At breakfast, Tom found Hermione well-rested and apparently none the wiser about his mother's theft of her book. The silent baby in her sling would almost have been unnoticeable, if not for his blue-black eyes observing them all with eerie intelligence. He's not a murderer yet, Tom reminded himself. Well, unless one counted Merope.
"Wizarding Australia seems fascinating," Hermione said as she loaded her plate heavily, "at least for those with an interest in fantastic beasts. I'm glad I didn't encounter most of them while I was there."
A brown owl tapped on the window.
"Oh good, the paper's here." Hermione got up and opened the window to let in the owl and a blast of cold air, and closed the window as the owl flew to the back of Tom's seat, from which perch it glared at him at close range with its huge golden eyes.
"It wants you to take your paper," said Hermione. "And it wants an owl treat." She got the package of owl treats from her beaded bag, which explained why she'd said it was necessary to buy them yesterday morning. She fed the owl a treat as Tom figured out how to remove the paper from the owl's leg. Then she opened the window and the owl flew off. Hermione closed the window, sat down again and dug into her breakfast.
Tom's mother pulled the paper from his limp hands. When he'd paid for the subscription, they'd mentioned that the price included delivery, but he hadn't stopped to consider the delivery method.
"Give me the news," said his father. "You may read the Witch's Section."
"Of course," said his mother, separating the paper and handing over the appropriate section.
Hermione stabbed at her sausage with extra vigor.
"Grindelwald making a nuisance of himself again," grumbled his father, eyeing the headline. "What kind of amateurish aurors do they have on the continent? You'll note he hasn't dared set foot in Britain, and good for him, too."
This excellent impersonation of someone well-versed in current wizarding events was interrupted by his mother exclaiming, "You made the society page!" She read aloud: "Widower Tom Riddle, heir of Riddle, was spotted in the company of Australian duelist Hermione Granger on Sunday. Our photographer caught them heading in the direction of the jewelry district of Diagon Alley. Can wedding bells be far away? Riddle has been inseparable from the beautiful Granger ever since the tragic death of his wife Merope, née Gaunt, of the Little Hangleton Gaunts, only descendants of Salazar Slytherin. Merope died at the hands of muggle 'healers' while giving birth to Tom Marvolo Riddle, heir of Slytherin. Granger has been filling the role of mother to this motherless child, which of course is a surefire way to his father's heart."
"That explains why I was shopping for the traditional engagement gift of cufflinks, doesn't it?" smirked Tom. "You can't put anything past these reporters." Of course, he'd also tried to decorate his companion with some jewelry, but she'd refused.
"Hush," said his mother. "There's more. Philanthropist Serpens Malfoy, upon meeting the heir of Slytherin, spontaneously gifted him with a house elf, yet another example of the Malfoys' famed generosity."
"What?!" exclaimed Tom. "That restaurant was full of witnesses!"
"None of whom will admit to seeing a Malfoy made a fool of," said Hermione. "Now you understand what I meant about this paper. The Malfoys control it."
Tom had just been reading about the Malfoys last night. He gulped. "Malfoy controls the Daily Prophet," he repeated.
"Yes," said Hermione.
"Just yesterday, shortly before punching Malfoy in the face, I gave the Daily Prophet my home address."
"Yes," said Hermione. "It doesn't matter. It was inevitable that he'd track you down. I could prevent that, but that would make your family and this whole house seem to vanish from Little Hangleton completely, which would violate the Statute of Secrecy, since you're prominent enough that the other muggles would notice. Or you could go on the run. I have a tent in my bag, ready to go. But I've just been getting used to sleeping in an actual house. It's nice. Anyway, what you need to know about the Malfoys is that they always try to get on the good side of anyone they perceive to be powerful, and that apparently includes the Riddle family now."
"This photograph is very flattering," said his mother.
Tom looked at it. It was, indeed. Hermione's hard leanness somehow came across as slender elegance in the small photograph, and Tom looked quite dapper in wizarding robes if he thought so himself. The black-and-white figures put their heads together so he could whisper another of his stupid questions in her ear without being overheard. She smiled at the ignorance revealed by his question. The photograph was frankly adorable. "This is Malfoy's apology," he realized. "He regrets firing that spell at my son, so he's trying to make it up to me."
"As well he should," said his father. "The only question is, should we accept his apology?"
"Yes," said Tom. "Support from someone who controls the press is a valuable thing."
Hermione, remarkably, paused her eating.
"Do you have a different idea, Hermione?" asked Tom politely.
"It's just… It never even occurred to me to try to get Malfoy on our side. I mean, the Malfoys are infamous blood purists, and I'm a muggleborn. You're an actual muggle. Your son is only a halfblood. The Malfoys don't associate with people like us."
"It's true I don't usually allow people with such crude manners in my presence, but as Malfoy seems useful, I'll make an effort to overlook that," said Tom. He was then startled to hear another tapping noise. A magnificent white owl was tapping at the window.
"But we already got the paper," said his mother.
"You don't understand what blood purists do to muggles," insisted Hermione. "They don't consider you fully human. It's illegal now, but some still hunt and torture muggles for sport, like foxes…" no one was listening over the tapping of the owl.
Tom opened the window to let the owl in. "It's carrying a letter." The owl perched on the back of a chair and stuck out a leg at Tom for him to untie the parchment. Hermione got it an owl treat.
"What does it say?" demanded his father. Tom unrolled the scroll and read the beautiful calligraphy aloud, with some difficulty, as the graceful flourishes nearly obscured the meaning:
"Dear Tom Riddle,
It was a pleasure to meet you and your charming family yesterday. As we did not have time to properly get acquainted, I would like to invite you and your family to Malfoy Manor for a casual lunch this Saturday the eighth, at noon. I feel that a friendship between our families would be advantageous to both. As my younger son Abraxas is about the same age as the heir of Slytherin, they will attend Hogwarts at the same time, so let us help them cultivate a friendship before school starts.
Please reply by this owl.
Sincerely,
Your humble servant,
Serpens Malfoy"
The owl stayed on its perch, staring regally at Tom.
"It's waiting for a reply," said Hermione. She fed it another owl treat. "What will you say?"
"I was hoping you could advise me on that. If I accept his invitation, I assume you could accompany me, and guide me through proper wizarding behavior at Malfoy Manor."
Hermione said nothing.
"Hermione? I mean, if it's not too much of an imposition."
"I would be no use to you at Malfoy Manor."
"What?"
She looked shaky. "I panicked, at the restaurant yesterday. I thought Malfoy was going to kill us. All I could think about was getting Tommy and Dobby and you to safety. I'd be even more of a mess at Malfoy Manor. You'll have to go without me, if you're going at all."
"But I can't do this without you."
"That's not my problem, Tom. I came here to see that Tommy gets a proper upbringing, and that's it. This idea to befriend the Malfoys is your own project. I'll help you when I can, but I won't go out of my way for you. I especially won't go back to Malfoy Manor."
"Back?" repeated his father.
"I… Look, it's a really long story. I've been there before. It didn't go well. At all. Well, some of us got out alive, so that's something. But I still get panic attacks when I hear peacocks screaming. I should probably see a mind healer about that, but I've been busy. Anyway, Serpens Malfoy has no idea I've been there, so don't bring it up."
