Tom and his parents watched the witch and the elf leave the dining room, the elf disillusioning himself on the way to avoid the gaze of their muggle servants.
"Are we sure about this?" asked Tom's mother with worry she would never show in front of a stranger.
Tom laughed and laughed.
"Well. I'm glad to finally learn what really happened to you," she said once his laughing fit was waning. "I knew you weren't mad, although I couldn't think what other explanation there might be."
"Thank you. It seems like quite a stroke of luck that the second witch to take an interest in our family is much better than the first. If this trend continues, the third will be a further improvement, with better clothes and hair."
"This one looks fine now. I just don't understand why she's here. Why come all the way from Australia to care for someone else's baby?"
"She says that the wizard who killed her parents developed his hatred of muggles by growing up in a muggle orphanage. She's determined not to let another wizard grow up in that situation again, lest a similar tragedy occur."
"Well. That's quite a specific interest."
"I thought so."
"Weren't there any orphaned wizards in Australia for her to care for?"
"I wondered that myself."
"How did she know about us?"
"She's clearly not telling the whole story."
"Can we trust her?"
Tom shrugged. "For the moment, our interests seem to coincide. She seems truly devoted to Tommy."
Tom recalled the mark on his borrowed robes that had been identified as a bloodstain from a cursed wound. It wasn't very noticeable on faded black robes unless he looked for it, but it was clearly there. This was not a good sign. What good was the devotion of a witch who did not have a good track record of keeping even her nearest and dearest alive? She had plainly said that she had no friends left in the wizarding world, and had wasted no time acquiring a new enemy this very day, although Tom had to take at least some of the blame for that. His knuckles were still a bit sore. It felt good.
He drew his new wand from his sleeve and examined it. It seemed very finely crafted and polished. He tried waving it around a bit, feeling silly. It just felt like a stick. Whatever power it had, he could not access.
"Let me try," said his father, so he handed it over, and was treated to the sight of his father looking just as silly. He admired his mother's ability not to laugh.
He stuck his wand back in his sleeve when his father returned it. Then Tom showed off his new wallet, which was not as outrageously impossible as Miss Granger's beaded bag. She'd quietly assured him this was a good thing, as it was hard to find things in a larger bag without the ability to perform summoning charms. The books he'd purchased were still in her bag, but he didn't want to disturb her.
He thought it safer to give Dobby a guest room in a little-used wing of the house than house him with the other servants, so he had Fiona prepare that room, telling her he'd hired a new servant who would keep to himself and should not be disturbed. He told her to leave a simple lunch, and indeed all his meals, in his room, as he would not be dining with the other servants. As he said this, he realized what a lonely life the only free elf must live. Perhaps they should dine at La Truffe Émraude regularly so Dobby could socialize with his fellow elves, assuming Miss Granger's suggestion to the manager was adopted. An elf in Tom's employ could gossip with elves with firsthand knowledge of the inner workings of the most important families in magical Britain. Well. Tom would be giving him very specific instructions about that.
Then there was Gringotts to discuss with his father in some detail, in his father's office. According to their scroll, he could open a Riddle family account by simply writing a sufficiently large check from his muggle account, which was easier than he'd imagined, and establishing the Riddle family's identity with a sacrifice of some of his blood, which really shouldn't have surprised him with its barbarism. He had the option of storing his money and valuable heirlooms in a physical vault, where they would just sit, guarded by an excellent security system including an actual dragon, or having the goblins keep a record of his account, while investing his money with varying degrees of risk and gain. He and his father discussed this second option at length. The scroll was clearly written for an audience that was completely ignorant of such basic concepts as compound interest, and indeed any maths beyond sums, and apparently preferred to have their money sit in the form of actual gold coins doing nothing in a locked vault.
Tom and his father had a good laugh over that. The Riddle fortune had used to consist merely of most of the town of Little Hangleton, and they lived quite comfortably off the rents from their tenants and profits from the businesses they owned. However, they'd been investing quite heavily in the stock market recently, and seen their fortune multiply. Squire Riddle was not of the lazy sort of landed gentry, content to live off the fortune passed down to him by his ancestors. Where was the fun in that? No, he grasped at new opportunities, determined to leave the Riddle fortune greater than he'd found it. That included raising his son to understand that money didn't just appear in their bank accounts of its own accord. They had to scheme for it. This sudden appearance of a whole new economy to invest in was very exciting.
