The Daily Prophet headline screamed, "RIOT AT FLOURISH AND BLOTTS!" It was illustrated by a moving photo of Hermione, wild hair flying. She curled a protective arm around Tommy while with her other hand, she cast a shield spell that formed a crystal around them both. It deflected the shower of books that tumbled from a wobbling bookcase, then the heavy wooden bookcase itself, then part of the ceiling that crumbled under the assault of some off-camera spell. This brief scene played over and over.
"That Witch Weekly photographer must be glad she followed us," remarked Tom. "I think I'll do most of my shopping by owl-order from now on," he added. "We don't seem to have good luck with retail."
"I'll need to go to Diagon Alley today, though," said Hermione. "I'll be setting up a potions lab, so I'll need cauldrons, scales, ingredients, everything. Is there a space here I can use for a lab? Some of the odors from it won't be very pleasant, so you won't want it near the living spaces."
"The shed out back?" suggested Tom, feeling that he'd finally fulfilled a long-treasured dream, as that was where he'd originally tried to send her.
"That sounds perfect, thank you. It will have to be absolutely off-limits to everyone else. I'll have some very dangerous potion ingredients in there."
"Understood," said his father.
"That includes Tommy I'm afraid. Mrs. Riddle, could you look after him while I'm working?"
"I would be delighted," she said.
"Thank you."
"It's silly to thank me for caring for my own grandson. It is you who deserve thanks for caring for a child not your own."
Hermione considered that. "You're right of course, but he's starting to feel like my own. I'm growing quite attached to him. That must be an effect of the wet nurse potion."
"Or a natural reaction to what a darling little snugglekins he is," cooed Tom's mother.
"Possibly," said Hermione. "Anyway, I'll miss him while I'm working over the next few days, but it must be done. The full moon is Monday, January seventeenth, so Ignis will have to start taking the wolfsbane potion on the eleventh. Today's Wednesday the fifth. I've got to work very fast."
"If you don't make this month's deadline, there's always next month," said his father.
Hermione shook her head. "You don't understand how agonizing a normal werewolf transformation is. Under the influence of a full moon, werewolves do anything to bite humans. The ethical ones like Ignis, who lock themselves in basements or similar before they transform, have their wolf-minds driven to madness by their captivity, slamming themselves against the walls, and biting themselves in frustration. When they come to their human senses in the morning, they're lying in a puddle of wolf blood, with Dark injuries that can't be thoroughly healed even by magic. If there's even a slim chance of saving Ignis from another bout of that, I've got to try."
"Hermione dear," said Tom's mother. "Do you remember what I said earlier about appropriate conversational subjects for the table? We are trying to eat breakfast."
Hermione gave an inelegant snort, then turned to Tom. "Have you named your owl yet?"
"I've had other things on my mind, so no. Any ideas?" He looked around the table.
His mother spoke. "When one thinks of owls, one thinks of the owl of Minerva, Roman goddess of wisdom. But is Minerva cliche?"
"I don't think so," said Hermione. "I knew a witch named Minerva. It would feel odd to call an owl that."
"Then Athena, the Greek version of the same goddess," said his mother, and it was so.
"She came back at dawn today," said Hermione. "We should move her cage out of my room, to yours or some dedicated owlery. I don't need a second beautiful creature disturbing my sleep."
"Which location do you think she would prefer?" Tom asked.
"Let's ask her."
So after breakfast, they did, Tom's parents coming along to see his new owl. She opened her eyes at their entrance. "Would you like to be called Athena?" Tom asked. "After the goddess of wisdom, justice, and strategy?"
The owl considered this, and fluffed her feathers in a way that seemed to indicate approval.
"Then Athena, I would like to introduce you to my parents, Squire Thomas Riddle and Mrs. Mary Riddle. They may ask you to carry letters for them as well."
Athena nodded to acknowledge these introductions.
Tom continued, "I would like to move your cage to my office, unless you would prefer an outdoor location."
She looked at him in a way that let him know she was willing to entertain the possibility of relocating to his office, so he hoisted her cage.
"You would charm a hippogriff," said Hermione. "You're very polite."
"A gentleman is never unintentionally rude," said Tom.
"If you're rich enough, you can get away with being as rude as you want," said his father.
"I am as rude as I want," said Tom. "The amount of rudeness I want to exhibit is generally zero, unless behaving otherwise would be to my advantage." He could feel his mother smiling proudly at him.
His father harrumphed. "Anyway, that is an impressive owl, at least as good as Malfoy's."
"Thank you."
"She's beautiful," said his mother.
"I have work to do in my own office," said his father.
"And I have sewing to do," said his mother. "Enjoy your new owl."
Tom, Athena, and Hermione-and-Tommy, who moved as a unit, went to his office. He found a spot near the window for the owl cage. "Is this suitable?" he asked Athena.
She looked content and closed her eyes to sleep.
"Would you like me to charm this window so she can come and go at will?" Hermione asked.
"You mean open it?"
"Open it only to owls, not to cold drafts and rain and such."
"Yes please." He enjoyed watching her work, inscribing runes on the window frame with confident strokes of her wand.
"Now you can just leave her cage open. She'll mostly hunt for herself, but she'll appreciate some food from us too. I should do this to a window in the dining room too to make it easier for the paper delivery owl."
"Thank you. Owl care seems easy."
"You'll have to clean her cage regularly of course."
"No I won't. Dobby will."
"Oh. Of course. Anyway, now that Athena's sorted, show me this shed of yours. I'll inspect it, then head to Diagon Alley," said Hermione.
"I'll come too," said Tom. "I never did get that penmanship book I wanted. Although I suppose the shop might not have reopened yet."