There clearly was no way for her to tell the actual story without first admitting that she was a time traveler, and that the events that had unfolded so disastrously had not yet taken place. "Right," said Tom. "Well. I'm remembering things like the anti-muggle charm on the entrance to that pub that prevented me from even seeing it. If Malfoy Manor has anything like that, I'll make a fool of myself. I therefore must decline. Simple decision, really. The question is, what sort of counteroffer should I make? Should I invite him here? I could treat him to Riddle hospitality."
Hermione looked around. "As long as you aren't trying to impress him with your wealth, that might be OK."
"What?" said his father.
"This is a very comfortable home. Malfoy Manor is a palace. It looks like Versailles, but more so. It's a whole other level of ostentation. Sorry, but you're not at all in the same league."
Tact could not be counted among this witch's skills. Tom's father didn't seem to mind, though. He grunted. "Thanks for telling me straight before we embarrassed ourselves."
Tom looked at Malfoy's beautiful calligraphy. "Whatever I say, should I even reply in my own handwriting? Roundhand with a fountain pen seems far too modern for his."
"I can write it for you," said Hermione. "I mean copy your letter out. I'm not bad with a quill. I don't have handwriting like a pureblood, though."
"Well, I'm not pretending to be a pureblood at least." He was about to say something about not wanting to represent himself with delicate, feminine handwriting, but realized that that would not be an issue even before remembering that her handwriting on his photograph at the tailor shop had been fine. "I will want lessons later on how to write with a quill, though, so I shouldn't have to impose on you for this service for long."
"No problem," she said.
"As I am done with breakfast, I will go compose a reply in my office," said Tom. Hermione was still eating. "Take your time with breakfast, then please meet me there. You may use my writing-desk to copy my letter in a more suitable hand."
She nodded, mouth full.
As he left, he saw Fiona loitering in the hall. Her expression (eyes wide with terror) made more sense once Malfoy's owl silently snuck up behind Tom and pounced on his shoulder, sinking the sharp points of its talons through his clothes to reach his skin, not drawing blood, just making it clear that the owl was not ruling out the possibility of doing so in the future.
"Ah, Fiona," said Tom. "The others are not yet done with breakfast, so your services are not required just yet. By the way, in case you were considering spreading any more rumors about the goings-on here at the Riddle House, I do hope you realize that no one would believe you. I wouldn't want you sent to a madhouse. You're quite a good maid. We do appreciate your service."
This triggered an automatic curtsy from Fiona, the banality of which seemed to calm her. "Thank you Mr. Riddle," she managed.
"When Miss Granger is done with breakfast, please direct her to my office, if she doesn't know the way already. Of course, she probably does," he realized. Tom and the owl left Fiona standing there and continued to his office. With some encouragement, the owl could be convinced to relocate to a lamp, which it gripped with its talons as it stared at him. Tom unlocked his desk and rolled the top open and got a sheet of scrap paper and one of his favorite iridium-tipped fountain pens. He thought a moment, then wrote:
Dear Mr. Malfoy,
While I appreciate your invitation, I respectfully decline, as I do not wish to overtax your hospitality, especially now that your household may be understaffed. Thank you again for your generous gifts of a house elf and wand. Instead, I invite you to accompany me to my club, the Drones Club, in Dover Street, off Piccadilly, in Mayfair, London, at the same date and time you suggested, Saturday the eighth at noon. If you are not yet a member of this club, you will not be allowed in unaccompanied, so please wait for me on the street.
As this is a muggle establishment, I trust that you will honor the Statute of Secrecy by dressing appropriately and performing no magic there.
Sincerely,
Tom Riddle
He felt satisfied with this composition by the time he heard a knock on the door and bade Hermione enter. She was accompanied by his parents. Tom read his missive aloud.
Hermione's face glowed with a surprised grin. Her teeth were perfect. Perhaps it helped to be the daughter of a dentist. "You're really throwing down the gauntlet," she observed.
"Any wizard who desires the favor of my company must know how to comport himself among muggles," said Tom. "Otherwise, he's not worth my time."
"You're trusting that he actually will behave himself," said his mother. "He's already demonstrated that he's capable of starting a fight, in a restaurant, during lunch specifically. Oh Tom, do you really think this is safe?"
"I'm not going to anger him by stealing any more of his house elves. I mean freeing. He does seem rather short tempered, but, well, he has troubles at home."
"What?" said Hermione.
Tom realized that he couldn't explain without telling the very interesting story he'd read about the Malfoy family in the 1997 edition of Nature's Nobility, which he couldn't do without admitting they'd stolen it, which of course they wouldn't do in front of the person from whom it had been stolen. "I just meant that his wife seemed awful. Well, didn't she? At least she can't come to the Drones Club with her husband, as it's a club for gentlemen only."
Hermione pressed her lips together, then spoke. "Well anyway, we can hope he knows better than to violate the Statute. As extra insurance, I'll inform Witch Weekly that if they send a photographer and reporter to the Drones Club, they'll find wealthy widower Tom Riddle dining with philanthropist Serpens Malfoy, both dressed like muggles to sightsee in muggle London, as is the fad these days among fashionable purebloods."
"It is?" asked his father, bewildered.
"No, of course it isn't," said Hermione. "At least, not until Witch Weekly says it is. Now, that would be interesting."
"So Witch Weekly is a sort of ladies' magazine?" asked his mother.
"Yes."
"Does Malfoy control that too?" asked his father.
"I don't think so," said Hermione. "I mean, why would he even bother? It's just a women's magazine, you know, recipes and hairstyling tips and gossip. Nothing important. Anyway, you might want to mention to Malfoy that you notice a disillusioned photographer spying on the two of you from behind a potted plant."
Tom nodded. He could address this alleged unimportance of hairstyling later, as he was in rather a hurry. Malfoy's owl was sharpening its beak on his lamp. "Hermione, would you be so kind as to copy this in a wizarding hand?" He offered her his desk chair.
She pulled his son out of her sling. "To make sure my writing is as neat as possible, I probably shouldn't be wearing Tommy at the same time."
Tom's mother rushed to take the baby, but she had competition. "I can hold my own son," Tom said.
"I don't like the way that owl is looking at you," his mother replied as she took the baby. Tom had to admit that this was worth considering. He didn't know if the golden or the blue-black eyes were more intimidating.
Hermione sat at the desk, and reached into her beaded bag. "Accio writing kit. This is just ordinary parchment, not really nice parchment like Malfoy used, but I guess it will have to do." She wrote quickly and neatly, although without Malfoy's flourishes. Soon she cast a quick spell to dry the ink, had Tom proofread it (it was flawless), rolled it, and tied it to the owl's leg. She opened the window, letting in a blast of cold air, and the owl flew away. Tom's mother curled her body around her grandson to protect him from the draft. Hermione closed the window. "Now we await his reply. Malfoy Manor is in Wiltshire, so it might take a while for his owl to fly there and back."
"Shouldn't we have our own owl?" asked Tom.
"If you plan to do much correspondence, one would be useful," said Hermione. "Although you could also hire them at a wizarding post office."
"That sounds inconvenient," said Tom. He sat at his desk again and wrote. "Shopping list: one owl and necessary accessories. A higher quality of parchment, quills, and ink. An instructional book on pureblood-style calligraphy. Salazar Slytherin's locket. There was something else…"
"A subscription to Witch Weekly," said his mother.
