When they got back to the Riddle House, Tom opened his mother's car door and assisted her out as a gentleman should, while Hermione opened her own door, got out, and slammed it behind her.
"Would you like to take a nap?" his mother suggested to Hermione. "Caring for a newborn is very tiring."
Hermione nodded. "I think he's awake more in the night than the day."
"Before you go to bed, I have a favor to ask," said Tom.
With the look Hermione gave him, he was surprised his hair didn't catch fire.
"Could I please borrow a quill, and have some ink and scrap parchment? And if you would be so kind, would you write an alphabet for me to copy? Or I suppose I could copy Malfoy's letters. I would like to get started developing a suitable wizarding hand."
Hermione reacted as another woman might when told that she was beautiful. "Oh! Of course. I'm glad to help." They left Tommy to his mother's proud cooing and went to Tom's office.
"One moment, I've got to do something about this first," she said. She drew her wand and pulled at her burnt lock of hair, which uncoiled a great distance until she could get a good look at it. "Diffindo." The burnt part was severed, and the rest sprang back to her head. She still had absolutely no shortage of hair, and in fact thinning it had probably been for the best. Perhaps his son would be a hairstylist. He seemed to have good instincts for it. "Evanesco." The burnt part vanished. Tom's first thought was to offer her a mirror, an essential he was never without, to help her style her remaining hair afterwards, but Tom realized just in time that she would not appreciate this courtesy, so he politely ignored the helix that stuck out of her head like a unicorn's horn.
Hermione then gave Tom a very thorough penmanship lesson, including quill trimming, inkwell dipping, and the importance of consistently holding the quill at the correct angle. This last was more detail than he needed since it was similar to a fountain pen in that regard, but he didn't interrupt the flow of her lesson, which was very well-organized. Then she demonstrated the basic strokes, and recommended he practice those first before moving on to letters and numbers, which she also modeled for him, even going so far as to draw tiny arrows next to the strokes to indicate the direction the quill should travel.
"Thank you," he said, practicing writing a simple line with a consistent amount of ink. "That was a very helpful lesson. You've clearly taught this before."
"Muggleborn students are really left to fend for themselves," she said. "I had to demand penmanship tutoring, it wasn't just given automatically, although it was obvious I needed it. Then of course once I got it, I helped all the other muggleborn students who needed it as well."
"At your school in Australia," Tom filled in for her. "It sounds like muggleborns aren't treated any better there than in Britain." He enjoyed seeing her blanch when she realized how close she'd come to contradicting her own backstory, although he didn't let his amusement show. Of course she was British, and had attended Hogwarts like everyone else, but had to hide this fact to explain why no one in this era knew her. "Australia" was a charming euphemism for "seventy years in the future."
"Yes," she said faintly.
He had flattered her mind, which seemed to be the only part of herself she took pride in, then unsettled her by drawing her attention to her mistake. It was time. "I don't want to take up your time with talk of Australia now. I have something more important to say. I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have violated the Statute of Secrecy like that." Especially considering the results. "I should have kept silent about the whole wizarding world, as you told me to do. I put you at risk of arrest, as my mistake could have been traced back to you. What I did was wrong. I'm very sorry. It won't happen again."
She seemed pleasantly surprised by this. "Thank you. I accept your apology." And now came the concession. "This is all so new to you, perhaps it was unrealistic of me to expect you to understand the importance of the Statute."
"Especially as you aren't setting the most law-abiding example for me to follow."
Hermione gave an embarrassed smile. "Well, I try to be discrete when I break laws, and that's one that by its very nature can't be broken discreetly."
"I understand completely. You can be assured of my discretion in the future."
"That's a relief."
"Would you like those hyacinths in your room?"
"What?"
"You seemed to like them."
"Well. I mean. They're beautiful. I don't want to monopolize them."
"Consider them yours. Please accept them as a physical manifestation of my apology. Dobby!"
The elf popped into the room. "Yes Master?"
"What happened to those hyacinths we brought back from town?"
"Mrs. Riddle had Fiona put them in a vase in the drawing room."
"Please take the vase of them to Miss Granger's room instead."
"Yes Master." The elf popped away.
"It seems a bit tacky to be called 'Master,'" Tom remarked. "I'd ask him to call me 'mister,' and 'sir'' instead, if I weren't concerned that would lead to confusion when we're out in the wizarding world. I suppose I'll leave him be."
At least he'd got rid of the hyacinths, which had been one of his goals, although a minor one. They smelled like failure and rejection. Had he softened her up enough for the major one? There was one way to find out. "It was quite foolish of me to violate the Statute. I'm afraid that a man in love doesn't always do the sensible thing."
"That's your excuse?" That didn't bode well. Didn't this witch have any romance in her at all? Any sympathy? Had she never been in love?
He forged ahead. "I'd been on the verge of asking for Cecilia's hand in marriage when Merope suddenly derailed my life. Seeing her today, so beautiful, and knowing I can't have her, it was torture."
Shocked silence followed by hysterical laughter was not the response he'd been aiming for.
"Torture?" she repeated mockingly when she could finally speak again. "That's what you call torture? You innocent boy."
"Perhaps that was a poor word choice," he conceded, as he realized, horrified, that "torture" had a literal as well as metaphorical definition. "I'm sorry," he tried, realizing that it was hopeless. She'd never help him now. "It's just… I just really want her back, and I thought, you're so clever, you could figure out a way without risking arrest for violating the Statute..." He hated how pathetic he sounded, so he shut up.
Hermione was laughing hard enough to cry. "The one you love is still alive, and safe, and even happy, and you're complaining? That's not love, that's possessiveness. Accio handkerchief." He'd been just about to offer, but she didn't need him. She wiped her face and seemed to calm down a bit. "I'm happy for you Tom, I really am, that this is the worst that's happened to you. May you never learn any better. Now I really should go feed Tommy again, and take a nap before I slap you. I'll see you in the drawing room before dinner." She left, laughing.
He should have quit when he was ahead. Well, at least he'd gathered some more information. This witch's problem wasn't a lack of romantic sentiment, but an excess. No matter. He didn't need her help. His next step was clear. She'd left him no choice. She, and Cecilia, and of course Merope, had set all this in motion, so Tom could not be faulted for what happened next. "Dobby!"
Pop. "Yes Master?" Tom was growing to like the sound of that.
"I just wanted to make sure that you're working for me. I am your employer. I've instructed you to also serve my parents and Miss Granger, so long as their orders do not contradict mine, but my orders always supersede theirs."
"Of course, Master," said Dobby.
"So if I order you to keep a secret from Miss Granger, you will keep it. Correct?"
Dobby's huge ears flopped when he nodded. "Yes, of course, Master." He seemed surprised by the question, as if this was a very basic thing every wizard should know.
"Good. Information about the following plan must not reach Miss Granger." Another ear-flopping nod. "First, teach me how to use Amortentia."
