At breakfast Friday morning, Tom's father announced, "Hermione, Tom will take Mary and me to the British Wizarding Library today. We'll bring Dobby. Do you care to join us?"
"Thank you, but not today. I'd like to focus on these life debt books before getting any others. It's very tempting to try to read everything."
"I know what you mean," said Tom. "Yesterday, I wanted to devour that library entire. Now that I know it's there, it will be hard to do anything but read."
"Fond of books, are you?" smiled Hermione.
Tom laughed. "That's a huge understatement. That library looked to contain a significant portion of all the knowledge in the wizarding world. How could I not want it all? Knowledge is power. Q.E.D."
"That's not a complete proof," she argued. "You haven't demonstrated why you should want power."
Tom suddenly found himself at a loss for words. It was as if she'd asked for a mathematical proof of something blatantly obvious, like 1+1=2.
"Anyway," said Hermione, "I'll finish reading those life debt books today, to make sure I have a good understanding of the concept. That should keep me busy. I'll deliver the fourth dose of potion to Ignis in the evening. You three may draw lots for chaperone duty, I don't care."
"Or he could Floo here," said Tom. "Perhaps it's our turn to host. We could even invite his family to dine with us."
"I'll Floo-call to ask which he prefers," said Hermione.
So after breakfast, Hermione demonstrated Floo-calling, squatting inelegantly to stick her head in the green flames. Tom could hear only her side of the conversation, and that faintly.
The green flames turned orange as she withdrew her head. "Ignis and his mother will join us for dinner at six," she said cheerfully. "Although they say they owe us the next one."
"Wonderful," said Tom's mother. "I'll tell Hester to prepare for our guests."
After that, it was the work of a moment for the adult Riddles to don wizarding attire and gather in Tom's office. His parents arrived before him. His mother apparently had been expecting Tom to take a while getting dressed, as she'd brought her knitting to pass the time. There she was, dressed in beautiful blue witch robes, knitting a little hat.
"I don't take that long to dress," said Tom.
"Of course dear," she said, putting her knitting in her basket and leaving it on top of his rolltop desk. "Shall we go?"
They did. Tom's father, as the senior, insisted on Flooing immediately after Dobby. Tom and his mother followed.
Tom's parents obtained library cards easily, after sponsoring another capon for the librarian's owl.
Tom's father made a beeline for the international newspapers. Tom's mother and Dobby wandered the stacks, no doubt in search of more nicknames for her grandson.
Books on fine cuisine were Tom's priority. He'd lunch with Malfoy tomorrow, and didn't want to do the wizarding equivalent of trying to eat a whole artichoke. He found a few books full of illustrations that were fascinating if not appetizing, then headed to the Potions section.
The Riddles met in the lobby to check out together. Tom's father had, in addition to reading the newspapers, found books on recent wizarding history and government. Tom's mother had found—
"A Brief History of Time Travel?" Tom read. "Advances in Time Travel Theory? Everything You Need To Know Before Traveling Through Time? Where did you find these?"
"They were in the restricted section."
"How did you get into the restricted section?"
"I asked. The librarian is so helpful. I also found these two in the non-restricted section." The Young Witch's Guide to Etiquette, and The Young Wizard's Guide to Etiquette. "It's about time we caught up."
They checked out their selections, and Tom stashed the time travel books in his wallet to avoid any awkward questions from Hermione. Dobby carried the rest. They Flooed home, stepping out of the fireplace more gracefully than before.
His mother picked up her knitting basket and held it out to him. "Time travel books here, please."
"You planned this," observed Tom as he hid the books under the wool.
"Of course dear. Dobby, put the rest of the books in the study. I'll go put away my knitting, and then I believe it's time for lunch."
Hermione, carrying Tommy, joined them in the drawing room shortly. "Potioneering books?" she asked. "I was in the study when Dobby dropped off your new finds."
Tom explained. "Assuming your potion works on Ignis, he'll help advertise it to the other werewolves, so we'll have a profitable business supplying them. We need the names of good potioneers. Once you have proof of concept, you surely don't intend to manufacture this potion yourself every month, especially as we scale up. We'll hire a professional."
"A qualified potioneer would be expensive," said Hermione. "I can do it myself."
"Your time is valuable, and the market is potentially large," said Tom. "Ignis spoke of his acquaintance with a feral pack, and there are many other packs, here and abroad. I've seen references to them in the newspapers. And we don't know how many are trying to pass in wizarding society, but there must be more than just Ignis. This calls for a large-scale manufacturing process, to take advantage of efficiencies of scale."
"I could brew a larger batch in the shed."
"Hermione," interrupted his father, "While a lab is all right, I don't fancy our shed being turned into a potion manufacturing plant, considering the smell."
"But the expense—"
"Is a worthwhile investment," said Tom. "If there's a market for even quack cures, there must be a market for something that actually works."
The look Fiona gave their wizarding attire as she announced lunch was not strictly professional, Tom thought.
Once they were settled in the dining room and Fiona had left, Tom said. "I have to study wizarding etiquette and cuisine to prepare for my lunch with Malfoy tomorrow, so the potioneering books I borrowed today will have to wait. Even learning how to hire a professional potioneer to scale up this potion will take some research."