"Of course." He added it to the list. At Hermione's scornful look, he said, "You needn't say a word about your disinterest in hairstyling tips, Hermione, as your appearance says it most eloquently. If you seriously hope to be taken for one of our class, you'll have to put in more of an effort. Just as I respect that magic is one of your areas of expertise, you must respect that appearance is one of mine."
Tom's father seemed surprised that Hermione responded to this insult with a simple nod. How could an insult hit with any force if the target didn't care about what was being insulted? One might as well try to insult Tom by telling him he had no skill at scrubbing toilets. Of course he didn't. He had better things to do.
"We have a deal," said Hermione.
"Good," said Tom. "On that topic, would you please magically fix these owl talon marks on the shoulder of my jacket?"
Hermione peered. "Where?"
"Here, you see, there's a loose thread."
She looked closer. "You mean that little thing?"
"Yes. If it's not too much trouble."
"It's no trouble at all, it's just… You care about one loose thread." She shook her head, marveling, as she drew her wand, aimed at his shoulder, (he cringed only slightly) and said "Reparo." The fabric reformed, smooth and whole.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. Anything else?"
"No, I think that's it."
"I'll check." She kept her wand drawn and walked around him, inspecting him thoroughly. Tom regretted starting this as he felt her gaze crawl over every inch of him. No, that had to be his imagination. A gaze was not palpable, no matter how intense. Finally, Hermione finished her inspection and declared "flawless." She was face to face with him again. Her eyes focused on his lips. "Open your mouth," she ordered.
"Excuse me?" he said while trying not to open his mouth.
"I need to check your teeth. I should have done this before we went to Diagon Alley. I thought I saw a filling in a molar. Do you have any fillings?"
"Yes."
"Wizards don't have metal fillings, they just grow their teeth back if they get cavities or lose them. Let me see."
Tom awkwardly opened his mouth to her inspection.
"At least it's gold, not mercury amalgam, so it's not urgent. Anyway, I'll have to fix that before your meeting with Malfoy. Add Denta-Gro to our shopping list. We can get it at any wizarding apothecary."
"How do you spell that?"
"I'll write it," she said impatiently. She sheathed her wand, sat at his desk and picked up his pen. Then she looked at his pen. He knew what that look meant, although it confused him. It was the same look he had given the tailor's quill.
"Surely you know how to write with a fountain pen, if your parents were muggles," he said.
"Of course I do. I'm just out of practice." She set the pen to paper, and although the first few letters were too pale and thin, she found the correct angle eventually. She traced over her first few letters to give them enough ink. "Not that different from a quill, really."
Tom made a mental note to invest in whatever invention replaced fountain pens.
"Hermione, if wizarding dentistry is superior to muggle…" started his father.
"I'll buy enough Denta-Gro for the three of you," she said. "Let's see how bad the damage is." Tom's parents let the witch inspect their teeth, tsking as if looking at horses she wouldn't buy. "The economy-sized bottle should do."
Then Hermione looked at her sleeve, which was sprouting more loose threads than Tom's jacket. "I've never bothered paying such close attention to my clothes, but if your level of perfection is what's required, I'll do it. I'll see what I can do about these in my room. It might take me a while to get ready, and I still won't be as well-dressed as you."
"This is just what I wear around the house," said Tom. "I'll put on something better to go to town of course."
Hermione sighed.
Tom continued. "You need look only slightly better to be accepted in the shops we plan to visit today. As we hope to fit into both the muggle and wizarding worlds, I won't insist you bob your hair, as I didn't see any short hair on the tradition-bound witches of Diagon Alley. But even at your current length, you can make yourself more presentable. Use the potions and enchanted comb you got at the salon yesterday. We'll be shopping for more appropriate muggle clothing for you in Great Hangleton today, so you should endeavor to look like a wealthy and at least moderately fashionable Australian. Fortunately, no one here knows what that's supposed to look like, so you have some leeway. Let us reconvene in the study when we're ready, then drive to town."
Hermione nodded and charged off to battle against her ferocious hair.
Tom realized something. "I'm supposed to be in mourning for my wife, but everyone knows we parted on unfriendly terms. What should I wear?"
"Excessive mourning is in poor taste, and seems terribly Victorian," said his mother promptly. "A dark suit, a tie of dull black silk, and perhaps a black hatband should be sufficient. No jewelry other than black. Perhaps your jet cufflinks and tiepin."
"Thank you, mother."
"I hope you don't mind if I don't don mourning for my daughter-in-law," added his mother. "It will be difficult enough to refrain from celebrating with inappropriate joy."
"I'm happy about that witch's death and I don't care who knows it," said his father. At the look his wife gave him, he added, "What? I could have called her something that rhymes with witch."
Tom went to his room to dress in the barest minimum of mourning, a dark grey suit and black accessories. He checked his look in his full-length mirror. Sharp.
In the study, Tom and his mother discussed the wizarding books they'd read, although his mother was distracted by her grandson, who according to her was an adorable little snugglekins, yes he was, yes he was, and Tom was distracted by a disturbing thought. At first, he thought that at least no one would accuse him of courting another girl inappropriately soon after his wife's death, as Hermione was not attractive enough for anyone to want to court, so their proximity would not generate any rumors. He felt a chill when he realized that anyone who had seen his wife must think he had very peculiar tastes, or perhaps extremely low standards, so Hermione might actually be mistaken for his girlfriend even by people he knew, not just by the Daily Prophet gossip columnist. He'd have to take special care to avoid giving that impression.
When Hermione appeared, sooner than he'd expected, she looked like someone he wouldn't be embarrassed to be seen with, and in fact was edging dangerously close to being someone a man would willingly look at. He could hardly complain, after telling her she had to look better.
"Well done," he said.
"Dobby helped," she explained. "He made the fabric look newer, and did something to this jacket and skirt so they fit better. He agrees with you that I need new clothes, though."
"His need for new clothes is even more dire, but he was so overwhelmed by simply being given his own room, I thought I'd postpone that," said Tom.
Hermione nodded.
"This way to the garage," said Tom. He, his mother, and Hermione put on their coats, and his mother bundled Tommy in another layer of blankets, and they went outside into the bright cold for the brief walk to the garage. Tom opened the car door for his mother, who preferred to sit in the back seat. "Would you prefer to sit beside me or in back?" he asked Hermione.
Hermione approached the Bentley in the same way that Tom might approach some fantastic Australian beast. "It doesn't even have seatbelts," she marveled.
"What?"
"Much less a rear-facing infant seat. I can't let Tommy ride in this dangerous contraption."
Tom did not like to hear his Bentley referred to as a contraption, dangerous or otherwise.
"This will take some work." She reached into her bag. "Accio Handbook of Do-It-Yourself Broomcare." She pulled out a small book and flipped through it. "Some anti-collision and cushioning charms at least. They'll require modification to fit a larger vehicle."
"Hermione," said Tom, trying to sound patient. "I'm a safe driver. I'm not setting out to break any speed records today. This is an ordinary, short drive, for an ordinary shopping trip."
