Back in his office, as Dobby cleaned the Floo-ash from Tom's robes, Tom asked. "How was your lunch, Dobby? Did you get a chance to chat with your fellow elves?"
"Oh, yes Master, thank you. The other elves are amazed at Dobby's change of situation, sir. Most elves fear being given clothes, but Dobby proved that an elf can be free and still work, which set their minds at ease."
"Who was there?" Tom asked. "Did Malfoy bring a different elf?"
"Yes Master, the Malfoys still have several elves. Pinky accompanied Master Malfoy today, so she could relate news of all of Dobby's old friends. Master Malfoy has been angry, but life in Malfoy Manor has been easier since Mistress Malfoy was arrested."
"I can imagine. And who else was there?"
"There was Blinky, she's owned by the Greengrass family. She's been busy preparing for the engagement party..." Tom opened his rolltop desk and took notes of Dobby's news, for there was more than he trusted his memory to hold.
"Very interesting, thank you," Tom said when Dobby had reported all he'd heard. "We'll have to go to La Truffe Émraude frequently, so you can keep in touch with your friends."
"Thank you Master."
"Now where are my parents and Hermione?"
Dobby looked around, apparently through the floor and walls. "In the solarium, Master."
Tom headed there, Dobby trotting at his heels.
In the solarium, Tom's father was relating what he apparently considered to be an entertaining anecdote to Hermione, who was tolerating this reasonably well as she nursed Tommy. Tom's mother was knitting.
After they exchanged their afternoon greetings, Tom asked, "How do you like Antonio?"
"A true artist!" his mother exclaimed. "We're quite looking forward to returning to see what he's made for us."
"Dobby just had a pleasant lunch with his peers, so he should be well-rested and available to carry your packages," said Tom. "I'm tempted to accompany your wanderings around Diagon Alley this afternoon, although I also have work to do here."
"We'll be fine, dear," his mother assured him.
"How was lunch?" asked his father.
"Excellent," said Tom. "La Truffe Émraude's vegetarian fare is fully as good as their magical beasts. Serpens followed your example, Hermione, at my suggestion. The diricawls are safe from us."
Hermione's reaction to these words was as entertaining as Tom had anticipated. "What?"
"You call him by his Christian name?" his mother noticed.
"Oh yes," said Tom. "At his suggestion, since we are friends, it's only natural that we call each other by our Christian—"
Hermione had her head down in her hand (the one that wasn't supporting Tommy), but she looked up to interrupt this. "Your given names," she corrected. "The church and the wizarding world have a long-standing enmity."
"Thank you," said Tom with a polite nod. "Of course, witch burnings and the like. That's good to know. Do wizards follow other religions I should know about?"
"Generally not, except for some muggleborns and halfbloods who keep the muggle religions they were brought up with," explained Hermione. "The purebloods regard that as superstition. Purebloods sometimes seem to worship their own ancestors. They generally revere the great wizards of history."
Tom nodded. He had a momentary suspicion that Hermione, a muggleborn, might try to indoctrinate his son in some muggle superstition, and considered replacing her with a pureblood nursemaid, who'd set a better example for an impressionable young mind. However, on further reflection, Tom had never seen Hermione displaying such a sign of her lowly origin. She'd spent Sundays with them without complaining about the Riddles' lack of religiosity, so she was nearly as good as a pureblood nursemaid. Tom decided to keep her for now. "Thank you. As I was saying, my friend Serpens and I agreed to call each other by our given—"
"That wasn't what you were saying," interrupted Hermione.
"It amounts to the same thing," said Tom.
"Did you use the wrong word with Malfoy?"
"No."
Hermione seemed almost disappointed, but rallied. "Well, good. Because a slip like that—"
"I would like to hear more about this meeting," interrupted his father.
Hermione, who'd been leaning forward in her wicker chair, flopped back on the cushions and hugged Tommy a little tighter. "Talk," she commanded Tom.
"As I was saying before I was interrupted, Serpens gladly agreed with Hermione that rare magical creatures should not serve as mere food."
"Last time he ate there," said Hermione, "he had no qualms about kicking a house elf, so why is he now so considerate of—"
"Last time, he didn't know of your concern for the welfare of magical creatures," explained Tom. "Now he does. He wants to please you."
Hermione's brain seemed to have seized up, as if Tom had thrown a spanner into fast-running machinery. "What?!"
"At our previous lunch, when I related my suspicions about his murderous wife to him, I wanted to add some authority to my words, so I implied that I'd received the information from a reliable source. Specifically, I said that you dislike divination, so you would not like to be called a seer, thus implying that I'd got the information from you instead of figuring it out myself. I did not technically lie." He wasn't even lying now.
Hermione's eyes were not as wide as Dobby's often were, but they were impressive for a human. "You misled him while you were under the effects of veritaserum?!"
"It gave me a headache," said Tom. "But yes." His actual accomplishment had been easier than the one he was suggesting, but there was no need to go into details.
"Force of will like that…" marveled Hermione. Then she shook her head to clear it. Her face settled back into its default indignant expression. "So now Malfoy thinks I'm a seer. Of course he's sucking up to me. He wants more prophecies. Honestly, Tom, how could you do this to me? I hate divination."
"Whatever the reason, Serpens greatly regrets his earlier disrespect to you, and would like to apologize to you in person," said Tom. "Surely this is an improvement over his previous behavior."
"Of course he regrets shooting that curse at me," scoffed Hermione. "Now that he thinks a lowly muggleborn could be useful to him, he'll deign to associate with me. As if I'd give him the chance!"
"I hope you don't intend to waste this opportunity," said Tom. "Serpens could be very helpful to us. He did the Riddle family quite a favor already." Tom related Serpens's tale of how he had ensured that Tommy was now the official heir, not merely the spare of Slytherin.
Afterwards, there were various types of silence in the room. The silence of his parents was the relieved, overjoyed kind, while Tommy's was his usual eerie observation.
Hermione's was outraged shock. She found her voice first. "What could have motivated him to kill a man in cold blood like that?"
"Well," explained Tom, "he feels indebted to me for saving his son. At our earlier lunch, I mentioned that Morfin was in prison for attacking me, and was the true heir of Slytherin, so his life relegated Tommy to the role of mere spare. I said that my family was inconvenienced by Morfin's continued survival, but I didn't actually—"
"You as good as asked Malfoy to kill him for you," accused Hermione. "'Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?'" she quoted.
"Morfin was no Saint Thomas of Canterbury," Tom objected. "And I'm no King Henry II. The situations are completely different. And that wizard had already attacked me, repeatedly. Who knows what he would have done when he was released?" Everyone in the room except Tommy knew what he would have done, and Tom wasn't sure if Tommy should not be counted among the informed. His dark eyes seemed to absorb everything. Anyway, Hermione must have read about Morfin murdering the Riddle family in the 1997 edition of Nature's Nobility, just as Tom and his parents had. Tom had expected Hermione to be more understanding of an action that saved the lives of Tom's parents, not to mention Tom's own. What would she have Tom do instead, go back in time to adopt Morfin and try to raise him to be less murderous? Had she wanted that done, she should have done it herself.
