Birds of a Feather

by babylonsheep

In 1935, Hermione Granger meets a boy who despises fairy stories, liars, and mediocrity. He offers her a deal of mutual convenience, and soon a tentative friendship forms—if Tom would ever lower himself to call anyone a "friend". But whatever they have, it's something special, and if there's anyone who can appreciate Specialness, it's Tom Riddle. (1930's Childhood Friends AU)

45. Patriotism

1944

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After a very happy Christmas spent with Mum and Dad, the season's festivities began to dim under the weight of an encroaching deadline: Tom's birthday party on New Year's Eve.

The invitation sent by Mrs. Riddle had not asked for gifts, but Hermione knew Tom, and Tom was unapologetic about his pastime of amassing personal effects, which included properties both material and intellectual. N.E.W.T. preparation and holiday assignments were not a struggle for her, but the infinite subtleties of social interaction were quite the opposite. And this was an occasion in which Hermione was caught at an impasse, struck between what Tom expected and what was expected of her, between what sorts of articles Tom wanted to own, and what was actually sensible for him to own.

She settled on getting Tom a wizarding book on sewing charms, paired with a Muggle book on menswear patterns. Tom was a wizard and exceedingly proud of it, but if she pressed him, he could not deny being firmly set on a few minor Muggle ways. For instance: wizarding underwear came in the form of ankle-length woollen pants with a flap in the rear, a practical garment to wear beneath one's robes. Although this was the traditional fashion for men (the traditional wizard dispensed with trousers), Tom did not hold with that. No, his spirit might stand unflappable in the face of discomfort, but Tom's body drew a line at some point, and that point was in too much 'flapping', whatever that meant. As Tom had explained it, it meant that he did not wear long undies in lieu of proper trousers; he wore trousers—that was not optional—over shorter, knee-length Muggle-style drawers with a button-up front.

As few people knew of Tom's precise preferences, and even fewer went to the trouble of accommodating them, it was a sensible choice of gift. It showed that Hermione knew him well enough to know, didn't it? Tom didn't like dry chops served with a single dollop of horseradish, mustard, or gravy; he preferred to have the sauce boat left on the table and close at hand. Tom liked being the first in the class to produce a brew; at the beginning of the lesson, he went straight to pre-heating his cauldron, instead of waiting to light the burner after Slughorn finished delivering the instructions.

These things were small and insignificant to others, but she noticed them, and she was certain that Tom would, too. It was a lesser risk to take than making a grand and expensive gesture. And above all, it was practical. Practical gifts were always appreciated, especially with the inevitability that, at some time in the future, Mrs. Riddle would no longer be choosing and buying Tom's clothes for him.

Hermione reminded herself that it was only a birthday party. Tom had years of birthdays after this one. And as this was the first birthday party he'd ever had, if it didn't come out perfectly, there'd be opportunities later on to do a better job of it.

On the morning of the Thirty-First, Hermione and her parents had an early breakfast of porridge and toast before setting out for King's Cross, Dad with a copy of the morning's paper tucked under his arm, Mum carrying a basket of wrapped sandwiches and a flask of hot tea for their lunch. The station was quieter than it was during the usual September school rush, without children running loose and and hitting passersby with their boxed gas masks. There were fewer gas masks and service armbands than she'd remembered seeing, too—the bombings had ceased since the summer, and this had somewhat amended the average Home Fronter's ever-present fear of a German invasion. Of course, that apprehension had not faded completely, but since she'd come home for the holidays, the wireless had each night delivered more news of liberations than of occupations; this was taken as an indication that, although reaching an international accord seemed a far-flung possibility, Britain and her allies were making indisputable progress toward it.

A rail porter showed them to their compartment, stowed their luggage, and offered them all lap blankets and a selection of magazines and newspapers; at nine on the dot, the York Flyer was underway. Through the chill winter mists the train rattled, a dingy landscape whizzing by outside the window, long stretches of grey blocky buildings indistinguishable from each other and to the blank grey sky above. The train slowed at the approach to a handful of stops along the outskirts of London, and the shapeless masses solidified, forming geometric rows of dour terraces and mercantile warehouses, separated by sluggish canals and the occasional carriageway.

In the compartment, Hermione's father rolled the rail blanket into a tight bundle and set it behind his neck, dozing off almost instantly. Hermione's mother fingered the pages of a novel, cup of tea balanced on her knee.

Hermione, in turn, looked out the window, browsed the newspaper headlines, completed the crossword, answered a few questions from a Transfiguration exam past paper, and checked the pages of her homework diary for any response to the last message she'd sent to Nott.

It's Tom's birthday today, she'd written early that morning, before going down to breakfast.

A blotchy, ink-spattered sentence had been scrawled below that, in Nott's handwriting.

Go bother him about it, then.

Are you coming to the party?

It's not for hours yet...

You're still in bed, aren't you?

It's a quarter to eight on a Sunday. Let me alone, Granger.

There were no more replies after that.

Hermione sighed, tucking the book into her coat pocket.

"Mum, I'm going out to stretch my legs," said Hermione.

"If you're going to look around the restaurant car, don't buy anything that'll spoil your lunch, dear," said Mum absently. "They're sure to be skimping on everything but the potatoes. The porter will be bringing around hot drinks at noon, and don't forget that I packed sandwiches this morning."

"Yes, Mum."

Hermione made a quick stop at the washroom, which, here in First Class, was the cleanest on the whole train. Then she peered around the interior of the carriage, observing her fellow passengers through their compartment windows: older, well-heeled ladies with pristine gloves folded on their laps, urbane gentlemen with umbrellas and hats, all homburgs and bowlers, of a class of refinement above the typical flatcap—a near-universal article among the workers of London and Yorkshire. Hermione was the youngest passenger, not quite as turned-out as the rest—she didn't wear gloves, as they slowed her wand draw; she had also never seen the sense in carrying a handbag, which could only fit a single book and nothing else.

As she walked past, a few heads turned to watch her. At any minute now, she thought that one of them would summon a porter to verify her ticket or escort her to her real carriage.

That did not occur.

The rails screeched as the locomotive drew in to the next stop. A few passengers stood up and collected their hand luggage, folding their newspapers neatly and leaving them on the seat. The older ladies let out quiet sniffs of disappointment when no porter was available to hand them out, right at the exact moment they'd reached the boarding exit.

A mild tussle arose at the entrance-way at the rear of the carriage, as Hermione was squeezing herself against a compartment door to allow a pack of commuters to tramp by.

"I must insist that you take the compartment—"

"Nonsense," a woman spoke, her voice firm. "We booked our seats fairly; I wouldn't dream of inconveniencing the other paying passengers."

"The seat's not been booked until the switch at Sheffield—no one would be any the wiser if you took it. Certainly none of the passengers would object to it; your son's an officer of the King's army and your father's got a lame leg. Second's a squeeze; it's got no space for him to prop it up."

"Take it, Blanche," spoke an emphatic voice, this time, a man's. He thumped something on the floor, adding, "I've got to sit down somewhere soon, and this'll do. What's the rub? We've paid; ergo, we are the paying passengers."

"We don't need to take charity!"

"I'll take comfort any day," said the man. "You, fellow, show me to the compartment, why don't you? If she won't have it, then I don't mind if I do. Get our bags, Roger, my boy. Oh, and you did say that First gets tea and papers, didn't you?"

"London papers in the first shift, York papers in the second, and tea at noon, sir."

"Good, good. Roger, help me up. We'll see you in Sheffield, then, Blanche—"

"Grandfather, wait a minute..."

"Those pips are paying their worth, aren't they? Right all along, I was; told you to wear the brass and you'd get the proper treatment—"

"Grandfather!"

"What is it? Has the fellow got the tea trolley on already?"

"No, look, there! Doctor Granger, that's him, isn't it? They must have booked the same train as we did."

What happened next was a convoluted series of introductions and greetings, as the Tindalls—Major Tindall, mostly—thumped his cane about and woke Hermione's dad from his doze, leaving him disoriented and mumbling. Major Tindall then rambled on about the old days when men could fall asleep standing up, then be roused and ready to present themselves for a parade inspection within the minute. Next, there was the endless round of How-Do-You-Dos from Mrs. Blanche Tindall and Hermione's mum, who pressed air-kisses to each other's cheeks and inquired about their respective extended families. And finally, there was the rather striking entrance of Roger Tindall.

Or, to be more precise, Second Lieutenant Roger Tindall, of His Majesty's Intelligence Corps.

He wore his uniform, an officer's ensemble in olive drab with a thick belt around the waist and a thinner one crossing the shoulder, which, thirty years ago, would have been used to bear the weight of an officer's sword. Out of practicality, swords had been banished to ceremonial dress occasions, and thus there was only a leather pouch on Roger's right-hand side, affixed by a series of rings and hooks.

Not unusual for young men of his age, he'd also sprung up an inch or two. However, his most distinctive feature, his curly hair, had been shorn to the scalp. It was a different, more severe look to the last time she'd seen him, and something of this uncommon severity showed in the tightness around his eyes and mouth. His expression was not quite as open and affable as she'd remembered; his bearing was a touch more reserved. This wasn't the same person as the friendly young man who'd proved himself tremendously keen to shake hands and sign dance cards at the Veterans' Gala two summers ago.

