"We'll get him back," said Tom confidently.

"How?!" cried Bramble.

That was the tricky part. Tom pulled his mirror from his pocket. "Hermione," he called.

She answered quickly. "Tom?"

"We have a problem. Please meet me in my office."

She arrived quickly and got the story, mostly from Tom, for Bramble was crying.

"Do you know who took him?" Tom asked Bramble. "Werewolves or humans?"

"Humans," said Bramble.

"So the question is," said Tom, "how can we extract Briar from the Werewolf Capture Unit fortress?"

"First things first. Accio Harry's cloak." Hermione pulled it from her beaded bag and swirled it over herself, thus vanishing. Then her disembodied hand, holding her communication mirror, reached out of the cloak. She opened it. "Briar," she called. She readied her wand with her other hand, but kept her face concealed.

There was no answer for a little while, but then Tom heard a faint sound from the mirror, the click of Briar's mirror opening. Hermione aimed her wand through the mirror. "Bombarda." She snapped her mirror closed, cutting off the sound of a scream. "I'll make a new mirror for him when he gets back," she assured Bramble. "I couldn't let that one fall into enemy hands."

"But he answered?!" Bramble pleaded. "He's alive?"

"I don't know. Someone else answered and got a facefull of broken glass for his trouble. Anyway, I have some leftover stone melting missiles that should still be good." She rummaged through her beaded bag. "We might need Eric to break the wards first so they can get through. Then if we knock everyone inside unconscious with a—"

"Wait," said Tom. "We can't do a direct attack. That's a declaration of war on the entire Ministry of Magic."

"They're evil," said Hermione. "And I'm not losing any more friends."

"Of course they're evil, and they're bigger than us. If we fight them head-on, we'll lose."

"Do you have a better idea?" challenged Hermione.

"Yes," said Tom. "Dobby," he called.

Pop. "Yes Master?"

"Can you Apparate through whatever wards are around the Werewolf Capture Unit fortress?"

"Dobby will try, Master." Pop.

"We're wasting time," fretted Bramble, pacing around Tom's office. Those Oxford bags had a lovely dramatic swish.

Pop. "Dobby is very sorry Master, but Dobby cannot."

"We could use Eric to break the wards," said Hermione.

"I'm not sending another werewolf in," said Tom. "It's too dangerous. I'll go. First I need to modify some of my business cards. The printing must look very neat and professional." He looked to Bramble. "Can you do it? Your artistry is superior to mine."

Bramble blinked. "Business cards?"

Tom got some. "They need to say 'Tom Riddle, Dealer of Quality Potion Ingredients. And I need a potion-themed logo, perhaps a cauldron with, I don't know, steam and tentacles spiraling gracefully out of it? Keep the rest the same."

"Tentacles?" repeated Bramble. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief.

"The point is that the cauldron should give the impression that it contains rare ingredients. I'll sketch something. Make it look neater in the finished product." Tom hurried to sketch something with a few strokes of a pencil on a bit of scrap paper on his desk. He handed it to Bramble, who looked at it critically.

"The perspective on the cauldron's a bit off."

"Yes, that's why I'm asking you to fix it."

"I like the tentacles though." Briar drew his wand and got to work modifying a card to Tom's specifications.

"I have to go change into my robes. Excuse me." Tom hurried to his room. When he returned, in wizarding business robes, he peered over Bramble's shoulder at his work. "Oh, that's a beautiful logo. But I think the kerning between the l and the i in Quality… Yes. Perfect. Now do a few more just like that. Four or five should be plenty." Bramble obliged, and Tom put the cards in their designated compartment in his wallet. He made sure the other compartments were sufficiently full as well.

"How are business cards with a beautiful logo going to help us rescue Briar?" asked Hermione.

Tom had no time to answer. He checked in the mirror that his robes and hair were perfect, then threw a pinch of Floo powder into the fire. "Werewolf Capture Unit." He donned a professional smile, stuck his head into the green flames, and saw a witch seated at her desk, writing on parchment with a quill.

"Hello?" she said.

