Ignis stepped out of the Floo in Tom's office right on time for their appointment.
"Thank you for coming. Have a seat," said Tom with a gracious flourish of his hand. "Tea?" for Dobby had already provided such.
Dobby darted forward to magic away the ash on Ignis before the werewolf had time to do it himself, then retreated to lurk in the corner, awaiting further orders.
Hermione, seated by the fire with Tommy in her sling, put down her sandwich to smile warmly at Ignis. "It's good to see you again. You're looking well." Perhaps it was the smile, but Hermione's cheeks looked less hollow than before.
"Thank you," said Ignis, helping himself to tea. "Although refusing your invitations isn't really an option, is it?" he added grimly. "I'm dependent on the potion you provide."
"First," said Tom, "I apologize for my miscalculation at our last meeting. Hermione was right that it is too soon to raise the price of wolfsbane potion."
Ignis didn't spill his tea, but it was a close call. "Thank you," he said, although he was looking at Hermione when he said it.
"You're welcome," said Tom. "However, I do require compensation from my customers, in a form only they can provide. Have you read a book called Uncle Tom's Cabin?"
"Can't say I have," said Ignis, setting his teacup down before it suffered any accidents. "Are you an uncle?"
"No," said Tom. "This book predates me by decades, and takes place in the United States. I have a copy here for you to read and share with any interested werewolves." He handed the book to Ignis, who accepted it with interest. "It was very influential in its day," Tom continued. "It's a sentimental muggle novel about some cloyingly virtuous negro slaves, and the terrible treatment they receive from slave owners. It was loosely based on real events, told in a style calculated to convince readers to support the abolitionist cause. It worked. Thirteen years after this book's publication, slavery was officially abolished in the United States. Of course, slave owners generally didn't tell their slaves they'd been freed, but that's beside the point. My point is, books can influence public sentiment, inspiring people to clamor and even fight for change."
"A muggle book?" said Ignis, putting it down and wiping his hands on his serviette.
"Yes, a muggle book," said Tom. "Muggles write books, and grew the tea you're drinking, so if you prefer to avoid muggle-made products you're under no obligation to take tea here."
"Sorry," said Ignis, looking at, then quickly away from his tea. He picked the book up again. "It's just not what I usually read."
"I'm the same," Tom assured him. "But if we hope to change attitudes towards werewolves, we must familiarize ourselves with the tools for the job. I'm sure a sufficiently maudlin book could tilt public sentiment in favor of werewolves, just as this book inspired sympathy for negro slaves."
"What are negro slaves?" asked Ignis, casting a brief glance at Dobby.
Tom thought his sentence structure had been perfectly clear, but he rephrased. "Enslaved negroes."
"But what are negros?" Ignis persisted.
Tom had known that wizards were provincial, but he hadn't expected to have to explain this much.
Hermione came to his rescue. "People with dark coloring, whose ancestors came from Africa."
"Oh, so it's a descriptive word like brunette?" said Ignis.
"No," said Tom. "Brunettes are still members of the white race. The negro race is different."
"The white… race?" repeated Ignis. He looked to Hermione for help, but she was too busy stifling her laughter to speak.
"Yes, the white race," said Tom, although he had a terrible feeling that he was losing control of the conversation. "People with white skin, like you and me." He was about to include Hermione in that group, but a sudden realization about a possible explanation for her hair, and the fact that her apparent tan was not, in fact, a product of Australian sun as he had first assumed, made him decide to leave that potentially complicating example out of the discussion.
"White skin?" repeated Ignis. He looked at his right hand, tanned and lightly freckled, for his silver left hand didn't count. "My skin isn't white, it's sort of a pinkish light brown." He reached out for Hermione's hand. "My coloring's closer to Hermione's than to yours, Tom. I suppose if anyone has a claim to white skin, it's you, and Mrs. Riddle of course." He smiled at Tommy, who was expressing the giggles Hermione was stifling. "And is Tommy a member of the pink race?" He let go of Hermione's hand to tickle Tommy's chin, eliciting an extra giggle.
Tom tried to salvage the conversation. "I'm speaking, of course, from the muggle point of view, to familiarize you with the concepts you'll need to understand this muggle book. Muggles sort humanity into different races according to their coloring."
"Muggles think humans are different races just because they're different colors?" Ignis repeated.
"Yes," said Tom, glad he was finally getting through.
"But if it goes by coloring, you and I can't possibly be the same 'race' because our eyes look completely different," Ignis objected. "Blue-green and black should obviously be sorted into different categories, if we're sorting by color."
"Eye color doesn't count," said Tom.
"Why not?" asked Ignis.
"Good luck explaining that," laughed Hermione.
Ignis turned to Hermione. "He's putting me on again, isn't he? It's that dry delivery of his."
Hermione wrestled control of her voice from her laughter. "No, it's true."
"But surely even muggles aren't that stupid," Ignis insisted.
Hermione shrugged. "People in general are rather stupid, I've found. It's awful."
"How so?" asked Tom. "It's much easier to manipulate stupid people than smart ones."
"Anyway Ignis," said Hermione, "you and Tom would both be white by muggle standards."
Ignis looked at his hand again. "But I'm not—"
"The word 'white' doesn't describe a real skin color, it means that if you lived in America before emancipation, you'd be in the class of people who couldn't legally be enslaved," explained Hermione.
"It wasn't stupidity that led whites to classify themselves as a different race than negros," explained Tom. "It was self-interest. That classification enabled their whole system of slavery."
The meaning was finally sinking in. "Muggles enslaved their fellow muggles?" Ignis exclaimed, horrified.
"Yes," said Hermione.
"But how could they do that?" objected Ignis. "Haven't they got any muggle solidarity?"
"They could do that by—" Tom's pause was nearly perceptible, but he needed a moment for the wizarding outlook to settle into his mind "—convincing themselves that the people they were mistreating were fundamentally different from themselves. Whites felt no guilt over enslaving their fellow humans, because they hardly considered negros humans. This book changed that. It convinced whites that negros were real people, who deserved better than enslavement. It didn't convince slave owners of course, as their wealth depended upon their continued ignorance, but people with no financial interest in maintaining slavery were easily swayed."
Ignis shook his head in amazement and disapproval. "I hadn't realized quite how bad muggles were," he said. "Imagine treating humans as if they were no better than house elves!"
"These weren't British muggles," clarified Tom. "The United States is quite a different country."
"Now you're doing it," said Hermione. "Acting as if Americans are really any worse than Englishmen."
