"Scourgify." The handkerchiefs that had held the evidence of Tom's weakness looked freshly laundered.
"You didn't have to—"
"Don't be silly." They put her handkerchiefs away. "You were about to tell me I should have Dobby clean up, but won't impose on him for a little thing like this. I clean up after a baby all the time, anyway. It's no trouble."
"Right. Well. Thank you." Tom looked at the papers on his desk. They seemed unimportant. "Cecilia left?"
"Yes. She's amazing, I didn't even have to obliviate her. Some muggles are very good at rationalizing away any evidence of magic."
"I see that now."
"After you left, she tried to convince your parents that you should be involuntarily committed to an insane asylum."
"How did they take that?"
"Your father seemed to agree."
"Of course he did." Tom sighed. "I'm glad to provide him with such entertainment. He's even worse when he's bored."
"I think he helped get rid of her, actually. Once she got the impression someone agreed with her, she seemed to feel that she'd done her part, and could now wash her hands of the whole business. I played along."
"Of course."
"I'm sorry, but it seemed—"
"I know. It was the right thing to do. It's not like anything you could do could make her assessment of me worse than it already is."
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you. For getting rid of Cecilia by telling her I'm insane. And not trying to cheer me up."
"You're welcome. Oh, and I bought some Floo powder." She took a jar out of her beaded bag and set it on the mantelpiece.
"Thank you again."
"You're wel…" The phrase turned into a yawn. "I've had a busy day. I have time for a nap before dinner. See you later."
"Sleep well."
Once she'd gone, Tom opened the book of wizarding calligraphy he'd owl-ordered, inked a quill, and practiced letters, losing himself in the beauty of the archaic forms.
He'd completed several pages when the telephone rang. There was another telephone in his father's office, so Tom waited for his father to pick it up. The telephone stopped ringing. Tom focused on writing a perfect capital X, a letter with virtually no practical use.
Dobby popped into the room. "Master, Squire Riddle says the telephone call is for you." Dobby seemed perplexed by this message.
"Oh. Thank you Dobby. You may leave now."
Dobby popped away. Tom picked up the telephone receiver and put it to his ear. "Hello?"
"Tom! What ho! How's the ticker tape running?"
"Hello Algie. It's good to hear from you." Tom heard a click as his father hung up.
"What's this I heard about you wearing a manacle?"
"You heard right. I did get married. To a Merope Gaunt, a local girl, from a family with no fortune or title."
"That's surprisingly sensible of you," said Algie. "A sweet wildflower, not one of these hothouse orchids you usually go for."
"Yes. Well."
"Or perhaps I should say Venus flytrap. Congratulations on breaking free of that Threepworple girl. She's a terror."
"Now Algie, we may no longer be on such close terms, but I won't have you speaking ill of Miss Threepworple."
"That's mighty big of you, Tom. Anyway, I'm glad you found a proper wife. What did you say her name was again?"
"Merope Gaunt."
"Interesting name, Merope. Distinctive. I don't want to cast aspersions on anyone's ancestry, but with a name like that, one suspects her parents of being poets. Can't blame a girl for that, though. I'm sure she's wonderful. One look at her rosy, dimpled cheeks, her innocent smile as she herded the geese out to pasture one dewy morning, and you were smitten, no doubt."
"Something like that."
"Oh Tom, you're so lucky. You should see the girls my family's trying to set me up with. The last one looked like a horse and asked me what I thought of the coal miners' strike. Can you imagine having an opinion about something so dull?"
"Well, it did unsettle the markets."
"That's right, that is the sort of tale that sets your heart aflutter. Anyway, when do I get to meet this sweetheart of yours?"
"I can't say. Merope and I had a little over a year of married bliss and then—" Tom let his voice break "—she died. Giving birth to our son. On New Year's Eve."
"What was that? This connection's a bit crackly."
Tom was irritated to have to repeat his performance, and ran through it faster the second time. It got through.
"Nerts!" exclaimed Algie. "Well, that's blaah, isn't it?"
"Yes."
Neither spoke for a moment. Then Algie said, "So when I saw you at the Drones Club—"
"I had to entertain a business associate to discuss an important matter, although I wasn't feeling like socializing. I'm sorry to have been so brusque with you and the others."
"That's all right. Totally understandable now that you've explained. So. Is there anything I can do? Take you out for a night in London? A night of alcohol, showgirls, and jazz distracts from anything. Once the hangover hits, you won't even remember what your troubles were."
"That's very kind of you, Algie, thank you. But I feel that I won't have the energy for such in the near future." Tom's old hobby of collecting blackmail fodder on scions of the aristocracy had less appeal these days, partly because it was too easy. They put themselves in embarrassing situations so willingly, it seemed unsporting. Besides, his collection was surely sufficient for any practical purpose.
"Well, let me know if you change your mind. I miss having you along. You're so encouraging."
"Of course. What are friends for?"
There was a pause, then Algie spoke. "So, you're a father now."
"Yes. Merope wished our son to be named after me, so now there's another Tom in the house. It wouldn't have been my first choice, but I could hardly begrudge my dying wife her last wish. We call him Tommy."
"Little Tommy. I'm sure he's an adorable little blob. So you'll turn all responsible now, what? Soon you'll be lecturing him to straighten his tie and pay more attention to his studies."
"If he's anything like I was as a boy, he'll be begging for more fashionable ties and more interesting books."
"You're a funny egg, Tom. Well, do give me a ring when you're in the mood to drown your sorrows."
"Thank you Algie, I'll do that."
They said their goodbyes, and Tom returned to his calligraphy.
He met the others in the drawing room before dinner. He was the last to arrive. Hermione was still in her beautiful new witch robes. Tom hadn't noticed earlier when she'd appeared so suddenly in the study, but she was wearing Tommy in a new sling made of a rich deep red fabric with subtle glints of gold. Once they'd all bade each other good evening, Tom addressed Hermione. "That coordinates very well with your robes."
"Thank you. I thought you'd approve. I went to an upscale baby accessory shop today. I got some books to read to Tommy, too, A is for Astrolabe and the like. I came straight to the study to put them away when I got back. In retrospect, that was a mistake. I'm sorry, I didn't realize—"
"It doesn't matter."
"Thank you for the books, Hermione," said Tom's mother. "I'll enjoy reading them to Tommy."
"So how was the rest of your outing?" asked Tom.
"The Floo could be set as early as tomorrow morning. I told them to connect the fireplace in your office."
"And was your other errand successful?"
"I did manage to sneak in to overhear part of a Wizengamot session. There's a proposal to screen all applicants for Ministry jobs with a standardized test, to ensure that jobs are awarded by merit, not favoritism."
"That sounds good," said Tom's father. "What would it actually do?"
Hermione smiled wryly and continued. "It will include a test of wizarding customs and culture. I'm sure it will be designed to screen out muggleborns and halfbloods."
Fiona called them in to dinner, so Tom escorted Hermione in to the dining room as his father escorted his mother. After the gentlemen had pulled out the chairs for the ladies and all had sat down, Tom said, "Oh, and while you were out, I received an interesting letter." He drew the scroll from his pocket and handed it to Hermione.
