In the Bleak Midwinter

by TheLoud

After escaping from Merope in London and fleeing back to Little Hangleton, Tom Riddle had thought he was free of witches. He wasn't expecting yet another witch to turn up on his doorstep. This one seems different, but she too smells of Amortentia. Can he trust her when she tells him that she has brought him his baby from a London orphanage?

2. Chapter 2

Tom didn't know the etiquette for calling a nursemaid to breakfast, especially a nursemaid who seemed so short of both food and sleep. As with any etiquette question, the thing to do was ask his parents. His mother would tell him what was proper, and his father would tell him not to care.

He joined them in the smaller dining room, where they were already eating breakfast. Fiona served his to him silently, then left the room.

"Good morning mother, father."

"Good morning," said his father, not looking up from the morning paper.

"Did you sleep well?" asked his mother, concerned.

"Better than I have recently, thank you," he said. "Did Fiona tell you of our late visitors?"

"I thought I heard the doorbell," said his mother. "She certainly is acting like she's sitting on gossip."

"Our visitor brought very interesting news," he said, placing the death certificate on the table.

His mother gasped when she read it. His father put his newspaper down. "You should have woken us," he said. "This is wonderful news! You're free! A widower at twenty-one! You have time to make a good match yet, if you can find a girl who hasn't heard about your past. We could search abroad. I hear there are some new millionaires' daughters in the States who'd like to marry into an old-world family, no questions asked."

"Read the cause of death," said Tom, placing the birth certificate in front of them.

His parents stared. "We're grandparents?" his mother eventually said. "Where is my grandson?"

"In a guest room upstairs," said Tom. "A Miss Hermione Granger, who is acquainted with the Gaunt family but not friendly with them, took it upon herself to rescue my son from the orphanage in which he was born and bring him to me. She offers her service as a wet nurse. She's upstairs with him now."

"How wonderful!" exclaimed his mother.

"Have you confirmed this story with the records office in London?" asked his father.

"Not yet. I only got the news late last night."

"I'll telephone my lawyers," said his father, getting up and taking both certificates to his office.

"Thank you," Tom called after him.

"So if it is true," said his mother, beaming, "when do I get to meet my grandson?"

"That's what I wanted to ask you," said Tom. "I don't know the first thing about babies. Should I knock and risk waking them? And… there's more to the story. Perhaps I should let Miss Granger tell it herself."

As if on cue, or probably because she'd been eavesdropping, Miss Granger appeared, with his son in a sling at her side. Her hair was much more orderly and contained now. She wore the same ill-fitting clothes she'd worn last night, although now they were at least dry and clean. "Good morning," she said with some nervousness.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," said Tom. "Allow me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Mary Riddle."

"I'm pleased to meet you," said Miss Granger.

"The pleasure is all mine," said his mother, who wasn't looking at Miss Granger at all, but at the baby. "Good morning, little Tom! We can't call you that, can we, since we already have one. How about Tommy? Do you like that? Oh, I think he likes that. Look at his eyes! Did you see his eyes, Tom?"

There was no way to avoid noticing those freakish blue-black eyes, which stared with disturbing intensity. Those eyes must be how Miss Granger recognized him as a wizard, not a normal baby.

"Your eyes looked just like that when you were born," continued his mother. "Before they lost that baby blue cast and turned pure black. I've never seen eyes like that aside from yours. He looks just like you did as a baby. There's no question that he's yours. I'm sure he's going to grow up to be as handsome as his father."

Oh.

"Of course, we'll see what the records office says," his mother added apologetically, noting his unsettled look.

"Oh good, you contacted the records office?" said Miss Granger.

"Yes," said his mother. "Not that we doubt you of course—"

"You have every reason to," she said. "It's good to check."

"Sit down, Miss Granger," said Tom. "Please have some breakfast."

"I can hold the baby," said his mother. "So you can eat," although that was clearly not his mother's motivation in making this offer.

Miss Granger handed the baby over with some reluctance, but smiled when she saw his mother expertly hold his son. Then Miss Granger ate breakfast. "This is delicious, thank you."

"Have you held your son yet, Tom?" His mother seemed poised to inflict those staring eyes on him.

"No."

"There is a bit of a trick to it. You have to support his head—"

"Perhaps after we hear back from the records office, and perhaps not even then, whatever they say."

"Tom! What do you mean?"

"This baby… Miss Granger has more to tell, but I wish her to eat breakfast first."

"I can tell it now," she said.

"You might as well wait until my father returns from his office, Miss Granger, so you don't have to tell it twice. And truly, you should get a whole, proper meal in you before telling the rest, as you might not have an opportunity to finish this breakfast afterwards."

"What?" objected his mother. "I would never turn a guest out in the middle of breakfast!"

"We might turn out the Gaunts," said Tom. "And as Miss Granger is acquainted with the Gaunts, it is possible that you will feel the same way about her."

"I would never!" said his mother.

"We shall see how calmly you take the news," said Tom.

"Perfectly calmly, I assure you," his mother insisted.

Tom did not smile, although he was fairly proud of himself for nipping his mother's anti-witch fury in the bud. He looked away from her to Miss Granger, who was gazing at him with measuring eyes. He looked at his food. This witch was observant.

His father returned with the two certificates. "My lawyers are looking into this. They'll telephone back when they have news. Oh, good morning. You must be Miss Granger. I am Squire Thomas Riddle. Thank you for bringing this news and baby to us, assuming you're telling the truth."

"Thomas!" said his mother.

"Thank you for checking my story," Miss Granger replied to his father. "I can see you're very protective of your family."

"Not protective enough," his father grumbled.

"You can't be blamed—" Miss Granger began.

"Eat your breakfast, Miss Granger," said Tom. "We can discuss such things afterwards."

She did, while his mother cooed nonsense at the baby and Tom and his father discussed railway construction.

Miss Granger took a sip of tea. "I am quite full, so if Mr. Riddle will permit me, I will now speak some more. I don't know if you know this already, but Merope Gaunt was a witch."

Tom observed his parents' reactions. His mother seemed nervous, his father, amused.

"She certainly was an unpleasant woman," said his father, "but such a fantastical insult seems overly dramatic, don't you think?"

Tom cringed.

"I was not using the word as an insult," Miss Granger said coldly. "I meant it literally. She was a witch, from a family of witches and wizards. She ensnared your son with magical potions and spells."

Tom's mother's attention was fixed on the baby. She cooed quietly and meaninglessly.

"She had him drink a potion called Amortentia, which is called a love potion, although it cannot create true love. She also used a mind-control spell called the Imperius curse, which is illegal by our laws."

"Our?" His father had caught the word.

"She was the sort of witch who gives the rest of us a bad name," said Miss Granger. She took another sip of her tea as this sentence took effect.

"I need proof," said his father. "You can't just come in here claiming you're a witch without proof."

Miss Granger nodded. She drew her wand from her sleeve. Tom tried to suppress an embarrassing cringe, but he did not have good experiences with wands. "I suppose I should ask you what sort of demonstration you'd like. I'm not going to inflict a love potion or Imperius curse on anyone here." She waited a moment, as if anyone in her audience was capable of speech, then shrugged, waved her wand in a particular way, and said "Expecto Patronum!"

Tom didn't know why one might want a glowing silver otter swimming through the air over one's breakfast table, but if one did want such, magic was probably the only way to obtain it.

After some playful swimming, the otter faded from existence.

His father looked at him. "Did Merope do things like that?"

"Not like that, no. She mostly just made things explode, when she thought I had slighted her. Once when she thought I had looked at a waitress in an inappropriate way…" he found himself unable to finish the sentence.

Miss Granger saved him by continuing her presentation. "Merope was an uneducated witch. She never went to school, and her home education was quite lacking. The Gaunts were very poor examples of wizardkind. You shouldn't infer anything about other witches and wizards from them."

"I understand," said his father, and Tom took a deep breath of relief.

"This is important to understand, because this baby is a wizard."

His mother, who had been doing a remarkably good impression of someone who was paying no attention, suddenly stopped her meaningless cooing.

"Would you like me to hold the baby again, Mrs. Riddle?" asked Miss Granger.

His mother didn't say anything, but she kept hold of the baby when Miss Granger went to take him. Miss Granger backed off.

"He is a wizard, and will grow to be a very powerful one. There is no way of preventing him from being a wizard. The only question is, what sort of wizard will he be?"

"Very powerful, you said," said his father. "That's obviously the sort of wizard a Riddle would be. What powers are we talking about?"

