Tom's mother greeted him at the door when he got home. "Cecilia telephoned while you were out," she said, beaming.
The Amortentia had worked. Tom felt faint. "What did she say?"
"She wanted to talk to me about whether your symptoms had improved, or whether you were still suffering from madness. I told her you were as sane as ever, but she didn't seem satisfied with my opinion, saying I was too close to you to make an objective assessment. She informed me that only a family member can involuntary commit a patient to a mental institution, and seemed to think that your father and I are being negligent in our care of you by not getting you the professional help you require. She said she'd seek more expert advice, and ended the call in a huff. But this still seems like a promising development, that she would call us at all."
"Indeed." There was only one thing to do now. "I'll call her back from my office,"
"Good luck."
Tom floated there, sat at his desk, lifted the receiver off the switch hook, and raised it to his ear.
"Number please," said the operator.
Tom spoke into the mouthpiece. "Hangleton zero zero one."
"Sorry sir, that line is busy,"
"Oh. Thank you." He returned the receiver to the switch hook. He got the same results the next three times he tried to call, waiting ten minutes between attempts. He attempted to pass the time by looking over some accounts, but couldn't concentrate. He made a fourth attempt.
The phone was picked up immediately. "Hello?" Cecilia's voice, very brisk and businesslike.
Tom's heart caught in his throat for a moment, but he found his voice eventually. "Cecilia. It's me. Tom."
"Oh Tom! It's so good to hear your voice." Her businesslike manner was gone, replaced with a breathlessness he almost didn't recognize.
Tom felt that his heart was about to pound out of his chest. "It's wonderful to hear your voice as well. I'm sorry I was out when you called. How have you been?"
A bit of that businesslike efficiency came back. "This morning, I've been very busy—"
Tom felt a sudden cold draft, then a large white owl landed on his shoulder, battering his head with a wing. He dropped the telephone receiver and scrambled to pick it up and return it to his ear. "Sorry, I didn't catch that. I'm having a bit of difficulty over here."
"Oh Tom, I know you are! Poor dear."
"A rather large owl just flew in the window."
"Oh darling, it must be terrifying to see things that aren't there."
Tom tried to fend off the vicious bird's talons, but it was thrusting a scroll in his face very emphatically. A talon snagged in his sleeve and ripped a gash down it. "Cecilia, may I call you back? I'm very sorry, but it turns out that this is a bad time."
"I feel that I don't really get a complete picture over the telephone. May I visit you later?"
"Visit? Yes! Of course! You're always welcome. Well, I mean, you're welcome again," for he had a terrible memory of turning her away on Merope's command. That hurt more than the talon that caught in his forearm as he tried to defend himself from the owl.
"I'll see you later then," said Cecilia. "I have some important things to do beforehand." Tom recognized and admired the resolve in her voice.
"I'm looking forward to your visit," he said.
"Goodbye. I love you."
"I love you too." It was automatic, and felt so familiar and natural, but it wasn't what he'd meant to say. He'd planned everything so carefully, but Malfoy's owl had ruined everything. He placed the telephone receiver back in the switch hook. "You pugilistic poultry, couldn't you see I was on the telephone?" He took the scroll off the owl's leg while competing in a glaring contest with it, then looked away to read the scroll:
Dear Mr. Riddle,
I hereby acknowledge the life debt I owe to you. My father refused to hear my suspicions of my stepmother until you confirmed them. I wish to meet the wizard who saved my life and formally pledge my debt, as well as find a way to repay you. Please let me know when and where I can meet my savior in person.
Sincerely,
Corvus Malfoy
Tom needed to consult with an expert about this. "Dobby!"
Pop. "Yes Master?"
"First, thank you for your excellent work this morning. Second, fetch some meat for this owl, some tough joint to keep it busy for a while."
"Yes Master." Dobby popped away and was back soon with a hunk of something raw and gristly in a dish. He set it in front of the owl, which seemed equally happy to attack that.
Athena, who had been sleeping peacefully through all this, finally opened her eyes now that something interesting was in the room.
"And another dish of meat for Athena," said Tom. "Although I see owl loyalty doesn't extend to defending their masters."
Athena hooted at him.
Dobby popped away again and was back quickly.
Once the owls were settled, Tom turned again to Dobby. "Third, I need you to explain what a life debt is."
Dobby blinked his huge green eyes at him. "That's human magic, Master."
"Yes, but what is it? What am I supposed to do about this boy owing me one?" He handed the letter to Dobby, whose eyes scanned it slowly as his grey lips moved silently.