"It's not as if Australia has much to brag about, with your treatment of aborigines," said Tom.
"I wasn't bragging," said Hermione. "Humans are the same everywhere, sorting themselves into groups to justify mistreating each other."
"Not like wizards, who sort people into real races, like humans and werewolves," said Tom.
"Exactly," said Ignis.
Tom looked at Ignis. "That was my dry delivery," he explained. "I was joking."
Ignis looked at him blankly. "Sorry, I don't really get Slytherin humor."
"The classification of werewolves as beasts is nonsensical," said Tom. "I mean really, you're obviously just a human with a disease, not fundamentally different from someone with spattergroit or dragonpox. Humans who catch other diseases aren't reclassified as beasts, so there's no reason you should be."
"But… I am a beast. I grow fangs and a tail and everything."
Tom dismissed that objection with a wave of his hand. "Once a month. That's hardly anything. People with dragonpox aren't reclassified as dragons, however many sparks they sneeze."
"But legally..." objected Ignis. "I mean, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures certainly doesn't consider us human."
"Regulations can change," said Tom. "Laws can change. All that's required is enough people clamoring for change." He tapped the book. "So we need to make them clamor, just as they clamored to abolish slavery."
Ignis looked at the book.
"It isn't an absolute requirement the Ministry reclassify werewolves as humans," said Tom, "although I think it would be a good end goal. Even convincing people that you're innocent creatures, not monsters, could lead to some improvement. If you can stomach another sentimental novel, here's pretty much the same thing, but for horses." Tom handed Black Beauty to Ignis, who accepted it in a daze. "That book inspired British muggles to clamor for new laws against cruelty to animals, which resulted in much improved treatment of them. So if you're willing to settle for improved treatment as an innocent animal rather than a vicious beast, that's within your grasp. I consider such a goal insufficiently ambitious."
"Of course you do," said Hermione.
"I think we can completely change society's attitudes towards werewolves," said Tom. "Or as they will soon be called, 'people with lycanthropy.'"
"But can a book really—" started Ignis.
"These novels were bestsellers," said Tom, "two of the most popular books of the nineteenth century, translated into multiple languages, with great influence on society. There's no reason this method wouldn't work for werewolves as well as for negros and horses."
Ignis looked at the books. "You want me to write a novel? My memoirs, as it were, but fictionalized? I don't want anyone to be able to identify me from—"
"The end product needn't contain any incriminating specifics," said Tom. "I'd like as many werewolves as possible to contribute sympathy-inducing anecdotes, the more pathetic the better, with a particular focus on tragedies caused by society's prejudice against werewolves. I'll hire a professional writer to combine them into one tear-jerking narrative. The end product should be so far removed from reality that there will be virtually no risk that any of the contributors will be identifiable."
"That's… an interesting idea," said Ignis.
"Can I count on you?" asked Tom. "I'll also need you to convince the other werewolves to contribute. I have no way to contact them myself."
"I'll write… a version of my story," said Ignis, "that doesn't incriminate me or my family. I can't promise I'll succeed in convincing the other werewolves, but I'll do my best."
"Thank you," said Tom. "We'll do our parts as well. Hermione, with her gift for research, will of course be the one to read the currently popular novels in the year-jerker genre, to identify the author best suited for the job."
"Merlin's pants," said Hermione, burying her face in her hand.
"I thought you liked books," smiled Tom.
Hermione sighed, but then her eyes blazed. "I'll be busy!" she crowed victoriously, "with our muggle project."
"Muggle project?" asked Ignis.
"Not your concern," said Tom. He nodded to Hermione, conceding defeat. "All right, I'll read the sentimental novels. It makes sense, as I'll be the one negotiating with the authors."
Hermione bared her perfect teeth in a smile.
"But what author would want to be associated with such a book?" asked Ignis.
"Anyone who wants to be known for writing a bestseller," said Tom. "If I can't find someone willing to use his or her own name, a nom de plume would do."
Ignis smiled. "You seem to enjoy celebrity. Would you credit yourself as author?"
"Goodness no. I'm already risking my reputation by associating with muggles. There's no way I'd risk further damage by publicly having anything to do with werewolves until their own status is on the rise. I'll come out later as having been moved by this book to help you poor unfortunates."
"Should we mention wolfsbane potion?" Ignis asked.
"No," said Tom. "Let's not be too obvious that this is an advert."
Ignis finished his tea. "All right. Sounds like a plan. A strange plan, but the only one we have, so I guess I'll follow it. Anything else?"
"Just scheduling appointments for you to pick up March's supply of wolfsbane potion," said Tom. That was quickly arranged. Then they said their goodbyes and Ignis left, carrying the two muggle books, and looking considerably happier than he had when he'd arrived.
"You didn't invite him to join you and the Prewetts for muggletouring," Hermione noted once the fire had turned back to orange.
Tom laughed. "I don't think he'd be interested."
"He said himself he can't really say no to us. He won't bite the hand that feeds him wolfsbane potion. You should make him go. He needs to get over his prejudice against muggles."
Tom shrugged. "Why? His opinion doesn't matter. He's a nobody, a commoner. Witch Weekly isn't going to let an exterminator set trends. Anyway, I'm off to the library and perhaps a book shop to research sentimental novels. Care to join me? You could pick up something less drippy for yourself."
"I never thought I'd say this, but no thanks," said Hermione. "I have to copy the information about those muggle drugs from my books."
"Thank you," said Tom. He nodded to Dobby. "Come with me to the British Wizarding Library." Tom checked his wallet to make sure he had sufficient money to sponsor another capon for the librarian's owl, and checked his wizarding attire in the full-length mirror by the Floo. Perfect.
As expected, the librarian most helpfully recommended several books by the three authors who currently dominated the tear-jerker genre. Tom limited his selection to the most recent publications by each author, so Dobby's burden was not terribly large.
They Flooed home. "Set those books here on the table," Tom ordered.
"Yes Master." He did, then stood looking at them.
"I don't expect I'll need your services again today," said Tom, "so your time is your own."
"Thank you Master." Dobby kept looking at the books.
"Fancy an evening of reading?" Tom asked. "Help yourself to these books if you'd like, I certainly won't need them all at once."
"Master." Dobby's bulbous green eyes looked up at Tom. "Slaves were freed, somewhere?"
Ah. "Yes. Human slaves, in America."
"All because of a book?"