A disturbing thought occurred to Tom. She hadn't been looking forward to Morfin murdering the three muggle Riddles, had she? Did her plan require them to be out of her way? No, no, Tom couldn't believe it. Betraying a family after accepting their hospitality was so monstrous as to be inhuman.
Even in her fury, Hermione gave a convincing impression of someone who didn't know that Morfin would have eventually murdered them. Tom was impressed. "You're acting awfully happy about a man being murdered in cold blood," she said. "He didn't even have a chance to defend himself! Poisoned in prison, helpless… Is making Tommy the last heir of Slytherin really so important?"
Perhaps Hermione was envious. She didn't seem capable of doing anything in cold blood; her blood ranged from a simmer to a rolling boil. As she raged, her hair, which had not been particularly orderly to begin with, grew increasingly agitated. Tom wondered why Tommy was not translating Hermione's emotional state into a more physically destructive form. Perhaps that worked only for Tom, some sort of father-son bond. Great.
"I'm sorry to have upset you with this news," said Tom, "but what's done is done."
"Sure, this particular murder is done," said Hermione, "but who's next?"
"I beg your pardon," exclaimed Tom.
"This sort of callous disregard for human life doesn't stop with just one murder," said Hermione. "When someone else's continued survival inconveniences the Riddle family, will you again—"
"Now stop right there!" bellowed Tom's father. "I won't have you insulting my son in my own house. You can't just come here and accuse my son of being some sort of common criminal. I assure you we raised him better than that."
"Then why did he tell Malfoy—"
"He'd dosed me with veritaserum!" exclaimed Tom. "I can't be held accountable for anything I said while—
"You just bragged that you can control what you say under veritaserum," argued Hermione. "That's no excuse."
Tom's father was ruddy with rage. "If you believe anyone in my family could possibly do such a thing as arrange for a man to be murdered, you are free to leave, and not come back. We can hire another nursemaid for Tommy. You are replaceable."
"As if I could leave Tommy here!" said Hermione. "What kind of influence this family would have on an impressionable child? Murder shouldn't be the first solution that comes to his mind whenever he has a problem."
Now it was all clear, but Tom still didn't know what to do about it. Tom had been called many unflattering things by tenants whose rents he was raising, or those he was evicting, but he'd never before had to defend his family against an accusation that they were predisposed to murder. An argument formed in his mind automatically: of course the adult version of Tommy that Hermione knew from her own universe was murderous, but the fault was all on his mother's side. Poor Tommy, if left to his own devices without the guidance of his loving father, would take after his murderous uncle. In this universe, however, the Riddles would raise Tommy properly, and cure him of any tendency towards criminality. Presenting this argument to Hermione was, of course, unlikely to succeed, for admitting that they'd stolen her book would not inspire confidence in their law-abiding natures.
"I wonder," said Tom's mother quietly, "if perhaps, Hermione dear, you are predisposed to see murderous intent where none exists. Your experiences in Australia no doubt gave you an accurate impression of the state of affairs there, but please, let me assure you that Britain is a safer place. Here, people are much more likely to be opposed to murder than in favor of it. I'm sure that Tom didn't even consider how Serpens might act on his remarks about Morfin, because murder was the furthest thing from Tom's mind."
Tom looked as innocent as possible when Hermione's gaze flew to him. He said nothing, but waited anxiously to see the effects of his mother's words.
Hermione, after first drawing breath as if to prepare to argue, instead deflated back into her chair. "You're right," she said faintly. "I'm sorry. I've been judging your family unfairly."
Tom let out the breath he'd been holding.
"That's quite all right," smiled his mother, even though it bloody well wasn't, but Tom held his tongue. Even his father did as well, although his face was still ruddy with pressurized anger. Tom's parents had been married long enough that his father knew when to defer to his mother's expertise, and this was definitely one of those times.
"Hermione, have you been getting enough rest?" Tom's mother asked. "Caring for a newborn is a big job, and you've taken on many other difficult tasks besides."
Hermione let out an exhausted little laugh. "My friends always told me I worked too hard. They said I was starting to get paranoid, near the end. But how can you tell if you're paranoid if everyone really is out to…" She shook that thought out of her head, curls flailing chaotically. "You're right, Mrs. Riddle. I have to remind myself that you're a perfectly nice British family, not like some people I knew in Australia. I need to learn to relax, and stop being so suspicious."
"I'm sure a more optimistic outlook will become second nature in time," said Tom's mother. During this heated conversation, she'd put her knitting down on her lap, but now she picked it up again, needles clicking rhythmically. Tom felt the tension drain out of the room.
"What are you knitting?" Hermione asked.
"A jumper for Tommy," his mother replied. "It's part of this darling little layette set." She indicated the printed pattern. "I've done the bonnet already. I don't wish to bore you with it. I'm sure that a modern woman such as yourself has no interest in such an old-fashioned pastime as knitting."
"Oh no, I love knitting," said Hermione, which may have been her most shocking revelation yet. "My grandmother taught me. It's so relaxing. I just haven't had time to do it for years. Could I help? I'm sure this is just the thing to calm me down." She took the pattern from the knitting basket and studied it. "Ooh, I could knit these adorable little booties to match. I see you have the double-pointed needles for them, and this yarn is such a pretty color." And before anyone could stop her, she'd taken the wool out of the basket and seen the books underneath.
After such a brief respite, the tension rushed back into the room. No one spoke for a while. Hermione set the pattern and wool down. The four bone needles clattered on the little table as she reached for the books. "A Brief History of Time Travel?" she read. "Advances in Time Travel Theory? Everything You Need To Know Before Traveling Through Time? Where did you get these?"
"At the British Wizarding Library," said Tom's mother, not interrupting the rhythm of her knitting needles at all.
"Why…" asked Hermione, brows drawing together.
"I've always been fascinated by scientific romances," said Tom's mother, continuing to knit. Was she really going to try to bluff her way through this? Could she possibly succeed? "Have you read The Time Machine, by H.G. Wells? I don't know how many British books make their way to Australia, but it is a very popular one. We have a copy in the study if you would like to pass the time with a thought-provoking novel. I know that nothing in muggle science would make such a machine possible, so I wondered if the magical world was more advanced in this field."
The tip of one of Hermione's curls twitched like the tail of an alert cat.
Tom stood. "Enough!"
Everyone stared at him. His mother's knitting needles stopped clicking. Tommy's dark eyes pierced his. Tom hoped Tommy wouldn't make this any more exciting than it had to be.
"Enough lies, enough secrets, enough deception," Tom continued. "Hermione, we know. Let's stop this charade."
"What are you talking about?" asked Hermione.
