1944
.
.
Luncheon at the Riddle House was Tom's favourite meal of the day.
At breakfast, there was a buffet spread, allowing each person present to take as many slices of toast or bacon as they wanted. Luncheon, on the other hand, was served in proper courses, a level of refinement that elevated it above breakfast's humdrum assortment of bread and eggs and meat in a chafing dish. At the same time, lunch dispensed with the clutter of silver, porcelain, and crystal laid out on the table for each remove, a formality which stretched Sunday dinners past the ninety-minute mark. And yet, luncheon still distinguished itself above commoners' meals eaten by labourers in their canteens, the soldiers in their mess halls, or the students with their daily rations of National Milk.
It was the Riddle House that Nott found himself impelled to call on, convinced by Tom's argument, which was the most effective of all arguments: a show of overwhelming force.
It had been so easy. Nott and Hermione had been busy organising the papers, and Tom had seen the other boy's wand lying unattended; a quick shuffle, a silent Summons, and the wand had fallen into his possession. It had still been warm, the carved wooden ridges on the handle pleasing to his touch, and Tom wondered how it would feel to cast magic with it. His first trip to Diagon Alley, Tom had been told that wands chose their owners, but the ease to which this particular wand had come to him inclined him toward taking it as a meaningful portent.
Tom judged it a more diverting subject of consideration than listening to Nott airing his complaints, first to him, then to Hermione.
"I..." said Nott, glancing uneasily at Tom, "I'm sure they're first-rate people, your Muggles. You needn't make an introduction; I trust your word that they're wonderful. In fact, I rescind every uncharitable comment I've made about them—"
"No need to go that far," said Tom.
"But it would be decent of you not to say that at the table," added Hermione. "And you should put your cloak in your bag. Muggles don't wear cloaks these days, unless they're spending the evening at the opera—and even that's limited to the people who can afford to buy a box seat."
"As an expert of Muggle things, Granger," said Nott, "shouldn't you be aware that inviting wizards into Muggle domiciles is a potential breach of the Statute?"
"It's a grey area, in technical terms," Hermione replied. "Seeing as it's a property under Muggle ownership, but listed as the legal residence of a wizard. Don't perform any spells, and that's the main issue sorted. And don't mention magic, or call them Muggles, and there'll be no harm done."
"Except to my dignity," muttered Nott.
"You're better without it," said Tom in a reassuring voice, but the smile he gave Nott was anything but. "Lestrange and Avery do perfectly well without."
"Lestrange and Avery are a pair of clods with not an original thought between them," Nott said, scowling. "They think the days in winter are shorter because the sun moves faster."
"Their Astronomy essays really are quite riveting, aren't they?" asked Tom. "But I do admit to appreciating their... simplicity. They do what they're told, and they don't ask questions. It's a valuable attribute wherever it can be found." He looked pointedly at Nott. "If only it could be found more often."
"Tom," said Hermione. "You can't mean that, surely?"
"Well, we wouldn't be in this situation if Nott here had kept to his own affairs," said Tom, "instead of minding other people's."
"You'd have never found the Chamber if not for me," Nott protested.
"If not for me, you'd have never got it open," said Tom. "You ought to be more grateful."
"And you," Nott said, "ought to be more—"
"Civil," Hermione finished. "For someone who has so much criticism for the vulgar and barbaric, you're hardly a model of virtue yourself."
"So long as you remember your pleases and thank yous, I don't care whom you choose to criticise. You may find that I'm not unreasonable," said Tom, giving Nott a hard look. "Within reason, of course."
With that, Tom herded Nott up the stairs to the front door of the Riddle House, before ringing the doorbell and waiting for the maid to let them in. Nott, his hands shoved into his pockets, shivered as a chill breeze rolled in, heavy with a damp mist that had risen in the morning and had not yet been burned away by the noon sun. With a solicitous glance at Hermione, Tom cast a Warming Charm over her coat, then another at his own.
Nott cleared his throat.
"If you're thirsty, I can have the maid bring you a glass of water," said Tom.
The door opened, and the maid took his and Hermione's coats, but not Nott's. Nott had stowed his cloak in his satchel, and only had on a thin shirt of cream linen under a woollen jumper with an odd metallic sheen to the fibres. Tom gave him a quick inspection; Nott wore a gaudy gold signet ring on his right hand and his trousers had cords lacing up each side of the leg, but nothing about the boy gave him away as obviously magical. Eccentric, yes, not magical. Deprived of his wand, Nott couldn't perform magic, so in that regard he was no different to a Muggle. Tom was pleased to think of Nott, thus disarmed, as half a wizard.
(Tom, on the other hand, had magical abilities that did not depend on a wand. He could sense untruths and compel weaker minds to bow under his will, and had been doing so before he'd even visited Mr. Ollivander's wand shop. With or without his wand, Tom knew he was a wizard.)
Mr. and Mrs. Riddle had already been seated when the maid ushered them into the dining room, announcing their presence at the door, in order of precedence.
"Master Tom, Miss Hermione, and... a friend of theirs. No name given, sir, marm," said Frances, the first housemaid, with a little bob of her head. "I'll bring the soup out in a jiff—broth of chicken, celery, and fennel, with prawns in cream sauce on toast."
The Riddles were seated at opposite ends of the rectangular table. When the door closed behind the maid, Mrs. Riddle rose from her seat, her thin-lipped expression somehow disapproving without her having to utter a single word. She gestured grandly to the place settings in the centre of the table, Tom and Hermione's usual seats. Today, there was a point of difference: an extra seat opposite theirs, for a total of five settings at the table.
"Tom, Hermione," said Mrs. Riddle, with the slightest incline of her head. Her eyes lingered on the third member of their party, Nott, before she asked, "And who might this be?"
There was a minor inflection of curiosity to her speech, but Tom doubted that it was an indication of pleasant surprise, as one would make when presented with flowers by an anonymous admirer. Rather, it was the lift in intonation one would hear from a physician, speaking the dreaded words, "Good gracious, now what's this?"
