Briar, followed closely by Bramble, stepped from the Floo into Tom's office. "Mind the illusions," Briar said hurriedly to Dobby, who'd approached to remove any Floo-ash. "We'll do it ourselves." They proceeded to do so, removing all traces of ash from their perfectly fashionable muggle suits and coats.

They looked at Tom. "Wow," said Bramble. "You look almost exactly like a real muggle."

"Thank you," said Tom.

Eric, in his usual grey robes, stepped out of the Floo next. He looked around suspiciously. "Tom?" he asked.

"Welcome, Eric," said Tom. "Don't worry about your robes; as I said, I'll provide a suitable costume for you."

"And you're Briar and Bramble, right?" Eric asked.

"We went camping together for weeks, Eric," said Briar.

"We thought you'd recognize us by now," added Bramble.

"Sorry; I'm not so good with faces."

The Floo blazed green again, and Ignis stepped out. He looked at Tom, Briar, and Bramble and sighed resignedly.

"Don't worry, I have a costume for you too," said Tom.

"Don't go to any trouble," said Ignis. "I could just skip this whole—"

"It's no trouble at all," said Tom. He looked to Briar and Bramble. "You two clearly don't need any help. Your skill at disguise is extraordinary."

"Well, we had to get good at it," said Briar. "In the wizarding world, we have to pretend we're not werewolves, and in the muggle world, we have to pretend we're not…" he trailed off as if he couldn't find the word.

"Wizards," Tom filled in for him.

"Right," said Bramble.

"Also, many muggles are prejudiced against homosexuals," added Tom, "so I suppose you have to hide that as well."

Briar and Bramble had one of their eye-contact conversations again. Tom suspected that Bramble had just lost a bet.

Tom had needed Hermione's help understanding the expected wizarding reaction to the kindly old couple who ran the inn at the base of Dragonfire Mountain in Lou Garou. After explaining the typical wizarding opinion of homosexuality, she had then, as was her habit, gone off on a rant about how she hoped that Tom would not act like a typical muggle about this. Tom had found the assumption insulting, and assured her that he had a completely modern view on the subject. He had to, if he hoped to get along with Algie's theatre friends.

Hermione had then, confusingly, apologized for assuming that he'd be homophobic, saying she should have known to expect better from a metrosexual like Tom. She'd refused to define this term, saying he didn't need to know a word that wouldn't be coined until the 1990s, and Tom had said that he didn't need any more explanations from her anyway, since he was engrossed in the latest chapter of Lou Garou, which was much more interesting than anything she had to say, and she'd rolled her eyes and stormed off as if she wasn't going to pounce on the magazine as soon has he was through with it, and that had been that.

"Bloody muggles," muttered Ignis.

"So why are we doing this?" asked Eric.

"Because you like cake," said Bramble.

"This was your idea," said Briar.

"It was?" asked Eric.

"Yes," said Briar.

"Oh," said Eric.

"Not one of your better ones, mate," said Ignis.

Eric thought. "Not one of my worst, though."

The others conceded this point.

"I thought I was the leader of this team," grumbled Ignis.

"You were, but you led us to a feral werewolf pack," said Briar. "They had no cake at all."

"Eric leads us to bakeries," said Bramble. "We're following Eric from now on. Sorry, Ignis."

"I'm the leader of all of you," said Tom, "Because I'm driving us all to this bakery."

"Driving?" repeated Bramble. "You mean, in an automobile?"

"Of course. I wouldn't drive an Abraxan-drawn carriage to Great Hangleton. There would be nowhere to park it."

"How did you get an automobile?" asked Bramble.

"We bought it," said Tom. "With muggle money."

"You can exchange regular money for muggle money at Gringotts," said Eric, surprising Tom. "I did that myself, for this outing."

"There was no need for that," said Tom. "This is my treat."

"Yeah, well, I didn't want to show up with nothing."

Ignis looked even more nervous. "Should I have brought—"

"No!" said Tom.

"You're not taking cues from Eric, are you mate?" Briar asked Ignis.

"None of you will need muggle money today," Tom assured them. "The entire outing is my treat: outfitting you with muggle costumes, transportation to Great Hangleton, and a box of cakes for each of you. It's up to you which you'll eat today and which you'll put under stasis charms to eat later."