"If you don't want to believe that you're capable of making a mistake while driving, you have to at least admit that other drivers might not be so careful. What if another car crashes into us?"
"In Little Hangleton? Unlikely. We're the only family that owns a car. Great Hangleton is a different story, but really, I've done this drive countless times. It will be fine."
"What if I make another shocking revelation and distract you while you're driving?"
"Wouldn't it be easier to cast a silencing spell on yourself?"
The glare she gave him was rather like the owl's.
"How much time will you need to cast these spells?"
"Perhaps half an hour. You might want to take Tommy back inside."
"Righto. Mother, if you would be so kind as to take Tommy in from the cold, I'd like to watch these spells being cast."
His mother took Tommy back in, leaving Tom alone with the witch and his precious Bentley. She got to work, studying the book, then practicing Latin phrases and graceful hand movements without her wand before taking her wand in hand and casting the spells for real. With the tip of her wand, she inscribed runes into various parts of his car. They glowed silver before disappearing.
Finally, Hermione stepped back and took a deep breath. "That should be safer. Now to test it." She stepped out of the garage, and soon returned hovering a large rock, one of the ornamental rocks from the garden, before her at wandpoint. "Depulso." The rock suddenly flew at the car's engine, only to be deflected over the bonnet and windscreen like a leaf in the wind, skimming an inch over the surface to bypass the car completely and crack the wall behind it. "Reparo." The wall was fixed before he had time to complain about it being broken.
"Wingardium Leviosa." She hovered the rock again. Then she opened the car door and flung the rock inside with great force with another "Depulso." It sank gently into the door on the other side as if it were a featherbed. She did this again at various angles, throwing the rock at windows, ceiling, steering wheel, and it always gradually slowed down as if into a cushion. "It looks like the spells worked," she said. "Just don't let the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office get wind of this, since this sort of thing is illegal."
Tom touched the car cautiously. It just felt like a car.
"The spells are activated only by the threat of an imminent collision of sufficient force," she explained. "They're not noticeable otherwise." She levitated the rock back outside, leaving Tom to marvel.
"Thank you," he said when she came back in. "Merope never did anything like this."
"This is some rather tricky magic," she said. "If I say so myself."
"I can't help but think of all the great things you could do with skills like this."
"I survived. Shall we get your mother and Tommy?"
"We could just leave Tommy here with Fiona."
"No. I've let him out of my sight for too long already. I'm getting worried."
Tommy seemed to feel the same, as he was fussing when they returned to the house. Hermione rushed to take him back, and unbuttoned her blouse to feed him.
"What would you like to drink, dear?" asked his mother.
"Oh. Water would be great, thank you."
His mother rang the bell to call Fiona and had her bring water and some biscuits, which Hermione drank and ate with her usual ravenousness.
Then, finally, they were off. Tom drove down the long driveway that led from the Riddle House, between the tall hedgerows, closer to the dark copse that nearly concealed—
"That's the Gaunt shack, isn't it?" said Hermione.
"Yes," said Tom.
"Stop the car."
Tom stopped it with great trepidation. "Do you really think—"
"I don't need fashionable clothes for this. Look after Tommy for a moment, would you?" She handed Tommy back to his mother. "Accio Harry's cloak." From the beaded bag in her pocket, she drew forth a much sleeker garment than he would have thought she possessed. "Back in a jiffy." She swept the cloak around herself, and completely disappeared. Tom looked, but he didn't see even a subtle shadow like Dobby cast when disillusioned.
He waited a full minute before saying anything. "She's just trying to postpone clothes shopping, isn't she?"
"A most unusual girl," agreed his mother. She then turned her attention back to her grandson, singing him meaningless ditties. She had a beautiful singing voice. She had a beautiful everything, really. Most of Tom's good looks were probably from her. At forty-four, her fair face was still as unlined as Tom's, and her hair as black, although he didn't know if it had some assistance at this point. Eyes that dark and intense weren't unsettling when they were in his mother's face, since she was his mother. He'd presumably get used to his son's eyes, at least once that otherworldly blue cast faded.
Tom reflected that if his father had instead married some ugly rich girl, Tom wouldn't have been cursed with such handsomeness, which might have spared him Merope's attention… There was no point thinking along such lines. He wasn't about to borrow Hermione's time machine to break up his parents before they got married. Breaking up Merope's parents, on the other hand… Did one have to be an actual witch or wizard to travel through time via Hermione's method? Did she keep her time machine in her beaded bag? Was her bag boobytrapped? He tried to stop thinking about it and let his mother's familiar song wash over him.
"Lavender's blue, dilly dilly
Lavender's green.
When I am king, dilly dilly
You'll be my queen.
Who told you so, dilly dilly
Who told you so?
It was my heart, dilly dilly
That told me so."
After perhaps ten minutes of listening to his mother cooing nonsense at his son, Tom saw Hermione suddenly reappear with a swirl of her cloak. She stuffed the cloak back in her bag, opened the car door, and got in. She held a ring out to Tom. It was a primitive-looking, heavy lump of gold, with a black stone that seemed to absorb absolutely all light. A symbol was scratched into the stone, a triangle and circle and line.
"Go on, take it," she said. "I did clean it."
"How did you—"
"We stopped here to investigate because we smelled something bad in that shack. That's what we'll tell the coroner, or police, or whoever is in charge of these things. I just looked in the window, I didn't go inside of course. The door is still locked from the inside, so they should believe that. Go on, just take the ring and let's get out of here."
Tom looked at the ugly ring. He much preferred Art Deco. "Couldn't you keep it in your beaded bag?"
She gulped. "I'd rather not carry it myself."
"Well I'd also rather not. I mean, you just pulled this off a dead man's finger."
"No one will know it's stolen. Except possibly Morfin."
"I'm not worried about getting in trouble for stealing it, I just don't want it. I have no right to it. Tommy will eventually have some claim to it as a descendant of the Gaunts. Give it to him when he's ready."
"Please Tom. Please. Take it. I don't want to be tempted."
"What? You'd sell it or something? If you need money—"
"No, of course not. It's just— This stone isn't just a stone. It's a unique and very powerful magical artifact. I shouldn't use it. It wouldn't be wise."
Tom looked at the ring with renewed horror. "So you want to foist it off on me instead! Or on my son!
"That's the beauty of it! In your hands it's harmless. Even in Tommy's, as long as I don't tell him how to use it. It can just be an ancient ring from a pureblood family to impress people with. Please Tom. I'm especially susceptible to its allure. I really shouldn't have it. It's too powerful for me."
The thought of a powerful witch in possession of a powerful ring was rather disturbing. Tom pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and picked the ring up with it, wrapping and tying it in the handkerchief without touching the ring. He'd been a bit concerned that Hermione would laugh at his squeamishness, but she only looked relieved. Tom tucked the bundle in his new wallet, which from the outside looked too small to hold it.
"Thank you," said Hermione. Then she looked at the wallet he was tucking back in his pocket. "You brought that to go shopping in a muggle district?"
"It looks normal from the outside. And I like it. And you brought your beaded bag, so you're one to talk."
She sighed. "Just try not to be too obvious about it."
"Of course."
She closed her eyes and slumped back in her seat. Stealing and giving up that ring had clearly been exhausting to her, for all she'd made light of it.