"I'll do the research," said Hermione.
"After your nap," said Tom.
She seemed about to argue, but didn't. "All right. Thank you."
"I'll get started on it," said Tom's father.
"Thank you, Father," said Tom.
Hermione turned to Tom's mother. "And what will you do?"
His mother replied, "I'm going to sit in my room and knit another hat for my strong little bludger. Tom, when you were a baby, your head was just like that. It started off sort of pointed and soon grew more round."
"Ah," said Hermione.
After lunch, Tom went to the study to read. When he felt that he had a pretty good grasp of the subjects, he went to knock on the door of his mother's sitting room.
"Enter," she said pleasantly.
He did, to find her knitting. "How's the hat coming along?" he asked.
She smiled, put her knitting down, and reached under the wool in her basket for the time travel books. "My wool is somewhat tangled. Advances in Time Travel Theory is far beyond me. I lack the background in arithmancy to understand it, so it might as well go straight back to the library." She returned it to her basket and took another. "Everything You Need To Know Before Traveling Through Time is particularly disappointing, as it's all warnings about why time travel is a bad idea. I believe the title is intentionally misleading, designed to discourage potential time travelers from acting on their ambitions. It purports to explain why research into time travel was severely restricted after the disaster of 1899. It attempts, without success, to explain the disaster of 1899. The English language's lack of tenses suitable for such a description might be at least partly to blame. If I'm reading this correctly, the experiments of a reckless researcher named Eloise Mintumble caused several people to be unborn. Mintumble herself died from a sudden attack of old age when she attempted to travel forward from the fifteenth century to her own time in the nineteenth."
"Do you think Hermione is trapped here?"
"I believe so. This was a one-way trip."
Tom mulled that over. Why couldn't one of those unborn people have been Merope? Tom could have lived perfectly happily as a muggle, untroubled by witches… And never known that magic existed. He'd have married Cecilia by now. Tommy, with his cheeks like a cherub from a Victorian soap advertisement, eerie blue-black eyes, and powerful accidental magic, would never have been born.
It was time to stop thinking about that, for his mother's book report continued: "This book seems to be working from an assumption that there are aspects of one's original timeline that one wishes to preserve, which for Hermione seems not to be the case." She returned the book to her basket and retrieved the third.
"A Brief History of Time Travel seems more objective. The only legal form of time travel is the closed loop, in which the traveler moves backwards by no more than a few hours, in order to ensure that what has already happened, happens. This creates no paradoxes. Time-turners for this purpose are available by special permit from the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic. Every time-turner comes equipped with multiple layers of safety spells, ensuring that travelers don't go more than a few hours. Tampering with these safety features is dangerous and illegal, as it has the potential to create major paradoxes."
"Dangerous and illegal are two of Hermione's specialties," noted Tom. He still wasn't satisfied. "So creating paradoxes isn't impossible, just illegal? How does that work? And don't just say 'magic.'"
"Paradoxes result from ruptures in the barriers that separate parallel universes." She was able to get more knitting done as Tom contemplated that.
He needed help with this. "Parallel universes? 'Universe' isn't supposed to have a plural form."
"I would have to study the theory book much more thoroughly to truly comprehend it, but it seems that reality branches like a tree. How often it branches, and what triggers the bifurcation, are subject to debate among academics. At any rate, only two branches concern us now, so I'll discuss those two. On the branch Hermione came from originally, everything is progressing just as Hermione remembers it. Poor little Tommy is being raised in an orphanage instead of by his family. Hermione's illegal use of a time-turner may have created this entire branch. Her presence here is a paradox. She ruptured the barriers between the universes to come here. This is potentially very dangerous, according to the academics who study such things. Excess ruptures between parallel universes, at least theoretically, have the potential to damage the fabric of reality. Enough paradoxes, and causality itself could cease to function. Actions would no longer have consequences."
"That doesn't sound all bad."
"Tom! This isn't a laughing matter. Hermione has done something very dangerous." She sighed. "And she didn't save anyone in her own universe. The causal chain that propelled her here still exists, or she wouldn't be here. But her misuse of a time-turner may have created this universe we're living in now, so I suppose we should be grateful."
"Oh god," said Tom. "Er. Goddess? Not what I imagined an almighty creator to look like."
"Hush. Of course, there's also a theory that irreversible damage to reality has already happened. This would account for the existence of magic in the world, which seems to defy normal laws of cause and effect."
"But if it took magic to damage reality like this, how could magic have appeared only after causality had already been damaged?" asked Tom. It took only a moment to realize how pointless that argument was. "Never mind. Thank you very much for sharing your findings, mother. I think I need to go to my office now and do something that makes sense. Sums, for instance."
"Have fun, dear."
In his office, Tom opened the Floo, then sat at his desk, calculated profits to be made off wolfsbane based on different sets of assumptions, and awaited the McKinnons' arrival. They appeared in a swirl of green fire at six exactly. They had made some attempt to dress for dinner, and used their wands to remove the traces of ash from their dress robes.
"Welcome," said Tom. "The others await us in the drawing room. This way." He closed his rolltop desk and led them there.
"Thank you for the invitation," said Mrs. McKinnon. "What a beautiful home you have."