Miss Granger looked at his father and hesitated. Eventually, she said, "There are various branches of magic. I mentioned potions already. Most potions aren't as evil as what Merope used. Many are useful in healing, to relieve pain, regrow missing limbs, cure diseases, and so on. I took a wet nurse potion so I could feed your grandson. A skilled witch or wizard can use potions to provide cures that seem miraculous. A potion master can invent new potions, and create cures for diseases which are currently incurable. I should also mention the more frivolous uses of potions, to change hair color, create fireworks that look like animated dragons, and so on."

His father nodded. "I'm going to take notes." He got some paper and a pen and jotted some things down. "Continue."

"I also mentioned mind magic, like the Imperius curse Merope used on your son. It's worth noting here that according to what your son told me, he was actually able to fight his way free of her curse through force of will. This is quite a rare talent. If his son inherits that force of will, combined with his mother's magical ability, he will be quite formidable."

This was obvious flattery, but Tom felt a surge of pride anyway, and saw the same on his father's face. He read upside down as his father jotted down Mind Magic, Imperius Curse & Resistance. "Any other mind magics?"

"Legilimency, which is mind-reading, and occlumency, resistance to mind-reading. Perfect storage, recall, and sharing of memories. Mind-healing, for those who have suffered trauma. Memory erasure and modification can be useful in this branch of healing."

"And in other fields, I imagine," said his father dryly as he took notes. Tom felt a surge of irritation at his father's transparency. Miss Granger was clearly trying to put a positive spin on magic. It wouldn't do to seem too interested in other uses.

"Yes," she said. "The Ministry of Magic uses Obliviation, memory erasure, extensively, to give the impression that we don't exist. The wizarding world works very hard to stay hidden from muggles. It's illegal for me to be telling you any of this, according to the International Statute of Secrecy. I personally believe that this law is flawed, as it makes no exception for the families of muggle-born wizards younger than school age. I am breaking this law knowingly and intentionally, as a protest."

At least she wasn't the law-abiding kind of goodie-two-shoes, then.

"It is absolutely essential that you don't reveal this to anyone. If it got back to the Ministry, your memories would be erased, and I'd go to prison."

"You have my word, Miss Granger," said his father.

She looked at his mother as if her husband's word didn't apply to her too. "And mine, of course," his mother said.

"We don't wish to be thought mad, in any case," added Tom. "It is enough that my own parents believe me."

"You can't blame me for being skeptical before," said his father angrily. "The story's quite unbelievable without solid proof."

"I don't. I agree. I experienced more than enough proof firsthand to convince me. I'm glad you were not subjected to such convincing proof, but could live in blissful ignorance a while longer."

"I never thought you were mad, Tom," said his mother. "Only your story was mad. Perhaps I was mad to believe it."

"I think your madness kept me sane, mother. I wouldn't have been able to withstand being disbelieved by everyone."

"So what other types of magic are there?" said his father, pen poised over paper.

"Charms," she said. "Which is a large, varied category, including the Patronus charm I demonstrated. There's also a charm to repair objects, for example. I thought it would be a good demonstration to repair some little broken thing, so you can see some useful magic, but nothing here is broken.

His father drained his teacup and threw it to the floor, where it shattered. "There you go," he said cheerfully.

Miss Granger smiled. "Thank you." She waved her wand at the pieces. "Reparo." The pieces drew together like long-lost friends until the teacup was whole and perfect once again.

His father picked it up off the floor and inspected it carefully. He refilled it with tea from the pot and checked for leaks. There were none. He nodded approvingly and set it on the table. "What else?"

"Transfiguration, turning things into other things."

"Turning lead into gold must be right useful."

She shook her head emphatically. "Transfigurations are temporary, usually wearing off in minutes to hours. Forging money is highly illegal, and also unethical, as it would destabilize the whole economy."

"I was joking."

Sure you were, father.

"Show us a legal transfiguration, then."

She pointed her wand at the repaired teacup, which turned into a turtle. The turtle slowly walked across the table to the dish of scones and took a bite out of one before it turned back into a teacup, with a small piece of scone floating soggily in the tea. His father picked it up to inspect it again. "It's a pity we can't invite our friends over to be entertained by tricks like these. Ah well, at least we can enjoy our own private showing."

"Then there are ancient runes, which can be inscribed on objects to turn them into magical devices. It would take some time to demonstrate that. There's also arithmancy, used to calculate other forms of magic precisely. It's not generally regarded as being interesting to demonstrate. And divination, which frankly is mostly nonsense since the future in not set in stone, but I should mention it to be complete." She clearly felt very strongly about this. "Oh, and ritual magic, oaths and ceremonies of fealty, honesty, protection and such. Those are the most common types of magic."

Tom could see his father take a breath in preparation for asking a question, so he spoke first to head him off. "So the question is, do we want to be involved with magic at all? Miss Granger has generously volunteered to search for an adoptive wizarding family for my son, should we feel that we are not up to the task of raising him."

Both of Tom's parents stared at him as if they again believed him mad. They both spoke at once.

"You would give up your own son—" sputtered his mother.

"How could we pretend that magic doesn't exist now?" demanded his father.

"My grandson, our own flesh and blood—"

"Think of the opportunities—"

It was most gratifying to see Miss Granger, powerful witch, nearly jump from her seat when the telephone rang. It had that effect on nearly everyone. The Riddles were the first family in Little Hangleton to install a telephone in their home, and the reaction of rubes was at least as much of a benefit as the ability to speak with people far away.

"That will be my lawyer calling back," said his father. "Excuse me." He left for his office again.

"He's your son, Tom," his mother took advantage of the silence to plead. "Your own son." She held the baby out to him as if this proved something.

His father returned from his office shortly. "He's your son, Tom," he said through his broad grin. "Assuming Merope ensnared only one man. We can't ask her, as she's lying in a pauper's grave near London. The story checks out."

His mother was still holding the baby out as if she expected him to take it.

Tom tried and failed to meet those eerie blue-black eyes.

"Mrs. Riddle, Squire Riddle," said Miss Granger. "Your son has good reason to be cautious. He had the misfortune to experience some particularly evil magic firsthand. This danger of magic is not to be taken lightly. This baby will do accidental magic before he learns to control his power. Once he is in the wizarding world, he will face prejudice because of his ancestry. He may create enemies. Those enemies may consider his family targets as a way of hurting him."

"Back up, you're saying that people would be prejudiced against little Tommy because his mother was a Gaunt?" asked his father, offended. "They are a lowly family, certainly, but the Riddle name surely counteracts that."

Miss Granger needed a moment to compose herself before responding to this. "No. The Gaunts may have removed themselves from wizarding society, and been living in squalor of late, but they are still a pureblood wizarding family, therefore generally held in very high regard. They no longer bear the name, but they are descended from Salazar Slytherin himself. He was a very powerful wizard a thousand years ago. Well, about a thousand years ago. Closer to nine hundred, now. Anyway, still famous today."

"For what is he famous?" asked his mother.

"He helped found a school. He was one of the four founders of Hogwarts, Britain's school of witchcraft and wizardry."

"That seems quite respectable," said his mother. "What a pity the family sank so low. So why would anyone be prejudiced against Tommy?"

"Because of his father. You are muggles. Muggles are people without magical ability. Many wizards don't consider muggles to be fully human. They believe you are brutish beasts, without souls. Merope's father and brother hate Mr. Riddle for supposedly seducing Merope."

"What?! They thought I wanted—"

"They thought you presumed to seduce a pureblood witch high above your station. They thought it impossible that a witch could be genuinely attracted to a muggle man. Many would consider the product of such a union to be an abomination, not because of her, but because of you."

There was silence, ample room for his outrage, but Tom found that he lacked adequate words to express it.

"I would quite understand if you didn't want any contact with a society that holds your family in such contempt," said Miss Granger. "I might even recommend that you sever all ties now, both for your own sake and your son's. The choice is yours."

"No," said Tom, proud of the cold calmness of his voice. "No. My son will know that the Riddle name is one to be proud of. The rest of wizarding society will soon realize it is a name to admire, respect, and fear."

"Hear hear," said his father.

"What did you say earlier about wizards targeting the families of their enemies?" inquired his mother.

"Wizarding society has laws," Miss Granger said, "which favor the old pureblood families, and which are often broken regardless. I made an enemy of a particularly evil wizard. He didn't approve of the fact that my parents were muggles, although we would have been enemies anyway, as I strongly opposed his pureblood agenda. He murdered my parents to punish me."

"How dreadful!" said his mother. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Miss Granger."

"Is this criminal still at large?" asked his father.

"This was in Australia," she said. "So people here wouldn't have heard of it. This particular wizard isn't a problem now, as I took care of the situation personally. I merely gave this as an example of the type of danger you might face in wizarding society."

Tom admired the coldness with which she admitted taking care of the situation personally.