—-
A well-rested Hermione made for much more pleasant company. She entered the drawing room having dressed appropriately for dinner, and with her hair properly restrained. Tommy's dark eyes peered alertly from her sling.
"How lovely you look, Hermione," said Tom's mother. Thomas, don't her new clothes suit her well?"
"I can't very well admit to noticing how a woman other than my wife looks," chuckled Tom's father. "You know all other women ceased to exist for me the moment I first saw you."
"You charmer," blushed his mother.
It was time for Tom to pay her a compliment. How to twist this? Ah yes. "I see you master any skill you set your mind to, Hermione."
It worked. She smiled. Then she shook her head. "It just seems so frivolous."
"I hope you haven't bought into the misogynistic idea that the art of beauty, traditionally practiced by women, is inherently frivolous," said Tom. "Beauty is power. A smile is its sword. It deserves at least as much respect as, and I dare say it contributes more to the good of humanity than traditionally male routes to power such as violence. One can measure the worth of a civilization by how well it practices the arts that bring joy to life."
Hermione stared at him.
That was enough of that. "Thank you very much for the penmanship lesson." He handed her his work, a piece of parchment with the words "Thank you, Hermione," written in a hand that he wouldn't be too embarrassed to have associated with his name.
She took it. "Wow! This is beautiful. You've got to be my best student ever."
"There's still considerable room for improvement," he said, "but at least I won't embarrass myself the next time I'm faced with a quill. Oh, and I've also been learning how to use this wand. Look." He took an art nouveau vase out of a cabinet and smashed it on the floor. Hermione and his parents gasped. Them Tom drew his wand from his sleeve, pointed the wand at the fragments, and said "Reparo." The fragments drew together into a perfect vase again.
Hermione stared. "What?! How—"
Tom tried not to laugh, as the next incantation was tricky to pronounce. "Wingardium Leviosa." He pointed his wand at the vase as it floated up and returned to the cabinet. Then he finally let himself laugh. "Your attention was all on my wand, not looking for Dobby's shadow in the corner. You may make yourself visible again, Dobby." Dobby was grinning broadly when he reappeared.
"That was amazing," said Hermione, looking between Tom and Dobby as her perfect smile brightened her face. "I'm starting to believe you can really pull this off."
"Of course I can," said Tom, sheathing his wand in the casual way he'd practiced. "The trick will be learning to say all these magical incantations."
"Well," said Hermione, "casting spells silently is advanced, difficult magic, so if you really want to impress, you don't actually have to say anything out loud. Wandless magic is another difficult skill. It took a lot of practice to get my summoning spell to work wandlessly. I don't advise pretending to cast both silently and wandlessly, though, as that would strain credulity."
Tom laughed. "The wizarding world won't know what hit it. Literally, they'll have no clue."
Hermione smirked. "Nice evil laugh you've got there."
"I don't know what you're talking about. That was my triumphant laugh."
Hermione smiled at the elf. "And Dobby! How talented you are! I had no idea you were the one really casting the spells."
"So Miss Granger enjoyed the surprise?" Dobby asked, twisting the seam of his shirt.
"Of course! That was a wonderful surprise!"
Hermione's clear appreciation of surprises set the elf's simple mind at ease, which in turn set Tom's mind at ease. He could count on Dobby's discretion for his other plans as well.
"Hopefully you won't need such an elaborate ruse," said Hermione. "Although I'm afraid tomorrow might have to be another wizarding shopping day." She said this as if breaking bad news. "Considering the shopping list you wrote this morning. It takes time for Denta-Gro to work, so you need to buy and use that soon, and get used to your new teeth by Saturday."
"That, at least, we can start tonight," said Tom. "I sent Dobby out to an apothecary for it this afternoon."
"Oh!" said Hermione. "I hadn't thought of that. I'm not used to having a servant."
Three raised eyebrows, one on each adult Riddle, showed her what they thought of that.
"Dobby also recommended a pain-relief potion to go with the Denta-Gro," said Tom. "You didn't mention us needing that, but he said the Malfoys never used Denta-Gro without it. Apparently Malfoy's son is quite a daredevil on a broom, and regularly knocks out his teeth."
"But isn't he the same age as Tommy?" asked Hermione. "He shouldn't have teeth yet. Unless Malfoys hatch with fangs."
"Abraxas Malfoy is about the same age as Tommy, according to Malfoy's letter. He's just a spare. His older brother Corvus stands to inherit the house of Malfoy." If he lives that long. "I've been studying Nature's Nobility." Both editions. "Abraxas isn't in it yet, so he must have been born after it went to press." The current edition, anyway.
"Oh," said Hermione. "You do your homework," she said approvingly.
"Of course," said Tom. "So why didn't you put pain-relief potion on the list?"
"I didn't know you could do that. And it's not like it hurts all that much, in the grand scheme of things." Tom didn't want to know how grand her scheme of things was. "I suppose this pain potion is expensive?"
"Not really," said Tom. "No more than the Denta-Gro."
"Hm." Knitted brows showed what she thought of that.
When Fiona had called them to dinner and they were settled at the table, Tom's mother gave Hermione a significant look. Hermione took a deep breath. "Thank you very much for the hyacinths, Tom," she said. "They've always been one of my favorite flowers."
Thus, a discussion of everyone's favorite types of flowers was begun, with absolutely no mention of rotting corpses, so everyone was able to eat their dinner.
Dinner concluded uneventfully, as Hermione's ravenous appetite was no longer regarded as noteworthy by anyone at the table. Hermione decided that they should take their potions after dinner, pain potion first on Dobby's recommendation, so they went to Tom's office, where he had locked the bottles in his rolltop desk. She had Dobby fetch six small glasses for them, as if imposing on their servant for some huge favor. Everyone, especially Dobby, seemed embarrassed by her awkwardness. Then she portioned out the potions.
Tom eyed the two glasses before him with trepidation. They did not smell nearly as appealing as Amortentia. The pain potion was an icy-looking, nearly opaque blue-white. The Denta-Grow was grey and smoking. Well, one of the Riddles had to go first. Tom gulped the pain potion down. The initial hit of icy mint was almost pleasant, before it was overwhelmed by bitterness. That was soon replaced by numbness, however. He couldn't really tell what the second potion tasted like. It seemed to relieve the cold numbness a bit.
Soon, Tom was spitting gold fillings into his handkerchief, and torn between curiosity and disgust at the thought of investigating the strange goings-on with his tongue. "Go on," he said to his parents, his words somewhat slurred from the pain potion. He felt around with a partly-numb tongue. "It's working already!"
His parents gave each other a look, then downed their potions.
"I'll wash these glasses so your muggle servants don't wonder what was in them," said Hermione, but Tom stopped her.
"That's Dobby's job." Dobby obviously agreed, as he took them and vanished with a pop.
