1941
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When Tom was young, no more than four or five years old, the orphanage had had more babies left outside its gates than it had carers to watch them. They were lean years, his earliest memories, and most of them were centred on food: barley soup with turnips, porridge and potatoes, milk thinned with water, because the proper stuff was reserved for the babies. They should have had their mother's milk, but their mothers were long gone, and no one of their ilk could afford a wet nurse. Feeding one was too expensive, when it was cheaper to buy a nanny and feed it on potato peelings.
A nanny, Tom had learned, was a she-goat.
The smell of the nanny was sour and grassy; it reeked with the organic odour of a penned beast who lived and ate a handful of paces from where it evacuated itself. In other words, it was disgusting. To a boy who had been born and lived his entire life in a city, who had learned of the importance of hygiene and sanitation in living a long and healthy life, the animal was the antithesis of everything he valued.
(He didn't turn down the milk when it was offered, so long as he didn't have to retrieve it from the animal's body with his own hands.)
He recognised that smell when he ventured to Hogsmeade that spring, when the snow began to melt and it was not nearly so painful to tear himself out of the comfortable warmth of the Slytherin living quarters.
The tavern and inn that Professor Dumbledore had offered him as a safe refuge from the Muggle war was not what he'd expected. When Tom had heard the offer, he'd expected the bright and well-lit Three Broomsticks, the very popular public house operated by a friendly landlady who could make haggis taste good, and always poured the house butterbeer with the creamiest, thickest layer of foam that wobbled over the rim of the glass without spilling a drop.
The Three Broomsticks was rustic, but his Slytherin Housemates didn't seem to mind the atmosphere or the clientèle; Tom was told that at home, their servants' idea of quality service was to offer a menu of elaborate dishes served in five to seven courses, or fourteen while entertaining, dished out in small morsels because their dear mothers had placed orders with the dressmakers and wanted to fit into them when the gowns arrived. Cod and battered chips was a treat to them—and it was to Tom as well, since he never ate takeaway in the Muggle world, and the Hogwarts meals followed a more balanced meat and two veg format.
The other tavern in Hogsmeade, like most of the businesses in the village, could be described as "rustic" if one was generous. But if it was rustic, it was rustic in all the worst ways.
It smelled like goats.
The Hog's Head was some way off the main street of Hogsmeade. It was three storeys tall, but that gave no indication of the size of the rooms inside with how wizards used subtle Expansion Charms. It was built of dark stone, although whether the stones had been quarried that way or stained from centuries of ground-in soot, Tom couldn't tell. The roof was thatched, which would have made a twee postcard scene in the winter when covered in snow, but in mid-spring, he could see where the moisture and constant rain had produced soggy black patches, interspersed with green where moss had begun to take root.
It looked run-down, and scarcely any better than the orphanage. It looked like the kind of place that was built before indoor plumbing was invented, and owned by a proprietor who looked like he didn't care about his customers' comfort. The kind of place where a wizard was expected to use a bucket in a shed out back in the stable yard, then Vanish his own mess. Tom appreciated the many practical functions of magic, but this was too far, even for him. He had standards.
There was a small yard and and open-walled shed behind the inn, where visitors were meant to stow their broomsticks, flying horses, carpets, or familiars before entering. There were no horses now, but there were half a dozen goats, milling around inside, lying down on piles of straw, or eating hay from a trough. There was a separate trough containing steaming grain mash, topped with chunks of fresh apple and kept warm with a heating charm. The goats appeared well-cared for, even more than the actual human customers.
Tom walked back around to the front, hesitated under the swinging sign of a decapitated boar's head dripping blood, then pushed open the door and entered the inn proper. His eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Too cold in here, why is it so cold? I'm so sleepy, I want to go to sleep... but I smell food...
Tom's head turned. A cloaked figure was sipping a drink in the corner. Something rustled from hip height, and Tom saw the glimmer of scaled skin in vivid green and striped black. The customer had a snake, and from the size of the scales and the circumference of the bit of it he'd seen, it was at least a few feet long. The pattern of skin was familiar. He'd seen it in Slughorn's Potions classroom, kept in a jar in the glass-fronted cabinet at the back, behind an Age Line. For the N.E.W.T. students only.