"Are you Australian, Miss Granger?" asked his mother pleasantly, as if at a ladies' tea. "I have been trying to place your accent. I'm sure it's one I haven't heard before, but I don't believe I've ever met an Australian."

"I'm English, although I have spent time in Australia," she said. "As well as some time in Bulgaria, and in numerous other countries, at least in passing. I suppose my travels could account for the fact that my accent isn't quite like anyone else's."

"Well, we are quite delighted to have you here," said his mother.

"Thank you." She thought. "Me being from Australia could also explain why no one in Britain knows me. Let that be our story, if anyone asks. I'm British, but have traveled extensively, and most recently lived in Australia."

Tom had the feeling there wouldn't be much point asking her more about her past, as he'd merely get a further demonstration of her creativity. "All right," he said.

"My plan for today," Miss Granger said, "is to grant Mr. Riddle's wish to see some better examples of wizards than the Gaunts, to give him an idea of the sort of wizard Tommy might grow into, if all goes well. While I can't actually introduce you to anyone, I can at least take you to a wizarding district, so you can see wizards going about their business, doing their shopping and such. Would that suit?"

"That would be an excellent start," said Tom.

"I shall accompany you," said his father.

Miss Granger looked distressed. "I would rather not attempt to smuggle more than one muggle into a wizarding district at a time. Showing magic to a muggle is illegal. When I break the law, I try to be discrete about it."

"I see the sense in that," conceded his father. "Oh all right, Tom may go without me."

"Thank you, father," said Tom, who would have felt safer with his company, illogical as the thought was.

"We will travel by a magical method known as apparition, which is nearly instantaneous, but unfortunately quite uncomfortable. I can transport myself, Tom, and Tommy."

"You could leave Tommy here," suggested his mother.

"What if he gets hungry?" asked Miss Granger. "We might be out for hours."

"I could feed him some goat's milk," suggested his mother.

Miss Granger pursed her lips. "No," she said. "Anyway, let's prepare for our outing. We should dress to blend into our surroundings. I have some wizarding clothes that might fit you."

"Can't you just conjure something?" asked Tom.

She shook her head. "It's much easier to fool muggles with conjured clothing than wizards. Many magical shops have anti-deception charms to prevent theft, that could react badly to conjured clothing. I have real clothes that should serve well enough."

"Couldn't you buy something while you're there?" inquired his mother.

"I have virtually no money," apologized Miss Granger. "Just enough for a few minor purchases, I think."

"You didn't think we would expect you to pay, did you?" said his father. "The Riddles can pay our own way, I assure you."

"I apologize. I meant no offense. Then, bring whatever amount of muggle money would be sufficient for a muggle shopping trip. You can exchange it for wizarding money at the bank there. I still think you should start off in wizarding clothing, for the best initial reception."

"Let us remove to the solarium to examine this wizarding clothing in the best light," said his father. "Miss Granger, I will show you the room, and you may bring the clothing there." He rang the bell to call Fiona. "We are done with breakfast," he told her. They left for the bright, spacious solarium.

"I actually have it all with me," she said, drawing a small beaded bag from her pocket.

His mother looked at the bag skeptically. "The weather is quite cold, Miss Granger. I don't believe clothing that could fit in that would be sufficiently warm."

She laughed. "This bag holds more than you'd think." She then, impossibly, plunged her arm up to the shoulder into the tiny bag and rummaged around. "It must have fallen to the bottom by now. Accio Ron's robes." She pulled out a crumpled wad of fabric that may have once been black, but was now mostly grey. She shook it out. Lint, dirt, and a few dead leaves fell onto the floor. "Sorry. I think this should fit you, Mr. Riddle, you're tall like Ron was. You can just put it on over your shirt and trousers instead of your jacket. I can get these wrinkles out, no problem." She did with a spell. "I'm sorry, there's no getting this bloodstain out, that's from a cursed wound. This one… What's this one from? I think this one's just gravy. Scourgify. That's better."

Tom was apparently as tall as a man named Ron had been. It would not be appropriate to criticize the gravy stain of a man in his grave, but he could protest the overall concept. "You're lending me a dead man's clothes?"

Her eyes were too bright as she looked at him. "He doesn't need them anymore," she said somewhat shakily.

"Wouldn't this be…" extremely creepy "...disrespectful to his memory?"

"I'm sure he'd want them put to good use," she said. "They were hand-me-downs anyway."

"Do witches not believe in bad luck?"

"He was wearing muggle clothing when he was killed. In Australia, trying to defend my parents. There's nothing unlucky about the robes. Well, a lot of his clothes were hand-me-downs, and his brothers, whether they wore these or not…" She trailed off, then rallied her courage and tried again. "The previous wearers were all very brave, honorable men, who would go out of their way to help a muggle if they had a chance. They would all be glad to lend you their robes, I'm sure."

So presumably, the robes were perfectly safe for men who were neither brave nor honorable. He reached out a hand for the robes, bravely. No, wait. Maybe it was sufficient to leave off just the honorability.

"They look old. Aren't they out of fashion by now?"

She tried to suppress a laugh. "Wizarding fashion changes extremely slowly, or perhaps not at all. It's a very tradition-bound culture."

He was out of objections. He put the garment on. Wizarding fashion apparently was stuck in the Middle Ages. There was a simple elegance to the design, although a definite shabbiness to the execution.

"That looks great on you," the witch said, causing his estimation of her observational skill, which had previously been quite high, to drop precipitously.

"You look very handsome," said his mother.

Tom rolled his eyes. "I am well aware that I would look handsome even in a potato sack. My physical attractiveness is apparently what got us into this mess in the first place, as that's what caught Merope's eye. It brings me no joy to be reminded of it."

"Maybe she was charmed by your modesty," smirked his father.

"I'll change into my witch's robes in my room and meet you back here. Then I'll give you a tour of Diagon Alley. It's quite a place. I must ask you to stay close to me and follow my lead. I can't have you getting lost and wandering off."

"Of course," said Tom.

"I'm rather glad I'm not going, if that's the required dress," said his mother once the witch was out of earshot. Hopefully.

"With all these powers, I don't see why wizards would have to dress so shabbily," said his father.

"I believe only the ones who are willing to associate with us do," said Tom. "The better sort would never lend us their clothes."

They saw the sense in this. His father went to his office for some money to solve this problem as soon as possible. When the witch returned, she was dressed in dark blue robes which were less faded and worn than the ones she'd loaned him, although by no means new. They still seemed too large for her thin frame.

She took Tommy back in her sling, with an extra blanket. He immediately started rooting for her breast. "After apparition, darling," she said. "I'd rather you not throw milk up on me. Have you been side/along apparated before?" she asked Tom. When he shook his head, she said, "I warn you, you're probably going to feel quite motion-sick. I'll take you to an out-of-the-way alley so you can be sick in peace, then clean you up if necessary." He nodded, suddenly incapable of speech. "Hold my arm tightly, and I'll hold yours. It's quite important we don't lose each other in transit. See you later, Mrs. Riddle, Squire Riddle. Don't worry, I'll take good care of them."

His mother called "Good lu—" but then he was whirling through emptiness, trying to hold on to Miss Granger's arm with a hand that either was or wasn't still connected to his wrist, he couldn't tell.

Just as suddenly he was throwing… down? sideways? Oh, up. He was dimly aware of Miss Granger cooing, "It's all right darling, yes, that was very uncomfortable. You may have your milk now, that's much better, isn't it?" as he heaved his excellent breakfast onto the ground.

He straightened himself up shakily, and looked around. This definitely did not fit his image of some magical wonderland. It was a dirty alley, with rubbish bins. And vomit on the ground, but he couldn't really fault it for that.

"Scourgify," said Miss Granger with a wave of her wand, and the vomit was gone from the ground and his person. "Can you walk?" she asked.

He nodded, since she hadn't asked if he could talk.

"This way." She led him to a, a…

"Sorry, there's an anti-muggle Notice-Me-Not charm on the entrance. Take my arm, you should be able to walk through the doorway even if you can't see it."

He did as he was told, and soon entered what was obviously a pub, although with a different clientele than he was used to. Everyone was in wizarding robes. Tom noted with a mix of joy and despair that more than half of the witches and wizards were better dressed than their little party. None were as pathetic as the Gaunts. This gave him hope for his son's future, and simultaneously embarrassment for his immediate situation. It was intolerable for a Riddle to look worse than average at any gathering.

"That may have been the least disagreeable trip I've ever taken from Little Hangleton to London," remarked Tom casually and quietly, for it would not do to seem at all amazed by his surroundings. "The train takes so long."