"We're happy to host," said Tom. "We enjoy your company, and there is much to discuss."
They arrived in the drawing room none too soon, for Hermione was blushing and Tom's father was chortling. Hermione smiled to see them and heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh good, you're here. I'll get your potion." She turned to Tom's mother. "Could you look after Tommy while I go to my lab?"
"Of course." Tom's mother welcomed her bright little snidget into her arms, although he didn't seem happy to leave Hermione's arms. "Oh, don't fuss little one, Hermione will be back very soon. Would you like me to sing you a song?" Tom was getting tired of Lavender's Blue, so he was glad she sang a different one, although Molly Malone was so common he was somewhat tired of that too. The first two verses were fine, but was she really going to sing the third verse in this company? Yes she was:
"She died of a fever
And no one could save her
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone
Now her ghost wheels her barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive, alive-o
Alive, alive-o
Alive, alive-o
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive, alive-o."
Tommy was no longer fussing, looking up at those pure black eyes.
"You sing beautifully," said Mrs. McKinnon.
"Yes," said Ignis. "I've never heard that song before. Is it—" but his mother had shot him a look, so he aborted his inquiry. "Oh. Sorry. I mean, it wouldn't matter, if it were, and of course it's beautiful when you sing it…" He had the sense to shut up under his mother's glare.
Hermione returned shortly with a smoking goblet. Ignis drank the potion with his usual assortment of amusing expressions. "It's clearly doing something," he said after he handed the empty goblet to Hermione, who scourgified it. "I'd like to just sit here for a bit before dinner."
Tom's mother handed Tommy back to Hermione, and the group passed the time with small talk about the decor, which was greatly admired by their guests.
"I understand why you hide your Floo in your office," said Ignis, "but even with precautions like that, can this really pass for a muggle house?"
"What do you mean?" inquired Tom's mother.
"It's so beautiful. And aren't muggle houses dirtier than this? Do you scatter some dirt around whenever muggles visit to make the illusion more convincing?"
"We don't find that necessary," said Tom's mother smoothly.
"Your school didn't teach Muggle Studies, did it?" asked Hermione coldly.
"It does, as an elective," said Ignis. "I didn't bother with it. Not much to know, is there?"
"Well, the teacher was probably as knowledgeable about muggles as your Defense teacher was about werewolves," said Hermione.
Fiona, apparently resigned to the fact that her employers were throwing a fancy-dress party, called them in to dinner, so they processed into the dining room. Tom escorted Hermione before Ignis got any ideas about offering her his arm. Tom needn't have been concerned, for Ignis escorted his own mother and pulled out her chair for her properly.
Tom felt that the subject of muggles was quite played out, so he changed the subject to werewolves. There was no lack of conversation, for the Riddles' ignorance of the details of werewolf life was typical of wizarding society, and did not incriminate them as muggles. Only their interest in correcting their ignorance was remarkable.
"How many werewolves in Britain would you say are living as you do, passing as human?" Tom inquired. He needed these numbers for his calculations.
"There might be a hundred. More than you'd suspect. We can't be properly counted of course. We don't go admitting our condition to a census-taker."
"Of course," said Tom. "And assuming this potion is effective, how would my customers learn of it? Would they read adverts in the paper?"
"There are so many quack remedies, I doubt many would believe it," said Ignis. "Some desperate ones would, of course."
"Perhaps if it had the endorsement of some authority? St. Mungo's? If you were examined by healers there…" Ignis looked so uncomfortable, Tom had to stop talking. "Sorry."
"If I set foot in St. Mungo's, some healers might be sympathetic, but many would turn me in to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for the bounty. I'm classified as a dangerous beast, as vermin to exterminate."
"Ah. Never mind," said Tom. "So if this potion can't be distributed through official channels, how can we get it to those who need it? Do you know other werewolves? Can you give me their names?"
Ignis was silent for a while. "It's not that I don't trust you..."
Tom's father laughed. "You trust us too much already. You're already drinking a mysterious potion on nothing more than Hermione's word."
"But that's just trusting you with my own life," said Ignis. "Trusting you with others' lives is different."
Tom observed, "So you're willing to risk your own life, but not others' lives on the chance that I'm actually a bounty hunter, using you to ferret out well-disguised werewolves so I can turn them all in for the bounty. That makes a sort of sense." Ignis might be a Gryffindor, but he wasn't a complete idiot. "I imagine the punishment the werewolf community would inflict on such a traitor would be severe."
"What?" exclaimed Ignis. "It's not that I'm afraid of what they'd do to me, it's that I don't want to betray my friends."
"Whatever the deterrent, let me assure you that my business plan is not nearly so short-sighted," said Tom. "There's much more profit to be made supplying this potion for a werewolf's whole lifetime than accepting a one-time bounty, unless the bounty is huge."
"It's fifty galleons," admitted Ignis.
Tom responded to that with a dismissive snort. "There's much more money to be made by selling a potion to a customer for decades."
"Decades?" repeated Ignis.
"Yes, for customers' entire lives, or until a cure is developed," said Tom.
"Our lifespans aren't usually measured in decades," explained Ignis slowly. "More like years, and months."
"What?" Tom was annoyed. He'd have to redo his calculations of the lifetime profit to be made from each werewolf.