"I don't have time to show a tourist around," snapped Hermione. "I have a lot to do."
Tom might be able to charm a hippogriff, whatever that was, but Hermione was not so easily tamed. Some wild creatures required more patience. He led Hermione to the shed. It had been used for hobbies of various Riddles over the years, but neither Tom nor his father tied fishing flies or carved duck decoys. The stock market was much more interesting.
Hermione looked around and declared the space satisfactory. "I'll just clean it and fix it up a bit and it will be fine."
Tom sighed. "No you won't. Dobby!"
Pop. "Yes Master?"
"Miss Granger will be using this shed as a potions lab, so repair it as necessary, move those targets to the garage, clean it, and put some security spells on it. What does it need, Hermione?"
"Please ward it so that no one except you and I can enter it," she said to Dobby. "Don't improve the look of the outside at all. It should remain looking unused and uninteresting."
"Yes Miss Granger." Dobby got to work immediately.
"Thank you. I'll be back in a bit." She disappeared with a loud crack before Tom could advise her not to start any riots this time. At least if she planned such, she should have left Tommy at home.
Tom returned to his office to catch up on his work. If the tenant was to be believed, the reason the rent had not yet been paid on the Edgemere property was that the drainage system repairs that the Riddles had promised had not yet been done, which meant that the contractor Tom had hired had not done his job adequately. Someone in this situation was lying. This called for an investigation, which these days was generally Tom's job.
As Tom bundled up against the cold and got in his car, he reflected on what a hassle it was to be a landlord. It seemed that any tenants who weren't busy trashing the Riddle properties were instead demanding repairs. The stock market was so much cleaner. Perhaps Tom's father would come around to Tom's idea to sell their real estate and put the money in stocks instead. The market was doing so well, it would be a much better return on investment. Squire Riddle was a forward-thinking man, as landed gentry went, but he had a sentimental attachment to the properties that were the source of the Riddle family's wealth.
There were worse things to be than a landlord, Tom supposed. At least he wasn't a werewolf. He laughed as he drove. The wizarding world would keep him so busy, perhaps now wasn't the time to advocate for a change in his muggle affairs as well.
As he drove past the Gaunt shack, he made a mental note to check on who, if anyone, was paying its property tax. Tommy stood to inherit it, at least once Morfin was out of the way. Getting Morfin out of the way, well, Tom would take care of that little problem somehow. He'd no doubt be weak when he was released from prison. Tom would have Hermione handle that problem.
He returned home after a day's work, which he discussed with his parents in the drawing room before dinner. Hermione swept into the drawing room shortly after him, wearing faded black robes that were not particularly flattering. She took Tommy from Tom's mother and fed him, smiling down at him. All right, perhaps those robes weren't completely unflattering.
"You're in good spirits," said Tom. "Start any riots today? Offend any powerful old families? Free any slaves?"
"Not today," she said cheerfully. "But I found everything I need for the wolfsbane potion." She handed him a stack of small parchments. "These receipts should just be one-time expenses, for the equipment." She handed him another small stack. "And these are for the ingredients. If this works, I'll have to buy these every month."
"I assume Ignis will be willing to pay for this potion, once you prove it works," said Tom, glancing at the receipts before putting them in the section of his wallet designed for such, to enter into his accounts later. "Don't insult the man by treating him like a charity case. He's a tradesman."
"You're right. I'm used to werewolves being destitute."
"What other werewolves do you know besides your old professor?" asked Tom's father.
"Well, he was the only one I knew well, and he was destitute after he lost his teaching job. He had it only a year. He was older than Ignis. Thirty years of monthly Dark injuries as a werewolf had left his body too broken to do most muggle jobs, and no one in the wizarding world would hire a known werewolf. Even if he had survived that battle, I don't know what would have become of him. After he resigned, I convinced my parents they needed to hire him as a private tutor for me over holidays. I learned quite a lot of course, but it was also worth doing since I really think he may have starved otherwise."
"A man with magical powers, starving?" protested his father. "What was stopping him from just taking whatever he wanted?"
"Ethics," said Hermione. "Not to mention the law. A werewolf caught breaking wizarding law doesn't just go to prison, he's put down like a vicious animal. Emphasis on caught. The few werewolves who really do act like vicious beasts give a bad name to all the rest. And they're hard to catch." Hermione, after starting the conversation so cheerful, seemed to be sinking into her dark memories again.
Fiona called them in to dinner.
Tom neatly segued into a happier subject as he offered his hand to Hermione to assist her from her chair and escort her in to dinner. "So once you have a working product and an endorsement from a satisfied customer, how do you plan to scale up? How does wizarding potion patent law work?"
Hermione blinked at him, too distracted by his words to object to the formality of their procession in to dinner. "Patent law?"
"You said the creator died before he had time to patent or publish it, so finders keepers. The formula is yours. Just think of the market: werewolves could live long, happy, productive lives instead of short, painful, destitute ones. Your cut of that would be sizable." He pulled her chair out for her, then pulled out his own and sat. Tonight's soup was excellent.
It took her some time and several spoonfuls of soup to form a response to this. "There really isn't much of a market, not in terms of money. Werewolves are so poor, generally, they can't afford potions. And the ferals don't really use money at all, they live in packs in the wilderness, foraging off the land. Most don't want to, but they have nowhere else to go when they're driven out of human society."
"But they could hold jobs, with the help of your potion."
Hermione shook her head. "Disease symptoms are only part of the problem. Prejudice is at least as big a factor keeping werewolves from gainful employment."
"We'll have to get rid of that then," said Tom logically. "If prejudice is keeping you from making a profit from your potion, it's got to go."