"Another thing," said Hermione. "Do you have any children's books? I'd like to get in the habit of reading to Tommy every day, but I brought only one children's book with me."
Tom's mother was finding that she didn't know the etiquette for spitting out fillings, but was somehow managing to look elegant as she did so. When she was done, she said, "I saved many of the books I read to Tom as a child. I'll show you where they are in the library." Hermione followed her enthusiastically.
This left Tom alone with his father, who didn't spit fillings out nearly as elegantly as his mother.
"I think I'll go read in the study," said Tom. "I should be safe from Mr. McGregor there."
"Wait a moment," said his father. "Mary told me about your meeting with Cecilia."
"There wasn't much to tell," said Tom. "I accomplished nothing, and if anything made the situation worse. I might as well not have tried." Maybe the Amortentia was a mistake too. He didn't have to go through with it. Dobby has bought it that afternoon, and Tom, under Dobby's tutelage, has stirred it counterclockwise seven times with his little finger, so whoever consumed it would be metaphorically wrapped around his finger for seven days, but Tom had not yet sent an invisible Dobby to Threepworple Manor to add it to the cup of tea Cecilia liked to drink as she wrote at her desk. He could still back out.
"Come now, Tom," scolded his father. "Remember who you are. Riddles do not give up. I have full faith in your ability to sort out this little misunderstanding. It's simply a matter of resourcefulness and perseverance."
"Thank you, father," said Tom. "You're right, of course. I will not let this temporary setback discourage me." He'd send Dobby to Threepworple Manor right after his lunch with Malfoy. One thing at a time. Perhaps he should wait for a stormy day to disguise the smell.
"That's the spirit."
—-
The next morning, Tom was pleased to discover that the Denta-Gro had worked as advertised, restoring him to the physical perfection he'd always felt was his due. He opened his window a crack for fresh air and performed his usual Müller system exercises with even greater than his usual vigor, then enjoyed a bracing bath followed by energetic towel-rubbing, advocated by that Danish gymnast as the best defense against tuberculosis. This exercise system was also advertised to give a man musculature like that of an Ancient Greek athlete, and as that part was certainly true (thought Tom as he admired his form in the mirror) claims of the system's efficacy against disease ought to be true as well. At any rate, exercise in fresh air was the best defense against tuberculosis the world offered, so of course Tom availed himself of it. He considered that. It was certainly the best defense the muggle world offered, but that wasn't the entire world. He'd ask Hermione later.
Over breakfast, Tom's mother claimed Tommy and subjected him to her adoration, praising every embroidered snake on his gown, as Hermione planned the day's wizarding shopping expedition as if it were some sort of military campaign. She went so far as to arrange forks and teacups on the table to represent landmarks on the battlefield.
"Hopefully, the locket is still at Borgin and Burke's, an antique shop in Knockturn Alley, which is off of Diagon Alley. It's in the Dark magic district, so we can't let our guard down. Once I have the locket in my hand, create a distraction. I'll need only a moment."
Tom looked at her, aghast. Scheming was fine, but common shoplifting? "You're not planning to steal it, are you? I mean really. We don't need it that badly."
"No, no of course not. I just have an idea to make haggling easier."
"Hermione, I don't need to resort to underhanded tactics—"
"Hear her out, Tom," interrupted his father. "She's a clever girl, and she knows what she's talking about."
"Thank you, Squire Riddle. So, this locket isn't just an antique, it's a unique historical artifact. Imagine if we were trying to buy King Arthur's sword or something. If Burke demands a fair price for it, I don't think even you could afford it. Of course, he didn't give Merope anywhere near a fair price for it, so it's justice that he not get a fair price. If we can convince him that this isn't really Slytherin's locket, merely a modern reproduction, he should be happy to get rid of it cheaply."
"Of course it's a modern reproduction,," said Tom. "We had it made so Merope could seem to wear it in public without fear of losing the real one to thieves. I still have the real one safely locked away of course."
Hermione blinked at him. "Really?"
"No, of course not really, I'm just playing along with your story."
"You were very convincing."
"I'll have to be for this to work. So, for its utility as a theft-deterrent, I would like this modern reproduction back. It will be more convenient to buy the one that already exists than have a new one made. Ten galleons seems a reasonable price. I might even let him haggle me up to twelve. So how will you go about proving it's merely a bit of costume jewelry?"
She told him her plan, which seemed a good one. "Excellent," he said. "Let us don wizarding attire and reconvene in the drawing room."
In his bedroom, Tom dressed in his wizarding robes with great enthusiasm, and checked his look in his full-length mirror. He adopted a dueling stance and practiced drawing and sheathing his wand. Perfect. He enjoyed the sweep of his acromantula-silk robes as he strode through the halls to the drawing room. His mother was there, holding Tommy, whose blue-black eyes bored into his. Watch and learn, Tommy. The heir of Slytherin must present himself to the world in a manner befitting his station.
Hermione joined him a moment later, in her red-brown robes that were so unfashionable by muggle standards, accentuating her tiny waist and full bosom as if these features were worth showing off, rather than terribly dated. Her hair had been tamed into a sumptuous wizarding style, with long gleaming ringlets cascading down her lithe back. She took Tommy back into her sling.
Tom held himself back just in time before simply praising her beauty. "You're really mastering the art of presentation, Hermione," he said instead.
Her smile was without artifice, and added to her beauty. It wouldn't be so terrible if the wizarding world enjoyed gossiping about the heir of Riddle and the Australian duelist. Hopefully, such a rumor would discourage other witches from pursuing him, as they surely would be unpleasantly surprised if they caught him.
"And you're at least as impressive in wizarding attire as in muggle," said Hermione. "If I didn't know better, I'd assume you were some pureblood who'd hex me out of his way as soon as look at me."
"But you forget, you are Hermione Granger, Australian duelist, a celebrity among those who follow the sport."
"But I'm not."
"Don't contradict the heir of Riddle. You are so famous, people would be embarrassed to admit they've never heard of you. Dueling is a somewhat obscure sport, not as popular as quidditch, but still quite respectable. It's a perfect persona for you. Anyway, the heir of Riddle needs one more accessory. Dobby!"
Pop. "Yes Master?"
"We will be shopping in Knockturn Alley today, which Hermione tells me is a rough neighborhood. Should it be necessary, can you defend us?"
Dobby's ears flopped as he nodded. "Of course, Master."
"You shouldn't sacrifice any efficiency for the sake of appearances, but if convenient, could you make it seem as if I'm the one casting the spells, while you're doing something less heroic such as cowering behind my robes?"
Dobby blinked his huge eyes at him. "If it looks like Master is the one casting the spells, then any attacker will concentrate on disabling Master instead of useless-seeming Dobby, sir."
Tom thought about that. "Thus distracting any attacker from the real fighter, which is you, a deception which would give our party a significant tactical advantage. Yes, this is an excellent plan."