"Apparition gets more tolerable with experience," said Miss Granger as she sat him at a small table. "Try a butterbeer." She went to the bar and bought two. "It has a tiny bit of alcohol, not enough to worry about."

He tried it. His mouth liked it, but his recently-emptied stomach didn't trust it. He gave it some time to adjust. "Where are we?"

"A pub called the Leaky Cauldron," said Miss Granger. "The gateway to Diagon Alley, and a conduit for all walks of wizarding society."

The pub had quite a large fireplace. Sometimes the flames turned green, and people stepped out of it, or into it, so that was another doorway. Quite a grand couple appeared from the fireplace, beautifully dressed, sparkling with jewels. They had a peculiar little servant with them, with grey skin, huge green eyes, and furry ears. It was dressed in a rag, the maximum contrast possible to the finery of its masters. It rushed around its lady's skirt, removing the faintest traces of ashes from the hem.

Tom drew close to Miss Granger, although he caught another disturbing whiff of Amortentia when he did so, like opening a door in a storm and realizing he'd been breathing stale, stuffy air before. The sensible thing to do was to close the door and not let the storm in. He did his best to ignore this and spoke quietly. "That couple over there, that's the look we need to go for. Where can we get clothes like that?"

"What?" This was not the question she'd been expecting.

"Everyone in this pub treats that couple with utmost respect. Look at how everyone steps aside for them. They didn't have to wait at the bar for their drinks, they got them immediately. That's how the Riddles will be treated."

"But… you're just trying to blend in unobtrusively. You're not trying to join the aristocracy!"

"Of course I'm not trying to join the aristocracy," he agreed. "I'm already in it. The wizarding world must simply recognize that."

"They won't!" she said in a furious whisper. "You're a muggle!"

"My son's not," said Tom. "If I'm going to raise him, I intend to do it right, and that means giving him the best possible start in life. No Riddle is going to start at the bottom."

"This is ridiculous!" she said in her furious whisper. "You should count yourself lucky if your half-blood son is tolerated in wizarding society at all!"

"What's ridiculous is the suggestion that any son of mine would not start at the top," said Tom calmly. "I just have to establish that that's where we belong. I'll start with the clothes."

"You can't be accepted into pureblood wizarding society by just buying the right clothes!"

"Of course not. I'll also need accessories, like that little grey thing they have. With the big green eyes."

Miss Granger closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. Eventually, she said, "That's a house elf. You are not getting one."

"Maybe not today," he said agreeably, for she clearly felt strongly about this, and it would not do to have an unseemly disagreement in public.

Tom tried the butterbeer again. It really was quite good. He was tempted to linger over it while enjoying the parade of wizards and witches, but he had to get out of these rags and into something more appropriate to his station. The three of them finished their drinks, of butterbeer and breastmilk, and Miss Granger led him through an enchanted brick wall to Diagon Alley proper.

Tom did not stand there staring like a rube, instead striding forward as if he knew where he was going. "Which tailor shop do you recommend, Miss Granger?"

"I don't know. Not of the quality you want."

"Hm. Well, we'll look." He changed his businesslike stride to a lazier stroll.

"We need to go to the bank first to change your money," she said, so he followed her there.

Gringotts Bank was a towering architectural creation of white marble, staffed by...?

"Goblins," Miss Granger whispered. "Don't cross them. Never, ever try to cheat them."

They went to a teller, who gazed at them with huge dark eyes that seemed to be mostly pupil. "I am Grumrog," it? he? said. "How can I help you?"

"Good day," said Tom. "I would like to exchange this muggle money for wizarding money."

"Do you have an account with us?"

Tom looked at Miss Granger, who shook her head apologetically.

"No," said Tom.

"Then you will be charged standard rates."

"Could you please give me some information about opening an account here?" Tom asked.

Grumrog stared at him for a little while, the said, "We would be glad of your business. Muggle money or wizarding, it's all the same to us," and handed him a scroll, which Tom pocketed to peruse later. Then the goblin counted his money. "How would you like that, in galleons, sickles, and/or knuts?"

"Galleons and a bit of change," said Miss Granger, saving him.

The goblin nodded. "For an amount this large, there is a half-percent fee."

"That seems quite reasonable."

What was unreasonable was the large pile of gold coins, with a few silver and bronze, that the goblin put on the counter.

"I'll carry it," said Miss Granger, putting it in her bag. What kind of barbarians used actual gold coins rather than paper? Gold was heavy. "Thank you."

"Oh, and I was wondering if you could recommend a good tailor shop where we could spend some of this," asked Tom.

The dark eyes stared for a moment. "Antonio's" he said eventually. "It seems popular among wizards who have a lot of money to spend."

"Perfect, thank you very much, Grumrog," said Tom. "Could you please give us directions?"

They were instructed to head towards the owl emporium, make a right, look for a glimmer in the air, rotate widdershins thrice, tap their wand on the statue of a rampant walrus, go up a hidden staircase, and ask for Antonio. Tom hoped Miss Granger got all that.

"Thank you," she said. She led the way. "I'm not a very good guide," she apologized. "I don't know anything about what you're interested in."

"You're the best guide I have," said Tom.

The goblin's directions proved correct, which surprised Tom, as he'd assumed they had been a joke. But no, soon they were in a tailor shop, one wall of which was covered in moving photographs of witches and wizards in the finest raiments. A short little grey-haired man whose movements were as quick as a bird measured him with a magical self-propelled measuring tape, and offered various fabric swatches and designs for his consideration.

Miss Granger attempted to tell Tom that he should take all the time he needed, as she'd bought a book to read, but he soon dissuaded her of that notion and had her measured and looking at swatches and designs as well. He certainly couldn't leave her as she was. It was frankly embarrassing to be seen with her. Wizards might dress their servants in rags, but Riddles did not. A woman at a man's side made for a larger canvas on which he could paint his wealth.

"But there's no point making clothes to the measurements I have now," she said. "I don't want to be this skinny for long."

"Madam, what kind of tailor do you take me for?" asked Antonio, offended. "Of course my clothing resizes itself to fit as you change. My measuring tape doesn't measure simply your size now, but your potential range of sizes."

"Oh. I guess that's all right then."

This was Tom's guide to the wonders of wizardry? "Please excuse my companion," said Tom. "She's unaccustomed to tailors of your quality."

Antonio forgave her faux pas with a nod. "Now we can discuss color, fabric, and design."

"I need clothes I can duel in," she said. "That don't impede my movement at all. Quick-draw wand holster in the left sleeve. And that I can breastfeed in."

"I see," said Antonio. He took some quick measurements of Tommy while he was at it. "You still have many choices for color and design."

She threw up her hands. "I have no idea. Just pick something for me."

"Gryffindor red?" suggested the tailor.

She laughed and shook her head. "Good guess, but too flashy for everyday wear, I think. Perhaps a subtler red."

Tom couldn't judge that too harshly when he essentially did the same thing. "We've heard such good things about your artistry as a tailor," said Tom to Antonio, "I have complete faith in your choices. We want to impress, without tackiness."

"Then just tell me where would you like your wand holster."

"Left sleeve," Tom said smoothly.

The little man, pleased with their flattery, told them to return in two hours for their clothes. "How should we pass the time? What other shops do you recommend?" asked Tom. "We'll need shoes, jewelry, and obviously my companion is in dire need of a hairstylist." Antonio's suggestions were so numerous, they had to write them down to keep track of them. They thanked him and left.

"You wanted to buy a newspaper," Miss Granger reminded him. "I warn you, the Daily Prophet is not particularly accurate, but it will give you an idea of what people are discussing. You might as well get a subscription, as you seem committed to this project." They went to the newspaper's office, filled out a form to subscribe, and paid. His address, Riddle House, Little Hangleton, raised no eyebrows.

Tom took pleasure in being more comfortable in wizarding shops than his magical guide was. She might know magic, but Tom knew money, which was much more relevant in these settings. He wore her down with shopping until she had no strength left to protest being put in a salon chair and subjected to hairstyling. She sat there numbly as the hairstylist went into raptures about her gorgeous curls. She left with cascades of gleaming ringlets, a silver comb engraved with ancient runes, a collection of potions, a dazed expression, and a scroll with detailed instructions of which products to use daily, which only on the new moon, etc.

Tom checked his pocket watch. "Our clothes should be ready by now."

The tailor was pleased to see them and show off his work. Tom took his new clothes to a changing room and looked in the mirror. The ragged robes Miss Granger had loaned him looked completely out-of-place on a Riddle, but once he changed, the image that haughtily returned his gaze was perfect. His new robes were true black, as black as his hair and eyes. They had an elegant sweep that the tailor had assured him was obtainable only by the acromantula silk blended into the fabric, which was otherwise yeti fur, warm for winter. Worn open, they revealed the collar of his fine white linen shirt, stylish yet extremely comfortable trousers, and a silver-buttoned brocade waistcoat woven in a pattern that subtly suggested green snakes. Tom had always admired snakes, such graceful creatures. It had pained him to see the one the Gaunts had nailed to their door. He never could stand unnecessary cruelty to animals.