Nott wasn't cowed. He lifted his chin and approached the table with purposeful strides, his shoulders squared and his hands held behind his back in proper genteel form. Although he knew its intention was to be proper and courtly, such a display on Nott's scrawny figure put Tom in mind of lakeshore birds with their stilt-like legs and stiff necks, preying on the undergrown tadpoles, the mud-grubbing amphibians. They flapped their wings and joggled their feathered crests, comparing who out of the flock was the largest or the most flamboyant. They weren't starlings, but they were scarcely any better, for the entirety of their existence was dictated to them by a greater external force: the turning of the season, the ebb and flow of the tides, the trophic cycles of lesser creatures on which their livelihoods depended.
"Sir, Madam," said Nott giving them a shallow bow followed by an elegant flourish. The only discernible sign of agitation was the slow clenching of Nott's right hand, and the slide of his thumb over the bezelled face of his family ring, visible to Tom standing behind the other boy, but not Mrs. Riddle at the table. "If I may introduce myself? I am Theodore Erasmus Nott, of Broxtowe Abbey, in Nottinghamshire."
"And how, exactly," said Mrs. Riddle, a faint line forming between her brows as she struggled to place the name in her mental register of notable families, "did you come into the acquaintance of my grandson?"
"We attend the same school," said Nott.
"This must be Professor Dumberton's charity school, yes?"
Nott's head jerked to the side, but he caught himself before he could give Tom a Look. "Some people might have the misfortune of being charity students, but the school itself is not a charity school. My father attended, and his father before him; his brother served on the Board of Governors. Every single one of them attended on merit and legacy, not on the sufferance of the public purse."
"I see," said Mrs. Riddle. "And what does this school happen to teach so many generations of your family?"
"The same thing it teaches your grandson and Miss Granger," Nott retorted. "The classics, of course. History, languages, arithmetic, and natural philosophy."
"No sports?"
"Strictly voluntary, Madam," said Nott. "The school is in northern Scotland, and attended by both sexes."
"Hmph." Mrs. Riddle smoothed out her skirt before lowering herself back to her seat. "Very well. I see, then, that Tommy owes me an explanation as to why he comes to us for the holidays looking so peaky and unhealthily pale. I had assumed that Dumberton chose not to involve himself with the health of his students—but perhaps I have been, however regrettably, misinformed."
When Tom pulled out Hermione's chair and helped her to her seat, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Nott mouth the word "Tommy", a faint smirk dimpling the flesh of his cheek.
Tom aimed a mild Stinging Jinx to his thigh, under the table, and all signs of amusement quickly disappeared.
The dishes arrived not long after, a steaming tureen of soup and a loaf of bread in a covered basket, rolled in on a serving trolley and sliced at the sideboard by the maid. Mrs. Riddle requested her portion of bread be cut into paper thin slices, while she made sure Tom got the thickest pieces, maintaining a vigilant watch on him and refusing to signal for the next course until she was sure he'd finished every bite. The first course was followed by a poached bream, its skin scored with lines and packed with thin rounds of lemon, then by a breast of duck with chestnut-stuffed artichokes, and finally, a sweet flan poured over with a thick toffee syrup.
Over the course of their meal, Nott presented no complaint about the fact that his food had been cooked and served by Muggles, who, by his standards, barely qualified as human. Not that he was afforded an opportunity, as Mrs. Riddle interrogated him so thoroughly that his contributions to the conversation were limited to answers to a never-ending stream of questions.
What was his best subject at school?
"British history. I have a more than passing familiarity with the histories of England and Wales, though less with Scotland and Ireland."
What was his sport of choice?
"My father keeps a cote of falcons on our estate. We fly them on clear days; Mother much prefers how sedate it is, compared to the noise and fuss of coursing with hounds."
Was he a patron of the theatre?
"I rarely have a chance, except when one of the professors at our school puts on a student production—but it's all amateur, so they're never any good. But I did see Le Chevalier Vert with my mother last week, and having seen it before, was not disappointed by the performance of the second-chair understudies."
All of Nott's answers seemed to pass muster, but Mrs. Riddle didn't let up on him until she drew out the most important question during the consumption of their very sticky dessert pudding.
"And what do your parents do? Your father, your mother?"
Hermione coughed on a spoonful of flan. Hastily, she patted a napkin over her lips before turning to Tom's grandmother. "Mrs. Riddle, surely this line of discussion is more suitable for a vocational interview than a—a luncheon!"
"Hermione, my darling, when it comes to first impressions, one has a duty to present themselves to their greatest advantage," said Mrs. Riddle coolly. "And it is the duty of a good host to ensure that their guests are given the latitude to present themselves advantageously. Did you not think that you and dearest Helen were not given such an opportunity when we were first introduced in London?" Mrs. Riddle took a long sip from her glass then set it down firmly; without a word, the maid at the sideboard scurried over to refill it. "Of course you were. And of course I found you satisfactory, else you would not be sitting here today, enjoying such an extension of my family's hospitality."
At this, Tom gave a start; his fork clattered against the last scrapes of custard on his plate.
"Grandmama, I beg your pardon, but Hermione is here, first and foremost, because I invited her. Your leave and your hospitality, though appreciated, weren't necessary," he spoke in a forceful voice, his words taking on a hollow, echoing resonance that made Nott sit up and watch him eagerly. "And with all respect, I take offense to the notion that she's to be treated as an outsider, generously treated or not, when you've not known her for much longer than you've known me. I consider her to be my family as much as you and Grandpapa are. Perhaps not in official terms—but just as easily as you found it, I, too, can find a form to sign and a witness to watch me."
"Tom!" breathed Mrs. Riddle, struck suddenly speechless. She clapped a hand across her mouth and glanced over to Mr. Riddle, then back to Tom, her eyes glistening with emotion. "If you really mean it, that is wonderful to hear!"
"Hear, hear," said Nott, setting aside his cutlery to clap his hands together in glee. "Well done, Riddle." His gaze darted over the table, to Hermione on the other side. "I can foresee a gay old time in trying to take that back, now that we've all heard it."
"Now listen here, lad," said Mr. Riddle to Nott, speaking up for the first time, "a gentleman who fails to honour his word becomes known to others as a scoundrel, and rightly so. If he takes action, then renounces it, he not only earns the reputation of a scoundrel, but renders himself a lesser man." To Tom, he said, "If you are to act, my boy, then think carefully before you do so. I won't have another scandal brought under my roof; it was only by His providence that your mother passed before your father could bring her here, and install her in my house." He jabbed an insistent finger to the crisp white tablecloth. "At least he had the common sense and the decency to make it lawful."