"It's the Dark injures we accumulate every month," Ignis continued. "Those of us who lock ourselves up every full moon, we bear the brunt of the curse ourselves. It's different for the ferals of course. They save themselves the self-inflicted Dark injuries by roaming free on full moons, to infect humans."
"It's so brave of you—" started Hermione, but Ignis interrupted her.
"Don't mistake this for some sort of heroism. I'm lost either way. Either death from the gradual accumulation of Dark injuries, or lose my humanity to the wolf, hunting humans like a wild beast. I don't care to live a few more decades if all I do with the extra time is spread this infection, or get hunted down by the Werewolf Capture Unit. So, you know, six of one, half dozen of the other." He attempted a chuckle, but no one else seemed amused. Mrs. McKinnon's breath was shaky.
Ignis patted his mother's hand. "You knew I'd go out in a blaze of glory the day you got my letter saying I'd been sorted into Gryffindor."
"Gryffindors don't all fit the stereotype," said Mrs. McKinnon.
"Many of us do."
Hermione spoke. "I don't want to get your hopes up too high, but if this potion keeps you from injuring yourself in your wolf form, it might slow the progression of the disease. Your life might not be as short as you think."
"I'd hate to lose my customers so quickly," said Tom. This conversation was drifting away from important matters. Tom pulled it back on track. "Anyway, it's good to know that confidentiality is important to my customers. I respect that. If you could keep track of them, there's no need to trouble me with details such as their names. This means, of course, I'm offering you a job. Would you be willing to work on commission? I'll pay you for every werewolf you refer to me. We'll write up a contract."
Ignis gave him a blank stare. "I…"
"You wouldn't have to close your pest control business, you could just start this as a sideline," said Tom.
Tom's father laughed. "Keep the same business cards. They're the perfect cover."
Ignis found his voice. "I wasn't thinking of making money off this. I mean, if this works, I'll just want to tell all the werewolves I know."
Tom's father laughed even louder. "Unless you're independently wealthy, which I think I would have noticed, you'll need some source of income."
"Which I am happy to provide," said Tom. "I'd rather you use your working hours helping my business than your own, so as you reallocate your time to advertising this potion, your commission from me will increase accordingly. How many werewolves do you think you could refer to me, should you find that this potion is worth your endorsement?"
"Potentially many. We can sense one another. No matter how well we fool humans, we can always identify a fellow werewolf."
"You're clearly the right fellow for the job then," said Tom's father.
"I certainly hope this potion is worth my endorsement. I find myself impatient for the full moon." Ignis set down his dessert fork. "Thank you for a delicious dinner and very interesting conversation."
"Let us withdraw to the drawing room," said Tom's father. "I would like to offer you a tastier after-dinner drink than wolfsbane. Brandy?"
"Perhaps a drop," said Mrs. McKinnon.
"Yes, please," said Ignis.
Soon they were settled with their drinks. "So precious," said Mrs. McKinnon, looking at Tommy, silently observing from Hermione's sling. "Look at those eyes!"
No one needed any reminder to look at those eyes. Tom had once read an article about objects in space with such a strong gravitational pull, even light couldn't escape them. He hadn't paid much attention to it at the time, as he hadn't seen any way to profit off this information, but perhaps if he'd studied the article more, it would have prepared him for Tommy's eyes.
Mrs. McKinnon continued. "I know we Gryffindors have a reputation for bravery, but I think it takes a great deal of bravery for anyone to have a child. To feel so much love for something so helpless! It's safer to love something strong, one's country, or an abstract principle like justice, something that will outlast us, but to love a child! It breaks one's heart."
"I know what you mean," said Tom's mother.
"To love any person, really," said Hermione. "Anyone mortal."
"Let's arrange delivery of tomorrow's potion," said Tom.
"Of course," said Mrs. McKinnon. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get all maudlin. The brandy on top of that excellent wine with dinner may have been unwise." Tom suppressed a cringe at the sympathetic looks the McKinnons gave to him, the recent widower.
"I have plans tomorrow," said Ignis, "so perhaps I should just come here very briefly at, say, four o'clock to drink my next dose? I'm afraid I won't have time for much of a visit."
"Don't apologize," said Tom. "I know your time is valuable."
"I'll be waiting by the Floo for you," said Hermione.
"Then perhaps Sunday you'll let us host your family for dinner. Say, six o'clock?"
"We would be delighted, thank you," said Tom's mother.
"And then there's Monday," Ignis said darkly.
"Moonrise is at 3:43 pm," said Hermione, "So I'll drop by at, say, two with your final dose of potion for the month."
"Thank you. These long winter nights are the hardest."
As they said their goodbyes, the McKinnons expressed their gratitude for the dinner so effusively, it was almost embarrassing. Finally, they left, and Tom set the Floo to accept calls only.
"Hester outdid herself," said Tom's father. "That was an exceptional meal."
"That wasn't what they were grateful for," said his mother. "I wonder what engagement Ignis has tomorrow. Is it with people who know he's a werewolf, of people from whom he must hide his condition?"
Saturday morning, they discussed their day's plans over breakfast.