Perhaps it was time for some comic relief. "This doesn't mean we're engaged," he said.
She opened her eyes and stared at him. "What?"
"Even though you gave me a ring, and I accepted it, that doesn't make us engaged. I didn't actually put it on."
She closed her eyes again. "Just drive, Tom."
"Yes Miss Granger. I mean Hermione." He drove. With this corpse-looting jaunt and the time it took to enchant the car, this set the record for the slowest trip to Great Hangleton ever. It was only six miles for goodness sake.
"Aren't you going rather fast?"
"Don't you trust your safety spells?"
"Yes, but still. I don't like going fast."
He slowed down.
Of course they had to go to the police station first to report the body. Hermione looked appropriately somber as she told the policeman that she detected the smell of death as they drove past the Gaunt shack, and saw a corpse when she looked in the window.
"And how does a young lady know what death smells like?" scoffed the officer.
She looked at him.
The policeman appeared increasingly uncomfortable.
"She's from Australia," explained Tom when the silence had gone on for too long.
"I see," said the policeman, pretending to. "Well, we'll send the coroner around. Thank you very much for bringing this to our attention."
That was the last of Hermione's delaying tactics. They finally got to their destination, Great Hangleton's most fashionable street. Tom got out, opened his mother's door and gave her a hand to assist her out, then found that Hermione had got out herself and slammed the door behind her before Tom could perform the same service for her.
"If this were just a few years ago, I'd be taking you to a tailor," said his mother, "but prêt-à-porter has become much more fashionable recently. Later, I must take you shopping in London to buy you some suits by a wonderful French designer named Coco Chanel, but for now, the shops of Great Hangleton will provide reasonably fashionable clothing quickly."
Hermione liked the word "quickly."
"Now Tom," said his mother, turning to him just before stepping into a shop. "We won't require your assistance, so if you have anything to do in Great Hangleton, feel free to go do it. Let's meet back here at noon."
"Anything to do? I can't really think of—"
"Anyone to visit, who might be interested in your new status as a widower?"
"Oh! Right. But do you really think—"
"Do it, Tom. Remember what I've always taught you."
"Nothing is impossible if I've got enough nerve."
"That's right. Now go on." She gave his shoulder an encouraging pat.
"Yes. Well. Enjoy your shopping, ladies." He charged off, brain buzzing. It was a rather long walk to Threepworple Manor, but if he drove, he'd be there long before he'd thought of anything to say. Perhaps the walk would clear his head. The day was bright and cold, with remnants of snow brightening the shadows. He first stopped by a florist.
The shopgirl's gaze flew to his black hatband, and she immediately put on a sympathetic expression. "Need flowers for a funeral, sir? I could make a very tasteful wreath of asphodel and wormwood."
"Oh, er, no, I'm not headed to a funeral. Well, perhaps to my own. I'm actually in the market for flowers with which I can apologize to a young lady I have wronged."
"Oh?" said the shopgirl in a rather unprofessional tone.
"So I was hoping you could advise me on what flowers would be appropriate. I'm unaccustomed to apologizing."
The shopgirl regained her professionalism. "Deep purple hyacinths," she said authoritatively, pointing to them. "Symbolizing deep regret and a request for forgiveness—"
"Perfect."
"—in the Victorian flower language."
"Oh. Isn't there a more modern flower language? Perhaps a flower slang?"
"Not that I know of, sir, sorry."
"I suppose Victorian will have to do."
He paid for the bouquet and the shopgirl's good luck wishes, and set out into the cold, walking along familiar Threepworple Road out of town.
Would Cecilia be willing to meet with him at all? When he'd attempted to speak with her shortly after his escape from Merope, she'd made it very clear that she wanted nothing to do with him. Between his seemingly inescapable marriage to Merope, and Cecilia's unwillingness to hear his side of the story, the prospect of winning Cecilia back had seemed completely hopeless. He'd been doing his best to put Cecilia out of his mind. But now that one of those obstacles was out of the way, could the other fall as well? If only Cecilia would hear him out!
Of course if she did, what on earth would he say? He couldn't simply assume that she would take him back after he had been so untrue. His whirlwind marriage to Merope was inexplicable without mentioning magic, and he couldn't do that without violating the Statute of Secrecy, which presumably would have dire consequences. He didn't like the sound of that wizarding prison. However, the immediate consequences to himself sounded even worse than that. He couldn't tell Cecilia the truth, because she would undoubtedly think the story mad. He considered that. Was it better to have the kind of madness that made one believe in witches, or the kind that made one fall in love with a girl who was ugly, poor, and mean? The second suggested an indifference to the superficial, theoretically unimportant attributes of beauty and wealth, which was often regarded as a good thing. Unfortunately, the same people who considered indifference to superficial charms to be a virtue generally also considered a fickle, inconstant heart to be a vice.
He would stick to his story. Merope had deceived him. Everyone thought they knew what that meant. She had pretended he'd got her pregnant in order to trap him into marriage. This story was an admission that Merope could have got pregnant with his child at the same time he was courting Cecilia. There was no way to make that sound good. At least he hadn't gone the route of murdering Merope to save his reputation, as some men in his position would do. No, bringing that up wouldn't be wise, now that Merope was, in fact, dead.
Then there was the additional problem that after she had presumably deceived him by pretending he'd got her pregnant, then he had, in fact, got her pregnant.
He would admit all his presumed wrongdoing, call it a folly of youth, declare himself a changed man, and beg Cecilia's forgiveness. That was his only chance. As slim a chance as it was, he had to take it.
Threepworple Manor loomed before him, grand and imposing. He could do this. The Riddles always got what they wanted. They had strength of will, which was the main thing. The rest followed.
He walked along the path beside the drive, by the maze formed of perfectly clipped shrubbery. The maze that contained so many private little nooks, perfect for an illicit kiss… No. He would not think about that right now.
He stood at the door for a moment before ringing the doorbell, telling a primitive, stupidly hopeful part of his brain that he could not expect Cecilia to rush into his arms as she used to. He rang the bell.
The footman, Douglas, answered. He was one of the few men tall enough to look down on Tom, and he made full use of this ability.
"Ah, Douglas," said Tom. "Is Cecilia in?"
Douglas continued to stare down at him from his great height. In that moment, Tom learned that while some might think the Order of Precedence ranks the daughter of a baronet only slightly higher than the son of a squire, in fact there was a great distance between them. This distance was occupied by other ranks that were also higher than Tom's, including the footman of a baronet, as well as anything that might be stuck to that footman's shoe.
"I mean Miss Threepworple," Tom corrected himself.
"I will check. Who should I say is calling?" asked Douglas coldly.
"Douglas, you know my name, I've been coming here for years… Tell her the most pathetic fool in the world is here to see her."
Douglas nodded approvingly and closed the door in Tom's face.
Tom had walked fast enough to perspire despite the cold weather, and now that he was standing still, felt the chill in earnest as the cold wind sought out any gap in his clothes. Perhaps this was her answer, to leave him in the cold.
However, the door did eventually reopen. Douglas looked down at him again. "Miss Threepworple will permit you to visit her in her sitting room," he declared, with the air of a servant who followed orders to the letter no matter how ridiculous. "This way sir."
Of course Tom knew the way and had no need of a guide, but did not make a point of it.