"Well, you said you'd get one box of cakes for each of us, sure," argued Eric. "But I'd like about a year's worth of parkin, and I wouldn't expect you to pay for that. I can buy it myself while I'm there."

"Anyway, we must get you costumed first," said Tom. "I have various muggle clothes on this rack here. Choose what you like, and my elf will tailor it to fit you."

"Wait, these are real," said Bramble, examining them.

"Of course," laughed Tom.

"We thought you'd just fake something," said Briar.

"Not all wizards have your skill with illusions," said Tom. "The rest of us must make do with reality."

"And money," muttered Bramble. He pulled a coat and suit off the rack. "These for you, Eric. And this shirt, and definitely this tie. Brings out your eyes."

"Out?" repeated Eric fearfully. "I'd like them to stay in."

"Figure of speech," Bramble assured him. "Oh, and you're too nimble without your cane, so make sure you keep it in hand."

Eric accepted the clothes and went behind the screen to don his costume, with Dobby's help.

"And for Ignis…" Bramble didn't seem satisfied with the selection. "I don't suppose you have anything that looks cheaper?" he asked Tom.

"Hey!" said Ignis.

"No, sorry," said Tom. These suits might be last year's style, which was why It was no loss to give them away, but they were all excellent quality.

"Then these I suppose. Perhaps scuff the knees and elbows up a bit." He offered his selections to Ignis, who looked at them. "You'll have to keep the gloves on the whole time of course, lest the muggles notice your silver hand."

"Are we really doing this?" pleaded Ignis. "This isn't just a prank you're all playing on me?"

"I hope it's not a prank," called Eric from behind the screen. "I'm looking forward to it. I've never managed to spend much time with muggles before they ran away."

"It's not a prank," said Tom. "Ignis, you bravely led your team into feral werewolf territory, and found sixty-seven new customers. You deserve this relaxing outing as a reward."

"Oh Merlin," muttered Ignis. He accepted the clothes Bramble had selected for him and examined them as if expecting to find fleas.

Eric came out from behind the screen.

"Yes!" said Bramble. "I was right about that tie and your eyes. Look in the mirror. Your hair, well, that's what the hat is for. And would you like me to charm your boot leather to look less reptilian?"

"Sure," said Eric, and soon the dragonhide resembled cowhide.

"Should we hide this?" asked Eric, gesturing to the scar on his cheek. "Or this?" his peg leg. "Muggles don't usually survive Dark injuries, right?"

"It's fine," Bramble assured him. "Everyone will assume those are from the war."

Eric bristled his eyebrows in confusion but said nothing.

"Your turn," said Briar cheerfully to Ignis, who shuffled behind the screen. "Thank you for this," Briar said quietly to Tom. "Ignis's attitude towards muggles and muggleborns is—"

"It's fine," said Bramble.

"It's not fine," insisted Briar.

"I'm used to it," said Bramble.

"You shouldn't have to get used to it," said Tom. "Purebloods need to get used to you. You're part of the wizarding world as much as they are."

"Thanks," said Bramble.

Ignis eventually came out from behind the screen, looking passably muggle, although Bramble was correct that a shabbier suit would have gone better with his shaggy hair.

"Right," said Tom. "Now that we're all ready—"

"Briar, this coat looks warmer than your charmed cloak," said Bramble, looking at the clothes still on the rack. "And you wouldn't have to worry about a muggle brushing against it and noticing—"

"Take it, please," said Tom. "Everyone, help yourselves to costumes. Keep them, if they'd be useful to you on other occasions."

"Thanks," said Briar, Bramble, and Eric.

When they were all ready, Tom led them to the garage and into the Bentley. Eric, being tall, sat in front.

"This is so exciting!" bubbled Briar's voice from behind Tom as he started the car and headed down the hill. "I'm sure it's old hat to you."

"No," said Bramble. "I've never been in a Bentley. This isn't just a car, this is…"

"Safer than an ordinary muggle car," Tom assured them.

"Impressive rune work," observed Eric.

"Could we get a car like this?" Briar asked.

There was a pause. "If your father reinstates you as his heir," said Bramble, "and then you sell some goblin-made jewelry."

"Ah," said Briar. "Sorry. Never mind."

Tom parked in Great Hangleton and ensured that everyone's doors were closed properly, then led the way to the bakery. Briar and Bramble clearly enjoyed the outing, although not as blatantly as Eric, who was gawking like a rube. "What's this place?" he asked Tom, looking at a storefront.