Hermione read it and turned pale. "I'm trying to eat here," she complained.
"What's the problem?" asked Tom.
"You and your entanglement with Malfoys. Aargh."
"At least tell us what a life debt is."
She paused to compose her thoughts. "I have some experience with life debts. A wizard called Wormtail owed a life debt to my friend Harry. It compelled him to save Harry's life, at the cost of his own. Malfoy must hate that his son is in debt to you." She scrutinized the letter. "The older Malfoy must've written that. I mean, sure, the handwriting looks like a child's, but the composition must be his father's. It's a trap. I've got it! Malfoy will try to kill you, in some situation in which young Corvus will be compelled to save your life. Corvus will be free of his debt to you if he succeeds."
"If?" repeated Tom's mother, who wasn't eating.
"Would that really count as repayment?" asked Tom's father. "I'd think a good wizarding lawyer could argue that that was not a true repayment of the debt that the house of Malfoy owes the house of Riddle."
"I don't know," sighed Hermione. "This is an obscure field of magic even for me." She brightened. "I'll do some research tomorrow."
"Thank you," said Tom.
Hermione said to Tom's father, "Squire Riddle, I'll deliver the second dose of wolfsbane potion to Ignis after dinner. Do you really need to accompany me? I know it made sense before we knew he lived with his mother, but if it was proper for Cecilia to come here accompanied by no one but her chauffeur, I don't see why—"
"It's true that Mrs. McKinnon gave her chaperoning duty the attention it deserved yesterday, so if she does the same job today, my presence would be redundant," Tom's father admitted. "It doesn't matter, as I already decided not to accompany you to the McKinnons' this evening."
Hermione blinked at him.
"Mary will chaperone you instead," he explained.
Hermione turned to Tom's mother. "Oh. Well I guess that's all right. But Tommy—"
"I will look after Tommy," realized Tom. "There's no reason for him to suffer through two apparitions for such a brief visit."
Thus Tom wound up with Tommy on his lap, reading a new children's book Hermione had bought for him. "A is for Astrolabe." The moving picture showed a mechanical marvel, with interlocking brass rings turning to point to colorful planets that moved against a black background twinkling with silver stars. "Hermione chose well. I'm really appreciating this book's printing quality. B is for Broom. Look at all these children flying around on brooms. Don't look at me, look at the book. Well, I'm sure it doesn't matter at this age. There will be time enough for you to enjoy books, and brooms too. Would you like me to buy you a broom? I will, when you're ready for one. I had a hobby horse when I was a boy. That's somewhat broom-like. It may still be in the attic. You're welcome to play with that as well, once you can walk and such. I'll tell you here and now that I draw the line at buying you an actual pony, so don't get any ideas. There used to be some practicality to familiarizing children with horses, but there's no real need now, as they are becoming obsolete as a mode of transportation. Trains, bicycles, and cars are the future. Horses these days are used by either country folk who can't afford cars, or old aristocrats who still engage in fox hunts. To maintain a stable of horses, with all the attendant expenses, seems unnecessarily extravagant when the horses are used for nothing but pleasure-riding. Although I'll grant that cantering along on a beautiful day..."
With Cecilia, on her family's horses, Cecilia showing off her skill by galloping ahead of him, laughing, challenging him to a race, the sun gleaming on her golden hair—
Tommy let out a loud wail.
Tom started. He'd never heard Tommy make anything like this noise. "Hush, hush, Tommy, it's all right. Hermione will be back soon," but Tommy kept wailing. Tom got up to carry Tommy around the room. Babies liked motion, didn't they? "Let's look at the moon. Isn't it pretty? It's getting close to full." Tom took Tommy to the window, which shattered under Tommy's gaze. The cold wind blew shards of glass and ice into the room. Tom was out of his league. "Dobby!"
Pop. "Yes Master? Oh, the window, Dobby can fix—"
"Never mind the window, do something about Tommy. He's crying."
Dobby obediently reached to take Tommy. The fur sprouting out of one of his huge ears burst into flame. Burning elf ear hair smelled even worse than burning human hair, so the cold wind wasn't a completely bad thing. Dobby extinguished the flame with a quick gesture of one grey hand and reached for the baby again. The hair sprouting from his other ear burst into flame. He quickly extinguished that too, and reached again for Tommy.
"You don't seem to be calming him down," observed Tom, having to speak loudly to be heard over Tommy's wails.
"Dobby will try, Master, and Dobby is tough, better able to withstand accidental magic than a human. Dobby can outlast a tantruming child."
"But what will it take to calm him down?"
"Sometimes babies just cry, Master. Sometimes it just takes patience."
"Stay here," said Tom. "But I'll hold him. Tommy, I'm sorry I stopped reading. That's what set you off, isn't it?" He sat down and picked up the book again. "Look, I'll turn the page. C is for Centaur. Let's get away from the horse theme, shall we? D is for Dragon. Look Tommy, a dragon. This printing is marvelous. Look at the puff of fire. Maybe that's too inspiring. E is for...Erumpent? What's an erumpent? It looks a bit like a rhinoceros. Someday I'll take you to the zoo. We'll see a rhinoceros, lions, an elephant… Would you like that?" He suddenly remembered Ignis's story about shattering a cage. Perhaps he shouldn't make promises like that. "Enough with the book, you weren't looking at it anyway. Would you like to hear a song? My mother used to sing this one to me. Lavender's blue, dilly dilly. Lavender's green…" Tommy's wails quieted.
As Tom sang, drawing on the memory of his mother singing to him, Tommy's dark eyes bored into his, and he calmed. Tom was dimly aware of Dobby fixing the window.
Tom sang Lavender's Blue until Hermione and his mother returned. Hermione reached for Tommy immediately. Tom handed him off gratefully. Her witch robes were convenient for feeding him.
"How did Tommy do without me?" she asked.
"Fine. I read to him. The printing quality of this book is marvelous. Thank you for buying it. He also seems to enjoy my singing. So how's Ignis?"
"He's tolerating the potion well enough. He says it makes him feel a bit strange and weak, but it will be worth it if it works. We've decided to postpone any apparition and dueling lessons until after the full moon, since he wants to be in top form for those."
"Seems sensible." He turned to his mother. "And I trust that your chaperoning task was successful?"
"Oh yes," she said. "Ignis is a perfect gentleman, who stayed polite even while drinking that vile potion, poor thing. A normal werewolf transformation must be terrible if drinking such a potion is preferable. And it was so nice to visit with the McKinnons. Ignis's older brother and his wife have just had a baby. You should have heard Mrs. McKinnon go on about what a little darling her granddaughter is! It seemed excessive." She turned to Tommy. "Did my bright little snidget miss me?"
That was a new one.
—-
Next morning, Thursday, the purple-taloned owl delivered Witch Weekly. Tom's mother offered it an owl treat, which it ate while eyeing the bacon on the table. Tom's mother got a small plate and put some bacon on it. "Thank you very much for delivering my magazine," she said. "Please accept this as a token of my appreciation."
The owl hooted, fluttered its wings, did a little jump, then tucked in.
When the Daily Prophet owl arrived to see the Witch Weekly owl eating bacon, it hooted indignantly. Tom got a second dish of bacon for the Daily Prophet owl, and took the newspaper off its leg as it ate.
