It was unpleasant to regain consciousness with the smell of goats in one's nostrils. Tom was apparently lying on the floor of a small barn, on his side, with no pillow, which meant his head flopped down at an uncomfortable angle, considering how his broad shoulders elevated his neck far above the straw-strewn floor. Rolling onto his back to relieve this discomfort was an impossibility, for his hands, well, hand and mangled stump, were tied behind his back. Rolling facedown onto the goat-scented straw was not appealing, and the way his legs were tied together made sitting up a challenging prospect.

"Who are you and what have you done with McKinnon?" said a gruff voice.

That relieved Tom of the burden of explaining that he was not Ignis, and made his escape route clear. "I am Ignis's friend, and I have done him a favor, at his request." This claim was met with a skeptical snort. "If you don't believe me, ask him yourself. I have a communication mirror in my breast pocket, linked to his." Or at least he used to.

"This?" The Hog's Head barkeep walked into view, holding Tom's mirror.

"Yes, that. Open it and say 'Ignis' to mirror-call him."

"How do I know this isn't booby-trapped?"

"You could have asked yourself that before taking it from my pocket."

"You think you're smart, do you?"

"The fact that I'm lying here at your mercy suggests not," said Tom, leaving Dobby in reserve, as well as the feather Portkey that hopefully was still in his sleeve. How much time had elapsed while he was unconscious? He might regain his true form at any moment, and he had not yet ascertained whether he wanted this barkeep to know his identity. "If you untie my hands, er, hand, I could call him," he offered. "I assume you've taken my wand, so I'm not much of a threat."

The barkeep mulled that over. Slow service such as this probably explained why this pub had so few patrons.

Finally the barkeep came to a decision, for he walked behind Tom. "Diffindo," and Tom's arms were free. That was apparently all the freedom he was getting for the moment, as his legs were still bound with what looked like wild black vines.

Tom awkwardly used his one hand to raise himself to a somewhat seated position. "Thank you." He extended his hand, palm up in the least threatening gesture he could make, for the mirror.

The barkeep tossed it onto the straw in front of Tom, who took it and opened it. Yes, he still wore Ignis's face. "Ignis."

Ignis opened his mirror promptly, but then looked at Tom in confusion for a moment. "Oh! Tom, sorry, I thought at first this was acting as just a regular mirror when I saw my own face, but the expression was wrong, so—"

"I'm hoping you can clear up some confusion," interrupted Tom. "I ran into one of your friends, I believe. Would you please tell him that you gave me a few of your hairs with the express purpose of me drinking Polyjuice and running an errand on your behalf? He seems to suspect me of foul play."

"Oh! Sure. Who is it?"

"The barkeep at the Hog's Head."

"What were you doing at the Hog's Head? I told you to go to Madam Puddifoot's."

"Madam Puddifoot's was too crowded."

"If I'd known you'd go to the Hog's Head while Polyjuiced as me, I'd have told you—"

"What's done is done, and I'm uncomfortably tied up on the floor of a goat barn right now, so if you could tell your friend to untie me, I'd appreciate it."

Ignis laughed, the bastard. "Sure. Give him the mirror."

Tom tossed it, still open, in the barkeep's direction. His aim wasn't very good with Ignis's arm.

The barkeep picked up the mirror. "Ignis, you all right?"

"Fine," said Ignis. "I was feeling pretty down after reading the paper this morning, but Tom cheered me right up. He gave me a nice lunch, and then volunteered to do this huge favor for me, which required wearing my face. Would you please untie him?"

"Tom who?"

Ignis finally stopped to think. "Do you actually need to know that? I mean, maybe I should ask him if he wants an introduction first. And it would seem fair to tell him who you are."

The barkeep grunted. "All right, I'll let him keep his secrets. I'm giving him back his mirror and wand."

"Thanks," said Ignis.

Soon, Tom was standing, with his possessions back. "Thank you. Ignis is lucky to have a friend like you."

"He needs at least one who isn't a complete idiot," said the barkeep.

Tom wasn't available to engage in any witty repartee on this subject, as he suddenly felt a sharp pain in left hand, which wasn't even there. "Sorry, out of time." He ran two steps, then gave up and muttered "I believe I can fly," with a rapidly-changing throat.