"But…" said Hermione, looking confused.
Tom took the shopping list out of his pocket. "But let's plan today's outing on the assumption that this is an ordinary shopping trip, not some daring adventure. We'll go to the bank first to set up the Riddle account." He offered his arm to Hermione. "If you would be so kind as to apparate us."
"I could apparate us straight to the bank, but you'll need some privacy and time to recover from apparition, so I'll take you to the alley by the Leaky Cauldron again. Dobby, please meet us there." Dobby popped away.
Hermione took his arm, and then everything was spinning, which was, Tom assured himself, perfectly normal and to be expected, and would stop soon. Indeed, it did. There was solid ground under his feet, which meant that direction was down. That one clue revealed the identity of other directions via a trivial calculation.
He looked at Hermione's thin-fingered hand gripping his arm. "Please don't wrinkle my sleeve, Hermione. Tend to Tommy. Side-along apparition seems to disagree with him."
She let go, and after a moment of looking at Tom with wide eyes, offered milk to his son, who was fussing, but not very much.
Tom had eyes only for Hermione as they walked through the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron, as his eyes couldn't focus on anything else, and trying to look where he was going gave him a headache. He could also see Dobby trotting along at their heels in a properly servile way. Once inside, Tom could see perfectly well as all heads turned to the new arrivals. A barmaid rushed to him. "Are you stopping for food or drink, or just passing through?"
"Just passing through this morning," said Tom. "Perhaps on the way back."
The barmaid nodded and stepped back, waving aside a couple of unobservant loiterers blocking their path. Tom accepted this treatment as their due without a word of thanks.
They got to the wall that hid the entrance to Diagon Alley. "Try it, just like I taught you," Tom encouraged Hermione. "You can do it."
The Australian gave Tom a look that could be interpreted as nervousness, among other things, then tapped the bricks of the wall in a particular pattern with her wand, so it opened and they stepped through. It wasn't very crowded today. It seemed a fine day for some relaxed browsing.
They headed to the bank first, walking past intriguing shops towards that grand white building.
"I'll authorize you to use my account. You may buy whatever incidentals you and Tommy need without bothering me with details."
"You don't have to do that. You really trust me with your bank account?"
Tom laughed. "I'm already completely at your mercy, Hermione. If you weren't trustworthy, I'd be sunk regardless."
"I suppose if you look at it that way," she said.
"Besides, I'm already trusting you with my son, and money is considerably less important than a human being."
Hermione was beautiful when she was admiring him, but of course that was a good look on anyone.
"Come on," said Tom. "I know I have peculiar tastes, but I'm looking forward to filling out forms at a bank. Money management is my calling."
Hermione laughed. "I'm glad someone enjoys that sort of thing. I brought a book to read."
There were types of accounts and investments to choose, and parchments to sign, and a ritual dagger with which to slash his palm in order to drip blood into a rune-engraved bowl. Hermione healed his hand with a quick Episkey spell. When her turn came, she slashed her own palm with expressionless efficiency, and healed herself afterwards before Tom and Dobby could attempt any sleight-of-hand. Well, she had warned him never to try to pull one over on goblins.
Finally, his account was set up, and some of the Riddle fortune was working a new job in the wizarding economy. Tom learned that he could pay for his purchases at select, authorized merchants with a simple wand tap on a parchment form, which would deduct the money from his account automatically. He made sure that Hermione was authorized to do that "also."
After Tom had thanked the goblins and they'd left, he looked at his shopping list. "Let's go to the bookshop last."
"Why?"
"So we won't feel rushed, and can take our time shopping for whatever books strike our fancy. I ask only that you be done with your book shopping by dinner time. Buy whatever you like, just charge it to my Gringotts account."
Her eyes were not as wide as Dobby's sometimes were, but they were still pretty darn wide. Even her pupils were wide open. "Really?"
Tom smiled. Everyone had a weakness, and this witch's was obvious. He'd tame her and have her as obedient as Dobby in no time. "Really," he said, baring his newly perfected teeth.
"Let's get through our other errands fast, then," said Hermione. "Come on. Knockturn Alley is this way."
Tom and Dobby followed her to a truly fascinating district, full of shops that seemed even more mysterious and intriguing than those in Diagon Alley. There was a pet shop, for instance, that proudly displayed a terrarium of bright orange, three-headed snakes, not the slightly odd-looking kittens he'd seen in a pet shop in Diagon Alley. Hermione rushed past it, however. Tom decided to be patient. He didn't have to see everything today.
Tom felt that he could spend all day investigating the peculiar artifacts in Borgin and Burke's (est. 1863, as the sign proudly said) were it not for Hermione's impatience. Now was not the time to inquire about the spiky metal instruments hanging from the ceiling, for instance, nor the dusty, wax-sealed brown glass bottle in which faintly glowing figures murkily swam, nor the deep maroon velvet curtains which swayed slightly even though there was no breeze, covering the contents of an ornate gilded picture frame on the wall.
A wizard who looked as ancient as his wares slunk out of a shadow to greet them. "Good morning," he croaked. "How may I help you?"
"Good morning," said Tom. "I'm looking for something specific, a gold locket with the letter S in green stones. My wife sold it here not long ago."
"Salazar Slytherin's locket!" hissed the wizard. "A unique historical artifact!"
"That's right, we had it made to look just like the real one. Do you still have it?"
"Had it made?" repeated the wizard.
"As a precaution against theft. My wife was so proud of her ancestor, she wanted to wear his locket all the time, but didn't want to risk losing the real one to thieves. Thus, we had this reproduction made for her to display, while keeping the real one safely hidden. I'm afraid a family tiff prompted her to sell the reproduction in a fit of pique. I would like it back now."
The ancient wizard did not look surprised to hear this. Instead, he looked completely blank, which gave enough away.
Tom laughed. "You didn't think it was the real one, did you? I mean, she never would have accepted a mere ten galleons for the real one, that would be ridiculous."
Hermione laughed beside him. She had a loud, unrefined laugh, acceptable for an athlete, Tom supposed.
"So do you still have it?" pressed Tom.
"One moment please," croaked the wizard. He stepped behind a counter and reverently took out a small black case. He opened it to display the locket, gleaming gold and green against black velvet.
"Oh, the case is a nice touch," admired Tom. "It makes it look real. Is that for sale too?" He took the case, locket included, from the wizard's hands and looked it over. "I'll have to check that the locket itself is in good shape of course," he said. "The hinge had a tendency to get stuck."
He was then distracted by one of the other items in the shop, an opal necklace with a large sign declaring "Do not Touch! Cursed. Has claimed the lives of eleven Muggle owners to date."
Tom casually handed the case to Hermione in order to free his hands to reach towards the necklace."Ooh look, Hermione, opals! Do they remind you of home?"