Looking into her family's suddenly crowded compartment, Hermione could not think of anything to say.

Hermione's father had been a soldier in the last war; by virtue of his education, he'd held the rank of a medical officer rather than ending up, as many young British conscripts had, as a sapper in the trenches. She, and everyone else in her generation, had grown up in the shadow of the Great War, and had been told at school that they would not be speaking the King's English today, if it hadn't been for the efforts of Britain's valiant men. At home, her father never spoke of his service; he cared not for the approbation heaped on him and his fellow medical officers at the annual commemorations, and in the privacy of their sitting room, derided the war as a senseless waste of lives frittered away by foolhardy politicians—a blasphemous opinion that Mum had warned her not to repeat to anyone outside the house

In this current war, Hermione had been placed in the position of a remote observer, instead of an active participant. Where those her own age had joined the Home Guard or Land Army or simplified their lifestyles in the wake of wartime austerities, Hermione had been cavorting about in Scotland for most of the year, the realities of hardship kept at a firm distance by Hogwarts' very limited line of communication. She had not experienced war like all her fellow Britons, and in the year or so since she'd turned seventeen, she'd perceived a fissure widening between herself and her old life. She was a British citizen, and at the same time a naturalised citizen of Wizarding Britain; it was hard to reconcile with the fact that, in maintaining a grasp of both identities, something from each of them was lost.

As a result, Hermione found herself feeling no reverence upon seeing Roger Tindall, no patriotic sentiment, no grounds to commend him as had everyone else in the carriage. Roger was due a certain degree of respect, but it was no more or less than anyone else was entitled to. To Hermione, he was not automatically designated the title of Our Brave Defender; he was merely a man in a brown uniform, one of many amongst the British enlistees and American infantrymen who'd passed her by at King's Cross.

There was nothing to make a fuss about. So, she entered quietly, sat down beside her mother, and drew a book out of her bag, all without saying a word.

Roger scrambled to his feet, fumbling his cap. "Hermione! It's spiffing to see you again—it's got to be a year and a half, hasn't it?"

"Yes," she replied, "a year and five months."

"I wish you'd come to the passing out ceremony," said Roger. "It was in September. I wrote to your mother, but she said you'd already left for boarding school a week after she'd got the letter."

"Term started on the first of September," Hermione said. "I'm sure it was wonderful, Roger. Anyone who spends years in training must await its end with great anticipation."

"I could never call it a drudge; it's an honour, of which I strive to be worthy," said Roger, and the polite tone of his voice suggested that those words had been rehearsed and repeated many times before. "Grandfather gave me the sword he got for his retirement from the service. But I suppose this is old news—and dull news, at that. Don't you finish your schooling next year?"

"The end of June."

"Have you made arrangements for what you plan to do?"

Hermione regarded him warily. "Your curiosity is rather unexpected."

"I should like to know more about your life," said Roger. "After all, it's been a long year for the both of us. Would you be inclined to taking a stroll down to the dining car? Your mum and mine appear to have much to discuss, and in staying here, we'd only get in their way."

"Oh... I suppose there's no harm in that," Hermione conceded.

"Good," said Roger, offering his arm. "Do you like egg creams?"

Once she'd got over the shock of Roger's appearance and new rank, she found it a strange, and yet startlingly pleasant, experience to be able to engage in a conversation that was not predicated on secrecy or subterfuge. With Tom, at the Riddle House or at Hogwarts, their public interactions were, in some form or another, a performance. Tom might be adamant that his affections were genuine, but his actions were purely an affectation. With Nott, Hermione had always been guarded with their conversations, because Nott had a vexing habit of pursuing the most cursory of details to the point of exhaustion.

There was no guile on Roger's part, and no need for stealth on Hermione's. To him, she was a childhood acquaintance, just another ordinary girl on a train trip. Not a witch, not the Head Girl, not Tom's "steady girl", for whom all the Slytherin boys made room when she was invited to dine at their table. This easy informality reminded Hermione of the staff at The Leaky Cauldron, where Tom had spent his holiday before Sixth Year. They had ordered the big fry-up breakfast delivered with the fresh towels and Daily Prophet. No one working at the tavern knew them as anything other than a pair of customers, and no would would have doubted them had they introduced themselves as Mr. Tim and Mrs. Perdita Roddle.

Traversing the length of the carriage, other passengers stood aside for Roger and Hermione to pass. Young boys saluted him, old men clapped him on the back or shoulder, and each time, Roger turned away flustered, his ears bright pink under his close-cropped military haircut.

"It's the queerest thing about the uniform," Roger remarked, holding open the door to the dining car. "How everyone responds to it. With the American G.I.'s, people lock their doors and warn their daughters away. With the Australian diggers, it's the drink they hide. With British conscripts, people give them small favours—flowers, cigarettes, homemade biscuits, a pair of socks. And yet, if they happened not to be wearing their uniforms, no one's daughters would have spared them a second look."

"I expect some people must be enjoying the treatment," said Hermione. Tom would have, if he'd ever stooped to volunteer himself in a military career.

"It raises morale, as I understand it," Roger replied. "They should enjoy it while it lasts; I can't see it lasting for much longer."

"What do you mean by that?"

Roger looked both ways, then ushered her into a secluded dining booth. "In cadet training, we were taught the concept of 'des absoluten Krieges', a form of warfare where every resource, capability, and action is pressed to its furthest possible extent. Give no quarter, allow no exception, everything in service to the achievement of the desired outcome: victory. We treated it as a textbook exercise, of course. In real theatres of war, there are limits to expedience, and nothing is as efficient as it appears on paper."

"Victory at all costs," Hermione mused. "Isn't that Minister Churchill's line?"

"He meant it in the figurative sense; Britain hasn't come close to consuming every last resource to the dregs, and that's without counting on the Empire," said Roger. "But the same can't be said for our enemies. In the last war, the members of the Entente demanded payments of restitution from the Germans. A fair price was determined on the basis of Germany's standing resources and industrial capacity—the tonnage laid in their shipyards, the output volume of their coke mines, the production of their mills, foundries, and manufactories. The restitution price is a matter of public record, but the amount actually tendered is under restricted access."

"They didn't pay?" Hermione murmured. "Oh—that would have been during the share crisis in the Twenties; no one had any money to spare. You must have access to the information, then."

"My department does," Roger said. "At first, I thought it was a bit of a comedown when the real job was more schoolwork than school was—I hadn't expected to be assigned to the books, you see, instead of getting my hands on those new teleprinter cams—"

"Roger," Hermione interrupted him, "are you allowed to tell me this?"

"The numbers have been bounced around the head office from last year, before I'd even taken the King's shilling, so to speak," said Roger. "And in the last few months, it's trickled down through the MP's, who've leaked it like a sieve. That's where the rumours have come from, if you hadn't known. Since they don't have the full reports, and we're not to take numerical expectancies as a given certainty, the official stance is to keep mum and encourage people not to listen to idle talk."

At Hermione's dubious expression, Roger continued, "I refer to the rumours about the war ending, to be clear. Though the ones about the Minister's mistress are certainly true, as far as I've been told."

The volume of information had come at a flood, but Hermione could begin to piece together the picture: a nation, bereft of trading partners and colonial territories, could only assemble as many resources as it could find within its borders. The occupation of neighbouring nations, whose resources were seized for the war effort, could lighten the burden, but in recent months, the occupations of Western Europe had been slowly lifted by the Allied forces, a city at a time. Now, Germany had access only to German resources... or rather, whatever was left of them after six years of war.

One could make a decent estimation of the amount left, if they had a good set of starting numbers to examine.

"How long can it keep going?" asked Hermione. "I think two years would be a stretch. There haven't been any air raids since summer, and most of them were driven off by the RAF."

"Oh, so you have heard the rumours," Roger remarked. "The office punters place it at a year from today, though I'm not in the position to confirm or deny anything. Still, it'll be a good thing to consider where you'll be when the time comes, and keep an ear out until it does. Things will be different in a year, Hermione. Victory will be welcome after so long, but we're sure to get a streak of changes, too... And, well, nothing guarantees they'll all be good."

Their egg creams were delivered. The two glasses contained frothy brown seltzer water that, they were told, had been flavoured with chocolate syrup, but tasted like ersatz chocolate's distant health-sensitive cousin. Chocolate just wasn't the same when it wasn't sweet. Hermione made a face, remembering the bar of chocolate she'd bought on the Hogwarts Express, and the uneaten half tucked in her bag, left in the compartment with Mum and Dad.

"I count the end of rationing to be an unequivocal good," said Hermione, setting down her glass after two sips.

"As would I," Roger agreed. "Shame it's not going anywhere, even when the war ends. The Government worries too much about self-sufficiency to allow a British reliance on imported foodstuffs—not to mention how costly it is to keep the shipping lanes open to the Empire. If the Dominions are conferring to renounce the King and make themselves sovereign nations, then they ought to see their own way to defending their territorial waters."

"Sovereignty for the Dominions is quite an unusual—and unpopular—attitude to have."