"A toy shop. See the sign."

"Oh." Eric thought. "My nephew's birthday is coming up."

"Would you like to buy something for him?" Tom asked.

Eric thought for a while. "No," he eventually said, walking away. "I don't have any way to get a gift to him, not so his parents would accept it."

That dampened the previously cheerful mood of the party. Bramble briefly put an arm around Briar's shoulder and squeezed, then hurriedly let go.

They arrived at Thelma's Bakery and Pastry Shop, which was not very crowded mid-morning, so they had fine views of all manner of breads and cakes in the glass display cases. Tom explained that he'd be paying for the five of them, then directed the salesgirl to fill a box with an assortment for the Riddle House. Bramble followed his example, enthusiastically choosing treats. Briar, who'd been paying close attention, went next. He was as polite and muggle-like a customer as any shopgirl could wish for.

Now it was Ignis or Eric's turn. Ignis looked at Eric. "Go on. Wasn't this your idea?"

Eric just stared. Maybe that tie did bring out his eyes excessively, for they seemed to be bulging out of his head.

"Eric?" asked Ignis nervously.

"You know he gets like this sometimes," said Bramble to Ignis. "Too many choices?" he asked Eric sympathetically.

Eric nodded.

"You want me to choose for you?"

After a pause, Eric nodded again.

"No problem." Bramble quickly directed the salesgirl to fill another box.

"Thanks," said Eric, finding his voice again.

"It's all right to be nervous in unfamiliar surroundings," said Tom.

"No, I'm like this in normal pastry shops too," said Eric. "Too many choices."

"And last but not least," said Briar, slinging a friendly arm over Ignis's shoulder to prevent his escape. "Do you have trouble deciding too? I'm sure this shopgirl will help. Excuse me miss, what's the filling in these? Is that blackcurrant?"

"These are blackberry tarts," she said helpfully. "The blackcurrant ones are here."

"Thank you," said Briar. "Now Ignis, which do you prefer? Blackberry? Blackcurrant? One of each? Excellent choice," although Ignis had said nothing. Briar turned to the salesgirl. "He'll have one of each."

"Yes sir." She put them in the box.

"Now tell him all about what else you recommend," said Briar.

"Oh, it's all good," she said. "And all fresh-baked this morning. Do you like anything in particular? Puff pastry? Sponge? Shortcrust?"

Ignis seemed mute.

"Sorry about my friend," said Briar. He leaned across the glass display case to get closer to the shopgirl as if conveying a secret, and delivered his next line with a dazzling smile. "He gets nervous around pretty girls. I'm trying to help him get over it."

She giggled and blushed. Her smile would have been prettier with a complete set of teeth, but the overall impression was pleasant. "Oh!"

Ignis turned bright red, a color that could have been explained by embarrassment, among other emotions. Tom was somewhat concerned that Briar would catch fire from the look Ignis gave him, but trusted Briar to deal with such a problem if it arose.

"No need to be nervous," twittered the girl. "I'm just here to sell the cakes. We have cherry Bakewells, those have almond filling under the cherries, and the petit fours, those have sponge and buttercream inside. And the Battenberg squares, under the marzipan, the pink and yellow sponge layers are held together with apricot jam. The Chelsea buns have currants, lemon peel and cinnamon…" Despite the shopgirl's best efforts to engage Ignis in conversation about which pastries he preferred, she couldn't get him to say a word. Briar wound up choosing everything for him.

"Thank you very much for your help," said Briar with a wink that should have been preserved for posterity by a Witch Weekly photographer.

"Thank you for your business," said the girl. "Come again. And…" She cast a nervous look at a door to a back room, which remained closed, so she leaned across the counter and spoke quietly. "And I get off work at five." It was unclear whether this was meant for Briar, Ignis, or perhaps both.

"Thank you," said Briar with a charming smile that Tom wanted to take notes on and practice in a mirror later. "I'll talk with my friend, see if I can help him work up the courage to talk to a girl as pretty as you." Briar leaned in even closer to the shopgirl to address her with a conspiratorial air. "You see, he's not very brave."

The girl was still beaming as Tom paid for the five boxes of cakes.

They seemed ready to go, but Eric hung back. "I still need to get that parkin."