He approached the bar, his eyes flicking from table to table, observing the calibre of the clientèle. There were no other students, just what he presumed to be adult witches and wizards, but he couldn't tell for sure. For some reason, every other customer had the hoods of their cloaks on, even in the dimness of the inn where the windows were small and grimy, made of hand-blown glass that was opaque and hazy with swirling patterns. At the Three Broomsticks, patrons hung their cloaks up in the coatroom, because the interior was warmed from the three fireplaces and Floo connections they had going at once.
The barkeeper was wiping the surface of the bar with a dirty rag.
"Are you the owner?" asked Tom.
"Yes," said the barkeeper. The man had long hair, which wasn't unusual for a wizard of the traditional stripe, as Tom had found, though more common among the older set. Tom personally thought long hair on men was unseemly, as most of them didn't take the same care as girls did with their daily brushing and washing. A cleaning spell could remove dirt and grease, but did nothing to make one's hairstyle look good. The barkeeper also had a beard, but it was so dark in the Hog's Head that Tom couldn't discern what colour it was. It just looked grey. "If you're not here to order anything, then get out."
"Do you have butterbeer?"
The barkeeper reached under the counter and pulled out a dusty bottle with a faded label and a cork stopper bound to the top with a wire catch. The metal was dark, and Tom guessed it was either very dirty, or very rusty.
Tetanus or botulism? thought Tom. No thank you, I'm not interested in either.
"On second thought," said Tom, "how about milk? Do your goats have milk?"
"Yes," said the barkeeper. Or Tom thought that was what the barkeeper had said. It sounded like an affirmative grunt.
"Is it any good?"
"Of course it's good!"
"Can I have some?"
"Seven knuts a glass."
Tom put the coins on the counter. The barkeeper swept them up and stomped off to a back room. He returned a few minutes later with a clean glass—it didn't have any visible fingerprints on the rim as far as Tom could tell—a crockery jug, and a thin square of white cloth.
The barkeeper set the glass on the counter, placed the cloth over the mouth of the glass, and poured the milk from the crock. Squishy, yellow-white lumps collected on the fabric.
"I've got to take the fat out," said the barkeeper. "Saving it for my homemade cheese recipe." He lifted up the cloth, waited for the last few drips to fall, then pushed the glass over to Tom.
"I see." Tom picked up the glass and drank, hoping he hadn't gambled and lost, and if he did lose, it wouldn't be over his uniform and pressed robes.
Goat milk was different from cow milk, and both of them differed from ration booklet powdered milk. Goat milk had more depth of flavour, a certain tanginess which became more prominent when the milk was served at room temperature or warmed. This milk was chilled, very fresh, and rich with cream, made by goats provided with good feed in generous amounts. It wasn't anything like a cherry soda squash with white glove service during an opera intermission, or a house special foamed butterbeer with cinnamon sprinkles, but it wasn't bad.
"It's good," Tom proclaimed, setting the glass back down. The barkeeper hadn't offered him a coaster. "Very buttery. It'd be interesting to taste it in the form of an ice cream, maybe with an added flavouring; I shouldn't think most people would appreciate the goaty aftertaste. By the way, did you know that the patron in the back corner by the window has a boomslang in his pocket?"
"Is that illegal?" grunted the barkeeper, arranging bottles the bottles behind the bar.
"Magical boomslang are a protected species, licensed harvesting only," said Tom. "So not exactly... illegal."
"None of my business, is it then?"
"Why shouldn't it be?" asked Tom. "He's on your property. At the very least, he owes you a convenience surcharge for not going over there and asking him to produce his papers."
"Those who want to conduct private business in my inn hire the rooms upstairs," said the barkeeper. "I don't charge a 'business fee' for those who only come to inspect the wares, so long as they pay for their drinks."
"Interesting," Tom remarked, sipping his goat milk. "How entrepreneurial. Are there limits to what kind of business you allow on premises?"
"Why are you asking, lad?"
"Curiosity?" said Tom innocently.
"I don't tolerate hunting unicorns," the barkeeper replied. "Hair is fine, but no flesh, no blood. Now if you're done with your drink, you can get out."
"I was just asking. I meant no harm," said Tom. He shrugged, then pushed his chair back and stood up. "Have a good day, sir."
Tom left the barkeeper to his grunting and muttering.
Inside his head, Tom had plenty of muttering of his own to do. What on Earth was that? This was Dumbledore's idea of a safe refuge away from the war?! It was a dingy pub, populated with questionable customers, and an ill-tempered barkeeper that reminded him of the Hogwarts caretaker, Mr. Pringle. But the difference was that Mr. Pringle actually cared about hygiene and cleanliness and keeping things shipshape, while the proprietor of the Hog's Head very clearly did not.
