"Thank you for coming, Miss Kettleburn," said Tom, welcoming the author to his table at La Truffe Émraude. "I'm honored to meet you." She seemed old to be a Miss rather than a Mrs. Her clothes were dowdy: her amber robes were frayed at the cuffs, and the point of her hat drooped over her greying brown hair. Wide hazel eyes looked at everything, and her round face seemed nervous. Tom stood to kiss her hand and draw her chair, then sat again.

"Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Riddle. I must say, your letter was intriguing. My readers don't usually invite me to restaurants like this."

"I'm glad for the opportunity. I know what I'm ordering, but take your time perusing the menu."

"What do you recommend here?"

Tom pointed to the dish that had appeared on the printed menu recently, "I prefer to avoid causing unnecessary suffering to magical creatures, so I'll have the vegetarian daily special, but choose what you like."

"Oh! I'll get the same then."

Once they had placed their order and their drinks had been delivered, Tom said, "I'm grateful you took the time to read my letter at all. A writer of your fame must get a lot of fan mail."

"Oh yes. I do try to answer them all. My readers share so many sad stories with me! They say they know I'll understand."

"I'm sure you do, but I didn't invite you here to burden you with a sorry tale of my own life."

"Oh, everyone knows. I mean. My condolences for your loss, Mr. Riddle."

"Thank you. I find that it helps to keep myself occupied with a project. I've taken on one that is, admittedly, not just odd, but beyond my abilities to complete. You, with your exceptional writing skills, are the best person I could think of to help me with it. You would, of course, be compensated."

"That's an intriguing opening, Mr. Riddle. Do go on."

"First I must ask: do you think that your reputation would be damaged if your name were associated with a book about werewolves?"

"Oh!" Her gaze darted around the room. She squished herself as close to Tom as the table between them would permit, and spoke quietly. "How did you know?"

Tom kept his sincere expression securely affixed to his face, but it was difficult. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, I knew someone would find out eventually, but take pity on a poor author, please. My tales of tragedy earn me respect in the literary world, but werewolf books are where the money is."

Despite Tom's sudden lack of appetite, he greeted the waiter with enthusiasm as he delivered their appetizer of sizzling fried things emitting purple sparks, on a bed of chicory. "Thank you. Do try these, Miss Kettleburn. A bit spicy, but the burn soon fades." He stabbed one of the sizzling things as it attempted to sidle under the leaves.

Poor Miss Kettleburn made no move towards the appetizer. Tom made himself eat the thing. By the time this was accomplished and he looked back to Miss Kettleburn, now even droopier than her hat, he had a plan. "You misunderstand me, Miss Kettleburn. I'm not here to blackmail you."

"I thought you wanted to meet with Lerina Kettleburn, author of books of tragedy," said the author. "If you'd wanted to meet with Vivian Wyldewood, you could have just said."

That solved that mystery. "Do try these while they're hot, Miss Kettleburn. They're no good once they lose their crispness."

"I'm sure, but I seem to have lost my appetite."

"Let me make myself clear," said Tom. "Books you publish under a different name are not my concern. I'm here to hire you to publish a werewolf novel as Lerina Kettleburn."

She blinked at him. "But… why? I don't know what you're paying, but it's hard to imagine that it would be worth my reputation."

"You're thinking with insufficient ambition, Miss Kettleburn. Don't worry about a werewolf novel damaging your name. Take pride in the respectability that your name would confer to a werewolf novel."

Miss Kettleburn considered that. "You hope to make werewolf novels respectable?"

"Not in general," said Tom. "You need to lend your respectability to only this one novel, written to my specifications. It will become a bestseller, a novel that anyone would be proud to be seen reading in public."

Miss Kettleburn looked at him skeptically.

Tom nudged the appetizer dish closer to her. "These are almost past their prime," for they were nearly done spitting their purple sparks, and had given up trying to hide. "Do try them. They're delicious."

She did, and seemed pleased. "You're right."

"I generally am."

Miss Kettleburn ate the rest of them, then took out a small notebook and a quill. "How many explicit scenes would you like? My publisher requires at least three per book, but if you have any special requests—"

Tom wished he were negotiating via owl instead of in person. "I do not require any such scenes," he said. To be safe, he added, "In fact, I require that there be none. This must be a respectable book."

Miss Kettleburn looked confused. "But, you said a werewolf book."

"Yes. A respectable werewolf book, the likes of which has never been written."

"But… If you don't want any explicit scenes, what would be in it?"

Tom took a deep breath. "I am collecting autobiographical writings by werewolves. I'm sure that a skilled writer such as yourself could use these stories as inspiration for a tragic novel."

Miss Kettleburn blinked at him. "Writings by… werewolves?"

"Yes."

"Werewolves can write?"

Tom had to take another deep breath. "Yes," he said pleasantly. "Many can. I don't know about the ferals, but the ones living in human society are certainly capable of doing anything their fellow witches and wizards can do." Tom had phrased this knowing it was incorrect by current wizarding standards, but his reference to "fellow" witches and wizards was not what startled Miss Kettleburn.

She gasped. "Living in human society!" she repeated.

"Yes," said Tom calmly, willing Miss Kettleburn to follow his example and keep her voice down.

"I know they infiltrate human society just before the full moon, to better access their victims, but—"

Tom didn't bother suppressing his cringe. "Miss Kettleburn, that is exactly the sort of harmful stereotype I need your help to overcome. The werewolves who do not do that sort of thing, but do their best to lead blameless lives, need their stories told."