Tom's mother excitedly said, "Here's an article on how to get one's hair to look like that of an Australian duelist. It's not a simple matter of potions, although it does require several, conveniently available from their advertisers. It also requires a serpentine animation charm, and then a levitation charm… They advise their readers not to attempt this hairstyle alone because of the risk of strangulation. Or of course, rather than attempt this style oneself, one may wish to leave it to the professionals at a quality hairstyling salon, such as their advertisers. The model in the photographs looks beautiful, but I think you wear it better, Hermione."
Hermione laughed and reached for the magazine. Tom's mother yielded it graciously.
"I can't believe it," said Hermione. She shook her head, her curls flailing much like the ones in the photograph before her. She turned a page and let out a shriek.
"What?" demanded Tom. "Are this spring's fashions so exciting?"
"Look!" said Hermione, reading the title of a photo spread. "Pureblood Spotted Muggletouring! It's you and Malfoy!"
Tom leaned in to Hermione's stormy Amortentia scent to see. She handed the magazine to him. He took it eagerly. "Oh, so now you're not afraid of a witch's magazine," she smirked. "You had a different attitude in the shop."
"We're not in public," Tom explained. "No one important can see me here." Her smirk could not dampen his spirits, for the moving photographs of Malfoy and himself were glorious. Well, the images of him, at least, were glorious: kindly fixing Malfoy's tie, protecting him from a flying bread roll, looming ominously over a table of cowering muggles… Malfoy, by contrast, looked timid and befuddled.
Tom would have preferred the pictures to be more flattering to his companion, but the photographer hadn't had much to work with. He checked the credits. Anne Perks was a good photographer, and impressively discrete. He searched his memory of Nature's Nobility for the name Perks and came up blank, so she wasn't a pureblood, unless that was her married name, in which case she at least wasn't a blood purist. Perhaps she'd intentionally portrayed the presumed halfblood better than the known pureblood.
The text that accompanied these photographs was brief but enjoyable. Tom read it aloud for pleasure. "Joining the muggletouring trend, Serpens Malfoy, philanthropist, was spotted lunching in a muggle club Saturday. Sorry ladies, the Drones Club is for men only, or of course witches who can manage a good disillusionment spell or own a quality invisibility cloak. Did Malfoy choose this club to avoid his wife, Giselle, who was arrested later that afternoon?
"Mr. Malfoy was joined by Tom Riddle, heir of Riddle, and a good thing too, for not only did Mr. Riddle explain the finer points of muggle fashion to Mr. Malfoy, but he also defended them against an attack by three muggles. As these photographs show, the heir of Riddle is a contender for this year's Most Charming Smile award!"
Tom looked up from the magazine to see his reading's effect on his audience. His father was buried in the newspaper, ignoring such a frivolous thing as a witches' magazine. His mother was beaming at him proudly, but she always did that. Tommy was staring at him intensely as usual. The owls had finished their bacon and flown away.
Hermione's smile would not win any charm contests. "Enjoy your magazine. I'll research life debts today. I'll visit the British Wizarding Library this morning. If all goes well, I should be back this afternoon, and will deliver Ignis's third dose of wolfsbane potion this evening."
"May I accompany you to the library?" Tom inquired as he handed his mother's magazine back to her, although the next article (after an invisibility cloak advertisement) promised interesting tips for perfecting the complexion. "And perhaps even help? I'd love to do research in a wizarding library."
Hermione considered that. "Thank you very much for the offer; I'm sure you'd be a help. But I think it would be best if you stayed here today. At the Floo Network Authority yesterday, they said they'd do their best to connect the Floo here today, so you should be here to show them your office, and perhaps answer any questions about how you'd like the Floo set up. I doubt they'll work that fast, though. That's not like the Ministry."
"You may be pleasantly surprised," said Tom.
So, after breakfast, Hermione and Tommy apparated away to the library, and Tom worked in his office. The British railway industry seemed to have done most of its growing already, so perhaps it was time to sell some of those stocks and invest in an industry whose growth was ahead of it. An American company called General Electric had a subsidiary called Radio Corporation of America that seemed promising. He wished he could ask Hermione about it. He imagined her reaction to a confession about the theft of her 1997 book, and winced. The doorbell rang, a welcome distraction from thoughts of an angry Hermione. Tom waited for Fiona to answer it and tell him if it was someone important.
She arrived at his office in a huff. "Mr. Riddle, a workman says he's here about the fireplace, but—"
"Oh good. Please show him to my office."
"But Mr. Riddle, he seems very—"
"That's how I know he's legitimate. Send him up."
Fiona stomped away and soon returned with a balding wizard, in a peculiar uniform lightly-dusted with ash. Neither he nor Fiona looked happy about the situation.
"Leave us, Fiona," said Tom, so she left.
The workman looked around Tom's office, seeming slightly reassured by the sleeping Athena, but confused by the fountain pens on the desk and Tom's muggle attire. He stuck out a calloused hand. "Owen Burbage at your service."
Tom searched his memory of Nature's Nobility for the name Burbage and came up blank. He shook the man's hand. "Tom Riddle. Thank you for coming so promptly."
"Are you sure this is the right address? The Riddle House?"
"Yes, we requested a Floo connection yesterday. I didn't make the request in person. Is that a problem? I was busy, so I sent my friend Miss Granger to your office in my place."
"That's fine, it's just, I mean, I'd get in real trouble if I connected a muggle house by mistake."
Malfoy's magnificent white owl swept through the seemingly-closed window. "Perch there, please," commanded Tom, pointing to the back of his chair. The owl obeyed. "Excuse me," he said to the workman. Tom tossed a treat to the owl, which caught it in midair. Then Tom took the scroll off the owl's leg, unrolled it, and read the beautiful calligraphy:
Dear Mr. Riddle,
Thank you for Saturday's interesting lunch. I apologize for my abrupt departure, and also for my delayed apology. I'm sure you understand that I have had little time for social niceties of late. Of course, understanding is not forgiveness.
My heir, Corvus, wishes to meet his benefactors: the seer who discovered the information, and the wizard who conveyed it to me convincingly. The best location for such a meeting would be Malfoy Manor, as it is fortified with sufficient childproofing spells to contain Corvus's youthful exuberance, and also, if I may say so, capable of providing suitable hospitality to guests of refinement and taste. Thus, I would like to invite you and Miss Granger to lunch and a casual afternoon's entertainment at my home this Saturday the fifteenth, at noon.
If you would prefer a more public meeting place, I could treat both of you to lunch at La Truffe Émraude, or a restaurant of your choice, at the same time and date. My son would not be able to attend.
A third option, which I include at Corvus's insistence, would be lunch at Darin' Dragons. I feel that its chaotic atmosphere, while appealing to children, would not be conducive to serious conversation, but I am willing to make the attempt.
Sincerely,
Your humble servant,
Serpens Malfoy
Responding to this could take a while, and the owl had gulped the treat down already, and was glaring at him meaningfully. "Dobby!"
Pop. "Yes Master?"
"Fetch some meat for the owls."
Pop. Pop. Dobby was back with two dishes of meat.