Traveling via Portkey, and regaining one's true form after Polyjuice, were both profoundly uncomfortable experiences. The total discomfort was multiplicative rather than additive, and that was even before factoring in the smell of goats. Tom finally lay on the floor of his office, shaking.

"Are you all right?" asked Ignis.

Tom propped himself up with his hands, plural. He paid close attention to the left one. It was considerably cleaner than his right. "Fine."

"That's the last time I lend you my clothes," said Ignis, wrinkling his nose.

"Yes," agreed Tom.

—-

Friday, January twenty-fifth, Tom met the Prewetts and Algie in Mayfair for dinner at Veeraswamy, to enjoy Indian food in palatial surroundings befitting a maharaja. Deciding what to order took longer than usual, as the unfamiliar menu required careful study. The waiter was kind, not laughing at their undoubtedly incorrect pronunciations.

Once this task was accomplished, they were free to converse on other matters. Mrs. Prewett had a conversational topic handy. "How are your New Year's resolutions coming along?"

Tessie, Algie, and Tom looked at one another. Algie spoke first. "I decided to drink less a while ago, and I've managed to stick with that, with some reminders from Tom. Does that count? It's an old resolution. I don't have any new ones for this year."

"I'm thinking of getting some higher-heeled dance shoes," said Tessie. "Lulu says she knows just the place to buy them, so she's going to take me there Monday. But I suppose that's not a resolution, exactly."

"How about you, Tom?" asked Mrs. Prewett.

"I can't think of anything I'd want to change, that I have the power to change," he replied. "My life is already pretty good, considering."

"Same here," said Algie.

"Everything's wonderful," said Tessie.

"Why tamper with perfection?" added Algie.

"I'd be content to go on like this indefinitely," said Tom.

When the waiter brought their appetizers, he asked Mrs. Prewett, "Is something wrong?"

She looked at the exotic delicacies arrayed before her and took a deep breath of the complex aromas. "Well. The food is delicious, at least." She popped a crunchy morsel into her mouth and gave the waiter an appreciative nod, to his relief.

"Thank you, madam. Let me know if I can do anything else for you."

After enjoying the food for a while, Tom asked Mrs. Prewett, "Are you working on any resolutions?" which was only fair.

"Hm? Yes. What do you think these are filled with?"

"What did you resolve?" Tom pressed.

Mrs. Prewett looked at him only briefly before returning her attention to the food. "I'm pretty sure there's potato in this, but I have no clue about the spices. I'll have to find an Indian cookbook."

"That's a good resolution," said Tessie. "It would be nice if you could cook like this at home."

"Hm," said Mrs. Prewett.

Nearly every dish was an exotic delight. Tom particularly enjoyed the curried goat. Tom and Algie found the pudding cloyingly sweet, which was fine, for the ladies were happy to eat the gentlemen's portions as well as their own. "I enjoy your enjoyment," Algie told Tessie, although Tom felt that that thing she did with her tongue and the spoon wasn't appropriate for public viewing. Mrs. Prewett was, as usual, too busy eating to correct or even notice her daughter's behavior.

Finally that was over with, and they took a short walk to see a less indecent show at the Apollo Theatre.

Afterwards, Tom bade his friends goodnight, told Algie he'd take the train home, and found a secluded alley from which to call "Dobby."

Pop. Dobby looked around frantically. "What does Master need?"

"Just Apparate me home."

Dobby did so post-haste. Tom found himself, not in his room, but in his father's office, where his parents, (still awake at this hour?) started at his sudden arrival.

The radio was on. The BBC news announcer read, "The London Zoo has denied any responsibility—" His father turned it off.

"Are you all right?" asked his mother.

"Of course," said Tom. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"There's a pack of 'wolves' loose in London," said his father. "Muggle London. The BBC has been on about it all night. There's nothing about it on the Wizarding Wireless."

Tom stood in silence for a moment, then bolted to his office and turned on the Wizarding Wireless.

Noise, or "music" as they called it, was all that Tom heard. "Bloody incompetent…" He turned to see his mother peeking in at the door, and heard his father's heavy steps hurrying with unaccustomed speed behind her. Tom turned off the Wireless. "Where in London?" he asked.

"Islington," said his mother.

Tom felt a wave of relief. At least that wasn't a fashionable neighborhood. Islington was a couple of miles from the West End. Still, though, it ought not be allowed. He grabbed some Floo powder and threw it into the fire. "Werewolf Capture Unit." He stuck his head into the green flames and found himself facing a portrait of a lantern-jawed wizard in a polished green dragonskin uniform with orange epaulettes, in an ornate gilt frame.