They decided what portion of the Riddle fortune to relocate to the wizarding economy, an amount they could afford to lose, but enough to play with.
They heard a knock on the door of his father's office, and let in a tired-looking Miss Granger, and apparently an invisible Dobby, as he became visible as soon as his father closed the door.
"We've improved the security system all around the grounds," reported Miss Granger. "Dobby and I will be notified if anyone tries to enter under the Imperius curse, or disguised by polyjuice or glamours, or in animagus form, or with any Dark magic."
"Dobby and you will be notified?" asked his father. "Just you two? I am the head of this house."
"What do you think you could do if some disguised wizarding assassin came here?" scoffed Miss Granger. "You'd only give away that we know. You just go about your usual business, and Dobby and I will handle it."
"Thank you," said Tom before his father could reply.
"Now Dobby deserves a break, so give him his lunch and show him to his room. I'm sure Tommy needs another feeding by now, so I'll take him to my room for that, and take a nap."
"He and my mother are in—" started Tom, trying to be helpful.
"I know where they are, I cast Homenum Revelio. What time is dinner?"
"Six o'clock," said Tom.
"Don't disturb me before then."
"Yes Miss Granger," said Tom.
The witch turned to Dobby with a rather friendlier look than she'd given to either muggle in the room. "Let me know how they treat you, Dobby. If there's any problem, I'll sort it out." Then she left.
Dobby's huge green eyes looked up expectantly.
"Well Dobby," said Tom. "I'll show you to your room. I hope it's satisfactory. If not, of course, you may choose another." He could feel his father's eyes boring into his back as he left.
Tom walked in silence alongside the invisible elf, who became visible again once they'd entered his room and closed the door. "So, here's your room," said Tom. "I thought the child-sized furniture might be more comfortable for you. It's been used by a few generations of Riddle children, so sorry it's rather worn. Your lunch is on the table there. I don't actually know what house elves eat, so do let me know if you'd prefer something different, and I'll tell the cook."
The elf stared silently for some time. Tom was afraid he'd insulted the creature somehow. Finally, the elf began to cry. Then he punched himself in the face.
"What's wrong?" cried Tom.
"Oh, Master Riddle is too good to Dobby!" wailed the elf. He punched himself in the face again. "Dobby does not need his own room with his own elf-sized furniture, sir. Dobby is used to sleeping on a shelf in the linen closet." Punch.
"Dobby, stop that!"
The elf aborted his next punch. "Dobby can't stop his ugly blubbering sir, and Dobby knows humans don't like to hear that except when Dobby is being punished, so Dobby has to punish himself!"
That might be the most pathetic thing Tom had ever heard. "Dobby. Listen to me. When I said there will be no physical punishment here, that included you punishing yourself. I forbid it."
The elf nodded, tears still quivering in its huge eyes.
Tom pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to the elf, for the dingy undershirt he was wearing had no pockets that might hold a handkerchief. "Go on, take it, clean yourself up. Send it down the laundry chute when you're done. Unless you have some magical way to wash it yourself. Then enjoy your lunch. Take the rest of the afternoon off, explore the grounds or something, familiarize yourself with the property, or just relax, whatever you like. I've instructed Fiona to bring your meals here."
The elf dropped to the floor at Tom's feet as if he wasn't short enough already, leaving Tom holding his handkerchief. "Master is too good to Dobby, sir!"
Perhaps this wasn't the best time to discuss buying the elf better clothes. "Well. Let me know if there's anything else you need."
"Dobby will take the afternoon off if Master Riddle insists, but if Master wishes anything of Dobby, at any time, Master has only to call Dobby's name, and Dobby will appear."
"Right. Well. Enjoy your lunch."
Tom had hoped for a moment of peaceful relaxation himself, but no, his father intercepted him on his way to the study. "Tom. A word."
"Yes father." They entered the study together.
"This witch, telling us what to do in our own home. Something needs to be done."
Tom was silent.
"You have experience with witches," prompted his father.
"Yes. That's why I'm not daring to cross her."
"She's not like Merope."
"That's right. She's much more powerful. Also, her elf is listening to us all the time, as he promised to appear whenever I called his name, so don't delude yourself that we can plot anything without her being informed of it. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to sit and read before dinner."
His father grumbled but left.