"Hello. I'm Tom Riddle, potion ingredients dealer. I'm calling in search of a new supplier for Dark creatures."

"Supplier…" repeated the secretary in confusion.

"Yes," said Tom. "I provide the rarest, highest-quality potion ingredients to discriminating potioneers. I've been buying werewolves and other Dark creatures from exterminators, but their supply is unreliable and often of poor quality. I hope you can provide the materials I require. How much are you selling werewolves for, per apothecary pound?"

The secretary considered that. "I'll find someone who knows. Would you like to step through?"

"Yes, thank you." Soon he was standing in a cramped office, grateful for his ash-repellent clothing. "My card," he offered.

"Thank you Mr. Riddle." She read the card, then opened a mirror on her desk. "Mr. Pucey, a Mr. Riddle is here about buying werewolves for potion ingredients."

"Potion ingredients?" came the voice through the mirror.

"Yes sir."

"Hm. Well, I'll be there in a bit."

"Yes sir." She closed the mirror, then looked up at Tom. "You may wait here."

"Thank you." The office had no windows. Tom suspected that it would be difficult to break into by direct assault.

A door opened and a wizard strode through. The collar of his robes was a bit too tight around his neck, which bulged over the fabric. He extended his hand to Tom. "Martin Pucey, Undersecretary to Durwin Mcnair, head of the Werewolf Capture Unit. What can I do for you?"

"Tom Riddle, dealer in potion ingredients." Tom gave Mr. Pucey a friendly smile and a firm handshake, then his card, which was read and pocketed. "Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Pucey." He repeated his speech about buying Dark creatures.

"Come to my office, Mr. Riddle."

"Thank you."

Mr. Pucey led Tom through a stone corridor to a windowless office and offered him a seat. "I didn't know there was a market for Dark creatures."

"Oh there is, amongst more inventive potioneers. Just as some are researching the multiple uses of dragon blood, others are researching the uses of other creature parts. The market is expanding, so I need a steady source of material to provide to my customers."

"That's very interesting, Mr. Riddle. Thank you for calling. Yes, we do get a good supply of werewolves here. Now, what are they worth to you?"

Tom recalled the retail prices of the various murtlap tentacles, toad spleens, etc, available in potion supply shops, averaged them, and divided by two to convert to wholesale pricing. "One galleon, fifteen sickles per pound is what I've been paying for werewolves of good quality. Less for poorer quality."

"How does one judge the quality of a werewolf?"

"Whole, undamaged, and as fresh as possible, meaning they must be live. Quality declines very quickly in storage, even under a stasis charm."

"Hm. That price seems low, when you think about it, for such a difficult-to-obtain ingredient. We got one just today, lurking in a muggle area. It took four of my agents to take it in, and two of them were injured in the process."

"And you're already handsomely paid for removing this danger, considering the recent increase in your budget. But how much would you normally sell such a werewolf for?"

"Well, not sell as such, but—"

"I'm offering a fair price. Do we have a deal?"

"Two galleons, three sickles per pound."

"Two galleons even."

Pucey considered it. "Deal."

They shook hands across the desk.

"Is this freshly-captured werewolf available now?" Tom inquired.

"Might be. It was transferred to interrogation cell one. This way." Pucey led Tom along a different dim narrow corridor, this one bearing a sign that read Research.

"Interrogation?" Tom repeated.

"Yes. If they know of any other werewolves, we don't want that information to go to waste, so we try to extract it from them. They give us leads on where to look next."

"Does Veritaserum work on werewolves?" Tom wondered aloud. He'd have to modify his plan considerably if Briar wasn't in control of his speech.

Mr. Pucey considered that. "I don't know. It's expensive, so we haven't tried it. Maybe we should."

"If the flesh is contaminated with other potions, it's unusable to potioneers," said Tom worriedly. "It takes time for all the potion residue to clear, which is a great inconvenience."

"Don't worry Mr. Riddle, our interrogations are all done the old-fashioned way. Completely potion-free."

A scream echoed down the corridor.