"Well. It took a lot more than just a book, I'm afraid. The book inspired people to fight a war, one of the bloodiest in history. The problem was that so many powerful people had a vested interest in keeping negros enslaved."
Dobby's gaze sank to the floor.
"Improving the lot of werewolves will be a relatively easy job," said Tom. "Hardly anyone gains anything from the current bias against them. Elves, on the other hand…"
"Of course, Master," said Dobby. "Foolish idea. Stupid, stupid Dobby." Before Tom could stop him, Dobby had banged his head on the table. "Bad Dobby!"
"Stop!" Tom grabbed Dobby as he bounced off the table, before he could hit again. His skin felt so strange, more like boot leather or polished wood than flesh.
"Bad Dobby!" the elf repeated. "Thinking things elves must never think. Dobby must be punished."
"Dobby, I've given you strict orders on this subject already," said Tom, feeling dirty as he said it, but it was efficient. "There are no such punishments here."
Dobby trembled under Tom's hands, but make no more attempts to bang his head on the table.
"And you may think whatever you wish," Tom added. "You're a free elf now."
"Dobby is grateful," said the elf. "Master Riddle is a good, kind master."
Tom judged that it was safe to loosen his grip, and released the elf. "But it feels strange being the only free elf, when your friends are still enslaved," he said.
Dobby nodded, his eyes welling with tears.
"I can't go around punching every rich pureblood in the face," said Tom. "As enjoyable as that might be, it's not sustainable in the long term. I'll need a different strategy."
"Master?"
"So here's what we'll do," Tom decided. "Same plan as with werewolves, a tear-jerking novel. I'll need contributions of pathetic stories from you and as many other elves as possible." Which incidentally could contain so much dirt on the upper classes, they might be worth as much as Hermione's formulae for muggle drugs, but Tom would think on that later. "After much tactful editing, the resulting novel could at the very least lead to improved treatment of elves, much as Black Beauty ended the use of bearing-reins on horses. Emancipation would be a much more difficult goal, but this will be a start. What do you think?"
Tom waited as Dobby sniveled into his dingy grey undershirt, then magically cleaned it. "Master Riddle wants Dobby to write a book?" he finally asked.
"Not by yourself," said Tom. "Please write down some anecdotes, and ask your fellow elves to do the same. It may take a while for you to get the message out, and for the other elves to sneak their writings back to you. Just like the plan with the werewolves, I'll commission a professional writer to combine these anecdotes into one coherent narrative. Of course, the project must be kept secret from anyone but elves. If word gets out that elves are plotting to write a book, I will have never heard of such a bizarre thing, so the idea was entirely yours. Understood?"
Dobby's eyes were huge. "Master, Dobby doesn't know how to write."
"Ah. That complicates things. Sorry, I should have realized, just as American slave owners generally forbade their slaves from learning to read and write."
"Oh, Dobby can read," the elf assured him. "An elf that does the shopping must read labels. But Dobby never had reason to write, sir."
"Oh! Then the solution is simple. I'll teach you to write." Tom gathered quills, ink, and cheap practice parchment from his rolltop desk. "Is now a good time? We have a few minutes before dinner."
"Yes Master."
"Let's go to your room, the elf-sized chair and desk are there."
They wasted no time in getting there. The room lacked an adult-sized chair, so Tom sat on the floor by Dobby's desk. The floor was of course immaculate, so Tom had no fear that his robes would pick up a speck of dust.
Just as Hermione had taught him, Tom instructed Dobby on quill-trimming, inkwell dipping, and the correct grip and angle to hold the quill. He taught how to form each letter of the alphabet, drawing tiny arrows to indicate the direction of each stroke.
Dobby held the quill in a trembling hand, so his first attempts were shaky.
"An excellent first try," said Tom. "Now it's just a matter of practice. You'll be teaching your fellow elves soon enough." He thought. "You'll need a wallet to hide under your shirt, so you can sneak writing supplies to your fellow elves, and sneak their writings back here. All the elves you're working with should have them too, to conceal their writings under their rags."
"Dobby could disillusion them," said the elf.
"Perfect," said Tom. "I'll send you out to buy the wallets and writing kits on your own, to maintain plausible deniability for myself. Get small ones, with extension charms of course. Charge them to the Riddle account. Remember, this is completely your idea. If this gets out, I'm guilty of nothing worse than failing to pay close enough attention to my accounts, and permitting embezzling."
"Yes Master. Oh, Master Riddle is a great master!"
Tom waved aside this praise in annoyance. "I should have thought of it sooner."
Tom wished Dobby luck with his penmanship practice and headed to the drawing room to await dinner. Hermione and his father were there already, glaring at each other. The air was so thick with tension, Tom was inclined to turn right around and run, but resisted this urge. He sat near the door just in case. "Good evening."
"Is it?" scoffed his father. "When Miss Granger here has broken her word?"
"I am trying to anticipate possible problems that might result from me introducing these drugs early," said Hermione clearly and slowly, as if to an idiot. Was she trying to antagonize his father or was she actually that oblivious? "The vaccines should be fine, but the antibiotics—"
"Can save millions of lives, you said that yourself," said Tom's father.
"Millions of lives now, yes, but if bacteria evolve antibiotic resistance earlier than they did in my timeline—"
"I have no idea what you just said," interrupted Tom. "But I assume it's important." He turned to his father. "Can you explain what she just said in words I can understand?"
"No," his father admitted.
"Please explain, Hermione." Tom sat and listened attentively, silently willing his father to follow his example.
He did.
Tom didn't bother hiding his sigh of relief.
Hermione organized her thoughts for a moment, then addressed Tom. "You exercise, right?"
"Müller system exercises every morning. You should try them. Health is very important."
"You're probably right."
"I could get you a book on it," said Tom. "Müller wrote one for women too."
"Maybe later. I'm very busy now, as I said."
"It can take as little as fifteen minutes a day, including the exercises performed in the bath and whilst towel-drying, so there's really no excuse not to."
"Tom."
He shut up.
"I'm just talking about exercise in general, not my lack of fitness in particular," she continued. "Exercise is a challenge that makes you stronger. Too much exercise could kill you if you're not prepared for it, but just a little strengthens you. You could eventually get so strong that the amount of exercise that could have killed your unprepared self becomes easy. You're following?"
Tom nodded.
"Antibiotics are like exercise," she said. "The right dose kills bacteria. The wrong dose makes them stronger. If people essentially set up an exercise program for bacteria, the bacteria will become so strong, these antibiotics will become useless even at the correct dose. I can't let that happen. These are the only weapons we have against these diseases."