"The stubbornest refuse to acknowledge that we're living in the final days of Britain's Empire," said Roger. "Let them, I say. It will come to an end, and very soon. We've lived for years without Canadian wheat, Australian mutton, or Jamaican sugar; many of us have grown used to the taste of the imitations, and the youngest don't remember anything different." He raised his egg cream in a mock toast and took a large gulp, wincing a little—at either the flavour or the icy temperature of the seltzer. "When the war's over, I doubt their export industries will make a full recovery. And when the soldiers come home, they'll see that Britain is a nation in need of an internal restoration—and not of foreign luxuries."

"It's curious," said Hermione, "that you've made no objection to the Empire on the basis of ill-treatment and exploitation."

"'Exploitation'," Roger answered, "isn't the word I would've used, to be honest."

"Oh, what would you call it, then!"

"Would it be diplomatic of me to call it a 'capital-incentivised economic transition'?"

"It would be a cautious way of putting it, certainly," said Hermione. "Almost... evasive, one might think."

"Well, I shall make no claims that bringing 'the Light of Civilisation' was anywhere near as clean or painless as we'd have all liked it to be," Roger said. "But one ought to consider the greater benefit of opening new overseas trade markets. Surely, you've read of the extraction of quinine from the bark of a Peruvian tree species. How many lives have been saved by medicinal tonics whose provenance lies in the New World?"

"Yes, but surely you've read of the native peoples forced to log entire forests to feed European demand?"

The remainder of their journey was consumed by a lively debate concerning the state of British foreign policy over the past two centuries. Hermione argued from the lofty heights of her ethical high ground, while Roger remained a down-to-earth moderate, willing to concede and capitulate on specific points, but refusing to budge on the issue of placing British interests above those of every other nation. As much as Hermione wanted to come out the winner, she did enjoy the act of debating, for as long as it lasted. In the past, she'd only spoken of British politics with Tom, who didn't subscribe to any political party or conventional movement. Instead, he presented his own flavour of doctrine, sprinkled with the most outlandish of proposals—the least of which was his suggestion that citizens should be sterilised until they earned the right to reproduce.

(She didn't mention this bit to Roger. His prior reservations about Tom Riddle had not changed since the last time they'd spoken.)

In fact, the debate lasted for so long that they nearly missed the switch at Sheffield. Roger was the one who caught the sudden cessation of rattling as the train slowed at the platform, offering his arm and an escort back to the compartment; he then helped his mother and grandfather return to their original seats for the final hour of their train journey.

"We can continue this conversation later, at the party," said Roger. "I'm told that most of the guests are neighbours and associates of the Riddles. There'll be few people that either of us have met before, and even fewer of them will be our age. With the exception of Riddle himself, of course."

Roger gave a wry smile; he had not been much impressed with Tom upon their mutual introduction. That had been the evening that Tom found out that his family were alive and well in Yorkshire, and Hermione recalled Tom sulking the entire night, refusing to eat or drink or smile for the photographer. Hermione had understood the nature of Tom's conflict, compounded by his disdain for his parentage. She had attempted to console him when she'd noticed him brooding off in the corner, and afterwards, he still had not been visibly cheerful. But that was not unexpected; Tom Riddle was not a cheerful person by nature. To everyone else he must have seemed... rather disagreeable. Hostile, even.

.

---

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That thought persisted in Hermione's mind all through the disembarkation at Great Hangleton, and the transfer to hired motorcars, a fleet of them having been engaged by the Riddles to ferry guests to and from the station.

In the past, Tom had made note of Hermione's social dexterity—or her lack of it—but Tom was hardly much better, was he? Yes, it was true that he could slather on embellished praise with the efficiency of a veteran bricklayer, and he'd years ago perfected the ideal wheedling face, which had the ability to soften the hardest hearts and the tightest pockets. But when he didn't bother with it, out of sight of anyone worth impressing, he was often, as Mrs. Riddle described it, high-strung.

And in the most unflattering of terms, (which Hermione kept to herself) histrionic.

Tom wasn't there to greet them at the door of the the Riddle House. The rôle of hostess was taken by Mrs. Riddle, who fluttered to each new group of arrivals, kissing cheeks, handing off coats and umbrellas, and waving over a harried-looking maid with a tray of hot drinks.

"Helen, how are you? How was the weather in London? How was the journey?" Mrs. Riddle asked, brushing her cheek against Hermione's mum's. "I've said it before, but the rail isn't as it used to be; there were standards, back before the war. When I was a girl, the porters all wore gloves, and it was the height of disgrace for any one of them to let First Class luggage touch the ground. I've written to the management, and they've nothing to show for it but paltry excuses. This would have been unconscionable back then, for the fares we were paying, let me tell you—my own mother would never have stood for it, may God rest her soul—"

And then it was Hermione's turn.

"Hermione, my dear, it's so good to see you again." Mrs. Riddle pressed her cheek to Hermione's, her heavy pearl earrings bumping against Hermione's jaw. Perfume wafted into Hermione's nostrils, a delicate fragrance of rose and camellia which Hermione would henceforth associate with rich old ladies. Hermione's coat was whisked away, and then Mrs. Riddle smoothed down the wrinkles on her blouse, murmuring, "Our Tommy's been waiting for you to put in an appearance since breakfast. He'll be ever so pleased to see that you're finally here, and you've even brought him a gift. Oh, you shouldn't have! We did write on the invitations that they weren't a necessity—ah, but who's this?"

Mrs. Riddle had spotted Roger Tindall in the midst of handing his hat off to the maid.

"Why, it's our new Lieutenant in his new uniform! You had to have got it tailored in London, of course—Huntsman's of Mayfair, perhaps, or Kilgour's on Piccadilly? They do pay such attention to the details; no other firm quite compares. Did you know, my husband had his uniform made by them when he served as an officer? He was a Lieutenant as well!"

"I've heard," said Roger. "Grandfather says he served three years and resigned his commission, not long after General Kitchener won his treaty and sent everyone back home."

"Quite so," Mrs. Riddle sniffed. "The war never sat well with him, nor did the posting in Africa, of all places; he was never inclined to make a career of it, regardless. Putting homesteads to the torch in the name of the strategic imperative—well, that isn't any sort of action a respectable landowner would take pleasure in."

"Orders are orders. Part and parcel of the job, but I suppose not everyone likes taking them no matter their necessity," was Roger's tactful response, and then he turned to Hermione. "Didn't you say that you'd spent last Christmas holiday here? Would you mind showing me about—that is, if you'll excuse us, Mrs. Riddle? You do have such a lovely house, here; London has few private estates of this size, and half of them have been requisitioned for interim offices or convalescent homes."

"That was efficient," Hermione remarked, as a new group of guests arrived—Chief Constable Swindon and his family. When Mrs. Riddle had gone to greet them, Hermione and Roger took the opportunity to slip out of the foyer and out of her purview. "You've an unusual talent for deflecting Mrs. Riddle. When she starts on like that, most times I have to wait until she runs out of things to criticise."

"Oh, it's an unfortunate reality that I've become quite used to," said Roger. "Our director, Brigadier Sinclair, hosts department-wide socials for the staff—the officers, the secretaries, and the translator ladies. Keeps dishonourable conduct out of the office, though it does have the unwelcome effect of concentrating the 'husband auditions' to a single evening each week." He gave a mirthless laugh. "Most men on leave would be far from game to the idea of interviewing for a job they hadn't applied for."

"I should think Mrs. Riddle would be too old and too settled for auditioning husbands!"

"Those of her breed are never too old to run auditions on the behalf of others," Roger said, shaking his head sagely. "They consider themselves to be undertaking a valuable public service."

"I am certain that Mrs. Riddle," said Hermione, squaring her shoulders in obstinance, "understands me well enough to know that I'd never suffer being 'auditioned'."

"Or perhaps you've already passed her inspection," Roger suggested. "Right! Show me around, why don't you? Is there a snooker table? A library? A servants' wing?—by Jove, a house like this couldn't be run without servants, could it?" Roger let out a whistle, looking around the corridor, with its twelve-foot ceilings and crystal light fixtures. "And Riddle's set to inherit all of this? A first-rate windfall, that. It's terribly lucky he had you, Hermione. My mother said that Riddle was only invited to the Gala as a guest of your family; no one in London society has directly invited the Riddles to a salon or soirée in years."

"Um. Here's the cloakroom, here's an airing cupboard. And the stairs. Behind the door on the landing is a passageway that connects to the servants' hall. The passages are built all over the house, so the servants can answer the front door or bring up a tray, without getting in the way of the family." Hermione opened the door, allowed Roger to peer into a dusty stairwell lit by a lightbulb in a metal cage, then closed it after he'd had his look.

"Yes, it was very lucky for Tom, and for Mr. and Mrs. Riddle," continued Hermione. "Tom's father was their only child, and Tom is their only grandchild. If they had no one to inherit after Tom's father, the house would have passed to the Crown. And if the house was turned into a bed and breakfast—no, a council-maintained village day school, I imagine Mrs. Riddle would be grateful for passing before it happened."

"You seem regretful," Roger said, studying Hermione's expression with keen interest. "Does the loss of this—" he waved at a hand at the lavish mouldings and hardwood panelling, "—sort of grand lifestyle bother you? Forgive me, but I can't help observing how its very existence perpetuates an unflattering portrait of modern feudalism. One cannot deny its prestige, but in these times, this all seems so... shockingly impractical. It's a negligent use of resources for the keeping of a single civilian family, and not a one registered with a vital occupation."