"The most pathetic fool in the world," Douglas announced formally as he opened the door and ushered Tom in, then closed the door. Tom was keenly aware of the lack of invisible runes over the door preventing eavesdropping.
Cecilia was seated at her writing-desk by the window, with her back to him. She did not immediately turn around, but continued writing. Her blond hair was even shorter than when he'd last seen her, revealing her graceful neck. Finally, she put down her pen and turned to him. Her blue eyes took him in. She crossed her ivory-stocking-clad legs, slender ankles and shapely calves, and Tom completely forgot what he'd planned to say. "I used to have a cat," she said.
This was not the greeting he'd expected, but she was speaking to him, so that was something. "Mr. Jollywhiskers, I recall," he said, with much more emotion than the words warranted.
"Whenever he killed a mouse he would bring it into my sitting room and offer it to me as a gift. He thought highly of his mouse and it was beyond him to realize that anyone might have a different opinion of it."
Tom looked at his bouquet in horror, for he certainly could not meet Cecilia's cold gaze.
"I gave that cat away," she added, salting the wound.
"For what it's worth," he tried, "I'm not particularly fond of purple hyacinths either, but the shopgirl assured me that they're just the thing to convey deep regret and a request for forgiveness. If they don't work, I'll return them, as they're clearly defective. That flower shop lacks the standardization and quality control that today's customers expect from a modern business."
He anxiously observed the effect of his words. Cecilia tried to suppress a smile, then gave up and tried to suppress a laugh, then gave up even that and let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "Oh Tom!" she cried. "How can you come here with two legs and two arms and a head as if you were a human being, when you've already proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are instead a catastrophe? You're a train derailment, Tom. An earthquake. The Black Plague. An iceberg in search of an ocean liner. You're probably responsible for erupting all over Pompeii. It would take more than a bunch of flowers to fix your reputation."
"So what will it take?" asked Tom eagerly.
Cecilia sighed. "Do you have some list of caddish behavior that you're running through? Does your wife know you're bringing flowers to your ex girlfriend?"
"That's a metaphysical question I'm not qualified to answer. You see she's dead. Hence my somber attire."
"Oh, that's rich. You're still flashier than a peacock, Tom."
"You used to appreciate—"
"I was a singularly stupid girl taken in by your deceptive charms. Well, not singularly, I was just one of the stupid girls. I mean, there was me, and Merope, and how many others?"
"What?! No, there was no one else."
"Why would I believe anything you say? Now you're saying your wife is dead? Is that some bizarre attempt to gain my sympathy? You just killed your wife in the hopes I'd feel sorry for you, didn't you?"
"No! That's a slanderous accusation."
"So what did you kill her for, then?"
"I did not kill her! Well. I mean. Not directly."
"Oh my god."
"She died in childbirth, all right? So in a way it was my fault, but these things happen. I have the death certificate and everything. And a son, now. Suddenly everything's different. So I thought, as long as everything in my life is changing so radically and unexpectedly, well, I might as well see if I can get you back in the mix somehow. I know that getting you to trust me again seems impossible, but a lot of impossible things have been happening to me as of late, so why not try for one more?"
"I didn't know it was possible for anyone to be this arrogant. You can't expect me to fall for you a second time. I've learned my lesson. I'm older and wiser now."
"I am also older and wiser. I promise, if you give me just one more chance, I'll never betray you again. Of course we can't go straight back to what we were before, but perhaps we could agree to be civil to each other? Friends? You could give me a chance to prove my sincerity?"
Cecilia peered at him as if he were an interesting beetle. "And to think, you're allowed to vote already, at age twenty-one, yet I won't be allowed to vote until I'm thirty. All because men are the rational sex! I say, Tom, whenever the cause of women's suffrage seems like too big a job, all I need to do is consider that you are allowed to vote, while I am not, and I am filled with such fire that I am absolutely determined to succeed." She indicated the papers on her desk. "All this organizing is a lot of work, but very important. I might not stop at universal adult suffrage. It might be worth a try to take the vote away from men completely and give women a turn running things."
"That seems fair," said Tom, who would have agreed to anything she said at that point.
"So for your indirect contribution to the suffrage movement, I thank you."
"Glad I could help," he said. This meeting was going much better than he'd expected. "Would you like any more direct contributions? I could fund some full-page ads in the papers, print up a big batch of badges, whatever you like. Women's suffrage is extremely important. We certainly don't want idiots like me running things."
"You know I don't need your money."
"Of course."
"Thank you for coming to see me, Tom."
His heart leaped.
"Now I know I'm immune to your charms. I was afraid I'd break down, feeling some old tug on my heartstrings at the sight of you, but no. The feelings I once had for you are gone. I'm free of you, and good riddance. If I happen to see you around town, I won't even break my stride. Goodbye." She turned back to her writing. She was done with him, and any moment now, the parlor maid would come to sweep him up.
"Cecilia, before I go, I must say just one thing. I love you."
"What's that strange noise?"
"I said I—"
"No, that noise." She pointed to the window. Malfoy's owl was tapping on the glass. It had a small roll of parchment tied to its leg, and was glaring at Tom in its usual way.
"That's an owl," said Tom.
"I know it's an owl. Why is a bloody owl tapping at my window? Aren't they nocturnal?"
"It's carrying a message for me."
"It's what?"
"Look at its leg. There's a scroll of parchment there."
"What would an owl have to say to you?"
"It's a long story, and I'm not allowed to tell it, but, oh hell, I'll tell you. You deserve to know the truth. I can explain everything. You see, there's this secret society of witches and wizards, and they communicate via owl messengers rather than telephones and the post. Merope was a witch, and the only reason I married her was that she gave me a love potion and used a mind-control spell on me. It took me months to break free. By then I'd got her pregnant. So now my son is a wizard, as he inherited his mother's magical ability, although fortunately not her looks. The only reason I know this is because a different witch told me. She claims she's from Australia, but that's actually just her cover story. She's really a time traveler from 1997 who traveled back here to 1927 to try to change her past, our future, so my son doesn't grow up to murder her parents. I confess the paradoxes there don't make sense to me either. Anyway, I'm trying to help my son grow up not to be a murderer, and fit into the wizarding world, hence my correspondence with the wizard who owns that owl. That tapping does make it hard to converse, doesn't it?"
Cecilia had stood up and was inching backwards away from him, bringing her closer to the window and the angrily tapping owl.
"Perhaps we should let it in so I can take that message and send it on its way," said Tom. "That would stop that infernal tapping."
"Let it in?!" repeated Cecilia, horrified.
"Or not, whatever you like. It can wait. I know it seems unbelievable, but I've got proof that magic is real. Look, I bought this magic wallet in a wizarding shop, it's bigger on the inside than the outside, I'll show you." He took it out of his pocket and showed her. Much of his forearm fit inside it. She didn't even glance at it. Her worried eyes were fixed on his face. He put it back in his pocket.
"Do your parents know you're out?" she asked slowly.
"Of course they do."
"Did you walk all the way here?"
"I walked from downtown Great Hangleton. My mother took the time-traveling witch shopping today, as she didn't have proper clothes for this era when she arrived."
"I see," she said slowly. "Well, let's get you back to your mother then. Come on." She led the way out.