Tom tried to sit and read what he now thought of as the muggle news, but perhaps a nap had been the right idea. After a while, he left to dress for dinner and went to the drawing room, where the Riddles were accustomed to gathering before dinner.
Miss Granger met them there, with baby Tommy in her sling. In a sense, she had dressed for dinner, as she was again wearing her ill-fitting muggle clothing. That might be the one suit of muggle clothing she had, Tom realized. "Did you show Dobby his room?" she asked when she saw Tom.
"Yes Miss Granger."
"Now stop right there," said his father. "We need to get one thing straight." Tom inched backwards towards the door. "I don't like the sound of this 'Yes Miss Granger' business. We have established that she is not our servant, but neither are we hers. As she is filling the role of a family friend, and you are similar in age, you and she shall be on a first-name basis. Hermione, was it?"
"Yes, Squire Riddle. Or should I say Thomas?"
"I am older than you! You will call me Squire Riddle, and my son shall be Tom to you, and you Hermione to him. Like this: I am sorry the passage from Australia was so long and disagreeable, Hermione. I hope good English cooking will bring the bloom back to your cheeks."
"I am looking forward to dinner, Squire Riddle."
"Very good. Now Tom, you say something to Hermione."
"Um. I hope English food is to your taste, Hermione. I'm afraid we can't get kangaroo here."
The witch laughed. "English food will be fine, Tom, although I thank you for your thoughtfulness."
"Tomorrow I can take you shopping for clothes more suitable to an English winter, Hermione," said his mother, deflating Hermione's mood completely.
"I suppose that's necessary, Mrs. Riddle," she said.
"Don't worry about the expense, you are completely our guest," said his mother.
"Thank you."
"Little Hangleton is rather lacking in shops suitable for a lady of fashion, but Great Hangleton is but a short drive. Tom, perhaps you could drive us there?"
"Of course mother. My offer to teach you how to drive is still open, though."
"It just doesn't appeal to me, Tom. I'll leave the control of speedy vehicles to young men. I never even liked riding fast horses."
"I know what you mean," said Hermione. "I've never been fond of flying on a broom. I mean. Brooms are even faster than cars. What? I wouldn't say that in public. I'm not going to try to pass that off as an Australian mode of transportation. Don't worry, I know how to pass as a muggle. I'm not going to embarrass you when we go shopping."
"You mean to say you can fly on an actual broom?" said his father.
"I really prefer not to."
Tom's mother smoothly changed the subject. "Tommy seems so content with you, Hermione. You clearly have experience at this." If any of them had a chance of extracting details about the mysterious witch's past, it was his mother.
Hermione laughed. "Not at all. I read a lot of books about child development, though. And I bought the deluxe wet nurse potion, which included infant care instincts. I think I lucked out, because Tommy seems to be a very easy baby. And of course, a sling with a featherlight charm on it, and a self-scourgifying diaper, mean he's hardly any work at all, at this stage."
"While I am of course delighted to have you with us, may I ask what prompted you to choose this particular baby to care for? Surely there were orphans in Australia."
Hermione's face suddenly went blank. "Yes. There were. Me staying there wouldn't have helped. I had to do something drastic." She took a deep breath. "But that doesn't matter now.
Tom's mother gave him a helpless look. Perhaps it was time to change the subject again. For comic relief, Tom showed the ladies the Gringotts scroll as evidence of how primitive wizarding mathematical and economic education must be.
"Yes," Hermione said, seizing the new subject thankfully. "I'm afraid my own mathematical education was neglected once I turned eleven and left my muggle school for a wizarding one. I did what I could to keep up with muggle subjects over school breaks of course, and there is some overlap between maths and arithmancy."
"These wizards apparently believe that it's better to have their wealth sitting in stacks of gold coins in a vault, doing nothing, than accruing value and earning dividends as stocks and bonds!" laughed Tom.
"You invest in the stock market, do you?" asked Hermione.
"And we've done extremely well by doing so, especially in the last decade or so," boasted his father.
"Of course you have," she said. She then pressed her lips together as if holding something back.
"Tom here has a particularly good mind for investing," bragged his father. "At least he did before that damned witch turned his head and he could think of nothing but her. He's back to normal now, though."
Tom's mother cast a nervous glance at Hermione, who was obviously uncomfortable, then addressed his father. "Thomas dear, please remember your audience before using such language. I believe you are making our guest uncomfortable."
"I'll call Merope a damned witch if I damn well please," grumbled his father.