Tom reached for his wallet again, but Eric stayed his hand. "No, this is for later. I'll buy it myself." He pulled a leather drawstring pouch out of his coat pocket.

"It's no trouble," said Tom.

Ignis took a break from glaring at Briar to join the conversation. "Like I told you, Tom doesn't just pay well, he also finds other ways to be generous."

"Pay well?" repeated Eric. "Erm. This doesn't pay nearly as well as cursebreaking. I've been thinking of the pay as more of an honorarium." The others stiffened. "I mean, not that I mind taking a holiday from work to help with this. This is much more important. Not like I need much money anyway. Got no one to spend it on. Erm. I'll be getting that parkin then." He walked to the counter and dumped a pile of crumpled cash on it out of the pouch. "How much parkin will that get me?" he asked, enunciating clearly and speaking more loudly than necessary.

The shopgirl blinked, then counted the cash. She started filling boxes until she'd built a tower of them on the counter.

"We'll help you carry those to the car," said Tom, realizing there was no way for Eric to pick up the tower without using both hands, which couldn't be done while using his cane.

"No need," said Eric. "I'll just put them all in my—"

"Not here, you won't," said Tom quietly.

"Oh," said Eric.

Soon, all but Eric were heavily laden with boxes, and they walked back towards the car.

"Briar, how did you know Ignis gets nervous around pretty girls?" asked Bramble, sounding a bit miffed.

"First time I see him around a pretty girl, he's suddenly a bundle of nerves," explained Briar. "How else was I supposed to explain my strangely silent friend?"

"You could have said he was deaf and dumb," suggested Tom. "And interpreted for him. How does one say puff pastry in sign language?"

Briar looked to Bramble for help. Bramble explained the concept of a language of gestures for muggles who couldn't hear.

"That's clever," said Briar. "But I don't know sign language."

"Most people don't," said Tom. "So all you'd have to do is make up something that looks convincing."

Briar's grey eyes brightened under the brim of his fedora. "Ooh, let's go to another shop and explain that to another shopgirl. Ignis, do you want to practice our choreography first or just improvise?" He stopped in front of a hardware shop. "How does one say 'I need a plunger for my toilet' in sign language?"

"To say 'plunger' in sign language," said Bramble authoritatively, "one pantomimes muting a trombone like Tricky Sam Nanton."

Briar nodded in understanding. "Of course, because deaf people are so fond of jazz. I'm ever so glad I have you to teach me these details of muggle culture."

"They're even more fond of dance," said Tom. "Just think how Isadora Duncan would express the idea of a toilet plunger through interpretive dance, and do that."

Tom had assumed that Briar and Bramble, at least, would appreciate that one, but to his surprise their reaction was even worse than Eric's befuddlement and Ignis's annoyance.

"Full points for the muggle reference," said Bramble, "but still, that was in poor taste."

"How?" asked Tom.

"She just died a few months ago," said Briar.

"What? But she wasn't that old…"

"Strangled by her own silk scarf when it got caught in a rear wheel of her new convertible car."

It took a moment for the horror to sink in. Tom shuddered. "Sorry. I didn't know. I see I haven't been keeping up with muggle news as well as you."

"That story really struck me," said Briar. "One moment you're on top of the world, and then the next moment…"

"Anyway, speaking of things in poor taste, it would be awkward if we happened to run into someone who did know sign language," said Bramble. "Let's just go."

"Finally," said Ignis unnecessarily, for his body language was expressive enough without a spoken word.

Once they were back in the car, cake boxes secure in the trunk or on laps, Briar exploded. "Ignis, I'm getting tired of this! What is your problem with muggles?"

"They're creepy," said Ignis. "Like that shopgirl, with the white apron and the rosy cheeks and everything, I mean, isn't that creepy to you? The way they look like people but they're not."

"You're saying Bramble's parents aren't people?" challenged Briar.

Bramble cleared his throat. "My parents might not be the best example—"

"How can you tell muggles aren't people?" asked Tom calmly.

"Muggles don't have souls," said Ignis.

"Don't tell me you believe that rubbish they taught us in school," said Briar. "They also taught that werewolves don't have souls, so—"

"How can you tell muggles don't have souls?" asked Tom.

"They just don't," said Ignis.

"How do you know that?" asked Tom.

There was a pause after this. "They can't become ghosts," Ignis said conclusively.