"You speak from experience," Tom said.
She nodded. "I didn't pay much attention to this at the time, but reading these books on antibiotics this afternoon made me realize that introducing them early would be a bad idea. There's so much information on how bacteria evolve antibiotic resistance. Many of the early antibiotics had already become useless by my time. They kept having to invent new ones as bacteria became resistant to the old ones. Antibiotic-resistant tuberculosis became a big problem in my time. If I just make it evolve earlier, I'll have done more harm than good."
"Thank you for the warning," said Tom. "We obviously won't introduce these drugs if that would make this timeline worse." When his father started, Tom pinned him to his chair with a look. Shut up before you do any more damage and let me handle this, you blustering blowhard. His father got the message.
Tom continued. "If vaccines don't have this problem, we'll introduce only those."
"Those are harder to manufacture," said Hermione. "It requires tissue culture techniques that don't exist yet."
"So we introduce those first," said Tom. "You have details in your books?"
"Yes."
"Did you loot a medical school library?" asked Tom.
"Yes. I saved as many books from the burnings as possible."
"The—" started Tom, but Hermione interrupted.
"Anyway, that won't be an issue in this timeline," she said hurriedly.
Fiona knocked and entered when Tom's father gave her permission. "Dinner is served." She looked around, no doubt noting the absence of the lady and heir of the house, but correctly said nothing.
"You'll find the others in the study," Tom's father explained. "Go inform them about dinner."
Fiona curtseyed, said "Yes Squire Riddle," and left.
Hermione stood as if she intended to go into the dining room by herself.
"Aren't you waiting for the others?" Tom's father asked her.
"Oh. Yes, I suppose." She sat again.
They didn't have to wait long, for Tom's mother, with Tommy in her arms, soon arrived. Tom's father stood to greet her. "Welcome back."
"Thank you for taking Tommy away from that discussion," said Hermione.
"Oh, it was no trouble at all. I'm always happy to read to my little hopping pot."
Tom stood and offered his hand to Hermione so they could process into the dining room after his parents. Once the gentlemen had drawn the ladies' chairs and all had sat down and begun their soup, Tom resumed the conversation. "Introducing these vaccines should keep us busy for a while. Perhaps the most important information you can provide us from the future is how scientists overcame distrust in vaccines, and convinced the general public to adopt them."
Hermione blinked at him.
"Perhaps I should explain," said Tom. "These days, while modern medical advances are welcomed by forward-thinkers, they're still distrusted by some. The anti-vaccination leagues have slowed progress considerably. I trust that such superstition will be forgotten by your time."
Hermione took a breath as if to speak, but didn't. Her brow furrowed in a most unattractive way.
"Ah," said Tom. "They are a hard sell, of course. Preventing a disease that one might catch seems a lot less necessary than curing a disease one already has."
"Yes," said Hermione.
"Even a cure, coming from such an unlikely source as us, would be greeted with skepticism, but a preventative?" Tom continued. "It will be much harder to find volunteers to test such a drug. Anyway, we'll find them somehow. We'll avoid cures completely, no matter how much easier they are to test and market. It's not worth the risk. We'll just wait for their original inventors to invent them. How did things go wrong with them in your timeline, exactly?"
"Well, people were so excited about these new drugs, they used them too much," said Hermione. "Not just on humans, but even on other animals."
"I can understand wanting to save the life of a pet," said Tom's mother.
Hermione shook her head. "They were mixed with farm animals' daily feed, because that made them gain weight faster. They were sprayed on fields of crop plants to fight plant diseases. They were prescribed indiscriminately to patients, even if the patient had a virus, which antibiotics have no effect on whatsoever. Patients with bacterial diseases would sometimes take antibiotics for just a few days, which would knock back the infection so they felt better, but not kill it. Then the bacteria would grow back resistant to the antibiotic, The more antibiotics in the environment, the faster the bacteria evolved resistance to them. Bacteria's vulnerability to antibiotics was a resource that people just squandered."
"They didn't know any better," said Tom. He set his spoon down. "But we do."
Hermione looked at him. Of course, everyone was looking at him, but Hermione was the important one. "It would be unethical to allow that to happen again," he continued. "To allow people to squander the vulnerability of bacteria as they did in your timeline. We have to warn them." He gave Hermione time to consider this as he had some more soup.
"But why would people believe us?" she asked.
"That's the problem," said Tom. "As we just discussed with Ignis, it's impossible to get people to understand something if there's money to be made by staying ignorant." Tom gave the impression that he was thinking the problem over. "I'm afraid I can't think of a solution that doesn't involve Riddle Pharmecuticals owning the patents." He directed one of his sincere looks at Hermione. "Can you think of a better idea?"
Fortunately, she couldn't, although she looked suspicious. "Parents expire," she said. "You're only delaying the inevitable."
"But Riddle Pharmaceuticals will have established a reputation as the experts on medical matters by that point," said Tom. "We'll make a splash as our antibiotics cure diseases. That will make it easier to market out vaccines. Once we've saved many lives, we'll have the clout to do what we want with our antibiotics. It might take some grand gesture to really demonstrate our commitment to saving lives, establish us as philanthropists. I know! We won't even patent one of the vaccines, some important one. We'll give it away at cost. That will prove we value human life over profit."
"Like the polio vaccine," said Hermione, eyes blazing.
"Perfect. Terrifying disease," agreed Tom. "After that, would you like laws banning the use of antibiotics on livestock and crops? Done. Even once our patents expire, we'll still maintain some control, via laws and reputation." And their company would dominate the industry. It was time to invite his father back into the conversation. "Are you up for the task? Can you get politicians to pass laws to protect our business interests?"
His father practically inflated. "How can you be so crass as to think of money when people's lives are at stake? Of course we need to preserve bacteria's vulnerability to our medicines so they continue to save lives. The fact that this also serves our business interests is a mere coincidence." He waved his spoon at Hermione scoldingly. "We can't allow the same mistakes to kill innocent people in this timeline as in yours."
Hermione nodded. "You're right. But will it really be possible to keep such tight control over antibiotics to prevent their misuse?"
"All that's required to maintain control is money and power," said his father. "So as long as we have those, saving lives will be easy."
"Oh Thomas," sighed Tom's mother. "You're so heroic." Her dark eyes were sparkling and her cheeks blushed pink.
Tom's father took her fair hand in his ruddy one. "You inspire me to greatness, my love."
Tom's parents were so embarrassing.