"There's a sentimental value to it," said Hermione. "And value of another kind. The Riddles provide employment to the village. Without their retaining the seasoned farmers to their lands, the fields would have been put into the care of conscripted city girls."

"All things considered, they've done a respectable job of it, for amateurs, that is—" Roger began, but his words caught in his throat as he lost his balance, tripping over some wrinkle or ruck on the carpet. His arms pinwheeled in all directions and his legs flew out from under him, laying him flat on his back in the middle of the floor, breath knocked out of him.

Hermione took a second to realise why: absorbed by the conversation, they had wandered up the stairs, taking the most familiar route Hermione knew in the Riddle House, the path that led up to the North Wing, where she had spent much of her summer holidays. She hadn't thought too deeply on planning the route, Roger having pressed her into giving a tour without preparing her for the request. And afterward, she'd only given thought to making it an interesting tour experience with interesting anecdotes and ornaments to examine and remark upon. A tour devoid of guests, whom neither she nor Roger wished to greet or be greeted by unless they had the alternative.

But this was the carpet, and this was the corridor, that had been charmed with a Tripping Jinx.

Hermione was mortified; even though she hadn't lived in this house since summer, it was thoughtless of her to have forgotten. She rushed over to Roger and helped him sit up.

"Are you alright? I'm dreadfully sorry, Roger!"

"Not to worry," said Roger in a weak voice, rubbing his back. "Just plain old clumsiness, I'm afraid. It could've happened to anyone..."

The door at the end of the hall opened.

Tom Riddle stepped out of his bedroom, wearing a black dinner jacket over a stiff white vest and double-starched shirtfront.

"Who's there?" he snapped. "What's this fuss about? I asked not to be disturbed!" Tom stopped, his eyes widening. "Hermione? You're here! No one rang the bell or told me that they'd brought the motor around—"

"Well, obviously," said Roger, getting to his feet and brushing himself off. "You asked not to be disturbed, didn't you?"

"Very good, Tindall, thank you," Tom said, eyeing Roger's uniform and the insignia on his epaulets and collar. "Or should I call you Lieutenant Tindall? Second Lieutenant, congratulations." Tom's voice was flat, not quite mocking, but this was only because it lacked any trace of enthusiasm or emotion.

"A mutual friend is a friend of mine. No titles; 'Roger' will do." Roger offered his hand to Tom. "If you'll allow me to call you 'Tom'?"

"Riddle—" said Nott, poking his head around the doorjamb of Tom's bedroom. "Oh. It's you, Granger."

"What a gathering!" said Roger to Nott. "Roger Tindall, at your service."

"Riddle, it's speaking to me," whined Nott, deliberately oblivious to Roger's greeting. "Aren't you going to get rid of it?"

"Get back in there and mind your manners next time," Tom hissed, over his shoulder. To Roger, he said, "Ignore him, he doesn't get out much. Just an old school chum. An aspiring rugger—he got conked on the head his first scrummage; fellow hasn't been quite right since, if you follow my lead." Tom's eyebrows wriggled suggestively. Then, giving Hermione a reproving look, Tom added, "And Hermione, you shouldn't bring people up here—these are our living quarters, you know."

"I offered to show Roger the house, and your grandmother didn't oppose it. He's a guest, and these are the guest rooms," said Hermione. "You've let Nott into your bedroom, so I don't see why you're fretting about it."

"Because there are rules, Hermione," said Tom, speaking in a voice of grim patience. "You of all people should know that fraternising isn't allowed."

"It is, actually," said Roger helpfully. "Despite the uniform, I'm not here in an official capacity. I can pay calls on civilians as I please; Command won't involve themselves in private affairs unless there are pensions and benefits to arrange. Nothing catches their eye like the twinkle of a disappearing penny." Roger laughed, while Tom's face remained cold and stony. "But that'd be a case of counting the chickens, eh?"

"You're correct," said Tom. "There's no call for that much boldness, Lieutenant; Hermione scarcely knows you."

"Tom!"

"Hermione!" spoke Tom sternly. "Tindall may be a guest here, but you're my guest. You must understand that your well-being is my responsibility."

"My 'well-being'," Hermione scoffed. "There's nothing I need to be protected from that I can't manage on my own."

"Tut tut, such hubris, Hermione," said Tom, shaking his head. "Mark my words, overconfidence will be your undoing." He sent a pointed look in Roger's direction, which Roger returned, albeit rather uncomfortably. "Mark my words."

"I do apologise for Tom's behaviour," spoke Hermione quickly, nodding to Roger. "He's always been too forthright for his own good—a quality we share, for better or worse. To our bad luck, today happens not to be one of his better days. Now, where were we? Oh yes, the tour! Would you like to see my room? There's a good view of the village from up here, and on a fair day, you can see all the way to Great Hangleton. Their church steeple is taller than the one just down the road..."

She led Roger down the hall, opened the door, and showed him the view out of the window.

"The design's a revival, not an original, but it was supposed to evoke the style of the Elizabethan era, if you look at the shape of the mantel there, the window frames, and the gables and eaves around the front. It was considered more contemporary than the stark Gothic style, and also more patriotic—more English—than the intricate Baroque ornamental style you'd see in the châteaus of France or Italy. This style's better suited for the weather up here, too; with fancy stone fretwork, the crevices would fill with ice and cause the details to crack after a few seasons. Some estate owners went ahead with the French style, regardless, but they soon found out the cost of maintenance."

"You're very well-informed about the architecture of this house," Roger observed.

"She ought to be," Tom interjected, from where he stood at the door. "She lives here."

He'd kept an eye on Hermione, as she'd pointed Roger to the watercolour landscapes mounted on the wall, followed by the Edwardian-era wallpaper patterned with prim damask roses, and finally, the nouveau-style light fittings installed in the Twenties.

"I—it's a temporary situation," Hermione stammered. "Tom and his family have been gracious hosts in offering—"

"It's alright, Hermione," said Roger. "You haven't anything to explain. When you showed me in, I noticed your dressing gown hung on the back of the door, and your carpet slippers under the bed. I'd thought it best not to mention it."

Tom snickered. "If you're finished with the tour, might I recommend having a wash-up in Hermione's bathroom, just down the hall, before we go down to greet the company? And Hermione," said Tom, lifting an eyebrow, "are those birthday gifts that you've brought? I'm much obliged, truly; if you leave them on your nightstand, I'll come by later on and we can open them together."

Hermione covered her face in her hands, her cheeks radiating with heat. Tom, tickled at her reaction, showed Roger to the bathroom at the end of the corridor. Their two voices were audible from her room:

"My grandmama offered me a room in the South Wing, originally," Tom spoke in a conversational voice. "In her time, they'd have kept the male and female guests separated in two different wings of the house—for decorum's sake. But I was adamant: if this house was to be my home, and one day my rightful inheritance, then it should accommodate my preferences."

"And were you accommodated?"

"Very well, indeed," said Tom. "Here's the bathroom. Sink there, and the water closet if you need it. I have my own bathroom, of course. Hermione has a quaint habit of leaving hair wherever she goes; you can hug her once and find her hair stuck to your uniform days later. It's an amusing little quirk of hers, but you should take it as a warning that any other young ladies in your acquaintance would fail to see the humour in it."

"Your school chums must find you a lark," said Roger, laughing. "Goodness, you have such a dry way with words; I almost believed you were being serious."

"I was."

"Good man—I'll buy you a pint if we're to ever go for a drink sometime!"

Shortly, Tom and Roger returned, Tom looking sour, and Roger's expression one of polite pleasantness. Hermione resumed her half-hearted attempted of showing Roger the rest of the second floor, which involved stopping to look at each bit of art and clock in the corridors. Roger asked Tom if he could open the clock cases, to which Tom grudgingly assented, after a bit of nudging from Hermione.

"The precision in these things is superb," said Roger, his eyes following the pendulum's to-and-fro movement. "It's the teeth in the gears, you see, that regulate the degree and timing of each swing. This one's accurate now, but you can expect it to lose a few seconds a week in the summer. Second floors are warmer than firsts, and those metal parts will expand with the heat. Not quite as consistent as an electric clock, but electrics are objects of utility, not art."

He patted the carved wooden clock case with a fond smile, then closed the cabinet.

"It's wonderful to share our interests with each other, isn't it, Hermione?" asked Roger. He turned to Tom. "And what about you, Tom? From the subjects of the paintings we've passed, the Riddles are animal people. Is that true?"

"Yes," said Tom, wincing at Roger's uncomfortably familiar use of his given name. "We're known for our mastery of... animals."

"I'd like to hear about that," said Roger. "Living in London, no one has the room for proper sporting. Dogs, yes, but certainly no horses unless they were working beasts or to be run at the races. I needn't tell you, I suppose—I believe that you and I have both called London home—"

Roger was interrupted mid-sentence by the ringing of a bell from downstairs.

"Shall we continue this at supper?" Roger offered his arm to Hermione. "May I accompany you down?"

"No, let me," said Tom quickly. "I know the quickest way to the dining room."