The waiter returned to levitate the empty appetizer dish away. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, thank you," said Tom.

"Were the Gambolan sidling nut croquettes too spicy?" the waiter asked Miss Kettleburn sympathetically.

"What?" said Miss Kettleburn, pulled out of her thoughts. "Oh. No, they were delicious, thank you."

"Glad to hear it," said the waiter, placing their entrees in front of them. Miss Kettleburn looked at her dish in confusion. "I thought we ordered the vegetarian special," she said.

"Vegetable lamb of Tartary seems very like the real thing, doesn't it?" said Tom. "It goes just as well with Bordeaux. Forgoing flesh is no hardship here."

"Hm." Miss Kettleburn tasted her dish. "This is delicious."

"Yes, they do a good job with it. Always tender, never any woody splinters." They enjoyed their food and wine in silence for a while.

Tom waited patiently until Miss Kettleburn spoke. "Writings by werewolves?" she marveled.

"Yes," said Tom. "They want the public to know of the hardships they suffer due to their unfortunate condition, but at the same time, they require complete anonymity. I assure you, the damage your reputation would suffer if your authorship of salacious novels became known is nothing compared to the harm that would come to these respected witches and wizards if it became known that they suffered from lycanthropy." Tom turned the full brunt of his glare on Miss Kettleburn. "They are writing carefully, to remove their identifying characteristics from their stories. If you agree to take on this job, I will expect you to fill in the missing details with believable creations of your own. You must make no attempt to discover the true identities of the writers. Since you brought up the issue of blackmail earlier, perhaps I should point out that antagonizing werewolves would be unwise—"

"Of course!" yelped Miss Kettleburn. "I wouldn't dream of—"

"Because doing so would antagonize me," Tom concluded. He added a smile to this, for Miss Kettleburn looked pale. "But if you simply write this book as I request, your reward will be substantial. I have the details in this contract."

Miss Kettleburn accepted to the parchment and glanced through it.

Tom wouldn't have her sign a contract in this disturbed state. "Take it home to read at your leisure. Should you find the terms acceptable, I will deliver the werewolves' autobiographical writings to you at a later date."

"Thank you, Mr. Riddle. You've given me a great deal to think about."

"A sparse repayment, considering how your novels have given me so much to think about, and have been such a comfort to me in difficult times." Tom refilled her wine glass.

"I'm glad they could help," she said. "Which one was your favorite?"

Tom's detailed praise of the sappy things got them through the entree and the cheese course. By the time the wine bottle was empty and the chocolate cake was served, Miss Kettleburn seemed to have come around to the idea of applying her writing skills to the task of making werewolves seem sympathetic. In fact, she relished the challenge. Inciting sympathy for orphans, star-crossed lovers, and gentlewitches in distressed circumstances was too easy a task for a writer of her brilliance. Inciting sympathy for werewolves, now that was an accomplishment that would shake the literary world.

"Thank you for this excellent lunch, and fascinating conversation," said Miss Kettleburn. "I might as well sign this now, save an owl some effort." She accepted Tom's offered hippogriff quill pen and small bottle of giant squid ink, and signed illegibly. At least her printed name was readable.

"Thank you very much, Miss Kettleburn. I'll get those writings to you soon."

They said their goodbyes. Tom retrieved Dobby from the back room, and they Flooed home.

The first order of business, of course, was to ask Dobby how his writing kits had been received. The other elves had been amazed at the idea, and not all had agreed to participate, but some had.

Next, Tom grilled Dobby on all the gossip he'd heard from his fellow elves. Tom took notes. Once he'd picked the elf's memory clean, and thanked him, Tom dismissed the elf and Floo-called Ignis. He was out working, his mother said (she herself was coated in bits of broken leaves from some sort of magical herb processing.) Tom asked Mrs. McKinnon to convey the message that the writings Ignis was collecting would be put to good use.

Work done, Tom felt in need of some fresh air, and went for a walk. The March air was bracing on his face, but the hood of his yeti fur cloak—

He went back inside and changed into his muggle clothes, then set out again. It wouldn't help his reputation if some muggle farmer saw the squire's son in outlandish dress.

He returned to meet the others in the drawing room before dinner.

"So, how was your meeting with Miss Rugburn?" his father asked.

"Kettleburn," corrected Tom, tactfully ignoring the twinkle in his father's eye. "She signed the contract."

"Oh good. So what's she like?"

"She's looking forward to the job. You must try the vegetable lamb of tartary at La Truffe Émraude." Thus, Tom deflected his companions from any detailed discussion of Miss Kettleburn's more profitable writings.

After dinner, Tom returned to his office to look over today's notes from Dobby, and collate the new information with the family trees in Nature's Nobility, both editions. Something struck him as odd. "Dobby," he called.

Pop. "Yes Master?"

"Where is Miss Granger, and is she still awake?"

"She's reading to Tommy in the study, Master."

"Thank you." Tom took both books with him to the study, and waited until Hermione had finished the tale of Babbitty Rabbitty.

"Thank you for the story," said Tom. "I hope you can help me understand some other books." He opened both books to the bookmarks he'd placed. "I have a question about Marius Black."

"Who?"

"Marius, the boy who was impressed with my owl."

"Oh, him."

"He's in the current edition of Nature's Nobility, but not the future edition. It doesn't give a date of birth or death, it's like he was never born. Why is that?"