Hermione stared at him, no doubt in awe of his business acumen.
"Let me be your first investor," said Tom. "Assuming Ignis finds your potion satisfactory." And there was no reason he wouldn't, considering that Hermione had obviously brought a known successful formula from the future. "I'll have my lawyer write up a contract for us, leaving blanks for us to fill in with words like wolfsbane and werewolves. We'll hire Ignis or some other werewolves to help with marketing and distribution. No doubt they'll work cheaply, as there's little competition for their labor, for now at least." Tom thought. "I'll ask the Gringotts goblins to recommend a wizarding patent lawyer."
"I wasn't planning to patent or sell it," said Hermione.
Now it was Tom's turn to stare. "What?"
"I thought I would just give it away for free to werewolves who couldn't afford it."
"How many werewolves can you help with a plan like that? How would you even afford the ingredients? How would you afford the massive advertising campaign it will take to turn anti-werewolf sentiment around? Such a campaign would pay for itself once it works."
"But… That's impossible. You can't just change a whole culture."
"Hermione. This is 1927. Have you any idea how much culture has changed in just the last few years? After millennia of only local news, we have radios, and can hear news from around the world, instantly. Mass production is bringing luxuries to the masses. After centuries of stasis, women are moving freely instead of being trapped in corsets, baring their legs in public, bobbing their hair, voting… If changes like this are possible, nothing is impossible. Changing attitudes towards werewolves will be easy as pie."
Hermione stared at him for a while. Then she finally said, "I guess I just wasn't thinking with enough… ambition."
"Damn right you weren't. Stick to potion brewing. I'm in charge of the advertising campaign."
"The patent will be in my name," she said after a while. "I'm not giving you control of that."
Tom nodded. "Fair enough."
Hermione finished her dinner and yielded Tommy to his doting grandmother. "I have the first stages of the potion underway. I'll go tend them."
"Did you spill something on your new robes?" Tom asked. "Is that why you're wearing these old ones?"
She shook her head, although possibly her curls were shaking her. "No, I just wore those nice new robes to go out. I changed as soon as I got back here. Some of these potion ingredients are caustic, and I don't want to risk damaging my new robes by working in them."
"I'll buy you more robes," said Tom. "You needn't wear these rags even to work."
"There's no need, for just around the house," she said. "It's not like anyone important can see me here." She addressed Tom's mother. "I'll be back to take Tommy to bed in a little while."
"Thank you for taking such good care of my precious wiggle worm," said the grandmother of said worm.
"Think she brought any more patentable inventions from the future?" Tom's father asked once Hermione had left the room.
"We can hope," said Tom. "Some that appeal to a wealthier market would be nice. But we'll make do with what we have."
—-
Witch Weekly arrived during breakfast Thursday morning, delivered by an owl with talons painted purple. The Daily Prophet owl cast a scornful look at the Witch Weekly owl, which flew away quickly.
That Witch Weekly photographer must have sold exclusive rights to the riot photos to the Daily Prophet, but photos of their relaxed shopping expedition graced the pages of the magazine. There were Tom and, apparently, Cygnus Black, whose back was to the camera. Tom was laughing at some joke his dear friend Cygnus had just told him.
"The Black family is among the oldest and most powerful in Britain," said Hermione.
"And Cygnus's brother Sirius might be the most vehemently blood-purist voice in the Wizengamot," added Tom's father.
Hermione looked at him.
"I keep up with the news," he said. "If he can make reference to muggleborns contaminating our society in the middle of an otherwise unrelated speech on the requirements for kneazle breeders' licenses, I know he's serious." He chuckled at his pun, which everyone else had the tact to ignore.
"The wizarding world is so backwards, valuing bloodlines," said Tom. "What's really important is how much money people have." He looked at the magazine. "Witch Weekly, at least, seems to understand that. Their society page isn't just aristocrats, they have famous musicians and athletes too."
"What lovely robes!" exclaimed his mother, looking at the moving photographs in the magazine. "These would look beautiful on you, Hermione."
"I already have robes," she said.
"The society photographers will tire of seeing you in the same robes all the time," said Tom.
"That's their problem," she snapped.
"These would look lovely on you as well," said Tom's father to his mother, who blushed prettily. "We must pay a visit to this tailor."
"I don't have time to take muggles clothes shopping," said Hermione. "At least until the full moon, I'll be very busy."
"I wasn't presuming to impose upon your time," said his father. "Dobby can apparate us there."
"You'll love Diagon Alley," said Tom. "Knockturn Alley is also very interesting. The antique shop where we bought Slytherin's locket is like a museum, and it's near a pet shop we didn't have time to visit on our previous trip."
"Aargh!" Hermione pulled at her hair with disastrous results. Tom made a mental note to avoid triggering her to do this again if at all possible. "I don't want to have to worry about three muggles wandering around Diagon Alley, much less Knockturn Alley."
"You'd worry about us?" asked Tom.
"Tommy needs his family," said Hermione. "That's the whole point of me bringing him here, so he can be raised by his family. I can't allow you to take unnecessary risks."
"Allow?" repeated Tom's father. "It is not your place to allow or—"
Tom's meaningful look wasn't getting through, so he had to resort to spoken words. "Father," he interrupted. He had his attention. "What Hermione means to say is, please don't deprive her of the pleasure of taking our family on this outing herself. She'll be happy to give us a guided tour after the full moon, when she has more time."
Tom's father looked at Hermione. "Was that what you meant?" he asked, knowing full well it wasn't.
Hermione sighed the sigh of one who didn't have time for these games. "Yes."
"Good," said Tom's father.