He stepped out of the dressing room so Antonio could see his artistry in action.

Miss Granger started when she saw him, then smirked at Antonio. "Green snakes?"

"I can always tell which house a witch or wizard was sorted into," he said. "Although this one posed no challenge, so I can hardly take pride in a correct guess. Anyone could see the ambition here."

She nodded, still smirking.

It wouldn't do to show any confusion about this. Tom could ask for an explanation later. Instead, he now asked Miss Granger, "Aren't you going to try on your new clothes?"

"I was hoping you could hold your son while I do that," she said. He couldn't very well refuse in front of an audience, so he accepted the baby. No wonder Tom's mother had cared for him herself rather than hire a nursemaid. Those were eyes that only a mother could love, or perhaps even tolerate. Any potential nursemaid must have been terrified of them.

Tom was now a muggle alone with two wizards, one of whom might attempt to engage him in conversation. What if this tailor attempted to chat about something all wizards should know? News? Sport? Should he scorn such familiarity from a mere tradesman? Perhaps he should avoid catastrophe by taking control of the conversation now.

"What is he wearing?" Tom asked, for the baby was now dressed in a pure white gown embroidered with green snakes, of considerably higher quality than he'd been wearing when they arrived. Tom hadn't thought it necessary to buy clothes for the baby yet, as he seemed to spend all his time hidden in a sling and wrapped in blankets anyway.

"I threw in a little extra garment," said the tailor. "No charge."

"Snakes again?" asked Tom, amused. "We match."

"Perhaps I was presumptuous," said Antonio, "but he does strike me as a Slytherin like his father."

This, at least, was a subject about which he could speak knowledgeably. "He's actually a Slytherin on his late mother's side," he clarified. "She was the one descended from Salazar Slytherin."

The tailor did not react as if Tom had simply related a mildly interesting family anecdote. His eyes widened. "Descended… you mean actually descended, actually of the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself?"

"Yes, through his mother's side, my late wife Merope, of the Gaunt family of Little Hangleton. Now tragically deceased. Terrible business. She was in London, among muggles, when she unexpectedly went into labor without my knowledge. Muggles don't know the first thing about healing, so she died in their care. It's a miracle my son survived."

The tailor was aghast. "Muggles! A descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself dead at the hands of muggles!"

"They meant well," Tom said mildly. "I'm trying to put the whole tragic business behind me. I have a son to care for now. It's a good thing Miss Granger happened to be visiting from Australia. She very generously volunteered to care for my son, even going so far as to take a wet nurse potion so she can feed him herself. I don't know what I'd do without her."

"I had no idea I was in the presence of such an illustrious family."

Now this was more like it. This was the proper reception for the Riddles. "Well, we were dressed in rags when we arrived, so the mistake is understandable. As I was mourning my dear departed wife, I thought it appropriate to dress quite humbly, and put no care at all in my appearance, but Miss Granger convinced me that this would be an inauspicious beginning for my son's life. She insisted on this shopping trip so I could buy a suit of clothes that represent a fresh start, rather than the robes that remind me of my life with Merope. Perhaps I should replace my whole wardrobe."

"An excellent idea! How fortunate that you have such a sensible friend."

"Indeed."

"My lord—"

Lord? The Riddles were only squires, but the Slytherins apparently ranked higher.

"—may I ask a favor? It would be a great honor, and a boon to my business, if I could take a picture of the young heir of Slytherin and post it on my board of satisfied customers." He indicated the board, flickering with moving pictures of wizards and witches.

Tom nodded graciously. "It's no trouble at all. I'm happy to endorse such a talented tailor."

The tailor fetched a peculiar camera. "Would you be so kind as to stand by that wall, my lord? It makes a good background."

Tom did, holding the young heir of Slytherin in his arms. If he turned those disturbing eyes to face the camera, he wouldn't have to face them himself. He gave the camera his haughty best, although he couldn't suppress a smile, proud of how quickly the tailor had recognized a family of importance.

The magical camera apparently could develop its own pictures, as Antonio pulled a picture out in moments. "You look so proud of your son! The heir of Slytherin! In my shop!"

"That's my boy," said Tom, beaming. The blue didn't come through in the photo of course, so father and son seemed to have matching pure black eyes. They'd be the blackest spots on the board.

"Would you please write your names and titles on it?" The tailor got— A feather and a pot of ink. What was Tom supposed to do with that? How could it be that wizards, with all their marvelous devices, were still writing by dipping a feather in a pot of ink? How could they not be using fountain pens in this day and age?

"My apologies, but as you can see, my hands are full," said Tom, indicating the observant and eerily silent baby in his arms. Weren't babies supposed to cry a lot? "Perhaps when Miss Granger gets out of the changing room."

"If you would permit me, I would be honored to hold the young heir of Slytherin," the tailor groveled.

Tom looked down at him, which their height difference made easy. "Yes, you would be honored if I would permit that." He made no move to relinquish the baby to this common tradesman.

"My apologies sir, I did not mean to presume."

Miss Granger finally came out of the changing room, looking awkward. "It fits, but don't you think it's too…"

The fabric was not red, but a dark brown that shimmered with a hidden glow of red, as if buried embers were about to burst into flames. In a surprising nod to modern fashion, the skirt was short, barely covering her calves, revealing her tall brown dragonhide boots that she'd grudgingly allowed him to replace her old worn boots with, as dragonhide was a very practical, durable material, she said. Aside from the skirt, there was no sign that the tailor had ever heard of the 1920s, as this silhouette was as far from the straight, boyish lines of modern fashion as it was possible to be. He had made no attempt to conceal her unfashionably large bosom and tiny waist, but had instead displayed them in a bodice shaped like an hourglass which accentuated both by contrasting them. The effect would have been Victorian, were it not for the complete lack of whalebone or other structures that Victorians used to squish themselves into this stiff shape. Instead, in a way that would have been impossible without magic, the fabric clung to her every muscle and yielded to every movement, leaving her lean, long torso as lithe and free as… an acrobat?… a snake. Yes, a snake, exactly.

"It certainly is very," said Tom. "But I don't think it's too."

"But this skirt… Look at this." She spun, and hidden slits in the skirt allowed it to open like the petals of a flower, revealing lean legs clad in nothing but trousers, if they could be called that, of a similar close fit as the bodice. Had she been an attractive woman, with the bare minimum of softness and charming coquetry, the view would have been titillating, but as she more closely resembled a predatory animal, the view was pleasing in the same way as a sighting of a rare wild creature.

"You did specify clothes that would give you complete freedom of movement for dueling," fretted the tailor. "So I couldn't use too much fabric in the skirt, but neither could it be tight—"

"You did as I asked. Thank you. These are the most comfortable clothes I've ever worn. I just don't usually wear clothes that look so…"

"Beautiful?" prompted Tom.

"Well, yes," she said.

"You'd better start," said Tom. "I'm going to have to look at you whenever I want to see my son. There's no need to make the experience more unpleasant than it has to be."

He'd judged correctly. Her expression was amused by his frivolous interest in aesthetics, rather than offended at this slight on her appearance. "All right, if it's important to you," she said indulgently, as if he were a toddler insisting that the peas on his plate not touch his potatoes.

"Now if you would be so kind as to hold the baby, Mr. Riddle's hands would be free to write on this picture for my board," said Antonio.

"I'm enjoying cuddling my son right now," said Tom. "Could you write for me?" he asked her.

"Of course," said Miss Granger, taking quill in hand. She looked at the pictures that were already up to get an idea of the format, then wrote, "Tom Marvolo Riddle, Heir of Slytherin, and his father Tom Riddle, Heir of Riddle." Her handwriting was much better than Tom's would have been with that instrument, but not up to the standard of the beautiful calligraphy on many of the other pictures.

"I would also like to get a picture of you of course," said the tailor.

"I'm not the heir of anything," she said, looking at the board.

"You needn't be," he assured her. "I also serve performing artists, international quidditch stars… I'd love to be able to point to your picture as an example of the sort of work I can do for duelists. Please pose as if you were dueling."

She acquiesced to this and stood against the backdrop as requested. "Ready?" she asked.

"Ready."

Tom had a sudden urge to run for cover as, fast as a striking snake, Miss Granger drew her wand from her sleeve and wielded it at the camera, moving it with precise yet somehow powerful moments. Then she abruptly stopped.