What was Dumbledore thinking? Was he even thinking when he made that Portkey and set the location?
Wait a minute. Tom's thoughts shuddered to a halt. I think I know what this is.
It's a test of character.
He wants me to spend a summer 'building character'.
Tom could imagine it: fair-skinned, city-born Tom Riddle moving in with a grumpy old man in a small country village. Tom Riddle learning how to milk goats and clean stables and bale hay, working from sun-up to sunset, wiping down tables and serving customers and learning the meaning of humility. Finding fulfillment in doing an honest day's labour with the sweat of his brow and the strength of his limbs, because magic wasn't permitted during the holidays. The grumpy old barkeeper softening up with a young charge under his wing, a beautiful inter-generational friendship formed in the dark landscape of a world torn apart by war.
Then on the last day of August, the last day before the start of term, Albus Dumbledore would appear on the doorstep to the Hog's Head, freshly returned from his travels. Tom Riddle would serve him a hearty homemade cassoulet with crusty bread and goat milk gathered that very morning. Dumbledore's first bite of the delicious stew would bring tears to his eyes; he would proclaim it as good as his mother used to make, and then he would clasp Tom's now-callused and sun-tanned hand in his own and tell him how proud he was of such a fine young man that Tom was growing up to be.
"I always knew you could do it, Tom," said Imaginary Dumbledore, a single pearly teardrop shimmering on his wrinkled cheek.
"Jog on, old man," replied Imaginary Tom, blowing a loud raspberry and upending the table with the force of his new imaginary muscles.
Tom grimaced in disgust. He kicked a rock on the path in front of him, but his foot slipped on fresh owl droppings smeared over a wet patch of pavement on the Hogsmeade street, a few yards away from the owl post office. He stumbled; his shoulder knocked into another body, who squeaked and tumbled to the ground, scattering a bag and a stack of parcels.
"Tom?" Hermione asked, picking herself up and brushing the mud off her skirt.
"I didn't know you actually went on Hogsmeade weekends," said Tom. "Isn't the library empty on those days?"
"Oh," said Hermione, laughing nervously. "I'm going back to the castle now. But I, um, I needed to visit the post office first."
"But don't you have your own owl?"
"Gilles is in London with Mum," she replied, not quite meeting his eyes. "Anyway," she continued, her eyes narrowing, "you're the one who said Hogsmeade was a waste of time and money, like a Muggle gambling den, preying on the weak of will and the lacking of sense."
Tom bent down to help her pick up her parcels. They were thick and rectangular and heavy, wrapped in brown paper, tied with black ribbon, and stamped with an unfamiliar emblem on the top right corner. A torch, a scroll, and an illuminated letter G in gold, in the style of a mediaeval manuscript's initial capitals. He didn't recognise the emblem as one representing any of the main shops in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade.
Gambol's at Diagon, he recalled, had a G-shaped insignia, but they sold novelties and knick-knacks, like expandable one-size-fits-all pet collars and colour changing bubble bath. What would Hermione want with anything like that?
"Riddle!" called a voice from a few paces up the path.
Tom looked up, shoving the parcels into Hermione's arms. "Avery. Lestrange. Good afternoon."
Lestrange was holding a paper shopping bag from the joke shop, and sucking on a sugar quill. Avery had both arms occupied with a big square pasteboard box, pink and printed with blooming flowers, the budding roses opening and closing every few seconds. It had the Honeydukes seal embossed on the front. Tom assumed it was from their deluxe line of chocolate gift samplers.
"What are you doing, Riddle?" said Avery, his eyes darting from Tom to Hermione and back again. "Why are you helping a mud—"
Tom whipped out his wand and cast a non-verbal Silencio on Avery. "Excuse me?"
"—A Ravenclaw," said Lestrange. He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and avoided eye contact with everyone present, scuffing his mismatched shoes over the cobblestones of the path.
"That's better," said Tom. "You know, if a prefect had heard you, Avery, you would not only have lost us the House points I've spent all week earning, but you'd have been sent back to the castle for detention. You might even have your Hogsmeade privileges revoked for the rest of the year."
"Yerble hurrrfff, mmmph hmmph," said Avery, shifting his gift box.
Lestrange glanced at Avery. "I think he's trying to say that no one heard him."