Hermione ate the rest of her breakfast in silence. As she laid her fork down and transferred Tommy to Tom's mother, she said, "Let me know if Tommy needs me. I'll be in my potions lab."
"You are excused," said Tom's father, earning him a look from Hermione that made Tom nervous, but she clearly didn't have time to dignify that remark with a reply, much less a spell.
Tom excused himself from the table shortly after, and broke into a run only once he was safely out of the dining room. He caught up with Hermione just before she entered her lab. "Hermione. Please wait. This won't take long."
She stopped and turned to look at him. "What now?"
"I want to apologize for my father's behavior. He's proud, and can be petty. Please don't let that trouble you. It's what makes him so easy to manipulate."
She paused before opening the door to the shed. Neither of them were dressed to be outdoors in this weather. Their breath formed visible clouds in the morning light. "Oh. Thank you." She went inside the shed and closed the door behind her, so Tom returned to the house.
—-
Twelfth Night passed unmarked by any particular celebration. The Christmas decorations came down. Hermione worked on her potion, coming out of her lab only for meals, her own and Tommy's, and to sleep, and to wand-tap the Gringotts authorization fields on owl-order forms by request.
On one of her breaks to feed Tommy and nap, Tom followed her to her room, carrying a bundle.
"I took the liberty of ordering some new witch robes for you."
"Oh. Thanks."
"Wouldn't you like to see them?"
"I'm sure they're fine. Just put them in the closet."
He did. "So. How's the potion coming along?" He looked out the window, for she was opening her faded, scruffy robes to feed Tommy, with no sympathy for her audience's sensibilities. It would be different if she were attractive. She and Dobby were the ugliest sights in the house, although also Tom's most useful resources.
"Aargh!" The noise prompted Tom to turn to face her again, a move he regretted, for she pulled at her hair with her free hand, proving that it actually could look worse than it had looked before. "This is the trickiest potion I've ever tried to brew! It makes polyjuice look like a pot of tea. I don't know if I can do this on my own."
"Could Dobby help?" Tom suggested.
Those bright brown eyes finally looked at him. "Why didn't I think of that?"
"We've established that you are not from a class that employs servants. Dobby!"
Pop. "Yes Master?"
"Can you assist Miss Granger in brewing a tricky potion?"
Dobby nodded. "Dobby has brewed tricky potions before. Mistress Malfoy was always having Dobby brew very tricky healing potions for young master Corvus when he needed healing after his broom accidents, and they always helped him recover sir." No doubt disappointing Mrs. Malfoy, thought Tom.
"Thank you Dobby," said Hermione. "I'll call you to my lab after my nap.
"Yes Miss Granger." He popped away.
"Sleep well," said Tom when Hermione flopped on her bed to feed Tommy in her sleep. Tommy, at least, was beautiful, especially with Hermione's angular arm framing the adorable roundness of his features.
"Close the door on your way out," she said, so he did.
—-
At breakfast Friday morning, Hermione buried herself in a book titled Lunar Phases and Herbology: Consequences for Potioneering. She'd tied her hair back in a simple ponytail, no doubt a practical style for a potioneer. Her curls exploded out of the binding at the back of her head like fireworks. Tom made no comment about this.
"I'm meeting with Malfoy tomorrow," he said.
"Hm," she said around a mouthful of egg.
"Any words of advice?"
"Hm."
"I said any words of advice?"
"What? Sorry, I'm just wondering if I titrated the lunar caustic properly. The herbalist assured me that the moonseed had been harvested on the night of the full moon, but if it wasn't—"
"Never mind. Just one quick question then. Am I taking the train to London tomorrow, or could you or Dobby apparate me there?"
"I'll take you," she said after some thought. "It will take just a minute. I should get out of the lab occasionally. The fumes are getting to me."
"Thank you," said Tom. "Please don't work too hard."
"But if I fail, Ignis will be in agony at the next full moon."
"If you fail this month, you'll succeed next month. It's not your job to fix every problem in the world."
"Someone's got to."
"Hm. Anyway. Could you drop me off in Mayfair, London? Dover Street, off Piccadilly, or thereabouts. I asked Dobby first of course, but he doesn't know his way around Muggle London. He offered to take me to the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. In a pinch, I could have him do that and take a cab from there."
She nodded. "I'm familiar with Mayfair." Like all Australians. "I can get you closer. I'll take you to Berkeley Square Gardens, by those huge old London plane trees."
"Perfect." It was nice to know those trees would still be standing in seventy years. "A quarter to noon would give me time to recover from any motion sickness, and walk to my club."
She nodded. "Meet me at the door to my lab. And when should I pick you up?"
"I think two in the afternoon would give me enough time. Can I assume that if this meeting goes disastrously wrong, and I don't meet you at the appointed time, you would endeavor to rescue me?"
She thought.
"Or at least send Dobby after me, if I am unable to call him myself?"
"I've got him tending a particularly delicate stage of the preparation," she said.
"Hermione," said Tom's mother.
"But I'll interrupt him if I have to," Hermione continued. "We'll work together to rescue you, if it comes to that. He should be able to find you anywhere, since you're his master, and he can apparate me with him." She sighed. "The potion will just have to be a month late."
"Thank you," said Tom's mother.
—-
Tom found it difficult to concentrate on his muggle work, so he spent the morning in his office reviewing his wizarding materials: books and newspapers, history, current events, and popular culture. He would be indistinguishable from a wizard. A wizard from a provincial family, perhaps, as previous generations of Riddles had done nothing to distinguish themselves in the wizarding world. They had been content to rule over the unsuspecting local muggles. Tom, however, found this game too easy, thus was finally making his presence known to his fellow wizards.
He was feeling satisfied with his preparations by the time he met the others for lunch. Even Hermione noticed.