"This one's still lively," boasted Mr. Pucey. "Nice and fresh." When he got to the door, he reached into his pocket for a keyring, bristling with so many keys it resembled a spiky wreath. He tried a key in the lock. It didn't fit. He tried another, which didn't fit either. He gave Tom an apologetic look and kept trying.

Tom responded with an understanding look, a look that showed he wasn't annoyed in the slightest, and had infinite patience for Mr. Pucey to take all the time he needed with his keys. Tom was not bothered at all by the sounds coming from the other side of the door:

"Just give us some names, and I'll stop."

"Martin Pucey," gasped Briar's voice.

"You think you're funny, do you?" Tom heard a fleshy impact and a disturbing gasp from Briar. "I want real names. Just name some real werewolves for us, and this will all be over."

"Torin Macnair," gasped Briar. "He's definitely a werewolf, I swear it. Aren't you supposed to write that down? I thought you wanted names; I'm giving you names. There's no pleasing some— Aargh!"

"There are no werewolves on the Wizengamot, you lying beast!"

"You see, the thing is, I have no motivation to tell you anything. Have you tried being nice to people? That generally works much better than Aargh!"

"Give me real names!"

"And then what, you'll let me go? You'll let me live? I'm a werewolf, not an idiot."

"No. I'll let you die. Otherwise there'll be a lot more of this!"

Another scream from Briar made it difficult for Tom to maintain his patient expression.

"So," said the torturer. "Anything to say now?"

Then there seemed to be a third voice behind the locked door, for the next voice that spoke wasn't Briar's, exactly. It contained none of the pain that had been in Briar's voice, and it resonated as if coming from some vast space, not the small cell that had contained the other voices: "That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die."

"What?" said the torturer, who seemed as confused as Tom.

"Aha, got it!" Mr. Pucey opened the door and entered the interrogation cell, so Tom followed. He didn't have to fake his look of distaste. Briar was chained in the middle of the room. At least, Tom assumed it was Briar from the voice he'd heard earlier, and the snark it had contained, but his face was bruised and bloody beyond recognition, and only rags were left of his once-stylish muggle clothes. A table to the side held instruments that Tom didn't want to look at. There was no sign of the source of the third voice.

The torturer snapped to attention. "Mr. Pucey, I was just about to get some information from—"

"You didn't sound very successful," said Mr. Pucey. "No matter. We can sell this one for potion ingredients."

"Sir?" asked the torturer.

Tom inspected the goods critically. "It's damaged. I pride myself on providing quality ingredients to my customers. At least twenty percent of this one is too damaged to use. Look at this blood on the floor. Completely wasted! No potioneer would buy werewolf blood mixed with dirt." He looked away from the sickening sight, although Mr. Pucey's face was also sickening, in a different way. "The price we negotiated was for a whole, intact werewolf. If you expect to sell this one at all, it must be at a discount."

"Well, you have to understand, it's the nature of the business that there's going to be some damage during capture—"

"This didn't happen during capture," observed Tom. "I had hoped to find a reliable source of material, but if this is your typical quality—"

"It isn't, not at all," Mr. Pucey assured him. "Forget this one. I'll get a better one for you—"

"Assuming I come back," said Tom. "I see now that the quality of your product does not suit my needs. I'm sorry to have wasted your time."

He turned and was almost free of the chamber of horrors when Mr. Pucey called "Half price!"

Tom paused. That was a deeper discount than he'd been expecting, but perhaps Mr. Pucey had chosen the simplest possible maths. "A galleon a pound?" He considered it. "We have a deal. Although I do hope the next one is of better quality."

"Oh, it will be," Mr. Pucey assured him. He looked at Briar worriedly. "I don't think we have a scale."

"I estimate… a hundred and fifty pounds?" said Tom. "So a hundred and fifty galleons."

"Sounds about right. So we have a deal." The monster held out his hand, so Tom had to shake it again.

Tom counted the cash out of his wallet, fifteen stacks of ten galleons each. There was nowhere to set it but the table of instruments he didn't want to look at, but Mr. Pucey was happy to put the money directly into a pocket of his robes.