It occurred to Tom that Hermione might be feeling as guilty for hiding information from them as Tom felt about stealing that information. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage. "Would you like to confess your deception first?" he asked dryly, for he'd be damned if he was the only one admitting guilt.
"Confess what?" she asked indignantly. "I have nothing to confess. I haven't deceived you at all. We're in this together. I thought we were honest with each other. I've certainly been honest with you."
"That's rich," chortled Tom's father, who, after recovering from his initial shock, seemed to be enjoying the excitement. "We've been more forthcoming with you than you with us."
That got through to her. "But… it's not like I've been keeping you in the dark on purpose! You've never seemed to enjoy surprises, so I've been doling them out gradually, as needed. I planned to tell you everything, eventually."
"Ah," said Tom. "I must admit that we've not always given your revelations the best reception. From now on, please consider us inured to shock, so tell us the truth as it occurs to you."
Hermione nodded as if she agreed, but was silent.
"Will it help if I tell you we figured it out already?" asked Tom. "We know you're a time traveler. Tommy here is the wizard who grew up unloved in a muggle orphanage and eventually murdered your parents."
"Don't say that in front of him!" Hermione paced, clutching Tommy to her. "Don't even think it!"
Think? Because thoughts influence emotions, or...
"That's the terrible thing about divination, the self-fulfilling prophecies," Hermione continued. "Tommy is an innocent baby. He hadn't done any of that, and he isn't going to. We are absolutely not going to poison his sense of himself by telling him he has the potential to… No. I'm not going to say it. He's a baby. He likes milk and cuddles and lullabies and his bath water just the right temperature. That's all there is to know about him now. I'm not saying anything else."
"All right," said Tom eventually. "May we discuss Morfin then? Considering that he's already dead?"
"What about him?" asked Hermione.
"I don't regret relating my troubles with Morfin to Serpens," said Tom, "and I can't pretend I'm unhappy that Serpens took it upon himself to act upon the information I provided. I'll do anything to protect my family, Hermione. Something had to be done. Had he lived, Morfin would have murdered my parents and me!"
"What? No! He never did anything worse than hex you, and I'm handy with counterhexes."
Tom looked to his mother, who looked back innocently. Tom sighed. "We have your book," he confessed. "The 1997 edition of Nature's Nobility. We read that Morfin murdered the three of us in 1943. Will murder. Well, won't now of course. Aargh. I need more tenses. So killing him before that was self-defense, really."
"Morfin?" exclaimed Hermione. "Of course! You think Morfin was the one who killed you!"
"He confessed!" bellowed Tom's father. "It's right there in the book! I'll show you!" But even as his father charged for the door, Tom realized that the 1997 edition of Nature's Nobility hadn't actually named Morfin's muggle victims. Had Morfin murdered three other nameless muggles instead? Tom realized, with sudden horror, that he may have caused Morfin's death to the benefit of some other family, not his own.
Hermione waved her hand at Tom's father dismissively. "Don't bother, I know what it says. It doesn't actually say Morfin killed you. All it says is that he confessed."
"But—" said Tom's father.
"He was framed by the real murderer, who edited Morfin's memories so he believed himself guilty, and proud of his supposed crime," said Hermione. "It probably also took some work to get him to confess in English rather than Parseltongue. Morfin's another victim here. You just killed an innocent man."
"So are you going to tell us who really killed us?" demanded Tom's father.
"No, and that's not the point," said Hermione.
"I think the fact that our murderer is still out there somewhere is a rather important point," said Tom's father. "Besides, you just said we'll be honest with each other."
"I'll tell you eventually. Not now."
"But in 1943," said his mother, "he'll be only sixteen. Can a wizard really edit someone's memories, at only sixteen? That seems like advanced magic."
Hermione, clutching the baby to her breast, bolted from the room.
Tom stared at his mother.
"You have the same name," she said. "It wouldn't be that hard for a sixteen-year-old to track you down."
"Wouldn't it have been considerably easier," said his father after a pause, "once Hermione had this completely helpless baby in her clutches, to simply kill him before he grew up to murder at least five innocent people? Instead she's taken on this job that will take years of her life, with no guarantee of success."
"You're not so innocent if you're talking about murdering a baby," said Tom. "Hermione has ethics."
"I feared as much," sighed his father.
"So maybe Tommy was right to kill us," said Tom.
"I beg your pardon," said his father.
"I mean, from a certain point of view, we're a family of villains, aren't we?" said Tom. "Parasites exploiting the labor of the proletariat and all that rot, and your baby-murdering plot is just the icing on the let-them-eat-cake. Maybe Tommy's a Marxist."
"No grandson of mine—" started his father.
"If he grew up poor, though, abandoned by his relatives who lived in luxury without him? I'd be feeling rather murderous myself in his place. And then he framed his uncle, who couldn't be bothered to take him out of that orphanage either. Smart kid." Tom beamed with pride in his resourceful son. "I wonder how Hermione knows more about the crime than the author of that book, though. Assuming she's telling the truth."
Another thought struck Tom. "Unless I've got it all backwards. We've been assuming that her parents didn't deserve to die."
"I beg your pardon," said his father again.
"I mean, look at her," said Tom. "She has no qualms whatsoever about lying and breaking the law, only about getting caught. She brags about how many fights she's survived. What kind of criminal masterminds must her parents have been to raise a girl like this?"
"She did say her father was a dentist," said his mother.
"Well, there you have it," concluded Tom. "Evil. Who could blame Tommy for simply doing what had to be done?"
"I don't believe—" his mother began.
"It was just an idea," said Tom. "All right, my first impression was probably correct. Hermione has all the makings of a heroine, so the Tommy of her universe was a villain. She didn't tell us because she was afraid we'd think less of Tommy for being a murderer. But I admire him all the more for it. My son's no milquetoast. He's got my force of will!" Tom proudly clenched his Malfoy-punching fist. "We just have to make sure to raise him to be the same type of villain we are, so that force of will is applied in the correct direction."
Tom's father was blessedly speechless at that.
Tom realized he hadn't explained his reasoning yet, so he addressed his mother. "Hermione already suspected us of being a family of villains. She won't help us if she realizes her suspicion was correct. She seemed on the verge of absconding with Tommy when she thought I'd purposefully arranged Morfin's murder. The only way to convince her otherwise was to come clean of this small deception, so she won't suspect us of our greater ones later. I'm sorry I didn't have time to consult with you."
"Antonio must have finished our robes by now," said his mother. "Come along, Dobby." Dobby followed her from the room, as did Tom's father, although with a worried backwards glance at Tom.
After sitting and thinking for a bit, Tom followed them to his office. The flames in the fireplace turned from green to orange as he watched.
Tom unlocked and opened his rolltop desk and sat, trying to familiarize himself with wizarding patent law and the major potion manufacturers as he'd planned.
He was distracted, so he changed his plans. He went to the study, moved the ottoman, rolled up the rug, unlocked the trap door, removed the 1997 edition of Nature's Nobility, put back the trapdoor, rug and ottoman, and returned to his office.