"Aren't you worried about tomorrow?" she asked.
"What's the worst that could happen?" replied Tom.
She thought. "Well, to start, as soon as you shake his hand, he could forcibly side-along apparate you to the dungeon of Malfoy Manor—"
"Stop."
"I made something for you." She set a black feather, dropped by Athena no doubt, on the table in front of him. It didn't seem sanitary to put an owl feather on the table.
"I assume you didn't grow that yourself, so what do you mean by you made it?"
"It's an emergency portkey. Speak the activation phrase while in contact with it, and it will transport you back to the Riddle House. It's sort of like apparition. I'm afraid it's rather uncomfortable."
"Are all magical forms of transportation uncomfortable?"
"Yes, all I've experienced. Anyway, the activation phrase for this portkey is 'I believe I can fly.' Remember it, and don't say it accidentally while you're in contact with it."
"You're sure it will work for me?"
"Portkeys work fine on muggles, the magic is all in the portkey, not the user. Muggles sometimes use them accidentally, which creates work for obliviators."
Tom felt uncomfortable being referred to as a muggle, but couldn't really say anything about it.
—-
Saturday morning, Tom knocked on the door of Hermione's lab at 11:45 precisely. Hermione opened the door. She was wearing a tweed muggle outfit Tom's mother had bought her, and her hair didn't look as bad as usual.
"You look lovely," said Tom, practicing lying.
"I didn't want any muggles to notice us," she said. "I don't know the neighborhood that well, so I don't know of a really muggle-proof apparition point. We'll apparate under the invisibility cloak, just in case any muggles are around. Accio Harry's cloak," she said, pulling the silky garment out of her beaded bag. She stepped close to him and swept the cloak around them both. "Hm. Crouch down a bit, our feet are showing. Sorry, this isn't really meant to cover two people." He did. She wrapped her arm around his waist. "Hold on." He wrapped his arm around her waist, assuring himself that this was not an overly familiar gesture in this context. She was so thin, she hardly counted as an entire person, so they did both fit. He could have wrapped his arm around her twice if he'd had more elbows. He'd barely had time to take one breath of that stormy Amortentia scent, now mixed with an unpleasant herbal harshness, before she said, "Here we go," and they were whirling through disorienting emptiness.
The thing pressing the soles of his feet through his shoe leather was a gravel path, which marked that direction as down, and as the trees of Berkeley Square Gardens were very old, the slender sapling he was clinging to for support was, instead, Hermione. As soon as he was able, he let go, although he couldn't put a proper amount of distance between them within the constraints of the cloak. "Thank you," he said.
"Sh," she whispered. "Muggle."
He stifled his affronted reaction, for of course, she hadn't been referring to him. He looked around until he saw one, walking a little dog through the park. They stayed silent until she was gone. Then Hermione whirled the cloak off them and stuffed it back in her bag. "Now show me where this club is. I'll scout out some closer apparition points. There must be some dark alley that would be more private than this."
"Although the cloak works," said Tom. "And the fresh air makes recovering from apparition easier."
"We can't be too careful."
Tom thought that they, in fact, could, but now wasn't the time to argue. "I'd planned a leisurely stroll, for a full recovery from apparition. I dare say a leisurely stroll would do you good as well."
"Not too leisurely. You have only fourteen minutes."
It felt good to be back in his old haunt in London, on one of the poshest streets, without the fear of a sudden stinging hex from his wife if she suspected him of looking at another woman. That was all behind him. Now he was back on top of the world, no, two worlds.
Tom stopped. "He's there already, at the door."
Malfoy was standing some distance away from the doorman, and they were eyeing each other suspiciously. His suit was perhaps ten years out of fashion, and the arrangement of his tie made one suspect that his valet had been partaking of his master's alcohol. However, these oddities would not be sufficient for the denizens of the Drones Club to suspect him of being a wizard, for indeed, it was difficult to engage the attention of those men unless one were a cocktail, lamb chop, or hot tip on a fast horse.
Hermione tensed. "He actually did it," she marveled. "But is that your club? There's no sign."
"It's a private club," Tom explained.
Malfoy had spotted them. Tom greeted him with a friendly wave.
"I'll meet you back here at two," said Hermione. "Good luck."
"Thank you. Good luck with your potioneering." He strode forward, leaving Hermione to find some dark alley to skulk in.
Tom approached Malfoy with a smile. "Thank you for coming. I hope you weren't waiting long." He checked his Rolex. "We're three minutes early."
"Then I can't complain about waiting. The wait may have felt longer than it was," Malfoy admitted.
"I would have been a bit earlier, but Hermione was making a fuss. It's funny, she approaches life as if it were a duel, always looking for traps. She said that when I shook your hand, you might try to forcibly apparate me to the dungeon of Malfoy Manor." Tom laughed at the absurdity of it.
Malfoy joined him. "Ha. Ridiculous."
Tom held his hand out to shake Malfoy's. "Completely. You wouldn't risk splinching yourself when I fought back. I told Hermione not to insult your intelligence."
Malfoy's pause before reaching out to shake Tom's hand was almost imperceptible. His hand was as dry as parchment.
"Let's go in," said Tom, leading Malfoy to the doorman, to whom he nodded.
"Good to see you again, Mr. Riddle," said the doorman, holding the door for them.
"It's good to be back, Alfred." Tom swept in, Malfoy following. He signed in at the front desk. "I have a guest with me today."
"Very good sir. Please sign in here." The attendant offered Malfoy the book and fountain pen.
Tom relished the look Malfoy gave the fountain pen. When the pause got too long, Tom sympathetically asked, "Is your arthritis acting up again? I could write for you if you'd like."