This time, Tom led their small group, with Hermione following at the rear. As they passed the landing, the air shimmered, and Nott stepped out from behind the curve of a banister, tucking his wand into the interior pocket of his dinner jacket.

"Daftest thing, that," Nott murmured, slipping beside Hermione. "I'd never have rated you for a Muggle lover, Granger. A Muggle-lover, yes, that's nothing out of the ordinary, but a Muggle lover." He placed an irregular emphasis on the last two words. "That's news to me. How old is he, exactly? Riddle must be steaming right now—I don't think he's ever liked having the latest birthday of the three of us. He's eighteen today; we've been eighteen for weeks and months."

"Roger is twenty-one," said Hermione.

"Twenty-one," Nott mused. "If he was a wizard, he'd likely be married by now. A wizard who doesn't make his arrangements post-haste won't secure himself a good match. That is, if he prefers a match of his own age. Do Muggles not care about that?"

"For every wizard in Britain, there are four thousand Muggles," Hermione answered. "There's far more choice, even for those who limit their search within 'respectable' families. No one needs to rush. Not that anyone should."

Nott was silent for a second, then he said, "That Muggle called Riddle by his name, and yet he's still hale and breathing."

"I call Tom by his name."

"That's different."

"How is that different?"

"You're Riddle's... leman."

"His—sorry? His lemon?"

"You read everything, Granger, and yet you comprehend nothing," said Nott dismissively. "Even Riddle wouldn't expect to be addressed by his surname when he's in the midst of, ahem, conjugating the subjunctive."

"I do beg your pardon!"

"Pardon granted, but next time, I'd like to see a bit more effort in the begging."

When she and Nott reached the foyer, they saw that Roger and Tom had already got there before them. A small throng of admirers and well-wishers had gathered around them; Hermione could not attach their faces to any names she recalled—they must be, she assumed, guests of Mrs. Riddle, parishioners of local significance, the gentle country crowd whose established social routines had been interrupted by the advent of war. Tom looked put-out with all the hand-shaking. (Tom had always abhorred the touch of other people, for reasons of health and sanitation, or so he'd said.) However, the guests introducing themselves to Tom and Roger were not laying hands on them, bare-fleshed; they were, for the most part, women in elbow-length evening gloves.

"Oh, what a sight," said Nott, stopping on the staircase to peer at the milieu below. "Riddle's been mobbed."

"They are a touch friendlier than usual, I suppose," Hermione observed.

"They would be. It's the regular brigade of hens and heifers."

"'Hens'?" Hermione's tone was cutting. "'Heifers'? That sort of language is not just ungallant, it's disrespectful."

"What else would you call them, then?" said Nott, amused by her outrage.

"I wouldn't call them anything."

"Not where they could hear you." Nott tapped his nose. "But look—there, those mother hens flapping about. They're searching for the most preferable place for which to set their daughters out to pasture. Riddle and your Muggle boy," Nott pronounced, with much relish and little sympathy, "have been singled out as the most eligible young men on tonight's meat market."

When the sun set—an early occasion in winter—the drinks began to flow, apéritifs in fluted crystal glasses and a parade of vol-au-vents began their circulation the room. Hermione sallied forth into the fray, Nott scurrying along at her heels, coughing loudly and muttering to himself about the Muggles and their peculiar Muggle ways, as several of them had lit up cigars, touching the clipped ends to matches torn out of a matchbook.

Hermione put forward her prepared itinerary of conversational starters, starting with, "How do you do", "The wine is excellent tonight", "Have you heard the latest news about the war?", and the ever-reliable universal constant, "Has the weather been colder than it was this time last year?". She sidled around the perimeter of the room, which had been colonised by wallflowers and gentlemen retirees, people whom Hermione could expect to be mild and indulgent to a new face unrelated by blood—unlike the rather intimidating group of ladies jostling for elbow room at the heart of the party, where Mrs. Riddle held court.

This was somewhat of a miscalculation, as it turned out the older gentlemen could take her conversation topics and ramble on and on about them, without allowing her to put in a word of her own.

"—No, I remember, Christmas last, the frozen pipes put up such a banging that the missus had them shut it off, then had me bring out the old bedpans from the attic."

"T'was that cold, was it? Couldn't tell at the time. We had the new furnace put in a few years ago—the one I call 'The Beast'; it devours coal by the barrow-full, I swear."

"You ought to save your newspapers, letters, and scraps for that. Paper and rag are cheaper per pound than coal; it'll save you a few shillings a week, as long as you mix in a few lumps and pack it right so the fire lasts the night..."

Hermione was regaled by a lively discussion on the merits of outdoor washrooms; she was grateful to be saved by the eventual migration to the dining room, once the bottles had poured their last drop and the finger-foods had been picked clean. The foyer emptied as the guests shuffled through to the dining room. They made a slow, chattering many-legged mass dawdling along the hall, at the same pace of an unruly student sent off to take the long walk to the headmaster's office.

Country people, thought Hermione. In London, this sort of thing wasn't done. People had places to go, work hours to keep, train connections to catch, and appointments awaiting. And they didn't hesitate to use their elbows or shoulders to get through.

She and Nott were the last remaining guests in the foyer, which resolved to be a good thing, as Mr. Pacek was let in by the maid at that moment. He shook rain off his hat, handing it off to the maid; his Macintosh coat was streaked with wet, and with a wink in Hermione's direction, he slipped his hand inside his lapel, flicked his wrist, and in an instant, all the water was wrung out, shedding onto the floor before evaporating into a damp mist.

"You're here," Hermione cried, rushing forward and taking his hands. "I'm so happy to see you. I hardly know anyone here, and then I tried to introduce myself... Well, I'm sorry to say that I still don't know anyone."

Nott cleared his throat. "That's never bothered me."

Mr. Pacek cocked his head, studying Nott with an appraising eye. Nott had dressed in the same fashion as Tom had, in a swallow-tailed dinner jacket over a high wing-collar shirt and white waistcoat. "And who is this young man? Why is his waistcoat Transfigured?"

"What," sputtered Nott, glancing down at his waistcoat. He smoothed down the buttons with one hand. "How did you know?"

Mr. Pacek smiled and, without warning, poked Nott in the stomach with the tip of his wand; Nott flinched and hunched over, protecting his vulnerable areas with a pair of crossed arms. "A waistcoat in this style is usually double-woven with a raised weft. It has more give for those who plan to sit and enjoy their gastronomic comforts; the structure is also suited to take a stiff starching when laundered. You, young man, have Transfigured this fabric to replicate a certain look, but you have forgotten the weight and hand. This fabric looks as flat as a sheet of India rubber. When you look down, the fabric should not form creases—it should form ripples."

"He's right," Hermione whispered, stealing a few surreptitious looks at Nott's belly. "You really should pay more attention to Professor Dumbledore, you know."

"Who is he?" Nott demanded. "And why should I listen to him? He sounds foreign."

"Sigismund Pacek," said Mr. Pacek, offering his hand. "Wardmaster by trade, accredited in Prague."

Nott stared at the hand, then at Mr. Pacek. Other than his accent and forward manner, Mr. Pacek had displayed no glaring deficiencies in his appearance to which Nott could object. Nott, very reluctantly, took the man's hand and gave it a firm shake. Mr. Pacek didn't let go; Nott tried to retrieve his hand, tugging it back, but Mr. Pacek held on, his expression contemplative.

"Theodore Erasmus Nott. Granger and I attend the same school," said Nott, eyes darting to Hermione and back to Mr. Pacek. "Riddle, too. You must know him if you've been invited to his party."

"That is an interesting ring, Mr. Nott," Mr. Pacek remarked. "Sacred lineage, dare I presume?"

"Correct," said Nott proudly. "I don't suppose you can tell which one it is, exactly?"

"It is my practice to laud the accomplishments of the individual," replied Mr. Pacek, letting Nott's hand go at long last. "You have the calluses of a musician. Do you, perchance, play the mandolin?"

"What?" Nott said, bewildered. "That's not important—"

"Dinner's important," said Hermione, glancing around the room. The trickle of guests had disappeared during the course of the introductions. "We might be the last ones in if we don't hurry."

.

---

.

In the dining room, they were shown to their assigned seats within seconds of presenting their names. Hermione's seat was the seat of honour, right beside Tom's, close to the Riddles and her own parents. Farther down the long stretch of table, Mr. Pacek and Nott had taken their seats, as guests of lesser precedence. The formalities were protracted, Mr. and Mrs. Riddle both standing up to deliver a speech thanking everyone for their attendance, and to heap their sentiments of pride and joy upon their darling grandson, as he entered a new juncture in his life. Hermione felt some degree of second-hand embarrassment hearing the lavish—and undeserved, she thought—praise for the non-achievement of Tom's reaching his eighteenth year. Tom, however, was pleased by it, earned or not. The whole affair was finished with a minute of solemn silence for Our Brave Defenders; at this, many heads along the table turned to look at Roger Tindall, who stiffened in his seat and in that moment, looked as if he was desperately wishing to be anywhere else in the house but at the table.

"The food, at last," said Tom eagerly, reaching for his spoon after the service of the first course. "I tried to get at the savoury starters before they were all gone, but those girls kept coming over to talk to me. Mrs. Willrow promised me eighteen different types of canapé, but I believe I only counted twelve by the time they'd run out."