Hermione looked at the books. "The Black family are extreme blood purists. If he's a squib, they'll try their hardest to make it seem like he never existed. They probably paid the publisher to remove his name from their family tree. They have a huge tapestry in their house with some of the names burned off. Same idea. They consider pruning their family tree to be an obligation."

"But what will happen to the boy himself?"

"I think they usually drown them."

"What?!" Tom was aghast. Even little Tommy let out a cry.

Hermione soothed Tommy and latched him on, then continued. "Usually when they don't show any signs of accidental magic, certainly by age eleven, when they don't receive a Hogwarts acceptance letter. Magical children in Britain who will be eleven by September first receive their acceptance letters July second, and must reply by July thirty-first."

Tom double-checked the date in the book. Marius's eleventh birthday would be this coming April. What a clever boy, to have hidden his lack of magic for so long! All that cleverness would be wasted come July. "That's horrible."

"That's purebloods for you." Hermione turned back to her book. "Tommy, would you like to hear The Warlock's Hairy Heart? It has an important moral you should heed." She started reading despite Tommy's lack of reply.

Tom left them to their children's tales and walked away, disturbed.

—-

The next morning, Ignis stepped out of the Floo and handed a thick folder of parchments to Tom, as arranged. "That's the first batch," he said. "From me and a few others. There'll be more later. I hope I didn't leave any identifying details in there."

Tom opened the folder at random. "I, a turquoise-eyed exterminator from Orncrag," he pretended to read.

"Yeah, no way to tell that's me because my eyes are more of an aquamarine," added Ignis proudly.

Hermione, seated by the fire with Tommy in her lap, laughed. She seemed a little slow, to have waited so long to laugh at Tom's wit.

"Thank you for delivering these," said Tom. "I'm sure you have work to do, so don't let us keep you,"

"Actually I promised Ignis another dueling lesson this morning," said Hermione.

"Oh… good," said Tom. "My parents will be delighted to watch such entertainment."

Indeed they were. Like last time, Tom's mother sat in the drawing room with Tommy on her lap, to view the show through the window, while Tom and his father watched from the gazebo.

Hermione and Ignis shot spells at each other and blocked them as well as they could. One or the other would occasionally call "Hold!" and Ignis would ask for advice on how to do a spell, or Hermione would offer it unsolicited. The yard suffered the brunt of the deflected spells, which dug crevasses into the mud, boiled decorative stonework, and shattered a dormant rose bush.

Tom's father commentated. "Good shot! Ooh, that must smart," he said, when Hermione set Ignis's shoulder on fire. Ignis extinguished the flames and shot back at her hurriedly.

Tom paid careful attention to the wand movements of the duelists. That was quite a nice little hex for reversing one's opponent's knees. Interesting wand movement, a sort of twisted zig-zag—

Hermione got in an excellent shot that left Ignis both wandless and dangling upside-down in midair by one ankle. "You win," sighed Ignis as his robes flopped around his face. "But that didn't really count because Tom was cheating."

"I beg your pardon," objected Tom. "I wasn't even playing."

Hermione did something to the ground so it wobbled like aspic when she dropped Ignis onto it. "You were doing some sort of wandless magic," accused Ignis, bouncing as the ripples in the slushy lawn subsided. "I saw you."

"I most certainly was not," said Tom as his father chortled unhelpfully.

"You shouldn't have been looking at the audience anyway," said Hermione. "I was able to get that last shot in because your attention was divided." She helped Ignis up and handed his wand back to him.

"What do you think I was doing?" asked Tom.

"I don't know," said Ignis. "I wasn't really paying you that much attention. But something. Were you helping Hermione?"

"Hermione needs no help," said Tom, "and I don't know where you'd get the idea that I'd help you."

"It looked like a hex," accused Ignis.

"Oh, that," said Tom over his father's chortling. "I wasn't actually doing it, I was just going through the motions, refreshing my memory of how to do that hex. I haven't dueled for a while."

Ignis raised his eyebrows. "You're hosting one of the great duelists of Australia and you haven't even dueled her yourself? Seems like a waste."

"I've been busy," said Tom. "As you well know."

"Tom isn't really—" said Hermione.

"But it's about time I got back into it," said Tom, standing. He stepped out of the gazebo.

"Tom," said Hermione. "Do you think you can duel me?" Her tone was the same as Cecilia's when she was humoring a presumed madman.

"Of course not," said Tom. "I need to work my way up to a challenge like that." He indicated Ignis. "I'll start with something easier."

Ignis nodded. "You're on."

Tom waved a gracious hand at the gazebo. "Have a seat, Hermione, if you care to watch two mere amateurs make a mockery of your sport. Or go watch Tommy try to hold his head up if that's more impressive."

"No, I'll stay," said Hermione, sitting. "This could be interesting."

Tom looked around with distaste at the damaged grounds. "Dobby," he called.

Pop. "Yes Master?"

"Ignis and I will soon have a friendly duel, yet the grounds are in bad enough shape already. Clean up this mess so we can start our duel on a fresh field, then stay nearby so you'll be ready to clean up any subsequent mess."

"Yes Master," said Dobby, nodding so vigorously his ears flapped as if he were trying to fly. Then he got to work.

Tom warmed up with a few Müller System exercises under the interested gazes of Ignis and Hermione, who were no doubt intimidated by Tom's physical prowess. Soon, the grounds were ready, and so was Tom.

Tom and Ignis bowed to each other. Hermione, her voice tinged with a skepticism that wasn't really appropriate to the situation, said, "On the count of three. One, two, three," and they were dueling.