"I realized something," said Hermione. "In all those stories of life debts, the authors seem to gloss over how the debt actually forms, what makes someone have a debt to one person and not another. As with so much else to do with magic, intent is key. If a person knows in his heart he owes his life to someone, even if he doesn't want to consciously admit it, a debt is formed."
"That's very interesting," said Tom. "I'll keep that in mind at lunch today."
"I need to go to Diagon Alley too," said Tom's mother. "Mrs. McKinnon has already seen me in my one set of witch robes twice. I'll get some new ones today, at that tailor who did such good work for you and Hermione."
"Good idea," said Tom.
"I'll join you," said Tom's father. "A visit to Diagon Alley has been on my mind since first I heard of it."
"You plan to go wandering around Diagon Alley while the tailor makes your new clothes," sighed Hermione. "I suppose I'll have to go with you and try to keep you out of trouble."
"Of course not," said Tom's mother. "We'll order our new robes, Floo home for lunch, and wait until Tom and Dobby return from their outing. Then Thomas and I will Floo back to the tailor shop, with Dobby. We wouldn't go wandering about a fashionable street without an elf to carry our purchases. Dobby won't be available until after lunchtime, as he'll be lunching with his fellow elves. And of course, Thomas and I will need clothes suitable to wear in public."
"I see where Tom gets it," muttered Hermione. "All right, I suppose you can't get into too much trouble in a tailor shop, so you can be on your own for that. I'll accompany your outing to pick up your new clothes this afternoon, and then your wanderings. I must be back by four. I told Ignis I'd be here."
"Oh, I wouldn't impose on you for that," said Tom's mother. "You and Tommy need your afternoon nap."
"But… I really shouldn't let unaccompanied muggles loose in Diagon Alley. This is such a huge Statute violation."
Tom's father was about to say something, but a look from Tom's mother silenced him. His mother spoke. "You are of course welcome to join us, Hermione, if you don't think you'll be too tired. I don't plan to spend more than two or three hours looking at hats."
That broke her will. "All right, all right, you're on your own." She turned to Tom. "You still have the portkey I gave you?"
"Yes. And I believe in airplanes, so veritaserum should be no obstacle to its use."
"Good luck."
"While we're out, you could read The Young Witch's Guide to Etiquette." said Tom's mother. "I found it fascinating."
Hermione sighed.
Tom Floo-called Antonio's Tailor Shop (the official Floo-call address according to the adverts in Witch Weekly) to ask if he was available to measure some new clients. Antonio was delighted to give him an appointment at 11:00, so Tom thanked him, promised they would Floo then, and withdrew his head from the fire. He preferred telephones.
They spent most of the morning reading, then prepared for their outing. Once the adult Riddles were all in wizarding attire, Tom briefly reviewed the plan with Dobby, for it wouldn't do to discuss such things where wizards could overhear. Then Dobby, Tom's father, Tom, and his mother Flooed to the shop. Tom wobbled only slightly upon arrival. He got out of the way of his mother, who stepped out with her usual grace.
After Tom did introductions, the tailor admired his parents' current robes. "What stylish designs, and not by a wand with which I am familiar. Who made these?"
"These robes are from Australia," said Tom's mother. "I don't think you'd be familiar with the tailor."
"Very interesting. Thank you."
"I used to do a lot of business in Australia," Tom's father explained. "But I plan to do more in Britain in the future, which calls for some new robes in a more British style."
"Of course," said the tailor. "The differences are very subtle at any rate, but I know just what you mean."
"I'll see you at home after lunch," said Tom to his parents. He and Dobby left them to their fittings.
He looked at his wizarding pocket watch. He was quite early. A stroll around the neighborhood would be a pleasant way to pass the time. He bought some more owl treats, then simply wandered.
A young lady stepped out of a hairstyling salon, or perhaps her hair writhed out of its own volition and pulled her along. Her hair was red, but otherwise resembled Hermione's in serpentine willfulness. She wore her jade green cloak open and her pointed hood down, showing off the lining, soft white fur inviting touch. She was accompanied by an older, stouter lady, her mother no doubt, with blonde hair less outrageously styled. Her mother was in loud raptures about how gorgeous her daughter was, and how well the new style suited her. The daughter was blushing.
Tom smiled to see this living proof of Witch Weekly's influence.
Like a sighthound locating prey, the young lady's gaze met his. The black pupils of her brown eyes expanded as if to swallow him whole before she lowered her long-lashed eyelids demurely. She whispered something to her mother, and the two turned and walked away from him. Her red hair looked at least as absurd from the back.
As the young lady walked, she dropped her handkerchief, a lace-trimmed, pure white confection that clearly had never seen a bogey.
Tom played along. He darted forward to pick the handkerchief up off the cobblestones. "Excuse me, miss, you dropped this."
The young lady turned and smiled at him. "Oh! Thank you very much." She accepted the handkerchief with a curtsy.
The young lady's mother stepped back to admire a window display of feathered, pointed hats some distance away.
"I almost didn't recognize you with your clothes on," the young lady said once her mother was a decent distance away.
Tom raised a quizzical eyebrow at her.