His earlier reading had given him the impression of a trend, so he wanted to check it. There seemed to have been a disproportionate number of deaths in the late twentieth century, particularly in the 1970s through 1981, and again in the 1990s. The Black family, one of the most respected in Britain, would cease to exist in the male line with the disappearance of Regulus Black in 1979 at the age of eighteen. The McKinnon family, a relatively new, minor pureblood family, less prestigious than the Blacks or Malfoys, thus not deserving of detailed stories in Nature's Nobility, had been completely wiped out suddenly in July of 1981, causes of death not listed. Ignis had escaped this wholesale slaughter only by dying considerably earlier. He had never married.
Anecdotes weren't data. It was a matter of simple maths to tally the deaths per year and graph them. Tom found two large peaks, one steadily rising through the seventies to peak in 1981, then precipitously dropping, another rising from 1996 and peaking at the book's publication in 1997.
Tom heard a knock at the door. He checked his wizarding pocket watch. A quarter to four. "Enter."
Hermione entered, carrying a smoking goblet. "Ignis gave the impression that he'd be short of time today, so I thought I'd come early to make sure I could meet him." She set the goblet on the mantelpiece. "Tommy's asleep in my room. I've cast an alarm to notify me when he wakes."
"Ah," said Tom. He eyed the goblet. "Is there some magical way to contain the odor of that thing?"
"Oh, right." After some precise movements of her wand, the tendrils of blue smoke could be seen bumping against the inside of an invisible sphere that contained the goblet.
"Thank you," said Tom.
"Thank you," she said. Tom knew what she was thanking him for.
"Please, have a seat," said Tom, indicating the wingback chair by the fire. She moved it further away from the fire and sat. "We need to leave room for Ignis," she explained.
"Of course." Tom moved his desk chair to sit with her, taking care to position it so Ignis wouldn't stumble into them. "I'm sorry it took so long for us to confess that. We were afraid you'd be upset, but I thought you'd be more upset the longer we waited, so—"
"I understand," she said.
"And we understand why you didn't want to tell us," said Tom. "I assure you that my love for my son is unchanged, no matter what a different version of him may have done under different circumstances."
Hermione let out the breath she'd been holding. "Thank you."
"One can hardly blame the child for not knowing right from wrong, considering he was raised by who-knows-what sort of incompetent orphanage staff. I daresay many of the muggle children raised in that place would have done the same, had they had the magical power to act on the resentment they acquired from such an upbringing."
"Exactly," said Hermione. "But this time…"
"This time, this place, this universe, whatever you want to call it, will be different. Your parents, and mine, will be safe."
Did her face ever lose that worried look? At least it lessened a bit. "I hope so."
Tom wanted to make some comforting gesture, but which one? Would today's liberality continue into Hermione's time, or would Victorian prudery return? He took the risk and gently took Hermione's cold, bony hand in his own. He must have guessed correctly, for she didn't pull back in offense. "Please trust us, Hermione. We'll help you. We want the same thing," approximately. "You're not alone."
She nodded. "Thank you."
"And if we're honest with each other, we can work together so much better. Am I correct in assuming that your parents aren't the only people you aim to save?"
Hermione nodded shakily.
Tom continued. "That one book from the future provides tantalizingly incomplete information. I made this graph…" He let go of her hand, got the paper from his desk, showed it to her and explained his methodology. "Which of these peaks is our main concern?"
After a pause, Hermione said, "Both."
"Both?" Tom worked hard to conceal his pride. His son's accomplishments were not worthwhile of course, but they were nonetheless impressive.
"Well, your family was here of course," she said, pointing to 1943, a boringly flat part of the graph. "His side seemed to be winning in the seventies, but suffered a major setback in 1981. He regained power in the nineties, though. My parents are off the graph, in 2000. You'd need to add another piece of paper to make this graph taller if you wanted to continue it past 1998. That's when he worked on hunting down the resistance, no matter what country we fled to."
"You didn't go to all this trouble to prevent a few murders," said Tom. "You're here to prevent something like the Great War."
Hermione nodded, eyes bright.
"All these dead purebloods," marveled Tom. "Their high status couldn't save them."
"They're all this book shows, of course," said Hermione. "The death toll was much higher among muggles and muggleborns and halfbloods."
Tom wished he had more complete data.
"You might be wondering why a halfblood would set out to subjugate his fellow halfbloods in the name of pureblood supremacy," said Hermione.
"Not at all," said Tom. "He identified preexisting prejudices of your society and exploited them. Clever of him. He had followers, in your universe," inferred Tom. "Those who committed atrocities on his orders."
Hermione nodded again.
"How many of them do you plan to adopt?"
Hermione laughed a little and shook her head. "If I can change just this one thing—"
"It won't be enough to remove one tyrant from history," said Tom. "The forces that brought a murderer to power would still be in place. Someone else will step into the power vacuum."
"We don't know that," she said. "We really have no idea what effect my interference will have. That's one of the reasons I decided not to simply murder a baby, although some of my friends advocated that. To murder an innocent and not even get the improved version of history we seek would be monstrous."
"People still need someone to lead them," said Tom. "We already know that Tommy has the potential—"
Hermione, who'd been gazing at the fire, suddenly looked at Tom. The firelight reflected in her eyes changed from orange to green. Tom hurriedly stuffed the graph in his pocket as Ignis, dressed like a common tradesman, stepped out of the fire.
"Oh, hullo," said Ignis when he saw his audience observing him at such close range.
Tom was glad he wasn't still holding Hermione's hand.
"Hi Ignis!" Hermione jumped up to get the goblet of potion from the mantelpiece, first releasing it from the spell that had contained its vile blue smoke, and handed it to him.
"Thanks," said Ignis. "Sorry I've got to rush, but I made these plans a while ago."
"We understand," said Tom.
Ignis drank the potion, contorting his face into grimaces that would have entertained even the back row had he performed them on a vaudeville stage, and handed the goblet back to Hermione. "Ugh! Thanks."
"Thank you," said Hermione. "I sure hope I brewed it right."
"Just two more doses to go, and we'll know," said Ignis. "Sorry, I hope to get back before my absence is noticed."
"That's quite all right," said Tom. "Floo powder is up there."
Ignis tossed a pinch into the fire, declared "The Three Broomsticks," and vanished in a swirl of green flames.
Tom flipped the switch to accept calls only, then looked back to Hermione. "So when was wolfsbane potion invented in your universe?"
"1983, by Damocles Belby. I hate to steal his work, but..."
"You're freeing him to work on something else," said Tom. Then he was silent. He had much to ask her about the future, but such a skittish creature required a light touch.
Hermione suddenly started. "Tommy's awake." She hurried out.
Tom jumped up to accompany her. "May I join you? We have much to discuss."
"Sure. You must have a lot of questions." She smiled. "We have time."
They heard a muffled crash.
"Bloody hell," said Hermione. "I'm coming, Tommy!" She vanished with a crack.