"Only because I made sure of it," said Tom. "I think it best he break such a nasty habit of speaking like that in such a public place. It's not gentlemanly of him to talk to a girl in that manner. Besides, if I wasn't here, I think we all know what he would have said, and who knows who would have heard? What if it wasn't a prefect, but one of the teachers?
"Avery would be sent back immediately, without having a chance to mail those chocolates." He took a step nearer to Avery, head tilted, his smile thin. "Are these for your mother?"
Avery blinked, then jerked his head in assent. The chocolates rustled inside their box. Tom could smell them from where he stood: sweet vanilla, cream and honey, toffee fudge, rum and cherries.
"How do you think your mother would feel when her beloved son seems to have forgotten about her on her birthday?" Tom spoke in a low, controlled voice. "You know how she worries about you. She knows you have trouble with your schoolwork, when you go through two private tutors every summer. And disciplinary trouble on top of that? And then not a word from you on her birthday, only a letter from Professor Slughorn, writing out his concerns with your academic record, your difficulties at school, your disgraceful conduct. Such a blight on your family's noble reputation, Avery. It would break her poor heart."
Tom stared into Avery's eyes, compelling the boy not to look away, to remain still, to not move a single muscle, and ignore his base animal instincts to flee when faced with something as unnatural and invasive as a foreign entity digging through his fears and baring them to broad daylight. Peeling back the surface, exposing things that no one else was ever meant to see. Fear and shame, wrapped in layers of self-doubt and an aching sense of inferiority.
Obedience, Tom knew, could be trained in mice as well as men. "You're too young to break your mother's heart. Aren't you, Avery?"
Avery nodded, his shoulders hunched.
Lestrange chewed loudly on his sugar quill, pretending that he wasn't listening in. He looked sick.
"And you're a gentleman, are you not?"
Avery swallowed. He nodded again.
"I'm glad you understand," said Tom solemnly. "We should all strive to better ourselves."
With a flick of his wrist, the Silencing Charm dissolved.
"Go on then, your mother is waiting. Be a gentleman and write to her."
Lestrange grabbed Avery by the elbow and hurried him into the post office, neither of them looking back.
"What was that?" Hermione asked, wide eyed. Her skin was pale, with two bright flushes of colour on her cheeks. "What did you do to him? Did you—?"
Tom shrugged. "Did I teach him to mind his manners? Yes, I did. Someone should have done it years earlier, in my opinion. But the real question, however," said Tom, his eyes flicking down to Hermione's parcels, "is what those are. Care to enlighten me, Hermione?"
Hermione cleared her throat. "Books. I wrote Mr. Pacek about what kind of books he used when he was at school, since he took Runes at Durmstrang. I wanted more supplementary texts for extracurricular reading, but the library didn't have them, so I had go through owl order."
"You're making more work for yourself," said Tom, sighing. "And if it's not on the Hogwarts curriculum, it won't be on the exam."
"Well," said Hermione, her jaw set in stubbornness, "the exam isn't the only thing that matters."
"Who are you, and what have you done with the real Hermione?"
Hermione snorted and bumped him on the shoulder. "Come on, if we get back to the castle before everyone else, we can reserve the best table in the library."
"Hmm, that's more like it."
On the walk back, Hermione fished a bar of Honeydukes chocolate out of her bag, broke it into halves, and shared it with him. She'd even remembered that he hated chocolate with nuts.
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The rains dried up as the season changed to summer.
The spring buds bloomed. The Forbidden Forest, woken from hibernation, rustled with strange sounds at all times of the day. The terns and geese returned to their yearly nesting grounds, though what omens could be read in their flight patterns Tom didn't know. He hadn't signed up for Divination as an elective, having dismissed it as a waste of his time, for anyone who hadn't been born a Seer.
As far as inborn talents went, Tom had rolled triple sixes in terms of magical power, mental acuity, and mind control.
(But he had rolled a one with regards to his domestic situation; the only way he could have landed a worse situation in life than 'orphaned street urchin' was 'orphaned farm boy'. Which couldn't be that bad when he thought about it, as he already had a talent with animal training, and could talk to snakes. Tom hated other people enough that the life of a vaquero or cattle drover in the Australian bush sounded appealing... No need to worry about prying eyes or the Statute of Secrecy when the nearest Muggle neighbours were fifty miles away. But there was something ignominious about an Emperor who held the power of life and death over two hundred subjects, with a hundred and ninety-nine of them being cows.)