Hermione laughed. "The usual rule against speaking ill of the dead hardly applies in this case. Anything you call her is quite justified, considering what she did to your son. No," she said, looking at his mother. "Squire Riddle's language was not what was upsetting me. What was will, perhaps, be a topic of discussion for a later date. For now, all I will say is that keeping one's fortune locked in a vault instead of invested in the market can be advantageous in some situations.
"We have a more urgent topic to discuss right now," she continued, looking at Tom. "We need to get your story straight about who the Riddles are, and why no one in the wizarding world has heard of you. I don't think we could both be from Australia, since our accents don't match, and your family has obviously been here for a while. How come no one remembers you from Hogwarts?"
"I didn't attend Hogwarts," Tom answered. "I was home educated, my parents hiring the finest tutors. That's customary among the better class of wizarding society who reside in Little Hangleton, as neither did my dear lamented Merope attend school, which is why no one knows her either."
"Her father didn't want her associating with muggleborns like me, whom he believes don't belong in the school their ancestor founded," contributed Hermione. "Perfectly true."
"It's also perfectly true about my home education, and I didn't attend university," added Tom. "I often suffered from sudden bouts of ill health, so keeping to a school schedule would have been difficult."
"Yes, that's what Merope's brother Morfin is in prison for now, cursing you with boils and things."
"What?!" exclaimed the three Riddles.
"I thought I'd mentioned that earlier. He just got a three-year sentence, so he'll be getting out in 1928, and he'll undoubtedly be even less sane than he was when he went in. We'll need a plan for what to do about that by then."
Fiona called them to dinner at that moment, which was unfortunate, as Tom felt so shaky he wasn't confident he could stand.
"Mr. Riddle sir!" exclaimed Fiona when she saw him. "Are you having another one of your attacks? And it's been so long since the last one, too. Should I call the doctor?"
"I'm fine, Fiona," he assured her. "I just heard some shocking news."
Fiona glared at the witch, who gave an awkward shrug. "It's what I do."
Once Tom had a moment to get over his shock and they were settled in the dining room, Hermione assured them that she and Dobby had inscribed runes (now invisible) over many of the doors in the house so they would transmit sound only one way, so conversations in certain rooms could not be heard in the halls, and they were in less danger of being overheard by muggle servants. Dobby, of course, could hear his name called from anywhere.
The Riddles didn't have the energy to address the presumption of this witch who had just ordered their own servant to modify their own house without even a by-your-leave.
"So you're saying that Tom's mysterious health problems—" quailed his mother.
"We called all sorts of doctors! Specialists!" bellowed his father.
"I couldn't show my face in public," said Tom. "I'd seem to recover, but then I'd venture out again and be struck down again the same day."
"Yes," said Hermione, after she'd had some soup. "Morfin was pretty upset about his sister's infatuation with you. I don't suppose it's much comfort to you that he took his anger out on her at least as much as on you. Her father did too. Like I said, she was abused by her own family. I have no doubt that Morfin was abused by his parents as well. Hurt people hurt people, as the saying goes." She looked down at the baby asleep in her sling.
Tom had never heard that saying before.
The witch looked up and continued. "Morfin was arrested for his crimes against you and sentenced to three years in Azkaban, which might not seem that bad, but wizarding prison is particularly horrific. Three years could be a death sentence. He'll survive and be out in September 1928 though. His father Marvolo fought the officer who came to arrest Morfin, so he was arrested too, but sentenced to only six months. In those six months that Merope was free from her father and brother, she made her move on you, which her father and brother never would have allowed. So by arresting them, the Ministry of Magic actually made your situation even worse."
Tom was in no mood to eat the soup in front of him.
Hermione had some more soup, then continued. "When Marvolo got out of prison, expecting his daughter to be waiting at home for him, he instead found a note from her explaining what she'd done. Did you notice any unexpected attacks of poor health or anything of that sort a few months after you were married?"
"No, but I wasn't really noticing anything at that time," answered Tom. "It's all a blur."
She nodded. "His health was probably broken by his time in Azkaban, so he was powerless to inflict any more suffering on you. I don't actually know if he's still alive now. I know he'll be dead by the time his son is released. I'll check the shack. If there's a frozen corpse in it, it should be removed before spring." She had finished her soup. "Your cook is very talented. This is delicious."
Fiona knocked, entered, and served the next course to the silent diners. Hermione dug in with gusto.