Tom addressed the white owl. "You'll get your reply soon. Enjoy this while you're waiting." The owl hooted at him, then started ripping its meat to shreds. Athena woke up and did the same to hers, after subjecting Malfoy's owl to a good stare.
Tom finally was available to turn back to the workman, who was twisting his hat in his hands in an apologetic manner. "Sorry sir, I just, you know, I don't want to get in trouble about the Statute."
"I understand completely. My family takes similar precautions, as you noticed."
"Would you like an anti-muggle notice-me-not charm on this?"
"No, that shouldn't be necessary. I rarely allow muggles in my office. Set it up so that even a squib servant can use it."
"Yes sir. You realize that means a muggle could use it by accident?"
"Yes. They're easily obliviated, if it comes to that."
"Very good sir." Owen got to work, first casting Extinguo to put out the fire currently blazing.
Tom sat at his desk and mulled over Malfoy's letter as the room cooled. He didn't dare respond on Hermione's behalf without consulting her, but neither did he dare ask Malfoy's owl to await her return from the library.
Was it wishful thinking, or did he hear a crack of apparition, muffled by the walls of the house? Could Hermione have returned so soon? "Dobby, stay here to assist this workman as necessary. I need to check something before replying to this."
"Yes Master."
Malfoy's owl seemed content to stay with its dish of meat, and didn't follow Tom from the room.
Tom knocked on the door to Hermione's room.
"What?" she demanded through the door.
"May I please come in?"
"All right." She opened the door. She was wearing her beautiful witch robes, Tommy in her new sling, and an irritated expression. The air crackled with a stormy sense of menace.
"I'm very sorry to disturb you," said Tom, feeling that this might not be the best time to ask her anything. "You're back earlier than I expected. Did you find what you sought?"
"I can't get a library card without proof of residency, which I as an Australian don't have."
"Oh! I'm sure we can solve that later." He showed her the scroll. "I have more interesting reading material for you now. Malfoy is offering us lunch."
She read it in horror. "The gall of that man! How can he expect you to trust him after last time? Are you even going to write back to say no, or just send his owl back with no reply?"
"I'll convey your regrets if that's your answer, but I'm inclined to say yes."
She stared at him with her bright brown eyes. Tommy in his sling stared with his blue-black ones. "What? Why?"
"He could be very useful. If the Daily Prophet continues to acknowledge Tommy as the heir of Slytherin, wizarding society will grant him the respect a son of mine deserves. If the Prophet labels Tommy a mere halfblood pretender, he's ruined. I must stay on Malfoy's good side, for Tommy's sake. Do you have any advice on wording my reply to make it clear that I harbor no grudge over our last meeting? And should I mention the life debt?"
She threw the letter back at him. "I advise you to learn from your mistakes, hold a grudge, and never trust a Malfoy again. Tommy doesn't need fame and titles, he just needs a peaceful childhood."
Tom caught the letter and tried to smooth the wrinkles out of it. "That's not very helpful."
"If you don't want my advice, don't ask for it."
"Thank you. That's advice I'll take."
Tom returned to his office, nodded to the workman, Dobby, and the carnivorous owls, and sat at his desk to think. Considering Hermione's idea about Mr. Malfoy endangering Tom's life to set up a situation in which Corvus would hopefully rescue him, allowing Corvus to join them at this meeting would be unwise. That ruled out the first and third options, leaving only the second. That made the decision simple.
Tom didn't write a draft with a fountain pen, but wrote straight onto quality parchment with a quill. It was distracting that his office smelled a trifle like an abattoir, but it was better than being assaulted by Malfoy's owl.
Dear Mr. Malfoy,
Thank you very much for the invitation. Lunches with you are always interesting, so I would be delighted to meet you for another, this time at La Truffe Émraude.
Miss Granger, regrettably, will not be joining us.
Sincerely,
Your humble servant,
Tom Riddle
He tied the scroll to the leg of Malfoy's owl. "Please deliver that to Serpens Malfoy." If flew through the closed window.
The workman had ceased his work, and stood silently through this. The fireplace looked larger.
"How's the Floo connection coming along?" Tom asked.
"It's done, sir," he replied. "I didn't want to interrupt you."
"Thank you."
"You said you wanted even a squib servant to be able to operate it, so it can be opened and closed with this lever here, no wand required. Three positions: open to all, open only to Floo-calls, and closed to both calls and travel."
Tom nodded. "Well done, thank you."
"And how many remote switches would you like?"
What? "How many do you recommend?"
"One for each user in the household would be practical, sir, but they're four galleons each, so—"
"I'll take five."
"Very good sir." Owen took five switches, like miniature versions of the lever by the fireplace, out of his toolbox and waved his stout oak wand over them. Then he tested them all. Flipping one switch flipped them all, as well as the lever.
Owen set the lever to the fully-open position. "I'll just test it." He ignited the fire with a flick of his wand, then took a pinch of Floo powder from the jar Hermione had provided. When he threw it into the fire, the flames turned from green to orange. "Floo Network Authority," he said, then stuck his head into the flames. "Testing new Floo connection, The Riddle House. Right. I'll come through then." He pulled his head out as the flames turned back to orange. Then he took a larger pinch of Floo powder, threw it in, said, "Floo Network Authority," again as he climbed into the green flames, vanishing completely. The flames turned back to orange.
Just as Tom was wondering if that was it, the flames turned green again, and out Owen stepped, dusting a bit of ash from his uniform. "It works," he declared proudly.
"What would have happened to you if it hadn't?" Tom couldn't help but ask.
"Oh, I knew it would work, I've been connecting Floos for years," which didn't answer the question. Tom paid for the switches. Owen gave Tom a parchment to sign acknowledging that the work had been done properly, then handed him a receipt.
"Thank you." Now the question: was he expecting a tip?
"Beautiful home you have here, sir," said Owen, twisting his hat in his hands.
That answered that. The only question left was, how much? Tom took a couple of galleons out of his wallet. "I hope this doesn't insult you, but you do excellent work, so you deserve to be rewarded for it."
Owen didn't look at all insulted as he took the money. "Thank you sir. Good day."
"Good day."
And with another pinch of Floo powder and swirl of green flames, Owen was gone. Tom moved the lever to accept calls only.
Receipt in hand, Tom went to knock on Hermione's door again, and was greeted with a familiar annoyed "What?"
"I have proof of residency," he called through the door. "For myself at least. Let's go to the library together."
She opened the door, and Tom was once more scrutinized by four eyes, the brown and the blue-black. Tom held the receipt before him like a shield. "This should grant me a library card," he said. "And hopefully you as well, with some persuasion."
"Oh. Thank you." It took a beat for her mood to switch, but she seemed cheered.
"I'll go change and meet you back here."
"Don't take too long. This is a library, not a fashion show."
"All the world's a fashion show. Do something about your hair before we go. We want to make a good impression."
"But I already—"
"That inanimate look is out. Do try to look a bit more serpentine. It's the latest fashion." He made his escape quickly.
He returned in wizarding attire in a perfectly reasonable amount of time, and discovered that Hermione had taken his advice, freeing a few snakes to writhe down her narrow back. Tom nodded approvingly. "Well done."