"Oh, that was wonderful!" said Antonio. "And thank you very much for not completing that curse."

"That would be a poor payment for your excellent work," said Miss Granger.

Tom suspected that child care was an unusual career choice for witches with Miss Granger's skill set. Then he reconsidered that. Perhaps dueling skills were required to deal with a tantruming young wizard.

On her picture, she wrote only "Hermione Granger." Tom would have thought her more creative.

Tom leaned in close to her. "There's room to write more," he said. "Write 'Australian duelist.'"

Her eyes widened briefly, but then she smiled and did as he'd told her.

Antonio beamed, and put her photograph on the section of the board with the athletes.

Tom paid the balance due, pulling coins from his new wizarding wallet, which was more capacious than should have been possible. He promised Antonio more business in the future.

The tailor handed him a parchment scroll. "Now that I have your measurements, you can owl me an order at your convenience. Just authorize the funds from your Gringotts account on this form."

Tom nodded as he tucked the scroll into one of the numerous pockets of his new robes. "Thank you, I will. Oh, and could you recommend a good restaurant for lunch?"

"Many of my clients enjoy La Truffe Émraude."

Once their old clothes had been tucked away in Miss Granger's beaded bag, and the directions to the restaurant tucked into her mind, they bade the tailor farewell and left.

"I'll teach you how to write with a quill when we get back," she assured him as she took his baby from his arms.

"Thank you. I could have studied that wall of pictures for hours," he added. "That was like a who's who."

"He put your picture in the section with the old pureblood families," she marveled. "With the Malfoys, the Blacks, the Lestranges…"

"Where else would the heir of Slytherin belong?" Tom asked rhetorically. "I need to learn all these families to know which are worthy of associating with him."

"Before lunch, let's go to a bookshop and get Nature's Nobility," she said. "And some other books besides."

They did, but Tom soon regretted this decision, as once Miss Granger was in a bookshop, there seemed to be no way to extract her. He had finally discovered one category of things for which she shopped with enthusiasm. Tom was interested in the books as well, but at this hour, had other priorities.

"Miss Granger, not all of us had the privilege of keeping down this morning's breakfast, and it is now lunchtime. I assure you that these books will still be here after we eat."

She grudgingly conceded this point. They purchased her selections, stashed them in her beaded bag, and headed to La Truffe Émraude.

Tom was certain that they wouldn't have been allowed into this restaurant in their former clothing. He was pleasantly surprised that they'd been allowed in without a house elf. Many, but not all of the diners had brought house elves with them, apparently to carry their packages on their shopping trips.

Miss Granger was no help at all navigating the menu, as she had never heard of most of these dishes either. Tom used the same strategy that had worked so well with the tailor, and told the waiter to tell the chef to prepare whatever dishes his heart desired, accompanied by the appropriate wines, as they liked surprises.

"But no wine for me," said his companion. "Nothing stronger than butterbeer."

The waiter nodded and left.

"Teetotaler, are you?" asked Tom.

"Not usually, but I'm breastfeeding a baby."

"So?"

"A baby shouldn't drink alcohol-tainted milk."

"Why not?"

She didn't answer.

"Is this a wizarding rule? If so, I should know it."

"No. It's a… It's just a tradition in my family, all right? Just like we don't allow lead paint near children."

This clearly had been made up on the spot, but he didn't press the matter. Instead he changed the subject. "Why do our fellow diners and shoppers need elves to carry their purchases?" he quietly asked his guide, leaning in close to that disturbing stormy scent of Amortentia. "Are beaded bags like yours rare?"

"Not very. And the beads are optional. But their audience can't see how much money they're spending if they use bags like mine," she said.

"Ah. Seems a bit gauche."

"More than a bit, if you ask me."

"Still, if that's the game, we need to play it. Where can we get a house elf?"

It took a moment for his guide to compose herself enough to answer with the faintest vestige of civility. "Even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you. House elves are slaves. I am not letting you buy a slave," she hissed.

"I don't need to actually own one. For God's sake, it's 1927! Slavery has been out of fashion for centuries. The wizarding world has much to recommend it, Miss Granger, but some of these obsolete customs are quite overdue for updating. Before I change this world, of course, I'll have to be accepted in it. So for now, can't I hire a free one? I'd only need one by the hour, for outings like this. I have human servants for home."

Miss Granger stared at him for a while. Eventually, she said, "I don't know of any free ones now. Their whole race is enslaved. And often terribly abused. Look at this. How can I eat with this going on?"

"That's why you're so thin, because you can't eat as long as there's any injustice in the world?"

She answered this mockery with only a glare.

He looked away from those glaring brown eyes to see what was putting her off her lunch. Most of the house elves were sitting on the floor by their masters' tables. Some had water and food in front of them, some were being tossed tidbits off their masters' tables, while others had nothing. One particularly elegant lady was using hers as a footrest.

The waiter brought their salads. Parts were glowing, parts were twitching, and all were delicious. "You can tell this is fresh, since it's so active," Tom remarked as he attempted to stab his fork into one particularly vigorous leaf. The dressing made it slippery. "Come on, eat. You should not be the one who feels uncomfortable in this situation."

"That elf," she said.

Tom turned his head slightly to look behind him at the lady with the footrest. The chairs were quite comfortable, and her legs were very long, so it was hard to imagine that using a footrest actually increased her comfort. It undoubtedly increased her pleasure, as she seemed to relish pressing her pointed heels into the poor creature's back, protected only by a thin rag.

Tom turned away. "I see what you mean about screening potential adoptive families carefully. That one would be right out, if I were still considering adoption. Very tacky."

"They wouldn't want to adopt a halfblood anyway," she said. "I recognize that couple from the board. They were in the pureblood section. I think that's a Malfoy and his wife."

Tom looked again, discreetly, because the Malfoys were making such a spectacle of themselves they clearly wanted to be noticed, and he wouldn't give them the pleasure. The lady was stunningly beautiful, her strawberry-blonde tresses coiled elaborately on her head, her face smooth perfection unsullied by a single freckle. Her jewelry was blinding, and her dress had so many yards and layers of fabric, she could barely eat without trailing her sleeves through her food and wine. Her blue eyes beamed lovingly at her husband as she stabbed her heels into the elf's back. She looked considerably younger than her husband, although of course with some women it was hard to tell.

Her husband had long dirty blond hair threaded with silver, and robes that Tom could tell had quite a high percentage of acromantula silk in the blend. He gazed at his wife just as lovingly as he fed her a tidbit of chocolate cake. She giggled charmingly, and returned the favor by offering a forkful of cake to her husband. Abruptly, she lurched forward, poking her husband in the lip with her fork. "Drown you in Atlantis, Dobby!" she shrieked. "You made me lose my balance!" She raked her sharp heels along the poor creature's back, ripping its pathetic grey rag right off it, and leaving red trails in its grey skin. She kicked the rag off her feet.

"You will pay for this, Dobby!" bellowed the man from bloody lips, as he kicked the elf away from their table, rather closer to Tom's table.

Miss Granger was right. This was truly unappetizing. He now understood that she had recognized him as a man of good family and taste, who might want to wash his hands of the whole wizarding world and leave these savages, these Gaunts and Malfoys, to their primitive customs. There was so much room for improvement here, it could take him years to get the wizarding world into a decent enough shape to be worthy of his son. Still, it had to be done. He couldn't let his son grow up thinking things like this were normal.

Tom cast a commiserating look in her direction, and was surprised to see her reaching into a pocket of her skirt rather deeper than should have been possible. "Accio Harry's grey shirt," she said very quietly. She drew her hand out, holding a small crumpled wad of grey fabric.

Whatever. Tom turned back to the terribly gauche couple. "Excuse me. How much would you like for that elf?" he asked pleasantly.

Malfoy turned to see Tom, relaxing languidly at his table. "What?"

"Since he doesn't seem to suit your needs, and I happen to be in the market for a new elf, I thought I'd do you the favor of taking him off your hands. How much?"

"Who are you?" Malfoy demanded.

Tom looked surprised at this question. "Tom Riddle."

"I've never heard of you."

"Oh?" Tom raised one amused eyebrow to let everyone know that this admission said more about Malfoy's ignorance than Riddle's obscurity. "Then I will keep this simple and say only that I am the one asking if your elf is for sale. You needn't trouble yourself to understand anything else about me."

"My elf is not for sale. The Malfoys do not need to raise money by selling old family heirlooms. When we tire of an elf, we do not sell him. We kill him, which is educational for the other elves. I don't fault you for your ignorance of elf management, as only true wizards need to know about it. Nouveau riche..." he momentarily seemed at a loss for which insult to use "...mudblood or halfblood trash" he'd clearly decided to use both to cover what he saw as both the possibilities "are ignorant of such matters."