"I'm very fortunate to have more sense than he does," Tom declared. "If there was any whiff of a scandal, Grandpapa, let me assure you that its source would never lie with me." He leaned over to Hermione and brushed his leg against hers under the table, making her jump and splash water over the tablecloth. "My intentions have been made perfectly transparent from the start."
Mrs. Riddle gave a high, tinkling laugh, before saying, "Oh, this is tremendously exciting. I suppose I'll have to smarten up one of the extra bedrooms—we can't have Hermione living in a guest room if she's to be family. And you, Theodore,"—Nott made a face at this display of familiarity—"When you go back up to Scotland, if Tommy is so hasty as to ask you to stand as his witness, I expect that you'll cable us a copy of the certificate. I won't have the announcement broken to us in The Post!"
"'Cable'?" said Nott in a weak voice.
"There must be a telegram office in the nearest town," said Mrs. Riddle. "Professor Dumberton sent me a slip to sign so Tommy could take day trips to the village by the school. Even the smallest outpost ought to have a wire service of some sort."
"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Riddle!" said Hermione quickly. "There's no need to rush things. After all, no one's made any decisions yet—if there's even a decision to be made."
"Of course there isn't," said Mrs. Riddle, brushing aside any shred of doubt. "Tommy likes you, that's clear to see. He's high-strung—he got that, I'm certain, from his father's side of the family—but you're level-headed and know just how to settle his nerves. You'll do well together. I know these things, my dear; I've been married for forty years."
"You see, Hermione?" Tom said. "How can something be a bad idea if everyone agrees with it?"
Nott gave an emphatic cough, but Tom ignored him, and continued, "I've always said that it's never too early to start planning for the future. Well, when is a better time to start than right now?"
Hermione sent a bewildered glance at Mrs. Riddle, Tom, then Nott, who had covered his mouth with his glass to hide his cackling. "There's a difference between planning things out and rushing them, Tom."
"Oh, I agree," said Tom amiably. "There's no rush; we still have a whole year of school left to go."
Hermione was struck speechless by this astute observation, and for the rest of their meal, could venture no other compelling opposition to his argument. Tom was pleased by this; at last Hermione was beginning to see sense. His grandmother had seen it first, and although he had initially thought it a silly scheme of hers, he had eventually come around to the light, once he'd had the time to consider its less obvious advantages. Soon it would be Hermione's turn to admit that there was no other future but one where they would enjoy each other's company, commit to each other's goals, and relish each other's success. They already did these things now, so what was so difficult about extending that into the far distant future?
They were only months from reaching eighteen years of age, a year from finishing their educations, and this would be the true start to their adult independence, which would last well over a hundred years and more, if Tom's estimation of wizarding lifespans was correct. From a young age, Tom had wanted his adulthood to be the fulfillment of certain expectations: greatness, renown, knowledge, and power. But now, he also wanted Hermione to have these things. He wanted her to affirm his greatness, share his knowledge, and bolster his power; he could not imagine a future where he had reached the pinnacle of his triumph—earned his laurels, as it were—and forgotten how he had gotten there in the first place: with a book about the Emperor of Europe and a discussion on the principles of political philosophy.
There was a sense of nauseating sentimentality about it all, but upon further consideration, Tom did not think such an indulgence was overly detrimental. He knew he was powerful and had the capability of attaining his goals without aid or assistance, but it wasn't an inherently bad thing to want something that enhanced the power he knew he possessed, helped him reach attainment faster than he could have gotten it alone.
And thinking deeply about it, Tom was reminded of how he'd been matched with his wand, an object that he considered an extension of himself from the very day it had come into his possession.
.
.
It had been the day after Dumbledore's visit to Wool's, and the delivery of Tom's Hogwarts letter. Supplies list in hand, Tom had visited the shops of Diagon Alley, and leaving each one, he'd counted and re-counted the dwindling supply of coins in the small drawstring pouch Dumbledore had left him along with the train ticket. The proprietor of the second-hand shonky shop had, at Tom's request, picked out a pair of dragon gloves for Herbology so old that the scale ridges on the palm had been worn smooth, and a battered folding telescope with a creaky brass stand for Astronomy, choosing the best out of the lot after a circumspect glance at Tom's money pouch, stamped with the Hogwarts crest, foiled gold on purple velvet.
"Sir," Tom had asked, after another peek at his supply list, "do you sell wands here? It's the dearest item on the list, and for that price, I could buy another seven or eight used spellbooks!"
Indeed, the ingredients from the apothecary, little paper twists of dried herbs and scarab wings, had cost him knuts, and the second-hand uniforms he'd paid for in sickles. But unlike the bookshop or the clothier, there weren't other shops that sold cheaper versions for less. There was only one shop in the whole of Diagon Alley that had wands in the window, and the labels pinned to the sides of the boxes had shown him their prices: four galleons and two sickles, five galleons and ten, all the way up to fifteen galleons for a worn wooden box on the topmost shelf in a dingy back corner.
"You're a new one to this, aren't you, boy?" said the shopkeeper, from where he'd been wrestling with a stack of wire potion racks; they had somehow merged into a single rusty knot of flaking metal. "A wand's matched to a wizard, the same as a pair of spectacles to the wearer." He tapped one grubby finger to the side of his nose, where a pair of round lenses in a tortoiseshell frame was clipped to the bridge. "A wizard can win and wield another man's wand, but he'll never be as strong with it, as precise with it, as he'll be with the wand that chose him. A good wand, y'see, recognises the hand of the wizard that owns it, no matter who's holding it at the moment. And a great one, boy, is loyal to that wizard—to the day he dies and past that, even. Where a wizard goes, his wand goes too, and if he's lucky, a tree will sprout over his bones and stand guard over him for the next thousand years."