Tom drew quickly and silently cast, apparently, a shield charm, which was useless as Ignis cast one as well. Tom quickly dropped his shield in order to cast some sort of spell that pushed on Ignis's shield enough to make him stagger back, but not fall. However, this jostling was enough to disturb Ignis's aim, as his subsequent curse went high.

Tom and Ignis shot, shielded, and dodged all sorts of spells. Their duel was soon complicated by the stomping of a wrought iron pergola, which had become animated through some peculiar interaction of spells, broken free of its eglantine rose stems, and now roamed through the yard in search of prey. Tom and Ignis briefly cooperated to lure it into the pool of lava, and then the duel was on again.

Dobby, of course, paid close attention to it all, as he'd have to clean up the resulting mess. He twitched his fingers as if rehearsing the magic he'd soon have to cast. Of course, the duelists knew better than to waste their attention on spectators.

Finally, Dobby was too slow with a shield, and Tom suddenly lost sensation in his right hand. He heard a faint splash as his wand fell to the mud, and looked at his hand in horror as Ignis laughed triumphantly. Tom's fingers had turned to overcooked asparagus. They even smelled like it.

Tom swooped to pick up his wand with his left hand and used it to gesture at Ignis so emphatically, Dobby had better interpret his movement as something spectacular.

Tom was not disappointed. Ignis's laughter abruptly turned into disgusting choking as he coughed up a tangle of small snakes. The snakes he succeeded in ejecting slithered through the grass in all directions, but more kept coming.

Tom waved his wand again, with emphasis, hoping that Dobby would realize that he intended to undo the horrific spell, but instead Ignis's wand flew from his hand. Tom caught Ignis's wand out of the air with his left hand, which now held two wands. That was all well and good, but Ignis still couldn't breathe. Tom waved both wands while shouting "Finite incantatem!"

Dobby finally got the point, for the snakes disappeared and Ignis gasped. "You win," he said with difficulty.

Tom tried to offer his right hand to help Ignis up, but that was pointless. He handed Ignis his wand back instead. "Any trick to undoing this?" he asked, casually indicating his right hand.

Ignis cleared his throat. "It's a sensory illusion, not a transfiguration," he assured him. "Another finite incantatem will do it."

Tom made sure that Dobby was paying attention, then tried it. It worked, so Tom could help Ignis up.

"Who taught you dueling?" panted Ignis.

"My parents hired various tutors," said Tom casually.

"I've never seen some of those spells," Ignis marveled. "And your casting! There were some decidedly unconventional wand movements there, but I can't deny that they worked."

"There's also the art of misleading one's opponent with unrelated wand movements to disguise one's true spells," said Tom.

"I see," said Ignis, nodding. "I don't know if I could do that. It takes a particularly devious sort of mind, I think."

"That it does," agreed Tom. "Dobby, I'm done dueling for the day, so get this mud off my robes."

"Yes Master," said Dobby, breathing a little hard. He rushed to obey while Hermione and Ignis cleaned their own robes.

"I'm about ready for lunch," said Tom, sheathing his newly clean wand. "I do hope you can join us, Ignis."

"Mrs. Riddle already made me promise I'd stay for lunch," Ignis said.

"We're always delighted to have you," said Tom's father. "And today, you've been thoroughly had. Come along."

Then they left Dobby to fish the thrashing pergola out of the pool of lava and went in to join Tom's mother and son in the drawing room.

"Oh, well done!" exclaimed Tom's mother. "What a show! Is your hand quite all right, Tom?"

"Oh yes, a simple finite incantatem undid the sensory illusion," he assured her.

Hermione rushed to reclaim Tommy. "I'm back, darling. You're going to be a creative duelist like your father, aren't you?"

"Eh," said Tommy before latching on.

"I wouldn't mind learning some of those unusual spells," said Ignis to Tom.

Tom relaxed in his chair and smiled. "Hermione agreed to give you lessons. I did not. An unconventional dueling style such as my own becomes less valuable the more common it is."

"I should have got you to promise me lessons in exchange for me telling you how to fix your hand," said Ignis.

"But you didn't," said Tom.

Fiona looked decidedly nervous when she called them in to lunch, and left the dining room quickly.

Tom's mother passed a serving dish to Tom. "Asparagus?" It was perfectly cooked.

Once lunch was over, Tom and Hermione, with Tommy in her sling, escorted Ignis back to Tom's office, from which he Flooed home. Tom turned to Hermione. "That went well. I feel much more confident about our visit to Malfoy Manor."

Did she have to pull at her hair like that? "Honestly Tom, lack of confidence is not your problem," she said more loudly than necessary. "You're not planning to bring Dobby to Malfoy Manor, are you?"

"Of course not," said Tom. "That would be tacky. But I'll bring the confidence I gained today."

"As if you could leave it behind if you tried," she sighed, but she was smiling. "Well, we're going to take our afternoon nap. See you later."

"Sleep well. Wait," called Tom.

Hermione paused before she got to the door. "What?"

Tommy looked up at him with his blue-black eyes from his deep red sling. Tom stroked his cheek, soft and round. Tommy turned his face to nuzzle Tom's hand. "You sleep well too," Tom told his son.

Once they'd left, in the privacy of his office, Tom called "Dobby."

Pop. "Yes Master?"

"Thank you for your excellent work this morning."

"Dobby beat a wizard in a duel," marveled the elf.