"Thank you for calling the Werewolf Capture Unit. What can I do for you sir?" asked the portrait.

"There's a pack of werewolves rampaging through Islington!"

"Where did you say?"

"Islington, in muggle London."

"Could you spell that, please?"

Tom did, as the portrait paid close attention.

"Thank you for letting us know. We'll send a team out as soon as the moon sets."

"What?! By the time the moon sets, the damage will have been done."

"You can trust us to handle this, sir. We are the werewolf experts. You see, on full moon nights, werewolves are immune to magical attacks, so nothing can be done now. Once the moon sets, they'll transform back to their relatively vulnerable human guises, so—"

Tom withdrew from the flames to prevent himself from diving straight through the Floo and vandalizing the portrait.

"Do you want your real face associated with werewolves?" fretted his mother. "You didn't take Polyjuice this time."

"I'm known to go muggletouring. I don't want my playground spoilt." He thought. This seemed beyond even the Auror department's skills, and he'd undo the work he'd put into implying he was a werewolf if their multi-faced informant called at this hour. Tom Riddle, ordinary wizard, would have no reason to call their department about a werewolf problem, as all wizards knew there was a different department for that. This called for a higher authority than the Ministry anyway. He threw another pinch of powder in the fire. "Malfoy Manor."

An elf answered. "Mr. Riddle is calling very late," she observed grumpily.

"Yes," said Tom. "This is an emergency. It's of utmost importance I speak with Mr. Malfoy immediately."

"Master does not wish to be disturbed at this hour," said the elf. "If Boshy wakes Master, Master will be very angry at Boshy."

Tom considered that. "If Boshy lets Mr. Riddle through the Floo, then Mr. Riddle can wake Mr. Malfoy, so Mr. Malfoy will be angry at Mr. Riddle instead of at Boshy."

Boshy staggered back. Then she stood in silence.

Waiting required the full use of Tom's patience.

Boshy found the flaw in Tom's plan. "Master will be angry at Boshy for letting a wizard through the Floo without permission."

"Mr. Malfoy will be glad Boshy let this important message reach him."

Boshy mulled that over.

Tom wondered how long a pinch of Floo powder lasted. Some of these flames were starting to feel warm.

Finally Boshy gestured to something out of Tom's view, and said, "Mr. Riddle may step through."

Tom did, stepping into the opulent room. A glance at the large mirror revealed a smear of soot on his cheek. He'd leave it; it added to the impression of urgency. "Where is Mr. Malfoy?"

"This way."

Once Tom got the gist of which direction they were headed, he hurried ahead of the elf, who accelerated to keep pace with him, and soon they were sprinting through the hall together.

Boshy stopped and looked at a door, so Tom did too. He readied his hand to knock, then looked questioningly at the elf, who nodded shakily, so he rapped his knuckles against the wood.

The elf vanished.

Tom knocked again. "Serpens? I have important news."

"Tom?" came Serpens's voice. "Who let you in?"

"An elf. I didn't catch its name."

The door opened. Serpens wore a pearl grey dressing gown, and his hair was disheveled.

"I'm terribly sorry to wake you."

"I wasn't asleep. I was reading." Indeed, Tom recognized A Wolf's Tale on the bedside table. "But this is most irregular. You'd better have a good reason for this."

"I have the news story of the century. Ministry incompetence leading to Statute violations on a massive scale, happening right now."

"I'm listening. What's going on?"

"Werewolves are loose in muggle London."

Serpens started. He glanced at his abandoned book, then looked back at Tom suspiciously. "But werewolves don't do that."

"I know. They don't usually. But something's changed. Werewolves are acting differently than before. They're rampaging through muggle London right now."

Serpens scrutinized Tom's best sincere expression. His gaze darted to the smudge of soot Tom had carefully left on his cheek, then returned to Tom's eyes. "I believe you. This is terrible. Are you all right? I wondered why you were in that getup."

"I'm fine. I was just in muggle London, yes, but a different part. I didn't see any werewolves myself. I heard about them when I got home, over the muggle wireless."

Serpens started again. "Muggles have their own wireless?"