The shopkeeper shrugged, dusting his hands off on his leather apron, then added, "'Course, you have some folks keeping an old granddad's wand for the memories, but between you an' me, it's because they couldn't cough up the gold for a portrait to remember him by. But hear me, boy, if you're startin' school in September, you can do without a sparkling new cauldron or a hand-fitted robe—a leggy lad like you will grow out of it by Christmas, I'll wager—but the wand you buy today will last you the rest of your life."
At the end of the day, Tom wandered into the wand shop, somewhat reluctantly. His pockets were loaded down with shrunken parcels, his velvet money pouch empty but for a handful of gold coins. He'd been loath to part with them, after turfing out the silver and bronze pieces earlier; this gold was the first he'd ever held in all of his eleven-and-a-half years of life—he'd seen gold sovereigns a few times, and that was only at a distance, in the hands of well-heeled shoppers on Oxford or Piccadilly Street. Until now, he had never expected to have his own gold, heavy yellow circles that shone like little suns, minted with the face of a grinning goblin clasping a set of scales.
The shopkeeper's words lingered in the forefront of Tom's thoughts. He knew he could perform magic without a wand; he'd been doing it for years, and Dumbledore had confirmed that Tom's ability to sense thoughts and intentions was magical in nature, if so rare that it wasn't taught at Hogwarts. (Tom had taken this to mean that because it wasn't in the magical Defence class, few wizards had learned to protect themselves against it.)
Did he even need a wand?
"A wand and a wizard are one, Mr. Riddle," said the wrinkly shopkeeper in the wand shop, his pale eyes bright in the gloom of late afternoon, charmed measuring tapes whisking around the edges of Tom's vision. He hadn't explained how or why he knew Tom's name. "This wand, I think—" he opened the lid of a box, longer than the others Tom had tried, containing a wand of white wood that tapered to a sharp point, "—was always meant for you. Here, Mr. Riddle, take it!"
Tom had reached for it, expecting it to burst in his hand like a Catherine wheel, or spew putrid smoke like the past half-dozen wands, but this wand felt hot to the touch, and when he held it aloft, a blaze of glowing orange droplets erupted from the end, forming the shape of a stooping bird with angled wings and a brilliant plumed tail. For a second or two, Tom watched with rapt eyes, the wand warming his hand like a tin cup of hot milk pressed to his chilled flesh after a long walk back from an early morning Sunday service. Then the shape broke into flickering sparks that dissolved altogether, searing an afterimage of blue and violet beneath his eyelids.
"See? A wizard needs no wand to be magical, but even the best wizard cannot perform all feats of magic without one," said Mr. Ollivander, cutting brown paper and string to wrap what he'd deemed a sure sale. "And this wand in particular is a powerful one—powerfully temperamental. How could it not be, bearing a core of phoenix feather? Phoenixes are exceptionally rare and, out of all magical species, possess the most remarkable abilities."
"So it's true, then?" said Tom, who'd spent the first half of his day browsing the shelves of the bookshop, skimming through as many as books he could, for as long as the shopkeeper could count him a legitimate customer. "Phoenixes can live forever?"
"It would be more accurate to say that they live and die forever, Mr. Riddle," Ollivander said, correcting him. "But in the end, it is still nothing more than another name for eternity."
"I'll take it," Tom said, holding his new wand to the light and admiring the shape of its carved handle. He nodded at the roll of brown paper on the front counter. "Don't bother wrapping it up for me."
That wand had never left Tom's side from the day he'd gotten it. He kept it tucked into his waistband when eating meals in the orphanage dining hall, not trusting the other children to keep out of his room when he wasn't in it. He'd taught them long ago not to touch his things, but some of them might be tempted to open his door and look at his shelf of books, or the glossy theatre programme he'd propped up on the windowsill, because they were under the false assumption that it was alright to look as long as one refrained from touch. (They were, of course, mistaken.)
That wand, his wand, had chosen him.
The shopkeeper said that it was meant for him.
.
.
Those words never left Tom, and they reaffirmed his belief that Great Things were destined for him. And Great Things, he'd found, were more valuable than gold, or the dignity that an eleven-year-old boy in threadbare broadcloth thought he had. No, taking the wand didn't cheapen his magical abilities; he wasn't lessened—not in anything but the financial sense. He came to a swift conclusion: there was more to one's wherewithal than the weight of one's purse.
There was value, he saw, in Hermione Granger, who at some point—somehow—had become more than an overzealous little girl with too much hair and too many opinions. He'd recognised value, too, in the idea of companionship, the day he had watched a shoebox burn on a frozen lake. The night he'd watched a dog bleed out on his father's bedroom carpet, he had tasted the fruit of cultivated loyalty, and its flavour was metallic and bitter, rich with iron and a tincture of valerian.
And there was value, he admitted to himself, in Nott—a nuisance, a pest, an unwilling ally who had to be sworn into conditional loyalty, instead of offering his loyalty by principle. Tom would not go so far as to admit that Nott had... well, saved his life, but for all that he could alter the facts of reality to suit his needs, he couldn't deny that Nott had facilitated Tom's transfer to St. Mungo's during The Incident on New Year's Day. Nott had been the one—somehow—to discover the location of the Chamber of Secrets, and although this act had proven his usefulness, Tom's initial judgement had not altered: Nott was a scheming opportunist to the core, and required constant reinforcement of his relative standing to Tom Riddle and Hermione Granger if a productive relationship was meant to be maintained between the three of them.
After lunch, Tom and his "little friends", a charming moniker bestowed by his grandparents, retreated to the Riddle House's library.
The library was a room overlooking the back gardens, furnished in shades of brown. The furniture was of brown leather, the wallpaper striped brown, the shelves brown wood, and were ostensibly dedicated to holding the books collected by generations of Riddles, but had over the years become a repository of souvenirs and various trinkets. The Riddles had thought these things too nice—or too costly—to store in the attic without being seen, and yet, they must have lacked a certain personal appeal, for they had ended up in the library and not on display in the Riddles' living quarters.
From the spaces in between the towering bookshelves hung a series of travellers' trophies: a pair of curly antelope horns mounted on a wooden plaque; a Xhosa tribesman's cowhide war shield, six feet long from top to bottom; a black regimental banner with a tasselled trim; a cavalry sabre with a gold-plated handle, its matching scabbard etched with the name of its owner, T. RIDDLE. And other objects of uncertain provenance: a vase of blown glass flowers, each petal a twisted striation of colour; whimsical pillboxes in the shapes of eggs and sleeping cats and cuckoo clocks; little caskets of worked gold that contained corked vials and cloth sachets of a mysterious powdery substance—
"Don't touch that!" said Hermione, tugging on his elbow.