"Of course," said Tom. "Would you like the greater challenge of a match against Miss Granger, so we can further hone our dueling skills?"

Dobby thought, then gave an ear-flapping nod. "Yes Master."

"Good."

—-

March fifteenth dawned brightly. "This bodes well for the festivities today," Tom said to Hermione over breakfast.

"What?" asked Hermione.

"Pleasant weather makes an outdoor event so much more enjoyable. Of course, warming charms and such can compensate for chill, but—"

"We're heading into a murderer's lair, Tom. The weather is the least of my concerns."

"Murderer is such an ugly word," said Tom. "And we must remember that Serpens did me quite a favor."

"By murdering an innocent man."

"I can't let that stand. Morfin was not, technically, innocent. He was in prison already for Merlin's sake, for attacking me and several Aurors, and violating the Statute of Secrecy. Azkaban is a terrible prison by all accounts. This could even be considered a mercy killing. There are many ways to look at this."

"You… You're a bad influence on Tommy. With friends like this—"

Tom prided himself on being above insults, so the sting he felt from this accusation was a surprise. How dare she criticize a murderer of one man as if she were innocent herself? She'd recklessly tampered with reality, potentially causing unknowable damage to the universe. Tom waited until he could speak calmly. "I prefer to see the best in people," he said.

Hermione grudgingly nodded. "I suppose I should give him a chance. He is a different Malfoy after all."

"You don't have to go," said Tom, hoping she'd take him up on the offer. "I could tell Serpens you're indisposed, or busy with Tommy."

"I can't send you in there alone. It's not safe."

So, after Hermione filled Tommy up with milk and Tom did a bit of paperwork, they dressed in their witch and wizarding finery and met in Tom's office. Hermione gave Tommy one last kiss and handed him off to Tom's mother, whose hair he promptly grabbed.

"Like a kneazle kitten with a ball of string!" cooed Tom's mother. "Please let go dear, that's right, you may hold my finger instead. How strong you are!"

"Floo-ash is a problem," said Tom, looking at the fireplace. "I must go first of course, and I won't have Dobby to perform the menial task of cleaning for me—"

"I could charm your clothes to repel dirt," said Hermione.

"Why didn't you say so before?" exclaimed Tom.

"I didn't think of it. I never really cared about such things."

"Well, thank you for thinking of it now," said Tom.

The spell was more complicated than the simple dirt-removal spell, but Hermione did it fairly quickly.

Tom turned to his mother and bent to kiss Tommy's cheek, soft and plump and perfect, with a sweet warm milky smell. "I love you." Tommy gave him the most beautiful toothless smile. "See you later." Then Tom threw some Floo powder into the fire. "Malfoy Manor," and he was off.

After the usual discomfort, which felt like riding along train tracks through a tunnel without the comfort of a train surrounding him, Tom was ejected into a dazzling room. He stepped away from the Floo quickly to make room for Hermione, glad of the years of exercise that had earned him the required agility.

The room could, perhaps, be called a drawing room, as the arrangement of furniture and objets d'art would prevent it from being used as a ballroom. An enormous crystal chandelier illuminated the room, not with fire, nor, of course, electric lights, but a magical glow from the crystals themselves. The light it cast competed with the daylight streaming in from the large windows, which showed views of manicured formal gardens. The dark purple walls were lined with portraits, which eyed him with skepticism and curiosity.

Serpens sat in a chair near the fire, by a boy of about ten who was bouncing with excitement, his robes flapping. "He's here!" exclaimed the boy.

"I can see that," said Serpens. "Welcome, Tom."

"Thank you for the invitation, Serpens." Tom heard the Floo-flames roar behind him, and turned to offer his hand to Hermione as she stepped from the elaborate marble fireplace. Her hand gripped his tightly as her gaze darted about the room. There was a large mirror with an intricately scrolled gilded frame by the fireplace, so Tom was assured that Hermione's dirt-repelling spell had worked as advertised. She hadn't bothered to apply it to herself, however, so a smear of soot marred the opulence of her silk brocade sleeve. Tom drew her attention to it, so she drew her wand and dealt with it, then sheathed her wand with a suspicious look at Serpens, clearly doubting the wisdom of being in his presence without a weapon in hand.

"Thank you for coming," said Serpens. "I wish you both an auspicious Ides of March."

"Likewise," said Tom. "Thank you for having us."

The boy bouncing at Serpens's side pleaded "Now, father?"

"Oh, all right," said Serpens. "Tom Riddle, meet my firstborn son and heir, Corvus. He has something he wants to say to you."

Corvus clearly got his features from his father, a face composed of sharp angles, high cheekbones and pointed chin, but his coloring must have come from his mother. His skin was warm bronze, his eyes rich brown, his hair nearly black, and even curlier than Hermione's. It was short enough that it had fewer opportunities to get into trouble, though. The boy stepped forward and knelt before Tom, bowing his head. Then he looked up at Tom adoringly. "I owe you a life debt," he said. "Isn't it wonderful? This is just like one of those adventure stories! You'll be at the verge of death from a dragon or pack of werewolves or muggles trying to burn you at the stake, and I'll just zoom by on my broom—"

"We don't require details," interrupted Serpens.

"Thank you, Corvus," said Tom, successfully avoiding laughing. "I feel so much safer knowing I have your protection."

Hermione smiled.

"I will!" the boy insisted, adding gestures to his presentation, vigorously waving an imaginary wand. "Mob of muggles with torches and pitchforks? Pow! Zap! I'll curse them all to save you. Die, muggle scum! Back to the mud that spawned you!"