"Most witches and wizards don't become ghosts," said Tom. "Should we assume that any witch or wizard who dies without leaving a ghost behind didn't have—"

"No!" said Ignis.

"So aside from their lack of magic, how are they different from us?" Tom asked. "If lack of magic is so important, you and I aren't as good at cursebreaking as Eric is, so does that mean we're not people? We're not as good at illusions as Briar and Bramble, so—"

"They're just different, all right?! It's so obvious I shouldn't have to explain it."

"Muggles wear weird clothes," said Eric helpfully. "And they scream and run away when you go near them. Those are the main differences I've noticed. Except today they didn't run away or scream, and we were all wearing weird clothes, so there was no difference, really." He lifted the box on his lap to his nose and sniffed. "Ah." He tugged at the bow in the string holding it closed.

Was Eric going to eat in the Bentley? The crumbs! And there wasn't any tea. Tom took a deep breath. Dobby would set things right. It was fine. Tom would talk about something else. "The funny thing is, that shopgirl is actually a witch."

"What?!" said Ignis.

"Oh yes. She's doing research for a book, My Year Among the Muggles."

"But," sputtered Ignis. "She was missing a tooth! A witch would just take some Denta-Gro—"

"You didn't notice that was an illusion?" asked Bramble.

"It wasn't even a good one," added Briar contemptuously.

"Shadows were all wrong," sneered Bramble.

"Good idea for a muggle costume, though," said Briar. "That kind of detail really makes the outfit. Tom, have you considered adding a detail like that? Your costume is almost perfect, but it needs—"

"My costume is already adequate for my purposes," said Tom. "And the local muggles are used to it by now. I can't change it without attracting suspicion."

"Fair enough," said Briar. "Anyway, her costume was pretty good. Ignis didn't even notice—"

"Ignis hasn't even noticed that I'm actually a muggle," Tom said. "He's unobservant that way. You'd better not perform any magic around me lest you get in trouble for violating the Statute of Secrecy."

Briar and Bramble laughed.

Ignis groaned. "You've beaten me dueling, Tom."

"Sleight-of-hand," Tom explained. "Those snakes were hidden in my sleeve the whole time. Poor Ignis, can't even defeat a muggle in a duel."

"You should have stuck with trying to pass that shopgirl off as a witch," laughed Briar. "He actually seemed to believe that one. This strains credulity, though."

"Wait…" realized Ignis.

"I had you going for a moment, didn't I?" crowed Tom. "Thank you, Briar and Bramble, for your contributions regarding her missing tooth."

"I am done listening to you three," said Ignis. "Eric, don't muggles give you the creeps?"

Eric swallowed his latest bite of parkin. "What are the creeps?"

"Don't they make you feel uncomfortable, just being around them? Like it feels like your skin is trying to creep off and escape?"

"Oh that, yeah. Absolutely."

"Right. I'm not the only one."

"Just like witches and wizards," added Eric. "And most animals. And some plants. They all give me the creeps. I never know what they're thinking."

"It's generally safe to assume," said Tom, "that plants aren't thinking anything."

"That depends on the plants," said Eric. "Some of them look at me funny."

"But the point is," insisted Briar, "Ignis, you and I were both raised to think that muggleborns are barely a step above dirt. I got over it. You can too. Where muggleborns are from isn't that different from where we're from, really."

"Tom, is it safe to apparate out of a moving automobile?" asked Ignis. "I'm trapped with a bunch of lunatics."

"I've never tried," said Tom. "It wouldn't be safe for my passengers."

"What will it take to get you to stop talking to me about muggles?" pleaded Ignis.

"Eat some cake," said Briar.

Tom heard the rustling of a paper box being opened. Conversation stopped for a while.

"Is he eating?" asked Tom, eyes on the road.

"No," reported Briar.

"Think of it as Halloween tribute, Ignis," said Tom. "Wizards have been eating muggle-made food for centuries. And do you object to eating honey because the bees that produce it aren't people?"

More silence, then finally Ignis said, "Maybe a small one."

Briar's cheering from the backseat indicated success.

"All right, this is really good," conceded Ignis. There was the sound of rummaging. "You only got me one of the raspberry ones?"

Briar and Bramble laughed.

"Needs tea, though," said Ignis.

"Back at the Riddle House," Tom assured him. "Eating in the car is not generally done."

Eric hurriedly closed his box.