Tom pulled his hand back from the little bag. "Why not? This isn't a museum—it's my family's private collection. I can touch them if I want to."
"Those are reliquaries!" Hermione said, pointing at a cross design on one casket, and a hand with a hole punched through the centre of the palm on another. "They're used to hold body parts of saints and martyrs. They might not be from a real saint, since one person's finger bone looks the same as everyone else's, but most of the time, they were real parts!"
"Alright, Hermione," said Tom. "If you're so worried about it, I'll make sure to wash my hands before touching you."
"That is a complete mis-interpretation of my words, Tom."
"Oh, Hermione," Tom said indulgently, patting her on the shoulder. "I know you well enough to know what you mean."
"Muggles are allowed to keep these things in their houses?" asked Nott, setting his satchel down on a leather sofa and coming over to look at the display cabinet, a hinged glass case over a row of baize-lined shelves. "How fascinating. Last decade, a group in the Wizengamot tried to outlaw the possession of human parts in private collections, because they thought that kind of thing reeked of dark magic." Nott gave a loud scoff. "Obviously, they were voted down. Most families have a few questionable items in their cellars, even if they were never going to see use. A new law would have forced them to surrender their collections for Ministry inspection, and it would have been a bad look for everyone."
"'Questionable items'," said Hermione in a sceptical tone. "You mean, something like your Hand of Glory?"
"It's not illegal, so you'll get no credit for reporting me, Granger. And before you can object to it on, ah, moral grounds," said Nott, giving Hermione a pointed look, "the donor wasn't slaughtered for his parts. He was a Muggle murderer hanged by other Muggles for his crimes, so there's no defending him from that angle."
"You know how to make a Hand of Glory?" Tom asked Nott, trying not to seem too interested.
"Only theoretically, but I know more than most, I'd say," said Nott, his narrow chest swelling with the delight of being the sole person in the room to know something. "It's somewhat of a lost art these days. First, you've got to find the right donor. It can be either wizard or Muggle, but it can't be just anyone, you see. The donor has to be a criminal, sentenced to death, and the hand has to be cut at night. I've read that it works best if you harvest the 'guilty hand', that is, the hand that committed the deed—"
Hermione cleared her throat loudly.
"Go on," said Tom, leaning forward in one of the library's brown leather Chesterfield sofas. "How do you know which hand did the deed? It's not like the, hm, subject will tell you what he did and how he did it, since he's already dead."
"Well, I'd say the sensible thing to do is to take both," Nott answered, after a few seconds of careful deliberation. "Can't do any harm, can it? There are only so many people sentenced to death by hanging, and both hands should work if you prepare them correctly, with the right ratios of pickling solution, and so on. The only difference is that one hand will be brighter than the other—but Hands of Glory are so rare that it'd be worth it to make two, then sell the one you don't want for a tidy sum."
"Is that how you got yours?" Tom said. "Where did you get it?"
"Father knows a man who's an acquirer by trade," said Nott casually. "Mr. Caractacus Burke—he owns a shop off Diagon Alley. His son, Herbert, went to school with Father and they're old friends—cousins, too, though the Burkes are closer to the Blacks than us, after Mr. Herbert got married to an aunt of Lucretia and Orion. He's how Father gets his hands on interesting items that the Ministry inspectors and the DMLE are strict on. They'll look the other way if you're bringing in skins and talons from wild dragons and your papers are dodgy, but they come down hard on anything that makes them look bad. And for the most part, after the Confederation began enforcing a clearer separation between our two worlds, it's been enchanted Muggle things."
"Yes, I wonder why," said Hermione, closing the lids of the reliquary caskets and wiping her hands off on her skirt. "If I can't make an argument on moral grounds, can I at least comment on the lack of hygiene?"
"Don't be silly, Hermione," Tom replied. "Wizards can't catch illnesses easily, and even if they do, all they have to do is drink a potion to be cured."
"He's right," Nott said. "If you're dealing in magical meats, what you really ought to watch out for is the grave wards. There's a reason why wizards go after Muggle parts instead of other wizards'." Nott reached for his satchel, but he stopped before lifting up the flap. "On the subject of the Statute, if you two are willing to break a rule or two for the sake of a good lunch, then I suppose there's no reason why I can't show you this..."
"What is it?" asked Tom.
"Have you made sure the Muggles can't get in?" said Nott, glancing at the door. "The old biddy, your grandmother—she seemed awfully interested in what you and Granger got up to behind closed doors. For a moment there, I think I almost felt sorry for you."
"I'm sure she knows that Tom and I aren't interested in whatever she thinks we're interested in," Hermione interjected, folding her arms. "We've been discussing the Chamber in private, that's all."
"She sounded too eager to rush you and Riddle into your marriage vows," said Nott, shrugging. "Though I don't quite understand it, personally. If she's worried about you two besmirching each other's reputations—and hers—why hasn't she gotten Granger's parents to arrange a betrothal? If you've an established arrangement, you can have all the fondling you want, and if anyone tries to condemn your behaviour, it will only be for your impatience, not your dissolution. After all, no one can complain about the goods being spoilt when they've already been bought."
Hermione's mouth fell open. "I've never heard such an archaic opinion about marriage!"
"But everyone thinks that," said Nott, blinking at her in disbelief. "What, Granger, you thought marriage was a tender union of love and romance?"
"Well, I'd very much like it to be," Hermione replied. "But do you mean to say that your parents don't love each other?"
"I certainly don't expect them to," said Nott, sounding unruffled despite the direction taken by their conversation. "My mother married my father because her father told her to. And Father married Mother because it was a duty expected of him. But he put it off as long as he could, so when he took his vows, he was well past fifty years old."
"And you..." Hermione ventured in a tremulous voice, "don't expect to marry someone you love? That if you do marry, it'll be out of duty and nothing else?"
"I will marry one day," said Nott impatiently, "and it will be out of duty. I don't see why you sound so upset—it's not as if I'm marrying you."