Dobby eventually looked up at Tom. "Dobby knows how to cook and clean and mend things, Master." He held the letter out to Tom. "This is powerful, ancient human magic. Dobby doesn't know human magic."
Tom took the letter back. His plan to get Hermione out of his way for the day seemed less clever now. An expert on human etiquette was the next best thing. "Dobby, ask my mother to join me in my office. My father too, if he's not busy." Dobby popped away
Tom's parents arrived soon. Tom showed them the letter.
"The boy has beautiful handwriting," said his mother.
"Hard to read," sneered his father. "Too many flourishes."
"His handwriting isn't the point," said Tom. "What on earth is a life debt?"
"Whatever it is," said his mother, "this boy seems to have made this decision to contact you without consulting his father, who must be busy with his wife's trial. That seems froward."
"We can discuss the heir of Malfoy's talents and faults later," said Tom. "This owl clearly expects a response." Tom started on a rough draft with a fountain pen on scrap paper. The white owl gave him a quizzical glance, then resumed ripping its meat to shreds.
Dear Corvus Malfoy,
I am glad to have been of service. There is no urgency to the repayment of any life debt. I would not ask you to discuss such an important matter without your father's guidance. As he is undoubtedly occupied by other matters now, our discussion can wait until a time of our mutual convenience.
For future correspondence, please instruct your owl to wait calmly if I am not available to take your letter immediately. Its insistence was very inconvenient this time, as it arrived while I was otherwise engaged.
Sincerely,
Tom Riddle
Tom crossed out that second paragraph. As a wizard, he should undoubtedly be able to defend himself from a belligerent owl with no trouble.
As Tom's parents had no suggestions for improvements, he copied his letter onto parchment in a wizarding hand with quill and ink, tied it to the owl's leg, and said, "With the greatest respect, please deliver that to Corvus Malfoy." The owl flew out the window.
Tom collapsed in his desk chair. It had been a long morning. He looked at his owl-ravaged sleeve. "Dobby, could you fix this?"
"Of course, Master." Dobby started with his perforated forearm, that Tom hadn't really noticed, then his blood-spotted and ripped shirt, then his ripped jacket sleeve. Everything looked as good as new. What was Tom supposed to do now?
"Have you had lunch?" his mother asked.
Oh, right. "No, and I suppose I should. Thank you."
His parents had eaten already, but his mother sat with him as he ate. He didn't know what he was eating. Cecilia would be visiting him soon. He should check his hair. No, it didn't matter what his hair looked like to someone under the influence of Amortentia.
"I wonder what prompted Cecilia's suddenly renewed interest," said his mother.
Whatever Tom had just taken a bite of formed an unswallowable lump in his mouth. It could have been his serviette. Whatever it was, he fought it down well enough to say, "She was bound to come around eventually. Merope's out of the way, and she's had time to think. Mother, when she arrives, if I could entertain her on my own—"
"Of course, dear," said his mother. "My presence in the house is quite enough to maintain propriety in this liberal age."
"Thank you."
After lunch, there was nothing to do but clean his teeth, check his hair, don a fresh and slightly more fashionable suit, run through the plan with Dobby, instruct Fiona to prepare some light refreshments, and stare out the window, waiting for Cecilia's car to appear from the grey January gloom.
The Riddle family's Bentley 3 Litre saloon was a fine car, but the Bentley 4½ Litre that was now conquering the steep, slushy drive up to the Riddle House was obviously a more powerful beast. Tom rushed to the front door, for he didn't want to waste a moment of Cecilia's company on a servant, particularly not a servant who had already seen one victim of Amortentia, and might recognize another.
The car parked in the drive. The driver got out, opened Cecilia's door, and assisted her out. As she stood, the sun seemed to break through the grey clouds, illuminating her golden hair.
Cecilia walked to the front door, while her driver went around back to the servants' entrance. Tom opened the door before she had time to ring.
"Cecilia! Thank you so much for coming. Do come in."
She seemed in a daze, blue eyes drinking him in, as she stepped inside. "Tom. Tom. Oh, it's so good to see you. You look well."
"As do you, lovely as always. May I take your coat?"
"What? Oh. Yes, I suppose. Thank you."
Tom did and hung it by the door.
The tailoring of her suit was enough to make a strong man weep, and the curves of her ivory-stocking-clad legs were too graceful for this earth.
Nonetheless, Tom remembered how to talk. "Shall we talk in the study? I have a fire there, and tea." Dobby had charmed the teapot to keep the contents hot and fresh until Cecilia's arrival.
"All right."