"I am perfectly willing to admit," said Ignis, "that muggleborns have a place in our world. Bramble, you're an essential member of this team. You're the one who first noticed the ferals' illusion. I haven't forgotten that. I'm sorry if I was rude to you. I'll try to do better in future." He sighed. "But come on, you've got to let me draw the line at muggles."

"Fair enough," said Briar.

"Apology accepted," said Bramble.

"If I slip up, you'll be well within your rights to subject me to this sort of ordeal again," said Ignis.

"I'll keep that in mind," said Tom. "I try not to be too cruel a taskmaster, but I'm not above a spot of torture if it gets results."

In the backseat, Briar, Bramble, and even Ignis laughed. Beside him, Eric looked at Tom askance. Tom looked away from him to focus his attention on the road. "Fortunately, cake has not yet been classified as an unforgivable," he added, but his peripheral vision still gave him a view of a very suspicious-looking Eric.

—-

"Did you read the latest chapter, Tom?!" squealed Tessie as soon as he made his way to the Prewetts' table at Boulestin.

"Yes," said Tom, taking a seat.

"What a twist!"

"How so?"

Tessie stared at him. "You did get it, that Lou is a—"

"No spoilers," said Tom, noting the arrival of the final member of their party. "Algie might want to read it."

"Hullo," said Algie, taking a seat. "What's got your cheeks so pink, Tessie?"

"This serial we've been reading! The latest chapter! Aargh! It revealed a huge twist that changed everything that went before!"

"The revelation changes nothing," said Tom. "But now we must read our menus, and order quickly, if we hope to finish dinner and get to the theatre in time."

"Tom is right," said Mrs. Prewett, so the next few minutes were spent deliberating the relative merits of coq au vin and bœuf bourguignon, then giving their verdict to the waiter.

Once this task was out of the way and they had their drinks, Algie revisited the subject. "With reviews like these, this serial does seem appealing. Can't I convince any of you to hand over the goods?"

"Well," said Tessie. "It is being published in a women's magazine."

"I see;" said Algie. "It's full of feminine secrets you're not allowed to share. I wouldn't ask you to be a traitor to your side. Wait a moment, though. How come Tom is privy to these top secret documents?"

"I'm not," said Tom. "I'm able to access them only through the most skillful spy work. It involves donning a camouflage suit and painting my face to match the wallpaper in my mother's sitting room, creeping in, timing my footsteps to coincide with the clicking of her knitting needles, then waiting for her to tire of knitting and read her magazine, peering over her shoulder as she turns the pages. I dare not touch her magazine with my own hands lest she detect my fingerprints later."

His audience's reaction to this was gratifying, but Tom could do better. "I pick up good makeup tips, too," he added to squeeze the last drops of laughter from his victims.

"Well, you must have got your education in painting your face to resemble wallpaper from somewhere," said Algie.

Tessie found the one flaw in his story. "But if you learned how to paint your face by reading the magazine over your mother's shoulder, how did you initially disguise yourself in order to look over her shoulder to learn how to…"

Algie had recovered from his laughter and foolishly decided to take a sip of water, so Tom timed his next line carefully. He shielded himself with his serviette to protect himself from the spray.

"Time travel," said Tom. "I borrowed H. G. Wells's time machine." He felt the damp impact on the serviette. He turned to Tessie, who looked concerned about the thought of muggles being able to travel through time. "Have you read The Time Machine? If you like novels about impossible things, you'll like that."

"Oh!" said Tessie. "No. I haven't. Maybe I will. It sounds fun."

Mrs. Prewett snorted. "Wells is a socialist. He doesn't write novels, he writes political pamphlets disguised as novels."

Tom was struck dumb.

"Where did you come across his books?" asked Tessie.

"At the same bookshop where I got those cookbooks. I told you, we can't spend all week sitting around waiting for the next issue of W— what we're waiting for, that magazine with the serial. There are plenty of other things to read. These books in the shop looked interesting so I flipped through them, but Wells's goal of abolishing class barriers is so obvious and heavy-handed. I was just looking for a good story, not a philosophical treatise. I want characters I can sink my teeth into, like Lou Garou." She gave Tom a conspiratorial look. "I'm with you, Tom. That twist doesn't really change anything."

"Yes it does!" insisted Tessie. "We thought he was the hero, but all along—"

"He's still the hero," said Tom. "A tragic hero."