—-
Friday, March 5, Mrs. Prewett and Tessie arrived at the Riddle House early, as planned, so they could meet Algie for dinner at Boulestin before their usual dancing. Once they'd applied the finishing touches to their muggle costumes, they apparated to London with Dobby's help.
Algie had suggested this restaurant, but he had not yet arrived, so Tom and the Prewetts got a table, admiring the circus-themed murals, carpets the colour of spilt claret and curtains of yellow brocade as they waited.
"Have you made any plans for the holiday?" Tessie asked Tom.
"Because if you haven't, we were wondering if you'd accept the hospitality of Shell Cottage," said Mrs. Prewett. "We aren't planning anything too fancy, just a cozy little celebration."
"I'd love to, but I already promised to spend the holiday at Malfoy Manor. I hope I can visit you another time," said Tom.
"Holiday?" asked Algie, who had arrived unnoticed. "Is someone going on holiday?" He drew a chair and joined them at the table.
"The Ides of March," Mrs. Prewett explained, to Algie's confusion.
"How does your family celebrate the Ides of March?" Tessie asked Algie with interest.
Algie blinked his pale blue eyes.
"Have you read any good books lately?" Tom asked Algie an instant later. Tom didn't feel that this had been one of his more inspired distractions, but it worked.
"Can't say I have," Algie said to Tom. "You know me, I rarely read anything longer than a menu." He picked up his menu to demonstrate. "Have you decided what you're getting?" Deciding their order and conveying it to the waiter took up the next few minutes.
Once that was done, Algie asked Tom, "How desperate for reading material must you be to ask me of all people for book recommendations?"
Tom shrugged. "You're the master of diversions. The evenings seem so long and dark these days, I've been reading novels to pass the time. I've been drawn to tragedies. Perhaps this helps me put my own troubles in perspective, to consider that others have it worse. Three authors were recommended to me." He addressed the Prewetts. "Have you read anything by Diadema Vane or Nico Murgatroyd?"
"Oh yes, such edifying books," smiled Mrs. Prewett. "They teach good morals to the young."
"They are not to my taste," said Tom.
"Of course not," agreed Mrs. Prewett. "Terrible writing. Absolute rubbish."
Tom told Mrs. Prewett what her negative opinion was based on before she embarrassed herself with any more guesses. "They seem to gloat that those who suffer brought their misfortune upon themselves, so they deserve what they get. I can't agree with that. But I've found one author, Lerina Kettleburn, with a more sympathetic style. She acknowledges that fate can be cruel, punishing the innocent and rewarding the guilty, with no rhyme or reason. I must say, given my experience, this seems a more realistic outlook. I can't honestly say I deserved to have Merope in my life in the first place. The loss of her was equally a surprise."
Tessie was moved to place a comforting hand on Tom's and heave a sympathetic sigh. "Oh Tom! Truly, fate is fickle to strike one as noble and selfless as yourself with such tragedy!"
Tom laid his other hand on top of Tessie's soft one to acknowledge her sympathy, and thrill Mrs. Prewett, who looked on in delight. Mrs. Prewett laid her hand on top of Tom's. "I know it's hard to believe now, but it does get easier," she said. "I lost my husband nearly two years ago, and I still think of him every day. But the pain lessens with time."
"Thank you," Tom said. "At least I can surround myself with friends, who keep me from despair."
"Yes, well, we're your friends through thick and thin," said Algie, eyeing their hands as if considering adding his own to the stack, but choosing not to. His gaze flew around the room like a gnat. "Drink's a comfort too, and here it is."
Indeed, it was. They received their drinks and food with enthusiasm, and for a while they did nothing but eat, drink, and praise the restaurant.
Mrs. Prewett moaned in pleasure rather indecently, attracting some looks from her dining companions. "It isn't easy to cook quail so the skin is crisp yet the meat is still moist," she explained in her defense.
Poor Tessie blushed magenta. "Oh mother, it's only food."
"Only food!" Mrs. Prewett repeated, outraged. "This is art! This is transcendent!"
"Boulestin is an artist all right," said Algie. "My father tried to hire him away to be his personal chef, but no amount of money could entice him away from London. Had my father succeeded, visits to the ancestral home would be more bearable, but no such luck. Anyway, where are you when you're not in London?"
"Our house is called Shell Cottage," said Tessie, for her mother was too busy eating to converse. "It's on the outskirts of Tinworth, in Cornwall."
"Cornwall!" exclaimed Algie. "That's so far. So where do you stay when you're in London?"
"We don't, generally," said Tessie. "We go straight home."
"What? You ladies mustn't ride the train that late, it won't do!" exclaimed Algie. "I'd offer a spare room in my flat, but that wouldn't be proper. Let me put you up in a hotel tonight."
The Prewetts looked at each other.
"A nice hotel, like the Savoy, if available," said Algie. "Help yourselves to room service and breakfast, just charge it to me. I'll telephone from here right now to reserve a room. You can telephone home so no one worries. All right?"
"What does the Savoy serve for breakfast?" Mrs. Prewett asked.
"Whatever you like," said Algie. "It's the Savoy."
"So the food there is sort of like this?" asked Mrs. Prewett.
"Yes, similar quality," said Algie.
Tessie said, "We couldn't accept such generosity."
At the same time Mrs. Prewett said, "That sounds delightful, thank you."
Mother and daughter looked at each other again.
"Your mother is right," said Algie to Tessie firmly. "I won't hear of you two ladies venturing out on such a long trip late at night. I'll telephone the hotel right now." He strode off.
"That's extremely generous of Algie," said Tom. "The Savoy's the most luxurious hotel in London. A room there must cost the equivalent of about a hundred galleons a night. Of course, to him, such expense is nothing."
"Salazar's serpent!" exclaimed Mrs. Prewett.
Tessie smiled.
"Are muggles usually so generous?" asked Mrs. Prewett.
"No," said Tom. "Algie is an exceptional muggle."
"Such a pleasant young man," said Mrs. Prewett. "Very polite," which was a nice euphemism for filthy rich. "They say you can judge a man by the company he keeps, and I must say, Tom, although you do associate with muggles, no reasonable person could hold that against you."
"Thank you," said Tom. "Anyway, we need a plan. If you seem to telephone home about the change in plans, that implies there's a telephone at Shell Cottage, and then you'd need an excuse not to give your telephone number to Algie, which would seem like a natural thing to do after his generosity."
"Is it strange for muggles to not have a telephone?" asked Tessie.