"So, whenever you're ready, we can kill it for you. And how will you transport it?" asked Mr. Pucey.

"You're not killing it," said Tom scornfully. "It must be live when the organs are harvested. And I can transport it by Floo, the same way I arrived."

"I'm afraid we can't allow that, Mr. Riddle," said Mr. Pucey. "You see, we go to the trouble to capture these werewolves, we can't just let them out alive. If it got loose—"

"It won't get loose," scoffed Tom. He drew his wand and aimed it at Briar, who was breathing hard and shaking. "Imperio," Tom cast. Please, please play along, Briar.

Briar stopped shaking and his breath steadied. He adopted a blissful expression, or as close to it as his bruised face could manage.

"Unchain it," commanded Tom. At a nod from Mr. Pucey, the torturer rushed to obey.

Soon, an obedient Briar Flooed to the Riddle House. When Tom followed, he had to sidestep quickly to avoid tripping over Briar, who was collapsed on the floor, with Bramble, Hermione, and Dobby crowded around him. Hermione and Dobby were healing Briar while Bramble embraced him and wept.

"I'm so sorry," cried Bramble. "It's all my fault. I rushed you out before you had time—"

"Shh, my love," said Briar. "It's my own fault for forgetting…"

Tom went to the lavatory to wash the hand that had shaken the hand of Mr. Pucey. This took a while. Then he returned to his office, for there were records to keep, a hundred and fifty galleons to be recorded in the expenses column in the ledger on his desk. Pucey hadn't offered him a receipt, and Tom hadn't thought to ask, which was a mistake, as it seemed unprofessional, but Pucey hadn't complained. Tom assumed that those hundred and fifty galleons would never see the inside of the Werewolf Capture Unit's coffers. Perhaps the torturer had got a cut as well. Tom's wallet needed refilling for the next time some corrupt official needed an outrageous bribe to prevent him from killing one of Tom's friends. At last Tom could delay no longer. "I'm sorry."

The others looked at him with surprised expressions. Briar had been transferred to the fainting couch and was no longer bleeding, and his bruises looked older. Bramble was no longer crying, although he still clung to Briar, letting go of whatever part Dobby and Hermione wanted to heal only to cling to another part.

"For what?" asked Hermione before turning back to Briar.

"I was wrong," said Tom. "You were right. We should have blasted that whole place out of existence."

"Your way worked," said Hermione. "You just strolled in and bought him?"

"I'm worth a hundred and fifty galleons, reduced," said Briar giddily. He let out a laugh that didn't sound quite sane. "Scratch and dent discount! You overpaid, though, Tom. I weigh just a bit over ten stone."

"My overestimate was intentional," said Tom. "I wanted Pucey to think he got a good deal."

"We'll pay you back," said Bramble.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Tom.

"Yes, he'll make a profit once he sells me to potioneers by the pound," laughed Briar.

"It was the best story I could think of," cried Tom. "And now hopefully they won't torture the next werewolf they capture, if they think it will cut into their profits."

"I don't blame you for haggling," said Bramble. "You can't keep losing so much money on us. You'll run out eventually, and then this whole project—"

"We can afford it," said Tom. "I'll pay whatever's necessary to free however many werewolves they capture, although I appreciate your efforts to minimize the number I have to buy, as I'd rather Pucey not get rich from this. Our muggle investments are doing well, and can fund this operation indefinitely. There's no need to concern yourself about the Riddle family's finances." Tom took no apparent notice of the look Hermione gave him. Jackpot.

"I owe you a life debt," said Briar.

"That's even more ridiculous than the thought of you owing me money," said Tom. "You work for me. I was merely doing what needed to be done to ensure the continued utility of one of my employees. I can't acquire a life debt by acting completely in my own self-interest."

"But…" Briar had trouble speaking. "I'm useless now. They snapped my wand right in front of me. Only humans are allowed wands, they said."

"We'll get you another one," said Bramble. "As soon as you're recovered, we'll go to…" he trailed off.