"I don't see why you aren't more upset," Tom remarked. "Since you'll be marrying someone you won't particularly care for, who is more than likely also your cousin."
"As I plan on waiting as long as I can—instead of jumping into it right after Hogwarts—I'll have decades to get used to the idea," said Nott. "And the benefit in generations of good matches is the eventual prospect of a flush inheritance: vaults of gold and an estate from both sides of the family. A wealthy husband and wife will never have to see or speak to each other if they so choose."
"A worthwhile use of a wizard's lifespan," said Tom. "But, obviously, I'm not one to judge a man's tastes."
"It'd be poor form to judge my inclinations," agreed Nott, "when you're the one who wants to spend the rest of your life with Granger."
Tom had spent most of his life in Hermione's company—it would be nine years this December—and he could not imagine a life where he hadn't known her. Where would he be; who would he be, without her? Likely sitting on his creaky bed in London, counting the hours until the matron served the next meal. Counting the days until he could return to Hogwarts, while looking forward to tea with Dumbledore and dinner with Slughorn—it was only natural that a man's standards would plummet when he ate porridge two meals out of three, and his conversational partners were limited to a drunken matron and a handful of spotty-faced, barely literate orphans.
(For a brief half-second, Tom wondered where Hermione would be without him. In her parents' home in London, perhaps. Or evacuated to the countryside; Mrs. Granger had mentioned taking Hermione away to Northamptonshire when the German air raids had been at their fiercest. Or even, and Tom felt disgusted even contemplating this, in the company of a bland Muggle suitor, a milksop of a modern gentleman, who called her 'Mione' and believed all her little lies about 'magical' housework skills that enabled her to stretch a single loaf of bread over a week's worth of meals. This thought turned Tom's stomach. He could scarcely believe that once, a mere half year ago, he'd thought nothing of allowing Hermione a Muggle husband to keep house for her, as long as she was available to act as his Foil. Now, after deciding that she was to be his Helpmeet, such a thought was... unthinkable.)
"I happen to enjoy Hermione's company," said Tom. "And since you're here, in her presence, it appears to me that you're easily capable of overlooking your objections. I can't recall you ever being this lenient toward, say, Walburga Black. Isn't she exactly the type of witch who would best fulfill your marital duties?"
Walburga Black was a girl in the year above them, and it was she who made Tom grateful that both he and Hermione were single children. Walburga, the second child of three, exemplified every unfortunate truism about middle-born children, in her attempts to distinguish herself from the pack of cousins and siblings competing for Professor Slughorn's favour and special privileges. The problem lay in Walburga's lacking Alphard's confidence and affability. (Alphard was the oldest out of all the Black cousins at Hogwarts; he'd graduated a year or two ago, and had taken up the traditional "bludge spot" in the Ministry's Department of Games and Sports.) Walburga also had none of Cygnus' guileless modesty. Cygnus Black was the baby of the family, a Third Year who'd made himself likeable in the Duelling Club because he never pretended to be more knowledgeable or talented than he was, solely on the basis of his family name.
It was thus that most members of Slytherin House, and not just the friendless hermits like Nott, politely abstained themselves of Walburga Black's presence, unless they were given no other choice. At least Nott, whom no one in Slytherin particularly liked, knew he was unlikeable. When he was ill-behaved, he did it on purpose; he acted in full comprehension of his behaviour and how he would be received by others. It was not so easy to deal with someone whose behaviour came from an absence of self-awareness; Tom could tolerate spite, but ignorance was another matter entirely.
"Walburga Black's not my duty," said Nott. "She's already been spoken for."
"What!" Hermione cried. "Someone wants to marry Walburga? I'm surprised I never heard her bragging in the girls' bathrooms about it. I always thought she spent half her time between classes in there talking about herself—or other people."
"There's nothing to brag about," Nott said. "The match is to Orion Black."
"Aren't they cousins?" said Hermione, sounding appalled. "I know all purebloods are related to one another, but this is a bit too far, isn't it?"
"Don't worry," Nott said, not concerned over the deepening colour of Hermione's cheeks; she was restraining herself from using the one specific term that she clearly wanted to say: inbreeding. "They're only second cousins."
"Second cousins makes it alright, then," said Tom, who was tiring of the conversation. He considered his future plans significant and important, but other people talking about theirs was just... gossip. Therefore, not worth his time. "If there's nothing further to discuss on the subject of consanguinity, can we proceed to what we came here to do?" He turned to Nott. "You said you were going to show us something."
"You've made sure that the door's locked?" Nott asked. At Tom's impatient gesture, Nott sighed, then slowly reached for the buckle closure on his satchel, taking so much time to undo the strap that Tom sighed and drew his wand, sketching out the beginning of the twist and jab movement of a Stinging Jinx.
His plan was impeded by Hermione jumping in front of him before he could cast the spell, gasping, "Oh, I've never seen one before! Is that real—?"
Out of his bag, Nott had taken out what appeared to be a folded lap blanket, which looked not dissimilar to one that the maids had laid on the foot of Tom's bed during his Christmas stay, intended to keep his toes warm during cold winter nights. He hadn't needed it since he could cast a charm or two, and in early January, Hermione had conveniently provided a secondary source of warmth when she'd stayed to listen to the wireless in the evening.
Nott's blanket, however, was of an unusual design: rich gold threads shot through a field of brown and rusty red, intricately woven into a Moorish pattern of tessellated stars around an arrow-shaped central motif. After Hermione unfolded it and began running her hands over the fabric, admiring it to Nott's visible satisfaction, Tom saw that its dimensions were not much greater than two feet wide and four feet long. Smaller than his bedroom lap blanket, which was thicker, and made of quilted wool padding inside an embroidered coverlet.
"You were worried about Muggles seeing your blanket?" said Tom in a snide voice.
"It's not just a blanket," Hermione said breathily, stroking the blanket. To his horror, she picked it up and rubbed it against her cheek. "Oh! I think I can feel it! Remarkable!"
"Hermione, you don't know where that's been," said Tom, taking up one edge of the blanket and tugging it away from her. "For all we know, Nott's spent years rubbing his feet on it..."