"No, I'll manage," said Malfoy, taking the pen and, after a few false starts, scratching his name and address into the book in the style of a medieval chicken.
The attendant accepted the book and pen. "Thank you Mr…" he squinted at his handwriting.
"Malfoy."
"Of course. Welcome to the Drones Club, Mr. Malfoy."
A waiter appeared. "Your usual table, Mr. Riddle?
"Yes please, Andrew."
The waiter led them to Tom's preferred table, good for private conversation. Unfortunately for this particular day, it required them to first parade through the club in view of all the diners.
"Tom!" came a shout from a table. Oh dear. How quickly could he fend him off?
Malfoy's right hand twitched towards his left sleeve as the muggle rose from his table and approached them, stumbling in some combination of enthusiasm, drunkenness, and innate ineptitude.
"Hello, Algie," said Tom, for there was no mistaking those bulging eyes and weak chin.
"Where have you been?" exclaimed Algie. "It must have been, what, at least a year since I saw you last?"
"My business in Little Hangleton has been taking up a lot of my time."
"You and your business! You're always busy, but you used to find time for a friend now and then. You used to tell me when you'd be in London. And what's this rumor I heard about you getting married?"
"I haven't even done introductions yet," said Tom. "Serpens, this is Algernon Clamdowne-Clamdowne, son of the Earl of Lichford. Algie, this is Serpens Malfoy." That didn't seem quite sufficient. "The philanthropist," he added.
"Oh. Pleased to meet you," said Algie, holding out his hand to Malfoy, who, with some trepidation, shook it.
"Likewise."
"Anyway, Algie, I'd love to catch up, but I'm short of time right now. I'll telephone you later."
"But—"
"Later." Tom walked determinedly to his table, accompanied by Malfoy and the waiter. "We'd like two Buck's fizzes to start," he told the waiter as he and Malfoy sat down and took their menus.
"Yes Mr. Riddle." The waiter glided away.
"Sorry about that," said Tom. "I was maintaining a presence in the muggle world for a while, but slacked off of late. Married life, you know, it cuts into hobbies. I'm glad to be back here." He looked around at the beautifully-furnished room, a setting for the pinnacle of British aristocracy. "Don't look suspicious, but I believe a disillusioned Witch Weekly photographer is spying on us from behind a potted plant. Notice that subtle shadow?" He didn't specify which potted plant, as he saw no suspicious shadows at all, but Witch Weekly had seemed grateful for the tip he'd sent them. Shots of Malfoy dressed as a muggle would make quite a splash in their magazine.
"Really?" said Malfoy dryly. "I wonder who tipped them off that we'd be here."
"Oh, there's no controlling the press," said Tom. "You might as well try to control the Daily Prophet." When Malfoy smiled, he continued. "Thank you for that lovely shot of Hermione at the riot, by the way. You missed an opportunity, though, to identify the baby in her arms as my son, the heir of Slytherin. I'm sure your readership would have been even more thrilled to see a baby from such an illustrious family saved from danger in that dramatic fashion."
"You get right to the point, I see," said Malfoy. "You haven't even bought me lunch yet. How cheap do you think my favors are?"
Tom laughed. "I value your time as well as your influence, and don't take either for granted.
"And why shouldn't I look suspicious of a mysterious shadow behind a potted plant?"
"You sometimes get this line between your eyebrows that wouldn't photograph well. A photograph of the illustrious Serpens Malfoy modeling muggle fashion will no doubt earn a prominent place in that magazine, and I trust you'll want to look your best."
Malfoy sat back in his chair and looked at Tom with an expression that would probably come across as befuddled in the photograph. "Are you trying to blackmail me with incriminating photographs?"
"What? Being photographed eating lunch with me is not exactly incriminating. It honestly hadn't occurred to me that these photographs would reflect poorly on you. I just wanted to do a favor for the magazine, which they'll return at some later date."
"But photographs of me in this ridiculous costume—"
"You actually don't look half bad. Here, let me fix your tie." Tom reached across the table and did so. Now the perfect tie was a marked contrast to Malfoy's disordered face. "There. That's much better. What, are you concerned that you're too old for muggletouring? There's no maximum age limit you know, although it is more popular among the younger set. You're clearly young-at-heart. You've married a young wife, at least." Tom thought. "There's more of a minimum age limit, or at least it shouldn't be attempted by anyone who can't control his magic." Tom chuckled and shook his head ruefully. "We tried to take little Tommy out on a muggletouring jaunt the other day, and he set Hermione's hair on fire, right in front of a muggle. His first accidental magic! She may have finally met a worthy dueling opponent. He took her completely by surprise. Unfortunately he can't obliviate muggles on his own yet, so we had to handle that for him. Such a little scamp."
"Congratulations on your son's first magic," said Malfoy.
"Thank you." Tom picked up his menu. "Let's order soon. I have another appointment at two, so I can't dawdle here too long."
Malfoy picked up his. "I'll need some assistance deciphering this menu."
"Of course. Let's start with some consommé to warm us up. Then I recommend the beef Wellington if you like puff pastry. The mutton is also very good. You might also like the squab; it tastes very similar to the diricawl at La Truffe Émraude."
After Malfoy spent some time studying the menu, the waiter delivered their drinks and took their lunch orders.
"Try your Buck's fizz," said Tom, noticing that Malfoy hadn't touched his. "Don't worry, it's just champagne and orange juice, I'm not trying to get you drunk." He sipped his own.
Malfoy hesitantly followed his example, then drank with more enthusiasm after his first taste.