The shopkeeper shrieked and jumped between Tom and the necklace faster than Tom would have thought possible. "Read the sign! This necklace is cursed!"
Tom reread the sign, and made a big show of looking surprised. "That sign just says it kills muggles. You're saying it kills wizards too?"
"It's used to kill muggles, but that doesn't mean it doesn't kill wizards," explained the shopkeeper as if this should be obvious to any idiot.
"You shouldn't just leave a thing like that out where wizards can reach it then. Why display this out here where it's in the way, and lock up that bit of costume jewelry?" Referring to the locket Hermione was examining.
"I like to assume that my customers have some sense," grumbled the shopkeeper.
Tom shook his head. "Customers like to assume that shopkeepers have some sense. Anyway, Hermione, does the locket seem to be in good condition? Her father was in the jewelry business," he explained to the shopkeeper.
"Not lockets specifically," she said. "He dealt more in gemstones. Alohomora," she added, pointing her wand at the locket, which was now enclosed in her fist. When she opened her hand, Tom and the shopkeeper saw that the locket was open as well.
"It doesn't seem damaged," said Hermione, shrugging. "It opened fine."
"Maybe she had the hinge fixed before that tiff prompted her to sell it," theorized Tom.
"Ew, what's in here, old hair?" said Hermione. Indeed there was, a tuft of short, straight, shining black hair, bound by a twisted strand of dull brown. Tom felt his innards churn when he saw it.
"Seems rather Victorian of Merope, to keep a lock of my hair in a locket," said Tom. It was all right for his voice to shake. His wife was dead.
Hermione patted his arm. "And I see she left you this strand of her own hair as a keepsake."
"Nice of her," he choked out.
"But…" The poor shopkeeper was having difficulties. "I couldn't open it with a simple Alohomora, of course that was one of the first tests I tried! Slytherin's locket can be opened only by a descendant of Salazar Slytherin!"
Hermione laughed. "There's no way a muggleborn like me could have opened the real thing." Then she adopted a condescendingly helpful tone. "Are you sure you pronounced it correctly? The main accent is on the fourth syllable, but the second should also be slightly emphasized. Don't be discouraged. You can do it! Say it with me. Alo—"
"I don't need a charms lesson from a muggleborn."
"I don't expect a discount in exchange for the lesson, I'm just trying to be helpful," Hermione assured him.
"I don't believe this wizard needs a charms lesson, Hermione," said Tom. "All we need to do is negotiate a price for this locket, and also this lovely black case, which displays it so convincingly. Now, since Merope sold it for ten, I assume you expect to make at least some profit off it, so shall we say eleven? And another galleon for the case, bringing the total to twelve?"
The shopkeeper seemed to have some rather strong emotions seething under his wrinkled surface. "I'm wondering why I was unable to open this locket before, when you can so easily open it with an Alohomora now."
"Was that sticky hinge giving you trouble?" asked Tom sympathetically. "Maybe Merope didn't get it fixed after all. If it's unreliable like this, maybe I should just have a new one made. I'm sorry to trouble you. Good luck selling a broken locket." He nodded to Hermione, who snapped the locket closed and made to hand it back to the shopkeeper.
"Wait," said the shopkeeper, not taking it. "I'm sure the locket is in fine shape. I must have simply mispronounced the incantation. I'll take twelve galleons for the locket, another two for the case, bringing the total to fourteen."
"I don't really need the case," said Tom.
"But it's pretty," said Hermione, proving what a terrible negotiator she was, completely without guile.
"I'll pay one galleon, five sickles for it."
"One galleon, ten sickles."
"Oh all right. I'm not going to waste my time haggling over small change." Tom paid, handed the jewelry case to Dobby to carry, thanked the shopkeeper, received thanks for his business, and left.
They didn't let themselves laugh until they had walked all the way back to Diagon Alley. Then they caught each other's eye and couldn't stop laughing for a while. Tommy's blue-black eyes looked from one to the other, and he smiled a toothless smile. He may have let out a little laugh of his own, but Hermione and Tom were laughing too loudly to hear him.
Once they'd recovered from their mirth, Hermione led them to a shop that sold stationery, and also magazines. Tom searched the magazines until he found what he wanted: Dueling Illustrated, which he picked up to purchase, and Witch Weekly, which he didn't touch. "Hermione?" he called, for she was looking at quills.
She came over. "I don't know if hippogriff feathers are really any better than owl in terms of functionality, but they are more expensive, so maybe that's what you want. What's this?"
"Witch Weekly. Would you please be so kind as to get the publisher's address from it, so if it's in the neighborhood, I can order a subscription at their office?"
"Why don't you just do that yourself?" she asked.
Tom looked at her.
She rolled her eyes. "You can punch a Malfoy in the face, but you're scared of a women's magazine. All right, I'll save you from this terrible danger. Reading a witches' magazine could shrivel a wizard's wand into a little nubbin." She picked up the magazine and looked for the address. "Their office is right on Diagon Alley, not far from here."
Tom laughed. "Thank you. And thank you for humoring me."
She smiled. "I'm always happy to help the weak and helpless. Now let's look at quills."
Once they had purchased writing supplies suitable for representing the Riddle family, as well as some cheap parchment to practice on, they handed their purchases to Dobby to carry, and headed to the office of Witch Weekly. No wonder they hadn't noticed it before, as it was above a millinery.
They climbed the stairs and Tom addressed the receptionist, who, he assumed, was dressed quite fashionably by wizarding standards. "Good morning. I would like to buy a year's subscription as a gift for my mother."
"Very good sir, that will be three galleons. Please write her name and address on this form." Tom did, handling the quill expertly, quite aware that the secretary was watching him very attentively. He handed her the completed form and the galleons.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Riddle. I hope your mother enjoys this gift." Then she turned to Tom's companion. "And what an honor to be visited by Hermione Granger, the famous duelist. Is that what the fashionable witch is wearing in Australia these days? If you have a minute, I'm sure one of our reporters could—"
At the look on Hermione's face, Tom knew he had to intervene. "I'm sorry, but Miss Granger is tired of being hounded by reporters. We're here for that gift subscription only. If that form is in order, we'll be on our way."
The secretary looked it over. "This is all in order. Thank you for your business."
"Good day," Tom said curtly, and they left.
They hadn't got far before Hermione drew close to him, her curls writhing around his head as she whispered in his ear. "We're being followed."
"Of course we are. Witch Weekly isn't going to just ignore the most interesting celebrities in Diagon Alley today. Smile for the camera, unless you'd rather look like some dour Victorian. Which might still be the fashion here, I don't know. We should probably just look candid."
Her eyes were wide. "How?"
"Less like you're anticipating an ambush, more like you're out enjoying a shopping trip. You're a tourist here, remember. Do they have owls like these in Australia?" They had reached Eeylops Owl Emporium & Magical Menagerie.