There was a strange resistance preventing him from removing the blanket from Hermione's hands, and it was even stranger when the blanket began to tug back, first softly, then harder, until Tom was holding on with only the tips of his fingers, wound around the knotted yarn cords at the edge. The blanket had silently risen a foot above his head, and it was still rising—
He slid his hand down to his pocket; Nott's wand was still there, as was his own. Tom whipped his head around, but Nott was still sitting on the sofa, his hands in his lap, looking rather pleased. He hadn't moved, spoken, and there was no indication that he'd done anything suspicious in the last minute or so.
"The enchantment is so smooth. Not even a hitch," Hermione sighed, looking up at the floating blanket. She glanced over at Nott. "Are you certain you can fit three people on it? I read that the top brooms have trouble with more than two."
"Racing brooms are optimised for steering and manoeuvrability, not lift," said Nott. "You could enchant one to carry five, but it comes at a cost of being blown off course in a mild breeze. Flying carpets, on the other hand, are built for a smooth ride. Father bought this one for Mother when she'd gotten too heavy to go up and down the stairs, and the midwife told her that it was dangerous to Apparate."
"Why are they against the rules?" Hermione asked. "They seem useful for wizards and witches in fragile health."
"The Ministry's started to come down on enchanted objects of Muggle origin," said Nott. "Although it's not a matter of ethics as much as it is about gold. If they put an embargo on artefacts of foreign make, they can keep British wizards buying British-made broomsticks and official Ministry Portkeys. Mind you, for now it's still alright to buy and sell flying carpets and enchanted samovars from other wizards, but they're making it harder and harder to import them from abroad, especially with the current paranoia of anything from Europe. Though there are some advantages to it—this carpet is now worth over twice what Father paid for it."
"Interesting," said Tom, who cared little for rules and laws. Unlike Hermione, he couldn't see them in terms of their social value, only as obstructions to his goals. "Even if the carpet can carry three people, how will three people fit? It's tiny."
"By squeezing in, how else?" answered Nott.
"Yes, but there's no way to keep from touching each other," said Tom, making a face.
"You were going to touch that sack of dried Muggle parts not too long ago. And you wanted a closer look at my Hand of Glory," Nott pointed out. "What's the problem?"
Tom looked at him meaningfully.
Hermione huffed and said, "You'll just have to budge up, Tom. There's nothing more to it."
The events that followed, to Tom's disapproval, bore an unwelcome resemblance to a comic pantomime.
In trying to determine how to fit three people on a small rectangle of cloth, there were more than a few instances of awkward bodily contact: tripping over legs, stepping on someone's hand, having his hand stepped on, and knocking heads. In the end, they settled on a solution of mutual compromise. No one was pleased by it, but the majority (who had out-voted him when he declared that this situation, whatever it was, was not a democracy) had agreed that it was leagues better than Tom's first proposal, in which he'd suggested that he should have the magic carpet all to himself. Hermione had called it unfair, and Nott had called him selfish, and it had resulted in a good five minutes of bickering, wherein Tom, with as much patience as he could, tried to explain why he was the best suited, and the best qualified, for taking charge of the group as their leader.
Their solution was for Tom to sit at the front of the carpet, and Nott behind him, kneecaps poking into Tom's back, but that couldn't be helped. Hermione would sit in between Tom's legs (since she was the smallest of the three, and Tom was the tallest, with the longest legs), with her head tucked beneath Tom's chin. Tom had decided that if physical contact was inevitable, then it was better that it be with someone he actually liked. And it was better that Hermione sit with him than with Nott.
After the arduous process of determining the seating arrangements, there came the task of getting the carpet off the ground without anyone falling off. This was harder than it looked; Tom had to hold onto the sides and Hermione in front of him, while ensuring that Nott's hands stayed where they should have been, instead of wandering where they oughtn't—Tom still hadn't returned the other boy's wand, and could tell that Nott wanted it back. For now, his pride had prevented Nott from begging Tom for its return, which was just as well. Tom found amusement in drawing it out; he was hoping to see that pride fall at least a few more notches by the end of the day.
Their first attempt resulted in the carpet ascending so quickly that they cracked their heads on the ceiling, causing Hermione to squeak and go green in the face; she had never liked broomsticks or heights, and she'd hated the fact that flying lessons back in First Year had been a class where textbooks and studying could make no difference to whether she passed or failed. Their hair powdered white with crumbs of plaster, they tried again, this time at a slower pace, and Tom began to get a sense of how the carpet was enchanted to fly: the levitation enchantments were imbued into each thread of woven yarn, which lent it more stability than a broomstick, where the levitation was constrained to the twigs, and the steering and braking charms applied to the wooden shaft and handle.
This carpet, Tom discovered, was not as easy to turn and steer as a broomstick. Changing directions on carpet and broom was done in the same way, through leaning one's weight either left or right, but multiple riders leaning in opposite directions caused the carpet to draw to a stop and drift in circles. With a competent helmsman, Tom thought that a carpet could function as a duelling platform—perhaps not for exhibition duels, where martial magic was intended to be half performance, half sport, for an audience's pleasure, but for real battles where it was a lethal mistake for a wizard to announce his presence to his opponents.
By the arrival of the dinner hour, they were all three rather bruised and out-of-breath, Nott more so than him or Hermione. Tom had the presence of mind to cast a Cushioning Charm when it looked like they were in danger of bumping into the light fixtures, but it just so happened, now and again, that he forgot to extend the cushioning effect to cover Nott behind him.
His collection of bruises didn't hinder Tom's growing feeling of triumph. He had found the long-lost Chamber of Secrets. He had opened it, and now he had a means of entering it.
Over the next few weeks, Hermione compiled a list of preparations for their Chamber expedition. Through a combination of obstinance and insistence, she made each member take specific duties, explaining that it was for the sake of efficiency—that it was better to distribute tasks between three people in advance, instead of wasting time arguing about who did what whilst on location. Tom could be the main duellist, as he'd wanted, but Nott would take the lead as their main historian.
"Because," Hermione told him, "if anyone could prove that it's the Chamber of Secrets or an elaborate hoax, it's Nott. If anyone could tell what's valuable or what isn't, it's him—and he can't do it if you're blasting everything in sight. And you still have that oath hanging over him!"