"It's like not having a Floo connection," said Tom. "Many people don't of course, if they can't afford it."
The horrified looks on the faces of the ladies made it clear that seeming poor was not an option.
"Of course, Algie is just a muggle," tested Tom, "so it's not as if his perception of your wealth matters."
"But, but, it's the principle of the thing!" sputtered Mrs. Prewett. She refilled her wine glass and drank with a determined air. "I've got it! My late husband, may he rest in peace, was an old-fashioned, retiring sort who didn't want a telephone, and I have honored his wish even after his death. We could, of course, afford one if we wanted. And maybe we do want one, come to think of it. We've gone without long enough."
"Do you really mean it, mother?" asked Tessie.
Mrs. Prewett drank more wine. She was flushed quite pink. "Of course I do. Tom, you'll help me arrange that?"
"Of course," said Tom. "There's still the immediate problem of what to do tonight." He sipped his mineral water. "I've got it. You will tell Algie you're telephoning a neighbor to convey the message to Shell Cottage. In fact, I will Floo-call as soon as I get home, to let the rest of your family know where you are."
"Just Axel," said Tessie. "He'll be so worried."
They'd made their plans just in time, for Algie soon returned. "It's all arranged. I got you a suite," he assured the ladies. "I wouldn't let them stuff you in an old Edwardian one, I made sure you got one of the new Art Deco ones."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Prewett. "That's very kind of you."
"We are in your debt," said Tessie.
"No no no, it's nothing, really," said Algie. "It's the least I can do to ensure the safety and comfort of two such charming ladies. I hope to make this outing less onerous for you, so you'll choose to grace us with your presence again, what?"
The ladies giggled.
"Now I must telephone a neighbor to tell Axel about the change in plans," said Tessie. "Algie, where is this restaurant's telephone?"
He directed her and she strode off confidently. Mrs. Prewett apologized for their inability to give Algie their telephone number and explained the situation, as well as her plan to solve the problem as soon as possible. Tom admired her performance, which was completely convincing.
Algie noticed that Mrs. Prewett's glass was empty and tried to refill it for her, but the wine bottle was empty. Tom had fulfilled his promise to keep track of Algie's drinking. He and Algie were still on their first glasses, which they'd barely touched, so they weren't the ones who'd emptied the bottle.
Algie took note of Mrs. Prewett's disappointed look and summoned the waiter. "Another bottle of the same."
Tom doubted the wisdom of that, considering that they still had a whole evening of dancing and more drinking to get through. Of course, it wasn't Tom's job to make sure other people were wise, and he preferred the odds tilted in his favor as far as possible.
The breaking point, when it arrived, wasn't very interesting. Once the waiter had uncorked the new bottle and refilled their glasses, and Mrs. Prewett had raised her glass to her flushed face, Tessie said, "Mother, do you think that perhaps you've already had enough?"
"Nonsense dear," said Mrs. Prewett with an emphatic gesture of her hand, unfortunately the one holding the full glass. Red wine sloshed onto Tessie's décolletage and down the front of her dress. "Merlin's bollocks, so sorry dear. Don't worry, I'll just—"
"No!" Tessie grabbed her mother's hand before she could reach into a pocket of her skirt. "Remember where you are."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Prewett. "Right. Then how—"
"I'm sure some cold water from the tap would get that wine out of your dress," said Tom. "In the WC. There should be privacy there, and towels to blot it with, so it should soon be good as new."
"Really?" asked Mrs. Prewett uncertainly.
"I'm sure it will be fine," said Tessie. "Please help me with it." She hauled her mother away.
Algie watched Tessie walk away. She was good at it. She eventually vanished from view, so Algie was capable of speech again. "I'm behind the eight ball," he said. "I mean, if you and Tessie..."
"We're not," said Tom. "Although Mrs. Prewett would certainly like us to be. The Prewetts' fortunes would be considerably improved by Tessie's marriage to a man of means such as myself."
Algie slumped. "She should just marry you then. You two seem to get along great, anyway."
"Algie! Are you a man or a mouse?"
"If those are the only two options, mouse. I can't stand up to my father. Oh Tom, you haven't heard the man bellowing at me that I'd better not let some chorus girl trap me into marriage."
"Tessie's no chorus girl," said Tom.
"But she's a nobody," despaired Algie. "If she's not listed in Burke's Peerage, she might as well not exist. If I act on my feelings towards her, I'll be disowned. Her mother is right in aiming lower and setting her sights on you." Tom's silence after this assessment gave Algie ample time to continue giving voice to his heartache. "Maybe I should just let him disown me. Plenty of people survive without an inheritance. I could work."
Tom was too startled to suppress his skeptical snort.
"Fellows do work,' Algie assured Tom. 'I was lunching with a man at the Bachelor's only yesterday who swore he knew a fellow who had met a man whose cousin worked. But I don't see what I could do, don't you know."
"You're talking nonsense," said Tom. "You've been watching too many romantic comedies. Real people don't give up their fortunes for love."
Algie sighed. "But what can I do? A girl like that's going to get snatched up by some other fellow while I'm waiting around for my father to die. And he's hale and hearty! Still hunts with the hounds regularly."
It occurred to Tom that he could count an experienced murderer among his friends, one whose methods might be undetectable by muggle means. No, that would be cheating. "I'll think of something," Tom assured Algie. "I'm sure it will all work out. And you needn't fear that Tessie will become unavailable in the near future. I've made it clear that I'm not looking to replace Merope any time soon, but I've implied that if I ever did want a replacement, Tessie would be a likely candidate. This keeps Tessie in reserve."
"Thanks Tom. You're a good friend."
Their conversation was silenced by the return of the ladies. Mrs. Prewett looked abashed, or perhaps just sober. Tessie looked even more radiant than before, and showed no sign of her mishap. "Were you talking about us behind our backs?" teased Tessie.
"But of course," said Algie. "Are there any other worthy topics?"
The ladies giggled coquettishly.
The rest of dinner was enjoyed without incident. Tom couldn't have chosen a better restaurant to demonstrate the sophistication of muggle cuisine.
Tessie crunched into a profiterole, her pink tongue darting to catch an escaping jet of cream. She giggled. "Ooh, these are messy, but they're so good!"
Some mothers might have urged their daughters to lick cream in a less suggestive way, but considering that Mrs. Prewett was too busy eating to notice, Tessie's tongue was free to do what it wanted.