"If Marvolo is still alive, is it safe for you to visit the Gaunt shack?" inquired his mother.
The witch laughed. "I've survived a lot of battles, Mrs. Riddle. I'm sure one inbred, unschooled, weakened wizard will pose no challenge."
"What will you do to him if he is still alive?" asked Tom.
The witch paused her assault of her roast beef. "What would you like me to do, Tom?" As her brown eyes gazed levelly at his, was struck once more by her beauty, not a soft, delicate beauty at all, but the beauty of a dangerous predator.
She looked back to her meat, and the room was silent for a while except for the clanking of her silverware. "I'll just observe and report back," she said once she had finished chewing. "I don't think I need to do anything. With his health broken by Azkaban and his children not there to care for him, he'll be dead soon enough without me having to go to any trouble. He's beyond saving at this point."
"Six months in this prison are so debilitating?" marveled his father.
"I mean morally beyond saving," she said. "I'm sure it would be possible for someone who cared for him to nurse him back to health. But if someone did, he'd be just as vicious as he was before, so what would be the point? So anyway, once Marvolo's dead, it would probably help your scheme, Tom, if I went and got what Marvolo calls the Gaunt ring. It's actually the Peverell ring, from the ancient pureblood Peverell family, which now no longer exists in the male line, but a Peverell female must have married into the Gaunt family at some point, bringing that ring with her. It's like the Gaunt family is where ancient pureblood names go to die. That ring will help establish Tommy's credentials as a member of an ancient and noble house.
"It's worth mentioning," she added, after a forkful of potatoes, "that Tommy is not technically the heir of Slytherin right now, while his uncle Morfin lives. Morfin is. Morfin is unable to capitalize on his family's fame because he can barely speak English. He really should have gone to some hospital for the criminally insane instead of a prison, if the wizarding government had any decency. Anyway, if anyone thinks to check your story, you're sunk. The real heir of Slytherin is in prison for attacking a muggle named Tom Riddle. That's a matter of public record. Would you please pass the salt?" Pause. "No problem, I can get it myself." She reached across the table and grabbed it.
"Once Marvolo dies, the Peverell family ring will legally belong to Morfin. It will be extremely easy to steal, though, once Marvolo is dead and Morfin is still in prison.
"Another heirloom worth mentioning," she continued, after a forkful of carrot, "is Slytherin's locket. This would impress people even more than the Peverell ring. It was made by Salazar Slytherin himself, about a thousand— sorry, about nine hundred years ago. Do you recall Merope having that, Tom? Gold locket with the letter S in green. She took it with her when she left the Gaunt shack to marry you. Quite against her father's will, as he considers Morfin his heir and meant to leave it to him."
Tom had to remember how to speak. "Yes," he said. "She always wore that locket."
"Just before Christmas, Merope sold it to a wizarding antiques dealer named Caractacus Burke for ten galleons. She was desperate for money, and had no idea of its true worth. You might want to buy it. It will be useful if anyone ever challenges Tommy to prove his ancestry, as Salazar Slytherin himself charmed it to open only to— well, people think only the descendants of Salazar Slytherin can open it. Actually I can probably open it too, and I'm certainly no Slytherin descendant. I just know the trick to it. Anyway, it's an extremely valuable historical artifact, but she didn't realize that, so it was easy for Burke to cheat her. I don't suppose he'll have any sympathy for reuniting it with the son of the woman he cheated. It will undoubtedly be expensive, even by your standards."
"So, if I'm following this correctly," said his mother, who of course was following correctly, "If Morfin were dead, Tommy would be the last descendant of the Gaunts, the Slytherins, and the Peverells, any of which would be regarded as very impressive in wizarding society? Yet while Morfin lives, Tommy is merely a spare, not an heir?"
"Well," said Hermione. "About the Peverells…" She paused to compose her thoughts, while chewing. "There are other Peverell descendants alive today, although the name has died out. My friend Harry was also a descendant of a Peverell. I happen to have a Peverell heirloom in my possession, as I carried Harry's stuff for him in my beaded bag when we were on the run together. We must keep quiet about the fact that I have this particular heirloom, lest other Peverell descendants wonder how I got it. They think they still have it."
"What is this heirloom?" asked his father. "May I see it?"
"You cannot." She smirked. "Because it's invisible, at least when in use. So there's not much to see. The Peverells had some interesting heirlooms. Only the ring will really be useful for establishing Tommy's heritage, though."