He regarded his looks as useful, but not as important as his other talents. Being pretty wasn't that rare. Mrs. Granger was pretty, actresses in the pictures were pretty; since Muggles could have it and wizards could counterfeit it with the right potions and charms, it wasn't exactly Special.
Tom didn't complain (beyond the first few days after finding out that wizards could see the future) about not having the Sight. None of his classmates had it either. But despite his inability to interpret migration patterns, he could tell that change was in the air. He wasn't pleased. Change was something that Tom wasn't fond of accepting; in his experience, change was always for the worse.
He was proven correct when he and Hermione disembarked the Hogwarts Express at the end of the school term. They walked out past the entrance foyer of King's Cross Station and into the London street. In that moment, they saw that the London they both knew was no longer recognisable.
The skies above the city were dark and grey, but it wasn't from an imminent rainstorm, a staple of English life no matter the season. It was a pall of smoke, stinking of burnt fuel and carrying with it a mist of fine soot that grimed the skin and blanketed the ground like dirty snow.
The Royal Mail depot at the other end of the road was a pile of bricks and rubble, the top few storeys blown out and sagging over the first floor and the kerb. The London skyline was different; it looked as if it had bald patches, spaces that Tom vaguely recalled hadn't been this empty the last time he'd seen it. Like a row of teeth in a rugby player's mouth after a scrum. With the blacked out windows, and the golden letters of the nameplates and signage coated in dust, the buildings of central London had lost some of their sheen, their grandeur and character, and more than a few had been lost altogether.
London had been... disfigured.
Tom heard Hermione's sharp intake of breath. He felt something brush against the sleeve of his coat, then the touch of something soft against his left hand.
Her hand squeezed his; their skin pressed together. Her palm was small and warm, her fingers slim and dainty next to his own.
Tom's natural instinct was to jerk his hand back and smack her across the knuckles.
He had always felt that hand-holding was either childish or improper. The youngest children held hands playing patty-cake in the schoolyard, or walking to school or church in assigned pairs. The older orphan girls, a few months from leaving for good, held hands when walking out with a fancy man. The proper way, according to the donated etiquette textbooks, was for the gentleman to offer his arm, not his hand. And there wouldn't have been any skin contact by accident either, since ladies of quality and refinement wore gloves when they left their houses.
Even in the wizarding world, people followed the rules of conduct. Some were more rigorous about it than Muggles, among the conservative families where a witch of good breeding was expected to be settled with a family before her twenty-fifth birthday. (In the Slytherin Common Room, he'd heard Sixth and Seventh Year girls disparage the vulgarity of Muggleborn girls in other Houses, though how much was due to making public faux pas versus luring away unattached young men he couldn't tell.)
There was a line between childish behaviour and proper conduct and Tom didn't know on which side he should stand. He refused to be called childish. He'd never played patty-cake and hopscotch with other children, and he hadn't considered himself a child since learning to read and feed himself. And when had he ever cared about propriety, other than paying lip service to it out of social expectation?
Hermione's hand was warm. Her presence was comforting and somehow soothing; he had forgotten his worries about the state of London and the war...
He didn't slap her away.
He squeezed her hand as they made their way to the line of parked motor cars, passing uniformed men and women bearing armbands of one regiment or volunteer service or another. All of them had small rectangular boxes tied with strings around their necks or swinging from their belt loops.
Gas masks.
There were soldiers on every corner, rifles on their shoulders. He could see bayonets. He felt uneasy with the number of weapons openly displayed, any of which could be dropped or misfired. It made him want to draw his own wand, at least that way he could cast a Shield Charm at a moment's notice—and damn the consequences of doing magic in plain sight of Muggles. It was reassuring just to have his wand on hand, as much as it was to have Hermione on his other—
"Tom!"
He blinked. "What?"
She jiggled his hand. "I need both hands to get my trunk into the boot."
He let go. The warmth, that press of skin, disappeared an instant later.
It was almost as unsettling a feeling as taking turns being disarmed in Duelling Club. Whilst he knew it was necessary in order to practice casting technique, and that the loss of his wand was by choice and it would only be a few feet away from him, there was something he would never like about it. A wand and a wizard were one. A wizard could perform magic without a wand, but it was always easier with than without.
A wand was a guide, a focus, and a companion.
He helped Hermione load her school trunk into the expanded boot of her family's motor car. Her empty owl cage followed it.
"Now yours," said Hermione, reaching over him for the handle of his trunk.