Tom decided to leave accidental magic to the specialist, and returned to his office.
Researching the prominent potion-masters of the day occupied Tom's attention until dinner time. His only companions in the drawing room were Hermione and Tommy.
"I hope your parents are all right," she fretted. "I should have given them emergency portkeys."
"I'm sure they're fine," Tom replied. "Dobby is with them, so he could get them out of trouble if necessary."
Fiona seemed disturbed that she called fewer of her employers in to dinner than usual.
"My parents are out," Tom explained. "I assume they're dining elsewhere."
"Yes sir," said Fiona. "Although I didn't see them leave, and the car is still in the garage."
"Yes," said Tom. "This is one of the things you will not mention to anyone."
"Yes sir." She served dinner without further commentary.
When she was gone, Tom asked, "So, what sort of trouble did Tommy get into when he woke up and discovered that his sole source of sustenance was gone?"
"Not much," said Hermione with an affectionate look at the baby in her sling. "He just broke the mirror, and damaged the wall behind it a bit. I fixed them, no problem."
"Thank you," said Tom.
"So," said Hermione. "What have you been up to?"
"I've been researching the potion manufacturing business," said Tom. "As with so much else in the wizarding world, it seems stuck in the dark ages, more of a cottage industry than modern assembly lines. But I've chosen some candidates to take the brewing job off your hands. Perhaps you could help me interview them. You'll still have work to do the first month, teaching someone else to brew the potion, but you should be free after that."
"But, don't you have a list of questions about the future for me?"
Tom shrugged. "I live in the here and now. My most urgent task is to mass-produce this potion, to help as many werewolves as possible, and relieve you of the burden of brewing it yourself. I couldn't possibly pester you with questions when you're already so overburdened. Once I lighten your load, then it would be reasonable to start asking you questions. I assure you, I have many, but I also have the power of restraint." He donned the sincere look he'd been practicing in the mirror. "From today forward, I'm working on the assumption that we are honest with each other. If there is anything I need to know about the future, you will tell me without prompting, just as I tell you the truth unprompted. No information from the future is as important as you." And how to manipulate you.
"You don't have even one question for me now?"
Tom thought. "What replaces fountain pens?"
Hermione laughed, and reached into her beaded bag. "Accio ballpoint pen." She drew forth a slender hexagonal instrument as clear as glass, revealing a thin tube of ink within, and accented with blue. She handed it to him without ceremony, missing an opportunity, Tom thought.
He accepted this piece of the future reverently. It was labeled Bic, he noticed. Invest in that. "What's this made of?"
"Plastic."
"What kind of plastic?"
"I don't know. I guess there are lots of different kinds."
"May I try it?"
"Of course."
Tom reached into his wizarding wallet. "Accio notepad." He pulled it out and set it on the table.
Hermione looked confused.
"Did I do something wrong? I've been working on my wandless magic."
"No, that was very convincing."
"Thank you." He tried to write, with unsatisfying results.
"You have to press harder."
Tom did, and managed to write, "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog." He preferred even quills to this. "How does one vary the line width?" he asked.
"One doesn't."
He stared at her. "But..."
"Handwriting changes a lot in the next few decades. It did in my universe, at least. Those thick and thin lines you do look like fancy calligraphy to me."
He handed the pen back to her. "I'm not doing this justice. Please, show me how to use it properly."
She wrote, "Sphinx of black quartz, judge my vow."
Tom tried to find something polite to say. He said, "That's a better pangram than mine," but that didn't address her handwriting. "It's readable," was all he managed on that topic.
"It's not beautiful like yours," she acknowledged. "It doesn't matter. Anything of importance in the future isn't handwritten, it's typed. Or typed and edited on a computer and printed."
"A computer? That's a sort of typewriter?"
She took a deep breath. "That's a big topic."
"Then we'll save it for later. We'll discuss just this pen for now. How do you refill it?"
"You don't. You just throw it away when it runs out of ink."
"Throw it…"
"That's another thing, plastic pollution. Muggles produce all this plastic without a thought for how it will affect the environment. I've got to do something about that too."
"I'm sorry I brought it up. I'm all for fixing important things, once you're sufficiently recovered from your ordeal to make an objective assessment of which things are mportant. But please don't run yourself ragged trying to fix everything at once." More ragged than you already are.
Hermione smiled. "You sound like my friends."
"I'd like to count myself as your friend," he said, while concealing his trepidation over what had happened to the previous ones. He soldiered on. "Just as you're determined to save the world, I'm determined to save you from burning out like a shooting star." Perhaps he's laid it on too thickly, for Hermione looked beside herself. "For example, I'll remind you to eat. Come now, we mustn't make Hester think us unappreciative of her cooking."
Hermione smiled and got back to work with her knife and fork. "I've never been friends with a Slytherin before."
"I'm not technically—"
"Oh, you definitely are, wizard or not."
Tom smiled. "Thank you. And you, of course, were a Gryffindor."
She smiled. "I still am."
Tom raised his wineglass. "Then let us toast this partnership between a Slytherin and a Gryffindor. Your water glass will do. To peace and prosperity!"
"To peace and prosperity!" Hermione repeated. They clinked glasses and drank. The wine was, as always, excellent.
After dinner, Hermione decided to read to Tommy, and Tom returned to his office to study the potion industry. His reading was interrupted when the switch on the side of the fireplace flipped to the fully open position, the fire turned green, and a heavily-laden Dobby, then Tom's father, then his mother stepped out. His parents were dressed so beautifully, Tom had to resist the urge to bow.
"Welcome back," said Tom. "I see your shopping trip was successful.
"Oh, we were just getting an overview, to start," said his mother. She instructed Dobby on where to put away his various parcels.
Dobby vanished with a "Yes mistress," and a pop.
"And how did you fare?" asked his father. "It didn't seem wise, leaving my only son alone with an angry witch. I might as well have left you in the lion cage at the zoo."
"The lioness is tamed," said Tom. "Some charm and reassurances were all that were required. Carefully calculated honesty can be more effective than lies."
"Glad to hear it," said his father.
Tom's mother fixed her dark gaze on him. "You were right," she said.
"Thank you," said Tom.
"Antonio is an excellent tailor," she continued. She'd done that intentionally.
Tom smiled. "Of course. You taught me everything I know about style."
"Now if you'll excuse us," said Tom's father, "we have some purchases to unpack." He turned to Tom's mother. "And I'd like to see you model some of these new—"
"Oh Thomas," she said, blushing. Fortunately, they left Tom's office quickly.
—-
Sunday evening, Tom was concerned that they might be late to dinner at the McKinnons', as Hermione vetoed the Riddles' first choices of attire as "too pretentious" and insisted they change. She sighed over their second choices as well, but apparently gave up on trying to fix them, as she didn't voice her objections. She herself was modestly attired in some of the new witch robes Tom had owl-ordered for her to wear around the house. The red and gold sling in which she wore Tommy was the flashiest thing about her.