"That reminds me," said Tom. "You still have that book I bought, Nature's Nobility, right? I'd like to read that."
"Oh! Yes, of course." She took her beaded bag from her pocket and stuck her hand in it. "Accio Nature's Nobility." The book she drew forth did not look like the new book he'd just purchased, but was dusty and scuffed around the edges. Did that bag do that to everything that had the misfortune to be placed in it? "Oh, sorry, that's my copy," she said. She put it down and stuck her hand in her bag again. "Accio Nature's Nobility." The copy she drew out this time looked perfectly new. She handed it to Tom.
He took it. "If you already had a copy—"
"Mine's out of date," she said, stuffing it back in her bag.
"Then perhaps it should be discarded," suggested Tom. "When did you last clean out that bag?"
"It has sentimental value," she said.
"The book or the dust?" asked Tom.
She laughed. "Just the book. You're right, I haven't had time to do basic maintenance stuff like cleaning out this bag for a while. We often had to break camp quickly, and I'd just shove our tent and everything in here fast. Maybe I'll have time to tidy it now. It's so calm and relaxing here. Thank you so much for opening your home to me."
Riddle House had become significantly less calm and relaxing since this witch's arrival, but no one mentioned that.
She peered into her bag. "And there were those other books besides, and the newspaper. Sorry, I didn't mean to keep them, I was just so focused on security this afternoon after that business with Malfoy."
"Feel free to unpack that bag once we are done with dinner," said his mother, apparently relishing the thought of all that camping dust flying over their dinner table about as much as Tom.
Hermione blinked, then put her bag away. "Right."
They managed to get through the pudding course without any more shocking revelations, then withdrew to the drawing room.
Hermione pulled out her beaded bag again. "Accio today's newspaper." She drew it forth and set it on a small table. "Accio, oh, all the books I put in here today." The first to come out was the last she'd put in, the scuffed copy of Nature's Nobility. She set it out of the way on a side table, face down and spine to the wall, then pulled out Hogwarts, a History, The Life And Times of Salazar Slytherin, Who's Who in the Wizarding World, Guide to Magical Britain, and Guide to Magical Australia. "I should study this," she said, putting the book on Australia back in her bag. "You three will want to study the rest."
"Couldn't you have written the book on Australia?" Tom's father asked.
Hermione shook her head. "My parents were muggles, so I was more familiar with the muggle world than the wizarding there."
"About these muggle parents of yours," said his father. "We need to get the muggle side of your story straight. You are a family friend visiting from Australia. Perhaps you're the daughter of a business associate of mine. Could you remind me what my Australian business associate does, Hermione? Or did?
"He was a dentist," she said.
His father considered that. "Sorry, I don't think I would associate with a dentist, Australian or otherwise, any more than absolutely necessary. No, your father was, in fact, an opal dealer. And what was his Christian name?"
"Leo."
"Leo Granger the opal dealer, of course. We've been friends for years. Quite a shrewd businessman. From buying opals directly from miners, to selling them at a considerable markup to London jewelers, he did it all. I was most upset to hear of his death. How did he die?"
"He was bitten by a venomous snake."
"Tragic. Well, that's the risk opal dealers take, out in those rough mining towns. And your mother?"
"Snake again. Whilst strolling in her garden as a proper lady should, since of course she didn't have a career of her own." Hermione was not actually rolling her eyes, but she might as well have been.
"Another snake?"
"Australia has a lot of venomous snakes."
"All right, at least that will be easy to remember. Which one died first?"
"I suppose both on the same day would seem unlikely," Hermione conceded.
"Your mother when you were young, your father quite recently," decided his father. "When I heard that the daughter of my dear friend was orphaned and alone in that isolated part of Australia, of course I offered the hospitality of the Riddle House. Here we can gradually introduce you to a better social scene than those rough mining towns offered, and perhaps polish your manners, as your motherless upbringing lacked an emphasis on the delicate arts that every young lady needs. Mary will be a great help with that, as her manners are impeccable."
Hermione did not hex his father, but laughed. "The story works, but you won't be the one fending off suitors who are after my father's opal-dealing money. That will be annoying."
"I assure you I will, Miss Granger, should any become inappropriately forward. Out of loyalty to my dear departed friend, your father, I take full responsibility for your safety. I certainly wouldn't expect a young slip of a girl like you to defend herself."