Tom hesitated. "I don't need—"
"A hundred thousand people sleep in the public shelters every night," said Hermione, pushing past him and grabbing his trunk. "Many of them because they haven't anywhere else to go. You won't be one of them. I won't let you."
"I still think—"
"Shut up, Tom."
They loaded his trunk into the back, then Hermione flipped down the false cover and shut the boot.
When Tom held the door open for her, he caught a flash of silver in the driver's seat. Mrs. Granger was re-applying her lipstick with a powder compact, but for a second he'd thought she was watching them through the rear window, in the reflection of the mirror.
He wouldn't be surprised in the least if she had.
Mrs. Granger was much like Hermione. But they differed in certain ways: Mrs. Granger had half the tactlessness, but was twice as officious. It was a bad trade either way.
Thus began his third summer in the Muggle world, in the back seat of the Grangers' motor car.
The drive out to the suburbs took longer than it had the previous year, as they had to take several detours around streets where the road was made impassable by uncleared debris. The largest thoroughfares had been cleared, but the authorities hadn't gotten around to removing all the detritus; it appeared that they'd shovelled the gutted remains of fallen buildings into convenient piles in the areas where the bombs had blown through to street level.
He could see into people's basements from where he sat in the moving motor car. He could see the architectural arrangements of whole houses, like children's dollhouses unfolded, all the floors laid open like an anatomical diagram. Here was a servant's attic garret under the sloping eaves of the roof, but no maids were present, only the collapsed remnants of a chimney. There was the mistress of the house's guest parlour in the middle, the silk drapes scorched by fire and fluttering out through the shattered windows. At the bottom was a kitchen, filled with chunks of broken tile and gleaming lumps of metal where iron pans and steel sinks had melted together into a single solid mass.
It looked like his boggart before he'd set it on fire, but on a scale a thousand times larger. A thousand times worse.
A boggart, for all its magical shape-shifting abilities, had a limit to its mass. The pile of debris that had been Tom's boggart looked imposing on the floor of the classroom, but when he'd meditated in his dorm room that night, reliving the day's Defence lesson and savouring the frightened squealing of his classmates, he'd observed in this detached state that it was around the same volume of material as would fit inside Professor Merrythought's wardrobe.
This would never fit into a wardrobe.
The smell, the smoke, the sun of high summer veiled by drifting clouds of dust, the clean-up crews with kerchiefs tied around their noses and mouths, the scavengers bent over the wreckage with wheelbarrows, hiding their faces beneath upturned collars and caps pulled low... None of it could be replicated by an insignificant boggart.
That scene in the classroom seemed trifling when compared to this.
When the motor stopped, no one questioned him when he took his luggage out of the boot and headed straight down to the cellar.
.
.
A few days later, Mr. Pacek dropped by for a visit.
He brought with him an expanded picnic basket filled with rationed goods: tea, sugar, cooking oil, eggs, and butter. The brands were unfamiliar to Tom, who was used to the matrons buying the cheapest of everything, and in bulk quantity. The printed labels on these packages were in foreign languages.
"Danish butter," said Mr. Pacek. "The Danes have not had the same supply troubles as the English—since they surrendered last year to the Germans, they have no need to maintain a standing army, nor conscript soldiers. I find the Continent to be a more restive place these days than England, at least for Muggle civilians. London is not looking so well, eh?"
"London has been through worse," said Hermione fiercely, putting her hands on her hips. "The Great Fire of London burnt most of the city in 1666, and it fully recovered. This isn't nearly as bad, and Mum says they've stopped with the nightly air raids for the past month or so."
Mr. Pacek left the food on the kitchen table and followed them down into the cellar, which was different from the last time Tom had seen it. The picture windows had been installed, showing the outside of the Grangers' house from multiple angles, and there were several windows that didn't match any of the views of their neighbourhood. A grassy hill overlooking a burbling creek, a sun-washed courtyard filled with potted plants and chirping parrots, a placid sea with a weather-worn wooden dock and a small jolly boat tied to the pier.
Mr. Pacek pulled up a chair by a new fire pit in the centre of the cellar, which he lit with a wave of his wand. "Ah, I remember that fire when I was studying for my Mastery. As I recall, the casualty rate was very low because the local Muggles were given shelter under magical wards—the Statute came thirty years later, so it was not illegal then. After that, most ministries made it policy to require fireproof wards around wizarding settlements and villages."
"And people think that Grindelwald is raving for wanting to do away with the Statute," said Tom, glaring into the fire. "I don't agree with everything he believes in, but I think he's on the right track with that. Sir, if you're breaking the Statute by warding a Muggle property, then you must agree with me on that count."