Tom's father, then Tom, then Tom's mother, then Hermione and Tommy Flooed to the address known as McKinnon Pest Control, although it was the McKinnon family's house at least as much as it was Ignis's place of business. It made sense, of course, that even a family of limited means, that couldn't afford two Floo connections, would do all they could to get their son's career off to a good start. Tom would certainly help his own son in his career as much as possible, especially considering that his career was bound to be interesting.
Unfortunately, they had an audience as they stepped out of the Floo. Not only Ignis, but also two older men who resembled him were seated on the faded furniture. The one who was significantly older held a baby on his lap. Tom supposed it could be called a baby, as it was wearing a lacy bonnet like one, although to Tom's eyes it looked huge.
Hermione drew her wand, and Tom was concerned that she would curse first and ask questions later, but no, she seemed to take the presence of these strangers in stride. "I'll be your elf," she laughed, cleaning the ash off Tom's robes. "Can you believe they wanted to bring an elf?" she said as a mocking aside to Ignis.
Tom drew his own wand in annoyance, but Hermione had finished before he could do anything. He put his wand away.
Ignis laughed. "Cleaning a bit of Floo-ash off your own robes is below you, eh Tom?"
"Take care with the hem," said Tom's father, flouncing his robes in Hermione's direction. "If you insist on dragging us out without our elf, you're committing to performing the services of that elf."
"Or, um, I could," said Ignis. "I suppose it's our fault our fireplace isn't as clean as it might be."
"It's fine," said Hermione, although her glare at Tom's father as she knelt before him with theatrical subservience disproved that.
"Funny how one becomes so dependent upon servants," mulled Tom's mother. "I'm out-of-practice with domestic spells."
Ignis rushed to perform the work of an elf for her, for which she thanked him. Tom judged Ignis better at that than at dueling, so at least he had some use. "Anyway," said Ignis, putting his wand away, "I don't think you've all met my whole family, so I'll do introductions. This is my father, Merrion, and my brother Solis. That's Solis's daughter Mirabelle on my father's lap. She was just born in October." Ignis turned to his family. "These are the new friends I was telling you about. Tom and Hermione helped me incite that riot over werewolf rights at the bookshop."
Tom suppressed his cringe over this introduction.
"And Squire and Mrs. Riddle have been wonderfully hospitable," Ignis continued.
"Welcome to my home," said Mr. McKinnon. "And thank you for the kindness you've shown my son."
"Hey," grunted Solis.
Tom's family offered the appropriate greetings. Tom's mother made a beeline for the baby. "What a darling! Look at those eyes!" Mirabelle's wide eyes were a perfectly ordinary shade of sky blue, common in babies, nothing to get excited about. Tom did not consider himself a connoisseur of babies, but even he could tell that Tommy was by far the more beautiful child.
"My mother and sister-in-law are putting the finishing touches on dinner," said Ignis. "Would you like some tea while we wait?"
The Riddles and Hermione accepted this offer and enjoyed their tea, which was warming and unusual.
"I don't think we have these herbs in Australia," said Hermione.
"They're rare even here," said Ignis. "They grow only on sheer cliff faces, so my mother has to tend her garden from a broom. I'm sure she'll be happy to tell you all about it."
Soon, Mrs. McKinnon called them in to dinner, and they all crowded around a table heavily-laden with dishes that, while they lacked the elegance of the fine cuisine at La Truffe Émraude, the Drones Club, or the Riddle House, were nonetheless appetizing. Mrs. McKinnon and a young, round-faced woman levitated a few more dishes into the dining room.
Ignis, after looking pointedly at his brother for a moment, apparently gave up and did the introductions himself. "And this is my sister-in-law, Angelica." He introduced the Riddles and Hermione to her. "Thank you for your help with dinner. My brother could have married you for your cooking skills alone."
Angelica's round cheeks blushed. "I'm glad to help. Oh, did Mirabelle miss me?" She reached for the plump baby. Mr. McKinnon handed her over. All the Mckinnons except Mirabelle had rough hands.
Mrs. McKinnon levitated a large serving platter to the table. "I hope you like dahu," she said proudly. "This is one of our own, I just slaughtered it myself."
The roasted creature on the platter looked and smelled delicious, rather like lamb. "It smells wonderful," Tom said, for he wasn't going to reveal his ignorance by asking what a dahu was. His parents made similarly appreciative noises.
Hermione came to their rescue. "I've never seen those in Australia. I suppose this is a British specialty."
"Our stock came from the Swiss Alps, originally," said Mr. McKinnon. "The dahu is a breed of goat perfectly adapted to mountainous regions such as this, as its legs are shorter on one side than the other, enabling it to stay upright as it walks around steep mountains. I made sure to buy only the dextrogyrous dahu, with shorter legs on its right side. It walks around mountains deasil. The laevogyrous dahu, with shorter legs on its left side, walks around mountains widdershins. Either would do, but it's important that all the animals in a herd be the same type. If a laevogyre meets a dextrogyre coming around the mountain, neither will get out of the way to let the other pass. They'll just lock horns until they starve to death. Very stubborn creatures, dahus. Another important reason to have only one type in the herd is to prevent miscegenation. Mongrels between the two types can have the legs of the same length on the diagonal, which is quite impractical. My herd is all purebred dextrogyre," he said proudly. "Haven't had to cull a diagonal in years."
"So this is a magical creature," said Hermione. Her curls started to twitch like disagreeing dahus.
"I removed all the parts used as potion ingredients, of course," said Mrs. McKinnon, affronted. "There's absolutely no danger that eating the meat would leave you lopsided in any way."
"The right-side hide also sells for a premium," said Mr. McKinnon, seemingly not noticing Hermione's distress. "It's sheltered by the mountain for the dahu's entire life, so it makes the very finest leather goods."
Some of the salesman's spiel at the shop where Tom has purchased his wallet suddenly made sense.
"It's good to see domestically raised magical creatures on the table," said Tom, "instead of the exotic rarities offered at restaurants like La Truffe Émraude. I'd rather eat a good British-raised dahu than a wild Madagascar diricawl any day."
This compliment was well-received. The praise of the food was not flattery, but merely objective appraisal, as everything was delicious.
Ignis and Solis engaged in some good-natured fighting over who got a longer dahu leg.
"Oh boys," sighed Mrs. McKinnon. "Do you have to keep doing this? I've half a mind to switch over to raising ordinary mountain goats to avoid this fight."
"They'd fall off the cliff face," said Ignis, "and anyway, fighting's fun. It's a tradition."
"Firstborn gets the longer leg," said Solis. "Stands to reason."
"Just because the firstborn inherits the farm," argued Ignis, "doesn't mean he's heir to everything."
"You don't even want the farm," said Solis. "Farming's boring, you said. Dahus aren't ferocious enough."
"But I do want the longer leg," said Ignis, "so—"
Their mother, sighing, put the longer leg on Ignis's plate and the shorter one on Solis's.