"That's reassuring," Tom smiled. "Should I ever be troubled by such a mob, I'll count on your rescue."

Hermione wasn't smiling anymore.

Serpens noticed. "Of course, I am also obligated to thank the seer who provided the information that saved my son's life. I must apologize for that misunderstanding we had at La Truffe Émraude. I confess my woeful ignorance of Australian society. I assure you, I would never have drawn my wand on you had I known you were a witch of such importance."

Even this heartfelt apology did not seem to soften Hermione. She said nothing.

Serpens continued. "I'm sure I speak on behalf of nearly all of wizarding Britain when I say we are honored to be visited by a seer of your power."

"So who's going to win the World Cup?" asked Corvus.

"Corvus," growled Serpens.

"I'm just asking," protested Corvus. "Because if I knew it was a sure thing, I could bet my whole Gringotts vault on it."

"We are not going to waste Miss Granger's valuable time by pestering her with questions about quidditch," said Serpens. "Don't make her regret the prophecy that saved your life."

"I'm just saying that if she also knows about quidditch, there's no reason not to—"

Malfoy looked at Hermione, then turned to his son. "Corvus, leave us. The adults have things to discuss."

"But—"

"Find some other entertainment. Call your friend Marius over to play chess."

"But he always wins!" whined Corvus.

"That's why he's a good opponent for you. You would do well to follow his example of careful planning."

"Oh all right." Corvus walked to the fireplace, grabbed a pinch of Floo powder, threw it in the fire, said "Number twelve Grimmauld Place," and stuck his head into the green flames. "Is Marius there? Well go get him." A pause, then, "Hey Marius, can you come over to play? Brilliant! I'll open the Floo." Corvus pulled his head out of the fireplace. "He said he'll be over in a minute."

"Good. Now remember, he's coming here to play chess."

"I know," whined Corvus.

"So no broom-riding until after a substantial amount of chess-playing."

"What do you mean by substantial? How many minutes?"

"I want you to play until you win at least once."

Corvus's jaw dropped. "Against Marius?!"

"Yes."

"My chess pieces already hate me," Corvus whined.

"You must earn their respect."

"But father—"

The fireplace blazed green, and a boy Tom recognized stepped out. His pale grey eyes, ringed with long black lashes, widened when he saw Tom.

"Thank you for coming, Marius," said Serpens. "This way please, no time for introductions." He then addressed Tom and Hermione. "Excuse me a moment, I'll just escort the boys to the game room to make sure they don't get distracted along the way." Serpens and Marius walked and Corvus careened out of the room.

"Lively child," remarked Tom. "On the whole, I suppose it's a good thing his stepmother didn't murder him."

Hermione didn't reply. She looked up at the crystal chandelier, but didn't seem to enjoy the view. She was pale, and trembling slightly. "Are you cold?" Tom asked. She didn't seem to hear him. "Hermione?"

She jumped and almost drew her wand, but stopped herself.

"Hermione. What's—"

"Stop saying my name," she said, voice breaking.

"All right," said Tom after a moment's thought. "You don't have to do this. Go back to the Riddle House. I'll tell Serpens you had a premonition that Tommy needed you."

"I can't leave you alone here!"

"I'll be fine. I have the portkey. At the first sign of danger, I'll get out of here, I promise you."

She didn't move.

Tom tried again. "Tommy needs you. He'll be fine without me, but not without you.

After some thought, Hermione nodded. She threw a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace and said "The Riddle House" in a slightly shaky voice. Then she vanished in a swirl of green flames. Tom heaved a sigh of relief. Given a choice between confidence and magic, he knew which was more valuable.

Serpens returned a moment later and seemed surprised to find the room less populated than he'd left it.

"Hermione asked me to convey her regrets, but you know how it is. She had a premonition that Tommy needed her and went home to him," said Tom.

Serpens looked at Tom. "There's no need to lie about Miss Granger's reaction. I recognize the symptoms of prolonged exposure to the cruciatus curse."

Tom reacted to this information as little as possible.

"Brought on by Corvus and me questioning her about her seer ability." Serpens continued. He shook his head sadly. "Imagine, trying to get a seer to perform on demand, under torture. Some fool doesn't know how prophecy works. What happened?"

"She hasn't told me," said Tom. "And I haven't pried. But she panicked when we had that little misunderstanding at the restaurant, and you drew her wand on her. Please don't do that again, for your sake as much as hers. She's easily startled, and a formidable duelist."

Serpens nodded. "Understood. Well, as I am entertaining only one guest today, I'm at your service. Would you like any particular refreshment or entertainment before the ritual?"

"If it's not too much trouble, I'd enjoy a tour of your manor," said Tom. "It's famed as an architectural marvel."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all," said Serpens. "There isn't time for a full tour, but I'll show you some highlights." Thus, Tom was taken on an engrossing tour, in which discussion of architecture was peppered with history and politics.

"Very little of the original eleventh-century design is left," said Serpens as they strolled through opulent hallways. "In the sixteenth century, my ancestor Lucius put a lot of work into expanding it, to make it more appealing to Queen Elizabeth, who was a frequent visitor in those days."

"Her majesty was fond of cherries out of season," said a new voice. Tom looked up to see a portrait of a wizard wearing a magnificent white ruff and holding a lute, with a small white peacock feather poised over the strings as a plectrum. "Which I was glad to provide." The portrait sighed. "After all I did for her—"

"She was just a muggle, Lucius," said another new voice. Tom looked up to see a wizard in baroque garb, with a long curled brown wig, pictured seated at a writing desk. "Nothing is a surer sign of weak magic than a weakness for non-magical company."