Tom led her there, and closed the door against drafts. Once Cecilia looked around and saw that they had the room to themselves, she rushed to him, so it was all Tom could do to grasp her upper arms to hold her at his arm's length. The feel of her: her beautiful wool suit, the slipperiness of the satin lining as it slid over her blouse and soft flesh, nearly drove him mad, but he stuck to his plan. He gripped her tightly to prevent her from coming any closer. "Cecilia, stop. My mother's right in the next room."
She gave him a longing look but backed off. He forced his hands to let her go. "I love you, Tom. I never stopped loving you. I tried, I lied to myself saying that my feelings for you were gone, but I can't stop loving you. I'm so sorry I abandoned you."
"You didn't abandon me," said Tom. "Quite the reverse. I married another woman. That's more than sufficient justification for you to stop loving me."
"I abandoned you to your madness!" she cried. "That's just as bad as abandoning a man because he's stricken with any other disease or injury. So many men came back from the war with missing limbs, with shell shock, but did their sweethearts abandon them? No! Only those who had never truly loved them. My love for you is true, Tom. I'll never leave you again. I'll get you the help you need."
"Help?" Tom wondered.
"I've been researching modern treatments for madness," she explained. "There have been great advances in psychiatry in recent years. I'm sure you can be cured."
"Cured?" Tom had quite a different topic to discuss, but he knew from experience that it was pointless to attempt to derail Cecilia once she was on a topic of interest to her, so he simply listened.
"Yes, cured. There's a lot of help available. The London Clinic of Psychoanalysis was just founded last year. I've been speaking with the founder, Ernest Jones. He seems very interested in your case. He thinks he may be able to resolve your issues with talk therapy, if you really admit your feelings about your mother."
"I don't think I have any particularly noteworthy feelings about my mother."
"Well. There are other options too. For instance, there's electronarcosis, passing an electrical current through your brain."
"That sounds shocking."
"And a Swiss psychiatrist named Klaesi has had good results drugging patients with barbiturates so they sleep for ten days straight, giving their brains time to rest and recover."
"My work schedule would not permit such a long vacation," objected Tom.
"And malarial therapy has gotten very good results as a treatment for general paresis of the insane, and has only a fifteen percent death rate."
"Cecilia. I appreciate the time you've put into researching these therapies, I really do. In fact, that ties right in with what I want to explain. You understand that drugs can affect the mind, yes?"
Cecilia nodded, pleased that Tom seemed to be following her argument about treatments for madness.
"I tried to explain love potions to you earlier, but you didn't understand, as drugs with such precise effects are outside your experience. I know you to be a very intelligent and skeptical woman, Cecilia. Of course you wouldn't believe in magic potions without proof. The only way for you to understand their power is for you to feel the effect of such a drug yourself. Thus, I surreptitiously added a love potion to your tea this morning. You don't truly love me. Your emotions are being controlled by the potion."
"Oh Tom!" Tears welled in her eyes. "To see you so deluded—"
"Cecilia, you must recognize that your feelings for me aren't truly your own. Such a sudden change—"
"No! I won't listen to this. I will not humor your madness!" Cecilia stood straight and fixed her steel-blue eyes on him. "I have no choice. Marry me, Tom!"
Tom stared at her.
"A woman may propose to a man you know," she said.
"Of course," he said. "It's only fair. That's not why I'm surprised." Tom checked for incoming owls that might account for the chill he was feeling, but the room was free of avian invaders. He looked to Cecilia again. "You're not saying that because you want to be with me. You're saying that because only a family member can have me involuntarily committed to a mental institution."
She smiled, even as she wiped a tear from her eye. "Oh Tom, you're as sharp as ever, even in your current deranged state. Yes, I am willing to make this sacrifice for your sake, although I suppose it won't work now that you've figured it out. It was the only way I can think of to get you the care you need, as your parents seem unwilling to face the truth about your condition."
"Cecilia, that's… That's brilliant, really. I'm sorry to spoil such a creative plan. But no, I couldn't marry you in this state. I am truly sorry, but I must respectfully decline."
"I checked, and there isn't any actual sanity test involved in getting a marriage license. Perhaps there should be. That would have saved you from that…"
"That witch," Tom completed her sentence for her.
Cecilia stiffened.
"She was," said Tom.
"Oh, just call her a bitch and be done with it," said Cecilia.
"That would be an insult to canines," said Tom. "She was a witch. She trapped me with a love potion, the same type I gave you this morning. Don't you see, Cecilia? Your sudden obsession with me is unnatural, just like my obsession with Merope."
"Oh Tom, this is the same delusion you had months ago."
"I tried to explain what I'd suffered months ago, but of course you couldn't believe me without proof. You shouldn't believe without proof. But now that I've proven that love potions are real—"
Cecilia turned determinedly to the door. "Excuse me, I need to talk to your mother."