"Your normal clothes I mean," she said, blushing. Pink clashed with orange. "Your wizarding robes. You're Tom Riddle, aren't you? I saw those pictures of you and Mr. Malfoy in Witch Weekly. I didn't know muggle clothes could look so dapper. You certainly wore them well." She sighed, which did interesting things to her lace-trimmed decolletage. This January day was chilly, so she was wearing plenty of clothes and wintry accessories, yet for all her layers, a significant portion of her skin was bared to the elements. "I wish I had someone to take me muggletouring. It seems like such a thrilling adventure."
"You have the advantage of me, Miss…"
"Prewett. Tessie Prewett."
Tom searched his memory of Nature's Nobility. A pureblood family, of just the sort he was trying to infiltrate. "I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Prewett." He bowed low to kiss her soft, perfumed hand, trying to add a bit more style to Ignis's gesture. He was rewarded with a musical giggle.
"Please call me Tessie."
"Thank you Tessie. Then you may call me Tom."
This triggered another lace-trimmed sigh. "Thank you, Tom. I was so excited to read about your adventure among the muggles."
"Adventure? I treated a friend to lunch."
"Oh Tom, how brave you are to make light of the danger!"
Tom tried to perform the expected reaction to this flattery, but his heart wasn't in it. He changed tack, and instead said, "Perhaps I was reckless, but sorrow over my wife's recent death is undoubtedly clouding my judgement."
Tessie's reaction was entertaining. "Oh. Of course. Yes, I did read about that. I offer my most heartfelt condolences." She raised her hand to her heart or thereabouts to draw his attention to her sincerity.
"Thank you." He reused the line that had worked before: "I'm trying to keep up my spirits, so my newborn son isn't raised in the atmosphere of a funeral parlor, but it's difficult. Trying to celebrate a new life while mourning the loss of another…" He shook his head.
"Oh, I can imagine. It must be very difficult." The poor girl looked around awkwardly. "I should introduce you to my mother. She's right there. I'm not one of those girls who goes out on her own."
"Of course. It would be foolish to leave such a treasure unguarded."
The compliment had the predictable effect. She smiled, and led him to her mother, who was beaming. "Mother! It really is Tom Riddle!"
Tom thought that the word "it" was more applicable to his wallet than his person, so it was the correct pronoun in this case.
"This is my mother, Edith Prewett."
Tom bowed to kiss the lady's hand, as soft and perfumed as her daughter's. "At your service."
"I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Riddle. I don't believe I've seen you at any of the society galas."
"My wife Merope and I—" It was completely justifiable for his voice to break "—enjoyed each other's company so much, I'm afraid we neglected the rest of society. I'm feeling that isolation keenly now. With the sudden loss of the most important person in my life, it would be all too easy to sink into despair."
"Oh!" said Tessie, overwhelmed with sympathy. "How terrible to suffer such a loss without even the solace of friends!"
Tom nodded. "My parents have been a comfort of course, and my newborn son. But it's high time I built a larger network of friends."
"If you would ever like company on a muggletouring jaunt, I would be delighted to join you," said Tessie.
"That's very kind, thank you. Yes, let's plan something. My Floo-call address is simply The Riddle House, in Little Hangleton, Yorkshire. Have my card." It listed his address, although did not specify that it was for Floo-calls. From their reaction , you'd think he'd just handed her a diamond ring.
"Thank you! Mine's Shell Cottage. Here's my card."
Tom accepted the perfumed white rectangle. It said simply Tessie Prewett, Shell Cottage, Tinworth, Cornwall, with no telephone number.
Tessie was peering at Tom's card with a befuddled look. "What's this? Teal—"
"My telephone number, useful for communicating with distant muggles. You can just ignore that part, unless you're planning to get a telephone."
The two witches blinked their big brown eyes at him.
"Now if you would excuse me, I'm meeting Mr. Malfoy for lunch again today, this time in more familiar environs."
"Oh! Mr. Malfoy! What a pity about his wife."
"Yes. A widower must be cautious about any woman vying to be his second wife, particularly if he is a man of means who already has an heir. Good day." Tom turned and left the witches behind, feeling their gazes on the sweep of his black robes.
He turned a corner, then abruptly stopped to read prices of potion ingredients for sale at an apothecary. In a few moments, he heard, faintly, a high-pitched squeal, then "You just scored the heir of Riddle's Floo-call address! And he's so handsome!"
That had been an amusing way to pass the time. As Tom continued to the restaurant, he made a mental note to check his food and drinks for the scent of Amortentia.
Tom and Dobby entered La Truffe Émraude, and were separated according to the new policy. A waiter led Tom to Malfoy, already seated at a secluded table. Tom looked for a subtle shadow of nothing behind a potted plant and was not disappointed. He made sure to give the photographer a good view of his aristocratic profile, and a graceful swish of his acromantula-silk robes.
Malfoy nodded to him. "Thank you for joining me."
"Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Malfoy." Tom sat.
"Please. Call me Serpens."
Tom did not drop his menu, although it was a close call. "Thank you, Serpens. You may call me Tom."
Serpens looked at his menu. "Oh good, the lettuce-stuffed flobberworm is back on the menu. Spring is on its way."
Tom looked at his own menu. It was not much more comprehensible than before. "The last time Miss Granger and I were here," he remarked, "she was indignant that they serve rare magical creatures such as diracawl. She seemed to feel that these rarities are too precious to serve as mere food. I'm tempted to order the diracawl to enjoy in her absence, but attempting to sneak around behind a seer's back seems unwise. I'll ask for something vegetarian, or at least completely free of magical creatures." He set his menu down, free of any obligation to understand it.