"Just a—" exclaimed the beruffed wizard before Serpens interrupted him.

"Lucius, Brutus, you may continue your argument without us," said Serpens. "Some of my ancestors," he said apologetically to Tom. "Set in their ways, of course."

"And who's this?" asked the portrait of Lucius, looking at Tom.

"My friend Tom Riddle," said Serpens, "The one who saved the life of my heir, Corvus."

"Oh!" exclaimed Lucius. "The good time of day to you, sir."

"Likewise," said Tom.

"Riddle isn't a wizarding name," accused Brutus. He scribbled some angry notes, although the total amount of writing on the parchment didn't change, and wasn't readable anyway, as that part of the portrait was in shadow.

"It may not have been a wizarding name in your day," said Serpens, "but it obviously is now." He turned to Tom. "Perhaps this would be a good time to head outside. I'm finding it stuffy in here."

Tom nodded. "As you wish. The weather is certainly appealing." He gazed out a window at the beautifully-manicured grounds. The warmer climate here in Wiltshire, plus whatever assistance magic provided to horticulture, resulted in a garden bright with flowers, even in March.

Corvus zoomed past on a broom.

Serpens sighed. "I suppose that's all the chess he'll play today." He led Tom outside.

"It's odd," realized Tom.

Serpens looked at him.

Tom explained. "Our ancestors wore the muggle fashions of the time. Looking at the portraits of your ancestors, their clothes give no indication of whether they're wizards or muggles. Dressing in distinctively wizarding fashions is a recent departure from tradition."

"Hm. I suppose you're right," said Serpens.

"Perhaps it's time to honor our ancestors by reviving this tradition," said Tom.

"Hm," said Serpens, who wasn't paying attention, so Tom didn't press the point.

Outside, the daylight wasn't much brighter than the magical illumination indoors. The formal gardens were arrayed in geometric precision all around them. The sky held some birds, but no boys on brooms were visible.

"Corvus!" called Serpens to the blue sky. He then held his wand to his throat, cast "Sonorus," and called again, much louder this time.

Tom looked lower. There, on a marble bench, sitting quite still, with his hands folded in his lap. Tom crossed the velvet lawn to him. "Ah, Marius," said Tom. "I wish you an auspicious Ides of March. Do you know where Corvus is?"

Marius looked straight forward and said nothing, not acknowledging Tom's presence.

"Corvus!" called Serpens's magically-amplified voice. "I'm about to start the ritual."

Corvus zoomed in on a broom, landing bedside his father. "Where's the sheep?" he demanded, looking around.

"I'm not starting the ritual quite yet," said Serpens.

"But you said—"

"I was just wondering why you were out on your broom so early.

"I beat him at chess, I really did!"

Serpens looked around until he saw Tom standing beside Marius, and walked to them, with Corvus following, carrying his broom. Serpens looked down at Marius. "What did Corvus give you in exchange for you letting him win?"

Marius said nothing.

"Just my new quill case," said Corvus. "That shows cunning, doesn't it? Now come on, let's get the sheep already."

Serpens sighed and patted his son on the shoulder. "I suppose," he said, smiling indulgently. "Now Marius, when are your parents expecting you back? I imagine you have your own family ritual to attend."

"No sir," said Marius quietly. "They said I'd only be in the way."

"What?" exclaimed Serpens. "You're never in the way. Well, you're welcome to join us for ours if you like."

"Thank you sir," said Marius.

"Hey, isn't Lizzie going to bring Abraxas out?" asked Corvus.

"No need to disturb his nap," said Serpens.

"But we don't even know if he's napping," said Corvus. "I've hardly seen him since—"

"He's too young to appreciate the ritual anyway," said Serpens. "Well, let's start. Blinky!"

A house elf, dressed in a rag, appeared with a pop. "Yes Master?"

"Bring the sheep and accoutrements," said Serpens.

"Yes Master." Pop.

Serpens looked at his guests. "Of course, you have not yet been introduced," he realized. "Would you do the honors, Corvus?"

"Sure!" said Corvus. "Marius, here's that wizard I was telling you about, Mr. Riddle. Mr. Riddle, this is my friend Marius Black. We'll be going to Hogwarts together this September."

"It's nice to see you again," said Tom to the nervous-looking boy.

"Again?" asked Corvus.

"We met outside Eeylops Owl Emporium," Tom explained. "Sorry there was so little time for you to see my new owl."

Marius didn't respond to this.

"Kneazle got your tongue?" mocked Corvus. "Say hello, Marius. Didn't your nursemaid teach you manners?"

"I'm not supposed to talk to him," Marius said to his shoes. "He's not one of us."

"He's not a pureblood, but that's all right," said Corvus. "He's rich. And he saved my life. Come on, even the teachers at Hogwarts aren't all purebloods, and you'll have to talk to them. You might as well start getting used to it now."

"But your stepmum is a halfblood, and she—"

"Salazar's serpent, Marius, you don't have to marry him, just say good day, be polite. Your father won't know."

Marius's pale grey eyes risked a glance from between his black lashes. The Blacks weren't as inbred as the Gaunts, but they did look a bit odd. "Good day."

"Ha!" gloated Corvus. "I tricked you. Now you have halfblood cooties."

Marius looked horrified, so Corvus laughed even louder.