"Doctor and Madam Granger knew about the existence of magic before I ever met them," said Mr. Pacek, taking a small silver case out of his coat pocket, out of which he drew a cigarette and a cigarette holder. "I did not violate the Statute, but I will admit that I did break British wizarding law on the improper use of magic." He set the tip of his wand to the cigarette, which caught alight. "Though I should like to see them arrest me. If they did, they would tie themselves into knots trying to convict a citizen of another nation.
"It is interesting that you profess your sympathies with Minister Grindelwald's ideals now, Mr. Riddle," continued Mr. Pacek, his gaze meeting Tom's. He breathed out a fine mist of smoke that Vanished with a flourish of his wand. "These last few weeks, I have undertaken a task warding a building for an old friend of mine in Leiden. He runs a publishing house—now an underground press—and he has in recent years amassed a collection of leaflets. Last year, you professed not to have read Grindelwald's words by his own hand, and that is a lack I am capable of making good."
He set the cigarette holder between his teeth, and his hands dipped once more into his coat's interior pocket, coming out with a sheaf of papers. He spread them out on the thick, stone-walled edge of the fire pit. It was a set of handbills and pamphlets, the lettering on the coloured cardstock covers uneven and somewhat blotchy on the edges, nowhere near as fine a job of typesetting as in the school textbooks he'd bought from Diagon Alley.
.
A Unified Vision for All Wizards.
On the Advancement of a New Era of Magic.
Für das Größere Wohl: The Duties of Good Governance.
Paternalism: Sine Qua Non of the Wizarding Nation.
.
"May I?" asked Hermione, reaching for one of the booklets.
"By all means," said Mr. Pacek with a magnanimous gesture of his hand.
"'It has been said, and collectively agreed upon, that the last golden age of great sorcerers has passed us centuries ago, and that we shall never again encounter an individual with the might and power of Emrys Ambrosius. With utmost resolve, I discount the notion that we must wait for the birth of an Emrys to bring us to another golden age. Why must we wait for one single wizard when we, as a society of wizards, are entirely capable of creating wonders?'"
Hermione read aloud from a random page of a pamphlet, her brow furrowing in thought.
"'I present the idea of a unified nation that transcends geography and language, a global confederation of wizards that shall supersede any existing institutions, which on the whole are rife with ineptitude and stagnation. The International Confederation, a feeble alliance of squabbling politicians, has only one purpose: to enforce a shallow set of century-old ordinances—and not to facilitate a new era of prosperity for which we as a modern magical society are sorely in want.'"
Hermione closed the pamphlet and set it back onto the pile. "He writes like a demagogue. Like a Republican. Or an Anti-Monarchist."
"Like a rabble rouser," corrected Tom. "I expect it sounds better in person than on paper. Ideologies are easier to spread if you use big words like you know what they mean, and don't give your listeners enough time to think about what you're saying."
"It sounds better in German," said Mr. Pacek, puffing at his cigarette and siphoning away the smoke. "The English translator does not give him the right tone and rhythm. There are some words that just cannot be properly translated—the concept of 'Angst' is one such. But in this instance, I can attest the spirit of the speech is the same in all versions I have heard and read. Grindelwald identifies a common enemy, and emphasises the same ideas: unity and greatness. Who would not be drawn into that?"
"You, of course," said Tom.
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Pacek, flicking ashes into the fire pit. "But I studied Philology and language construction in school, and I notice every time the good Minister uses 'we' or 'us' in his writing. He is not subtle at all—nor does he have any reason to be. The average wizard whose family cannot afford a prestigious institution attends a village day school and takes what he reads at face value. Is it not the same in England?"
"People buy The Prophet in droves," said Hermione. Her nose wrinkled in disdain. "It's the most widely-read publication in the country. And it's utter nonsense."
"You can't account for taste," Tom remarked. "Think of the people we share our classes with. What do you think would happen to the Prophet's readership if they started reporting objectively about things that actually mattered? These people want to see articles on Ministry hit wizards getting into a firefight with unicorn poachers. Preferably with photographs of the action, followed by a public naming and shaming. They don't want to see the minutes of the bi-quarterly Wizengamot review."
"I want to see that," said Hermione, pursing her lips.