The panicked look in her eyes faded once she had owls to focus on. "We have owls back home, yes, but different from these. I've never seen one like that," she said, pointing, and looking genuinely impressed.
A saleswoman stepped forward to hawk her wares. "We got a new batch of eagle owls delivered from the breeder just today, including that rare melanistic morph." He was a beauty. The other eagle owls in the shop were already quite striking, with their ear-like tufts and fiery orange eyes, but black feathers were a setting that made orange eyes seem to glow even brighter. He also seemed even larger than most of the other owls. "They're extremely rare, and rather costly, as they have to be hand-raised. Their parents kick them out of the nest, you see, because they're not light grayish-brown as chicks like common eagle owls."
"I'll take him," said Tom.
"Her."
"Really? How can you tell?"
"Female owls are bigger than males."
"Of course."
The saleswoman gave him a distrustful look. "Have you owned an owl before?"
Tom always made a point of never telling a lie that could be easily caught. "No. But Hermione here—"
"Actually I haven't owned one myself," she said. "My friends did. I had a cat."
The saleswoman didn't think much of that. "Hmph. You'll need this guide to owl care." She got a book.
"And some more owl treats," said Hermione, "And a cage, although we won't keep her trapped in the cage of course, she'll have free access to the grounds to hunt. We'll take good care of her."
"Hmph," said the saleswoman, which meant, "You'd better, or you'll feel my wrath."
"And we'll ask your advice if we have any questions in the future, whenever we come by to restock our owl treats," Tom promised.
The heir of Riddle eventually convinced the saleswoman to permit him to buy the owl and accessories for a hundred and twenty-seven galleons, a task that felt more difficult than cheating the antiques dealer out of Slytherin's locket. The owl was gently encouraged to step into her cage, where she stood on her perch, closed her eyes, and fell asleep. Dobby picked the cage up reverently.
As they were leaving the owl emporium, a family was walking past. The parents and their three children were quite well-dressed, and accessorized with an elf burdened with packages, so Tom paid attention. The youngest child, a boy of perhaps ten, was looking around at everything with the enthusiasm Tom felt but couldn't express without revealing himself as a rube. Such an expression of wonder was appropriate in a child. Tom felt that way, at least, although the child's parents evidently didn't. The mother called back to her dawdling son. "Marius! Come on! We have a lot of errands to get through before your brother and sister go back to Hogwarts. Don't make me regret allowing you to come."
"But look at that owl! She's magnificent!"
The mother continued to stare resolutely ahead, but her daughter, a girl with a low forehead and a nose that she might eventually grow into, turned to see what had excited her brother, and then shared his enthusiasm. "She really is a magnificent owl, mother."
This softened the woman's resolve. She stopped and turned her head to look at Tom's new owl. "Well. All right, in this case you clearly recognized an owl of quality."
Tom had never been so delighted with a purchase in his life. "A melanistic morph of an eagle owl," he explained proudly. "Very rare. Would you like to see her up close?"
The young boy rushed forward. He'd been spared the worst of his sister's features. His hair and lively eyebrows were black, his skin pale, his eyes wide and grey. "She's beautiful!"
The grey-haired patriarch of the family came over and laid a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. "Don't talk to strangers. You have no idea who they are."
"That's easily remedied with an introduction. I'm Tom Riddle." He smiled and extended his hand to the patriarch, who looked at it as if he were being offered a long-dead fish.
"Riddle isn't a wizarding name."
"It is now," said Tom. "You would do well to remember it."
"Any more owls like that in the shop?" the patriarch asked.
"No, sorry. She's the only one like this they had."
The wizard gave a disbelieving snort and walked into the shop. He walked out again in a moment and gave Tom a steely look with appropriately steel-grey eyes. "An owl like that belongs in a noble and ancient family. How much do you want for it?"
"She's not for sale."
"How much? A hundred galleons?"
Tom laughed. "That's less than I just paid."
"Two hundred."
"As much as I hate to disappoint your son, no, sorry. The Riddles do not need to raise money by selling a pet."
"Three hundred and that's my final offer."
"I'm glad that's your final offer, since your persistence is tiresome. No. Don't you have errands to run before school break is over?"
The boy was observing this with very wide eyes. The wizard Tom had refused was seething. The air seemed to grow taut around them, like a bowstring pulled back.
"I don't need a black owl," the boy said timidly. "A regular grey or brown owl would be fine."
"I didn't want it for you," said the boy's father contemptuously. "I thought your brother might find it useful for corresponding with his wife."
"I can just use a school owl," said the older brother, who'd been slouching in the background. He looked only about fifteen.
"But you don't," said his mother.
The boy shrugged. "Can we get to the broom shop already?"
The patriarch seemed torn between winning this confrontation via whatever means necessary, and leaving the whole mess behind him. Tom would make the choice easier for him. "We're not going to the broom shop today," he assured the wizard, "so you won't have to settle for my leavings there. I suggest you hurry along before the broom you want is purchased by someone else." The wizard was turning purple with rage. "Unless you'd rather stay and chat? I'm in no rush, and am always happy to expand my social circle. A disillusioned photographer from Witch Weekly is following me around today, so here's your opportunity to be photographed next to the famous Tom Riddle. Soon everyone will know of our friendship, which is bound to burnish your reputation. Smile for the camera."
The young boy stared up at Tom in awe. His father turned and walked away.
"My name's Marius," whispered the boy. "Marius Black." Then he ran to catch up with his family.
Tom wondered where Hermione had gone. Ah, there she was. She had taken his son to safety, and was looking at astrolabes in the window of a nearby shop, or, perhaps, at the reflection of Tom and his new friends in the window. He joined her, Dobby at his heels. "I clearly bought the right owl," he said proudly. "And at quite a reasonable price."
"You…" She hadn't thought her sentence out before starting it. "That was very brave," she finally concluded.
"A man has to stand up for himself." After a busy morning, Tom was ready for a break. "Lunch at La Truffe Émraude?" he suggested. "I want to see if they've adopted your suggestion to feed elves in a separate room. I am concerned about taking Dobby away from the company of his fellow elves to serve me. Allowing him to eat lunch with elves would partially compensate for that loss." Dobby was looking up hopefully at them.
"Oh!" said Hermione. "That's very considerate of you."
"It's the least I could do," said Tom. "Dobby and I have discussed this, and he's looking forward to showing off his new shirt." Which was barely distinguishable from a rag to all but the closest observer, but it made a big difference to the elf.
Indeed, the waiter explained the new policy of feeding elves in a separate room, as they were a tripping hazard, thus no longer allowed in the dining room. Now elves would drop their masters' packages at their masters' table before going to a back room to be fed. Dobby cheerfully went in the direction he was pointed, and Hermione and Tom sat at their table, admiring their sleeping owl, and the lovely decor and well-dressed patrons. The dining room was made even more lovely by the absence of Malfoys, for after reading the 1997 edition of Nature's Nobility, Tom would rather not be in the same room as Mrs. Giselle Malfoy if he could help it.
