subdue them, and declared his pudding good.
Tom eyed his pudding suspiciously. It looked too much like an ordinary blackcurrant flummery to be trusted. He poked the purple goo cautiously with his spoon, setting off a crackling of sparks, and hastily let go of his shocking spoon. "Ah!" he realized. "Current."
Serpens looked at him quizzically.
"Electrical current," Tom explained. "You know. Like electric lights."
Serpens blinked at him, then turned his attention back to subduing his gooseberries.
"It's a pun on a muggle meaning of current," Tom explained as he wrapped a serviette around the middle of his spoon handle as insulation, then used the spoon to conduct the electricity from his flummery to the railing, which carried it to the water. After this, the flummery had merely a pleasing tingle. "Try some," he offered. "It's safe now."
"Thank you," said Serpens, who offered some angry green geese in exchange. They were delicious.
Author's Note: Mark's school is inspired by Joan and Peter: The Story of an Education by H. G. Wells. I actually toned it down. It's one of many free ebooks available from Project Gutenberg.
Teddy Roosevelt was carving better men out of bananas in 1902.
Squire Riddle's school experiences are from P.G. Wodehouse.