"What did they want?" asked Hermione, and some part of her dreaded to hear the answer.

"Nothing of much importance. Though if they wanted to ingratiate themselves to me, they could stand to try a bit harder. It's my birthday, but half of them were fawning over Tindall." In a voice of disgust, Tom said, "They think he's dashing."

"It's the uniform, I expect."

"I don't understand it," said Tom, his mouth turned down in a petulant scowl. "It's the colour of sick."

"I don't understand it either," Hermione said, shrugging. A uniform was an indication of one's organisation, service rank, and nationality—or at Hogwarts, one's House. It was a cursory means of gaining the measure of a person's identity, and no measure at all of a person's character. If she disliked Nott, it wasn't because Nott was a member of Slytherin House; if she admired Roger Tindall, it wasn't because Roger had joined the army.

"Perhaps my opinion would be different," she continued, "if Roger was risking life and limb every night to patrol the Channel in a Spitfire. But from what he's said about his job, he just sits in an office with a pencil in one hand, and a cup of tea in the other. An important task, but it's neither the time nor place for heroics."

"I think," said Tom, smoothing down his lapels, "that I'm more dashing than he is. Wouldn't you say?"

"It's not a competition, Tom."

"And that, Hermione, is why you're my favourite," said Tom, patting her knee under the table.

Dinner continued with a course of cold white fish with Dutch sauce, followed by a suprême of grouse hen, and a main dish of broiled beef stuffed with bacon and oysters, served with a brown ale gravy. The conversations along the table dwindled, replaced by the scrape and clink of cutlery on porcelain, the wet sound of many mouths enthusiastically chewing, and the slurp of wine disappearing down many parched throats. This was the best meal that many of the guests had eaten in the past year; with the current value of government-issued ticket books, in the past hour, each person had been served a week's ration of meat and more.

After the main meal, there came the desserts. It commenced with the pouring of the digestifs, and the arrival of platters piled high with bite-sized sweetmeats and confectionery—trays of brandy meringue crisps, jam-and-sponge sandwich squares, sugar-dusted mince pies, and custard tarts dressed with almond slivers and glacé fruit. The stiff formalities were lightened; it was now permissible for guests to swap their seats out of the arranged pattern, and for cigarettes and pipes to be lit at the table.

"All this tobacco is disgusting," said Tom, waving a hand in front of his nose. "If there's one thing I'll miss about school dinners, it's that no one spoils dessert with their filthy habits."

"Tobacco isn't a habit limited to... you-know-whats," Hermione pointed out. "Don't you remember our lessons in First Year? We had to turn mice into snuffboxes."

Tom's explanation on the differences between Tolerable Habits and Filthy Habits was postponed by Nott joining them at their side of the table, a bottle of Madeira wine in each hand.

"Your German is an interesting fellow, Granger," Nott said, pouring a healthy dollop into each of their glasses. "Surprisingly well-travelled, too. He's recommended going on a Grand Tour of southern France after Hogwarts. Did you know that there are small pockets in the Occitan region where the tradition of troubadour poetry has been preserved from the thirteenth century? I'd thought about visiting Norway to see the Edda performed—putting all those years studying Norse to good use—but apparently, it's not safe for tourists at the moment."

"You've already started planning what to do after school?" Hermione asked.

"It'll be top-hole to see the sights outside of Britain." Nott shot a wary glance in Tom's direction. Tom's face remained impassive. "Take the waters, enjoy a spot of cultural enrichment, feel the sun on my skin for once. You look like you could use some sun, Riddle. A post-exam jaunt would do us both a favour or two, wouldn't it?"

"What favours? A sunburn and an endless encore of minstrel shows?" Tom said. "I could think of better things to do."

"Slap on a herbal poultice overnight, and you'll be fixed fair and square by morning. More fair than square, truth be told."

"And what about the minstrels?"

"It's an acquired taste, I'll admit, but—"

"Oh, Mr. Riddle!" spoke an unfamiliar voice, followed by several others in a chorus of giggles.

"Tom!"

"Excuse me—"

"We don't mean to intrude—"

"—But we noticed that you were inviting friends over to sit with you!"

"One at a time, please, ladies," said Tom.

A group of guests had gathered around Tom's section of the table, young women wearing dinner gowns and glittering jewels, with little reticule bags dangling from their wrists. One of them leaned over the table, causing Tom to lean back and wrinkle his nose at her overpowering perfume; the girl drew a deck of playing cards out of her bag and showed them to Tom.

"We're starting a game, and I was wondering if you might be my partner," she said.

"What game?" said Tom, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Two-on-two bridge, tournament pairings," said the girl. "It'll be super—we're playing for stakes."

"What kind of stakes? Cash?"

"We're all of us putting something in for the grand prize. Pounds mainly, but Jonty Warren-Witley's pledged a set of Queen Victoria silver crowns. Pure silver and worth a mint, he says."

"What's the entry?"

"Fifteen pounds a head," said the girl. She nodded her head at the dining table, emptied of their dinner service china, but still littered with open bottles of wine and trays of cheese and pastries. "It's no trouble, is it?"

"I'll join," announced Tom. "But Nott will be my partner."

Nott recoiled. "Now, see here, Riddle—"

"She said that it'll be super," said Tom, brushing off Nott's unease. "Don't you trust her?"

"The problem has nothing to do with her," said Nott.

"I'll cover you," said Tom, taking a billfold out of his jacket pocket. "We'll sort it out later; it won't be an issue."

Tom was enticed to the far end of the table, where the dishes had been cleared, chairs paired up two-by-two, and a fruit bowl had been emptied and piled high with crumpled Bank of England notes, white paper slips printed with elaborate calligraphy and the robed figure of the goddess Britannia. Tom's head turned to look at the bowl of banknotes, even as he was ushered to his seat, and a deck of cards opened and shuffled before him.

Hermione watched for a few minutes, but it wasn't a game that held her interest. She had never been much for sports or games; as a child, she had never been invited to play in team sports, nor had she ever wanted any part of recreational games that depended on luck. She understood the spirit of competition, the reason that many people participated in Quidditch or Muggle association football, but she found it disquieting that a whole team's skills were required to secure a victory. What if one person missed or dropped the ball at the wrong moment? The failure would be put on show for the rest of the team, and the whole audience, too!

She decided to return to her room, picking up her empty glass to re-fill with water once she was out of sight of the guests. The servants looked harried, flagged down from group to group in order to keep the drinks flowing and the glasses topped up. The drinking hadn't stopped since the reception in the foyer, and if it had slowed at all, it was to make the transition from pre-meal effervescent tonics and herbal tipples to dinner wines, and after dinner, to brandy, cognac, and whisky.

She herself had partaken in two or three glasses, more than she was used to coming from Hogwarts, where she'd only been offered drinks once a week at Slughorn's club dinners, and had refused more often than not. But during tonight's meal, Tom had mentioned that all the wines had been specially chosen to pair with the meats, and the menu had been written to a Tom-approved set of recipes. Hermione had resolved that it wouldn't hurt to taste them, and she'd been offered to stay at the Riddle House. There wasn't going to be any stumbling back home in disgrace for her, no thank you.

"Aguamenti," she incanted, once she'd reached the staircase, tapping her wand to her glass and observing the water flow down out of the tip of her wand. Perfectly clear, no sediment, full point textbook standard. The only thing that didn't quite meet her standards was the lukewarm temperature, but the N.E.W.T. examiners wouldn't be deducting points for that...

She sipped from the glass, making a face.

"Glacius," she murmured. "Hmm, much better."

On the second floor, the door to the servant's passage at the top of the staircase opened.

"Hermione," said Roger, waving her over, "have you come to get away from the others?"

"Roger? What are you doing in there?"

Roger pulled her inside and shut the door. The space was narrow; one person could reliably traverse the passage with a breakfast tray, but two people could pass by each other at the same time, only if they didn't mind a squeeze. The walls were bare cement coated in dusty plaster, a dark tunnel interspersed with brief circles of light, where bare bulbs illuminated the various entrances and exits. It was a bleak space, cheerless and dingy compared to the rich panelling and plush carpets of the regular corridors.

"It's the last place they'd look for me," Roger said, walking along the passage. "The ladies out there are tenacious to the extreme. One of them, a Miss Caroline Swindon, I think—she's set her cap on landing herself an officer, and followed me to the lavatory trying to get me alone. The next time I had to go, I found one of these doors you showed me earlier, and no one saw me come and go." He loosened his collar, sighing. "My Mum's told me to be kind to them. Country girls, you see. They think city life is exciting, and the pickings out here are slim if they want something better than a respectable freeholder or a small-town professional."

"I'm surprised they haven't tried the same thing with Tom."

"Oh, they tried," said Roger, grimacing. "Tom's got them figured out. 'Hermione likes this', and 'Hermione told me that', and the girls left off, thinking that the competition would be less stiff elsewhere."

"Um. That's good to hear," said Hermione, mulling over Roger's words, keeping pace with him down the narrow corridor. This must be somewhere in the centre of the house, on the second floor overlooking the front drive. The nursery room, she remembered, would be very near. "Though I do wish Tom wouldn't use my name to shield himself from small nuisances. It's only one step away from using his grandmother's health as an excuse!"