Serpens set his menu down likewise. "Then I will do the same," he said. "I'm not so addicted to the pleasures of the flesh that I would risk offending a powerful seer for them."
Their waiter noted their downed menus and glided by to take their order, then vanished into the kitchen.
With their meal choices decided, conversation seemed to lag. Tom had the solution. "I have a little gift for you." He extracted the small case from his wallet and set it in front of Serpens.
"Thank you." Serpens looked at it, looked at Tom, looked at the case again, looked around the room, and finally opened it. He did not touch the contents. "What is it?"
"A new model of fountain pen, a Parker Senior in black-tipped jade. I thought you might want to practice with one at home, should the need arise for you to use one again. It doesn't take regular ink, it needs a thinner kind that won't clog the nib, so I included a bottle of that. It has an ingenious filling mechanism. Here, I'll show you how it works."
Malfoy stared as Tom demonstrated the button mechanism to neatly fill the pen with ink. "It's best to carry it nib-up," Tom explained, "so it doesn't leak ink when the air pressure changes, as might happen when flying high on a broom or aeroplane."
"Excuse me, what was that second thing you mentioned?"
"An aeroplane. A muggle flying machine."
"A muggle…" but Tom was handing him the pen, so he took it and looked at it. It was an impressively bright green, with swirls of different shades writhing sinuously around it. "What is this made of?"
"The Parker company calls it Permanite, which is their trademarked name for celluloid."
"What?"
"Celluloid. A type of plastic."
"What?"
"A new kind of material. Muggles invented it."
"But is this a sort of ivory, or tortoiseshell, or—"
"Plastic. There's a great future in plastics. Look, my pen is plastic too, a different sort called ebonite." Tom drew his Mabie Todd Swan. "The nib is gold, but all the black parts are ebonite." Serpens seemed overwhelmed, so Tom returned his pen to his pocket. Serpens put the pen and ink back in their case, which he put, nib-end up, in a pocket of his robes, although with a bemused expression.
It was time to discuss something familiar. "Oh, for future communications, feel free to Floo-call me." Tom handed Serpens his card. "The Riddle House is my Floo address." And visiting and mailing address, for muggles. He hadn't even had to print new cards.
"This number…" asked Serpens.
"My telephone number. Useful for calling distant muggles. They have a system somewhat like our Floo-calls, but it conveys voices only." It was clear he'd lost Serpens completely. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't drone on about my esoteric hobbies."
"That's quite all right," said Serpens. "A welcome distraction from my own thoughts." He took a card from his own pocket. "I don't usually have to hand these out in this country, as this address is common knowledge, but my Floo-call address is simply Malfoy Manor."
"Thank you." Tom put the card in his wallet. Tom hadn't committed much of an error or made much of an apology, so Serpens's forgiveness was equally insignificant, but Tom would work with what he had. "Let us discuss more familiar matters. There's the matter of your son's life debt to me." And whether it could be traded for the Daily Prophet's continued endorsement of Tommy as heir of Slytherin.
"What?" If Serpens had looked befuddled at a plastic pen, he looked even more surprised by this, before restoring his face to a calm expression.
Thus, La Truffe Émraude played host to the convention of People Pretending They Aren't Surprised, as Serpens tried to pretend that this wasn't the first he'd heard of this life debt business, and Tom tried to pretend that Serpens's shock was not a surprise to him. Hadn't Corvus sent the letter at his father's command? This frowardness was clearly a sign that young Corvus had not been brought up properly. Tom decided then and there that he would raise his own son to respect his father more, and thus avoid any similarly embarrassing surprises. Tommy would not send important letters to strangers willy-nilly.
But that was a project for the future. First, Tom had to settle the issue of whether Serpens acknowledged this life debt. "I confess that it might not have occurred to me to call this a life debt had I not received this." Tom drew Corvus's letter from his pocket and handed it to Serpens, who examined it.
"That does look like his handwriting," Serpens admitted. "Too many flourishes."
"It's beautiful handwriting," said Tom. "My mother particularly admired it."
"His handwriting isn't the point," grumbled Serpens. "What did you reply?"
"That he should not discuss such an important matter without your guidance, and as you were undoubtedly busy, I would await your convenience. I thought that was why you arranged this meeting."
Serpens didn't bother hiding his relieved sigh. Tom, meanwhile, despite the calmness of his outward demeanor, was mentally kicking himself. He'd just thrown away his chance to negotiate with a foolish boy. Now that boy would have the assistance of a somewhat cunning adult, which made the game closer to fair than Tom preferred.