"Even if you sat in during the session, wrote an article, and mailed it in without asking for a knut in royalties, they wouldn't publish it," said Tom. "I think Grindelwald has a point. It's obvious that he's pandering to the public when he's praising them for having the potential for collective greatness. He's doing it to make them listen. And once he has them listening, once they recognise his face and his name, he throws in the real meat. It's just like putting breadcrumbs in sausages: you have to cheapen your fodder if you want the common man to take it."
"You are correct," said Mr. Pacek, nodding. "These papers are re-printed from originals that are twenty or thirty years old. The Minister no longer spends his evenings holding debate in local taverns or guild halls. He already has his legitimate power—though one might question that legitimacy when his ascension came by holding the voting members of national assemblies at wandpoint."
"The power he had when he was just a writer is undeniably legitimate, isn't it?" asked Tom. "In a legal sense, I mean. There are no laws against having opinions, are there?"
"To a certain extent," confirmed Mr. Pacek. "But I cannot say what will happen if your opinion verges on slandering some important personage or other."
"You'd run into the same problem as me," Hermione put in. "The same way that the popular publications wouldn't print my opinions, they'd never touch yours."
"I'll make them," said Tom, speaking with certainty. "It's only a matter of making myself palatable."
"Well, go ahead," Hermione said dubiously. "But don't come to me when you get your first rejection letter. I'm not sure I want to listen to you complain about how everyone is too shallow-minded to comprehend your magnificent plan to limit childbearing licenses to those who pass your silly test."
"It's a sensible solution to a great many social ills, both Magical and Muggle," Tom protested. "I don't understand why you're so bothered about it; I've already told you that you'd pass."
"It's not enforceable!"
"Not yet."
"Tom! Eurgh!" Hermione cried. "I don't mind being deemed 'shallow-minded' if it means I won't have to listen to the rest of it."
"They're good ideas. And I don't think I'm the only who's come up with ways to make improvements around here," said Tom, inspecting his fingernails for signs of dirt and soot. He observed Hermione out of the corner of his eye. "Aren't you the one who wanted to go on a march when you found that over three-quarters of the out-of-print books published in Britain are held in private libraries?"
Hermione sputtered and flushed. "Knowledge should be accessible! It's not fair that so many rare books are locked away by families who don't even read them!"
"Don't you see how great we could be if we combined our ideas?" said Tom. "For example, a trade of rare books for the privilege of continuing the line."
"You can offer all the incentives you want, but you still have no way to enforce a law like that if people refuse," Hermione griped, folding her arms over her chest. "Which they will. And what are you going to do? Dump potions into the food supply?"
"Oh, I see," said Tom, his mouth curling up in a feral smile. "Now you want to listen to me?"
What does it take to earn an audience of my own? he thought to himself. How easy is it to fool Magical Britain into taking me at my word?
To be sure, he still wanted that Order of Merlin. He wanted to open a textbook fifty years from now and see his deeds written down for future generations of children to memorise. He wanted people to speak his name with reverence; he wanted a hush to fall over a crowded room when he opened the door.
Most of all, he wanted power.
But—
He was years away from Magical Britain's age of majority. There were few places where he could use magic outside Hogwarts. He couldn't Apparate, so, should he leave the castle, he'd be limited by distance: Hogsmeade, where an adult resident or shopkeeper would report him if they saw him wandering about on a weekday, and Dufftown, the nearest Muggle village where he'd have to worry about the Ministry's Trace. Neither of them were places he could rack up deeds of valour and daring.
However... there was more than one flavour of power.
He had always seen himself as the shepherd, and everyone else as the sheep.
And what had Hermione once said?
"You think too often in terms of extremes. You give yourself ultimatums when you don't have to."
Life was more complex than that. The real world involved more than just those who were shepherds and those who were sheep.
(There were also wolves and sheepdogs, though the only difference he saw between them was that one wore a collar and the other didn't.)
If Grindelwald can pander to an audience, then why can't I? Tom wondered. Am I not reading his words today, from a speech he made in Germany, printed in Leiden, and brought to a cellar in London, thirty years after he made it? These words are his legacy, and will still be even after he meets his defeat.
Napoleon had met his defeat at Waterloo, and whilst the Emperor had been discredited in the field of battle, the field of modern civil governance still owed much to him a century later. The Goths had sacked Rome, but doctors and lawyers and schoolboy toffs—and himself, for that matter—studied Latin declensions even after a millennium and a half.
He came to a realisation then.
There is more to power than what can be done with magic...
He came to a second realisation, an instant later.
...I want it.