"Thanks. And you've got that haughty pureblood look down."
"Thank you. So where is this library?"
"It's in Oxford," she said. "It's been there since before the Statute of Secrecy. There are anti-muggle charms on the outside, so I'll apparate us directly into the lobby."
"Could we Floo? I'm eager to try our new connection."
"All right."
"And let's take Dobby with us to carry our books."
"But I don't need—"
"You need cooperation from the library staff, don't you?"
Hermione grudgingly nodded. They went to Tom's office. Dobby was still there.
"Good job cleaning up," said Tom, for he detected no evidence of the owls' meals, nor any of the ash the workman had tracked on the floor.
Dobby's scrawny chest puffed with pride.
Tom continued. "Your next task is to accompany us to the British Wizarding Library. We'll travel by Floo. I got a remote switch for each of the humans in the house. I need to get you some clothes with pockets, Dobby, so you can carry one of these as well if you like."
"Pockets?!" squealed Dobby. "Oh Master, a mere house elf doesn't deserve—"
"Let's discuss this later," interrupted Tom, so Dobby stopped talking. Tom handed one switch to Hermione, took another for himself, and flipped the switch to open the Floo. He locked the other switches in a drawer of his desk, as his parents and son didn't need them yet. He looked at his newly-enlarged fireplace, then addressed Hermione. "Any specific instructions? I saw how the workman operated it."
"Speak clearly," she advised. "Keep your elbows tucked in, and you might want to keep your eyes closed. And take care keeping your balance as you step out. It can be disorienting. I'll go first and catch you if necessary."
"I'd hate for that to be necessary. Dobby, could you stabilize my exit in some subtly magical way?"
"Yes Master."
"Good. You go first, then I… Unless there's some 'ladies first' tradition? What's proper?"
Hermione just blinked at him, so Tom turned to Dobby.
"The first to arrive might be walking into danger," said Dobby. "So elves first, then wizards, then witches. The first to arrive can turn back to warn the others, or defend them."
"Thank you, Dobby," said Tom, although Hermione didn't look grateful. "So, you first Dobby, then me, then Hermione. Off you go then. The Floo powder is up there."
"Dobby doesn't need the powder, sir, since Dobby is an elf," he said, nervously twisting a seam of his shirt while correcting his master.
"Thank you Dobby, I appreciate these corrections, here where only our household can hear you. These insights into wizarding culture are one of the most valuable services you provide to me."
Dobby's green eyes were so huge, they took up most of his head. "Wizards don't thank elves," he said. "Elves just work and try not to get punished, sir."
"That's good to know. I won't thank you in public, then. I hope you don't mind if I continue to thank you in private, however.
Dobby thought, a process that required much blinking and ear-wiggling. "Dobby doesn't mind," he finally concluded.
"Good, as gratitude for such excellent service is a hard habit to break. Now Floo to the British Wizarding Library and be ready to stabilize me if necessary so I don't fall."
"Yes Master." Dobby turned the flames green with a wave of his hand, said,"British Wizarding Library," and vanished into the fireplace.
Tom's turn next. Powder, flames, eyes closed, elbows in, "British Wizarding Library" with perfect diction, and he was off. While the trouble with apparition was the lack of reference points that one might use to orient oneself, the trouble with Floo travel was the excess of sensation. It felt as if someone had connected all the chimneys in Britain into a sort of railway network, along which Tom was propelled as if on a very fast train.
This train abruptly dumped him out of a fireplace in a grand, ancient entry hall. Tom stepped forward to get out of Hermione's way, grateful for the sensation of some invisible force propping him up.
Dobby quickly removed the faint dusting of ash from Tom's robes, then Hermione's. Tommy fussed a bit, but quieted when Hermione fed him. Tom flipped his remote switch to close the Riddle House's Floo in their absence.
This lobby was furnished with racks of magazines and newspapers, some chipped wooden chairs, and a counter staffed by a librarian who looked as ancient as the building. Many an inexperienced undertaker would have started embalming him on sight, although a wiser one would have simply recommended a closed casket. His robes had probably started off a shade of lavender last seen on men in the eighteenth century, but they were so faded and yellowed, it was hard to tell. He inspected the new arrivals with rheumy eyes.
Tom strode forward, followed by the rest of his party. "Good morning," he said with a smile. "We're here to get library cards."
"And who are you?" creaked the librarian.
"Tom Riddle, of the Little Hangleton Riddles. I have my proof of residency right here." He presented the Floo receipt to the librarian's slow perusal.
"This seems to be in order," the librarian reluctantly conceded. "If you are who you claim to be." Faster than Tom would have expected, not that he'd expected this at all, the librarian had drawn his wand and pointed it at Tom. "Specialis revelio. Hm. No glamours at all," he marveled, so Tom was glad he hadn't asked Dobby to try any of those complexion charms described in the magazine on him. He then did the same to Hermione, who cringed, but didn't fight back. "Well, you're not any known criminals in disguise," he conceded.
Tom spied a current copy of Witch Weekly on the magazine rack. "If you need confirmation of my identity, you'll find it in your own library."
"What?"
Tom got it off the rack and opened it to the relevant page.
"Well!" exclaimed the librarian. "Sorry sir, I don't keep track of all you young society types." He seemed particularly taken with the picture of Algie, Nigel, and Frances cowering under Tom's gaze. He gave a nostalgic smile. "Bit of old-fashioned muggle-baiting, eh?"
"That's a slanderous accusation!" protested Tom. "You're accusing me of violating the Statute of Secrecy. Mr. Malfoy and I were merely muggletouring, exploring a different culture." Then Tom winked his left eye, for Hermione was on his right.
"I see," smiled the librarian with more teeth than Tom expected in such an old face. "Well, you do seem the right sort, so you should qualify for a library card. I'll just owl the Department of Records at the Ministry to check that you're on file." He approached a moth-eaten, dusty owl that Tom had assumed was a stuffed decoration, but which was presumably alive, and addressed it affectionately. "Rouse yourself, dearie. I'll have a letter for you soon." The owl didn't move.
"We're in a hurry," said Tom. "There's no need to wake your owl." Or, more likely, discover that it had died some time ago. "Isn't there some way to expedite this?"
"Oh, I know she seems slow," sighed the librarian. "But in her day, she was quite the flyer. Would you believe she delivered an entire 1885 edition of the Encyclopaedia Magicus from here to Hogwarts? One volume at a time of course. Nowadays, well, the postage budget barely suffices for a diet of the cheapest owl treats, but they give her indigestion. She prefers capon. Delicate stomach, you know."
Tom was already reaching for his wallet. Would two galleons suffice? They had for the Floo workman. He handed over the bribe to the librarian. "Buy your owl something nice."
The coins vanished into the librarian's dusty robes so quickly, magic must have been involved. "Thank you very much sir. She'll appreciate it. Yes, let's give the old bird a rest today. I'll get a card for you straightaway."
"And for my friend Miss Granger," said Tom. "Although she's not British, I vouch for her. Could her library account be a subsidiary of mine?"
"I'll give you a family account," said the librarian, "with you ultimately responsible for any books she borrows."
"Perfect, thank you."