"The new anti-werewolf wards in Diagon Alley complicate things, admittedly," said Tom. "But I'm sure we can find—"

"Accio spare wands," cast Hermione, reaching deep into her beaded bag. "Something here might work for you." She offered Briar a handful of scratched and chipped wands. One had a crack so deep, the unicorn hair shone through.

"Thanks," said Briar. He took a deep breath and reached for a wand. "Lumos," he tried.

Everyone looked at the dull brown wood, not glowing.

Briar put the wand down and tried another. This produced a faint glow, which was encouraging, but not ideal. He picked up another, but dropped it immediately as if it had given him an electric shock.

"That one doesn't like anyone," Hermione assured him.

"I can tell." Briar tried another. It produced a harsh bluish light that flickered annoyingly. He tried another, and another, until he'd tried everything. Nothing worked to his satisfaction.

"This was the best of the lot," said Hermione, offering Briar the one that had glared and flickered.

He looked at it dejectedly. "I'll have no finesse with this one," he said, extending a reluctant hand to it. "But beggars can't—"

"Try mine," urged Tom, drawing it and offering it hilt-first.

Briar stared. "You can't be serious."

"I can just stroll into Ollivander's and buy a new one, more easily than I bought you. It's a minor inconvenience. Try it. If it works for you, it's yours."

Briar hesitantly took it. "Lumos," he tried. He got a faintly orange, arhythmically throbbing glow. "Nox." He handed it back. "I appreciate the thought, but it doesn't work any better for me than some of these others, so—"

"You need to win its allegiance," realized Tom. "You need to defeat me."

Briar let out a sad little laugh. "And I can't defeat anyone without my wand, so—"

"Think, man," scolded Tom. "You have more skills than just your ability to wield a wand."

"You could punch Tom in the face," suggested Hermione.

Tom cast an annoyed glance at her. He'd been thinking more along the lines of a flower arranging competition, since he suspected that Briar's skill at that was superior to— "Ow!" He dropped his wand to put his hand to his face and was horrified at the way a bone in his nose clicked loosely.

"Episkey," Hermione cast. Then she turned to Briar. "Did it work?"

"My nose feels straight again," answered Tom, "but does it look the same?" He hurried to the mirror.

Behind him, everyone cheered, which was a heartwarming show of support for the restored perfection of Tom's nose, but no, when he turned away from the mirror, everyone was looking at Briar's wand, illuminating his smile with a steady white light.

"I'm glad that worked," said Tom, "but this isn't sustainable,"

The others stopped cheering and looked at him.

"Once is fine, but I can't buy a new wand from Ollivander every time I rescue a werewolf," Tom explained. "Ollivander might not like repeatedly selling wands to someone so careless as to keep losing or breaking them, needing such frequent replacement."

"And he remembers every wand he's ever sold," said Hermione, "so if wands he sold to us are discovered in the hands of recaptured werewolves…"

"How many werewolves do you plan to buy?" asked Bramble.

"As many as necessary," said Tom, "until the Werewolf Capture Unit is disbanded. I gave Pucey my card and asked him to Floo-call me about any other werewolves he has for sale."

"I could buy a wand," said Hermione. "Say I want to compare British wands to Australian ones."

"Ignis still talks to his family," said Bramble. "Maybe they could funnel wands to werewolves?"

"We'll manage something," said Tom. "If the job is spread out among enough people, we should evade suspicion." Another disturbing thought occurred to him. "Getting some werewolves out will be trickier, as if they don't know me, they won't know to play along with my fake Imperius, so…"

"You'll have to cast a real one," realized Briar in horror.

"I'll do it," volunteered Hermione.

Tom protested. "I can't ask you to cast an Unforgivable—"

"It's only illegal to cast Unforgivables on humans," said Hermione. "Werewolves aren't legally human, so there's no problem."

"Legality isn't our guide when the law is wrong," said Tom.

"That's Dark magic," said Briar. "The damage to your soul over time…"

"It's fine," said Hermione. "I'm used to Dark magic. Tom's just squeamish about doing his own dirty work."

Tom couldn't really argue with that.

Author's Note: Briar had nothing better to do during his interrogation than quote H.P. Lovecraft.