"You could use his name in exchange; he wouldn't like that." Roger paused for a moment. "Unless you've already tried it?"

"No," said Hermione, "I think I'd rather tell people that I had to go and wash my hair."

This made Roger smile; he was about to say something, when he stopped, and his forehead furrowed in concentration. "Do you hear that?"

"What?"

Roger pressed his ear against the wall. "Are the Riddles allowing people to explore the house? All evening, they've had the servants herding the guests to keep them downstairs. But I hear people talking—"

Hermione leaned in close to the wall, wincing as gritty plaster dust drifted and fell down the neck of her dinner dress. "It sounds like talking, but I can't make out what they're saying."

She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate.

"May I have the glass?" Roger took her cup of water, tipped the last inch out, and pressed it to the wall.

"What do you hear?"

"'Wer hätte das gedacht,'" Roger intoned.

"What!"

"Shh!" A crease formed between his brows. "'Bin gespannt, was wohl als nächstes passiert?'"

"I can't make it out, Roger."

"'Wissen auch nur die wenigsten'..." Roger stiffened and peeled his ear off the wall, brushing the dust off his neck and collar. "'Only a few people know,' that's what it means. There's a German on the other side of the wall, Hermione. A German agent. I only hear one side of the conversation, so he's got to be talking to someone else through a receiving device."

Hermione snatched the glass out of his hand and listened through the wall.

"Sollte man nichts gegen unternehmen..." a male voice spoke. The words were alien and incomprehensible, but the tone, the quiet and composed intonation of a lecturer, was painfully familiar to her.

"Roger, that's Mr. Pacek!" Hermione gasped.

"The tutor fellow? I knew there was something off about him," said Roger. "Look, you stay here, and I'll go and deal with him—"

"No, Roger, you can't!"

"I have to," said Roger firmly. "This house is full of old men and unarmed women. If a foreign agent is to be apprehended, it's better to do it here and out of the way."

Without further discussion, Roger pushed past her and sprinted to the nearest door, Hermione wobbling along after him in her party shoes, bashing her elbows a few times against the walls as she lost and regained her balance.

He grasped the door handle and threw it open, entering the main corridor, footsteps muffled by the carpet runners. Hermione kicked off her shoes, tucking them under her arms, trailing after him.

"Roger, Roger, wait," cried Hermione. "You don't understand!"

"I understand well enough, Hermione," Roger replied over his shoulder. His hand went down to the pouch on his belt. "I know what I heard."

Roger flung open the first door in the hall, then moved on to the next, until the third door revealed a room lit with crystal lamps, containing the great felted swath of a billiards table, and leaning against it was Mr. Pacek, his back to the door.

"Tja," Hermione heard him say, "so ist das Leben. Freu dich, dass er es hinter sich hat—"

"Turn around slowly and keep your hands in sight," said Roger, pointing his officer's pistol at the centre of Mr. Pacek's back. "Hermione, stay back. If you need to go for help, use the telephone. There's a division stationed at Helmsley, fifteen miles away. Have the operator connect you to their line—mention that it's urgent business of the Information Corps."

Mr. Pacek turned around, a lit cigarette hanging from his lip. His attention was riveted to the pistol that Roger Tindall had trained on him. "I expect that you would not believe me if I told you this is all a grievous misunderstanding."

"To whom were you speaking?" Roger demanded. "What's that in your hand?"

"A cigarette case," said Mr. Pacek, opening his fingers to show them. It was a flat silver box, square in shape, the size of his palm and etched with a design of runes within a border of curling flowers. "For holding cigarettes."

"Set it on the table and slide it over."

Mr. Pacek did so. Roger didn't lower his pistol, which he held in a two-handed grip, his right hand on the trigger, and his left hand supporting it at the base.

"Hermione," said Roger, his face grim, "take it and check it for wiring or an extendable aerial. If it makes any strange noises, throw it into the hall, shut the door, then hide under the table."

Glancing nervously at both of them, Hermione snatched the cigarette case off the green felt tabletop. It was a metal tin, heavy for its size and made of fine silver, hinged on one side and secured with a clasp on the other. One corner was marred with a small dent. When she held it up to the light, she saw that the runework was more than just decorative—it served a function. A series of linked rune sequences that made up the boundaries of a multi-layered enchantment.

Connection. Clarity. Message. Vision. True speech.

And the the final rune, etched deeper than the rest, the X-like shape of Gebo.

Exchange.

She recognised it; she'd used it to enchant her homework planners, having taken lessons several Christmas holidays ago with Mr. Pacek.

"Open it up," said Roger.

Hermione opened it. The case had two halves. One side contained a dozen cigarettes, white paper with gold foil tips. The other side was a mirror, and in that mirror was an eye, bloodshot and shadowed under a heavy brow.

The eye blinked, then widened.

"Was? Pacek? Wer bist du—"

Hermione shut the case quickly.

"Caught red-handed, then," said Roger. "Brigadier Sinclair will be interested in that. A miniaturised transceiver, smaller than the field units we sent with the Italian division. Where's the signal transmitter? No, you must have relays hidden somewhere, though I suppose—" He cut himself off, clearing his throat. "If you surrender now, peacefully, we should be able to negotiate a defection deal."

"You can't arrest him, Roger!"

Roger didn't spare a glance in Hermione's direction. His gaze was fixed on Mr. Pacek, still standing with his hands in the air, his smouldering cigarette dropping flakes of ash down the front of his shirt.

"I want this war to be over," said Roger, his skin flushed, a bead of sweat glistening on his temple. The muzzle of his pistol didn't waver. "Then we'll finally get our taste of peace. Britain needs peace, a chance to rebuild. If not, she'll never be able to hold fast against the Russians."

"This will buy you no peace, Lieutenant," Mr. Pacek said. He ignored the gun pointed at his chest, looking at Hermione, standing a step behind Roger, the cigarette case clutched tightly in her hands. "Miss Granger. You know the law, as do I."

"Yes, well—I don't know what to do!" said Hermione. Her palms felt slippery, and the seams of her dress felt too tight, the buttons too constricting, to allow her to draw a full breath. "Surely there's another option!"

"I'm afraid that there is no other option but this one," said Roger.

"The hardest decision one can make upon reaching adulthood," said Mr. Pacek solemnly, "is how much regard one places on their own desires, and how much regard is placed on the welfare of their society. The law is not merely subject to our governments, Miss Granger, but to our active participation. That duty is placed into our hands when we come of an age to participate."

"B-but," Hermione stammered, "there are exceptions to the law..."

"Will you trust him with that, then? If you make him your exception?" Mr. Pacek indicated the cigarette case. "If he should ask you how it works—now, tomorrow, or in a year's time—will you give him the answer? He is no fool. He will have questions. And he will be as curious as you once were."

"Hermione," said Roger, his eyes darting to catch the flicker of movement in his peripherals, "what are you doing?"

Hermione reached under her dress, digging her fingers into her stocking band. Clipped to the ribbon band above her knee was her wand, hidden under the many flouncy layers of her evening dress. The carven wood had been warmed by her skin, and in her clammy palm it felt red-hot and heavier than it had any right to be, as she lifted it up and pointed it at Roger Tindall.

She didn't want to do this. She had been happy to be just another Muggle girl for the day.

"I'm sorry, Roger."

All she'd wanted was one day. A single day to just... pretend that nothing had changed in the years since that Sunday when a man in a turquoise suit had knocked on her family's door, claiming he had a letter addressed to a Miss Hermione Granger. A day to enjoy herself in good company, to celebrate a milestone of a good friend, without outside intrusions or conflicts of interest.

"Hermione—"

The pistol swung awry.

Why was it so hard to have just one uncomplicated friendship?

"Stupefy."

A flash of light seared into Hermione's vision. Her eardrums rang with the report of a pistol shot; glass shattered on the far wall, and the air grew thick with the stink of spirits.

Roger Tindall folded to the ground, sinking to his knees to the floor, his arm dropping limply to his side. Hermione caught him by the shoulder before he ended up blacking his own eye, then propped him up against the leg of the billiard table.

Her hands shook as she removed the pistol out of his hand, searching down the length of the barrel—engraved with the initials R.C.T.—for the little catch that put the safety back on. The magazine would be missing one round, but there was nothing she could do about that; she didn't know how to eject it, and knew too little about firearms to successfully duplicate the various metal and chemical components of an ammunition cartridge.

Hermione still needed to roll Roger's body over to unbuckle his belt pouch and return the pistol. Her muscles strained as she manoeuvred him with an arm around his chest. In his sleep, without urgency or the threat of forceful confrontation pressing upon him, he looked peaceful. Trusting.

When she was finished, she shoved her wand into her stocking and pressed her fingers over her eyelids, feeling boneless and dizzy and out of breath, one deviant thread of thought contemplating the degree of pitch and yaw of the carpet. A list of twenty degrees, she vaguely recalled, was counted by nautical manuals to fall under conditions of rough weather.

"Miss Granger."

Hermione looked up.

Mr. Pacek knelt beside her, wand in hand. "Do you know how it is done?"

"How—what are you talking about?"