In a moment, they had signed their cards and the British Wizarding Library was theirs. Tom put the thick parchment card in his wallet and Hermione put hers in her beaded bag, and they left the librarian enjoying Witch Weekly.
Once they were hopefully out of earshot, Hermione complained in an angry whisper, "That owl was stuffed. Couldn't he just post a price sheet saying what bribes he wants for what services?"
"Where's the fun in that?" said Tom. "I like the old coot. He's creative. There may not even be a rule that only British residents may use the library. That sounds like the sort of obstacle he'd put in your way just to be obstructive. Did you try bribing him yourself?"
"No. I don't want to encourage this sort of corruption."
Tom shrugged. "But you want to use the library. Let the old man have his fun. They probably don't pay him enough anyway. Now let's find the books."
They found a yellowed old map on the wall, labeled with book categories. "I'll look in the History section," said Hermione, pointing to the map.
"I'll meet you there soon," said Tom. "I'd like to explore."
"Be careful."
"I won't get lost, and I'll take Dobby with me if you don't need him."
"I mean be careful with the books. They can be dangerous." She pulled a book off a shelf at random and showed him the inside front cover. In writing even more ancient-looking than the wizarding hand Tom had been practicing, he read:
For him that stealeth, or mutilateth, or borroweth and returneth not, this book from this library, let it change into a serpent in his hand & rend him. Let him be struck with palsy & all his members blasted. Let him languish in pain crying aloud for mercy, & let there be no surcease to his agony till he sing in dissolution. Let his entrails be for ever gnawed by bookworms that dieth not.
"I see," said Tom.
"Good. Library curses are serious," said Hermione. She carefully closed the book (titled Underwater Basket-Weaving the Merfolk Way) and returned it to its shelf.
"Thank you for the warning," said Tom. "Although I certainly wasn't planning on stealing or damaging anything, curses or no curses. What sort of savage would damage a library book? I simply want to explore, to get an overview of the sorts of books available here."
Hermione nodded. "Have fun."
"I will." Tom set off. In a library this vast, ancient, and little-used, no one would notice Tom looking up back issues of Witch Weekly.
After much fascinating reading, he pulled himself away and went to the history section. He found Hermione seated at a table piled with half a dozen books, reading one very fast.
"You found what we needed?" he asked.
She jumped, and Tom feared for a moment that she'd draw her wand on him for startling her, but she didn't. "Oh! Yes, I did. These are fascinating. Did you find anything?"
"I want to read everything, but I figured that books on this one subject would be sufficient for this trip. I couldn't resist this book on different calligraphy styles, however." He opened it to show her some beautiful examples.
"Nice," she said. "Well, let's hope there's no trouble checking these out." Dobby levitated their stack of books to the checkout counter.
Indeed, they showed their library cards and checked their books out without incident. The librarian handed the books to Dobby. "These are due back in three weeks, Thursday February fourth."
"Thank you very much," said Tom. "And I hope your owl enjoys her capon."
Tom flicked his switch to open the Riddle House's Floo and they went home. He stepped out of the Floo with a bit more grace this time. It felt like stepping off a moving train. Dobby magicked away the faint traces of ash on their clothes and books, and set the books on Tom's desk.
Hermione rushed to the books. "I can't wait to read these."
"Yes you can," said Tom. "Didn't you say that Tommy keeps you awake at night, so you need to nap in the afternoons? Have some lunch, then go to bed. Dobby, deliver these books to the study." Dobby popped away.
Hermione grudgingly nodded. "You're right. I can read better when I've had enough rest."
Tom was glad he hadn't said anything about beauty sleep. Instead, as they headed to the drawing room, he said, "I'll read while you sleep. I might as well keep these wizarding clothes on the rest of the day, as they seem appropriate for such reading material. Then I'll chaperone your visit to Ignis after dinner. We can Floo there."
She nodded. "But someone who looks like such a haughty pureblood wouldn't typically pay a social call to a werewolf."
"Or a common tradesman," added Tom. "Which is more of an issue, but I'll ignore it for now. Strict adherence to what you would call unimportant frivolities allows us to violate much more important social norms without censure. No one seems to care that I'm a muggle as long as I look like a wizard."
"They don't know. If they knew, they'd be aghast."
"They won't even suspect as long as I take adequate care with the unimportant things."
Tom's parents were already eating lunch, so they joined them, and filled them in on the day's events.
"I can't believe you left without the book on underwater basketweaving," said his mother, to the amusement of all.
"We'll need our own library cards of course," said his father. "And these periodicals in the lobby; do they have international newspapers? I'm getting quite concerned about this Grindelwald fellow. The Prophet seems so insular. They devote more ink to British quidditch games than to international politics."
"They may have had them," said Tom. "I was just getting an overview. The place is marvelous. I'll give you a tour tomorrow."
After lunch, Hermione and Tommy went to their room to nap, and Tom went to the study, where he sat in a comfortable chair by the fire to read histories of life debts. What a gruesome collection of stories they were! Judging from these stories, wizards spent all their time attempting to murder one another, when they weren't engaging in more peaceful pursuits such as risking their lives with pointlessly reckless stunts.
What a waste of magic! There was no reason for wizards to be in conflict with one another at all. They could instead use their magic to dominate as many muggles as they wished. It would take subtlety, now that the Statute was in effect, but would surely satisfy any desire for power…
No it wouldn't, any more than Tom's childhood pastime of manipulating anthills would satisfy him now. Muggles were beneath wizarding notice. Wizards were too insular to look outside their own society for new worlds to conquer.
Hermione, with Tommy peering from his sling, joined him later.
"Welcome," Tom said. "Here, this chair is the warmest spot in the room." He got up and sat in the second warmest chair next to it. The library books were easily accessible to both of them on a small table.
Hermione stared at him blankly for a moment before sitting down in the chair he'd offered. "Thank you," she said.
"You're welcome. These histories are fascinating," he said. "It seems that life debts aren't always repaid in kind. The debtor often grants other boons to his creditor, such as giving him advantageous business deals, or rather more personal and intimate favors. There are cases of creditors exploiting this, treating their debtors almost as slaves. A creditor who threatens suicide if his every wish isn't granted can manipulate a debtor into anything."
Hermione shuddered. "I hate to think what Malfoy will do to try to get his son out of debt."
Tom shrugged. "You're such a pessimist. I'd rather think of how I can use this debt to my advantage." At Hermione's glare, he clarified, "I don't want a wizard child as a slave. I thought I'd made my opinion of slavery clear. But to have influence over the heir of Malfoy—"
"Just let me read," she said, so he did. The room was silent but for the turning of pages and the crackling of the fire.
They read until it was time to gather in the drawing room for dinner. They filled Tom's parents in on their reading as best they could without putting them off their dinners.
Soon, Fiona, with an affronted look at Tom and Hermione's attire, called them in to dinner, so the gentlemen escorted the ladies in to the dining room and pulled their chairs out for them as usual.
Once all were seated and eating their soup, Tom addressed Hermione. "As I am the only member of this family who has not yet done my duty of protecting your virtue from a werewolf, I shall accompany you to Ignis's home this evening. Guarding an innocent young damsel in a wolf den will another life debt to my collection. Don't look at me like that, I'm joking."