"I'm so glad you like it," said Algie. "We must eat here again. Where do you want to go after this? We've danced at the Cafe de Paris a few times already. Would you like to try a different club?"
"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Prewett. "There are more places like that?"
Algie laughed. "Yes, several."
Mrs. Prewett gave the idea serious thought. "That would be lovely, but tonight I am so looking forward to hearing the band at the Cafe de Paris again."
"I'm sure a different band would be good too," said Tessie.
"Next week," said Mrs. Prewett firmly, with a pointed look at her daughter.
"All right, if you feel so strongly about it," said Tessie. "I'm easy. I mean, about where we go tonight."
"Well. The Cafe de Paris it is," said Algie.
Tom put up a token protest to Algie paying for dinner, and paid only for the cab to the club. The ladies were wide-eyed when Tom hailed a cab and opened the doors for them, but got in without comment, trying to hide their ignorance of automobiles.
Dancing was as delightful as usual. Tom made sure to dance with Tessie enough to satisfy her mother, and with Mrs. Prewett herself to show her the respect she deserved, but there was plenty of time to dance with others.
Algie and Tessie cut a charming figure across the dance floor, embodying every playful bounce of the music. Pain eventually lessens, Mrs. Prewett had said. The loss of Cecilia would become merely an old ache, not feel like an actively bleeding wound. In the meantime, at least others had a shot at love.
Tom eventually apologized to the Prewetts and Algie, saying he felt a melancholy that these lively environs couldn't cure, and hoped to catch a earlier train home than usual. He left the ladies in Algie's capable hands.
Tom had Dobby apparate him home from a dark alley. Once he was in his office, he threw a pinch of powder into the fireplace. "Shell Cottage." He stuck his head in the green flames and, when a bleary-eyed Axel appeared, told him to expect his mother and sister to return home sometime the next day, for they were staying at the Savoy tonight.
"What?" exclaimed Axel. "You just abandoned them in a den of muggles?"
"They decided to stay as guests at quite a luxurious hotel," said Tom. "They're capable witches, and are perfectly safe. Now goodnight. It's very late." He withdrew his head from the flames, made sure the Floo was set to accept calls only, in case anyone important needed to reach him, and left his office, ignoring the green glow and shouts behind him.
—-
Helping the Prewetts get a telephone installed in their home (a small, charming cottage at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the sea) was a bigger job than Tom had anticipated. Their home had to be made temporarily suitable for the muggle workmen. Tom inspected it carefully, and found many items that would violate the Statute of Secrecy, if viewed by a muggle. "This portrait must be hidden," Tom said.
"I can keep still," objected the portrait of a stern-faced old witch.
"I heard you sneeze," said Tom. "And I don't wish to impose upon you to keep still, when it would be easier for you to relax in privacy."
The portrait, thus mollified, consented to being temporarily relocated. Mrs Prewett carefully removed it from the wall and levitated it upstairs.
"Although I wouldn't mind if Great Great Aunt Gertrude stayed in the attic," Tessie whispered to Tom once her mother and the portrait were out of earshot. "She always disapproves of my clothes."
"You look beautiful in them," said Tom.
"That's the problem, according to her." She leaned in even closer to Tom. "Thank you so much for this," she whispered. "I can't believe my mother is making it so easy for me to talk with Algie. She thinks she's ingratiating our family to you by adopting your interest in muggles. She has no clue what I'll really use this telephone for."
"It does seem almost too good to be true," said Tom.
Mrs. Prewett appeared before them suddenly. Tom had somehow been expecting the attic stairs to creak, but of course there was no reason they should in a wizarding house.
Tessie, who'd been leaning in very close to Tom, stepped back at once.
"Oh, don't mind me," smiled Mrs. Prewett. "I'm not one of those chaperones who'll cast a stinging hex if you get too close. You know, it occurs to me that telephone calls, like Floo-calls, don't require a chaperone, so you two should feel free to talk about whatever strikes your fancy over the telephone, in perfect privacy. And with no ashes getting in your hair! What a wonderful invention."
"I'm looking forward to it," said Tom.
"Yes, mother," said Tessie. "Thank you so much!"
Once the telephone situation was sorted, Tom returned to his office to work on the details of the contract he would offer to the novelist, Kettleburn. She had agreed to a business lunch at La Truffe Émraude, and Dobby had prepared writing kits to distribute to his fellow elves in the back room. Ignis hadn't yet submitted many writings from his fellow werolves, but when he'd picked up the wolfsbane potion, he'd reported that many werewolves were interested in contributing to the project, and would hand in their stories soon.
Tom's father, carrying a thick folder of parchments, came to visit Tom in his office. "I thought you might be interested in the latest developments in our muggle business."
"Of course," said Tom, setting down his quill and offering his father a chair.
"I've made an appointment with a chemist who comes well-recommended, a Professor Waxwigge, in the chemistry department at Oxford," said Tom's father. "He should be able to translate these parchments into testable antibiotics." He grimaced at the parchments. "If only they didn't look like they were written by a medieval scribe. Hermione said this was the easiest way for her to copy it, but this isn't a style that gives one confidence in medicine."
"We could rewrite it, I suppose," said Tom.
"That would undoubtedly introduce errors," said his father. "Especially considering that this isn't your field of expertise, or mine, so there are many unfamiliar words."
"I'll claim it's my handwriting," said Tom. "I can match Hermione's style."
His father looked at him. "You're just trying to get involved in the muggle side of the business, despite our agreement."
"Yes."
His father smiled. "That's my boy. All right, you can be the one to deliver this ridiculous calligraphy to Professor Waxwigge and claim it's your own."
Tom wasn't sure if he'd just won that argument.
—-
"This came to you in a dream?" said Professor Waxwigge, looking through the parchments in his office.
"Yes," lied Tom confidently. "I wrote it down in a sort of trance as soon as I woke up. In the way of dreams, I knew I wouldn't remember the details afterwards, and indeed I don't."
"Do you have a background in chemistry, Mr. Riddle? Or medicine?"
"No. I don't have enough background to understand what I wrote. But I woke with the certainty that it is not nonsense. It's very important."
"And you wrote it with…"
"A quill, on parchment. Not the most efficient, I know, but it was what I happened to have on my bedside table for writing down my dreams." Tom was embarrassed to claim this, as it was tantamount to admitting to writing poetry, but it did work with the story.
"This is your handwriting?"