"Hey, we were just getting started," complained Ignis.
"We have guests," said Mrs. McKinnon.
"You always give Ignis everything," complained Solis. "Ever since—"
Mrs. McKinnon silenced him with a glare. "We. Have. Guests. We're going to have a nice civilized dinner for once, and not squabble over food like wild animals."
Ignis looked a trifle bemused at that accusation. Solis's triumphant look at him didn't help.
"You know I didn't mean it like that," apologized Mrs. McKinnon. "You were wild before, too. I just meant the Riddles don't want their dinner to be disturbed."
"Don't mind us, this is entertaining," said Tom. "Like a safari to see a pack of wild McKinnons in their mountain habitat."
Ignis laughed. "See? Just like I told you, Tom isn't as stuffy as he seems. That dry wit kills me."
"I don't recognize this herb in the potatoes," said Hermione. "It adds such a nice touch. What is it?"
Tom's mother smiled at Hermione proudly.
Light conversation about Mrs. McKinnon's adventures in growing and harvesting some of the more obscure herbal ingredients provided sufficient entertainment for the rest of the dinner. Tom noted that Hermione's usual appetite overwhelmed any hesitation she may have had about eating a magical creature, as she ate seconds, and even thirds, of the dahu.
Finally, they could eat no more, left the table for the parlor, and sat sipping after-dinner drinks, milk in Tommy and Mirabelle's case.
Hermione got to work. "I'd like your report on the potion's effectiveness as soon as possible after the full moon," she said to Ignis.
"I'll give you a Floo-call as soon as I recover," said Ignis.
"Full moon is tomorrow night," said Hermione, "so Tuesday will be your recovery day. You have someone to take care of you?"
"I'm fairly good at healing," said Mrs. McKinnon.
"You're too modest," said Ignis. "She does an excellent job healing the Dark injuries I accumulate every month."
"Let's make an appointment for Wednesday," said Hermione.
"Wednesday," repeated Ignis. He and Mrs. McKinnon exchanged a worried look. "I might be sufficiently recovered from my transformation to make a report that early, but call ahead to make sure. I may be in no state to talk."
"If the potion works, you should be fine by Wednesday," said Hermione.
And that, after the Riddles had thanked the McKinnons copiously for the delicious dinner, was that. They Flooed home.
"Dobby!" called Tom.
Pop. "Yes Master?"
"Clean this Floo-ash off our robes," ordered Tom, and all was right in the world.
—-
Monday, Tom said "Enter" when he heard the knock on his office door.
Hermione carried in a small box with puffs of blue smoke leaking from the corners.
"Good luck to Ignis tonight," said Tom.
"Winter nights are so long," fretted Hermione. "I hope this is strong enough."
"I'm sure it is." Tom indicated the parchments on his desk. "Ignis coming through this full moon unscathed is a mere formality. Once that's done, I'll put Athena to work sending these letters to potioneers, for the next stage of the project."
Hermione looked. "You have beautiful handwriting. I hope you didn't just waste good parchment."
Tom laughed. "I'm sure I didn't. I believe in you. I know a good investment when I see it."
"Thanks." Hermione, smiling, Flooed to McKinnon Pest Control.
—-
The morning of Tuesday, the 18th of January, Tom devoted his attention to his muggle business, poring over his accounts.
Suddenly, the fireplace blazed green, and Tom heard a faint, hoarse voice call from it. "Hermione! Hermione!"
Tom quickly closed his rolltop desk and rushed to the fireplace to see Ignis's head, made of flames, flickering above the coals. "Ignis! Are you all right?"
"May I come through? I must speak to Hermione."
"Of course." Tom flipped the switch and Ignis staggered through. Tom caught him as he fell. He smelled like an unfortunate combination of sweaty man and wet dog. Tom lowered him into the leather wingback chair by the fire. "Dobby!"
Pop. "Yes M—"
"Bring Hermione to my office immediately."
Pop. Pop. "Hey!" protested Hermione, clutching a nursing Tommy to her bare breast. She dropped her book to the floor and adjusted her blouse, which was good, as her swollen breast looked odd on her bony ribcage. Tom feared that his instructions to Dobby had lacked nuance, but her indignation was soon replaced by concern. "Ignis!" She rushed to Ignis's side and waved her wand over him.
"My mother already looked me over," he assured her in a voice both hoarse and giddy. "I'm fine, I'm absolutely fine. Well, the transformation itself was as bad as usual, so I'm still pretty wrung-out from that, but other than that I'm fine. Absolutely no new Dark injuries. Well, I sort of hurt my front leg when I tried to walk on three paws, but I don't think that counts. Your potion works, Hermione! I was myself the whole night. Thank you! I had to tell you. I've got to tell everyone." He looked to the fireplace. "Could you please help me back to the Floo?"
Hermione tried, which was ridiculous since she was still nursing Tommy, so Tom took over the job.
"Are you sure you're ready to travel?" asked Hermione.
"I can't stay still with news like this." Ignis threw a pinch of powder into the fire, said, "The Eyrie," and vanished in a swirl of green flames.
As soon as Tom flipped the switch to accept calls only, Tom and Hermione looked at each other. They each let out an exultant cry. "Yes! Yes! It worked!" Tom restrained himself from embracing the witch in celebration, which might have been inappropriate, although he got the impression she was feeling the same way.
Instead he went to his sleeping owl on her perch. "Wake up, Athena. You'll soon deliver enough letters to earn your keep." She opened her fiery eyes and stretched her black wings. Tom offered her an owl treat. She plucked it daintily from his hand.
Tom got to work writing today's date on the letters on his desk, and tied one to Athena's leg. "I trust you'll help me interview prospective potioneers?" he asked Hermione. "And teach the one we select how to brew this, once a contract is signed?"
"Yes, of course."
"You know better than I what interview questions to ask them..." Business talk occupied them for the rest of the day, and much of the following month. They interviewed potioneers over business lunches at La Truffe Émraude, as Dobby gathered intelligence on the most prestigious families. Of course, Dobby had strict orders not to tell anything about the Riddles or Hermione. Other families somehow neglected this basic precaution, perhaps considering elves beneath their notice. Once Tom and Hermione chose a potion mistress (a muggleborn named Miss Veronica Vinter), they had her sign a contract in blood with the help of goblin lawyers recommended by Gringotts Bank. This ensured her secrecy, both legally and magically.
The severity of magical contracts reminded Tom to return their library books on time. While he was there, he borrowed some books on mind magic. Resisting the imperius curse and veritaserum were obviously important topics to study. He also wanted to figure out why Hermione had been so adamant that the Riddles not think certain thoughts around Tommy.
Meanwhile, Ignis reported that he'd found several more werewolves willing to pay a low introductory price for a supply of wolfsbane potion that would get them through February's full moon unharmed. Ignis's commission, plus the cost of making the potion itself, meant the business was running at a loss, but raising the price later would fix that. Also, increasing volume later would reduce their costs per dose, as some of Vinter's expenses were fixed.