They looked at their menus. "No diricawl, I know that much," said Tom. "Anything else you want to avoid? A pity we can't consult with Dobby, but I don't want to interrupt his socializing."
"I think this menu is partly in French so we don't know what we're actually ordering," fretted Hermione. "I mean, I know some muggle French, but that doesn't help when they're serving magical creatures." Her forehead was going to wind up permanently wrinkled if she persisted with that worried expression.
Tom put his menu down. He put his hand on Hermione's menu and lowered that as well. "We'll tell the chef to prepare something vegetarian for us," he said. "Unless you have ethical qualms about magical vegetables as well. That salad seemed pretty lively, but I don't think it was sentient."
Hermione smiled, which was a much better look for her in case a disillusioned Witch Weekly photographer had followed them this far and was lurking in this restaurant. "That's a good idea," she said. "Thank you."
The waiter took this order graciously, and the food was delicious, although neither of them knew what most of the dishes were. They finally ordered the chocolate cake they'd seen the Malfoys enjoying two days ago. It was exquisite.
"Have you had enough?" Tom asked. "I know you're eating for Tommy as well." He looked like an angel, asleep in her sling.
She shook her head. "I couldn't eat another bite. Did you want anything else?"
"No. Well, not food anyway. This is going to sound silly, but I was sort of hoping something more exciting would happen on this outing. We'd be attacked and have to defend ourselves. That family at the owl shop seemed promising, but they were actually quite reasonable. I mean, it seems a waste to go out with the national dueling champion of Australia—"
"I never claimed to be the national champion, that could be easily disproven—"
"And not get into a duel."
Hermione looked at him. She was smiling, but not laughing. "I know what you mean," she said. "Maybe we'll get lucky and come across a mugging in progress, rescue the innocent victim from the villains."
"We can hope." He paid, and summoned Dobby, who hoisted their packages cheerfully. They set out for Flourish and Blotts.
Every other shop had seemed fairly empty this sleepy January Tuesday, but the book shop was crowded. A sign outside provided the explanation: "Author talk and book signing today at 1 pm. Professor Emerett Picardy will present his book Lupine Lawlessness: Why Lycanthropes Don't Deserve to Live."
"That looks interesting," said Tom. "Lycanthropes? That means—"
"It's more polite to call them people with lycanthropy," seethed Hermione. "But most people just call them werewolves."
Tom looked at Hermione with concern. She seemed to have more than merely an academic interest in this subject. "Shall we attend?" he asked. "I don't know anything about werewolves."
"Neither does Professor Picardy," she said with cold fury.
"Oh." That was disappointing. "There's no point listening to him then. We'll just get our books and go."
"No, I want to attend his talk," she said determinedly. "I'll take a front row seat if I can get it."
This did not bode well. Tom realized with horror that Hermione had been in the habit of taking a nap every afternoon, to compensate for the sleep deprivation that went with caring for a newborn, yet he had not planned that into today's schedule. "But if he doesn't know what he's talking about—"
"He needs to be told that. It's about time someone did."
Tom followed Hermione into the bookshop feeling like a condemned man walking to the gallows. Mercifully, there were no front-row seats left. There were no seats left at all, and in fact there was barely any room to stand. It was a distinctive crowd. Many of the attendees had a tough, adventurous look to them, with dragonhide jackets that seemed more suited to bushwhacking through brambles than attending an author's talk.
Hermione and Tom had arrived late enough that they were stuck near the back of the crowd, and Tom felt no inclination to intimidate the crowd into showing their little party the deference due to the heir of Riddle and his entourage.
Professor Picardy, a thin, slouching, bald man in his fifties, stood next to a pallet of books. He was speaking in a quavery, high voice. "While in its animal form, the werewolf is almost indistinguishable in appearance from the true wolf, although the snout may be slightly shorter and the pupils smaller (in both cases more 'human') and the tail tufted rather than full and bushy. The real difference is in behaviour. Genuine wolves are not very aggressive, and the vast number of folk tales representing them as mindless predators are now believed by wizarding authorities to refer to werewolves, not true wolves. A wolf is unlikely to attack a human except under exceptional circumstances. The werewolf, however, targets humans almost exclusively and poses very little danger to any other creature."
Hermione was nodding along, apparently finding this information unobjectionable. Tom allowed himself to breathe.
Professor Picardy continued. "When the werewolf is in its human form, again the difference is in behavior. Unlike humans, werewolves have no morals whatsoever, and any impression they may give of kindness or decency is in fact a deception calculated to ingratiate themselves with their victims."
Hermione's curls were writhing free of their civilized style. Tom's instincts told him to run, but instead he stepped closer. The air changed, as if he were entering a storm. "Hermione," he said quietly. "if we leave now you should have time for a nap before—"
She was paying no attention to Tom. "That's not true!" she yelled at Professor Picardy, so loudly she hurt Tom's ears. Tom winced from both physical and social pain, and put more distance between them. This seemed like a good time to search the shelves for an instructional book on pureblood-style calligraphy. He nodded to Dobby, who followed him. It should be obvious to any observer that he had never seen this heckler before in his life. Oh no, what if the disillusioned Witch Weekly photographer had followed them this far? Surely he or she would have taken enough photos already and headed back to the office by now.
Hermione continued her rant. "Lycanthropy does nothing to change the morality of the people infected with it. Society shuns them, so they sometimes resort to desperate measures to survive, but this means they deserve our sympathy, not our censure. Even when faced with terribly oppressive prejudice, some exhibit more morality than many humans I could name. One of the kindest, gentlest, bravest men I ever knew happened to be a werewolf. He died defending children, human children, from a Dark wizard. I can't let you stand there telling lies about my friend, saying he had no moral sense. That werewolf was a better man than you."
Everyone, Professor Picardy and the crowd, seemed struck dumb.
"She's right!" cried a new voice. Tom peered around the bookcase that hid him, and took an instant dislike to the scruffy young man who was contributing to this disturbance. From his scuffed boots to his shaggy, sunstreaked auburn hair, he looked like he should be doing some sort of rural manual labor instead of attending an author's talk. Surely, those calloused hands should be swinging an ax or something— Tom froze, and ceased his mental tally of the fellow's faults. His left hand was missing. Tom assured himself that he had developed his dislike of this man before realizing that he was a cripple, and thus could not be faulted for being prejudiced against him for his deformity. Instead, Tom disliked him for perfectly valid reasons. But wait. Why was his hand missing at all? Wasn't regrowing missing limbs one of the wonders of wizarding medicine that Hermione had listed?
"Half of this crowd could write a better book on werewolves than this," the young man continued. "We, the bounty hunters, the exterminators, the ones who are out in the field every day fighting Dark creatures, we know what they're really like. Your Defense classes at Hogwarts taught me nothing. The misinformation you gave me was worse than useless!" The one-handed man seemed to have more than an academic concern about this misinformation. "Have you ever even knowingly met a werewolf?" he scoffed.