"The best kind," said Mrs. Prewett with a lascivious look, although that could be explained by the arrival of their appetizers.

After dinner, they took a cab to the Savoy Theatre. The interior was brightly illuminated by electric lights, which unfortunately revealed every flaw and stain in the white, pale yellow, and gold decor. The Prewetts looked around uncertainly. "We've never been to this theatre before," observed Tessie.

"I hope you like it," said Algie nervously as they weaved through the sparse crowd and found their seats. "We usually see new shows, but you three have been talking so much about that fantastical serial, I thought you might like the revival of this operetta too." He looked around skeptically. "But yeah, this place looks like it hasn't been updated since the eighties. I apologize in advance if the show's naff. You three should feel free to choose our entertainments, you know. You don't have to always take my word for it about which shows are worth seeing."

Mrs. Prewett, Tessie and Tom rushed to assure Algie that his taste was impeccable and his choices were always pleasing, so they were happy to let him be their guide.

The orchestra began the overture, which did sound terribly dated, completely lacking in the playful syncopation and creative harmonies that delighted modern audiences. The gold curtain rose on some set-designer's idea of a picnic in the countryside, and a chorus of some costume designer's idea of simple country folk.

The romance between Aline and Alexis was a done deal, and the one between Miss Partlet and Mr. Daly seemed inevitable, so the only mystery was how the production could manage to spin a whole show's worth of entertainment from an opening so trite.

The Prewetts, at least, were delighted, which clearly was a relief to Algie. Tom found the show tolerable. While it was of course terminally Victorian, there was some wit to the words. Young Alexis was overjoyed to be betrothed to the fair Alene: "Aline is rich, and she comes of a sufficiently old family, for she is the seven thousand and thirty-seventh in direct descent from Helen of Troy." Alexis had some noble idea that everyone in the village should be as happy as he and his bride, and he had a plan to ensure this via—

A love potion. This show was about dosing people with love potions against their will, and the audience were laughing.

Alexis tried to convince his fiancée to go along with his evil plan. "Aline, is it, or is it not, a laudable object to steep the whole village up to its lips in love, and to couple them in matrimony without distinction of age, rank, or fortune?"

She'd stop him, right? She had to stop him. She replied, "Unquestionably."

Tom had to escape. He abruptly stood. "Excuse me," he said, struggling out of the row of seats, past affronted audience members. "Pardon me. Excuse me."

On stage, Alene fretted that the sorcerer hired to provide the potion might turn her into a guinea pig. The audience laughed. Better to be a guinea pig than… Why were there so many people just sitting here laughing at this horror? Tom broke into a run.

He made his way to the lobby. The men's room was empty of course. Tom found a stall anyway for maximum privacy. "Dobby," he called.

Pop. "Yes Master?"

"Take me home."

"Yes Master." Dobby extended a leathery hand to grasp Tom's sweaty one. The dizzying nothingness of apparition was a relief.

—-

The telephone rang as Hermione and the Riddles were eating breakfast the next morning. Tom's father answered, then told Tom that the call was for him, so Tom abandoned his breakfast to take the call in his office.

"Hello?"

"Oh Tom, thank you for taking my call," cried Mrs. Prewett. "I was afraid you wouldn't want to hear from me after I was so rude to you last night. Please allow me to apologize."

Tom had readied his own explanation for his behavior, but it might not fit with whatever explanation his three companions had come up with in his absence. "I'm listening."

"I was completely wrong to say that about H.G. Wells," she confessed. "I was concerned only with how the destruction of the orderly arrangement of society would lead to chaos, but it's quite true that class divisions do make things rather difficult for the lower classes, don't they? And then in the show last night, it was sort of the same idea! Alexis said that class should be no obstacle to marriage, and I'd said pretty much the opposite at dinner, when I criticized Wells! You must have assumed that I'd oppose a union between our families! That must have been a terrible blow, considering Tessie's charms, so it's no wonder you stormed out. You thought I would never let you marry her! Please let me assure you, Tom, that the Prewetts are not blood purists! I have no objection whatsoever to Tessie marrying a wizard whose blood is less than pure, so long as he can keep her in the comfort she deserves. After all, she won't even carry the Prewett name once she's married, and it's not like Axel is developing an attachment to someone below him, so the purity of the Prewett name is assured. I have no concern in that regard. So please, Tom, do you forgive me?"