"The young Lieutenant," said Mr. Pacek, glancing at the unconscious Roger. "He must be made to forget this incident. If you like, I shall remove the last few hours entirely—but you know him better than I. You would do a better task of taking his last few minutes and replacing them with a believable altered account."

"I don't know how to—" Hermione began, then stopped. Nott had done it to Lestrange on the Owlery staircase, a year ago. "I mean, I've seen it done once before. But I've only ever read about how to cast the spell."

"As with most magics, it requires creativity and a good eye for visualisation," said Mr. Pacek. "Where were you five minutes before this, ten minutes, or twenty? There must have been a choice, a moment of divergence, where you or he made a decision that set all this into motion."

In a calm voice, Mr. Pacek showed Hermione where to place her wand to Roger's head, explaining how the various placements—brow, temple, crown, and nape—related to mental function: language comprehension, decision-making, auditory memory, visual memory, short- and long-term recollection. He was patient, guiding her through the incantation, wand movement, and the frame-of-mind best suited to effective spellcasting.

"Once you have selected the memory in question, place your wand here, like so. Relax your arm, loosen the grip. What you feel may be carried through the spell into his mind—if you are tense, he will associate the images you have given him with a sense of unease. Do not force it, Miss Granger—gently, gently there. It will merge cleaner if the modification is natural, if there is nothing said, seen, or done that will engender in him any trace of scepticism or suspicion. This is not meant to be dismissed as a dream, but as a living reality."

"Do you hear that?" asked Roger.

"What?"

Roger pressed his ear against the wall. "Servants outside. I think they're coming in through that door."

"We should go—if they find us, they'll tell Mrs. Riddle!"

"Downstairs, then?"

"No," said the other Hermione, "follow me. No one will be in the library at this time of night."

Hermione sagged when the spell was completed. "I made him think we went to the library and he fell asleep there. We'll have to carry him so he wakes up in the right place."

"I shall Disillusion him. Will you show me where this library is?"

Mr. Pacek floated Roger out of the door, Hermione peeking into the hall and looking both ways before waving him to follow her.

"Who were you talking to?" Hermione asked, turning the cigarette case over in her hands. Mr. Pacek hadn't insisted that she return it. "This is a two-way mirror, isn't it?"

"A connection of mine. A former schoolmate," Mr. Pacek answered. "He received urgent news, which delayed my arrival this evening."

"Good news?"

Mr. Pacek shook his head. "Disturbing news. A week ago, a wizard was admitted to the wizarding hospital in London, with reports of being burnt severely across the front half of his body. He died without a known cause of death. Over the last week—and today produced the most recent case—several other bodies were found in their homes, suffering from wounds in a similar pattern. They had one thing in common: they were clandestine operatives of Gellert Grindelwald."

"How would you know that?" Hermione frowned. "If they were clandestine operatives, wouldn't they ensure their status was kept a secret?"

"Members of the underground resistance, who had kept watch on them, searched their homes after noticing a break in their routines. They discovered the bodies. The operatives' allegiances were suspected previously, and now they were confirmed. Your Ministry is not aware of this—the first wizard's injuries were reported by the hospital as caused by an accident. The other bodies were destroyed. If there is a militant resistance cell gone rogue, heretofore unknown to the present alliance, then it is safer that unwanted attention not be drawn. Not from the British Ministry, or from the powers in Europe."

Mr. Pacek fell silent, expression contemplative. "Miss Granger, do you understand what this means?"

Hermione peered around the corner and, seeing the corridor deserted, gestured at Mr. Pacek to bring Roger into the library.

"It's an act of war," she said.

"The Grand Minister has been content to establish his seat of power in Europe. He has never made overtures at a British occupation," said Mr. Pacek. "Until now, there has been an understanding of sorts, maintained between the British Ministry of Magic and the occupied governments of Europe. Britain would not challenge Grindelwald's legitimacy, and Grindelwald would not seek to liberate another wizarding nation of their self-imposed shackles."

He levitated Roger's prone body to one of the horsehair-stuffed sofas by the library fireplace, then Summoned an ottoman and placed it under Roger's feet, tilting his head this way and that to inspect the effect.

"Of course, each side has engaged itself in espionage and surveillance, for practical reasons," Mr Pacek continued. "But they have never taken overt actions against one another. Nothing, until now, that could be misconstrued as an act of war. There—does this look authentic, Miss Granger?"

"Loosen the tie and undo the top jacket button," said Hermione. "Everyone at school who naps on their desk during lessons loosens their necktie. They were made to force people into good posture; when they're done up properly, they pinch and pull unless you sit straight."

"Will you stay until he wakes?"

Hermione hesitated.

"I shall cast the charm to keep him asleep for at least an hour more," said Mr. Pacek. "You may leave if you choose. It might be best that you are not present when the memories have scarcely settled. You have your own concerns."

"What was I supposed to do?" Hermione asked, hating that her words had taken on a tremble. What had happened to her conviction, the surety that she'd been so proud of, in always knowing wrong from right? She wiped her damp palms on her skirt, but they still felt sticky and unclean. "The first time I read of the Ministry Obliviators, I thought it was the crudest way of solving the issue of wizarding secrecy. Surely there had to be another way than that; surely wizards, with all their magic spells and hundred-year lives, could find something else more humane than tampering with the consciousnesses of our fellow human beings."

"It is not the best way. But it was the better way of all possible choices. It was kinder that you did it then, rather than allowing the Ministry Obliviators to catch word of it later and manage it themselves, with the finesse for which they are renowned," said Mr. Pacek gently, placing a light hand on her shoulder. "You may be born of those deprived of magic; you may eat their bread and taste their salt, Miss Granger, but you are one of us. You and I are wizards. Wizards do not fight in Muggle wars."

"B-but you helped my parents! You warded their house!"

"Officially, I undertook a project on the contract of an H. Granger," said Mr. Pacek, referring to the original advertising spot that Hermione had placed in the Daily Prophet, five years ago. He slipped his wand back into the pocket of his dinner jacket. "We serve in no armies, but we do not forget compassion where it can be granted. You have not forgotten yours. For that, Hermione, you have my sincere gratitude."

In a half-daze, Hermione left Roger and Mr. Pacek in the library. She found her shoes somewhere on the landing, then trudged to her room, tossing the shoes under the bed. She untied her garters and kicked off her stockings, using her wand to undo the many tiny buttons at the back of her dress. The dress was thrown over the back of her desk chair, the dozens of pins binding her hair strewn over her desk, with none of her usual neatness or care.

The disarray is appropriate, she thought, yanking her nightgown on over her head and sliding into her bed, burying her face into the feather-stuffed pillows. She'd been up early to catch the train, forced herself to hold conversations with several dozen people over the course of the day, and had performed a taxing spell for the first time—a spell not taught in student N.E.W.T. courses for good reason. With her mind in such a muddle, it was not reasonable for her to form a clear judgement of recent events.

She drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

Hours later—or the next day; she'd lost track—the mattress squeaked as Tom slipped under the blanket on the opposite side of the bed.

"I won the two hundred pound pool!" Tom gloated, plumping up a pillow and tugging the blanket away from Hermione so he could cover himself. "You should have seen their faces! I wish you were there, Hermione—I promised the money to the parson; he's going to put it into the parish bursary in my name. 'The Tom Riddle School Fund for Boys and Girls', how does that sound? I want it printed on the end-pages of the textbooks they buy with my money; those ungrateful brats should know whom to thank. I don't give charity for free!" Tom sniffed. "But I did keep the silver coins. They're from 1847, did you know? Nearly a hundred years old. I don't think I've ever owned anything that old. Grandmama says she'll have a case set up in the library, if I want them displayed..."

Tom let out a blissful sigh, rolling over. "Hermione?"

Hermione didn't answer.

"Hermione?"

She heard the blankets rustle; she felt Tom's hand brush her cheek.

"Hermione, why are you sad?"

"Because," said Hermione, "I'm tired."

"You shouldn't be sad," said Tom. "You can't be. It's my birthday, and on my birthday, everything should go how I wish it."

"Some people are sad sometimes, Tom."

"Some people. But not you," said Tom mutinously.

He slithered to her side, wrapping Hermione in a very tight embrace and securing the blanket around the both of them, until there was not much room to breathe and even less room to move. Tom stroked her hair, pressing his mouth against her throat and the line of her jaw.

"There," he said, holding her close. "Now you feel better."

.

.

---

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AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Leman — from Middle English lemman, variant of leofman, from Old English lēofmann ("lover; sweetheart"), equivalent to lief + man ("beloved person"). Or, the circa-1300's Ye Olde English word for "girlfriend".

Poor Mr. Pacek, everyone seems to think he's German, when he's actually Czech. The ignorance is a deliberate reference to the poor treatment of Europeans by the average Brit during WWII. European nationals (German, Austrian, and Italian) living in Britain were rounded up and sent to internment camps for being potential "enemy aliens". A good number of these internees were also Jewish refugees.

This chapter is the longest in the story so far, clocking in at 15k words. Sorry for being unnecessarily long, but I wanted it in one piece instead of broken up into two smaller chapters. I wanted the foreshadowing, character moments, and the emotional connection to be placed in the right places, so that the climax at the chapter end feels... climactic. Not to mention continuing to progress the wider-scale plot, the smaller-scale relationship growth, and the internal character development.