Of course, as soon as Tom stepped outside, he was attacked by Malfoy's owl. It perched on his shoulder and thrust its taloned foot rather closer to his face than necessary. Tom tucked the stupid bouquet of hyacinths under his arm to free his hands, untied the scroll, and stuffed it in his pocket to read later. "I don't have any owl treats on me, sorry," he told it. With an extra-furious glare, it flapped away.
Tom looked hopefully at Cecilia. "You see?" he said. "Magic messenger owl. My story's true. You've got to believe me."
"Oh of course I believe you," she said in a soothing way that wasn't believable at all. She led him towards the cottage where her family's driver lived. She knocked to summon the driver. When he appeared, she said, "Henry, Mr. Riddle needs a ride back to downtown Great Hangleton. I'll accompany him to make sure he gets back to his mother safely."
"Yes Miss Threepworple. I'll bring a car around." He did, and soon Cecilia was sitting tantalizingly close to Tom in the backseat, gazing at him worriedly, as the driver sped to Great Hangleton.
"It's true," said Tom helplessly. "I'm not mad."
"Of course," said Cecilia soothingly. "Your story makes complete sense." They rode in silence after that.
Tom and Cecilia got out in downtown Great Hangleton. Cecilia told the driver to wait for her, and they set out looking for Tom's mother and the witch. They weren't in the shop where he'd left them, but the shopgirl conveyed the message that they'd gone ahead to lunch at Flora's Tearoom, and wished for Tom to meet them there.
Tom's mother waved at them delightedly when she saw them come in. "Tom! And how wonderful to see you again, Cecilia! Are you joining us for lunch?"
"i don't know if I should."
"Of course you should. Oh, waitress, we need two more menus here," called his mother. She and Hermione had their food in front of them already, and Hermione was descending upon hers in her usual plague-of-locusts style. His mother was absolutely beaming, having a completely wrong impression of what had transpired at Threepworple Manor.
Tom tried to rally his courage. As long as Cecilia was willing to sit at a table with him, there was hope. Tom set the hyacinths on the table, where they sweetly perfumed the air.
"Ooh, I love hyacinths!" said Hermione, pausing her eating to breathe deeply. "So cheerful in the bleak midwinter."
"I will do introductions," said his mother. "Cecilia, this is Hermione Granger, the daughter of an Australian business associate of my husband's. She's come to stay with us for a while, as she has no family left in Australia. Hermione, this is Cecilia Threepworple, daughter of Baronet Threepworple."
Cecilia bristled. "I'd rather be introduced with my own accomplishments than merely as the daughter of a baronet."
Tom's mother looked bemused, while Hermione looked interested. "And what do you do, Cecilia?"
"I am working for women's suffrage," she said proudly. "We're partway there. Already, women are allowed to vote once we turn thirty and meet certain property ownership requirements, but that's not good enough. All women must be allowed to vote at age twenty-one, just like men."
"I'm glad to see that Britain's finally catching up with Australia," said Hermione. "We've had the vote there since 1911."
Cecilia looked blessedly distracted from the subject of Tom's presumed madness. "And what do you do?" she asked Hermione.
"I'd originally planned to go into my father's opal-dealing business," she said, "but since his death, I'm almost starting to suspect that there's some truth to the old superstition about opals being bad luck. I was at a loss for what to do with myself when I received Squire Riddle's kind invitation to visit, so here I am. Mere days after I arrived, the orphanage in London send little Tommy here to live with his father, so caring for him is the perfect job to occupy my attention at the moment."
"So the Riddles assumed you'd be the one to take care of a baby, just because you're a woman. It's degrading."
Hermione shook her head emphatically. "I hope you haven't bought into the misogynistic idea that the caregiving professions, traditionally occupied by women, are inherently degrading. Caregiving is extremely important, deserving at least as much respect as traditionally male professions such as medicine or law, if not more." She cast a snide look at Tom. "And I dare say it contributes more to the good of humanity than some forms of employment, such as speculation on the stock market, for example. One can measure the worth of a civilization by how well it cares for its most helpless members."
"You have a point there" said Cecilia. "But it's not something I would want to do, anyway."
"Then don't," said Hermione. "Goodness knows we need suffragists to fight for our rights. I wouldn't want anything to distract you from that. No woman should feel obligated to care for children, just like no man should feel obligated to become a doctor. Either could do a lot of harm in a job for which they have no interest or aptitude. Similarly, stereotypes about the sexes shouldn't prevent anyone from doing a job for which they have an interest and aptitude."
Cecilia seemed to find this very interesting. Learning to write with a quill could wait. Tom needed Hermione to give him lessons on how to talk to a suffragist.
The waitress returned to ask Cecilia and Tom what they would like to order, although they hadn't actually looked at their menus. They picked a couple of dishes at random. Tom didn't care what he got. Cecilia was actually willing to eat lunch at the same table as him!
"Hermione certainly has both an interest in and aptitude for caring for little Tommy," said his mother. "I've never seen such a happy baby." Tommy was, as usual, scanning the room silently from his sling at Hermione's side.
"He's such a very easy baby to care for, I can hardly take any credit," said Hermione.
"He's such a dear little wooly baa-lamb, isn't he?" cooed Tom's mother.
Cecilia's interest was lagging. Perhaps Tom could do her the favor of changing the subject. "How was shopping? Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked, perfectly sanely. It must have gone well, for Hermione was now dressed in a smart suit of brown tweed, which fit her properly.
"I thought British clothes would be warmer," complained Hermione. "How can fashion designers expect women to wear short skirts in this weather? They're so impractical. It's freezing outside!"
"You mean to say you prefer the massive skirts of Victorian fashion?" asked Cecilia, amused.
"Of course not," said Hermione. "I'd rather wear trousers. Now those are practical garments for cold weather."
"Didn't you know? Impracticality is the whole point of women's clothing," explained his mother. "Be glad hobble skirts are no longer in fashion. Nor corsets. The 1920s have really offered women the most comfortable and practical clothing ever."
Hermione grudgingly nodded. "Please forgive my outburst. I'm just not used to this cold. To go from an Australian summer to a British winter is quite a shock." She smiled. "It's almost as if I traveled in time."
Tom suddenly suspected that Hermione chose to travel back to this year, not earlier, to avoid being handicapped by a corset and hobble skirt while working to, say, prevent Merope's parents from conceiving any children. Had Hermione chosen an earlier era to meddle in, Tom's life would never have been derailed by Merope. He might be married to Cecilia by now. He was suddenly filled with rage at the fashion industry.
Cecilia looked at him. Her expression was beyond concern, all the way to fear. "Tom?" She looked away from him, to his mother. "I can't just sit here talking about fashion, pretending everything's normal. Tom acted very strange when he came to see me. Do you know he's been acting like this?"
"Acting like what?" asked his mother.
"Well, delusional. He said that owls give him messages."
Hermione's eyes locked on Tom's. "He said what?"
Tom pulled Malfoy's scroll from his pocket. "Cecilia, you saw that owl deliver this message to me."
Cecilia's gaze slid over the parchment as if it weren't there, and looked pleadingly at his mother and Hermione. "He was talking about all sorts of things that made no sense at all—"
"I told her the truth," interrupted Tom. "I told her everything: magic is real, witches and wizards exist, Merope used a love potion on me, everything. Tell her, Hermione."