Hermione herself would take the position of Mediwitch, and auxiliary duellist or historian, whichever the situation demanded. But she decided that everyone should carry a bottle of Dittany, a roll of bandages, a vial each of Blood Replenishing Potion and Pain Reliever Potion. She'd also decided, without consulting him, if any person was hurt to a degree that it couldn't be healed with emergency field treatment, they would abandon the mission to visit the Hogwarts hospital wing.
"But what if it's Nott?" said Tom.
"What if it's me?" Hermione demanded.
"You're more important!"
Hermione's lips pursed in disapproval. "Tom!"
"You helped me when I needed it," said Tom, "and I won't forget it. But we both know that Nott would never do the same for us, unless there was something in it for him."
"It's the right thing to do," Hermione said firmly, and hearing that, Tom swiftly dropped his line of argument. When Hermione used the words Right and Wrong, it was an indication that no amount of logic could change her mind. Only an appeal to emotion could sway her at that point, which was exhausting to Tom; he had to force himself to feel empathy in order to construct an argument from that angle.
Preparations, assigned duties, flying practice: these activities occupied the final weeks of their summer holiday. They were solid, substantial projects to which they could dedicate their time and attention, instead of speculating about what lay in the Chamber—beyond the mystery of Salazar Slytherin's monster, what treasures had Slytherin left to aid his apprentices in carrying forth his great work?
The one thing, Tom noticed, for which Hermione hadn't made advance preparations was the division of spoils. Perhaps it was too much to hope that there would be anything of value in the Chamber, or perhaps it would create too much dissent in the ranks, because she knew that Tom would immediately object to granting equal shares for everyone (including a portion for Hogwarts!), or anything, really, that did not accord the greatest share of the prize to Tom Riddle, whom he saw as the most indispensable member of their group.
The days rushed past, and soon the end of August was close upon them. With all their successes in learning to fly the carpet, casting spells while someone else was flying the carpet, and their rehearsed excuses for any Prefect or teacher who might come across them in the girls' bathroom during evening patrols, it was something of an unmemorable occasion to receive their Head Boy and Head Girl badges from a school owl, a fortnight before the start of term.
Hermione's had blue enamel, and Tom's had green, but they were not much different than their Prefect badges, and neither of them mentioned it to the Riddles, who had accustomed themselves to Hermione's presence, and had begun seeing her as a part of their family, for better or worse. They had even started to warm to Nott, who had taken to calling on the Riddle House twice or more a week during the holidays, bringing token gifts with every visit—bottles of berry wine and sweet cordials from the family cellar, half a haunch of smoked venison shot by his father last autumn, a bundle of silk floss from his mother's sewing room for Mrs. Riddle to use in her own embroidery projects.
To the Riddles, it affirmed their assumption that Nott was of "good family", if his crisp enunciation and his well-tailored clothes hadn't been enough to convince them. They were pleased—and somewhat relieved, Tom perceived from the shape and pattern of their thoughts—that although their grandson had been born to the village tart and raised by beggars in London, he hadn't been ruined by them, proving himself capable of distinguishing suitable companionship from undesirable influences.
(Overhearing one of his grandparents' private conversations, Tom hadn't liked knowing that they considered Hermione's background to be 'nominally respectable, but at least her father is a doctor—imagine if he was a merchant!'. But Tom did agree with their opinion that standards had fallen these days, and one had to make use of what they were given.)
"It's such a vulgar way to buy someone's regard," Tom muttered to Hermione, after watching Nott present Mrs. Riddle with a large jug of honey from the estate hives. He was reminded of how his grandmother had lavished gifts upon him in the summer before Sixth Year.
"I think it's nice that they get along," said Hermione, smiling and holding her glass up for another pour of gooseberry cordial, which Nott had informed them was made by the servants to a centuries old family recipe.
"To my expense!" Tom hissed, put out that every time Mrs. Riddle called him "Tommy", Nott would glance over and smirk at him.
"Not everything is about you, Tom."
"She showed him the family portrait gallery last week. Next week, it'll be the picture album!" said Tom, rather incensed. Hermione's mother and Mrs. Riddle cooing over his childhood photographs was not a memory easily forgotten.
Tom dragged Nott away whenever he saw the boy insinuating himself too intimately with the Riddles, and forced Nott to leave before they could invite him to stay for dinner.
When September arrived, Tom wasn't surprised to see that Nott had reserved a compartment on the Hogwarts Express hours before it was due to depart London. It was so early that the steam boiler was cold, the Floo fireplaces hadn't been lit, and the platform was empty of other students. Yet that didn't stop Nott from making a big show of locking the compartment door, casting silencing charms, and closing the window curtains—as if one covered window on a carriage of open ones didn't stink of suspicious behaviour.
"Tonight," said Nott ominously, meeting their eyes in turn.
"We can't!" said Hermione. "We have the First Year welcome speech in the Common Room after the feast, then Slughorn's going to invite us to his office for congratulatory drinks."
"We'll find a way to beg off," Tom said reassuringly. "You wrote speech cards. Hand them off to Fitzpatrick; he's useless at everything but following directions. I'll make my speech and have Orion Black take the dormitory tour for the Firsties. They're eleven year olds, not babies; they ought to know how to flush a toilet and bathe themselves, and if they can't, Orion's bright enough to explain it to them. It'll be good practise for him, since there's no chance that he won't be nominated next year—Sluggy's had such a streak of picking Heads that he's got to have the Board stacked in his favour."
"And drinks with Slughorn afterwards?"
"I'll explain to him that each of us made plans with the other," said Tom. "He'll know how to complete the picture."
"I'm not sure that I want him to have that picture."
"Trust me, Hermione—it'll work."
"That isn't the issue here..."
"Then what's this doubt?" Tom asked. "Don't tell me that you've suddenly changed your mind."
"I—I haven't," said Hermione quickly. "It's just a touch of nerves. People are going to be talking about us, Tom."
"People are always going to talk," Tom said. "But it's not as if they're spreading lies about us, are they?"
Nott, who had been eating a breakfast of boiled eggs on buttered toast during their conversation, gave a soft snort. "If anything's been spread, it's certainly not lies."