Hermione was nearly as busy as before, teaching Miss Vinter the tricky details of brewing a potion that was mostly deadly wolfsbane, yet harmless to humans.
"She knows," reported Hermione one evening. "Vinter's figured out what the potion's for."
"Is this likely to cause us any problems?" asked Tom.
Hermione shook her unfortunate hair. "I don't think so. She can't tell anyone what she's doing, of course, and I think knowing the purpose of the potion makes her even more interested in the project. Remember how worried she seemed in the interview about making a potion that's mostly poison? She seemed concerned that we'd use it for evil."
"I remember." Tom had been annoyed at her objections, and had agreed to hire her on Hermione's recommendation only because, as a muggleborn, her services were a bargain. Pureblood and even halfblood potioneers seemed to charge a premium for their blood status.
"She said that the inventor of this could be famous. I explained that we're not interested in fame, just in helping people." Good. That was just the sort of story that would get the cooperation of someone with inconvenient scruples.
Once Hermione felt that Miss Vinter had a good grasp of the potion's intricacies, she declared that it was high time she fulfilled her promise to Ignis and gave him apparition lessons. Ignis decided that apparition was a more immediately useful skill than dueling, as it would help him deliver wolfsbane potion to his customers.
Hermione said that Ignis's home would be the best place for him to start practicing, as apparition was easiest if one had a thorough familiarity with one's destination.
"I'll chaperone you," said Tom.
The ungrateful witch sighed.
—-
A cold morning in early February found Tom, Hermione, and Ignis discussing apparition in the McKinnons' parlor.
Tom sipped tea as Hermione lectured. "The real key to apparition is having complete awareness of oneself in space, so you make sure you take every last bit with you, and assemble it correctly at your destination." She looked at the stump of Ignis's left wrist. "Hm. I wonder if that will affect matters."
Ignis awkwardly moved as if to hide his deformity, then gave up. "I'm used to it by now," he said.
"I wonder. I mean, if your body schema includes a part that isn't there anymore, that could be problematic. Do you still get phantom pains in your left hand?"
Ignis started. "Yes," he said. "The itches and tickles at random times might even be worse. How do you know?"
"Many of my friends lost limbs to Dark magic," she explained. "Have you considered a prosthesis?"
"I tried a hook for a while, but it was more annoying than useful."
"I meant a magical prosthesis."
"Are there such? It's so rare to lose a limb to Dark magic instead of more ordinary means, there isn't much of a market."
"Really? It's a common mishap where I'm from."
"Australia sounds like a very interesting place."
Hermione smiled. "Anyway, I know a spell for making a magical prosthesis. Shall I?"
"Sure, I'll try it, if it's not too much trouble."
"Not at all. And it should make apparition easier if your physical form matches your body schema." With some intricate and precise maneuvering of her wand, a silver blob appeared floating in the air before her. She directed it to engulf the stump of Ignis's left wrist like some sort of ravenous amoeba, making him gasp. Then he suddenly let out a short scream.
"That was the nerves connecting," explained Hermione.
The silver amoeba formed into an approximation of a glove.
"Oh good," said Hermione. "I was afraid you'd lost it so long ago, your memory of it would have faded by now, but it seems there's still enough information to make a copy."
Ignis pulled up his left sleeve to stare, not at the silver, vaguely-glove-shaped blob, but his forearm, which was bulging as if invaded by snakes slithering under his skin from the stump of his wrist towards his elbow.
"Oh, that's interesting," said Hermione. "The arm muscles that used to power your hand have no doubt atrophied, so the spell is replacing those too. I wondered if you'd need physical therapy to regrow them, but I guess you can skip that."
The silver glove slowly closed into a loose fist, then opened again. The fingers gained more details, looking less like a glove, more like a hand. Ignis closed his silver hand into a tighter fist, opened it again, articulated individual fingers. He touched his new left hand with his old right. "Merlin," he breathed. "I can feel." He suddenly lifted his gaze to Hermione and stared at her in a way that made Tom uncomfortable. "Thank you. This is incredible."
"It's just magic," she said dismissively. "I'm glad you like it."
Ignis used his new hand to touch his clothes, his hair, all with an expression of amazed delight. Tom supposed that was understandable, although there was nothing delightful about his clothes or hair. Ignis snapped his silver fingers and laughed. He took his wand in his left hand, and his delighted expression faded. He passed the wand between his left and right hands a few times. "What a strange sensation. It feels like my wand in my right hand, but in my left it feels like barely more than a stick." He held it in his left. "Lumos." it glowed very faintly. "Not that I'm complaining. It's much better than no hand all. I'm still very grateful."
"Try mine," said Hermione, offering him her wand.
He sheathed his own wand and stared at hers, not taking it.
"Go on," she urged. "Your new hand is made of my magic, not yours, so maybe it will work better with my wand."
He took it in his right. "This doesn't feel like much to me, although I know it's very powerful in your hand." He switched it to his left, then stared at it. "You're right. Lumos." The tip of her wand glowed like a torch. "Nox." He handed her wand back. "That's interesting. So this means… Well, it doesn't matter."
"It will vanish when I die. And yes it does. I'll teach you to cast it yourself, although it is a very difficult charm. It will take serious study."
"It's not urgent of course," said Ignis. "Apparition is a higher priority now. And you're not much older than me, right? Even if I live a normal wizard lifespan, witches generally live longer than wizards, so this prosthetic you made will probably last as long as I need it. "
"I'm twenty," said Hermione. "But learn it anyway. You'll need to know it sooner than you think."
Tom had thought her older than that.
"Let me assure you that Britain is safer than Australia," said Ignis.
"Just learn the spell," she said, clearly not wanting to discuss the matter.
Ignis nodded and changed the subject. "How do I take it off for my transformations?"
"You don't. It's part of your body now. I knew of an animagus who had a right hand like this. It transformed into a rat's paw just fine. It has no form of its own, it just bases its form on your body schema, so as that changes, the prosthetic changes to match. I don't see why it wouldn't work for werewolves as well as for animagi."
"I don't actually want my wolf form to be able-bodied. That just increases the damage I can do. Although I suppose it doesn't matter when I have your wolfsbane potion. I've never walked as a quadruped. This will be a new experience for me."
"I could remove it if you want me to, but you can just leave it on all the time," said Hermione. "Of course, don't let any muggles see it. That's a Statute violation right there. You needn't remove it for that, just put a glove on it and you'll be fine."
"I don't spend time with muggles anyway," said Ignis, lips curled in distaste. "I last ventured into muggle territory to buy that uncomfortable hook, since I'd heard that muggles are better at making that sort of thing. With no power to regrow limbs lost through even ordinary means, they do have more experience making replacements. But why would I waste any more of my time on muggles when witches can do things like this?"
Hermione smiled. "May your loyalty never waver."