Hermione was grinning broadly.
His father continued. "When the orphanage in London sent Tommy here, mere days after your arrival, you volunteered to care for my motherless grandson out of the goodness of your heart, and of course sympathy for your fellow motherless child."
Hermione granted his father a respectful nod. "You're a good liar, Squire Riddle. I can see we'll work well together." She glanced around the room distractedly, then said, "Thanks for doing most of the work on that story. I'm still so tired, I'm not really thinking straight."
"I well remember how difficult it is to care for a newborn, Hermione, and I wasn't even scheming to infiltrate wizarding high society at the same time," said his mother. She gently patted the witch's arm. "As you are serving as mother to my grandson, I shall serve as mother to you, and as such, I insist that you go to bed early. We'll see you at breakfast."
Hermione returned the smile, and stood. "Thank you so much for welcoming me into your home."
"We are very glad you came, Hermione," said his mother.
"It's the least I could do for my old friend Leo Granger the opal dealer," said his father.
Hermione laughed. "You're a clever one, Squire. I can see I'll have to keep my wits about me around you. Goodnight, all."
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
Once she and Tommy were gone, his mother pulled a scuffed book from the folds of her skirt. "This explains a lot." It was the 1997 edition of Nature's Nobility.
Tom and his father stared as his mother searched the index. "No mention of the Riddles at all." She turned some more pages. "Nor the Grangers. Ah, but the Gaunts! Here they are. The line ended with Morfin, who in 1943, confessed to the murder of three muggles…" It took a lot to make his mother blanch. "The muggle who seduced, then abandoned his sister Merope, and the muggle parents who had spawned this seducer. It doesn't even list our names. For this 'crime,' why is 'crime' in quotes? Morfin was sentenced to life in Azkaban, where he died, ending this ancient and noble pureblood line. There's no mention of Tommy. For Merope, it lists your wedding day as the date of her death."
Tom's father reached out as if to touch the book, then drew his hand back. "Where did she get this?"
"At a book shop, I imagine," said his mother. "There must still be book shops in 1997."
"But how…" said his father.
"She really is even more extraordinary than I first thought," said his mother.
"A time traveler!" said Tom. "This is like one of H.G. Wells's scientific romances!"
"Hopefully without the socialist symbolism," grumbled his father. Then he brightened. "Do you think she brought any horse racing results? Stock market information?"
His mother pushed the book towards his father and pointed to the relevant words. "I'm rather more concerned with avoiding being murdered in 1943. I wonder why Morfin waited, will wait, that long. I don't know what tense to use. Anyway, we must do something about Morfin before then. It will be self-defense, really. I don't think I could manage Hermione's unique method of rendering dangerous wizards harmless. I'm not above using more conventional methods."
"You're not a witch," said his father, "so I wouldn't expect you to defeat wizards the same way."
"I'm not referring to our guest's magical abilities, although they are impressive. I am referring to the emotional strength required for the particular method she chose to conquer the wizard who murdered her parents," said his mother. She waited for her audience to catch on, but was disappointed. She gave another hint. "The wizard who developed his hatred of muggles growing up unloved in a muggle orphanage. We know this murderous wizard's name now." She waited.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle," realized Tom. "That's the whole reason she took this trip back in time, to stop my son from murdering her parents. My son is a murderer."
"Don't be ridiculous, Tom, he's just a baby," said his mother.
"But you just said—"
"When Hermione was describing the various branches of magic to us, she seemed particularly dismissive of divination, because, she said, the future is not set in stone. We can only hope she's right."
"We won't only hope," scoffed his father. "We'll act. Forewarned is forearmed."
"But won't this create paradoxes?" said Tom. "I mean, now that we know Morfin will murder us, we'll know to protect ourselves, so hopefully he won't murder us, but then our murders won't be in this book, so we won't know, so then he will murder us, so then they will be in the book…" his point ran in circles until it was tired out.
His mother patted his arm. "We'll let the time traveler worry about the paradoxes. You look like you could use an early bedtime too, dear. Goodnight."
Tom recognized that the children had been dismissed. "At least I have some bedtime reading," he said, taking the 1997 book with him.
"I'll want a turn with that when you're done," said his mother. "For me, I'll start with today's news before I try tomorrow's." She picked up the newspaper. "For example, who is Grindelwald, and why does he warrant such a big headline?"