"Buck's a good bartender, said Tom. "Very creative. If you like this club, you could look into becoming a member. You'd need recommendations from two current members, and the membership fee is reasonable. I could have one of my friends vouch for you, that would be easy enough."
"Other wizards belong to this club? Or you have muggle friends?" Malfoy didn't seem to know which was more absurd.
"When I say friends," said Tom, "I think you know what I mean. They're very useful."
Their consommé was delivered and consumed.
"That muggle who greeted you—" Malfoy continued.
"Algie, who will be the Earl of Lichford after his father. I've helped him out of a tight spot on occasion, and he has helped me in return." Help a fellow escape from a constable who was not amused to have his helmet stolen, and get an invitation to a ball to which the mere son of a squire would not normally be invited, but which offered an opportunity to dance with the beautiful Cecilia. It was a good deal. Malfoy didn't need to know the details. "Most of my investments are in the muggle world, so contacts here are necessary. Of course, it's also nice to have a native guide for a spot of muggletouring. Algie always knows which new shows are worth seeing."
The waiter delivered their food. Malfoy searched, but could not find fault with his beef Wellington. He tasted it and seemed pleasantly surprised.
"I hope that's not all you have to offer me," said Malfoy. "Membership in a muggle club in exchange for my endorsement of your son's presumed status as the heir of a long-dead line."
"A long-dead name, yes. The line isn't dead. The gift of parseltongue, for instance, is still very much alive. Little Tommy isn't speaking anything at this age of course. I would understand if you prefer to withhold your endorsement until he's clearly speaking parseltongue, so you have proof. I plan to get him a pet snake to practice on."
"You seem confident about that."
"His mother certainly had the gift."
Malfoy paused to eat some white asparagus. "You seem confused," he eventually said, "about the difference between endorsing an idea because it is true, and endorsing an idea because such an endorsement is advantageous. There is a considerable difference."
Tom nodded. "Of course. I am up against the age-old conundrum, what gift to give the man who has everything? You seem to lack for nothing, which leaves me short of ideas for how to return a favor."
"Oh, I always have little errands to run, little jobs to do. I'm sure I could think of some tasks worthy of a wizard with your skill set, which seems quite unusual."
"Thank you," said Tom, beaming. "I hope we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement."
"I certainly don't know of any other wizards who would brave the muggle world for fun. This dish is good," Malfoy admitted. "Although I wouldn't say it's worth the danger of venturing out among muggles."
Tom laughed. "Danger? From muggles? Or do you mean from the Ministry if we violate the Statute of Secrecy? Surely you have enough self-control to refrain from using any magic for a couple of hours. You're not a child."
"I mean danger from muggles, of course. We're seriously outnumbered here. What if the brutes mobbed us? Trying to apparate away would cause the DMLE to make a fuss. I could call in some favors to calm such a fuss over my own actions, of course, but you don't have that kind of influence."
"Stop, stop!" choked Tom. "I can't eat when I'm laughing so hard. Mobbed us? Why on earth would they do that?"
"If they knew what we were. Didn't you study witch burnings in history?"
"I did. They didn't. If they learned anything about witches and wizards at all, they learned it in fantasy stories. We're fiction to them. They don't believe we exist. I assure you we have absolutely nothing to fear from—"
A bread roll flew through the air on a direct course to impact Malfoy's temple. Tom snatched it out of the air just before it hit. He'd always had quick reflexes for that sort of thing. The wizard's eyes were wide with terror at this unexpected muggle attack.
"Sorry about that," said Tom. "Some of these lads get a bit rambunctious. Excuse me a moment." Tom, roll in hand, went over to talk to the culprits, who were incriminating themselves with their giggles.
"Algie," Tom said firmly. "I told you I would catch up with you later."
"It is later," said Algie.
"Yeah, it is," giggled Algie's companions.
Tom acknowledged them with the minimal amount of courtesy. "Nigel. Francis. I believe this belongs to your table." He placed the bread roll on it.
"Whoo, you have your ammunition back," hooted Nigel. "Try to get closer to your target next time."
Algie picked up the bread roll and tossed it in the air a few times. "Tom, you can't just vanish with no explanation. Did you really get married?"
"To that suffragist?" asked Francis.
"No, she's still single," said Algie. "You want her?"
This got a good laugh from the table. Algie continued. "Girls these days are always marching in protests, waving banners, presenting petitions, chaining themselves to things, generally carrying on in most unladylike ways. They're bloody terrifying. Tom, you must tell us how you managed to escape from Miss Threepworple. I thought she'd sunk her claws pretty deep into you. You found a sweet little thing to replace her with, eh? A proper wife?"
"Algie," said Tom. "I promise to fill you in later, but now I truly don't have time."
"Aw come on."
"Algie. If you don't leave me alone I'll tell your father what really happened the night you lost your shoes."
That got through to him. "You wouldn't."
"I assure you I would.
Algie withered under Tom's glare. "All right."
"Hey!" said Francis. "You're just going to let him go?"
"Francis, your aunt Viola would be curious to know what really happened to her rose garden just before the tour group arrived," Tom continued.
Francis gasped. "How do you know about that?"
"Algie told me."
"Algie! I swore you to secrecy!"
"Well," said Algie. "It's an amusing story."
Now that Algie and Francis were taken care of, Tom turned to Nigel.
"What have you got on me?" Nigel asked.
"Would you like to find out?"
Nigel gulped.
Tom turned his smile back on. "The important thing to remember, lads, is that I do not want to be disturbed today, and as we are all friends, you will do me the favor of leaving me alone when I ask, just as I do you the favor of keeping your secrets. Is that understood?"
The three nodded.
"Good." Tom went back to his table.
"Well done," said Malfoy. "And unless you were very subtle about it, without even using magic."