"Corvus," Serpens scolded, although with affection in his voice. "Do you gain any advantage by teasing your friend like this?"

"No," Corvus grudgingly admitted.

"So don't do it," Serpens concluded. "Apologize to Marius, and to Mr. Riddle.

"Yes father," Corvus recited in a singsong voice. "Sorry Marius. Sorry Mr. Riddle."

"That's quite all right," laughed Tom.

Soon, the elf reappeared dragging an impressively large ram on a leash, which he tied to a tree. The ram said baa once, but had no further objections once it noticed it was standing on tasty-looking grass. It put its head down and ate contentedly.

The elf popped away and reappeared carrying a bowl and a knife, both made of obsidian.

The actual ritual didn't take long. There was a lot of Latin, and then a surprised but quickly dead sheep. Elves appeared to remove the corpse and clean the grass.

"They'll be back with the picnic soon," said Serpens.

"Although I'm not that fond of mutton," said Corvus.

"It's traditional," said Serpens. "You can eat it once a year."

"Maybe if I work up enough of an appetite," said Corvus. "So I should go flying again while we're waiting, right?"

"Well-argued," said Serpens with a smile. "But not very sociable to our guests. Marius, as you know, does not enjoy flying. I don't know about Mr. Riddle."

Corvus looked up at Tom. "Fancy a race? I have spare brooms you could borrow. I've got a really wicked obstacle course set up in the woods, and healing potions on hand."

Tom laughed and shook his head. "As tempting as your invitation is, I respectfully decline. I consider broom-riding a spectator sport, not a participatory one."

Corvus shrugged. "Suit yourself." He walked to a nearby shed, opened it, took out a box, and opened that. A small, gleaming gold ball flapped its wings and flew off into the woods. Corvus mounted his broom and took off after the ball. That must be a snitch, according the sports section of the paper.

Tom had been confused by Hermione's claim that she didn't like to fly fast on a broom, which her behavior at the riot had seemed to belie. He realized, watching Corvus, that in fact she had been creeping along cautiously above the riot, so there was no contradiction.

Corvus gleefully broke, not just the laws of physics, but also of common sense as he wove between the trees at ludicrous speed. It would have been bad enough had the obstacles been stationary, but—

"The whomping willows were a gift from Giselle for his eighth birthday," explained Serpens. "He'd been begging for them, saying his obstacle course was too easy." He sighed. "In retrospect, it seems obvious."

"That which does not kill us makes us stronger," said Tom. At Serpens's look, he added, "Not mine. Friedrich Nietzsche. Muggle philosopher."

Serpens nodded and looked back to his son, his expression a mix of pride and worry. "I could buy him a spot on the Slytherin quidditch team of course," he said, "but I don't think I'll need to. As long as he manages to avoid putting himself in the hospital wing with some spectacular crash during the tryouts, he should make the team on his own merits."

"He'll be the pride of the Malfoy and Slytherin houses," said Tom. He then heard a sickening crunch, the sound of snapping wood? Snapping bones? He looked with horror at the disaster.

Serpens let out an exasperated sigh instead of the horrified scream Tom felt was more appropriate. "That little daredragon." He drew his wand. "I'll go patch him up." He walked briskly to the scene of the crash, shaking his head and tutting disapprovingly.

Tom looked down at Marius. "We're smart, here on the sidelines. No brooms for us."

Marius didn't meet his gaze, and Tom knew he'd said the wrong thing. He tried to make amends. There were perfectly good reasons for avoiding brooms besides being a squib, and Marius would do well to claim one. "Self-preservation is the most important thing," said Tom. "Far more important that any thrill one might get from speed or altitude."

"Yes," said Marius dully.

"Flying is for owls," Tom continued. He opened his wallet and took the black feather from the quill compartment. "Since you're interested in owls, perhaps you'd like to have this." He handed the feather to the boy, who accepted it politely. "Please consider this an early birthday present. It doesn't look like much. But if you don't get what you really want for your eleventh birthday, I think you'll find this portkey useful. The activation phrase is 'I believe I can fly." Remember it, and don't say it accidentally while you're in contact with it. It will take you somewhere safe."

Marius's grey eyes widened. "You think I'm— You think I won't get—"

"Shh."

"How did you know? I thought no one but Cassiopeia—"

"Shh."

"She wouldn't have told you, so how—"

"Shh."

"Are you speaking parseltongue? I'm sorry, I don't understand."

Tom did not laugh. "I was just trying to encourage you to be discreet."

"Well, I failed at that already." Marius's eyes started to well with tears. "It's bloody obvious, isn't it?"

"Not at all."

Marius thought. "The mudblood seer!" he concluded. "Miss Granger told you, just like she told you about Corvus."

Tom neither confirmed nor denied that.

Marius looked at the feather. "Thank you," he choked. He pulled a small quill case, decorated with a moving picture of some quidditch star, from a pocket of his robes and tucked the quill inside.

Tom hoped Hermione wouldn't be angry with him when he told her he'd squandered the portkey.

The Malfoys approached them from the flailing trees, Serpens shaking his head disapprovingly. "Nothing a few bone-setting spells couldn't fix," he said. "But that's another broom ruined."

Corvus, battered and bloody, had a huge grin, missing a few teeth. He held the broken-winged ball up to Marius and Tom. "I caught the snitch!"

Author's note: Brutus Malfoy's anti-muggle opinion is quoted from his 1675 periodical, Warlock at War, as seen on Pottermore.