"Aren't jokes supposed to be funny?" asked Hermione.
Tom's father chortled. "She got you there."
Tom explained, "A dry delivery accentuates—"
Hermione interrupted. "Because that sounds too much like what many people say in earnest, both about the predatory nature of werewolves, and the helplessness of women, to be funny."
Tom took a deep breath, then released it slowly, which enabled him to say "Sorry," in a steady voice at a reasonable volume.
There were no sounds but the clinking of soup spoons for a while.
"Mrs. McKinnon serves delicious tea," said Tom's mother. "You must try it, Tom, if she is kind enough to offer it to you."
"I will," said Tom. "My intention to visit Ignis isn't a joke. Aside from the necessity of keeping up an appearance of propriety, I need more experience interacting with wizards if I hope to be accepted as one. Ignis is one of my few acquaintances in the wizarding world, and as such sets an example of wizarding customs. In some respects, a wizard of my own age would be a better model to emulate than a wizard of my own class such as Mr. Malfoy."
"I certainly hope you use Malfoy only as an example of what not to do," said Hermione.
"Neither wizard is ideal for my purposes," conceded Tom. Lycanthropy aside, did Tom really want to model his behavior on that of a tradesman? Ignis would do for now, but Tom would have to acquire some higher-class friends his own age soon.
After dinner, Hermione handed Tommy (who was a darling little erumpent today, apparently) to Tom's mother. "I'll go get the potion from my lab." She turned to Tom. "I'll meet you in your office to Floo there."
"We should see this Floo in action," said Tom's father, so they agreed to all meet there in a few minutes.
Tom arrived after a brief detour to his room to check his clothes in his full-length mirror. He should put another one in his office by the Floo. He explained its operation to his parents, and gave them each a remote switch.
Hermione joined them shortly, carrying a box with faint jets of blue smoke puffing from the edges. "Ready?" she asked.
"I'm glad it's not my job to keep that box upright on this trip," he replied.
"Oh, it has an anti-spill charm on it," she assured him.
"Dobby!" called Tom.
Pop. "Yes Master?"
"This evening, we are Flooing to the McKinnons', so as before, you will go first—"
"Wait!" interrupted Hermione. "What? Why would you bring Dobby?"
"To accompany us, clean the ash of my robes and such."
"Tom, you can't bring a house elf everywhere, especially not to the McKinnons'."
"Why not?"
"It's terribly pretentious. They don't have an elf. It would seem like you're flaunting—"
"Oh all right. Dobby, you have the evening off."
Dobby blinked at him.
After two pinches of Floo powder, two careful pronunciations of "McKinnon Pest Control," and much disorienting whirling, they emerged in a room that looked more like a middle-class drawing room than a tradesman's office, although an exterminator probably didn't need much of an office. Ignis probably had a storeroom elsewhere for his monster-slaying equipment. Tom was glad he had a moment to steady himself before anyone greeted them, for they were alone in the room. Hermione quickly magicked the light dusting of ash off Tom's clothes, then her own, then sheathed her wand.
A plump woman wearing an apron over her witch robes bustled in. "Welcome! I was expecting you to come by apparition, but then I heard the Floo."
"We had our Floo repaired today," explained Tom. "Our address is the Riddle House. That should make visiting easier. My card." He handed her one. The address printed on it worked for Floo as well as muggle visitors.
"Oh good, thank you," she said, pocketing it. "I'm Clara McKinnon, Ignis's mother. You must be Tom. Ignis has told me so much about you."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. McKinnon," said Tom.
"And Hermione, how nice to see you again."
"Thank you. How is Ignis tolerating the potion? Any side effects?"
Speak of the devil, and he charged into the room. "So, you're finally braving the wolf's den, eh Tom?" he laughed. "Got to protect the fair maiden from the ferocious beast."
Hermione laughed.
Tom seethed.
"I do hope you can visit for a little while," said Mrs. McKinnon. "Please, sit down," so they did on the slightly worn and faded chairs.
"Let's get the potion-drinking part of the visit over with," said Ignis, so Hermione opened the smoking box and handed Ignis a full goblet. He gulped the potion down, contorting his face into a comical grimace. "Ugh! Third time isn't the charm. It's still horrible. I didn't know anything could taste worse than polyjuice potion."
"Oh?" asked Hermione. "When have you had occasion to drink that?" She scourgified the goblet and put it away.
Mrs. McKinnon got a glass of water for Ignis to wash down the taste of the potion.
Ignis made some more amusing faces as he swished the water around and gulped it down. "Well, it's an embarrassing story," he said, so Tom's ears perked up.
"I'll make tea while you young people chat," said Mrs. McKinnon, leaving.
"Thank you," said Ignis. He continued. "In school, my friends and I got this idea to disguise ourselves as Slytherins to play a prank. We planned to dance on the Head Table (that's where the professors dine in the Great Hall) in, well, an inadequate state of dress, so it would look like they had done it. Those Slytherins would have got in so much trouble if it had worked."
"What went wrong?" asked Hermione.
"Little did we know that a group of Ravenclaws had their own plan to prank the exact same gang of Slytherins we'd targeted, at the same time."
"Oh no!" exclaimed Hermione, but her eyes were laughing.
"We got only as far as the Entrance Hall when we found ourselves pursued by flying buckets of dragon dung."
Hermione gasped.
"Not fresh," he assured her. "Composted, so it didn't burn, much. They must have got it from the Herbology greenhouses. Still rather pungent. We ran outside and dived into the lake to wash, and by the time we got it off, the polyjuice was wearing off, after all the trouble we'd gone to to brew it, so there went that prank. The pondweed grew very lush that year. We never told the Ravenclaws their prank had hit the wrong target. I heard them laughing at the Slytherins, saying they were idiots to pretend they hadn't been pranked when everyone knew they had."
Hermione laughed. "Oh, you poor things. I had a similarly unfortunate experience with polyjuice potion. You see, I thought I'd found a hair of the girl I wanted to impersonate, but I'd actually found a hair from her cat."
"But polyjuice doesn't work for interspecies—"
"I know." Hermione shook her head ruefully. "I was thirteen, and didn't yet realize how much can go wrong. Fortunately the school healer set me right. Getting rid of the tail was unpleasant."
"I can imagine," laughed Ignis. Tom hoped that Ignis wasn't imagining Hermione's tail in too much detail, since that seemed like the sort of thing that Tom as chaperone was here to prevent. Her dueling robes left little enough to the imagination as it was.
"So how should your prank have gone?" Ignis continued.
"Well, it wasn't for a prank I'm afraid," she admitted, embarrassed. "We just wanted to spy on a certain student, so we wanted to disguise ourselves as his friends. You see, we suspected him of being the one who was writing threats on the walls in blood."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Anti-muggleborn threats."
"In blood?"
"Not human blood. Rooster blood, we later learned. Anyway, it was all for nothing, since once my friends were disguised and talking with the suspect, they found that he was as bewildered as they were about who was doing it."
"Did you eventually catch the culprit?"
"Well, my friends did. I spent much of that school year in the hospital wing, so I didn't actually do much." She shook her curls. "It took ages to catch up in my studies."