Tom shrugged. "That would be cheating. It's not hard to outwit a bunch of inbred aristocrats."
Malfoy pushed Tom's drink closer to him. "I'm glad you're back. I don't drink alone. Come on, you've got to drink too or you'll have me at a disadvantage."
It would take a real lightweight to get drunk on just one Buck's fizz. Tom chuckled and finished his drink.
Malfoy watched and smiled as Tom set his empty glass down. "Is your son really the heir of Slytherin?" he asked.
"No," Tom heard his own voice say. "He's just a spare. His uncle Morfin is the real heir. What the hell am I saying? The truth, obviously, but why am I saying it? Mofin's in prison now for attacking me. The man's insane, doesn't even talk, just hisses. He couldn't stand that his precious pureblood sister Merope wanted me. He thought I was beneath her." Tom thought with frantic speed. He had to get out of here. Hermione's portkey! He'd vanish from sight of a crowd of muggles, but Statute be damned. This was an emergency. All he had to do was say—
I believe I can—
I believe I can—
Tom did not actually believe he could fly. Even trying to think the sentence gave him a terrible headache, since it was a lie. The portkey was useless to him now. He'd have to just run. He was about to bolt from his seat when he noticed Malfoy's right hand casually at his left sleeve. Tom wouldn't get more than a few yards before Malfoy stopped him in some no doubt unpleasantly magical way. He'd already made a point of bragging that violating the statute would have virtually no consequences for a wizard of his status.
Perhaps Tom could at least direct his babbling. "As if she were some sort of great catch," he continued after a mere moment's pause, the time it took to catch his breath and despair of his lack of escape routes. "Hideously ugly girl, inside and out. Their whole inbred family is hideous. Eyes don't even point in the same direction." He could list Merope's faults for hours, but if Malfoy got bored, he'd interrupt with another question, and Tom couldn't allow what. "She'd never have had a chance with me if she hadn't used both Amortentia and the Imperius curse, but I broke free."
"You're saying you broke free—"
"Sheer force of will. Riddles are rather famous for it. We get what we want. It's not helping me now of course. You put something in my drink, didn't you? You've got me babbling the truth."
Malfoy chuckled. "An interesting thing about veritaserum is that it has no effect whatsoever on people who are already honest."
"You bastard."
"Now that's not true at all," smiled Malfoy. "My pedigree is above reproach. Is the veritaserum even working?"
"Yes. I meant 'bastard' in the sense of someone who should never have been conceived, regardless of his parents' marital status. Dammit, how can I fight this?"
"I've heard that exceptional skill at occlumency can resist it, but you don't seem to have that. Don't worry, I already knew this supposed heir of Slytherin had to be a halfblood. Riddle certainly isn't a wizarding name. I'm glad to learn that the real heir of Slytherin is a pureblood, and where to find him. Thank you for a very interesting lunch. I won't waste any more of your time when the real heir of Slytherin is languishing in prison and would no doubt welcome visitors. He's not in for life, is he? When is he getting out?"
"September 1928."
"Excellent. He clearly needs help getting the wizarding world to grant him the respect the heir of Slytherin deserves, if he was sentenced at all. I'll be glad to help him with that sort of thing in the future." He knocked back the rest of his Buck's fizz and thudded the glass down on the table with an air of finality.
Tom thought fast, recalling the 1997 edition of Nature's Nobility. "Don't concern yourself with the Slytherin line of succession, when the heir of Malfoy is in danger."
"What?"
Tom spoke quickly before Malfoy had time to ask any more questions. "There's a murder plot. Your firstborn son, your heir, Corvus, he's going to be murdered. Your second wife, Giselle, she wants her son, Abraxas, to be the heir of Malfoy, and she'll do anything to make that happen."
"Can this be true?"
"It's as true as what I said about my son not really being the heir of Slytherin while his uncle lives. You spiked my drink, remember? I can't lie. Giselle buys Corvus gifts, the fastest, most dangerous brooms, but they haven't worked to kill him yet, he only gets more skillful at flying. She was trying to establish a pattern that Dobby is clumsy so she could blame Corvus's death on him. When that doesn't work she'll resort to poisoned chocolate. She'll be found out, but only after your son is dead. Age ten, just before he gets his Hogwarts letter. She'll die in Azkaban, but she'll have got what she wanted, her son Abraxas as heir of Malfoy."
"Are you a seer? Malfoy demanded. "Where did you get this information?"
"No." Tom flexed his force of will and spoke as carefully as he could. "Hermione Granger hates divination, so she wouldn't like to be called a seer, but she does know the future. Or a possible future. I don't understand it. She says the future's not written in stone. I hope it can be changed."
Malfoy abruptly stood up. "Please excuse my sudden departure, but my wife is home with my children right now, and I have some veritaserum left."
"Quite understandable."
"What apparition point around here do you recommend?"
"The facilities through there provide privacy from muggle eyes."
"Thank you very much." Malfoy charged off. Soon after, Tom heard a muffled crack. A busboy rushed to investigate the noise, but came out shrugging at a waiter.
Tom's waiter came by. "Is everything all right?"
"Everything? In the universe? No. I mean, where should I even begin?"
The waiter gave a polite laugh. "I meant at your table, sir."
"At my table I have a terrible headache."
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir. Can I get you anything for it?"
"Privacy. Leave me alone until I call for you."
"Yes sir."
Tom pulled out a pad of paper, hunched over it, and scribbled on it furiously, making it very clear that despite his new solitude at his table, he was still not available for conversation. After eight anxiously timed minutes of intermittent attempts, he was able to quietly say, "Merope was the most beautiful girl in the world."