"Yes. There's a muggle thing called the BBC that broadcasts news. Practically every muggle in the country, who's awake, now knows that a pack of 'wolves' is loose in London. The BBC has branches around the world. Soon the entire muggle world will know. This is a worldwide Statute violation, happening right now."

"But the muggles think they're just wolves? Surely muggles are used to being pestered by other animals. This can't be that unusual a situation for them."

"Wolves have been extinct in England for centuries. And it's a full moon. Muggles have heard of werewolves, they just think they're a myth. It's inevitable that they'll figure out what's going on."

"What's the Werewolf Capture Unit doing about this?"

"Sleeping, presumably. I Floo-called, and their answer portrait assured me that they'd drop by as soon as the moon set."

"Merlin's crooked wand! Once the Prophet publishes this, Wizengamot heads will roll."

"I thought you'd see it that way."

"I'll contact the paper's staff. I'll need a moment to get dressed."

"Of course."

"Please stay. I don't know how you convinced one of my elves to let you in, but I might need that skill to get through to some of my staff."

"Glad to."

"Thank you for your help."

"Any time."

—

AB: Welcome to The Daily Entrails, all the news you need to know. This is your host Amanita Baneberry, here today with Wizengamot members Sirius Black and Henry Potter, to discuss last week's werewolf attack on muggle London.

SB: Good day.

HP: Hello, wizarding Britain.

AB: My first question is for Mr. Potter. Are you glad that this recent Statute violation is taking attention away from your own history of violating the Statute of Secrecy?

SB: [Laughing]

HP: I, look, that's a ridiculous question and you know it. No one is happy about this. This is a disaster on a massive scale. The Hogsmeade attack was bad enough, but this London attack is significantly worse. I want to take this opportunity to publicly apologize to the honorable Mr. Black. He was right when he said that werewolves are a terrible problem that the Ministry needs to address. If I'm glad about anything, I'm glad that Mr. Black and I have finally found one issue on which we agree. This werewolf problem is of such importance, we can put aside any partisan bickering and unite to solve it. Surely everyone can understand the necessity of preventing werewolves from inflicting any more harm on the people of Britain, whether magical or muggle.

SB: Well, werewolves were a problem when I made that speech. That was weeks ago.

HP: What do you mean were? They were a problem then, although I didn't recognize it at the time, and they're an even bigger problem now.

SB: Admittedly, they were a problem when they attacked Hogsmeade, but you'll notice they haven't dared return there, or to any wizarding district. Everyone of any importance and sense has already taken precautions against werewolves. I don't see why it should be the Ministry's job to protect people who can't be bothered to protect themselves.

HP: Everyone of importance?! These werewolves attacked innocent muggles! Even if you don't care about the humanitarian issue, a Statute violation of this magnitude should concern the entire magical community, around the world.

SB: This is nothing the Ministry can't handle. This is why we have Obliviators, to conceal evidence of magic such as—

HP: The Obliviators have already said that this problem is much too large for them to handle! There are far too many muggles.

SB: I believe that's the first sensible thing I've ever heard you say, Potter. Yes, there are far too many muggles. This recent disturbance solves itself, really, as I have it on good authority that muggles can't survive a werewolf bite. All infected muggles will be dead within a month.

HP: Black… Now you're just goading me. I won't take the bait. You know that I meant this is too big a Statute violation to fix with Obliviation. In fact, considering the sheer impossibility of Obliviating all the muggle witnesses, Obliviating just a few would do more harm than good, as it would create numerous conflicts between mismatched memories. The Obliviation department agrees with me on this.

SB: All right, so Obliviators needn't trouble themselves about this at all. Surely the muggles will think this was simply a wolf attack.

HP: There's no chance of that. Wolves are extinct in England. Wild animals wouldn't be loose in London anyway. We can hope that the muggles will believe the story that an illegal dogfighting ring got out of control, and the dogs happened to look a lot like wolves, but the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee didn't seem too confident about the believability of their story, especially if this sort of thing becomes a monthly occurrence.

SB: Surely the muggles will get used to it if it becomes a monthly occurrence. I don't see how this is our problem. We need to stop this Werewolf Capture Unit nonsense and return to the issues that really matter, maintaining the order and traditions that keep wizarding Britain great.

HP: Then I'm sorry to find us on opposing sides once more. You may turn your back on this, Black, but I won't rest until werewolves are hunted to extinction.

—

"Muggle-lover," sneered Tom's father.