"It took that long to undo the polyjuice damage?"
"No, that was quick. Recovering from the basilisk attack is what took the time."
Ignis blinked at her. "I'm sorry, I thought I heard you say basilisk, but—"
"Yes, a parselmouth was controlling a basilisk, using it to attack muggleborn students."
"You're saying a basilisk was slithering around your school attacking students?"
"Yes."
"Wicked! I wish I'd gone to your school," said Ignis, confirming Tom's assessment of him as an idiot. He'd been bitten by a werewolf only because he hadn't managed to find a basilisk first. "Hogwarts never has anything nearly that exciting. All we have are ghosts and a poltergeist and ordinary stuff like that. But your school had both a basilisk and a parselmouth to control it? I've heard Durmstrang focuses on the Dark Arts, but your school sounds even Darker." He clearly meant "Dark" in a good way.
"Parselmouths aren't necessarily evil," objected Hermione, champion of werewolves and whatnot. "My friend Harry was a parselmouth too, and he's the one who slew the basilisk." The Peverell descendant, Tom realized. The owner of the cloak.
"There were two parselmouths in your school that year?"
"Yes."
"I thought they were very rare."
"They are."
"A convenient skill for anyone wishing to slay a dangerous serpent I suppose," conceded Ignis. "Just told it to throw itself off a tower or something, eh?"
"No. I don't know if that would have worked, when the other parselmouth was controlling it. Harry reached into its mouth with a goblin-made sword to stab its brain."
Ignis's wise turquoise eyes narrowed, and he sat back on his chair to look at Hermione with a different perspective. "How big are you saying this basilisk was?"
"Very big. I saw its corpse later." She stretched her arms out wide. "About this big across."
Ignis turned to Tom. "She's putting me on, isn't she?"
Tom waved his hands to indicate his ignorance. "I've never been to Australia, but I've heard it has some very dangerous snakes."
"Wait here," said Ignis. He abruptly got up and started to charge out of the room, but wobbled and stopped. Hermione rushed to his side to steady him. "Do you need a bezoar? I'm sorry, the potion must have—"
"I'm fine," said Ignis. "I stood up too fast is all." He looked at Hermione's hands gripping his hand and arm, shot a furtive glance at Tom, then looked back to Hermione. "Let's not give your chaperone cause to cut this visit short." Hermione let go. "I'll be back in a bit." He charged off.
Tom heard some creaking doors. He and Hermione looked at each other.
Ignis was back soon. "This is a basilisk!" he said. He was, indeed, carrying a dead snake as long as his leg. "You can't fool me, Hermione. I slay dangerous beasts for a living. I have an ad in the back of the Prophet saying I'll kill basilisks for free, since I can sell the venom. I know basilisks. Don't go telling me some story about a huge..."
Hermione was opening her beaded bag. "Accio basilisk fang." It was secured in a sturdy box, which she opened. "Don't touch, it's still full of venom. So useful for destroying Dark objects, isn't it, and more convenient than fiendfyre." The fang was the size and approximate shape of the head of a pickaxe. It was nearly as long as Ignis's entire snake.
Ignis stared for a while. He compared the fangs of his specimen to the fang in the box. "All right. I stand corrected. Actually I think I need to sit down again. I'll put this back in the cooler first." He left again, having to drape the snake over his arm so he could open the door with his one hand.
"Poor thing," said Hermione quietly once Ignis was gone. She latched the box closed and returned it to her beaded bag, which looked too small to hold it.
Ignis soon returned without his snake. "Your school just let you keep that fang?" he asked after he'd collapsed into his chair once more.
"There wasn't much left of the school by the time I salvaged this."
"What?"
"But you were telling me about your pranks on Slytherins. Tell me more about those, please."
"But I must know more about—"
"Hermione would rather not be reminded of absent friends right now," interrupted Tom, for she seemed to be sinking into her dark memories again. "And I, too, would like to hear about these pranks on Slytherins, and any retaliation they may have managed."
Hermione shot Tom a small, grateful smile.
Ignis looked back and forth at the two of them and sighed. "Did your friend survive, at least? After sticking his arm in this giant basilisk's mouth?"
"He survived that, yes. Phoenix tears worked as an anti-venom."
"Phoenix tears. Good to know. I'll make a point to chop an onion and offer my handkerchief the next time I see a phoenix. My school stories aren't nearly as interesting as yours."
"That's why I want to hear them. I want to know what a normal school experience is like, since I didn't really have one."
"I'm not even good for that," said Ignis. "I skipped my final year. Had to of course."
"So did I," said Hermione. "Although for different reasons. But please, tell me what life's like in a school that doesn't have a giant basilisk roaming the halls."
"Well, that Ravenclaw prank inspired us to play another prank on the Slytherins involving dragon dung, but we went one better and used the fresh stuff. One of my friends had a cousin who had a supply."
"Fresh? That seems a bit mean," said Hermione, although she was smiling.
"You have to remember, these are Slytherins I'm talking about," said Ignis. "Your school didn't have Slytherins of course, but take my word for it, they deserve all that and more. They're the most horrible, stuck-up—"
Tom interrupted. "I won't fault you for words spoken in ignorance, but you should know that you have met the heir of Slytherin, descended from Salazar Slytherin himself."
Ignis laughed uproariously. "That's a hilarious impression of them! Yes, that's exactly the sort of ridiculous thing those pretentious wankers would say. Oh, man." He wiped a tear from his eye. "It's your dry delivery that kills me. How can you say a ridiculous title like 'the heir of Slytherin' with a straight face?"
Hermione was laughing too.
Tom sat back to bask in the glory of his well-delivered joke. He decided to be quiet for a while. He'd leave his audience wanting more.
What Ignis and Hermione's conversation lacked in the dry delivery that is the mark of true wit, it made up in liveliness, for the two of them were trading anecdotes so fast, and on such unfamiliar topics, that Tom couldn't follow. Tom couldn't have asked for a better example of a typical wizarding conversation. It was worthy of close study, both for content and style, even if the style was not to Tom's taste.
Hermione was in a significantly better mood in the McKinnon house than the Riddle, so Ignis's crude charms were unarguably effective. Just listen to that coarse laugh, see that easy smile, those broad gestures, hear those words tumbling over one another in incomplete sentences.
"I said, would you like some tea, Tom?"
Tom started as he realized he'd missed Mrs. McKinnon's initial offer. "Oh, yes, thank you."
She poured and served. It wasn't a tea he was used to, so he was tempted to ask about it, but refrained to conceal his ignorance. "Thank you. This hits the spot."
"I grew the herbs myself," she said proudly, opening up tea as a subject of conversation.
"Oh?" He took an appreciative sip of the tea. "Then I must request your recipe, for this is delicious."
"It's a family secret," she said with a triumphant smile as if anyone cared about her bloody tea recipe.
Tom donned a disappointed expression.
"You're taking your chaperone duty very seriously," she said. "But I assure you that you are allowed to look away from those two occasionally. Remember to blink. It's good for the eyes."
"Thank you." Tom looked at his steaming tea. If he practiced in front of a mirror, he should be able to get his smile to look that guileless. He shouldn't count on his natural good looks alone to win Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile award.