"I have examined many werewolves!" said Professor Picardy. "My extensive studies at the Werewolf Research Institute—"
The young man sneered, "You've studied them only in captivity, and you think that makes you an expert? The only way to truly understand a species is to study it in its natural habitat."
"I will not be lectured by a Hogwarts dropout!" screeched Professor Picardy. He looked around. "Isn't there any security at this shop? Remove this man."
"Security should remove this pretender who knows nothing about werewolves!" shouted the one-handed man. "I bet you wouldn't even recognize a werewolf if there were one in this shop right now."
Someone in the crowd screamed. "Werewolf! He said there's a real werewolf right here in the shop!"
"I didn't say there is a werewolf, I just said that if there were one here, or more than one I suppose, this fraud wouldn't be able to identity—"
"Don't cause a panic!" shouted Professor Picardy. He drew his wand and pointed it at the one-handed man. "Silencio!"
The one-handed man rushed to draw his own wand as Professor Picardy cast the spell, but didn't manage in time. Nonetheless, he was surrounded by a faceted iridescent crystal which deflected the professor's spell. It ricocheted off the crystal to hit a tall bookcase, which toppled, hitting the bookcase behind it, which also toppled, until the whole row of them fell like dominoes. The crowd moved in a panicked herd away from the disaster, which meant they charged Professor Picardy en mass.
The professor stood there frozen for a moment, staring at this mob, then dived behind the pallet of new books he'd planned to autograph.
"Where's the professor?" someone called.
"The werewolves must have got him!" called someone else.
The screams that followed this were difficult to understand as words, but Tom managed to decipher a few:
"Help! Werewolves!"
"They'll kill us all!"
"You think that's bad, you know what they do to women!" This was from a dumpy, middle-aged witch. "There's a whole shelf of books all about it over there!" Tom looked, and saw a display of books with lurid covers of muscular werewolves ripping the robes off beautiful witches and occasionally sinking fangs into their creamy flesh. The victims expressed their feelings about this with parted lips and heaving bosoms. Tom looked away, feeling like his eyes were dirty.
"No, I'll save you! I'm an expert werewolf hunter!" This declaration was made by a young wizard in a black dragonskin jacket, who then proceeded to shoot flashy spells seemingly at random around the shop.
"No, I'll save you!" shouted another of his type, this time at a young woman with light-brown hair who was not calling for help at all, but instead attempting to creep out of the riot discreetly. "Even if there's a whole pack of ferocious feral werewolves hell-bent on eating every human here, I'll kill them all!" The woman cast an unappreciative side-eye in his direction.
The one-handed man was looking around in confusion, no doubt for the source of the shield that had deflected the professor's spell, but Tom recognized that spell. Hermione, wand drawn, had taken a defensive position, sheltered behind a jumble of fallen bookcases. She seemed to be in her element. She took a moment to smile down at Tommy in her sling. Watch and learn, she was undoubtedly saying. Tom was starting to question whether she was a wholesome influence on his son.
"You can't silence the truth!" yelled the one-handed man, whose wand was now drawn. The professor peeked out from behind his books and shot another spell at him, but he dodged and ran, sheltering, as luck would have it, behind the section of books on improving one's penmanship that was also sheltering Tom.
This formerly peaceful section of the bookshop was worsening quickly. Tom's instinct was to flee, but the rest of the bookshop seemed even worse. Panicked witches and wizards were running, falling, trampling each other, knocking over bookcases, and shooting presumably anti-werewolf spells in all directions. The more adventurous members of the audience were attempting to outdo each other with their werewolf-hunting prowess, so the air was thick with spells, curses, and business cards. The one-handed man surveyed the chaos and grinned.
Then he seemed to notice that he wasn't alone. He and Tom eyed each other warily. Tom realized that he had, at some point, drawn his wand from his sleeve, and was gripping it as if he knew what to do with it. His gaze flicked to Dobby, who was cowering behind Tom's robes, as instructed, but the best way to fight was not to. "I'm on your side," Tom assured the one-handed man. "I'm no friend of that fraud professor."
Tom didn't feel that this had been one of his more convincing lies, but it was believable enough for this audience, as the one-handed man nodded and put his finger to his lips in the universal sign for "hush." Then he scampered up the bookcase like a squirrel. From that perch, he had a clear shot at the pallet of, presumably, badly written new books about werewolves. He pointed his wand at it.
Tom had lost sight of Hermione, but now she reappeared, zooming over the riot on a broom, hair flying behind her like the tail of a meteor. Little Tommy in her sling looked around wide-eyed. And she'd scorned his Bentley as too dangerous a vehicle for a child! She landed next to the one-handed man on top of the bookcase. "What are you doing?" she asked with cheerful enthusiasm.
"Trying to transfigure his books to snakes, like the snake who wrote them," he answered. "Just think, they'll slither away, and then by the time my transfiguration wears off, his books will be in shreds. I figured that was better than just setting them on fire, in a bookshop."
"Now now, we don't want this panic to get worse," she said. "And don't bother. I already turned all the letters to ants." With her wand, she drew a lens in the air for him to peer through. "See? They're crawling out from between the pages now. He'll never get them back in the right order. And see him scratching himself as they crawl up his legs?"
"Brilliant!" said the one-handed man. Then he turned his admiring gaze to her. "Who are you?"
"I'll explain later. Let's get out of here. Can you apparate?"
He shook his shaggy head. "I never had lessons."
Hermione grabbed the one-handed man's arm. "Dobby and Tom, we'll see you back at the house!" she called down cheerfully. With a loud crack, she, his son, and the one-handed stranger were gone.
She'd abandoned him, a muggle alone in the middle of a wizarding riot. Not quite alone. "Dobby!"
"Yes Master?"
"Can you get us out of here?"
"Of course, Master." He reached a large hand up to Tom, who grasped it in his own. Tom barely had time to register the strange feel of the elf's hand, like wood, before he was whirling through emptiness, and then trying to find his footing in Hermione's room. Perhaps the elf was better at apparition than Hermione was, or Tom was becoming inured to it, as the room seemed to stop spinning reasonably quickly.
"Miss Granger!" Dobby cried.
"I know," said Hermione.
"The alarm! The wards!"
"Yes. Now we know they work. I'll turn them off." She waved her wand. Nothing happened, as far as Tom could tell.
"But the Dark magic detector—"
"Yes."
"—says a Dark creature has entered the house!"
"That's all right, Dobby," said Hermione, as she offered some milk to Tommy, who did not enjoy apparition. "I already suspected he's a werewolf." She turned her smile to the one-handed man, who had blanched under his tan at the word "werewolf." "Can you stay for a while? We have much to discuss."