During this speech, Tom had held the telephone receiver at a distance to give his ear a rest, but he'd got the gist. "Thank you," he said once there was finally silence, "for your concern. However, I'm afraid I can't forgive you—"

Mrs. Prewett let out an animal wail.

"—as I never took offense at your words in the first place." Tom waited for his meaning to sink in.

"What?" Mrs. Prewett finally managed.

"Your criticisms of Wells are valid," said Tom. "His socialist symbolism can be a bit much. I left the theatre for an entirely different reason."

Mrs. Prewett, apparently incapable of speech, gave an expectant little gasp.

The easiest excuse would be to blame the bœuf bourguignon at Boulestin, but that risked their future meals at that excellent restaurant, which was not a sacrifice Tom was willing to make. He'd have to skirt closer to the truth. "It's just… I was reminded of Merope. You see, she was a big Gilbert and Sullivan fan."

There was silence on the line which made Tom wonder if this was a bad connection, but no, Mrs. Prewett eventually said "What?!"

"I was just struck by the fact that Merope and I would never again enjoy a Gilbert and Sullivan show together, and… I'm sorry, I had to leave."

After a pause, Mrs. Prewett exclaimed, "Merope!" Her voice got a bit fainter. "He was thinking of Merope! Sitting next to you and thinking of her!"

Faintly in the background, Tom heard Tessie say, "His wife! Of course a man thinks about his wife. What do you expect?"

"But—"

"Nothing can stop true love, not even death!" gushed Tessie in the background. "What kind of a man would move on from his wife so quickly?"

"But it's been—"

"Give me the telephone, mother."

After some clattering noises and unladylike grunts, Tessie's voice came through the telephone clearly. "I'm so sorry, Tom. I wish Merope could have been there with you."

That thought was enough to make Tom's job of concealing his laughter easy. "Thank you," he managed. "To be at her favorite entertainment without her…"

"Oh!" Tessie sighed in sympathetic understanding. "You should have said something."

"I really couldn't at the time."

"That's completely understandable." Tessie's voice got a bit distant. "It was a revival, Algie said, so Tom and Merope must have seen it together! It was her favorite show!"

Tom faintly heard Mrs. Prewett's "Oh dear!"

That was a bit more specific than Tom had planned, but it was close enough. "I'm sorry. I hope I didn't ruin your evening. I thought I'd be able to enjoy the show as I did before, but…"

"Oh Tom, there's no need to apologize. We were just all worried about you."

"Did the rest of you enjoy it?"

"Yes. I'm afraid my mother and I laughed at some places where other people weren't laughing, but muggle ideas about magic are so ridiculous! It was a bit creepy how the muggles killed the wizard at the end, but I suppose it makes sense for a muggle play."

Tom almost wished he'd stayed to see that part.

"My mother left the theatre singing about love overcoming all obstacles, and then she suddenly got all— Oh, um, all right. Here she is again."

"Tom!" exclaimed Mrs. Prewett. "How dreadful that the memory of your loss should rob you of the enjoyment of such a marvelous show! It was truly a delight. Tessie in particular said it was her absolute favorite of all the shows we've seen."

"I did?" came Tessie's voice faintly from the background.

"Your tastes are so remarkably similar, it's a joy to see the two of you together," Mrs. Prewett continued. "And what a wonderful show, with a worthy message. Truly, love cannot be stopped by class barriers."

"Merope had no bias against marrying a Riddle," said Tom in the appropriate mournful tone.

"She sounds like an absolute treasure, and of course you're still in mourning. It's only been, what a year and a half? Well. I suppose that might not be enough time, but… Life does go on, Tom. Of course there's no rush. You have all the time in the world."

"Mother, please give me the telephone," begged Tessie in the background. "I have to explain this to Algie."

Author's notes:

My lovely and talented beta reader, Faux_Bob, advises against saying "plunger" in British Sign Language while in Italy.

The Savoy Theatre did not stage a revival of The Sorcerer in our 1928. This is an AU, OK? There's a butterfly effect from Hermione's appearance in this timeline. I'd explain how this happened but this story is too long already, so I'm leaving the details as an exercise for the reader.

Anyone who wants to read the libretto of Gilbert and Sullivan's The Sorcerer, the operetta Tom missed can find it online in various places, for free since it's old enough to be in the public domain.