"Well. I wrote it in a rush. My handwriting's usually neater than that." As the professor looked skeptical, Tom took a quill, bottle of ink, and bit of scrap parchment from his wallet and wrote "This is my handwriting," in Hermione's witchy style, just as she'd taught him, without the pureblood-style flourishes he'd adopted recently. It was a pretty good match. Not wanting to be limited by this, he put his wizarding writing implements away, took out a fountain pen and a scrap of paper, and wrote, "This is also my handwriting" in roundhand.
Professor Waxwigge examined the handwriting samples before him. "As your handwriting doesn't seem to match itself, I'm clearly no expert in handwriting, so I'll just leave that issue aside for the moment." Then he studied one of the pages Tom had only skimmed. "This isn't nonsense," he concluded. "This reads like a chemistry text, but the information itself… If it actually is what it seems to be… No. It's too good to be true." He tore his gaze away from the parchment and peered at Tom over his glasses. "I suppose you're looking for investors. That's your game, isn't it?"
"No," said Tom. "Absolutely not. The Riddle family will fund all the research and share the profits with no one. I'm looking to hire chemists to test if this actually is what it seems to be. If it isn't, you'll have lost nothing but time, and possibly damaged your reputation slightly for following a false trail. But you'll be paid regardless."
"Time…" repeated Professor Waxwigge with a thoughtful look at Tom. He hurriedly looked down at the parchments. "Anyway, there's no shame in disproving a false hypothesis. And if it's true…"
"We could save millions of lives. The most important part is this." Tom took the folder back and turned to the part on the evolution of antibiotic resistance. "I woke from the dream knowing this is where things could go terribly wrong, if bacteria evolve resistance to these drugs. You might want to consult with some professor of evolution to understand this part. It is absolutely essential that these drugs are administered in a way that prevents this problem, or they will become useless."
Tom waited as the professor read that part. It took a while. "I see," he finally said. "Well. That does seem important. If any drugs actually work against bacteria, which breed and mutate so fast, this seems like an important principle to keep in mind. This idea is worthy of publication in its own right. I'll need to talk with a microbiologist about coauthoring a paper. Are you sure you didn't copy this out of someone's lab notebook? Or a scientific journal or textbook?"
"Nothing in my possession."
"But in your dream? Insights into chemistry through dreams are not unheard of. The German chemist, August Kekulé, famously discovered the structure of benzene through a dream of an ouroboros, a snake biting its own tail. However, until now I hadn't heard of anyone transcribing an entire advanced chemistry book from a dream."
"Neither had I," said Tom. "And I never had any particularly noteworthy dreams until this one. I don't really remember the dream now. There may have been a book."
"My concern, you see, aside from the obvious one that this is all nonsense and a waste of time, is that it's not nonsense, but is someone else's unpublished research. I wouldn't want to be guilty of academic espionage and plagiarism." He looked at the thick sheaf of parchment again. "But an enormous amount of work must have gone into these discoveries, which makes it hard to believe that someone would have done all this research and not published any hint of it along the way. This much work would take multiple research teams decades. Each individual step here, if real, is worthy of multiple papers in prestigious journals. There's no way all this could have been hushed up."
He peered at Tom over his glasses. "This book, if there was one, in your dream. What was its publication date?"
Did he dare? "1997."
The professor didn't look surprised. Tom was impressed. "That sounds about right." He looked at the parchment again. "So if we do this wrong, like they apparently did the first time around, we'll develop these miraculous drugs over the next few decades, and then by 1997 they'll become useless as bacteria evolve resistance to them, so medical science will be defenseless against these diseases once more. But if we do this right, we can avoid that problem, and keep saving lives for years after that."
"Yes," said Tom, greatly relieved.
"This didn't come to you in a dream, did it?"
"That's immaterial," said Tom. "The important thing is that these drugs can save lives."
"It's just that I know some physics professors who would be very interested in how you managed to travel through time."
"I didn't," said Tom. He stood, taking the folder. "I am not discussing where I got this information. If you're not willing to take on the job, I could find a different chemist."
"Sit down, Mr. Riddle," said the professor. "Please. You can't blame a man for being curious about the most interesting phenomenon he's ever seen."
Tom sat. "So. Are you willing to take on the job? I have a contract right here. You might want to have your lawyer look it over before you sign."
The professor read it. Tom looked around at the various books, diplomas, and awards decorating the walls.
"You're keeping a very tight hold on all this information," the professor concluded. "This isn't how academics usually work."
"I'm not an academic," said Tom. "I'm a businessman. I did give you freedom to publish on evolution of antibiotic resistance, and also on the efficacy of the drugs in medical trials. The restrictions on publishing the chemical specifics aren't solely out of greed on my part. I don't want these drugs being misused. That could cost lives."
The professor nodded. "And would you like my soul gift-wrapped?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I assume you want my soul in exchange for the most amazing medical discovery of the twentieth century."
"I have no use for your soul. I'm not even using my own. All I need is your scientific expertise and connections."
"That does seem like a good deal." Professor Waxwigge signed.
Tom sighed in relief. "One more thing."
The professor jumped in his seat. "I was joking about my soul."
"So was I. This has nothing to do with the contract, really. Well, I suppose it sort of does. I have an appointment Monday, March 15. Should that appointment go very badly, my family will inherit this contract, so you'll report not to me, but to my father, Squire Thomas Riddle, and possibly my friend Miss Hermione Granger. Don't be too alarmed if this happens. They have all the information they need to contact you, should I be unavailable."
"You sound very calm about that."
"I like to prepare for all possibilities. This can't be done of course, as surprises can come out of nowhere, but I do what I can. Thank you very much for taking my offer seriously, Professor Waxwigge. I'll leave that folder in your capable hands. I expect you to guard the information therein as outlined in the contract."
They said their farewells, and Tom set out to look for a secluded place from which he could call Dobby.
The lobby was like a small museum, full of scientific displays. This was too public a spot for Tom's needs, but he lingered to admire his reflection in the glass of a display case before finding some private corner from which to apparate. He looked perfect in his tasteful muggle suit, his lightly brilliantined hair. With a turn of his head and an adjustment of his focus, the glass turned from a mirror to a window, through which a taxidermied snake stared at him with vertical-pupiled glass eyes.
Author's notes: My fancast for Hermione is a younger version of Rena Owen in Once Were Warriors. I haven't actually seen any pictures of her from when she was younger, but I'm extrapolating.
Algie's view of work has been borrowed from P.G. Wodehouse. Restaurant decor and food descriptions have been borrowed from a Jay Rayner restaurant review in The Guardian.