"Forgive me for being surprised to hear you brag of your elf-management prowess from lips that have just been bloodied by that elf. I'd think you'd want to save yourself from further embarrassment by relieving yourself of the elf in question."

Malfoy's right hand twitched towards his left sleeve. There was nothing Tom could do about this besides casually rearrange his own arms to bring his own right hand closer to his left sleeve, whilst lounging with a superior smirk which expressed an amused disbelief that someone as lowly as Malfoy would presume to cross him.

Miss Granger pursed her lips disapprovingly. "Some of us are trying to eat," she complained loudly. She got up and picked up the tattered grey rag that had been ripped off the elf. "Make your elf cover his nakedness. It's enough to put anyone off their lunch." She wadded the fabric into a ball (had this witch no concept of folding?) and threw it at Malfoy, who caught it before it hit him.

He irritably threw it at the elf. "Go on, put it on," he said. His attention was still focused on Tom.

The elf scrambled to hide his bloodied body in the rag once more, although it had been so badly ripped, Tom didn't know how he'd manage.

"The Malfoys do not take advice from mudbloods or halfbloods," Malfoy seethed.

"Well, the Riddles do not tolerate our lunch being disturbed by mismanagement of elves," replied Tom.

"Master Malfoy has given Dobby clothes!" shrieked the elf, now wearing a dingy old undershirt. "Dobby is free!"

"What?!" exclaimed Malfoy. He stared at Dobby.

"Master Malfoy threw Dobby a real shirt and bade him put it on, yes he did!" marveled the elf. "Master Malfoy is no longer Dobby's master! Now he's just Malfoy! Dobby is a free elf!"

Malfoy was turning purple with rage. He drew his wand and hurled a spell at—

—at Miss Granger, who wore Tom's own son in a sling.

Everything seemed to slow down. Tom was aware of Miss Granger, her own wand already drawn, creating a shield around their table that resembled a faceted iridescent crystal. Malfoy's spell bounced off one of the facets and hit the cheese cart, which exploded, spattering the dining room with fragments and drips of various undoubtedly delicious cheeses.

That faceted shield probably would have protected Tom as well, had he stayed at his table. Instead, he found himself charging towards Malfoy, whose fury was now mixed with alarm. Malfoy moved to aim his wand at Tom—

—wizards might have magical powers, but they were as vulnerable as anyone to a punch to the face. Perhaps even more so, as they didn't seem to be expecting them.

Tom grabbed the wand that Malfoy had dropped when he'd fallen across his table. He pointed it at Malfoy, hoping he was holding the right end. He tried to speak coldly and clearly, but his voice shook with rage. "It is foolish to cross a Riddle. It is lunacy to threaten my son, the heir of Slytherin."

Miss Granger suddenly grabbed his arm, and he again found himself whirling through emptiness.

The salad squirmed at least as much on the way back up.

"I know darling," cooed Miss Granger. "Apparition is no fun at all, but at least you're home safe. Have some milk, everything's all right…"

Tom looked around shakily and fell to his knees. He was in a guest room of his own house, Miss Granger's room.

He looked up to see the house elf waving, not a wand, but his grey hand to vanish the leafy, twitching vomit. The elf then stared around the room with enormous eyes, trembling.

"This is terrible," said Tom hoarsely.

"Well, we did make an enemy of Malfoy, but we also freed Dobby, so—" said Miss Granger.

"No, that's all fine," said Tom. "But we left the restaurant without paying. Riddles do not do that. Why did you take me home?"

"What?" she said. "I… I guess it was just a reflex. I've been on the run for two years. Reflexes like that have kept me alive. Malfoy looked like he wanted to kill us."

"I'd already disarmed him," said Tom, twirling the wand in his fingers. He dropped it, but picked it up again. "And what was his wife going to do, step on me? We have to go back and pay. And preferably get our lunch to go, as the food seemed excellent, although the ambience left much to be desired. We have to apologize to the restaurant staff for the disruption, and explain that the Riddles always pay our debts. We never take what isn't rightfully ours. Ideally, I'd return to do that now, were it not for apparition being so disagreeable. I'm sure that the situation in that room would not be improved by my retching on the floor."

A smile slowly glowed from Miss Granger's face. "I'd be happy to go back and explain that to the restaurant staff in front of Malfoy, now that he doesn't have a wand."

"Leave my son here," said Tom. "Just in case."

Miss Granger nodded and made to hand off his sleepy son.

"Wait," he said. "I don't want to drop him." He freed his hand by stuffing Malfoy's wand into his left sleeve, where it fit perfectly, then staggered to a chair and collapsed into it. He reached out for his baby. "Now."

Miss Granger gently placed his son in his arms. He looked down at the heir of Slytherin.

"Cover his ears," said Miss Granger. Tom did, and she vanished with a loud crack.

The elf was still staring around with enormous eyes.

"Thank you for cleaning up earlier," said Tom. "You didn't have to do that of course. Welcome to my house, Riddle House, in Little Hangleton, Yorkshire. I imagine this is all quite a shock to you."

The elf stared silently.

"We were not properly introduced, so let us do introductions now. I am Mr. Tom Riddle, son of Squire Riddle of Little Hangleton." He paused, but the creature was silent. "I heard your former master call you Dobby. Is that the name by which I should call you, or is there another you prefer?"

"Dobby has only one name, sir," said the creature, which apparently had no first person pronouns.

"Well Dobby, I suppose the first order of business is to ask if your injuries need attention."

"Injuries sir?" asked the creature, confused.

"Those scrapes and bruises on your back from that woman," said Tom.

"Oh, those don't count as injuries sir," the creature assured him. "Not compared to what they often do. Did. Won't do anymore. Dobby is a free elf! Dobby's Master presented him with real clothes, he did, and even bade Dobby put them on. Dobby is free!" He looked at the dingy, oversized undershirt he was wearing as if it was the finest raiment a tailor could make.

"Congratulations, Dobby," said Tom, smiling.

"Dobby is a free elf!"

"Yes, we've covered that. Let me know when there's room in your head for an additional thought, as I have a proposition for you."

"Dobby is free."

"Yes, you're free."

"Dobby is a free elf!"

"Absolutely."

"Dobby can… What does a free elf do, sir?"

"Listen to the proposal of the man who punched your former master in the face."

"Yes sir."

"How would you like to work for me? Random odd jobs and errands, irregular hours. Absolutely no physical punishment, unlike at your previous situation. Room and board, a uniform rather better than that undershirt you're currently wearing, and wages of…" he did the math in his head, then divided by two and rounded down to account for the creature's height and likely desperation, "a galleon a day. What say you?"

"A galleon a day?!" shrieked the elf.

"Subject to negotiation, of course," Tom backpedaled.

"Oh sir, a galleon a day is too much for Dobby. Dobby doesn't know what he'd do with it."

"I certainly don't wish to burden you with more money than you have use for. What do you feel would be a reasonable wage?"

The creature thought. It blinked its huge green eyes several times. "A galleon a week?" it timidly asked.

"You drive a hard bargain, Dobby. A galleon a week it is." He held his hand out to the creature. "We have a deal."

Tom was afraid he'd offended the elf, who simply stared at his hand for some time. Perhaps he was supposed to bow, as in Japan, or seal the deal with some completely foreign elf custom. These creatures were apparently freed from slavery by being given dingy undershirts, so who knew what other peculiar customs they might have?

Just as Tom was about to withdraw his hand, however, the elf reached up his own to shake it with a hand that felt like leather. "Thank you sir," said the elf, tears welling in his enormous eyes. "No wizard has ever before deigned to shake the hand of Dobby, sir."

"Well. It's about time."

Miss Granger reappeared with a loud crack, a large paper bag, and a smile. "I'm surprised a place like that does takeaway," she said. "This is a lot of food, I'm sure it's enough for your parents as well."

"Welcome back, Miss Granger," said Tom. "I was getting a bit worried that I'd sent you to your death for the sake of my pride."

"There was no trouble," she said. "The Malfoys had left by the time I got back. I offered to pay for the cheese cart, but the manager said the Malfoys had already taken care of it."

Perhaps the Malfoys weren't completely hopeless, then.

"The time-consuming part was suggesting to the manager that elves should not be allowed in the dining area at all, as they pose a tripping hazard. They should be off in a separate room, eating and drinking until their masters need them again. And also talking with their fellow elves, unobserved by their masters, as they have very few other opportunities to gossip and plot, but I didn't mention that."

"Thank you for" he shouldn't say getting me "freeing this elf. He's been quite overjoyed. He's accepted my offer of a paid position at Riddle House."