The waiter delivered some salads. Serpens impaled and ate a forkful of greens while ruminating on this information. "I am not entirely convinced," he eventually said, "that if my son owes a life debt to anyone, he owes it to you. An argument could be made that he owes it to me for acting on the information you provided, or even to the aurors who arrested Giselle. I will have to look into this." While chewing another forkful, he suddenly developed an expression that made Tom wonder if his salad had contained a small rock on which he had just cracked a tooth. "Merlin, he might even owe it to that mu— muggleborn seer, Miss Granger. She was the original source of the information. For a Malfoy to owe a life debt to a muggleborn…" An even more disturbing thought apparently occurred to him, judging from the look he gave Tom. He spoke carefully. "I have been somewhat neglectful of my original plan, which was to research your origins, not just the Slytherin family genealogy. At our last meeting, you very effectively distracted my attention from the subject. In my limited spare time since then, I have been making some inquiries into your origins, and have made no progress whatsoever. If my son owes a life debt to a muggleborn…" The poor man couldn't even finish the sentence.
"Let me set your mind at ease," said Tom. "I can assure you that I am not a muggleborn wizard. I would have said the same under veritaserum had you asked."
Serpens did not seem entirely convinced.
"Let me save you some trouble." Tom lowered his voice even further. "The founder of my line was born to muggle parents. He was not impressed with the reception a muggleborn wizard received in wizarding society, and so he had nothing to do with it. That explains why you have not heard the Riddle name before." Tom sat back and smiled. "Fortunately, a wizard needn't win all of wizarding society to his side, but only one witch, to live a happy life. If he isn't picky about blood purity, a satisfactory wife is easy to find. Thus, the Riddles have lived quite happily for generations, keeping apart from greater wizarding society, and subtly ruling over the local muggles while honoring the Statute of Secrecy to the letter. You won't find any record of us in greater wizarding society."
Serpens nodded. "I can see how those of lower blood status more easily find marriage partners. British pureblood wizarding society is so small, the only witches of pure enough blood to be suitable brides for a pureblood wizard of importance are also his cousins. This really should eliminate them as possibilities, but for many families it doesn't. My first wife, Njinga, was from the kingdom of Aksum. Her pedigree was impeccable, yet contained virtually no British wizarding blood. We had just a few years together and then…" He couldn't finish his sentence.
The waiter removed their salad bowls and brought something unrecognizable.
"I offer my condolences," said Tom.
"Thank you."
They ate in silence for a while. Then Serpens spoke. "I would say that we never know what the future might bring, but of course that isn't true. I have a request. I would like an introduction to the seer, Miss Granger, who provided the information that saved my son's life."
"I will convey your request to her, but I can make no guarantee that she will grant it. She took an instant dislike to you when you had that little misunderstanding with the exploding cheese cart. Unfortunately, she's the type who holds a grudge."
Serpens sighed. "I made a terrible mistake in angering such a witch. I would like to convey my apology in person, if she will allow me to do so. I owe an apology to you as well. I truly did not notice that she was holding your baby when I drew my wand on her."
"He is a remarkably quiet baby," said Tom, "so that's understandable."
"But to threaten a man's heir, even accidentally!" Serpens's pale skin turned ruddy. "That's the worst threat I could have possibly made."
"The important thing is that ultimately, no harm was done," said Tom. "My reaction at the time was, perhaps, childish."
"No. It was perfectly understandable. I'm grateful you used your fist rather than your wand."
"Thank you. Well then, let us consider the matter settled, and not let any lingering resentment come between us."
"I completely agree. And now for another topic I wish to discuss." Serpens steeled himself with another sip of his drink. "I went to visit my wife in prison the other day."
What on earth was the proper response to that? It was bad enough consoling a man for his wife's murder. Tom's mother would know what to say, but she wasn't here. "How is she doing?" he hazarded.
"Not well," said Serpens. "The Dementors... I brought chocolate for her."
"That was very nice of you," said Tom. "Considering."
"I thought so," said Serpens. "It was the chocolate I found among her belongings, after the Aurors came to arrest her."
Tom considered that. "Did she eat it?"
"No. She said she'd bought it as a special treat for Corvus, so I should give it to him."
Tom reeled. "She's still trying, even from prison! That…" there were no polite words to describe her.
Serpens shrugged. "She's loyal to her son, not to Njinga's. I'd do the same if I were in that situation. I explained that there was no way I was letting any child of mine eat this chocolate, and again offered it to her. As a mercy, you understand, to get it over with all at once, rather than have her life slowly sucked out of her by the Dementors. Again she declined. So I said goodbye."
Tom felt terrible on Serpens's behalf. Serpens himself seemed to be speaking without emotion.
"And then, as I was leaving, I heard something very interesting," said Serpens, smiling slightly. "A snakelike hissing. I've heard of Parseltongue of course, but never heard it spoken. I approached the cell from which the sound came. The man inside could only have been your brother-in-law. He looked just as you described. There can't be many wizards who have the misfortune to look like that. So. In the spirit of friendship between your family and mine, I offered your brother-in-law some chocolate."
Tom shivered. He couldn't speak for a moment. Then, "Did he take it?"
"Yes. Gulped it down like an animal. I unwrapped it for him so as not to litter his cell with the wrapper of course. Then I left."
Hiding his relieved expression was more trouble that it was worth. "Thank you," Tom said.
"Are we even?" asked Serpens, offering his hand to shake.
Tom considered that. Even wasn't quite what he had in mind. "We're equals," he said, shaking Serpens's hand before he had a chance to withdraw it. It felt as dry as parchment. Tom envied how Serpens hadn't broken a sweat. That was another thing to aspire to.