Hermione looked at Cecilia's concerned face. "Tom has been under a lot of stress recently," she said gently. "We are keeping an eye on him, don't worry."
"Do you really think it's safe to just let him go wandering about on his own?" asked Cecilia as if he weren't there.
"He seemed to have a better grasp of reality lately, so we thought—" started Hermione.
"He was babbling about witches, and wizards, and—"
Please don't say time travel.
"—and owls, and he thinks his wallet is magic, and—"
"I guess we were too optimistic about his improvement," said Hermione. "Thank you so much for bringing him back to us. We'll be more careful before we let him out again."
The smiling waitress delivered lunch to Cecilia and Tom. Neither seemed hungry.
"Do eat your lunch," urged Tom's mother.
"No thank you. I seem to have lost my appetite," said Cecilia. "I can't…" She cast a glance at Tom with eyes that were starting to shine with tears, then looked away hurriedly. "I can't bear it, knowing what he used to be like, compared to now… It was a pleasure to meet you, Hermione. Good luck with your caregiving. Goodbye." She left.
Tom watched her go. He wouldn't have known Hermione was leaning in close to him, were it not for a faint whiff of that stormy Amortentia scent. "What did I tell you about violating the Statute of Secrecy?" she hissed in a furious whisper.
"But all seemed lost anyway," he whispered back. "Malfoy's owl came back while I was talking to her," he said, brandishing Malfoy's scroll. "How was I supposed to explain a messenger owl?"
"You could have pretended you'd never seen it before," hissed Hermione. "You didn't have to go blabbing everything." She sat back. "At least it seems that no harm's been done."
"No harm? She thinks I'm mad!"
"Yes. That's the best case scenario, really. Now I don't have to erase her memory. It's easy to maintain the Statute around muggles like this. They can't see what they weren't expecting. Put that scroll back in your pocket in case anyone around here is more observant."
Hermione ate Cecilia's dainty sandwiches as well as her own, and was starting to eye Tom's lunch before he ate it himself just to deprive her of it, for he didn't feel hungry. Petty, he knew, but what else could he do? Then he paid and they left to walk back to the car, his mother carrying the hyacinths, which left Tom's hands free to carry shopping bags full of Hermione's clothes.
"If you had just told her the truth—" he started.
"Then she would have thought me mad as well, or worse, believed me," Hermione said. "She would have thought it so important, she would have told others. It would be a big mess for the Ministry obliviators to clean up. It would all be traced back to me, I'd go to Azkaban, and then what would happen to Tommy?"
"But how am I going to win her back now?" fumed Tom. "It was bad enough when she thought I had willingly left her for Merope, but now she thinks I'm not just unfaithful, but mad as well!"
"Oh," said Hermione. Tom could see the gears of her brain turning as they had when she'd worked out how to modify broom safety spells to fit a car. "I don't think she'd make a very good stepmother for Tommy," she finally concluded. "The suffrage thing is great, but she seems particularly unmagical. She wouldn't be able to relate to him."
So that was it. This witch had decided to put the final nail in the coffin that held Cecilia's love for him. Tom suddenly burned with hate for these meddling witches. He glared at Hermione as if that could do any good. She looked back at him with a slight smile, damn her. He dropped his gaze to his son.
Tommy's blue-black eyes locked with his, then looked up to the witch carrying him.
Hermione screamed. She grabbed her wand from her sleeve, pointed it at a lock of her hair over her forehead, and said "Extinguo," which put out the fire it had spontaneously burst into. She looked all around in a panic, then her wide eyes fixed on Tom again. "You…"
Before he knew what had happened, he found himself slammed against the wall of the bank behind him, Hermione holding her wand to his throat in a clear threat. Burnt hair smelled terrible. "What the hell are you playing at?" she demanded. "Pretending to be a muggle! And then you go setting my hair on fire, wandlessly even!"
"It wasn't me!" cried Tom. "I swear!"
"Then who?" the witch demanded.
Tom looked down at his son in the witch's sling. He was smiling a cute, toothless smile. As Hermione followed his gaze, Tommy made a little sound that may have been his first, cute little laugh. They both stared for a while.
"Oh gods," said Hermione. "Already?" She removed her wand from Tom's throat. "Sorry."
Hermione looked around. A paperboy was staring at them, eyes wide. Hermione pointed her wand at him. "Obliviate." The boy suddenly looked blank. He slumped to sit on the pavement.
"What did you do?" demanded Tom.
"Erased the last minute of his memory. He'll be fine in a bit. A simple job like this doesn't require a call for Ministry obliviators. Let's get out of here." She sheathed her wand in her sleeve again and hurried to their parking spot, Tom and his mother following. "Drive us back to Riddle House," Hermione ordered.
They got in the car, but Tom didn't start it immediately. The car filled with the scents of hyacinths and burnt hair. "So that was Tommy's first accidental magic," he said. He looked back to see Hermione nod. "So what's the proper wizarding parental response? I assume it's a milestone worth celebrating. Am I supposed to owl announcements to all my wizarding friends or what?
"I suppose," said Hermione listlessly. "I wouldn't know, I was raised by muggles. Could you tell me exactly what happened? You were angry at me, right? For not volunteering to help you with Cecilia. And Tommy looked in your eyes at that moment?"
"Yes," said Tom. "Then he looked at you, to, you know."
"Right. Well. I have a favor to ask you, Tom. Please do not look in Tommy's eyes when you're angry."
"All right," he said after a while.
"Well, that's settled," she said. "So how did Malfoy respond to your counteroffer?"
"I haven't had time to read it," he said. "I've had other priorities."
Hermione had no inhibitions about looking Tom in the eye when she was angry. Tom pulled Malfoy's scroll out of his pocket, unrolled it, and read it aloud
"Dear Mr. Riddle,
Thank you very much for your invitation. I look forward to seeing you there.
Sincerely,
Your humble servant,
Serpens Malfoy"
"I can't believe it," said Hermione. "A Malfoy willing to go to a muggle business."
"You seem prejudiced against Malfoys," said Tom. "Understandably, of course, but they might rise to meet our expectations if we expect enough from them."
"That's… Thats rather amazing, that you'd put it that way. That's pretty much my plan for Tommy."
"The baby who just set your hair on fire," said Tom.
"Yes," said Hermione.
"Which gives the impression that he might be a bit of a handful as he gets older," said Tom.
"Oh, I'm sure that was just an accident," said his mother. "He'll learn to control his magic soon enough. My darling little Tommy would never intentionally hurt anyone."
"Exactly," said Hermione, nodding. "It was simply an accident. Now Tom, if you would start driving, I could draw my wand again and cast a healing spell on my forehead without fear of any muggles spying on me through the windows. I'm feeling a bit singed."
"Right," said Tom, starting the car. He drove in silence. He wasn't angry at Hermione any more, and in fact was embarrassed at how Tommy had manifested his anger. It wasn't Hermione's responsibility to help him win Cecilia back. She was here only to care for Tommy. Her ability to prove the existence of magic did not obligate her to do so at Tom's command.
He needn't even trouble Hermione to buy some Amortentia. Dobby could get it for him. Cecilia could hardly deny the existence of magic once she had felt its power herself.