"Oh good," she said. "I was concerned that no wizarding family would hire him now."

Tom should have haggled his wages down further. He looked at the creature, which was looking up at him nervously. "I suppose that introducing you to my other servants will be rather complicated, as they're all muggles."

Tom wouldn't have thought it possible for the creature's eyes to get any bigger, but they did. "Dobby's not supposed to show himself to muggles, sir. The Statute of Secrecy—"

"I know."

"Would it help if Dobby disillusioned himself, sir?" The elf suddenly disappeared.

"Oh, well done, Dobby!" said Miss Granger quickly. "I can barely even see your shadow."

She'd saved Tom from making a fool of himself by shouting "Where did Dobby go?" Instead, he said, "That will be acceptable, Dobby. You will not let yourself be seen by my other servants. I will, however, introduce you to my parents, who will be delighted by this addition to the Riddle House staff, I'm sure. They're probably in the dining room now. Let's all meet them there." Tom got up, feeling only slightly wobbly. It would not do to drop the heir of Slytherin. The Gaunts has been complete fools not to capitalize on their ancestry.

"I can carry him," said Miss Granger.

"You're carrying the food," said Tom. "I can carry my own son."

"Dobby isn't carrying anything," said Dobby's disembodied voice.

"You are taking a well-deserved break," said Tom. "Come on. Pretend you're not here until we get to that part of the story."

They went to the smaller dining room, where his parents were indeed having lunch. His mother got up from the table and ran to hug him, or perhaps to hug her grandson, as she claimed him from Tom's arms without even a by-your-leave.

"Back so soon?" asked his father. "Seen it all already?"

"Not nearly, but I've seen enough to decide that I do want to be part of my son's life," said Tom. "And we brought you some takeaway from a rather good restaurant."

Hermione placed the bag on the table.

"I see you found some clothes that fit you remarkably well," said his mother, eyeing Miss Granger's unfashionable figure.

"I should go change," she said.

"No need to delay your lunch," said his father airily. "And Tom, I'm glad you found clothing more suitable for a Riddle."

"Tailors there work remarkably fast," Tom explained. "And the price was quite reasonable." He'd added that last bit just to see Miss Granger's reaction, and was not disappointed.

His father took the food out of the bag as if unwrapping a Christmas present, but one that he actually wanted. "I trust you can tell us what all this is, Miss Granger?"

"Sorry." She helped herself to a roll that had been on the table when they arrived. "High-end wizarding food seems pretty weird to me."

They worked their way through the mix of muggle and magical food on the table as Tom, with some assistance from Miss Granger, related their morning's adventure. His father was suitably impressed that he'd so quickly gotten at least some of the wizarding world to acknowledge the importance of their family, when he heard of the prominent position in which their photograph had been placed.

"But it's all based on a lie," objected Miss Granger. "He assumed you must be a pureblood wizard, because people can't imagine that a descendant of Salazar Slytherin could possibly marry anyone less."

"Don't put words in my mouth, Miss Granger. I did not lie. I never claimed to be pureblood wizard."

"Yes but… You stole Malfoy's wand and threatened him with it! That does strongly imply that you are at least a wizard."

"No it doesn't. I could have been threatening to shove it up his nose. Would have served him right, too. If you hadn't stopped me—"

"What?!" exclaimed his father, for they hadn't got to that part of the story yet.

The room was suddenly full of a high-pitched, choking laughter that seemed to come from nowhere. Tom's parents practically jumped out of their seats.

"You might as well show yourself, Dobby," said Miss Granger.

The elf became visible in the corner, still laughing. "Dobby is very sorry," he choked. "Dobby tried to act like he's not here. But Dobby finally realized that Malfoy was just punched and disarmed by a muggle! Dobby has served the Malfoys for centuries, and never seen a Malfoy bested by a muggle before."

Now Tom had to tell the story out of order, with rather more interruptions and expressions of concern from his parents than he would have liked.

"So you've made an enemy of this Malfoy family," said his mother.

"It would be more accurate to say that the Malfoys have made an enemy of us," said his father. "Firing a spell at my grandson!"

"He may not have noticed I had Tommy with me," said Miss Granger. "He's such a quiet baby."

"That's no excuse," fumed his father. "He'll pay for this."

"He's already lost his elf and his wand," said Miss Granger.

"That's a good start," his father conceded. He looked at Dobby. "So what's an elf good for, anyway?"

"Oh sir! Dobby can do all manner of household chores and errands. Dobby can clean, cook, garden, clean the peacock coop, do the marketing… Well, in wizarding markets, at least."

"You're the one we should ask to identify these dishes," his father realized. "What's this? Tastes rather like squab, but significantly larger."

"I believe that is fried diricawl, sir," said Dobby. "Dobby does not mean to brag, but he can fry it so the crust is rather lighter and crispier than that, sir."

"You'll have to prove that later," said his father. "So what is a diricawl?"

"A flightless bird from Mauritius, very difficult to hunt because of their ability to apparate," explained Dobby.

"People eat those?" exclaimed Miss Granger, aghast. "Those are very rare! Nearly extinct!" She stared at her plate in horror.

"We won't order it again if it it disturbs you," said Tom, helping himself to another piece. "But this one's already dead. If you're done, there's more for me."

"Oh Dobby, I'm sorry, I didn't think to ask. Are you hungry? Thirsty?" asked Miss Granger. "We could get another plate for you, and I'm afraid these chairs are the wrong height for you, but I'm sure you could fix that."

There seemed to be no upper limit to how big the elf's eyes could get.

"I'm having a bit of trouble following this," said his mother delicately. "I thought Tom just explained that he'd hired Dobby as our servant?"

"As we are already permitting a nursemaid to dine with us, I can understand why she might think that we'd offer any other servant a seat at our table," explained his father.

"Dobby could not accept such a—" started the elf.

"Good, because I did not offer you a seat at my table," said his father.

Dobby sighed in relief.

"Sorry," said Miss Granger. "I don't know the rules here. My family didn't have servants, well, except for a cleaner once a week, and the lawn service, but that's different—"

"We can tell you are not of our class, Miss Granger," said his father magnanimously. "There is no need to explain. You are not to blame for your presumption, as it was clearly done in ignorance. The fault is ours for permitting it."

As Miss Granger glared at his father, a few coiled springs of her hair escaped from the flattering style into which they had so recently been coaxed, and instead stuck out of her head at gravity-defying angles.

"Miss Granger is not our servant," said Tom hurriedly. "In the most literal sense, we have not discussed salary at all, so she is not in our employ. By taking the initiative to rescue my son from the orphanage in which he was born, she was acting as a free agent, and thus would more properly be called a family friend."

Tom watched nervously as his father considered this. He finally nodded. "If we are to introduce her as a family friend visiting from Australia, who volunteered to care for my grandson out of the goodness of her heart, and is welcome at our table, she will need significantly better clothing than she was wearing when she arrived. I now see that she cleans up fairly well, so this should be possible. Perhaps any faux pas can be explained as cultural differences between Britain and Australia."

"That could work," Miss Granger nodded in approval, although his father hadn't asked her opinion.

"Young maidens can serve as wet nurses," said his mother, "so your role is physically possible, if socially unusual."

"People expect us to be socially unusual, after the squire's son married an ugly poor girl," grumbled his father. "A pretty poor girl wouldn't have been unheard of, but ugly? I doubt anything we do at this point will be considered shocking."

"Mary will take you shopping this afternoon to buy you more suitable clothes," said his father. "It makes sense that an Australian lacks appropriate clothing for a British winter."

"I am not going shopping again today," said Miss Granger firmly. "I have more important things to do. After today's events, this house needs stronger security spells than the ones I installed when I first arrived. Dobby, could you please help me with that?"

"Of course," said Dobby.

"Dobby's better at magic than I am," explained Miss Granger. "He can apparate through anti-apparition wards that would stop me, for instance. And he doesn't even need a wand, he's inherently magical. I hope you appreciate what a skilled and loyal servant you now have."

"We do," said Tom, for she clearly felt very strongly about this, and he was rather afraid of how she would react to ingratitude.

"Improving the security wards should be done immediately," she said. "I am done with lunch. Enjoy your diricawl. Dobby, please come to my room so we can discuss the system design together."

The elf nodded.

"When Dobby is done with that, you are to show him to his new quarters, and give him his lunch and time to eat it," she said.

As his father was too shocked to respond to this order, Tom replied himself, saying "Yes, Miss Granger."

"Good. After I'm done with the security system, I'll take Tommy back to feed him, and then I am taking a nap." With a look at Dobby, she led him from the room.

"And you mistook her for a servant," laughed Tom, not caring if Miss Granger was out of earshot yet or not.