"Here, have the antidote, you'll notice the change immediately." He nodded to the subtle shadow of nothing in the corner, for asking Cecilia to accept the existence of elves at the same time as potions seemed unrealistic.
Cecilia suddenly jerked in surprise as an invisible Dobby intercepted her on her way to the door and stuffed the invisible antidote in her mouth without warning.
Cecilia swayed on her feet, then stabilized. She blinked and looked around the room, finally fixing her glare on Tom. "You're hopeless, Tom! I tried and tried, but it's like you don't even want to get better. I don't know why I bothered. Madness like this can't be cured."
"Cecilia, don't you notice this sudden change—"
"I don't know why I thought anything could be done. Your whole family's mad. Your parents are mad not to recognize your madness. For cases of hereditary, congenital insanity—"
With a loud crack, Hermione appeared, dressed in her beautiful new witch robes, complete with pointy hat, and with Tommy in her sling. She noticed Cecilia and started. "Oh shit." She drew her wand from her sleeve and pointed it at Cecilia.
Tom jumped between them. "Hermione, wait!"
"I just apparated in front of a muggle, Tom! That's a Statute violation! I can't let her remember this."
"Hermione!" exclaimed Cecilia, peering around Tom despite his best efforts to block her. "I'm so glad you're here. Tom needs a good responsible person to take care of him, and better you than me. Perhaps you can convince him witches don't exist."
Hermione stared. "But Cecilia, you just saw me. Or you must have heard me at least."
Cecilia laughed. "Oh, I heard you all right. Don't worry about using unladylike language around me, Hermione. A modern woman needn't limit her vocabulary any more than a man does."
Tom rushed for the door. As he left, he heard Cecilia ask, "Is that what they're wearing in Australia these days?"
Tom quickly went to his office, for he had to look over the accounts of the Woodlawn houses. They'd required so many repairs recently after that business with the falling trees, perhaps it was time to raise the rents in order to bring their return on investment more in line with their other properties.
He'd barely had time to gather the relevant papers when he heard a knock on the door. He was too busy to answer.
"Tom," called Hermione. After a pause, she added. "I know you're in there."
"Go away," he said, horrified at the sound of his voice.
"When I said I'd rescue you if necessary, I didn't just mean from Malfoy. I'm coming in."
"No!" Tom said, but it was too late, she had opened the door and seen the state he was in.
As if she was fit to be seen herself. Her hair clearly believed that gravity was for other people. She must have left Tommy with his mother. She looked strange without him. Tom turned his face away from her because she was so ugly.
"You shouldn't cry alone," Hermione said authoritatively after surveying the damage. "A sleeping owl doesn't count as emotional support. It's much better for one's mental health to cry on someone's shoulder." It was bad enough she'd seen him like this. She didn't have to salt the wound by criticizing him for crying wrong. "I'll fetch your mother," she added.
"No!" Tom choked out as he turned to plead with her. "Don't!"
Hermione gave him an irritated expression, although perhaps that was just the way her face was shaped, as she seemed to have that expression a lot. "She's perfectly nice, Tom. And she's your mum. This is part of her job. Unless you'd prefer your father?"
"No! She'd tell me not to be discouraged! She'd say anything is possible if I've got enough nerve! My father would be even worse. He'd say Riddles always get what we want, that she's bound to come around if I just persist, show her I'm a real man who doesn't take no for an answer. But they're wrong. I've lost. I've lost Cecilia forever." He shook with sobs as he scrubbed at his eyes with his handkerchief, which was getting disgustingly full.
"Accio handkerchief." Hermione pressed a dry one into his hands. He took it gratefully. Once that was done, why was she still here? Crying was ugly, and Tom hated being ugly. Hermione must be taking some perverse pleasure in seeing him brought so low.
He felt a thin, hard hand lightly touch his back. Then, shockingly, she pulled him into a hug, pressed his head onto her shoulder. It was like being hugged by a bird, all thin, light bones, aside from her unfashionably full breasts pressing against his chest. She smelled like a powerful, terrifying storm, and also, slightly, of milk. She steadied him as he sobbed. He felt his body instinctively let go, no longer trying to hold back his sorrow.
"I know," she said. "I'm not going to tell you it's all right when it's not. I have another handkerchief here if you need it." He did. She didn't let go until he was drained of tears. He felt curiously free, no longer encumbered by hope.
Hermione leaned back enough to look him in the eye. She smiled. "Congratulations," she said. "I think you're finally growing up."
—-
Author's note: I consider the name Cecilia to be Rowling's gift to my story. It means blind.